“Afraid not. He looked fit, about thirty, with dark hair.”

Harlan said he’d try to check on Australians and New Zealanders named Clive who were in the country. Maybe even South Africans.

“You don’t trust my diagnosis of Australian?” I asked.

“Just covering the bases,” he said. “Any other business stuff?”

“He keeps several ledgers in his private office. Different colors. Nothing written on the outside.”

“Those were gone when the police searched the house. Another dead end.”

“You know, there was another ledger,” I said. “Not sure what it means, but Willy has his drivers keep a petrol record in the glove compartment of the Ambassador. I had to sign it once when the driver filled up the tank.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Just that the car has traveled a lot. From Bombay to Srinagar and all points between. Wonder why he doesn’t fly. The roads are awful to drive.”

“Maybe he’s afraid of flying. More likely he doesn’t want to leave a record of where he goes.”

I gave Harlan the cities I remembered and he wrote them down.

“He’s slippery, I’ll give him that. Maybe that’s why the Indians have never been able to put him behind bars.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “What if he’s been to prison in India after all?”

“We’ve checked. He hasn’t.”

“What if Smets isn’t his real name?”

Harlan stared me down. “What are you driving at?”

“When the police were after me, he told me I didn’t want to end up in an Indian prison. Ever. He insisted. Said, ‘trust me.’ As if he knew from personal experience.”

“Interesting. We can look into it again. But without a name, it’s going to take time and a lot of luck.”

“I have a name.”

SATURDAY, AUGUST 23, 1975, 8:19 P.M.

Birgit and Harlan came to my room for dinner. Ranjit was still in Poona. Harlan insisted it was safer to stay away from the restaurants and permit room. And, of course, it would be foolhardy for us to be seen together at this point.

“They already know about you and Birgit,” he said. “Probably about me and Ranjit, too. At least we have to assume that.”

After our meal, we relaxed, me on the bed—no shoes—Birgit on the armchair, and Harlan at the desk. He wanted to know how Willy had figured out that Birgit was an agent.

I had no idea. “He plays the generous, avuncular type. But clearly, he’s sharp. I was convinced he suspected nothing about me and … about me and Sushmita.” I added that last bit with no small measure of shame. “Not sure when he figured it out, but I doubt Chhotu told him.”

“Why’s that?” asked Harlan.

“Because he tried to blackmail us early on. He saw her coming from my room one night and slipped me a blackmail note.”