The meal was exactly what I needed after a tense day in the office. As if the job weren’t tough enough on its own, invading police, government undersecretaries, and censors interfered with my concentration. And Frank Muller reacted to the smallest inconveniences—like no more coffee—as if the Hindenburg had just exploded.

But now, a satisfying dinner under my belt, I felt all was right with the world. Except, of course, it wasn’t. Not in India, at least. I thought about Indira Gandhi, a woman I had greatly admired. She’d always shown tremendous strength, determination, and intelligence, and had been hailed as the goddess Durga after India’s victory over Pakistan in the 1971 war. But what was I to think of her now that she’d used her position as prime minister to subvert democracy with the excuse of a domestic Emergency? Article 352 of the Indian Constitution allowed for broad powers and suspension of civil liberties when the nation was in peril. It also gave Mrs. Gandhi permission to throw her political opponents in jail and to head off any attempts to remove her from office. My admiration for her was at an end.

But the Emergency could wait till morning. I tasked myself with composing the perfect thank-you note instead. I sat on one of the matching sofas, imagining I was writing to Sushmita even as I addressed my words to Willy. And, since I hadn’t seen them since the night Ramu supposedly tried to break into their flat, I apologized for that, as well.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SATURDAY, JUNE 28, 1975, 8:24 P.M.

Birgit Fuchs slipped into the seat opposite me in the permit room on the nineteenth floor of the President Hotel. I’d arranged to meet her there to enjoy a drink before heading over to Willy Smets’s place. She was looking fine in a low-cut, white peasant dress. And I couldn’t help but notice she was wearing no bra underneath. Very European, I thought. And rather risqué for India, even the relatively cosmopolitan denizens of South Bombay.

Gone was the brushed-out look she’d worn Thursday night. Now her hair was natural, somewhere between wavy and curly with long bangs, giving her a bohemian sophistication. The sexy hippie with blue eyes, a couple of freckles, and golden tan all over. I was sure she’d brought the color with her from Germany, since it had done nothing but rain for the past week in Bombay.

“What is it, Dan?” she asked. “Is something wrong with my face?”

“Forgive me,” I stammered. “You look lovely, is all.”

She beamed an adorable smile at me, prompting thoughts of how bold I might be this night if she offered me another gute Nacht kiss.

“Are you flirting with me, Dan?” she asked.

“Just a little.”

She giggled, rocking gently back and forth in her seat, and I caught a glimpse of her right breast down her dress.