The Delhi Deception (31 page)

“A month later we drove here to Srinagar, where they bought me this beautiful house. They set me up with a monthly income and servants. The neighbors were told that I was a widow who had lost her family during independence. I was happy here and stayed in contact with Pushpa, Ranjit’s sister. She told me everything. I recorded every little detail of his life.”

Soraya stood up and fetched a large leather box from the table next to the fireplace. She opened it and showed the wedding photos of Elouise and Harry. The box was filled with letters and photographs of Harry from a very young age to some as recent as those taken at Chanda’s birthday party. Carla sat still, mesmerized by the story.

“So you have never tried to contact Harry after all these years?” Carla asked.

“No, of course not. I’ve been tempted but have always believed that if God wanted it, it would happen,” Soraya answered simply.

“Then how can we explain those letters?” Elouise asked, frowning.

“What letters?” Soraya asked.

Elouise explained it to Soraya, who listened quietly, and when she mentioned the Koran, Soraya said, “That sounds like mine. My father gave it to me. I can still remember him writing my name in it. It went missing some years back. I was playing cards at the club. I had given my maid and her daughter the afternoon off to shop for a friend’s wedding. When I returned, the front door was slightly ajar. I thought that the maids had returned, but they were not yet home. There was no obvious sign of an intruder, except that this box had been placed back to front on the table. You see, I am very particular about such things. In the evening, when I usually read my Koran verses, I discovered it was missing from my bedside table. I then looked through the house, but this was the only missing item. We all came to the conclusion that it was some young Hindu boys trying to cause trouble.”

“What year was this?” Elouise asked.

“I’m not sure, could be three years ago.”

“Two thousand seven—that’s the year Harry started getting those letters,” Carla said.

Soraya’s eyes were dark with concern. “I don’t understand. I’ve never told anyone my secret.” She closed her eyes and pulled the end of her dupatta over her head as if to block out the world, lost in reminiscence. “My Pataka—I used to call him that. He was as bright and lively as fireworks. There were, I think I told you, fireworks the night he was conceived.” She smiled melancholically. “Pushpa told me his grandfather continued calling him that after I had left.”

The younger woman came in with a fresh pot of tea. When she saw the leather box, she suddenly averted her eyes. Carla, who was watching her, noticed this and whispered to Elouise, “Maybe this girl read the letters in the box.”

Elouise whispered back, “But they are written in English.”

When she left the room, Elouise asked Soraya, “Did your maid’s daughter get some schooling?”

“Oh yes,” Soraya said proudly, “from me. I taught her to speak and write English. Sometimes she reads the English newspaper to me.”

Carla and Elouise exchanged a knowing look. Carla nodded and Elouise leaned forward; speaking softly she addressed Soraya. “Is it possible that she read your letters from Aunty Pushpa and maybe passed that information on to someone?”

The shocked Soraya blanched. “I suppose it’s possible, but why?”

“Do you think you can ask her?” Elouise said gently.

“Yes. Yes, I can and I will.” Soraya rang a little brass bell, which summoned the young woman. Her mother followed closely. Soraya spoke to them in a stern tone. They were shaking their heads, vehemently denying the obvious accusations. Mona kept quiet and said something to her daughter in a quiet but stern tone. The daughter started crying and fell at Soraya’s feet, clutching them and kissing them fervently. Soraya sat very still. Her eyes were dark. Mona fell to her knees and touched Soraya’s feet, crying loudly, on the brink of hysteria. Expressionless, but with an uncharacteristic coldness in her voice, Soraya said something. Mona stood up and dragged her daughter away.

Carla watched Elouise, and after a few uncomfortable minutes Elouise finally broke the silence. “Soraya, what happened?”

Soraya sighed and said, “I feel so betrayed. It was Mona’s daughter who betrayed my trust. She read the letters and then disclosed the contents to a young, handsome man at the mosque she was trying to impress. He was intrigued and asked her to find out as much as possible. To please him she did and told him everything. A week later he had disappeared.” She started crying. Elouise stood up and sat next to her, holding her awkwardly in her arms. “Please, my child, find out who this pretender is.”

“I will, and when it’s all over, I’ll bring Harry to meet you. If that’s all right with you?”

Soraya smiled and said, “You know it will be.”

“What are you going to do about Mona and her daughter?” Carla asked, worried.

“I’ll let them stew for a while, but I won’t dismiss them. I need them more than they need me.”

Elouise smiled and said, “It’s getting late. I’m sure you want to get ready for your dinner.”

“Won’t you stay?” Soraya asked graciously.

Elouise looked at Carla, who shook her head and said, “Thanks, Mrs. Khan, but we need to get back to the hotel. We had a very early flight this morning, and I’m so tired, but I promise to stay in touch.”

“I understand. All this must be quite overwhelming. You take your time, and if and when you think the time is right for you to tell my Pataka everything, I’ll be ready.” Soraya got up a little stiffly and showed them to the front door. Mona had disappeared. Carla wondered how much they could now be trusted, now that they had been exposed.

The sun cast a sliver of pale salmon across the lake in the distance. A crisp breeze rustled through the leaves of the large chinar tree in the garden. The scent of apples and pine needles permeated the late afternoon air.

“It’s lovely up here. I think I would love to come back here someday soon and spend a month,” Carla said as they walked to the car. Their driver had reclined the front seat to its maximum and was fast asleep. Bollywood music was blaring loudly from the car radio, and when Elouise nudged him he jumped up with wild-eyed fright. When he had composed himself they drove off.

Carla put her head back against the neck rest and said, “I’m exhausted. That was intense.”

Elouise laughed softly and said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you anything, but I wanted to be sure. This discovery certainly doesn’t explain what Harry is up to, but one thing is for sure, someone is pulling the wool over his eyes. I’m determined to get to the bottom of this.”

“I agree. Any ideas?”

Sighing with her shoulders hunched, Elouise said, “No, not really, but I think the key to all of this is in his computer files. We need to crack that password.”

“I agree. Let’s work on it tonight, and if all fails I have a friend in Cape Town who is a bit of a hacker—we could e-mail it to him,” Carla said.

Elouise yawned and closed her eyes. “I need a power nap.”

Carla smiled and looked out at the changing scenery with interest. The driver wanted to know what they were planning for dinner, but Carla told him they’d be dining in.

She turned her head slowly while watching some young boys playing cricket at the side of the road. The batsman hit a terrific shot. The ball arched high in the air and then came straight down in someone’s garden, and a motorcyclist behind the car ducked instinctively at the ball’s trajectory through the air. He was not wearing a helmet and must have been afraid of being hit. As he sat up, Carla recognized him. It was the same man she had first seen on the plane and then on Regency Street. She quickly turned to face the front and then sat very still.
This can’t be a coincidence
. Deciding not to alarm Elouise, she casually leaned her head against the window so that she could watch the cyclist in the side rearview mirror. He was weaving from side to side. He seemed determined to stick close to their vehicle, risking a collision with a truck as he hurried through a red traffic light.
Could he be one of George’s?
Carla wondered, but dismissed the notion, as she believed that a trained CIA surveillance team would avoid being visible—making their presence so obvious.

When they reached the hotel driveway, the motorcyclist passed them and sped off toward the lake. Carla frowned, and when Elouise woke up she told her all about it. Elouise did not seem worried and said, “If he was really following us, he would’ve followed us right here to the entrance, don’t you think?”

Carla decided to let it go. Elouise asked the driver to pick them up the following day. He smiled merrily as he accepted her generous tip and said he’d be there at exactly eleven a.m. They went up to their bedrooms and agreed to meet in half an hour in Carla’s room.

When Carla reached her room, she unlocked her suitcase and removed the laptop, plugging in the charger before she took a shower. In the hotel bathrobe, she opened the door for Elouise thirty minutes later. Elouise had changed into fresh clothes, but she looked tired.

“Hi, sorry I’m not dressed yet. I won’t be long. Come in,” Carla said.

Elouise sat on the bed and switched on the television while Carla changed into a charcoal linen dress. “One of Sanjay’s copies?” Elouise asked, smiling.

“Yes, I’m so glad I had them made. Are you ready for dinner?”

“I am. Let’s go.”

The waiter suggested they try a Wazwan dinner, but after explaining that they had been to Adhoo’s for lunch, he suggested the fresh rainbow trout caught in the cold mountain streams of Kashmir. The fish was delicate and full of flavor. Elouise hadn’t heard anything from Harry, and after dinner they went to Carla’s room, where Elouise tried to call him. His phone was switched off. Carla placed her laptop on the bed and accessed Harry’s hard drive. She clicked on the “Soraya” file and sat staring at the blank password space.

“Elouise, any new ideas?”

“Not really. Let’s try ‘mother’—no. How about ‘biological mother’?”

“What about that name they called him, Packet or something?” Carla asked.

Elouise laughed. “Pataka, it means ‘fireworks’ in Hindi.”

“Yes, try that.”

Elouise typed it in and shrieked when it was accepted: “We’re in!”

Carla sat down next to her as they watched the files opening. It looked like data taken from the BABA institute in Mumbai. “How’s your physics?” Elouise asked Carla.

“Probably as good as yours, which means that I don’t have a clue.”

They continued scrolling down the page and found a file with names and places written in some kind of code. “What the hell…?” Elouise said as she looked at a file containing a scanned copy of her notes on the fashion show fundraiser she was working on at the American Embassy School compound. There were also notes on the security procedures, as well as a sketched plan of all entrances and the general layout of the theater where the event was to be held.

Carla was shocked. Looking at Elouise’s fixed expression, she knew that her friend had figured it out. “You were planning to have a special guest of honor, weren’t you?”

Elouise nodded and said in a shocked tone, “Surely he’s not involved in this. There must be a perfectly acceptable explanation—”

“But what? Elouise, why did he keep it so secret? I’m afraid I think he’s involved, willingly or not. We have to stop him.” Carla reached for her mobile phone.

“Who are you going to call?” Elouise asked in a quivering voice.

“George. Do have any other suggestions?”

“I think we shouldn’t call; maybe your phone is bugged or something. Let’s get back tomorrow as scheduled and confront him in person. We could then show him that we got into the files.”

Carla bit her bottom lip. “Are you sure?”

Elouise stood up and took Carla’s phone from her. “Trust me, it’s best. I’ll wake you for breakfast at about eight, OK?” She kissed Carla on the cheek and left.

Carla lay down on her bed, staring at the ceiling, regretting the fact that she had agreed not to call George. The whole thing was rather unnerving. It was almost certain that Harry was involved. Why did he have this information if not to pass it on to someone else? He had discovered his real mother’s identity. What could be the connection, if any? Carla closed her eyes as she tried to empty her mind, eventually falling asleep.

She was relieved when Elouise called to wake her the next morning. Bleary eyed, she joined Elouise in the dining room. She only had a coffee; she had no appetite. Elouise was also toying with her eggs and said, “I’ll check us out and meet you at the entrance. Our driver should be there by now.”

Carla fetched her suitcase and waited in the lobby for Elouise, who asked the doorman to call the driver on his PA system. They moved toward the blue Innova taxi as it appeared in the driveway. The turbaned doorman opened the back door of the car for Elouise. Carla got in on the other side. When the driver turned around, they saw that it was not the driver from the day before.

The somewhat younger man extended his open palm in a gesture of appeasement and said, “Madam, my cousin Ahmed wake up this morning with bad, bad stomach. All night in toilet. He ask me to take nice American ladies to airport.” He smiled, and Carla shrugged. Elouise frowned.

“OK, but I have already fixed a price with your cousin,” Elouise said.

“No problem, Madam, you give me same, no problem.”

As they drove through the apple orchard, Carla remembered a nightmare she had had the night before and told Elouise.

“How horrible, but at least you slept. I didn’t sleep a wink,” Elouise said, leaning back against the seat and closing her eyes.

After fifty minutes, Carla realized that they should have reached the airport. She looked out the window and saw a signboard, but it wasn’t indicating the route to the airport. She caught sight of the driver watching her in the rearview mirror and said, “How much farther to the airport?”

He smiled and said, “Not far. See, there’s my cousins waiting for lift. I stop for only one minute please.”

On the side of the road stood two men dressed in jeans and black T-shirts. They were carrying faded olive backpacks. Carla froze, the hair standing on end down the back of her neck. She frantically shook Elouise, who woke up to Carla whispering in her ear. As Elouise started to protest, the driver stopped the car and unlocked the doors. The men jumped in on either side of the two terrified women. Dirty rags smelling strongly of some kind of chemical were held tightly over their noses. Carla tried to pull the man’s hand away from her face, but within seconds she lost consciousness, overcome by the fumes.

.

CHAPTER 23

H
arry kissed his mother on her forehead. She had fallen asleep after only a few mouthfuls of dhal. It bothered him. She’d obviously been overmedicated.
I hope this nightmare will be over soon
, he thought and asked the burqa-clad nurse to please keep the sweets for his mother. She stared greedily at the packet, and he wondered if his mother would be lucky to have any. Resigned to the thought, he left the room and walked down the dirty corridor to Dr. Malik’s office. The doctor was sitting behind his desk, studying a folder. Looking up, he smiled at Harry and stood up.

“I hope you enjoyed your visit with your mother,” he said.

“Actually, I wanted to speak to you about her. She seems to be very disoriented. Is she not overmedicated?” Harry asked the doctor.

The doctor’s reply seemed to hold something of a threat. “We know what we’re doing. You concern yourself with what you know best. It looks like she will recover and in time, I’m sure we will find a way to get her out of Pakistan.”

Harry looked at him for a few seconds before replying, “Of course, Doctor. Will you accompany me back to my car? I don’t think I’ll find my way very easily.”

Smiling, he said, “Let’s go.” The doctor was hurrying, and Harry had trouble keeping up. He left Harry at the car and headed toward the mosque.

Harry stopped at the hotel, picked up his overnight bag, and checked out. He arrived a few hours early for his flight but made himself comfortable in the business lounge with a couple of international newspapers.

Yunis Malik was in a tearing hurry.
If only the Indian hadn’t asked me to accompany him back to his car
, he thought, irritated. The courier was already at the station, ready to take the train to Islamabad. If Yunis missed him, he would have to wait for the following week to deliver this message. The caliph wouldn’t like it. Even though he didn’t quite understand the message encrypted in the embroidery on the fabric the Indian had brought, he instinctively knew that it was of utmost importance.

Yunis flagged down a taxi and gave the driver an extra one hundred rupees to go faster. The driver increased his speed, but the traffic was too congested. They inched forward at a snail’s pace. Yunis was beginning to hyperventilate. Sweat was pouring down his face. He could feel his blood pressure rising.

The traffic eased off slightly. He breathed in deeply and muttered quietly to himself, “Must make it, must make it.” The taxi came to a sudden stop, Yunis sliding forward on the plastic seat covers.

“What now?” he shouted at the driver, who had closed his ears with both hands and looked up to the heaven, his eyes rolling backwards.

The taxi had crashed into an emaciated, dirty brown cow. Yunis opened the door and looked at the cow bellowing in pain. A gash on the animal’s leg had exposed a pulsating major artery that was pumping blood into the street. A bicycle slipped in the sticky mess; the rider fell. The scene was like something out of a horror movie. The man covered in the animal’s blood was gesticulating at the taxi driver.

Yunis, who was out of the car by now, stopped to stare for a few seconds. The crowd was pointing fingers at the driver; others were laughing. Yunis started running. His breathing was ragged, but he kept running. Almost crying from relief, he saw the colonial building that housed the train station. He dragged himself onto the platform, but he was too late. The 4:45 p.m. express for Islamabad had just pulled out of the station. Bathed in perspiration, he sat down on the filthy platform floor. Tears of frustration streamed down his face.

After ten minutes or more, he stood up slowly and walked toward the phone booths. He dialed a number in Abbottabad, a town about 150 kilometers from Islamabad. “Only in an extreme case should you call this number,” his handler had said.
This is one of those
, he affirmed inwardly.

Somewhere many thousands of miles away, a computer picked up the signal. It was diverted to the dark listening rooms of Langley. An operator looked up from his computer screen, grinned, and jotted down some coordinates. He walked hastily toward the director’s office.

Arriving back in Delhi early the following morning, Harry took a taxi to his bungalow. The chowkidar saluted him and then ran to wake up Kishan. Within five minutes Kishan appeared and asked Harry if he’d like tea.

“No thanks. I’m going to have a quick shower. Tell my driver to be ready at seven.”

At precisely seven, Harry left with his driver. He gave him the address for the container depot in Tughlaqabad. The roads were empty, and they reached it within half an hour. A guard checked the car and asked for their bill of lading. Harry asked if Mr. Ramesh Gupta was on duty. Assuring him that he was, the guard directed them to a makeshift office in a container unit. Harry told the driver to stay in the jeep. A small, mustached man wearing a drab brown uniform looked up from the Hindi newspaper he was reading and asked grumpily, “Yes, what’s your business?”