by Shamim Sarif
Next, I flip through the notebooks on his desk, taking more photos of the pages. The one that’s open is filled with notes and clippings about the attack on Kit’s school. Flipping through, I find more charts, and a transcript of a call he’s had with a source, in which he’s trying to find out who Family First are. It’s all fascinating, but spurring me on is the sense that time is passing fast. I need to leave. I’m about to get out of there when my eye is caught by a grainy picture sticking out of another notebook on the desk.
Outside, the birdsong from the trees on the street is temporarily drowned out by the sound of a car pulling up out front. I glance out the window briefly and then do a double take, appalled. It’s Jake, getting out of the driver’s seat and strolling up to his own front door. Quickly, I open the notebook—the picture is of Caitlin—probably the same photo he showed Kit. Her face is covered with a scarf, up to the eyes, but that doesn’t seem to have helped disguise her from Jake; amid the densely scrawled handwriting on the well-thumbed pages is her real name printed out in block capitals. I snap a photo of the page, then put the notebook back where it was. Downstairs, the front door opens and closes. The low tones of Jake’s voice greeting the cleaner float up to me. I open the door, just a crack, but all it reveals is the sound of Jake’s footsteps tramping lightly up the steps.
I close the door and think. If I come out, pretending I couldn’t find the bathroom, it would look like I’m worthy of suspicion, incredibly stupid, or both. It would also mean that Jake would get a good look at me—and he has seen me once before, at the Cameroon embassy with Peggy. Even while I’m having this internal flash debate, I’ve lifted the window frame. I’m on the second floor, but there are substantial wisteria branches clinging to the redbrick walls, crawling high up the house. I step out the window and use the branches to slow my tumble down into the front garden. Regaining my footing, I stride as fast as I can out the garden gate and across the road to my van.
I fumble the key into the ignition. Inhaling and exhaling deeply, I breathe, calming my racing heartbeat. The engine turns over and I pull out into the road. Using my rearview mirror, I cast a look back at the house. The open window of the study slams down hard, giving me just a glimpse of Jake, still standing behind it. I bang a fist on the steering wheel and curse under my breath. I get the sinking feeling that Jake made it upstairs in plenty of time to watch me go.
15
“EXPLAIN THAT TO ME AGAIN,” Li says.
We are in the situation room, and while I sit squirming in my chair, Li gets up and paces the length of the table, pausing only to look down at me like an empress deciding whether to behead a displeasing subject.
“Which part?” I mutter.
Beside me, I feel Caitlin shift, feeling bad for me. Across the table, Thomas studies his nails and Amber keeps tapping on her computer, trying to give the impression she’s not even listening to this semi-interrogation.
“The part where you stayed in the house long enough that the reporter who is investigating everyone around you saw you jump out of his window and drive off,” Li snaps.
“He didn’t see me jump,” I protest. “By the time he got a glimpse of me, if he did, I was getting in the van.”
Li takes a breath in through her nose, holds it for a few seconds, and then lets it out through her mouth. It’s a relaxation technique she’s recommended to all of us over time. It doesn’t seem to be helping her a huge amount just at the moment.
“At least he didn’t call the police,” Amber chips in, trying to be helpful.
Li rounds on her. “I think that what you mean,” she says savagely, “is that Jake didn’t call the police from his study, where we have a bug listening to the room. We don’t have a tap on his home phone. He could have called them from there.”
I swallow. I highly doubt Jake did call the police, and anyway the van I used is off the road now, spirited away to wherever it came from. It’s probably newly spray-painted already. But I don’t feel that Li is in the right mood for me to share these uplifting thoughts with her at this exact point in time.
Thomas chimes in: “To be fair, Li, I should have figured out that Jake was on the move. He didn’t follow the schedule in his calendar, and I should have kept closer tabs. . . .” It’s sweet of him to try to take some of the blame and help me out. But Li’s not interested.
“Anyway,” I say, mounting my defense. “I stayed back so I could find out what he has on Caitlin. And he has her name. That’s important for us to know, isn’t it?”
Li just holds up a tired hand as if to stop my stream of thought as she sits down next to Amber.
“That is not all he knows,” she states. “Thomas has done a quick analysis of the photos you brought back from Jake’s house.”
Relieved that we’re moving on, Thomas sits up straighter, bringing up his presentation on Jake so that it fills the expansive screen before us. First up is a slide with head shots of the six of us—the three Athena founders, and the three Athena agents. Colored arrows move between the photos in unfathomable ways that remind me of the chaos of Mumbai’s traffic.
“Green arrows indicate the connections Jake has already made between members of Athena. For instance, between Kit and Peggy.”
“What are the yellow arrows?” Caitlin asks.
“These are connections Jake could make soon with the right intel. For example, he saw Jessie outside the Cameroon embassy with Peggy, but may not have remembered yet or thought it important. He also has your name, Caitlin. You may show up as Peggy’s assistant during your stint at the US embassy, and most certainly your military experience will be clear.”
He goes on to a more complex graph of our missions and Jake’s findings. Li rubs at her temples like her head is starting to ache. Thomas notices and skips on to a quick summary.
“Jake has enough to suggest that Kit and Peggy are working outside the rules to bring down people like Gregory Pavlic, if he wants to think along those lines. The fact that he broke the story about the girls we rescued in Cameroon doesn’t help. Also, the fact that Li connects to Kit and Peggy through their work for the UN, back in the day.”
I stare at him, appalled. “So, basically, we’re screwed?”
Even Amber seems stunned: “Surely Jake can’t believe that either Kit or Peggy is capable of taking down a Cameroon warlord or a human trafficker?” she comments.
“Sorry to be devil’s advocate,” says Thomas. “But I disagree. Kit or Peggy could easily have hired mercenaries to do that work, and in Jake’s mind, the photo of Caitlin could support that theory.”
Caitlin looks up, her face pale. “What are we going to do, Li?”
“We’ll find a solution,” she replies curtly. “Everyone has their price.”
“I don’t think Jake’s the type to roll over for money,” I say, doubtful.
“You are correct,” Li intones. “But that is not what I meant. Everyone has something that is of great value to them, that speaks to their principles. We will find that out about Jake and solve this.”
I glance at Caitlin. She looks as uncertain as me about that inscrutable path forward. But Li survived a tough childhood, torn from her parents during China’s cultural revolution. Whenever she chooses to turn her laser gaze onto a problem, it usually crumbles eventually. But this feels like it might be beyond even Li’s capabilities.
“For now, you both have to focus on Family First,” Li instructs. “Luckily, we already have some leads from the Cypriot Private Bank.”
“Shall we patch in the team in Mumbai?” Caitlin asks.
“Kit and Peggy are visiting the homes of some of the girls’ families at the moment, offering their condolences,” Thomas says. “But I’ve got Hala on video link now. . . .”
He brings up Hala’s face on the big screen and looks up at her, his face breaking into a wide smile. “How are you?” he asks.
I glance at Caitlin. I’m not sure about her, but the last time Thomas asked me how I was, it was only because I’
d almost been killed.
“Good, thanks,” says Hala.
Li nods to Amber to start her briefing, and we all sit forward to listen, but even as Amber opens her mouth to speak, Thomas chips in with another question:
“Are you liking where you’re staying?”
Hala looks vaguely embarrassed and tells him it’s fine.
Li favors Thomas with a look that just dares him to try another bit of small talk. He subsides, his cheeks flushing—but I can’t let it go.
“Is the power shower strong enough, Hala?” I ask.
Caitlin chuckles. “What about the sheets and towels? Nice and soft?”
“That’s enough,” says Li. “Amber, can you remind us why we are all having this meeting?”
“This company that Hassan Shah gave us, AAB, is indeed linked with this repulsive Family First enterprise. Do you want to know how I traced that connection?”
Amber glances up with a touch of pride in her abilities—but Li rains on her parade, waving her on.
“Just give us the highlights,” she requests.
“Well, the Cypriot Private Bank has now realized there’s been a breach of their servers and have started to plug the holes. But not before I downloaded nearly two hundred thousand documents. We’ve found out that all sorts of shell companies link back to Imran. He appears to have been a key operative for Family First. At least, his payments go back to early in their history.”
“His name comes up on the bank documents?” I ask.
“Well, not quite. He has long used the Cypriot Private Bank not just as a bank but as a trustee—an entity to act in his place—to run his companies in Pakistan. That’s how we know it’s him. But that same bank is also a trustee for a company I traced to this man in India. . . .”
With a click of her mouse, Amber mirrors her laptop onto the colossal wide screen of the situation room, probably devastating Thomas by reducing Hala’s video link to a small box at the bottom. The photo that comes up is of an Indian man, with a long, refined face, and thick iron-colored hair swept back from his forehead. He wears a pale blue jacket with an elegant Nehru collar.
“Jingo Jain,” I say.
Amber nods. “Exactly. The man whose election swag you found in the warehouse. As you probably already know, he had a distinguished career in the Indian army, served as police commissioner in Mumbai some years ago, and is one of the front-runners in the state’s elections, which happen early next week.”
“Is he right wing?” Li asks.
“Definitely,” confirms Thomas, before Amber continues.
“Having said that, Jingo has gone a bit quiet recently on what he used to call ‘traditional family values.’ He was certainly very vocal in condemning Family First’s attack on our school. But he is on record from a few years back saying that he wanted women excluded from universities, reserving places for the men that ‘deserve’ them. He’s also lobbied in the past for the legal age of marriage to be dropped to fifteen.”
“Does he have daughters?” Caitlin asks, genuinely curious.
“Two sons, both in their twenties. One is in the military, the other runs an insurance business. Both seem clean.”
“So, is there a direct link between Jingo and Family First?” Li wants to know.
Amber frowns. “Still looking. But I did find one big donation from a Family First shell company to a far-right politician in Pakistan. If Family First are pursuing political avenues as well as terror, I’m sure there will be a connection to Jingo somewhere.”
“Then I need you and Caitlin back with Hala in Mumbai,” Li says, looking at me. “Check on the schoolgirls and make sure they are safe. And then, since Jingo is the most solid lead we have, find a way to lean on him and see if he’s involved with Family First. With these elections coming up, you have to find out if anything else is planned.”
It’s raining in Mumbai. But this isn’t polite British drizzle; this is amped-up, torrential precipitation, fat drops of water drumming relentlessly out of a steel-gray sky. I’ve fallen asleep on the couch in Caitlin and Hala’s apartment—all this travel back and forth is taking a toll—but the sound of the rain wakes me. I stretch and come out to the balcony, where Caitlin stands watching the water cascade down onto the street. Dusk is beginning to settle soft shadows over the city. Below us, the usual mishmash of vehicles fight each other through a crush of gaudy street stalls, limp and battered by the rain. Lights come on in a temple on a distant hill, and streetlamps glow orange in the gathering gloom.
“Wow,” Caitlin says. “This place is really something.”
And then, as suddenly as it began, the rain stops—as definitively as if some huge tap in the heavens has been turned off. Within seconds, people start to crowd back out into the street.
“Good timing,” Caitlin says, consulting her watch. “We need to head out to meet Hala.”
We follow each other down the stairs and onto the road, negotiating oozing puddles and overflowing drains. It’s a short drive on the motorbike to the second school, the one in Bandra that all the girls have now been moved into. As we approach the place, we can see guards within the building and outside, hired from the private security firm that Peggy’s ambassador friend recommended. Additionally, two policemen in khaki uniforms maintain an official presence, standing on each corner of the block.
Hala is parked outside the school perimeter, waiting for us. She lets us into the iron gates of the school and we walk toward the building through a playground shaded by trees. Before we get very far, two tall men step out like shadows. They are in light combat gear, and holsters sit across their broad chests. These are Peggy’s ex-SEAL guys. Our final layer of defense against another attack by Family First. We shake hands.
“I’m Luca,” says the taller of the two giants. He has short, curly hair, and a couple of days’ worth of stubble coat his chin and throat. He jerks a nod toward his companion, who is clean shaven with night-vision glasses perched on top of long, tied-back hair. He raises a hand in greeting.
“That’s Ethan,” Luca continues. “We call him Ethan for short.”
Maybe that kind of thing passes for hilarious banter in the military. In any event, Caitlin seems to find it funny.
“Anything you need, and I mean anything, you holler,” Luca says. “Peggy Delaney saved my life once and I’ll never forget it.”
The three of us look at each other in surprise. I mean, I know Peggy spreads trust and loyalty everywhere she goes—but saving a SEAL’s life? I’d like to hear that story.
“Really?” I say. “How?”
But Luca’s eyes just crinkle into an enigmatic smile and suddenly he’s as tight-lipped as the Mona Lisa. He turns to lead us into the school.
“How are the girls?” asks Caitlin.
“They’re back on their class schedule,” Luca says. He directs Ethan to keep a close watch on the outside of the building, then he turns to shepherd us through the inside and run us through all the security measures in detail. Caitlin walks beside him while I tag along behind them, next to Hala. As they go, I can hear them start to talk about Iraq and their respective military careers. Maybe it’s just me, but shared laughs seem to be flashing between the two of them pretty quickly.
Before we get very far into our tour of the building, though, my phone rings. It’s Riya, and she doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. In fact, she sounds totally stressed.
“I need to see you,” she says.
“What’s up?”
“I can’t discuss it on the phone.”
She gives me the name of a bar where we can meet in an hour.
“They have a terrace,” she says. “I’ll meet you there.”
I confirm, then hang up and relay the contents of the call to Caitlin and Hala.
“Riya’s been open with the information flow this far,” I finish. “And it sounds like there’s a real problem.”
“Then you should go and see her,” says Caitlin. “But, Jessie—be careful.” She gives me a q
uick smile—a look that makes me wonder what she thinks I should be careful of. My safety or my feelings.
“Of course,” I reply, feeling just a little defensive. “You don’t have anything to worry about.”
16
I HAIL AN AUTO-RICKSHAW AND give the driver the address of the meeting place that Riya has suggested. At the first red light we encounter, I find myself surrounded by little kids begging for coins. They swarm up to me, leaning into the tiny back seat of the rickshaw, holding out their hands, crying, pleading.
The driver barks at them to leave, but they hang on, pushing to get something before the lights change.
“Don’t look at them,” the driver tells me.
I try to ignore them at first, but I just can’t. They are tiny children, with no shoes, unwashed, uncared for, painfully thin. One girl, who can’t be more than eight or nine, carries a baby on her hip. I’m not stupid. I know they are most likely owned by a street gang or pimp or trafficker who will take whatever money I give them. But still, as the light turns green and horns explode around me, I pull out a handful of rupee banknotes and pass them around as the driver takes off. Then I turn to watch as the children run back to the sidewalk. My eyes sting with sudden tears, but I blink them back, swallowing hard.
Within a few minutes, though, the rickshaw driver pulls in at the curb and deposits me outside my destination, turning my mind back to Riya. Stepping up to the door, I immediately judge this bar as one of those places that’s trying a bit too hard to be cool. It sports a granite exterior, a supermodel doorman, and only a discreet metal plate on the door confirms its name. Having said that, it’s a strategy that seems to work for them, because inside, even relatively early in the evening, the place is heaving with bodies. A long bar runs down the right-hand side of the room. On the left, a DJ presides over some serious mixing equipment and loud fusion music. Filling the rest of the space, a crush of people mills around, talking and shouting at each other over the din. I make a quick scan of the room for any sign of Riya, but it’s dark enough that I could have worn my night-vision lenses. Weaving my way through the tightly packed clusters of people, I aim for the glass doors at the back of the bar. I slide them open and step out onto a wide wooden deck overlooking the sea.
