Other passengers were waiting in the vestibule, but they made room for her, and a familiar smell enveloped Anna, the combined fug of too many human beings packed into an unventilated space. Though Anna hadn’t been on a train for several years, the shake and rattle of departure gave her a sense of leaving everything behind.
Almost immediately, she began to search for Guldaar, working her way down the aisle and peering into each of the compartments, where passengers were settling in for the night. Even if he were on this train, it seemed impossible that she would find him. The Frontier Mail made its way slowly out of Delhi but picked up speed after crossing the Yamuna, heading north. Anna searched everywhere, from first class air-conditioned coupes to the three-tier unreserved carriages with sitting room only. Each time she peered into a compartment, passengers stared back at her with blank and baleful eyes. While checking one of the toilets, she locked the door and reloaded her pistol. Later on, a conductor stopped her, and she bought a second-class ticket, though she had no reservation. He charged her a penalty and demanded a bribe, both of which she paid without complaint.
Two hours later, almost everyone on the train was asleep. They had already passed through Meerut and Muzaffarnagar stations, where she stepped out onto the platform to make sure Guldaar didn’t get off. Several times, she checked the photos on her phone to remind herself of his face, though his features were etched in her memory. As she pushed her way through the moving train from one carriage to the next, the couplings jostled against each other. Warm night air flew past in a murmuring rush of shadows. Anna began to give up hope. Most of the curtains had been drawn, and travelers lay like corpses, shrouded in sheets. In the upper-class carriages, doors had been bolted and locked. Even the conductors and attendants had gone to sleep.
As the train snaked its way across the Gangetic Plain, before turning northwest into the Punjab, Anna felt a strange sense of loneliness and despair, the click and stammer of the train, the passing lights outside, and the rocking of each carriage as they sped toward an uncertain destination. Manav had tried to contact her several times, but she ignored his calls. Twice she spoke to Afridi, reporting no sign of Guldaar. He told her to keep looking, insisting he must be on board.
“Why would he take a train?” she said, in frustration. “If he has a private plane waiting for him at the airport?”
“He won’t risk the chance of being stopped again,” said Afridi. “Remember, his anonymity is what protects him. He’s safest when nobody knows who he is.”
“But he could have hired a car, or taken any other train.”
“Yes, but he’s a man who’s superstitious about history. His instincts will have guided him to the Frontier Mail. Once he reaches Amritsar, he’ll bribe his way across the border at Wagah.”
“When do we reach Amritsar?” Anna asked.
“The scheduled time is 5:00 a.m., but you’re running late. It will be 8:00 in the morning.”
“I’ll have to find him before then. Once he’s off the train, I’ll lose him,” she said.
“Patience, Anna. Just keep looking.”
It was midnight by the time she completed a third search of the train from one end to the other. Anna was now back where she’d started, in the II AC Sleeper. Even if she wanted to lie down, she had no berth. Muffled snoring came from the attendant’s bunk, which was tucked behind the air-conditioning unit. Leaning down, Anna peered out the window. She saw dark fields outside, the glimmer of villages passing by, and the headlights of a tractor at a level crossing. Saharanpur was the next station, twenty minutes on ahead.
One more time, she told herself. Once more! Stepping past the bathrooms and onto the swaying metal gangway, she entered the adjoining carriage, a first-class AC Sleeper. It was cleaner than the others with a door opening off the vestibule that sealed cold air inside. Opening it, she made her way down the narrow corridor, illuminated by blue night lamps. Curtains on the windows swayed back and forth. The doors to each compartment were locked. Nobody would open them at this hour of the night unless they were going to use the bathrooms. The train was moving at full speed, and Anna put up a hand to steady herself as she came to the door at the other end. As soon as she opened it, a warm gust of air greeted her, along with the smell of a freshly lit cigarette.
Instinctively, Anna unzipped her backpack and took out her FN 57. Moving carefully, she could tell that someone had opened the outside door of the carriage. As she stepped forward, she saw a man standing with his back to her, facing out into the passing night. She recognized him from his clothes. His one hand was braced against the metal door, which had been wedged open. In the other, he held a cigarette, smoke trailing over his shoulder as he exhaled. Anna took her stance, the pistol level with his back.
“Jimmy!” she said, loud enough for her words to carry over the rumbling of the train.
He turned as soon as he heard her voice. Anna could see that Guldaar had no idea she had followed him onto the train. It took him a moment to compose himself, as he tossed the half-smoked cigarette out the door.
“You’re making a huge mistake,” he said.
“I don’t think so,” Anna replied.
“What do you want?” he said. “I can arrange—”
“Shut up,” she said.
“Everyone has a price. Name yours. Whatever you say.”
Anna smiled at his audacity, seeing the weary, anxious look in his eyes.
“There’s nothing you could offer me that would make me spare your life,” she said.
“Do you think it will make a difference if you kill me? What will you accomplish? They’re all corrupt, every one of them. Kill me and someone else will take my place.”
She shook her head, feeling his hypnotic gaze boring through her like an awl. The swaying carriage jostled them, but Anna had both feet planted firmly on the floor.
“Major Yaqub didn’t share your cynicism,” she said. “He sacrificed his life because he believed that you were destroying his country.”
“Who is this Yaqub? A minor player—nothing but a Pakistani pawn.”
“At least he believed in something,” Anna said.
The old man was five feet away from her, no more than twelve inches from the open door. When he lunged at Anna, both his hands reached out to try and knock the pistol from her grasp, but she was ready for him. Anna squeezed the trigger twice. The first bullet caught him between the ribs. For a brief second, Guldaar raised his head with an arrogant look of disdain, as if he didn’t believe that he was hit. The second bullet, with a muzzle velocity of 650 meters per second, threw him backward on his heels. His left arm struck the metal doorframe and he seemed to grab for it. But the full force of the 5.7 mm slug, puncturing his chest and then mushrooming into his lungs and heart, hurled him backward through the door.
Lowering her pistol, Anna took a step forward and pushed the heavy door shut. She then sank to the floor and let the Frontier Mail carry her onward into the night.
Sixty-One
Two days after Guldaar’s body was recovered beside the railway tracks south of Saharanpur, Afridi and Daphne had dinner at Ivanhoe again. This time Afridi had dismissed his servant and cooked a cheese soufflé and prepared a watermelon and mint salad himself. The NSG commandoes remained on guard, but there was no longer any threat. Afridi opened a bottle of Casale Del Giglio Cabernet Sauvignon, given to him by an Italian mountaineer. At Daphne’s request, they listened to Sting and Annie Lennox, though Afridi insisted on playing a few tracks of Stephane Grappelli and Django Reinhardt. By mutual consent they did not speak about Guldaar, but after the first glass of wine they drank a toast to Jehangir Daruwalla’s memory.
After they sat down to eat, Afridi explained that the American hostage, Luke McKenzie, had been found wandering along a desert highway northwest of Dubai. In the aftermath of Guldaar’s death, the Americans, or at least Fletcher’s branch of the NSA, and Manav Shinde seemed to have found common cause. Though the Peregrine contracts would undoubtedly be cance
led, there was talk of collaboration. The minister of state for defense had tendered his resignation. Anna was let off with a bureaucratic scolding, even as a confidential commendation was added to her file. She had spoken with Afridi this morning and reported that Yaqub’s body had been returned to Pakistan. He was now buried beside his father in Peshawar. Sounding tired and depressed, Anna admitted that she needed some time off. Fortunately, a friend had invited her to visit him in Goa, where she was planning to spend a couple of weeks. She asked Afridi to pass on her greetings to Daphne.
The soufflé turned out successfully, though Afridi had been worried it might collapse when he took it out of the oven. Daphne even asked for a second helping.
“What kind of cheese is it made from?” she asked.
“Yak,” said Afridi. “There’s a company in Nepal that makes it.”
“A Himalayan soufflé,” she said, teasing him. “I suppose that’s appropriate. You continue to surprise me. Gardening. Espionage. Cooking. A man of many talents, Colonel.”
She raised the wine glass to her lips.
“Please call me Imtiaz,” he said.
“Imtiaz,” she repeated after him. “What does it mean?”
“It’s difficult to translate from Arabic,” said Afridi, looking down at his plate self-consciously, “but essentially it means ‘distinguished.’”
“That’s appropriate,” she said.
“It can also mean ‘antique,’” he added.
She laughed.
For dessert, a sticky toffee pudding had been ordered in from a restaurant nearby. They shared it with two spoons and continued to avoid talking about the events of the past few weeks. Instead, they spoke about their memories of Bombay. Afridi had lived there briefly in the late sixties, while Daphne recalled when she’d first gone there more than a decade later. Both felt it was a much more interesting city than Delhi. No less corrupt and far more chaotic, but without the insidious cynicism that lay at the heart of India’s capital, the smug politics and intrigue.
“Do you think you might go back to Bombay?”
“I suppose I could. I’ve still got a flat there, in Bandra. Jimmy bought it for me years ago and put it in my name. But I’ve lost touch with most people there, and it would probably feel very strange, without Jehangir … or Naseem.”
For a few seconds, her face subsided into sadness, and Afridi could see a lost expression in her eyes.
“Or you could go back to your hometown of Mughal Sarai?” he suggested, half-joking.
She shook her head, and her smile returned. “I don’t have family there anymore. In fact, I don’t have anyone at all.”
“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you wish,” he offered.
“Thank you. Let’s see,” she said. “You’ll be tired of me within a week.”
They sat in silence for a while. Then Daphne pushed back her chair and picked up their plates and took them to the kitchen. Afridi helped her clear the table. Afterwards, he poured her the last of the wine and got a scotch for himself. They avoided saying anything more about the future but talked about books and music, as well as films. It was the kind of relaxed, meandering conversation in which the intimacy in the tone of their voices mattered more than the meaning of their words. They were at ease in each other’s company like old friends meeting after a long separation. Eventually, Daphne shook her head in disbelief, startled by a thought.
“What is it?” Afridi asked.
“Isn’t it odd, but I feel as if we’ve known each other for years,” she said, “though it’s hardly been a week. Maybe we met in a previous life.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” he replied. “Though sometimes it isn’t the length of time you’ve known someone, but the circumstances that bring you together that create a bond.”
Instead of answering him, Daphne stood up and came across to his chair and placed her hands on the armrests. Leaning forward, she put her lips to his mouth, a slow, lingering kiss, as if surrendering unspoken words. Afridi responded, reaching up to brush a hand through her hair and across her cheek. After almost a minute, she drew back and looked at him with an expression no camera could have captured.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said. “Thank you. I’ll let myself out.”
Knowing the guards would escort her safely back to her suite, Afridi remained motionless by the dwindling fire.
Glossary
aap: polite form of “you”
arrey: exclamation, similar to “hey”
besharam: shameless
Bhotia: Tibetan
bidi: small, inexpensive cheroot
Boditsattvas: incarnations of the Buddha
Bon: ancient shamanistic religion of Tibet
Bournvita: malted chocolate drink
bugiyal: high meadows above the tree line in the Himalayas
chaat wallah: vendor selling fried snacks
chaan: thatched cowshed
chiru: Tibetan antelope
chinar: Himalayan plane tree, found mostly in Kashmir
chowkidar: watchman
chukkar: circuit (In Landour the Chukkar road circles the top of the hill.)
dargah: shrine at a Muslim grave
desi: Indian or literally, “of the country”
dhyana mudra: meditation pose
ghazal: vocal music, with the lyrics usually sung in Farsi or Urdu
gompa: Tibetan monastery and temple complex
gurdwara: Sikh temple
havaghar: open-air pavilion, literally “breeze house”
Haryana: an Indian state, near Delhi
keema: ground meat
khadi kurta: handspun cotton tunic
khud: steep hillside or ravine
kya patta?: Who knows?
lungi: unstitched cloth worn as a lower garment
madamji: slang for “madam”; “ji” adds politeness
mallu: slang for “Malayali” (person from Kerala)
mandala: sacred diagram of the cosmos, used in meditation by Tibetan monks
mazaar: Muslim gravesite shrine
momo: dumpling usually filled with meat
namaskar: polite greeting in Hindi usually accompanied by a gesture of folded hands
nimboo pani: lemonade
om mani padme hum: Hail the jewel in the lotus
paan: betel leaf confection eaten as a digestif
parantha: fried flatbread
pushta: retaining wall made of stone
qawali: choral group of male vocalists singing in Farsi, Urdu, or Punjabi
salwar: loose drawstring pantaloons
shahtoosh: underlayer of wool from a Tibetan antelope
shikar: hunting
tabla: a pair of drums played with the fingers
terma: buried relics or teachings
thana: police station
thanka: Tibetan painting, usually on a cloth scroll
yungdrung: swastika, symbolizing good luck and auspiciousness in Tibet
The Dalliance of Leopards Page 31