Chapters (62)
- Cover
- Dedication
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- PART ONE
- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER TWO
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- CHAPTER SEVEN
- CHAPTER EIGHT
- CHAPTER NINE
- CHAPTER TEN
- CHAPTER ELEVEN
- CHAPTER TWELVE
- CHAPTER THIRTEEN
- CHAPTER FOURTEEN
- CHAPTER FIFTEEN
- PART TWO
- CHAPTER SIXTEEN
- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
- CHAPTER NINETEEN
- CHAPTER TWENTY
- CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
- CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
- CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
- CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
- CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
- CHAPTER THIRTY
- CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
- CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
- CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
- PART THREE
- CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
- CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
- CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
- CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
- CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
- CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
- CHAPTER FORTY
- CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
- CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
- CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
- CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
- CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
- CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
- CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
- CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
- CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
- CHAPTER FIFTY
- CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
- CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
- CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
- EPILOGUE
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- BOOK CLUB DISCUSSION GUIDE
She shook her head. “There are so many pretty girls trying to get into films. And they’ll do anything to land a part. It’s not fair, really.”
I sympathized, handed her my card, and asked her to contact me if anything came up with Mukesh.
“But you’ll use my name in your article?” she asked. “Nothing negative. Only that I’m a pretty actress? With good English. Ready for American films.”
“Of course. And you’ll let me know if they release him. Or if they’ll permit visitors.”
She stared at my card, then asked if I knew Robert Redford.
MONDAY, JULY 21, 1975, 7:46 P.M.
When I turned the key to unlock my door, it opened before I could lift the latch. Ramu—not Bikas—was there to greet me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Good evening, sir,” he said in his old servant’s accent.
“Cut the crap, Ranjit,” I said, pushing past him. “What are you doing here? And who let you in?”
He shut the door behind me. “I made a copy of the key long ago. And you can call me Ranjit inside this flat but, for appearance’s sake, I’m Ramu outside. Your servant can’t suddenly change his name.”
“You’re fired,” I said. “Problem solved.”
“Come on, Dan. You can use the help. Or the company. Or the protection. At least until you decide your answer to our request.”
“I have decided. The answer is no. I don’t want anything to do with this operation. Willy Smets may well be the head of a drug cartel and a prostitution ring. But he’s always treated me right. I’m not a cop. That’s your job. You guys should do this, not ask me to be a snitch.”
MONDAY, JULY 21, 1975, 10:10 P.M.
Ranjit and I relaxed on our respective sofas and toasted each other, me with my one-after-dinner Dewar’s, him with his juice. The Boy Scout didn’t drink liquor. The meal he’d prepared had been his best effort to date. A mushroom pulao and moong dal, flavored with garlic and onion, followed by an aloo gobi in gravy and bhindi, okra. A sliced-tomato-and-onion salad, and chutney rounded out the menu. Pure veg. Then, to show me what I’d be missing after I fired him, he brought out some kheer for dessert.
Damn Ranjit. Former army officer, current cop, climber of buildings, speaker of languages, and a chef who should open his own restaurant. He ironed a mean shirt, too. How the hell could a guy be so good at so many things?
“Where did you learn to cook?” I asked, staring up at the revolving ceiling fan. “Don’t tell me the army again, or I’m going to enlist.”
“From my mother. And at the CBI Academy in Ghaziabad,” he said. “And please take your feet off the table.”
“I’m sorry?” I said, sitting up to glare at him. “This is my house, you know.”