Page 3 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

“Tomorrow.” Toby reviews the contents of his suitcase—clothes in varying styles, hair dye, technical equipment that won’t trigger the alarm at the airport. They’ll need to pick up weapons at a contact point in New Delhi. “Going ahead to check out a few things, set up some stuff. I’ll arrange it so that a copy of my room key is waiting at the airport when you land, then we’ll regroup.”

“Exchanging keys already?” Mike’s voice is laced with dry humor. “I didn’t think we were at that stage in our relationship.”

Toby ignores him. “Under what name are you flying?”

“Arthur Dent.”

“Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy?”

“Don’t panic. It’s a useful mindset.” Mike’s laugh is low and slightly husky. “It’s one of my favorite aliases, actually.”

“Sounds suspiciously British to me.” After snapping the suitcase shut, Toby sits down on his bed and looks around the sparsely decorated room. He’s been staying at his apartment for nearly three weeks now; it’s the longest he’s been home in a year.

Home. Realizing the slip, Toby makes a note to look for another place as soon as he returns from India.

“I do a passable imitation of a British accent,” Mike interrupts Toby’s thought process.

“That’s nice,” Toby says. “What about your Hindi?”

“Rough, at best.” Mike sounds as if the concession pains him.

“Okay, mine’s slightly better than rough, but by no means fluent. We’ll manage.” Toby pauses, absently picking up a lone sock that somehow found its way to the foot of his bed. “The room will be under Mauro Gillard, by the way.” It’s one of two names Toby will be using for this op. There’s no need to reveal another alias to Mike, though; sharing more than what’s necessary is inadvisable in their line of work. “You’re flying First Class, I assume?”

“Don’t we always?” If Mike is put off by the abrupt topic change, it doesn’t show.

“Right,” Toby says, repeats it. “Right. Then be sure to dress the part, okay? No cargo pants. We don’t want to draw any attention to ourselves.”

“You know, I have done this before.” An edge of annoyance creeps into Mike’s voice, blanking out the humorous warmth that was there before.

“Good. Then the key card will be waiting at the airport information desk, and I’ll see you at the hotel.” Toby hesitates, then adds, “Safe travels.” Never let it be said that he doesn’t try.

“You too,” he hears after a noticeable pause.

Good enough. Toby hangs up without another word and mentally reviews what’s left of his to-do list.

II. New Delhi, India

II. Chapter One

N ew Delhi is a monster.

After a layover that wouldn’t quit in Hong Kong, Toby’s flight arrives with a delay of twenty hours at Indira Gandhi International Airport, where he learns that the wind just changed direction to announce the arrival of a long and extremely hot summer. In the heat, the city is groaning under its heavy load of traffic, ill-designed for a never-ending stream of cars and rickshaws that squeeze through its narrow roads.

Toby’s journey from the airport to his hotel is accompanied by constant honking. To his surprise, no one seems to mind when the honking doesn’t show the desired effect; he doesn’t spot any drivers about to start a brawl, no one is yelling or muttering curses, and while Toby’s cab driver is steadily blaring the horn, he does it with an air of resigned indifference. Just doin’ my part, ya know?

Toby is relieved when they make it to the relatively quiet diplomatic quarter. Situated in its midst, the Taj Mahal Hotel is an imposing building with a generous number of video cameras tracking his arrival. He pays the driver and waits for a hotel employee to pick up his bags before ambling up the stairs.

The hotel lobby is a typical five-star affair, lavishly decorated with plush chairs and sofas scattered about, skylights of multi-colored glass embedded in the ceiling. A gold-framed mirror running along one wall shows Toby his own tired face, his hair sweat-matted and just long enough to brush the collar of his shirt.

Unsurprisingly, the concierge speaks flawless English, saving him a check-in experience hindered by sleep deprivation and patchy Hindi. It’s the little things, isn’t it? A mere three minutes after being offered a face towel, he’s led towards the Luxury Room pre-booked for one Mr. Mauro Gillard, hailing from Detroit and visiting India for business reasons. As requested, the room is on the second floor, looking out over the pool and the garden.

The moment the door closes, Toby drops his shoulders and allows himself to wallow in his exhaustion for a couple of seconds. It’s only late afternoon, but he retrieves his toothbrush from his suitcase, blinking tiredly at his reflection in the mirror. His reflection blinks back at him through small-pupiled eyes framed by hazy green. His usually blond hair is now a dark brown and further pales his skin tone, the trimmed goatee giving him a slightly diabolic air. He slaps off the bathroom light.

On his way to the king-sized bed, he shucks his clothes, sinks onto the mattress in only a pair of boxers, and barely manages to tug a corner of the blanket over his body before sleep overwhelms him.

***

The best way for an organization to hide its true nature is to erect a facade that is actually profitable. That’s why Kroning Ltd. does indeed employ about a dozen people to sell LED displays and connectors imported from Asia. Likewise, Madhur & Sons produces car parts in its factory located near the old bank of Yamuna River.

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