frustrated at the slowness of the journey and wondering what she should do now. Beyond, the ragged inhabitants of Delhi, struggling to survive. An old man carrying thousands of crushed plastic bottles on his back shuffled past, his careworn face a map of his wretched life; a cow was standing at the entrance to the next street forcing the traffic to swerve, so some vehicles almost collided with an angry vegetable stallholder’s stand. Nancy observed these incidents, but hardly registered them. All she could do was replay the interview again and again in her head and nervously finger the package on her lap. What could Herzog have done, she asked herself, that could so threaten the security of two powerful nations? Had he been interviewing the wrong people? Carrying political papers for Tibetan radicals? She couldn’t imagine it; you had to be pretty green these days to get yourself caught doing things like that, and he of all people would have been alert to the pitfalls.
Another thought dogged her, a truth that Inspector Lall had planted in her mind: Herzog would be far better off explaining himself in India than in China. She dreaded to think what might happen to him if he was caught over the border, no matter whether he was innocent or not. She recalled an article that a colleague of hers had once written on the interrogation techniques used during the Cultural Revolution – it was enough to make you lose all faith in humanity.
Finally, Nancy had a connection. The phone was answered briskly by Krishna Murthi, a thirty-year-old Indian, famous throughout the Trib ’s Asian correspondents for being better informed and better read than anyone else on staff. Back in New York, before she left for Delhi, Nancy had lunched with colleagues who had recently been through the Delhi office. When she asked who she needed to keep sweet, they all said that Krishna Murthi was the key to a successful stay. He was a miracle worker of the highest order, they told her. A fixer, in the old-fashioned sense. Now, holding the phone in a sweaty hand, the other still holding on to the bizarre package, Nancy told Krishna Murthi who she was and apologized for not having been in touch sooner. ‘I’ll explain everything when I get to the office,’ she said, and rang off before the line cut out. Surely, she thought, Krishna Murthi would be able to shed some light on the mysterious activities of Anton Herzog.
Krishna Murthi was waiting for her when she pushed open the smoked-glass door of the office. Smartly dressed, slight of build, he put out a hand and said, ‘Ms Kelly I am delighted to meet you. I was phoned shortly after your call by Dan Fischer.’
No doubt, thought Nancy, to instruct you to make sure I stay put in Delhi and don’t do anything to rock the boat.
Krishna continued, ‘He explained matters further. I am so sorry this has been your welcome to India.’
Krishna ushered her into the room. He had intelligent eyes and a kind face, and he was a calming element in an office which looked as if it had recently been ransacked. As well as hundreds more of the figurines and stone statues Nancy had admired in the living room of the company flat, there were two desks, covered in paperwork, several telephones and computers. In front of the desks was a large, well-worn leather sofa, covered in piles of magazines. Krishna rushed over and cleared a space for her. Nancy collapsed into the well-worn leather seat, briefly overwhelmed with tiredness and nerves. As she collected herself, Krishna weaved his way through the clutter and between the two desks and went over to an open doorway. Beyond was a second room. Speaking to someone in this room, he gave a quick order in Hindi and then turned back to Nancy.
‘I’ve asked for some tea. Now, I called the head of the Foreign Press Corps to ask them to lodge a complaint with the government, and I have also made a further official complaint, on behalf of the newspaper, with the Minister of the
Another thought dogged her, a truth that Inspector Lall had planted in her mind: Herzog would be far better off explaining himself in India than in China. She dreaded to think what might happen to him if he was caught over the border, no matter whether he was innocent or not. She recalled an article that a colleague of hers had once written on the interrogation techniques used during the Cultural Revolution – it was enough to make you lose all faith in humanity.
Finally, Nancy had a connection. The phone was answered briskly by Krishna Murthi, a thirty-year-old Indian, famous throughout the Trib ’s Asian correspondents for being better informed and better read than anyone else on staff. Back in New York, before she left for Delhi, Nancy had lunched with colleagues who had recently been through the Delhi office. When she asked who she needed to keep sweet, they all said that Krishna Murthi was the key to a successful stay. He was a miracle worker of the highest order, they told her. A fixer, in the old-fashioned sense. Now, holding the phone in a sweaty hand, the other still holding on to the bizarre package, Nancy told Krishna Murthi who she was and apologized for not having been in touch sooner. ‘I’ll explain everything when I get to the office,’ she said, and rang off before the line cut out. Surely, she thought, Krishna Murthi would be able to shed some light on the mysterious activities of Anton Herzog.
Krishna Murthi was waiting for her when she pushed open the smoked-glass door of the office. Smartly dressed, slight of build, he put out a hand and said, ‘Ms Kelly I am delighted to meet you. I was phoned shortly after your call by Dan Fischer.’
No doubt, thought Nancy, to instruct you to make sure I stay put in Delhi and don’t do anything to rock the boat.
Krishna continued, ‘He explained matters further. I am so sorry this has been your welcome to India.’
Krishna ushered her into the room. He had intelligent eyes and a kind face, and he was a calming element in an office which looked as if it had recently been ransacked. As well as hundreds more of the figurines and stone statues Nancy had admired in the living room of the company flat, there were two desks, covered in paperwork, several telephones and computers. In front of the desks was a large, well-worn leather sofa, covered in piles of magazines. Krishna rushed over and cleared a space for her. Nancy collapsed into the well-worn leather seat, briefly overwhelmed with tiredness and nerves. As she collected herself, Krishna weaved his way through the clutter and between the two desks and went over to an open doorway. Beyond was a second room. Speaking to someone in this room, he gave a quick order in Hindi and then turned back to Nancy.
‘I’ve asked for some tea. Now, I called the head of the Foreign Press Corps to ask them to lodge a complaint with the government, and I have also made a further official complaint, on behalf of the newspaper, with the Minister of the
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