to the central wooden post holding up the roof: London, Sydney, Cape Town.
It was a reasonable effort at cover, Marchant thought.
‘Welcome to the Shanti Beach Café,’ the man said, putting away his phone. He looked Marchant up and down. ‘Just our sort of guest.’
‘I’ve come to see brother Salim,’ Marchant said, tensing his stomach muscles. A part of him expected to be punched, bound and hooded at any moment.
‘He’s been waiting for you. It’s a long walk from here. I don’t know who you are, where you’ve come from, but these two will kill you if you try anything. Salim’s orders.’
Four hours later, Marchant reached the crest of the hill and looked back down over the tops of the dense vegetation towards Shanti Beach. It had been a hot, hard climb, and he was out of breath, dripping with sweat. The two fishermen pushed him on. ‘
Marchant walked on from the crest, enjoying the first stretch of downhill since they had set off from the beach. He wondered whether he would ever leave this beautiful place alive. A pair of Brahmani kites soared high above him, enjoying the thermals. Why had Dhar agreed to see him? And would he have any answers about his father? The Namaste Café must have been used by Uncle K as a contact point when he was trying to run Dhar. Word would have reached him that a white man had asked for ‘brother Salim’.
The sound of a gunshot made Marchant drop to the ground and look around desperately for cover. For the first time since they had left the Namasté Café, the taller fisherman, who had kept walking as if he had heard nothing, smiled at Marchant, lying in the red dust. It was an awful smile, teeth stained with blood- coloured betelnut juice. Another shot rang out. Marchant listened carefully to it this time, calculating that it was from a high-powered rifle, fired from as close as twenty yards away. He had excelled in his fire-arms training at the Fort. Looking along the path ahead, he saw a figure approaching, a.315 sporting rifle slung over one shoulder. He knew at once that it was Salim Dhar.
42
Leila listened as Monk Johnson finished running through the itinerary of his new president’s forty-eight-hour visit to Delhi. There were more than two hundred people in the hall, about as many as it could hold. They were almost all Secret Service personnel, who had been in India for the past month as part of the Presidential Advance Team, trying in vain to impose their fixed manual of security demands on a very fluid country. There were a few CIA officers present, too, including Spiro, who was sitting on the stage next to Johnson, sweating in the heat. The US Embassy air conditioning was struggling to keep a lid on the temperature.
Johnson, head of the Advance Team, stood in front of a detailed satellite image of New Delhi, with key landmarks highlighted in red: the Red Fort, Raj Path, the Lotus Temple, the US Embassy and the Maurya Hotel, where the President would be staying. To the right of this there was a larger, more detailed aerial image of the Lotus Temple complex to the south of the city, with a red route highlighted down a tree-lined avenue leading up to the temple. At various points along the route, times had been written, also in red: 5.28 p.m.; 5.30 p.m.; 5.35 p.m.
Spiro wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, preparing his notes before he spoke. Leila had come to know him well in London — too well. He never missed an opportunity to flirt, didn’t bother to disguise the glances at her ‘cute ass’. But she had no option but to put up with his attention. He was her American handler, the one who had debriefed her after the marathon. He was also her biggest ally, rejecting Fielding’s allegations about an Iranian connection when William Straker, the DCIA, had put them to Spiro, and defending her again when David Baldwin, head of the CIA’s Delhi station, had raised his own objections about her prominent role in the presidential visit.
So she had joined in the cheering when Spiro had walked into the embassy that morning, straight from the airport. His recall to Langley hadn’t gone down well with the footsoldiers, who were reassured by his straight- talking manner. Johnson had been pleased to see him, too. Spiro seemed to have taken most of the credit for saving the US Ambassador’s life at the London Marathon.
‘Any more questions about the threat matrix?’ Johnson asked.
‘Might POTUS try to work the people outside the Lotus Temple?’ asked Baldwin. ‘In my experience, crowds in India are either too polite or rioting.’
Baldwin shared Spiro’s muscular style, but he was one of the few who hadn’t welcomed his arrival. Baldwin, a South Asia specialist, felt that Spiro was on his patch. He wasn’t in love with India, but he understood its people, and almost felt protective of them. And unlike Spiro, he wasn’t trying to get into Leila’s panties.
‘No chance,’ Johnson said, walking over to the projected aerial image of the temple’s gardens. ‘We have to keep him moving to these times.’ He pointed to the numbers written in red, dotted along the main avenue leading up to the temple. ‘He’s got a seven-minute walk through the fancy gardens, down the main four-hundred-yard avenue. They wouldn’t let us bring the cars any closer. I can’t emphasise it enough: this is the most vulnerable point in his entire forty-eight-hour stopover, so all units need to be in tight on him. At 5.35 p.m. he’ll pause to be greeted at the foot of the steps leading up to the temple by a delegation of senior Bahá’ís. They’ve all been vetted. One of them will present a garland, placing it over the President’s head, and we’ll all back off. A couple of seconds, nothing more. It’s the money shot, and the photos need to go around the world. They won’t appreciate any ugly Security Service agents ruining the frame.’
‘Can’t we land him in any closer, bypass the long walk?’ a young, shaven-headed man asked.
‘Look, I’d land Marine One on top of the goddamn building and winch the President down through a hole in the roof if I could, but the White House needs the avenue, temple in the background, symbol of world peace. This trip is all about hearts and minds, remember. New president, new beginning. Once he’s on those steps, we’re fine.’ Johnson pointed to the aerial image again. ‘There are high walls on either side, here and here.’ Five cascades of steps led up through a narrow, high-sided approach to the main temple entrance, beneath one of the twenty-seven ‘petals’ that formed the building’s distinctive roof.
‘He’ll attend a short ceremony inside, along with a couple of hundred Bahá’ís, then leave by Marine One from the south side and go straight back to Palam airbase. They wanted the temple full, but the Indians couldn’t guarantee full security screening.’
‘Have they guaranteed anything on this trip?’ Spiro asked. The room laughed politely.
‘This temple’s for Bahá’ís, right?’ another Security Service officer asked.
‘That’s correct,’ Johnson said.
‘And if the Bahá’ís come from Iran, are they, like, Muslims?’
‘Kind of,’ Johnson replied, looking across at Spiro.
‘Not exactly,’ Baldwin interrupted, standing up from his front-row seat. ‘They have their origins in Shia Islam, but that was over 150 years ago. Today’s Shia clergy regard them as heretics, infidels, a threat to Islam. The Republican Guard in Iran are all over them right now. They’re the country’s largest religious minority, and the most persecuted. Leaders executed for apostasy, schools closed down, denied passports, barred from government jobs, civil rights withdrawn.’
‘Which is why POTUS is paying them a call,’ Spiro said, reasserting his authority over the gathering as Baldwin sat down again. ‘Symbolic support for regime change. Leila, would you care to enlighten these ignorant people further?’
Spiro threw Baldwin a glance as Leila walked from her third-row seat to join him and Johnson on the stage. For a moment she was standing in the light of the projector, an image of the Lotus Temple playing across her face. She moved to one side, putting a hand up to shield her eyes.
‘There are more than five million Bahá’ís in the world,’ she began, emotion rising in her voice. ‘My mother happens to be one of them. The biggest population is in India, the second largest is in Iran, where it all started.’ She paused, composing herself, glancing at Baldwin. ‘They believe that Moses, Buddha, Krishna, Jesus, Mohamed and Baha’u’llah, the religion’s founder, were all messengers of the same universal God. Baha’u’llah was born in nineteenth-century Persia, so it’s a relatively new religion. He believed in spiritual unity, world peace, compulsory education for all. He was also against any form of prejudice.’ Leila stopped again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
