Chapter One

Lahore 1973 - First Day

Lahore's red light district is the westerner's conception of the mysterious East. Its tortuous gallies, or alleys, form a triangle. One side is the Badshahi Mosque, the largest in the entire Islamic World; a second, the timeless squat of the granite and sandstone fort that legend attributes to the pre-Vedic Rajah Lahu after whom Lahore is named; a third, the hypotenuse, the many entrances to the maze.
      These gallies nurturing the world's oldest profession are permeated with the smells of semen, stale food, sweat, and attar. Time stands still before the unblinking gaze of cobblestones worn smooth through the ages.
      Here, one might conjure berobed Abdul of the crafty visage and curved dagger, villainous under the flickering of an Aladdin lamp, conspiring to get his hands on the purse and chastity of a spinster from Omaha. This is the sinister orient of snake charmers and swaying cobras. A world where day starts at dusk and ends at dawn, following a rhythm unchanged since the time man first paid for sex.
      The most common name by which these eternal gallies are known to those of the outer world is Heera Mandi, meaning diamond market. Beautiful and cultured women are wholesaled and retailed in this place. A measure of their exclusiveness and inaccessibility to the common man is conveyed by the wistful yearning implicit in the name. Even the common prostitutes in the ten rupee gallies that slither through Heera Mandi are not enough to tarnish its image.
      As the sun sets over the river Ravi in its vermilion glory, Heera Mandi comes to life. The infinitely wise cobblestones of the gallies receive their steady polishing from the hustling steps of pimps, of rich men seeking pleasures, and of jaded old men looking to satisfy hidden lusts. The garish fluorescence from kiosks illuminates the gallies in which it might just be possible to squeeze in a car but not make a U-turn.
      However, behind this façade lie the more discreet and powerful nautch girl establishments. Here, a night's pleasure starts at a thousand rupees - and that merely for the exclusive right to hear a nautch girl sing and to watch her perform her dance, for nautch girls are not prostitutes. They function as either dancer-singers or concubines. To bed a nautch girl would entail protracted negotiations involving a very large purse indeed.
      Some overhanging balconies display no merchandise, for these are the gallies of repute. The families running these houses are as jealous of their lineage as the best banking families of France, and as proud.
      One gallie, nevertheless, stands apart. One can drive in and, with some skill and determination, even manage to turn around. Its twenty-four houses have two things in common: women from matriarchal lineages as carefully maintained as the most ancient ruling houses of Europe and Asia, and Mughal architecture.
      The decor inside matches the architecture - sixteenth century Mughal. Time stands still under the stoic gaze of brass and wood carvings overlooking velvet and brocade covered mattresses and bolster pillows under filigreed lighting. Over the oriental carpet, a white sheet forms the dance-stage with a three piece orchestra of tabla drums, harmonium, and sitar to one side.

In such surroundings, Sirdar Ali Shah, known to some as Dara, sat immobile.
      He liked the room. Not because of its opulence, but because it was a constant reminder of the rightness of his and his dead father's vision. It justified the methods employed to ensure superiority over his business competitors. Heera Mandi had reacted with lofty contempt when he introduced this setting - the serving of coffee, the nautch girls' Mughal court dress, and the decor. Efforts at modernization by the other dance-houses consisted of plastic covered sofas and the girls in shalwar kameez or even trousers.
      Dara had a deep rooted appreciation for the value of dollars ever since his sojourn at Harvard Business School and his apprenticeship with the Valletti family of the New England Cosa Nostra. The self-righteous sniffs had soon turned to jealousy and then outright hatred as the bazaar realized he had cornered the tourist trade.
      His western manners, combined with a discreet profile, had at first led the bazaar to think Dara had gone soft. They gave him, for a brief period, the emasculating title of mem - the contemptuous name for a white woman.
      This title had been swiftly replaced by another, while Dara amassed a fortune in foreign currency so vast that it could only be guessed at. Others in the bazaar who tried to copy his business techniques were exterminated. A convinced capitalist and free trader, his convictions stopped short of the anti-trust act. He went about his affairs with a subtle but coldly ruthless ferocity.
      Tonight Dara sat in one of his houses.
      It was a regular practice designed to keep him in touch with the grass roots of his wealth and power. Harvard Business School had instilled in him the value of never ignoring the shop or factory floor. West Point publications had further emphasized the virtues of integrity and leadership.
      He brooded amid voluptuous velvet cushions in the Lotus Position, the origins of which are subsumed in the mists of Vedic antiquity. It was from this position he observed the nimble intrusion of the white man into his world.
      The American stood framed in the doorway for a brief moment. Then gently closed it. He was tall, long haired and hard looking. The skin of his face was stretched tight by wind and weather. A casual observer would have judged his blue eyes as being alert. A keen observer would not have missed the faint hint of suppressed agitation.
      Dara was a keen observer, and did not miss the way the blue eyes automatically calculated tangents, angles, exits, and approaches. Neither did Dara fail to notice the complete stillness of the very dangerous man, evident in his stance.
      In a fluid movement of effortless ease, Dara rose and glided forward.
      "Welcome, do come in, please," he said in his modulated Oxbridge accent. He was dressed in a bosky silk kurta, over a white cotton shalwar and gold embroidered curly toed khusas. Around his shoulders he had carelessly draped a white Cashmere shawl.
      Each took the other's measure while going through man's ancient ritual of shaking hands to declare mutual good faith. The American's blue eyes met the gaze of gray eyes aware that the ease with which the host had broken the Lotus Position meant a very high degree of physical fitness.
      Yes, the American thought. It could very well be him. About thirty-one or two, five-six, a hundred and sixty pounds with black hair, gray eyes and a smattering of pock marks. Just as Major Valletti had described him that night in Vietnam.
      At a graceful gesture of Dara's arm, the American eased himself on the cushions and crossed his legs. Dara noted the coordinated play of muscles beneath the field jacket and blue Levis. He snapped his fingers and the old naika - Madame - came scurrying with the gaze of her hard eyes locked on the scene.
      "Tea, ca'afee, pa'an?" she inquired in the English that was mandatory in all of Dara's houses.
      "Thanks, coffee would do just fine," the American said.
      The naika hurried off, and Dara caught the whiff of a backwoods twang. Tennessee, or perhaps West Virginia. During his apprenticeship to the New England Cosa Nostra, Dara had encountered a cross section of American society. He knew the backwoods type - hard boys, and this one could very well have followed his elders into the army. He looked the soldier type.
      Clad in her Mughal court dancer's dress, the dancing girl made her entry. She bent down to tie the k'hungroo dancing bells around her ankles, and the American's eyes passed over her sensual body.
      The American faced Dara. "I'm Barney Custer. Are you Mister Sirdar Ali Shah?"
      There was an indefinable flicker in Dara's gray eyes, while he courteously inclined his head.
      "Are you also known as Dara?"
      The dance-house owner nodded, his eyes very aware now, very alert. "There are those among whom I am known by this name, Mister Custer."
      "Like Major Joe Valletti of the US Special Forces -"
      At that moment the door crashed open. The dancing girl looked up, and froze. A reaction shared by the tabla drummer and the harmonium player.
      There are two trademarks of the Punjab's urban hoodlum: the barak, a full-throated roar he inherits from the mists of antiquity, expressing a Punjabi's gut feelings, and the fish-shaped kamanidar knife, with a heavy, six-inch blade. When opened, the series of small gears affixed at the joint of blade and handle emit a rasping crackle that grates on the ears, although not a loud sound by itself.
      It was this menacing combination of barak and kamanidar that froze the musicians and the girl into a tableau of three.
      Two men stood in the doorway, the light flashing off their honed blades.
      "Nobody move unless he wants to see his intestines!" one said.
      The room suddenly filled with a primeval menace.
      The second intruder moved towards the American with a gliding motion, weaving and ducking, twirling the knife in eye-dazzling sequences. Barney Custer stood with a long-bladed table knife - very steady, very still, his gaze locked into the thug's. The hoodlum, coiled for the inevitable spring and underarm gutting slash, stopped abruptly and the knife dropped.
      The .38 Smith and Wesson is neither the traditional implement of the Punjab, nor does it have a loud preliminary like the barak. The thumbing back of the hammer is just an oiled, metallic 'snick'.
      Here, however, the communicative shortcomings of the .38 Smith and Wesson end. It is to the credit of the late Messrs Smith and Wesson, that, without resorting to mass advertising, the mayhem immediately following this subdued click is universally known.
      So the slight sound, together with the smile that was, and yet was not, a smile, over which expressionless, gray eyes, very calm, very steady, stared at him, stopped the ruffian in mid-crouch.
      "Drop the knives, semen drinkers." Dara's quiet voice dripped contempt.
      "That includes you, Mister Custer," he said to Barney in English.
      A third soft thud followed.
      The inner door burst open to admit three vicious-looking gunmen led by a mustachioed giant in a black leather jacket wearing an earring in his left lobe. A fourth, a tall, lean man with a Sten-gun, followed.
      Recognizing the giant with the earring, the two knife artists disarmed by Dara paled. The American seemed stoical, but the dancing girl and musicians looked relieved.
      The giant looked at Dara.
      "What happened, Pehelwan-ji?" using the traditional title of O' Wrestler. "Did these semen drinkers give the barak I heard?"
      "Yes, Gulloo," Dara said. The gun in his fist seemed to vanish in a blur of movement somewhere in the folds of his kurta.
      Gulloo's eyes focused on the two hoodlums. They stood with their eyes on the carpet, immersed in a deep study of the Bokhara pattern.
      There was a slight twitch to Dara's lips the American did not fail to notice. I'll be damned if he ain't enjoyin' hisself!
      The two gunmen and the Sten-gunner led by Gulloo, the giant, stood silent, their weapons trained steadily on the American and his would-be attackers. At the slightest nod from Dara the gunmen would have slaughtered the three with impunity.
      "Take them upstairs, including the gora," Dara ordered Gulloo. "I'll follow."
      "Truth O'Ali, my Pehelwan," Gulloo said, adding, "The white man's ancestry I don't know, but these two -" he indicated the two intruders "- certainly come from a donkey's cunt. I know them."
      The giant's deep voice was very quiet, yet Barney's would-be assailants visibly trembled. He gestured with his head, the gun unwavering, and led Barney and the two punks from the room, followed by two of Dara's gunmen.
      The tall, lean Sten-gunner stayed. His weapon disappeared beneath his blanket, and he squatted in a corner from where he could cover both doors.
      He looked like the ex-soldier he was, a little out of place in this room.
      Dara was filled with a premonition he could neither logically define, nor put aside. The events of the last few minutes were an ominous portent. It was part of something big, very big. Of that he was convinced. Well, he would know soon enough. His method of loosening tongues might not be on the curriculum of Harvard Business School, but it brought results, and results had always been appreciated by his professors.
      "You can rest for tonight, all of you," decided Dara, dismissing the musicians, the naika, and the dancing girl.
      "Perveen," he said directly to the girl, "be prepared to look after a special guest if you have to."
      Perveen smiled, thrust her breasts at him, and rose, followed by the naika and the musicians. Ignoring his gunman, Dara opened the door to the gallie.
      Police sub-Inspector Sukhera and three constables stood by One-eyed S'a'aka's kiosk in the street. Hard young men with wise old eyes armed with .303 Lee Enfield left-overs of the British Raj. They seemed to smarten at the sight of Dara.
      "All okay, Shaj-ji?" the sub-Inspector asked Dara.
      Dara smiled. "Relax. Just keep an eye out for what you are supposed to."
      Sukhera didn't like it, but his annoyance was made bearable by a fixed monthly retainer and direct orders from the Deputy Inspector General of Police to maintain a special post in this gallie.
      "Cha'acha, anybody comes, this house is closed," Dara said to One-eyed S'a'aka whose only kiosk in the gallie gave him a catering monopoly to the twenty-four dance houses.
      The old man looked up with his one good eye, grunted, and kept applying lime to his pa'an leaves. Old fogey, thought Dara affectionately as he shut and bolted the street door. S'a'aka's lost eye had been a contribution of loyalty to Dara's father during the feuding fifties. Ever since his father's death, Dara had allowed the old man this catering monopoly instead of the pension he was too proud to accept.
      On the third floor, Dara entered a room and shut the door behind him. The interior was illuminated by a single, powerful naked bulb. The only furnishings were odds and ends of litter - two charpai beds and three wooden chairs. The prisoners sat on the beds: Barney on one, and the two punks on another. Two of the wooden chairs were occupied by Dara's gunmen - Gulloo the giant, and taciturn Ghani. They were quietly watchful over their charges as Dara settled himself in the vacant chair.
      After a brief glance at Barney, Dara turned his attention to the two knife wielding goondas. They were low-grade street enforcers, street-chic in silky shalwar kurtas. Amulets around their necks proclaimed their allegiance to an order of saints, and rings on their fingers attested a regular attendance to religious conventions. They were young, lean and looked like brothers.
      "Do you know who I am?" Dara asked the pair.
      "Yes, Pehelwan-ji," the older of the two replied.
      There was no visible change in Dara's expression of detached impassivity. Only his voice seemed to grow colder, and a little quieter.
      "How dare you come to my area with knives! Do you come hunting a name for yourselves, or the virtue of your sisters lost at my dera?"
      Both goondas broke into a garbled whine about being poor men unfamiliar with the ins and outs of Heera Mandi. They swore they were ignorant of whose establishment they had assaulted.
      Dara's voice dropped to a whisper, but it still cut them short.
      "Shut up, you little play-acting apologies for theek-tha'ak men." His voice was cold and as deadly as the cobra's venom.
      "Next time you both talk in front of the Pehelwan I'll shove your own knives up your filthy unwashed asses," promised Gulloo's husky voice - very measured, very precise.
      The pair once again fell to studying the floor with acute concentration.
      "All right," conceded Dara, "then you tell me how you happened to disgrace my place."
      The older of the two intruders took up the narrative.
      "You see, may your children live, it's like this. We got ourselves a place in Royal Park - poor people, you know, the dust of your feet. We, your servants, hang around Sarwar's milk shop. My King, you know Sarwar, who pimps for the movie extras that hang around the producer's offices that litter Royal Park. Well, he uses us as enforcers. Being the dust of your shoes, in between jobs we just wait around for whatever bones Allah may fling to His dogs. The dogs of your gateway have got to fend for themselves, and with your prayers, have got a bit of a name. Even college kids, sons of officers and bigshots, come to us for fixing their gang fights. We're weak hearts but we get along. Allah and his 140,000 prophets provide us our bread and water -"
      He paused, looked around furtively, and continued. "So there's this lawyer in Royal Park, Malik Ashraf Ali -"
      At the mention of his old foe, Dara's face went blank. He seemed to emanate a deadly aura. The intruder appeared to waver. Then, at a barely perceptible flicker from the dead gray eyes, he licked his lips and continued.
      "… Malik … Malik Ashraf Ali, O' server of the Black-Shawled One. He … he's all right … knows his job … did some fixing for us. Real educated … has the ear of the political bigshots and is heard right up to the Police Superintendent's office. Handles our cases, and also some for the studios.
      "So, today around twelve, me and Kaka, my younger brother," he indicated the other goonda who was sitting with his head down, his object of intellectual absorption a filthy fingernail, "were as usual sitting at Sarwar's place. Malik comes up and says, 'Tata' - that's me - 'I want a word with you - both of you.' So we made him an offer of Sarwar's buttermilk, but he refuses and says he hasn't the time. We followed him to his office, which is just on the side of Royal Park bordering Lakshmi chownk. Same building, where the bigshot movie guys got their offices. He sat us on chairs right next to him among all his books," Tata's eyes rolled heavenwards at the memory of such proximity to intellectual power, "and offered us this contract.
      "There's an Umreekan gora - a happy-buays type in Waldorf Hotel he wants us to bring to him. Says it doesn't matter whether or not it's a quiet job. Then, O' Saint, we asked him about the cops and he says not to worry. Well, we know for something like this, Malik's word is good -"
      Once again, at the mention of Malik's name, Tata wavered. There was something about the name Malik which triggered an indefinable response in Dara. Even Dara's own two gunmen, Gulloo the giant and Ghani, grew more still. Barney's nostrils flared, then he sniffed. He, too, sensed the deadly aura in the room although he understood nothing of the language. As before, Tata was allowed to continue uninterrupted.
      "Then he offers three for a neat quiet job, two if it's a killing and that doesn't include the court fees or jail expenses.
      "That clinches it. We reckon it's easy money - leaning on a gora, and I say as much. 'Look', says Malik, 'this gora's all right. He's tough - a guerrilla fighter from Vietnam. Take a couple of boys with you and make sure you're carrying.'
      "I didn't take him seriously and had no mind to split a take with any broken earned one. If the Americans were like they are in the movies, how come they lost to those little guys in Vietnam? I may not be educated but I listen to the news on the radio -"
      "Fuck your views on current affairs and get back to your barking," interrupted Dara.
      Tata cleared his throat nervously, and shifted his eyes.
      "All right, O' personfication of all my saints. So he describes the guy and tells us he's staying at the Waldorf Hotel in Gulberg Market. We didn't ask why he wanted the man. Kaka and me, we came down from Malik's office and went to Abbot Road to have lunch, and as we expected, our cousin Kuku, who drives his own cab, turned up at the same place. We lit our cigarettes -" Tata paused to clear his throat, and his eyes were filled with longing.
      "You can smoke now - here, have one of mine." Dara tossed Tata a pack of Dunhill's. "Keep the pack - a gift."
      He smiled inwardly at the folded hands and looks exchanged between the two brothers. Khooni Dara the large-hearted Robin Hood.
      After gratefully drawing a lungful, Tata took up the narrative again.
      "We talked it over with Kuku who agreed for a hundred to give us his taxi services till tomorrow morning. We plan on hanging around outside the Waldorf. The idea is to follow the gora till such time as he clears the Gulberg area.
      "We parked at the Hideout Coffee Bar opposite the Waldorf Hotel waiting for the gora to make a move. About a couple of hours later, at around four o'clock we saw two Arabs," his mouth tightened in contempt as he spat out the word, "probably students, come to the Waldorf and then walk away to the corner and just hang around. We noticed them because one looked drunk and whistled at a Pakistani girl and we almost beat them up."
      "Describe the two Arabs," commanded Gulloo, ignoring Tata's weak attempt at establishing his credentials as a patriot.
      "One of them, Lord, was about six feet with a large beaked nose and a scar from nose to left ear. The other one was ordinary, but both were well built.
      "After some time we got tired of drinking coffee and watching all the dames. Kuku takes out his bottle of kutae ma'ar dog-death hooch and we start getting a little high. About seven thirty it was dark and cold, so we huddled in our blankets. Suddenly we heard the sound of two shots from the Hotel. The gora ran out of the Waldorf, jumped into a motor-rickshaw, and got away. Just as he got into the motor-rickshaw, two men came running out of the Hotel, jumped on a Honda 175cc, and tore after the motor-rickshaw like a movie chase. So Kuku makes a screeching U-turn and goes after them."
      "Were these two on the Honda the two Arabs you just mentioned?" Dara said.
      "No, Lord. Looked like locals, but a little fancy - in trousers and jackets. So all three of us - the gora's motor-rickshaw, the Honda party, and us three - just in this order, got out of the market and on the Main Boulevard.
      "By the fountain crossing we're about twenty feet behind the Honda which was another fifty feet behind the motor-rickshaw. We switched lanes and then were right behind the Honda which was overtaking an Austin Mini-Cooper in a wide arc. Kuku shoves the taxi between the Mini and the Honda and just as he noses out of the gap, lets his right fender scrape the front wheel of the Honda, which throws the motorcyclists on the grass strip between the two lanes."
      Tata swallowed during a pause. His eyes betrayed a hint of pride while his brother gave a faint roll to his head, mouth slack. Dara and his gunmen looked contemptuous. Tata swallowed once again, and continued nervously.
      "So that puts the two of them out of the race. More than likely Malik Ashraf sent them to secure the snatch.
      "The motor-rickshaw turns left onto Jail Road towards the canal, heading towards a stream of thick traffic. We had to stop again. A poor man's kismet never favors him, O' Emperor. By the time we got out of the traffic, the rickshaw is a hundred yards ahead of us. The cold air through the windows acts on the dog-death hooch and we start getting a little high.
      "After passing the canal bridge, we saw the tail lights of the rickshaw turn onto Zafar Ali Road and breathed a sigh of relief at the clear stretch of road which was perfect for a snatch. Kuku stepped on the gas, and we were gaining inch by inch, when we pulled a slow leak. The taxi starts wobbling to the left. Kismet never favors a poor man. It was certainly our sins that caught up with us, for it did not please Allah that we be successful this night.
      "The rickshaw went past Charing Cross and to the lower Mall, with the taxi at a 30 miles per hour behind it. Instead of turning from P'ha'atti chownk to the bus stand, the rickshaw runs right through to chownk Heera Mandi. The gora jumps out of the rickshaw, throwing the driver some notes.
      "The rickshaw driver scoots away with his money, and we're left to earn ours. By this time, I swear by the Holy Koran we have a half bottle each of dog-death inside of us. May my tongue shrivel if I lie, we were drunk. Kuku stayed behind to fix the wheel, and we followed this gora through the gallies to your place. May I bed with my own mother if I lie, the dog-death betrayed us this night.
      "We didn't recognize your exalted dera - how could we, being such poor people. We had never been past it. Else we could never have dared to come with knives. We might have come for darshan to the great Dara pehelwan - touch his feet and ask for his blessing."
      The narrative finished, Tata sat quietly with his eyes to the ground.
      Dara now spoke in a flat, cold voice.
      "First, I thought of having your sterile balls chopped off. Then I thought that's too light for you. Tongues and eyes as well. However, I concluded it would be best for yourselves to get buggered by one of my boys in chownk Heera Mandi, or, better still, in Royal Park itself."
      Tata and Kaka, his younger brother, both caught their ears in the eastern gesture of penance and slowly shook their heads from side to side.
      Barney Custer, who had sat quietly smoking, now looked with interest towards the two brothers who had chased him to Dara's dera. Their faces were devoid of all color.
      Gulloo leaned his giant frame towards Dara. "Pehelwan-ji, they're children," he pleaded. "On occasions I've kept some heavier boys from muscling in on their operation. Give them a chance. Truly are you a king."
      Gulloo was playing soft and Dara hard. Thus, when Dara finally showed mercy, he would bear full credit for the largesse.
      To have simply killed or maimed the intruders would have been an unstatesmanlike act of revenge, considering Dara's reputation. Mercy, however, would be more practical. A Punjabi proverb presages the politics of nuclear deterrence by a few centuries - a frightened man is more useful than a beaten one. Violence, even as a necessity, is an admission of defeat.
      When, after having induced terror, compassion is unexpectedly shown, the subject will go babbling praises of him who granted mercy when he had no need to.
      To be merciful to the two who had dared to violate the sanctity of his house would enhance Dara's stature and further secure his position as a Man of Respect to be loved and admired. The loyalty of his own people would be reinforced. In Malik Ashraf Ali's camp, the recounting of this tale would sow dissension. And, of course, many prayers would be said for Dara's soul. These, too, would come in handy at the appropriate time.
      "Since Gulloo is for me a younger brother," proclaimed Dara, "and for you mother-father, you are also my children. Gulloo, throw away their knives and give them better ones from our armory. They were to get three thousand for the job. Give them twice that. They have come for the first time to our dera. Treat them like guests. Booze, siripayas, a lay, the works. That also includes their cousin, the taxi driver waiting in the chownk."
      While following Gulloo out, both Tata and Kaka expressed ritual homage to Dara's magnanimity. They bent low, touching his knees with their hands and crossing them over their hearts before backing out respectfully, heads bowed and eyes lowered. Dara nodded with the refined grace of a Mughal emperor, and turned to Barney.
      "Sorry to have kept you waiting, Mister Custer," he apologized. "You mentioned Major Joe Valletti of the US Special Forces. From which part of the United States?"
      "Boston."
      "His father's name?"
      "Marcello Phillipe Valletti."
      "Profession?"
      "Garments, pizza parlors, trucking, construction, and catering." Dara's eyes looked at Barney steadily.
      "… and Capo di Tutti Capi, Captain of captains, or Godfather of the New England Cosa Nostra."
      Dara nodded, and turned towards Ghani, who still held the gun.
      "Relax, but be careful," he said in Punjabi, and gave further instructions in the same language, before turning to Barney in his precise Oxbridge. "It appears someone wants you rather badly."
      "Yeah, I need protection," Barney admitted.
      "And any friend of Joe Valletti's shall have it, Mister Custer," Dara said. "But first, our traditions, and before that, a slight inconvenience. Go with Ghani, and do as he says. Later, I shall send for you and we shall try to sort out your problem. Ghani knows enough English to communicate, hain Ghani?"
      "O' yes I am good," Ghani said with a wink to which Barney responded with a grin and a nod as Dara left the room.
      On the second floor, Dara opened another door, different from the others in the house. It was manufactured from a single plank of wood covering a two inch pressure steel plate. He shut the door behind him which locked automatically, turned the light switch on, and sat behind the Chippendale desk.
      The room was windowless - ventilated, heated, and cooled by a complicated, concealed system like the lighting and the alarms. Otherwise, it looked like the office of any millionaire executive.
      He liked the room. Here he was not Dara, but Sirdar. Joe Valletti and Harvard and this room went together. Yes, Joe was his friend.
      For the last fifty centuries of the Punjab's history, it has yet to be resolved, which of the following sins is the greatest: raping a woman, forgetting a favor, or forsaking a friend. For at least five generations, friendship is maintained between families. A vendetta continues till eternity or the extermination of a line, whichever comes sooner. Joe Valletti, the island of affection in the loneliness of Harvard. A memory to be fiercely cherished, and, if required, meticulously avenged. At the last thought the mask was back on Dara's face.
      The paneling around the office concealed the secret of Dara's quiet power: a hidden room made accessible by a series of complicated electronics known only to Dara. Since the adjoining house was also owned by him, a buffer room had been constructed between the two. Secrecy, thus, was total.
      This secret room contained a series of index cards and filing cabinets scattered in a pattern concealed by a code of Dara's own devising, and duplicated on micro-film in a bank vault in Switzerland.
      The files contained data on the rich and powerful. If used it could reduce them to puppets - a blackmailer's treasure. Most of it had never been used - to use it would be to lose it. Most of these people were known to him, and were willing to do his bidding. It was only when the presents and bribes failed, and there was no alternative, that he used his last cards, heartbroken by the defeat.
      Dara opened the carved ivory cigarette case, extracted one. He blew the smoke out, and all his people revolved around him.
      All those Sirdar loved. Dead or far away … Unreachable …
      Roxanna!
      Especially Roxanna.
      The Others.
      His father.
      Ustad Drake.
      Allah Rakhi.
      Joe.
      His father.
      Roxanna.
      Drake.
      Aunt Juliana.
      Joe.
      Aunt Juliana.
      Aunt Juliana.
      Joe.
      Joe.
      Drake.
      Father.
      Father.
      Father … Drake … Joe… Aunt Juliana … Roxanna … oh Roxanna … ROXANNA! …