The Delhi Deception (4 page)

She breathed a sigh of relief as she finally sank into her window seat. Droplets of perspiration had formed on her brow. Using the towel given to her by the flight attendant, Carla wiped her face and then sat back, closing her eyes. The anticipation of surprising Andrew made her smile. She tried to ignore the slight, uncomfortable flutter in her stomach.

After almost fifteen hours of traveling, including her three-hour stop in Dubai, Carla had lost some of her exuberance. Thoughts that Andrew could have left Peshawar troubled her, and she regretted not calling him first. The chaos at the airport did not give her a chance to dwell on these thoughts—she had to keep her wits about her to fight off all the pushy porters and taxi drivers. She called to an elderly taxi driver, who was smoking calmly and not vying for her attention, and they set off for the Pearl-Continental hotel. This was the only decent five-star hotel in Peshawar, according to Andrew.

When they reached the hotel, Carla was relieved to see Andrew’s name on the hotel register, but the receptionist did not want to give her the key, as she had no proof of her marriage to Andrew. Carla always traveled to South Africa on her South African passport, which was under her maiden name. Not wanting to spoil the surprise, she decided against calling him on his satellite phone and waited in the coffee shop.

On the table lay a brochure advertising the reopening of the hotel following the terrorist attack in June 2009. She shivered as she read about the Abdullah Azzam Shaheed Brigade claiming responsibility for the attack, which had left the hotel almost completely destroyed. Carla drank her tea in one gulp, scalding her tongue. Her mind was distracted: she worried so much for Andrew in such an unstable country, conducting the type of investigative journalism he did.

By early evening Andrew had still not returned, so she went to her bedroom and lay down to rest. When she woke up it was almost midnight; in a panic she rushed downstairs to reception to enquire after him. A young, rather inexperienced-looking girl had replaced the receptionist of earlier that day.

One corner of Carla’s mouth lifted mischievously; she had an idea. She walked toward the desk, searching frantically through her purse. Then, sighing dramatically, she said, “I think I lost my keys in the market. Those little kids were hassling me for money, and my key must’ve fallen out when I searched for small change in my bag.”

The girl smiled sweetly. “Those kids are such a nuisance. Madam should not give money. This is making the problem worse.”

“Of course, you’re right. Thank you, I will certainly take your advice. I am Mrs. Andrew Riseborough.”

“Just a minute,” said the girl, and peered at the computer screen. She jotted down the room number and provided a new key with the room number on the little billfold. Carla thanked her and walked away, smiling smugly.

As she stepped out of the lift on the second floor, she realized how much she had missed Andrew.
I’ll kiss him gently on his eyes to wake him
, she decided as she swiped the key through the door lock.

The bedside light was on, but it took a few seconds for Carla’s eyes to adjust to the dimness of the room. The urgent movement and whispers under the crisp white cotton sheets confused her, and she realized she must have entered the wrong room. She turned around and made for the door, but bumped over a floor lamp, which went crashing onto the marble floor.

Scarlet with embarrassment, she turned her head to apologize, and then she froze. As though in slow motion, she saw Andrew gently pushing aside a slim, dark-haired woman, golden nakedness against his fair chest. At first the golden body had no face, but suddenly it came into focus: the beautiful features of the Parisian-born, Lebanese colleague of Andrew’s… Leila. Carla felt that she had been punched in the midriff.

She ran out of the room and stumbled into the lift. She pressed the button for her floor, but forgot to get out. The lift went down to ground level, and she tripped out. The lobby was empty, and the receptionist, who looked like she was gossiping on the phone, gave her a curious glance. In a daze, Carla walked toward her and asked for the bill for her room. Without checking it, Carla handed her an American Express card and signed it. The receptionist asked her if she needed help with her luggage. This galvanized Carla into action and she said, “No thanks, but please order me a taxi for the airport.” She went to her room half hoping, half dreading that Andrew would find her, but the corridor was empty. She collected her suitcase and went back to the lobby, scanning it for Andrew, but he wasn’t there.

She walked to the waiting taxi at the entrance to the hotel; she wouldn’t let herself cry in front of strangers. Nodding politely at the taxi driver, she slumped down in the back seat and heard a voice that sounded like it was coming from a great distance asking, “Which airline?”

Somehow she managed to say, “I’m not sure, drop me anywhere, I’ll find it.”

He looked at her strangely in the rearview mirror, shrugged, and started winding his way through the quiet streets to the airport.

The airport was almost deserted, and with a groan Carla watched the last flight for Lahore taxiing down the runway for departure. The next flight was eight hours later. As she sat down on a metal bench, her phone rang. It was Andrew, but she ignored the call and switched off the phone. She had a bitter taste in her mouth and hoped she wasn’t going to be sick.

She stood up abruptly and walked to the self-service coffee dispenser. A couple of Americans dressed in flak jackets were hovering and conversing genially around the machine. She had to ask them quite loudly to move. One of them, a curly-haired, blond giant of a man, looked at her in surprise and said, “Hey, Carla, what are you doing here?”

Frowning, she looked up at him, recognizing him as a CNN cameraman. “Todd. What are
you
doing here?”

“We’re working on a story. This is Evan Robertson, a freelance journalist temporarily in CNN’s employ,” he said, and then introduced Carla.

“Where to now?” Carla asked.

“We have a chartered eight-seater to Delhi. Evan is stationed in India, and boy, he’s well connected. We have permission to fly straight over Indian air space and land at the international airport in Delhi. Where are you going?”

“Delhi, but I’m afraid I missed the last flight to Lahore, so now I’ll have to wait.”

Todd turned toward his friend. “Hey, Evan, do you think we have space for another passenger to Delhi?”

Evan, who had walked away and was talking urgently into his mobile phone, looked up and smiled. “Sure, but does she have credentials?”

Carla searched her purse and showed them her press badge.

“Cool, you can bunk up with me,” Todd said casually, but perhaps a little too quickly.

Carla laughed. “It’s OK. My best friend from college lives there. I’m staying with her. I’ll just give her a quick call to tell her I’m on my way.”

Todd blushed. “Sure, take your time. We’re not taking off for another couple of hours.”

The Cessna 441 waiting on the runway was battered, and evidence of bullet holes near the tail end made Carla waver. She stopped and studied the aircraft with a dubious expression. Todd noticed and pushed her gently toward it. “Don’t worry. This girl just looks a little rough on the outside. Believe me, she’ll give you a ride as smooth as butter.”

With a raised eyebrow, Carla decided anything was better than sitting on those cold metal benches for another eight hours. “Of course, you’re right. Who’s the pilot?”

Todd looked behind her and pointed to a long-haired man dressed in jeans and a shabby, khaki Afghanka jacket, the type worn by the Russian soldiers during their Afghan war. He walked past Carla and with a mock salute greeted her in Russian. Carla looked at Todd in despair, but he smiled and said, “Vladimir is the best pilot ever to come out of Mother Russia.”

A couple of Afghans dressed in Pathani suits lifted heavy camera equipment into the plane. A Pakistani official checked all the metal suitcases and ticked off the items from the list he was holding.

“I hope we don’t overload it,” Carla said, but Todd laughed heartily and helped her inside the aircraft. The leather seats were tatty and dirty, but Carla didn’t notice; she was too busy watching a Pakistani airport mechanic sticking his fingers through the bulletholes and laughing loudly.

When all the passengers were onboard, Evan passed her a bottle of Russian vodka wrapped in a paper bag. She was about to refuse, but changed her mind when she heard the shrieking whine from the engine. Much to the surprise and delight of her fellow passengers, Carla tipped her head back and took a massive swig from the bottle. Vladimir got the plane off the ground without any hitches, and Carla felt herself relaxing. Her lids were heavy, and she fell asleep within the first five minutes of being airborne.

Elouise Singh replaced the phone on the charger next to her bed and smiled. Harry sighed and turned onto his side on the king-size bed. “Does Carla not realize it’s not very polite to call at such an ungodly hour?”

Elouise frowned at her husband. “Don’t be such a grouch. Poor Carla’s in a state. She’s at the Peshawar airport and will be flying into Delhi in a couple of hours.”

“What on earth is she doing in Peshawar?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter?”

With a grunt he turned the other way and went back to sleep. Elouise switched off the bedside lamp, but couldn’t go back to sleep. She was so excited to see Carla and realized it had been more than five years since they had last seen one another. Carla hadn’t said much on the phone, but Elouise knew something was amiss. In her mind she started organizing the guest bedroom, making a mental note to tell the driver to pick up some decent gin from the bootlegger.

An immigration official and airport security met the Cessna on the runway. The official checked Carla’s visa and welcomed her to Delhi. His smile, wide and genuine, somehow reassured her. Todd gave her a hug and told her to call him. She said she would and then she thanked Evan and Vladimir for the flight. She waved good-bye and walked out of the Delhi airport arrivals lounge. The morning was already hot and a cloud of pollution hung over the city. A thick layer of dust blanketed everything, even the large, heart-shaped leaves of the peepal trees, normally a vivid green, now a dull khaki like that of desert army fatigues.

And then the anticipated smell of India: exotic spices trying their best to mask the stench of excrement, body odor, decaying flesh and vegetation. Spiraling wafts of smoky-scented incense and the sight of welcoming parties, drivers, and coolies greeted her as she waded through the chaos.

Carla scanned the faces of the crowd. Some were standing behind a metal railing, controlled by a fierce policeman in a drab brown uniform, carrying an ancient-looking rifle. A young man peered anxiously at her. Having caught her attention, he pointed to a cardboard sign with her name on it in bold red script.

“Mrs. Carla Gill?”

Carla nodded her head and walked toward him, where she was rewarded with a wide smile.

“I am Om Prakash, being the most devoted driver of your very best friend, Madam Elouise Parker Singh. I have been instructed to pick you up and convey you safely to her residence in Delhi.”