Walls of Silence

by Walls Of Silence Free(Lit)

  The car pulled up under the canopied entrance. It was nearly 2:00A.M.but the place was still buzzing. An army of turbaned porters opened the doors of a constant flow of vehicles ferrying returning partygoers and new arrivals while an aggressive PA system screamed out thenumbers of cars for those people who wanted to leave. The whole place was steamy and breathless.

  We stood on the red-carpeted steps while our luggage was assembled and taken away.

  Carol was restless. “We need to talk. But not now.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “Not tonight. No sneaking up to my room. And don’t wait for me to show up in yours either. All right?”

  I froze. I had sensed something like this coming, but it still paralyzed me.

  “All right?” Her eyes were pleading. She looked pale now, almost ill. I wanted to say that I was the right medicine for her.

  I shrugged. “You’re the client.”

  A small man in a gray suit stood nearby and seemed to be watching us, tentative and shy. He didn’t look like a member of the hotel staff, a bit too scruffy, too unsure of his station. He tugged at a weedy mustache that made him look older then he probably was.

  He approached us.

  “Clay & Westminster and Jefferson Trust?” He held his hands stiffly by his sides, like they were holstered but ready to draw in a handshake should we show signs of drawing first.

  “A bit of them,” I said guardedly, signifying my knee-jerk distrust for a local I didn’t know, but who seemed to know me.

  The man grinned and the hand flew from its holster.

  “Raj Shethia, assistant to Mr. Askari. I am here to ensure that everything is satisfactory. Miss Amen, I am so pleased to meet you. Mr. Border, you look exactly as I imagined from our telephone conversation.”

  He was excited and now that his hands had escaped they wouldn’t keep still, a blur of gesticulation.

  “Please, please, inside.” He ushered us up the steps into the hotel.

  “The flight satisfactory? Delta Airlines. American. Tip-top.”

  We moved toward the reception desk, the lobby was as chaotic as the arrival area.

  “And the car? A Mercedes. I personally arranged it.”

  “The car was great, Raj,” said Carol.

  Raj Shethia blushed at the use of his first name, unsettled by instant familiarity from a woman. “I will register you,” he muttered, and hurried over to the reception desk.

  Carol was unabashed, still enthused. “Bombay changed its name to Mumbai, didn’t it?” she said. “You know, like Peking to Beijing. I like the old names better. Is it okay to call it Bombay still?”

  “Either’s okay,” I said, not caring. The place may have decreed a name change, but in all other respects it seemed the same.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The rain had stopped and a few banners of cloud floated in the morning sky. The world had regained some clarity after the brawling weather of the night before.

  As I made my way along the promenade toward the rusty brown basalt of the Gateway of India, small birds dive-bombed the breakwater boulders on the shore below while, high above me, black shadows circled.Craa-craa-craa.I’d forgotten the noise of those black shadows. Despite the heat, I shivered.

  I’d already spoken to Pablo Tochera that morning. There had been no “eureka”—no heart attack either, which was something. He had been distracted, disgruntled, edgy. Another round with Detective Manelli. No charges yet, but soon, real soon. The first stirrings of a class action by the victims, a warning letter from the Borough of Manhattan. What about the documents, Pablo, what about the McLaren showroom? Delaware Loan? Sheesh. Nobody identified, nobody interviewed, no forensics in my favor. Why not? It was a crazy fucked-up world was all I could get out of him. I didn’t need a four-hundred-an-hour attorney to tell me that.

  I stood next to the Gateway, a somber Arc de Triomphe, and peered up into the dark crook of its arch.

  I wheeled around suddenly. Somebody had touched me.

  “Mr. Border, sir.”

  It was Raj Shethia. He stepped back swiftly. “I hope I did not surprise you.” He looked scared, as if I was going to beat him up for intruding on my reverie. “I saw you from the hotel and came out to greet you.”

  I smiled, holding out my hand in greeting rather than attack. “I was just taking a stroll. A postbreakfast constitutional.” I made it sound like the routine of an English gentleman, something that Raj Shethia might expect, perhaps. I never walked and normally had breakfast at my desk. Who the hell did I think I was?

  Raj shook my hand to breaking point. We both looked up at the Gateway.

  “Before the airplane,” he said, “this was the first sight to greet visitors to Bombay. From the ships, you see.”

  I knew. All the guidebooks said so.

  I scanned the bay, where dark freighters and old tankers squatted in flat water the color of milky tea. There were no proud cruise liners scything toward the jetty. No P&Os or Cunards. No excited passengers hanging from the deck rails, confetti and ticker tape snowing into the bow wave.

  Raj looked at his watch. “We will be leaving for the office shortly. I should ensure Miss Amen is ready.”

  As I started to follow him back to the hotel, he noticed me looking up at its facade. “Do you like the Taj?” he asked.

  In other circumstances I might have, but now it appeared like a swollen English seaside hotel, self-important, oversized, and matronly. On the inside, it was sumptuous enough, but too many balconied walkways skirted deep canals of dark space, both giddy and claustrophobic. My room was okay, though. Maybe I should have been more grateful; five years before, I had shared a mildewed cell of a room with my mother in a hotel that boasted not a single star.

  Carol was waiting at reception. She wore a gray skirt cut well below the knee. She had kept her hair simple, her makeup pastel and lightly applied. A cream silk top completed the spartan ensemble.

  “This place is amazing,” she said. “You seen the dining room?”

  I shook my head. I hadn’t. A pot of coffee in my room and then my walk.

  She looked disappointed, like I had spoiled her party. She’d recall why soon enough, I reckoned.

  Raj led us out to the Mercedes.

  We drove into a Victorian sprawl near the Stock Exchange Building, where streets, stalls, vehicles, and people vied for decreasing swing space. Our Mercedes was like a hippo in a birdcage. Carol was utterly absorbed by the circus around the car and for twenty minutes she was a carefree tourist.

  The car stopped.

  “We get out here.” Raj rattled off some instructions to the driver. I tried to discern where in the mayhem of stalls and buildings the Ketan Securities offices might be. On one side of the street it was all storefronts and trestles laden with fruit and vegetables, partially obscured by carts and taxis, the other dominated by a single building entirely splinted by a network of scaffolding.

  Raj aimed his umbrella at an alley separating the shrouded building from its healthier neighbor.

  The gap between the buildings was little more than a crack, but the scaffolders had still contrived to put up their shaky climbing frame along its entire length and we picked our way around the steel struts whose bases were sunk in half an inch of bilge water.

  “Mind the drain,” warned Raj. Down the center of the alley, a river still swollen from the previous night’s rain flowed glutinously toward a sea of slime. It reeked of rotting vegetables and shit and even the rats seemed to be giving it a wide berth.

  Raj stopped at a large steel door, pressed a buzzer, and shouted into it. After a moment, the door swung open, bathing the dark alley in a harsh fluorescence.

  We made our way along various strip-lit hallways and up and down countless small flights of steps. People pressed against the wall as we passed, smiling warmly or eyeing us as invaders. By the time westopped in front of an imposing oak door I had lost track of where the consensus might be.

  The world beyond the oak door was
in complete contrast with everything we’d seen en route: a vast teak boardroom table, five men seated around it, a place setting in front of each of them—blotter, paper, pencils, water pitcher and tumbler. Three giant marble ashtrays paraded down the middle.

  Four of the men stood up. One stayed precisely where he was. The sleeve of his suit strained as his arm crooked awkwardly over the back of the chair. He stared out of the window, at a jungle of greenery punctuated by orange and red fruit, and blinding flashes of flowers in full bloom. Frenzied birds, exotic and mundane, flitted a few inches above the canopy.

  Sunil Askari was not birdwatching. He was showing his contempt for me.

  What the hell. I looked at the others.

  It was easy to see who was in charge, the patriarch. White-haired, slim, and over six feet; teeth like an ad for floss. He wore his age effortlessly, a Bollywood elder statesman who had kept up with his personal trainer.

  “Welcome, welcome,” he said. The welcome seemed primarily aimed at Carol, who moved forward nervously to shake his hand. I thought for a ghastly moment she might curtsy.

  He bade us sit. “I am Ashish Ketan.” He splayed his fingers on the table in the shape of a tepee, the gold Rolex and nugget of a ring apparently weightless on their muscular host.

  Then he waved a hand vaguely at a youthful, black-haired version of himself. “This is Parves Ketan, my eldest son and managing director. My other son, Damindra, cannot be with us—he is running the business as we speak. I like to think of Ketan Securities as a shrine to perfection and you will appreciate that this is a full-time occupation for my family and employees.”

  Everyone nodded.

  His hand waved in another direction. “Mr. Sunil Askari, senior partner of Askari & Co., one of Bombay’s most prestigious law firms and one which owes its greatness entirely to its distinguished seniorpartner. Jefferson Trust is most fortunate to have retained their services.”

  Askari was seated normally now, perhaps content that I was placed at the opposite end of the table from him.

  He smiled and, with unconvincing modesty, brushed aside the compliment with a shake of his imperious head.

  Ashish Ketan then briefly introduced his own attorney, a bilious and sweaty man from the not-quite-so-distinguished firm of Jaiwalla & Company. Ketan didn’t bother drawing our attention to the Jaiwalla bag carrier or Raj Shethia.

  There was a short pause and Ketan turned to Carol.

  I noticed her scribbling on the pad in front of her, not a doodle, but a nervous cluster of words and dashes and asterisks. A speech.

  “Jefferson Trust is very excited about the prospect of bringing Ketan Securities into our fold.” She sounded assured, not even glancing at her notes. “Our chairman, whom I believe you’ve met”—Ketan inclined his head to show he had—“sends his best wishes and has instructed me to do everything to ensure a speedy completion.”

  She hesitated. “Chuck Krantz sends his apologies. He wanted to be here, but has to make preparations for the acquisition back in New York.”

  Yeah, right. Chuck Krantz thinks Bombay is a shit-hole and he’s got better things to do.

  Carol sprinkled a few more platitudes across the table and then relaxed, content with her performance. The audience also seemed very pleased, Ashish Ketan staring at her as if she were his favored daughter and Parves Ketan only a micro-dribble short of a drool.

  Ketan senior nodded at Askari, who snapped his fingers at Raj.

  Until that moment, Raj had been a coiled spring, which at Askari’s signal uncoiled in panic. A small buff folder was passed to Askari, who had perched a minutely framed pair of reading glasses on the end of his shark-fin nose. He glowered briefly at Raj and then peered down at the file.

  “Applications for regulatory approval have been lodged and are proceeding well.” This was news to me—these bits of paper were for Jefferson Trust, my client, to sign, and I hadn’t seen any.

  “Have we seen them?” I asked. I sensed the room reel in shock that I had dared to interrupt Sunil Askari.

  He didn’t look up. “Our mutual client, Jefferson Securities, has seen them, approved them, and signed them.”

  I glanced at Carol. She was blank; I was sure she hadn’t seen them, she would have told me otherwise. It was a liberty. Nothing should have bypassed Clay & Westminster and certainly nothing should have bypassed the senior investment banking counsel of Jefferson Trust.

  I didn’t press the point. I’d pick it up later—offline.

  “If I may continue . . .” Askari surveyed the room, his eyes never landing on me. The others kept their eyes away from me too. Already I was a leper.

  “Clay & Westminster have provided draft agreements.”

  He steadfastly refused to mention my name. “But we were obliged to amend them to reflect the proper Indian legal position.”

  “How far have you gotten on the questionnaire?” I asked. Thirty dense pages, each question maybe needing a pine tree or two to answer.

  “It is ready.”

  It couldn’t be. A half-assed stab, maybe. But ready? No way.

  Askari removed his glasses, as if by doing so he’d reduce me to no more than an irritating blur. “You seem surprised, Mr. Border.”

  “I am. And impressed if—”

  “If what?” It was Ketan senior. I couldn’t see his teeth; he wasn’t smiling. “Impressed if we did it. That was your thought, was it not? You wonder if business people in India can match your Anglo-Saxon professionalism?” The tide against me was obviously at full spate.

  “No, sir, of course not. It was just rather a lot of material to cover in such a short time, that’s all.”

  “And that we wouldn’t know our business well enough to answer your questions?”

  “No, please—”

  “Or that we wouldn’t anticipate the questions you might pose?”

  “Good God, no. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”

  Ketan junior tapped his Mont Blanc on the blotter. “Mr. Border does not have a high regard for us, I think.”

  “This is absurd,” I said.

  Ketan senior stood up, clutching at his ring as if he were going to wrench it from his finger and hurl it at me. “So now we are absurd.”

  Askari groaned. “Mr. Border is too much of the lawyer and not enough of the diplomat.” He gave Carol a comforting smile. She looked petrified. “He has had a long flight and perhaps got dehydrated.”

  Ketan senior snorted. Maybe for him, dehydrated meant hungover.

  “I can only apologize if I caused offense,” I said. “It wasn’t my intention.”

  Ketan senior and junior ignored me.

  Askari seemed triumphant, his initial mission accomplished. “Where was I?”

  For the next two hours I was the bad smell in the room. On the rare occasions I tried to offer input, I could almost hear the snap of clothes pins on noses. The entire strategy for bedding the transaction was settled—anything substantive was for Carol and Askari, the rest for me and Raj. Tea was served; to me, last and grudgingly. Plans for the evening were finalized; my presence was not required.

  And Askari got happier and happier.

  As we stood to leave, Ketan senior pointed to Carol’s skirt. There was a splash of dried mud on the hem.

  His eyes rested threateningly on Raj. “How did this happen? It is but a short journey and the rain has stopped.”

  Raj explained about the waterlogged alleyway.

  Ketan was horrified. “You came in that way?”

  “It’s nothing really,” Carol said, dusting herself down. “I’ve plenty of spare clothes.”

  Ketan rattled something off in Hindi and Raj froze. Presumably he had been told that entering the building via the anus was bad navigation, and incompetent pilots had to walk the plank.

  Everyone started to leave. As I began to join them, Askari stood behind me. I could hear his teeth clack, like he was sharpening them.

  “You will go with Raj Shethia to the data room at Na
riman Point, where you can see for yourself that the questionnaire has been answered.”

  Askari was supposed to be my lawyer, not the other way around. I wanted to tell him to fuck himself. But there was another way, I realized. I could keep my thoughts to myself. There would be no more sharing.

  Askari must have noted my expression. “Each of us must yield to a superior force,” he said. “Even I am answerable, beholden.”

  I turned away from him without answering, choosing to watch Carol lap up the Ketan schmooze; but before I cut Askari, I’d noticed something in his expression, the fizz of pepper on Ernie’s cigarette end, the fear.

  The data room was on the twentieth floor of a stained seventies cereal box with a better view over the Arabian Sea than it deserved.

  I’d expected to find an abandoned paper recycling plant by way of documentation. But no. File after file of neatly tabbed documents, cross-referenced into the questionnaire I’d sent them. I walked down the length of the table, inspecting the material, as if I were a visiting head of state reviewing a guard of honor.

  Askari had been right. It looked like it was ready.

  “Who put this together?” I asked.

  Raj bashfully tugged at his mustache. “Me, sir. Me and the gentleman from Jaiwalla & Company. Under the guidance of Mr. Askari, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  At random, I picked up a file of correspondence between Ketan Secuirites and the Stock Exchange Board of India. Usually regulators were whining about something, focusing on the minutiae and missing the murders. But these letters seemed full of praise—for management, for systems, for client care. Prize pupils, it seemed.

  “This is pretty impressive.”

  Raj waggled his head in the Indian way.

  I was cross with myself about the incident in the meeting. “I wish they hadn’t misunderstood me back there.”

  Raj’s hands started waving. “It is just a storm in a cup of tea. It will pass.”

  I sat down. “We’d better go through this now.”

  I picked up the first file.Answer to Question 1. Corporate History and Structure.I read it. Bloody perfect, bar a few trivial supplementary questions I could raise out of sheer devilment.