“Where do you get the houbaras?” Luke asked. “I thought they were extinct in this part of the world.”
“We trap them in Pakistan and ship them here, alive. There’s no other way to train the falcons. The birds have to recognize their prey.”
“And what will you do when there are no houbara left?” Luke asked. “When they’ve all been hunted to extinction?”
Guldaar shrugged, glancing at his two clients across the room. “By then the oil will also run out, and this place will disappear back into the sand.”
By now, the dogs had returned, one of them with the dead bustard in his mouth. The handler took it gently and held the limp bird up for all to see. Instead of appreciating the triumph of the hunt, the beauty of the falcon, and the dogs, Luke felt an empathy for the houbara, sacrificed for the pleasure of the sheikhs, knowing that he shared its fate.
Lighting another cigarette and shading his eyes from the glare outside, Guldaar put a hand on Luke’s shoulder.
“I’ll be traveling for the next few days,” he said.
“Where?” Luke asked. “Back to Pakistan?”
“No,” Guldaar replied, breathing out a stream of smoke. “Somewhere else. But I’ve got three more stories for you to write. I’ll have the files delivered this afternoon.”
Fifty-Two
“It’s kind of you to let me out of jail like this,” Daphne said.
“You’re not a prisoner,” Afridi protested.
“Still, it felt a bit like house arrest.”
“Only for your protection.”
Against the advice of the NSG commander and ignoring security protocols that he himself had approved, Afridi had invited Daphne to dinner at his home. She was driven across with an armed escort, and Black Cat commandoes were posted around the cottage. Once indoors, however, they had some privacy. Afridi had lit a fire in the fireplace, and his cook was preparing their meal in the kitchen.
“What if I decide to walk out the gate and take my chances?” she asked.
“We’d have no choice but to stop you, I’m afraid. Until we know that Guldaar is no longer a threat, you’ll have to accept our security arrangements,” he said, then wheeled himself toward the bar. “What may I offer you to drink?”
“What are you having?” she asked.
“Scotch.”
“Then I’ll have the same, if you don’t mind drowning it in soda,” she said. “I know some people think that’s sacrilege.”
“I take soda with my whiskey too.”
As he poured their drinks, she studied the climbing memorabilia on the walls, the ice axes crossed above the fireplace, and photographs taken on different Himalayan summits. But the picture that caught her eye was a watercolor painting of an alpine valley with a snow peak shaped like an ax-blade at the center.
“Which mountain is that?” she asked.
“Kolahoi, in Kashmir,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.
“Who painted it?”
“A friend of mine, many years ago. She was an artist who used to live on a houseboat in Srinagar,” said Afridi.
“An old girlfriend?” Daphne asked, as he handed her a drink.
“I suppose you could describe her as that,” he said. “But she was a free spirit, and it would never have worked out.”
“Cheers,” said Daphne. They touched glasses before each of them took a sip.
“I hope your drink’s all right?” he asked.
“It’s stronger than I usually take it,” she said. “You’re going to get me drunk.”
“I can add more soda.”
“No thanks.”
Daphne had settled into a wingback chair opposite him, her drink beside her on the coffee table, next to a bowl of cashews and almonds.
“Where’s Anna?” she asked.
“Gone to Delhi,” Afridi said.
“Preparing for Jimmy’s arrival?”
He nodded.
“All right. Let’s not talk about him,” she said, taking a cashew and putting it in her mouth. “Tell me about this house, instead. How long have you lived here?”
“I bought it just over twenty years ago,” said Afridi, “but it took a while to renovate. The place had been neglected. I had to redo everything completely.”
“It’s lovely,” she said. “A bachelor’s pad but tastefully done.”
For a while they talked about Ivanhoe, which was 170 years old. He explained that in the 1840s, when it was built, many of the houses in Mussoorie were named after the titles of books by Sir Walter Scott, or the settings of his novels and poems—Waverley, Woodstock, Rokeby, Alyndale.
“His books were bestsellers back then,” Afridi said. “Walter Scott was the Jeffrey Archer of his day.”
“Have you read any of them?” she asked.
“I’ve tried, but they’re heavy going, especially the poetry,” he said.
Glancing around her at the bookshelves, Daphne remarked, “You must read a lot.”
“Not as much as I would like,” said Afridi, “but I have a bookseller in town who gets me whatever I want. Strangely, though, more and more, I find myself going back to my old books nowadays. Rereading a novel after a gap of twenty or thirty years has a special pleasure, like traveling back in time.”
“It’s funny you say that,” said Daphne. “I’m the same as you. Before, I kept waiting for the latest book by an author I liked, but in the past fifteen years, since I moved to America, all I wanted to read was books I remembered from when I was young. Fortunately, I had the college library nearby, and I could find almost any title.”
She paused for a moment and sipped her scotch before continuing. “The odd thing is that the books themselves are exactly the same, word for word, but you realize that you’ve become a different reader.”
Afridi laughed. “How do you mean?”
“There are novels that I remember inspired me as a girl and excited my imagination, but now, when I go back to them, they ignite completely different feelings, sometimes sadness or regret … it’s as if I understand things in a different way. The story hasn’t changed, but I’m a different person and somehow that alters the book.”
“Do you ever wish you could start all over again?” Afridi asked.
She thought for a moment then shook her head. “No. I’d probably end up making the same mistakes the second time round. There are many things I wish I could change in retrospect, but there’s no point in thinking about that.”
“You’ve had a difficult life,” said Afridi, softly.
She smiled. “And it’s not over yet.”
“Forgive me for asking,” he said, “but you never thought of leaving him?”
“Often,” she said. “I ran away a couple of times, but Jimmy always had a way of finding me. He wouldn’t give me that choice. He’s a jealous, possessive man, though he never had the decency to marry me.”
“He had other wives?” Afridi asked.
“Two I think, maybe more,” she said. “But I was the only woman who gave him a child.”
There were tears in her eyes. Afridi reached over to take her glass and moved toward the bar. As he poured the scotch, he asked, “Did he ever threaten to kill you?”
“More than once,” she said. “Sometimes, he would accuse me of having an affair, for no reason except that I happened to mention another man’s name. He would lose his temper and take out a pistol and point it at me, saying he knew I was unfaithful.”
“Were you?”
She accepted the glass from his hands and raised it to her lips before answering.
“Only with Jehangir.”
For several minutes both of them stared at the fire in silence before she collected herself with a choked sort of laugh. “I’m sorry. I thought we weren’t going to talk about him.”
Over dinner, they avoided the topic of Guldaar and spoke about Bombay instead. She said it was the only city where she felt at home. Afridi’s cook had made dhansak, one of his specialties, the mutton simmered all da
y with lentils until the flavors of meat and pulses merged. Daphne ate very little. Still, she enjoyed the meal, especially a simple dish of spinach and turnips with hot phulkas that the cook brought straight from the stove to the table.
“This was one of the things I missed in America,” she said. “Sometimes I’d cook a little dal and rice for myself. The closest Indian restaurant was in Cincinnati, and I wasn’t going to drive all the way there just to eat limp naan and butter chicken that tastes like ketchup.”
“I usually eat very simply,” said Afridi. “It’s only when I have guests that Mela Ram gets to show off his recipes.”
“You don’t mind living alone?” she asked.
“No. I’m used to the solitude and my routines,” he said.
“I know what you mean,” Daphne replied. “People used to feel sorry for me in America, being on my own, but it becomes a habit after a while. I was a bit of a hermit there, shutting out the world as best I could. Of course, it helps when you read a lot.”
“Your son was in a hospital nearby?” Afridi asked.
“Yes,” she said, “But Naseem never knew I was there. It was like being being alone in a room, except that someone else is present, a shadow, a shape beneath the sheets. Does that make sense?”
“It must have been terrible to lose him like that,” said Afridi.
“Well, nothing’s ever easy in life,” said Daphne. “But you learn to cope with what you’ve lost, and it makes you appreciate what little remains.”
“I’m sorry,” said Afridi.
Daphne shook her head and smiled. “Don’t be,” she said. “I’ve never wanted anyone to pity me. I’m sure you feel the same.”
Afridi watched her closely, admiring her bravery, as he took the napkin from his lap and folded it beside his plate. By this time, the cook had cleared their plates and served them crème caramel that Daphne ate in tiny bites, savoring the bittersweet flavor of burnt sugar.
After dinner, they returned to the fire, now reduced to embers. It was warm enough in the room, and Afridi didn’t bother to add more wood.
“It’s a beautiful fireplace,” said Daphne. “I always wished I had a real one in Ohio, but my house was centrally heated and there was an electric grate, with an artificial log that burned every winter without ever turning to ash.”
“I rebuilt this fireplace when I bought the house. The true measure of a good fire is when it burns down to coals. If it’s banked correctly, there’s still some warmth the next morning, a few embers among the ashes,” Afridi said. “Will you have another whiskey, or some cognac?”
“No, thank you,” she said, “but please go ahead yourself.”
He got a fresh glass and this time drank the scotch neat, an inch of amber fluid catching the firelight like a liquid flame burning inside a crystal lens.
“May I ask you a personal question?” Daphne spoke softly.
“I suppose,” he said. “After all, I’ve asked you more than I should have.”
Her smile made her eyes light up again. “Did you ever think of getting married?”
He let the scotch numb his tongue for a moment before he answered.
“Earlier, yes. But after my accident I reconciled myself to a single life. I didn’t want anyone to take care of me,” he said. “I didn’t want to be treated like an invalid.”
“You fell off a mountain?”
“In a manner of speaking,” he replied. “Between the injuries and the frostbite, I lost the use of my legs. I suppose I could have let it destroy me. For a while, I drank too much….”
He held the glass up to the light.
“But then I realized that I didn’t want to end up being a pathetic old man in a wheelchair drooling into his scotch.”
Her eyes were moist, but instead of sympathy in her gaze, he saw that she understood.
“You must miss the mountains,” she said. “I mean, climbing.”
He set his drink down and put his hands together in a gesture of finality.
“Sometimes there’s a sensation in my legs, as if I’m walking through deep snow. I can’t feel anything, but I’m aware of the coldness coming up to my thighs, each time my foot sinks in, like I’m struggling to break a path across a white expanse of emptiness.” He spoke slowly, as if he could feel it now. “Of course it’s all in my imagination, nothing more than residual memories in my nerves.”
For a minute or more he looked lost, as he stared at the glowing coals.
“I should be going,” said Daphne, rising to her feet.
He nodded. “I hope I wasn’t being maudlin.”
“Of course not. I’m grateful …” She stopped and left the sentence unfinished.
“For what?” he asked.
“You rescued me,” she said, with a laugh.
“May I ask you one last question, before you leave?” he said.
Daphne shrugged and studied him with a pensive smile.
Afridi paused and picked up his drink, letting the whiskey moisten and burn his lips.
“Naseem. Your son,” he said. “Was Guldaar really his father?”
Daphne looked away for a moment and then turned to face the remains of the fire, both palms held out as if she’d suddenly felt a chill.
“No,” she said, “though Jimmy was convinced.”
“Jehangir?”
Afridi expected to see sadness on her face when she turned around, but Daphne looked contented, at peace with herself. She touched his shoulder with one hand and nodded, though he had already seen the confirmation in her eyes.
He wheeled himself across to the door and opened it for her.
“The guards will take you back to your room,” he said. “Good night.”
Fifty-Three
The video clip was being shown repeatedly on every news channel while copies circulated online. Television news segments began with a warning about graphic and disturbing content. Portions had been deliberately blurred to protect the sensibilities of viewers, but most online versions were unexpurgated. Anna picked it up as soon as she reached Delhi, from a Facebook post a friend had sent her. Usually, she didn’t watch video links that people forwarded, ignoring most of her messages and updates, but this one came with the headline AMERICAN HOSTAGE TORTURED. 24 HOUR DEADLINE FOR BEHEADING.
Only two minutes and thirty-eight seconds long, the video was shot on a cheap digital camera. The resolution was poor. No editing had been done, the stationary camera focused on a naked man seated in a chair, hands tied behind his back. His face was clearly visible, staring straight ahead with a look of fear and exhaustion. Two men wearing ski masks entered the frame, carrying a large battery and jumper cables. In the background was a bare concrete wall. One of the captors held up a copy of The Dawn. It took a moment for the camera to focus on the date of the newspaper—it was this morning. Then they attached the clamps from the jumper cables to the man’s genitals and connected the battery. The hostage threw his head back and screamed, convulsing with the shock. After five seconds, the battery was disconnected and one of the men spoke to the camera. Anna couldn’t understand what he said, though it sounded like a dialect of Pushto. After delivering the brief message, he stepped aside, and the hostage was shown again breathing heavily and leaning sideways, eyes glazed with pain. Once again the cables were attached, and sparks flew as the torture continued. The clip ended abruptly, when the camera was switched off.
Watching the video, Anna felt sick to her stomach, revolted by the crude violence of the scene and the victim’s agony. Identified as Luke McKenzie, the hostage was an American journalist who had been kidnapped two weeks earlier by unknown militants in the mountains west of Chitral. Their demand was simple. The United States must stop all drone attacks in Afghanistan and Pakistan within twenty-four hours, or the hostage would be decapitated.
Checking the time on her phone, Anna saw it was already 8:00 p.m. It would take her half an hour to reach the restaurant where she was meeting Major Yaqub. Afridi had arranged everything, but sh
e found it unsettling that Manav Shinde was avoiding her calls. Anna had tried both his numbers. Each rang without response. She felt isolated and vulnerable. Driving through the familiar streets of Delhi, it felt as though she were in a foreign city. Her recent visit to America was like a brief flashback, cut and pasted into her memory, of interstate highways and country roads. Anna was glad to be back in her own car, a BMW Roadster that took the roundabouts with ease and wove through Delhi traffic with a menacing snarl.
Afridi had warned her about the restaurant—“greasy Mughlai served with Punjabi kitsch”—but he explained that he had chosen anonymity over ambience and cuisine. Anna had been to the restaurants on Pandara Lane during her student days. “Have More,” Afridi’s choice, lay in the center of the block, between “Chicken Inn” and “Shahi Andaaz.” The parking lot was full by the time Anna arrived at Pandara Market, but seeing the red convertible, one of the attendants moved a couple of scooters aside and made room for her to pull in parallel to the curb.
The restaurant was packed with mostly middle-aged men who eyed her like toads watching a dragonfly sail past, just out of reach. A few families were seated in booths. Tables were loaded with food, each dish a different shade of red, from scarlet tandoori chickens to vermillion kebabs, saffron kormas, and crimson mutton tikka masala, glistening like nail polish. Just looking at it all gave Anna heartburn. She spotted the Pakistani right away, partly because he was the only person sitting by himself, but also because he met her eye with a look of immediate distrust.
Major Yaqub introduced himself as Harsh Advani.
“Annapurna,” said Anna, shaking hands and putting her backpack on the seat beside her.
With the din of conversations around them and the clatter of cutlery and porcelain, there was little chance that anyone would listen in on what they said. Despite the mirrors on every wall, it wasn’t likely they were being watched. Anna wondered what the ISI playbook prescribed for situations like this, though she wasn’t even sure what protocols RAW laid down for collaborating with an enemy agent. She remembered Afridi’s words: “You’ll be operating outside standard procedures. Complete autonomy. Total exposure.”
The Dalliance of Leopards Page 26