The Dalliance of Leopards

by Alter, Stephen;

  In his eulogy, the governor extolled Fleischmann’s vision of America, “a secure and prosperous homeland that defends our nation’s values both within our borders and abroad.” By that evening, reporters in Afghanistan had picked up the story and were interviewing American servicemen and servicewomen stationed there, who spoke about the strike capabilities of Peregrine drones and how these weapons gave them a significant edge over guerrilla fighters. Even as Roger Fleischmann’s burnt and mangled body was being lowered into the fertile soil of Ohio, the drone attacks continued. CNN reported that two Taliban commanders in the Mohmand agency had been killed and there were hints of retaliation. As night fell over Eggleston, the sun was just coming up in the Hindu Kush. Anna watched scenes from a village where the drones had destroyed several mud houses and a building identified as a “madrassa,” where Taliban terrorists were supposedly trained.

  Falling asleep to the late night news and talk shows, Anna kept thinking of Agent Holman and her questions. America no longer seemed a safe and civilized country, despite its cultivated lawns and rolling farmland. She could hear the anxiety and anger in the voices on TV and finally turned the volume off. This war had nothing to do with Roman gladiators or vintage fighter planes. It took place in a different kind of arena, the adversarial medium of images and words. As she fell asleep, Anna dreamt of the parade, a combination of memories and TV clips that blurred together in a weird hallucination. She could see Afridi in his wheelchair, with a laurel wreath on his head, leading the marching band, and Manav Shinde riding in a Cadillac, but the face that haunted her most was a man she didn’t recognize, though she knew it must be Guldaar.

  By the next morning, most of the dream had been erased, leaving only a fragmentary sense of unease. Anna reluctantly turned on the TV for a few minutes to get the headlines. Nothing had changed, though there were other stories now, besides Fleischmann’s death. Debating when it would be safe to go out, Anna ate breakfast in her room, spooning granola out of a mug and finishing off the last two bananas she’d bought.

  At 9:30, the doorbell rang. Looking through the peephole, she saw a young man wearing a Cleveland Indians tee-shirt and baseball cap. She opened the door cautiously, not sure what to expect.

  “Are you Sheetal?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “There’s a note for you. A woman at the library asked me to give you this.”

  “Thanks. Are you a student here?” Anna asked, taking the note.

  “Yeah,” he said, turning away without looking her in the eye. “Work-study.”

  The note was in a sealed envelope with her name written on the front in a woman’s hand. When she tore it open, there was only one scribbled line: Come to Level B Visitor Parking next to the library.

  Collecting her backpack and switching off the lights in her room, Anna decided to take the stairs instead of the elevator. Her guestroom in Judson Hall was a five-minute walk from the library, and she went directly to the parking garage. When she reached Level B, the headlights on a car flashed briefly.

  “Get into the backseat and lie down,” Daphne said, through the window.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Anna said.

  “Yes, hurry. Keep your head low, so nobody can see you.”

  “Where are we going?” Anna asked, as she reluctantly got into the car.

  “Home,” said Daphne, starting the engine and pulling out of the parking slot before Anna had got herself settled.

  The drive took less than three minutes. Anna could hear the garage door opening as Daphne pulled into her driveway. Only when the door shut behind them did she raise her head.

  “I’m sorry about that,” said Daphne. “But I was being followed. A red pickup. I’ve seen it before. Everything’s been so crazy these last few days.”

  She seemed flustered and anxious. A narrow staircase from the garage led up to her kitchen. Venetian blinds on the street side of the house had been lowered, so that nobody could look in. The kitchen smelled of coffee and the citrus scent of dishwashing liquid.

  “Are you okay?” Anna asked, as Daphne stood by the sink for a moment, catching her breath and clutching the kitchen counter.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t know.”

  When she turned to look up, her eyes were full of tears.

  Going across to her, Anna put out a hand, unsure of what to do as Daphne broke down. Drawing her close, she held the older woman for several minutes, feeling her shaking in her arms as she wept. After a while, Daphne broke free, took tissues from a box on the kitchen counter, then dried her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, collecting herself. Though Daphne’s eyes were red from crying, Anna could see that she had recovered her composure. Her mouth was set in a determined frown.

  “What happened?” Anna asked.

  “Naseem died last night. On Friday, I signed the papers to take him off life support. For a long time, I’d been thinking of doing it, but I finally made up my mind. He won’t suffer any more. We had the burial this morning.”

  Her voice quavered with emotion, but Anna could see she was steeling herself.

  “As soon as Jimmy finds out what I’ve done, someone will be at this door,” she said. “We need to get out of here right away.”

  “Are you sure?” Anna asked.

  “Yes,” said Daphne. “I need your help.”

  Anna hesitated. “I’ve been given orders not to involve myself in any illegal or covert activities. I can’t break the law.”

  Daphne shook her head. “Colonel Afridi promised that he would protect me. You need to get me to India.”

  Anna could hear Manav’s warning echoing in her mind, but she could also see the desperation in Daphne’s eyes.

  “There’s a lot of security around with the crash and Roger Fleischmann’s death, as well as the governor’s visit. I was questioned by a woman who was watching your house, the one in the Lexus. She claims she’s from the NSA. I don’t know if they’ve made the connection between us or not, but I’m worried they might come after you.”

  “I don’t care,” said Daphne looking as if she were going to break down again. “I’m just afraid of what Jimmy will do. You’ve got to get me out of here!”

  Daphne’s voice was muted with a suppressed sense of terror.

  “I’ll do my best,” Anna said, knowing that Afridi would expect this of her. “But I’ll have to go back to my room and collect my things.”

  “I’m already packed. My suitcase is in the trunk of the car. I’ve also got eight thousand dollars in cash, a present from Jimmy. He told me to buy myself whatever I wanted.”

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  “Wait,” Daphne said. “I’ve also got something for you.”

  As she spoke, she opened a drawer in the kitchen and took out a Beretta 92A1 with an extra clip of ammunition.

  “You know how to use this, I hope,” she said.

  Anna took the handgun and nodded, slipping it into the outer pocket of her backpack.

  Thirty-Four

  Afridi was applying disinfectant to a scratch on the side of his face when Manav Shinde called him. The injury looked worse than it was but made it difficult for him to shave. Glancing down at the buzzing cell phone beside the sink, he saw Shinde’s private number.

  “Afridi Sahib, how are you?” Manav said, with his usual blend of bluster and bonhomie. “I was sorry to hear what happened. Very sorry! I hope you weren’t badly hurt.”

  “I’m all right, thank you. Nothing serious,” Afridi replied.

  “If the traffic in Mussoorie is getting so dangerous, maybe you should think of moving back to Dilli,” Manav continued. “Has anyone been able to trace the vehicle?”

  “No,” said Afridi. “I wasn’t able to read the license number. The police say they couldn’t track the Scorpio, though they informed all of the checkposts on the roads out of town. I suspect some constable is richer by a few thousand rupees.”

  Manav made a sound o
f disapproval. “Disgraceful,” he said. “Do you have any idea who it might have been?”

  “There are plenty of people who would like to see me dead,” Afridi answered. “Who knows which of them it is?”

  “I’m sending two of my men up to Mussoorie to investigate,” Manav said.

  “Don’t bother,” Afridi replied.

  “No, we have to take this seriously. I’m going to speak with the defense secretary. You need proper security up there … not your fauji chowkidars.”

  “Our security is perfectly adequate,” Afridi insisted. “And I certainly don’t want your black cat commandoes prowling around. The last thing we want to do is draw attention to ourselves.”

  “Let’s see what the secretary says,” Manav replied, then he paused before continuing. “On another matter, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. He’s on his way up to Mussoorie as we speak, along with two of my inspectors. They should reach there by three in the afternoon. Would you mind giving him a cup of tea at your house and having a discreet chat?”

  “Who is he?” Afridi turned away from the bathroom mirror. With his free hand, he wheeled himself into the other room. Dr. Gopinath had provided a spare wheelchair to replace the one that was destroyed.

  “He goes by the name of Harsh Advani, a security analyst….”

  “Manav, I told you, I don’t need anyone to assess our security up here, and why would he come to my house?” The irritation in Afridi’s voice was clearly audible. “Why not send him to my office?”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line, and immediately Afridi knew that Shinde was covering up and didn’t want to explain too much. The fact that he was using his private line added to his suspicions.

  “Just meet him, please,” said Manav. “He’ll explain everything…. And for my sake, Imtiaz, please don’t lose your temper until you’ve heard him out.”

  The business card gave nothing away:

  HARSH ADVANI

  TOTAL SECURITY SERVICES

  245 TILAK ROAD, PUNE 9832765123 h.advani@tss.net

  Afridi set the card on the coffee table, next to a book of photographs by Cartier Bresson he had been looking at the evening before. Without speaking, he poured a splash of milk into his guest’s cup before serving the tea.

  “How much sugar do you take?” he asked.

  The man across from him was observing every move with a watchful eye.

  “Sir, three cubes, please,” he said.

  Afridi was doing the best he could to hide his annoyance. Performing the gestures of hospitality, he offered his visitor a plate of sweets, which one of the HRI technicians had sent across to celebrate the birth of a daughter.

  “Try one of these. It’s bal mithai, a local specialty.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The man was in his early forties, with gentle features and thinning hair that made him look like a junior lecturer in management. Perhaps that was what security analysts did these days, assess the risks and calculate variables, reducing everything to algorithms and spreadsheets. Afridi was sure all of the details on the business card were false.

  “So, tell me, Advaniji,” Afridi said. “I’m curious. You’ve come all the way here to meet me. Mr. Shinde insisted that it was important, but he wouldn’t explain any further.”

  The man held his teacup steady, as if he had been well schooled in simple etiquette.

  “Thank you for seeing me, sir,” he began, with formality, carefully placing the cup and saucer on the table. “I’ve always been a great admirer of yours, and I’ve read most of the papers you’ve written, especially your most recent assessment of the Kashmir situation in the Journal of Security Studies. It is an honor to meet you, and I’m grateful that you’ve taken the time out of a busy schedule, particularly after—”

  “What exactly does your company do?” Afridi cut him short, setting his cup on the table and picking up the card with irritation.

  “Actually, that’s irrelevant.”

  Afridi bristled, leaning forward in his chair and brushing his fingers over the bandage on his right hand. “What do you mean?”

  “Sir, I’m not Harsh Adva—”

  “I guessed as much.”

  “Major Yaqub Hussein. ISI. I’ve been operating undercover in Delhi for the past six months. The Pakistan embassy doesn’t even know I’m in India.”

  For a moment Afridi’s face froze with a look of disbelief that slowly resolved itself into anger. He didn’t know whether to shoot the man in front of him or Manav Shinde for sending him here. Reaching under his tweed jacket he took out his pistol for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

  “And what the hell are you doing here?” Afridi said.

  Yaqub Hussein smiled weakly, though his eyes seemed to harden.

  “I’ll explain.”

  “Yes, you will,” said Afridi. “And if you move at all, there will be a bullet in your chest. Are you the ones who tried to kill me yesterday?”

  “No,” said the major. “Those must have been contract killers working for someone else.”

  “Does Shinde know who you are?” Afridi’s mind was racing, trying to comprehend the situation. If anyone in Delhi learned that he was serving tea and sweets to a Pakistani agent, it would compromise everything

  “Yes, I introduced myself to him, just as I’ve done with you—”

  “And why didn’t he have you locked up or deported?” Afridi demanded.

  “Because, for once, perhaps, we have an issue of mutual concern,” said Major Yaqub. “A problem we might solve together.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  “Sir, everything I said earlier about my admiration for you is completely true. You may not believe this, but at the Centre for Strategic Studies in Islamabad they teach a course on counterintelligence, and we studied several of your cases.”

  “I don’t care what you’ve studied,” said Afridi. “I want to know why you’re here.”

  “Please, I will tell you everything, I promise,” said the Major. “But I want you to understand that I’m not here as your enemy. When I was a cadet in the academy, one of my instructors suggested that Colonel Imtiaz Afridi had to prove himself to be an exceptionally patriotic Indian, more dedicated to the nation than any of his colleagues, because he was a Muslim. I argued with him, sir, saying that belief in one’s country is an absolute choice. Our decision to defend our nation has nothing to do with our religion.”

  “What did your instructor tell you?” Afridi’s voice escaped between clenched teeth.

  “He laughed and called me a naïve fool,” said Yaqub Hussein.

  Afridi kept the pistol raised, though the tension in his shoulders eased.

  “I would have done the same,” he said. “Now, tell me why you’re here. Quickly.”

  “Because I believe you are interested in a man known as Guldaar,” said the major. “So are we. He has close links with the ISI, but also with the Americans. There are some of us who feel he enjoys too much influence in our country.”

  “Explain,” said Afridi.

  “Sir, I want to assure you that I’m not here on a fool’s errand, or lying to you.” Major Yaqub moved his hands for the first time since Afridi had produced the gun, reaching across to pick up his tea. “May I?” he asked.

  Afridi realized that he was dealing with a professional, someone who understood the gestures of trust, even in the most desperate circumstances.

  “Last week, you released a man named Jehangir Daruwalla and allowed him to leave the country. He caught an Emirates flight out of Delhi to London. Unfortunately for him, the flight stopped over in Dubai, where he disappeared from the transit lounge. We have a confirmed report that Daruwalla was taken into custody by immigration authorities in Dubai and handed over to Guldaar’s men, who flew him to Kabul, from where he was brought to a safe house in the Khyber Agency. We expect Guldaar to visit the safe house within the next two days.”

  “Then why can’t you just go in and arres
t him when he shows up?” Afridi said.

  “With all due respect, I believe you know the answer to that, sir, better than I,” said Yaqub. “The Khyber Agency is part of Pakistan, but those who live in that region operate outside the laws of our land. They are supported by certain members of our government and military, including the ISI, who believe that feudal anarchy in the border regions serves our national interests. Not all of us agree. We do not want foreigners operating with impunity inside the borders of Pakistan, whether they are Arabs, Americans, or anyone else.

  “Guldaar is protected by a complex but unshakable scaffolding of connections with men in power around the globe. All of them owe him something, or hope to gain from him. He plays them off each other whenever he chooses. Even here in India, I’m sure you’re aware that he has ties that reach very close to the top, in politics and in the military, as well as the corporate sector. The Americans have set up a special desk at Langley to support and protect him—Project Keystone. He is virtually untouchable, immune to any investigation. In Pakistan we dare not question his influence. There are men in the ISI who would start a war for him.”

  Afridi listened to Yaqub without interrupting. Whether this man was telling the truth or not was hard to guess, but the integrity in his voice was convincing, as well as the facts he revealed.

  “Who sent you here?” Afridi asked.

  Yaqub smiled. “I was expecting you to ask me. Unfortunately, that’s the one question I cannot answer.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if his identity is revealed, or even hinted at, our colleagues in the ISI would have him executed immediately, provided Guldaar doesn’t kill him first. I can only tell you that he is a senior brigadier who shares my sense of loyalty to Pakistan.”

  “But you are betraying your country, aren’t you, coming here like this?”