Rising Tiger: A Thriller (36)
From top to bottom, the confident Vijay Chabra radiated a powerful “Fuck you” vibe. This was a man who got things done.
“Welcome to India,” he said as the two met at the bottom of the airstairs and shook hands.
“I wish it was under better circumstances,” said Harvath. “I appreciate you coming to meet me, Mr. Chabra.”
“Only my mother-in-law calls me Mr. Chabra,” he said with a grin. “Please call me Vijay.”
Harvath laughed at that one. “And you can call me Joe,” he offered. The name in the passport that had been created for him was Joseph John Sampson.
When Harvath took an alias, he liked to base it upon the name of someone from the OSS. “Jumping Joe” Savoldi, codename “Sampson,” was one such man.
Famed for his language and hand-to-hand combat skills, he had been a highly lethal and highly successful covert operative during World War II.
“You don’t look like an investigator,” said Vijay. “You look more military to me. Maybe I should call you GI Joe.”
“You can call me anything you like,” Harvath replied with another smile. “But as someone who spent a little time in the Navy, maybe you can come up with something better than GI Joe.”
“I knew it,” the man replied. “I am always right about these things. What’s your middle name?”
“John.”
“Then I’ll call you JJ. It’s perfect. Vijay and JJ. There, it’s settled. End of that piece of business. Now, the next item for discussion. You just got off a very long flight. Have you eaten?”
“No,” Harvath answered. “I have not.”
“Do you mind a working dinner?”
“No, I don’t mind. What are you thinking?”
“You and I are at the same hotel,” Vijay said. “You can check in, get cleaned up, and then we’ll retrace Mr. Ritter’s last steps. And if you don’t find it too off-putting, we could even eat in the same restaurant.”
“That sounds like a plan.”
They left the airport via the cargo terminal, where, via his diplomatic passport, Harvath was sped through customs and immigration.
Parked outside was Vijay’s 1990s-era Jaguar XJS convertible in British racing green. It was so clean that even under the lights of the parking lot, it shone like a mirror. It was obvious that he took very good care of it.
“Nice car,” said Harvath. “How was the drive from New Delhi?”
“Not bad. It’s only three and a half hours. I have a cousin in Behror, which is about halfway. We had a cup of tea together.”
Popping the trunk, he stood aside so that Harvath could place his bag inside and then closed the lid and asked, “Top up or down?”
It was a beautiful, warm evening. “Top down,” Harvath replied.
“Excellent choice. Because of Diwali, you will see lots of fireworks.”
* * *
The man hadn’t been kidding. There had been tons of them. It was the ultimate way to be introduced to a city.
They made small talk along the way, with Vijay acting the proud tour guide, pointing out places of interest and providing a brief history of Jaipur. It was the first planned city in India, but it was the story behind its becoming the “Pink City” that was so fascinating. In 1876, the Prince of Wales and Queen Victoria were coming for a state visit. The maharaja who ruled Jaipur decreed that all of its buildings should be painted pink—the color believed to represent hospitality and vibrancy—and that same tradition was still being followed nearly a century and a half later. Indians were a proud people, Vijay explained, and tradition was very important to them.
Harvath good-naturedly asked if that commitment to tradition also applied to car stereos. “I can’t remember the last time I saw a CD player in the wild,” he joked.
Reaching behind his seat, Vijay pulled out a black nylon CD wallet and handed it to him. “You are my guest, so I will let you choose the music.”
Harvath was a bit uncomfortable, yet oddly interested to see what CDs the ex-cop had inside. Taking the plunge, he opened it up and began flipping through the translucent sleeves. He was shocked to find one he had owned himself.
“Earth, Wind and Fire?” he queried, pulling it out.
“You’re familiar with them?” Vijay asked.
Harvath laughed. “After George Clinton and Parliament, one of the best funk bands ever.”
The ex-cop clucked and shook his head. “Most definitely not. They are an R-and-B band. Everyone knows this.”
“Everyone?”
“Yes, and this is the problem with you funk people. You want to plant your flag everywhere. I am here to tell you that the R-and-B world will hear nothing of it.”
This guy was a legit piece of work. “Okay,” Harvath replied. “Out of respect, as your guest, I’m not going to have this fight with you.”
“Because you know I’m right.”
Harvath laughed again and removed the CD from the sleeve. Inserting it into the CD player, he pushed PLAY and settled back.
As the iconic vocoder opening of “Let’s Groove” slid out of the Jaguar’s speakers, Harvath realized he had been wrong. Fireworks and Earth, Wind & Fire was the ultimate way to be introduced to a city.