Abandoning Daphne’s car, they got back in the Wrangler and continued on into Quinton, where they filled up with gas. Heading out of town, Anna spotted a sign for Route 80. So far the Toyota hadn’t shown up, and by the time they were on the interstate again, Anna began to relax.
Thirty-Nine
Luke felt as if he were going to throw up, watching the guards drag the body off the trail and roll it down the side of the hill into a barren gulley. The two mastiffs sniffed at Daruwalla’s shoes and then moved away, sensing something was wrong. From a distance of thirty feet, the sudden brutality of the killing seemed almost worse than watching Ibrahim and Mushtaq die two weeks ago. The gunshots still rang in his ears. Guldaar’s twelve-gauge snapped open and two empty cartridges were ejected, falling to the ground. Luke could smell the acrid odor of gunpowder, mingling with the smoke of a freshly lit cigarette.
“Why did you kill him?” he asked, finding it hard to speak.
“He betrayed me badly,” said Guldaar. “It wasn’t just business … a personal matter. This was the first time we met, but he knew I had to kill him.”
As they walked slowly back to the house, Guldaar kept his hand on Luke’s shoulder. Maybe it was supposed to be a gesture of reassurance, but Luke felt he was being restrained. The surrounding hills seemed even more desolate, and Luke wondered if they would eventually bury the body or leave it to be eaten by jackals and vultures.
When they reached the house, Guldaar allowed Luke to go to his room, where he lay on his bed for a while, shaken by the killing. An hour later, there was a knock at his door, and a servant gestured for him to follow. Reluctantly, Luke got up and passed through the deserted living room. The artworks on the walls were abstract oils, but the shapes and colors seemed grotesque. Everything about this house disturbed him now, its American furnishings like photographs in a Williams-Sonoma catalogue, completely out of place in this world. Even the flowerbeds outside the bay windows, a flurry of pinks and blues, seemed cruel and corrupted.
The servant led him to a staircase that descended into the basement, then down another level, two stories beneath the earth. When they reached the bottom, a guard was stationed by a heavy steel door and ushered Luke inside. The first room they came to was a windowless lounge with mismatched chairs and a coffee table strewn with newspapers in Urdu and Farsi. The second door took them into a large office, where Guldaar was seated behind an empty desk. He had a cigarette in one hand. Smoke hung like cobwebs from the ceiling
“Luke. Come in,” he said, with a generous smile. “I’m afraid I upset you this morning, but you have to understand I had no choice. Because of Jehangir, my only son is dead.”
He gestured for Luke to take a seat, and for several moments they just stared at each other. The office felt like a crypt. Luke could see vents near the ceiling where the air circulated, but there was no sound of fans or air-conditioning.
“I’ve brought you here because I want to offer you a commission,” said Guldaar. “You work freelance, don’t you? This is a writing assignment that might interest you.”
Luke was slowly taking in his surroundings, the carpets on the floors and a glass cabinet along one wall, filled with artifacts that looked as if they belonged in a museum. Several sculptures stood on either side of the room, lit up by gallery lights from the ceiling. A Buddha figure presided over one corner, while a crudely carved wooden chair, like a throne, sat against the wall.
“First of all, however, I want to tell you something about myself, so you understand the motives behind my actions, the truth beyond the lies.”
Guldaar gestured toward the ceiling.
“As I said, the Americans built this house for me, but I don’t stay up above. It’s safer down here. Even if they dropped a bomb directly on the house, we would survive.”
“Why would they target the house, if they built it for you?” said Luke.
“You can never trust anyone,” said Guldaar. “It’s sad but true. All of us are expendable. The only thing that protects me is that I know much more about them than they know about me.”
There was another pause, while Guldaar got to his feet and came around the other side of the desk, directly in front of Luke. He lit another cigarette before he spoke.
“People call me Guldaar Khan out of respect. It’s not my name, but I accept it as an honorific. Everyone fears a leopard. Most people assume that I’m a Pathan, Pakhtun. I do not deny it, of course, because it suits me, but my family were originally Kati Kafirs, Red Kafirs, from the Bashgal Valley. In the 1930s, when my father was a boy, his family escaped persecution by crossing the border near Chitral. Our people used to worship ancient gods, idols with the features of Greek and Iranian deities, and names that no one can pronounce today. You’ve heard of Kafiristan, of course. Nuristan. The land of enlightenment?”
Luke nodded, aware of the history and mythology of this region.
“Then you understand the cruel ironies of our people.” Guldaar laughed. “We are accused of ignorance and heresy for preserving traditions that go back to a time before the prophet Mohammed before Jesus Christ. For a while, my family took refuge among the Kalash tribe, the Black Kafirs, as they are known, in Birir and Bumburet, across the Durand Line. British rule protected us. When my father came of age, he married a Kalash, my mother. She was the most beautiful girl in the valley, with hair like corn silk and cheeks the color of wild roses and eyes as blue as glacial ice.”
Waving his cigarette, Guldaar circled his desk.
“Forgive me, I’m not a poet, and my metaphors are rustic analogies from peasant life. But there is nothing romantic about being a refugee. Our people suffered in exile. They were shepherds, a hard life in an unforgiving land. When the British left in 1947, we were threatened by some of the tribesmen, not the Chitralis but others who disapproved of our gods and our customs. They called us immoral, licentious, corrupt.
“By this time, my father had given up the pastoral life and started a small business, transporting goods and produce from Peshawar to Chitral. He converted to Islam out of expediency but also because he saw what the future held. In 1951 we moved to the village I showed you this morning and started our lives again. The Pakhtun headman was a close friend of my father’s, and we were adopted into their family. My father accepted the name Salim Khan, and he made my mother convert to Islam, too, though she still prayed to her gods in secret and taught me the language of my ancestors, the names of Bulumain and other deities who are worshipped in fire rituals, ancient heroes like Budulak, the shepherd king, progenitor of the Kalash people. My father permitted her this much, though he prayed at the mosque every day. My name was changed to Jamshed Khan, and I was circumcised at the age of nine, which is an experience you never forget.”
Luke knew that the story he was hearing could easily be true, or at least as true as anything might be in this part of the world. Guldaar spoke with little emotion, except when he mentioned his mother.
“My mother came from a well-respected Kalash family, and her grandfather had been a tribal shaman, Rustom Jan. Even when I was very young, I remember she used to tell me how our family traced their ancestry to Sikander-e-Azam. We were the descendants of Alexander and Rukhsana, Roxanne, the daughter of Porus, or Puru, as my mother used to pronounce it. These were stories handed down from her grandmother. She said our family were ancient warriors who became shepherds when there were no wars to fight. Our fair complexion and the pale color of our eyes come from our Greek ancestors. Our blood is like the waters of the Indus, which is fed by many streams but remains pure until it flows into the sea. These were the heroic stories I heard as a boy. My mother recounted these legends until the day she died, ten years ago. After her death I founded the Sikander-e-Azam Trust, to honor her memory.”
Luke watched him light another cigarette, as if the smoke sustained the stories.
“Come here,” said Guldaar, waving toward the display cases on the wall. “I’ll show you something.”
He waited until L
uke joined him, then opened one of the glass panels, taking out a chunk of stone the size of a cricket ball. At first, there didn’t seem to be anything special about it, until Luke held it in his hands and saw that part of it was delicately carved with the cherubic features of a human face, one eye and an ear, as well as curls of hair.
“I collect Gandhara sculptures. This piece would have been carved in the first century, BC. It was broken off a statue by Muslim zealots—fragments of idolatry.”
From a jeweled box on another shelf, Guldaar took a couple of old coins.
“These are gold and silver coins from the time of Alexander. That’s his face on them, wearing a lion headdress,” he said. Seeing the skepticism in Luke’s eyes, he added. “You can buy cheap imitations in Kabul, but I can assure you these are real.”
Luke felt the weight of the coin in his palm. He could just make out the Macedonian features embossed in dull silver and a similar emblem on a brighter, untarnished piece of gold. His eyes traveled over the glass case, seeing shards of pottery and clay figurines, metal clasps, and rusted blades of daggers. Nothing was labeled, but Luke could tell every object had its story.
“This is only a small part of my collection,” said Guldaar. “I have a great deal more I can show you, but first I want to know if you’re willing to accept my commission.”
Luke turned to him. “Do I have a choice?”
“Not if you wish to remain alive.” Guldaar’s eyes hardened.
“What do you want me to write?” Luke asked. “A history of the Kalash people?”
“No,” Guldaar smiled. “Perhaps later. That could be another project. But for the moment, I only want you to write about the present … a series of investigative articles, which we will publish online.”
“Investigative?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll give you all the material you need. No other research is required,” said Guldaar. “I’ve got an extensive archive of documents, video and audio recordings, transcripts, tapes, and photographs.”
“And what are these about?”
“Evidence of greed and treason—bribes, kickbacks, hawala payments. I’ve kept a careful record of all of my transactions: recordings of telephone calls, photographs of money changing hands, CCTV footage, bank statements, incriminating emails, and text messages. These include details about heads of state, ministers of different countries, World Bank, NATO, EU and UN officials, businessmen, spies and military officers, presidents of banks, and managing directors of corporations. It’s all carefully filed away but needs to be narrated in a convincing way, telling these stories of corruption, the hidden weaknesses of powerful men. I would do it myself, but I’m not a writer. That’s why I need you. Believe me, Luke, the material I have is more explosive than any nuclear warhead. I’m not asking you to make up these stories, only to tell the truth. Any journalist would stake his career on it.”
“You’re planning to use it as blackmail?” Luke said.
“Perhaps,” said Guldaar. “But I would call it protection. I’ll release the articles selectively, and only if necessary, along with supporting evidence.”
Luke felt the nausea returning, a sour-sick taste at the back of his throat.
Guldaar opened one of the drawers beside him and took out a newspaper, which he tossed across the desk.
“Here’s your first assignment,” he said.
On the front page of the New York Times was a photograph of Roger Fleischmann, with a headline about his death.
“You interviewed him, didn’t you?” said Guldaar.
Luke nodded as he skimmed the story of the air crash in Eggleston, Ohio. It was the first news report he’d seen in almost two weeks, since he’d been abducted.
“There are rumors,” said Guldaar, “that the CEO of Peregrine was killed by terrorists. All kinds of conspiracy theories are circulating. Some people probably think I killed him, by sabotaging his plane.”
“Did you?” Luke asked.
Guldaar shook his head as he took a plastic file from the drawer.
“In a way, I suppose, I did. But it wasn’t an accident, nor was it murder. Suicide, plain and simple. There was nothing wrong with the plane. Roger Fleischmann killed himself by flying it into the ground.”
Luke stared at the photograph of the man he’d met a month ago, recalling his easygoing laugh and their conversation about military contracts and international relations.
“Why would he have done that?” Luke asked.
“Because I showed him this,” said Guldaar, opening the file and passing it across to Luke, “a little over a week ago, when I visited Ohio. It’s unfortunate that he took his life. I had hoped he would stay on as CEO, but Roger lost his nerve.”
Guldaar winced, as if it were painful for him to recount what happened.
“Once you read the documents and see what’s on the DVDs, you’ll understand how the company secured illegal contracts and bought influence in Pakistan and neighboring countries. Peregrine is like any other corporation. They depend on sales and marketing, which is a dirty business, no matter where you go in the world. I suppose the most damning part is that some of the investments in Peregrine came from the heroin trade, indirectly of course, but there’s a paper trail. Roger Fleischmann is dead, but I want you to write the truth about him, based on these documents. Today, he’s an American martyr and hero. But when they learn the facts, it’ll be a different story.”
Forty
Afridi watched their progress on the satellite map as the vehicle moved slowly across Pennsylvania toward New York, like an iridescent beetle drawn to the light. He could picture Anna behind the wheel of the car. Beside her, Afridi imagined Daphne Shaw. He wondered what they were talking about, how much Daphne had revealed about her relationship with Guldaar. He assumed that she would trust a woman more than a man with her secrets. Beyond the factual details of her life and the elaborate charade Guldaar had created for her, Afridi was interested in the subtle intimacies between them. Not the sexual encounters, but those moments in which their masks fell away. Was he cruel to her? Did he spoil her with gifts and endearments? It was impossible to know what kind of man Guldaar was, except in abstract terms, the money he extorted and embezzled, the murders he committed or commissioned, the debts he collected as favors from the rich and powerful, because he was richer and more powerful than the rest.
Watching the blinking icon moving imperceptibly forward along the highway, Afridi could almost hear the sound of Daphne’s voice telling her story, though the tracking device wasn’t equipped with a microphone.
They had stopped only once, to get coffee. Anna was still worried that they were being followed. Daphne seemed exhausted by the emotions of the past few days. For a while, she talked about her son, remembering him as only a mother could, his childhood tantrums.
“Naseem inherited his father’s temper,” she said. “Though he could be as gentle and timid as a kitten sometimes, even as a teenager.”
“Did he know his father well?” Anna asked.
“No, not really,” said Daphne. “Jimmy was always traveling, and we weren’t married. He had several homes and several other women. Sometimes he’d come and visit, bringing extravagant gifts. But I could tell that Naseem distrusted him from an early age. Sometimes he’d say to me, ‘I’m going to kill him, mamma. I’m going to kill him.’”
Anna could hear the sorrow in her laugh.
“Why would he say that?” she asked.
“It was my fault, maybe. I’d complain about Jimmy, or we’d have arguments when he came over. Naseem would hear us shouting. It didn’t happen very often, but when Jimmy lost his temper—”
“Did he hit you?”
“No. It was only words,” said Daphne. “Though several times. he threatened me with a pistol, and once he put the muzzle right against my forehead. I knew he’d shot other people, but I wasn’t afraid, at least not in that moment. I said, ‘Do it! Go on, do it!’”
“Was Naseem there?” Anna asked.
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br /> “He was watching from the bedroom door, but he was only three or four. I don’t think he would have remembered.” Daphne stared out at the passing rooftops of a town along the highway. There were more trees than houses, and parts of the town looked derelict, empty factories and desolate streets.
“You never thought of leaving him?”
“I tried several times, but I couldn’t hide from him. He always seemed to be able to track me down. And whenever we met, he was charming, full of apologies and promises. At least in the beginning I believed him.”
“Later, when your son had the accident, what did Guldaar do?” Anna was almost afraid to ask, but Daphne seemed willing to talk.
“He came to the hospital in Breach Candy, near the club where we used to go swimming. There was a pool shaped like the map of India…. ” Daphne stopped herself for a moment, as if realizing her memories were wandering. “Jimmy spoke with the doctors, and I remember thinking, This is something he can’t fix. Naseem was in the operating theater. The doctors said he had a thirty percent chance of survival, which sounded absurd to me, because how do you calculate something like that? The next thing I knew there were people from the US embassy asking me about my passport and somebody from an air ambulance company who made me sign some papers. Once they had Naseem stabilized, we flew to the US. Jimmy said he was going to be on the flight with us but, as usual, he changed his plans just before we took off. There was just Naseem and me and a doctor. I kept thinking none of this is real. We had different names and American passports.”
The bitterness in her voice was like the aftertaste of their unsweetened coffee in Styrofoam cups. Anna listened, though her eyes remained on the road, checking the rearview mirror from time to time. A lot of trucks were on the highway, and every time they passed an eighteen-wheeler, the Jeep shuddered in its wake. She was driving ten miles above the speed limit, as fast as she dared.
The Dalliance of Leopards Page 20