He stood at the open door and blew his smoke back over his shoulder into the room. “Have you ever been to Pakistan?”
“No. Just a little bit of Europe. Mostly Germany.”
I had never wanted to, but I didn’t say that.
Mr. Panhwar nodded. “Ah. Paris?”
“Not Paris. Budapest. Prague. But my partner Burley there has been to Afghanistan. He stepped across the border into Pakistan once. Totally an accident. He suggested I should skip it.”
“Recently, or in 2001?”
“2001”
He took a solid hit on his cigarette before answering again. “That must have been fun for him. My wife was working in Kuwait 1991. She was a school teacher.” He looked back into his room for several seconds then, as if he might turn and close the door, but turned back. His eyes had teared. “That was the year before we were married. I told her to leave when Hussein started making all that noise, but she didn’t do it in time. . . But she survived. Your Marines came.”
“They’re always good with rescues.”
I could only guess what ‘She survived’ might mean. I’d heard some nasty stories and I didn’t want to pursue that.
I nodded toward his room, “How was the food?”
“Ah. Very good. Not as spicy as the Chinese food we have in Karachi. But fresher, I think. Very nice. Thank you.” He studied me a moment and seemed to change his mind about the words he used. “Have you been doing this long?”
I laughed. I wondered if I should tell him the truth. “No. Couple of months.” I saw a crease deepen in his forehead. I embellished. “But I was in the Army long enough to learn a few things. I know a couple of the basic martial arts. Enough to take care of myself. And I’m just stupid enough to stand in the way if necessary.”
That brought another nod.
“You don’t look like the usual bodyguard. You’re big enough, of course. But I’ve watched your eyes. I suspect you of being a bit smarter. You see things when you look.”
I shrugged at the implied compliment. I assumed he was working toward wanting something from me. I just answered, “You have to know what’s going on.”
He smiled in the pleasant way that offers no confirmation, only acceptance. He said, “Surely. But I meant that you look at more than you have to. I watched your eyes in the airport. Yes. I noticed you seemed very curious about the woman with the purple suitcases. What was your thought then?”
She had been my first worry of the afternoon. She was not the only woman dressed in a sari who had come off the flight from New York, but at the baggage carousel she seemed more interested in other things and was the only one alone.
I said, “She appeared to be interested in you. I wondered why.”
He smiled again and nodded, taking a last drag on his cigarette.
“Good. Very good. Fact is, she’s a former student of mine. She’s my watchdog,” He laughed quickly, as if the idiom was somehow funny, “and my assistant. We travel together for safety but in separate seats so she can keep an eye on ‘what’s going on,’ as you say. You’ll see her in the audience tonight. She has a whistle. If anything is wrong, you’ll hear her whistle.”
Now my worry increased. It was just a matter of odd fact. I needed to connect a few dots to make sense of it.
Mr. Panhwar’s book, Devolution and Peace, is not on my reading list. Not only because of the politics of it, though that would probably be enough, but because I find cultural differences overwhelming. I’m not big on diversity. Chinese food is great, but understanding Chinese culture is more than I can comprehend. After the Eastern block collapsed, I thought it would be swell to take Mary Ellen to see Prague and Budapest and Bucharest, before the tourists started swarming. Instead, we were just depressed by what we found, and confused that people could let themselves live that way for so long. I’d never seen Iraq and what they had done to Kuwait. But Burley saw it. He told me what he saw and that was more than enough.
I’ve never understoodd what some people will do to others, just to get their own way. Maybe that’s why, as I get older, I find more comfort in the past than my own present. Oddly, people who’ve been dead for a couple of hundred years seem more human.
What I know about Pakistan would fit on the back of a matchbook. I know that there are several different cultures packed together there for reasons made up by the British politicians who carved that country apart from India back in 1947. I know that one group are known as Pashtu, because years ago I had a good friend who was Pashtu. Mary Ellen taught his kids. He’s a doctor now in San Francisco, but he e-mails jokes to me and sends a card once a year. And I knew from Mr. Panhwar’s general appearance, as well as the inflection of his English, that he is not Pashtu.
I decided to get through the tall grass with a single cut. “I know you can’t tell everything from appearances, but the woman at the airport looked remarkably different than yourself.”
The non-committal smile returned again.
“Ah. She is Pashtu. You noticed that. Very observant. I am a Muhajir. Sindhi. My parents were from Lucknow. You see? You have made the point of my lecture tonight in one fell swoop. That is the idiom, am I correct? Ninety percent of Pakistan is made up of half a dozen different peoples, each with a different language, and a different culture. For more than fifty years the politicians have been trying to make one people out of the many—e pluribus unum. The American way. It has cost millions of lives and ruined many millions more. The very reason some people want me dead is that I believe that the only future lies in breaking Pakistan down to its healthy parts and letting the people rule themselves for their own good.”
Maybe his politics were not as bad as I thought.
“And your assistant—your watchdog—she’s in agreement with you on this?”
“Very much so. Yes. After University she became my wife’s secretary. She was present when my wife was murdered. Shamira is a dear member of our family. But she understands the need for cultural identity.”
I had my work cut out for me now—cut, wrapped, and delivered. At least until tomorrow when I escorted Mr. Panhwar to the airport again.
“Where is she now?”
He gestured with one hand dismissively. “Waiting. She probably went to the hotel to check on our reservations and make sure all was right there. But she will be here soon.”
The lecture went well. The campus police had the doors. Burley wandered around back stage. He likes to keep moving. I stood at the curtain on the stage and looked out. Every seat was filled. I never caught sight of Mr. Panhwar’s watchdog. There were many women there wearing scarves and I suppose she had changed clothes. Applause was mixed—some very enthusiastic, others polite. I kept my eye on those who did not clap at all. There were more than a few.
It took Mr. Panhwar about 45 minutes to sign perhaps a hundred copies of his book. We made people stand behind a rope and they were very patient as I took the books from their hands one by one and set them in front of the author, who wrote a short phrase in his own language that I could not read above his name on each title page. The crowd there were mostly women. Many of them spoke to him across the short distance in what I assumed was Urdu.
Afterward, I stood with Mr. Panhwar in a side hall with his luggage ready and waited for the crowd to disperse before moving. He seemed unhappy again.
I asked, “Did it go as well as you expected?”
His eyes hit me as if I had intruded on his thoughts.
“Very well, thank you.”
“What is your concern, then?”
He looked back at me again. “Ah. The observant one. Yes. Well. My concern is for Shamira. I did not see her.”
He said nothing more.
Connie had smartly requested two limousines. One sat at the rear door and was driven by Bill Wise, who is a detective with the Boston Police. A good guy. He’s done a fair number of special duty details with us. The other limo was parked several blocks away and with a little coordination by cell phone appeared exac
tly as we exited the front door of Graham hall and then we were gone.
While we were doing that, Bill arrested a couple of protesters in the back alley who said they were only exercising their right to free speech. They were both carrying very ugly knives. Bill came over to tell me about that later at the hotel as I sat on my stool at the end of the hall near Mr. Panhwar’s door. Bill told me the two protesters were being held overnight for more questioning, and he did not think they were alone.
Burley and I were scheduled to go off duty at 1:00 A.M. That would make for more than a ten-hour day, but we were responsible for showing up again in the morning at seven. That would allow for maybe five hours of sleep, at best, but then we would both be off duty again as soon as the airplane left the tarmac about noon. I was looking forward to a long weekend.
A few minutes after Bill Wise left me alone in the hall again, Shamira, the ‘watchdog’ showed up. She was wearing a different sari and scarf but I recognized her immediately. She smiled at me fleetingly but said nothing before knocking at the door. It was an unhappy smile, and I thought it was an oddly hesitant knock before realizing it was meant as some sort of code. The door partially opened and she slipped in.
Tony Grappe showed up about 12:30 and we went over the situation. He is a part timer and an ex-cop, and would be on for only six hours. Burley strolled down the hall at 1:00 A.M. on the dot and we both left together.
Police were all over the place when we arrived back at 6:30. It was still dark. There had been a bomb scare, but nothing else. Tony was on the stool where I left him. Neither Mr. Panhwar nor his assistant had left the room despite a visit from the cops.
Just as Tony was getting ready to leave, a hotel employee came off the elevators with a food cart loaded with stainless steel containers. It could be breakfast. Or it could be a small nuclear bomb for all I knew. Mr. Panhwar had not warned Tony he had placed his order. Tony stopped the guy with a foot against one of the wheels and I came at him from the other side. The poor fellow’s face fell like bad construction.
I said, “What’s this.”
“Breakfast.”
“Who for?”
“319.”
Panhwar was in 317. I lifted the top off a set of very nice eggs, sunny side up on a couple of pieces of gently browned toast beside a slab of broiled ham. I smiled.
“Great. Smells good.”
Tony took his shoe away from the wheel.
That was it. My only thrilling moment of the whole job.
At the airport Mr. Panhwar sat in the VIP lounge and talked on his cell phone. Burley and I alternated at the door.
The figure of Mr. Panhwar’s assistant had caught my eye in the waiting area as we passed. Actually, it was her own eyes I saw first, peeking out from the edge of her scarf. It was my usual curiosity that made me return to talk with her.
I sat down across from her. I decided to open with some sympathy.
“This could not be an easy life.”
She answered without moving or fully facing me.
“No. It is not. But it could be worse.”
I’m not good at small talk, but I tried.
“Where are you from?”
She answered immediately, “Rawalpindi.”
Perhaps some empathy would do.
“Do you get home to your family often?”
“No.”
“Then it’s a lonely life as well.”
She paused before she answered. She was not looking at me when she spoke.
“My family does not acknowledge me. This is my life now.”
I decided to change the subject.
“Why did you miss the speech last night?”
Another pause. Finally, “I’ve heard it before. It appeared to me that you and your friend had matters well in hand.”
Her English was nearly perfect, spoken faster by half than my own. It reminded me of my daughters when they were on the phone.
There wasn’t a lot of time for polite conversation at this point, so I decided to be quick.
“Aren’t you the ‘watchdog’? He might have needed you.”
She looked up, her eyes purposely scanning the other women in the lounge, and then back at me.
“The operative noun there is ‘dog.’ ”
This took me by surprise. Perhaps she saw the reaction on my face. In any case she smiled at what she had accomplished. There was something childlike in it. I thought of the brief smile she had given as she went into the door of the hotel room the night before. It was not the same smile at all. It was the opposite of embarrassment.
I reacted automatically, “Why don’t you quit?”
The smile deserted her face. Her eyes were darkened by the shadow of her scarf.
“Quit? That is an American word, isn’t it? Something you do when you are unhappy. Most of the world is not in a position to quit. We don’t have that convenience.”
I could have let it pass. I might have just apologized for touching on something so sore. But I was tired. I can be contentious.
I said, “Sure. Sounds like a thousand years of excuses to me. I’m sure I just don’t understand. Americans are stupid that way. I’m sorry I intruded on you.”
I got up to leave.
Her hand rose in the air free from beneath the cloth that draped from her shoulders.
“No. No. I am the one who should apologize. I was being rude. Forgive me.” Her hand dropped again to her lap. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps the answer is to quit. American word or not.” She paused and nodded. A faint smile of a different sort turned her mouth and disappeared again. “Thank you for your concern.”
I smiled my acknowledgement and went back to my post.
I was at the Columbus Diner eating breakfast a couple of days later when I saw the short article on page five. Pradeep Panhwar was assassinated as he arrived at his home in Karachi about twenty-four hours after I last saw him. What I have wondered about, since I heard the news, is what will happen to Shamira.
11. The last time I saw Desiree
The last time I saw Desiree she was just an edge of coat and one gloved hand holding tight to a metal bar in a subway car as it began to move away. A shard of color through the glass. Her face will not come to mind now without a forced thought and then obscurely. The face in a dream that will not stay in focus. This disturbs me.
I have already wondered if, in some recess of my brain, I have concluded that she’s dead. Is this mental obfuscation of her face, a picture so clear to me in every moment of the day and night for weeks and now hidden from me, a subconscious attempt at self-protection? Some psychological trick to lessen the blow?
I called the police on a Thursday and reported her missing. This was a stretch for them. I had seen her on Sunday evening as the subway car pulled away. Only four days before. I suppose the number of unhappily rejected boyfriends making such calls is routine. But resorting to calling the cops did feel like the act of some helpless victim.
What had prompted that call was a combination of things. First, she had answered none of my phone messages since that Sunday evening. Before this she had returned every call within minutes. I had rung her doorbell at least twice a day since Monday. On the Tuesday after we were last together, I called her office. She had not been into work. She had left no excuse. They had done nothing themselves concerning her absence other than leave messages on her phone. Her immediate boss, a lawyer named Higgins, told me they would check it out and then, later, asked me to stop calling. I suppose I should have called the police then. Why had I waited?
Des and I had our first argument that Sunday night. Nothing much. Not like the ones I used to have with Mary Ellen on a weekly basis. More of a disagreement. I had wanted her to come home with me. She wouldn’t. I offered to go home with her. She didn’t want that. But there was something else on her mind that she was unwilling to discuss. I pressed the issue and she had shown that flash of anger I had seen only once before, on the very first day we had met.
I
suppose the reason I waited to call the police was because of that. I had crossed some line I did not yet understand, and I was reluctant to make that mistake again.
When I called her office on Friday morning, Mr. Higgins was rude and unsympathetic. I called the police again immediately after that to see if they had found out anything. From the sound of it, they had done nothing. Then I called Bill Wise because I had seen him just the week before on a job. I really don’t know that many cops. Bill said he would look into it for me.
I had a job starting Friday night that didn’t quit until Sunday. I called the police a few times when I was free, but they had nothing more to say.
On Monday I woke up with the empty feeling that I had not done enough. I put together a few tools that might be handy and went to her apartment building.
The fact that I had never been into Desiree’s apartment had bothered me before, but on a wholly different level. During the first couple of weeks I thought the matter might be something I didn’t want to know—that she was already living with another guy. As it became obvious this wasn’t the case, I’d tried to make a game of it, setting up challenges like guessing the number of French fries in the little container when we ate hamburgers, with the winner choosing where we would go next. Stupid stuff.
I went over at noon, hoping that everyone in the building would be off at work. Getting through the lock on the street door was as easy as I expected. The place was quiet, except for one apartment on the second floor where I could hear a TV.
Des lives on the third floor at the back. There were two locks on her door. One was the usual type in the knob. The other was a deadbolt. That was my worry. A stiff piece of plastic was not going to do the job on a deadbolt and I have no talent for picking locks. My immediate intention then was to kick it through and hope for the best. But when I slipped the lock on the handle free, the door opened right up. The deadbolt had never been turned.
There was no immediate smell other than wood wax and fairly new paint. The curtains were not drawn and sunlight played into the room from two windows at odd angles. The apartment was a small one-bedroom with only a few pieces of furniture. It felt as if it were seldom used. By the door was a narrow table with a dish which held a set of keys. I tried them on the door and they worked, so I put them in my pocket just in case. That was my best move of the day.
John Finn Page 10
