The Dalliance of Leopards

by Alter, Stephen;

  By the time they reached New York, Daphne had told her almost everything about her life. For the first few years, she had waited for Naseem to wake up out of the coma. She had waited for Jimmy to come and visit her. She had waited for some kind of release from the fictional world in which she lived, false identities and the watchful presence of men who kept her under surveillance from the day she reached America. Were they there for her protection or were they making sure she didn’t escape? Daphne had never been sure.

  “Who was watching you?” Anna asked.

  “Peregrine’s security has always been there, but maybe Jimmy hired his own guards to keep an eye on me. Maybe it’s all tied in with the CIA, private contractors, and corporate agents. The lines get blurred. All I know is that ever since I got here, someone’s been keeping me under surveillance, tapping my phones, keeping track of when I come and go. No privacy. It’s like being actor,” she said with a bitter laugh. “But without the celebrity.”

  “The men who broke down your door two weeks ago?”

  “I don’t know who they were. They had no IDs or insignia on their uniforms, but they must have worked for the government…. I just don’t know which branch or agency.”

  “Did you report it to the police?”

  Daphne shook her head. “There wasn’t much point. I’m sure they learned about it, but nobody ever came around. The local police have a close working relationship with Peregrine.”

  “But the men who stormed your house were federal agents?”

  “I have no idea. They threatened me with arrest and said they could lock me up without a warrant, but in the end they got back in their RV and went away.”

  “They were after Guldaar?”

  “Of course,” said Daphne. “They said they knew he’d been with me. I denied it, and there wasn’t any proof he’d been to the house. Then three days ago, someone from Washington came up to see me at the clinic. He didn’t identify himself but said he worked for the government and he wanted to know about Jimmy.”

  “Homeland Security?” Anna asked. “FBI?”

  “NSA? There are plenty of acronyms for dangerous people who claim to be protecting our freedom. Who knows?”

  “Did this man give you any indication why they were after Guldaar?”

  “Because of Jimmy’s connections, I suppose. He knows a couple of senators and congressmen, as well as some of the top military intelligence officers working in Afghanistan. They use him and he uses them. It all started when the Russians invaded and he made himself invaluable.”

  “Did Guldaar tell you this?”

  “In a roundabout way,” said Daphne. “He talked with me about certain things, but I always knew there were secrets he would never share.”

  By seven in the evening, they finally reached the airport. It was growing dark as they drove up the ramp into long-term parking. Daphne’s suitcase felt almost empty when Anna put it on the cart, as if she had left everything behind. Pushing the luggage to an elevator, she pressed the button for Ticketing and Departures. Daphne seemed restless and uneasy, looking into every face they passed without meeting anyone’s eye. The flight was scheduled for 10:30 p.m. Anna debated whether she should wait another hour before buying their tickets but decided to go ahead. She used the credit card Manav had given her, signing her name as Sheetal Khanna. They went straight from there to Check-in, where they got their boarding passes. Before going through security, Anna went to the washroom and dropped the Beretta and the extra clip of ammunition in a trash bin, after wiping them clean of her prints.

  Passing through the scanners, she felt a sense of relief, as if everything was going to be all right. She watched Daphne retrieving her handbag from the X-ray machine and putting on her shoes, admiring the courage that lay beneath her beauty and grace.

  At that moment, she heard a voice behind her.

  “Excuse me, are you Sheetal Khanna?”

  Looking up, Anna shook her head, more in surprise than denial. Two men were standing close behind her.

  By this time, Daphne had also turned to face them, a look of resignation in her eyes.

  “Please come with us.”

  Forty-One

  They had left the house at quarter past six in the morning and were driving along a military road that cut off the main highway out of Peshawar, heading south. The land was uncultivated and desolate, scarified with ravines. Already they had passed through a couple of checkpoints. Ahead of them was a high fence, and Luke could see an airfield beyond, with a control tower and radar dishes.

  Guldaar was in a talkative mood.

  “This airfield was built in the 1950s by the Americans,” he said. “It has a runway big enough to land a 747. In those days the U2 spy planes used to operate from this base. Francis Gary Powers. You’ve heard his name?”

  Luke nodded.

  “He took off from here before he was shot down by the Soviets.” Guldaar laughed. “This part of the world has seen all kinds of conflicts.”

  When they reached the gate, two military guards blocked their way, but recognizing the officer escorting the car, they backed off quickly and let them through. In the distance, Luke could see a squadron of fighter jets and fortified hangers. Two C-130 cargo planes and a swarm of helicopters were parked nearby. Their SUV headed onto the tarmac and made a straight line for an executive jet that stood at the edge of the concrete apron. Luke tried to imagine what a U2 must have looked like—a sleek black silhouette. He’d been told stories about the Cold War missions launched from Peshawar, when Ayub Khan and his generals allowed the Americans to build airbases in Pakistan. A couple years ago, he’d done a series of interviews with retired army officers who enjoyed talking about the good old days. Things hadn’t changed very much, except for enemies and allies.

  Their plane was a Falcon 2000, a nine-seater twin-engine jet, with a private suite in front. The pilot was an American named Craig. He greeted Guldaar and Luke with laconic deference and a hint of flyboy swagger. As they boarded the jet, their Pakistani escort stiffened but did not salute. Guldaar thanked him, putting a hand to his heart. Nobody had checked their passports or conducted any departure formalities.

  As they settled into their seats, which faced each other, Guldaar lit a cigarette. The jet began to taxi toward the runway. The engines had a wasp-like whine underscored by a resonant growl. Within five minutes they were airborne, climbing steeply. Through the window, Luke could see snow-capped peaks in the distance.

  “How long will it take you to write the article about Peregrine?” Guldaar asked.

  There was only one other passenger, a bodyguard who sat behind Luke with a machine pistol resting across his thighs. The plane banked steeply as it turned to the southwest, flying parallel to the mountains.

  “A week, at least,” said Luke.

  “Really? Why would it take so long?” Guldaar seemed disappointed. “All the research has been done for you.”

  “I’ll need to write and revise three or four drafts. With all of the material you’ve given me, it’ll be about three thousand words.”

  Guldaar tapped his cigarette into an ashtray next to him. Luke had fastened his seatbelt out of habit, but Guldaar left his open and seemed unconcerned, as if his safety were assured.

  “Of course, I won’t rush you,” he said. “We want this to be a good piece of reporting, something that makes people question their assumptions and see the world for what it is.”

  Luke hadn’t forgotten the shotgun going off and Jehangir Daruwalla toppling backward from the blast. The interior of the jet seemed absurdly comfortable after his confinement in the empty cistern, though he knew that he remained a hostage.

  “We’ll have to come up with an appropriate pseudonym for you,” Guldaar said. “Unfortunately, this article can’t appear under your name.”

  “Where will you have it published?”

  “I was thinking The Military and Foreign Policy Review, their online edition. Are you familiar with it?” Guldaar asked, staring
out the window at the cloud formations below.

  “No,” said Luke.

  “It’s published by a conservative think tank in England, the Hoath Centre for Security Affairs. The director, a former Tory MP, owes me a favor or two,” said Guldaar. “It has a relatively small circulation, but once the story is out there, I’m sure it will be picked up by others. What do they call it? Going viral?”

  The plane shuddered with sudden turbulence, but Guldaar didn’t seem to notice.

  “Of course,” he said, “the truth is, I may not have to publish anything at all.”

  Luke studied him without looking straight into his eyes, keeping Guldaar in his peripheral vision. He wondered what he could tell Carlton Fletcher about this man, how he might describe him—arrogant and vicious, certainly, but with a cultivated sensibility. The Oxbridge accent was deceptive, but he could hear another voice within the voice that echoed a rough, unsettled past, a bullying boy from the badlands of the Hindu Kush, with a crude sense of self-importance.

  As soon as they reached their cruising altitude, a male attendant entered from the galley and asked what they would like to drink.

  “Tea,” said Guldaar. “But maybe you’ll have a whiskey….”

  “No thank you,” Luke said. “Tea is good.”

  As the attendant excused himself, Luke asked, “Can I ask where we’re going?”

  “Dubai,” said Guldaar, without hesitation, though Luke could tell he was not prepared to say any more.

  They continued to speak about the article. Guldaar said that he would only read it once Luke was satisfied with what he’d written.

  “I don’t plan to do much editing,” he said. “The facts will speak for themselves. All you need to do is structure it carefully and make sure it’s a compelling narrative.”

  Luke didn’t argue with him, though he wondered if the article would ever get published. What worried him more was that Guldaar had been as candid as he was, revealing details about his contacts and his relationship with Peregrine. Luke knew this meant that he had no intention of ever letting him go free.

  “What about your role in the story?” he asked.

  Guldaar seemed puzzled for a moment. The tea had arrived, a cup for each of them and one for the bodyguard, who sat silent as an armed Buddha in his seat.

  “What do you mean?” said Guldaar.

  “There must be things that you don’t want me to put in the article,” said Luke, awkwardly. “Because it might incriminate you….”

  Guldaar laughed. “Of course,” he said. “Like you, I must remain anonymous. But as you’ll see in the files, I don’t leave fingerprints.”

  “Won’t the CIA or ISI realize who’s leaking this information? They’ll trace the story back to you, won’t they?”

  Guldaar’s smile tightened. “So what if they do? It sends a message, doesn’t it? And there are plenty of other stories where this one came from. You see what I mean….”

  Luke met his captor’s gaze for a moment, realizing that the more he learned about Guldaar, the less likely he was to get out of this alive.

  Forty-Two

  Anna and Daphne were taken from the security screening area to a door behind a kiosk in the departures concourse. One of the men who accompanied them punched in a code and ushered them inside. They passed through a long corridor with florescent lighting. Anna noticed signs for the Immigration and Naturalization Service, as well as Customs and the Department of Agriculture. The room into which they were led was unmarked, except for a sign: NO ENTRY.

  It was a small conference room with an oval table and uncomfortable chairs. A window looked out onto a line of aircraft parked at their departure gates. Most of these were international carriers—Lufthansa, Swissair, Qatar Airways, Air India. Anna guessed this last one was their plane, and she could imagine the passengers lining up at the departure gate inside.

  “May I see your passports please?” The man who asked was middle-aged, with receding hair, a curdled complexion, and tinted glasses. Daphne had already recognized him from his visit to the clinic last week, though she said nothing as she handed over her passport.

  “Sheetal Khanna,” Fletcher said, glancing at Anna’s passport first.

  “Is there a problem?” she asked.

  The man looked up at her with a tired expression that suggested so many problems he didn’t know where to begin.

  “You’re flying to India, right?” he asked. “New Delhi.”

  “Yes,” said Anna, glancing at her watch. “Our flight leaves in forty-five minutes.”

  He didn’t react.

  “What’s the big rush?” he said, picking up Daphne’s passport and riffling through the pages. “You only bought your tickets half an hour ago. Is this some kind of emergency?”

  “Yes,” said Anna. “A family crisis.”

  “So, are you related to each other?”

  “Just friends,” said Anna. Daphne remained silent.

  “Ms. Khanna, you arrived in this country a week ago,” said the man.

  Anna nodded.

  “And you, Ms. Shaw, what takes you out of the country?” he said, catching Daphne’s eye. They looked at each other for a moment.

  “It’s Mr. Fletcher, isn’t it?” she said. “My son passed away, a couple of days after you came to see me.”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  The second man sat to one side, saying nothing. After a prolonged silence, there was a knock at the door, and Tracy Holman came in. She was wearing a dark gray suit and glanced at Anna with recognition but said nothing.

  “Ms. Khanna. Ms. Shaw,” Fletcher introduced them, as if this were a business meeting. “My colleague, Agent Holman.”

  “Are all of you with the National Security Agency?” Anna asked.

  Fletcher smiled for the first time.

  “We’ll answer that question later on. Right now, we want to know why you ladies are in such a hurry to leave the United States,” he said.

  Daphne looked across at Anna.

  “We haven’t broken any laws, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” Anna said. “There’s nothing illegal about our departure.”

  “Except that this morning you shot out the tires on a pickup truck in Ohio,” said Holman, her red lipstick forming each word. “And your reckless driving caused another vehicle to crash on Route 80 in Pennsylvania, endangering several lives.”

  “We were being followed and threatened,” Daphne said. “It was self-defense. Those men were trying to stop us.”

  “Why do you think they were doing that?” said Fletcher.

  “Ms. Shaw’s life is in danger, ever since her son passed away,” Anna said.

  “You mean, once she took him off life support,” Fletcher replied.

  Daphne maintained her composure. “Yes, that was my decision.”

  “And you donated his organs to be transplanted, am I right? Your son’s heart, his kidneys, cornea, and liver?”

  Anna glanced across at Daphne, who closed her eyes for a moment.

  “It seemed the right thing to do, giving someone else a second chance at life,” she said.

  “Yes, of course. A generous and admirable choice,” said Fletcher. “And your son’s father knew about this?”

  “No,” she said. “I suppose he does now. That’s why you’ve stopped us, isn’t it?”

  Tracy Holman shook her head. “Actually, we’d like to help you.”

  Anna could tell that she was attempting to sound sympathetic, though her eyes were cold and unemotional and her voice sounded as if it were a recording, digitized words and inflections.

  “How could you help us?” Anna asked.

  “We’d like to protect you from whoever it is that’s trying to kill you,” said Fletcher. “But first we need to know who it is.”

  Daphne’s hands were folded on the table and she turned the ring on her finger slowly, so that the emerald glinted in the florescent light.

  “We’re going to miss our fli
ght,” she said.

  Fletcher shook his head. “Don’t worry. We’ve arranged for it to be delayed. A minor technical snag.”

  Anna looked across at the Air India 777, which was being loaded with baggage. A Sky Gourmet flight kitchen van was parked next to the plane.

  “Mr. Fletcher,” said Daphne. “When you came to see me at the clinic in Ohio, you explained that the men who broke down the door of my house were looking for someone, the father of my son. He goes by the name Jamshed Khan, but most people call him Guldaar. I’m sure you know who I mean.”

  “Do you know where Guldaar is right now?” Holman asked.

  “I have no idea,” said Daphne.

  “But probably not in India,” said Fletcher. “Am I right?”

  “Not that I know of,” Daphne replied.

  “And Ms. Khanna, you work for the Indian government?” said Fletcher.

  “I’m a researcher—” she began to explain.

  “Bullshit,” said Fletcher.

  “Excuse me?” Anna replied, her eyes level with his.

  “You can cut the crap,” he said. “We know you’re not interested in Sanskrit poetry.”

  Holman interjected, “As I said before, we’d like to help, but we need your cooperation.”

  Fletcher fell silent and nodded.

  “We’ll be happy to let you board your plane, provided we can establish some sort of working relationship,” said Holman.

  “Such as?” Anna asked.

  So far, all of Holman’s remarks had been directed toward Daphne. She now looked at Anna with a patronizing smile that gave nothing away.

  “I know that Ms. Shaw’s safety is your primary concern,” she said. “And I appreciate the fact that you were able to successfully bring her here to New York, but you need to understand, Ms. Khanna, that if we identify you as a foreign intelligence agent, operating within the borders of the United States, we are authorized to detain you for as long as necessary without a trial. And I suspect your government would deny involvement. Am I right?”