by Susan Mann
While they waited, Quinn wandered around the lobby. She stopped in front of two framed prints hanging above the ratty couch. In both, a solemn-faced man sat cross-legged on an ornate rug and stared into the distance. Each wore an impressively long beard: one white with age, the other black with youth. She assumed they were Sikh gurus, but with no information regarding their identities given, she didn’t know for sure.
She spun around when she heard footsteps. A middle-aged man trotted toward them, puffing for breath and looking rather constipated. No doubt he was the manager called to answer James’s questions and smooth his ruffled feathers.
While James handled their inquiries, Quinn seized the opportunity to do a little poking around. She ventured farther into the hostel and encountered a recreation room. A small TV sat on a stand against one wall. To the left of the TV was a cabinet filled with videotapes and DVDs. A Ping-Pong table stood in another corner of the room.
At its center, four women about Quinn’s age sat on two couches that sported the kind of coarse fabric capable of scraping off a layer of skin. Quinn smiled and gave them an awkward wave when they glanced up at her. They smiled their acknowledgment and then returned to their conversation, which Quinn noted was in German.
Of course it was the four five-foot-tall metal bookcases set against the far wall that drew Quinn like a magnet. A sign atop one of the bookcases instructed users in a dozen different languages to “Take a book. Leave a book.”
She tipped her head to one side and skimmed the titles packed tightly on the shelves. About half were in English. The rest were in an impressive array of languages. A few used scripts Quinn didn’t even recognize.
A thick trade paperback embossed with golden Hebrew letters on a cerulean blue spine caught Quinn’s eye. She couldn’t read the words but was pretty sure she knew the title. Her suspicions were confirmed when she pulled the book from the shelf and looked at the cover. A teenage boy with a mop of dark hair and round glasses stared at something over his shoulder. The wand in his hand pointed upward at the ready. She smiled at her find. If she’d already finished Trip Wire, the Edward Walker novel in her purse, she would have traded it for the Hebrew edition of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix in a heartbeat. But she was only halfway through, and she had to find out how the MI6 agent would circumvent the gauntlet of laser beams crisscrossing the room and get to the safe containing the launch codes.
Sighing, she reluctantly returned the book to the shelf and continued to peruse the titles. While there were a few nonfiction titles, most were fantasy, science fiction, and thriller mass-market paperbacks.
She took a step to her right and stood in front of the last bookcase. On the bottom shelf were three old hardbacks with call number labels glued to the spines. Amongst the rows and rows of paperbacks, the library books stuck out like sore thumbs.
She squatted down, removed one of the books, and opened to the title page. Below the author’s name, a stamp declared in Punjabi and English the library to which it belonged. Her heart leapt to her throat. It read, “Sikh Reference Library.”
Chapter Nineteen
Quinn stared at the stamp on the title page and tried to keep from jumping to conclusions. No one could dispute the book belonged to the Sikh Reference Library, but which one? The one that had been carried off during Operation Blue Star, or the thriving library rebuilt from its ashes?
She closed the book and set it on the floor. Adrenaline flowing, she reached out, removed a second book, and opened it. The same ownership stamp graced the title page. It was the same for the third book. She thumbed through each again and found no markings to indicate the books had been weeded and discarded from the collection. Even if they had been purposefully purged, all three books had at some point been part of the Sikh Reference Library collection.
Quinn gathered the three books and stood. It took every ounce of self-control she had to keep from sprinting across the room and barreling through the door, waving the books and shouting, “Look what I found!” Instead, she willed her feet to move at a steady pace.
She returned to the lobby and found James and the manager talking on the couch. James’s gaze rose from his notebook and flicked to the books she carried. His eyes then locked on hers, as if silently asking, “What have you got there?” At the same time, his crooked smile said, “Of course you found something.”
The two men stood. James introduced her to Mr. Prasad, the hostel’s manager.
“Namaste,” Quinn began in a passable British accent. “I was just skimming the bookshelves in the recreation room and ran across these three books. I’m curious. Can you tell me where they came from?”
He rubbed his chin with the tips of his fingers. “Yes. As I was just explaining to your husband, the facility was renovated six months ago for the first time in many years. We removed the furniture in the recreation room and found those three books trapped between a couch and a wall. We put them with the others.”
“The others? There were other books with labels like these?” She turned the books so he could see the spines and tapped the labels with her finger.
“I am sorry. I was not clear. We only found those three. I meant we put them in the bookcases with the other books.”
“Oh, I understand,” Quinn said. “And you didn’t find any other books like this anywhere else in the hostel when you refurbished it?”
“No, we did not.” Mr. Prasad’s eyebrows pulled together. “Why do you ask?”
She glanced down at the book entitled Ranjit Singh. Thinking fast, she said, “I’m fascinated by Maharaja Ranjit Singh and the rise of Sikh Empire in the nineteenth century.” What she was about to do next pained her, but it had to be done. Setting the three library books on the couch, she opened her bag and lifted out Trip Wire. “Would it be okay if I left this novel here and took this biography with me?”
Mr. Prasad smiled and dipped his head. “Take a book. Leave a book.”
“What about the other two, honey?” James asked. “Wouldn’t you like them, too?”
“I would, but I only have the one novel to trade.”
The manager’s brow furrowed and he cocked his head to one side. “Even the one in Punjabi?”
“Especially that one. I collect books in languages other than English.” She mentally patted herself on the back. That was a pretty good lie.
James removed his fold of cash. Quinn wondered how much money it would take for them to walk out of the hostel with all three books.
He peeled off three five hundred rupee notes. Apparently the equivalent of about twenty-five dollars was a good starting price. He held the money out toward Mr. Prasad. “This should be sufficient to buy several books to replace these.”
Quinn almost snorted. She doubted Mr. Prasad would use the money to buy more books.
The manager’s expression remained neutral. “The books are quite old and valuable. Perhaps another thousand rupees will cover our loss.”
The guy’s a rare book expert all of a sudden, Quinn thought and internally rolled her eyes.
“That seems fair,” James said. He slid two more five hundred rupee notes from the fold and handed the money over. Then James took another fifteen hundred rupees from his stash. “This should cover the cost of our stay here tonight. Private room, air-conditioning.”
“Yes, of course.” Mr. Prasad snatched the bills from James’s hand. “I can give you your key now, if you like.”
James shook his head. “Not necessary. We’ll get it when we come back later.” He returned the money to his pocket. “We appreciate how accommodating you’ve been, don’t we, honey?”
“We do.” To Mr. Prasad, she said, “Our many readers look to us to give them advice on where they should stay when traveling. We have positive things to say about this hostel.” Just in case James intended for them to actually stay at the hostel that night, she decided to give Mr. Prasad some incentive to treat them well. Her pause gave the next two words their full impact. “So far.”
> At the way Mr. Prasad’s eyes widened just a bit, she knew she’d landed a direct hit. His Adam’s apple bobbed when he gulped and said with a tentative smile, “We look forward to your stay with us tonight.”
That was doubtful. A question arose in her mind when she tucked the books under her arm. “Were you aware these books belong to a library?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you return them?”
Mr. Prasad shrugged. “It was not my responsibility to do so. I did not take them.”
James must have noticed from the way Quinn’s eye twitched she was seconds away from beating the man about the head and shoulders with her newly acquired books. James grabbed her free hand and hauled her toward the front door. “Thank you for your time. Good afternoon,” he called over his shoulder and hustled her outside.
“Not his responsibility?” she fumed, stomping toward the car. “The hostel is ten minutes from the library.”
“I know, but look at it this way. If he had returned them, you wouldn’t have found them.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I get a little fanatical about library stuff sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” James said, smirking at her. He laughed when she shot him a dirty look and slapped his arm. Still chuckling, he laced their fingers together. It was a pretty bold move since they were in public. “For the record, I love your passion for libraries. It’s part of who you are. I would never want to squelch that fire inside you.” He waited a beat and added, “Even if it means buying books in all kinds of languages everywhere we go. That’s going to be a thing from now on, isn’t it?”
Side-eyed, she looked up into his face. “Maybe.”
“I thought so.” James unlocked and opened the passenger door. A gust of hot air slammed into them. “Holy crap, it’s like an oven in there,” he said. “Hang on. Let me turn on the A/C for a minute before you get in.” He bounded around to the driver’s side and started up the car. Even with the air conditioner running full blast, it still took a couple of minutes for the temperature to lower enough for them to drive away.
Once on the road to their hotel, Quinn opened the biography of Maharaja Ranjit Singh and examined it more closely.
“What do you think?” James asked. “Those three books were part of the stolen library?”
“My gut tells me yes, but we don’t have any real evidence.” She turned to the verso of the title page. “This was published in 1970.” A quick check of the other book in English informed her it was published in 1981. Figuring out the publication date of the Punjabi book would take a little more work. “If any of these books were published anytime after 1984, then we know for sure the answer is no. But just because they were published before 1984 doesn’t necessarily prove they were part of the original library. These could be replacements purchased anytime in the last thirty years. Someone staying at the hostel could have visited the library last year and walked off with them. Then they got stuck behind that couch.”
“Or they fell behind it when the entire library was brought there in 1984.”
Quinn sat up straighter. “Is that possible? Was the hostel around then?”
“Mm-hmm. Prasad said the hostel opened in 1982. He’s been manager for the last two years, and no one has been there longer than him. Most of the people that work there do it for free room and board. They’re there for a while and then move on.”
“Like the guy behind the desk when we first got there?”
James nodded. “Exactly.”
“So it’s a no go on talking to someone who was there in 1984,” she said. “It was a long shot anyway.” She stared out the window and turned everything over in her mind. “You know, there might be a way for us to know for certain if these three books came from the original library. If there’s a catalog of what was in the collection before it was taken, we could see if these are listed. I bet Harbir knows if such a catalog exists.”
“We could do that, but how do we explain we found them in a youth hostel we haven’t been staying at?” James blew out a breath. “The last thing we want to do is tip our hand to anyone that the Riordans are asking around about the long-lost library. Our cover has nothing to do with that. I think we keep this find to ourselves for now.”
She gave his response some thought. “You’re right.” Quinn looked at him. “Do you think all the books are still hidden there? Is that why you paid for a room there for tonight, so we can hunt around for them? ’Cause I gotta tell you, I think someone would have noticed a twenty-thousand-volume library stuffed in a closet at some point over the last thirty-plus years.”
“I’m sure that’s true. And no, I don’t want to stay there. I was greasing the wheels with Prasad in case we need to go back for more information. He’ll tell us anything we want to know if he thinks I’ll throw cash at him.”
“That money clip of yours is like magic. Whip that thing out and people will do or say whatever you want.”
The second a devilish smile came over his face, she knew she was in for it. “Go ahead,” she sighed. “I threw you a hanging curveball. Knock it out of the park.”
“It wounds me deeply, madam, deeply that you could think me so ungallant.” His voice oozed with sarcasm while his mischievous smirk never wavered. “Such caddish words like, ‘Will you do whatever I want if I whip something else out?’ will not pass these lips.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “I appreciate your chivalry.”
He took her hand, kissed the back of it, and then rested their entwined hands on his thigh. “Of course. And I forgive you for thinking I could be such a lout.”
The monster eye roll was accompanied by a sardonic, “Again, I thank you for your magnanimity.”
He grinned and shot her a wink.
The conversation lulled. As Quinn stared out the window, her thoughts were occupied with how much she loved James and how amazing it was that she was in India in the first place. Six months ago, she was an unattached reference librarian who sated her hunger for adventure by devouring spy novels. Now she was half a world away, living the kind of grand adventure she’d always thought could only be found in the pages of a book. And she was doing so with the man she loved so much she couldn’t imagine her life without his constant presence.
But she’d have to. When the specter of James going back to Moscow rose, she pushed aside the threatening melancholy by returning her thoughts to the mission at hand. “Okay, so at this point we have circumstantial evidence the books were taken from the Golden Temple complex to the hostel, but they’re not there now. We don’t know where they went after that, and there’s no one at the hostel we can ask.”
“Right,” James said with a sharp nod.
“I guess the next step is to track down the two Punjabi policemen in that photo and ask them some questions. Hopefully they can help us.”
“Hopefully they can. But first, put on your salwar kameez. We’re going to a wedding.”
Chapter Twenty
Quinn shielded her eyes from the morning sun with a hand and caught a glimpse of the procession slowly making its way toward them. “I guess that’s the barat, huh?” She had actually heard the group coming before she saw them. Bagpipes seemed like an unusual choice to lead a groom and his family to the gurdwara, but what did she know? It was her first time at a Sikh wedding.
“That’s them,” Ravi said. “Probably won’t see another guy riding a white horse this morning.”
“Probably not.” Even from a distance, she could see it was adorned with a crimson and gold blanket and sparkling golden headdress.
The groom, Gopal Sandhu, rode atop his mount resplendent in his burgundy turban, an exquisitely gold embroidered cream kurta, and leggings. A long scarf the same color as his turban hung round his neck. Quinn’s eyes were then drawn to the kaleidoscope of vibrant colors worn by the women, many clapping and dancing, at the front of the group.
“Traditionally, the groom rides the mare from his house to where the wedding takes place,” Ra
vi said. “That might work in small towns, but in larger cities like Amritsar, it isn’t always doable. So they take a car part of the way and then walk the rest.”
“That makes sense,” James said.
Quinn tore her eyes away from the approaching procession and looked up at James. “I like the color of this bandana better than the one you wore at the Golden Temple yesterday,” she said. She reached up and fingered the light blue fabric above his temple. “It matches your eyes. Now they really pop.”
Ravi snorted. “I’m sure James’s eye color was the main consideration when they chose the handkerchief color for all us non-turban-wearing guys.”
“I’m sure it was,” Quinn replied dryly.
After another minute, the bridegroom and his party arrived. Gopal dismounted a short distance away. He walked slowly toward the awaiting crowd with a sword sheathed in a golden scabbard clutched in both hands. Quinn spotted the familiar face of Mr. Sandhu walking next to his son.
“The next part is called the milni,” Ravi said. “The bride’s family welcomes the groom’s, and then the male members of the families are formally introduced. Father meets father, uncle meets uncle, brother meets brother. You get the drift.”
The barat stopped a few feet from the group awaiting them.
A man dressed in all white except for a royal blue scarf and dark blue turban stepped into the space separating the two groups. He took a section of his scarf, pressed it between his palms, and prayed aloud. When he finished, Mr. Sandhu and the man Quinn presumed to be the bride’s father stepped into the gap. Each carried a garland of red and white flowers. After putting their palms together and bowing, the bride’s father placed his garland around Mr. Sandhu’s neck. He in turn did the same to his counterpart. They turned toward the photographer and together had their picture taken. Next, two older gentlemen stepped forward and repeated the actions.
