Triangle

Triangle

A novel by Alex & Barbara Wilson

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 by Alex Wilson

Other works by these authors available at www.wilsonwritings.com

The May 18 electronic newsletter of the London School of Economics (LSE) posted a brief notice in their ‘Notable and Quotable’ section:

We are pleased to welcome an esteemed colleague from Bowdoin College in Maine. Dana Ward, Ph.D in the history department of Bowdoin will be using the LSE as her base to research a book on the formation of present day fortunes that sprung from roots of the slave trade of the 1600 – 1700s. Dr. Ward has hosted several LSE faculty at Bowdoin during the past few years. We are honored to have her amongst us for an indeterminate number of months whilst she conducts her studies.

This innocuous sounding news note set in motion events that were to reverberate throughout England; in Parliament, at Scotland Yard, the media and the foundations of private fortunes.

* * * * * * *

Dana Ward had no previous idea of the depth and depravity of the history of the slave trade. Her immersion research into the long-running ‘Triangle of Trade’ had her hooked. She would lose track of time. A gentle tap on the shoulder from a prudish, round-faced librarian startled her from her reverie and, once again, she was politely reminded of the British Museum Library’s closing hours. The two women chuckled at each other. ‘Oh my, Mrs. Wills, kicked out again, am I?’

She reluctantly bundled up against the cold drizzle outside. The guard at the door had his hand on the lock ready to secure the entrance as soon as she passed.

Dana paused outside the door to organize her baggage. She was a strapping, big-boned 5 foot 11 inch Maine girl used to much more severe Maine weather than the drizzle and chill of London even in the summer. She hefted the shoulder straps of her computer carrier and messenger-style book bag stuffed with papers and notebooks and pulled the hood up on her rain jacket or anorak as they call it here.

It was mid-week, late and rainy. Few people were on the street. She turned onto Houghton St. to walk to the Whitechapel tube station. She didn’t make it. Dana’s mind was on arcane details of the slave trade, her head was down, her brolly up. Brolly. I love that word. My brolly, my flat, the lift. Everything here has such a wonderful lilt. I even love this rain. Her footsteps splashed a bit as she walked, masking other footsteps.

Without a second’s warning, she was hit on the back of the head…hard. Hard enough to put her face down on the pavement in the water with her book bag and computer bag thrown asunder. She didn’t know what had hit her. A club? A bat? A rock? She tried to roll to one side to see what or who had knocked her down. She had barely turned but not enough to get a proper look nor for her vision to clear before a cloth bag was pulled over her head, her hands cinched behind her and she was grabbed by the arms and dragged into a stairwell of a townhouse. One shoe was dragged off. She bumped down the stone stairs with each step damaging her spine. She knew she would have to fight and she tried as well as she could by thrashing her legs blindly and yelling. As she could not see what to kick, she actually did herself more harm by kicking the walk, railing and steps. Another blow to the head inside the bag finished her struggle with consciousness. She went black.

* * * * * * *

Josh Malley – former (never ‘ex’) Marine and investigative journalist had morphed his career into being a perceptive and valued corporate consultant. He was providing consultation for AK Steel at West Chester, Ohio when he received a call relayed from Rudy Ward, his wife’s father in Maine. Rudy had been contacted by the Metropolitan Police in London and informed that his daughter, Dana, had been attacked and seriously injured. She was in a coma and they were unable to locate Josh, the name listed in her effects as the person to contact in case of emergency. His angular features became even more pronounced as he involuntarily clenched his jaw in silent rage. His intense calm under dire circumstances was part of his past training. An observer would have thought, too calm.

‘What happened, Rudy? Tell me everything you know.’

‘I’m shaking, Josh.’

‘It’s okay, Rudy. Take your time.’

‘They told me it was an attempted rape while she was headed home from the library in London somewhere. After dark there, dawn here.’

‘Okay, I’ll get there as quickly as I can get a flight. What contact do you have there? What hospital?’

‘I’m sorry, Josh. I was too stunned to think clearly. I didn’t even ask what hospital but I wrote down the police number at Scotland Yard.’

Josh took the number, assured Rudy that he would report on all progress once he got on the scene and immediately called the number provided by the police. There was the customary two-ring signal and a prompt answer by a friendly, efficient woman’s voice.

‘Scotland Yard. How may I direct your call?’

‘I am calling from the United States. I just got word from a Detective Sergeant Clampert that my wife was attacked and injured. Connect me with him, please.’

‘I am connecting you. Please hold.’

In two rings a more rough and impatient voice growled into the phone. ‘Sergeant Clampert.’

‘Sergeant, I am Josh Malley, husband of Dana Ward. I just received word that she was attacked and injured. What can you tell me?’

‘Yes, Mister, uh, is it Malley? Please spell and give me your phone number in case we are disconnected.’

Josh complied impatiently. ‘Please, Sergeant, the details.’

‘Right. Hold on while I get the file on my screen. Yes, here it is. At about 2230 hours local time last night, your wife was accosted in what appears to have been an attempted rape.’

‘Explain ‘appears to be’ please.’

‘Her clothes were torn, she was restrained and had a bag tied over her head in a manner we have seen here repeatedly. It strongly suggests the work of a local serial rapist we’ve been after for awhile. She was pretty banged up and had taken some blows to the head, the cause of her coma. We are able to confirm, however, that the rape was not, repeat, not consummated.’

‘And where is she now?’

‘She was admitted to St. Thomas. I can provide the contact info there, if you like.’

After acquiring the information, Josh said, ‘I’m in Ohio but will be there as quickly as possible, leaving within the hour. Who’s leading the investigation?’

‘My Detective Inspector, Margaret Curtin, and I have been assigned. You have my contact numbers. We are located at New Scotland Yard, easy to find. Check in with us when you arrive.’

The matter was handled so efficiently by Clampert that Josh unintentionally lapsed into military argot. ‘That is well, Sergeant. Out.’ He terminated the call with his mind already processing his travel planning. Josh Malley was just Dana’s height – slightly shorter on those rare occasions when she wore heels – but was not a man to be trifled with. He was angular and wiry and, from long combat discipline, a powerful package. The tip offs were his high-and-tight haircut and an intensity in his eyes.

During every step of the trip from CVG to JFK to LHR, Josh had to fight to control his anger, his blood-in-the-eyes anger. It was the normal and expected emotion of any man dealing with an attack on a loved one. Josh’s, fury was even more intense, if such were possible, since he was a trained and experienced killer. He had been a Force Recon Marine, a sniper and black ops mission leader on many occasions. He had killed many people. He had to fight back the instinct to find and kill someone. But, killing in war was one thing. Taking revenge in civilian environment was another. He was a rational and disciplined person, able to overcome and control his initial rage.

He arrived at St. Thomas Hospital with jet lag and bags-in-hand. He had steeled his emotions throughout the long journey but was eager now to see Dana. He was directed to Dana’s ward and almost ran through the hospital corridors to get to her room. He burst down the hall only to be blocked by a stern nurse who had the demeanor of a combat vet herself.

‘Hold up there, sir. This is an intensive care unit. You will respect the quiet and calm or you will be ejected.’

‘Sorry, nurse. I’ve been running since Ohio. My wife’…

‘Let’s start with your wife’s name, shall we?’

‘Dana Ward.’

‘Right. Now, if you will catch your breath and gain some measure of calm, I’ll take you to her. Are we ready?’

‘Yes, ma’am. I’m okay now. Show me to her, please.’

Josh stood in the doorway of the hospital room. The kaleidoscope of emotions crossing his features indicated he knew at first glance the severity of Dana’s injuries. Josh was stunned to see Dana with her head bandaged heavily, an oxygen mask, tubes in her veins and monitors beeping steadily. He beat back another wave of anger. Josh slowly approached Dana’s bed. She was in a deep, deep sleep. His eyes followed the contour of her head, her arms, her still body under the immaculate white sheet. He searched for an open space in the maze of wires and tubes and gently took her lifeless hand in his. ‘Dana, honey, I’m here.’ For several minutes, Josh stool watching, matching his breathing to hers until he heard footsteps behind him.

‘Please brief me on her condition.’

‘That would be better handled by her doctor. I’ll get Dr. Howard straightaway.’

‘Mr. Malley, I am Janet Howard, Dana’s attending physician. I won’t delay as I know you want a prompt briefing on your wife’s condition. She was badly handled during the attack. The most serious injuries are to her head and spine. She was clubbed or beaten about the head and then dragged down some stone stairs that damaged some vertebrae. Her left foot was also broken in what looks like her attempt to fight back.’

‘Prognosis?’

‘We won’t be able to ascertain the likelihood of full recovery until she regains consciousness. Oh, the spine and foot injuries should heal fine in time but her mental acuity is an unknown for now. Our brain scans show normal activity but that doesn’t always tell the full story.’

‘I was a combat Marine for 18 years, doctor, so I have seen my share of head trauma. I understand the drill. I will be here every day but if I am away, may I leave my number with your nurse to call me the minute she regains consciousness?’

‘Of course. I hope you have already been told that your wife was not raped. The attack was interrupted, I understand.’

‘Thank you for that, doctor. The physical damage is enough without having to deal with that.’

Josh stayed for several hours and could see that Dana was stabile and well cared for. She was breathing regularly and the beeps of her monitors were regular and reassuring. He was contributing nothing at this point so he gathered his bags and headed for Dana’s hotel. Negotiations with the management allowed him access to her room where he bathed and went immediately to New Scotland Yard.

* * * * * * *

Dana gained semi-consciousness on several occasions. Josh was called and came immediately. The nurse recommended that he be soothing even if he were roiling inside at the injustice of her injuries.

‘Most of the time, even from such a deep slumber, the patient can hear all that is said and often remembers conversations spoken in their presence. I’m sure the sound of your voice must be reassuring to her,’ offered a perky, kind-faced nurse with a toothy grin. She was one of several on Dana’s day and night rotating shifts. She was in good hands.

There were bizarre dreams; murmured voices, ghostly apparitions floating vaguely back and forth, sometimes bright lights, sometimes almost none. Her head was bundled up in bandages which covered her ears further muffling the sounds. Everything was soft…if she didn’t move.

Several times Dana was semi-conscious. At least she thought so although it was tricky separating the murky dreams from the murky reality. Sometime she saw faces that floated away. Were they real? Sometimes she saw more light than at other times. One time a doctor or nurse shined a penlight directly into her eyes. She initially mistaken it for the sun and had a complete scenario about looking into the sun. It hurt her eyes so she looked away. Then, one night she awoke and saw the complete room in dim light. No one was there. She knew it was a hospital but the image didn’t last long. She drifted back to sleep.

When Dana finally regained full consciousness and her vision cleared, the first thing she saw was a ceiling with rod-like towers holding liquid bags and she heard some beeping electrical sounds. The next thing she saw was Josh leaning close with anxious eyes.

She blinked at him. ‘Hello’.

‘Hello.’ Josh Malley, her beloved, committed companion and all-but-husband looked into her face searchingly. He could see her eyes wandering, fighting for focus. She moved her mouth and her lips stuck together.

‘Thirsty?’

She tried her dried lips. ‘Yes, actually. Wattaya got?’

‘Oh, let’s see. We can offer a left over hospital OJ or water with a bendy straw.’

‘Let’s try the water.’

She knew from trying to lift her head unsuccessfully to take the water that she was hurt pretty bad. A couple of sips with Josh’s hand under her head and she was glad to put it back on the pillow.

‘Looks like a hospital. How close am I?’

‘Bang on, as they say here. I’m not supposed to stay too long. You have some healing to do and the police are eager to learn what you remember of your attack.’

‘What do you know about my attack?’

‘You were mugged strongly and there was the beginning of a rape attempt but they were scared off before he or they got to you.’

‘You mean I wasn’t raped?’

‘You were not raped but they had most of your clothing off in preparation. But, no consummation.’

‘I better go but can you tell me anything about the attack?’

‘Not much, Josh. One moment I’m walking along trying to avoid the puddles and the next moment I’m face down in them. You say ‘they’. I don’t even know if it was one person or more. He – or they – got a bag over my face before I could get a look. Sorry.’

‘Okay, honey. I am working with the Metro Police. We’ll figure this out. Meanwhile, your only job is to rest up and let that beautiful body heal. Here’s a cell phone with my number programmed in. Just hit ‘program’ and #1 and I’ll answer.’

‘Thanks, Sweetheart. I’m drifting back to dreamland. Bye bye.’

* * * * * * *

In 1780, the Khan clan lived in Hyderabad, then a chaotic, dusty medium sized town. It was overwhelmingly Hindu but there was a small and growing Muslim section that coexisted with little issue. Hyderabad was a way station for commerce for the British East India Company (BEIC) that had, over the years, gone from being one of many trading companies throughout the region to being dominant in ways beyond commerce. It was a presumptive government in itself and was ruling people’s lives beyond the buying, selling and movement of goods. It was British and operated alongside other British government agencies and enterprises. There was rumor that the British government would take control of the BEIC but it would matter little who was driving the cart. Ordinary citizens were but the beasts of burden for the British. Some of the clan leaders had tried to resist but the British army and British mercenaries – many of them Indians – had squelched revolt.

Macarama Khan had been forced from his land and had brought his family to Hyderabad to be in the company of fellow Muslims who had preceded him. The family had been farmers for generations but now, without land, they had to learn to be craftsmen and merchants and traders. They were not too proud to take work from the BEIC or from the British governmental presence. Those at the university who knew of such things said the increased British presence was due to their troubles in the American colonies. If they lost that war, the British might turn their attention and power more intensely to the subcontinent, Allah forbid.

But, despite all the dislocation, it was becoming obvious to the Khan clan that they were getting on to the business of the city service economy and were gaining a foothold and generating enough rupees to allow the family to enjoy security and some measure of material luxuries. Perhaps the dislocation caused by the British would end up being beneficial.

It was never a garden for Muslims in India. In fact, there wasn’t even an India until fairly recently. The British East India Company ran the subcontinent from 1757 until 1813 as a company store. The Muslims living there were just another oppressed minority.

Early to mid-century 1800s was a time of progress for India. The progress was slow and uneven throughout the country but there were visible signs here and there. India had become important to England as a market and as a source of raw material so there was much cross fertilization taking place. It was a colonial ‘possession’ of Great Britain, part of The Empire, and England was afire with innovation. Some of the innovations from the outside world that were finding their way to India included the revolver, telegraph, bicycle, sewing machine, typewriter, photography, anesthetics and the steam locomotive. Steamships were bringing England closer. Victoria ascended the throne in 1837 and, with Prince Albert’s help, ushered in the Industrial Revolution with all its wonders and progress. There were parts of India that could have been mistaken for the Stone Age but in the trading centers, enlightenment sputtered to life.

Olandomar Khan was the keeper of the Khan flame in Hyderabad in 1850 and business was good. The family had both consumer and commercial services to offer. The heart of the business was in wholesale distribution of the latest machinery and tools from England and the reciprocal trade of raw Indian cotton and Madras woven goods. Access to these products put them in the enviable position of having first pick of desirable items to sell at retail at an enhanced profit margin, albeit at smaller quantities. They were complimentary businesses and the family was doing well, well enough to allow, nay, require, the employment of a small army of laborers in the warehouses and stores. The Khans were becoming managers. But, they were still a minority, a fact that was brought home from time to time by the Hindu majority or by the British shadow rulers. The family learned to keep a low profile but it was increasingly difficult as they became undeniably prosperous.

In 1857 there had been efforts toward and even more unfounded fear of forced conversion of Muslims to become Hindus in the various armies raised to sustain BEIC hegemony. The Muslims, Sikhs, Hindus alike were pressed into service as part of the Commonwealth response to WW I and WW II. The Muslim League was on board, as well. But, at the end of WW II, the citizens of India had had enough of foreign rule and were on an unstoppable tide of independence that swept The Empire. Then the explosion took place.

In 1946 Calcutta, religious fighting broke out between Muslims and Hindus. Hellish does not begin to capture the terror and destruction; neighbor on neighbor, family against family, a slaughter that knew no bounds. There was a plan being formulated to partition the country into separate Hindu and Muslim sections but the Calcutta riots moved up the time table dramatically and in 1947, Pakistan on the west and Bangladesh on the east became Muslim enclaves with the