Background
Seconded by MI6, Charles and Helen arive in Pakistan to accomplish an assignment in the Hindu Kush, to neutralise Abdul Jaleel Zemar, the leader of an international group of ISIS terrorists.
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Last paragraph of Chapter 79...
The vision still lingered in my mind as the aircraft hit the runway with a squeal of tortured rubber and bounced before coming down again. I joined a handful of fellow passengers in applauding the second landing. Moments later, we were thrown forward in our seatbelts as the captain yanked all four engines into reverse. We had arrived.
Chapter 80
"What is the purpose of your visit?" The immigration official looked up from my passport and visa. His face was impassive.
"My wife and I are on a working holiday. Doing research for a travel article." I beamed at him and added, "Hopefully, it will bring more tourists to your beautiful country."
"I see - and where will you be spending most of your time?"
"In Chitral and the Kalash Valley."
He flipped through the pages of Helen's passport. "You say that this lady is your wife?"
"Yes, Miss Culverson and I were recently married. The trip doubles as a honeymoon."
He glanced at the empty third finger of her left hand. "Perhaps you have a marriage certificate with you?"
"Is it necessary?"
"No - but advisable. Excuse me a moment."
He scooped up our passports, together with my visa, and took them away to an office behind the counter. I could see him discussing the matter with a colleague and pointing in our direction.
Helen gripped my hand. "Oh, God," she said. "I hope there's not a problem."
"Why? Should there be?"
"Kayla and I fled the country after our parents' murder." Moving her lips close to my ear, she lowered her voice to a whisper. "She withdrew money from our father's account to pay our fares and to see us through our first few weeks in Bangkok. That's illegal, isn't it? I mean, after his death?"
"Yes - probably - but what she did shouldn't affect you. At least, I don't think so."
After a short eternity, the senior official returned with our travel documents. "Welcome home, Miss Culverson - or should I say 'Mrs. Brandon'?" He handed her passport back with an enigmatic smile and turned to me. "Congratulations, Mr. Brandon, it seems you have stolen one of our jewels. I hope you enjoy your stay and write nice things about us." He paused. "But a word of advice, if I may..."
"Yes, of course."
"We are easy-going people here in Lahore, but you may find things different as you travel north, towards the Afghan border. It would be wise for Mrs. Brandon to wear her wedding ring and, pardon me for mentioning it - more culturally appropriate clothing. A salwar kameez, perhaps."
"Thank you. I'll bear that in mind. The last thing we'd want to do is offend anyone." I offered him my hand. Perhaps it was as well he didn't take it. My palms were drenched in sweat. We passed through the barrier with a sigh of relief and made our way towards the baggage carousels.
"What the heck's a salwar kameez when it's at home?"
"It's a kind of trouser suit. Like that woman's wearing."
"Sexy. Mind you, I'm not sure about you wearing the pants so soon after our marriage."
"Marriage be damned! What happened to the down-on-bended-knee bit - and when, may I ask, do I get the golden ring?"
"How about when you start honouring and obeying me?"
"In your dreams!" I sidestepped to avoid the playful push.
After the experience of our flight, it was a miracle to find our cases sailing serenely around the carousel. Two customs officers chatting to each other over a cup of coffee waved us through without a second look and, along with several hundred other weary souls, we were ejected into the main concourse, looking like the leftovers from yesterday's dinner. We headed straight to the P.I.A. desk to enquire about the onward flight to Chitral, by way of Islamabad.
"I'm sorry, sahib. All flights to Islamabad are cancelled until further notice. There's been a terrorist incident. The airport's closed."
I cursed silently. "How long for?"
The man shrugged. "Hard to say? A day or two perhaps. It is kismet," he said, twirling the ends of his moustache. "Who am I to foretell the future?" He gazed at us from under shaggy brows, his brown eyes calm as muddy pools on a river bend.
"What other alternatives do we have?"
"You could try the train. There will be one to Islamabad tomorrow, leaving at seven o'clock."
We thanked him and went in search of a taxi. A quarter of an hour later, our cases were being loaded into the boot of a Metro Radio Cab by an enormous Sikh with a scarlet turban and gold teeth that glinted in the sun when he smiled. I was reminded of Jaws.
"My name is Rasheed, bhai sahib. At your service."
We climbed into the air-conditioned cab thankfully, for it was already 30°C and rising. Rasheed turned on the CD player, and the gravelly tones of Louis Armstrong wafted into the ether. He then adjusted the rear-view mirror so that he had a good view of us and flashed us another scintillating smile.
"You Americans like jazz, no?"
I thought it would be churlish to echo his 'no', so I returned his smile and nodded.
"Actually, I'm British."
Helen nudged me and whispered, "I'd keep quiet about that, if I were you. People here are still pretty sore about Partition."
He overheard her and laughed. "Partition was before I was born, memsaab. Not to worry about things like that."
Rasheed turned out to be a fount of knowledge. He regaled us with information about Lahore throughout the entire ten-mile journey. By the time we reached the city, he had convinced us that the Parkway Hotel would be the best place to stay, very handy to the station when you have an early train to catch.
"I'll take you there and wait while you check in, then off to Liberty Market for buying the salwar kameez. Many beautiful things to see before having leisurely lunch in rooftop restaurant. After that, Shalimar Gardens. Such a wonderful place. Not to be missed. World Heritage site and all that." He stopped to draw breath and glanced into the rear-view mirror to satisfy himself of our approval.
"That sounds lovely," Helen said. "You're a kind man, Rasheed. How much?"
"For you, memsaab, only four thousand rupees."
"Two thousand five hundred," she countered, switching to Urdu.
"Three thousand, then. Any less and you'll be stealing the bread from the mouths of my children." He looked crestfallen but immediately cheered up when we agreed.
I did a swift calculation in my head. About eighteen euros. Pretty good deal. I looked at Helen with renewed respect. "Maybe I'll be able to afford that wedding ring now."
"We could send a photo of it to Madeleine. She said it was time you made an honest woman of me."
Hmm. That'll be the day. I still wasn't sure to what extent I could trust my lovely companion.
Author Notes
30 degrees Celsius = 86 degrees Fahrenheit
'Bhai sahib' is a Punjabi and Sikh title of veneration given to a male; the word "Bhai" means "brother" and "sahib" means "Sir". It is an honorific stemming from historic times.
Memsaab or 'Memsahib', a variation of Sahib, an Arabic term, which is also a loanword in several languages. Memsaab is a title for a woman in a position of authority and/or the wife of a Sahib.
List of Characters
Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Group Captain Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6 and Air Attache in Paris
Helen Culverson - Also a travel writer, whose relationship with Charles is complicated by her relationship with Jeanne Durand.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor and undercover agent with the French Drug Squad.
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Andre (aka Scaramouche) - an actor in Montmartre and friend of Kayla's
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Francoise Gaudin - Alain's intellectually disabled sister.
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Gaston Arnoux - Owner of an art gallery in Paris. A double agent, who has infiltrated the ISIS network in France
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - Gaston's grandfather. Author of the infamous letter of 1903.
Abdul Jaleel Zemar (The Lion) - Coordinator of an international network of ISIS cells
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