The India Spy Read online

  “So once Dutchie’s brains had been scrambled, you turned to me.”

  “I thought it might matter more to you. It should. Now, if you will excuse me, you must get out. Please, be careful with Jamie. I won’t be able to interfere in his decisions.”

  He rapped the glass again and then turned his face abruptly away from me, his arms folded like a sulking tenor’s. The Rolls-Royce slid past us again, having completed a circuit, and stopped a few feet in front. I opened the door and stepped out onto the street, watching the two cars speed off down Rajpath towards Sir Ian’s dinner engagement at the president’s palace. On either side of the road icecream vendors were packing up their Mother Dairy trolleys, each one illuminated by green fluorescent tubes. India Gate was behind me, spotlit against the stormy night sky. Lightning was rippling beneath the surface of the clouds, brightening them from within, searching restlessly for fissures to escape through. A warm wind blew dust up into my face. I turned to walk away from it, in search of a taxi or rickshaw, and then I heard a familiar horn as Ravi drew up alongside me.

  17

  I knew it was A risk, but I needed to call my father, ask him how he was, find out what sort of questions he had been asked. I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight unless I had at least tried his home. His phone was probably tapped but I had to take my chances, try to talk in a way that didn’t suggest I knew about his visit from Special Branch, or the security report that Sir Ian showed me. If the Club established a link between myself and Sir Ian, if it concluded that I had been sent to Cochin to investigate Macaulay rather than to cure him, they would act fast, knowing that someone was onto them.

  I told Ravi to stop in Saket, by the Anupam cinema. He parked nervously along one side of the busy square next to the cinema, nodding at a pick-up truck fifty yards ahead. There was a ripped red flag billowing from its battered bonnet and behind it a white Maruti was being towed away into the darkness. At least six men, crimson bandanas tied round their heads, were clinging onto the crane, one of them with his foot on the Maruti’s front bumper, half-heartedly trying to stop it banging against the lorry. They were the city’s pirates, triumphantly displaying their urban spoil.

  We agreed that Ravi would drive around the block while I made the call. I headed for the nearest STD/ISD sign and asked for an international line. I was ushered into a booth, from where I could look out onto the square. It was milling with students, a few couples on dates, but mostly groups, chatting in the warm evening air, files clutched to their chests. In the centre of the square there was a circular, pink stone fountain, the centrepiece of which was a four-foot-high Coca-Cola bottle. Behind it a queue was snaking round to the front of the cinema, past booksellers who had laid out their wares, much of it soft porn, on the pavement.

  The cinema defined Saket, gave the square its fizz (more so than the Coke statue) and was in the process of being refurbished. The Marilyn Monroe figure had gone, replaced by a shower of expensive gold stars, stuck onto a brilliant yellow and blue façade. It was not quite Leicester Square but this was not the India I had expected to see when I first came here. The multi-screen complex was flanked by a busy McDonald’s on one side, and a Domino’s Pizza on the other. All around the square there were fresh-juice shacks and snack bars serving chaat, their awnings covered with adverts for Magic and Speed cash cards for cellular phones. A big hand-painted billboard promoted “Cybernuts” internet access. Others were advertising Indya.com, 123India.com and india-info.com, unashamedly patriotic portals.

  I tapped in my father’s home number and watched the red digits on the display panel shuffling along like the back row of a family photo. It took a few seconds to connect and then the familiar phone was ringing. We had spoken only occasionally since I had been in Delhi, both of us preferring to correspond less personally by email and letters.

  Someone picked up the phone but there was only silence.

  “Dad?”

  I imagined the receiver being moved from one shaking hand to the other.

  “Dad?” I said again.

  “Is that you, Raj?”

  It was my father’s voice, tentative, trembling. I wanted to tell him I was sorry, explain why they had asked him so many questions.

  “Are you all right, Dad? You don’t sound yourself.”

  “I thought you might be someone else.”

  “I’m just ringing to see how you are. Did you get my last letter?”

  “Something’s happened, Raj.” His voice was faltering, as if he were in pain.

  “What? Tell me.”

  “Are you coming home soon?”

  “I haven’t got any leave until the autumn. You know that. What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

  Tell me what happened, how many of them came in the night. Were they brutal with you? It sounds as if your teeth have been knocked out.

  “The police have been here.” He was more composed now.

  “The police? Have you been burgled?”

  “I thought it only happened to other people. The shopkeepers.”

  “What are you talking about?” I tried frantically to think how I would react if I hadn’t known about Special Branch’s visit. He said the police had paid him a visit, that was all. What could have happened?

  “Have you been drink-driving again?” I asked. It didn’t ring true.

  “They were asking so many questions.”

  “About what?”

  “Can you come home soon?”

  “I’ll try. I promise.”

  “They asked me about Dounreay. If I had ever broken the Official Secrets Act. Asked me – of all the people.” He had been requested to sign the Act on a number of occasions. That was the nature of his work, a measure of its importance, his standing. “I told them I would rather die than break my word.”

  “Of course you did, Dad,” I said, trying to encourage him. “Did they say why they were asking? Why now? After all these years?”

  “No. They weren’t like the local bobbies around here, Raj. Two were from London. So aggressive.”

  “Did they hurt you?”

  “No respect. Only anger. It was like being a Catholic at Ibrox Park.” For the first time, he managed the faintest of laughs, which stopped suddenly, when he became breathless, and turned into a cough.

  “Did they hurt you, Dad? You must complain.”

  “And at my age in life. I told them I had been retired for over fifteen years.”

  The inconsistencies in his conversation suggested that he had given himself some sort of medication. I could only assume he had been injured, but that he was too proud to tell me.

  “I’ll be back soon,” I said. “Just tell them the truth. You can’t do any more than that.”

  “And then they asked for my passport.”

  “I’ll ring again,” I said, and I paused for a second before I replaced the receiver.

  *

  I could smell the coheba from the moment I opened the back door and stepped inside the kitchen. Ravi handed me the car keys and headed off to bed. I suddenly felt very afraid and wanted him to hang around, but I didn’t know how to ask. Chandar was off duty and the chowkidar had already returned to his slumber in the gatehouse. I closed the kitchen door silently, wondering if Jamie was still here or had left his smoke behind him. There were no other cars in the driveway.

  I slipped off my shoes and made my way into the unlit hall, deciding not to announce my arrival. The house was uncharacteristically silent. I could hear blood pumping in my chest as I tried to keep still. The glass doors separating the hall from the sitting room were closed, the distinct blue light of the television flickering across the ceiling inside. Jamie was sitting in an armchair, his back to the door, watching a lingerie show on Fashion TV. He drew on his cigar and then exhaled, his head tilted upwards.

  I stood there for a moment, watching him, wondering whether to walk quietly out of the house again or challenge him about my father, insist that he was innocent, tell him to call off the dogs and leave an old
man alone. The fact that he had broken into my house seemed almost irrelevant, but then it started to scare the hell out of me as he sat there, shrouded in smoke. His confidence was frightening, too calculated to be dismissed as arrogance. I opened the door, loud enough for him to hear, but he didn’t turn round. Immediately he was seizing the initiative, letting me do the running.

  “What are you doing in my house?” I asked, neither angry or conciliatory.

  “What were you doing in Cochin?” he said, his eyes still on the screen.

  “My job,” I replied. A moment later, the television image disappeared and we were plunged into darkness, a dying glow emanating from the screen. I couldn’t help but smile: India the great leveller. A powercut wasn’t in Jamie’s script and the advantage had swung back to me.

  “Haven’t you got your bloody power supply sorted?” Jamie said, annoyed. He sat up in his seat, less at ease in the dark. The desire to challenge him about the Club became almost overwhelming, but I knew Sir Ian was right. It was better, for the moment, to keep those cards close to my chest. Jamie did not know that I was aware of his hand – my father’s visit from Special Branch, the report recommending my own questioning – and I had to maintain the pretence. It was my only chance.

  I walked back into the hall and over to the stairs, under which there was a locally made inverter (two car batteries in a rusting metal box that provided enough power to run the lights and fans for a few hours). A red light was glowing on a side panel, indicating that the inverter had overloaded. I flicked a switch next to it, off and then on again, and the television came back to life. I went back to the sitting room. Jamie was standing, the TV remote pointing idly at the screen, which was now showing men modelling swimwear.

  “I thought you were going to Madras,” he said, turning the television off. He lobbed the remote onto the sofa and fixed me straight in the eyes. I was standing by the door, eight feet away from him, but it was still too close, his gaze too piercing. I walked over to the windows, pushed the wire mesh mosquito panels and opened the glass behind them.

  “I was seeing our consular rep in Cochin, Martin Macaulay.” The pretence was easier to maintain than I thought. “Do you know him?” I asked.

  “What do you think? It’s my job to know everyone, particularly someone who has been with the High Commission for over forty years. I thought you were meant to be in Madras.”

  “Macaulay’s been pestering them for a visit. Madras was delighted. I also wanted to see a bit of Kerala.” “You told me it was a tour, not a holiday. I need to know where you are, who you are seeing, all the time. It’s important.”

  “You didn’t make that clear.”

  “I didn’t think I had to. How was Martin, anyway?”

  “To be honest, I couldn’t find much wrong with him.”

  “That sounds like Macaulay. I couldn’t find a drink.”

  I suppressed more anger at the thought of him rummaging – he was only trying to provoke – and I asked him casually what he wanted. A few minutes later, we were sitting at either end of the sofa drinking local Aristocrat whisky from a supply I kept locked in a bedroom cupboard. There was a bottle of Talisker in there, too, given to me by my father, but I was damned if I was going to waste it on Jamie.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” he said, his voice less hostile. “We’ve got work to do. Do you remember your dinner with Frank?”

  “Yes.” I tried not to flinch at the name.

  “There was a girl there called Priyanka.”

  The glass was at my lips as he rolled out the syllables – polluting them – and it was only by an enormous act of will that I continued the action uninterrupted. I knocked back a larger measure than I had intended but otherwise my hand remained steady, the whisky unspilt. It burnt against my throat as I looked at Jamie.

  “I remember her,” I managed to say.

  “I am sure you do.” He paused. “She’s a pretty woman. Well connected, too. Her father was a senior officer in RAW, based in Bombay. I want you to get to know her better. Not a tough first job, it has to be said.”

  He was trying to lighten the mood but I kept the tone quiet, businesslike. It was the only way I could cope with the exchange. RAW stood for Research and Analysis Wing, India’s equivalent to MI6.

  “Is she a client at the medical centre?” I asked, spinning two lumps of ice round my glass. The energy had to be dissipated somewhere.

  “Not as far as I know. Why?”

  “I thought that’s what I’m here for.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  His gaze was upon me now, scanning up and down, searching for a sign, something to tell him the game was up. Macaulay would have told him about our dinner together on the island. He was bluffing, I was bluffing, but I had to believe I still held the better hand. Macaulay didn’t know how close we were. He had probably just told Jamie that he saw us together. I hung on to Sir Ian’s words: Jamie needs more evidence. My only chance was to delay him, play along, put off my own arrest, give myself time to gather evidence against him, Macaulay, IPI, before their case against me became unanswerable.

  “There’s no problem,” I said coldly. “Where’s her father?”

  Jamie didn’t blink.

  “That’s for you to find out,” he said. “He worked in Bombay so I should try there first. You are due to pay a visit to the medical centre there.”

  “And what’s so special about him?”

  “He once stole some information from us and we want to know why.”

  “What sort of information?”

  “A few nuclear secrets, the sort of thing we prefer to give to our friends. I know it’s not what you came out here to do, Raj, but that’s how this game often works out. Get your hands up her sari, bit of jiggy-jiggy, meet the family. You’re both from Kerala, aren’t you? It could be the perfect match.”

  Was it a chance comment? How much did he really know? The phone was ringing in the hall. I stood up to answer it, my legs weakened by the thought of breaking the whisky bottle across Jamie’s head, sticking the razored shards into those eyes.

  “Can I speak with Raj Nair, please?” The voice on the phone was distant but familiar.

  “Who is this?” I asked, glancing back at the sitting room. Jamie had switched on the television again, volume turned down.

  “It’s Paul, from Cochin.”

  “Paul?” I said, too loudly. Paul from the Cardamom Café. I looked over towards Jamie again. “Where are you?”

  “Raj?” Paul said.

  “London? If it’s any consolation, it’s forty-two degrees here.”

  “Raj? Is that you? Can you hear me?” Paul said, obviously confused.

  “Yes… the line’s a bit faint.”

  “Dutchie’s come back,” Paul said, persisting. “I just got an email from him.”

  “Great,” I said. Drops of sweat were beginning to form on my forehead. I glanced at Jamie again, who I knew was listening. “What’s he doing these days?” “He’s in Dharamsala. You can meet him at the Shambhala café. He has lunch there every day.”

  “Do come and stay if you’re heading out this way,” I said, scribbling down the name of the café on a scrap of paper.

  “What? Raj, I told him about you. The documents. He wants to meet up.”

  “No problem. Any time. It’s about nine o’clock here. Yes, four and a half hours ahead,” I said, folding the paper up and putting it into my trouser pocket.

  “Raj?”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks.”

  I put the receiver down, wiped my forehead with a handkerchief and returned to the sitting room.

  “Do you get a lot of visitors from England?” I asked.

  “Not in the middle of summer,” Jamie said, flicking restlessly through the channels.

  “I’ve got guests coming out from London for the next six months, as far as I can see,” I said.

  “Really. There’s one other thing you should know,” he continued. “Our High Commission
er has not been well. Nothing serious but he’s not getting any better.”

  “Has anyone seen him? From the centre?”

  “Not yet. He says it’s just something he ate.”

  “Should I call him?”

  “Leave it until tomorrow. He’s out tonight, anyway.” Jamie paused, unnaturally, in that way someone did when they had more to say. “How do you find him, anyway?”

  “Who, Sir Ian? Very accessible. Down to earth. A safe pair of hands.”

  “The Indians love him, think he’s wonderful. The MEA can’t believe its luck. There hasn’t been an Indophile in the job for years.”

  “You make it sound like there’s a problem.”

  “I just heard a bit of Whitehall talk the other day. The word is he’s getting a bit too friendly.”

  “Troppo,” I said, mocking his own phrase. “Donned the turban.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What do you think?” I asked, wondering why he was sharing gossip with me, someone whose loyalties the Club had already called into question. I could only assume he was trying to establish how close I was to Sir Ian, whether there was evidence to link us.

  “My opinion isn’t important. I’m just offering some friendly career advice. He’s not the most popular man in Whitehall at the moment. Don’t get too close, that’s all. He sucks people in, uses them.” He looked at me for a moment, letting his words linger. I returned his gaze, trying in vain to believe that he didn’t know Sir Ian had sent me to Cochin.

  “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  Jamie walked towards the kitchen. “I’ll let myself out,” he said, “seeing as I let myself in. By the way, I suggest you get your guard changed.”

  He threw me some keys, the spare set I kept in the guardhouse, and then he had gone.

  *

  It appeared Sir Ian was right. Jamie needed more evidence before he could formally bring me in. In the meantime, he was prepared to sit back and watch me seduce Priyanka. It was a perverse test, a last bit of sport for Jamie before he delivered his damning report arguing against ever employing British Asians again in the security services. At least, that was what I assumed he was going to do, once the details of my father’s supposed treachery had been clarified, and my own dubious conduct confirmed.