The Colossus (17 page)

Max turned away. She didn’t want the two men to see her show any sign of weakness, not after all she had been through, not after all they had managed to achieve together.

But retribution seemed impossible. Berliner was a Goliath she could never take on.

“Maxine.” Kevin put his hands on the table. “Berliner may not have actually harmed Hiram, even though they were the ones who threatened him,” he said.

“How did they even find out?” Julian said.

“Perhaps Hiram told them,” Kevin said. “He was an emotional man. I can see him asking them to take responsibility.”

“What can we do, even if we knew they did it for sure?” Max said.

They sat in silence. The answer was unsaid but loud enough to be deafening.

Absolutely nothing.

Max realized the two men were waiting for her to regain her composure. “What do we do now?” Max asked.

Kevin smiled and checked his watch. “We leave for Karachi in a couple hours. We may have a way to get our hands on some Indus pills.”

Max looked at Kevin. There was a hope in her eyes, she knew, and it was a naked hope that was making him uncomfortable. Kevin squirmed. “Max,” he began, and hesitated. “We…we can hope for the best, but…” He trailed off.

Max knew she had no business feeling the sense of hope she did. The journey of bringing her father’s work to the world was only just beginning. But she felt so lucky to have these two good men by her side. She put a hand on each of theirs.

“I know, don’t worry. And I don’t think I have said this enough. Thank you. Both of you. Thank you, thank you.”

Jinnah International Airport

Karachi, Pakistan

Stern-faced military personnel at the airport exits smoked and laughed, largely ignoring the passengers streaming by. Basking in the tropical heat were potted palms and hibiscus flowers in shades of vibrant yellow, orange, and red.

A gigantic Sikh in an elaborate red turban was summoning cabs. “We’d like a taxi, please,” Kevin said. The Sikh lifted a dinner-plate-sized hand, and a taxi peeling yellow and black paint glided to a halt in front of them. Kevin, Julian, and Max got it.

The taxi reeked of sandalwood incense and old sweat. The driver was a handsome, freckle-faced young man. “American!” he drawled, taking one look at them. “Going where?”

“The Karachi History Museum, please,” Kevin said.

The driver stomped on the accelerator and the trio collectively hit the back of their seat as the taxi took off.

“A camel!” Max exclaimed. The scraggly creature was walking along the street side. Atop it sat an old man with spiky white hair and large gold hoops in his ears. Perched behind him, a little girl undulated back and forth with the camel’s movements. She was dressed
in bright reds and blues. The camel too was decked out in mirrored fabric and bells galore.

It started to drizzle. Max strained to look outside from behind the rivulets of raindrops that curtained her tiny window. The rain stopped and the sky was a clear powder blue. Max rolled down her window and a cool, moist breeze wafted in.

On the streets, brightly colored art deco buildings were flanked with huts and bustling shop fronts. Women wearing burkas were everywhere, but so were women in modern clothing—almost all of them dressed in embroidered tunics and loose pants. The men wore anything from jeans and T-shirts to elaborate traditional dress.

“When Opa was here, this was still India, wasn’t it?” Max asked.

“Yes,” Julian piped up. “Until 1947, when the British left. The separation of East and West Pakistan from India was a painful one. East Pakistan became Bangladesh and West Pakistan remained Pakistan.” He turned to look at her. “Did you know that before the British took over, India was a collection of princely states? And they were all more or less independent and very competitive. In fact, that is one of the reasons a handful of Brits were even able to take over India. Divide and rule was their motto.”

Max suppressed a smile. Julian could never resist the opportunity to deliver a history lesson.

“One day,” Max said, “I want to return to India to visit Coorg. My mother’s people were from there originally.”

“When did they immigrate to the States?” Kevin asked.

“Her parents moved to New York, I think, before she was born. In the forties, maybe.”

The taxi stopped at a light, and a grimy peddler boy sauntered by with bright red roses. Before Max could make up her mind about buying them, the taxi took off once more. Ten minutes later, they glided to a halt.

In front of them was the Karachi History Museum, a modern building with some minarets to give it Islamic flavor.

“This museum is a treasure house for Indus and Islamic artifacts,” Kevin said. “They have a few Indus pills, salvaged from age-old digs, the curator told me.”

Max sighed. For a few moments, the flight and taxi ride had felt like ordinary vacation activity—albeit with one near-stranger and the other…a friend.

But no, Julian was becoming much more than that. J. How nice that sounded. Julian. J.

Her J?

Perhaps.

The excitement of a new place, taking in the sights, the smells, and the sounds had all overshadowed the apprehension she was sure they all felt.

“Let’s go get us some pills,” Kevin said cheerfully.

They walked along a brick path, then through large wooden doors to the front desk.

“Welcome,” an attractive middle-aged woman said.

“Hello,” Max said. “We’re here to see Dr. Karim. I’m Maxine Rosen. This is Kevin Forsyth.” She pointed to Kevin.

The woman looked startled. “The curator just met with Kevin Forsyth!”

“What?”

A tall, thin man walked toward the front desk, looked at them, and smiled.

The front desk woman stood up. “Dr. Karim, this man claims to be Kevin Forsyth, too.”

Dr. Karim frowned.

Kevin went to him. “Dr. Karim, I am Kevin Forsyth. We spoke earlier. These are my friends. Someone has been impersonating me.”

Dr. Karim’s hand went to his chin. “I wondered why he sounded different. But thought nothing of it since he knew so much about the pills and its background. He recalled our conversation vividly. We spoke of my grandkids, remember? My goodness, what have I done?”

Max let out a shrill cry and sank to the ground. “How did they find out?” she said over and over again.

Dr. Karim came over to Max and kneeled beside her. Yes, a heavy-set German was the one who had pretended to be Kevin Forsyth, he told her. Max nodded, her mind in a haze. “He said the pills carried a contagion,” Dr. Karim was saying, “and insisted that we give him the entire lot. He had a letter from a renowned contagious diseases expert with him asking that we release all the pills. Well, we only had a few to start with.” Max let out a low groan. Dr. Karim sounded flustered. “I’m so sorry. But he was convincing. He brought a biohazard box and an expert with him to take the pills away. He even insisted that we have health check-ups immediately.” With that Dr. Karim apologized once more and left.

Max got up and walked out of the museum. She, Kevin, and Julian sat on the museum lawn for a while, watching the erratic traffic go by.

“Let’s go,” Kevin said. “Nothing left here for us.”

He hailed a cab. “Airport,” he said to the cabbie.

“No!” Max cried, turning to him. “I’m not giving up yet. Please, let’s stay for a day more. Let us think this through.”

“As you wish. I’ll change the flights,” Kevin said tersely.

Their taxi cruised along the busy Karachi streets, but this time no one was interested in the odd camel or even elephant walking by.

Max scowled. “I’ve been an idiot,” she said. “I called you on your cell phone, didn’t I?”

Kevin nodded.

“I made sure I was calling from a safe phone. But not once did I think Berliner may have tapped your phone, too. Why would I? I mean, it was only after I found Papa’s tape that I even thought to call you.”

“They’ve been ahead of us all the while,” Julian said. “Weren’t they watching Lars for years? They might well have been watching Kevin just as long. He was once close to your father.”

Max let out a grunt and began twirling a lock of hair. Julian gently pried her hand away from it.

Kevin closed his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Max,” he whispered.

Max shifted her gaze outside the window, her hand defiantly back at her hair.

The taxi drew to a halt in front of the Holiday Inn.

Julian checked them in while Kevin changed their return flight. Kevin tried calling the Karachi History Museum. It was no good. The curator wasn’t sure whom to trust anymore. The German even had identification, he said.

At Max’s insistence, they agreed to look at every single paper they had collected since the saga had begun. Everything was brought to Kevin’s room. Max pored over Samuel’s diary, Julian looked at the papers from the DANK Haus on the dig, and Kevin looked over Hiram’s research.

“What are we looking for, anyway?” Julian asked.

“A way to find the pills,” Max murmured under her breath.

At around 4:00 a.m., when Max was about to give up, Julian closed his file. “This DANK Haus info is useless. Only factual—names, places, dates, times,” he said.

“Wait,” Max cried. “Did you say factual?”

“Yes.” Julian yawned. He went to the kitchenette and started a pot of coffee. Their fourth.

“Are there any addresses?” Max said.

“Yes, but—” Julian suppressed another yawn.

Max went to him. He still had some papers in his hand. She took them from him.

“They’re old.” Julian threw up his hands and sank into a sofa.

Max began reading. Most addresses listed were in Germany. There was a page full of names in present day Pakistan. And addresses. None of the names were familiar. These were all the people involved one way or another with the dig—archeologists in Pakistan, some in Europe. All dead, most likely.

There were some names in Karachi for advisors on the dig. “We’re going to check the local names,” Max said.

“Max, you know how old this information is,” Kevin said. “It’s no use going around trying to track these people down.”

Max gave him a look of disbelief. “I am not giving up after having come this far.”

“Maxine, look at me,” Kevin commanded. “It’s time for us to go home. I’ll try and get Hiram’s research published in a respectable publication, and I’ll find a way to get it noticed. I’ll do what I can with what we have.”

Max made a sour face.

“Uh-oh,” Julian said. “Look at her eyes, they have that steely glint in them.”

Max grinned.

“I know that look,” Kevin said tiredly. “Hiram would often get it.”

Max picked up a phone directory.

“Max,” Kevin said, “stop this madness. Most people didn’t even have phones then.”

Julian nodded. “And even if they did, those numbers would be long defunct, not to mention that all of these people are probably dead by now.”

Max stared at the list of names Julian had given her. The names began to blur. Her eyes closed. She let them.
I’ll sleep for ten minutes, no more
, she promised herself.

Two hours later, she got up. The two men were fast asleep, sprawled on sofas.

She looked at the list of names once more.
Fardoon Chapar
, it said.
Interpreter
. With an address in Karachi.

Kevin stirred a little.

“Kevin!”

“Huh?” Kevin slurred.

“Fardoon Chapar was the guide’s great-grandson! He was only a teenager back then. He could be around.”

“Who?” Kevin mumbled as Max dashed out.

214 Rashid Minhas Road

Karachi

This time the fly wouldn’t escape. Fardoon Chapar raised his arm and brought the swatter down with a crack. Missed. Damn. He looked at the fly, now safe on the opposite wall, and threw away the swatter. This lack of work was like a slow death.

“
Aajaa
, grandpa, chai!” Zeeshan, his grandson, entered the store holding two cups of tea in his hands and an oil-stained bag between his teeth. “And
pakoras
, fritters,” he said.

Fardoon stood on tiptoe. A small window connected his store to the tea shop’s kitchen next door. “Hey Khan, maybe someday we will make this hole bigger so you can pass the eatables through here.”

He heard a chuckle from the other side.

Fardoon smiled at Zeeshan. “This gives you an excuse to go next door and admire the female customers, I’m sure.”

With a wink, Zeeshan placed the snack on the table. He picked up a wooden stool and took it outside. Perched on it, he began adjusting the signboard.

“
Arre,
hey, don’t bother,” Fardoon said.

It had been weeks since they’d any clients.

“A lopsided signboard says we don’t care,” Zeeshan said. “Someone will come. Today, perhaps.”

“I should never have asked you to join this business,” Fardoon said. “Your wise father stayed in the village and has earned respect as a schoolteacher. Look at us!”

Zeeshan went to his grandfather. “One day we will go back there with money and fulfill our dream of making the lives of our people better. I spoke to some hotels yesterday. They will send some people our way.”

Fardoon shook his head. “They take so much commission, the thieves!”

Zeeshan took a bite of a fritter. “Eat, or they’ll get cold.”

Fardoon took a sip of his tea and, with a satisfied sigh, surveyed the busy street a few feet away. A goatherd walked by, leading a flock of goats for their grazing session. Fardoon looked this way and that until his eyes settled on a young woman. Dressed in a sea blue
shalwar kameez
of chiffon, she had wondrous dark brown curls. A modern girl, Fardoon thought, but modest, for her head was covered with a scarf. She had the curves and creamy complexion that poets wrote verses about.
Mashallah!
Wonderful.

“If only I was a young man again! Zeeshan, soon it’ll be time to find you a girl as beautiful as…wait…wait a minute.” She was scanning the store signs. Her eyes finally rested on theirs—‘
Chapar Interpreters—only English-speaking people in Karachi you can trust
.’ She started moving toward their store. “Bring that chair! Not that one! The one with the cushion.”