SATURDAY, AUGUST 16, 1975, 11:35 A.M.

Dreading the impending terror the descent of the ghats would bring, I sat beside Chhotu in the back of the Ambassador as we traveled to Bombay on one of the most dangerous roads in the world. If I was destined to die on the ghats, I was determined to reach across the seat and strangle that son of a bitch before I did.

We passed Lonavala, and I affected a bored, uninterested expression, as if I hadn’t even noticed the place.

She was there, I was sure. Not two miles away as we pushed on along the Bombay-Poona Road. I watched through the window of our Ambassador as we went, wondering exactly where she was breathing in that moment.

The rain began in earnest a few minutes after we’d started the descent. The white-knuckling was going to be intense. When I wasn’t obsessing over the cars and trucks passing with little or no space to do so, I worried that Chhotu’s weight, combined with Shankar’s on the driver side of the car, would tip us over the edge sooner or later and send us to the bottom in a spectacular crash and burn. Closing my eyes and curling up in the fetal position only did so much good. Going down the ghats was so much worse than the ascent I’d made with Sushmita driving.

“You’re very quiet, old chap,” said Chhotu.

“Trying to relax. And hoping not to die. Or vomit on my fellow passenger. Not your fault, Shankar,” I called to the driver.

He regarded me in the mirror, roused by the mention of his name. He gave a curt nod, and said, “Ji, sir.”

“What are you worried about, Danny?” asked Chhotu. “If your time’s up, it’s up. Just ask Sheik Mujib.”

“Mujib? The prime minister of Bangladesh?”

“Haven’t you heard? He was assassinated in Dhaka along with his entire family yesterday. There’s been a coup.”

“God. That’s awful. His family, too?”

“Two daughters were abroad at the time and are safe.”

If I’d still been in the office in Bombay, I’d have been working on the assassination story.

“Anyway,” said Chhotu, “I’m not afraid to die.”

“Really? Pop your door open and let’s see what you say on the next curve.”

He smirked at me and explained that while he wasn’t afraid to die, neither was he in a hurry to do so.

We took a particularly sharp turn, with no guardrail to protect us should Shankar miscalculate his speed and the angle. Of course, he didn’t. He held true to the road and kept everything on an even, if bumpy, keel.

“You’re perspiring, old chap,” said Chhotu. “Not used to Indian roads, eh?”