Page 2 of Rising Tiger

As the largest celebration in India, Diwali represented the triumph of good over evil, knowledge over ignorance, and hope over despair. Tonight, however, victory was about to be handed to evil, ignorance, and despair all wrapped up in one.

American Eli Ritter had been encouraged to accept a security detail. Nothing too obvious, just something light, a buffer in case anything bad happened. He had declined.

Understanding his reluctance, the president’s national security advisor had suggested pairing him with an Athena Team operative from the U.S. Army’s all-female Delta Force unit. Once again, Ritter had declined. And with good reason.

Per his orders, he was supposed to be operating not just “under” the radar, but altogether off of it. No one was to have any idea what he was up to. That was why he was in Jaipur and not in New Delhi, and why he had been in Adelaide and Osaka rather than Canberra and Tokyo. Popping up in the capitals of India, Australia, and Japan—drawing attention to himself with bodyguards—could have jeopardized everything.

The president and his team, however, didn’t like their shadow diplomat operating without protection. Reluctantly, after much debate, they had acquiesced. Ritter, after all, was a man who knew how to handle himself.

After leaving the United States Marine Corps, he had gotten a master’s degree in economics and had joined the State Department. Over the years, he had been posted at various diplomatic missions around the world as an “economic development officer.”

Officially, his job had been to help hammer out trade agreements and secure favorable environments for American corporations looking to operate abroad.

Unofficially, he had functioned as a highly regarded intelligence officer, skilled at recruiting foreign spies and building outstanding human networks.

Ritter had been so successful that his identity had been kept secret from all but a very select few in the U.S. government. Even after he had retired and moved into the private sector as an international business consultant, his identity had been protected.

While no one in the diplomatic arena was ever completely beyond suspicion of espionage, Ritter had come pretty damn close. None of his assets had ever been compromised and none of his colleagues had ever screwed up and revealed his true occupation. By all appearances, he had led a rather unremarkable career at the State Department, which was fine by him—just the way a true and professional spy would have wanted himself to be seen.

After opening his consulting business, Ritter had kept his nose clean. Any time someone from his past had come around with an intelligence contract, he had politely refused. The espionage chapter of his life was closed. Or so he had thought.

Everything had changed when he showed up for a “new client” meeting and had found himself face-to-face with the president of the United States.

When the president explained the nature of the mission and what hung in the balance, Ritter had agreed to come out of retirement.

Other than his Marine Corps commitment to a lifetime of fitness, there was nothing about Ritter that said “military.” He was in his early sixties and stood about six foot two. With medium-length gray hair swept behind his ears, trademark stubble on his face, casual yet well-tailored designer clothes, a TUDOR Black Bay Chrono, and a pair of Ray-BanAviators, he had looked like any other well-heeled tourist or stylish entrepreneur exploring India’s tenth-largest metropolis.

In an effort to cement his relaxed-visitor image, as well as to pick up any potential surveillance, he had spent two days “sightseeing” and purchasing small gifts for his family back home.

The exquisite Pink City—so named for the pink blush of so many of its buildings—had much to offer.

He took in the big sights, like the stunning City Palace, the Jal Mahal, and the Hawa Mahal, as well as the impressive Amber Fort, the Nahargarh Fort, and the Galta Ji. At random, he wove in and out of countless lush gardens, in addition to bustling, colorful marketplaces selling everything from spices, textiles, and shoes to perfume, jewelry, and crafts.

He used taxis, buses, and the colorful, open-air autorickshaws to get around. The air was scented with incense mixed with the winds that blew from the Thar Desert. He drank chai from sidewalk tea shops and ate food from street vendors—always keeping his eyes and ears open. Never once did he notice, or sense, anyone following him. When it came time for his meeting, he felt confident that he was in the clear.

Even so, he continued to maintain his situational awareness. Leaving his hotel, he ran a series of surveillance detection routes through Jaipur’s affluent Vaishali Nagar neighborhood.

The Diwali festival was in full swing and even more spectacular at night. From courtyards and rooftops, fireworks were being launched high into the night sky. Beautifully decorated homes were framed by the illumination from tiny, flickering clay oil lamps calleddiyas.

People walked down the street waving sparklers, dressed in their most elegant clothing. Bursts of firecrackers could be heard coming from all directions. There were musicians on every corner. The traffic was thick and noisy. Everything in Jaipur was electric… thrumming… alive.

Ritter was meeting his contact in a part of Vaishali Nagar popular for its food scene. The Tansukh fine dining restaurant, with its gleaming white floors and polished wooden ceilings, specialized in authentic Rajasthani cuisine. It was one of his contact’s favorites. Though they had serious business to discuss, the man had assured him that he was in for a meal he would never forget.

His contact had been right. From the Mohan Maas—meat stuffed with dried fruit and cooked slowly in milk, cardamom, and cinnamon—to the Bajra Roti flatbread, a never-ending parade of chutneys, and ice-cold bottles of Kingfisher beer from Bangalore, it had been an outstanding dinner.

Even better than the food was his counterpart’s agreement on almost everything he had come to discuss.

It wasn’t a total fait accompli, however. Ritter would have to convince the man’s boss. And it would not be easy.

What’s more, setting up the meeting was going to be extremely difficult and would require an unparalleled level of secrecy. India was on edge.

China had become much more belligerent. Pakistan, despite its massive internal problems, was also stirring up trouble. And the Kashmir region, after an unusually protracted calm, was beginning to overheat.

Those elements alone had the makings of a perfect storm. Throw in an upcoming election, and the danger level only skyrocketed. Politicians seldom liked taking risks. They liked risk-taking even less when their political careers were sure to hang in the balance.

Complicating matters even further was the fact that India’s democracy was backsliding. Illiberal forces were amassing power at an alarming rate. The incumbent party was doing all it could to hang on to office. There were fears that a state of emergency might be declared, the constitution suspended, and all elections postponed.

It was against this difficult backdrop that Eli Ritter had been sent to work his quiet magic. And based on the success of his dinner, he appeared—so far—to be off to a solid start.

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