“Sorry,” Ranjeet said.
“That’s quite alright,” Jennifer said. The taxi had alarmed her as well.
The light changed and Ranjeet accelerated out into the broad multilaned Netaji Subhash Marg that fronted the Red Fort, turning south. “Have you been on a cycle rickshaw, Miss Hernandez?”
“No, I haven’t,” Jennifer admitted. “I’ve been on an auto rickshaw, though.”
“I recommend you try a cycle rickshaw, and specially one here at the Chandni Chowk. I can arrange for one at the Jama Masjid, and he can take you around the bazaar. The lanes are called galis and are crowded and narrow and the katras are even more narrow. You need a cycle rickshaw; otherwise, you’ll get lost. He will be able to bring you back when you wish.”
“I suppose I should try one,” Jennifer said, without a lot of enthusiasm. She told herself she should be more adventuresome.
Ranjeet turned right off the wide boulevard and was promptly engulfed in the stop-and-go traffic on a narrow street. This was not the bazaar per se, but it was lined by modest-sized shops selling a wide variety of merchandise, from stainless-steel kitchen utensils to bus tours in Rajasthan. As the car slowly moved along, Jennifer was able to gaze at the myriad faces of the local population reflecting the dizzying variety of ethnic groups and cultures that have miraculously become glued together over the millennia to form current-day India.
The narrow street butted into the exotic-appearing Jama Masjid mosque, where Ranjeet turned left into a crowded parking lot. He jumped out and told Jennifer to wait for a moment.
While Jennifer waited, she took note of something about the Indian temperament. Although Ranjeet had left the car in the middle of the busy parking area, none of the parking attendants seemed to care. It was like she and the car were invisible despite blocking the way. She couldn’t imagine what a firestorm it would have caused to do something similar in New York.
Ranjeet returned with a cycle rickshaw in tow. Jennifer was horrified. The cyclist was pencil-thin with protein-starved, sunken cheeks. He didn’t appear capable of walking very far, much less pumping hard enough to move a three-wheeled bicycle supporting Jennifer’s hundred and fourteen pounds.
“This is Ajay,” Ranjeet said. “He’ll take you around the bazaar, wherever you might like to go. I suggested the Dariba Kalan with its gold and silver ornaments. There’s also some temples you might like to see. When you want to come back to the car, just tell him.”
Jennifer climbed out of the car and then with some reluctance up into the hard seat of the cycle rickshaw. She noticed there was little to hold on to, making her feel vulnerable. Ajay bowed and then started pedaling without saying a word. To her surprise, he was able to propel the cycle with apparent ease by standing up and pedaling. They rode along the front side of the Jama Masjid until they were soon engulfed by the extensive bazaar.
By the time Dhaval Narang got back to his car at the Lahore Gate at the Red Fort, Ranjeet had already gotten a green light and had accelerated southward to join the traffic coming from Chandni Chowk Boulevard. Hurrying, Dhaval was able to get to the light before it turned red. Accelerating as well, he rushed after the hotel’s car, trying desperately to keep it in sight. Since the traffic was heavy, it was not easy, even though he was driving very aggressively in an attempt to catch up. He was doing well until a bus pulled away from the curb in front of him and blocked even his view.
Forcing himself to take even more of a chance, Dhaval pressed down on the gas pedal, cut in front of a truck, and managed to get around the overly crowded bus. Unfortunately, by the time he could again see ahead Ranjeet had disappeared. Slowing to a degree, Dhaval began looking down the side streets that headed west as he passed them. A moment later he had to stop at a traffic light, allowing crowds of people to surge forth to cross Netaji Subhash Marg.
Dhaval was disgruntled, impatiently tapping the steering wheel while waiting for the light to change. Originally, he’d been happy about the Red Fort, as it was big and packed with tourists, making it easy to do a hit and melt into the crowd without fear of being caught. But then Ranjeet had suddenly driven away, giving Dhaval no idea where he was going or why.
When the traffic light turned to green, Dhaval had to wait impatiently while the vehicles in front of him slowly accelerated forward. At the corner, he glanced down toward the Jama Masjid mosque and made a rapid decision. Halfway down toward the mosque and mired in traffic was what looked like the Amal Palace’s Mercedes.
Suddenly throwing the steering wheel to the right, Dhaval recklessly turned into the oncoming traffic, forcing several vehicles to jam on their brakes. Gritting his teeth, Dhaval half expected to hear the crunch of a collision, but luckily it was only screeching tires, horns, and angry shouts. Whether the car ahead was the hotel’s or not, he’d decided to check the mosque. If Jennifer Hernandez wasn’t there, then he’d head back to the hotel.
Moving slowly in the stop-and-go side-street traffic, it took some time to get to the front of the mosque, where Dhaval turned left into a parking area. As soon as he did so he recognized the hotel car as it was being parked. Quickly glancing over his shoulder in the opposite direction, he was rewarded with catching sight of Jennifer on a cycle rickshaw just before she disappeared into one of the crowded galis.
Having been told the order in which Jennifer was planning on touring Old Delhi, Inspector Naresh Prasad merely assumed she’d changed her mind about the Red Fort and was moving on to the Jama Masjid. Although still hurrying to a degree, he felt there wasn’t the need to put himself in jeopardy. At the same time, he didn’t want to lose her, even though he was progressively questioning the need to follow her while she was acting like a tourist. He would have much preferred to see whom she’d had breakfast with that morning than follow her on a sightseeing junket.
As he pulled into the parking lot and parked, he noticed a man in black climbing from his Mercedes. He was the same man Naresh had seen only a few minutes earlier rushing for his car as Jennifer Hernandez was driving out from the Red Fort’s parking area. Curious, Naresh rapidly got out himself.
Neil had to Smile at himself as he ran along the face of the Jama Masjid mosque. He was certainly having a devil of a time surprising Jennifer, and wondered what had happened at the Red Fort. When he had visited India five months ago, the Red Fort had been one of his favorite tourist sites, but apparently Jennifer had felt otherwise.
A minute earlier, by sheer luck, Neil had just caught sight of Jennifer, poised on a cycle rickshaw and about to be swallowed up by the labyrinthine Delhi. Yelling to the driver to stop, Neil had tossed the fare into the taxi’s front seat, and had leaped from the vehicle, only to be bogged down by the milling crowds massed at the mosque’s entrance. When he’d finally broken free, Jennifer had disappeared.
When Neil entered the bazaar, he had to slow to a jog. At first he wasn’t sure which way she’d gone, but a minute or so of further jogging brought her back into sight. At that moment she was about fifty feet ahead of him.
Jennifer was not enjoying herself. The cycle rickshaw seat was hard and the alleyway bumpy. Several times she was concerned she might fall as the cycle’s tires fell into potholes. The alleyways, narrow lanes, and even narrower katras were horribly crowded, noisy, frenetic, vibrant, and chaotic all at the same time. Myriad electrical wires, like spider webs, hung above, as did water pipes. There was a symphony of smells both delightful and sickening, involving, among other things, spices and urine, animal feces and jasmine.
As she held on for dear life she thought she probably would have found the experience more engaging if it hadn’t been for her grandmother’s death, which she couldn’t quite displace from the forefront of her consciousness, despite the bombardment on her senses. Although she was dealing with the tragedy far better than she had imagined before arriving in India, it was still affecting her negatively on many levels. As such, it seemed to her that the part of the bazaar she was seeing was dirty—filled with too much trash and sewage, and teeming with far too many people. The shops themselves for the most part were mere holes in the walls, their junk tumbling out into the lane. Although she recognized she’d yet to see the section selling the gold and silver or the spice area, she’d had enough. She just wasn’t in the right mind-set.
Jennifer was about to try to tell the cyclist she wanted to go back—in fact, she’d leaned forward, holding on with her left hand and keeping her shoulder bag in her lap, to attempt to get the man’s attention—when she noticed a kind of commotion out of the corner of her eye. As she turned to her left and looked down, she found herself staring down the barrel of a gun. Over the top of the barrel was a man’s hard, thin, expressionless face.
The next thing everyone in the crowded galis heard was the startling noise of the gun being fired twice. Those close to the victim, who happened to be looking in his direction, also had to witness the awful destructive power at close range, of a nine-millimeter bullet traversing the skull and exiting the left side of the man’s face. In this incidence, most of the victim’s left cheek was blown away, laying bare the upper and lower dentition.
