symbols. Let me see if I remember them — no cutting of the hair, always wear four specific tokens: a comb, a steel bracelet, special underwear of some sort, and…and some kind of small dagger. Is that it?'
'The dagger is symbolic of a sword, and the underclothes are those of soldiers, symbolizing the Sikhs' constant readiness to fight for their beliefs. Excellent, Doctor. I am very impressed.'
'But you are clean-shaven, so I am assuming you are not a Sikh.'
'That is true, Doctor. Although I do share much of the philosophy of the Sikhs, I do not share all of it.'
'Sanjay,' St. Pierre asked, 'is it very far to Mrs. Narjot's home?'
'Not too far, Dr. Elizabeth, but as you can see, the traffic is bad. We are on Court Road, which is always congested. We must go to Sultan Road. Three miles, I would say. It would not take very long if we were actually moving.'
Khanduri chuckled at his own humor. The mid-afternoon sky was an unbroken expanse of azure, and the sun was hot. With the surgeon's Toyota virtually motionless, beggars, chattering incessantly, were drawn to the windows beside the Caucasian man and the stunning African woman.
'I want to give something to each of them,' Anson said.
'You are a very kind man, Doctor. Alas, there are many more beggars than you have money to give them.'
'I suppose.'
'And that is only in this section of the city. I am excited to see that you are breathing quite naturally. Now I get to appreciate firsthand that all of the positive reports Elizabeth has sent me are true.'
'You did an amazing job.'
'Thank you. I confess I was very nervous when the outbreak of Serretia marcescens pneumonia occurred throughout the hospital and we had to move you so soon after your surgery.'
'To tell you the truth, I remember very little of those first few days after my operation. In fact, the hospital you transferred me to in Capetown is really the first memory I have.'
'The Serratia outbreak was a dangerous one, Joseph,' Elizabeth said, 'especially with you on anti-rejection medication, however minimal.'
'I was worried about transferring you to one of the other Amritsar hospitals,' Khanduri added. 'Serratia had already been showing up in some of their immunocompromised patients, and in addition they have been hit hard by staffing shortages.'
'All's well that ends well,' Anson said, sensing at that moment that he had never really analyzed the Shakespearean quote very deeply, and now wasn't at all sure he agreed with it.
'All's well that ends well,' Khanduri echoed.
Traffic had begun moving again, and the beggars fell away. Anson sat quietly, marveling at the kaleidoscope that was Amritsar — architecturally sophisticated and opulent one block, tawdry and decrepit the next. It was a miracle that among this incredible mass of humanity, several million people in this city alone, at just the necessary moment, a lifesaving gift appeared for him in the form of a brain-dead man who was a virtually perfect tissue match to him.
'Whitestone has inquiries out quite literally all over the world,' Elizabeth had explained when they were discussing his deteriorating health. 'We are determined to protect our investment at all costs.' She had punctuated the statement with a wink.
Indeed, thanks to the charming, unassuming man now serving as their guide, Whitestone's investment had been protected, and marvelously so. Now, as soon as he had finished making his peace with the widow and children of T. J. Narjot, Anson would complete the bargain and turn over the final secrets of the synthesis of Sarah-9.
Khanduri made a slight detour to take them past the gilded walls, dome, and tall minarets of the Golden Temple.
'The water in which the Golden Temple sits is called the Pool of Nectar,' he said. 'The Sikhs have been continuously embellishing and improving the structure in various ways since the fifteenth century.'
'You seem very proud of the Sikhs,' Anson said. 'Why have you not embraced their religion?'
'I am Hindu,' Khanduri replied simply. 'I believe strongly in the caste system, and the Sikhs don't outwardly espouse it.'
Anson was still gazing at the temple, or he would have seen St. Pierre make eye contact with Khanduri in the rearview mirror and shake her head sternly and emphatically.
After three-quarters of an hour of driving, the surgeon pulled up be-fore a modest, two-story dwelling on a middle-class street that was not nearly as busy as most of those around it.
'T. J. Narjot was the foreman of a crew that works doing repairs for the electric company,' he explained. 'His wife, Narendra, as is often the case here in India, stayed home with the children. She speaks no English, so I will have to interpret for you. This state, Punjab, has its own language, but both she and I speak primarily Hindi. Elizabeth, do you wish to come in with us?'
'Yes,' St. Pierre said after the briefest hesitation. 'Yes, I think I would. Is that all right with you, Joseph?'
'Absolutely. Dr. Khanduri, please tell Mrs. Narjot that we will not inconvenience her long.'
They were greeted at the door by a slender, attractive woman in her thirties, unadorned, wearing a sari of subdued color. Her head was uncovered, and her ebony hair hung loose to her shoulders. She made no pretext at being demure, but instead shook hands with her three visitors, and maintained steady eye contact when speaking with them. The small living room was neatly furnished, with very little art on the walls or end tables. There were several photos of a lean, good-looking, mustachioed man with an engaging smile, whom Narendra later confirmed was her late husband. From somewhere in the back of the first floor came clatter and the sound of children's laughter.
After Anson extended his sympathy and thanked his hostess for receiving them, he asked about her husband.
'T.J. and I were married for twelve years,' Narendra said through Khanduri. 'Our children are nine and six, both boys. They miss their father terribly, and they still get very upset at even speaking about what happened.'
'I won't disturb them,' Anson said.
'That is much appreciated. Until his hemorrhage, he was in excellent health. The stroke was very sudden and massive — bleeding, they told me, from tangled blood vessels that he had from birth.'
'It was an arteriovenous malformation,' St. Pierre interjected.
'I thought so,' Anson said.
'My husband and I had spoken in general terms about what we would wish if something like this ever happened. Of course we never expected that — ' Narendra began to weep. Khanduri motioned that it was okay to wait and allow her to continue, ' — that either of us would need to make such a decision.'
'I understand,' Anson said.
'In the end, T.J.'s lung, corneas, and both his kidneys were transplanted. He then had a wonderful Shraddha' — a funeral, Khanduri explained — 'and then his body was cremated.'
'The Narjots are not Sikhs?' Anson asked, realizing as he asked the question that T. J. had neither the beard of a Sikh, nor the customary turban.
'No,' Khanduri said. 'Like me they are Hindu.'
'But don't Hindus believe that organ donation is mutilation of the body, and therefore to be avoided?' Anson asked.
Khanduri did not turn to Narendra for the answer.
'In older days that was certainly so,' he said, 'but now there are an increasing number of Hindus who understand that organ donation is useful to others, and therefore most honorable. Fortunately for you, and for the other recipients of his organs, that is the case with the Narjots.'
In all, the interpreted conversation lasted a little more than an hour, during which Anson asked about T. J. Narjot — his personality, interests, and personal history.
'He sounds like a very unusual man,' Anson said when Narendra was through.
'Oh, he was,' came the interpreted reply. 'He was very special, and we shall miss him forever.'
Finally, Narendra took her guests on a brief tour of her house that included a wave to her sons. In the hallway, Anson removed an envelope from his pocket. Narendra, immediately recognizing it for what it was, tried
