by Shamim Sarif
Out on the terrace, it’s still pretty busy, but certainly less jammed than inside, probably because the interior is air-conditioned, while here, the night heat feels like something you can touch—sultry and heavy. But a breeze from the sea relieves the intense warmth a little; an ebb and flow of wind that gently touches my hair and face. Riya’s not out here either, but then, I am several minutes early. I make my way right up to the wooden railing that marks the end of the terrace and take a moment to look out at the ocean, glittering under a crisply outlined moon. The smell is not salty or fresh, but humid, with a base note of something rotten. Maybe it’s the engineer in me, but I’m getting the sense of a sanitation system and water supply network stretched to their limit in this city where tens of millions of people are crammed together with an overused infrastructure.
I pull out my phone—my current “normal” phone, the Indian number that Riya has—to check for messages, just as a hand touches my arm. I turn to find Riya behind me.
“Sorry I kept you waiting,” she says.
“No problem—I was early,” I say. Riya looks a lot more relaxed out of her suit. She’s in faded jeans and a collarless blue shirt that opens at the neck to display a silver pendant on a leather necklace. Her dark hair is pulled back, and even off duty, her face is free of makeup, which is just as well, because it probably couldn’t improve anything about her features anyway.
In her hands are two drinks—she offers one to me.
“Pomegranate soda,” she says. “Unless you want something stronger?”
“This is perfect,” I assure her, taking a sip. I kind of remember from Li’s nutrition sheets that pomegranates are a superfood, but on first gulp I’m not loving it. On my scale, it’s somewhere just above cough syrup, but at least it’s cold. Again, I find myself strangely nervous around Riya. I grip my drink, focusing on the cool touch of the glass under my fingers.
“Do you come to this bar a lot?” I ask, casting around for conversation.
“I’m not really a bar person,” Riya replies. “I like this one because of the view. I like looking out at the ocean.”
“You find it relaxing?” I suggest.
“It’s a good touchstone,” she replies. “It reminds me that life has been going on for millennia and our everyday hassles are not the big dramas we like to pretend they are. Our lives are nothing more than specks, really. Specks in time and space.”
“That’s comforting.”
She laughs. “Maybe cops shouldn’t try to be philosophers,” she says.
I watch her until she looks away.
“Listen, Jessie, I called you here because I feel something’s going on, but I’m not sure what,” she says. “I just feel . . . uneasy about what’s been happening over the past two days.”
“What has been happening?”
She frowns. “Well, first, I wanted to follow up the lead you gave me to the warehouse. But Sunil took it over and sent another team out there.”
“Did he find anything?”
“It was mostly empty—he said there was nothing much there to help our case or to relate it to the attack on Kit’s school.”
“It might be true that it was cleared out,” I tell her, thinking about the men who arrived and chased us off the premises.
“Fine,” she concedes. “But it must be linked to the school attack. Hassan gave you the warehouse address and he is clearly involved somewhere. . . .”
I acknowledge, but it’s still not enough to warrant the stress she seems to be feeling.
“Anything else bothering you?” I ask.
“Well, yes. After that, it felt like Sunil got back on track with the investigation. Because the campaign caps and shirts had Jingo’s name on them, Sunil sent me to interview Jingo Jain himself.”
That sounds like a reassuring move from Sunil, more meaningful. And yet Riya still looks disturbed.
“Did you talk to Jingo?” I ask.
“This morning,” she confirms. “It was weird.”
“Weird, how?”
“Usually, I would take someone with me, ideally Sunil. He’s senior and Jingo is a big deal in this city. But Sunil said he was busy and asked me to go ahead, alone. So I did.”
Waiting for her to continue, I feel a sense of misgiving. If Jingo laid a hand on her, or even looked at her, I’ll find his home and teach him a lesson he’ll never forget. . . .
“Jingo was expecting me. He was perfectly polite and correct,” she continues, perhaps reading the unspoken concern on my face. “I asked him a lot of questions about the attacks, about Family First. He claimed he had never heard of them before this and said many times how sad he was about the attacks.”
She stops to take a drink, delicately. I do the same but manage to sip at my soda with a graceless slurp through the straw. I hope Riya can’t hear it under the music and the chatter of people around us.
“Did you ask him about the ADS and the guy at the military base who signed them out?” I ask.
“Yes, and Jingo seemed shocked that it happened. Claimed to know nothing.” She peers out across the ocean, as if recalling the conversation in her mind. “All his answers stacked up.”
“So which part was weird?” I probe.
“After I was done with my questions, he went into this whole speech about how he’s heard exceptional reports about me, about what an asset I am to the police force. And that it was his intention, once elected, to offer me a series of quick promotions.”
“What?” I ask, taken aback. “What does that even mean?”
“I asked the same thing. Honestly, I was shocked,” she says. “And he quickly reassured me, saying he thought it would be good for Mumbai to have a woman in a high-up leadership role. And he asked me if I wouldn’t want to make a real difference, instead of worrying about small cases.”
“Small cases?”
“Cases like the school attack. Family First. He said any cop could follow those leads and do that job. But that it would be much better for me to rise in the ranks and be a role model for women.” Riya gives a laugh that’s not remotely amused and shakes her head.
“So—to be clear,” I say, dropping my voice, “he was bribing you to get off the case?”
She looks at me, her eyes wide and focused. “Indirectly, yes, I felt he was. I mean, he tried to make it seem honest and real, but this guy has a very poor track record on women’s rights,” she says.
“I know,” I tell her. “I did some research on him.”
In the back of my mind, I’m sure that’s why Sunil skipped the meeting with Jingo. He must have known Jingo was going to try to persuade Riya to drop her investigating. She looks at me, reading my thoughts.
“Sunil may actually have been busy,” she says, but her voice drops and so do her eyes, away from mine.
I decide to just spit out what I’m thinking. “Do you think there’s some kind of cover-up going on?”
“Within the police?” she says, looking away. “Absolutely not.”
Well, I didn’t mention the police directly. But she did. It doesn’t make me feel good. It feels like she’s keeping quiet about something, maybe out of misplaced loyalty to Sunil.
“You don’t want to believe Sunil is cozy with Jingo?” I suggest.
“I’m not naïve,” she says firmly. “But anyone faced with a request from a powerful politician to send me alone might have done the same. It’s expedient. It doesn’t mean he has any involvement.”
That could be true but I’m less kindly disposed to Sunil than Riya is, and considerably more wary of his motives. But I decide it’s better to move on and so I ask another question:
“Did you tape your conversation with Jingo?”
She shakes her head. “As soon as I arrived, he asked me for my phone and placed it in a box by the front door. Far from his study, where we met.”
“And that didn’t make you suspicious?” I wonder, surprised.
“It made me completely suspicious. And that’s why, early on in
the conversation, while I was still asking about the ADS and whatever, I pretended to have a coughing fit and asked him for some water and some tea.” She glances at me with an embarrassed smile.
“I’m not following,” I tell her.
“When Jingo stepped out to order the tea from his cook, I did something terrible,” Riya explains. “I put a thumb drive into his desktop computer and downloaded the hard drive.”
Well, I wouldn’t have believed it. Riya, the stickler for due process, sneaking out evidence on the sly.
“Then what?” I ask.
“Then, he came back and I went on with the interview,” Riya says. “And when we were done, I asked him about one of the beautiful paintings hanging on the wall behind him. He turned to look at it and I quickly pulled out the drive and took it with me.”
“Impressive,” I tell her, smiling.
She shrugs. “It was pure instinct. And not something I’m proud of.”
“Why?”
“Because what I did completely ignores police procedure and legal boundaries.” She turns away from me and leans on the railing that looks out over the ocean. “If everyone just does whatever they think is right, wouldn’t the world be in complete chaos?”
That’s exactly the question that Kit, Li, and Peggy chewed over before starting Athena—an agency that devotes most working days to breaking the rules set by judicial systems. The irony is that now Riya looks back at me like she’s waiting for my answer to her ethical dilemma. If only she knew who she was asking for advice.
“Here’s the way I see it,” I tell her. “The terrorists and criminals we’re looking for don’t follow those procedures or any rules. So, all you’re doing is trying to level an uneven playing field. Jingo tried to bribe you.”
“So, it’s okay for me to leave behind my moral code? Why doesn’t that make me feel better?”
She looks away again, her dark eyes focused on the inky line far out to sea where the water meets the horizon. I do the same. For a long moment, neither of us speaks, but I am very aware of her arm right next to mine on the railing.
“It’s strange that you are the only one I can talk to about this,” she says finally.
I hesitate. “Isn’t there anyone at home who’d understand? Husband? Boyfriend?”
If Riya notices how clumsy that little probe was, she doesn’t show it. She shakes her head, but still doesn’t look at me.
“I’m never going to make my parents happy by finding a suitable young man. It’s just not who I am,” she says simply.
“I understand that,” I say.
“Do you?” Her gaze meets mine, earnest.
“Yes.”
For a long moment, we just look at each other, and the seconds seem to stretch out painfully, pleasurably. Suddenly, Riya leans toward me. I hold my breath as her lips brush my cheek and linger there for a moment. My face burns. The scent of her is all I can process. Then her hand slips down my arm, a touch I feel in every nerve ending. Her fingers pause at my waist and lift up the edge of my shirt. Her hand touches my skin as she slips something into the pocket of my jeans.
“That’s a copy of Jingo’s hard drive,” she says quietly, into my ear.
Then she turns and weaves between the crowds of drinkers, between the mass of people who are now dancing inside. Within moments, she disappears out the front door of the bar and into the night.
17
AMBER PICKS UP MY CALL but she’s not happy about it.
“I’m trying to get to sleep,” she complains, before treating me to an audible yawn. “If you need something from me, it had better be chick lit recommendations.”
“Really, Amber? I always imagine you reading science journals in bed.”
“That’s what you imagine when you think of me in bed?”
I actually feel myself blush at that, but the moment passes quickly because Amber starts huffing unhappily.
“My goodness, now Li is pinging me every five seconds. What’s going on?”
“I uploaded the contents of Jingo Jain’s home hard drive to you just now. I copied Li so she’d be sure to get on your case as well.”
“So kind, thank you,” says Amber, with weary sarcasm.
I can hear the sounds of movement as Amber gets up to check her computer.
“I’ve got the drive copy here, thanks. How did you get it?” Amber asks, sounding more awake now. “I don’t remember breaking into Jingo’s house being on today’s agenda.”
“It was given to me by Riya.”
“How thoughtful of her,” Amber says. “By the way, I checked her out thoroughly. Her whole story about the orphanage and being adopted is true.”
“Good to know,” I reply.
“I did it because you clearly didn’t think it was important to do a proper background analysis on her. . . .”
“I’m kind of busy out here,” I return. “I rely on you for that stuff, tech genius. If I thought Google searches would be adequate for everyone I meet, I’d do them myself.”
“Just make sure your brain is doing the thinking, not any other part of your anatomy,” Amber mutters. “When it comes to Riya.”
“Of course,” I reply indignantly. She’s right, though; I need to take her advice. But still, the impulse to needle her takes over. “Hey, Amber—you’re not jealous, are you?” I ask, teasing.
“No, but I am tired,” she says. “Is there anything else I can do for you now that you’ve ruined my chances of sleep?”
“One more thing, since you ask,” I say. Briefly I fill Amber in on my suspicions about Sunil, especially since he sent Riya to see Jingo for the express purpose of warning her off the case. “Can you dig around Sunil for me? Personal background, any weaknesses that Family First or Jingo might be exploiting?” I ask.
“I already did. Give me a second . . . ,” Amber says. I can hear her mouse clicking as she looks for the right file. “Sunil Patel . . . lifetime officer, excellent record. Divorced, one daughter, aged twenty-two, recently graduated with a law degree. His ex-wife runs a textile business.”
I process that. There’s nothing about Sunil that looks particularly dodgy, unless he hates his wife and daughter being educated and independent. Amber is busy murmuring to herself—a sure sign she’s fallen deep into the hard drive contents already.
She surfaces for just a moment. “I’ll dig into this,” she says. “Anything specific you’re looking for?”
“I just want links. To Family First, and whoever is behind Family First.”
“Don’t we all?” says Amber. And then she hangs up.
While Amber gears up to work through the night, I get to drift off for my first full night’s sleep in ages, in the comforting embrace of my hotel duvet, feather pillow, and silent air-conditioning. Over in their apartment, Caitlin and Hala get some rest too, and we all meet for breakfast at a buzzing street café that Kit takes us to. Peggy has gone off to a meeting with someone she knows from years ago at the justice ministry. I don’t know whether she has a particular agenda, but I do know that part of Peggy’s travel is always reserved for building relationships and keeping alive contacts that might help us on our current mission, or future ones.
“Masala dosa—a typical South Indian breakfast,” Kit announces as she and Hala carry over plates from the service counter, to where Caitlin and I have saved a table the size of a postage stamp. Each of us has a big, round, lace-thin pancake filled with spiced potatoes. On the side is a dish of pale coconut chutney, and a bowl of sambar, a spicy lentil soup.
“Beats eggs and bacon,” I say.
“But not hummus and zaa’tar,” notes Hala sorrowfully. “That’s what we had every day when I was growing up in Palestine.”
We all listen, intrigued. This kind of reminiscence from Hala is rare. But she says nothing more.
“Speaking of home,” Kit asks her, a little overcasually. “I don’t want to pry, but is there any news from your brother?”
Hala hasn’t seen Omar since she escaped fro
m Syria years ago. But in the past year, he got back in touch, trying to get asylum in the UK. His request was denied because of evidence linking him to extremists in Afghanistan.
“The pictures Peggy showed us were of Omar,” Hala says quietly. “But he was infiltrating that group to get information against them.”
“Why would he do something so dangerous?” Kit asks.
It’s clearly difficult for Hala to talk about, but she is deferential to Kit and all of the Athena founders. There’s a very deep respect ingrained in her for anyone who’s from an older generation than she is. She would never use the offhand, sarcastic tone with them that she generally treats me and Caitlin to.
“Revenge,” she answers simply. “They killed our parents. I hope one day he can tell what he knows to MI5 or the CIA. If he gives them enough, maybe he can come and live with me.”
Kit’s eyes touch briefly on mine. We’re both thinking that her idea seems like an awfully long shot.
“Yes, maybe,” Kit replies gently.
In any event, it’s good to hear Hala sharing a little more. Her face softens as she thinks about Omar, although her eyes show how desperately she wishes they could see each other again. Caitlin pulls her into an impromptu hug before Hala smiles and pulls away, like she’s irritated, even though she’s not.
For a few, precious minutes, it feels like we are at a real family meal—all of us sitting together, not talking about work. But the pleasure of that doesn’t last long. Before we are even halfway through breakfast, Amber buzzes me a message to say she’s found some good information on Jingo’s hard drive. We pack up our uneaten food and head back to the hotel so we can call into Athena more securely.
