The Dalliance of Leopards

by Alter, Stephen;

  “How long do you think he’ll stay?” Daphne asked.

  “Not long,” said Afridi, raising the phone to his ear.

  “Anna, are you there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Be prepared for Guldaar to leave any moment now. Is Major Yaqub ready?”

  “Yes. He’s right here beside me.”

  “When he leaves, Yaqub should follow Guldaar out of the gate and apprehend him as soon as he’s clear of the crowds. If he tries to escape, use force. And remember, Anna, I don’t want you getting caught in the crossfire if shooting begins.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, leaning over to convey the message to Yaqub.

  This time, Guldaar held up his phone for the Indian minister to see. They exchanged a few words, then the politician checked his own instrument and smiled briefly, nodding his head. The wire transfers had gone through. This entire process took no more than ten minutes, signals bouncing off satellites far above the earth and beamed to secure servers in European banks, encrypted messages relayed instantly from one device to another at the touch of a fingertip. Nobody in the audience, except those who knew, would have guessed that deals worth billions of dollars had been closed in as much time as it took for a moth to flit through the lights on the stage. While the musicians sang of divine love and beauty, the intoxication of spiritual desire, the security of their two nations had been compromised and the precarious balance of nuclear deterrence maintained.

  Guldaar rose to his feet. The Pakistani minister stood up and kissed him on both cheeks. The Indian minister folded his hands, as if saying good-bye to an old and trusted friend, after which the elderly man excused himself and walked away. Seeing him on the screen, Afridi couldn’t help but think how frail he looked, one leg dragging in an awkward limp. It was an old wound from a dozen years ago, when Guldaar had survived an attempt on his life. Glancing at Daphne, Afridi could see that she was thinking the same thing. He’s just an ordinary man, as mortal as the rest of us. And yet, he was the embodiment of evil.

  Yaqub was already in motion, cutting past the sound booth toward the exit. Anna hurried to keep up with him as she unzipped the outer pocket on her backpack. From the corner of her eye, she saw Manav watching them. He had acknowledged her when he arrived earlier, without them having spoken.

  “We’re moving, sir,” Anna said.

  “I can see you,” Afridi replied. “But as soon as you go through the gate, we’ll lose all visual contact. Where is Guldaar?”

  “He’s just ahead of Yaqub. Ten steps. We’re outside the security perimeter.”

  She could see that Yaqub had shifted his backpack onto his right shoulder and loosened the strap so it hung near his waist. His hand was inside, gripping the Zittara, as he stalked his target. The area immediately beyond the gate was deserted. Everyone was focused on the concert. A broad, unpaved walk lined with ficus trees led from the entrance to the outer gate. As soon as Guldaar was outside, he stopped to light a cigarette. Anna watched him descend the steps slowly, one at a time, as Yaqub closed in. She was ten meters behind him and heard him speak in Urdu, telling Guldaar to stop. Her pistol was out, as well, as she slipped into the shadows of a flanking arch to cover Yaqub. He had grabbed Guldaar’s arm and jammed the assault rifle into his ribs, although it looked as if he were helping the old man down the steps. Behind her, Anna could still hear the music, but a sudden silence seemed to close in around them. She could hear Afridi breathing into the phone.

  “Target engaged,” she said, in a low whisper.

  “What’s happening?”

  “He’s not resisting.”

  “Is anyone else around?”

  “Not that I can see. Not yet.”

  “Stay back, Anna.”

  Guldaar seemed strangely passive, almost as if he were confused by what was happening. For a moment, Anna thought maybe they had got the wrong man. Maybe it was all a mistake. Perhaps Daphne had betrayed them. Everything was going too smoothly.

  Then she heard the first gunshot, a popping sound, like a bursting balloon, followed by three more. Guldaar staggered as Yaqub held him. Anna pressed herself against the wall, her pistol raised. She knew that Yaqub hadn’t fired, but it was impossible to know where the shots had come from or who had been hit. As the two men fell to the ground, she heard Yaqub shout: “Back off, or I’ll kill him.”

  Guldaar himself now spoke, in a firm voice. “Wait! No more!”

  Anna saw a movement in the shadows under the trees that lined the walk. One of Guldaar’s bodyguards was taking cover behind the trunk of the tree. She couldn’t see a second man but guessed he was somewhere to her left. Seconds later, she watched the two men step forward.

  “Put down your guns,” Yaqub cried in Urdu. His voice sounded weaker now. Anna could see a stream of blood on the ground beneath him and knew he was hit. There was barely any light, but her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she could see both of Guldaar’s men. They hadn’t noticed her, or perhaps they thought she was an innocent bystander who had taken cover when the shots were fired.

  “What’s happening, Anna, talk to me?” Afridi’s voice was in her ear, but she didn’t have time to reply as she aimed and fired twice, following up with two more rounds. The FN 57 had no silencer, but with the volume of the concert, nobody inside heard the shots. The nearest NSG commandoes were posted at the outer gate, a hundred meters away. Both of the bodyguards fell where they stood. Turning, Anna saw that Yaqub was holding Guldaar face down, the Zittara’s stubby barrel still tucked into his side. Anna kept her weapon ready as she checked both bodyguards to make sure they were dead, kicking their guns aside.

  “Okay?” she said softly, kneeling beside Yaqub. “You can let go now. Where are you hit?”

  More blood was pooling beneath Yaqub, seeping into the dust on the path. He looked at her with a vacant expression, as if he didn’t recognize who she was, then coughed up a froth of blood. Gently, Anna pried his fingers loose from Guldaar’s arm, and she felt the old man move. Anna was afraid that Yaqub might fire, but he was already dead. When she pulled Guldaar aside, she could see two wounds in Yaqub’s chest, his shirt stained red. The Zittara fell from a lifeless hand.

  Her own pistol was pressed behind Guldaar’s ear.

  “Don’t fucking move,” she said.

  Afridi couldn’t help but smile when he heard Anna’s voice. Though he still didn’t know what had happened, he felt sure she had the situation under control. Daphne sat beside him, her head lowered as the screens in front of them continued to transmit images from the concert. The musicians’ voices subsided to a softer pitch, a melodic murmur accompanied by the soft flutter of fingers on the keys of the harmonium. Afridi waited a minute, not wanting to distract Anna with his questions. Over the phone he could hear indistinct voices. Finally, he asked her, “Anna. Tell me. What’s the situation?”

  “We’ve got him,” she replied without emotion. “Yaqub is dead, but Guldaar is alive.”

  “Good work,” said Afridi, leaning back in relief.

  “Sir, I’m switching off,” she said.

  Fifteen minutes later, Carlton Fletcher sat in the front seat of a Tata Safari SUV, beside the driver. Turning around, he faced Anna and Manav, who had Guldaar between them in the back. The engine was running, and the air-conditioning was cold. They were in the parking lot in front of Humayun’s tomb. Two NSG guards stood beside either door. Anna still held her pistol, but the other three men were unarmed. She could smell their sweat and cologne, as well as the stench of tobacco on Fletcher and Guldaar’s breath. After the sudden violence, she felt a passing sense of nausea, the closeness of death. In her mind, she could still see the blood seeping out of Yaqub’s wounds, soaking into the dirt. Guldaar was handcuffed, and his clothes were covered with dust. One of his sleeves was spattered with blood, but he was uninjured. Until now, he had said nothing. No questions had been asked. Close up, he looked like a tired old man, though Anna could see from his face that he would never surrender. The drive
r waited for instructions, staring straight ahead, both hands on the wheel. It seemed as if each of them were waiting for someone else to speak.

  All at once, a phone began ringing, a rock ’n’ roll jingle that sounded like the soundtrack from a cartoon show. Eyes moved from one to the other. Fletcher reached into his pocket self-consciously and fumbled with the device. After answering, he listened for more than a minute, responding with grunts of displeasure. Twice he swore under his breath. Finally, he took the phone away from his ear and stared at it for a moment, eyes blinking behind the lenses of his glasses. He held the screen up for Manav and Anna to see.

  The image was a live feed. Though small and indistinct, there was no mistaking what they were watching. A bearded man had been stripped to the waist. He was kneeling on a bare concrete floor, hands tied behind his back. Two other men, faces masked, stood on either side of the hostage. One of them was holding him by the hair, so that his head was raised, staring into the camera with a dazed expression. Anna recognized the American journalist from the earlier video. The second masked man was holding something in his hand, which was difficult to see at first, but when he raised it Anna could tell it was a bow saw.

  “Where did this come from?” Manav asked.

  “The link was forwarded from Langley. They got it a couple minutes ago. One of my people in Washington just sent it on to me.” Fletcher answered, as if he were ready to spit.

  Guldaar finally spoke, moistening his lips with his tongue before the words came out of his mouth in a slow, deliberate monotone.

  “If you don’t release me in the next ten minutes, they will saw off his head.” He paused a moment, and Anna could see his eyes fixed on her pistol. “But if you let me go, I will send a message, and they will set him free in half an hour.”

  “Fuck you,” said Fletcher. “Why should we trust you?”

  “Because I work for your government,” said Guldaar. “How do you think the CIA received this link? They know I’m not playing games.”

  Guldaar glanced down at his watch, which was partly hidden under the handcuff.

  “There isn’t much time,” he said. “It won’t make any difference to me if you ignore my warning and let the journalist die. One way or the other, I’ll be released. If not today, then tomorrow, for sure.”

  “Let me remind you that you’re in India, not Pakistan,” said Manav. “Under our jurisdiction. We aren’t going to let you go that easily.”

  Guldaar let out his breath impatiently.

  “Why? Because Colonel Afridi thinks he’s got the upper hand?” said Guldaar. “He’s a clever man, but not clever enough.”

  “We have plenty of evidence to lock you away for several lifetimes,” said Manav. “Afridi has Daphne Shah with him. She’s willing to talk.”

  Guldaar’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “She’s a cheap whore who killed her own son. What’s she going to tell you?”

  Anna was about to respond when another phone rang, an angry buzzing like a wasp trapped inside the car. This time it was Manav’s cell. He seemed to recognize the caller, and Anna saw him stiffen.

  “Yes, sir,” Manav said, then listened.

  The tableau on Fletcher’s phone remained, though one of the captors let go of the prisoner’s hair, and he fell forward. Anna glanced over at Manav as he switched off his phone.

  “We don’t have a choice, do we?” said Fletcher.

  Manav shook his head, exhaling with disgust.

  The remote control struck the flat screen monitor, which shattered into fragments of glass and microcircuitry. For a moment, it looked as if Afridi were going to stand up out of his wheelchair and smash the rest of the monitors, which continued to display scenes from Humayun’s tomb. He seldom lost his temper, but when he did, his rage was legendary, and the technicians knew they should leave the room. Only Daphne stayed with him, her eyes fixed on his face with a look of resignation and fear. Though Afridi had said nothing after the phone call, Daphne knew what had happened. The wail of the Qawali singer sounded like a tortured howl.

  Sixty

  They dropped Guldaar at the main roundabout near Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya’s dargah, less than half a kilometer from Humayun’s tomb. The city was a swarm of lights against shadows of deepest black. Destitute pilgrims and street dwellers were preparing to make their beds on the pavement, while autorickshaws jockeyed for position near the entrance to the busy colony. Inside the narrow lanes and byways, crowds of men gathered at eating places and guesthouses surrounding the saint’s tomb. It was a busy neighborhood, full of hawkers and touts, teashops and a cluttered bazaar, the perfect place for a man to disappear. Anna stepped down from the SUV to let Guldaar get out. She watched him walk away without looking back. After their first exchange, Guldaar had said nothing more to Fletcher or Manav, though he made a call and spoke to someone about the hostage, telling them to hold off on the execution.

  As soon as Guldaar vanished into the shadows, Anna turned to look at Manav. He shook his head in frustration.

  “There’s nothing we could do,” he said. “Orders straight from the top.”

  Fletcher added, “Even if we’d locked him up they would have sprung him loose by tomorrow. He’s got more fucking clout than anyone I know.”

  “It’s absurd,” said Anna. “We had him … and now he’s gone.”

  She began to get back into the vehicle, then stopped and looked behind her. Impulsively, she slammed the door and set off in pursuit. Manav’s shouted warning followed Anna into the crowds, but she ignored him. When she reached the autorickshaw stand, the drivers eyed her with suspicion and curiosity, the only woman in their midst.

  “An old man just left from here,” she said. “Where did he go?”

  The drivers shook their heads, leering at her.

  “He was here a minute ago. Tell me where he went,” Anna insisted.

  A bearded man with rheumy eyes finally answered, “To the railway station.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, he was in a hurry. He said he had to catch a train.”

  “Take me there,” said Anna, pushing her way into the rickshaw.

  The other drivers began to protest, but she shouted, “Go!”

  The autorickshaw started with a grinding roar, and they set off, dodging traffic and weaving through the steady stream of headlights. The driver sensed her urgency and whipped around a bus with inches to spare, the hot diesel exhaust in her face. Nizamuddin Station was only ten minutes from the dargah, but they made it there in five. Anna handed over a hundred rupee note before jumping out, her backpack slung over one shoulder.

  Scanning the throng of passengers leaving and entering the station, she searched for Guldaar. Two policemen were posted at the entrance, beside a metal detector. Avoiding them, Anna pushed her way through the exit line. Porters were carrying suitcases and bags on their heads. Families were trying not to lose their children. Unintelligible announcements were broadcast over the sound system. She could hear the whistle of departing trains. Reaching for her phone, Anna switched it on and called Afridi.

  He answered on the first ring.

  “I’m going after him,” she said.

  “Manav told me,” he replied. “Anna, you’re disobeying direct orders.”

  “I don’t have time to think about that,” she said. “We can’t let him get away.”

  “Where are you?” Afridi demanded.

  “Nizamuddin Railway Station. I’m standing in front of a board that lists all of the arrivals and departures,” she said, looking up at the schedule of trains displayed on the screen above her. Someone brushed past her arm. Two men were running up a staircase toward an overhead walkway that led to other platforms.

  “Which train is he on?” Afridi asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Anna. “There’s no sign of him, but I’m sure he’s here.”

  “What trains are listed?” Afridi asked, his voice crackling in her ear.

  She began to read the names. “Jabalpur
-Jammu Tawi Express. Nizamuddin Indore Inter-City Express. Dakshin SF Express.” Half a dozen trains were leaving in the next hour, for destinations all across India. Mumbai. Chennai. Trivandaram. “Golden Temple Mail.”

  “When does that leave?” Afridi interrupted her.

  “Eight-fifty. Ten minutes from now,” she said. “It’s running three hours late. Platform One.”

  “He’ll be on that train,” said Afridi.

  “How do you know?” she asked, looking around anxiously as more and more passengers streamed by, an endless procession of humanity, laden with baggage.

  “Trust me,” he said with assurance in his voice. “He’ll be heading for the border. The Golden Temple Mail used to be called the Frontier Mail, when it ran all the way to Peshawar. Now it goes only as far as Amritsar, but he’ll find his way across from there into Pakistan.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll do my best.”

  “I know you will,” Afridi replied. “But be careful, please.”

  Platform One was directly in front of her, and she could see the placard on the side of a carriage: GOLDEN TEMPLE MAIL in English, Hindi, Urdu, and Gurmukhi. Second-class passengers were peering out of barred windows while others were pushing their way onto the train. Anna scanned the platform for any sign of Guldaar, but he was nowhere in sight. Positioning herself behind one of the pillars, she kept an eye out in both directions in case he got on or off the train. Several minutes later, the loudspeaker overhead announced the departure of train number 12903, the Golden Temple Mail, followed by the recorded phrase: “We sincerely apologize for the delay. Inconvenience is deeply regretted.”

  A minute later, the carriages began to move. Anna trusted Afridi’s judgment, but she couldn’t help but wonder if Guldaar would actually choose this train or any one of the others leaving tonight. Hesitating, she looked around one last time, then ran to climb on board a II AC Sleeper. By this time the train was picking up speed, and she had to jump and grab the bars to swing herself inside.