The India Spy Page 7

  After a brief exchange we were soon into our stride, taking in a big loop of the reservoir, not talking at first. All around us there were people out walking, mostly women in saris and trainers, striding onwards with unnatural urgency. A man was whirling his arms round, one at a time, as he walked along. (It looked like he was trying to wind himself up.) Unlike in Britain, nobody was jogging. The heat of the day might have passed but it was still too warm for proper exercise.

  “What’s this all about, then?” Frank eventually said, shovelling his hands deep into his pockets and slowing. I slowed down, too, until we were standing together, watching the sun slip behind the ruins.

  “I’m not just a doctor, Frank,” I began bluntly, avoiding his eyes as I kicked up some dust.

  “Is that it?” Frank said, laughing out loud. “Is that bloody it?” His reaction threw me completely, his raucous laugh a reminder of the fun we had had together. I started laughing, too, for a moment, and then stopped awkwardly. “Tell me something I don’t know,” Frank continued. “Didn’t you listen to Ranjit? Nobody at an embassy does only one job.” His last words were said with a snobbish English accent, in perfect imitation of Ranjit.

  “You knew, then,” I replied uneasily, trying to adjust to our conversation’s unexpected change of direction.

  “I’ve been here long enough for it not to come as a complete surprise.”

  “I just wanted to tell you, that’s all. I’m not comfortable with the deception, not with you and Susie.”

  “You know something, this reminds me so much of Tapash. He insisted on taking us out for a meal one day, said he had something important to tell us. When it came to the crunch, he couldn’t understand why we weren’t surprised.”

  “What was it?”

  “He wanted to tell us he was gay. It was one of the worst-kept secrets in Delhi. Everyone had suspected for years.”

  “I’m not gay, in case you’re wondering,” I said, trying to lighten my mood, delighted that there was nothing between Tapash and Priyanka.

  “You must be the only spook who isn’t,” he said.

  “I’m not a spook, either. I just help out occasionally.”

  “Of course. Either way, you shouldn’t be telling me, you know that.”

  “I know…” I paused, wondering if I should continue, but Frank interrupted me.

  “So what have they told you?”

  “About what?”

  “About me. That’s why you’re telling me all this, isn’t it?”

  His presumption had caught me out again and my only option was to take his question seriously.

  “They say you were involved with the Communist Party in Britain. And that you are applying for Indian citizenship.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Do you think any the worse of me?”

  “Of course not.”

  We walked on in silence for a while.

  “Find out what else they’ve got on me, would you?” Frank asked suddenly, his voice more pressing, more conspiratorial.

  “On you?” I asked, looking up at him.

  “Favour for an old friend, eh?” He put his arm round my shoulders.

  “Frank, I can’t…” I began.

  “I’m kidding. Relax,” he said, squeezing me. “I wouldn’t ask you to do something like that. Just be careful, watch your own back. I’ve seen others get involved, just like you, on a so-called part-time basis. But it never is. Not once you’re in.”

  We walked on in silence, sensing some people approaching.

  “It was all very clear in my mind when they asked me,” I said, after a couple had passed us. “I was flattered. It was something I wanted to be involved in. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “How do you mean?’

  “Expats can be who they want out here. There’s no accountability. We all get on because we have to, but no one really knows the first thing about other people. Nobody asks any questions.”

  “Is that such a bad thing?”

  “I just find it very disorientating. My feet can’t find the bottom. You’re invited round to dinner with complete strangers, spend a jolly evening together talking about servants and go home afterwards not knowing anything about them except where they last worked and how much harder it was to get a decent drink. These people are meant to represent the country I have chosen to serve.”

  “Serve? You make it sound like you’ve joined the army.”

  I laughed half-heartedly. “Sometimes they make me wonder whether it’s worth it, that’s all.”

  “I’d stick to medicine if I were you. A much better way to serve.”

  We stopped to watch the sun finally set, glowing, beyond the ruins.

  “I’m off tomorrow, on a tour of the other medical centres,” I said, as we walked on again. “I’ll be gone for a couple of weeks. I can’t wait to be out of Delhi, to be honest.”

  “Anywhere nice?”

  “I start in Madras.”

  “And it’s purely medical?” he asked, smiling.

  “As far as I know.”

  Jamie hadn’t talked much about my tour and I had assumed it would provide me with a couple of weeks’ break from his world, a chance to breathe. As far as he was concerned it was an annoying hindrance, a delay to the real work that lay ahead, but he knew my cover had to be maintained.

  Frank and I parted at the gate leading to the deer park. There was a distance between us as we agreed unconvincingly to meet soon, which saddened me. I had hoped to feel closer. But now we could no longer be whoever we wanted. We were suddenly accountable, tethered to two very different posts.

  9

  I knew it was part of his job requirement to look pleased to see people, but Sir Ian, the new High Commissioner, appeared extremely interested as I caught his eye across the crowded terrace of his official residence. Too interested. He was hosting a party for a group of Labour MPs who were on a “factfinding trip” to India. Over a hundred people must have been there, spilling out from the house’s pillared verandah onto the lawn, where the trees had been strung with pea lights and paper lanterns. The residence, a colonial, Lutyens-style bungalow built by Baker, had also been lit, its whitewashed walls standing out against the clear night sky. Insects crashed against sunken spotlights hidden in the grass. Chefs were busily grilling skewers of chicken, mutton and paneer over glowing coals. The scented smoke drifted across towards the swimming pool, where a few people had wandered, watched by two Gurkha guards who were standing under a nearby tree.

  It was a warm, sticky night and I was standing next to a large fan on a stand, almost tripping on the cable despite the brown, civil service tape that had been used to keep it flat against the patio’s stone surface. It was one of several fans dotted around the terrace, each one attracting a group of people who were cooling themselves as they drank and talked. Sir Ian seemed eager to break away from the Labour MPs. He was tall, with a languorous manner that was exaggerated by the way the top half of his body leant back from his hips.

  “I hear you’re off tomorrow,” he said, shaking my hand and putting a long arm round my shoulders at the same time. I felt myself arching backwards, as if to keep him company.

  “I’m on the early flight to Madras,” I told him, watching a bearer approach with a silver tray of drinks. He was wearing white gloves, and a pugri fanned like a cockerel’s tail. Sir Ian stepped back to make way for the tray, encouraging me with the sweep of his lanky hand to take a drink.

  “Chennai,” he said in a quiet voice. “We call Madras Chennai now, don’t we, Ruben?” He put a hand gently on the bearer’s shoulder.

  “Yes, sir,” Ruben said, standing bolt upright.

  “Chennai, Mumbai. Ruben’s from Kolkata. The city of Kali. You will be going there, won’t you?”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Calcutta. Fabulous organ at St John’s.”

  “Really?” I said, unconvincingly, as the bearer slipped away from Sir Ian’s touch. “You play, then?
”

  “When I can.”

  “I’m going to Calcutta, Kolkata, after Mumbai. In a couple of months’ time.”

  “Listen,” Sir Ian said, his voice becoming suddenly more serious. “My son’s with us on holiday at the moment. Their youngest has just taken a bit of a temperature. ‘Chota fever’, as they say.”

  “Do you want me to take a look?” I asked, sensing that there was something more to the request. Sir Ian had been instrumental in my coming here but we had only met once briefly in Delhi since he had interviewed me in London. He told me then not to expect too much contact with him, that Jamie would be running the show, but I was glad we were meeting again. He was more reassuring than Jamie, made me think I had made the right decision.

  “Would you?” he said. I watched as his easy smile faded. His lips suddenly became pinched and his eyes widened into a brief moment of sternness, almost comical in its intensity.

  “Now?” I asked.

  “So kind.” He glanced discreetly at his watch and then looked around him. “This lot should be going in a minute. Trouble is, they never take a hint.”

  He had relaxed again, leaning back as he popped a couple of cashew nuts into his mouth.

  “Apparently the Queen goes around saying, ‘It was a nice party, wasn’t it?’” I said, repeating something I had once read.

  He laughed loudly, throwing back his head. “About as subtle as my wife. Last week she turned all the lights out and told everyone it was a powercut, but nobody took a blind bit of notice. The journalists are the worst. They were still here when we got back from dinner.”

  *

  Sir Ian’s grandchildren were both in rude health, much as I had suspected. After a bearer had shown me through to the kitchen in the private wing an ayah walked in, accompanied by two young children who were pleading with her for some Swiss chocolate from the fridge.

  “Got your hands full,” I said, gesturing towards them.

  “It was bedtime two hours ago,” the ayah said, sighing. “Sir will be here in one minute.”

  I wondered if she realised the correctness of her respect, that her “sir” was a real Sir. It had taken two weeks for Jagu to stop calling me “Master”. We had now reached a happy compromise with “Rajsahib”, although I was hopeful we would one day lose the “sahib” bit.

  I looked around the kitchen, thinking I could have been in the West Country back in England: flagstone floor, wooden worktops, onions dangling from a dresser, blue and white crockery, a copy of one of Rick Stein’s cookery books. The only thing wrong was the absence of an Aga, too hot for Delhi’s summers. The long-stalked ceiling fan would have looked a bit odd in Dorset, too. As I moved under it, I heard Sir Ian’s voice approaching.

  “Raj, so sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, still outside the kitchen. “We must be brief. Dinner with Brajesh Mishra at nine.”

  He walked in, still chewing a nut, and closed the door behind him, which surprised me. He then grinned mischievously. “Come,” he said. “Follow me.”

  I watched as he went past the kitchen table and through to a small back room where I could see a writing desk, some glass bookcases and an old gramophone. I followed him into the room, stooping through the low doorway. He gestured for me to step back as he closed the unexpectedly heavy door behind us. He then walked over to the gramophone, which had a large brass horn and a polished teak base. The bookcases were packed with big maroon books – W. H. Sleeman’s Rambles and Recollections of an Indian Official, some old editions of Hansard – and there were two watercolours on the walls. One of them was of Varanasi, painted by the Daniell brothers. The other was of Qutab Minar, which I could sometimes see from my balcony, before the smog gathered.

  “Now, what shall it be?” he said, turning to a box of old 78s next to the turntable. They had been sorted into “Rare”, “Very rare” and “Only known copies”. “Bal Gandharva singing a Gujarati garba? He only sang one. The thumri queen of Calcutta?”

  He threw a glance back at me as I looked round the small room, trying to work it out. It was a study of some sort but it seemed too contrived, too much like a period film set. There was even some blotting paper on the desk and a small brass inkwell.

  “Used to be the dhobi room,” he said, sifting through the heavy records. “No, I think it’s got to be the great Vinayakrao Patwardhan from Madhur.”

  He held a record up to the light, blew some dust off it and placed it on the turntable. He then wound up the machine with a handle on the side of the box, lowered the needle gently onto the thick black vinyl and stood back. The hiss was deafening, drowning Patwardhan’s voice and our own, which I suddenly realised was the point.

  “Old-fashioned I know, but effective,” he said, talking through a cupped hand close to my ear. “We’ve got a high-tech safe room on the compound, but nothing so sophisticated here, I’m afraid. Did you hear the Americans found a bug in Dick Celeste’s mattress? Indian intelligence had rather fallen for his wife.”

  It was difficult to take in what Sir Ian was saying, not so much because of the noise as of the thought of British High Commissioners past and present holding high-level meetings in this musty little room listening to rare Indian 78s.

  “Listen, I’ll come straight to the point,” he said, suddenly more businesslike, still close to my ear. “I want you to do something for me on your tour. Take a look at our man in Cochin, Martin Macaulay.”

  “Cochin?”

  “Kochi, in Kerala. Gorgeous spot. The local Malayalis call it God’s own country. Go there first and then fly across to Chennai. Not a big diversion.”

  I thought of Priyanka, who must be there by now, interviewing prospective husbands. The hissing worsened into a dense white noise until the needle stuck. Sir Ian knocked the wooden casing with a knuckle and the singer moved on.

  “Does Jamie know I’m going?” I asked, trying not to shout.

  Sir Ian shook his head. “Nobody does. I certainly don’t and will deny all knowledge if anybody asks. That’s a promise. Ring Chennai and say you are coming via Kochi. Then mention that you’ve heard Macaulay is ill.”

  “Is he?”

  “Has been for years. Madras will be delighted – they’re fed up with his moaning. He keeps asking them to send someone over.”

  “And what exactly will I be looking for?” I asked.

  He paused for a moment before answering. “I can’t tell you that, not yet.”

  Can’t tell me? “I need something to go on, surely,” I said, almost derisively. This is why I took this job, I told myself, for the secrecy, the hidden life, but it was suddenly losing its sheen.

  “I know,” Sir Ian said. He paused again, needlessly straightening some bindings in the bookcase, weighing up how much I needed to know. He leant back against the writing desk, careful not to knock the record player beside him.

  “I’m not sure what you know about my job, but whatever you might hear to the contrary, we’re basically salesmen these days, glorified reps in the global market.” His voice was a projected, low shout now. We’d both worked out what could be heard above the singing without us standing too close, or Sir Ian having to cup his hands round his mouth. “Almost seventy per cent of my time is taken up with promoting bilateral trade. It wasn’t always the case, of course, but that’s the way these things are going. Still flying the flag, but for boardrooms rather than Buckingham Palace. Anyway, business has been booming in recent years. Billions of pounds of contracts are on the table, a large number of jobs, too, both here and in the UK. The balance sheet took a nosedive after the nuclear tests, but we’re trying to keep that little episode in a box, as it were. We get it out occasionally during our chats with India but put it back again at the first sign of trouble, if it starts to affect the relationship.” He exaggerated this last word, as if he were mocking an earnest counsellor. “In recent months, however, something else has started to cause us problems. Some people who are meant to be on our side appear to be batting for the opposition.”


  “Macaulay?” I asked, startled by the loudness of my own voice. Sir Ian didn’t confirm or deny that he was talking about Macaulay, but carried on, leaning even further back against the front of the desk, occasionally glancing down at the noisy record player still spinning beside him.

  “There’s a feeling, how shall I put this” – he paused, fingers steepled together, rubbing against the front of his chin – “that our efforts here in Delhi are being undermined. What makes it more worrying for us, for me personally, is that there seems to be a degree of complicity in Whitehall. I shan’t bother you with the politics of it all, but suffice it to say that not everyone back home is happy to see Britain and the old colony getting along so well, not as equals, anyway.”

  “And Macaulay? Where does he fit in?” I asked, resenting the lack of acknowledgment.

  “Macaulay?” he boomed, as if it were the first time the name had been mentioned. Vinayakrao Patwardhan was winding proceedings up. “Let’s just say that he’s a historian, unpublished but influential.”

  “There could be worse crimes,” I replied.

  “A revisionist. When he looks back in his diary to 1947, he doesn’t read the same entry as the rest of us. And, unfortunately, someone high up in Whitehall is listening to him.”

  *

  I spent the journey home wondering what sort of audience it was that Macaulay commanded in London and why it mattered, given his lowly position, geographically and in the greater scheme of things. He was only an honorary consul, after all, a token presence of Her Majesty’s government in India’s deep south. I didn’t want to entertain the possibility of seeing Priyanka again, not yet, and tried to banish her from my thoughts. All Sir Ian had added as the record scratched to its deafening finale was that Macaulay had been friendly with a number of previous British High Commissioners. He was also an internet devotee, an accomplished mahout and the longest serving consul anywhere in the former Empire. As I had suspected, Jamie was not involved, which both troubled and encouraged me. Did Jamie know Macaulay? He had been here almost four years, unlike Sir Ian, who had arrived in Delhi barely three months ago. Jamie and Sir Ian, I had been told, did not get on.