Rising Tiger: A Thriller (93)

Harvath disconnected the call and returned his phone to his pocket. When he heard Amit Paswan enter, he didn’t turn around. Instead, he stood facing the counter, waiting for his coffees.

Once they were ready, he paid and left a small tip, thanking the staff.

On his way out, he walked right past Amit, then stopped and backed up. They locked eyes.

“Universal Relief Initiative, right?” Harvath asked.

Amit nodded, trying to place the stranger’s face. “Yes. Do we know each other?”

With two coffees, Harvath wasn’t able to shake hands, but he offered the man an elbow in greeting. “Joe Sampson. CARE International.”

While his name was a lie, the organization was legit. Harvath knew the director and had conducted an operation on their behalf.

“To be honest, I don’t remember us meeting, but I’ve never been good with faces to begin with. Amit Paswan,” the man said, returning the elbow bump.

“Kashmir. Bangladesh. Afghanistan. Who knows, right?”

“Are you meeting someone?” Amit asked, looking at the two coffees.

“Actually, I was taking these back to my room. I’m staying nearby. I have a report I’m supposed to write and my brain doesn’t really kick in until the second cup. I figured this was more efficient than just coming back in twenty minutes to buy another. How about you? Do you have time to sit and chat?”

Amit looked at his watch. “I’ve got a few minutes. Let me place my order.”

“Terrific,” said Harvath. “I’ll grab us a table.”

Sitting down in the corner, away from the rest of the customers, he shot Asha a quick text, letting her know what he was up to.

The table was a two-top. In a move that was uncharacteristic for him, Harvath sat with his back to the café and left Amit the chair with its back to the wall. A few moments later, the man appeared with his cappuccino and sat down.

“What brings you to New Delhi?” he asked.

“You’re never going to believe this,” said Harvath. “In fact, I don’t even believe this. I’m here hunting a killer.”

For a moment, the man appeared at a loss for words. Finally, he found a few. “As in a pathogen like cholera or Ebola?”

“Nope. I’m looking for a human killer.”

The color drained from his face. “This meeting isn’t an accident, is it?”

“Actually, it is. I was across the street watching as you arrived at work this morning. I’m technically on break right now. I had no idea we’d end up in the same café. This does, however, make my job much easier.”

“I’m not comfortable with this conversation,” said Amit, trying to stand.

Harvath shoved the table into him, pinning him against the wall. “I’m not here to talk about your sister. And if I were, I’d tell you that I think you did the right thing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cut the crap, Amit. All of your alibis were from people who were not only sympathetic to your situation, but who took vicarious satisfaction in you avenging your sister. But like I said, that’s not why I’m here.”

He relaxed his posture and Harvath eased the table back enough for him to sit down.

“Then why are you here? Why are you bothering me?”

“I think you may have information that might be valuable to me.”

“About a killer?”

Harvath nodded.

“You don’t work for CARE International, do you?”

“No, I do not.”

“How would I know anything about a killer?”

“You work with him.”

The shock on Amit’s face was instant. “At URI?” he asked, using the NGO’s acronym.

Once again, Harvath nodded.

“That’s impossible.”

“Is it really?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Amit caught the not-so-subtle meaning of his remark and rephrased his question: “What specific information is it that you want?”

Sliding his phone from his pocket, Harvath pulled up Durrani’s photo and showed it to him. “I want to know everything you know about this man.”

“You want to know about Wasim? Wasim Younis? He’s the killer you’re looking for?”

“First of all, yes. And secondly, his name isn’t Wasim, it’s Basheer Durrani. He’s a Pakistani intelligence agent and he is very dangerous.”

“But he’s a good man,” Amit protested. “I have been in the field with him. We’ve been on countless relief missions together. He really cares about people.”

“It might have appeared that way,” said Harvath. “But that’s part of his job—making people believe what he wants them to believe. URI is nothing more than a means to an end for him, a cover organization that allows him to avoid suspicion as he moves through various countries doing the ISI’s bidding.”

“And why do you care? You’re American. It might make sense if I was speaking to someone from one of the Indian intelligence services about this.”

“Mr. Durrani is responsible for the death of an old friend of mine. An American.”

“So this is about revenge?” asked Amit.

“If it were, would that be a difficult concept for you to grasp, Mr. Paswan?”