“You think I’ve never been disappointed in love?” he asked. “Never had my heart broken?”

“You said so yourself. She’s the love of your life.”

He aimed a fierce glare at me. “Barb died,” he said. “Four years ago … cancer. And I miss her like the devil. Not five minutes go by that I don’t think of her. I’ve never loved another woman. Never will. And I honor her memory by doing my job. By doing what’s right.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

SATURDAY, AUGUST 23, 1975, 9:13 A.M.

I moved to the President Hotel.

Harlan was a hard man. But a fine one. Better than I was. During our early days of acquaintance, he’d lied about his wife, Barb, in order to paint the picture of an insufferable racist asshole. He’d done it well. But now that I knew the real man—the one whose beloved wife had died four years before—I felt like a coward, and a selfish one at that. No one should have to risk his safety to make the world a better place, but it’s a good thing so many people do. And Harlan had shown me that, unless I wanted to think of myself as a craven, selfish bastard, I had no choice but to carry on.

I met him in his room a little after nine Saturday morning. He’d forbidden me from going out for a run, so I’d taped a dry-cleaning bag over my cast and swum thirty laps in the hotel pool instead. I could still feel some stubborn water sloshing around in my left ear as we sat down opposite each other at the desk near the window. Harlan had notes and documents he wanted to review with me. He began with one of my least favorite topics: Chhotu.

“Do you know his full name?” he asked.

I struggled to recall. The surname was definitely Goswami. I remembered it because it sounded like “go, swami.”

“His first name was long and began with a D.”

Harlan reached into his briefcase, which was resting on the floor at his feet. He dug inside, then produced a thin booklet. He rose and joined me on my side of the desk.

“Is it one of these?” he asked, running his fingers down a column of Indian names. These all started with the letter D.

“There,” I said, pointing to the winner. “Debajyoti. Debajyoti Goswami. I remember Willy telling me. He said it was a beautiful Bengali name. This guy is from Calcutta originally.”

“You’re sure?” I was positive. He retook his seat. “Okay, is there anything else about him you can tell me?” he asked.

I thought back to my first impression of him. This was easy. “Chhotu? He’s in his forties, obese,” I said. “Doesn’t fit into airplane seats, so he always travels by train or car.”

Harlan took down the information in his notes.