It was an argument that had lost a good deal of its power to influence at that point. When Bishan dropped him off in front of Kavita’s building, Conor felt a sad sense of nostalgia for the whimsical innocence of his first visit and began to understand why he was there.
As he climbed the stairs to the third floor, he could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. It was not very late—a little after nine o’clock—but the apartment building seemed strangely quiet. There was the smell of something baking on one floor, something with cardamom and ginger, and on the next, someone was burning incense. The air was full of scents and seemed crowded with things he couldn’t see, but the only sounds he heard were his steps against the stone floor and the drumbeat of blood inside his head.
On the third floor landing, he looked down the hall at the Kotwal flat and saw that the door was open. The interior was lit with a soft, golden glow. He came in to the small vestibule just inside the door, and before continuing, he removed his boots and placed them with the sandals lining the wall.
She was alone, sitting in a straight-backed chair facing the household shrine. He had arrived at the end of her evening aarti, the worship service offering light to the gods. Camphor wicks—soaked in ghee and burning in front of the deity— provided the room’s sole source of light. Her hands fingered a string of Hindu prayer beads that lay in her lap, and her lips soundlessly moved to form the words of a mantra. Her face, with the candlelight flickering around it, was radiant.
He watched her for almost a full minute until she opened her eyes and turned to him with a quiet, unsurprised smile.
“There you are,” Kavita murmured, as if he had been there all along.
He crossed the room to her. Kneeling, he brushed his fingers over her feet and touched his chest. He spoke to her in Hindi. “Namaste. It’s good to see you looking so well, ji.”
“How nicely you greet me,” she said, with a mischievous tilt of her head. “I am also glad to see you, Con.”
“It’s . . . my good name is actually Conor.”
“Yes. This also is a fine name. Conor.” Kavita’s smile grew even brighter for a moment, but then her face softened. “As Con, or as Conor, you are most gladly, most tenderly welcome, but you are so much changed. What have you been doing that has made your good face this tired and sad?”
“Things I’d be ashamed to tell you, even if I could,” he whispered, struggling to control an emotion building inside him. “Dil gira kahin per. My heart has fallen somewhere, Kavita-ji. I can’t . . . I don’t know what to do.”
She took his hands into her lap, and holding them, wrapped the beads around his fingers. “Not fallen. Only heavy. Your heart has not gone missing, beta. It is just too, too heavy with love. Love that needs a river to sail on, to let it float and breathe and take it where it is meant to go.”
She continued speaking softly to him, but as soon as she’d spoken the word beta—the word son—the struggle had ended. He lowered his head onto her hands and wept.
14
The auto-rickshaw was still a good five blocks from where he needed to be, but it was hopelessly mired in a traffic jam that had suddenly materialized on MG Road. He didn’t feel much like walking the rest of the way, but he was already late, and ahead in the distance, he could see a familiar figure pacing in front of the spot he should have reached twenty minutes earlier.
Conor pressed a handful of rupees into the driver’s palm with a few words of thanks and headed for the sidewalk without a backward glance. He couldn’t spare any energy for haggling—whatever he had left might be needed for an argument with his controlling officer.
The call on the mobile earlier that day—the second he had ever received—had been an unwelcome surprise, first because it was three days early. Sedgwick had left the city more than a week ago, ostensibly headed to Dubai for meetings with Ahmed Khalil and his business associates. Conor didn’t know if that story was true or not, but he didn’t care. He had been enjoying the respite, both from Sedgwick and at least one part of his undesirable duties, and he’d expected it to last until the end of the week.
His second objection to the call was that it began with a demand for a meeting with no defined purpose. It was all too reminiscent of the last time his boss had phoned him, and that episode had not ended well. His first reaction was refusal, which, not surprisingly, was an unacceptable response from Sedgwick’s point of view. Conor finally agreed to meet him in front of the Bombay Gymkhana at eight that evening, but to exercise some level of control, before leaving the flat, he had placed the Walther handgun inside a biscuit tin in his kitchen cupboard.
The packed crowd of pedestrians was moving only slightly faster than the auto-rickshaw, and when he arrived at the entrance to the city’s premier sporting club, Sedgwick was almost vibrating with impatience.
“Where have you been? You’re a half hour late.”
“Lost track of time.” Conor met Sedgwick’s accusatory glare with a diffident shrug. “I seem to recall waiting around for you more than once. How was Dubai? Business booming?” The pivot was intentional but too weak to divert the closer scrutiny he’d hoped to avoid. He didn’t want to admit he’d fallen asleep on his balcony and would still be there if a boisterous gecko had not landed on his neck. He’d assembled the elements of his bodyguard persona in something of a rush, and as Sedgwick’s trained, critical eye swept over him, Conor hoped he didn’t look as disheveled as he felt.
“Dubai was just fine. You’re looking pretty peaked there, Finnegan. Something bothering you?”
Conor rolled his eyes. He had insisted that the agent stop addressing him by his real surname, so Sedgwick’s new habit was to make use of assorted nicknames drawn from his knowledge of Irish drinking songs, which was surprisingly extensive. He’d accepted the eccentricity without further protest. It was mildly entertaining to see how many his boss could come up with, and it had been helpful in easing the discomfort between them after the incident at Sewri.
“Nothing more than the usual,” he said candidly. “Just feeling a bit fuzzy at the edges.”
Sedgwick snorted. “You should pay more attention to what you put in your mouth. The stuff I’ve seen you eat, I’m surprised you haven’t come down with amoebic dysentery before now.”
“You just haven’t my sense of culinary adventure,” Conor said with a fleeting smile. “Anyway, it’s not my stomach.”
“No?” The suspicion in Sedgwick’s voice became more pronounced. “Then what have you been up to today that’s got you feeling fuzzy?”
With an inward sigh, Conor prepared for another of the verbal sparring matches they’d been having for weeks. The truth was that he had been “up to” the same thing almost every day for nearly two months. By night, he was a demoralized amalgamation of an Irish farmer imitating an intelligence agent who was pretending to be a soldier of fortune. By day, he was finding a temporary escape and some small measure of redemption in an unlikely place—the sprawling slum-metropolis of Dharavi.
He’d sought out Kavita Kotwal without understanding why, but from the moment he reached her doorway, Conor had known he was where he needed to be. She had begun helping him the very next morning simply by giving him the opportunity of doing something useful. She had directed him to the small network of health clinics sprinkled throughout the zopadpatti, as Mumbai’s slums were called, and he had been volunteering almost daily ever since, going wherever she sent him or following where she led.
The work provided a productive outlet for his restlessness and offered more satisfaction than he felt about anything else at this point. The assignment of tracking his brother and coaxing him to give up his secrets was bogged down in an unproductive strategy that made less sense the longer it continued, and the strange passivity of the controlling officer who was responsible for moving it along had begun to rouse an unfocused suspicion.
Having a daytime occupation that generated some positive karma to balance against the things he did at night was a welcome diversion, but his association
with Kavita was yet another clandestine activity he had to manage. He met Sedgwick’s eyes with a steady, bland gaze.
“I didn’t do much today, really. Read a book. Hung about with Bishan for a while.”
“What did you read?”
“The Bhagavad Gita. As you recommended.”
“So I did.” Sedgwick gave him a cagey smile. “You know it’s funny, because I ran into Bishan down at the Gateway earlier. He didn’t mention he’d seen you today.”
“Probably because I hadn’t yet. I just came from having a beer with him at the Leopold. Funny, he didn’t mention seeing you.”
Sedgwick gave in with a roll of his eyes, and Conor smiled. With lies and half-truths, they had dueled each other to a draw once again.
“Where are we going, anyway?”
“We’re already there.” Sedgwick indicated the club’s entrance with a jerk of his chin. “See? I told you not to worry. It’s the most respectable place in the whole city. Nobody’s going to get shellacked or shot up in the Bombay Gymkhana. The reservation in the dining hall is for nine, so we’ve got about thirty minutes if you want to hit the bar.”
“You mean you’re wanting to eat here?” Conor looked at the building with reluctance.
Sedgwick raised an eyebrow. “That’s generally what they do in the dining hall. You got a problem with it?”
“No, not a problem, exactly, it’s just that I . . . ehm, I’m not really . . . ” As a familiar tickle shot up through his chest, Conor turned aside and cupped his hands over several hard, barking coughs. Sedgwick flinched in surprise.
“Jesus, still? Sounds worse than it did a week ago. I would have thought you’d be over it by now.”
“I would have thought so too,” he said when he could talk again.
The cough had not particularly concerned him, at first. His susceptibility to respiratory ailments was above average, dating from a childhood bout with pneumonia and no doubt bolstered by a tenacious cigarette habit. For a while, the present bug had been no more remarkable than any other, but it seemed to be trending in the wrong direction, and that, along with a number of other symptoms—fatigue, weight loss, and a sporadically recurrent fever—had finally captured his attention.
The idea of venturing into Mumbai’s healthcare system held little appeal—he had to assume it would be as chaotic as every other facet of Indian life—so he’d been counting on the symptoms to dissipate on their own. On good days, it seemed they might; but on other days, he was unaccountably exhausted, and the cough felt like it was ripping shards of glass from his lungs.
“You’ve gotten skinnier, too,” Sedgwick observed. “Lost that famous appetite of yours?”
“More or less,” Conor admitted. “I can’t say I’ve much of one right now, at least, so I’d hate wasting your money on a posh dinner at this place.”
“Makes no difference to me. I’m not paying for it. The people we’re meeting are picking up the tab.”
Conor’s cheeks puffed in a deflated groan. “I knew it. What kind of people? Who are they?”
“Very tame people. Very sophisticated. Very safe.” Sedgwick’s tone was reassuring, but a remote annoyance flickered over his face.
“Are you going to tell me who they are?”
“Yeah, sure, of course.” With a hand on Conor’s back, Sedgwick propelled him toward the Gymkhana’s entrance. “I’ll tell you about it at the bar.”
The Bombay Gymkhana was one of the oldest private sporting clubs in India. Originally established as a British-only retreat in the 1870s, it now functioned as an equal opportunity status symbol for the upper echelons of Mumbai society.
The main clubhouse was a long, multi-gabled building with an architectural style that resembled a Swiss chalet, and its veranda looked out over an expanse of open ground, which was in a peak state of grooming for the cricket season.
Gym’s Inn, the club’s bar, and the main dining hall mirrored the chalet theme in décor, with an abundance of exposed beams and polished wood. The bar enjoyed a mythic reputation for dispensing the largest volume of alcohol in all of South Mumbai, but Conor was doing nothing to help advance that reputation. Settling tiredly onto a stool, he asked for plain hot tea with lemon. The request raised the ire of their bartender. With tight-lipped disapproval, he slapped down a cup with a single teabag and a thermos of boiling water. Conor slid a generous pile of rupees over to him with an apologetic smile, which had an instantly taming effect. Sedgwick shook his head in exasperation.
“Haven’t learned much, have you? You’re still one helluva soft touch. You don’t even make it challenging for them.”
Ignoring the dig, Conor reached for the thermos, but the bartender, now in a jovial mood, beat him to it. Uncapping it with a flourish, he poured hot water into the cup as though filling a martini glass. He disappeared and returned with lemon slices, three more teabags, and a complimentary plate of vegetable pakoras. Arranging the offerings in front of Conor, he made a slight bow before retreating once more. Conor looked at Sedgwick with deadpan innocence.
“No snacks on the house for you, then? And you the great man of experience?”
Sedgwick conceded the point with a wave of surrender. “Okay, you win that round. Enjoy the spoils.”
“I wish I could.” Conor looked wistfully at the fried vegetables and pushed the plate across the bar. “You have them.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Sedgwick extinguished his cigarette and indicated the box sitting next to the ashtray. “Have a smoke instead, if you want.”
Conor hesitated and exhaled an oath as he tore his eyes away from the cigarettes. “I’m trying to quit. Between those feckin’ things and the air quality in this city, it’s no wonder I can’t breathe.”
“Good luck with that,” Sedgwick mumbled cheerfully around a mouthful of pakora. “I’ve tried it myself more than once and haven’t managed it yet. Getting off heroin was a piece of cake by comparison.”
Conor gazed down into his teacup, and Sedgwick continued before the silence between them could become awkward. “Damn. You can’t eat, you’re not drinking, and you won’t smoke. You’re getting to be kind of a bore, Clancy.”
Conor sniffed in mingled amusement and weariness. “Well, you’ve only to say the word and your man Clancy will be happy to remove his monotonous presence. I wasn’t the one looking for this mix and mingle, after all. It was your idea.”
“Not exactly,” Sedgwick muttered.
“No? What’s that mean?”
“Oh, never mind. Let’s just get to it. It’s almost nine o’clock.”
With edgy irritation, Sedgwick pushed the empty plate away from him. He pulled another cigarette from the box, lit it, and tossed the lighter back onto the bar. Leaning back on one elbow, he gave the inside of his whisky glass a speculative stare. “Do you speak any Russian?” he asked abruptly.
Oh, Janey, what now? Conor thought. He put his cup down and looked longingly at the cigarettes again. “I don’t, no.”
“Not even the basics? Hi, how are you? How about this weather?”
“Not even a syllable.”
Sedgwick nodded, and a gleam of something lit his eyes before he snapped them away to signal the bartender for the check. Conor thought it looked like relief.
“Doesn’t matter. It’ll just be a little dull for you. They don’t like speaking English.” Sedgwick patted the pockets of his trousers and searched the inside of his jacket with an air of nonchalance. Conor didn’t like what he was seeing in the agent’s long, thin face. Despite an effort to appear unconcerned, he was clearly nervous and had been avoiding eye contact for the past several minutes.
“We’re having dinner with Russians, then, is that it?” he asked.
“Crimeans, actually,” Sedgwick said. “But I don’t speak Crimean Tatar, so we’ll have to get along in Russian. They’re associates of Khalil’s, from a ‘sister organization.’ There’s a joint project coming up in a few months, and they’re over for a few days. I haven’t eve
n met them myself. Khalil wanted them to start getting to know some of the key people on the Mumbai side, especially the foreigners. They’re not all that keen on working with Indians, so he wants to show off his goras. All you have to do is sit there and look impressively Caucasian.”
“I will in me arse.” Conor spat out the refusal with a snarl. He felt his blood pressure rising as the agent’s intentions became clear and thought he damn well ought to look nervous about trying to make him collaborate on one more diversionary operation. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to come here tonight. There’s just one project I care about, Sedgwick, and it’s nothing to do with any bleedin’ Crimeans. I’m already sick to death of the shite you’ve had me neck-deep in since I came, and it never seems to get anywhere, so you can be dead certain that I’m not about to start foostering about on some . . . ”
The force of his dissent prompted another round of coughing, preempting the rest of his objection. Sedgwick continued to avoid looking at him. He had located his wallet and began digging for the grimy bills inside it.
“Look, you’ve got nothing to worry about; I’m not trying to get you involved in anything. It’s one dinner, and you’re just a stage prop. Seriously. It will all be over in two hours.”
“One dinner and done?” Conor asked. “I’ll never have to see them again?”
“That’s right.”
“And can we agree that you’ll not be trying to drag me into any more of these sideshows?”
“Agreed.”
“And that we’ll stop arsing around and form a real plan for how to find my brother so I can get the hell out of here?”
“Yes, all right.” Sedgwick nodded, throwing the rupees onto the bar. “I agree we haven’t made much progress. I know you’re frustrated. We’ll work on something.”
“Do I have your word on it?”
Sedgwick didn’t respond immediately. He bit his lower lip and looked down at his hands with a peculiar smile. “If you think the word of an addict is worth anything, then you’ve got it. Is that good enough?”
The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3 Page 12