Bombay Monsoon, page 26
Chhotu and Bikas waited for more.
“He left notes,” I continued. “About meetings with Bikas and the university girls he chased after. And …”
“And what?”
“He suddenly decided to quit and go home, shortly after attending one of Willy’s cocktail parties.”
Chhotu had recovered from the surprise Eric Nielsen’s name had inspired.
“To be perfectly accurate, Nielsen didn’t so much go home as go away.”
“You killed him?”
Chhotu blinked but kept quiet.
I thought hard. “Eric was settled here in Bombay. He liked his work. Then, one day, Willy threatened him. Eric must have figured out the link to Bikas.”
“Not bad, Dan. But I already know the story.”
The connections came into focus. Bikas wasn’t a revolutionary terrorist. He hadn’t killed that CID officer for political reasons. And if he worked for Willy, Willy must have ordered it. Why? Willy’s “import-export” business, obviously. Was the cop investigating him? Getting too close? But why the charade of Bikas and the Marxist angle? And why would Bikas talk to Nielsen? To me? He couldn’t be that stupid.
“Stumped, Dan?”
“Bikas killed the cop and tried to throw suspicion on leftists,” I said. “Get it in the papers that terrorists assassinated Gokhale. That’s why Bikas agreed to talk to Nielsen. And to me. But Nielsen was a sharp guy. Somehow he figured it out. Maybe Bikas didn’t strike him as a Marxist. And then he got himself invited to Willy’s party. Probably said too much, and …”
“We couldn’t trust him to go away quietly,” said Chhotu, finishing my thought. “Poor chap. And, of course, when you started hunting for Bikas at the university, Willy wanted to know what you were up to.”
“That’s why he invited me to his party.”
“I advised him to get rid of you the same way we did Nielsen. But, strangest thing. He took a liking to you.”
Bikas was still standing guard by the door.
“Now, Danny Boy,” said Chhotu, “if you would be so good as to hand over that roll of film you shot of our friend Bikas. Willy wanted him to talk to you, not pose for portraits. He was quite angry when you told him about that at one of his parties. But our Bikas sometimes makes foolish decisions. Let’s have it.”
“I don’t have the film,” I said.
“Must we play games? I want the film now.”
“And then you murder me? No thanks.”
I wasn’t going to tell him the film was lost. That would make killing me an even easier decision. If he thought I could get my hands on the photos, he might not go through with whatever he had in mind. Maybe he was bluffing.
Chhotu wrestled himself out of the swing chair and smoothed his clothes. “Very well. If that’s the way you want it. Shall we go?”
“I don’t suppose I’ll need my things,” I said.
He shook his head. “Not where you’re going.”
Even the guard, who so faithfully saluted each time a car entered or left the compound, had disappeared. The gate was wide open. With an upturned hand, Chhotu indicated the white Mercedes—Sushmita’s Mercedes—sitting in the drive, as if there might have been another vehicle I could have chosen by mistake.
“Front seat, please,” he said, and he climbed into the back directly behind me. Bikas took the wheel. “Bear in mind that I have a pistol pointed into your back. In case you were thinking of playing the hero.”
Then, wielding his ridiculous haw-haw accent, he said something to Bikas in Hindi. I struggled to understand, but only got something like karate. Did it matter? Who was I going to tell, anyway?
I began to plan a last-ditch effort to escape. Once we reached North Main Road, I might try throwing open the door and taking my chances with Chhotu’s aim. Would he be willing to fire off potshots in the crowded center of Koregaon Park? The odds for escape were better than waiting for him to shoot me in the head as soon as we arrived wherever he was taking me. In preparation, I tested the door handle quietly. No dice. And a quick glance to my left revealed that the lock button had been removed. I doubted I could lower the window and squeeze myself out before Zadya had shot me several times.
“Yes, the door is locked,” said Chhotu from the back seat.
We turned right onto North Main Road and headed east. Minutes later, we passed ABC Farms and soon, after a tiny village or two, we’d be in open countryside. I drew a deep breath, then looked up to see the herd of buffalo creeping onto the road. If they cut us off, it might provide the necessary delay for me to lower the window and yell for help from the motorists behind us. Chhotu had seen the buffaloes, too, and barked an order to Bikas, who hit the accelerator and swerved onto the grassy shoulder and barely sneaked around the lead animals. The herd closed the way, and the traffic following us was lost in the gathering darkness.
We rumbled through a tiny village—Mundhwa—according to the little sign illuminated by our headlights. Then we crossed the Mula Mutha and hugged the northern bank of the river on a dirt road for maybe two kilometers. It was slow going on the rough, desolate road, and now the sun had set. Chhotu told Bikas to stop. No need to pull over. And no place to pull over. We were in the middle of nowhere.
I thought of Sushmita. Was she aware of what was going on? How could she have left without a goodbye? How could I have misjudged her so?
Then I thought of my parents. My brother and sister, Mark and Debbie. Good people. Fine people. What would they think? How might they take the news that their son and brother had died in an obscure place halfway around the world? Would they understand my motives? Would anyone even tell them what I was trying to accomplish? I couldn’t worry about that now. I’d trust that word would get back to them that I was on the side of right, trying to do good. And, for Christ’s sake, I intended to get out of that night alive.
“You’ll find your door is unlocked,” Chhotu said.
“I’m not getting out.”
“Have you forgotten I have a gun?”
“No. But if you’re going to shoot me, I’ll at least make sure you have a mess to clean up inside Willy’s Mercedes.”
“Get out,” he said, more insistently.
“Fuck you.”
He turned to Bikas to give him new orders. The guy wagged his head as Chhotu spat instructions in wretched Hindi. As he did, I reached over, snatched the loose gearshift from its cradle, and bolted out the door before Bikas could even react. He jumped from the car to follow me. I didn’t know if he was armed, so I ran as hard as I could, sloshing through the mud and heavy rain back the way we’d come. Chhotu needed several seconds to pop open his own door and wedge himself out. I was about twenty or twenty-five yards clear when I heard the first shot. Glancing back, I saw Bikas pursuing me on foot. I couldn’t tell if his hands were empty. Had the shot come from him or Chhotu? There was no way Bikas could outrun me, and forget about Chhotu. Unless one of them got off a lucky shot in the dark, they’d never catch me without a car. And I had the gearshift.
My wind was strong, and my legs were responding, despite having had no warm-up or stretching. I sensed I was leaving Bikas far behind, and I settled into a pace that would have been perfect for the 440. To be sure I was safely ahead of my pursuer, I looked over my shoulder again. I couldn’t see him in the dark. He had no chance. I’d be halfway across Poona before he got back to the main road.
Then I tripped and fell hard to the ground, landing on my left wrist in the sloppy road. The loud crack told me all I needed to know; it was broken. I rolled over to see if Bikas was bearing down on me. He was. About twenty yards now, and he was running at a full sprint.
In my high school days, our football coach, Mr. Galligan, used to make us do a particularly cruel drill. He’d have one player—the tackler—lie on his back, ten yards from another guy—the runner—who was on his feet. A chalk line marked the halfway point between them. Coach would then blow his whistle and toss the ball to the runner, who charged forward. At the same time, the tackler had to leap to his feet, turn around, and try to stop the runner. The two met head-on in a violent collision. If the runner passed the chalk line, he won. If he didn’t, the tackler won. Coach called it the Nutcracker. I remember my share of stingers—those awful tingling sensations in your extremities after a jarring tackle—and I was about to risk another one.
Grimacing from the pain in my wrist, I rolled over, pushed myself to my feet, and lunged toward Bikas. No time to run away now; he was too close, and he’d raised his right hand and was pointing it at me as he charged. He was armed. I knew I outweighed him by thirty pounds, and—broken wrist and all—I was going to teach him how to tackle. Be tackled. I lowered my shoulder and planted it right in the sweet spot in his midsection, lifting him off his feet. Then, driving him to the ground, I knocked the wind out of him as I flattened him. Might have broken a couple of his ribs, too. If he’d been carrying a gun, he lost it in the collision.
I left him lying there in the mud, groaning and gasping for air, and I resumed my run to safety. Jogging through the rain, I held my left wrist as I went. Soon I was crossing the river over a bridge. I tossed the gearshift into the water and pushed on.
There was no traffic at that hour in such a remote area, so when the headlights appeared behind me, I worried Chhotu and Bikas might have managed to improvise a solution for the missing gearshift. I picked up my pace, heading for a collection of huts ahead. If I could reach them in time, I might be able to escape. But the car was closing fast.
As it neared, the driver blew the horn, which sounded as if it had been installed backward and was blaring into the car instead of out. I’d heard Sushmita use the Mercedes’ horn on a few occasions. It trumpeted loud, muscular blasts, so I knew immediately it was not Chhotu and Bikas behind me. I waited for the car, a small green Fiat, to pass. It rolled to a stop instead.
“Get in, Dan,” came a voice from behind the headlights.
“Ranjit!”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked, panting for breath.
He shifted into first, popped the clutch, and we were off. He told me he’d been following me, but got trapped behind the buffaloes.
“You were following me? How?”
“I’ve been watching the bungalow for weeks,” he said. “I was the fellow selling fruit on the footpath.”
“That was you? I must have passed you five or six times and never noticed.”
“Nobody pays attention to a fruitwallah sitting cross-legged on the pavement.”
“But how did you find me now?”
“I’ve been driving up and down the road, the lanes, looking for a white Mercedes. What happened to you? How did you get away?”
I gave him the story, from Willy’s discovery of my betrayal to Birgit’s unmasking to my escape, including my all-American tackle of Bikas. He said my wrist needed attention right away, and we sped off to Ruby Hall on the far side of Koregaon Park. I was X-rayed—multiple fractures—and wrapped in a heavy cast, what the doctor and nurses called a plaster. Ranjit told me the police had located the Mercedes and towed it away. Chhotu and Bikas were nowhere to be found.
An hour later, a squad of CID—the state criminal investigation police—supported by about thirty Poona cops, entered the bungalow in Koregaon Park, guns raised. They secured the place in a matter of minutes. It was empty anyhow. Abandoned. Just hours earlier, it had been filled with residents, servants, and me. Now? Nothing. Even Willy’s study had been cleared out. The ledgers were gone. And so was Sushmita.
With nowhere else to go, I checked into the Blue Diamond Hotel. Ranjit, working undercover, was staying there as well. He told me his boss had raised a stink about it. Said a CBI agent shouldn’t be relaxing in a luxury hotel, but he’d relented.
After a couple of days of giving statements to the police and consulting with a lawyer recommended by Janice’s friend, Shirish, I took the train back to Bombay on the twenty-first, with orders not to leave India until the investigation was complete. The public prosecutor confiscated my passport to prevent any risk of flight. Ranjit remained behind in Poona. His superiors had twisted the Maharashtra CID’s arm to give him access to the bungalow for further investigation.
During my two-minute stop in Lonavala, I tried and failed to resist the temptation to scan the platform for signs of a beautiful woman coming to whisk me away to a secluded love nest. I looked hard and long, even after the train started moving and left the station behind.
Once we were speeding along again, I sulked. I couldn’t understand how she’d simply disappeared without a goodbye. Left me waiting for my murderers to arrive. Had she been aware of Willy’s plan to kill me? Hell, the attempt in Poona was certainly the second try. Now that I knew that Bikas was in Willy’s employ, I figured he’d intended to murder me in my flat in Cuffe Parade two days before. Maybe the parcel I’d picked up at the Mafco stall was stuffed with drugs. I’d be written off as a foreigner who got mixed up with the wrong people. Case closed.
But I kept asking myself, did Sushmita know? I couldn’t possibly be sure. But I wanted her anyway. And I knew that if she’d been there on the platform in Lonavala, I’d have jumped off the train and followed her anywhere.
BOMBAY, INDIA
FRIDAY, AUGUST 22, 1975, 5:21 P.M.
I returned to the flat in Sagar Darshan, unsure of how much longer I’d be able to keep it. Frank Muller knew nothing of my decision to quit. But he’d be rubbing his hands together by now, eager to read the story I’d write about the undercover operation. Well, he wasn’t going to get it, and I’d be out on the street as soon as he realized it.
“Has Mr. Smets returned?” I asked the building manager. He said he hadn’t seen him in nearly three weeks, but the police had been there to search his flat.
I even rode the lift up to the penthouse and rang the bell. No one answered. His two servants and cook were gone. Maybe I should have climbed up the drainpipe and peered through the window to be sure they weren’t there.
Of course they wouldn’t return after the failed attempt on my life. They might have been able to weather the scrutiny, had Chhotu and Bikas done the job right and disposed of my body permanently. But with the attention, Willy would surely have to lie low until the situation became clearer. I wondered if he’d been contacted by Chhotu, who’d escaped the police in Poona, even without Willy’s Mercedes. And what were they planning now? They might head to Nepal, Holland, or Belgium. Maybe Nasik or Srinagar. Or anywhere in between.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 22, 1975, 9:07 P.M.
I was avoiding both Frank Muller and Russ Harlan. One didn’t know I was back in Bombay, while the other, of course, did. I’d sworn Janice to secrecy. But Harlan knew. And he wasted little time before darkening my door.
“Glad to see you’re still with us,” he said. “You did well. How’s the arm?”
“It’s fine.”
“Invite me in for a drink?”
I let the door fall open, and he entered.
“Take your shoes off, please,” I said.
He removed his heavy cordovan wingtips and stood there in his black socks, looking uncomfortable.
I poured two glasses of the Dewar’s he’d sent to me via Ranjit, and added a couple of ice cubes.
“You’ve got to get out of this place,” said Harlan. “I’ll move you to the hotel. They could come after you again at any time.”
“I’m not going to the President,” I said.
“That’s unwise, Dan. I urge you to reconsider. If you’re going to continue on this project, you’ll need more security.”
I frowned and tapped my cast on the arm of the chair. “That’s just it, Russ. I’m not going to continue. I’m done.”
“You can’t quit now.”
“Look, Willy already knows I betrayed him. He knows I slept with his girl. And he knows Birgit is a cop. He’s tried to kill me. Twice. He was going to bury me in the woods in Kharadi—the place I’d heard as ‘karate’—or dump me in the Mula Mutha River. What am I going to accomplish now? I can’t exactly propose my services to him. I’m going home.”
He swallowed a mouthful of whisky, rose, and refilled his glass. He asked if I wanted another. I shook my head.
“One to whet your appetite and one to rinse down dessert.”
He smiled, before turning serious again.
“You know what your problem is, Dan?” he asked, retaking his seat. “You’ve had some bad luck in love and you’re feeling low. That’s okay. Happens to everyone at one time or another. But you have to decide if your failed love is a sad moment you’ll get over or if it will obsess you and cripple you for the rest of your life.”
“Easy for you to say. You have Barb.”
“You think I’ve never been disappointed in love?” he asked. “Never had my heart broken?”
“You said so yourself. She’s the love of your life.”
He aimed a fierce glare at me. “Barb died,” he said. “Four years ago … cancer. And I miss her like the devil. Not five minutes go by that I don’t think of her. I’ve never loved another woman. Never will. And I honor her memory by doing my job. By doing what’s right.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
SATURDAY, AUGUST 23, 1975, 9:13 A.M.
I moved to the President Hotel.
Harlan was a hard man. But a fine one. Better than I was. During our early days of acquaintance, he’d lied about his wife, Barb, in order to paint the picture of an insufferable racist asshole. He’d done it well. But now that I knew the real man—the one whose beloved wife had died four years before—I felt like a coward, and a selfish one at that. No one should have to risk his safety to make the world a better place, but it’s a good thing so many people do. And Harlan had shown me that, unless I wanted to think of myself as a craven, selfish bastard, I had no choice but to carry on.
I met him in his room a little after nine Saturday morning. He’d forbidden me from going out for a run, so I’d taped a dry-cleaning bag over my cast and swum thirty laps in the hotel pool instead. I could still feel some stubborn water sloshing around in my left ear as we sat down opposite each other at the desk near the window. Harlan had notes and documents he wanted to review with me. He began with one of my least favorite topics: Chhotu.
