The Delhi Deception (16 page)

She returned to her room and studied the make of the brass lock on her door. It was a Godrej lock, made from solid brass and not particularly old. With a plan beginning to formulate in her mind, she called Kishan and asked him to call a taxi.

She grabbed her purse as a black-and-yellow Ambassador taxi pulled into the driveway. An elderly Sikh driver opened the door for her, introducing himself as Harjeet Singh.

“Khan Market, please.”

Carla was dropped outside a fabric store, where she asked to see the tailor. She was led to the end of the narrow shop, where a young, good-looking man greeted her politely. She introduced herself and told him she was Elouise Singh’s friend.

“How do you do, Madam? I am Sanjay. I’ve been tailor to Madam Elouise and her family for a long time. Please, how can I assist you?”

“I have a linen dress I would love you to copy for me. It’s quite simple. How much do you charge?”

“You have the dress here?” he asked.

“No, I can send it with the driver after I have selected the fabrics.”

Sanjay frowned and said, “I need to see the dress to give a price.”

“Of course, I will bring it later. Where will I find a hardware store?”

“What are you looking for?”

“I wanted to buy a lock for my suitcase—it was damaged coming over.”

Sanjay thought for a second; then he said, “You’ll find this shop in Prithviraj Market. It is next to Khan Market.”

Promising to return with her dress, she said goodbye and left. She found the market and the hardware store with ease. The shop was small, and every inch of it was filled with hardware. The padlocks were displayed in a large wooden box. As she was about to start rummaging through them, a teenage boy with acne stopped her and said, “Madam, I help you?”

“Yes, please, I’m looking for a large Godrej brass lock.”

Shaking his head in the quaint Indian “yes,” he took out four locks in different sizes and displayed them proudly on the dirty counter.

“Yes, exactly what I am looking for.” Carla took the largest lock and said, “This one, please. How much is it?”

Smiling, he said, “No problem, Madam, I make special price for you. Only four hundred rupees.”

Carla smiled. “Thanks.” She paid and left, walking back to Khan Market. Her large Louis Vuitton purse felt weighed down with the brass lock in it. Passing a magazine stand, she stopped to buy the latest
Time
. The cover of an Indian
Hello
magazine caught her attention. Picking it up, she recognized Ronnie and Preeti Kapoor, glamorous in their traditional dress. She paged through it to find the related article when someone touched her shoulder, and with a fright she turned around and saw Harry, smiling at her.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.

“Oh, don’t worry. I was just getting acquainted with Delhi’s gossip. Aren’t you at work?”

“Just a quick coffee break. Would you like to join me?”

Carla was unsure, but thought it might seem strange if she refused him. She followed him to the same coffee shop Elouise had taken her to on her first day in Delhi. Harry was wearing dark jeans and a Lacoste striped shirt with his sleeves rolled up. He ordered an iced coffee, and Carla ordered the same. Then he sat back and said, “So how are you enjoying India so far?”

“It’s great, thanks.”

“I believed you went to Rajasthan with George.”

She felt herself blushing and said, “He was kind to take me—he’s quite the expert, you know.”

“Is that so? I didn’t know he was so familiar with Rajasthan.”

Carla thought it best to change the subject as quickly as possible and said, “Where are your offices, Harry?”

“I work quite a bit from home and at a government office in Lodhi Colony. The nuclear research center is in Mumbai, so I have to go there every other week.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to live in Mumbai then?”

“Elouise doesn’t like it; plus we are lucky to have my family home here in Delhi. Properties like ours are almost impossible to come by in Mumbai, and besides, they’re unbelievably expensive.”

Carla thought she saw a peculiar expression in Harry’s eyes as he spoke of his family home, but she brushed it aside, thinking she was reading too much into everything now that she was George’s spy.

As they finished their drinks, Harry said, “Any news from Andrew?”

“No, nothing at all.”

“Don’t be hasty, Carla. Things aren’t always what they seem.”

The waitress brought the bill, and Carla reached for her purse. As she pulled it toward her, the padlock fell out. Luckily it was in a paper packet. Harry picked it up and handed it to her, looking somewhat surprised. She thanked him, stuffing it back in her purse.

Insisting on paying the bill, he said, “See you for dinner,” and left.

The iPhone George had given her rang. It was George. “What are you up to?” he asked.

“I’m at Khan Market. You?”

“At work. Do you have any plans for dinner?”

“I think I should have dinner at home.”

“Will Harry be home?”

“I think so; we just had coffee together.”

“Good, then I’m also coming for dinner. Make sure I’m invited.”

Carla was about to protest, but the finality in George’s tone prevented her. They said good-bye, and Carla promised to call him later to confirm dinner.

Carla went back to the bungalow to fetch her dress and dropped it at the tailor after selecting some fabrics. Sanjay promised to have them delivered in a few days.

Harry wasn’t home for lunch, so Carla ate alone on the veranda. After lunch she called her dad’s aunt but was told that she was out playing cards at the gymkhana club. Carla decided not to leave a message and said she’d call back later.

She moved to a recliner on the lawn, where she reveled in the misty spray from the cooler. After briefly reflecting on the hazardous past couple of days and her amazing escape, Carla sighed with pure relief and joy. Her whole life, once so taken for granted, had now acquired a whole new meaning. She closed her eyes as the humming from the fan and the chatter of the birds in the lush garden lulled her into slumber.

“You’re getting soaked.”

Carla woke up with a jolt, seeing Elouise smiling down at her. “Hi. I had a lovely sleep.” Her clothes and hair were damp from the air cooler.

“How about a cup of tea?” Elouise asked, sitting down.

“Thanks, sounds great. How was your meeting?”

“Good. We’re going to host a fashion show. Some of the moms are friendly with a few Indian designers who are keen to show off their Western designs to a more international audience. Hopefully you’ll still be here. You should come.”

“When will it be?”

“Next week. We were thinking of hosting it the week when the American First Lady is in town on an awareness campaign for human trafficking.”

Carla had to hide the surprise in her face by saying, “Oh, by the way, I invited George for dinner. Is that OK with you?”

“Sure, what time did you tell him?”

“I didn’t. What time should I tell him to come over?”

“He can join us for drinks at about eight; then I’ll serve the dinner about nine.”

“Great, I’ll give him a call later.”

Kishan served them their tea, which they drank while discussing Elouise’s plans for the fashion show. When they had finished, Carla excused herself and returned to her bedroom to call George.

.

CHAPTER 11

G
eorge had already arrived by the time Carla joined Elouise and Harry on the veranda for drinks. He kissed her lightly on both cheeks. To her relief it wasn’t her lips, as a display of affection in front of Harry and Elouise would have embarrassed her. George was wearing his usual khaki chinos with a Brooks Brothers pink-and-white-striped cotton shirt, casually rolled up to his elbows. He looked tanned and relaxed with a scotch and soda in his right hand. Elouise looked glamorous in a fitted short embroidered kurti worn over jeans.

She smiled at Carla and said, “Hey, I was just about to call you.” Harry, dressed in a comfortable white Pathani suit, greeted Carla amiably, sipping a mango lassi. Carla thought how cool and comfortable that must be. Her cream silk blouse was definitely too hot for a Delhi summer. Kishan, without asking, brought Carla an icy gin fizz brimming with fresh mint.

George was telling them a story about an incident at the US Embassy in Kabul, where the brother of a young bride was trying to get asylum for himself and his sister, who had her nose and ears cut off by the Taliban-led village court, after he had rescued her from her husband’s family.

“How old was she?” Elouise asked.

“Not quite eighteen. She must’ve been a beauty. But you can imagine what the poor girl looked like without a nose, which was literally hacked off with an Afghan choora.”

“Oh my God, that’s terrible.” Carla was shocked. “What was her crime?”

“She tried to run away from her husband and in-laws. They used to beat her daily, and who knows what else? She could’ve been sexually abused, too, but too ashamed to tell us or her brother.”

“So what happened—did you get her out?” Elouise asked.

“We contacted the NGO, Women for Afghan Women, and they took her to a safe house somewhere in Afghanistan. It would have been too dangerous for her, and we couldn’t exactly take her into the American compound, as her in-laws could’ve laid kidnapping charges.”

“And her brother?” Elouise asked.

“We managed to get him asylum in the US, but he preferred to stay in Afghanistan and went undercover or something. We never heard from him again.”

Harry got up and, as he started moving toward the dining room, said, “I suppose stories like these help the Americans justify their presence in Afghanistan even more.” As he said this, he turned his back on them, not expecting an answer.

George looked at him, his eyes piercing. “We have been there longer than the Soviets, and it looks as though we are going to beat their record by four years.”

Elouise got up and said, “Come, let’s move inside where it’s cooler. I’ll tell Kishan to serve dinner.” She disappeared into the kitchen while Harry showed Carla and George where to sit at the large, oval, Rosewood dining table. It was attractively laid with a white, starched, embroidered, cotton tablecloth and matching napkins. Wedgwood white dinner plates and antique-looking silver cutlery were carefully laid next to crystal water tumblers and wine glasses. Carla noticed that no wine glass was at Harry’s table setting. He sat at the head with Elouise opposite him. A large oil painting of a fierce-looking Sikh man in a blue turban was hanging directly behind Harry on the wall. He reminded Carla of her grandfather.

Kishan came in with a bottle of wine and poured the South African Merlot for everyone except Harry. Kishan and the houseboy, who was serving the starter of masala-fried pomfret, were impeccably dressed in crisp white pants and matching shirts. Carla smiled as she noticed their bare feet.

“This is great, thanks, Elouise, Harry,” George said raising his glass to both of them.

“It’s our pleasure. Bon appetit,” Elouise said, raising her glass in a toast.

Harry, who didn’t join in the toast, addressed George. “Are you sure the US is going to pull out of Afghanistan by 2014?” Before George could respond, he continued, “It seems to me, and others I’m sure, that the US has carved out a nice little military base for themselves flat bang in the middle of the Middle East and South Asia. And conveniently close to Russia, too, who has been flexing its military muscle lately.”

George laughed and said, “Wow, what have you been reading?”

Harry flushed slightly with a tight smile, cold accusation in his eyes.

“The US has everything in place for a 2014 withdrawal. We are pretty sure that by then we would have proved to the Afghans that we’re not just abandoning them, and hopefully they will throw themselves in with us,” George continued.

“And do you really think the Taliban is just going to sit back and watch?” Harry asked mockingly.

“No, of course not, but we are hoping that the majority of Afghans want to be rid of the Taliban and bring an end to it all,” George returned with a serious expression.

Harry took a sip of the water in his crystal tumbler. In a tone so soft that Carla had to strain her ears, he said with great emphasis and conviction: “You must have heard the much-quoted saying of the Taliban, regardless of the US end date: ‘You may have all the watches, but we have all the time.’”

There was an awkward silence for a few minutes, broken by Kishan and the houseboy as they entered with trays of mouthwatering curries and fragrant basmati rice. The houseboy started serving the curries, dishing directly onto their plates. Kishan was back in the kitchen making hot chapattis, which were then brought to the table still puffed up and hot, to be served by the houseboy.

They ate in silence, and when Carla couldn’t bear it any longer she said, “Harry, is that your father in the portrait behind you?”

“Yes it is.”

“He was quite dashing, not unlike yourself.” She studied it for a few seconds. “Yes, I can definitely see the resemblance. It is pretty strong. Don’t you agree?”

With clenched jaw Harry replied, “He’s dead now; what does it matter?”