Kennedy International Airport for the first time all those years ago. He remembered the two heavy red leather suitcases he carried, and the determined look on his wife’s face as they exited customs at John F. He took out the faded sepia picture of his family that he carried in his billfold and looked at the unmarred face of his youth. He needed to ask his wife to join him on his walks again so she could enjoy the scenery with him. A gentle spring breeze cooled his weathered skin, and he let out a sigh. The sky was a blend of orange and deep blue already, and he settled down to watch the remainder of the sunrise. He approached the carved wooden bench that overlooked the front gardens on his estate and took a seat. He was a poet, and his poetry was code.ĭeepak knew his obsession with code was sometimes difficult to communicate, which was why he needed his morning walks to clear his head and work on his messaging. In his heart of hearts, he wasn’t a warrior like his brothers or the ancestors that came before him. His father was a police officer, as were his brothers, but Deepak wanted something different. He was born in a village on the outskirts of Chandigarh, Punjab, India, and was fortunate enough to receive a boarding school education. It took you long enough to find me.ĭeepak Singh was the fifth son of a fifth son.
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