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 allowed 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 resume.
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 maitre 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 maitre 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 maitre 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. “Namaste.” Sam knew who Dhaval was and was appropriately scared of him.
“There is a young woman, supposedly attractive, at least according to the maitre 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
