At once a thought came to him. The United States was a member state of Interpol. In his research on trafficking, he had run across an article that mentioned Interpol’s Child Abuse Image Database. The database collected pictures of missing children from around the world. If Ahalya had a photograph of her sister, perhaps Interpol would post it on ICAID.
“Do you have a picture of Sita?” he asked.
Ahalya’s eyes brightened. “Wait here,” she said. She dropped her books on the ground and walked briskly up the path to the recovery center.
“I bet you didn’t expect to get interrogated,” Anita said.
“No, but she has a right to her questions. I’m a strange sight in this place.”
Anita didn’t have time to reply. Ahalya returned to the pond holding a dog-eared four-by-six-inch photograph. She placed it in Thomas’s hands and stood back, watching his expression. Thomas couldn’t believe his eyes. It was a Christmas portrait of an Indian family. Ahalya was clearly recognizable in the foreground.
“Is that your sister?” he asked, pointing at the younger girl beside Ahalya.
“That is Sita,” she confirmed.
“Where did you get that?” Anita asked, sounding astonished.
“I saved it from our house after the waves came,” Ahalya replied.
“You carried it all this way?” Thomas asked.
“I hid it in my clothing,” she said simply.
Thomas studied the image. Ahalya’s father had a countenance that easily balanced affability and intelligence, and her mother was doe-eyed and lovely. Their affection for one another was obvious in the way they leaned toward one another and drew their daughters into the center of the frame. The sisters held one another’s hands and looked as if they had been laughing.
“Do you mind if I take this with me?” Thomas said.
Ahalya nodded. “If you promise to return it.”
“Of course.”
“Will it help you find Sita?”
Thomas waggled his head, then laughed at himself.
“You’re picking up our mannerisms,” Anita said.
“I’ll be Indian before long.” He looked at Ahalya. “I’m going to e-mail the photograph to my friend in Washington. There is an international database for missing children. I’m going to ask that he submit the photograph with Sita’s name.”
“You will do that?” Ahalya asked in mild disbelief.
“It’s nothing,” he said.
Ahalya studied him for a long moment. Then she did something that Thomas could never have predicted. On her wrist was a bracelet woven of rainbow-colored thread. She untied the band and knelt before him.
“Sita made this for me,” she said, wrapping the bracelet around his arm. “Please give it to her when you find her.”
Thomas was stunned. He wanted to shake his head and refuse the responsibility the bracelet implied. Girls who went missing in the underworld were almost never found, and when they were, they were usually too damaged to lead a normal life. Yet the band was on his wrist. He hadn’t chosen it, but he saw no path of retreat.
“I’ll do what I can,” he said. “But I can’t make any promises.”
“Promise only that you will try,” Ahalya said.
He took a deep breath and exhaled it. “I will try,” he replied.
For the first time that afternoon, Ahalya smiled.
After work, Thomas took a rick back to Dinesh’s place. His friend wasn’t home yet. He set his laptop to the kitchen table and retrieved a compact digital camera from his suitcase. He placed Ahalya’s photograph on the table, took a picture of it, and uploaded the digital file to his computer. Opening Photoshop, he cropped the image until only Sita was captured in the frame. Then he typed a message to Andrew Porter and attached the cropped photograph. When he sent the message into cyberspace, he felt a tangible sense of relief. The ball was now in the hands of the professionals. There was nothing more he could do.
He checked his inbox, hoping that Priya had replied to one of the three e-mails he had sent her since the debacle at her cousin’s mendhi ceremony. It had been two weeks and still he hadn’t heard from her. He scrolled through the list of messages and didn’t see her name. He felt anger and impotence in equal doses. The Professor’s dismissal had been rampantly unjust.
He perused a few messages from friends in the District. He had disappeared suddenly, and people were starting to wonder. He typed cursory replies and divulged almost nothing about his whereabouts. There would come a time for a more thorough accounting, but that time wasn’t now.
He was about to shut down his computer when a new message appeared at the top of the screen. He couldn’t believe his eyes. She simply would not give up. He clicked on the message. Tera had written:
Thomas, it’s been over a month and no one at the firm has heard from you. I’m starting to worry. I keep telling myself that I should just let you go and lump you in with all the bastards who take a girl for a spin in bed and then cut them loose. But you’re not like that. Something happened. Please don’t leave me in suspense.
He walked onto the terrace, looking north toward Juhu Beach. Why was it that the woman he wanted seemed paralyzed by ambivalence, but the woman he had rejected wouldn’t let him go? He hadn’t wanted to use Tera. He hadn’t seduced her. If anything, the opposite had happened. He considered sending her a terse reply but decided against it. He had no desire to reopen the connection between them.
Instead, he took matters with Priya into his own hands. He dialed her mobile number on his BlackBerry. He had no idea what he was doing, but it felt better than waiting around for her to figure out that her father had no intention of changing his mind. He listened as the phone rang. He expected the voicemail to pick up, but then he heard her voice.
“Thomas?” she said.
He heard indistinct noises in the background, like she was in a public place.
He took a deep breath. “Priya, I’m sorry to do this, but I couldn’t wait any longer.”
“I got your e-mails,” she replied, her tone hesitant. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”
“Can I see you?”
“Right now?”
“Anytime. Now or later.”
She thought for a moment. “There’s a place called Toto’s in Pali Hill. Meet me there at nine o’clock. Ask Dinesh if you need directions.” He heard voices on the other end of the line.
“Gotta run,” she said. “Nine o’clock. Toto’s.”
“I’ll be there,” he replied, but she had already hung up.
At five minutes after nine, Thomas sat at the bar at Toto’s, sipping a beer. The place was incongruous. It was in the heart of Bombay’s swankiest suburb, yet it had the look and feel of a Boston pub. The decor was urban retro—chain links and old automobile parts adorned the walls, and the shell of a VW Beetle hung from the ceiling. Every seat was taken when he arrived, almost all by young Indians dressed in Western clothing.
Priya arrived a few minutes later and shoved her way to the bar. She was wearing jeans, ballet flats, and a form-fitting oxford shirt. She looked every inch the desi girl.
“Remind you of home?” she asked, sitting down next to him. Her face was impassive, but she gave him the searching look she used when she was uncomfortable.
“Bizarrely so,” Thomas replied. “They’re even playing Bon Jovi.”
Priya mustered a smile. “I never understood your fascination with rock music.”
“I could say the same thing about the sitar. Who wants to play twenty-three strings?”
She laughed and signaled the bartender to bring her a beer.
“How’s your grandmother?” he asked, making conversation.
Priya shrugged. “She’s hanging on, but the doctors say it could be any day.”
“I’m sorry.”
An awkward silence followed. He could tell that she wanted to say something but couldn’t figure out how to put it into words. The bartender set a bottle of Kingfisher in front of her, and
she took a drink.
“How’s your father?” he asked, preempting her.
She took a sharp breath. “Do you really care?”
He took a swig of his beer. “I care about you. I’m not sure if I care about him.”
“At least you’re honest.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing else would work right now.”
“He’s not happy,” she said, answering his question. “You upset him.”
“I upset him? I think he upset himself. Life didn’t turn out the way he wanted, and he’s got to find someone to blame.”
She shook her head. “You misunderstand him. He has a right to care about my decisions.”
“Does that mean he has the right to control your life?”
Priya’s eyes flashed and she pushed herself away from him. “How can you say that? I chose you, remember? I went against his wishes. I gave up four years for you.”
He took a deep breath and calmed down. “Is that how you think of it?” he asked, quieter now. “That marrying me was a sacrifice?”
Her eyes moistened. “It was the hardest decision of my life.”
“But do you regret it? If you do, I’ll leave right now.”
She looked away and sipped her beer. She was beautiful in profile, her black hair a striking contrast to her brown skin and eyes.
“What’s that?” she asked, pointing at his wrist.
He saw the edge of Ahalya’s bracelet peeking out beneath the cuff of his shirt. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said.
Her eyes spoke a challenge. “I’ll answer yours if you answer mine first.”
He showed her the bracelet. “The girl we rescued from the brothel gave it to me.”
“Tell me about it,” she said, suddenly intrigued.
He tried to keep the story short, but Priya would have none of it. So he delivered her the long version, complete with details of the raid, Ahalya’s confrontation with Sumeera in the brothel lobby, his visit to the ashram, the photo of Sita, and the binding of the band.
When he finished, she gave him a piercing look. “Do you know what this means?”
“What?” he asked, mildly exasperated. “I told her I’d send the picture to Andrew Porter at Justice, and I did that this evening. I can’t do any more. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“You’ve never heard of a rakhi bracelet?”
“Oh no. Why does that sound ominous?”
“Could you drop the wisecracks? This is serious.”
“Sorry.” He held up his hands in apology. “Bad habit.”
She collected her thoughts. “It’s a tradition in India that goes back thousands of years. A woman delivers a bracelet to a man to wear around his wrist. The bracelet means that the man is her brother. He is dutybound to act in her defense.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Not in the least,” Priya responded, enjoying his discomfort. “Legend has it that the wife of Alexander the Great saved her husband’s life with a rakhi bracelet. She gave one to King Porus during Alexander’s misadventures in the Punjab. Porus had a chance to kill Alexander in battle, but he restrained himself because of the promise implicit in the gift.”
Thomas touched the many-colored band. “So, what am I supposed to do about it? I’m not James Bond. I’m just a lawyer working for an NGO. The police and the CBI can’t find her. What are the chances that I can do what they can’t?”
“A bit remote,” Priya conceded.
“More like inconceivable.”
“Don’t be so gloomy. Maybe you’ll catch a break.”
Thomas shrugged. “That happens in the movies. Not in real life.”
Priya looked at him with sudden gravity. “It happened to me.”
It dawned on him that she had answered his question. “Does that mean I can see you again?” he asked.
She smiled. “Does that mean you’re going to honor your promise to Ahalya?”
“A quid pro quo. I can handle that.”
She raised her beer. “A toast.”
“To what?”
“To miracles.”
Thomas touched her mug with his. “To miracles. May a miracle find Sita Ghai.”
Chapter 16
The most dangerous thing is illusion.
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Paris, France
One evening at the end of January, Sita was in the kitchen closet organizing cleaning supplies when a well-dressed couple entered the restaurant. The evening had been slow, and there were few customers in the dining room. Sita watched through a crack in the door as Uncle-ji met the couple and escorted them to a seat in the corner. The man was stocky with a square, rugged face and close-cropped hair, and the woman was an attractive blond with pale skin. Sita thought nothing of them and returned to work.
Sometime later, after most of the guests had left, Aunti-ji shut down the stove and placed a plate of leftovers on the countertop.
“Mop the floor, scrub the stove, and then you may eat,” she said, heading to the flat.
Sita filled up a bucket with soapy water and began to mop. When she reached the entrance to the dining room, she saw Uncle-ji talking with the couple in the corner. Uncle-ji beckoned to Kareena’s sister, Varuni, and pointed at the kitchen. Sita ducked out of view, hoping he hadn’t seen her.
After a moment, Varuni entered the kitchen and retrieved a halfempty bottle of Smirnoff from a shelf. Sita thought to warn her about the wet floor, but she was too late. Varuni’s foot slipped, and she fell in a heap.
Sita ran to her aid. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
Varuni winced when she tried to stand. She rubbed her ankle. “Take this to Uncle,” she said, handing the bottle to Sita. “The customer wants a refill.”
Sita shook her head. “Aunti-ji told me to stay out of the restaurant.”
Varuni gave her a reassuring smile. “She’s not here. You’ll do fine.”
Sita took the bottle and walked hesitantly into the dining room. Uncle-ji and the man with the square face were conversing in French. The restaurant owner frowned when he saw her. He took the bottle of Smirnoff and waved her away. The man with the square face looked at her unblinking, and the woman beside him fingered her necklace.
She was about to turn around when the man said something to her in French. Seeing her blank stare, he tried again in English. “What is your name?”
The question took her by surprise. “Sita,” she said after a moment.
“You are new here.”
She traded glances with Uncle-ji, not knowing what to say.
The restaurant owner stepped in, sounding nervous. “She came from India. She is helping out in the restaurant.”
The man seemed to ponder this. Then he looked at Uncle-ji and held up his glass. Sita retreated to the kitchen, feeling profoundly selfconscious. Varuni was still on the floor, massaging her foot.
“See, it wasn’t hard,” Varuni said.
“Who are they?” Sita asked.
“They are Russians, I think. Uncle calls the man Vasily. They live near my grandmother.”
Sita looked at the clock and saw that it was after eleven. “Why are they still here?”
“Uncle and Vasily speak sometimes. I don’t know what they say.”
Varuni stood slowly and put weight on her ankle. “I need to finish up with the tables,” she said, limping toward the dining room. She stopped on the threshold and tilted her head, listening. She narrowed her eyes and looked at Sita in puzzlement.
“What?” Sita asked.
“I think they’re talking about you,” Varuni replied.
“What are they saying?”
Varuni listened a moment longer. “Something about an arrangement.” She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Sita spent the night in a state of anxiety. She was desperate to find out what Uncle-ji and the man called Vasily had been saying, but Varuni had left for home before she could talk to her again. The next morning, Uncle-ji woke her
early and told her to dress. He pointed at a coat folded neatly on a nearby chair. It was the coat Navin had given her on her first day in Paris.
“Put that on,” he said, “and wait for me at the front of the restaurant.”
Sita donned the coat and took a seat at one of the tables near the window, her apprehension mounting. Uncle-ji stood beside the door, looking out at the passage. Around seven thirty, a young man appeared and Uncle-ji greeted him in French. The man wore jeans and loafers and a leather jacket and carried himself with an air of authority.
The man nodded at Uncle-ji and looked at Sita without expression.
“Viens,” he ordered and held the door for her.
Sita didn’t know the word, but she understood the man’s intent. She glanced at Uncle-ji and began to tremble.
“Go,” Uncle-ji said in Hindi. “Dmitri has work for you. He will bring you back later.”
Sita hesitated a moment longer and then followed Dmitri out the door and down the cobbled lane to the nearby boulevard. The sky was clotted with gray clouds and the chilly air stung her cheeks. It was the first time she had been outside in nearly a month, but she was too afraid to appreciate it.
A black Mercedes was waiting at the curb, its hazard lights flashing. Dmitri opened the back door, and Sita climbed into the plush interior. Dmitri slipped into the driver’s seat and accelerated quickly up the street. After a minute or two, they stopped in front of a set of heavy double doors. The street was narrow and buildings crowded the lane, leaving it in shadow.
Dmitri got out of the car and approached a keypad beside the door. He punched in a code and the doors opened automatically. He drove the car through an arched passageway and into a cobbled courtyard. A silver Audi coupe and a white Volkswagen van were parked at the foot of steps leading up to a stone porch. Dmitri parked the car and let Sita out. Sita followed him up the steps to a red door.
She watched as Dmitri keyed another set of numbers into a security pad beside the door. The lock disengaged, and they entered a foyer lined with gilt-framed artwork. To the left was a sitting room furnished with thick rugs and antiques. To the right was a dining room with a polished table and high-backed chairs. A hallway extended straight ahead to an alcove and kitchen. Beside it was a staircase that led to the second floor.
A Walk Across the Sun Page 19
