When he thought he had all the pieces of the puzzle put together, Josh forced himself to confront an issue he had evaded for long. He acknowledged to himself that he was not a man of action – never had been. He would need someone he could trust to organize the expedition for him, someone with sufficient muscle – and money; he knew he could never persuade the foundation’s board of directors to sponsor this trip. But that person with money had to be
worthy
of Shambhala. Josh was willing to wait. He was still young and the years stretched before him.
Then his test results came in. He was devastated, but worked his way out of his depression. He set up a clandestine AIDS treatment facility at the hospital. He would not be cheated of his prize – not when he was so close.
But now he knew with a strange certainty that the waiting was over; the jaguar would have to leap soon or the phoenix would never rise.
Peshawar
A
UGUST
1986
Susan and Peter boarded a Lahore-bound Pakistan International Airlines flight from New Delhi and subsequently took a connecting domestic flight to Peshawar. Disembarking at Peshawar, Susan was quite unprepared for the mixture of apathy and antagonism with which the airport authorities greeted them. Peter, who had been in the city before, knew what to expect; it wasn’t a town for tourists, not with a war going on next door.
In 1977, Pakistan’s present military dictator, General Zia, had ousted his mentor, the democratically elected President Zulfikar Bhutto, in a coup ironically code-named Operation Fair Play and had him hanged following a travesty of a trial. In the past nine years, the general had systematically disempowered all democratic institutions, imposed Islamic law and purged all political opposition. By all counts, General Zia should have been declared a pariah by the free world, but by a quirk of fate, his rule coincided with the Soviet takeover of Afghanistan, Pakistan’s northern neighbour. In the time-honoured traditions of realpolitik, the US declared the Martial Law Administrator ‘a frontline ally’ for his ready support of their efforts in containing the Soviets. Peshawar, Persian for ‘City on the Frontier’ – a name given by the Mughal emperor Akbar in the fifteenth century – now stood, five centuries later, on the frontier of the US
cordon sanitaire
, a witness to the machinations of the last great battle of the Cold War.
Peter wasn’t, therefore, particularly surprised when Peshawar’s security and customs created a terrible fuss when they discovered that he and Susan had spent more than a week in India before landing in Pakistan.
‘I thought we were already cleared in Lahore?’ Susan said tiredly for the umpteenth time.
She tried to keep her temper in check, watching a series of officials come over, one by one, to look them over, examine their passports, shoot questions at them in increasingly improved English and pass them on to the next senior in line. Her irritation increased at the sight of an apparently nonchalant Peter sitting, unperturbed, on his suitcase outside and reading the
Lonely Planet
guide.
‘I am so sorry for the delay, Dr Hamilton.’
The man in the smart khaki uniform with a chestful of ribbons had just introduced himself to Susan as Colonel Abbas in a clipped Brit accent. Judging by the entourage of subordinates who trailed in his wake, he appeared to be the seniormost official and final authority who would decide on their case.
‘I’m afraid not many people visit this place and certainly not any as enchanting,’ he went on gallantly with a smile and a slight bow, still looking at Susan. ‘You do understand, I’m sure, that we have a spot of trouble up north.’
His reference to the Afghan war was nothing short of an affected understatement.
‘We have valid British passports,’ she told him crisply, trying to contain her anger. ‘Everybody’s been through our papers. I don’t see how anyone can imagine we’ll get mixed up in local politics or anything of the sort – unless you think we’re likely to influence college elections somewhere.’
Out of the corner of her eye she observed Peter squirming at her outburst.
‘Of course,’ the colonel responded placidly, ignoring the jibe, then enquired, ‘you are planning to do some, er, historical research?’
‘We’re interested in studying the stupa of Kanishka,’ she replied. ‘My university has already sent your government a formal request, endorsed by our Foreign Office.’
She thrust forward the fax they had received in Delhi, authorizing the study. Another ‘friend’ of Ashton’s had helped.
‘But of course,’ the colonel said smoothly. ‘That will not be necessary. I am sure everything is in order.’ He waved away the papers in a grand gesture, secure in the knowledge that at least three people before him had gone through them diligently. ‘Allow me to say that I am very happy you have come to Peshawar. You will discover how multicultural our society is. Sadly, your media fails to present this reality to the world at large, Professor Hamilton, and… ’
Colonel Abbas’s voice had trailed off as he glanced enquiringly in Peter’s direction.
‘Mr Jeremy Glass,’ she informed him, remembering the name indicated on Peter’s British passport. ‘He’s my research assistant and photographer.’
‘Yes,’ said the colonel, not really listening to Susan, his eyes intent on Peter who stared back at him blandly.
‘You are coming from India?’ the colonel asked Susan.
That was quite evident from their passports.
‘Yes,’ she replied, trying to contain her exasperation. ‘We conducted some research on the Leh Palace. Our visit here is connected to that study.’
She expected some more questions, but there were none.
‘Of course.’
The colonel then turned to another official who was standing deferentially behind him and issued orders that Susan and Peter should be allowed to proceed. Then turning back to Susan, he said suavely, ‘Do allow me to make amends for the trouble you were put through, Professor Hamilton. My car will take you and your assistant to your hotel – the Hilton, I’m told?’
‘We were informed that the hotel was providing transport,’ she began, but as Peter tugged warningly at her sleeve, modified her words. ‘But thank you. That’s very kind of you.’
‘Not at all. It’s the least I could do for causing you inconvenience. Here’s my number.’
The colonel handed Susan a card. It bore his name – Colonel Aslam Abbas – and a telephone number.
‘Call me any time you wish to,’ he told her. ‘Our town is quite peaceful, but sadly, there are certain criminal elements to contend with – as there would be in any big city like, say, Liverpool or New York.’
‘Of course,’ Susan responded, mimicking the man with a straight face.
A military staff car was requisitioned to drive them to their hotel, the Peshawar Hilton, after their military escort had succeeded in shooing away the touts who were raucously trying to sell Susan and Peter the various services on offer, ranging from car hire and packaged tours to hotels. As they got into the car and the driver closed their door, Peter casually slid a finger over his lips to discourage Susan from making any comments. Then they were off at breakneck speed, their driver honking loudly as he raced through crowded bazaars and overtook pick-up trucks loaded with turbaned men openly carrying Kalashnikovs. As they saw the army vehicle approach, both vehicular traffic and pedestrians gave them right of way with due deference.
At the Hilton, Peter let Susan complete the check-in formalities. She filled out the necessary papers and was handed a key. The porter, a bearded man in a Pathan suit, took their luggage.
‘I’ve taken an apartment suite,’ Susan announced, not looking at Peter as they approached the lift. ‘It’s two rooms with an attached living room. I thought we could do with that, since we’ll be meeting various people. Incidentally, it’s a “smoking” room.’
‘Sure,’ he replied with a grin, ‘no problem there.’
Ashton and Duggy had agreed to stay back in Delhi until Susan figured out Point Three on the
paiza
. This decision had been taken at Peter’s insistence, as he believed that by breaking up into two small groups, they would appear less conspicuous in Pakistan. Given the way he and Susan had been detained and harassed at Peshawar airport, his apprehensions seemed justified. Once they heard from Peter and Susan, Ashton and Duggy would join them.
As they stood outside their room, waiting for the porter to finish carrying in all the luggage, Susan asked Peter, ‘Why were you insisting that I keep my mouth shut in the car? Do you think the Pakistani authorities don’t believe our story?’
He thought it over for just a moment. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘I don’t think they suspect we are up to anything other than what we have told them. If they’re onto us, we’re really and truly screwed. But as a rule, in military dictatorships, you tread softly; they’re quite fragile. However, you can bet your… ’ he stopped in mid-sentence, then continued, ‘you can bet that while we’re here, we’ll be under some kind of surveillance.’
‘Do you think they have any records of your past activities here?’
‘Not official ones, for sure. I’ve never operated “officially” in Pakistan. Uncle Sam smuggled me into Afghanistan and extricated me in the same clandestine way when my contract was over. That way, they could deny all involvement if I got caught. I do expect, however, that they would know something about me when I was “running loose” on both sides of the border.’
‘Oh,’ Susan said and added, as she walked into the room, ‘you know, Peter, you can bet my sweet ass any time you want.’
Peter looked on after her, open-mouthed.
Susan was removing her books from the suitcases and arranging them neatly on the study table in her room when Peter came in and sat down on the bed. While she was busy, he had taken the opportunity to dial a number from his well-worn notebook and speak to one of his contacts. Looking at Susan’s books, he made a face. He had carried them as part of his own luggage and knew that they contributed to at least half his authorized baggage weight.
‘Spoke to my guy,’ he told her, after watching her in silence for a moment.
‘Good. So that means he’s still around.’
She was now taking her clothes out of her suitcase and arranging them in the closet.
‘Well,’ Peter said, ‘I didn’t expect him to be going anywhere, not with business doing so well.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He’s a Mr Fixit. You want a truck, a rocket launcher or an ounce of heroin – it’s all the same to him.’
‘Did you ask him about the “blood mountain”?’
‘You never ask anything on the phone, at least, not in his business. But we’re meeting in the bazaar after lunch. God, how I want a shower!’
Peter stood up and began stripping off his shirt, then caught Susan looking at him.
‘I’ll go to my room,’ he offered, looking embarrassed.
‘That, I’m sure, would be very nice,’ she said, turning back to her books. But after he had left, there was a tiny smile on her face.
After his shower, Peter went down for lunch, while Susan called room service and ordered a sandwich. She was still at the desk in her bedroom, her door ajar, when he came in. She glanced at her watch it was 7 p.m.
‘I had no idea it was this late,’ she said, stifling a yawn.
‘You should live a little,’ he suggested, sitting down on one end of the couch.
‘So I’ve been told,’ she said indifferently.
‘No, seriously. You work too hard. Have you ever, I mean,
not
done your homework in school?’
She shook her head, a slow smile lighting up her face.
‘I thought not. And you have a plan chalked out for every day and know in advance what you’ll be doing next month, right?’
‘Right,’ she agreed, ‘but I know for a fact that most people are like that – in varying degrees. Only they don’t like to think of it in such terms, because it’s not considered “cool”.’
‘You should see
my
world!’
‘All right, come on! Show me,’ she suggested, getting up from her chair and flopping down on the other end of the low couch where he was seated.
‘I don’t believe it!’ he said, then narrowed his eyes as realization dawned. ‘For how long do you intend to take a break?’
‘Three hours or till you fall asleep, whichever is sooner,’ she said with a sheepish smile.
He shook his head despairingly. ‘I’ll take what I can get,’ he said with an exaggerated sigh. ‘In for a movie?’
He held up a polythene bag in which there was a video cassette.
‘Sure, which one?’
‘It’s a new release –
The Color of Money
. Paul Newman and Tom Cruise. A pirated version, of course, but the man swore on his mother that the print would be of good quality.’
They watched it for some time. Peter took out some bottles and cans of beer from the minibar and laid them out on the low table in front of the couch, hospitably offering a can to Susan who frowned in half jest, then opened it.
She enjoyed the movie, especially the way Paul Newman essayed his role. Then suddenly, when it was nearing the end, the cassette became grainy and then blanked out completely.
‘Damn!’ Peter exclaimed. ‘Well, he didn’t like his mother much, did he?’ he added, referring to the man who had vouched for the print’s quality.
‘It’s a real shame,’ Susan agreed.
They had both come to sit on the carpet, with their heads lolling back on the couch.
‘Don’t move,’ Peter said, getting up in one lithe move.
‘You have something more?’
‘Sure.’ He was delving into another plastic bag he had brought with him. ‘More goodies to pass the time with.’
He pulled out a small music tape and fed it into the music system. Music she hadn’t heard before, but which sounded Lebanese to her ears, filled the room. He turned up the volume. When he sat down again, she realized he was much closer. The buttons on his shirt were undone and he smelt of sweat. Sweat and the deodorant he used, with a hint of citrus.
She forced herself to take her mind off
that
and steered their conversation to business.
‘So how did your meeting go?’ she asked.