‘Just getting there was screwy,’ he told her. ‘There had been a bomb blast this morning in Khiskhawani Bazaar, just before our flight landed.’
‘Good god! That explains the security overdrive.’
‘Not really. It’s a normal thing here.’
She nodded reluctantly. It would take her some time to get used to the idea.
‘Well, my guy hasn’t heard of that place,’ Peter went on, ‘and then we met some other people who didn’t know either. But tomorrow, we’re meeting someone who might – someone from the mountains in the north.’
‘I thought we were already north?’ she asked, getting up to go to the bathroom.
‘North Afghanistan,’ he replied, his face impassive.
Behind the closed door of the bathroom, Susan reflected on the way she had set about cracking the code. She had to concede that their group enjoyed a major advantage which the original creator of the code could not have believed possible, let alone availed of: the world had been mapped, communications had developed and knowledge, shared on a global scale, was readily accessible even to the most casual armchair traveller. That was how their team had managed to come so far and they were here in Peshawar now. Susan had focused on ‘the kingdom with the remains of the Buddha’ from the matrix. Peshawar, originally, Poroshpora, had been the capital city of Gandhara founded by the Bactrian Kushan king Kanishka the First in 127
CE
. He had converted to Buddhism, laying the foundation for its dissemination in Central Asia. He would also build a huge stupa, said to be a marvel of its time, which was believed to house the reliquary of the Buddha. The stupa, in existence till as late as 634
CE
, had subsequently been razed to the ground, but a British archaeologist would come upon the reliquary, excavate it from its base and transport it to Mandalay in 1909.
And so it was that even before they arrived in Peshawar Susan could begin working on the next step, much as one did in a crossword puzzle, where, if you were sure of a word, you could ink it in, without correlating it to the ‘downs’ and ‘acrosses’. What Susan had managed to obtain of the next clue, so far, was ‘blood mountain’, though she could not quite make sense of the symbol alongside.
She forced her thoughts back to the immediate present as she washed her hands. As she emerged from her bedroom into the living room, there was a knock on the door. Peter went to open it. A waiter entered, carrying a tray with a bottle of wine and two glasses. Peter indicated that the man should put it on the table in front of the couch. ‘Dinner in an hour, please,’ he told him, handing him a ten-dollar bill.
Overcome by Peter’s generosity, the waiter salaamed profusely and left the room smiling.
‘Now when did you order that?’ Susan asked and guessed from his silence that it had been done while she was in the loo. She couldn’t resist a dig, however.
‘Expense account?’
‘I think I’ve earned it today, don’t you agree?’
‘I wish I could say that for myself.’ She made a face and pulled herself into an upright position. ‘If I get it right, then we have cracked the map.’
‘No more symbols?’
‘No, the groups of symbols arranged in rows come to a stop. The only ones that follow are the “Gate of the West”, combined with the Chinese characters for
wu
, which could mean “sorcerer” or “awakening” or something I haven’t yet got. Once through the “gate”, we should meet our Jhagun friends, which is what the letter directs us to do.’
‘Well, I sure hope you get it right. Running around the mountains of Afghanistan is not going to be fun,’ he said with a grin.
‘That’s the general idea.’
Peter filled a glass with wine and handed it to her.
‘Whatever it is,’ she commented, after taking a sip, ‘it’s very good.’
‘I wouldn’t know, really,’ Peter told her nonchalantly. ‘Not very good with wines, I’m afraid. Me, I’m a beer drinker.’ He opened another can and took a swig. ‘Room service recommended this one.’
She examined the markings on the bottle; it was a Cabernet Sauvignon from a vineyard in the Pessac-Léognan area of France.
‘Good choice,’ she remarked, looking at him carefully.
Liar! Of course he knows his wines!
He sprawled on the floor, his head resting on the couch, and she had to resist the urge to reach out and muss up his long black hair. He looked at her enquiringly.
‘Talk about something,’ she said lamely.
‘Sure,’ he said, not at all taken aback by her words. ‘What about? South America, Africa or Afghanistan?’
‘Africa,’ she replied, after giving it some thought. ‘I’ve always wanted to go there.’
He talked pleasantly about the Great Continent, about himself and where he had been. With anyone else, it might have become monotonous and boring after a while, but Peter had a way of making everything come alive – the canoeing through hippos and crocs, following the ritual migration of the chiefs on the Zambezi, the prides of lions on the Serengeti, the strange River Okawango, which flowed in both directions. He spoke of life in the bush, of malaria and tsetse flies; of the girls and the kasemba dance; of the senseless wars. And whenever the narrative bordered on the grimly serious, he would find something amusing and make her laugh. Susan remembered what Jill, her rowing mate at college, had told her about men. ‘They’re all the same, dearie – give or take an inch – but if he makes you laugh, then it’s worth your while.’
‘You really love them, don’t you?’ Susan observed, as she and Peter ate dinner.
The food had been brought up to their room and Peter had had the waiter lay it out on the table in front of them. He had insisted on eating the food using his fingers and urged Susan to do the same, shooing away the waiter who had lingered to enjoy the sight with an appreciative grin. They gorged on prawns fried in butter and rice pilau, with lamb in spicy gravy and naan which he tore into chunks and dipped in the gravy. It was like nothing Susan had ever eaten and she revelled in the rich, almost sensual flavours. The Indian food she’d had at Kohinoor in Cambridge seemed like takeaway in comparison. Only the sting of the spice, which she washed down with the wine Peter kept filling her glass with, brought tears to her eyes.
‘The girls, sure,’ Peter grinned, answering her question.
‘No,’ she replied, her tone serious, ‘the people.’
‘Yes, they truly know how to live,’ he agreed simply, ‘and they smile oftener than any other people I know. How about you? I hardly know anything about your life.’
‘Me? There’s nothing quite as exciting,’ Susan admitted. ‘Was good at books, went to Cambridge, got submerged in academia. Did some rowing.’
‘Which explains the “sweet ass”,’ he quipped, casting an exaggeratedly lecherous look at her bottom.
She elbowed him hard in the stomach and they both laughed.
‘And there was David,’ he said gently, looking straight ahead, neither meeting her gaze nor really asking.
‘Yes,’ she said simply, her voice utterly devoid of emotion, ‘there was David.’
But he felt her stiffen.
‘Okay, tell me something,’ Peter said a little too abruptly, changing the subject. ‘Why does this monk, who has written to Colonel Ashton, want to ensure that the bad guys don’t get to this sacred mountain place?’
Susan realized why he had suddenly changed tack and her eyes softened in gratitude.
‘If you believe the myths,’ she began, ‘the creation and destruction of the world are cyclical. After a certain period of time, every civilization will be destroyed in an apocalypse, only to rise again.’ She paused and took a sip of wine. ‘The Burqan Qaldun or Shambhala is a repository of the knowledge the human race will need to draw on, if it is to resurrect itself from the devastation of the apocalypse. But it must not be disturbed before their time; if it is, it will lead to anarchy, chaos and disturbance of the cosmic order.’
‘Do you believe that?’ he asked her directly.
‘I’m not sure,’ she answered truthfully, ‘but I do know that even our present human history has received many inexplicable “nudges”, pushing it up exponentially in the development curve. The most well known among these would be the pyramids. Nothing before them, in terms of architecture or engineering, was known to humankind. Then one fine day, the Egyptians start building a colossal marvel which survives five thousand years.’
‘Wow,’ Peter said in response.
They had finished eating and he cleared away the plates. She watched him lick his fingers and wipe them off on the seat of his pants. She used a napkin.
He came back and settled down beside her again. They sat, sipping their drinks, their heads resting on the couch. Suddenly, he got up, turned up the volume of the music and came back to where he was sitting.
‘It’s very good. What is it?’ she asked.
‘Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. We’ll probably hear much more of him in the West soon. It’s Sufi – mystic-music.’ She could hear the drums and the strings pick up, the tempo gaining momentum.
‘Close your eyes,’ he whispered. ‘Try thinking of something, only one single thing. After a while, try blanking out every thought from your mind.’
Her eyes closed, Susan felt him sway. She was soon lost in the music. It died away and she heard the click of the music system as the tape ended. She opened her eyes and saw Peter, his mouth very close to hers. He began softly kissing her. She started to pull away, then kissed him back. His hands were now on her shirt. She felt his fingers tugging at it. Suddenly, she pulled away from him, nicking his lips with her teeth in the process.
‘What?’ he asked, wiping his mouth, looking very young and slightly startled.
She wanted to laugh.
‘I’ve got it,’ she said.
‘Got what?’ he asked, irritated.
‘What the symbols mean,’ she answered.
She was already on her feet. She flung open the door to her room and hurried to the desk, where she began turning the pages of her books.
She found what she was looking for and said, ‘Just as I had thought, it is the pictograph for
ji
which is next to the symbols for “blood” and “mountain”. Now
ji
could mean “dustpan” or… ’ There was a dramatic pause. ‘It could mean “she” – the feminine. In other words, it’s not just “blood mountain”, but “she blood mountain”.’
‘That’s great,’ Peter said tonelessly, shaking his head.
‘You never know,’ she told him, ‘it could be important. In the world of academics, you have to get everything right.’
She looked at him as he still lay on the carpet. He tugged at her leg, but she disengaged herself.
‘You know, Peter,’ she said softly, ‘I’m sorry, but it’s not going to work.’
‘What?’
‘This whole music-wine-and-seduction thing.’
He sat up abruptly.
‘Sure,’ he said in a flat voice.
‘Listen,’ she said, her voice louder than she had meant it to be, ‘I’m thirty-six and you are, what, twenty-four?’
‘Twenty-six,’ he said softly.
But she seemed not to have heard him and went on, ‘Listen, I really need to follow this thing; and I do not, under any circumstances, want to muck it up. I can’t afford to lose focus. Perhaps you’re just being nice or want to score or whatever, but that’s not what I want. And I cannot have any distractions.’
‘I’m a distraction, am I?’
She looked into his blue eyes and said coldly, ‘Why do all you good-looking guys have to know it?’
He smiled at her and she shook her head, but with a hint of a smile.
Then she glanced at her watch. ‘Oh my god, it’s late!’ she exclaimed. ‘When are we meeting that contact of yours?’
‘At eight tomorrow morning.’ He pointed to a polythene bag he had placed on a side table. ‘I’ve picked up something for you to wear’.
She looked at him expressionlessly. ‘That’s really very nice of you,’ she responded, not knowing what else to say.
‘It’s not what you’re thinking,’ he said, breaking out in a grin. ‘I just thought it’s better that you dress “local” when we’re outside the hotel. Attracts less attention.’
‘Oh, okay. Thanks,’ she replied, feeling herself blush with embarrassment at her presumption. After a moment, she announced abruptly, ‘I think I’ll call it a night.’
She turned and went off to the bedroom, shutting the door behind her without a backward glance. He kept his gaze fixed on the door. After a while, the door swung open and she stood there in a shirt. He tried not to stare at her bare legs.
‘Peter?’
‘Uh, huh?’
‘Thank you for a wonderful evening,’ she said in a monotone.
He nodded. There was a moment of silence.
‘And,’ she added, ‘next time, don’t waste your money and effort on trying to liquor me up. Nothing comes of it, other than my stomach hurting.’
The door shut.
First base
, he thought, his eyes fixed on the closed door,
definitely, first base
.
Next morning, as they went downstairs for breakfast, Peter’s contact was sitting in the foyer, reading a newspaper. He got up and approached them the moment they came out of the lift. Vilayat Hussain was a small, portly man, dressed in a shalwar kameez with a prayer cap on his head. Though the heat of the day was yet to hit them, he was already sweating.
‘Good morning, Peter Sahib,’ he said in reasonably fluent English, then bowed to Susan and introduced himself. ‘You must be Professor Hamilton.’
‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you join us for breakfast?’
She was wearing the mauve shalwar kameez Peter had bought for her. It consisted of a long high-necked shirt and loose matching pyjama-like trousers common to both local men and women. The only difference was the dupatta, a long multi-purpose scarf that was mandatory for women and used to cover the head and bosom. Peter thought Susan looked lovely, softer and more feminine than she did in Western attire, and was happy to note that he had got the size right.
‘Thank you, I will,’ Hussain said, responding to Susan’s invitation, then turning to Peter, remarked, ‘I see that you haven’t changed. Always, you find the most charming companions.’
Susan glanced at Peter and grinned at his obvious discomfiture.
At breakfast, it was clear to her that Vilayat Hussain was well regarded in these parts. The moment they had settled at their table, two waiters and a steward hurried over, took their orders and were obsequious in their attentions. When they had withdrawn for a moment, Hussain began to speak in an undertone.