The Delhi Deception (13 page)

“You had a bad night, Carla. You were running a high temperature, seizures and vomiting. It was easier to manage you without clothes. Do you remember anything at all?”

Feeling totally drained, Carla tried to recall the events of the previous day. Her mind was a hotchpotch of images, smells, emotions. “Can I have something to drink, please?”

“Of course.” George handed her a glass of salted nimbu pani. She drank it with a grimace, but regaining a little of her sparkle, she held up her hand and said, “I know—it’s good for me.”

George laughed. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. Sunil has made you some chicken broth. Try to have some, but if you can’t, don’t worry. You’ll slowly regain your appetite.”

Sitting back against the pillows, Carla said softly and with deliberation, “I can remember everything, well—almost.”

With a start, she suddenly sat up, frowning. “Elouise must be frantic! I have to call her right away. Do you have her number? I don’t have my phone.”

“It’s OK. I spoke to her, and she knows you are with me. But, Carla, we have to talk. Not now, though, you must first get better completely.”

Carla nodded obediently and tried the broth.

“I’ll do as you say for now, George, but you have a lot of explaining to do.”

George smiled and said, “I promise, but believe it or not, I’m going to insist you sleep some more. Here, take this; it is an Ayurvedic remedy that will relax you, and hopefully it will make you sleep. It is also known as a detox.” He handed her two large green capsules with a glass of water. After taking the capsules, Carla asked George to help her to the bathroom. As he was helping her up, there was a knock on the door, and Sunil entered with some folded garments that he gave to George.

“Those are my things!” Carla noted with surprise.

“Elouise sent them over. You can change in the bathroom; if you need my help I will be outside the door.”

“Thanks.” Carla changed into the navy tracksuit. When she saw her reflection in the mirror, she held her breath in dismay. She was pale and pasty with dark blotchy patches under her eyes. Her hair was lank and oily, and as she tucked some strands behind her ear, the fragrance of the oil reminded her of her nightmare experience.

Her large blue eyes stared back at her, and then, whether feeling sorry for herself or simply relieved, she started crying, silently, at first, tears rolling down her cheeks. But as she found release, she began sobbing uncontrollably. The bathroom door opened, revealing George’s face full of concern. He held her in his arms and waited for her crying to subside.

Leading her back to bed, he said, “It’s OK. Remember, Carla, you’re safe now.” Finally spent, she fell into a peaceful sleep.

George made her comfortable, adjusted the air-conditioner and left, closing the door softly behind him. He spent the day at home. Looking at her, restful in her sleep, he realized with much relief that the heroin dosage had been relatively light. He kissed her gently on the forehead, her skin cool against his lips.
It was close, too close.
The thought gripped George with horror and even remorse.

As the stretching shadows of the peepal trees in the garden indicated the cool onset of evening, Sunil entered the room and said, “They are waiting in your study, Sahib. Shall I bring some tea?”

“No thanks, Sunil. I want you to wait outside Madam Carla’s room, and don’t allow her to leave the room. She is sleeping, but I still want you to wait there.”

“Anjee, Sahib,” he replied dutifully.

As George entered his study, his driver, Kamal, was standing at the window. George smiled and greeted him politely. A man wearing a Pathani suit was seated on the leather armchair opposite the leather-bound desk, scattered with papers and document folders. George approached him, and as he stood up, they hugged each other warmly.

“Good to see you, my friend!” George said amiably. The man slapped him heartily on the back and laughed, his remarkable, light gray eyes alight with joviality.

.

CHAPTER 8

I
t was the sudden silence that roused Carla out of her deep sleep. India was never quiet. Whatever the time of day or night, whirling fans, the drone of air-conditioners, and the constant sound of a billion-plus population going about their business were the constant.

The darkness was intense when she opened her eyes. She sat motionless for a while in order to adjust her vision.

The room was hot and stuffy. She realized that this must be one of Delhi’s infamous power cuts. She got up gingerly and with shaky legs made her way to the window. She opened it with difficulty, making sure that the mosquito netting stayed in place.

But even the outside air was still and felt hotter than ever. She decided to close the window again but stopped as a movement near the gate caught her attention.
It must be the chowkidar
. Somehow, she wasn’t convinced and remained motionless, her hand on the window latch. She heard some muted tones but was unable to catch what was being said. Then she heard the grating of the gate, opening and shutting. Carla was taken aback by how nervous she was.
Why should someone driving out a gate worry me?
If she continued this way, she would go crazy. She took a deep breath:
I have to be strong
.

A sudden, hot breeze rustled the leaves on the driveway, and a waft of perfume reached Carla just as she was about to shut the window. The scent was soothing, familiar, and as she walked back to the bed she realized it was the unmistakable fragrance of the special edition Chanel perfume she had bought the day she arrived in Delhi. Now suddenly filled with suspicion, Carla thought that whoever had left through the gate minutes before was certainly not a maidservant: a friend of George’s? A girlfriend, perhaps?
Why am I thinking this? Why this jealousy?

Carla tried to get a grip on her feelings and got back into bed. But sleep evaded her. On discovering a battery-operated flashlight in the bedside drawer and resigned to her nervous energy, Carla left the room to explore the rest of the house. The granite floors felt refreshingly cool and smooth under her bare feet. She stood at the door to the living room. It was large and spacious. At the opposite end, French doors in Burmese teak led out to a wide veranda overlooking a small, compact garden. She then walked past what seemed to be George’s study. Taking a few steps forward, she stopped. Despite the feeling that she was intruding, Carla turned back to the study and opened the door.

A Persian carpet covered most of the floor, and on it stood two large leather armchairs and a carved wooden and leather-bound desk. A large, antique-looking bookshelf dominated one wall in the room. It was half lined with books, interesting-looking travel memorabilia, and some silver-framed photographs. Carla peered at the photos with interest. An elderly couple smiled warmly at the camera, sitting at a dining table laden with all the delectable trappings of Thanksgiving. The elderly man was handsome, in a scholarly way, wearing black-rimmed spectacles, with thinning white-gray hair. The woman beside him was attractive and evidently George’s mother. Her hair was steel gray, worn in a short bob with the same Mediterranean complexion as George’s.

In another photo a very young-looking George, smiling cheerfully, stood with a group of men dressed in Harvard football gear. The last photo was taken from a distance: a young, dark-haired woman, somewhat familiar, was sitting on a camel, wearing khaki trousers and a large hat that cast a dark shadow over her face. George was tethering the camel, laughing merrily and looking up at her.

Carla stepped back, suddenly feeling uncomfortable looking at George’s private memories. She now wanted to leave the room as quickly as possible. Just as she turned toward the door, the power came back on, lighting up the passage. She gasped: there was George, standing in boxer shorts and arms folded across his chest in the doorway. He was frowning.

“Do you need something, Carla?”

Blushing furiously, she replied, “No. No, thank you. I was just looking for the, um, kitchen.” She looked at him and smiled guiltily.

“Are you hungry?”

She nodded, and George held out his hand. Her hand in his, Carla was led to the kitchen.

With Carla seated on a wooden bench next to the granite counter, George busied himself taking out ingredients from the large refrigerator.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better; regaining your appetite is a good sign.”

Carla smiled feebly. She wasn’t actually hungry, but she made up her mind to eat whatever George offered.

“Chicken sandwich?” he asked, cutting a thick slice of ciabatta.

“Thanks, that’s great, just go slow on the mayo.”

He smiled and with obvious concentration and pleasure prepared a snack for Carla.

She watched him as unobtrusively as possible. He was lean and broad shouldered, with the well-defined torso and arm muscles of a natural athlete. His skin was smooth and tanned with remarkably little chest hair. Suddenly self-conscious, Carla smoothed her hair and tugged at her T-shirt, a fleeting glance confirming that it was much too tight over her breasts.

He cut the sandwich in half, put one half on her plate and kept the other half for himself. “Bon appetit!” he said and took a large bite.

“Thanks, this looks delicious.” Carla chewed slowly, enjoying the simple sandwich. They ate in silence. Then she asked, “Do your servants live on the property?”

“Yes, why?”

“Just wondering.” She smiled and continued eating. “And their wives?”

George looked at her quizzically. He wiped his mouth and hands with a paper napkin and said, “Yes, some of them.”

He poured two glasses of cranberry juice and moved to her side on the wooden bench. She put her half-eaten sandwich down and said apologetically, “I shouldn’t eat too much—my stomach is still a little queasy.”

Taking her left hand into his, he stroked it almost absentmindedly. He looked at her with an intensity that lit up the amber in his eyes. Carla’s heart literally skipped a beat. Conscious of her uneven breathing, she sipped the juice, keeping her eyes on his hands. They were deeply tanned, square and large. He curled his fingers around and in between her long, elegant fingers, massaging them gently. She bit her lip. How could she possibly feel so aroused after everything that had happened to her? She was obviously going mad! Admonishing herself, she pulled her hands away and folded them in her lap. She didn’t care if she looked like a prude to George—he should’ve known better than to touch her like that.

Laughing softly, he picked up her plate and took it to the sink. Feeling like a naïve, blushing teenager, she followed with the empty glasses. His fingers brushed against hers as he took the glasses from her. The light feathery touch unleashed a longing, a physical need to be touched, held, kissed. Carla turned around abruptly, afraid of George reading her thoughts.

He followed her out of the kitchen, saying, “I think you should try to get a little more sleep.”

Carla nodded and smiled. “Thanks for the sandwich. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s OK; I wasn’t sleeping.”

As they reached the bedroom door, she turned and said, “George, I don’t know how to thank you—”

“Stop. There’s really no need.” In his forced reply, George’s voice was slightly gruff. She stared at him, sensing danger, her emotions roused and her heart hammering in her chest in quick uneven beats. He moved closer to her, his dark eyes boring into hers; she was hypnotized. Time was of no consequence as she started drowning in the pool of her desire. His masculine scent, his presence, was so commanding, so intense, filling up her personal spaces, so jealously guarded. He cupped her burning face in his hands, and she looked up. Her mouth was quivering as she watched his full, beautiful lips smiling ever so slightly. Then she felt them, hot and fervent on her mouth. As his tongue parted her mouth and ardently explored its inner depths, she felt her legs buckling, but George steadied her against the door, his body lithe and strong against her melting frame.

George whispered throatily into her ear, “Are you OK, Carla?”

She opened her eyes languidly and nodded. As he swept her into his arms, an image of Andrew drifted briefly into her mind. She banished it brusquely; he was not going to come between her and George, not tonight.

George lowered her gently onto the bed and switched on the small table lamp, its rattan shade diffusing a soft, textured glow. Carla lay back against the pillows; her mind had emptied. She was aware only of her body—it was molten gold, hot and liquid. Raising her arms, she surrendered to him taking the T-shirt off over her head. In the slight struggle, she laughed self-consciously, but George’s expression was intent as he touched her breasts lightly, almost shyly. She arched her back, and with a groan George buried his head in between her breasts, kissing them passionately, his fingers teasing her nipples. Carla cried out, throbbing with pleasure. George gazed at her, his eyes soft and caring. He covered her neck with kisses, her chin, nose, and eyes. Carla ran her fingers through his short, thick hair, and pulling his head closer she kissed his face with light, dancing butterfly kisses.

Suddenly Carla stopped kissing him.
It’s the perfume, the Chanel perfume
, she thought, and pulled away. The fragrance faded away into the night air. But, resting again in his arms, her face in his neck, she smelled it again. She lifted her head and looked at him. His eyes were enquiring, hers disillusioned.

“I’m sorry, George; this a mistake.”

“Are you sure?” He looked at her intently.

She nodded and looked away as he got up from the bed. She grabbed a pillow and tried to cover her naked body.

Up against the bed, he watched her for a few moments, a slight frown creasing his brow. He opened his mouth to say something, but instead left the room wordlessly, closing the door softly behind him.

Carla lay still, listening intently to George’s retreating footsteps. A sense of loss—no, betrayal—enveloped her. She thought of Andrew, but there was no guilt. It was she who couldn’t trust anymore. Sleep eluded her; her brain refused to shut down. Closing her eyes, she replayed every conversation, look, and touch she had shared with George. Finally, as a blushing dawn warily announced its arrival through the blinds, Carla fell into an unsettled sleep.

Carla awoke ravenous. As she opened her eyes, she was greeted by the smell of frying onions, garlic, and coriander. She jumped up and had a quick shower, washing her hair with almond-smelling shampoo, which only increased her appetite. When she came out the shower, she was surprised to see a clean white linen blouse, khaki pants, and underwear neatly displayed on the rattan armchair next to her bed. Smiling at the generosity of this gesture, she dressed and left her room to look for the kitchen.

She had decided to simply forget the events of the night before and pretend nothing had happened, nothing mattered. She was alive; she was free, and she was going home. After all, she had done pretty well so far in not thinking about Andrew and Leila—she could just add the kidnapping and George to the list of denial, but as she thought this, she realized that, even if she weren’t consciously acknowledging the traumatic events of the past week, they would still be there—an undeniable part of her history she could never erase.

Sunil was at the gas stove in the kitchen. On the counter next to the stove Carla saw a large, stainless-steel bowl in which rested smaller bowls of pungent-smelling spices. Sunil’s artistic, nut-brown fingers were deftly sprinkling the ground spices into the black wok on the flame. His work of art was nearing its completion, and Carla was quite ready to devour it.

Sunil turned around when he heard Carla pulling out the wooden bench to sit down. He gave her a wide, apologetic grin and said, “Oh no, Madam, you should call Sunil to bring good cup of Indian chai to you while stay in bed.”

“Thanks, Sunil, but I am starving. What are you cooking?”

“I am making dhal; you wish to eat something now?”

‘Yes, please, whatever is ready. What’s the time, by the way?”

Sunil looked at his large Titan watch with its black Roman numerals, squinting slightly; then, as if making an announcement of grave importance, he said, “Four minutes to one o’clock. Lunch ready at two o’clock.”

Seeing the dismay on Carla’s face, he said quickly, “No worry, Madam, you sit on veranda, and I bring some chai and paratha in two ticks.”

Hurrying her out, he shouted for someone called Asha. Carla walked out onto the veranda and sat down in a comfortable reclining chair next to a small, round, marble table. A slight, dark-skinned woman of undetermined age hurried toward her with a huge feather duster. She dusted the furniture around Carla with gusto, smiling happily as Carla started to sneeze from the dusty onslaught.

With her eyes streaming and her hand clasped over her nose, Carla saw George drive through the gate and wondered what she must have looked like to him. He got out of the jeep and walked quickly to the veranda. He was wearing khaki chinos with a navy Polo shirt and polished tan Sebago loafers. He smiled warmly. “Hi, you look well rested.”

“Hi. Yes, I’m feeling OK. I think I’ve pretty much recovered.”

Sitting down on the recliner next to her, he asked Asha to call Sunil. Carla watched him, and suddenly she wasn’t so sure about the little speech she had prepared for him. She decided to keep it simple. “I want to go back…home…I mean, I’m grateful to you for saving me from who-knows-what, but I think I should go home.”

He looked at her questioningly but remained silent.

Sunil broke the uncomfortable silence by announcing, “One very hot, tasty paratha for Madam coming up.” Relieved, Carla thanked him and asked George politely if he’d like some.

“No, thanks, please go ahead—it’s getting cold.”

Biting into it, she felt a bit self-conscious, but luckily George got up and said, “I’ll be in my study. We need to talk.”

The words chilled Carla, almost taking away her appetite, but she continued eating slowly, postponing the inevitable chat.

She finished her last sip of fragrant chai, got up slowly, as if in pain, then walked toward George’s study. The door was shut so she knocked softly. George called out, “Come in.”

She entered. He was sitting behind his large desk, a folder open in front of him, the computer screen blank and silent. Feeling like a schoolgirl called in to see the headmaster, Carla sat down on the leather chair facing George across the desk.

“I suppose you need some questions answered,” George said, looking at Carla with guarded eyes.

“Yes, of course and…about last night—”

But with a wave of his hand, he interrupted her and said, “Forget it, I don’t need explanations; it’s OK. You’ve been through a tough time, and I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

Carla flushed and said, “Good, so that’s behind us.

What now?”

“Well, I guess you need to know how I found you, right?”

“Yes, something like that.”

“Do you remember everything?”

“Pretty much. After the heroin my memories get a bit fuzzy, but I think I can recall most of it.”

George sat back in his chair and stared out of the window for a few seconds; then he looked at Carla and said, “You have no idea how lucky you are that we found you. The person running this trafficking ring is an evil, unscrupulous bastard.”

“How do you know?” Carla asked, frowning deeply.

George smiled at the petulance in her voice and continued, “A few years ago I was introduced to an Italian woman, Valentina Nesi. She works for UNODC, you know, United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime?”

Carla nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“Well, she was instrumental in the signing of the Trafficking Protocol in Palermo in 2000. It was adopted by the General Assembly and implemented on Christmas Day 2003. It is the first clearly defined and global legally binding indictment on human-trafficking.”

“You’re joking. You mean to tell me that there has been no recourse until a few years ago?” Carla was shocked.

“I’m afraid so. Valentina was passionate about bringing the perpetrators to book, but she felt that they were fighting a losing battle. As we know, certain governments tend to turn a blind eye to something that has been going on for decades, even centuries, only signing the convention to score brownie points with the international community.

“Anyway, I was attached to the Embassy in Kabul at the time when one of our Afghani informers told us about this Italian who was asking too many questions and meeting too many nasty characters. I was asked to keep an eye on her. At that time Afghanistan was not and still isn’t party to the 2000 Trafficking Protocol.” George paused for a few seconds and said, “I’m not boring you, am I?”

“No, of course not—please go on.”

“The embassy tried to contact her, but she didn’t return calls and refused to come in. I was asked to befriend her, glean something from her—for her own protection, of course. She made use of the gym at the Serena hotel, the only five-star hotel in Kabul where expats would gather to escape the dust and Kalashnikovs, literally an oasis in the middle of the city.

“It wasn’t difficult spotting an Italian woman in the middle of Kabul. She was doing laps in the pool, so I just waited at the coffee shop where, as I was told, she usually had a coffee after her workout. We got chatting on how bad the coffee was, and I invited her for dinner the following evening.”

Carla laughed and said teasingly, “And of course, she said yes.”

To her surprise, George flushed ever so slightly, causing a slight flutter in her stomach.

“Well, you know how it is—it can get lonely in Afghanistan, I guess, especially if you’re Italian and female.”

Smiling, Carla continued teasing, “Yeah, yeah…”

George laughed. “Do you want to hear the rest of it or are you having too much fun at my expense?”

“I’m sorry. Please carry on. This is turning into a very good story.”

“Valentina confided in me that she wasn’t comfortable working with the authorities. She believed there were informers in most of the departments and asked me if I could help her, unofficially, that is. I couldn’t refuse. Human trafficking is possibly the most lucrative illegal activity in the world today. Besides, it’s just plain evil.

“She asked me to help her find a certain character, Abbas Zahid, a big shot in the Taliban. A young Afghani girl was rescued from a brothel in Teheran, and she described her abduction at the hands of this man. Hectic stuff. It haunts one—for a lifetime. You’re sure you want to hear more?”

“Yes, although it scares the hell out of me.” Carla was listening with journalistic curiosity and intent to everything George was saying, but at the same time, she knew that she could just as easily have been a statistic. She felt blessed, lucky, but with a sense of guilt. Nazeema’s young face flashed before her eyes—why had Carla been saved and not her? But she realized that there was simply no answer—no point in mulling over the harsh reality. Her very brief introspection was broken as George resumed his story.

“One of our Afghani informers came from the same district in the province of Ghazni. His sister was murdered by her husband for being disrespectful—with the approval of the local Taliban, of course. He hated the Taliban, and it was his mission to see them defeated in his lifetime. When I asked him to help me find Abbas Zahid, he agreed, and along with his informers we came pretty close, but I’m afraid we lost Zahid when he crossed into Pakistan.”

“Is he still at large?”

“Yes, and more powerful than ever.”

“So you are still trying to find him?”

“Of course, but it’s amazing how it has opened a can of worms.”

“What do you mean?”

“Human trafficking isn’t the only activity the Taliban is involved in. Identity theft has become a big one.”

“I think that’s why I was kidnapped.”

“Yes, I know.”

Carla looked at him in surprise. “How do you know? I haven’t told you anything.”

“Carla, I had you followed.” George’s expression was grim.

The air was suddenly stifling hot, as if the air-conditioners were no longer working.

Carla wiped away the beads of perspiration on her forehead as her heart started racing. Feeling ill, she looked at him and said calmly, “Why, George? Please explain to me why in heaven’s name you had me followed on a perfectly normal tourist outing?”

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CHAPTER 9