SHIMLA
written by: Jim Wilson-Storey
The Delhi Metro Airport Express train did not prepare the newly arrived young woman for what lay ahead. The air-conditioned carriage with its smart upholstery had given her a false sense of expectancy.
“Chai! Chai,” the tea seller’s voice boomed out as the train came to a halt at platform sixteen.
When the young woman stepped down from the train, she entered, what was for her, an alien world. The intense heat at once swamped her. Within seconds, the American’s cotton blouse was wet from the humidity. The shunting trains, screeching announcements over the public address system, and the throng of travelers jostling along the platform, engulfed her senses. Peddlers selling their spicy and exotic snacks created an onslaught of pungent, intoxicating aromas. Seeking sanctuary at the side of a newspaper kiosk, the young woman removed her newly purchased backpack, and placed it between her denim-covered legs. Taking out a facecloth, she began wiping the sweat from her neck and face.
“Hey, pretty lady, where have you been all my life?”
A slightly built youth asked, coming out of the pandemonium, and standing in front of the young woman. Dressed in tight blue jeans and a checked shirt, with his black hair swept back, she thought he resembled a character from, “Grease.”
“U.S,” she replied, continuing to wipe the sweat from her arms.
“Yay for the red, white, and blue.” He declared, throwing out a snappy laugh. “You want a cold drink?” He asked, removing the bottle top, and holding out the enticing bottle to the young woman, with the distinctive Cola label. “You sure look like you could do with one.”
Everything told her, she should refuse the offer, but not wanting to be thought aloof, she gave him a friendly smile, then took the bottle from the chatty youth,
“Thanks, that’s very kind of you.”
Without hesitation, she took a long swig of the bottle’s contents, but her expectations were instantly dashed by the bitter taste of the dark, anonymous liquid, which burnt her mouth, then her throat. While she choked, spat, and heaved, the youth snatched the backpack from between the young woman’s legs and was about to make-off, when, a hand grabbed the would-be thief by the back of his shirt collar.
“You son of a dog!” a voice boomed.
Grabbing the backpack, the tall, good Samaritan, then swung the youth around and kicked his backside, which sent him, stumbling, to the platform’s floor. Realizing his attempted scam had been rumbled, the would-be thief frantically scrambled to his feet and scurried off into the crowd.
Turning to the young woman, the tall, elderly Indian stranger offered her a bottle of water,
“Please, drink this, it will help.”
Perplexed, by what had just occurred, the young woman was now hesitant at being offered a further drink from a stranger; but hesitantly she took the bottle, sipped just enough of the cool liquid to recognize it was water, before swallowing sufficient to clear the bitter taste from her mouth and throat. Knowing she had been naïve, she managed an embarrassed smile,
“Thank you.”
The gentleman smiled back,
“I believe this is your property,” holding out the backpack,
“Thanks again, I shouldn’t have been so trusting,”
“Ah, trusting can be hard, but knowing who to trust, well, that is even harder. Let me introduce myself, my name is Professor Vikram Mahesh.”
“Hello, I’m Frankie, Frankie Lee,” the young American replied.
“Well, Miss. Frankie Lee, I assume you are going to a hotel, here in Delhi, if so, may I offer you a lift? If only to assure you, we Indians are not all, how do you say, snakes in the grass.”
A few minutes later, Frankie and her backpack were crammed into the Professor’s aging Fiat Uno. As they drove through Delhi’s crowded streets towards Frankie’s pre-booked hotel, the Professor constantly showed his driving competency, calmly dodging vehicles and bicycles loaded with everything from firewood to live chickens. There were even animals strolling, unconcerned, in the middle of heavy traffic.
Glancing over at his passenger, the Professor asked, “May I enquire what brings you to India?”
“I’m searching for my father,” Frankie replied, surprising herself, just how open she was being with the Professor.
“That is a particularly good reason to travel so far. Does your father live here in Delhi?”
“I think so, well, possibly at some point. I have an appointment at the US Embassy in the morning. They may have an idea where he might be.”
“I wish you well. A daughter needs a father, and a father most certainly needs a daughter. I have three, they send me crazy at times, but I love them dearly.”
Frankie smiled, but said nothing, she was deep in thought, wondering if she had bitten off more than she could chew, coming to India. At that moment, she felt totally overwhelmed. It was the Professor, swerving the Fiat to avoid two goats, which interrupted her thoughts.
Smiling at the Professor, she asked, “I really am thankful for your help.”
“Do not mention it. Mahatma Gandhi once said, the best way to find yourself, is to lose yourself in the service of others.”
A warm smile spread across the young woman’s face. “Well, I’m very happy you lost yourself today, and came to my assistance.”
A minute or so later the car came to an abrupt halt outside a plain white concrete building, with a hotel sign above a glass door. Pulling herself together, Frankie thanked her new acquaintance and shook his hand for his chivalry.
“It has been a pleasure, young lady. Please take my business card.” Handing the card to Frankie, the Professor then added, “If you need any further assistance, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”
Frankie gave the Professor a final smile, before tumbling out of the vehicle, with her backpack. Standing on the sidewalk, she watched the Fiat pull away from the curb before being swallowed-up in the hubbub of Delhi’s teeming traffic.
Having booked in at the hotel’s reception desk, she struggled up flights of concrete stairs, before finding her room. Entering the room, she dropped her backpack to the floor, unlaced her boots, and kicked them off, before collapsing onto the highly inviting bed. Sleep rapidly pulled her into its embrace.
It was dark when she opened her eyes. Checking her watch, which was now on Delhi local time, she realized she had slept for six hours. Staying still, she stared up at the ceiling fan twirling slowly, clanking on each and every rickety rotation. The humidity in the room was like nothing ever experienced, and it made her feel like she was lying in a stew of her own perspiration. Sluggishly, she pushed herself up to a sitting position, swung her feet onto the concrete floor, and looked around. Her eyes settled on a shower cubicle in the corner of the room.
“Oh yes!” She gasped.
A ten-minute cold refreshing shower later, Frankie slumped into an easy chair next to the room’s small window and began contemplating what the following day’s appointment at the embassy might bring.
The next morning, an elderly Indian concierge greeted Frankie with a pleasant, “Good morning, Miss,” as she approached the Embassy gate.
“Hello, my name is Frankie Lee, I have an appointment to see, Dorothy Martinez.”
The concierge gave Frankie a smile and an inquisitive look, but said nothing, before ushering her into the building. Following a brief interaction with an administrative assistant, to confirm her details, Frankie was shown into an oversized office. The window blinds had been pulled down, supplying shade from the already baking sun’s heat, but also making the office dim. The air conditioning was working overtime, enabling her to feel comfortable, for the first time since her arrival in Delhi.
“Would you like tea?” An educated, cultured female voice asked, from the dimness.
Looking in the direction of the voice, Frankie hesitantly declined. Invited to sit, Frankie found herself facing a woman across a large desk, but due to the dimness, she was not able to fully make out her features, although she surmised, the woman was the same age as her father, early forties.
“I’m Dorothy Martinez, I am the Senior Attaché, my brief relates, in part, to ensuring the well-being and security of US citizens, while here in India.”
Frankie was impressed; she had not anticipated her appointment would be with a senior person, she had thought Martinez would most likely be an administrative assistant.
“So, I understand you are looking for your father.” Martinez asserted.
Frankie straightening up, feeling the need to respond to the formal setting and her host’s demeanor.
Peering into the dimness, “That’s correct,” Frankie began, “I’ve reason to believe he may be known to someone here at the embassy, in the last three years.”
Martinez hesitated, before replying, “I’m sorry, Miss Lee, that isn’t the case. I made enquiries on your behalf, when you made your appointment; but nobody can recall him. Of course, your father may have frequented the embassy’s small library at some point; Americans living in Delhi or visiting often take advantage of our facilities.
“Oh,” Frankie sighed, indicating disappointment.
Her pursuit had hardly gotten started, and she had already hit a roadblock. She would have reluctantly accepted what Martinez had told her, until the diplomat added something of an unintended and confusing twist,
“I appreciate you must be disappointed, especially, having come so far. But what your father needs, I, eh….” Martinez paused, realizing she was off script, saying more than she had intended.
Looking at the young woman, through the dimness of the room, Martinez smiled, then tried to side-step her error, “I’m sorry, I cannot help you further.”
“But you were about to say, he needs something or other,” Frankie queried, “Please, have you had any contact with him?”
Knowing she had not handled the meeting as skillfully as she had hoped to do, Martinez sought to conclude the conversation, quickly,
“Unfortunately, I cannot help you further. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a busy schedule.”
Before Frankie could respond, Martinez, pressed the buzzer on her desk. Instantly, the administrative assistant came into the room. Coming around from behind her desk, Martinez gave Frankie a mysterious, type of smile, a smile which indicated to the young American, there were things not being said.
“I do hope you have a pleasant stay in Delhi, and flight home. My assistant will show you out.”
Frankie knew Martinez had given her the brush off, and she did not like it, not one bit; “But why?” She asked herself.
Without further words, or eye contact, Frankie grudgingly followed the administrative assistant out. Exiting the building, she felt confused.
“Would you like a taxi, Miss Lee?” The elderly concierge asked, interrupting Frankie’s thoughts. Nodding, in a lackluster manner, her mind was immersed in what had just taken place, and wondered what she should do next. The answer came quickly, taking her by total surprise.
“Excuse me, Miss Lee.” The concierge asked, “But are you by chance related to Mr. Archie Lee?”
“Yes, I am, he’s, my father.”
“Your father! My goodness. He is well, I hope?” The concierge replied.
Side-stepping the concierge’s question, Frankie shot back,
“You know my father?”
The elderly concierge smiled, “Oh yes, well, I did. He would come to the embassy most regularly; he is a good man. He and Miss. Martinez would often spend time in the embassy’s garden, chatting.”
“Chatting! You mean they were acquainted?”
“Indeed, they were good friends.”
“Please, do you have any idea where he might be living?”
“Unfortunately, no, I have not seen him for some time.”
Feeling frustrated, the young woman thanked the concierge, before climbing into the waiting taxi. But then, as the vehicle began to pull away, the concierge cried out to the taxi driver,
“Stop!”
Stepping up to the taxi’s window, the concierge gave Frankie’s search a potential new focus,
“I do not know if it is helpful, but I remember Mr. Lee, I mean your father, saying, more than once, how much he enjoyed his visit to Shimla.”
“Shimla?” She echoed, “Where is….”
Jumping in, the concierge said, “It is a town to the north, in the mountains, a very pleasant place.”
Once again, Frankie thanked the concierge, before the taxi pulled away, into the ceaseless Delhi traffic. On the way back to the hotel, she pondered the morning’s events. Martinez had been a total waste of time, and in her mind, intentionally so, but the concierge had given her new hope.
Arriving back at her hotel, the receptionist, handed her a room key and a message. The message was from Professor Mahesh, her savior from the previous day’s attempted robbery, inviting her to a small gathering and dinner, that evening at his home. Although downcast, she decided to take up the invitation, knowing it would be an opportunity to see a friendly face, and possibly offload about her diabolical meeting with Martinez.
That evening, a taxi dropped her at Professor Mahesh’s house, near the university. Immediately, the front door swung open, and a mature lady, clothed in a vibrant blue sari, came out to greet her guest. The elderly woman’s face broke into a joyful grin, before she called out excitedly to some, yet unseen, family members in the house,
“She is here! She is here!” Turning back to Frankie, the lady greeted her guest warmly. “Welcome, welcome, I am Vikram’s wife, Aisha.”
Beckoning her guest to enter, Aisha asked, “You must be so very weary?” Turning, she cried out, “Sara, Sara, tell the Professor, Miss. Frankie is here, Gita! Tea! Bring the tea to the garden. Quick girl, quick!”
Aisha ushered her young guest through the house, into the rear garden, of which she was obviously enormously proud. The beautiful scent of roses strategically placed along the garden path, the sound of water, gently cascading into a small ornamental pond, and the brilliantly red plumeria tree, which offered shade, made the garden a most welcoming, serene setting for the evening’s dinner party.
Please, Frankie, sit, sit!” Aisha beckoned, “So lovely to meet you! Vikram told us all about your ordeal. What a terrible thing! You must not think all Indian boys are like that railway station gangster.”
As Aisha enthusiastically chatted away, the Professor came into the garden, a big smile across his face. Shaking Frankie’s hand vigorously, he formally greeted his guest,
“It is good to see you, my young friend, thank you for coming.”
By the time dinner was about to be served, the number of guests had swelled to fifteen; all standing around, chit-chatting enthusiastically. Many wanted to know all about Frankie’s quest to find her father, others were intrigued by Vikram’s brave intervention, at the railway station. During dinner, conversation was energetic, heads continually nodding up and down and side to side, as everyone attempted to catch up on the latest news and gossip.
As dusk became night, some guests began to drift off home, each praising Aisha’s amazing food and her talent as a host. Frankie, who had done her best to engage with people, despite her continuing jetlag, had escaped with the Professor to his study.
“May I ask how you got on at the embassy, today?”
Where do I start?” Frankie replied.
“Perhaps the beginning would be a good place.” The Professor suggested, offering an encouraging smile.
Frankie gave the professor a sad-looking smile, before telling him, “Well, the appointment didn’t go well, practically a blockade. The woman I met with seemed to be stonewalling. She certainly knows more than she prepared to give up. But at least I now know my father was here in Delhi.”
“Do you really think so?” the Professor asked enthusiastically.
“I do, and I also know my pursuit isn’t over, despite what the woman said. I don’t intend being put off.”
“Bravo!” The Professor cheered, “That’s the spirit.”
Not wishing to be too intrusive, the Professor cautiously asked, “Is it too much to ask, how long it is since you last saw your father?”
“Nearly three years; I was sixteen when he disappeared. It was a few days after my mother was killed in a hit-and-run incident.”
Looking at Frankie, the Professor was genuinely saddened. “That is terrible. How have you managed to survive?”
“I have no idea. I cried a lot, screamed, threw things around, until I was emotionally exhausted. But it didn’t do any good. These last three years have been total agony. When Dad disappeared, I thought maybe he had committed suicide. The situation only worsened when two men and a woman came to the house. I remember them whispering to the female police officer who was staying with me. When she came back into the room, she told me I should pack a suitcase; the strangers were going to escort me to Seattle, where I was to attend a boarding school. Despite all the chaos, I’ve been there ever since.”
“It must have traumatized you,” the Professor replied.
“I guess so.”
Feeling his young guest’s pain, the Professor gently redirected the conversation.
“How did you come to believe your father might be in India?”
“That’s a good question. I had no idea, at least, not until very recently. A lawyer was handling all the legal stuff, including selling the house, which meant I had to go through the personal items still left in the house. Honestly, there was little I felt attached to. But that’s when I found a note.”
“A note?” the Professor interrupted.
“Yes. I was combing through papers on a desk when I came across a handwritten scrap; it looked as if it had been torn from a small notebook. It was crumpled, clearly handled a number of times.”
Reaching into her back pocket, Frankie pulled out the note and handed it to the Professor. He put on his glasses and read it out aloud: “Your position compromised. Arrangements made for you to be relocated to Delhi. Unsafe for daughter to accompany you at this time.”
“Intriguing!” the Professor exclaimed.
“Yes,” Frankie agreed. “So, I got the U.S. Embassy’s number in Delhi last week. I called and said I wanted to talk about my father; hoping someone might know something. The woman on the line put me on hold. When she came back, she said someone named Dorothy Martinez would meet with me. I figured I had nothing to lose, except maybe the cost of the airfare. Oh, and my backpack.”
The two smiled at each other.
“How gripping. It’s like a spy story!” the Professor said, visibly excited.
“But that’s not all,” Frankie added. “When I went to the embassy this morning, the woman I met was oddly obstructive. But as I was leaving, the concierge ….”
Just then, Aisha burst into the study, cutting Frankie off.
“Come, Frankie. My Sadhu is here. He will bless you with good fortune and safe passage.”
The Professor, unsure how Frankie might respond, shook his head. “Aisha, maybe Frankie doesn’t wish to meet your Sadhu.”
“Nonsense!” Aisha said, waving off her husband’s concern. “Frankie, there’s no reason to be afraid.”
The young woman looked to the Professor, who smiled and shook his head; a look that said further resistance was futile.
As Aisha led Frankie through the house, she paused, “Frankie, the Sadhu’s language, you won’t understand it, but don’t be afraid. After your blessing, you’ll be able to ask him one question. Only one mind you.”
Skeptical and more than a little nervous, Frankie entered the room. The Sadhu sat cross-legged on the tiled floor, his arms resting on his knees. His appearance was unlike anything she had ever seen. His long, uncut hair, red chalk-covered face, and gaunt frame wrapped in a dusty sheet made him seem almost otherworldly. But it was his fingernails that truly stunned her, twisted and impossibly long. Frankie hesitated, overwhelmed, then slowly joined him on the floor. Facing the aging man, he began a rhythmic chant. After several minutes, silence filled the room.
Remembering Aisha’s instruction, Frankie cleared her throat to speak; but before she could say a word, the Sadhu said:
“Shimla.”
Without another word, he rose and departed, leaving Frankie seated and perplexed.
Immediately, Aisha entered the room. Looking at Frankie, she smiled, “He answered your question, didn’t he? I can tell.” She asked excitedly.
“Yes,” Frankie said, still bewildered. “I think he did.” Looking at Aisha, Frankie added, “I need to go to Shimla.”
The first rays of the early morning sun were bouncing off the surrounding mountains when the overnight bus from Delhi arrived in Shimla. The journey had taken over nine hours and had left Frankie exhausted. The first thing she noticed was how much cooler Shimla was compared to the murderous heat of Delhi. The other weary passengers slowly dismounted and dispersed, leaving the young woman standing alone, except for a middle-aged man in a fedora-style sun hat, stumbling along on the far side of the coach parking area, clearly the worse for wear, possibly following a heavy night’s drinking session.
Picking up her backpack, the young woman set off in search of a cheap hotel. Entering the town’s central square, she spotted an information board with a range of adverts: tourist activities, where to get emergency medical treatment, restaurants, and cheap accommodation. Looking at the hotels and lodges available, Frankie spotted one card for the Lodge Hotel, which stated it was just a five-minute walk from the square.
Finding her way to the hotel, she paid the hotel’s receptionist for four nights, then struggled up the stairs to the third floor. Entering, the room, she was pleasantly surprised, although small and well-worn, it was clean and relatively cool. Dropping her backpack, she took off her boots and lay down on the bed and rapidly fell into a much-needed deep sleep.
It was the late-morning sun piercing through the gaps in the threadbare sun-bleached blinds, that nudged Frankie from her slumber. Lying there, she cogitated her next steps. Gradually, a plan appeared: a quick shower, a walk around the centre of the town, and something to eat.
Refreshed from her tepid shower and the most agreeable local temperature, Frankie headed out to explore the town. The area around, which was the main square, impressed Frankie, but her continuously growling stomach prompted her to seek an early lunch. The restaurants and bars were all doing brisk business, mostly from loud young Western backpackers, who seemed intent on being drunk by lunchtime. Not wanting to party, she walked down a side street until she came across the Krishna Tea House. Unlike its competitors in the square, the Krishna was empty. The establishment’s menu, displayed on a stone wall to the side of the main entrance, offered a range of what sounded like authentic Indian dishes. Frankie, smiled when she saw the establishment’s price range, which motivated her to step into the restaurant. Immediately, she was put off by the restaurant’s furnishings, which were somewhat minimalistic, what with its white washed walls and bare concrete floor. But before she had the opportunity to second-think her choice of venue, a waiter pounced,
“Welcome, welcome, my name is Lal, please come, I have a very nice table just for you,” the waiter said, doing his best to persuade his potential customer into the establishment. Too embarrassed to escape, Frankie trailed behind the persuasive waiter to a table at the rear of the restaurant.
Having ordered, the special of the day, a vegetarian curry with rice and naan bread, she sat back and sipped on a chai tea latte, which the waiter had brought her, without being asked. To her surprise, she found the sweet spicy taste of the chai tea quite pleasant, which helped her feel more at ease.
Having enjoyed her late breakfast, early lunch, Frankie paid the bill and was about to leave, when she decided to ask Lal, “Do you by any chance, know of an American living here in Shimla, his name is Archie Lee?”
“I’m, eh, sorry, Miss,” the waiter said, giving the appearance of sincerity. “I do not know anybody of that name.”
Back on the street, she continued her perusal of the town, until finding herself outside what appeared to be a private gentleman’s club, a carryover from the British Raj. The polished brass sign, at the side of the door, simply said, “Braithwaite’s,” below, it read, “A home from home for gentlemen.”
Deciding the club might be the sort of place her father would frequent, the young woman walked through the open doorway into a world that seemed totally incompatible with the town’s more traditional Indian setting. The aging leather upholstered chairs, wood-paneled walls, and the faded green felt snooker table were a throw-back to an earlier era; more reminiscent of some place in London, rather than India. Behind the bar, a middle-aged man was preparing for what he had anticipated would be a busy evening. Looking at Frankie, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, the man assumed the young woman had taken a wrong turn coming into the club, “You lost?” The man asked bluntly.
“I was hoping you could help me; do you know an Archie Lee? He’s about your age….”
Immediately, the man knew he had heard enough to know, he didn’t need to hear anymore, “Never heard of him!” The man replied abruptly. Picking up on the man’s apparent indifference, which could have been interpreted as hostility, Frankie retreated out of the club, offering the man the merest gesture of thanks.
***
It was late morning by the time Archie Lee struggled to raise his head from his sweat-disheveled pillow. Awkwardly, he struggled to a sitting position on the edge of his bed, where he began his morning ritual of coughing, then again and again; but all to no avail; the exertion failing to release his congestion accumulated from too many cigarettes, over too many years. Archie gave out an exhausted, disgruntled groan. Still wearing his now wrinkled shirt and pants, he reached over to the bedside table, and picked up the small plastic bottle, unscrewed the cap, and emptied out two tabs of blood pressure medication. To help him swallow, Archie swilled the pills around his mouth with the remnants of his final, previous night’s, glass of whiskey. The concoction made him grimace, the waxy-tasting liquor further aggravating his coughing bout.
Rising unsteadily, he paused momentarily and mumbled something or other about the ceaseless aching, which he felt in every part of his body.
Splashing his face with water from the bedroom’s sink, he sluggishly brushed down his clothes, put on his jacket, and gathered his fedora-style sun hat. Looking into the small wall mirror, the whisker-faced American’s reflection looked back at him. The image was years distant from the sober, hard-working professional, whose family was the love of his life, “You look crap, Archie!” He whispered.
Lumbering out of his room, along the hotel’s corridor, and down the staircase, he came to the hotel’s small lobby, where his departure was halted by the front-desk receptionist’s apprehensive appeal for the American’s attention,
“Sir, Mr. Lee! So sorry to interrupt you, sir. Just to inform you, we would like to air out your room today, change the sheets, general clean-up. I hope this won’t inconvenience you?”
Disinterested, Archie responded with a half-hearted grunt and gesture of his head, before struggling to push open the establishment’s heavy wooden swing door. Outside, he trudged down the street; his prematurely aging body clumsily navigating the uneven stone sidewalk.
“Usual,” he rasped, to the fellow behind the ramshackle newspaper and cigarette stall’s counter, in the town’s central square. Placing a few rupees on the counter, he opened the packet of cigarettes and took one out, lit it, then drew hard. The intoxicating smoke, with its distinctive aroma, flooded his lungs. Momentarily feeling uplifted, he picked up his copy of the Washington Times and headed towards his daily haunt, the Krishna Tea House. Sitting at his usual back wall table, the waiter brought the American his daily chai. Normally, the waiter would not engage in any unnecessary conversation with Archie, he had found previously, to his expense, the American was a most inpatient, grumpy character. But, this morning, the waiter had information, which he thought, perhaps, the customer might be willing to pay for.
“There’s been someone, asking about you, sir. A lady traveler, English speaking, but not English, an American, I’d say.”
Archie looked at the waiter, continuing to show no outward interest, but he still plucked a few rupees from his wallet and placed the money onto the table. The waiter scooped the money up, thanked his customer, then left, back to the relative safety, behind the Tea House’s counter.
The American watched the waiter leave, before returning to the headlines in the newspaper; nevertheless, the tip-off had disturbed him. Rummaging through his foggy mind, Archie could not figure out, why some American female would be asking about him. After his second chai, Archie left, his folded newspaper in hand. As he passed the Mountain Steam Baths, he noticed a sign on the cracked glass entrance door,
“FREE LAUNDRY WHILE YOU RELAX IN ONE OF OUR STEAM BATHS, TRAVELERS WELCOME.”
The whiff of stale tobacco on his jacket and the liquor stains down his shirt and pants, convinced him the offer was too good to turn down. In the reception area, a smallish man flicked his eyes up from his newspaper, spread out on the desk.
“Well, well, well, Mr. Archie Lee! Haven’t seen you in a little while.” Archie grunted something, which the man did not quite catch. “So, what’s it you’re wanting Mr. Lee? Not trouble, I hope! The last time you were here; I had complaints from other customers.”
“No trouble,” Archie said, in a glum manner. “I just need a quiet steam bath and that free laundry service, you’re offering. If you’ve got any clean shirts in the lost and found box, I’ll take one? I’m good for the money.”
The man chuckled, “You never change, Mr. Lee, always on the lookout for a bargain,” passing Archie two large bath towels, “I’ll see what I’ve got in the lost and found.”
“You got any of that gin you hide under the counter?” The American asked, “Bring me a big one with tonic, will you, put it on my tab.”
“Yes, sir, will there be anything else, sir?” the man said, mimicking a false deferential manner, before adding, “By the way, Mr. Lee, I hear somebody’s been asking about you. Saw Braithwaite earlier, he said some woman had drifted into the club, asking after you.”
Archie stopped momentarily, nodded, without looking back, then ambled through the white cotton curtain into the changing rooms. Two hours later, Archie strolled into Braithwaite’s, his pants and jacket having taken on a new lease of life. The ironed light blue shirt, he was now wearing, retrieved from the lost and found box, was on the big side for Archie’s wasting body, but it was still an improvement on the liquor-stained, creased shirt it had replaced. The hot towel treatment and shave had made Archie feel more human and clearer thinking than he had for some time.
“Now, let’s find out who the hell is stalking me.”
Braithwaite’s was empty, but for two customers sitting across from each other, silently playing chess. The pervasive smell from years of cigar smoke was inescapable. Archie stood a moment, his senses taking in the scene. The American looked over at Jack Braithwaite, standing behind the bar, as usual, busy polishing glasses. If Archie had a friend in the world, well, the somewhat no-nonsense Englishman just about fitted the bill. The club’s owner had served him his very first drink in Shimla,
when he’d appeared seemingly from nowhere.
“Usual Archie?”
“Make it a big one.” The American replied.
“Hey Archie, you got skeletons in the cupboard?” A glint of a mischievous smile on his whiskered face. “Some young woman’s been asking after you. I didn’t tell her anything, but you know what this town’s like for gossip.”
Braithwaite described the young female to Archie, which caused the American’s pulse to race and his forehead to become wet with perspiration,
“Could it be?” He whispered to himself.
Feeling lightheaded, Archie lurched forward, necessitating him to grab hold of the back of a chair. Braithwaite, seeing his drinking buddy about to go head over heels, rushed from behind the bar and took a firm hold of the American before helping him into a chair,
“Come on Archie! Stop buggering about. What’s this all about?”
***
Frankie, having spent the day exploring the town and taking in the stunning mountain vistas, was now enjoying the pleasantly warm evening temperature and the buzz from the constant flow of happy, relaxed Indian vacationers and young Western travelers. Finding herself outside the Krishna, she was surprised to see how different it was from her earlier visit that morning. The establishment was decked out in colorful lights hanging from the walls and ceiling. The low, pleasant Indian music added to the ambiance. Ten minutes later, she was sitting at a table enthusiastically tucking into a red lentil curry.
***
Back in Braithwaite’s, Archie was sat quietly, doing his best, but not finding it easy, to concentrate on the day’s crossword in the Washington Times, when Braithwaite called out,
“Phone, Archie!”
Walking over to the bar, Archie picked up the phone, “Yeah, who’s this?”
“Mr. Lee, sir, it’s Lal from Krishna’s. The young woman, the one asking about you, she’s here.” The waiter whispered.
A few minutes later, Archie sat down quietly at an outside table, at Krishna’s, unseen by Frankie, Archie’s body being partially hidden by his newspaper. But he saw her, which caused his heart to pulsate rapidly. He yearned to rush forward and embrace her and finally free himself from the agony of the past three years. But he resisted, his instincts telling him she might be being followed, and he didn’t want her to be in the middle of some crazy, violent ruckus.
Scanning around Krishna’s other customers and people passing up and down the street, Archie spotted a stranger standing in the shadows of a closed trinket shop. The way he was looking in Frankie’s direction, made Archie nervous.
Having enjoyed her meal, Frankie stood and went over to the bar, had a brief conversation with Lal, the waiter, and paid her bill, before walking off, along the street. It was then Archie realized his instincts were right when he saw the stranger begin to follow Frankie.
Walking back to her hotel, Frankie was totally unaware she was being followed. When she entered her hotel, the stranger stopped in the shadows of the surrounding buildings and waited until he saw a light come on in the third-floor hotel room. Satisfied Frankie had settled in for the night, the stranger walked away, down the unlit street, oblivious that he himself had been trailed from Krishna’s.
Feeling a fatherly urge to protect his daughter, Archie remained in the entrance of a darkened store across the street from Frankie’s hotel.
Reflecting on the circumstances that had led him and his daughter to this moment. He recalled how his relentless professional ambitions working for a senior senator, had ultimately laid the foundation for his own downfall, and that of his family.
He’d coped with the professional pressures at first, but when he’d found evidence that the senator was engaged in money laundering in collaboration with a mysterious Russian oligarch, he had been terrified. In spite of his wife’s objections, he had gone to the FBI. At first, he’d been told to go along with the senator’s activities and report back to them. Despite the potential danger to his family and himself, he had gone along with the FBI’s plan, that is, until things went pear-shaped.
He remembered the day he had received a message from his FBI contact, informing him that his work for them had been compromised, and he and the family were in danger. The FBI contact had told Archie it was essential he and his family be relocated via the Federal Witness
Protection Program. But when Archie told his wife they weren’t safe, and they were being moved to a new location, possibly in a foreign country, she had exploded, not wanting to give up the comfort of her life in Washington, DC. Angry, she had walked out of the house and, according to the local police, had been killed by an unidentified hit-and-run driver. Archie remembered the emotional agony, made worse when he had been told he and Frankie would have to be relocated to separate locations; although they were never given a satisfactory reason for separating the two of them.
Living apart from Frankie caused him anguish and constant worry. The weight of his actions pressed heavily on his shoulders, and he wondered if he would ever see her again. His situation drove him to bouts of heavy drinking. But when he had given evidence against the senator by internet from the embassy in Delhi, the wheels had really come off the wagon.
The senator’s defense lawyers quickly took full advantage of Archie’s obvious inebriated state and pulled his evidence apart. When the defendant was found not guilty, the FBI was really pissed and blamed Archie for the outcome. He remembered his contact telling him, “We’re done! You’re on your own. If you have any sense, you’ll get the hell out of Delhi, and fast! You’ve made dangerous enemies, and we’re not talking the senator.” It had been Martinez, and Martinez alone, who had stood by him, it was she who had arranged his move to Shimla. But without her day-to-day support, his drinking quickly went over the cliff-edge, and he nosedived into full-blown alcoholism.
It was late when Archie finally trudged back to his hotel, reassured Frankie was safe. Most of the night, he tossed and turned, one moment fearful of the potential consequences of Frankie being in Shimla, the next, overjoyed, knowing she was so close. Eventually, he had fallen into an uneasy sleep, only to be roused by the early morning sun flooding through the window.
Laying there he sensed something wasn’t normal. Glancing down the bed, he was instantly thrown into an emotional turmoil, his heart pounded when he saw, Frankie, sitting on a chair. Rubbing his eyes, he half-expected the image to vanish, but the image remained, a tangible reminder of his past. His initial shock gave way to a rush of emotions, guilt, joy, and a deep-seated fear for his daughter’s security. He had spent the last three years trying to protect her by disappearing, but now, here she was.
“Hello, Dad.”
Archie’s mind raced, wondering how Frankie had found him and what dangers might now be lurking in the shadows.
“Frankie!” stiffly Archie clambered from the bed, “What the hell are you doing here?” His voice a mix of concern, astonishment, and simple joy, “How the hell did you find me?”
“It’s a long story; but finally, it was the waiter at Krishna’s, who gave me the name of your hotel.” Switching the conversation, Frankie asked staunchly, “Why did you leave me?”
Slowly and not without lots of tears, Archie did his best to explain everything, ending with, “I know all of this is my fault. I’m so, so sorry.”
Frankie stood and went over to her father and embraced him tightly. “I love you. We can work this out, I know we can.” Frankie told her father.
“I’d like that, I really would. But it’s not that easy. Firstly, you’re being followed, you’re in danger every second you’re with me. There’s also something else, I’m not who I used to be, I’m…. I’m, an alcoholic! I’m no good to you, not to anybody, so once we get you safe….”
“No! not this time. Whatever happens, we’ve got to do it together.”
Recognizing this was one argument he wasn’t going to win, no matter how cantankerous he got, Archie gave his daughter a weak smile, before reluctantly agreeing.
Frankie grinned, “Okay then, perhaps we could have breakfast together and plan our next steps, together.”
Twenty minutes later, they stepped into the Palace Hotel, a marble-clad monument to an extravagant past. A waiter led them through the restaurant to the outdoor terrace overlooking a vast gorge, framed by jagged, distant snow-draped peaks.
“Orange juice, waffles, and two fried eggs for my daughter,” Archie said, eyeing Frankie. “Still your breakfast go-to?”
She lit up. “You remembered.”
Looking at the waiter, “I’ll have a gin and tonic. Make it a double.”
Frankie frowned. “Dad! You need food.”
“It’s too early for me.”
As the waiter disappeared, Archie leaned forward, “I still can’t believe you’re here.”
It was a tender moment, long overdue and heartbreakingly brief. Archie nor Frankie saw the stranger approaching,
“Mr. Lee, finally!
Archie turned sharply toward the voice. A man in a pale linen suit stood before them, eyes like ice. Before Archie could react, the man pulled a revolver from his waistband. Archie struggled up from his chair, but his foot bumped against the bottom of the stone balustrade, throwing him off balance; as a shot rang out, its loud crack slicing through the mountain air. Toppling backwards, Archie gave out a high-pitched cry as he plunged over the balustrade; instantly vanishing into the gorge below. Frankie’s scream tore across the terrace. Patrons froze. The would-be assassin turned and bolted, swiftly weaving through the diners and out the hotel’s doors into the early bustle of the street beyond.
***
Martinez had moved quickly; from the embassy in Delhi, she had made all the arrangements to have Archie airlifted to a trauma facility in Bengaluru, in southern India; under the alias Thomas Wilson.
For what seemed an eternity, Archie drifted in and out of consciousness, infused with pain, nightmares, and brimming with guilt-ridden memories. Throughout, Frankie and Martinez had kept vigil at his bedside. The two women just weren’t going to give up on Archie; they had both waited far too long to now lose the man they both loved. Even when doctors warned his condition was touch-and-go and that they should be prepared for the worst, they refused to quit on him.
Three weeks later, Archie’s vitals began to stabilize, and one hazy morning, his eyelids fluttered.
“Dad!” Frankie appealed, grabbing a hold of Archie’s arm.
His eyes slowly opened. Offering a frail smile, he said, in a frail voice, “Frankie… Where am I?”
“A trauma facility.” She replied.
It was then another familiar figure stepped forward, a confident, and composed figure.
“Martinez!” Archie croaked, softly.
“Hey, you, welcome back.”
“What happened?” He asked.
Martinez gave out a dry chortle. “It’d be easier to tell you what didn’t. Officially, you’re dead. Well, at least according to the Times of India. You were shot by an assassin, before falling into the gorge. Very dramatic, I must say.”
“But…?” Archie tried to intervene.
“But you were lucky,” Martinez continued. “The bullet, it missed you by a whisker, and brambles broke your fall into the gorge. You were found unconscious, cut up pretty bad, and barely alive. Everybody acted fast, the restaurant, was cleared, then you were slipped out on a stretcher, in a body bag.
“Dad, listen, the two of us have been talking a lot over the last week or two; we’ve something to put to you, well, not exactly put to you, more, this is what we’re going to do, so don’t even try to argue.” Frankie looked at Martinez, “You tell him.”
“Archie, I’ve been offered a position at the US Embassy, in New Zealand, and Frankie and I have decided we should all go, the three of us.
Archie glanced at the two women, a soft, compliant smile tugging on his lips. “Well, if you two have made up your minds, who am I to resist such a tempting offer?”
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