Rising Tiger: A Thriller (29)

“Tell me about Raj’s son,” she said.

The older man shrugged as he packed his pipe with tobacco. “There’s not much to tell.”

“Until today, I had believed he and his wife were childless.”

“Which is exactly what they wanted people to believe. Even if they’d had ten children, no one would have known. Our attachments—the people and things we care about—are what make us vulnerable in this line of work.”

“What was the cause of the boy’s blindness?”

“I don’t know,” said Gupta. “He doesn’t talk about it.”

“Where is his son now?”

“He has a job, in a small workshop in Ghaziabad. It’s an easy drive from New Delhi, so they’re both able to visit him on a regular basis.”

“How old is the boy?”

“The boy is now a man. Twenty-five. He has a fiancée. She’s nineteen and works in the same shop weaving chair caning. They’ll be getting married in the spring. They want to have children.”

“Raj and his wife must be very happy,” said Asha.

“For the first time in a long time, it would appear,” he replied. Then, fastening his seat belt, he gestured for her to do the same.

Minutes later, they touched down at Sulur, India’s second-largest air base, responsible for protecting all of the country’s ocean territory. It could handle both fighters and transport aircraft—the only air force station in India capable of doing so.

The weather was overcast. A thin fog lingered over the airfield.

“Ready to go?” Gupta asked as he accompanied Asha to the forward door and a crew member lowered the airstairs.

She nodded.

“You’ve got this,” he told her. “And we’ve got you.”

“All two of you.”

Gupta held out his hands. “If you think you can pick two better, you know how to reach us.”

Asha pulled the cell phone she’d been given from her pocket and shook it. “You’re both on my speed dial. In fact, you’re the only ones on my speed dial.”

“Relax. You’re going to do a good job. Raj has faith in you.”

“Just Raj?”

The older man smiled. “Faith involves trust. Trust is based on experience. And experience is arrived at over time. I look forward to developing faith in you,” he said, lighting his pipe and stepping back so she could descend the stairs. “The clock starts now.”

Asha smiled back and shook her head. It was an odd pep talk. She didn’t have any time, however, to dwell on it. Waiting at the bottom of the stairs for her was a green Maruti Gypsy—a jeep-like vehicle popular with the Indian military. Standing next to it was a young Defense Security Corps soldier.

After saluting her, he raised his voice so he could be heard and introduced himself as Lance Naik Kamal Khan. Lance Naik was the Indian Army’s equivalent to a lance corporal.

Asha returned his salute and handed him her backpack, which he placed behind the Maruti’s passenger seat.

The air was thick with humidity and the scent of jet fuel. Around them the base roared with activity. Planes taxied, took off, and landed. A trio of helicopters thundered overhead in formation. A fleet of Boeing P-8s, the elite long-range maritime reconnaissance and antisubmarine warfare aircraft, sat nearby—the first ever to be sold by the Americans to an international partner. India had the fourth-largest air force in the world, and it always filled her with pride to see it at work.

“We have an office prepared for you,” said Lance Naik Khan, holding the door open for her. “Major Badal is back at the crash site, but has instructed that you receive full cooperation. Where would you like to begin?”

Asha consulted her watch. “I’d like to start with the chief flight mechanic.”

“Sergeant Siddiqui. Yes, ma’am. Let me radio the base repair depot.”

Lance Naik Khan then closed Asha’s door, walked around the rear of the vehicle, and hopped in behind the wheel. Firing up the Maruti, he put it in gear and headed for the BRD as he attempted to raise them on the radio.

It took a moment before they reached someone who could answer their question. The news that they delivered wasn’t good.

As the person who had signed off on the flight-worthiness of General Mehra’s helicopter, Siddiqui had been subjected to questions and interviews all day. The command staff had wanted to talk with him. His boss, and his boss’s boss, had then spent hours with him, going through every detail over and over again. After that, crash scene investigators had arrived and the process started all over.

Through it all, he had been calm, professional, and thorough. That had changed, however, when a call came in for him.

The person over the radio said he didn’t know who he had been speaking with, but that Siddiqui had become agitated and had rushed out of the depot. The chief flight mechanic had last been seen getting into his personal vehicle, a late-model, white Tata Tigor, and speeding off toward the main gate.

“How long ago?” the lance naik asked.

“Three minutes tops,” the voice replied.

“Get me to that gate,” Asha ordered the young DSC soldier.

She had no idea who had called Siddiqui, nor what had been said, but the fact that it had shaken him so thoroughly that he had taken off—before the end of his shift—disturbed her. It was critical that she get to him before he did something stupid, or disappeared altogether.