The Dalliance of Leopards

by Alter, Stephen;

  “So, Jimmy’s going to sell them to India?”

  “Not just to India, but to Pakistan, as well. That’s the beauty of deterrence. In order to maintain a delicate balance, both countries want to acquire identical capabilities, and this doubles the demand and escalates sales.”

  “But do they know that he’s selling the same kind of drone to the other side?”

  “Yes. It’s what free trade and competition is all about. A number of other countries produce drones, some of which are extremely sophisticated—France, the UK, Brazil, Canada. Peregrine has a significant edge over all of them. The US government restricts Peregrine from selling their most recent technology, which is reserved for the US military, but even the second generation is highly effective. Of course, Peregrine’s drones are also the most expensive. Each one costs millions of dollars. Out of that, Guldaar takes his percentage and pays off government officials and their political parties.”

  “And all of this is going on behind the scenes at the Siachen conference?”

  “As we speak,” said Afridi. “Both customers are in the same building. Neither of them wants to end up at a disadvantage. And nobody wants to miss out on the kickbacks. Altogether, the contract for each country is worth a couple billion dollars.”

  “So, Jimmy’s here to close the deal.”

  “Ordinarily, he would never have come himself, but since he shot Jehangir, he lost one of the few people he trusted. At the same time, his top three representatives in Delhi have been arrested in connection with a heroin smuggling operation that was uncovered last week. And Roger Fleischmann is dead. Guldaar didn’t have much choice but to come here himself. The stakes are too high.”

  “But why would the United States permit Peregrine to sell drones that can carry nuclear warheads?”

  “On paper, according to the specs, they don’t have the capability,” Afridi replied. “But it doesn’t take much to modify a Kestral or Merlin. The company probably sells the kit separately, for an extra fee, like apps for a cellphone.”

  “It seems odd that both countries would have identical weapons.”

  “They won’t be exactly the same. India will probably buy the Kestral and Pakistan the Merlin, or vice versa. There’s barely any difference in the specifications, but the Merlin is assembled by Peregrine’s subsidiary in the Philippines. That way, each country can claim they’ve got an exclusive weapon system.”

  “So what’s going to happen today?”

  “By five o’clock the meetings will conclude. A short press conference will be held, at which both countries will announce that they have agreed to keep talking. Journalists will demand to know if a peace agreement has been drafted, and they’ll dodge the question with platitudes and prevarication. Nothing will be resolved. Meanwhile, the agreements with Peregrine will have been concluded. Each of the junior ministers will have negotiated his cut, and they will adjourn to Humayun’s tomb for a cultural evening of bilateral bonhomie and sufi music, which will put everyone in a cheerful mood.

  “At the same time, Guldaar communicates with his people at Peregrine and preliminary contracts will be exchanged in the evening. 7:00 p.m. in Delhi is 3:30 p.m. in Luxembourg and Geneva. Banks are still open. As soon as Guldaar sends a green signal, the first installment of the incentive payments will be wired to personal accounts of the respective ministers, and anyone else who requires consideration. The balance will be paid in installments, once the final orders are placed and delivery is made to each country.”

  “Why couldn’t the whole deal be done over the phone, or by email?” Daphne asked.

  “Because at this point in the process, the transaction is conducted on trust. Each party has to look the other in the eye and be convinced that the deal is going through.”

  “And if it doesn’t? What if the Indian army decides they want a French drone instead?”

  “Of course, it’s happened. One minister overrules another, but that’s where Guldaar’s reputation precedes him. He’s not just a salesman but an enforcer, as well. It’s what makes him so dangerous, and so difficult to track, because nobody wants to antagonize him. If they betray his trust, they can be sure he’ll hunt them down.”

  Daphne leaned back and closed her eyes.

  “You don’t have to tell me. I know that feeling,” she said.

  Fifty-Eight

  By 16:00 hours, Humayun’s Tomb and the surrounding gardens were closed to visitors, and any remaining tourists had been ushered out of the gate. Several government agencies were handling arrangements for the event, including the Indian Council for Cultural Relations, who were sponsoring the musicians, and the Archeological Survey of India, which was responsible for the protection and maintenance of the monument. The Ministry of Defense and Ministry of External Affairs were coordinating the bilateral conference and the Pakistani delegation’s visit. Security had been put in the hands of the National Security Guard. Anna was in contact with the commanding officer regarding camera surveillance. He did not ask too many questions, and it was clear that Afridi had made sure he would extend all cooperation and assistance.

  Four cameras had been set up at the entrance and another four covering the VIP area in front of the concert stage. An additional two cameras with night vision lenses were positioned on either side of the tomb, encompassing the lawns and escape routes. All of the cameras had microphones and were carefully concealed. HRI technicians had tested each of them discretely to make sure they were functioning properly.

  By this time the stage and sound system had been set up, with the Mughal monument as a backdrop. While the sound checks were going on, Anna could hear a voice testing the microphones and amplifiers. NSG commandoes patrolled the perimeter of the garden with a couple of Labradors and an Alsatian, bomb-sniffing dogs, who circled the walls, their noses diligently lowered to the ground. At this hour of the day it was still hot, and the sun reflected off the marble dome with dazzling brilliance. Anna stood in the shade of a ficus tree waiting for Major Yaqub to arrive.

  She was not a fan of sufi music any more than she appreciated Sanskrit poetry. It was all the same to her, a lot of pent-up emotions released through song and verse. Knowing the uncertainties of what might happen tonight, her mind was fixed on details. She wondered when Guldaar would actually appear. She and Yaqub were to stand near the entrance, so they could mark him when Daphne made the identification as he came in. There was bound to be confusion around the security screening area, with a lot of impatient VIPs trying to push their way through. The organizers anticipated an audience of at least a thousand, not counting the two delegations. The Qawali performers were some of the best from India and Pakistan, and most of Delhi’s glitterati would be attending: political leaders, industrialists, diplomats, and socialites.

  When her phone rang, Anna was surprised to see that Manav was calling.

  “Greetings, my dear,” he said in an avuncular tone. “I hope all’s well.”

  “Where have you been?” she demanded.

  “Busy, extremely busy,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure that all of the arrangements were in place for this evening. I’m looking forward to the concert.”

  “So, you’ll be here?”

  “Purely for the music,” he said. “I’m a great Qawali fan.”

  “Did you hear that our American friend showed up?” she asked.

  “Yes. In fact, I’ve been speaking to him. Things have grown complicated, I’m afraid,” he said with a vagueness in his voice that Anna recognized as meaning someone else was with him and he couldn’t speak openly.

  “A change of plan?” she said.

  “No, not really,” Manav said. “But we’re going to have to avoid any unpleasantness.”

  “You mean, you don’t want Guldaar killed?” she asked.

  “Exactly. Our American friends want to have a conversation with him. So do we.”

  “He isn’t likely to give up that easily,” said Anna, “and Major Yaqub is fully prepared to terminate his targe
t.”

  “You’ll have to persuade him against it,” said Manav. “This must be a simple extraction and arrest. No fatalities.”

  “Yaqub’s made it clear that he isn’t taking orders from us,” she said. “Not even from Afridi. He’s got personal history with Guldaar.”

  “That’s unfortunate, but you’ll have to make him understand.”

  “I’ll try my best,” she said. “But why are we suddenly cooperating with the Americans? Does Afridi know about this?”

  “There comes a point when everyone must compromise,” Manav replied. She could tell he wanted to get off the phone. “I’ll see you this evening.”

  A short while later, Afridi called to say that they would begin surveillance in half an hour, at 18:00 hours, when the first guests began arriving. Anna decided not to mention her conversation with Manav. She had enough to worry about already without getting caught up in conflicting agendas. As she ended the call, Anna could see Yaqub entering and passing through a metal detector. One of the NSG guards checked his pass and opened his bag, then waved him inside.

  Yaqub had changed his clothes. Instead of jeans and a bush shirt, he was wearing a dark blue linen suit and a white shirt with the top two buttons open. Slung over one shoulder was a small backpack, designed to carry a laptop. He looked as if he were headed for the club after a day at the office, instead of preparing for a kidnapping or assassination. When they retrieved their weapons, Yaqub checked his Zittara and the extra clips of ammunition before putting them into his backpack. The compact assault rifle fit neatly inside. Anna had a similar bag, and she slipped her FN 57 into the outer pocket.

  Until now, they had hardly spoken, a brittle silence between them.

  “Are you all right?” Anna asked.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “I had a call from my associate director,” she said. “They want Guldaar taken alive.”

  He looked at her with a flash of defiance.

  “That’s not possible,” he said.

  “They’re insisting.”

  Yaqub laughed and gave her a condescending look.

  “I don’t think you realize who we’re dealing with,” he said. “This is not someone who puts his hands in the air the minute he sees a gun.”

  “But he won’t be armed,” said Anna.

  “Are you sure of that?” Yaqub asked. “He’s likely to have bodyguards with him. They’ll certainly be carrying weapons.”

  Just then, they heard the sound of a train’s whistle in the distance. The first group of musicians had arrived and were organizing themselves on the stage, positioning a harmonium and drums, moving the microphones about.

  “We need to get in position,” said Anna.

  By now, the sun was descending toward the western wall of the garden, and a flock of mynahs were squabbling in the ficus trees. Parakeets sailed overhead. A pair of palm squirrels chased each other along a branch. Adjusting her earpiece, Anna felt the familiar sense of intensity she always did when something dangerous and important was about to begin, an anxious itch of anticipation.

  Fifty-Nine

  “The first song is always a Hamd, in praise of Allah. That’s followed by a Naat, commemorating the prophet.” As they waited, Daphne had asked Afridi to explain the music playing over the speakers, a chorus of male voices echoing the lamentations of the lead singer. “This group is from Lahore, singing mostly in Punjabi.”

  “To me it always sounds like they’re gargling and clearing their throats,” said Daphne. “Jimmy used to listen to Qawali, but I’m afraid the voices grate on my ear.”

  The Pakistani delegation had just arrived at Humayun’s tomb half an hour late, led by the junior minister of defense. On one of the screens, Afridi could see them being greeted by their Indian counterparts with hearty embraces and ingratiating smiles.

  While the singers picked up the tempo, Daphne remained focused on the array of monitors that relayed images from the entrance. So far, there had been no sign of Guldaar, and she was beginning to get worried. Maybe she had missed him, or perhaps he wasn’t coming after all. One of the cameras picked up Anna standing to the left of the metal detectors beside a young man in a well-cut suit. The lights were bright, and the music was so loud it was impossible to hear any of the conversations as the guests arrived. A trio of women, wearing embroidered saris with backless choli blouses, were entering now. Each of them carried a Gucci clutch, and Daphne could see their emeralds sparkling in the light.

  Accompanying them were three men wearing achgan jackets buttoned up to their necks. Daphne guessed they were sweating underneath. One of them mopped his face with a yellow silk hankie. They looked pale and unhealthy in the stark glare of electricity. The NSG commandoes in their black uniforms were restless shadows, checking passes and bags. Meanwhile, the singer was reaching a climax, his voice trilling in a high-pitched ululation. The latecomers had been held back to let the Pakistanis through, but now a crowd had assembled in an impatient queue behind the security barrier.

  Daphne could see Afridi’s fingers tapping on the armrest of his wheelchair. She wondered whether it was nervousness or an appreciation for the music.

  “This song is in praise of Bulleh Shah,” said Afridi, speaking quietly, as the singer paused to explain the lyrics, offering commentary even as the harmonium and other instruments continued playing. Almost immediately, he picked up the refrain, leading the other vocalists in a wave of sound that swelled to an ecstatic crescendo.

  “There he is.” Daphne spoke so softly Afridi didn’t hear her at first. “There!” she said, a little louder.

  “Which one?” he asked, leaning forward.

  “In the queue behind the Sikh with the pink turban. You’ll see him in a moment when he turns…. There! Yes, it’s him.” Her voice broke.

  Afridi could see an elderly, nondescript face, his hair combed back from a prominent forehead. He was looking away from the cameras, as if distracted. When his turn came, he handed his pass to the guard and glanced up. For just a second, his eyes looked straight into the camera, and Afridi recognized him, too. Though he had aged and put on weight, it was definitely the same man he had interrogated years ago. Guldaar’s shoulders were stooped. He looked older than seventy; his face was creased and tired, as if he’d been traveling for days.

  “Jimmy …” Daphne whispered, as Afridi reached for his phone.

  “Anna, can you hear me? We’ve got a positive ID,” Afridi said. “He’s coming through the metal detector right now, wearing a dark shirt. Have you seen him? Yes … He isn’t carrying anything.”

  Daphne could faintly hear Anna’s voice on the phone.

  “Okay, don’t lose him.” Afridi’s voice betrayed his excitement.

  Putting aside the phone, he caught his breath before turning toward Daphne.

  “We’ve got him,” he said, putting his hand on her arm.

  He could feel her trembling, and when she glanced at him there were tears in her eyes.

  Anna could see that Yaqub was watching every slow step Guldaar took down the aisle toward the VIP enclosure. He was alone, moving through the crowd with assured detachment, as if nobody else were there. The music had trailed away into silence followed by loud applause. By the time Guldaar reached the VIP seats, the Qawali singer had begun a ghazal with a slow alaap, his rough tenor testing the notes, full of pain and anguish. None of the dignitaries seemed to recognize the anonymous guest as he moved quietly forward to the front row, where a seat had been kept empty for him between the two ministers. Guldaar greeted them with a simple handshake before sitting down. Drums, both tabla and dholak, were now pulsing like an arrhythmic heartbeat. Moths flittered through the fluorescent aura surrounding the stage. The massive dome of Humayun’s tomb was lit up with spotlights, glowing as bright as a bulbous moon.

  Afridi spotted Manav Shinde seated in the third row from the front. Beside him was the American, Carlton Fletcher. They seemed to be listening to the music intently, though Afridi knew Manav w
as tone deaf. On the other two screens was the front row of VIPs, with Guldaar in the middle. On Afridi’s instructions, the HRI technicians had already grabbed two or three headshots from the video feed and sent these to Anna. Studying the face on the screen, Afridi felt as if the anonymous features had finally been unmasked.

  “What are they doing?” Daphne asked.

  “None of them are listening to the music, that’s for sure,” said Afridi. “They’re checking messages on their phones.”

  Both ministers were staring intently at the devices in their palms, as if waiting for a digital djinn to rise off the screen. After a few minutes, Guldaar leaned toward the Pakistani minister and spoke in his ear. He then turned to India’s minister of state and gestured as if to say it would take another minute or two. They looked like three bored men deleting messages from their inboxes to pass the time. The generals on either side of them, with furled mustaches, ribbons, and medals, seemed oblivious to what was taking place, as did the rest of the entourage.

  “Both parties have already signed letters of intent for the Peregrine contracts,” said Afridi. “Now he’s transferring the first payments to their accounts.”

  “It looks as if they’re playing video games,” said Daphne.

  “Very expensive ones,” said Afridi. His fingers were still tapping out the rhythm of the music but with a lighter touch.

  Guldaar held his phone up for the Pakistani minister to see what appeared on the screen. He then typed another command and waited. For a moment, he glanced over at the musicians and the dome of the tomb with a distracted expression, almost as if he knew that Daphne and Afridi were watching. On a separate screen Afridi could see the musicians, their gestures and features contorted with the emotions of the song. He recognized this ghazal, based on a poem by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, about the universal brotherhood of man.