La Passionara made one last plea. If this man had a code of honor, how could his conscience permit terrorizing an innocent woman with threats of murder? Charles must have liked the question, for he measured his reply and spoke carefully. “All people are different,” he said. “You were born to be a dancer, I was born to be a gangster. What we do, you see, is not in our hands, therefore conscience has no part of my psychology.” He handed her the telephone. His gun was at her breast. With very real pain in her voice, La Passionara called the club director and said she was too ill to dance.
Somehow Saturday night passed, the dancer drifting in and out of tortured sleep, her arms once again lashed to the bed because her captors were similarly needful of rest. They had started to gag her again, but she had promised not to make a sound, pointing out that if the noise from the pneumatic drills had not summoned the hotel management, then it was unlikely that one female cry would bring the police. Besides, every officer in Delhi was concerned with keeping the peace under the blackout.
During the long night, the dancer saw and heard and felt an array of events, disparate but indelible in her memory. Sometime after midnight, an elephant trumpeted in the distance, probably the enormous beast who spent daylight hours patiently bearing hotel guests around the gardens, dressed in red and gold blankets and wearing a headdress of fake glitter. Never had she paid much attention to the animal, but now she realized that he was chained every night—between performances so to speak—and she felt empathy. And once, just before dawn, she felt a hand gently touching her brow, fingering delicately her long hair. But when she opened her eyes, she saw Charles moving away. Pierre passed the night curled up beside the door, his body against the crack, like a faithful guard dog.
On Sunday morning—she had now been a prisoner for almost thirty-six hours and still in her bathrobe, which had begun to smell from spilled cosmetics and the perspiration of fear—La Passionara cracked. She screamed. Charles bolted from the sofa and grabbed a pillow to press against her face. She was on the cliff’s edge of blacking out when he released her. “I’m sorry,” she said, when she regained her composure. “I can’t take anymore.”
Charles dispatched Pierre le Premier in search of the necessary acid and ordered La Passionara to take a hot bath. It would soothe her disposition. She shook her head. She did not want a bath. If she did not take a bath and calm down, warned Charles, then he would prepare something to ensure her quiet. From his briefcase he withdrew a glass vial and within were pills of many colors, like an assortment of holiday candy. Persuaded, La Passionara rushed to the bathroom and began running hot water. “Leave the door open or I will break it down,” said Charles. “I don’t want to look at you, so you have no reason for modesty.”
The bath lifted Esther’s spirits a little, and she told herself that she was going to survive. If these men had not hurt her in what was now approaching two full days and nights, then—she reasoned—they would not do it now. If she was not fatally mistaken, Esther sensed a dichotomy within Lobo. On the one hand he was without doubt a dedicated thief and assailant, but conversely he was also sympathique and possessed of a certain tenderness. Each time he had tied Esther to the bed, Lobo had arranged the ropes so that they would not cut her flesh. If she winced, then Lobo shifted them about to cause her the least physical discomfort.
All she had to do was hang on a little longer and either the men would leave or someone at the hotel would surely start to wonder why she had not been out of her room since Friday midnight. She clung to these thoughts until midday, when Pierre le Premier returned with the news that he could not find acid on this autumn Sunday morning in New Delhi. His colleague, Pierre le Deuxième, had scoured other parts of the city, but neither of them had been able to find anything stronger than photographic developing fluid. Lobo cursed in a language that Esther did not understand. But she saw a frightening anger settle over his face, like a man betrayed. Prudently, La Passionara went to her bed and assumed her role as the most docile of captives, not daring to utter a sound.
Lobo soaked in the gloom of the predicament for more than an hour, remarking now and then that perhaps the project should be abandoned. But in his mind must have been the wrath he would incur from Maurice, his patron in this matter. Once before, in the planning stage, Charles had mentioned that he might withdraw from the robbery. Maurice had pointedly emphasized at that time how much money Charles owed the casino in Macao, plus the $3,000 advance that he had been given. Maurice was not a man who would be graceful with unpaid bills.
Unable to drill a hole through the hotel room floor, or burn an entrance with acid, Charles decided to take a more direct approach. He conceived a new plan, in which La Passionara would star. As it was explained, hers would be a bravura performance.
Shortly after 5 P.M., the Rajasthan Emporium, purveyors of fine gemstones, received an imperious telephone summons from La Passionara, the dancer who was currently a guest in the Ashoka Hotel. She asked the salesman who answered the phone, a man named Ralayan, to bring a sample of his best wares to her suite. She was indisposed and unable to come personally to the shop. Her orders were explicit: her mother was flying in from the United States tomorrow, and she wished to welcome her with a splendid gift. If the Rajasthan Emporium did not have the most exceptional jewelry, then do not bother to come. Ralayan gushed his assurances.
La Passionara hung up, her hand trembling. Lobo withdrew the gun he had placed at her neck, and bowed in appreciation. She had recited her lines professionally. In fact, Lobo was so pleased with her conduct that he wanted to award her a share in the revenues to come. From his pocket he withdrew a large wad of American currency and pointedly dropped the bills in a box of tape cassettes. The dancer made mild protest that she did not wish to have financial collaboration with Lobo, but he insisted. It did not matter, anyway, for later in the evening Lobo would take back the dollars and substitute a stack of Indian rupees worth about eighty dollars.
When the salesman Ralayan knocked at the door, La Passionara steeled herself. Lobo was in the bathroom, Pierre le Premier positioned on the sofa, a gun in easy reach behind the pillows. His role was to pose as the dancer’s social secretary. She swept to the door and opened it grandly. Lobo had permitted her to dress in a brilliant red velvet dressing gown and to wear her own jewelry. Her dark hair tumbled loose about her shoulders and the effect was not only dramatic but quite beautiful.
Ralayan made obeisance with prayerful hands and opened a case of rings, bracelets, and necklaces. They were the finest creations in Delhi, murmured the salesman, fitting to welcome the great star’s mother upon her arrival. “Perhaps,” said La Passionara, affixing what seemed to be a highly trained eye on the dazzle spread before her. She picked up a few stones, held them to the light, dropped them as if they were the paste imitations found in Cracker Jack boxes. Surely Ralayan did not present these inferior pieces as the kind of quality jewelry that a person in La Passionara’s orbit would appreciate. She fingered her own antique necklace, knowing that any jeweler would appreciate its extravagance. The salesman poured forth apologies. He had not understood that his client wished to purchase something more substantial than a simple ruby or sapphire ring. Could he return to his shop and locate the most choice gems, those held back for only the most demanding clientele? La Passionara nodded brusquely and dismissed him, in the manner of a great Maharani who was probably wasting her time.
When the salesman was gone, Lobo emerged from the bathroom grinning. He applauded her performance. He knew that the shop would not send up its best merchandise on the first summons. But now they would open their vaults. Lobo clapped his hands. The drama was approaching the final scene. Esther was made to sit in a prominent chair, her feet bound with ropes. Over her lap, Lobo carefully placed a blanket. He apologized as he worked for having to bind the dancer one last time. But he promised to lift the blanket at the moment of revelation and reveal that La Passionara was a captive and not part of the plot to rob the salesman. This would be her in
surance policy should the police wrongly assume that she and Lobo were connected. Lobo surveyed the room like a choreographer. Everyone was in place. Pierre le Premier, posing still as the dancer’s secretary, would open the door. Lobo took his position in the bathroom. It was 7:30 P.M. Despite her fear, La Passionara also felt the tingle of apprehension that any performer knows while waiting for the curtain to rise.
The owner of the shop, Mr. Pradash, came personally to Room 289 and knocked respectfully. He had not realized the importance of this customer, and he would now present his wares himself. He was shown into the room by a thin blond man who gestured toward La Passionara, sitting almost regally in her chair, the blanket across her lap. She bade the merchant to approach. With ceremony, Pradash opened his case, and this time the dancer could not feign displeasure. Before her was spread a breathtaking array of jewels—a necklace of gold and rubies with matching earrings that would cascade to the shoulders, an elephant brooch of exquisite jade with emeralds, rings with sunbursts of sapphires. There were but a few pieces nestled in the forest green velvet, but each was magnificent. As she examined them, attempting the tiniest frown now and then (as if she were in the bazaar, haggling), the bathroom door swung open. Lobo stepped into the room, a towel at his hands. He would have Pradash believe that he had been drying his hands, but La Passionara knew that under the towel was a gun. With studied casualness, Lobo glanced at the stones, then began a conversation with the merchant. It was as if two old friends had suddenly encountered one another on a street corner. Lobo chatted about the weather, the current films, the likelihood of war with Pakistan. They sat on a sofa together, one with a towel at his hands concealing a gun, the other with a case of jewelry on his lap. La Passionara began to tremble. In a moment she would scream again. The pressures of the maniacal weekend were ready to blow. Lobo sensed this and with great calm he let the towel slide from his hands. He lifted the gun and placed it at the jeweler’s heart. With his other hand, he reached over and tugged at the blanket that draped the dancer. It fell to the floor, revealing the ropes that bound her feet. At that, La Passionara broke and sobbed until Pierre rushed over to stuff the fallen towel in her mouth as a silencer.
Now Lobo revealed the truth of Room 289. And he was hugely annoyed that Pradash had only brought these few pieces, not a more substantial representation of his treasures. He gestured at Pierre, who frisked the jeweler and found the keys to the emporium. Lobo explained that he had no choice but to wait until past 10 P.M., when all the shops in the hotel arcade would be closed and the corridor free of people. Then he would feel more comfortable in entering the shop and cleaning out the shelves. “We will wait,” said Lobo, putting a music cassette on La Passionara’s tape recorder. Pierre tied the jeweler by his hands and legs and dragged him into the bathroom, where Charles stuffed a cloth into his mouth. When he was content that Pradash could not disgorge the gag and was effectively silenced, Charles instructed La Passionara to order dinner from room service. He even permitted a chambermaid to enter the room and draw the drapes for the evening’s blackout. It occurred to La Passionara that this man somehow enjoyed these flirtations with danger. They were a test of his strength and cunning against others’ weakness. When the waiter arrived with a serving cart, Charles was polite, talkative, and exhilarated. He did not show a glimmer of concern that a bound and gagged hostage was lying on the floor of the bathroom and another was trembling as she signed the bill. If either of them had cried out, the tightrope on which Lobo walked would have snapped. But he was in control of the moment and La Passionara envied him that.
Around 11 P.M., Charles excused himself and left the room, ordering Pierre le Premier to guard the two hostages. When he returned a half hour later, he carried a BOAC flight bag that bulged like an overstuffed turkey. He carried it to La Passionara and told her to look inside. The excitement on his face was that of a child bearing a gift to his mother. The flight bag contained major treasures of the Rajasthan Emporium, and their combined brilliance was like staring at a greedy fire. His hand snaked into the bag and he seized a fistful of gems, dropping them onto the dancer’s lap. “Choose one,” he whispered. La Passionara was tempted—she could not deny that—but she was still smart enough to decline. Charles shrugged. There was no time to argue. While he had been inside the shop raiding the strongboxes—he had gained easy admittance with the owner’s keys—he had seen a hotel guest stroll down the corridor. The man had glanced idly into the shopwindows where Charles pressed his body against a wall. He walked on, but Charles was nonetheless worried that he might have had second thoughts.
The two men lifted La Passionara from her chair and carried her into the bathroom, where she was dumped on the floor beside the merchant. One last moment of unpleasantness would be necessary, said Charles, almost apologetically. He would have to put the two hostages to sleep. La Passionara whimpered protest, but it was not successful. Forcibly stuffing sedative pills into Pradash’s mouth, he worked the jeweler’s jaws like one does for a puppy who must take unwanted medicine. Then he turned to the dancer.
Charles took a table napkin from the room service cart and gagged her. Then he bent down and looked at her with brusque respect. Since Friday midnight a strange bond had been forged between them. At one point Charles had even spoken of his wife and daughter and had shown La Passionara their photographs. Now he made an offer. “If you promise to be a good girl, I won’t give you medicine for sleep,” he said. La Passionara nodded vigorously. “And don’t try to raise an alarm until 5 A.M.,” he warned. There were other men in the hotel who were part of the plan and who would not be as “easy” as Charles. “Just rest there. You’ve earned it.” La Passionara pointed to her gag; she wanted to answer. Charles pulled it away long enough for her to speak. She promised not to stir until the sun rose. And she thanked him for sparing her life.
On his way to the door, Charles remembered one last thing. He paused and looked toward the bathroom and called out softly. “Someday I hope to see you dance,” he said in parting. “You are beautiful. I am sure that your dancing is beautiful, too.” When the door shut, La Passionara was crying—but not altogether out of fear.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Palam International Airport in Delhi is at its busiest between midnight and dawn. Most international flights take off or land in the capital of India during the dark hours because Delhi is midway on the global sweep between Europe and the Far East. In the early moments of November 1, 1971, the airport was in a state of unusual tension. Its corridors and waiting rooms had their normal complement of beggar children striking poses calculated to earn sympathetic coins, and tea sellers, and veiled Moslem women munching spicy meat patties behind their masks, and holy men sitting cross-legged on plastic chairs meditating and writing their thoughts on scraps of brown wrapping paper, and Western travelers wandering dazed or angry through the maze of red tape that is bureaucratic India (every document seems to be written in triplicate, even the receipt for purchasing a postage stamp). But overlying all were squads of fierce-faced soldiers toting carbine rifles and scrutinizing everyone.
Knowing this in advance, Charles timed his arrival at Palam so that he would have just enough time to purchase a ticket to Teheran, zip through customs, and spend but a moment or two in the departure lounge. It was not his desire to endure dangerous waiting time in a swarm of police and soldiers, particularly as he was carrying a fortune in stolen gems and $10,000 cash in a flight bag. An hour had passed since he slipped quietly out of the Ashoka Hotel by a side entrance. The prearranged scheme was for the two Pierres to take a train to Bombay, thence by plane to Teheran, where the proceeds of the robbery would be divided. But as the courier, Charles had been instructed to leave Delhi on the first available plane.
Well-dressed travelers often merit deferential treatment in Asia, and Charles had been careful to change clothing after his long weekend in La Passionara’s hotel room. He also knew that customs agents in India are capricious, more often than not waving affluent-looking W
esterners through without opening luggage.
Charles purchased his ticket with a wad of the Indian rupees he had recently obtained from the jeweler’s safe box, passed through passport control without incident using a counterfeit document bearing the name “Gillian,” and was approaching the long tables where customs agents examine luggage and mark clearances with brusque chalk strokes. Beyond this last hurdle was the transit lounge, where passengers were already filing wearily onto a shuttle bus for delivery to the airplane. Then the cards once again turned sour.
“Mr. Gillian!” Someone was calling his name. And no one knew it, for this was the first occasion Charles had used it. He fought off his instinct to turn around and respond. He did not flinch even as the name came at him again, closer this time. Then there was a polite but firm hand on his shoulder. An agent for Air India was telling him that there was a problem with the ticket.
“What problem?” growled Charles impatiently. He tapped at his expensive watch. The flight was already called.
It seemed Charles had paid for his ticket in Indian currency, and that was not allowed except for citizens of that country. Foreigners must pay in hard currency—dollars, pounds sterling, francs, the like. Charles huffed and sputtered like a very important lion caught in a very impudent trap, knowing that growls sometimes frighten away ribbon clerks. But this time they did not work; the agent insisted that Mr. Gillian return to the ticket desk and refinance his journey. The plane would not leave without him, assured the agent. Only five minutes passed while the hugely out-of-sorts Charles satisfied the airline with substituted currency, but the brief loss of time was incalculably expensive.
When he returned to the baggage examination table, the inspectors were pawing thoroughly through all hand luggage. War fever was in the air. And even though Charles had packed the stolen gems beneath a false bottom and had stuffed the rest of the bag with odd sweaters, papers, and tourist paraphernalia, a new anxiety swept over his escape. While he mentally debated an alternate plan, a commotion broke out behind him. Sweeping through the crowds of travelers, carving a path like a bowling ball knocking down pins, a wedge of police was escorting an out-of-breath Pradash, the ravaged jeweler of the Ashoka Hotel. They were canvassing every departing traveler. La Passionara obviously had broken her vow and had screamed for help the moment Charles left her hotel room.
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