The PuppetMaster by Andrew L. MacNair Read Free Book Online Page A

indigo had taken hold. Varanasi, the city of light, was fading into evening.
    I stood wearily at my gate. Lifting my knapsack, I asked, “Rajneesh, how many children did you say you have?” I unfolded a stack of sweat stained rupees.
    “Four, Sahib, three girls and one unfortunate boy in the middle who cannot find any siblings to play soccer with.”
    “Yes, well he will likely become a very good cook, dress impeccably, and know exactly how much money to take to the marketplace.” He laughed. “Here is your fare for the day and some extra for your family.” I handed him twice our agreed upon fee.
    “Sahib, you are far too generous.” But the rupees were pocketed quickly. There were mouths to fill and shoes to buy. I liked my new acquaintance and inquired how I might contact him in the future. His brother, he explained, owned a cell phone, and he scribbled the number on a scrap of paper. If we were ever in need of employees . . . With a quick namaste, he throttled his rickshaw and bounced down the road towards the bridge over the Asi River.
    I pushed upon my gate and the action recalled the memory of the man I’d seen walking past it the previous day. It also brought back the memory of the encounter I’d had with him three and a half years ago--the first night I entered the city. The Delhi to Kolkut train had just lumbered into the station, and I had just stepped into the human bustle of the platform. My clothes were covered with soot, my spirit covered with sadness. I wished only for the anonymity of a new life in an old city. The young man appeared from within a cluster of passengers and luggage porters, looking in all ways like a college instructor or aspiring entrepreneur. He strode towards me as if he had been waiting for me to arrive.
    “My good friend, welcome,” he fired off in rapid, articulate English. “Tonight you enter the perennial city of Varanasi like a newborn, and for that reason, you really must have a new name.”
    I stepped back uneasily, and then seeing that he was not preparing to assault me or pester me for alms, I replied, “What?”
    “You need a new name, my friend, one to match your new identity.” He smiled as if knowing that was my intention.
    I blinked, dumbfounded. “Right . . . Okay. And what…what do you think I should be called?”
    With the quickness of someone who already knew the answer, he laughed, “You shall be named Bhim, like the great Pandava brother,” and without asking permission, slipped a black namaghanda about my neck and tied it. Christening me, if that verb may be used for the gift of a Hindu name, he whispered, “Bhim. Yes, yes, perfect. We shall meet again, Bhim. Be assured. Do good deeds, My Friend. It will help with the healing.” I blinked again, baffled by what he had seen in me.
    Then, he disappeared like vapor into the crowd.
    I closed the gate and decided his reappearance the same morning I received the invitation to the cave was merely coincidence.
    With a splitting yawn, I plodded into the courtyard where the only thing that greeted me was Lalji’s snoring and the savory aroma of Sahr’s banana fritters.

     
     
    Eight
     
    The plan for the next bombing came to Sutradharak in the small hours just beyond midnight. He rarely slept through an entire night, often suffering from prolonged bouts of insomnia, but in that sleeplessness, he was creative, his mind intensely active. Details bubbled to the surface like tar and he worked them to higher and higher levels of intricacy. Every element, every component was visited and analyzed, every contingency assessed.
    At first he had rejected the idea based on redundancy. A similar event eight months earlier had gone well, but one of his rules was never to repeat events. Repetition created patterns and patterns brought traceable clues.
    However, the more he considered this new design, the more he liked it. There was enough variation to it.
    Ultimately, his decision to accept the plan came from the