The maître d’ did not call a waiter but stood by quietly as Jack took his place beside Kolabati. It was possible that he was a very patient man, but Jack noticed that his eyes never left Kolabati.

“May I get M’sieur something to drink?” he said when Jack was settled.

Jack looked at Kolabati’s glass. “What’s that?”

“Kir.”

He wanted a beer, but this was the Waldorf. “I’ll have one of those.”

She laughed. “Don’t be silly! Bring him a beer. They have Bass Ale here.”

“I’m not much for ale. But I’ll take a Beck’s light if you’ve got it.” At least he’d be drinking imported beer. What he really wanted was a Rolling Rock.

“Very good.” The maître d” finally went away.

“How’d you know I like beer?” The confidence with which she had said it made him uneasy.

“A lucky guess. I was sure you wouldn’t like kir.” She studied him. “So… you’re the man who retrieved the necklace. It was a seemingly impossible task, yet you did it. I owe you a debt of undying gratitude.”

“It was only a necklace.”

“A very important necklace.”

“Maybe, but it’s not as if I saved her life or anything.”

“Perhaps you did. Perhaps return of the necklace gave her the strength and the hope to go on living. It was very important to her. Our whole family wears them—every one of us. We’re never without it.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

Full of eccentricities, these Bahktis.

The Beck’s arrived, delivered by the maitre d” himself, who poured the first glassful, lingered a moment, then wandered off with obvious reluctance.

“You realize, don’t you,” Kolabati said as Jack quaffed a few ounces of his beer, “that you have made two lifelong friends in the past twenty-four hours: my brother and myself.”

“What about your grandmother?”

Kolabati blinked. “Her, too, of course. Do not take our gratitude lightly, Jack. Not mine. And especially not my brother’s—Kusum never forgets a favor or a slight.”

“Just what does your brother do at the U.N.?” It was small talk. Jack really wanted to know all about Kolabati, but didn’t want to appear too interested.

“I’m not sure. A minor post.” She must have noticed Jack’s puzzled frown. “Yes, I know—he doesn’t seem to be a man who’d be satisfied with any sort of minor post. Believe me, he isn’t. Back home his name is known in every province.”

“Why?”

“He is the leader of a new Hindu fundamentalist movement. He and many others believe that India and Hinduism have become too Westernized. He wants a return to the old ways. He’s been picking up a surprising number of followers over the years and developing considerable political clout.”

“Sounds like the Moral Majority over here. What is he—the Jerry Falwell of India?”

Kolabati’s expression became grim. “Perhaps more. His singleness of purpose can be frightening at times. Some fear he may become the Ayatolla Khomeini of India. That’s why everyone was shocked early last year when he suddenly requested diplomatic assignment at the London Embassy. It was granted immediately—no doubt the government was delighted to have him out of the country. Recently he was transferred here to the U.N.—again at his request. I’m sure his followers and adversaries back home are mystified, but I know my brother. I’ll bet he’s getting enough international experience under his belt so he can go home and become a credible candidate for a major political office. But enough of Kusum…”