“Name’s Harlan,” he said, extending a firm hand for me to shake. Then he slipped me his business card. “Russell Harlan, Jr. I’ve written the hotel’s number on the back. In case you want to reach me.”

“Dan Jacobs,” I replied, wondering why the hell I’d ever want to reach him.

“Where you from, Dan?”

“New Haven. New York, actually. I’m a reporter. I was supposed to interview one of the opposition leaders in Delhi later this morning. Christ, if we’re locked down here, I wonder what’ll happen to him.”

Harlan raised his brows and drew a sigh. “You know, they don’t have a long democratic tradition in this country. India is still a backward frontier of modern civilized governance.”

I didn’t agree, but now wasn’t the time to debate the point.

“What about you?” I asked. “You look ready for a day in the office.”

“I’m an agricultural consultant. Corn. These people couldn’t grow a beard if you didn’t show them how.”

I frowned.

“I was going to fly to Bhopal this morning when they told me no way,” he continued. “I managed to call my office in St. Louis, and they gave me the news. Pretty sketchy, but they said the president declared some kind of domestic emergency at midnight. In the dark of night. And the president? Give me a break. Mrs. Gandhi surely dictated the thing and told him where to sign.”

“You found a working phone?” I asked. “Any chance I could make a call?”

“Not anymore. They cut the phones around one in the morning.”

A waiter appeared and presented us with a menu. One menu for the two of us. I asked if he might be able to scare up a second one, and he set off in search of it. He returned a moment later with three. I ordered some coffee and the breakfast buffet, which was being assembled across the dining room. Harlan wanted eggs over medium with toast and bacon.

“Not a fan of buffets,” he said to me once the waiter had assiduously repeated our order and retreated. “Never sure how clean they are.”

“So what’s going to happen next?” I asked.

“I expect things’ll get quiet real fast. The unrest, the strikes, and demonstrations are history. Might be a good thing in the long run.” He paused. “Unless you’re on Mrs. Gandhi’s bad side.”

By seven, I’d made two decisions: one, get away from Russell Harlan, Jr. This guy was precisely the kind I tried to avoid back home. And I wasn’t going to change my spots simply because I was trapped in a deluxe hotel in the middle of an “emergency.” The second decision had to do with the hotel. The President’s comfort beckoned to me. The air-conditioned rooms, restaurant, telephones, and telegraph services. I knew I couldn’t stay long, but one night was doable.