“She speaks no English,” said Guldaar. “No Urdu, only an obscure dialect of Pashto.”
Guldaar now picked up a gold tiara, with floral designs, petals, and leaves formed into a circlet. He brushed the scarf aside, so that the girl’s light blond hair was exposed, plaited in a single braid. With a gentle, fatherly gesture, he placed the delicate crown on her head and took a step back to admire the result.
He lit another cigarette as he studied the girl. She held her head up, but her eyes remained fixed on the carpet at her feet, and Luke saw tears begin to trickle down her cheeks.
“Such a pity. Widowed five days after she became a bride,” Guldaar said, his voice filled with sudden bitterness. “Such a beautiful thing. She would have borne me a dozen grandchildren. Such a waste …”
His voice broke off, and Luke was astonished to see that Guldaar was weeping, as well.
Forty-Five
Air India Flight 102 was scheduled to reach Indira Gandhi Airport at 15:00 hours, but because of a departure delay in New York, the ETA was now 4:00 p.m. Afridi had been following the 777’s progress. When he arrived at his office, they were somewhere over the Caucasus, still in darkness. He could see the flight path on his computer screen, the white icon like a moth crawling across a windowpane, inching its way toward Delhi.
When the aircraft finally touched down, Afridi watched it taxi to the gate. The CCTV cameras picked up the passengers leaving the jetway. Anna and Daphne were among the first to disembark, along with the American agent, Tracy Holman. Afridi could see two army intelligence officers meet them and escort them to a VIP elevator that took them down to the ground floor. Though his cameras couldn’t follow them beyond this point, Afridi knew the women would be boarding a jeep to drive them directly to Palam Air Force Station, adjacent to the commercial airfield. Instead of sending his Aerospatial Lama to pick them up, he had arranged a larger Sikorsky S-76 chopper, operated by the National Security Guard. Checking his watch, Afridi estimated they would arrive in Mussoorie within the hour, ten minutes past 5:00 p.m. He rang for his personal assistant and made sure that preparations were in order. For Agent Holman, his PA had arranged for a room at Rokeby Manor, a nearby hotel. Anna and Daphne each had a suite in the HRI annex. He knew they would be tired, and he ordered an early dinner to be served in their rooms.
While he waited for his guests, Afridi tried to distract himself by reading a recent report on the melting of Himalayan glaciers that suggested that the effects of climate change had been seriously underestimated. Many of the major glaciers were receding at an alarming rate. Since the 1960s, when he was climbing, most glaciers had shifted as much as a kilometer or two upstream. But at this moment, Afridi found it difficult to focus on the calculations of glaciologists. Impatiently, he set the report aside.
Daphne Shaw’s safe arrival in Mussoorie was the first stage of a plan that he had worked out in his mind as carefully as he might have organized an assault on a mountain. He knew that Guldaar would attempt to kill her now. Reluctantly, he had accepted Manav’s offer of upgrading security at HRI. A detachment of NSG “black cat” commandoes had arrived the day before. Their commanding officer established a security perimeter to ensure that any threat on the ground was neutralized immediately. In particular, the annex where Daphne was to stay was protected by both an inner security cordon and an outer ring of NSG guards. Even Afridi himself had agreed to travel back and forth from his cottage with an armed escort. He also had to forgo his daily workouts on the chukkar, which always made him irritable.
From here on in, it was likely to be a waiting game. Hunting a leopard took patience and perseverance. Afridi tried to lay his doubts to rest, but one piece of information that Major Yaqub had passed on troubled his conscience: the news that Jehangir Daruwalla had been shot. He had liked the man, despite his business associates, and felt responsible for his death.
Though nobody but Afridi and Manav Shinde knew that Daphne was being flown to Mussoorie, it was obvious that word of her presence at HRI would leak out. The Americans would learn of it through Holman, while Major Yaqub had probably connected the dots. Guldaar himself had plenty of informers in place. None of this worried Afridi, for he knew that whatever happened next, it would all be over soon enough.
Just then, there was a sharp knock on the office door, which opened before Afridi could respond. HRI’s chief analyst, Narender Rawat, stepped inside. His anxious features showed even more strain than usual.
“Sir,” he said. “The helicopter took off from Delhi at 17:23. We received confirmation from Air Traffic Control, but thirty-eight minutes into the flight, they lost all contact.”
“What do you mean?” Afridi snapped, both hands instinctively reaching for the wheels on his chair.
“It’s gone from radar, sir. Disappeared.”
Forty-Six
Fletcher was not a prejudiced man, but there were certain things that annoyed him to the point of bias and discrimination. One of these was Starbucks. Their coffee was okay, but the elaborate vocabulary they used seemed unnecessarily confusing. All he wanted was a regular cup of coffee with cream and sugar, but instead he had to ask for a grande Kenyan Double Roast. The guy ahead of him in line had his formula worked out, a “cinnamon dolce latte with an extra shot of Blonde Roast Madagascar.” Usually, Fletcher bought his coffee from a newsstand at the Virginia Square metro station near his office. It had a bitter-sour flavor, suggesting it was brewed the day before, but he could drown it in cream and take the edge off with three packets of sugar. His doctor had tried to get him to switch to artificial sweeteners, but this morning, he didn’t care if he lived beyond today.
The woman he was meeting had suggested a Starbucks in Georgetown, because she was familiar with that area. Reluctantly, he had agreed. Fletcher considered getting a blueberry scone with his coffee but abstained, remembering his doctor’s warning. Blood pressure, cholesterol, sugar—none of the numbers were looking good.
He was just sitting down, when he saw her coming through the door. There was a family resemblance. She looked around, trying to get her bearings. Fletcher raised a hand and stood up.
“Ms. McKenzie. I’m Carlton Fletcher,” he said, shaking her hand.
“Ruth,” she said, with a tense sort of smile.
“Would you like some coffee? I’m afraid I went ahead and got mine.”
“I’ll join you in a minute.”
He watched her as she went across and ordered. It was hard to know what she was thinking. Her brother had been abducted two weeks ago, and there was no word if he was alive or dead. She had been contacting everyone she could think of in the government, including her congressman and senator, as well as the embassy in Islamabad. Fletcher wasn’t sure if she had any information that might prove useful, but he’d decided to give her a call. On the phone, Fletcher had warned her that he didn’t have any updates to share with her, but that didn’t stop Ruth McKenzie from driving down to Washington from West Virginia. To keep things simple, he told her that he worked for the State Department, Citizens’ Services.
“Thank you for meeting me,” she said, bringing a cup of tea to the table.
“I wish I had some good news for you,” Fletcher said. “But there’s been no communication in the last six days. We’ve been in touch with the Pakistanis, and they’re not telling us much, except that your brother’s captors seem to be some Taliban splinter group.”
“What demands have they made?” she asked.
“They want money, of course, two million dollars, and the release of some of their men who are prisoners in Afghan jails.”
“I read that in the papers,” said Ruth, impatiently. “But somebody must be in touch with them through unofficial channels.”
“As a policy, the US government doesn’t negotiate with terrorists,” said Fletcher. “Nevertheless, we’re trying our best to get him out of there.”
“Mr. Fletcher, honestly,” she said, “I don’t think anyone’s trying hard enough.”
&n
bsp; “If we had a better idea where he was—”
“We know he went up into one of the valleys beyond Garam Chashma, north of Chitral. They found the bodies of his companions. How difficult is it to send in helicopters?” Ruth’s voice was breaking.
“If he’s a hostage, they’d shoot him as soon as the choppers arrived,” said Fletcher. “These guys are ruthless. Besides, we don’t know if they’ve moved him out of there. It’s like a labyrinth in that region. With the earthquake, nobody knows what’s going on.”
She sat silent for a moment, staring at her tea. He waited thirty seconds.
“Ruth,” he said, putting his hand on her arm. “I can promise you, we’re doing all we can, but if there’s anything you know that would help us out, I’d be grateful …”
Her eyes were tearing up and she took a napkin to wipe her nose.
“What would I be able to tell you?” she said.
“Luke visited you and your partner just before he went back to Pakistan.”
She nodded.
“Did he say anything unusual before he left?”
“No. We hardly saw him. He was going to stay with us for a week, but then the earthquake happened and he rushed back to Pakistan.”
“Did your brother ever talk about his contacts in that part of the world, people he might have known?”
“Not really. He had a lot of friends who were journalists, mostly.”
“You were born in Pakistan, weren’t you?”
“Yes. In Murree, like Luke.”
“But you didn’t go back, did you? He seemed to think of it as home.”
“Sure, but it’s different for a woman, and I didn’t have the same kind of ties that he maintained in Pakistan.”
“What kind of ties?” said Fletcher.
“I don’t know. Luke loves it there. He always says it’s the only place on earth where he can be himself.”
“He doesn’t like America?”
“Not really,” said Ruth. “He only comes here to visit me, and for work.”
“He’s the father of your daughter, isn’t he?” said Fletcher. “I mean, your partner’s daughter.”
Ruth looked up defensively.
“How do you know that?” she said.
“He told me,” said Fletcher.
“When?”
“In Islamabad. I met him there a month ago.”
“Okay,” said Ruth. She wrapped both hands around her cup of tea, as if to keep it warm. Fletcher could see the uncertainty and suspicion in her eyes.
“So, there’s nothing more that you can tell me about your brother that might help us find him … any details about his personal or professional life?”
She shook her head. Fletcher took the plastic cover off his cup and drank a third of his coffee before he spoke.
“Did Luke tell you that on his last visit, he was accompanying a dead body on the plane from Pakistan?”
Ruth reacted with confusion. “No way,” she said.
“It’s true,” said Fletcher. “He volunteered to travel back with the coffin. The dead man was an undercover NSA operative who was tortured and killed because he discovered an illegal arms deal between an American company and the Pakistanis.”
“Why are you telling me this?” said Ruth.
“Because Luke might have said something to you,” said Fletcher. “You see, we’re really not sure how much he knows or what he’s hiding.”
“Luke didn’t say anything to me about it,” Ruth replied. “Are you suggesting that he was involved?”
“We’ve been keeping an eye on your brother for a while,” said Fletcher. “You see, we really don’t know what he’s got himself into. Some of the people he associated with in Rawalpindi were extremists, jihadis. They seemed to have an influence on him.”
“What are you saying?” Ruth demanded.
“Ms. McKenzie, we have to consider the possibility that your brother may not have been abducted. He could be working with the Taliban. It’s possible that he shot the two men who were with him and made it look like he was taken hostage.”
Forty-Seven
The last known location of the helicopter was 180 kilometers north of Delhi along the Yamuna River, which was the standard flight path to Dehradun. Ambala was the closest airbase, and two IAF helicopters had been dispatched from there for search and rescue. The Sikorsky was likely to have gone down within a radius of a hundred kilometers, much of which was farmland and forest. There had been no distress signal or any communication from the pilots, nothing but a sudden silence followed by no transmissions of any kind. Without hesitating, Afridi ordered Captain Bhandari to get the Lama ready. Fifteen minutes later they were airborne, heading southwest across the Doon Valley. It was just past six in the evening, only an hour of daylight left. The fact that nobody on the ground had reported a crash made Afridi think the chopper might have landed somewhere in the Shivalik hills, a low range of forested mountains that ran parallel to the Himalayas. Most of this area was part of Rajaji National Park, a tiger reserve that straddled the eroded ridgelines of the Shivaliks.
Afridi remained in constant contact with his team at HRI, who were monitoring Air Force communications, as well as wireless reports from the police and forest department, all of whom had been alerted. After crossing over the outskirts of Dehradun, the Lama descended from seven thousand feet to just over three thousand feet above sea level, and less than a hundred feet above the ground. A dense sal forest lay beneath them as they approached the first line of hills. Southward stretched a series of dry riverbeds, which flooded during the monsoon. Afridi kept his eyes fixed on these boulder-strewn ribbons of sand, hoping that the Sikorsky had been able to make a safe landing.
For twenty minutes, the Lama zigzagged back and forth over the forest. At one point, Afridi saw a herd of deer running for cover as they passed over one of the ridges. A few minutes later, they spotted a column of smoke rising from the edge of the jungle, but when they flew in low to investigate, they could see it was just a farmer burning grass along the margins of his fields.
“How much fuel do we have?” Afridi asked the pilot, through the radio in his helmet.
“Another forty minutes, sir, then we’ll have to turn back,” Flight Lieutenant Bhandari replied.
In the distance, they spotted one of the Air Force Mi-17 choppers, circling over sugarcane fields near Saharanpur. The sun was slipping toward the horizon.
“Cut across to the Yamuna,” said Afridi, “downstream from Paonta Sahib.”
The pilot took a sharply banked turn then straightened out, following the furrowed ridges westward. Within five minutes, they could see the river, and Afridi caught sight of Timli forest rest house. To their right, he could see where the Asan barrage emptied into a canal. The main river flowed out of the mountains, its water level low this time of year. When they reached the Yamuna, the pilot turned south, and they passed the confluence of the Giri. The white domes of the gurdwara at Paonta Sahib stood to their right, but soon they were over forest again.
“The last signal was thirty kilometers south of here. If they had any chance to land, it could be somewhere in this vicinity.” Afridi’s voice sounded hoarse inside his helmet, as if someone else were speaking.
The riverbank was almost a kilometer wide, with the main current flowing along the western shore, right up against the forest. On the other side, beyond the sand, lay elephant grass and scrub jungle. In the fading light, it was difficult to make out any distinct shapes.
“Sir, something over there,” the pilot said, pointing with his left hand.
They were flying directly into the setting sun. The glare made it difficult to see. For ten or fifteen seconds, Afridi was blinded, but as the pilot circled southward, he caught sight of a reflection, a bright flash of light. They were now no more than fifty feet above the ground. As they angled away from the sun, Afridi caught sight of something near the edge of the riverbank. He recognized the tail and rotor of a helicopter rising out of the tall gras
s.
“It’s them,” he shouted.
Bhandari informed the Air Force choppers by radio that the crash site had been located. As they approached, coming in low over the sandbanks littered with river rocks, Afridi stared hard ahead of him for any movement or sign of life. It seemed to take forever before they reached the elephant grass, but as they did, two figures emerged, waving their arms. One of them was Anna.
The rotors kicked up sand as they descended. Afridi could see that the Sikorsky had come in at an angle and tipped over on one side, though the helicopter seemed to be intact. As Bhandari cut the Lama’s engine, Afridi removed his helmet and opened his hatch. Once the rotor blades had stopped, Anna came running across.
From the expression on her face, Afridi knew that everyone was safe.
“We’re all alive,” she shouted. “One of the pilots broke his collarbone. Agent Holman fractured her leg and cracked some ribs.”
“What about Daphne?” Afridi asked.
“She’s fine. Shaken up a little, but no injuries at all. She and I were sitting at the back. It was a hard landing but not a serious crash. Fortunately, the chopper didn’t catch fire.”
“Thank God for that,” Afridi said. “And you’re not hurt?”
“Nothing serious,” said Anna, breaking into a smile. “I sprained my shoulder, but other than that, I’m fine. We would have called you but there’s no signal here.”
“What happened?” said Afridi.
“No idea,” said Anna. “Suddenly, everything shut down, the avionics, radio, all of the computerized navigation systems. It was like someone threw a switch. Fortunately, the engines kept running, but the pilot was afraid they would shut off, too. That’s why he brought us down as quickly as he could. Didn’t want to take any chances.”
“And you had no warning?”
“Nothing,” said Anna. “We were flying along normally, at about ten thousand feet. The pilot told us that we had another fifteen minutes to go, when all at once his voice cut out. Even the communication system inside the chopper shut down.”
The Dalliance of Leopards Page 23