Harlan shook his head. “But he might have phony passports. Or maybe he slipped over the border to Nepal or Bangladesh. Even Pakistan. And there’re plenty of places to hide in this country. He has a house here and in Poona. Maybe he’s got more we don’t know about.”

They looked to me, not out of suspicion, but because I knew Willy better than they did. I urged myself to maintain my straight face, but all I could think of was her. That was probably the best way to disguise my guilt.

“You said you had two updates for us,” said Birgit. “What’s the second one?”

“Thanks to Dan, we now know that Willy Smets is an assumed name. That’s why we could find no trace of him in Belgium. His real name is Pier Mertens. And we know that he served time in an Indian prison for drug smuggling twenty years ago.”

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 27, 1975, 9:02 P.M.

“Okay, let’s hear it,” said Harlan. We were all gathered in his room again.

“You already know Dhonu was not there,” said Ranjit, briefing us on his trip to Kathmandu. “In fact, the shop was closed down. No placard. No reason given. I can’t say for sure if anyone was watching, but if so, they were looking for Danny, not a North Indian tourist.”

“Sounds like Willy’s folding tents,” said Harlan. “At least for now.”

Ranjit continued. “In case someone was watching, I made a big show of staring at the goralog. Like a villager who never saw one before. I roamed around for an hour, then returned to the airport via the red-light district in Thamel.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because he’s been trained properly,” said Harlan. “In case he was being followed.”

We let the news sink in for a long moment. Then Harlan asked for ideas.

“Obviously, we continue to monitor the airports, train stations, and border crossings with the help of the CBI and Interpol,” said Birgit.

Ranjit frowned. “It’s easy to bribe your way over the border. A couple hundred rupees is all you need.”

“And he might be happy to wait us out somewhere,” added Harlan. “You have anything to add, Dan? Any idea where he might be?”

I thought for a long moment before answering. “No,” I said. “None at all.”

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 1975, 11:15 A.M.

With the trail cold, Harlan flew out of Bombay for parts unknown—maybe Delhi—assuring me he wasn’t giving up on finding Willy and Chhotu. He’d be in touch. Birgit also shipped out, back to the States, and Ranjit returned to his post in Delhi until something developed. Me? I got the locks changed on my door and moved back into my Sagar Darshan flat.