Bamboo and Blood by James Church Page A

knew things weren’t going right. From inside I could hear sounds, furniture scraping, someone clearing his throat, then footsteps.

    “Who is it?” It was a man’s voice, an old man. According to the file, this was her father, a widower, a former air force general. Leave it to a general not to open the door. “I said who the hell is it? You hard of hearing?”

    “No, sir. I’m just waiting. Would you mind opening the door so we can talk? It’s cold in the hall.”

    Laughter. “Not any warmer in here, sonny.” The door opened. He was old, sharp eyes, grizzled is probably the right word for the rest of him. “Say what you want and say it quick. I’m sick.” He coughed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Well, say it, what do you want?”

    As soon as I’d left Pak’s office, I got started on the investigation. I rummaged around in the Ministry’s file room, traded an insult or two with the clerks, and then made a list of facts to sweep into a big folder to put on Pak’s desk as soon as I could. No shovels, no digging—I heard a little voice repeating. The sooner I start, I told myself, the sooner it’s done.

    First on the list was the woman’s father, the old general. “I’ve got to ask you a few questions, that’s all.”

    “The hell you do. You tell me who you are first, then we’ll decide what comes next.”

    “Inspector O, Ministry of Public Security. I’m sorry about your daughter, but I have to ask you some questions, General.”

    He frowned. “You alone?”

    “I am.”

    “Come in. Keep your coat buttoned, it’s cold as hell in here.” He stood aside, and I walked past him into a dark room.

    “Should I open the curtains?” I bumped into a low table. “It will give us some light.”

    “I don’t want any damned light, what do you think about that? Iwant it dark. I want to sit in the dark and think. That meet with your approval, Inspector?”

    “Fine. Mind if I sit?”

    “Ask your questions, why don’t you?”

    I sat down and tried to figure out how to deal with the man. The air in the room was so laden with grief, it was hard to think. I wasn’t going to get much out of him, no matter what tack I took, and he wasn’t going to give me much time. Since he wouldn’t tell me what I needed to know, even if he knew it, I might as well not even bother to ask him directly. Just take it easy, I told myself. Stay in control. “About your daughter. Did you have any communication with her in the last few months?”

    “The last few months? No.”

    “Few means many, several, something more than two but less than six. Does that help?”

    “We spoke once or twice.”

    “On the phone?”

    “Stupid question. Yes, on the phone. How else would we speak? Once, she was in an embassy; she called my office. The other time”—he said this very softly—“was from New York. She was real excited. She didn’t say much, but I could tell by her voice. She said she was happy. I told her to be careful, to listen to the security people.”

    An embassy. Well, it was a start. Curious, that hadn’t been in any file on her I’d seen so far. No mention of being attached to the Foreign Ministry. “At the embassy, she was happy with the surroundings? Weather was okay, food alright, and so forth?” I didn’t want him to realize I had no idea where the embassy was. Maybe it was Pakistan, maybe it wasn’t. If he sensed I was guessing, he certainly wouldn’t tell me. If he smelled a hunch, he’d smile grimly and sit back, as I imagined he used to do in a roomful of generals—each one suspicious of the next and all of them scared of him. He’d go silent all of a sudden. Nothing would make him open up then. I softened my tone a little. “Did she mention anything that caught your attention? Insects, trees, trouble sleeping? Anything?”

    “Pretty fine-grained questions for a cop. You sure you’re not one of those security snakes?” I shook my head and pulled out my ID.