The Dalliance of Leopards

by Alter, Stephen;

  By now the news cycle had turned. After an initial outpouring of grief and praise for Roger Fleischmann, there were suggestions of a possible conspiracy. The FAA was investigating the crash. Nobody was suggesting sabotage or terrorism yet, but there were reports that Peregrine’s CEO had received death threats. His drones were killing Taliban commanders in Afghanistan and Pakistan. It stood to reason that they might want to take revenge. From one newscast to the next, Anna could see the paranoia building in the media.

  Sitting at her desk in the library, pretending to leaf through a manuscript of Sanskrit verse, Anna saw the elevator open, and a woman stepped into the stacks. She was wearing a tan jacket, and Anna recalled her short brown hair. She’d shown this woman’s photograph to Daphne, who said she didn’t recognize her and didn’t remember noticing the Lexus outside her house. After surveying the dimly lit stacks, the woman came toward her.

  “Sheetal Khanna?” she asked, with a severe look on her face.

  “Yes,” said Anna.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions, please.”

  “What for?” Anna said.

  The woman reached into the pocket of her jacket and flashed an official-looking ID, holding it up so briefly that Anna could see only the photograph and crest but no name.

  “My name is Tracy Holman. I’m a federal agent,” said the woman, glancing around and pulling up a chair. “Are you a foreign national?”

  Anna nodded.

  “We’re checking on illegal aliens here in Eggleston, and I was wondering if you could tell me why you’re here?”

  “I’m a visiting scholar,” Anna said, “researching the papers of a philologist named Dennis Shelton. He translated—”

  “Can I see your passport, please?” Holman interjected before she could finish.

  Reaching for her backpack, Anna unzipped an inner pocket and took out the passport with the three Ashokan lions on the cover. She wasn’t sure whether this was routine or something else was going on. The fact that this woman had been keeping Daphne under surveillance two days before Roger Fleischmann’s crash made her suspicious.

  Holman flipped through the passport and, when she found the visa, scrutinized entry and exit stamps. Most of the pages were blank.

  “You don’t travel very much,” she said.

  Anna shook her head.

  “How many days have you been here?”

  “Five, I think,” said Anna. “I arrived last Thursday.”

  “Where are you staying?’

  “In one of the college guestrooms in Judson Hall.”

  “And who have you met?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “People,” said Holman impatiently. “Who have you been talking with?”

  “Really, only Dr. Satish Verma. He’s a professor of political science at the college, who helped arrange my fellowship.”

  “Is he Indian, too?”

  “I think he’s an American citizen but originally from India, of course.” Anna restrained an impulse to say something more pointed.

  “Are you Muslim?”

  Anna began to laugh, taken aback. “No, I’m Hindu by birth.”

  “And this guy Verma? What’s his religion?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what he believes in,” said Anna. “And, honestly, Agent Holman, I don’t understand what religion has to do with this.”

  The woman stared back at Anna, accusation in her eyes.

  “Have you heard of Peregrine?” she asked.

  “The company? Yes, of course, it’s in the news because of the crash,” said Anna. “I was at the parade and saw it happen.”

  “Why did you attend the parade?” Holman’s questions had an edge of hostility that suggested she knew more than she was letting on.

  “I went out of curiosity,” said Anna.

  “You’ve got a three-month visa. When are you planning to go back to India?” said Holman.

  “I’m not sure. It depends how quickly I finish my work,” Anna said, pointing to the boxes of papers beside her desk.

  “And you have no other knowledge about the death of Roger Fleischmann?”

  Anna shook her head as Holman returned the passport and stood up. For a moment, they stared at each other in silence.

  “Thank you,” said Holman, “and have a good day.”

  Thirty-One

  Wheeling himself home along the Chukkar Road, which circled the top of the ridge near the Himalayan Research Institute in Mussoorie, Afridi paused several times to stop and consider the events of the past few days. He hadn’t heard anything from Anna, though the news of the crash in Ohio had reached him. Afridi knew she would be keeping a low profile, and he didn’t expect any communication, unless there was a problem. He guessed that by now she must have met Daphne Shaw.

  The distance from HRI to Ivanhoe, Afridi’s cottage, was a kilometer and a half. He usually went home by himself without a guard, though he carried his service revolver in a shoulder holster beneath his blazer. It was a necessary precaution, even if most of the people he passed on the Chukkar didn’t know who he was. The Himalayan Research Institute was hidden discreetly behind fences and walls that kept curious tourists from trespassing but did not announce its importance as a key Military Intelligence facility. Technically, Afridi was a retired army officer with a cottage on the north side of the hill. He kept to himself as much as possible, though from time to time he had a few neighbors and friends over for dinner or dropped in at the mess for a drink. Afridi knew that the best form of security was to keep a low profile rather than move around with bodyguards or ride in jeeps with beacons flashing.

  As he came to the south side of the ridge, he paused to look down at the Dehradun Valley spread out below him. It was early evening, and lights were just coming on. He could clearly see the sprawling colonies of the city and patches of forest and fields. In the foreground lay the main ridge that ran from Mussoorie to Rajpur, along which the old walking road used to ascend in the days before cars and buses could reach the town. When the British first settled these hills, they rode ponies up the rough track. Early visitors exclaimed over the views from Landour and the precipitous drops at the side of the trail.

  Directly below him, on the main ridge, lay Bala Hissar, now part of Wynberg Allen School. It was here in the 1840s that Dost Mohammad Khan, Amir of Afghanistan, was imprisoned in a hilltop bungalow named after his fort in Kabul. The British East India Company Forces had brought Dost Mohammad here into exile while they tried to secure Afghanistan against Russian imperial ambitions. It was a fatal campaign, by the end of which only one Englishman survived out of a force of 12,000 troops. Eventually, the East India Company released Dost Mohammad from imprisonment. Looking down at Bala Hissar now—the old bungalow had been razed to the ground, and a new building stood in its place—Afridi often wondered what Dost Mohammad thought of Mussoorie and his exile in these forested hills. He had been held captive with members of his retinue, while a cordon of secrecy surrounded his incarceration. British troops guarded the ridge, and spies lurked along the road from Rajpur to make sure that nobody tried to assassinate Dost Mohammed or free him from Bala Hissar. Sometimes, it seemed to Afridi that history was a wheel that kept turning without ever moving forward.

  He continued along the Chukkar, his mind travelling to the mountainous borders of Afghanistan, much drier, browner hills than these, and the Khyber Pass over which so many armies had crossed to face inevitable defeat. The recent news that Peregrine’s CEO had died in an air crash in Ohio seemed as if it might be connected to the drone attacks in the tribal belt that claimed dozens of lives every week, though it was hard to tell if it was just an accident or somehow linked to Guldaar. A few days ago in Delhi, Manav Shinde had suggested he was being paranoid. The thought amused Afridi, for he knew that irrational fears had led to some of the most devastating debacles in the past. While defending India from outside forces, both real and imagined, many lives had been lost in the borderlands of Afghanistan. History was not
kind to those who meddled in affairs of the Hindu Kush. Everyone from Alexander the Great to British imperialists had paid a harsh price in the region, and now, more recently, the Russians and the Americans had learned this lesson the hard way.

  Turning a corner, where he could see the Garhwal Himalayas, bastions of snow and ice, arrayed to the north, he wondered if his suspicions were getting the better of him. These mountains were a great deal higher and more formidable than the Hindu Kush but far less treacherous when it came to politics and warfare. At least it was clear who the enemy was across the border in Tibet, while you never knew whom to trust in the tribal areas of Pakistan. The Great Game had been set in motion by British ambitions and fears of Czarist expansion, most of which were exaggerated. In the end, after losing an entire army, the East India Company reinstated Dost Mohammad on the Afghan throne, another inevitable turn of the wheel. Afridi’s hands propelled his chair forward. While he knew that his instincts were correct, it was difficult to keep his doubts at bay.

  Twenty seconds later, as if to confirm that the game was as dangerous as he believed, a speeding vehicle came around the corner behind him. Hearing the roar of the engine and glancing back, he saw a white SUV accelerating in his direction. Earlier, he’d noticed the Scorpio parked at Sister’s Bazaar where the Chukkar bifurcated, but he hadn’t paid any attention. The road was barely fifteen feet across, with a steel fence along the outside made of two galvanized pipes with a gap in between and supporting posts every twelve feet. Afridi’s reflexes made him swerve toward the fence. Throwing himself out of the wheelchair, he lunged for the upper pipe and swung himself clear of the vehicle, between the pipes and down the steep hillside. The SUV collided with the chair just as Afridi tumbled down the slope, crashing through a tangle of barberry bushes and sliding thirty meters until he came to a stop against an oak. By this time, he had been able to rotate his body so that he was facing upward, the pistol ready in his hand.

  Above him, he could just make out the side windows and roof of the SUV, which had stopped after hitting his chair. The driver-side window opened and a man looked out. It was impossible to get a clear view of his face. Afridi resisted the urge to fire, though his finger tightened on the trigger just as the Scorpio drove off with a shriek of tires. Lowering his gun and searching through his pockets, Afridi found his cell phone and called the head of security at HRI. By the time the guards arrived, he had hauled himself back up to the road, clutching at roots and rocks. Aside from a few scrapes and scratches from barberry thorns, he wasn’t hurt, though the wheelchair had been mangled beyond repair.

  Thirty-Two

  For several minutes, Luke stood in the bathroom staring at his reflection in the mirror. He looked a wreck, which was understandable after everything he’d been through, but part of his mind refused to accept that he was actually here. He kept expecting the figure in the mirror to disappear like the image projected on the cistern wall. His room was like a luxurious hotel suite, with a king-size bed. Everything in the house seemed to have been made in the USA, from the Ralph Lauren towels and American Standard porcelain fittings to the bar of Dove soap by the sink.

  The hot shower, which stung the gash on his hand and other injuries he hadn’t noticed until now, helped convince him that he was alive and conscious. A fresh set of clothes had been laid out on the bed, a kameez and salwar that were almost the right size, along with a pair of Peshawari chappals. Jehangir Daruwalla had told him to wash up then join him in the dining room for lunch. Luke was hungry, but he still felt dazed after riding blindfolded, a lingering nausea from the winding roads.

  Pushing open the bedroom door, he stepped into the hall. Nobody was in sight, though Luke felt sure the armed guards were close at hand. As he entered the living room, Daruwalla got up from the sofa.

  “How do you feel?” he asked. “Any better now?”

  Luke nodded and tried to smile.

  “Please come and have a seat. The cook is going to put lunch on in a minute, but would you like something to drink, a beer?”

  Luke nodded, still disoriented. A servant had appeared in the doorway, and Jehangir told him to bring a Heineken, which arrived a minute after Luke sat down.

  “Where are we?” Luke asked.

  “About twenty kilometers northwest of Jamrud,” said Daruwalla. “In the Khyber Agency, just off the main road to Landi Kotal.”

  “And why am I here?”

  Jehangir laughed. “Don’t worry, everything will be explained to you shortly.”

  Luke picked up the glass of beer and drank two-thirds of it, the cold liquid flowing down his throat as if he’d swallowed an icicle. He tasted the bittersweet flavor only after putting down his glass.

  “Is this your house?” he asked.

  “No, unfortunately not,” said Jehangir. “Like you, I’m only a guest.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “I’m sure you’ll meet our host soon enough.”

  “Mr. Daruwalla,” said Luke, irritated by the evasive answers. “Let’s cut the bullshit…. For the past week and a half, I’ve been kept prisoner in an empty water tank with nothing but a torn blanket and one meal a day. Now suddenly, I feel like I’m in a hotel in Beverly Hills. I need to know what’s going on.”

  “Sorry,” said Jehangir, with an apologetic nod. “You’ve been through a lot. I’m sure it was traumatic.”

  Luke swallowed the rest of his beer as the servant appeared and gestured toward the table, which was now laden with food. A large platter of pullao, garnished with nuts and raisins, lay next to a dish of mutton curry, a plate full of grilled chicken, salads, and yoghurt. The smell of the food was impossible to resist.

  They served themselves in silence, and Luke took a couple of mouthfuls before he spoke.

  “Don’t get me wrong. This is a whole lot better than where I’ve been,” he said. “But I want to know how I got here. And why?”

  Jehangir helped himself to the mutton curry as he spoke.

  “The men who were holding you captive are members of a militia that operates in the borderlands of northern Afghanistan. They call themselves the Martyrs of Amu Darya, and they’ve been allied to certain factions of the Tehrik-e-Taliban in Pakistan. When our host heard that you’d been taken hostage and they were demanding a ransom, he negotiated with them. I’m not sure what he paid in the end, but he bought them off and they delivered you here.” Jehangir spoke quietly, as if he were taking Luke into confidence.

  The chicken was perfectly cooked, with a marinade that penetrated the meat and made it so moist that Luke barely had to chew the tender flesh, as it separated from the bones.

  “Why would he have done that?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know,” said Jehangir. “But I’m sure he feels that he can use you in some way. He certainly didn’t do it out of pity.”

  “And why are you here?” Luke asked, tasting the saffron in the rice.

  Jehangir laughed, as he sucked marrow from a lamb shank.

  “I’m not sure I’m of any use to anyone anywhere at the moment.”

  “Daruwalla is a Parsi name,” said Luke. “Are you Pakistani or Indian?”

  “Neither,” said Jehangir, wiping his fingers on a napkin. “I’m a British subject, though I was born in Bombay.”

  “You’re a long way from home, wherever it is,” said Luke.

  “Indeed.”

  They ate in silence for a while, and Luke was aware how quiet it was in the house. Nothing made a sound, except for their forks and spoons.

  “So, how long have you been here?” he asked.

  “About a week,” Jehangir replied.

  “And do we get to use a phone or email?”

  “No. I’m afraid not.”

  Luke nodded. “Does anyone outside this house know that we’re here?”

  Jehangir shook his head.

  “And the person who owns this place, where is he?”

  “I really don’t know. He comes and goes.”

  As Luke tried to pr
ocess everything he’d learned, as well as the things he knew he hadn’t been told, he realized there was no less danger here than in the mountains, though the food and accommodation was certainly better. He pushed his plate aside as a sudden sense of anxiety gripped him. The servant entered on silent feet and removed their plates without a word. When he returned, he was carrying another bowl and two plates.

  “Dessert?” said Daruwalla. “The cook makes an excellent firni.”

  Though the fear had dampened Luke’s appetite, he helped himself to a couple of spoonfuls of rice pudding.

  “Is there any way to get out of here?” Luke asked.

  “I wouldn’t try if I were you,” said Jehangir. “This compound is a fortress, guarded on all sides with the latest security equipment. It would be easier to escape from Guantanamo Bay. I suggest you get accustomed to being here and enjoy the generous hospitality for what it is.”

  Thirty-Three

  The memorial service and funeral for Roger Fleischmann was held on Tuesday morning. Anna could hear the governor of Ohio’s helicopter arriving on the college green at exactly 10:00 a.m. From the window of her room, she watched a procession of cars approach the chapel and listened as the bells tolled melancholy chimes. She had decided to stay indoors, to avoid drawing attention to herself or meeting Tracy Holman again. The service was broadcast on TV. It was strange to see the buildings of Bromfield College and the town of Eggleston on the screen, as if she weren’t really here and it were all happening somewhere far away. Suddenly, this quiet corner of Ohio was the center of attention. One of the spectators at the parade had filmed a twenty-second video of the fighter jet going down. They kept playing the clip on TV, between reports of the governor’s visit. Anna could remember exactly how the plane had wavered and twisted to one side before it went down. She knew that Afridi and Manav would be watching the same broadcasts, wondering where she was.

  By now, more and more of the television channels were suggesting that the accident might actually have been a terrorist attack, though there was virtually no evidence to support this theory. Several commentators pointed out the way the Warhawk had veered suddenly, speculating that maybe someone had fired a missile at the plane. The news stories seemed absurd to Anna, but the frenzy of voices on TV grew louder and the film clip was repeatedly shown in slow motion.