Dhaval was from a small rural town in Rajasthan and had joined the army to escape the inexorable grip of provincial life. In so many ways the decision was life-altering. He came to love the army life and the thrill of potential sanctioned killing. He applied for and was accepted into the newly formed Indian Special Forces, ultimately ending up as a Black Cat in the elite National Security Guards. His career progressed stupendously, at least until he saw real action in the 1999 Kashmerian ops. During a night raid on a suspected Pakistani-supported group of insurgents, he demonstrated such unbridled ruthlessness by killing seventeen suspects who were trying to surrender that the command considered him an embarrassing liability and removed him from the operation. A month later he was discharged from the service.

Luckily for Dhaval, his story, which the National Security Guards tried to keep quiet, appeared on the radar screen of Shashank Malhotra, who was rapidly diversifying his business interests and making enemies in the process. Needing someone with Dhaval’s training and attitude, Shashank actively pursued the ex- special forces agent, and the rest was history.

Dhaval lowered his window as the Amal Palace’s head doorman approached, holding his book of parking stickers in one hand and a pencil in the other. “How long will you be?” the doorman demanded. He was busy, as businessmen were arriving in ever-increasing numbers for breakfast meetings.

Palming a roll of rupees, Dhaval handed them over. They rapidly disappeared into the doorman’s scarlet tunic. “I’d like to park up here near the entrance. I’ll probably be an hour or so, certainly less than two.”

Without saying anything to Dhaval, the doorman pointed at the last parking spot just across from the hotel’s entrance, then waved for the next car to pull forward. Dhaval rounded the outer columns that supported the porte cochere and took the designated spot. It was perfect. He had an unobstructed view of the hotel entrance and his vehicle was pointing down toward the driveway’s exit to the street.

After climbing from the car, Dhaval went into the lobby and, using the house phones, placed a call to Jennifer Hernandez. He let it ring a half-dozen times, got voicemail, and hung up. Walking over to the main restaurant used for breakfast, he asked the maître d’ if Ms. Jennifer Hernandez had been seen yet that morning.

“No, sir,” the gentleman said.

“I’m supposed to meet her, and I have no idea what she looks like. Could you possibly give me an idea?”

“A very pretty young woman, medium-height; dark, thick, shoulder-length hair; and nice figure. She tends to wear tight jeans and cotton shirts.”

“I’m impressed,” Dhaval said. “That is a much more complete description than I expected. Thank you.”

“I must admit I remember the attractive women the best,” the maître d’ said with a smile and a wink, “and she is indeed an attractive woman.”