The PuppetMaster (34 page)

He grinned at that. “Yes, well you missed some big news. The U. S. and India signed a treaty to allow India to purchase raw nuclear fuel, a few signatures erased thirty years of non-proliferation policies, and all we had to do was agree to allow inspectors into our non-military facilities. Our government got to designate which ones. That, my friend, was a good joke around these tables.”

Jitka slapped her fist into her palm. “I remember that. In Tonder we wondered who in the United States understood what was actually going on. ”

Haroon nodded. “Fourteen of our twenty-two plants could be inspected, but the reality was that we could use the fuel any way we wished. In other words, fifty new warheads a year.”

He popped four macadamia nuts into his mouth and continued. “Between energy and weapons, India is starving for raw uranium, as is Pakistan, Iran, Libya, and others. We have mines east of here in Jharkhand, but they are being depleted quickly. India needs more. So you see, in theory this violence could generate sympathy for renegotiated contracts for fuel. I stress the word ‘could.’ It is all part of the grand, irrational game. Pakistan gets nuclear technology from China. A few acts of terrorism take place, we practice troop maneuvers in Kashmir. The ante goes up and more terrorism follows. In the end we get new missile guidance systems and refined fuel from France or Washington. Hypothetically, of course.”

“So how does it tie in with these bombings?”

“Just that they may not be totally based in religion or secessionist movements.”

At that moment his cell phone chimed from inside his kurta. Haroon held up a finger to pause his lecture and dug into his pocket. He pressed a button and turned his back to us. I reached into my own pocket and extracted my phone. It was split into four unusable pieces.

“Uh huh. Yes, I see. And where is the other? Right.” Without a goodbye, he clicked off.

As Haroon talked, I wondered why it felt like I was being drawn into class five rapids with a toothpick for a paddle, why suddenly my simple, scholarly world felt so horribly dangerous.

I hadn’t given politics or governments or secessionist movements much thought since being here. Now I was in need of four aspirin for my pounding headache and wondering how it had all reached my doorstep.

He looked cheerless when he turned back. “More trouble, I’m afraid. Riots have broken out near the Alamqir mosque.” Uli flinched. “And fires have been set near Aurungzeb. It is getting uglier.” He sighed. “The sad part is no one is to blame but these terrorists. Hell, most of the rioters out there don’t even know what they are rioting about.”

Uli, who had rested quietly against me, shook her head at the news. “They must stop, Bhim. They must. It’s madness.”

I didn’t have a response.

Then she whispered a phrase that had stayed with me also. “The seeds of hostility, the minute germs of hatred and vehemence are sown into the fertile soil of our lives.” Adam. I wondered where, how he was, and if he was safe. I thought of Sahr, and Lalji, and C.G., and Sukshmi, and even Mej. I hoped all the people in my undersized circle were tucked safely in their homes.

Beyond the shuttered windows the streets were deceptively quiet. In other parts of the city, pandemonium reigned. It would be dangerous moving about, especially for foreigners. But I also knew we had to leave. It was dark now and if we were to make it back to the villa, it had to be soon. “Haroon,” I asked, “is there a back way out of here.”

“Of course, over there.” He waved an arm towards one of the side rooms and a locked, heavily-barred door. “You may stay here if you wish, Bhim, but I must be going myself. I have to feed my cats or they will conspire to mutiny.” That image made me smile.

“Thank you, Maumed, but we will stay off the main streets and work our way through the gullies, maybe even be lucky enough to find a deaf taxi driver who hasn’t heard about any of this.”

“Deaf is fine, but make certain he sees well enough to take the back streets. Taxis are prime targets.”

We stood, and Haroon came from behind the bar. “A final toast: to the world becoming a more peaceful place.” The four of us clinked glasses and drank. The heat of the brandy drop into our bellies. In typical gentlemanly style, he kissed Jitka’s hand, and I was certain, even in the poor light, that she flushed from something more than Courvoisier.

Then he handed me an envelope. “The information you requested.”

I folded it and slid it into by pocket. “That was fast.”

“I have my sources, and, as you will see, the facts are minimal at best.”

Uli kissed his cheek and as he held the door for us he said, “Haroon’s will always be open for you, my friends, and I will always be here to greet you.”

Like too many promises uttered in moments of urgency, that one would not hold true. We thanked him and stepped silently into the blackness of the gullies.

Fifty-Four

My best skills as a guide were tested that night. The moment Haroon closed the door behind us, a band of six men sprinted across the opening of the alleyway. I couldn’t tell what religion they were, just that they seemed to have plenty of faith in the clubs they carried. Fortunately, the shadows concealed us. At first I lead us on shallow switchbacks through the black lanes. We passed a few people, as terrified as we were, but no one spoke to us. A young Hindu couple, the man holding a blood-soaked kerchief below his chin, passed us on the run. Reasoning that they were likely being chased, I took us on a more southerly course along back streets. Slowly, with the utmost care, we passed from the center of the city. We pressed against the walls, inside shadows, and moved in silence. We walked rapidly, and at times ran, especially when we saw groups larger than two moving about. Twice we heard shouting and a horrible screaming, and with every step we smelled smoke. The orange glow of flames painted the belly of clouds in the north. Jitka looked grim and tired, but both of them amazed me with their composure and stamina. Eventually we stole our way to Sonapura Avenue. I kept us on parallel lanes in and out of the shadows to the crossing at the Asi Bridge. We halted and I motioned us to press against the wall.

A dozen young men in tattered shirts and loongis had just crossed the bridge south, looking for something to beat, or burn, or worse. They appeared to have no other purpose than to cause havoc. Two sputtering torches waved and illuminated them. I peeked out and pulled quickly back just as the blast of another police whistle rang out. I hoped this one would have a better result than the one sounded at the Ghats.

The police were quite protective of the wealthier homes on that side of the river--my side--and I guessed that the thugs would be routed before they could do any damage. I guessed correctly. The constable guard swept in from three directions, lathis whipping shoulder to shoulder. From across the river we could hear the cracking of ribs and thighs, and within seconds the scuffle disintegrated into a full retreat.

Torches fell and the better part of the mob fled back across the bridge holding up their wounded. Three, who limped too slowly, were roped together and pushed roughly across the span.

I still didn’t like the option of crossing by foot to negotiate with the officers standing guard. I trusted no one but the three of us that evening. “I want us to move up river and find another place to cross.” My voice shook with uncertainty.

Uli squeezed my elbow and whispered, “You’re the guide, Mein Shatzki.” That helped.

Fortunately, we didn’t have to search long. Two hundred meters up the river, a small dinghy was tied high up on the bank, and after a few slippery moments, we were all gliding silently away from the north shore. I tore off the bottom of my kurta and wrapped mufflers around the oars and drew gently on the blades. Midway across, Uli pointed east where the stream flowed sleepily into the Ganga. An ember of silver moon was just rising above the fort on the far side. The scene was breathtaking—the ancient ramparts of the palace under a halo of silver on a ribbon of glittering water. Any other evening and it would be a beautiful dream, I thought. Let the sun rise on a peaceful city tomorrow.

Uli looked at me and mouthed, “I love you.” My heart sang, and then, with a soft whoosh, we reached the other bank.

Lalji astounded me that night. The front gate was not only secured with a second chain, but three of his card-playing partners were stationed inside on the patio. They held kitchen knives and four wooden clubs that I hoped hadn’t been fashioned from the legs of my chair. They jumped officiously to their feet as we arrived, and for a moment I thought they were going to salute.

“Saab, Maam and I have been so frightened. She has shredded her sari down to the chola worrying for your safety, but as you can see, I have been standing guard vagilantly.”

“Vigilantly, Lalji.” I tried to maintain a serious face, but couldn’t help but laugh. He looked a tad let down that I was finding humor in his intrepid watchfulness until I patted his shoulder and said in front of everyone, “You are the best watchman in all of Varanasi, Lalji. None better, and you gentlemen as well. I am in your debt.” I namasted deeply to each of them.

With a lot of wagging of heads and thank-yous, they relinquished their weapons and filed out the gate. I told each of them to return the following day for some payment for their night’s work. That brought another round of head wagging.

Wrapping my arm around his slender shoulders, I said, "Lalji, you did well tonight. Thank you. Lock everything up and sleep in the hammock. But sleep easily; there will be no more trouble. And let’s wrap that finger again tomorrow, shall we.”

Genuine fear born of disaster often propels us into acts of greatness, more often into acts of compassion. It is something felt in battle-scarred trenches, burning buildings, flooded neighborhoods, and riot torn cities. There is an invisible entity, a bond of humanness that draws us to a deeper understanding of ourselves, our companions, and the ones we love. As I sat with Uli, Jitka, and Sahr, sharing steaming bowls of saag paneer, rice, and dal around a familiar kitchen table, I realized that small thought. Maybe it was a big thought, but we had, that day, been terrified, numbed to the core, and here we sat, all of us trying to comfort each other. We spent the entire dinner reassuring each other that tomorrow would be brighter.

I also realized something else that evening. Varanasi would not feel the same for me ever again.

After we made a bed on the sofa for Jitka, and Uli went to shower off the smoke and fear, Sahr motioned me back into the kitchen.

“Masterji’s daughter came to see you this evening, Saab.” Her swan’s wing was buried to near invisibility in a frown.

“Sukshmi?”

“Yes, Saab. In the big car of Master Chandragupta, she came and left quite quickly.”

“Sahr, you can stop with the frowning and calling me Saab. She is Devamukti’s daughter, not my premika. My premika is in the bathroom. I’m pretty certain your bhuta and deva cards have pointed that out.”

“Well, this cheeky Brahmin girl with the fancy tinted glasses and orange lipstick asked me to give you this.” A small pink envelope appeared from behind her back. I opened it.

“Would you like me to read it out loud?” I asked.

Though I was certain her curiosity was bubbling like a geyser, she said, “No . . . not really.”

I read it anyway. “Friends in hiding wish to speak with you. The arrangements have been made. And, My Boy, please bring your new friend. I would like to meet her.” It was signed in a weak spidery script, C.G.

Sahr harrumphed.

Below, in Sukshmi’s exact cursive, her own message read, “Bhimaji, C.G. asked me to deliver this to you. Can you come to his house tomorrow at 8:30 AM. It is urgent. There is good news--and sad. By the by, who is your new friend? S.”

I didn’t read that aloud.

Fifty-Five

Mistakes were unacceptable to Sutradharak, but they were far worse when committed by himself. In the early days he had set his standards with gruesome examples, cutting out tongues or castrating those who crossed him or made errors. The idea of doing that to himself merely brought a sneer.

His identity had been breeched two days ago—an unfortunate mess he’d been forced to resolve in a very unpleasant manner. The widow girl had recognized him as he moved through the alley in his other persona. That had necessitated slicing her throat. But then there was the incident at the harijan’s speech. He was nearly recognized again, and it bothered him that both of those had come from his own foolishness.

Analysis told him that he was committing too many errors, and he knew why, the desire to be close to the flames. Vanity, inquisitiveness, ego, they had resulted in foolish mistakes. Over-confidence leads to quick death, he chided himself. Get back to pulling strings, PuppetMaster. This thought brought him to another conclusion--he needed a rest, a long one, perhaps even permanent. Retirement. He had been pondering it since the bombing at the temple back in March. Finances were certainly in order. Every euro, dollar, and yen was accessible, and with half a dozen passports, he could travel wherever he wished. He could be anyone.

More importantly, his work for his current employers was nearly done. Their primary goals would reached within days.

The decision was made. Retirement would come after this next event, and then a vanishing act. Go out with a bang, disappear into the great cities of the world to become a hazy legend, an episode on Unsolved Mysteries.