by JC Ryan
When he exited his club at precisely 2:00 a.m., the homeless woman was gone, but an equally disreputable-looking man sat at a window table of an all-night coffee shop down the street.
“On his way back,” the man mumbled into his coffee.
At the Director’s home, the shadow in the bushes clicked an acknowledgement. Twenty minutes later, he was relieved by the second woman of the team, who would watch until the sky brightened enough that she’d be discovered if she didn’t leave.
***
FOUR DAYS LATER, Brandt received a report. His team had come through, and the report was explosive. He had Carson over a barrel now, though the man didn’t know it yet. In addition, he had the dirt on several other targets. He considered the implications. He could take the lot of them down and cause the biggest scandal in the history of Washington DC. Bigger than Watergate. Bigger than Monica Lewinski. This was the kind of stuff that could bring a presidency down.
In doing so, he could rescue a few victims, but he’d likely lose the leverage he needed to get to the bottom of what was beginning to look like a major conspiracy. He weighed the handful of victims against the greater good and reluctantly concluded they’d have to wait. Chances were they were irreparably damaged already. He wasn’t proud of the decision. It was one of those awful moral dilemmas with no right answers, only expedient ones.
Once he’d made the decision to trap Carson first and rescue victims later, he made a call to one of his agents who was, in her way, as effective as Rex Dalton was in his.
“Marissa, I have an assignment for you.”
He listened to her answer, and then continued.
“No, this one’s in DC. No, not a politician, a highly-placed government employee. You aren’t going to like it, but you’re the best agent I have for the job, and I have every confidence you can pull it off.”
Another question from his agent, and another answer from Brandt: “No, I don’t think it will be particularly dangerous, and I know you prefer a challenge. Trust me, this will be a challenge even though I don’t anticipate danger. You’d better pay me a visit as quickly as you can get here, and I’ll explain further.” He explained that he was in the city for an extended visit and reminded her of the address.
When she agreed, he stared out the window at the Senate office building. That sweet-faced, white-haired, old Southern gentleman. Brandt shook his head. If the reports were true, he was going to have to start believing everything he heard, because he’d have never believed that.
Chapter Thirty-Two
New Delhi, India June 27, 2:15 p.m.
REX HAD DRIVEN to Phagwara the previous morning, intending to push on to New Delhi, when he realized there was no reason to hurry. India was relatively safe, but his clothing wouldn’t exactly fit in with the locals. He needed a shave or at least have his beard trimmed in a shape more in line with fashion in India.
So, he’d decided to stop there and take care of the superficial changes he’d need, before he arrived in the city where he would stay long enough to obtain false papers for himself and Digger. When he got decent online access, he had a few inquiries to make, as well.
He hadn’t paid much attention to local customs and prejudices regarding dogs until he met Trevor and Digger and they became part of his operational team. He had his own prejudices, of course, but he was aware that most Americans almost worshipped their furry companions. Even those who didn’t keep their own pets usually didn’t fear dogs. It had been a different story in Afghanistan, where Digger’s size and color brought to the front the locals’ natural distaste for canines. Pakistan was no different, and fortunately he didn’t have to spend much time there.
But Rex didn’t know about the Indians’ attitudes toward dogs.
Would he be able to have Digger with him if he wanted?
Rex was used to blending in with locals all over the world, but he was usually on his own and had at least a few days to investigate how to do so. Those were also short-term missions, from a few days to a week or a month at most. This time, he’d been immersed in Afghan culture for just over a year. It had been six years since he’d been in Mumbai for only a few hours and then chased terrorists into Pakistan.
Although it was a bit disorienting, he was up to it. He had to be. And despite the initial misgivings he’d felt about having responsibility for Digger thrust on him, he’d grown used to the dog and felt there was already a bond growing between them, and he was overcoming his phobia of dogs. He fully intended to keep his promise to Trevor, and in honor of Trevor’s memory he would make the necessary adjustments to accommodate his new best friend.
Through the course of the day in Phagwara, Rex had transformed himself from a Muslim man in man-jammies into a modern-looking mixed-ethnicity British-Indian. He sported a clean-shaved lower jaw, an impressive mustache, and the latest in middle-class clothing — a pair of khaki-colored pants and a loose, short-sleeve, button-up white shirt.
Digger had a new leash and a vest that said ‘service dog’ in English and Sanskrit.
On a visit to an Internet café, Rex had found a number of websites that gave detailed instructions for training and feeding a service dog along with several commands that service dogs needed. He’d printed the pages so he could study it more carefully at his leisure.
His ‘disability’, for now, would be PTSD, he decided. Digger already knew many of the commands he’d need. Having the dog on a leash would hopefully appease the locals, many of whom were afraid of dogs because of the ownerless wild dog populations in the cities.
He had also traded in the SUV for a less conspicuous model. He wanted a van type vehicle so that he could take the back seats out and convert it into sleeping space for him and Digger, if need be. He found a used, five-seater, previous-year model Maruti Suzuki Omni that suited his purposes. He tried his level best to haggle expertly. But this was not this dealer’s first rodeo. He was an experienced businessman and taught Rex a few valuable, but expensive lessons about cutting a deal.
The condition of the bigger Mercedes-Benz G-class model he’d been driving gave the dealer his first advantage. The dealer got his next opportunity to squeeze another five hundred dollars out of the deal when Rex told him he had no papers for the vehicle. Rex wished he hadn’t been forced to put some of the dents and scratches in it himself. It would have improved his bargaining power if the vehicle had been in better condition. But he was the one at a disadvantage and the dealer exploited that. In the end, probably just to make Rex feel a bit better and stop him from going to the opposition, the dealer made him a final offer, about one thousand dollars shy of the advertised price. Rex knew he lost in the process but took possession of the van, gave a fake name, and showed no ID, which cost him a few hundred more and drove away.
Sometimes it was best just to cut one’s losses and run.
Digger didn’t seem to care which type of vehicle they were traveling in as long as Rex opened the window on his side so he could hang his head out and enjoy the wind flowing over his face while his tongue was hanging out.
By the time Rex left Pagwara, he was confident he wouldn’t excite much curiosity in New Delhi, where the streets teemed with a population so dense that even New Yorkers would get claustrophobia on the sidewalks.
***
He’d arrived in New Delhi at about the same time his stomach told him it was lunchtime. Regretfully, he hadn’t had time to shop for appropriate food for Digger, so they’d once again shared a meal, sitting in a park. Digger was quite interested in the rhesus monkeys that roamed freely, but he was disciplined enough to obey when Rex commanded him to ‘leave it’ on the first indication he might chase them.
The monkeys in turn gave the big black dog a wide berth, but they chattered angrily at Rex. He supposed they were scolding him for having a beast with him that prevented them from stealing his food and anything else they might find.
He remembered being told about the monkeys before his Mumbai mission in 2008, but that time he hadn’t h
ad the luxury of sitting in a park for a leisurely meal. It boggled his mind that they’d be tolerated, when they were so unsanitary, as bold as hoodlums, and dangerous. He’d even heard they could kill a child, and would, if they wanted something the child had and weren’t prevented from attacking it.
What kind of people tolerated that?
The same kind who tolerated the social scourge of heroin, he supposed. However, he had to admit he couldn’t hold his own country up as morally superior. A little cleaner, maybe.
When his lunch was finished, he stood, remembered to draw himself into a slight stoop, and made as if he looked around fearfully, although he was fully aware of everyone and everything around him. He commanded Digger to ‘come’ in a soft voice.
Digger gave him that curious “What’s wrong with you?” tilt of his head. He padded to Rex’s side and stayed close to his leg as they walked down the sidewalk. Rex took note of the congestion in the streets and decided to leave the van parked where it was. He paid a young boy to keep an eye on it and set off on foot.
People who noticed the dog parted a lane for the pair. Rex made a note to himself: You and Digger have to learn how to make people on the street feel comfortable — not afraid of you. Others were too engrossed in haggling for goods at the street vendors’ booths to even notice. Rex reflected that he needn’t have worried so much about blending in. Hardly anyone looked at him. People either ignored them altogether or stared fearfully at Digger. He began to feel better about bringing Digger with him on the errand he was pursuing. While on the one hand, it might make him stand out, on the other, he figured in a city of this size, packed with people, a man with a dog wouldn’t cause long-lasting memories.
Rex was hunting for an electronics store. He needed to buy himself a laptop or tablet. Though he had Usama’s laptop, he couldn’t use it, as he had no idea what type of tracking and monitoring software could be on it. Failing to locate what he needed on foot, he flagged down a bicycle rickshaw and asked to be taken to the nearest one. After a bit of haggling so the driver would allow Digger to ride in the back with Rex, they were on their way. Rex watched to be sure the driver didn’t take him on an unwanted excursion just to pad the fare, but he was soon lost in the congested city and gave up on tracking where they were going.
Half an hour later, the driver stopped, told him in rapid Hindi that he would wait, citing the indisputable fact that most rickshaw drivers wouldn’t be as lenient as he was and would not take the dog in their vehicles. Rex was grateful, though he was cynical enough to know the driver just wanted to assure himself of a fare back to his normal location. He thanked the driver and went into the store, leaving Digger in the back of the rickshaw.
Rex knew what he wanted. The question was whether it was available here. He was pleasantly surprised to find the store well-stocked with a broad variety of laptops, as well as the mobile broadband device that would allow him privacy to use it. When he got back to the aging but clean hotel he’d selected, he would be ready to create an online presence for his new identity, as soon as he had the papers he’d need. He could easily create a Google mail account, and Facebook would come later, along with other social media accounts that normal people, especially globetrotters like he envisaged to be, would have. However, first he had business on the Deep Web, to find a forger.
Digger and the rickshaw driver had established an uneasy peace treaty by the time Rex got back, about half an hour after he’d left them. The dog sat regally in the exact middle of the passenger seat, his head high and proud, surveying his new domain. The rickshaw driver must have endured taunts about the dog from passersby until he adopted Digger’s attitude, squared his posture, and stared disdainfully at anyone who jeered at him.
When Rex returned, the driver greeted him effusively. Rex knew it would cost him, but he was happy he didn’t have to haggle again to allow Digger to stay in the seat next to him.
***
THEY WERE ON their way to a part of town where Rex believed they could find someone to help with his most pressing need – the identity papers that would give him legitimacy while he was in the country. He’d never had to find such a person before, as CRC had always provided his legend, or cover story, and the papers to go with it. But he’d been trained in how to locate a forger in case he ever needed one.
During his previous day’s work online, he’d accessed the Deep Web and obtained the names and locations of forgers in New Delhi. One had even had an impressive website, he was amused to see. Instead, he’d made note of a commenter on the fancy website and contacted him anonymously. After a couple of hours of back and forth, the commenter had trusted him enough to give him a name and the name of a shop in New Delhi.
It wasn’t a printing shop, or anything one might have expected. It was a tobacconist’s shop, and the forger was not there. To reach his ultimate destination, he’d have to pass muster there, though. A code word and name for the commenter would suffice to get him an interview. Only if the interview satisfied the proprietor of the tobacconist’s shop would he be given the next step.
When he entered the dark but aromatic shop, the tinkle of a little bell announced his presence. Rex didn’t smoke, but like many non-smokers, he appreciated the aroma of a fine pipe tobacco, as long as it wasn’t being burned. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply while waiting for the proprietor to appear from the back of the shop. The first he knew that he wasn’t alone was when the proprietor said sharply, in English, “No dogs allowed.”
Rex opened his eyes. “Service dog,” he explained.
“No exceptions. Out.”
Rex hadn’t expected that. He’d researched at an internet café before selecting this method of keeping Digger with him, and he knew from his research that India had enacted a statute similar to America’s ADA, Americans with Disabilities Act. However, making a scene wasn’t in his best interests.
“Okay. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Outside, he loosely wrapped the leash around a nearby bicycle stand. He whispered to Digger, “Guard”. Hoping that would make the dog resist if anyone interfered with him, Rex went back into the shop. The proprietor was waiting for him, but he’d gotten off on a bad foot. He understood that put him at a disadvantage now, and he almost decided to go back to the hotel, wait another day, and find another source. Before he gave up today, however, he’d give it a shot. If the price was more than he’d been led to believe, or if the proprietor gave any off vibes, he’d be out of there in a heartbeat.
When the proprietor saw him coming in sans dog, he smiled and acted as if there had never been an earlier confrontation.
“Welcome, sir. How can I help you? Perhaps a fine Cuban cigar, as your country has banned them.”
It was the second time he’d made Rex as an American, and Rex wanted to know how before he did any business with this man. The simplest method was best. He asked.
“It is no mystery, sir. Your Hindi accent is flawless, and you look like you are perhaps from a rural province. But no Indian would have argued that your beast was a service dog. You assumed you would be permitted a liberty, and that trait belongs to Americans.”
Rex was stung. He’d blended with natives of the poorest countries and the richest, and to the best of his knowledge he’d never before blown his cover with ‘ugly American’ syndrome.
“I sincerely apologize. I am very reliant on the dog. I only wanted to keep him safe.”
“He will be safe enough outside, if he can defend himself from the wild ones. Let us quickly conclude your business here so you can attend to him.”
“Very well,” Rex answered in English. “I require a certain delicate service. It’s my understanding you can introduce me to one who can provide it.”
The proprietor betrayed his amusement. “Ah, now you think you can do such business directly. Give me your telephone number. Someone will call you.”
“No phones,” Rex demurred. “Email, and he must introduce himself as…” he paused to think. This wasn’t going
the way he’d expected, so he hadn’t prepared a cover.
“A panderer, perhaps?” the proprietor suggested.
“What? A pimp?” Rex was confused now. Had the man mistaken the type of delicate service he’d meant?
“It would be a good cover,” the proprietor explained, amused again. “Your email address, then. I will require payment in advance. It will be dangerous for my shop to be involved in such arrangements when you are clearly an amateur.”
Rex paid the man $500 for the introduction to the forger without even haggling. He was completely humiliated by the exchange.
An amateur! I’m going to have to be more careful. And what the hell is wrong with me? I’ve done this before.
But he hadn’t – not this specific thing. He’d never had to. Only now did he realize this was one area where his training had been less than adequate. The trouble was, to survive, he’d have to become an expert in it in a hurry. The one thing that could trip him up, both now and in the future, was for his identity, and the official documents establishing it, not to stand up to scrutiny. For that lesson to be learned in a way that didn’t threaten him was well worth $500, though the introduction shouldn’t have cost even half that.
Another lesson learned about doing business in India.
Rex walked past Digger in a brown study and opened the driver’s side door to the van. Digger’s sharp bark brought him back to alertness. Bloody hell! He’d almost forgotten the dog!
