Robin Cook - Foreign Body

With the radio playing contemporary Bollywood-inspired music, Dhaval, dressed in a black open-necked shirt with a number of gold chains, steered his beloved black Mercedes E-Class sedan into the Amal Palace’s driveway and drove up under the porte cochere. In the locked glove compartment was a Beretta automatic fitted with a three-inch suppressor. It was one of his many disposable guns. It was Dhaval’s rule that when he made a hit, the gun disappeared or was left at the scene. Back when he’d just been hired, Shashank had complained that such a habit was too expensive, but Dhaval had insisted, and even threatened to quit if he was not allowed to follow it. Shashank had eventually relented. In India it was a lot easier to buy guns than to find people with Dhaval’s résumé.

Dhaval was from a small rural town in Rajasthan and had joined the army to escape the inexorable grip of provincial life. In so many ways the decision was life-altering. He came to love the army life and the thrill of potential sanctioned killing. He applied for and was accepted into the newly formed Indian Special Forces, ultimately ending up as a Black Cat in the elite National Security Guards. His career progressed stupendously, at least until he saw real action in the 1999 Kashmerian ops. During a night raid on a suspected Pakistani-supported group of insurgents, he demonstrated such unbridled ruthlessness by killing seventeen suspects who were trying to surrender that the command considered him an embarrassing liability and removed him from the operation. A month later he was discharged from the service.

Luckily for Dhaval, his story, which the National Security Guards tried to keep quiet, appeared on the radar screen of Shashank Malhotra, who was rapidly diversifying his business interests and making enemies in the process. Needing someone with Dhaval’s training and attitude, Shashank actively pursued the ex- special forces agent, and the rest was history.

Dhaval lowered his window as the Amal Palace’s head doorman approached, holding his book of parking stickers in one hand and a pencil in the other. “How long will you be?” the doorman demanded. He was busy, as businessmen were arriving in ever-increasing numbers for breakfast meetings.

Palming a roll of rupees, Dhaval handed them over. They rapidly disappeared into the doorman’s scarlet tunic. “I’d like to park up here near the entrance. I’ll probably be an hour or so, certainly less than two.”

Without saying anything to Dhaval, the doorman pointed at the last parking spot just across from the hotel’s entrance, then waved for the next car to pull forward. Dhaval rounded the outer columns that supported the porte cochere and took the designated spot. It was perfect. He had an unobstructed view of the hotel entrance and his vehicle was pointing down toward the driveway’s exit to the street.

After climbing from the car, Dhaval went into the lobby and, using the house phones, placed a call to Jennifer Hernandez. He let it ring a half-dozen times, got voicemail, and hung up. Walking over to the main restaurant used for breakfast, he asked the maître d’ if Ms. Jennifer Hernandez had been seen yet that morning.

“No, sir,” the gentleman said.

“I’m supposed to meet her, and I have no idea what she looks like. Could you possibly give me an idea?”

“A very pretty young woman, medium-height; dark, thick, shoulder-length hair; and nice figure. She tends to wear tight jeans and cotton shirts.”

“I’m impressed,” Dhaval said. “That is a much more complete description than I expected. Thank you.”

“I must admit I remember the attractive women the best,” the maître d’ said with a smile and a wink, “and she is indeed an attractive woman.”

Dhaval wandered out of the restaurant, mildly confused. It was only a little after eight, and Jennifer was not in her room and not in the breakfast area. Dhaval stopped near the center of the lobby and glanced around to see if anyone might fit the description given by the maître d’, but no one did. Then his eyes wandered out the large windows and he saw a half-dozen or so people swimming laps in the pool.

Exiting the hotel, Dhaval checked the swimmers. There were two youngish women. One had medium-brown hair but would not qualify as having a nice figure. The second swimmer was blond, so she was out as well. Returning to the hotel, Dhaval used the lower entrance to check out the spa and workout room. There were two people using the weight machines and exercise bikes, but they were both men.

Mildly discouraged, Dhaval returned upstairs to the lobby and went over to the transportation desk. The hotel employee who ran it was called Samarjit Rao. Sam, as he was known, was on Shashank Malhotra’s under-the-counter payroll. When Shashank brought businessmen to Delhi, he always put them up at the Amal, and often he found it important to know where these people went.

“Mr. Narang,” Sam said respectfully. “Namasté.” Sam knew who Dhaval was and was appropriately scared of him.

“There is a young woman, supposedly attractive, at least according to the maître d’, who is registered here at the hotel. Her name is Jennifer Hernandez. Do you know this person?”

“I do,” Sam said, nervously glancing about. There were several other hotel employees who knew who Dhaval was.

“I need someone to point her out for me. Think you could do that?”

“Of course, sir. When she comes back.”

“She is out of the hotel?”

“Yes, I saw her leave a little before eight.”

Dhaval sighed. He’d hoped to meet up with her early enough so that when she went out he could follow her.

“Well, I’ll wait around for a few hours,” Dhaval said. “I’ll get a paper and sit over against the wall.” He pointed to several free club chairs. “If and when she comes in, let me know.”

The WaKe-Up Call at 8:15 a.m. woke Neil from a deep sleep, and he answered in a panic, not quite knowing where he was. But his mind cleared rapidly, and he thanked the operator before bounding out of bed. The first thing he did was open the draperies and look out at the hazy sunshine. Directly below was the pool, with a handful of people swimming laps. Neil looked forward to doing the same sometime during the day. It would be good treatment for his anxiousness and jet lag.

With his anticipation building, he rushed into the bathroom and jumped into the shower. He brushed his teeth, combed his hair into some semblance of order, and pulled on a fresh shirt and clean jeans. Thus prepared, he sat on the edge of the bed and pressed the operator button with a trembling finger. His idea was to pretend he was calling from L.A., and during the course of the conversation, try to find out her day’s plans. From that information, he’d figure out how to surprise her.

It seemed like it was taking forever for the operator to answer. “Come on!” he urged impatiently. When the operator finally answered, he gave Jennifer’s name. The next thing he heard was the phone ringing in her room, and expecting to hear her voice at any second, his excitement grew.

After almost a dozen rings, Neil was convinced she wasn’t going to pick up, so he replaced his receiver. Next he tried her cell, but got her voicemail after only one ring, suggesting she’d not turned it on. He hung up. With some disappointment, he contemplated his next step. He did think that there was a chance she was in the shower and he should call her room again in five to ten minutes, but as agitated as he’d become, he wasn’t about to just sit there. Neil got his key card, left his room, and descended down to the lobby level. His next thought was that she could be having breakfast.

The restaurant was nearly full, and as he waited in line to talk to the maître d’, his eyes scanned the entire multilevel room. To the left on the highest level against the back wall was a substantial buffet.