I took up my film industry piece again and began making calls. It was not going to be my greatest achievement. Even I found it dull. Nobody would agree to go on record with anything that wasn’t praise for the prime minister’s strong response to the “internal disturbances.” On the other hand, the starlets all wanted to know if I could introduce them to producers. The actors wanted to meet Faye Dunaway or Ali MacGraw.

When I showed Frank what I had, he was lukewarm. He said it had potential, but fell flat after the part about Mukesh Sharma, the director who’d been arrested. He wanted me to try for more stars, more arrests. And I’d blown my chance with Shashi Kapoor and Jeetendra.

“Get me a beautiful actress,” he said. “Put some sex appeal into the story.”

I went back to my desk and tried again to reach Shabana Azmi. As I was running through my contacts, wondering which ones might have made a film with her, Janice appeared for our afternoon appointment for tea.

“How are you doing?” she asked. I hated seeing the pity in her eyes.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Say, does your Shirish happen to know anyone who might know someone who knows Shabana Azmi? Or any other top female star?”

“Afraid not,” she said. “Why her?”

“For my story. Frank says I need more sex appeal.”

“Isn’t there something else you can give him? What about that bomber story? He killed a CID officer, after all.”

“Yeah. I lost the film. It’s gone. Without it, it’s just me claiming I met a terrorist. And it all ties back into Willy Smets now. I can’t write it until we have some kind of ending.”

She finished her tea and patted me on the shoulder. “I knew you were lying,” she whispered. “You did have film. Try to find it, Dan.”

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 1975, 12:19 P.M.

Another week passed. I was struggling with my film story, but I got a lead on Shabana Azmi’s hairstylist who worked at the beauty parlor in the Sun-n-Sand Hotel in Juhu. I planned on asking her to pass a message to the star.