A Covert Affair

by Susan Mann

  “Yes, I know what you mean,” Amarjit said as her face relaxed into a smile. “I have heard there is a small number of radicals at the university, but I do not associate with them.”

  “Oh, of course not.” It was a step in the right direction to know there were pockets of extremists in the area.

  Not wanting to push, Quinn dropped the topic and changed it to Amarjit’s studies. That was until Mr. Sandhu approached and boomed, “Ah, my favorite Americans!”

  James and Quinn scrambled to their feet and greeted their host. Amarjit stood silently next to Quinn.

  Grinning at Quinn, his eyes flashed with admiration. “You look smashing in your salwar kameez.”

  “Thank you,” Quinn said with a pleased smile.

  Mr. Sandhu’s eyes cut to James. “As I said before, James, you are a lucky man.” He didn’t wait for a response. “Did you enjoy the wedding?”

  “We did,” James said. “Very much. Thank you for inviting us. It’s been an amazing experience.”

  “I am sure it was difficult to follow along since there was no English spoken.”

  “That was a bit of a challenge,” Quinn said. “Fortunately, my friend, Amarjit Kaur, kept me informed as the ceremony went along.”

  Amarjit bowed, looking more than a little intimidated.

  “Are you a friend of Parveen?” Mr. Sandhu asked Amarjit.

  “Yes. From Guru Nanak Dev University.” Amarjit looked like she might collapse right there on the spot.

  “And how did you become a friend of Mrs. Riordan?”

  “I met her when she visited the Harmandir Sahib a few mornings ago. I gave her a tour and took her to visit the library there.”

  Approval bloomed on the older man’s face. “I remember Quinn telling me of her visit. Well done. You show great initiative. Tell me, Amarjit, what is your field of study?”

  “Computer science and engineering.”

  “Excellent.” Mr. Sandhu’s voice took on a businesslike tone when he said, “When you are finished with your studies, I want you to come work for me. We need people like you.” He looked to Ravi. “I am sure you would agree.”

  “I do.”

  Amarjit swayed slightly and stared with glazed eyes at Mr. Sandhu. It appeared the girl’s brain function was barely above life support. It was time to jump in and bail her out. “I’m sure she’ll be in touch soon, won’t you, Amarjit?” Waving a hand in front of Amarjit’s face to snap her out of her trance was too obvious, so Quinn gave her friend several firm pats on the shoulder.

  That did the trick. Amarjit’s eyes lost that hypnotized quality and she said, “I would be honored to work for you.”

  “I look forward to meeting with you soon.” Something to the left caught his eye. He nodded and said, “My wife calls. The wedding may be over, but there is still plenty to be done. I will see you all at the reception this evening.”

  “We’re looking forward to it,” James said.

  Mr. Sandhu bowed and strode off.

  Amarjit’s features were overcome with awe as she stared at the back of her future boss. With a reverence reserved for when one witnesses the miraculous, like childbirth or the Cubs winning the World Series, she breathed, “This is the best wedding ever.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  There wasn’t an inch of unoccupied space on the entire dance floor. The thumping beat of Punjabi techno music blasting from giant speakers drew people to it, Quinn and James included.

  Quinn wasn’t the best dancer in the world, but then again neither was James. Not that it mattered to her. The way he wiggled his shoulders and his occasional hip thrust almost sent her into cardiac arrest. And it also wasn’t terrible that their fellow members of the Punjabi Mosh Pit bumped and jostled her so that she constantly bashed into James and ended up in his arms. Amarjit had said it was the best wedding ever. For Quinn, the reception had it beat.

  When the song came to an end, Quinn rose on her tiptoes and pulled down on James’s tie until her lips were next to his ear. “I need to get a drink and cool off.”

  James nodded, took her hand, and threaded through the crowd to their table. He flopped down in his chair, downed the rest of his club soda, and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. Like most of the men at the reception, he had discarded his suit jacket long before. His tie was loose and his collar unbuttoned as well.

  Quinn finished off her bottle of water and fanned herself with a hand. The facility where the reception was being held was modern, well-appointed, and most critically for summer, air-conditioned. But like any room with an abundance of bodies, it was hot and steamy.

  Quinn brushed her fingers through her hair and unstuck the strands plastered to the back of her sweaty neck. She kind of regretted taking it out of the bun she’d had it in while wearing her salwar kameez and chutti at the wedding. Even if no one knew she was a librarian or had any knowledge of the bun-sporting stereotype, she did. So her hair went down when she’d changed her clothes while they killed the time between the wedding and reception.

  “Have you seen Ravi?” James asked. “Is he still dancing with Amarjit?”

  Quinn scanned the dance floor. Between the lowered house lights, flashing colored strobes, and constant movement of the partiers, it was difficult to tell. “I can’t say for sure, but my guess would be yes. Other than when we went back to our hotel, she hasn’t let him out of her sight. She’s quite the smitten kitten.”

  “I noticed that, too. I’m sure he’ll be able to use that to his advantage.”

  His words stung. “I just hope he doesn’t break her heart. I like her.” She knew using people to get intel was part of the program. It didn’t mean she had to like it.

  “I know. I like her, too. Ravi’s a good guy. I’m sure he’ll do his best not to hurt her.”

  As if using their names summoned them, Ravi and Amarjit emerged from the cluster of dancers and started toward them. They smiled and laughed, having a great time together. Or at least that was the way it appeared. Ravi could as easily be having a horrible time and as a trained operative was simply cultivating an asset.

  Ravi wiped at the perspiration sprinkled across his forehead with his sleeve and sat in the chair next to Quinn. “You two look to have the right idea. We need a break, too.”

  Quinn noted both her and James’s drinks were gone, and Ravi’s and Amarjit’s would be soon. Thinking she would retrieve more refreshments for everyone, Quinn glanced over at the bar to gauge how crowded it was. It wasn’t, since almost everyone either watched the revelers on the dance floor or was on it.

  At one end of the bar, two men stood with their heads bent in deep conversation. One was Mr. Sandhu. His companion was in his mid-thirties and wore a long beard, a dark blue turban, and white tunic. Had he sported a bandolier of bullets, he could have been mistaken for the long-dead firebrand Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale.

  Quinn had noticed him early on. He and the people he sat with scowled with disapproval at some of the activities taking place during the reception.

  When Quinn mentioned it to Amarjit earlier, she told Quinn they were amritdhari, or baptized Sikh. In addition to wearing the five articles of faith, which included a turban and a small dagger called a kirpan, they also refrained from drinking alcohol, smoking, doing drugs, and eating meat. Based on the alcohol alone in the room, Quinn could understand why the more devout wouldn’t be happy with what they saw.

  The conversation at the bar piqued Quinn’s interest. Mr. Sandhu was an incredibly influential man. Perhaps the man speaking with him was asking him to use his power to push for Khalistan. Maybe he was reporting to Mr. Sandhu on behalf of the Falcon. Maybe he was the Falcon. They needed to know what the two men were talking about.

  The likelihood the conversation was being carried on in Punjabi kept Quinn in her seat. Instead, she said, “Ravi, would you mind getting me another bottle of water from the bar?”

  James pushed his chair back and said, “I can go—”

  Quinn cut him off b
y giving his thigh a squeeze. She shot him a pointed look and tipped her head ever so slightly toward the bar.

  James’s face remained inscrutable, but when his eyes darted to where the men stood, she saw them flash with comprehension.

  Quinn’s request was not lost on Ravi. “I will be back with drinks for us all.” He leapt to his feet and strode away.

  Quinn kept tabs on Ravi while she, James, and Amarjit chatted about the DJ’s music choices. He stood about five feet away from Mr. Sandhu and his companion. After speaking with the bartender, Ravi turned around, shoved his hands in the front pockets of his trousers and leaned back against the edge of the bar. His gaze drifted around the room, as if he was killing time while he waited.

  Quinn’s pulse quickened when Mr. Sandhu pulled his wallet from his pocket and opened it. He slid a wad of notes from it and handed them to the man, who took the money, pressed it between his palms, and gave Mr. Sandhu a deep bow. When he straightened, Mr. Sandhu rested his hand on the man’s shoulder and spoke directly into his ear. After another bow, the man turned and hurried toward his compatriots.

  Mr. Sandhu stepped over to where Ravi waited and began to speak with him.

  “I’m going to go help Ravi carry drinks,” James said. Quinn hoped James hadn’t seen something that made him believe Ravi was being called out for eavesdropping.

  Her pulse whooshed in her ears as her eyes followed James.

  Mr. Sandhu smiled and vigorously shook James’s hand. Then James turned and pointed in the direction of where Quinn sat. Mr. Sandhu’s face pinched as his gaze swept the area, obviously looking for her. She waved. Mr. Sandhu’s face relaxed into a wide grin when he spotted her and waved back.

  She would be devastated if she learned she’d just witnessed him bankrolling a pro-Khalistan terrorist cell. She truly liked the man. But then Roderick Fitzhugh had been a warm, charming, and affable snake-in-the-grass illegal arms dealer. Appearances could be deceiving.

  The bartender set the drinks on the bar and Mr. Sandhu sauntered away. James and Ravi took a glass in each hand and started back toward the table. Quinn’s stomach clenched as she noted them having a quick conversation. She was about to find out if Mr. Sandhu was the man she hoped he was, or the man she feared he might be.

  James off-loaded his drinks, slid into his seat, and draped his arm across the back of Quinn’s chair. He rested his forehead against the side of her head and said, “Nothing suspect. Ravi says the man asked Sandhu for some money to help him rebuild his aging parents’ dilapidated house. Apparently the roof leaks, the kitchen is ancient, and the plumbing is dodgy.”

  James dipped his head so she could speak into his ear. “I’m glad. I didn’t like the idea of him being involved with Sharma’s kidnapping.”

  “We don’t know for sure that he’s not, but so far it doesn’t seem like he is,” he said. She felt him smile against her ear. “A guy going to ask for a favor from the big boss at a wedding reminds me of the beginning of The Godfather. Only in this case he’s asking for money to help an elderly couple and not a mob hit.”

  Chuckling, she nodded and turned her face toward his. Their noses were only a couple of inches apart. Her gaze dropped to his smiling lips. All she wanted to do was kiss him. But she couldn’t. She hadn’t even seen the bride and groom kiss in public. Planting a wet one on James right then would definitely be bad form. She forced her eyes up to his. She could kiss him all she wanted later. And would she ever. The thought of it made her insides flutter.

  “I thought the exact same thing when we used his name at the salwar kameez shop. We could call him Don Karnail Singh Sandhu.” Her smile wilted. “I’ll apologize to Ravi later.”

  James frowned. “What do you have to apologize for?”

  “For sending him over to the bar and have it turn out to be nothing.”

  “Are you kidding? It was a great catch. You’ve got tremendous instincts. Don’t second-guess yourself and then miss out on something because you’re not sure if it’s important or not.” He rubbed her arm with his thumb and stared into her eyes. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said with a hesitant nod. She heaved a deep sigh and let her gaze roam his face. “Just so you know, I want to kiss you so bad right now.”

  She felt the smoldering desire radiating from his body. His voice was a low growl when he said, “Just so you know, I want to kiss you so bad right now, too.”

  Quinn jolted as if coming out from under a magic spell when Ravi said, “Hey. If you two are going to sit there and stare into each other’s eyes all night, we are going back out on the dance floor. Right, Amarjit?”

  “Yes.” Not having to be asked twice, Amarjit leapt up from her chair. It came precariously close to tipping over backward.

  “What do you say?” James asked as the crowd enveloped Ravi and Amarjit. “You want to rejoin the partying throng?”

  “I guess.” She was having a difficult time thinking of anything other than hauling James into the nearest dark nook and jumping him. But they weren’t there for that. They were working. She sat back to give herself some distance from him and slow her revving motor. From the corner of her eye, she noticed a man and woman from the table she’d been keeping an eye on walk toward the exit of the reception room. That wasn’t remarkable. The way they furtively glanced around as they did so was.

  She had no reason to believe they were actually up to no good. Perhaps they were looking for a dark place to have a clandestine rendezvous just as Quinn had been considering doing with James only a moment before. Given what she’d been told about the strict lifestyle the amritdhari lived, she doubted it.

  Her interest in them deepened when the two stopped and made eye contact across the room with a clean-shaven man sans turban. He wore dark slacks and a pink dress shirt.

  Quinn scrutinized the woman’s face. She felt like she’d seen it somewhere before.

  The two amritdhari headed for the door again when Pink Shirt Guy started to cross the room. It seemed pretty clear they were about to meet up.

  She sucked in a breath when she remembered where she’d seen the woman’s face. She’d been in a photo accompanying one of the online articles Quinn had recently read about pro-Khalistan protests in Amritsar. She’d made an impression on Quinn as she was the only female face amidst the sea of beards, holding an orange sign with the words “India out of Khalistan.” She was also one of the few women Quinn had seen wearing a turban.

  Quinn’s gut told her she needed to find out what they were up to. But she’d rolled a gutter ball a few minutes before when she sent Ravi to spy on Mr. Sandhu. She wasn’t about to make the same mistake. She’d go herself. If it turned out to be a complete bust, James and Ravi would be none the wiser.

  Pink Shirt Guy walked past their table.

  “We’ll go dance some more when I get back from the ladies’ room, okay?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  From sheer habit, she went in to give him a kiss before standing up but stopped when she realized what she was doing. She sighed with disappointment, stood, and followed Pink Shirt Guy out of the reception hall to the central lobby. She hoped trailing him would turn out better than when she’d followed Ben disguised as Bondarenko.

  Quinn averted her eyes to keep from making eye contact when Pink Shirt Guy glanced over his shoulder. She pegged her eyes to the side and watched him turn left toward a dark hallway blocked off by a thick maroon velvet rope stretched between two brass posts.

  She turned right toward the ladies’ room. She walked halfway down the hall, stopped suddenly, and then groaned as if she’d forgotten something. She whirled around and backtracked her steps.

  In the lobby again, a cluster of women walked right past her on their way to the ladies’ room. They were so engrossed in their conversations no one gave her a second’s notice.

  Rather than draw attention to herself by acting skulky, she marched toward the hallway with purpose. She swung one leg over the rope and then the other. Once in the shadows,
she pressed her back against the wall.

  After a few seconds to gather herself, she tiptoed along the wall until she reached a closed door.

  Three distinct voices pitched in a heated argument came from behind it. Unsurprisingly, all three spoke Punjabi. She slid her phone from her back pocket, started a recording app, and held the phone toward the door.

  As the minutes passed, she grew apprehensive about the precarious position she’d put herself in. If any one of the three behind the door flung it open and stormed out, she’d be caught like a deer in headlights. If that occurred, her strategy was to pretend she got lost on the way to the ladies’ room. If that failed, she’d hurdle the velvet rope like an Olympian, bolt out the front door, and keep running until she was halfway to Delhi.

  She pushed aside that nightmare scenario and worked under the assumption she would be able to clear out just before they left the room. To do that, she needed to figure out when the conversation was coming to its conclusion. The problem was she didn’t understand what they were saying. So she concentrated on the tone and volume of the voices in hopes of picking up cues that would tell her the argument had been resolved.

  The voices calmed after another minute. That was her signal. Time to bail out.

  A hand clamped over her mouth.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  A jolt of sheer terror rocketed through Quinn when an arm shot around her waist from behind and pinned her left arm to her side. Trying to break free, she twisted and squirmed, but the arm around her tightened and lifted her feet completely off the ground. The hand clamped over her mouth pressed the back of her head against her captor’s chest.

  “Shhhh. It’s—” a man’s voice started.

  She rammed the elbow of her free arm into his gut. He expelled a groan, but his grip remained tight around her.