by Robin Cook
Arvind went back to the keyboard, then checked the monitor. “There’s no scheduled departure date.”
“Good,” Neil said.
After a few more minutes of formalities, Arvind stood up and his chair rolled back. “May I show you to your room?”
Neil stood up as well.
“Do you have a luggage tag?”
“Nope, this is it,” Neil said, hoisting his carry-on. “I travel light.” As he followed the clerk past the main entry doors toward the elevators, he wondered how he was going to surprise Jennifer in the morning. Since he didn’t know her plans, it was hard to decide, and ultimately he thought he’d just play it by ear.
“Excuse me, Mr. Sinha,” Neil said as they rose up in the elevator. “Could you see to it that I get a wake-up call at eight-fifteen?”
“Absolutely, sir!”
Chapter 24
OCTOBER 18, 2007
THURSDAY, 7:30 A.M.
NEW DELHI, INDIA
Jennifer was embroiled in a recurrent nightmare involving her father that she often got when she was stressed. She’d never told anyone about the dream for fear of what people might think of her. She wasn’t quite sure what she thought of it herself. In the dream her father was stalking her with a cruel expression on his face while she yelled to him to stop. Ending up in the kitchen, she grabbed a butcher knife and brandished it. But still he came at her, taunting her that she would never use it. But she did. She stabbed him over and over, but all he did was laugh.
Normally she woke at this point, finding herself drenched in sweat, and so it was on this day, too. Disoriented, it took her a few moments to realize she was in India and that the phone was ringing. Jennifer snatched up the receiver in a minor panic while irrationally thinking that whoever was calling had been a witness to her murderous activities.
The called turned out to be Rita Lucas, and she sensed the anxiety in Jennifer’s voice. “I hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”
“No, it’s okay,” Jennifer said, becoming more oriented to reality. “I was just dreaming.”
“I’m so sorry to be calling so early, but I wanted to be certain not to miss you. I’ve actually waited. I never went to sleep. I was at the hospital for most of the night.”
Jennifer checked the analog clock radio. It took her a moment to figure out the time, as the little hand and the big hand were not too different in size.
“I was hoping we could have breakfast together.”
“That would be fine.”
“Could it be soon? I am exhausted. And can I impose on you to come here to the Imperial? I’m afraid I look the wreck that I feel.”
“I’d be happy to come. I can be ready in less than a half-hour. How far is the Imperial hotel from the Amal Palace? Do you know?”
“It’s very close. It’s just up the Janpath.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know the Janpath.”
“It’s very close. Maybe five minutes in a taxi.”
“Then I should be able to be there close to eight,” Jennifer said, throwing back the covers and swinging her legs off the bed.
“I’ll meet you in the breakfast room. When you come through the front door, continue straight across the lobby. The breakfast room is to the right.”
“I’ll see you in a half-hour,” Jennifer said.
After hanging up, Jennifer put herself in high gear. As a medical student, she’d perfected the process of getting ready. Early on she decided that the aggravation of hurrying was worth enduring for fifteen minutes more sleep.
She was pleased that Rita Lucas was willing to see her. Jennifer was eager to learn about this third American medical tourist death and exactly how much it resembled the first two.
During the process of showering and throwing on her clothes, she thought about the rest of the day. She wanted to steer clear of the Queen Victoria Hospital so as not to be further aggravated by the pesky case manager. That meant she had to think of something to do for the better part of the morning, lunch, the afternoon, and dinner to avoid obsessing about the frustration of not being able to move forward on her grandmother’s situation until Laurie arrived. As for the late evening, she knew exactly what she was doing and looked forward with great zeal to heading out to the airport.
As she stepped out of her room carrying one of her guidebooks, she felt proud of herself. It was only seven-fifty-three, possibly a new record for her. On the way down in the elevator she went back to thinking about the day’s plans. She had decided to contact Lucinda Benfatti for lunch or dinner or both. In the morning, provided breakfast didn’t drag on, she thought she’d sightsee, even though she wasn’t much of a sightseer. She thought it would be a shame to have traveled as far as she had without seeing something of the city. In the afternoon she thought she’d work out and then just lounge around the pool, a rare treat.
One of the Amal Palace doormen, when she told him she was going only to the Imperial hotel, advised her to walk down the hotel driveway and hail a yellow-and-green auto rickshaw if she was adventuresome. Taking the advice as a challenge of sorts, Jennifer did just that, especially when he told her that it would be significantly quicker than a regular cab during the morning rush hour.
At first Jennifer thought the vehicle quaint, with its three wheel, open-sided design. But when she settled herself on the slippery vinyl bench seat and the conveyance took off as if it was joining a race, she had second thoughts. Being thrown forward and backward as the driver rapidly shifted, Jennifer scrambled for appropriate handholds. Once reaching speed, she was then thrown side to side as the driver began to weave among the exhaust-belching buses. The final indignity occurred from a large pothole that threw Jennifer skyward with enough velocity that her head made contact with the molded fiberglass top.
But the worst episode occurred when the driver accelerated between two buses that were converging. Seemingly oblivious to the possibility of being squished by vehicles fifty times the rickshaw’s size, the driver did not slow in the slightest despite the rapid disappearance of space, such that people clinging to the sides of the buses could have shaken Jennifer’s hand.
Convinced that the auto rickshaw and the buses were going to touch, Jennifer let go of the hand railing, pulled in her arms, and switched her grip to the edge of the seat itself. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, certain she was about to hear the grinding noise of actual contact. But it didn’t happen. Instead, she heard the deafening screech of the buses’ brakes as they rapidly slowed for an upcoming red traffic light. Jennifer reopened her eyes. The auto rickshaw driver, able to stop in a much shorter distance, rocketed forward, shooting out from between the braking buses before applying his own brakes.
The moment the auto rickshaw came to a lurching halt, it was surrounded by a small horde of shoeless, dirty children dressed in rags, ages three to twelve, thrusting their left hands in at Jennifer while making an eating gesture with their right. Some of the older girls were carrying swaddled infants on their hips.
Jennifer shrank back, looking into the children’s sad, dark eyes, some of which were crusted with pus from obvious infection. Afraid to give them any money lest she cause a riot of sorts, Jennifer looked to the driver for help. But the driver did not move or even turn around. Absentmindedly, he raced the vehicle’s tiny engine while keeping the clutch disengaged.
Feeling almost sick facing such in-your-face wrenching poverty, Jennifer was alternately repulsed and awed that Hinduism, with its creeds of punarjanma and karma, could inure its adherents to such contrasts and injustices.
To Jennifer’s relief, the traffic light changed to green and the swarm of auto rickshaws, scooters, motorcycles, buses, trucks, and cars surged ahead, mindless of the children, who had to dodge the vehicles to save themselves.
As promised, the ride from the Amal Palace to the Imperial was short, but after Jennifer paid her fare and started to walk up the Imperial hotel’s drive, since she’d been informed by the auto-rickshaw driver that he was not allowe
d on the Imperial’s property, she felt as though she’d been through a marathon both physically and mentally. On top of everything else, she had a slight headache from all the diesel fumes she’d been forced to breathe.
As she approached the hotel, she found herself appreciating the building’s appearance, which had a colonial aura, but not the site. In that sense it reminded her of the Queen Victoria Hospital, as it, too, was wedged in among rather unattractive commercial establishments.
Dhaval Narang felt he had the best job in the world because most of the time he just sat around and played cards with several other people who worked for Shashank Malhotra. And when he was called on to do something, it was always interesting and often a challenge, and the current assignment was no different. He was supposed to get rid of a young American woman by the name of Jennifer Hernandez. The challenging part was that he had no idea what she looked like. All he knew was that she was staying at the Amal Palace Hotel. How long she would be staying was also unknown, so he did not have the luxury of spending a lot of time looking for the woman, observing her, and learning her habits. Shashank’s orders had been to get it done and get it done fast.
With the radio playing contemporary Bollywood-inspired music, Dhaval, dressed in a black open-necked shirt with a number of gold chains, steered his beloved black Mercedes E-Class sedan into the Amal Palace’s driveway and drove up under the porte cochere. In the locked glove compartment was a Beretta automatic fitted with a three-inch suppressor. It was one of his many disposable guns. It was Dhaval’s rule that when he made a hit, the gun disappeared or was left at the scene. Back when he’d just been hired, Shashank had complained that such a habit was too expensive, but Dhaval had insisted, and even threatened to quit if he was not allowed to follow it. Shashank had eventually relented. In India it was a lot easier to buy guns than to find people with Dhaval’s résumé.
Dhaval was from a small rural town in Rajasthan and had joined the army to escape the inexorable grip of provincial life. In so many ways the decision was life-altering. He came to love the army life and the thrill of potential sanctioned killing. He applied for and was accepted into the newly formed Indian Special Forces, ultimately ending up as a Black Cat in the elite National Security Guards. His career progressed stupendously, at least until he saw real action in the 1999 Kashmerian ops. During a night raid on a suspected Pakistani-supported group of insurgents, he demonstrated such unbridled ruthlessness by killing seventeen suspects who were trying to surrender that the command considered him an embarrassing liability and removed him from the operation. A month later he was discharged from the service.
Luckily for Dhaval, his story, which the National Security Guards tried to keep quiet, appeared on the radar screen of Shashank Malhotra, who was rapidly diversifying his business interests and making enemies in the process. Needing someone with Dhaval’s training and attitude, Shashank actively pursued the ex- special forces agent, and the rest was history.
Dhaval lowered his window as the Amal Palace’s head doorman approached, holding his book of parking stickers in one hand and a pencil in the other. “How long will you be?” the doorman demanded. He was busy, as businessmen were arriving in ever-increasing numbers for breakfast meetings.
Palming a roll of rupees, Dhaval handed them over. They rapidly disappeared into the doorman’s scarlet tunic. “I’d like to park up here near the entrance. I’ll probably be an hour or so, certainly less than two.”
Without saying anything to Dhaval, the doorman pointed at the last parking spot just across from the hotel’s entrance, then waved for the next car to pull forward. Dhaval rounded the outer columns that supported the porte cochere and took the designated spot. It was perfect. He had an unobstructed view of the hotel entrance and his vehicle was pointing down toward the driveway’s exit to the street.
After climbing from the car, Dhaval went into the lobby and, using the house phones, placed a call to Jennifer Hernandez. He let it ring a half-dozen times, got voicemail, and hung up. Walking over to the main restaurant used for breakfast, he asked the maître d’ if Ms. Jennifer Hernandez had been seen yet that morning.
“No, sir,” the gentleman said.
“I’m supposed to meet her, and I have no idea what she looks like. Could you possibly give me an idea?”
“A very pretty young woman, medium-height; dark, thick, shoulder-length hair; and nice figure. She tends to wear tight jeans and cotton shirts.”
“I’m impressed,” Dhaval said. “That is a much more complete description than I expected. Thank you.”
“I must admit I remember the attractive women the best,” the maître d’ said with a smile and a wink, “and she is indeed an attractive woman.”
Dhaval wandered out of the restaurant, mildly confused. It was only a little after eight, and Jennifer was not in her room and not in the breakfast area. Dhaval stopped near the center of the lobby and glanced around to see if anyone might fit the description given by the maître d’, but no one did. Then his eyes wandered out the large windows and he saw a half-dozen or so people swimming laps in the pool.
Exiting the hotel, Dhaval checked the swimmers. There were two youngish women. One had medium-brown hair but would not qualify as having a nice figure. The second swimmer was blond, so she was out as well. Returning to the hotel, Dhaval used the lower entrance to check out the spa and workout room. There were two people using the weight machines and exercise bikes, but they were both men.
Mildly discouraged, Dhaval returned upstairs to the lobby and went over to the transportation desk. The hotel employee who ran it was called Samarjit Rao. Sam, as he was known, was on Shashank Malhotra’s under-the-counter payroll. When Shashank brought businessmen to Delhi, he always put them up at the Amal, and often he found it important to know where these people went.
“Mr. Narang,” Sam said respectfully. “Namasté.” Sam knew who Dhaval was and was appropriately scared of him.
“There is a young woman, supposedly attractive, at least according to the maître d’, who is registered here at the hotel. Her name is Jennifer Hernandez. Do you know this person?”
“I do,” Sam said, nervously glancing about. There were several other hotel employees who knew who Dhaval was.
“I need someone to point her out for me. Think you could do that?”
“Of course, sir. When she comes back.”
“She is out of the hotel?”
“Yes, I saw her leave a little before eight.”
Dhaval sighed. He’d hoped to meet up with her early enough so that when she went out he could follow her.
“Well, I’ll wait around for a few hours,” Dhaval said. “I’ll get a paper and sit over against the wall.” He pointed to several free club chairs. “If and when she comes in, let me know.”
The WaKe-Up Call at 8:15 a.m. woke Neil from a deep sleep, and he answered in a panic, not quite knowing where he was. But his mind cleared rapidly, and he thanked the operator before bounding out of bed. The first thing he did was open the draperies and look out at the hazy sunshine. Directly below was the pool, with a handful of people swimming laps. Neil looked forward to doing the same sometime during the day. It would be good treatment for his anxiousness and jet lag.
With his anticipation building, he rushed into the bathroom and jumped into the shower. He brushed his teeth, combed his hair into some semblance of order, and pulled on a fresh shirt and clean jeans. Thus prepared, he sat on the edge of the bed and pressed the operator button with a trembling finger. His idea was to pretend he was calling from L.A., and during the course of the conversation, try to find out her day’s plans. From that information, he’d figure out how to surprise her.
It seemed like it was taking forever for the operator to answer. “Come on!” he urged impatiently. When the operator finally answered, he gave Jennifer’s name. The next thing he heard was the phone ringing in her room, and expecting to hear her voice at any second, his excitement grew.
After almost a dozen rin
gs, Neil was convinced she wasn’t going to pick up, so he replaced his receiver. Next he tried her cell, but got her voicemail after only one ring, suggesting she’d not turned it on. He hung up. With some disappointment, he contemplated his next step. He did think that there was a chance she was in the shower and he should call her room again in five to ten minutes, but as agitated as he’d become, he wasn’t about to just sit there. Neil got his key card, left his room, and descended down to the lobby level. His next thought was that she could be having breakfast.
The restaurant was nearly full, and as he waited in line to talk to the maître d’, his eyes scanned the entire multilevel room. To the left on the highest level against the back wall was a substantial buffet.
To the right, down several levels, were the picture windows facing the gardens and the pool. Again, Neil had to suffer disappointment. He didn’t see her.
“How many persons?” the maître d’ asked when it was Neil’s turn.
“Just one,” Neil said.
As the maître d’ got out a menu to give to one of the seating hosts, Neil asked, “Would you by any chance be familiar with a hotel guest by the name of Jennifer Hernandez? She is—”
“I am,” the maître d’ said. “And you are the second gentleman looking for her this morning. She has yet to come in for breakfast.”
“Thanks,” Neil said, encouraged. She must have been in the shower when he called earlier. Neil allowed the host to lead him to a table for two near the windows but didn’t sit down. “Where is the nearest house phone?”
“There are several in the hallway leading to the restrooms,” the young woman said. She pointed.
Neil thanked her and hurried over. His heart was again pounding in his chest, which surprised him. He hadn’t anticipated getting as excited as he was, and it made him wonder if he was more attached to Jennifer than he was willing to admit. When the operator came on the line, Neil again asked for Jennifer’s room. Feeling confident he was going to get her this time, he even began to ponder an opening line. But he didn’t need one. The same as earlier, the phone just rang and rang.
