I thought for a moment. “I was in Chile when Pinochet took over two years ago. I got around the censors by shooting pictures of my typed stories. Then I went to the airport and begged passengers traveling to New York to take the film back with them. Our people met them at JFK.”

Frank nodded. “Not a bad idea. Yours?”

Actually, it was. But I didn’t want to come across as cocky, so I told him it had been Kate Erving’s idea.

“Should’ve figured,” he said. “Still, we’ll keep that one in our back pocket.”

Janice knocked on the glass and waited for permission to enter. Frank had come out of his furious fog and waved her in with a smile. Panicky, inconsiderate bastard, I thought. She placed two cups of instant coffee she’d begged from the CPA firm next door.

“Thanks, darling,” said Frank, and she withdrew.

CHAPTER FIVE

THURSDAY, JUNE 26, 1975, 9:12 P.M.

I’d paid for a night in the President Hotel and I was going to make the most of it. It was a little after nine when I jumped into the shower to hose off the grime of the day. Clean again and wrapped in a robe, I checked for news on the television. They were showing a Marathi-language serial.

I was too wound up to go to bed, plus I hadn’t eaten since lunch. So I dressed—open-collar shirt and bell-bottoms—and made my way down to the lobby. My friend Akshay namaste’d me from behind his desk. I returned the greeting.

The coffee shop was doing a brisk business, but the hostess found me a free table near the buffet. A waiter materialized before I’d even parked myself in the chair. He took the folded linen napkin from the table and, once he’d shaken it out, draped it over my lap with great ceremony.

I ate alone, keeping myself entertained by watching the other diners. The foreigners tended to order à la carte. The Indians went for the buffet, which featured a wide variety of local and Western options, including beef Stroganoff. Made with buffalo meat, of course. I wasn’t touching that with Bill Cody’s lasso.

While the hotel’s clientele was mostly businessmen—foreign and Indian—there were some tourists and even a newlywed couple. They sat together nearby on a bench seat in a booth. They seemed happy. The bride was decked out in a beautiful sari, her hands stained with henna in intricate, lacy patterns. The groom wore a Western shirt and slacks. They ate with their fingers, as was customary. I’d once asked an Indian friend in the States about this, and he gave me an education.

“Do you really trust that the restaurant’s dishwasher is cleaning your flatware properly?” he’d asked with a sly smile. “We wash our hands before we sit down at the table, so we know they’re clean.”