The Delhi Deception (25 page)

Soraya Khan
1948

Elouise flipped through the pages, stained and brittle with age, but saw nothing else of interest. She opened the file. It contained Harry’s birth certificate and letters written on cheap white stationary. Picking up the one on top of the pile, Elouise read the date in scrawled handwriting as July 2007. They had arrived back in Delhi that January. She skimmed the dates on the other letters and saw that they ranged from July 2007 to the latest, which was dated three months earlier. The handwriting was the same on all of them.

Picking up the latest one, she was about to start reading it when she heard her phone ring. In a panic she put the book and file back in the drawer, locking it and hiding the key back in its compartment. Then she placed it back on the self. Sprinting back to bed, she dived under the covers, feigning sleep. Beads of perspiration formed on her forehead, and her pulse was racing.

“Elouise?” Carla called out softly.

She sat up and said, “Carla, come in.”

Carla entered quickly, walking toward Elouise and whispered, “Sorry, I pressed the speed dial by mistake.”

“You idiot,” Elouise said, laughing. “I almost had a heart attack.”

“Did you find anything?”

“Yes, some letters and a Koran.”

“Let me see.”

“I put them back; I thought Harry was here,” Elouise said with an exasperated tone.

“Where did you find them?”

“They were locked in his desk’s bottom drawer.”

“And the key?”

Elouise smiled. “I happened to see Harry last night hiding it in a compartment of a book which he kept on his bookshelf.”

Carla laughed softly. “Wow, good work.”

“What should I do?”

“Scan them with your iPhone. You have that application, don’t you?”

“Of course, good idea. Now go back to the veranda and don’t dial by mistake again—my heart won’t survive it.”

Feeling more composed this time around, Elouise unlocked the drawer, scanned the letters, and wrote down the name inscribed in the Koran on a Post-it. She was careful to keep the letters in the same order. As she locked the drawer and returned the key to its hiding place, she sighed with audible relief. Hiding the phone in her pocket, she walked to the veranda where Carla was sitting in a plantation chair reading the
Indian Times
.

“Done?” Carla asked.

Elouise nodded. “Can we download it onto your computer? I don’t want Harry to find it on my phone.”

“Yes, let’s go to my room.”

Elouise was amused when Carla took out her laptop, which was locked into her suitcase. “You’re not bad as an amateur spy.”

Smiling, Carla said, “Don’t give me any encouragement. I have no intention of giving up my cushy job at CNN for this.”

“Did you lock the door?” Elouise asked, concerned.

“Yes. Should we read it here, or do you want to go somewhere else?”

“I think it’s fine. Harry won’t come in here.” Looking at the letters on the screen, Elouise asked, “Should we read them from the earliest date?”

“OK,” Carla replied, opening the scans and placing them in order.

The first letter was dated July 2, 2007. It read:

Salaam aleikum,

How happy I am on this day by God’s grace to write to you. The weather is too hot, and the electricity is not enough to keep the air-conditioners running. Many of the patients are exhibiting short tempers and fits of rage. Your mother is her usual self, quiet and dignified. She is singing in her sweet voice to many of the really sick patients, and they are responding so well to her.

God willing you will be reunited soon.

Dr. Yunis Malik

Elouise looked at Carla and said, “I’m so confused. His mother and father died in 2006 in a car accident in Kashmir.”

“Are we sure this is addressed to Harry? It only says ‘salaam aleikum,’ and I don’t see any envelopes.”

“You’re right. Let’s see what the others say.” Elouise scanned through them. “No, the same ‘salaam aleikum’ on all of them.”

“Go on, read them all. There must be some clue as to whom these letters are addressed to.”

Elouise started reading aloud for Carla’s benefit. Her voice was quavering. They were all written by Dr. Malik and more or less identical except for small details. “The woman he refers to as the mother appears to be a patient, but not as sick as the others, as she is asked to help control some of the more infirm,” Elouise explained.

“That’s it?” Carla asked.

Elouise replied with a puzzled expression, “Yes, and of course the old Koran belonging to a Soraya Khan.”

“Does any of this make any sense to you?” Carla asked, studying the letters on her laptop.

Elouise shook her head, lay down and sighed. “No, it doesn’t make any sense.”

Carla saved the scans and locked her computer back into her suitcase. “Now what?”

Elouise was staring at the ceiling fan whirling noisily. “I don’t understand. If those letters are addressed to Harry, then it means he has another mother. As far as I know, the only mother he knew died in a car crash along with his father in 2006.”

“Maybe those letters belong to some of the girls who were—” Carla stopped, looked guiltily at Elouise, and said, “Possibly…maybe?”

Elouise felt a sense of outrage, her face draining of color. Carla must have noticed this and said quickly, “Elouise, I understand.” She leaned toward her friend and took her hand, stroking it gently. “We have to be objective. It’s hard for me to imagine that George feels nothing for me and only used me to get close to Harry. My heart denies it, but facts are facts. I have to face it.”

Tears streamed down Elouise’s face, and then she started sobbing. Her hands covered her face as she cried. Carla held her tightly until her sobbing subsided.

Elouise smiled wanly and whispered, “Sorry.” She went to the bathroom, where she blew her nose loudly and washed her face with cold water. She addressed her tragic face in the mirror, “C’mon girl. Let’s get to the bottom of this. You owe it to Carla and all those other girls.”

Carla smiled with relief when Elouise came back into the room. “Are you feeling better?”

“Thanks, I suppose I needed a good cry.” Elouise sat down on the edge of the bed and said, “I have an idea. I’m going to visit an old relative of Harry’s. She’s pretty old and sickly, but hopefully she can give me some insight into Harry’s family.”

“Good idea. What should I do?”

“I think you should act normally. Spend some time with Andrew. Maybe you guys can work things out.”

Elouise walked to the door as Carla asked, “Are you going now?”

“Yes. If you’re still here when Harry returns, tell him I drove myself to the doctor and left the driver for you.”

“OK, good luck.” But Carla sounded concerned.

.

CHAPTER 18

T
he young Caltech graduate who had been sent for the post of assistant researcher at BABA smiled without a trace of embarrassment as he asked Harry for some scotch tape to fix his black-rimmed spectacles, which had cracked on the flight from Los Angeles. He was wearing a pair of aviator sunglasses on top of his spectacles when he arrived in the black and yellow Ambassador taxi. Harry was amused by the geekiness of this highly recommended academic.

Elouise used to tease Harry about his nerdy appearance and was met with very little resistance from his side when she insisted on the ultimate makeover. Contact lenses, sports jackets from Ralph Lauren, and Todd’s loafers qualified him as the most stylish professor at Caltech. Harry smiled wistfully, remembering the makeover as he continued interviewing the candidate. When his phone rang, he ignored it until it stopped. But when it rang the second time, he glanced at it and picked it up, apologizing to the young man. He answered the call, got up, and walked toward the window, turning his back on the visitor.

“Salaam aleikum,” said the voice on the crackled telephone line.

Breathing deeply, Harry replied in English, “Good morning, Doctor.”

The doctor coughed and said, “I have some bad news. She had an attack. It is bad. I’m not sure she’ll recover from this one.”

Harry felt the color drain from his face; his legs were heavy. He needed to sit. “What can I do?”

“You need to come here. She wants to see you. There is a science conference in Lahore. It shouldn’t be a problem to get access into the country. You still have your visa from last time?”

“Yes.” Harry was beginning to sweat.

“We hope to see you soon. God be with you. Oh, I almost forgot, my wife would be so happy if you could pick up some green and white silk from Aabhas.” He dropped the connection.

Sitting down at his desk, Harry said, “Sorry about that,” and continued his interview, but he couldn’t concentrate. After a few minutes he said, “I’m so sorry, but I have an emergency. I’ll get my secretary to reschedule.”

“No problem,” the young man said, smiling happily in his scotch-tape-repaired spectacles. He got into the waiting taxi and waved. Harry laughed softly, shaking his head, and returned to his office, asking his secretary to meet him there. Pencil poised, Tahir sat down and looked up.

“I need you to book me a flight to Lahore this evening.”

“On Emirates, sir?”

Harry sighed and said, “Yes, I don’t have much choice. I have to go through the Middle East, as there are no direct flights between Pakistan and India.”

“What about the train?” Tahir asked; his eyes were hopeful.

“I thought they stopped the Samjhauta Express between Delhi and Lahore after the bombing in 2007.”

“Yes, but one can still take a train to the Indian border town of Attari and then change to a Pakistani train at Wagah.”

“I suppose, but I’d rather just get there by air. What if the border post decides to strike or something? See if you can get me out on Emirates tonight on the 9:40 flight. I should have enough miles for an upgrade.”

Harry watched Tahir hurry to his desk and phone the Emirates office.

When Harry got home, Kishan told him that Elouise had gone to the doctor. He called her at once, but her phone was switched off. In an irritated tone, he asked Kishan to pack an overnight bag for him. After packing, Kishan served Harry lunch in his study. Harry continued working for another hour, and then he called his driver to take him to Lajpat Nagar. He went into a ladies’ fabric store and told the driver in the meantime to buy some traditional sweets from Haldirams; he’d wait for him at the fabric store.

Once inside he asked for Aabhas. The middle-aged shop owner walked toward him with a slight limp. He smiled warmly and said, “Mr. Singh, welcome to my shop. What can I help you with?”

“I am looking for some embroidered silk fabric.”

“Any particular color?”

“Green. Green and white.”

“I have many such lovely fabrics, but for you I have a special piece.” Aabhas nodded his head at the young assistant, who scurried off to the back of the shop, returning with a dark, mottled green piece of silk fabric. Aabhas smiled and opened the fabric on the cotton sheeting that covered the floor. Intricate white embroidery filled most of it.

“That’s perfect. How much do I owe you for this?” Harry said, taking out his wallet.

Suddenly looking coy, Aabhas said, “Many months of embroidery. The whole piece in hand embroidery, but I will only charge you two thousand rupees. A very special price for my good customer.”

Harry counted out the cash and handed it to him. It disappeared into Aabhas’s pocket, and within minutes the assistant presented the parcel to Harry, wrapped in gray paper and tied with faded red string.

Harry waited in between the parked cars and motorcycles on the side of the road, marveling at the fact that very few accidents actually occurred in the congested traffic. At last he saw his jeep inching forward on the opposite side of the road. He walked through the traffic and jumped into his car without the driver bringing it to a complete standstill. The sweets were stacked on the seat next to him in neat boxes. Harry told him to return home.

It took them almost an hour to reach home in the afternoon traffic. On the way, Elouise called, and he told her that he was leaving on business that same evening. She asked if he wanted a quick snack before leaving for the airport, which he refused.