Dan Simmons - Song of Kali

There was no record of any Krishna affiliated with the United States Education Foundation in India. Indeed, there was no USEFI office in Calcutta. The nearest branch was in Madras. Phone calls had been placed, but no one in Madras had any information about a Krishna or Sanjay. No one had been sent to meet us at the Calcutta airport. USEFI had no idea I was in the country.

There had been many students named Sanjay at Calcutta University. None contacted so far fit the description that I had given the police. Officers were working on it, but it might be several weeks before all of the currently registered Sanjays were contacted. It was, after all, a midterm holiday.

It had been confirmed that a Jayaprakesh Muktanandaji had been a student there, but he had not registered during the previous term. A waiter at the University Coffee House, however, had seen Muktanandaji there only two days ago.

"That's after I met him there," I said.

So it seemed. Muktanandaji had shown his waiter friend a rail ticket he had purchased. He said that he was going home to his village of Anguda. The waiter had not seen the young man since. Singh had telephoned the Commissioner in Jamshedpur, who would telegraph the provincial constable in Durgalapur. The constable would go to Anguda to find Muktanandaji and bring him back to Durgalapur for questioning. They should be hearing from him by late Wednesday.

"Tomorrow!"

"Yes, Mr. Luczak. It is a remote village."

There were many Bahrati families in the Calcutta phone book. None contacted had a daughter in her twenties with the name of Kamakhya. The name, after all, was quite unusual.

"How is that?" I asked.

"I will explain later," said Singh.

There had been contacts made with informers in the goondas underground. No useful information had been forthcoming, but overtures continued. Also, the police would be questioning members of the Beggars' Union.

My stomach turned over at those words. "What about the Kapalikas?" I asked.

"'Ow's that?" asked the other inspector.

Singh said something in Bengali and turned back to me. "You must understand, Mr. Luczak, that the Kapalika Society remains — technically — a myth."

"Bullshit," I said. "It was no myth that someone was going to kill me last night. It's no myth that our little girl is missing."

"No," said Singh. "But we have no hard evidence yet that the thugees , goondas , or the so-called Kapalikas are involved. It is also complicated by the fact that various criminal elements often call upon a corrupt, Tantric form of mysticism, frequently invoking local deities — in this case, Kali — in order to impress their initiates or to frighten the common people."

"Uh-huh," I said.

Amrita crossed her arms and looked at the three men. "So you have no real news for us?" she asked.

Singh glanced at the other two. "No progress, no."

Amrita nodded and picked up the phone. "Yes, hello, this is Room six-twelve. Would you please put through a call for me to the American Embassy in New Delhi? Yes. It is very important. Thank you."

The three men blinked. I saw them to the door while Amrita waited by the phone. In the hall, the other two officials moved away while I detained Singh for a moment. "Why is Kamakhya Bahrati's name so unusual?"

Singh stroked his mustache. "Kamakhya is . . . not a common name in Bengal."

"Why is that?"

"It is a religious name. An aspect of . . . of Parvati."

"Of Kali, you mean."

"Yes."

"So why isn't it common, Inspector? There are enough Ramas and Krishnas around."

"Yes," said Singh and flicked lint from his cuff. The steel bracelet on his wrist caught the light. "Yes, but the name Kamakhya, or its variant, Kamaksi, is associated with a particularly unattractive aspect of Kali once worshiped in the great temple at Assam. Some of their ceremonies were very unwholesome. The cult was outlawed some years ago. The temple is abandoned."

I nodded. I did not react to the news. I went back to the room and calmly waited for Amrita's call to be completed. And all the while the mad laughter built inside me and the screams of rage rattled their cage to be freed.

Around five P.M. on that endless day I went down to the lobby. A sense of claustrophobia had grown in me until I found it hard to breathe. But the lobby was no better. I bought a cigar in the gift shop; but the clerk kept glancing at me, and the sympathetic stare of the assistant manager approached resentment. I imagined that a Muslim couple in the lobby were whispering about me, and it was not my imagination when several waiters stepped out of the Garden Café to point and crane my way.

I hastily retreated to the sixth floor, jogging up the stairs to release energy. The English custom of calling the second floor the first gave me an extra flight of exercise. I was panting and sweating freely when I emerged into the hallway of our floor. Amrita was hurrying toward me.

"Something?" I asked.

"I just remembered something important," she said in a rush of breath.

"What's that?"

"Abe Bronstein! Krishna mentioned Abe Bronstein to us when we were leaving the airport that first night. Krishna must have some association with USEFI or somebody ."

Amrita went to talk to the police sergeant in 614 while I had a call put through to the States. Even with the policeman expediting things at the switchboard, it was thirty minutes before they got an overseas line. Something in me came close to pulling apart when I heard the familiar growl from New York. "Bobby, good morning! Where the hell are you calling from? It sounds like you're calling from the moon on a cheap CB."

"Abe, listen. Listen, please." As quickly as I could, I told him about Victoria's disappearance.

"Aww, shit," moaned Abe. "Shit, shit, shit." Even through ten thousand miles of bad connection I could hear the deep pain in his voice.

"Listen, Abe, can you hear me? One of the suspects in this thing is a guy named Krishna . . . M. T. Krishna . . . but we think his real name is Sanjay something. He met us at the airport last Thursday. Can you hear me? Good. This Krishna said that he worked for USEFI . . . that's the American Education Foundation . . . yeah . . . and that he picked us up as a favor for his boss. Neither Amrita nor I can remember what he said his boss's name was. But he also mentioned your name, Abe. He specifically mentioned your name. Hello?"

"Shah," said Abe through the hollow echoes.

"What?"

"Shah. A. B. Shah. I cabled him right after you left for London and asked him to give you a hand if you needed it."

"Shah," I repeated, writing quickly. "Great. Where can we get hold of him, Abe? Is he in the Calcutta directory?"

"No, Bobby, he's not in Calcutta. Shah's an editor of the Times of India , but he also works as a cultural advisor for USEFI in New Delhi. I knew him several years ago when he taught at Columbia. I never heard of this Krishna son of a bitch."

"Thanks, Abe, you've been a lot of help."

"Damn, Bobby, I'm so sorry . How's Amrita holding up?"

"Beautifully. She's a rock, Abe."

"Ahhh. It'll be all right, Bobby. You gotta believe that. They'll get Victoria back for you. She'll be okay."

"Yeah."

"Let me know when things work out. I'll be at my mother's. You've got the number, right? Let me know if I can help. Aww, damn . It'll be all right, Bobby."

"Good-bye, Abe. Thanks."

Amrita had not only informed Singh, but was on the phone to the third of Calcutta's three large newspapers. She snapped out instructions in peremptory Hindi.

"We should have done this earlier," she said when she got off the phone. "Now they won't appear until tomorrow's editions." Amrita had taken out a half-page ad in each of the papers. Runners would pick up copies of the photograph we had loaned the police. There would be a $10,000 reward for any helpful information regarding the case; $50,000 for the safe return of Victoria or any information leading to her safe return, no questions asked.