Authors: Rafael
Fading
music presaged the umpire positioning himself center-arena. Held before them
with both hands, sword points down, the fighters approached and bowed. With an
open hand, the umpire pointed to one. “Ready, black?” The fighter flipped his
sword up, saluted and took his stance. “Ready, red?” The swordsman followed
suit. “Fight.”
The
two circled clockwise and counterclockwise with careful, deliberate steps
intended to maintain stability and balance. Shifting in and out of guards they
presented one another with ever changing fronts. Face riveted, Nisha leaned
toward Nicholas. “Each stance favors certain thrusts, strikes, or cuts.
Likewise, each stance has a counterpoint favoring certain blocks and parries. A
moment’s hesitation or confusion will create an opening a master can exploit.”
Red
powered a forward thrust. Black twisted his torso sideways then stepped in with
a thrust of his own. Clang, clang, clang. Strike, block, move. Strike, block,
move. Flashing metal gleamed between them like two dancers engaged in a
balletic pas de deux. Blades locked, strength against strength, they grappled
and strained not to release with a vulnerable opening.
Gaining
leverage, Red heaved hard enough for a grunt to echo throughout. Black stumbled
two steps before momentum toppled him backward. Red sensed his opening. So did
the audience. A collective ooh filled the theater. Everyone leaned forward.
Red’s sword arced downward intent on slicing across his opponent’s torso. Left
arm stiffened to arrest his fall, Black used it to swivel low beneath the blow,
spin around behind it, and emerge with a crouched thrust that stopped midway
beneath Red’s third and fourth rib. Had it continued, the blade would have
severed major organs.
A
roar burst from the crowd as they thundered applause and shouted huzzahs. The
fighters removed their helmets to embrace with genuine warmth and smiles. They
faced the audience, delivered synchronized salutes, and exited the arena to
sustained ovation. The noise died down but not the excited murmurs as everyone
marveled at the skill and athleticism displayed. Inside his jacket pocket
Nicholas’ communicator began to vibrate. Jithu Ong’s face filled the display.
Koh lowered his voice.
“I
can’t talk much, go ahead.” Bloodless and detached, Jithu did.
“The
Maldives operation failed. Four are in CIA custody, the rest are dead. The
subcontractor who sent them is certain they’ll talk and expose him. He’s
demanding compensation or he’ll talk too.”
“What
about McKenzie?”
“He
hijacked a boat then wrecked on a reef. Witnesses speculate he drowned but I
won’t make that assumption.”
“And
the scientists?”
“We
traced them to an empty factory space in Chandrapur. I’ve got good people
tracking their present whereabouts.”
“Contact
the subcontractor. Tell him you wish to arrange compensation. It must be
final.”
“I
understand, Mr. Koh.” Nicholas disconnected.
He
paid no attention to the greeter announcing the next bout which featured a
classic fencing duel. An emotional boiler had reignited causing his neck, his
ears, his face to burn red. He longed for a life that proceeded on an even
keel—calm, predictable, without drama or theater. A life that did not bounce
from one anxiety to the next without respite or reprieve. Jealous of a day
filled with festive revelry and joyful diversion, it had turned vindictive and
again smeared him with worry and fret.
Theater
lights glinted off dancing epées as the fencers’ speed made the blades whistle.
Though he could have anything in the world anytime he wanted it, nothing
permitted him to reduce its problems to a single focal point. No level of
concentration framed it within mindless reflex. On and on it came—relentless,
unforgiving. Only death permitted release.
From
deep within an accusatory voice rose. You lead a Godless life, Nicholas Koh.
How dare you ask for peace? He stared hard at the floor. The faces of
spiritual, community, societal leaders frowned at him, all asking the same
question. Nicholas looked up at the announcer blaring something about the next
bout.
His
parents had raised him Christian but he hadn’t remained one. For him, the
finger-wagging by all the hypocrites had lessened with each revelation of
abuse, theft, influence-peddling and graft acceptance. But an insight became
the tipping point. He found the concept of a divine being with a pathological
need to be worshipped the height of absurdity. It reduced their God to a petty
despot demanding his subjects offer fealty on bended knee.
Fate
had played a larger role in his life than any God. What else explained an
obscure, unconnected scientist offering him the single greatest discovery in
history? And then losing it through a conniving woman, whose name he no longer
remembered, to a man who twenty years earlier had been a child paramour? Fate,
not God, had him in its grip. It tested him. Sought to weaken him with doubt.
Resolve would win the day—or death’s release.
“Did
you lose interest, Mr. Koh?”
“No,
no. Life’s problems have this unwanted ability to dilute life’s pleasures.” He
turned to face Nisha. “I have an assignment for you, Madam Saha.”
“Bonsoir
Mesdames, bonsoir Messieurs. Guten abend meine Damen und Herren. Welcome ladies
and gentlemen to the evening’s featured match. In the red corner, fighting
under the banner of the Cremona, Italy School of Martial Swords and champion of
the Eastern Swordsmen Alliance, I present to you, dear members of our Society,
Giscard Malveaux.”
A
roar burst from the crowd and as one they rose to provide loud and sustained
applause. Not the wild whooping and hollering so beloved at sports events,
although a few supportive shouts did rise above the din, but an ovation that
conveyed deep respect. From stage left a man emerged nude from the waist up
wearing black tights and flexible rubber-soled flats. His chiseled, lithe but
muscular frame belonged to a superbly conditioned athlete. Thick, wavy, brown
hair spilled over his ears and framed piercing blue eyes that did not dart or
flick.
“And
in the black corner, from the Wurzburg, Germany School of Martial Swordsmanship
and champion of the North Europe League of Medieval Combat, I present to you,
dear members of our Society, Dieter Gerhardt.”
The
still-standing theater erupted in thunderous applause. Cries of love and
support rained down and washed over the arena. The crowd favorite emerged from
stage right clad in identical dress to his opponent. Dark hair cropped short
and unshaven face offset clear, crystalline grey eyes that sparkled and shone.
A sharp jaw line and chiseled cheeks defined Teutonic beauty. The adulation
intensified. He marched toward a spot that placed the greeter between him and
the Frenchman. The two bowed to the audience then marched to their respective
corners while the greeter waited for the applause to dim.
Silence
enveloped the theater, a contrast so stark it formed its own presence. Coughs,
clinks, creaks pinged the still air. Muffled whispers vented coiled tension.
Fascinated, Nicholas inched closer to the seat’s edge. One fighter had no
future. His life span measured less than an hour. He sought their eyes for some
glimmer, some hint what might be occupying their thoughts.
With
calm detachment both inspected their weapons while listening to their coaches’
instructions. Neither fret nor worry creased their expressions. As if death’s
ardor had soothed their souls.
The
greeter’s call pierced the hush. “Fighters to the arena.” The Frenchman nodded
to his team and strode into the spotlight. Dieter paused to look each team
member in the eye. None spoke. He lingered over his coach. A slight smile
escaped. He whirled and marched out.
The
greeter stood with outstretched arms, an open hand pointed to each fighter. He
motioned with a short, upward thrust. The fighters snapped their swords to the
vertical then a downward diagonal in salute. “Ready Black? Ready Red? Fight!”
Giscard
rushed forward with a determined onslaught. The deepened silence echoed the
clash and clang of swords. On and on he came, pressing the attack. Quick cuts,
sharp stabs, arcing blows punctuated an offense made possible by a lighter
blade that required only a one-handed grip. Careful, deliberate steps not to
entangle his feet marked Black’s retreat. Deft, efficient parries blocked Red’s
thrusts. Nisha leaned closer.
“Black
employs an Alber or Fool’s Guard. Its open appearance invites fool’s to rush in
but provides a near impenetrable defense. Red gambles his superior speed will
force a mistake. Conditioning will become a factor. Red expends energy. Black
conserves his.”
The
fighters became a balletic duo locked in a death dance. Each turn, twist, bob,
and weave mirrored the other. Move, countermove, move countermove blurred with
withering speed. Beautifully executed sequences blocked strikes anticipated
three steps before. Oohs and aahs belched from the crowd as the combatants
flowed in and out of the guards that presaged another flurry. Swords flashed
and glinted, dotting the arena with brilliant points of light.
With
his adrenaline dissipated, the Frenchman slowed, his movements and attacks
became more measured. Nisha’s prediction began to manifest. The crowd sensed
the tide turn. Black played a position game forcing Red into corners, making
him run and escape, dodge and evade, expend more energy. The escape and evade
pattern continued. But Giscard remained a master to reckon with.
He
feinted another dodge to escape and Black bit. Red thrust behind Black’s cutoff
and would have delivered a killing strike if Black, displaying phenomenal
balance, had not twisted at the last moment. Nonetheless, Giscard’s rapier slid
along his side opening a gash down to the ribs. The theater gasped and rose to
its feet, sensing the moment. For an instant Nicholas felt the Coliseum’s
bloodlust, saw the gladiators in the arena.
Blood
pouring down his side, Dieter’s expression remained stoic. The air stilled and
the tension thickened. A phone began to ring. Giscard continued to evade
knowing each passing second would weaken his foe. The ringing persisted. A
horrified Nicholas scrambled to extract his communicator. Angry eyes turned and
glared, hissed for quiet and cursed his stupidity.
Ignoring
the burning pain searing his side, Dieter pressed the attack. His longsword
clanged against the rapier. Clanged and clanged again. The arm-numbing blows
began to take their toll. Nicholas’ hand closed around the phone, yanked it
out. Nothing he pressed or tapped stopped the ringing. An enraged murmur rose
around him.
With
a tremendous blow, Dieter’s sword traveled along the rapier’s length and
snapped off the metal guard that formed a cage around Giscard’s hand. The blade
continued cutting deep into the Frenchman’s arm. “Ohh!” As one, the crowd again
rose. Nicholas frantically tried to open the case and remove the battery. His
eyes bulged at the image slowly rolling up the display.
With
a weakened sword arm and no cross guard, Giscard no longer attempted direct
blocks but skillfully angled his sword to deflect blows away from him. Dieter
slashed along the horizontal catching Giscard’s slowing rapier flush, flinging
it from his blood-soaked, near-numb fingers. Reflex transitioned Dieter into a
Roof guard from which he delivered a classic Schielhau. His longsword plunged
into and through Giscard’s neck. A swift withdrawal and the Frenchman’s eyes
rolled upward before he dropped where he stood, dead before hitting the ground.
Nicholas’
phone stopped ringing. Dead silence gripped the theater. Giscard’s legs lay
twisted beneath his crumpled body. A spasm shook it once. Blood seeped into a
growing pool. Janesh’s bare-chested image filled the display. Over it, a
message sharpened into view. “You failed again, Nicholas. Our next meet will be
your last failure.”
Singh tapped the screen confirming table 19’s reservation. The
waiter acknowledged and he looked up at the young couple. “Welcome to Chatur.
Do you prefer traditional menus or mats?”
“Mats.” they smiled. He returned their smiles along with two
wafer-thin roll-ups that unfurled into place mats displaying vivid menu images
and linked directly into the restaurant’s ordering system.
“You’ll find a red button on the upper right corner labeled
‘Maitre d’’. Do not hesitate to tap it should you require my immediate
assistance. Please follow me.” Singh led them through the entrance to their
waiting server. “This is Chandru, your waiter for the evening. Enjoy yourselves
and the meal.”
The restaurant had thinned out after the opening rush and wouldn’t
refill until the theaters, concerts and recitals let out. He scanned the room
for anything amiss, acknowledged the smiles of a few regulars, hurried to the
station when his ear piece pinged the elevator’s arrival.
A statuesque beauty emerged, her waist-length hair wafted and
waved as she strolled the hallway’s length. Flawless skin glowed beneath
minimal makeup. Lined, dark mascara beneath slender, arched brows gave her a
classic Egyptian appearance. Intense, penetrating, black eyes missed no detail
as her long shapely legs, flowing from summer shorts, closed the distance.
Singh leaned on his years of professional service to remain impassive against
her raw sexuality. “Good evening, Madame. Welcome to Chatur.” A warm, sincere
smile brightened her face.
“My name is Nisha Saha. I have an 8:30 reservation.” Singh tapped
the screen.
“That is correct, Madame Saha. Table 17. Dinner for…” he looked
up, “one?” Her smile widened.
“Yes. Just for me. And may I ask a small favor?”
“Of course, Madame.”
“Would you ask Chatur if he could join me for dessert? I know he’s
busy. I’ll only need a few minutes.”
“I’ll convey your request, Madame. If you’ll follow me please.”
Singh had to seat a few more arrivals before he could ping the
monitor above Chatur’s station. The master chef did not look up as he garnished
a line of entrees. Behind him white-jacketed men and women scurried to and fro.
“Yes, Singh?”
“A Nisha Saha asked that you join her for dessert. Table 17.”
Chatur paused to look up at an adjoining monitor.
“I do not know a Nisha Saha but her beauty is quite recognizable.”
He turned toward Singh’s monitor. “Is she dining alone?”
“Yes, she is.”
Chatur grinned. “Ah. Self-confidence does indeed enhance a woman’s
allure. What do the Americans say, curiosity killed the cat? How fortunate I’m
not a cat.” He resumed his duties distracted but mulled possible responses.
“Ask her waitress to inform the lady it would be my pleasure.”
Forty
minutes later Chatur emerged from the kitchen, pausing along his route toward
Table 17 to acknowledge customers, friends, and avid foodies. His head gave a
slight bow. “Good evening, Madame. I am Chatur and have never refused an
invitation for dessert.” Her smile brightened the subdued lights.
“I
love consistent men. Especially those who call me Nisha.” Chatur took the seat
her extended hand offered.
“Did
you enjoy dinner?”
“I
can offer nothing by way of criticism, only praise. It was delightful. Such a
joy when reality matches expectation. T
he tandoori
shrimp fell from heaven.”
“Kindness exceeded only by beauty. I am in the heaven the shrimp
fell from.” Nisha’s heartfelt laugh made her eyes sparkle and glint.
“I’ll take the kindness. Beauty is so fleeting.”
“Since I have none, your words give me hope. What brings you to
Chandrapur? Perhaps I can show you its more interesting pleasures?”
Before she could respond the waitress arrived with the dessert
cart. They both agreed on a c
oconut crème caramel sorbet in a piña colada style,
coffee for her, espresso for him. Nisha’s steady gaze gave no hint how well she
lied.
“I’m
looking for Janesh McKenzie. We met some years ago when I booked one of his
tiger safaris. We shared some interesting…” she lowered her eyes, “moments, but
lost touch when I returned to Jodhpur. I’m on holiday and local friends told me
the city’s most famous chef is a friend of the
Mahān
Śikārī.”
“I should have known. The bitter disappointments that man has caused
me will shorten my life.” Her smile turned coquettish.
“There
is hope. Perhaps he won’t remember me.”
“Oh,
it springs eternal. I will pray Vishnu accelerates his creeping Alzheimer’s.”
Nisha
laughed but stopped abruptly. Two men approached from behind Chatur. They
flashed police badges then grabbed chairs from an adjoining table to seat
themselves. Nisha remained calm. So did Chatur. “Good evening, gentlemen. Did
you solve the case surrounding Ekani’s murder? Or are you just hungry?” One
leered at Nisha, the other turned toward Chatur.
“You’ve
been withholding information, Chatur. That tends to make solving cases more
difficult and me very suspicious. Why is it every time something suspicious
happens in Chandrapur you’re lurking nearby?”
They’re
fishing, Chatur thought. If he could goad them just enough maybe they’d reveal
for what. “It is my fate. That and having to endure rude policemen impose on my
dear guests.”
“Who
was in the house when the victim stumbled in?”
“Renters.”
Nisha sat expressionless.
“I
understand they were scientists on a special assignment.”
“They
may have been. I’m not in the habit of asking renters their career goals.”
“Why
were you there?”
“The
rental period had expired. I needed to make sure there was no reason to retain
their deposit.”
“They
met every day in an empty factory floor rented by you.”
“Again,
they pay their rent I don’t ask their business. All this is in my prior
statement. Would you like me to call my lawyer and have him read it back to
you?” The other stopped ogling long enough to join in.
“They
left in a caravan filled with camping gear. Where were they going?”
So,
the police had been digging hard. He and his communications had to be under
surveillance. They hoped he’d panic and lead them to the group. What else did they
know?
“Well,
I’m not a detective you understand. But if they had camping gear, I would take
a look at the local camp sites. If you hurry you might capture them taking
nature walks.”
“
Ekani
Jayaraman was a good friend of Janesh McKenzie. Where is he?” Nisha remained
expressionless but her eyes fell on Chatur.
“He’s
out of town.”
“Come,
come, Chatur. Everyone knows how close you two are. McKenzie’s associate is
shot to death and he’s not here? Where is he?”
“I’m
not sure exactly.”
“What
about generally?”
“I’m
sure he’s on Earth.” They both stared at him.
Chatur
took the initiative. Time to give them pause, show he too had sources. Perhaps
allow his side a little breathing room. “You’re on the wrong track. Find the
woman who shot Ekani’s killers and you’ll solve this case. For policemen of
your caliber, she shouldn’t be too hard to find in India. She was last seen
wearing a sari.”
They
both stood. Neither bothered to return the chairs. The letch leered once more
before turning away. “You lead a charmed life, Chatur. But like all the others,
you’ll make a mistake.” The two walked away without another word or look. Nisha
returned her gaze to Chatur. A Cheshire grin grew.
“Does
an arch criminal hide behind a master chef?”
“I
categorically deny it.”
“Why
did you goad them? Nothing good can come of that.” Chatur shrugged.
“Policemen
are good at catching those who break the law. They’re hopeless against those
who go around it.”
“Is
that what you do, go around the law?” Chatur returned her grin.
“I
categorically deny it.”
“And
I take it you don’t know
exactly
where Janesh McKenzie is?” His grin
widened.
“Not
exactly
, no.
Nisha
reached inside her bag, brushed against a silenced .22. The thought had crossed
her mind she might have to kill the two officers. She felt relieved no one had
connected or recognized her. She killed for money not lust. Makeup case in
hand, she checked her face then reapplied lipstick. The “renters” had to be the
science group Nicholas searched for. If so, Miranda Logan had to be among them.
If the police had learned about the camping gear so could she. Its type and
amount would point toward a likely destination. If she located Miranda Logan,
Janesh McKenzie would not be far behind.
“I
must say, Chatur, it has been a most fascinating evening. An interesting bonus
to a delicious meal.” She signaled the waitress for her bill.
“Dinner
is complimentary. For having to put up with those two boors.”
“Oh
you dear, sweet man. I don’t remember the last time I had so much fun. I
insist.”
The
waitress arrived and entered an access code into a handheld before passing it
to Nisha. She added a generous tip and pressed a finger against a flashing box
allowing her print to authorize an immediate cash transfer. She rose and
extended a hand. He gallantly kissed it.
“Thank
you again, Chatur. My return cannot be fast enough.”
“Tonight
visions of your beauty will lull me to sleep.”
“Oh
you dear, sweet man.”
When
the elevator doors opened two men stood inside. Though sunset had long passed
the younger sported aviator glasses. “Daaruk! What a pleasant surprise.” Daaruk
emerged to hug Chatur with warmth and joy. His partner removed the aviators to
stare at Nisha. Eyes flashed recognition.
“It’s
her!” Nisha’s trained reflexes moved her hand faster than thought, placed a
circular hole center forehead. The young agent crumpled to the floor, a
lifeless hand still reaching for his weapon. Shocked speechless, Chatur broke
away to hear a soft whisper swish past his ear. Daaruk moved just enough to
absorb a head shot that emerged after a half-inch penetration. Nisha slammed
the gun into Chatur’s throat leaving him gasping for air. With surprising
strength she hauled the body from the elevator, punched the ‘Close’ button, and
disappeared.
Coughing
and gagging, Chatur crawled toward Daaruk. His friend smiled. “I can’t feel a
thing. Is it bad?” Chatur’s vision blurred through tear-filled eyes. His throat
ached, burned by the gun’s hot barrel. He struggled to rise and run for help.
Daaruk grabbed his arm. “Warn Janesh. The CIA’s Unit Four has landed in India.
With my department’s help they are searching for him.”