“Sir, you’re going where in Pakistan?” he asked.
“Rawalpindi.”
“You’re on business?”
“Business.”
More silence, more fidgeting. Then, “Where are you from in India?”
“Delhi.”
“That is where my family is from originally.”
The detective nodded and checked his watch again. He had been sitting there for half an hour.
“Sorry, sir,” repeated the immigration officer with an awkward smile, holding up his hands to heaven as if it were Allah who was responsible for running the electricity grid.
Just then, a young man wearing dirty overalls entered through the main door carrying a jerry can. He called out to the immigration officer, “I’ve got it!” and then exited again. This was the immigration officer’s cue to return to his desk. Once he’d put on his glasses, he called to the detective to step forward.
Puri heard a generator hum to life outside the building. The lights flickered on. The computer beeped.
“You see! I told you it would not be long!” said the immigration officer.
The detective’s passport was inspected and scanned. He was asked to look into the camera fixed to the counter and stared, unsmiling, at the lens, uncomfortable with the idea of the Pakistanis having his photograph in their system.
“Enjoy your stay, sir. Please proceed.”
As Puri stepped out through the exit, he heard the generator putter to a stop.
A smartly dressed chauffeur moved forward, the only individual waiting outside the building. He was holding up a piece of paper with Puri’s name written on it in big, bold letters.
“Timur Baloch sent me,” he said, taking the detective’s bag. “I’ve been asked to take you to the airport.”
He led the way to a car. A police jeep was parked behind it. An officer and three jawans sat inside. They watched Puri closely, as if he were a criminal whom they’d be chasing for years.
“Did you say airport?” asked the detective when he was ensconced in the backseat of the car. He did his best not to sound alarmed.
“You’ve a flight to Rawalpindi, sir,” explained the driver.
To insist on going by road and thereby admit his terror of flying would be to lose face at the worst possible time. He would have to grin and bear it.
“Good,” he said, his tone officious. “Flying is so much quicker, actually.”
• • •
The vistas along the side of the road to Lahore were patently familiar—wheat fields, brick kilns, boys playing cricket on dusty patches of open ground. But there was no mistaking the stamp of Islam on the landscape. The petrol stations all had mosques or prayer rooms attached. The women they passed, whether on foot or riding in bicycle rickshaws, were all, without exception, veiled. And although the fat-faced Punjabi politicians looked remarkably similar to their Indian counterparts, they nearly all wore prayer caps and pious beards.
All this went to affirm Puri’s view of Pakistan as a deeply conservative state, and this in turn made him feel a good deal better about his own country. India was a secular democracy—tolerant and inclusive. It struggled with its corruption no doubt, but not once had it been ruled by the military; Pakistan, on the other hand, had remained under the thumb of the generals for the best part of its existence.
He also took comfort from the fact that Pakistan (or at least the few miles of it he’d seen so far) looked down-at-heel compared to India. There were few new cars on the roads. On the outskirts of Lahore little construction was under way. And most of the petrol stations were closed, the government having imposed fuel rationing.
Perhaps that explained why there was so little traffic. Or did the locals know something he didn’t? Had an ambush been laid up ahead?
Puri had rarely felt so tense, or so conspicuous. It seemed to him as if everyone outside his window—ordinary people carrying shopping along the road, that old man over there on the bicycle—knew he was an Indian and were all, potentially, a threat. Every time the car stopped at a light and a motorbike pulled up next to them, he imagined the driver was about to pull out a pistol and open fire. When the car hit a pothole in the road, he flinched. A truck backfiring almost gave him a heart attack.
He and the driver reached the edge of Lahore without incident, however, and proceeded along the elevated ring road. With no high-rises to block the panorama, the majestic sandstone minarets and white marble domes of the Badshahi Mosque, so similar to Delhi’s Jama Masjid, floated above the city’s small houses.
“Sir, Lahore is a city of poets and Sufis,” said the driver, sounding as if he had been prepped. “Perhaps you have heard of our Shalimar Gardens, most beautiful place in all the world?”
Puri had heard of the Shalimar Gardens, of course. The Sikh ruler Ranjit Singh had enjoyed walking through them in the years after he had seized the city from the Mughals. Lahore was also legendary for its cuisine, particularly its kebabs. The one thing he had been looking forward to on the journey was sampling some of them. But that now seemed like a remote possibility. A sign on the ring road indicated they were approaching the airport.
The detective felt the palms of his hands growing increasingly sweaty and wiped them on the car seat.
He didn’t know what he feared most: airplanes, Aga or beardy weirdies.
• • •
The flight went as well as could be expected. The twin-prop Fokker took off sharply, rattling and jostling like an old mixie. And the landing was no better, the plane coming down at an acute angle like a roller-coaster car. It was fortunate that Puri hadn’t stuffed himself with kebabs and kulfi before boarding. The Bhale Bhale dhaba paranthas caused problems enough. Puri had to make use of the paper bag in the pouch in front of him, as well as that of his neighbor, who changed seats soon after takeoff.
He still looked off-color when, less than an hour after touching down, the car that had been sent to collect him from the airport reached Rawalpindi.
The Mohan Pura district was not unlike the colonies of South Delhi: big cubist villas with high walls and elaborate gates standing on dusty streets. The Khans’ mansion looked as if it had been modeled on a frosted wedding cake. There were eight or nine luxury cars and a couple of police jeeps parked outside. Puri sensed that he wasn’t going to be meeting with Kamran Khan alone. This hardly came as a surprise; nor did it matter greatly. It would be enough to put a few questions to him, look him in the eye, make 100 percent sure that he had not been involved in the murder himself—and of course gauge his reaction to the death of Full Moon.
If possible, he also wanted to get a look at Faheem Khan’s belongings, the possessions he had taken with him to Delhi and which, presumably, had been brought back by his son along with the body.
“Look for any books,” Brigadier Mattu had advised. “One of them could hold the cipher. It should show signs of having been especially well read—creased pages, bent corners, anything underlined, obviously.”
A servant led Puri across a cavernous entrance hall with a sweeping marble staircase to a waiting room. He was invited to freshen up in the en suite bathroom. A tray of light snacks and tea was also provided.
The servant returned thirty minutes later and this time Puri was shown through a tall set of oak doors coated in shiny lacquer. The reception room beyond was arranged like a modern durbar, with leather couches along the walls and a thirty-foot-long silk oriental carpet gracing the center.
There were eight men in the room, standing in clusters of two or three, all holding delicate cups of tea. All eyes turned on the Indian as he entered. The conversation faded.
“Mr. Puri, welcome,” said a voice in a polished Oxbridge accent.
The detective recognized the athletic, confident figure of former Pakistan captain Timur Baloch, who was striding toward him, hand extended.
“I trust you had a good journey?” he asked with a strong handshake and welcoming smile.
“No complaints, sir,” replied th
e detective. “I’ve you to thank for the transport?”
“It’s the least we could do.”
“And for sorting out the problem with the visa, it seems.”
“Your visa, Mr. Puri? I wasn’t aware there was a problem.”
“Never mind. Seems I’ve another guardian angel.”
“I think you’ll find there are plenty of people here in Pakistan who want answers as much as you do. Now come, I’d like to introduce you to everyone.”
Puri shook hands with the deputy head of the Pakistan Cricket Board and his own deputy; the local representative of the International Cricket Federation; the Rawalpindi deputy chief of police; a senior lawyer (an advocate of the supreme court, no less); Kamran Khan’s personal assistant, who’d been charged with recording the proceedings with a rudimentary tape recorder; and the local parliamentary representative, who claimed to have been “a close, personal and above all trusted friend of Faheem Khan” and was “assisting the family in their time of grief.”
“Kamran will be along in a minute,” explained Baloch. “In the meantime, I think it would be useful if we clarified a few things.”
He motioned to an empty seat. It was a quarter of the way along the far wall. Puri sat down, feeling surrounded on all sides.
“First of all, and I know I speak for all of us, I’d like to welcome you here to Pakistan,” continued Baloch. “I’m told that you are a man of integrity and that you are one hundred percent committed to investigating the shameless murder of our dear friend Faheem Khan.”
Normally this sort of praise would have caused Puri to swell with pride, but he acknowledged the words with a sober nod, conscious that the other eight men in the room were scrutinizing his every mannerism.
“On a personal note, I’d like to say that I joined the Clean Up Cricket organization because I want to root out corruption in the sport. Cricket is bigger than any one nation and we must rid ourselves of rotten apples before they spoil the crop. If there are any here on the Pakistan team, then we should not hesitate in imposing the severest penalties.”
This statement was met with a general murmur of approval.
“That said, I’m in no doubt that the Khan family is innocent of any involvement in the match-fixing allegations doing the rounds in the press,” Baloch continued. “The idea that Faheem Khan was in any way involved with bookies is preposterous. I can personally vouch for his character. He was above all an honest man—honest to a fault, in fact. And I’m quite sure that your investigation will help clear his name and that of his son of these baseless rumors.”
“You’ll make a fine politician,” Puri felt like saying, wondering if Baloch’s little speech was for the benefit of the audience or if he genuinely believed the Khans to be saints.
His reply was equally glib.
“Let me be the first to applaud you for your honesty and for taking the bold step of inviting me here in the interest of truth,” he began. “And let me assure all the honorable gentlemen here present that Vish Puri never fails. By hook or crook I will most definitely get to the bottom of this crime. Allow me to assure you, also, that I have a personal interest in clearing up this matter—as a proud citizen of India. An honored guest has been brutally killed on our soil and it is my duty to let no stone go unturned in doing positive identification of the person or persons responsible.”
This was met with a light round of applause.
“Thank you, Mr. Puri,” said Baloch. “Now if you’re ready we’ll send for Kamran. I’m sure you’ll keep in mind that he has responsibilities to his family and that we don’t want to keep him for any longer than is necessary.”
• • •
• • •
Khan’s long frame was limp, like a sunflower in need of water. With a perfunctory salaam, he slumped down onto one of the couches, his giraffe-like legs protruding far into the room. He was wearing white, the color of mourning, and a prayer cap.
“You’ve got some questions for me?” said Khan, his head cocked toward the ceiling in a gesture of total apathy.
“I’m endeavoring to solve your father’s murder,” said Puri, who found the young man’s lack of decorum highly insolent. “You’re interested in finding out who did it or not?”
Khan shifted in his seat, drawing his legs toward him.
“Yes, of course,” he answered with a frown. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Good. Then, yes, some questions are there.”
Silence fell over the room as everyone waited for Puri. He relished the expectation, the sense of finally being in the driver’s seat. He took out his notebook and made a show of opening it to a new page and smoothing down the paper with the palm of his hand. Then he pulled a pen from the breast pocket of his shirt and asked Kamran Khan, almost as an aside, “You remember we two met that night?”
The young man crinkled his forehead. He looked at Puri directly for the first time. “You were there?”
“I’m Rohan’s uncle. We two were introduced. You graciously invited me to Pakistan. As your guest, actually.”
There was a flash of recognition and a snap of the fingers.
“Right—of course. Sorry . . . um, sir. You were the one who kneeled by Baba, wasn’t it?”
“Correct. I was by his side, only.”
Kamran Khan nodded, blinking repeatedly. “He said anything to you, sir?” asked the young man. He sounded sad, at a loss.
“Nothing,” answered Puri. “Too much pain was there, actually. Why? You think he knew who poisoned him, is it?”
“No, sir. I’ve no idea.”
“He had enemies?”
Khan shrugged. “None. Everyone loved Baba.”
“A man in his position, being a landowner and such, always has enemies, no?”
“He was a much-loved man,” chimed in Baloch.
“Surely not by all and sundry,” said Puri. “The person who killed him, for example. He or she most definitely did not love him.”
Kamran Khan shifted his feet again as he said, “I just can’t think of who that would be, who would have done this thing, sir.”
The detective scrawled a couple of lines in his notebook before stating, “You yourself were absent from the banqueting hall when your father was poisoned.”
“I went to make a phone call.”
“The receiver of that call was which person, exactly?”
“My mother. She’s been unwell. I wanted to check on her.”
This statement sounded rehearsed.
“You ate some butter chicken, also?”
“I didn’t get a chance. By the time I came back . . . I found my father lying there.”
Puri asked how long he’d been absent.
“Fifteen minutes,” stated Khan. He placed the palms of his hands on his knees, the fingers gripping them.
“If at all possible, I would like to examine your phone records.”
Khan gave his lawyer a questioning look and the man replied in a laconic tone, “My client’s phone records contain confidential information.”
Including the numbers of half the bookies in India, Puri said to himself as he scrawled fiercely in his notebook like a teacher awarding a student an F grade. When he resumed his questioning, he focused on Khan’s whereabouts the night his father died.
“There was another individual absent from the banqueting hall at the same time as your good self,” he said. “One actress known as Dippy. You happened to see her?”
Khan’s grip around his knees visibly tightened.
“I seem to remember passing her in the lobby,” he answered, his tone vague.
“Seem to?”
“Yes, I think so. In fact, I’m sure of it. Yes, she was there. Dressed in a sari, right?”
Dippy had been voted one of the most beautiful women in India recently by a lads’ mag and had looked especially ravishing that night. There hadn’t been a man in the room whose eyes had not drunk her in. “Seem to” didn’t cut it.
“You’ve met her
previously, is it? Before that fateful night?”
“Once or twice. In Dubai, London. I can’t really remember.”
“Seems this Dippy lost one earring. Later it was discovered on the hotel emergency stairs. Must be she was there for some time.”
“Like I told you, I was on the phone in the lobby.”
“To your sick mother,” said Puri.
“Right.”
Puri paused for a moment, relishing the perceptible unease he had created in the room—the shared whispers, nervous coughs, crossing and uncrossing of legs. The fact that Khan had been on the emergency stairs with the actress had not been lost on any of the other gentlemen. But it meant a good deal more to Puri: Kamran Khan had played no part in his father’s murder. Had he been aware, though, of Faheem Khan’s rendezvous with Full Moon?
“What was your Papa doing out on the lawn of the hotel?” asked the detective.
The question caught Khan off guard. “Sorry, sir?”
“He met someone there. I saw them talking with my own eyes.”
“Who?”
“A certain bald gentleman.”
“Bald gentleman?”
Puri flicked through the pages of his notebook. “Name of Mohib Alam,” he read.
Khan blinked repeatedly and began to shake his head from side to side. “Alam,” he repeated. “No, never heard of him.”
“He was a bookie.” This revelation was met with pin-drop silence. Puri waited a beat before adding, “He was murdered actually. Two days back.”
“Murdered?” Kamran Khan looked suddenly alarmed. “How?”
“Poisoned. With aconite. It was placed in his paan.”
The cricketer stared at the detective. “Where did this happen?”
“He owned a farmhouse in Delhi. By coincidence I was present there also. A good deal of illegal betting was going on. Betting on an ICT match, in fact.”
Khan’s face had gone blank. Puri detected fear in his eyes.
“You say you’ve never met Alam, have no idea who he was, have no idea why your father met with him minutes before he died?” he asked, pressing home his advantage.
The answer was a few seconds in coming. “No,” he said. “Like I told you, I’ve never heard of him.”
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