She was carrying her FN 57, just in case.
“Did you see the news about the American hostage?” Anna asked, as she sat down.
“Yes,” he replied, studying her carefully, as if the question were meant as a challenge.
“Who’s behind it?”
“How should I know?” he replied.
“Do you think the US will give in to their demands?”
“Initially, of course. They’ll try to buy some time. But in the end it’s anyone’s guess what will happen.” He spoke without emotion, keeping his answers brief and noncommittal. She would have placed him as a math teacher or a fortnightly columnist, certainly not an ISI asset. He was probably thinking the same about her, wondering why RAW had chosen a woman for a job like this.
The waiter interrupted them and took their order. Yaqub smiled for the first time, when Anna asked for “less oil” in her chicken tikka. He ordered mutton do piyaza. Once the waiter was gone, Anna put both hands on the table.
“So, we’ll be working together,” Anna said, consciously controlling the conversation. “Are you sure I can trust you?’
Yaqub met her eye with a look of disdain.
“Does it matter?” he said. “We share the same objective … the same target.”
“Fine,” she said. “Then we won’t pretend that this is anything more than a matter of mutual self-interest. My job is to provide whatever support you need, but you’re the one who pulls the trigger.”
Yaqub glanced aside, checking to see if anyone was listening. The four men at the table beside them were huddled over their food.
“According to my source, he’s arriving the day after tomorrow and will probably come in on a commercial flight, though we have no idea when or from where. Two of his bodyguards will be with him, but tracing them among the passengers arriving in Delhi will be impossible. For that matter, he could be landing in Mumbai or some other city and coming to Delhi on a domestic flight…. Then they’re supposed to attend the Qawali performance at Humayun’s tomb, beginning at sunset, at seven o’clock.”
“Are you sure Guldaar himself will be there?” Anna asked.
Yaqub nodded.
“Who’s your source?”
“The defense attaché at our embassy,” said Yaqub, after a brief hesitation. “He’s scheduling all of the meetings during the minister’s visit, both official and unofficial.”
“And you have no photographs of the target, no way of identifying him?”
“No, that’s why we’re depending on you,” said Yaqub.
“Colonel Afridi has someone who can identify him,” Anna said.
“Who is it?”
“We can’t share that information.”
Yaqub’s face contorted in a grimace of disgust.
“And you talk about trust,” he said.
A minute later, the food arrived, along with a basket of naan. They served themselves in silence.
“What sort of help do you need from me?” Anna asked, once Yaqub had taken his first bite. He chewed and swallowed before answering.
“I need an official pass for the Qawali concert, and I’ll need a weapon once I get inside. A Zittara 5.56 mm, with a silencer and three extra magazines of thirty rounds each.”
Anna smiled and tasted her chicken. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d use an Indian gun.”
Yaqub didn’t appear amused. “We train on every kind of weapon. Besides, it’s nothing but a copy of an Israeli X 95.”
“Also known as an MTR 21. The silencer is going to be the challenge, but I’ll do my best. We have less than twenty-four hours.”
“We’ll also need an escape route, preferably through the southwestern gate into Nizamuddin East or over the wall facing the railway station. There should be someone there with a ladder. I’m sure the gardeners keep one ready for pruning trees. I’ll need a car in which to get away or a motorcycle. Something powerful but inconspicuous.”
“It sounds as if you’ve given up on the option of capturing him alive,” said Anna.
“If possible, I’ll try, but it’s suicidal.”
“And after you get away?” Anna said.
Yaqub smiled again. “Book me a room in a nice hotel. The Oberoi is nearby, but probably too close. Why not the Imperial? I’ll need a new passport, either British or American, with the appropriate visas and entry stamps.”
“What name shall we use?”
“Something simple. Ramesh Gupta, perhaps.”
He tore a piece of naan and scooped up a mouthful of meat and onions.
“When will you go back home?” Anna asked.
Yaqub glanced across at her with a wary expression.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “Even if I succeed, it may be too dangerous for me to return to Pakistan.”
“Then why don’t we give you an Indian passport?” she said. “You can stay here as long as you want.”
Yaqub’s eyes filled with derision. “Don’t patronize me. I’m doing this for my country, not for yours.”
Fifty-Four
For the past three hours, Daphne had been watching CCTV tapes of passengers coming through the arrival gates at Indira Gandhi International Airport, until it gave her a headache. A couple of times she thought she spotted Jimmy. But when they went back and played the tape in slow motion, it was obviously someone else.
“Amazing that you can have billions of people in the world, and none of them look exactly alike,” she said.
Afridi suggested they take a break and walk around the garden at HRI. It was midmorning, a bright day with only a few clouds.
“Of course, there are doppelgängers, identical twins, and body doubles,” he said. “But in the end, I suppose there’s something unique in each of us.”
“Do you really think he’s coming to Delhi?” she asked.
“I’m sure he’ll show up, but it’s impossible to know how or when, exactly,” said Afridi. “He’ll definitely cover his tracks.”
“I wish I could give you a better description of him, but he doesn’t have a distinctive face. A seventy-year-old, balding man with no facial hair, still good-looking in a rugged sort of way.” She shook her head as they reached the rock garden. Afridi wheeled himself ahead to open the gate. “But once you’ve looked into his eyes, you’ll never forget him.”
“I know,” said Afridi, under his breath. “We considered getting a forensic sketch artist to create a composite portrait, but I’m never convinced of the results. They tend to look like shoddy caricatures.”
“But if he comes to Humayun’s tomb this evening, you’re sure we’ll see him?”
“Don’t worry. The only entry point is the main arch, and everyone will be passing through metal detectors. We’ll have four cameras to catch him from different angles.”
Daphne stepped around Afridi and went through the gate.
“A rock garden!” she exclaimed.
“I call this my climbing garden,” said Afridi. “These are mostly high altitude species that I’ve collected over the years.”
“They need special care?”
“Some do,” he said. “But most are hardy plants. I’ve got a greenhouse for the more delicate species. It’s not the cold so much as the monsoon that causes damage. Too much rain. Many of these plants need very little water.”
“What are these?”
“Gentians. Six different varieties, from the smallest, the size of an earring, to this larger flower, Gentiana kurroo. Its roots are extremely bitter. They feed it to horses as a medication for stomach ailments. It’s also used on human beings but now critically endangered because of herb poaching.”
“I had a small garden in America. It was one of the few things that gave me pleasure. My daffodils were starting to come out this year, before I left.”
The winding path was just wide enough for the wheelchair. Afridi followed her to a point where it circled back under a limestone crag. A few wild irises were still blooming, but he caught sight of another flower, which hadn
’t been there two days ago, when he last visited the garden.
“Look ahead of you, above the path. That’s a blue poppy, the first of the season,” said Afridi. “I had the seeds smuggled out from Tibet.”
The bright papery bloom was rustling in the breeze. Daphne stopped to admire it.
“Why are so many Himalayan flowers blue?” she asked.
“Because they grow close to the sky,” Afridi replied. “That’s the folktale. It probably has something to do with minerals in the soil and climatic conditions.”
Daphne reached across and took his hand in hers.
“You’re a very strange man,” she said.
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
“I would never have expected you to be a gardener,” said Daphne.
“There’s a pragmatic creativity to gardening,” he said. “It’s science, plain and simple, though it cultivates a thing of beauty.”
She remained silent for a while, looking out across the valley that fell away below them, toward the eastern range of hills beyond.
“I’m afraid,” she said, squeezing his hand lightly before letting go.
“Don’t worry. You’re safe up here.”
“Not for myself,” she said. “But trying to imagine what he’ll do if he’s cornered.”
“Hopefully, once he realizes the game is up, he’ll surrender without a fight.”
“Jimmy isn’t like that. You can be sure he’s got an exit strategy, and he doesn’t have any concern for human life.”
“We’ll kill him if we have to,” said Afridi, “though he’s worth more to us alive.”
“What about the Americans?” asked Daphne.
“Agent Holman is on her way back to Washington. Things seem to have been sorted out with the embassy. She was taken by air ambulance this morning.”
“They’ll send someone else.”
“Hopefully, by that time it will all be over,” said Afridi.
Daphne looked out across the valley to the mountains beyond. “I should get back to watching those tapes.”
Fifty-Five
Since last night, Luke had been locked up in one of the cages where the birds were kept. The floor was caked with bustard shit and feathers. Unlike the aviary, where the falcons were housed and pampered, there was no air-conditioning, and the temperature climbed above ninety during the day in the cages. His captors had given him back his clothes, though it took him an hour to dress himself. They had thrown him a bottle of water to drink. It did not quench his thirst.
The pain had diminished slightly, though the burns on his scrotum and the insides of his thighs stung whenever he moved. Several hours had passed since they had tortured him, yet he could still feel the jarring numbness of the shocks. Twelve volts wasn’t a fatal dose of electricity, but the amperage of the truck battery had caused agonizing burns, like being struck by lightning. They left his mind singed, as if the searing current had gone straight up his spine, scorching every nerve, then shooting into his skull like an explosion of burning confetti. He could still feel the residual sensation behind his eyes, so many tiny detonations in his brain. He wanted to die each time they attached the cables, but somehow he couldn’t escape consciousness, the fierce ache of charged electrons shooting through his groin.
Disoriented and afraid, Luke replayed yesterday’s events in his mind, wishing he could start all over again. After the falconry demonstration, Guldaar had driven back with the two Qatari sheikhs while Luke traveled in a separate vehicle, just him and the driver. It turned out the driver was from the hills of Pakistan, a small town called Nathiagalli. Luke had been there many times, for it was only thirty kilometers west of Murree. Speaking Urdu, as they drove back across the desert toward Dubai, Luke had asked the driver about his family and how he’d come to the Gulf. He seemed a simple, homesick man who was happy to talk about the apple orchards and evergreen forests near his home, which he could only dream of in this desolate wasteland. For the first time in several weeks, Luke felt as if he were no longer a captive. He wondered if the driver was armed. It seemed almost too easy, though his seatbelt held him back and the car was moving at 120 km per hour. On ahead, he could see the silhouette of the Burj al Khalifa rising above the city, its syringe-like tower supplanted by a needle that pierced the sky. Seeing the glistening spire from a distance, he tried to calculate how high the 133rd floor might be.
They were approaching the outskirts of the city, barren desert giving way to scattered developments, some sort of campus lined with date palms, a Mercedes dealership, two blocks of flats facing a park, like a narrow oasis between walls of concrete. As they approached the Burj-al Khalifa, Luke kept chatting with the driver, telling him about his childhood in Murree, how they used to gather wild raspberries in summer.
The traffic was thicker now, and the car slowed down, under thirty kilometers per hour. On ahead he saw a green stoplight. As they approached the crossing it turned amber, then red. Eight or ten other vehicles had stopped ahead of them. Counting the seconds until he felt the light was about to change, Luke braced himself. In a single motion, he unclasped his seatbelt and threw open the door. The driver had no time to react as he jumped out and began to run. He had timed it well, for the light was now green and the vehicles behind them began to blow their horns. Running between the cars, Luke cut across to the opposite side of the road and headed for a multistory building with a line of shops on the ground floor selling electronics and household goods. Traffic from the opposite direction had already begun to move, and he barely missed being hit by a Jaguar XE that swerved at the last minute. It was hot outside, and the sun blinded him. Another vehicle braked and stopped in the left-hand lane. Luke ran to the window and gestured for the driver to let him get in. The man shook his head with alarm. Pounding on the glass, Luke tried to signal his desperation, but the man behind the wheel let out the clutch and sped away.
He could see that Guldaar’s driver had abandoned his car in the middle of the road. He was running after him, a phone to his ear. Luke raced up a set of steps to the front of the building and called for help, though nobody came outside. He knew that the driver would see where he was going. Instead of entering the shops, he decided to run to the far end of the complex and try to find someone who could help. Turning the corner, he found himself in a service lane between two buildings. At the far end was a parking garage.
Luke ducked inside the entrance ramp and ran toward a flight of stairs at the farthest corner of the garage. He hadn’t realized it, but this building was under construction. As he dashed out of the stairwell, white starbursts from a welding torch made him stop abruptly. Half a dozen laborers in hard hats were hauling steel girders. They looked as if they might be Chinese. At the far end of the unfinished structure, a crane was lifting material to upper floors. The staircase ended here. He gestured frantically and asked the laborers for help, but they didn’t seem to understand what he said and stared at him blankly. The noise from a cement mixer made it difficult to hear anything at all. Luke started to run in one direction, then turned and ran the other way, but as he reached a pile of steel shutters for pouring concrete, a bullet flew past his arm and struck the metal panels. Raising both hands, he stopped, knowing there was no escape. When he turned around, the driver was walking toward him, a pistol in his hand. Both he and Luke were breathing heavily from the run. They said nothing to each other, though the Pakistani hit him twice across the face and began to drag him toward the steps. None of the construction workers moved to help him.
By the time they got downstairs, two other cars had pulled up. Luke recognized one of Guldaar’s bodyguards, who grabbed him by the arm and hustled him into a Land Cruiser. Ten minutes later they were in the Burj al Khalifa again. Though the elevator ascended rapidly, Luke felt as if he were falling through the air.
Guldaar spoke without emotion, though his eyes seemed to puncture any hope Luke might have had for a reprieve.
“I thought we had an understanding,” he said. “
Why would you try to run away?”
Luke didn’t answer, staring at the carpet.
“That was a cowardly thing to do. What did you hope for? Nobody is going to save you here. And now you’ve offended me. I bought your freedom. I offered you my hospitality. I trusted you. I confided in you. But you’ve shown me no gratitude.”
The driver was standing two steps behind Luke, while the bodyguard held both of his arms. Guldaar gestured for the pistol, which was still in the driver’s hand. Taking it, he pointed the gun at Luke’s forehead.
“I’m sorry,” said Luke. “I made a mistake.”
“Yes, you did,” said Guldaar. “A stupid mistake.”
The pistol went off, and, for a moment, Luke wondered if he’d been shot, then heard someone fall. The driver lay sprawled at their feet. With a look of disgust, Guldaar threw the gun on the floor beside the dead man.
“Take him away,” he said, this time in Pushto. Luke could hear the finality in his voice, a note of dismissal and disdain.
By nightfall, he was back at the falconry complex, tossed into this cell where the houbara had faced extinction before him. Sometime during the night, he was taken to another cell, where two men with hidden faces stripped off his clothes and filmed his torture. Three times the cables had been attached, and three times the current had shaken him violently. He didn’t know if it was punishment or a warning of worse things to come. Staring into the eye of the camera, before the first jolt, he knew that others would see him suffer. He wished he were back in the empty cistern, with a thin beam of light streaming in, projecting a ray of hope on the wall.
Fifty-Six
Paradise, according to Persian tradition, contains four rivers, each of which flow from the cardinal points of heaven. Surrounding Humayun’s tomb is the Charbagh garden, which replicates this celestial geography with four water channels that converge on the tomb and divide the lawns and flowerbeds into equal squares. The mystical geometry employed by Mughal builders and landscape designers places the marble dome at the center, on a raised sandstone plinth.
The Dalliance of Leopards Page 27