Chapter 19
Tying Up Loose Ends
Kris Amar, wherefore art thou? I asked myself. Where were you, my nemesis, my foe, my archenemy and my ultimate destiny? I was obsessed with the thought that we were both still breathing the same air in the same country since it was terribly polluted and I fretted about my health. Regardless, one of us had to die to balance the karmic books. There was no longer any middle ground or room for compromise. It would come down to the best or luckiest man standing when next we would meet. The die was cast and I couldn’t wait for the showdown between us. It would be a contest of good versus evil. It would be Uncle Sam fighting against a foreign, godless, heathen, religious fanatic.
Kris would battle an American atheist. The symbolism would be powerful and symbolic too. It was now “do or die” time and I liked the sound of the bravado, but I certainly didn’t want to die by his hand. Moreover, I admitted to myself that I was scared shitless at the prospect of meeting him again. To me, Kris Amar was death personified to the power of ten. He was Mega Death with a scythe shaped like a long, sharp kris.
Zeenat Karzai was escorted back to Kabul by her Afghan security guard, Kamal Barbak. She was now safe at home under the redoubled protection of the APPF. She’d recover from her ordeal with time. She was young so her traumatic, psychological wounds would eventually heal with few noticeable scars. Alicia Thurman didn’t appear to be suffering any post-traumatic stress whatsoever. She still chewed me out every time I saw her. Jesus, she had a mouth on her that a sailor would either be ashamed or proud of. She’d make a good Foreign Service officer, I thought. She could kibitz and cuss with the best of them.
I was depressed even though things had gone well. Washington was pleased and had been generously dispensing accolades to all concerned. Jersey Briggs had garnered many undeserved kudos by this time. Everyone liked a winner and I even had a few thrown my way, but I was much less enthused with the attaboys. I needed to even the score with Kris Amar and this time it was very personal. Dick Avery was putting it all on the line for God and country. Bring it on my friend. I am DS Special Agent Richard Avery, Uncle Sam, Miss Liberty, motherhood, John Wayne, McDonald’s, and the Stars and Stripes rolled into one powerful, non-gender-biased persona!
I waited patiently for Kris Amar to call me. I knew he would because we were two of a kind from different sides of the same obsessive coin (or two compulsive peas in a pod, if you were a Vegan.) He couldn’t let go of the ego challenge and animus and neither could I. It would be a fight to the death and one of us was going to get hurt!
Kris finally called my cell phone while I was sleeping. It was my nap time at the hotel and I was grumpy. He was always looking for an advantage, an edge. His words were brief and to the point, challenging and arrogant as well. I was to meet him at the Akshardham Temple in New Delhi. He cheekily offered a duel at dawn, figuratively speaking. More of that Hindu duality, I thought. He actually challenged me to a contest—mano-a-mano. I told him I’d never heard of the game and that he’d have to explain its purpose and rules before I would agree to anything. That was only fair play, I reasoned. He said I should come alone if I had any stones. I had stones, but no balls at the moment; however, I’d still play along with his little game of death. I still needed to get my rocks off with this Thug.
Kris was a dramatist who appreciated the irony of the situation. He also was someone who no longer cared about his causes or personal safety and that made him especially dangerous. In his mind, he had nothing to lose. However, I had much to lose. I still enjoyed the booze and fast women too much to give them up just yet. I thought I still had a few more viable years of debauchery left in me. I planned to enjoy my twilight, golden years, come Hell or high water or Kris Amar.
We were to meet in the vestibule at the main entrance to the Akshardham Temple. The Hindu temple was the largest in the world. In other words, it was religiously humongous. The main building of the complex was one hundred and forty-one feet high and designed according to ancient Vedic texts. Its footprint was 86,342 square feet. It was a new structure, having been constructed in 2005. It was built entirely of pink sandstone and Italian Carrera marble and it featured no steel or concrete foundation or superstructure. In addition, it took 11,000 artisans and volunteers five years to construct the temple so it was a labor of obsessive, karmic love.
Like the Taj Mahal and the Red Fort, the Akshardham complex abutted the Yamuna River. Kris obviously had a thing about rivers and water, more watered-down religious symbolism I believed. In any case, it would be the venue for our meeting. This would be our high noon at 9 o’clock sharp the following morning. I told Kris to be on time since I had a busy schedule and didn’t want to be late for my own funeral. For a white dude, I had a good sense of black humor, I mused.
When we met, we didn’t bother to shake hands. The obvious slight-of-hand wasn’t overly rude under the circumstances. Before he could say a word, I flat-out informed Kris that I wouldn’t play mano-a-mano with him because I didn’t understand the game, having never played it before. I suggested we pick a game that we both knew and felt comfortable with. It was only sporting.
We haggled over several games, but couldn’t agree on one. However, we did agree on using rock, paper, and scissors to settle the matter and the winner would get to choose the game. On the count of three, we thrust our hands in front of us. Mine was open and his was closed. My paper trumped his rock so I got to choose.
It would be hide and seek and I would be “It.” Okay, I admitted it wasn’t a Sikh temple, but it was damn close. I would be the hunter, the searcher, the destroyer of Kris Amar in the Akshardham Temple. More likely, I would be the confused rat caught in a huge maze.
After going over the ground rules for a couple of minutes, we started the game. It would be a game to the finish and we both knew it. There would be no quarter or mercy given by either contestant. I closed my eyes and counted to sixty as agreed. “One Mississippi—two Mississippi—three Mississippi...” I silently counted so I wouldn’t draw undue attention from the other visitors or temple staff. Ready or not, here I come, I shouted loudly to myself.
The temple was divided into distinct exhibition halls. I entered Hall I named Sahajanand Pradarshan. It featured life-like robotics and dioramas depicting the life and deeds of the sect’s founder—Bhagwan Swami. I kept my hand close to my Smith Sixty in the pocket of my leisure suit. It was the forest green one that had always brought me good luck in the past. I wasn’t out of the woods yet and needed all the luck I could get. I wondered if it still had any Mojo left on it. I had also affixed a silencer to my gun this time. Like the Boy Scouts of America, “Be prepared” was my personal motto and watchwords. Those were words to live by rather than to die for I prayed.
I skulked and skedaddled around the huge room acting like a normal, American tourist: loud, rude, and obnoxious. I couldn’t have picked a better or more convincing role to play since no one paid me any attention. I was like the Invisible Man, but even more transparent. However, I didn’t see or detect or sense hide or hair of Kris. He was exercising his own disappearing act, I suspected.
I moved onto the second exhibition hall. This one was called Nilkanth Kaylan Yatra—meaning something in Hindi. It housed Delhi’s first, and only, IMAX, big screen theater. The theater continuously showed a movie of Bhagwam Swami’s journey across the length and breadth of India as a teenager. Not surprisingly, it was now showing the film. I paid the admission and took a seat at the back of the auditorium. Before my eyes could adjust to the darkness, I was pulled from my seat and thrown to the floor. It was Kris who obviously had seen the movie Pearl Harbor—probably several times over. He had likely sneaked into the movie theater to watch the film too. Regardless, he was one, bad Indian kamikaze in this film noir.
Speaking of sneaky, he had snuck up on me in the darkness when I was most vulnerable. My eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the darkness. We rocked and rolled for a few seconds while he tried to choke the living daylights out of me. As we scuffled, I was able to pull my gun. He saw I now had the advantage and ran for the door. Just outside, I put a round through his right temple from about ten feet. It was a fitting end and locale for Mr. Kris Amar: the Death Master of Banaras!
His blood and brain matter exploded across a beautiful wall frieze of Hindu gods and goddesses frolicking in heaven or wherever. No matter, the gore would quickly freeze dry into its own mosaic. However, I would need to get my wingtips cleaned and shined later. Image, rather than substance, was always valued in the department. I rolled him over and found that it wasn’t Kris after all. To my surprise, it was Joe Singh Singh; the former embassy driver, thug, and Islamic extremist. His identity was easy to confirm since the missing tip of his middle finger was a dead giveaway. He was dressed in clothes similar to Kris Amar’s. I strongly suspected that Kris wasn’t playing the game by Hoyle or Dick and wondered how many other guests he had invited to our little party. No one was going to pin the tail on this donkey if I had anything to say about it!
I had to quickly leave the building because I needed to clear my head and get a breath of fresh air. I exited the main complex building and walked into the Bharat Upavan; a garden of lush manicured lawns, trees, and shrubs. It was dotted with bronze sculptures of Indian culture. I took a deep breath and hoped I wouldn’t hyperventilate. I sat down on a bench and smoked a cigarette to calm my nerves. I had almost bought the bullet—I meant the noose, just a minute ago. I was shaken and shaking from the close call with death.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Kris trying to conceal himself behind a statue of Mahatma Gandhi. I guessed my quick departure from the temple building surprised him a bit. I think he was waiting outside all along to ambush me when I left the building, assuming Joe Singh didn’t nail me inside first. I had upset his plans, but I didn’t intend to apologize for my gaffe. I sat looking forward, pretending I hadn’t seen him. I had a second cigarette and watched for his next move. I kept Ms. Smith at the ready just in case. He started circling my position at a distance to get behind me, but I stayed still and finished smoking. He planned to attack me from behind—the favorite position for cowards of all fanatic religious stripes and persuasions. Why couldn’t we simply duke it out, man-to-man, as John Wayne might say?
My peripheral vision only went so far and so did Kris Amar’s image because he was now in my blind spot. I surreptitiously removed a small mirror from my trouser pocket. It was called a pocket mirror for good reason and I carried it for occasions just like this one. It was an invaluable tool because it provided for perfect hindsight. I cautiously scanned behind me for a sign of Kris. I eventually caught his image and followed his every move. He was slinking toward me like a panther stalking its prey. More to the point, he was carrying a long kris in his right hand. A fatal thrust from Kris’s kris was to be my fate, if he had his way. For Christ’s sake, he wouldn’t take me down that easily, I swore to myself.
Just as Kris was about to pounce, I got up from the bench and turned to him with my gun drawn. He was totally surprised by my quick actions and ran toward the bronze statue of Mr. Gandhi. He acted like a miserable coward by refusing to engage my small gun with his large knife. Where were all the strong, brave men these days? I didn’t know because DS had imposed a hiring freeze much earlier. At this point, I was seriously pumped and out for blood. I fired several rounds at Kris as he escaped through the garden’s flora. I heard a couple of loud dings from the bullets striking the statue. I had winged him in the right arm—Gandhi, I meant.
I knew I couldn’t catch Kris given his head start, but I could do the next best thing. I calmly walked up to Mahatma Gandhi and put my wheel-gun to his head.
“Okay motherfucker, where did he go?” I screamed. “You’re supposed to be all-knowing and wise so tell me where the hell he went or I’ll blow your goddamn head off!”
I had almost pulled the trigger, but gathered my wits instead. I was out of control and my target acquisition system had gone haywire.
I think it must have been the fourth cigarette that put me over the top instead of forgetting to take my meds again. In any case, I sat next to the statute to regain my composure. As I sat, I had an epiphany. I hadn’t had one of her since my last lap dance at that DC strip club where I got shit-faced and drunk. Then it happened. I thought Mahatma Gandhi was speaking, in sotto voce, to me and in English, no less. I knew I must have been hallucinating, but I still listened intently to his sage words.
“Dick, you’re fucked-up in the head, man. I don’t know how to put it to you any other way,” the statue spoke. “You need to get with the program, Pilgrim,” the voice bluntly told me.
Jesus, it wasn’t Gandhi—it was my hero John Wayne! I had to come to India to meet my mentor and guru. I was on cloud nine and could barely contain myself.
“John, what’s the program I should get with?” I eagerly asked him.
“Pardner, you’re wasting your time and talents going after these terrorists. Trust me, somebody else will bring them to ground eventually. Don’t worry, they’ll get their comeuppance. Dick, you don’t have to be a hero all the time. You have another, greater mission in this life—one much more important than what you’re doing now.”
“You mean like playing cowboys and Indians with the bad guys?” I cautiously asked.
“No, I don’t mean Indians, cowboys maybe, but not Indians,” he replied with a manly twang in his voice. “You need to return to Washington and fight the real bad guys who threaten our nation.”
“You mean like the Mafia, or the KKK, or the Mormons?”
“No, you ignorant dick,” he harshly chided me. “It’s the State Department and federal bureaucracy in Washington that needs a good kick in the ass. They’re the ones who have contributed to the foreign policy mess we’re now in around the world. In the world’s eyes, America’s credibility is at its lowest point in a generation due to their shenanigans. It’s time to stand up and defend truth, justice, and the American way. Also, tell them they need to rethink our nation’s war on terrorism. Our foreign affairs and counterterrorism policies and programs are intertwined and not well managed at the moment. It’s not too late to do the right thing and return to the principles and values our country once believed in and promoted around the world. Go undercover and work from inside of the establishment to do what’s right for America. Fight for what’s good, honorable, and just for our country and its citizens.”
Like in Washington, my epiphany had a happy ending and my life’s mission had just begun. God bless America, I thought. I now had a new cause célèbre and a worthy enemy to battle and defeat; the mindless, disingenuous foreign affairs politicos. The Black Dragons of the foreign affairs establishment better watch out because a righteous dragon slayer wearing a leisure suit and smoking Marlboros was about to pay them a visit!
Jersey Briggs was already threatening to cut me off at the trough. He didn’t care if I found Kris Amar or not. It simply didn’t matter because he was off the hook with his bosses. That was all that counted with him. He told me to pack my bags and myself and return to Washington—ASAP.
My job was finished here despite Jersey’s feeble attempt to placate me by mentioning that his budget was tight and he needed the federal bucks for other investigations. He said it wasn’t anything personal.
Sure thing, Jersey, I thought. I was no longer serving a useful purpose and was now a liability in your eyes. I was merely expendable cannon fodder in America’s war on terrorism. Thanks buddy.
I booked a flight home, but before I left I had to say my goodbyes to the team. I was proud of them and our accomplishments. I would recommend each of them for a department award and cash bonus. Snagging Kris Amar would have been another sort of bonus. Maybe some other time and place, I thought. There was still bad blood between us that had to be eventually drawn. Happy trails to you until we meet again, I repeatedly hummed in my fuzzy mind.
I had to catch my flight. However, before heading to the airport, I went to the embassy to collect my papers and pouch my Smith home. It was early morning and a Marine security guard was raising Old Glory as I exited the chancery. I stood at attention and placed my hand over my heart. It was still beating and that was an encouraging sign at my age.
I watched as our nation’s flag was raised to full staff. My eyes watered a bit from Delhi’s early morning pollution. Despite being a dick, I was proud to be an American Dick. I was raring to go home to the land of the free and brave. I already had plans for another hostage rescue mission. But this time to save the United States from the barbarians already inside our nation’s gates.
I had a final cigarette before getting into the embassy car. Why couldn’t I kick this nasty, compulsive habit, I wondered? I was a strong, proud American who could overcome most of life’s hardships and adversities. I was a tough cookie who didn’t crumble when it came right down to it. As we pulled down the driveway, I tossed my box of Marlboro reds out the window. There, I triumphantly said to myself. I had quit forever. Damn, I knew I could do it!
A second later, I tapped the driver on the shoulder and told him to stop the car. I walked back to collect my Marlboros. Littering was an especially impolite and discourteous act as we all knew. As a special agent of the Diplomatic Security Service, U.S. Department of State, United States of America, I must set a good example for others with less willpower and intestinal fortitude.
Sometimes those who served and protected were simply eco-friendly neat freaks and unrepentant Dicks.