The PuppetMaster (44 page)

People were migrating to cars and taxis. Thoughts of death were over, the work of the living continued. The morning haze was starting to rise and the mist burning off. I looked at Uli and Jitka. They nodded. The hour of anonymous cold-calling was upon us.

We hustled up to Aurangbad Road, where Vinduram and Sahr stood in front the purring taxi. Sahr opened her own door and settled with an interesting familiarity into the front seat. Uli and Jitka slid into the back. I looked over the roof, down the long avenue towards the center of the city. And blinked. Something there made my skin prickle. I wasn’t certain, but just before the curve in the road I thought I saw a flash of folding umbrella and a familiar turn of arms and leg slide into a black Mercedes. But like a ghost, it disappeared into the haze.

Sixty-Eight

Three factors made the calls proceed without incident. First, I made certain my Hindi was indistinguishable from that of any common citizen in Northern India—standard, non-vernacular without accent. Knowing that my voice was likely to be recorded every time I read it, I spoke quickly and didn’t answer a single question. Shipments of illegal uranium are being smuggled from Imperial Holding near Sarnath. Corrupt police, especially one Assistant Inspector Madru Ralki, were involved in cover-up of activities—I particularly enjoyed that one—and possibly Cabinet Minister Qereshy. Trucks are moving today. Click. Repeat. Click.

Second, the phone we used was untraceable and throwaway. Adam gave it to me with the understanding that it would end up in the deepest latrine in the gullies. In addition, any brave soul willing to dig it out would find the man whose name it was registered to was beyond reproach and now beyond anyone’s reach.

Finally, Jitka had done commendable research. Not only had she located the phone numbers we needed, but she demanded the names of the superiors, the ones who wouldn’t hesitate to act on the information.

But I still didn’t stop shaking until I pressed the end button on the last call. We had just inflicted heavy damage on some extremely powerful people, not something they would quickly forget or forgive. I prayed we had protected our anonymity.

“Okay, it’s done,” I breathed. “Let’s hope it works.”

“It will, Lover. Four newspapers und three intelligence groups won’t ignore it. They will climb over each other to be first out there.”

“I hope so, and I hope they do it with some serious backup.”

****

I was the only one of us not packed, so as Jitka went to find a bigger breakfast than the abbreviated one we’d had earlier, Uli and I went to my room.

I pulled two small duffles from the bottom of the closet and began folding clothes. There wasn’t much. The laptop, camera, my manuscript, and Adam’s, fit into one. Uli, refolding a shirt tossed in a bit too sloppily, looked up. “You really didn’t mind that I gave your opal away, Mein Schatzki?”

“No. Not that I didn’t adore it, but you could probably ask me to give away everything I own,” I pulled her hand to my heart. “except this, because you already have it.”

“Und I’m keeping it right here with mine.” She giggled and pulled mine onto her breast and held it there.

This was followed by excited questions. Did I wish to return to America soon? Yes, as soon as we returned from traveling and affairs were settled. Will we take time together after Jitka goes? Yes, to the mountains for weeks of lovemaking and climbing and more lovemaking. Would I miss the city? Yes, acquaintances definitely, but it was time to leave. Would I continue my studies? Of course, maybe at the university in Berkeley, if they would have me. I had answers to all but one. What was to be done about Mej?

“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully. “I actually thought I saw him this morning, or the goatskin guy, right after the cremation. It was too hazy to tell for certain, but he drove away in a Mercedes exactly like the one Sahr described. Speculation again. This morning I had the crazy idea that he’s been using his bombs as some kind of diversion—a plan to keep the authorities looking everywhere but the mine.”

She considered this for a moment and then began nodding rapidly. “Trickery, like the magician with the handkerchief? The words in the vision, do you remember, ‘Master of diversion. Sutradharak, The PuppetMaster.’ It makes sense, Bhim. He’s not Islamic, he just wants everyone to think he is.” Her eyes met mine with a new look of worry. “Mein Gott, what if he’s timing them with the shipments?” I stared back, suddenly realizing what that meant. According to what we had seen the previous night, a shipment could be leaving soon. Now I really hoped our calls spurred some action.

As we finished packing my duffles, an infuriating truth came to me. Mej had not only used Islam as a deceptive instrument, he had used me as well. I had been a selected pawn in his game.

****

Sahr would not relent. She was going to tell me what her bhuta had told her, and I was going to listen. She dragged me to the front parlor, away from the sisters, and set me in my chair. The stance was struck—hands on hips, bosom straining against her chola, and swan’s wing crushed into a frown.

“He is not wrong, Saab. Believe me. There is danger with the rising of the next sun. He warned me of flames and death at dawn. Many times over.”

I was confused about what she meant. “He said it many times over, or did he mean it would happen many times over?”

“The second. He speaks his words only once, never twice. I am expected to pay attention the first time.”

The entire morning had been filled with images of funerals death, and now this. It made me anxious to have us on our way to Delhi. In addition to feeling the need to appease her, I now placed enough faith in such messages to ask, “What else did Durgubal say?”

“He said there will be death from flames, from steel and water. All coming at dawn” I felt a shiver ripple down my back.

“Another attack on the city?”

She shrugged. “Nothing else was said, Bhimaji.”

“Then,” I replied. “There is nothing more we can do than be more watchful and more careful.”

Sixty-Nine

Sutradharak closed the door to his cottage and locked it. He tucked the keys into a pocket, thinking to himself, departing this place will be like leaving a theater with a second-rate production under way—find the side door, erase the memories, and breathe better air. He had witnessed his last cremation that morning, eaten his last meal in the Chowk, returned to the cottage and packed new belongings. Then he closed the door. Every vestige of the Ahkmed Jamil, the goat merchant of Varanasi, and Mejanand Whiton, the NRI of East London, disappeared with the turn of the key. His new persona, Remo Marselinni, an investment banker from Naples, Italy, was born easily, without a shred of contrition.

The Italian sat behind the steering wheel of the black Mercedes and drove at moderate speed confidently northwest on NH56. He moved unobtrusively and drew no attention to himself.

All connections to the two aforementioned men—beard, clothes, umbrella, goatskin bag, documents, and even the computer—had been reduced to ash in an incinerator two blocks from the loft. In the boot of his car a valise was packed with fashionable Neopolitan shirts, three trousers, two pairs of slightly worn Caponi shoes, a pair of scuffed cross-trainers and a used squash racket. His toiletry bag contained expensive colognes and a gold-plated manicure set—all purchased in Naples. His wallet and multi-national bank accounts were bulging, his sunglasses perfectly coordinated to a new ascot and crew cut hairstyle. The Anza fixed-blade hunting knife was still strapped to his calf and three additional passports were taped in a hidden compartment in the boot of the car—instruments of last resort. His most valued items, for the next twenty-four hours at least, were just within arm’s reach. Inside the dash of the Mercedes were two fully charged mobile phones. The final and most lethal event he had ever designed would commence with the touch of two buttons. Then Remo Marselinni would board a late evening flight to Rome. And disappear.

He eased the seat back to settle into the drive, just over four hundred kilometers west by northwest. Traffic, he knew, would be moderately heavy at the onset, less so as he veered northward. The five hours would give him ample time to polish his new accent. Details. Success depended upon them. The PuppetMaster will also be incinerated, tomorrow, he mused. And Remo Marselinni will rise like the winged Phoenix from his ashes.

Seventy

At 1:30 Vinduram dropped us at the entrance to the Varanasi Cantonment Station—a massive cream and rouge bulkhead of faux temple domes, a hundred windows, and a grand rectangular clock that managed to show the correct time twice daily. Inside, concrete stretched almost a kilometer in both directions, and almost every square meter was covered with people, napping, sitting, eating, or squatting in conversation. It was denser to the left where second-class passengers waited to elbow their way on in fifteen minutes. I had braved second class a few times before, and it wasn’t how I wanted us to reach Delhi this trip. We stood at the other end, waiting to board one of two air-conditioned first-class cars.

The two diesel engines, in front of our first class compartments, emitted low growls, and behind them a long string of second-class cars stretch down the station. All of them, in a display of egalitarianism, had beige, iron bars covering the windows. This deterred illegitimate entry, and easy exit for that matter.

Hawkers circulated. I bought choley bhatur, samosas, and spicy peanuts in paper cones. Bottled water topped off our menu. We sat on our bags against a column and passed the snacks back and forth, sampling flavors.

“Are you all right?” Uli asked. In truth, I was exhausted and ready to fold into a soft seat, rocking to the rhythms of the rails. The commotion of the station, the mechanics of it all used to fascinate me, the assortment of human shape and movement feeling like an impressionist oil painting. Right now, I wanted only to put it away and feel nothing but Uli’s head on my shoulder, or vice versa.

“It will be good to be on board,” I answered. A whistle shrieked down the line, causing me to flinch. Conductors down-folded metal steps, redcaps jockeyed for position, and passengers completely ignored the suggestion of a queue. I motioned to an industrious looking teen, a barefoot boy with shredded blue shirt and a scarlet rag about his head—the only indicators that he was a porter. He grinned—with less teeth than most—snatched up our bags, and squeezed through the door between the cars. Within the minute we were settled into our seats, bags stowed, and snacks floating again between us. Uli was next to me on the window side, Jitka to my left, across the aisle. I breathed in the oily perfume of the engine, closed my eyes, and slipped into the symphony of departure.

A hiss of the brakes was followed by Jitka’s voice, throaty with melancholy. “I vill miss a few things here, you know.”

I popped open an eye to look at her skeptically. “Really?”

“Not a long list, mind you, but after you, Uli, and Sahr, Johnny Chang’s stir fry comes to mind. The kebobs at the Afghan café, they were gut, too. But Adam’s sermons I vill miss them the most. The ones without explosions were more to my liking, but I did enjoy his ideas.”

“You will be able to read more of them soon enough.” I told her about the manuscript in my duffle.

“Und you write the forward? What an honor, Bhim.”

I looked at Uli. She was just gazing out the window, smiling in her knowing way.

With a groan of hydraulics and a series of small lurches, we left Varanasi.

Seventy-One

Lucknow by sunset. Uli said little as we the passed hours rolling over flooded fields of rice, yoked oxen, and barefoot women. The rains had brought life back to it all. I said less and less, eventually drifting into an erratic sleep with my head in her lap. Even her caress couldn’t assuage my uneasiness. Until we heard good news concerning the events we had set in motion, we would probably all feel some level of apprehension.

I bounced through kaleidoscopic dreams--dashes of conversation, images of corpses and flying sparks.

What if he is timing them to match the shipments, Bhim?

Who? Sutradharak, Yes, the master of diversion. Who? Sutradharak.

Flame and death at dawn. Little Sister, where are you?

Death from steel and water. Durgubal told me.

Flames and death at dawn. Who? The Sutradharak.

I woke with the slowing of axles and the mantras of food merchants floating through our window. Uli was smoothing my hair and looking down at me with deep-water eyes. My nightmares floated away like charred embers in the river. “Hello, Lover,” she whispered.

“Hello, Uliana Hadersen. . . have I told you today how much I love every delicious piece of you?”

“No, I don’t believe you have. You should tell me now, twice I think.”

I sat up and kissed her. “Every exquisite, beautiful, curvaceous piece,” I whispered. “Are you hungry?”

“Ravenous."

Across the aisle Jitka echoed, “Ravenous.”

We knew how the meals would arrive—large circular trays of rice, saag paneer, puris, and five condiments in small cups, all of it steaming hot. It was undoubtedly the largest, most efficient catering service in the world.

I needed to stretch, and clear my head, so I set off to fetch us drinks from the platform and check on our sleeping accommodations. I stepped into a scene of organized chaos--passengers, porters, vendors, and hustlers all jostling and all knowing exactly where they were going. I weaved through to the station wall and found a row of food carts. Fresh, iced pineapple juice would do. Balancing three cups, I returned to find the sisters standing outside, with four libidinous young Sikhs hovering nearby looking optimistic. I approached with a gruff voice and fierce stare. “Fresh juice for my both wives. Is my dinner ready?”