Target nine, p.4
Target Nine, page 4
Heena Joshi, wife and presumed widow of Professor Suresh Joshi, sat in a chair opposite them. She looked sad and very, very tired. On the walls in between colorful textiles hung photos of her family—herself, the vanished husband, and three smiling children.
Jana felt a lump in her throat when she realized those children hadn’t smiled for many months.
Through the detective’s translation, Heena said, “I don’t know what else I can tell you. I’ve told the police everything many times.”
Jana put a hand on hers. “I’m an archaeologist like your husband. I think that what he discovered might have something to do with his disappearance.”
“Why would someone kidnap him for that? They were just old paintings in a cave.”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine. Has anyone reached out to you to ask about your husband’s findings? Anyone not associated with his university? Anyone you don’t know?”
Heena thought for a moment. “Many people came right after he was … he disappeared … ” Poor woman, Jana thought. She almost said ‘murdered’ “ … but they were all friends or colleagues. But now that you ask, there was one man, a strange fellow. His name was Prakash. He said he knew my husband, but I had never met him before. He did know all about his investigations. I was surprised. He wasn’t an archaeologist. He owns a tourist shop near Durbar Square. He was most anxious to see my husband’s notes. I told him that they had vanished with him and he looked very disappointed. I never heard from him again.”
“You said he was strange. How?”
"Wild eyed. Very eager. I don't know what it's like for American archaeologists, but here in Asia, they attract a lot of crazy people with crazy theories. Prakash struck me as one of those. I didn't talk to him for long, and I never heard from him again. He left his card saying to get in touch if I ever heard from my husband or found his notes. I think I have it somewhere."
She went into a back room. After a long search, she returned with a cheaply printed business card that read, “Prakash Rai, Antiques Merchant, 5 Gangalal Marg, Kathmandu.”
Jana turned to the others. “I think we should check him out.”
***
Gangalal Marg was a short street not far from Durbar Square, the most famous historic square in the city. As they crossed it, Jana marveled at the large building of red stone to one side with elaborately carved wooden windows and a soaring multi-tiered pagoda tower. In the center of the square stood a couple of pagodas with statues of Hindu gods and goddesses inside, their roof beams carved with religious scenes. People prayed at the temples. At one of the pagodas, a priest rang a brass bell, its clear sound ringing through the cool mountain air.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Agent Tamang said. “It’s one of the great royal squares of Nepal, although I think the one in Bhaktapur is better. That’s where my family is from. I grew up in Georgia but come back almost every year.”
He pointed to the long building of red stone with the tower. Jana studied it again, her expert eye catching countless details. Every inch of the woodwork was carved. “That was the royal palace of the Shah and Malla dynasties until the 19th century. And these temples are some of my favorites. Some date back five hundred years, although the historians say this square has been holy for more than a thousand years before that.” His voice turned soft. “These temples were terribly damaged in the last earthquake.”
“I saw the video,” Jana said. “Heartbreaking.”
“Temples can be repaired,” Detective Gurung said. “Nine thousand people got killed. Whole villages were flattened. At least the temples can be repaired.”
“Some look like they weren’t damaged at all,” Jacob said. “Did those guys fix them up?” He pointed to a team of artisans working on a temple encased in scaffolding. Several men were tapping away on wooden beams, making ornate carvings of Hindu deities, while others were pieced together what Jana could see were original pieces of the decoration.
“Them and many more,” the detective said with obvious pride. “Nepalese artisans from all over the world came home to help. We all donated too.”
Jana and Jacob fell silent. For all their globetrotting, for all the fights they’d had with secret societies and terrorist organizations, there were some disasters you couldn’t predict and couldn’t stop.
From the square, it was only a short walk to the antique shop along a bustling street lined with small shops. Some were obvious tourist traps, while others served the locals, selling clothing and household items. At number 5 hung a modest sign saying “Nepalese Mementoes and Antiques, Prakash Rai, proprietor.”
From the outside, it looked like a regular tourist shop. Dusty windows displayed mass-produced bags embroidered with Tibetan designs, prayer wheels, statues of Shiva and Ganesh, and even some little brass vajras.
It looked like any one of a dozen tourist shops she’d seen in her brief stay in Nepal’s capital city, but she had been dealing with the secret side of life long enough to know that appearances could be deceiving.
Jana and Jacob walked in alone. Agent Arjun Tamang and Detective Ram Gurung sat at an outdoor dumpling stand down the street, keeping an eye on everything. They had decided it would be better if just the two Americans went in, posing as tourists and feeling out the situation. The locals could always go in later and lean on him.
They entered through the glass door, Jana taking the lead. A little bell tinkled as they came inside. They found themselves in a narrow shop stretching back twenty feet to a counter. To one side was a display of incense and books on Buddhism, Hinduism, and Nepalese culture. On the other were racks of colorful clothing and handbags made for the tourist trade as well as the sacred-style objects like those displayed in the window. Jana wondered if a Buddhist monk or Hindu priest would consider them actual sacred objects. They looked the same, but the intent in their manufacture couldn’t have been more different.
A thin Nepalese man with wild hair and even wilder eyes came out of the back room behind the counter.
“Hello. Welcome to my shop,” he said in heavily accented English. “How may I help you?”
"Oh, we're just browsing," Jana said. It was hard to look into his eyes; they had such an intense gaze. "I'm interested in the history and archaeology of the Himalayan region."
“You might like some of my books, then.” He gestured toward the bookshelf.
Jana perused the volumes. “These are nice, but they’re a bit basic. I’m looking for something more detailed. Do you have any publications by the university?”
“Oh, we don’t get much demand for those. I can give you the names of one or two bookshops that have a better selection. Are you … interested in antiques?”
Jana glanced around. “You have antiques?”
There certainly weren’t any in evidence, despite what the sign said.
Prakash Rai caught her glance and smiled. “Not these things, of course. I have a few objects here in the counter.”
He pointed down at the glass-topped counter. Jana and Jacob walked over. Inside, they saw a variety of statuettes and small items of jewelry, some ornamented with semiprecious stones.
Jana was no expert on Asian antiquities, but she saw none of the obvious techniques for making new things look old. Sometimes shop owners would abrade an item to make it look worn, but the wear would never be in a natural pattern. At other times, they'd use a mildly acidic solution to stain it. This, too, was easily spotted because it didn't make the same color pattern as natural aging.
Still, these could be more clever forgeries. She couldn’t see them well enough to tell for sure.
“That’s a lovely Gawu box,” she said, pointing to a little brass amulet inlaid with lapis lazuli.
“Oh, you are familiar with these?”
“Oh, yes. It holds an image of the Buddha,” she said with more confidence than she felt. That crash course she had given herself on the flight over couldn’t replace a proper knowledge of the region.
“Indeed, it does.” He reached into the counter through an opening in the back and pulled it out.
Opening the front of the box, they saw a little jade Buddha set into the interior.
“This dates to the eighteenth century and was made in the west of my country.”
Jana had no idea if that was true, but it was certainly impressive craftsmanship.
“Beautiful. I might get that, but I'd like to see what else you have. Do you have any masks or daggers?" She nudged Jacob. "My husband loves knives."
Jana's heart did a sudden flip-flop. Did she just refer to him as her husband?
Well, we are undercover, after all.
“Oh yes, I have some antique swords in the back. Come this way.”
He opened up a little hatch in the counter so they could pass through. Beyond the doorway was a dimly lit room that was entirely different than the front.
Jana gasped with unfeigned delight. The room looked more like a museum.
Strange wooden masks hung on the walls, their faded paint not reducing the power of their artistry. A large prayer wheel that must have once hung in a temple or monastery rested upright on a shelf. Several swords, spears, and daggers hung on another wall. A couple of shelves held smaller items such as the jewelry and statuettes like those beneath the countertop.
“Impressive,” Jana said. “Why don’t you have these on display out front?”
Prakash Rai made a dismissive gesture toward the front room. “Those are for the regular tourists. Only visitors with true interest get to come back here.”
Jana suspected he was buttering her up in anticipation of a sale. She hadn’t shown much knowledge to get to see the back room, although she supposed the average young backpacker wouldn’t have the interest or money to purchase these things.
She browsed a bit. Jacob played his part and examined the knives, staying close to an especially deadly-looking one. Jana picked up an ornate brass vajra from the shelf.
She let out a sigh. “A pity we didn’t get to see the royal one. We just got here yesterday.”
“Yes, it’s a terrible shame,” the proprietor said. Jana glanced at him and didn’t see any evasion in his eyes.
The front door bell rang.
“Excuse me, I have another customer.”
Prakash Rai moved out to the front room. Jana peeked through the doorway and saw a young Nepalese man with long hair standing in the doorway, hand on the doorknob. He looked hesitant. When Prakash said something in Nepali he replied, then looked at Jana.
Just then, something in the street caught his attention. He looked to his right, his eyes widened, and he bolted away to his left down the street, leaving the door hanging open.
A moment later, Agent Tamang and Detective Gurung sprinted down the street after him.
CHAPTER SIX
Jacob had no idea why he was chasing this guy, but if the local CIA agent and a local detective were both after him, that was good enough.
It had taken only a matter of moments to rush past Jana and that weirdo antiques dealer, vault over the counter, and get out the door.
Even so, his new Nepalese buddies and the suspect were way ahead of him.
The guy was sprinting down a busy street, though, and having to weave between local shoppers and photo-snapping tourists was slowing him down. That slowed Tamang and Gurung down too, but by the time the three guys had shouldered their way through the crowd, the crowd had parted enough to give Jacob a clear space to run.
He began to gain on them, or at least on the two local friendlies.
The suspect waited for a space in the traffic and angled across the street.
It was then that Jacob figured out why they were chasing him.
He was missing the tip of the ring finger on his left hand.
On the flight over, they had studied and restudied the security footage from the museum. Because the building was so new, it had top-shelf cameras that gave crystal clear images, not like the grainy, fuzzy images that had frustrated his investigation so many times before. While the men had all been masked, he and Jana had memorized certain features. The older man with a bit of a pot belly. The guy with a burn mark on his right hand. The unusually skinny guy.
And the guy with long hair is missing the tip of his left ring finger.
There couldn’t be that many people in Kathmandu matching that description, and here he was showing up at the shop of an antique dealer who approached the man who probably knew about this enigmatic symbol the thieves had left at the crime scene.
Coincidence? Jacob didn’t believe in coincidences. Certainly not one this big.
The terrorist cut down a side street. Jacob had caught up to Tamang and Gurung, and they chased him down there together.
They found themselves in a narrow alley between two wooden buildings. An open door let out a cloud of fragrant steam. Probably a kitchen. The suspect avoided it. Smart move. Too much of a chance of a dead end and he had a clear shot along the alley to the next street over. He had made the right decision.
Jacob laughed when it suddenly turned into the wrong one. A tuk tuk, one of the ubiquitous three-wheeled vehicles used as miniature taxis all over Asia, pulled up at the other end of the alley and stopped. The driver, oblivious to the drama happening in the alley, lit a cigarette.
The terrorist didn’t skip a beat. He tucked his head and leapt right through the empty back seat and onto the street.
Detective Gurung shouted something in Nepali, flashing a badge. The driver stared, his cigarette falling from his gaping mouth, then hit the gas and got out of the way.
Too late, though. Those extra couple of seconds had let the suspect get far ahead.
He had run into a wide street filled with an open-air bazaar. Stalls lined either side, shaded by awnings. Crowds of shoppers picked through fruits, vegetables, heaps of cheap imported clothing from China, and household items.
Damn. He could shake us here easy.
Jacob had another problem too. He was already getting winded. While he had done a lot of operations in mountainous areas, he’d been at sea level for months and hadn’t had time to get accustomed to Kathmandu’s 1,400-meter elevation. Tamang and Gurung were beginning to pull ahead.
And the suspect had just disappeared into the crowd.
Jacob plunged into the same crowd behind his two Nepalese colleagues. The detective was shouting something, probably ordering everyone to get out of the way. They did, but too damn slowly. Jacob peered through the thicket of shoppers trying to spot their man.
There he was! He was crouching low, zigzagging through the crowd in the hope he wouldn’t be spotted. This guy was a pro.
A damn good runner, too. And acclimatized. Nepalese tended to have big barrel chests holding oversized lungs. The thin air didn’t bother them in the least.
Jacob was going to lose this race.
And then, some luck.
Mr. Missing Finger zigged when he should have zagged and rammed right into a woman carrying two heavy shopping bags. Down they both went.
The suspect was up in a flash, but then a man emerged from the crowd, swinging a fist.
An irate husband or brother? If so, he didn’t help his relative’s honor. Mr. Missing Finger gave him a right cross that laid him flat.
Another man moved in, and the guy nailed him with an elbow strike that knocked him out.
Detective Gurung must have decided that enough was enough. He drew his revolver and shouted something that sounded like a command to halt.
The suspect didn’t halt. Instead, he ducked into the thickest part of the crowd.
Gurung said something that was most definitely a curse and chased after him, Agent Tamang right behind.
Jacob was lagging badly now, lungs heaving, but he had an idea. When the guy disappeared into a thick knot of people, he had dodged straight to the left. While that got him out of sight for the moment, it also hinted that his goal might be a narrow alley to one side of the street, just visible between a stall piled high with melons and another piled high with potatoes. Jacob guessed he was heading that direction.
Jacob angled for that same alley to cut him off.
He hoped he guessed right, because if the guy went any other direction there was no way Jacob would ever catch up.
Elbowing his way through the crowd, which was too thick to get out of the way in time, Jacob caught a glimpse of the suspect ducking between the two stalls, heading for the alley.
Jacob willed his weakening muscles and burning lungs to an extra effort and got to the alley entrance a moment after him. He grabbed the back of his shirt, and both men stumbled.
The terrorist spun around and clocked Jacob in the face with enough force to slam him into the corner of the building. Jacob soaked up another hit before he got his guard up, blocked two more attacks, and threw a weak punch of his own that didn’t even come close to landing.
Jeez. I hope the next time I have a high-altitude mission that I get the chance to adjust first.
Assuming there is a next time.
Another blow got through Jacob’s guard but this time Jacob managed a weak jab that smacked the guy on the chin. His opponent replied with a swing that Jacob barely managed to dodge, then a kick that Jacob had to leap back to avoid.
It turned out that was the plan. The guy turned and bolted down the alley. He must have seen how ragged Jacob looked and, knowing newcomers couldn’t deal with the altitude, felt running was the better option.
Except the alley was far more crowded than the last one. Heaps of sacks and boxes, probably from the market stalls and the shops on either side of the alley, nearly blocked his way.
He leapt over some sacks, weaved between some rolled-up carpets, and scrambled up a stack of boxes as Jacob panted behind him. By the time Jacob got to the top of the stack of boxes, the guy was pelting down a clear spot in the alley a good ten feet ahead.
Time to change tactics.
Jacob lifted up one of the boxes, found it to be full of things that rattled and were fairly light, and tossed it at him.
