Anna remained calm, as if there were no threat in Holman’s words.
“I was asking what kind of working relationship you were suggesting,” she said.
This time Fletcher answered, after clearing his throat.
“Okay. So, we’re going to let you get on your flight to Delhi, but Agent Holman will accompany you. She’s got her boarding pass, same row, the seat across the aisle. Once you get to Delhi, we’d like you to keep her informed about where Ms. Shaw is staying and if anyone tries to contact her, especially Guldaar or his people. We would also expect that your government, or whatever agency you work for, will extend assistance and any diplomatic courtesies that Agent Holman might require.”
“I can’t promise that,” said Anna.
“You can’t, or you won’t?” said Fletcher.
“I don’t have the authority to promise what you’re asking for,” said Anna.
Fletcher and Holman looked across at each other.
“Then call someone who does,” said Fletcher, glancing down at his watch. “It’s 9:45 p.m. right now. If I’m not mistaken, it’s 11:15 in the morning in India. Whoever you need to talk to should be at work.”
Anna took a moment to collect her thoughts, then reached into her backpack and found the cellphone, which she hadn’t used until now. Switching it on, she scrolled through her list of contacts, most of whom were identified by code names. When she came to “Ivanhoe,” Anna put through the call.
Forty-Three
Afridi had silenced his cellphone while attending a briefing about recent border incursions in Ladakh. A young intelligence officer, Captain Sachdev, was conducting the briefing for a group of HRI analysts, to help them interpret satellite images. While the terrain in Ladakh was unforested and relatively easy to monitor, parts of the region appeared deceptively bare of physical features. Sachdev was explaining how the Chinese were able to move into Indian territory without being detected. Afridi’s phone vibrated. When he saw it was Anna, he excused himself and went outside.
In a tense but muted voice, Anna outlined the situation. Afridi could tell she wasn’t alone. Others were listening to her side of the conversation, and he was sure that his responses were also being monitored. For that reason, he kept his questions brief and to the point.
“You’re not injured or in any physical danger?” he asked.
“No, sir. We’ve been detained at Kennedy airport,” she said.
“By whom?”
“I’m not sure,” said Anna. “They want to send one of their agents to Delhi with us and are asking for our cooperation.”
“What sort of cooperation? How are we supposed to cooperate if we don’t know who they are?” Afridi spoke softly, but his voice was full of anger. “Tell them I want to know who we’re dealing with.”
There was a long pause, after which Anna reported: “They are part of a counterintelligence unit in the National Security Agency. That’s all they’re going to say.”
“And what do they want from us?” Afridi asked.
Anna explained that the Americans were interested in locating Guldaar and wanted to share intelligence on his operations and his whereabouts. They requested that Tracy Holman, one of their agents, be permitted entry into India with full immunity from arrest or prosecution. Anna paused, as someone in the room with her dictated what she should say.
“They want access to whatever information we have on Guldaar. If he’s captured, they would like to have an opportunity to question him. Agent Holman will need to know where Daphne Shaw is staying.” Anna paused as she was given further instructions. “The US embassy should not be informed of Agent Holman’s presence. She will need a handgun for her protection.”
“Damn it, I’m not going to arm a foreign agent,” Afridi said, unable to control his temper.
He could hear Anna relaying his message.
“In that case, they are asking that she be permitted to carry a firearm with her, which will not be confiscated upon arrival.”
“I’ll have to speak to the Home Ministry,” he said.
“We don’t have time for that, sir,” Anna replied.
“I know,” said Afridi. “Tell them I’ll arrange for the three of you to enter the country without going through immigration or customs. But they must understand that my authority is limited and Agent Holman will have to operate with complete discretion. If she goes around shooting people, I can’t protect her.”
“Thank you, sir,” Anna said, as she hung up.
Though he could hear the dial tone and knew that Anna was no longer on the line, he added in a whisper, “Good luck.”
Instead of returning to the briefing, Afridi wheeled himself to the edge of the verandah and let himself roll down into the yard. He made his way along a gravel path, under the shadowy branches of the deodar trees. At the far end of the compound, facing southeast toward the Tehri Hills, lay a rockery that he had started years ago, when HRI was first established. Over time, he had collected a variety of high altitude species, which had been replanted on the slopes below the institute. At this time of year, most of plants were just beginning to bud, several kinds of rhododendrons, as well as primulas and fritillaries. Several times, he had gone himself by helicopter, to supervise the gathering of seeds and bulbs. HRI employed three gardeners to take care of these plants. Afridi had built a greenhouse, too, for the more delicate species that required regulated temperature and humidity.
He knew that his staff found it amusing that someone who was charged with the nation’s security should spend his spare time cultivating wildflowers. But Afridi found solace in his rock garden, and he often retreated here when he needed to think clearly and precisely. The involvement of the Americans unsettled him, almost as much as the visit from Major Yaqub. He had hoped to stalk Guldaar alone, with stealth and secrecy, carefully laying a trap into which his adversary would walk unsuspecting. Now, Afridi’s plans were being complicated by others who had sensed an opportunity to join the hunt. Yet the Americans’ interest in Guldaar confirmed his importance. Afridi knew that a country’s security agencies were often at odds with one another, particularly in the United States, where they approached everything as an adversarial process. Being a creation of the CIA, Guldaar probably raised the specter of fear and loathing in the hearts of other agencies. He wondered if the people who had detained Anna and Daphne were actually working for the NSA. It was a risk he had to take. Perhaps Afridi could turn those competitive jealousies to his advantage, just as he hoped to undermine the ISI by involving dissident elements of their organization. But nobody understood the risks of this strategy better than Afridi. No amount of technological hardware or satellite telemetry could insure against the possibilities of betrayal and counterintelligence that might undermine this project. He could only fall back on his instincts and a conviction that Guldaar represented immeasurable danger to peace and security in South Asia.
When he reached the edge of the garden, Afridi spotted a bed of wild irises lifting their heads among the rocks. They were a dark purple color, far more intense than their hybrid cousins, but also smaller and more delicate. One of the gardeners was adding fertilizer and moss. Afridi spoke with him, urging him not to overwater the irises. Some of the rocks in this garden were from mountains that he had climbed and had been carefully collected and brought here over the years. Amid the irises was a pale chunk of granite taken from the glacial moraine at the head of the Bhyunder Valley, a piece of a mountain called Rataban. Afridi brushed his fingers over the rock, then plucked an iris. Its labial petals revealed a natural symmetry even as the flower looked like a ruffled cockade. For Afridi, the pure purple color and bright exuberance of the iris represented the antithesis of human treachery and greed.
Forty-Four
As the elevator climbed to the 133rd floor, Luke felt his stomach drop. The interior of the elevator was decorated like a Louis XIV boudoir, with gilt-framed mirrors and painted cherubs on the ceiling. A sofa, upholstered in satin with gold embroidery,
was set against one wall for those who found it tiring to stand while ascending two thousand feet above sea level. Luke’s ears popped, though the elevator was so precisely engineered, it was impossible to tell that they were climbing fifty feet per second. Only two other people were with him: the Pakhtun who had accompanied them from Pakistan and another guard who had received them in the parking garage and who looked Ethiopian or Somali.
Guldaar had traveled separately from the airport. Instead of landing at the international terminal, their jet had touched down at an air force base in the desert, about fifteen miles outside the city. They had driven straight from the tarmac to Burj al Khalifa, the tallest building in the world. Luke had been to Dubai often enough to recognize where they were. Once again, he felt as if his life had taken a wrong turn into some kind of lavish nightmare.
There was no possibility of escape, particularly now that he was trapped in the Burj al Khalifa. The floor numbers were ticking over like a time bomb on fast-forward. His guards were silent, but he knew that neither of them would hesitate to put a bullet through his skull. When they finally reached the 133rd floor, the polished brass doors, engraved with unicorns against a field of fleur-de-lis, opened without a sound. Luke stepped into a semicircular lobby with white leather chairs and sofas, a modern, minimalist interior. Two geometric Mondrian paintings hung on the wall—most likely reproductions, but Luke had to wonder if they might be genuine. The only other furnishings were six birdcages of different sizes suspended from the ceiling. Instead of cockatoos or canaries, they were full of tropical fish. Each birdcage enclosed an aquarium, and the fish swam about as if they were flying from perch to perch. The largest of these cages was five feet tall and three feet in diameter. It contained a colorful pair of triggerfish and a miniature shark that circled with a flick of its tail.
One of the doors opened, and a Filipina woman dressed as a French maid greeted him. She spoke English and gestured with attentive hospitality, leading him into a suite with huge windows looking out over the desert. He had little time to take in the rest of his surroundings, for the maid darted ahead of him and he had to rush to keep up. They passed through several drawing rooms and finally came to a hallway with doors on either side. His room was the third on the left. When he stepped inside, Luke was immediately drawn to the window. Dubai spread below him like a giant diorama: highways feeding in from the desert, clustered towers, the Creek full of dhows, the Burj al Arab with its sail-like architecture, and, beyond that, the Persian Gulf. Oceans of sand contrasted with the still, blue water. Luke imagined that he could see all the way to Iran. The maid asked if he wanted something to drink. He shook his head, overcome by a breathless sense of vertigo.
For the first twenty-four hours, there was no sign of Guldaar, and Luke ate his meals by himself. The maid, whose name was Gloria, brought him a change of clothes. This time, instead of salwar kameez, he was given jeans and a polo shirt. Next morning, a technician came to his room and set up a laptop and a printer. When he tried the Internet, the computer denied him access. There was no phone in his room, and he remained cut off from the world. Luke imagined that everyone still assumed he was a hostage somewhere in the Karakoram, guarded by jihadis, instead of being a prisoner in the most luxurious skyscraper in the Middle East. He wished he could reassure Ruth that he was all right, at least for now.
On the second evening, Guldaar summoned him to the floor above, connected by an internal elevator that opened onto a similar suite.
“I hope you’re comfortable,” he said.
“Thank you. I’ve never been this high up in a building before,” said Luke.
“You’re not afraid of heights, are you?” Guldaar laughed. “I want you to make yourself at home. Ask for whatever you require. It’s important that you concentrate on your writing. How’s the article coming along?”
“I’ve finished the first draft,” said Luke. “And I should be able to show it to you by tomorrow.”
“What do you think of our late friend, Roger Fleischmann, now that you’ve read the files and put his story together?”
Luke shrugged. “He was a hard-nosed entrepreneur, whose only real interest was the bottom line. You can’t blame him for that. Of course, the fact that he bought and cheated his way to success doesn’t cast him in an admirable light. But the thing that really incriminates him is that he used drug money to finance his research and development, then hired assassins to kill off the competition, including an American contractor in Muzaffarabad. Once that’s been exposed, nobody will hail him as a hero.”
Guldaar was seated in an armchair beside a blue porcelain vase decorated with white egrets. He took a cigarette from the marquetry box on the coffee table and lit it with a match that he dropped into a crystal ashtray.
“This is why I needed a writer,” said Guldaar, with a look of satisfaction. “Of course, I could have released the information online, but then there’s no way of controlling the message. Someone has to organize the specific details into a logical account, with a beginning, middle, and an end. Others would have misinterpreted the facts and manipulated the story. Luke, I can tell you understand my motives, even if you disapprove of me.”
“It’s not a question of disapproval,” said Luke. “I’m just an ordinary hack, putting words on a page and doing what I’m told.”
Guldaar’s face broke into a smile, but his eyes retained their cynical glare.
“You’re underestimating yourself,” said Guldaar. “Language is a sacred art. Not everyone has the gift of storytelling, but those who do are able to persuade even the most prejudiced minds.”
“What’s my next assignment?” Luke asked.
“I haven’t decided yet, but I have a couple of ideas in mind,” said Guldaar. “Don’t worry, there are plenty of stories. As soon as this one’s finished, I’ll give you another file.”
“I’m beginning to feel a bit like Scheherazade in the Arabian Nights,” said Luke. “As soon as the story is finished, you’ll have me killed.”
Guldaar’s laugh had little humor in it, and he got to his feet, picking up a remote control from beside his chair.
“Come. I want to show you my library,” he said. “It contains several books you might appreciate.”
With the cigarette between his lips, he beckoned for Luke to follow. Crossing a large Bukhara carpet that looked as if it were made of infinite knots, Guldaar pressed the remote control and a pair of sliding doors opened, revealing a large room with bookshelves on two walls. He went across and pulled out a volume at random, handing it to Luke. The book was a history of Central Asia titled Swords in the Wind, published in 1865.
Luke noticed that the third wall of the room was a gallery with artifacts.
“This is my real collection,” said Guldaar. “Not the knickknacks I showed you in the other house. I keep my most valuable pieces here.”
Several Buddha heads were on display as well as a marble bas-relief panel depicting an army marching into battle. Two antique swords with corroded blades hung on the wall, along with arrowheads and daggers.
“Are these from the time of Alexander?” Luke asked.
“Mostly,” said Guldaar, “but also from two or three centuries following, up until the beginning of the Christian era, when Greek satraps still ruled Bactria. It was a remarkable period of history, with refinement of art and culture. Have a look at this.”
He opened a cabinet in the wall. After entering a code on a keypad, he pulled out a shallow drawer that was covered in beveled glass. The interior was lined with purple velvet, on which ornate pieces of gold were arranged. Luke could see that some of these were amulets and bracelets in the shape of coiled serpents or tendril vines. Several seemed to be fragments from a ceremonial breastplate of gold armor, decorated with images of lions and elephants. Winged angels rode upon gilded griffons, and delicate links of chain mail shone like knitted gold. Guldaar opened a second drawer that contained more of the same, including a dagger with a solid gold hilt. In the third
drawer was a girdle with a buckle in the shape of a woman’s head, some sort of goddess or nymph.
“Where did all this come from?” said Luke.
“It was dug up by a Russian archeologist in 1984, from a Bactrian tomb in northeastern Afghanistan. Part of the collection was taken to Moscow. The rest was put in the national museum in Kabul. When the Taliban took over, after the Russians retreated, they looted and destroyed most of what the museum contained. Through my connections, I salvaged whatever I could. After that, I made contact with the Russian archeologist and recovered the rest. It cost me a fortune, but it’s worth it, don’t you think?”
“Incredible,” Luke said.
“Popularly, this is known as the dowry of Alexander, but of course the dates don’t correspond. It was probably the burial treasure of a Seleucid satrap from the first century BC.”
As he said this, there was a polite cough behind them. Gloria, the maid, was standing next to a young woman in her teens. Her hair was covered, but her face was unveiled, revealing pale pink cheeks and downcast blue eyes. She was dressed in a long, loose kameez and pleated salwar, made of embroidered silk, with a scarf edged with cowrie shells wrapped around her shoulders and over her head.
“Allow me to introduce my daughter-in-law,” said Guldaar, putting a hand to his heart.
Luke said nothing, and the girl kept her eyes fixed on the floor as Guldaar picked up a gold necklace from the drawer and carefully draped it around her neck, fastening the clasp. He then took a matching girdle from another drawer and, with Gloria’s help, wrapped it about the girl’s waist. Piece by piece, he adorned his daughter-in-law with the dowry of Alexander, as if she were a mannequin. As he did this, Guldaar seemed to be speaking to himself.
“My most precious possessions,” he said. “Doesn’t she look like a princess?”
With one hand, he lifted her chin as the maid fastened earrings to the girl’s pink lobes. The girl was blushing, but Luke could see the sadness and humiliation in her features.
The Dalliance of Leopards Page 22