Chapter 13
Gandhi Dancing
I had been pulling the department’s train for the past ten days and my back was getting sore. I needed a few hours rest and recreation to unwind my mind and muscles. I wasn’t used to such heavy lifting in DS. Most of my career consisted of menial chores where I was expected to step and fetch things for my masters. Unfortunately, I had become very hunch-backed and servile as a result. However, I had learned the fine art of stooping to conquer. I was finally a bona fide federal bureaucrat in good stooping.
I finished a lengthy cable to the powers regarding my conversation with Kris Amar and awaited a response. I was certain Uncle Sam wouldn’t agree to Kris’s demands, but I couldn’t tell Kris that. I needed to buy time to string things out a little longer. I was looking for an opportunity to turn the tables on the bad guys and rescue the girls. I wanted to be a real American hero and not the schmuck I had been most of my sketchy life. I would need some dumb luck and good karma to carry the day. I simply couldn’t afford to dick things up for a change. Jeez, I suddenly realized that I’d have to change my name and fast.
The United States of America refused to negotiate with terrorists, plain and simple. It was a cardinal rule that was never to be broken. To do so would only encourage and perpetuate more terrorist acts. However, cardinal rules were sometimes bent by the government’s soaring eagles. For example, they didn’t necessarily object to families, or businesses, or kidnap/ransom insurers to pay the piper. They also didn’t mind if discussions took place between the extortionists and U.S. officials as long as they were not characterized as negotiations. Conversations were okay; negotiations were not.
In the end, it was all about perception, spin, and wordplay. It was also about plausible denial and staying safely outside the loop in case things went to shit. There were no better players in this confidence game than the federal bureaucrats. They not only knew how to play the game, but they also made up the rules as they went along. They were savvy grandmasters in parsing and packaging the truth. I thought these admirable traits might be useful in my plan of action and I looked to them for inspiration.
I had Chester beating the bushes at the site of my attack in the off-chance the cops had picked up any leads on the assailant. It was highly unlikely, but we were dead in the water as far as our investigation was concerned. I prayed the circumstances would be better for Alicia and Zeenat. Some hope, even a slight glimmer, would be welcomed by our team.
Kali was getting her hair and nails done in a beauty shop down the street from the chancery. She said she’d check with the manicurists to see if they knew of anything that might be helpful to our cause. She was a consummate professional, through-and-through. I was proud of her, except I had to break her disgusting habit of biting her nails. Despite being nominally nutritious, it was neurotic. It was also tough on my back, I selflessly thought.
A knock on the task force room door jolted me from my reverie. It was Big Bird and he was being a gentleman, as usual. He was old-school DS and I appreciated that fact. The younger agents simply didn’t possess the panache or table manners of their elders. It was a shame that these time-honored values were being cast aside in the name of professionalism and goal achievement. I wasn’t sure where our government was heading anymore. I certainly didn’t fit into any mold that contained those words or attributes. My mold had been shaped and then shattered many years ago, just like my hopes and dreams. I was unique. Actually, I was a true red, white, and blue Dick and damn proud of it too.
I told Bird to come in. He asked how I was holding up. That was thoughtful of him and totally in character. I admitted that I was feeling the pressure and was a bit stressed at the moment. I mentioned that I’d try to get away from the chancery for a while to clear my head and chill before getting back into harness. He suggested some sightseeing to break out of my funk.
He’d arrange for an embassy driver to take me to some of the tourist sites in the city. I decided to take him up on his kind offer. My obsessive mind needed a mental break and my compulsive craving needed a cigarette. There was a certain synchronicity about those things that I appreciated in this depressing, addicting state of India that I was currently in. Desi-land was the appellation most used by the embassy staffers for the country. It was an apt reference all things considered. Regardless, I needed to jumpstart the investigation, solve the case, and get the hell out of here soonest, or earlier, if possible.
The driver dropped me at the front entrance to the Red Fort in Old Delhi and waited while I toured. As soon as I got out of the car, I was mobbed by street vendors and beggars. They were selling all sorts of gimcracks, thingamajigs, and whatchamacallits to the tourists. I used these words since I didn’t know what to call such crap in Hindi or English. Some of the toys emitted strange noises and others flew through the air like whirligigs. I was being assaulted again, but this time by street kids.
I bought some noisemakers so the kids would leave me alone and pester someone else. Petit bribes were okay in this business and you could voucher the expenses too. You simply had to say you couldn’t remember where you had misplaced the receipts. Fraud was unacceptable in the department, but memory loss was not. It was a common affliction for those who traveled extensively abroad for Uncle Sam.
One boy, about eight or nine years old, asked if he could shine my shoes. What the hell, I thought. Why not? I could be a kind, generous, and thoughtful guy when my shoes needed to be cleaned by the downtrodden of this world.
I firmly put my foot down squarely on his makeshift shoeshine box. As he polished, I looked out across the courtyard at the mass of humanity. It was obvious that the Planned Parenthood Association needed to open a few more chapters in India, ASAP. However, the urchin’s question startled me from the reveries populating my thoughts.
“Do you want me to scrape-off the gum from the bottoms of your shoes?” he hesitantly asked.
“No leave it there. It brings me good luck and surefootedness,” I declared. “I need all the traction I can get these days,” I archly added in support of my black wingtips. I didn’t want to be caught flatfooted here.
“Mister, I bet I can tell you where you got your shoes,” the ragamuffin declared.
I laughed to myself. Jesus, this was the oldest trick in the book. You could be in Nairobi, Shanghai or Timbuktu and the punch line to the little riddle would only change by geographic location. I decided to play along and bet him a couple of Marlboros he couldn’t tell me where I got my shoes.
“Okay go ahead and tell me,” I said, while smirking at his little scam. I already knew the answer. I got my shoes on the sidewalk in Old Delhi. Or, if I were in Nairobi, it would be the streets of Nairobi or whichever city in the world.
“You got your shoes at the Brooks Brothers store in Washington,” he confidently said.
How did the little bastard know that? I pondered. I paid him for the shine and paid off my bet. I was pissed that I couldn’t figure out how he knew where I bought my shoes at least until later when I took them off in my hotel room. The words “Brooks Brothers, Washington, DC” were clearly stamped on the leather soles.
Sometimes those who served and protected should be punished for sporting snobbish, self-publicizing footwear and underestimating the illiterates of this world.
I hired a guide and toured the Red Fort and his name was Naresh. He was a licensed tour guide and had numerous photo credentials hanging around his neck to prove it. He was not only official, but knowledgeable. He told me the Red Fort got its name from the massive walls of red sandstone that defined its four sides. The entire wall was 1.5 miles in length and averaged about 85 feet in height. This place had stature, I thought
It was built by the Mughal Emperor, Shah Jahan, as a new capital for his empire. Shah Jahan was the famous ruler who built the Taj Mahal in Agra in memory of his beloved wife. Naresh recounted the history of the fort up to the present time. He said the fort was completed in 1648 and occupied for the next 150 years by the descendants of Shah Jahan. At one point, more than 3,000 people lived within its walls. Sikh warriors seized the fort from its Muslim occupiers in 1783 and held it until 1857. That was when the British captured it following the Sepoy Mutiny. The British used it as a headquarters for the British Indian Army until India’s independence in 1947.
I lit up a Marlboro and waited for Naresh to finish his canned spiel. I knew how the story ended. The Red Fort became a tourist trap for unwary foreigners with enough money to pay his fees. However, I patiently waited for the bottom line.
I readily acknowledged that the architecture of the interior structures was interesting and the gardens were beautifully planted and groomed. The buildings and grounds were a world away from the crowded, dirty, and bustling streets outside the gates. I thanked and paid Naresh for his excellent service. He made the visit much more interesting by imparting his knowledge and insights of the historical site. I even decided to tip for a change.
I felt my mind already starting to relax and noticed that I wasn’t gripping my cigarettes as firmly as before. That was a good sign, but not a lucky one, since I smoked only Marlboros. Regardless, there was nothing more uplifting than hearing about 300-plus years of bloody warfare. It made one more humble by putting things into better perspective.
I could see clearly now, but I couldn’t discern shapes, colors or intentions too well. I also worried about my peripheral vision. I was still having some difficulty peeking around corners. No matter, my hindsight was always one hundred percent accurate. I, and the department’s Accountability Review Board, could always rely on that fact, but only after the fact.
I had only been away from the chancery for about three hours, but the stinky brown stuff was already beginning to hit the fan based on my cable to Washington. I expected quick feedback, but I was still stunned at how fast the headquarters vipers could strike back. I had to be careful and not only watch my back, but my eyes too since they were capable of spitting the most vitriolic venom when they were cornered. There was no respite or rest or timeout for the wicked and/or middle-aged, weary, white guys in this biz. I could put my hands in a T–shape all day long, but it would still make no difference to them. They were unrelenting taskmasters when it came to second-guessing others.
Jersey Briggs had talked to Big Bird and bluntly asked him if I had lost my mind. (I was actually pleased that he recognized that I had one in the first place.) The Bird calmly explained that I was stalling for time with the bad guys. I was looking to catch a break and that I needed more time, he told Jersey. He said that I understood that Washington would never acquiesce to Kris’s outrageous demands, but that I still had an obligation to pass them up the chain-of-wisdom, regardless.
I knew I had Ambassador Thurman on my side so Jersey and company couldn’t push me too hard. However, if I fell on my sword, the Washingtonians would dance on my body with heavy, size 16 jackboots as it was slowly lowered into the grave. In any case, they were always very good at throwing handfuls of dirt.
State Department camaraderie and collegiality only went as far as the first finger pointing at those who served and protected.
I waited by the phone the rest of the day and into the early evening for Kris Amar to contact me. He finally did, but I was a bit piqued given the late hour. The call came into the chancery, like before. I hesitantly said “hello” to the mouthpiece of the phone. I had my best poker face on so I wouldn’t inadvertently give up any facial advantage during the conversation. You can never be too cautious when dealing with coldblooded, Islamic-fascists who also happened to be ruthless, experienced Thugs. Then add their training as mujahedeen warriors bent on total Jihad, along with the annihilation of the entire infidel population to the equation and it doesn’t get much scarier or wordier. They were serious bad boys with an attitude and an agenda. They needed a good spanking and I knew just the right person to bend them to his will and over his knee.
Sometimes those who served and protected needed to administer Uncle Sam’s ferocious Bible belt to impudent, heathen behinds.
“Mr. Avery, what did your masters in Washington say about our modest and reasonable demands?” Kris asked without exchanging the normal pleasantries.
“They’ve agreed to both, but want something in return before they act on them. They want one of the girls released unharmed as a show of good faith. They’re all devout Christians and believe in good faith gestures.”
I didn’t mention anything about miracles though. The phone went silent for about ten seconds and then Kris spoke again.
“We will release Alicia as a sign of our sincerity. However, if you don’t hold up your end of the bargain, Zeenat will die a painful death, as I’ve already mentioned. Her father won’t be pleased with you Americans.”
I correctly guessed he would agree to Alicia’s release. Zeenat Karzai was important to their goals, but Alicia much less so. She was a bit player in this psychodrama, but I could never tell her or her father that. I had her pegged as a mega-bitch who was probably driving her captors crazy with her behavior and attitude. If I held out a little longer, they actually might pay me to take her off their hands. However, I hoped they hadn’t read the Ransom of Red Chief, but they might have, given its Indian motif. Therefore, I couldn’t push the conditions for her release too far.
“Okay, when and where do we meet?” I asked. “I want to meet you face-to-face when you hand over Alicia and your propaganda tape. If you won’t meet me in person, the whole deal is off. I would consider such a decision to be impertinent and a bad faith gesture on your part. Just the two of us, along with Alicia, will meet at a place of your choosing. You have the upper hand in selecting the venue,” I added for greater emphasis. I even underscored the point just to make sure he got the message.
Kris Amar thought for about a minute before he announced the location where we would meet. It would be at the large, Jain temple in Old Delhi. I asked him to describe the temple. He readily gave me a brief, physical description of the building. I immediately objected to his choice and told him the dankness and mold would really stir-up my allergies. I wouldn’t be able to keep a clear head during the meeting. Moreover, sinusitis was certainly nothing to sneeze at. I don’t believe he understood my pun, but did acknowledge that pollution was a serious problem in Delhi. I then chided him for putting my health at risk. He needed to be more considerate with his next choice of venue since he obviously didn’t know Dick about Jain.
He next suggested a meeting at Mahatma Gandhi’s tomb in New Delhi. Again, I asked him to describe the location in some detail. I mentioned that I wasn’t the least bit familiar with Delhi because I had only been in the country for about ten days. Basically, I asked him to cut me some slack as a new visitor to his country. That accommodation would be thoughtful, neighborly, and classy for someone like him with no class standing whatsoever in Indian society. Moreover, it wouldn’t be a touching gesture because that act was strictly forbidden in his case or caste. He said he fully understood what I was saying. I was glad he did because I didn’t have the slightest clue what I was babbling about, but I must be getting the local patois down pat.
Regardless, I told him that I’d appreciate meeting at another location. Gandhi’s tomb was much too open and al fresco. The site would have meant meeting outside under the sun and that wouldn’t be good for my precancerous skin condition. I mentioned I had a preexisting, potential, melanoma condition and the doctors warned me to stay out of the sun or face its deadly consequences. However, I acknowledged that it was no skin off the doctor’s nose if I didn’t follow his advice. I firmly believed that full disclosure was important in these negotiations. Sorry, I meant to say discussions.
The intense Indian UV rays were just too strong for my sensitive, Nordic skin. I reinforced my point by telling him I had beautiful blue eyes and very fair skin. I mentioned my freckles too. I held nothing back in convincing him we couldn’t meet there for sound medical reasons because it could be a death sentence for me. He probably didn’t notice these things the last time he saw me because I had shoe polish smeared all over my supine, light-skinned body.
I also took the opportunity to chide him for pinching my balls. It didn’t hurt to lay some good, old fashioned guilt on him. I took every advantage I could get. However, I took no bullshit or prisoners in my job of protecting America and upholding the honor of Miss Liberty. She was my charge and I didn’t plan to let her go down without a fight. I could tell by the sound of his voice that Kris was getting frustrated with the state of my health.
“Do you have some other meeting locations that are less threatening to my health?” I asked. He was exasperated by my intransigence and sputtered a bit and was silent.
“Look, I can suggest a few places that might be acceptable to you. Meet me halfway on this and let’s make a decision. I’m not being unreasonable, only health conscious. How about meeting at my hotel? I can book a conference room and have the little cocktail weenies and Ritz crackers catered. It’s five stars so you can’t object to the service or ambience,” I added to seal the deal.
He demurred saying he was deathly afraid of Hyatts. He was a shrewd and clever opponent. If I had medical issues, Kris had phobias.
“Okay, how about meeting at the U.S. Embassy? It’s safe and secure. It has a Bubble Room where our conversations can’t be overheard, monitored, or recorded,” I assured him.
He said it would be impossible to meet there. He said he was severely claustrophobic and abhorred polyurethane along with Americans. As much as he liked Don Ho’s Tiny Bubbles, he couldn’t tolerate the confines of the room and its other occupants. It made him too gaseous and no one would be pleased with his involuntary bodily functions in such close quarters. Kris was playing hard to get, I thought.
“What about the Red Fort in Old Delhi?” I finally asked. “It’s the only other place I’ve visited in the fair city since I don’t get out much these days,” I added to fortify my assertion.
He thought about it for a few seconds and agreed to the venue. Kris was a tough bargainer and I would hate to be sitting across from him at the poker table. He kept his hand close to his vest and his hole cards even closer.
We went back and forth over the details of the meeting. I told him I napped in the afternoon and had cocktails between six and seven—sharp. I certainly couldn’t meet during those times since my routine and constitution were too important to upset. He mentioned that he had some obligations to attend to as well. Like praying to Allah five times a day whether he liked it or not since he was a devout Muslim. However, he agreed to bring his prayer rug to facilitate the meeting. We finally set a mutually agreed time and now had a place to meet. We were making progress, but never negotiating.
“How will I recognize you?” I asked. “All of you sleazy, terrorist assholes look the same to me.”
He said he would be the Indian male holding a videotape cassette in one hand and Alicia Thurman in the other and, therefore, should be easy to spot.
However, I wasn’t so sure. “Could you wear a turban so you’ll stand out in the crowd?” I politely inquired.
He told me to go to Hell. With that rude retort, I wondered just how charitable and Christian this guy might be. I was sure I’d find out later.
“I’ll be the middle-aged white foreigner who looks out of place in a crowd of Indians,” I proudly announced. “I’ll be wearing a leisure suit, probably my crimson one with the pearl snap buttons on the jacket. I’ll also be wearing highly buffed black wingtip shoes. (I wanted to ask him where I got my shoes, but thought better of it.) I’ll have a mum in my jacket lapel, but I’m not sure which color because it all depends on my mood."
“When we meet, we must exchange passwords just to be certain of each other’s true identities. You guys all look the same to me, and vice versa I suspect, so I want to make sure I’m dealing with the right person."
“I will ask ‘Have you ever picked your toes in Poughkeepsie?’ You will reply ‘Rumpelstiltskin was a wussy freak.’ Do you understand? It’s important that you don’t screw up your line.” I hoped he didn't find the wording too grim for even his macabre persona.
Kris responded by saying that he was thoroughly familiar with American fairytales by reading many U.S. foreign policy statements over the years.
I still urged him to repeat his response over and over again until he had it memorized. I suggested that he write it down on a flash card for rote practice. I figured a secret handshake would be too complicated under the circumstances, although it was standard DS tradecraft. But then I remembered Kris was untouchable. I gave Kris my cell phone number so he could contact me anytime he wanted. He apologized and said he couldn’t reciprocate. Jesus, I really detested one-sided conversations and relationships.
Sometimes those who served and protected needed to dissemble and seize the initiative to save the day and storyline.