A Walk Across the Sun

by Corban Addison

  Garcia poked his head out of the door. “You guys deserve to see this.”

  Sita took Evans’s hand and walked with him to the studio. They entered the room and found the blond woman lying in front of the bed, a gun in her hand. An auburn-haired girl sat on the ground in front of her, shaking in terror.

  “She was holding the girl hostage,” Garcia said, shaking his head.

  Five more children between the ages of twelve and sixteen were tied up on the bed, their wrists and ankles bound and their mouths sealed with tape. They sat up one by one and looked at Sita, their eyes round and fearful. For a long moment she stood unmoving, hearing again the sound of Li’s camera and feeling the shame of undressing before Dietrich Klein. Then she shook her head. It was over. Klein was dead.

  She crossed the room and touched the face of the youngest girl, peeling back the tape from her mouth. The girl winced, but Sita soothed her with a smile.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “You’re safe now.”

  When the girls were free and able to walk, Trudeau and Garcia took them upstairs. Sita, however, asked Evans to wait for her while she retrieved her coat from the corner of the basement studio. She put the coat on over her sari and then reached into the inside pocket, tracing the outline of Hanuman. She took a deep breath, vowing in her heart never to forget Shyam, and then followed Evans to the stairs.

  Evans took a seat in the dining room off the entrance hall and delivered a statement to another man wielding a clipboard. Sita sat beside him but found it difficult to pay attention to what he was saying. Instead, her mind drifted. She remembered her father standing on the beach in front of their bungalow, waving for her to join him for the sunset. She remembered walking out on the beach and seeing her parents waiting for her. Ahalya was down by the waterline, searching for conch shells. It was a day like any other—a good day.

  She looked up as two men entered the house in civilian clothes. One was tall, with dark hair and kind eyes, and the other was shorter and more muscular. She stared at the tall man. She had seen him before. She wracked her brain for the connection. Then it came to her. On the street outside Dmitri’s flat in Paris. He was the one who had chased their car down the street.

  At once all of the pieces fell into place. He had been looking for her! But how had he known? And why had he cared? She was sure they had never met before. She followed him with her eyes, wondering whether she would get a chance to speak with him.

  Thomas stood in the foyer and searched among the milling agents for a sign of Sita.

  “Where do you think she’d be?” he asked Porter.

  “They probably have all of the girls together,” Porter replied, starting down the hallway toward the living room. “I’ll see if I can find Agent Trudeau.”

  Thomas was about to follow him when he glanced to his left. At a polished mahogany table sat a towering SWAT commando, a jacket-clad field agent, and a thin-boned Indian girl dressed like a princess. The girl was staring at him, her lovely eyes wide. She was older than she looked in the photograph in his pocket, but it was her. He knew it right away.

  He stood frozen for a moment, and then he began to finger the bracelet on his wrist. He walked slowly toward her.

  “Are you Sita Ghai?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Sita replied.

  He unfastened the rakhi bracelet, bent down, and placed it on the table before her.

  “I’m Thomas Clarke. Your sister asked me to give this to you.”

  He saw tears come to her eyes. “You know Ahalya?”

  He nodded, finding it hard to breathe. “We rescued her from Suchir’s brothel. She is waiting for you at an ashram in Bombay.”

  Thomas marveled as the radiance of the dawn spread across her face. She clutched the bracelet and began to sob. It was as if all of the terror, the doubt, the despair, and the failing hope of the past two and a half months had converged in a great tide of tears.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Porter. “It seems that you found her,” he said.

  Thomas let out the breath he was holding and began to smile.

  “Well done,” Porter said.

  When the gale of Sita’s emotions subsided, she fastened the bracelet on her wrist. “I made this for her birthday last year,” she whispered. “She said she would wear it always.”

  “You’ll have to return it to her, then.”

  Sita thought for a moment and reached into her coat, extracting Hanuman. She held the figurine reverently, then placed it on the table.

  “Do you know the story of the Ramayana?” she asked him.

  Thomas nodded, staring at the little statue.

  “Hanuman was a friend of Rama. He found Sita. You should have him.”

  Thomas picked up the statue. He remembered what Surekha had said about Priya’s father at the mendhi event. “When Priya was young, he told me that the man who married her would have to possess the character of Lord Rama. Rama is a guiltless man.” Thomas knew he would never live up to such a standard. But Rama wasn’t really the hero of the story. It was Hanuman who had crossed the ocean and rescued the princess of Mithila.

  “Thank you,” he said. She would never know the importance of the gift.

  Sita looked around at the FBI men. “Will they let me go?” she asked.

  Agent Evans attempted an answer. “It’s complicated. But we’ll do everything we can to get you home soon.”

  Thomas glanced at Porter. “Holi is on the twenty-sixth. It’s the second biggest holiday in India. Any chance you can pull some more strings and get us on a plane before then?”

  Porter laughed. “I’ve pulled so many strings in the past few days that I’m starting to think about a career as a marionettist. I’ll put in the request and see what the people on high have to say about it. A lot of it will depend upon the Indian government. They’ll have to take her into custody on the other side.”

  “What happens now?” Sita asked, glancing between Thomas and Evans.

  “We’ll put you under protection and ask a lot of questions,” Evans responded. “We need your help to put quite a few criminals behind bars.”

  “Will you stay with me?” Sita asked Thomas.

  Thomas nodded, holding little Hanuman and relishing the sweet exhilaration of victory.

  “I’ll stay with you as long as it takes to get you home.”

  Chapter 32

  The mark of wisdom is to see the reality behind each appearance.

  —THIRUVALLUVAR

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Thomas sat in a drab conference room inside the FBI’s Atlanta field office. Across the table from him were two agents in plainclothes and Andrew Porter, who had been assigned to act as Justice liaison for the Atlanta phase of the investigation. Their conversation, which had dragged on for more than three days, was being recorded by a digital device at the center of the table.

  “I know we’ve been talking a long time,” said Special Agent Alfonso Romero, an Italian American from Brooklyn. “I think we’re almost through.”

  While Romero checked his notes, Thomas suppressed his annoyance. At times the interview had felt like an interrogation, and his patience had long since worn thin. But he owed it to Porter to be compliant. It was the price he paid for being included in the raid.

  “Tell me again why you went to Paris,” Romero said. “Your wife was in Mumbai. Your work was in Mumbai. What compelled you to leave Mumbai to search for a girl who could have been anywhere by then?”

  “Haven’t we been over this already?”

  “Maybe we have, but I’m still troubled by it.”

  “The best I can say is that I did what I felt I should do. I made Ahalya a promise, and I took a shot in the dark. Somehow it worked out.”

  Romero shook his head and scanned his notes again. He traded a look with Special Agent Cynthia Douglas, a hawkish brunette who had asked all of the personal questions Thomas hadn’t really wanted to answer. Douglas shook her head.

  “Okay, we’re th
rough for the moment,” Romero said. “But I’m sure we’ll have more for you as the investigation proceeds. Keep us informed of your whereabouts, and let us know if any of your contact information changes.”

  “Don’t worry,” Thomas said with a hint of sarcasm. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  “You have anything else?” Romero asked Porter.

  Porter nodded. “But it’s personal. I’d rather talk in private.”

  “No problem,” Romero said. He ushered Douglas out of the room.

  Thomas closed his eyes and massaged his temples. “I was starting to think he was never going to shut up.”

  Porter chuckled. “His persistence was impressive, if a bit overzealous.” He leaned forward. “I have two pieces of good news and one of bad news. How do you want them?”

  Thomas opened his eyes again and read his friend’s face. Porter was grave.

  “Bad news first.” Thomas braced himself.

  Porter sat back in his chair. “I just heard from Deputy Morgan in Fayetteville. He and his squad took down the mobile home park near Fort Bragg yesterday. They expected to find eight kids. Three were missing. Abby was one of them.” He paused. “They found her this morning.”

  Thomas saw what was coming.

  “She was buried in a shallow grave in a stand of trees not far from the trailer park,” Porter said. “She’d been in the ground for no more than a week.”

  Thomas held his breath and then let it out. “Why would they do that?”

  “I don’t know. Her story was all over the news. Maybe they found out how close we were and got scared. Maybe she tried to escape and they didn’t want to deal with her. People like that are capable of anything.”

  Thomas thought of the girl’s mother and felt hollow inside. Her worst fears had been realized. She was alone in the world.

  “What about the other missing girls?” he asked.

  Porter shook his head. “They were from Mexico. We think they were sold again.”

  “So the story goes on,” Thomas said. “It’s never going to end, is it?”

  Porter shrugged. “Not in our lifetimes, I’m afraid.”

  “So, what’s the good news?”

  Porter perked up a bit. “Apart from DeFoe’s death, the operation against the Klein ring was a huge success. Sixty-one victims rescued in eight cities, thirty-five of them underage. Forty perpetrators behind bars. Kandyland shut down and its computers seized. Perverts around the world in our sights. Twenty million dollars in offshore accounts to boost the Treasury. It’s a massive public relations coup. Everyone in Washington is giddy.”

  “Good for them,” Thomas said. He didn’t mean to be glib, but Abby’s death haunted him. For the hundredth time, he wished he had moved faster and tracked down the black SUV before it disappeared and took the girl to her grave.

  “And the second thing?” he asked.

  Porter noticed his friend’s mood and held out his hands in a gesture of apology.

  “I think we’re going to get Sita home before the Holi holiday. The deputy director has taken an interest in her case, as has the Indian ambassador in Washington. We’re moving heaven and earth with the bureaucrats, and I’m cautiously optimistic that things are going to work out.”

  Thomas nodded. “How’s she holding up?”

  Porter grinned. “The girl’s been a human billiard ball in the past three days. She’s been back and forth from the safe house to the Fulton County Juvenile Court to a conference room upstairs, and no one’s heard her complain. The Bureau assigned her a victim specialist—Agent Dodd. She’s a child psychologist and has a gentle touch. From what I’ve heard, they’ve bonded well. I have to tell you: Sita’s a treasure trove of information. We’ve gotten information out of her that is going to put quite a few of the Kandyland conspirators behind bars.”

  “When can I see her again?” Thomas asked. On the night of the raid, Sita had been whisked away from the Klein property in a squad car, and for security reasons Agent Pritchett had denied his repeated requests to visit her.

  “Probably not before the flight back,” Porter said. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “In that case, there are some things I need to take care of. Is Romero going to bite my head off if I leave town for a few days?”

  Porter laughed. “I’ll keep him on a leash. Just make sure you’re back by the twenty-third. If we’re lucky, you and Sita will be on a flight to Mumbai the next day.”

  Thomas raised his eyebrows. “Courtesy of the federal government?”

  Porter nodded. “Our tax dollars at work.”

  “So now that you’re done with me, can I make the phone call?”

  Porter stood from the table. “Freedom of speech is a constitutional right. How you use it when you walk out of this office is up to you.” He paused. “Now do yourself a favor and get out of here before Romero remembers all the questions he forgot to ask you.”

  At nine o’clock that evening, Thomas dialed the international exchange on his BlackBerry. It was seven thirty in the morning in Bombay. Jeff Greer answered on the second ring. Thomas gave him a sketch of the events of the past week, culminating in Sita’s rescue, and then asked him for a piece of information and a favor. When Greer recovered from his shock, he searched his desk while he listened to Thomas’s idea.

  “Here it is,” he said, shuffling some paperwork. He passed along the phone number and then promised to make the necessary arrangements.

  “I can’t believe you did it,” he said. “I confess I never thought you had a chance.”

  After Greer hung up, Thomas dialed the Andheri exchange. He waited while the phone rang and rang. When he was about to end the call, he heard a garbled word: “Hello?” The connection was poor, but he was almost certain that the voice was Sister Ruth’s. Speaking slowly, he delivered the news. When he finished, the nun was silent for so long that he thought the line had been disconnected. Then he heard a mumble—a bare echo across the continents—that sounded like a prayer.

  “Sister Ruth?” Thomas said. “Will you pass along the message?”

  “Yes,” he heard her say. The line hissed and crackled, but he pieced together her words. “I do not … know how … to thank you.”

  “Tell her to be patient,” he said. “The process may take a while.”

  With that, Thomas hung up and drove to the airport.

  On the far side of the night, Ahalya awoke in a feverish state. Her brow was moist, her nightshirt was stained with sweat, and her mind held the fading glimmers of the dream. She looked around the small bedroom she shared with three other girls. No one stirred. All was quiet in the house. She shifted her eyes to the window. The sky was gray-blue in anticipation of the dawn. She took a deep breath and tried to calm her heart. The vision had been so achingly real that she couldn’t believe it was a mirage.

  She stole across the floor to the common area. It was a Saturday and no one was about. Sister Ruth was awake, Ahalya was sure, but the nun slept elsewhere and didn’t usually make an appearance at the house until half past seven. Ahalya moved quietly, tiptoeing around weak spots in the floor. Technically, she was not allowed to leave the house without the sisters’ permission, but the rule was only enforced when a girl showed an interest in escape.

  She went down the front steps and entered the forest of tall trees. A few cicadas were singing in the branches, and once in a while she heard a bird call. The path before her was empty and shrouded in shadow. She glanced around, worried that one of the sisters would spot her and scold her back to the house, but she saw no one.

  As she neared the pond, she slowed, replaying the dream in her mind. Sita had been here. She had been sitting on the bench, admiring something in the water. She had looked up when Ahalya neared, her face a picture of delight. She had stood and urged Ahalya to hurry. Ahalya had taken her sister’s hand and gazed down at the pond, following her sister’s eyes. She had seen a lotus bud between the lily pads, a flower soon to bloom.

  Ahalya approached the
pond with tentative steps. The surface of the pool was a sheet of glass in the windless morning. She knelt down at the edge of the pool, the ache inside her growing by the second. She didn’t see it. She looked closer. Perhaps it was smaller than it had been in the dream.

  Perhaps …

  Suddenly, she felt a wave of vertigo. She steadied herself on a rock beside the pool. The pregnancy was something she didn’t want to think about right now. Her desire was simple and, in its simplicity, pure. She wanted nothing more than to find a bud.

  She scoured the lily pads for any sign of a protrusion, but she saw nothing. The dream had been an illusion, a tantalizing lie. Sita wasn’t at the ashram, and the lotus had yet to flower. The sun was rising upon a future she didn’t really want. Lakshmi had forgotten her. Rama had deserted her. She was a stone person, just like Ahalya of the Ramayana.

  She cried, hardly aware of the birdsong around her, the sounds of the waking ashram, or the distant noises from the street beyond the fence. At some point she gathered herself and struggled to her feet, steeling her heart against the thought of another weekend without Sita.

  She started up the path and then paused. Before her eyes was a peculiar sight. She blinked and stared, worrying that the dream had stolen her senses. But the vision persisted.

  Sister Ruth was running toward her down the path.

  The nun’s sari was flowing out behind her like a cape, and her eyes were shining like a child’s. The nun slowed when she reached Ahalya’s side. She panted and caught her breath.

  “I’m sorry,” Ahalya said, feeling guilty about the curfew. “I needed to take a walk.”

  Sister Ruth shook her head, her round frame shaking with each labored breath.

  “No, no,” she said, struggling to get the words out. “Sita …”

  Ahalya stared at her, transfixed. Confusion overwhelmed her, hope vying with terror.