by Shamim Sarif
On our video link, Amber looks exhausted, although her eyes are bright as she brings us up to speed. Li sits beside her.
“So, the same shell company that funded Imran in Pakistan showed up on Jingo’s hard drive,” she says. “But there’s no evidence of any money going to Jingo.”
Caitlin frowns at me. That’s a letdown.
“However, that shell company put shares in a medical company in Jingo’s name.”
“That could be a payment-in-kind,” Kit suggests. “But for what?”
Amber nods. “Thomas is looking into the medical company now. There are links to Chinese entities and illegal drug shipments, no surprise there. And they have a few laboratories under their umbrella, one of which is in Mumbai. I’ll get you the address in a second.”
“Well done, Amber,” says Kit.
“There’s more,” Li chimes in. “Encrypted on the drive were emails to Jingo from someone signing themselves X.”
“A link to Family First?” I ask, hopeful, but Li shakes her head.
“I doubt it. The emails are . . . personal. Intimate. Graphic,” she stresses. “Jingo appears to be having an affair. The most recent email was only two days ago.”
“We don’t know who the person is,” says Amber. “But we sent her a text offer in the style of social media ads she seems to have clicked on before. And she clicked, letting us install the app we needed to track her GPS.”
“And?” Hala asks, impatiently. “Where is she?”
“In a house around twenty minutes’ drive from Jingo’s home.”
The consensus is that going directly to that house is pointless: to create any kind of leverage against Jingo, we would need to catch him there. So Hala and Caitlin head over to Jingo’s home to keep tabs on his movements, and also to see if anyone interesting comes in and out. If Jingo was brazen enough to call Riya into his house to subtly bribe her, maybe there are others who might be summoned and who might give us the break in this case that we need.
In the meantime, I’m tasked with going over to the lab that Amber mentioned. The whole medical angle feels a bit out of left field, but it’s worth exploring. We’ve agreed that I can feed the Mumbai police the name of the medical company and some of the people that Amber found associated with it. But I’ll keep the lab address to myself for now, because we’d like to have a look around before the police go barreling in there. Of course, Riya has the same information from Jingo’s hard drive, but I imagine that, to get all the clues available from it, she will endure a much longer, more bureaucratic process than Athena’s. It’s very unlikely that any police team can work as fast as Amber.
As we all part ways to get on with our day, the first thing I do is call Riya, purely because I’m supposed to give her the name of the medical company; not because I’m wondering if that intense moment between us at the bar last night meant anything. Her phone rings, but she doesn’t answer. I try texting, just to request a call or a quick meeting. I wouldn’t want to put the information I have into a written message. While I wait for a reply, I collect Caitlin’s motorcycle since she and Hala have hired a car for the stakeout at Jingo’s place. Before I set out, I check the whereabouts of the lab that Amber gave us. The shortest route to it runs pretty close to the police station. Since there’s still been no reply from Riya, I decide to stop by her workplace, deliver the information I have for her, and then go on to the lab.
It’s insanely busy outside the police station in Juhu this morning. Several squad cars are parked outside, and people mill around, arguing with uniformed officers. Some of them hold placards. From my sweep of the local news this morning, it seems like election fever is gripping the city ahead of voting day, which is the day after tomorrow. Demonstrations and marches have been springing up. I’m guessing that the police have broken up at least one of these and that the bedlam outside is the result.
It seems intelligent to park my motorbike farther down the street, away from the chaos. I’m just removing my helmet, and about to take off my leather jacket, when I see Riya emerge from the police station. She slips on sunglasses, runs lightly down the steps, dodges the protesters and the barrage of traffic, and heads out to an unmarked car parked on the sidewalk across from the station. I hit redial on my phone, hoping to catch her before she leaves. But she just glances at her phone, declines the call, then gets into the car.
Well, that’s annoying from the perspective of the investigation, but it also leaves me with a depressing feeling of personal rejection. Was I imagining that there was some kind of spark between us last night? But now my phone pings. It’s Riya.
Stuck in meetings
Yeah, right. Putting my helmet back on, I zip up my jacket and rev up the motorbike. Before she leaves, Riya puts on a baseball cap—inside the car, where it’s not exactly sunny. It’s troubling. Together with the sunglasses, it looks more like an attempted disguise. Within seconds, I’m weaving my way into the morning traffic to follow her. The traffic is bumper-to-bumper, but finally we turn onto a highway where the cars are moving. My one consolation is that, so far, we are heading in the same general direction as the lab. Frankly, I feel a bit daft just taking off after Riya like this, so I’m not planning to waste too much time on it, but I can let it play out for a short while. I cruise along far behind her, changing lanes frequently so that she won’t spot me.
It’s not long before she slows down, making a turn into a smaller street. I settle the bike behind two gaunt cows being walked along the side of the road. Ahead of me, Riya pulls into a tired-looking car rental office bearing the proud signage “Kwality Kars.” Amber would break out in hives at that spelling. The establishment has only five cars, all of them generic white Toyotas, parked out back. I watch from my vantage point down the street as Riya chats with the young guy at the desk. Within a couple of minutes she is outside, pulling the cap down over her eyes and having a glance around before slipping into one of the rentals.
I feel my pulse quicken. At the same time, a bitter wave of disappointment rises up inside me. She must be up to something if she doesn’t want her own car seen wherever she is heading. I snap some photos of Riya getting into her fresh vehicle and then I’m off again, behind her. This time, the ride takes only seven minutes and I’m more than a little stunned by where we’ve ended up.
Riya stops on a main street outside a row of dilapidated shops, and then walks down a few blocks toward a single, detached building. She looks around her as she reaches the place, like she’s worried to be seen. There are no signs on the building, but on my GPS street map, that block is identified as “India Laboratory.” Exactly the address that Amber gave me to investigate.
18
I FEEL LIKE I’VE BEEN punched in the stomach. What is Riya up to? Has she been lying to me all this time? Watching from a safe distance, I track her as she paces around the side of the building to a heavy metal door with a keypad on it. She pushes at the door, but it’s clearly locked. The whole place is quiet. No sign of anyone coming in or out, no sign of activity through the windows. Right at the back is a weed-infested patch of tarmac that could probably act as a parking lot. But although it’s a working day, there are not even any cars parked on it, like you might expect from a place full of lab technicians or researchers. Only a single white van sits there, alone, unattended. On it is the logo of a cleaning company.
I move the motorbike, trying to protect it from the scorching sun by parking under a tree that cascades feathery green fronds into the road. Then I pull off my helmet. Riya has disappeared around the back of the building now, and I hurry to follow her. She’s checking out the white van, trying to open the rear doors, and not having much luck. All of this reassures me somewhat, dampening down my suspicion of her. It’s not like she has a key to the place, or knows the way in. I decide to accost Riya directly and get to the bottom of things. When I stride boldly around the corner, into the parking area, she stares at me.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“
You gave me the hard drive. The info on it led me here,” I say, just a little indignant. “What are you doing here?”
“Same,” she says briefly.
“Really?” I ask, wanting to believe her. “I figured the police would take longer to work it out.”
“They would,” she says dryly. “Which is why I stayed up last night and figured it out myself. Is that why you were calling me earlier?” she continues. “To give me this address?”
I wasn’t going to share it with her, but there’s no point in antagonizing her, so I nod. “Among other things. Don’t you have a warrant to get inside?” I ask.
She looks at me a long moment, her eyes tired. “I didn’t ask for one. I took the drive illegally. Normally, I’d trust Sunil with what I did, but since he sent me to talk to Jingo, I’m just unsure whether to go to him with every lead. I covered my tracks coming here too.”
I can understand her hesitation.
“So, what’s our plan?” I ask, scanning the building. It’s only two stories high, made out of concrete blocks, with small windows set into the gray walls at regular intervals. Bland, utilitarian. Not one of the windows is open, and all of them are barred.
“Our plan?” Riya asks with a quick smile. “That’s presumptuous.”
“Let’s be honest—you’re going to need all the help you can get from someone with brilliant skills.”
“I guess until she shows up, I’ll make do with you,” Riya returns.
“You’re very funny,” I tell her.
“And you’re very arrogant,” she replies. “What about the roof? I see a chimney or something up there.”
“Looks more like the top of a furnace, or incinerator, maybe for medical waste. . . . Let’s look for the back entrance. There must be a place where they take in supplies or whatever.”
We both walk around to the other side of the building. Sure enough, there is a garage-sized door. But it has no visible handles or locks, only another keypad by the side of it. It doesn’t respond to my attempt to slide it up either. Great. I look up at the walls, trying to figure out where the power supply to this door is. There’s a small chance that cutting the electricity would mean we could drag it open manually. Meanwhile, Riya walks back toward the parking area, frustrated.
“You know, that van back there doesn’t belong to a cleaning company,” she says.
“How do you know?” I ask, following her back to the vehicle.
“The telephone number on the side is fake,” she says. “I tried it. And look at this.”
She points through the front window and we both peer in. On the floor, peeking out from under a pile of garments, is something that looks very much like the butt of a pistol. Jammed into the pocket by the driver’s side is a sophisticated walkie-talkie kit. And nothing else. No cigarette packets, gum, newspapers, religious icons on the dashboard—none of the normal, everyday stuff that you would expect from people who might use this vehicle to go from job to job, if they were actually cleaners. There is one more thing in the front, though. We both spot it at the same time and exchange a look. It’s a small remote-control unit, the kind you use to open garage doors. I lean down to unlace my boot.
“What are you doing?” she wants to know.
I just smile while I pull out the shoestring and rapidly tie it into a firm loop right in the middle, a loop that looks like a tiny noose. Riya watches as I hold the long ends of the string apart and work the shoelace—and the loop—into the top corner of the van’s door.
“Didn’t they teach you this in the police academy?” I ask.
“How to steal cars?” she returns. “I must have been sick that day.”
Moving the shoelace back and forth, I make it slide down so that the loop is inside the car where I can maneuver it into place till it hooks onto the end of the lock mechanism. It’s an aging van, with an old-style lock that you push down or pull up with your finger. With a quick tug on the loop, the door lock pops up. Riya opens the door, raising an eyebrow at me.
“I really wonder about your past, Jessie,” she says, taking hold of the remote.
“I’m just resourceful,” I assure her. “And I watch a lot of ‘how to’ videos.”
“So do I,” she says. “But usually things like ‘how to make fresh pasta.’ Not ‘how to be a criminal.’”
Eagerly, she presses the button on the remote, and the door slowly rises open. Riya pulls her gun out of its holster before we step in. Just because the place looks deserted, doesn’t mean it is. If nothing else, the driver of that van might be inside.
We’ve entered through a delivery door that leads into a storage area. Stacked white metal shelves fill the room. There is nothing on them, except a couple of empty cardboard boxes and a carton of disposable gloves. Creeping farther on, into the main part of the ground floor, we find a couple of large science labs, but they don’t feel like a place that’s processing blood tests for the general population. The long workbenches and white laboratory sinks look much the same as the storage area—empty and abandoned. Riya runs a finger through a thin film of dust on the lab benches, showing that they’ve been unused for some time.
But from the floor above us, there’s sound. We freeze, both of us glancing up at the ceiling. Footsteps perhaps? Silently, I lead Riya back toward the storage area, toward a staircase we passed back there. When we get to the stairs, she takes my arm and draws me back behind her, indicating that she’s the one with a weapon. I do have a knife in my boot but decide that this isn’t the best time to show off about it, so I fall back and follow her as she moves silently up the concrete steps.
We reach the second floor. Ahead of us, the space is mostly open plan, with regular lab tables and stools. At the back, two men in jeans and T-shirts move around. Crouching low, we stay back near the stairs and watch them. One man is around fifty, gray-haired but stocky and muscled—clearly someone who takes his gym time seriously. The other is taller and younger with a head of thick, swept-back hair. The young one is passing documents through a small paper shredder that sits on one counter. The older guy wears long protective gloves and works at the other end of the space, moving in and out of some kind of walk-in refrigerator that sports a thick door and a digital temperature gauge.
“Can you see what he’s doing?” Riya whispers.
“He’s getting stuff out of the fridge—little tubes. He’s packing them.” I don’t dare to lift my head any higher, but not getting a proper look at the action is driving me nuts. It certainly appears that these two are busy clearing out whatever is being stored in this lab. As if to bolster my theory, the younger guy comes walking back out to the benches closest to us. Quickly, I pull back and hold my breath, and feel Riya do the same. Ever so slowly, her hand comes up to her jacket pocket and she removes a compact mirror. She holds it out and uses it to watch him.
Not twenty feet from us, the young man opens drawers and pulls out more paper. Leaving the drawers open, he goes to the back and starts shredding them. In the meantime, the other guy opens the door to an incinerator and starts tossing tubes and vials into it. I lean out and use my phone to snap some pictures of both of them.
“We have to do something,” Riya whispers. “They’re destroying evidence!”
Before I can answer, before I can even think, she stands up, striding into the room, her gun out in front of her. I stay in my place, crouched down, and listen, horrified, as she crosses the room.
“Police,” I hear her say. “Put your hands where I can see them.”
The only response to that is a series of gunshots.
19
I SCRAMBLE UP FROM MY hiding place by the stairs, trying to find Riya and trying to stay low at the same time. She’s hiding on the floor behind a lab table, still holding her gun. I scoot over to her, drawing another shot from the younger man, before the older guy yells something and the shooting stops.
“Are you hit?” I ask. She shakes her head. I can tell she’s spooked by the near miss, though. Her breathing is f
ast and shallow, her eyes wide. The footsteps of the gunman move closer, slowly, surely. Two things about this situation freak me out. First off—faced with an armed police officer, these men didn’t surrender. Even worse—since Riya didn’t shoot them when she could have, they’ve probably figured she’s a soft target.
In any event, if we just wait here like sitting ducks, we’ll both be splattered across the floor of this lab in about three seconds. I propel myself out from behind the lab bench and barrel into the legs of the younger man, tackling him to the ground. His gun hits the floor as he does, skittering away, out of reach of both of us.
Clambering on top of him, I use my legs to keep him pinned down and on his back while our arms and hands flail at each other, looking for contact, for grip. A bullet fires toward me and I roll over, lying flat next to my opponent.
The other guy’s waving a gun now. Riya emerges, shooting at him so that he drops, taking cover near the incinerator before chancing another shot from back there. Riya scoots forward, trying to get closer, and I hear her shouting out a frantic stream of Hindi. A reply crackles over her police radio. But I don’t have time to process, because I’m scrambling to get back on top of my guy. Even though he’s lying on the floor, and I’m back on top of him, his strong arm keeps me at a distance. With his free hand, he aims a fist at my jaw, which I mostly dodge, then jams his huge palm up against my chin. My teeth rattle together and he makes me bite my tongue, but apart from that, his stupid move helps me. Because at least one of his hands is busy. I punch down on his nose, then his eye. Only then do I have a split second to pull my pocketknife out of my boot. I flip it open and hold it against the hipster stubble that coats his throat.
“Stop moving and turn over,” I say. He rolls onto his front. “Put your hands behind your back.” He obeys.
In the meantime, Riya is crouched behind her lab table, and the gray-haired guy is out of sight, hiding out by the incinerator. She keeps talking to him, probably trying to convince him that there’s no way out. With a cable tie, I bind the hands of my captive, retrieve his gun from under a counter, and I signal Riya to keep the conversation going. Then I creep across the room so I can get to the other guy from behind, where he won’t expect me.
