The Shadow Mission

by Shamim Sarif

  Suddenly, her police radio fires up—a rapid stream of Hindi and English mixed with earsplitting amounts of static. I use the noise to cover my footsteps, and quickly move up behind the older man, placing the weapon I retrieved from his friend against his back. It’s enough to paralyze him. I take the gun out of his hand and pass it to Riya, who turns to keep her weapon trained on my captive.

  From outside, the whine of approaching sirens floats into the lab.

  “You called for backup?” I ask her as I tie the hands and feet of my new captive. My eyes are scanning the tables and counters between the refrigerator thing and the furnace—I’m trying to trace the path the older guy was taking. The heavy door of the fridge lies open, and the inside, lit with eerie LED lights, is empty. But the box that he was packing sits just below the counter, on the floor. He must have put it down here when the bullets started flying. It’s a sturdy metal container covered in skulls, crossbones, and warning stickers.

  “What is this?” I ask him.

  “Please, I don’t know,” he replies, his voice shaky. “I was told to get rid of it.”

  Riya comes closer to look at it with me but, behind her, something catches my eye. It’s the younger man. He’s up and running for the door. Riya turns and bolts after him. I hear them clattering down the stairs. Briefly, I consider helping. But she’s armed, he’s not, and his hands are tied. I’m quite sure she can handle it. So, I turn and grab some long disposable gloves from a box on the counter, and flip open the metal container. Within it, cushioned by specially made foam inserts, are several smaller boxes, each sealed, each marked with the same labels—a bunch of codes that mean nothing to me. Outside, police cars screech into the street and the parking lot. I hesitate for only a second, then I pull out just one of the smaller boxes. I wrap the box in as much gauze and cotton as I can find, then put everything into a sterile glove and tie that all up with tape and shove it into my jacket.

  Leaving my captive tied up on the floor, I go to the front window and glance down at the parking area. The young guy is sprawled on the ground, surrounded by armed officers. An unmarked car pulls up and Riya’s partner, Sunil, emerges. I notice that Riya doesn’t hang around to talk to him though. She disappears back into the building, fast. I hurry to the top of the stairs to meet her.

  “Why did you call for backup?” I demand.

  “Are you serious?” she asks. “What else should I do? I was fighting two armed men, with you, a civilian. I nearly got you killed!”

  Before I can answer, Sunil’s voice barks up the stairs. I follow Riya down, and we are both treated to her boss’s annoyed stare following us as we descend. He sniffs and turns to give orders to two uniformed officers behind him.

  “Seal this place off with tape. No one goes up there till we know what we are dealing with.”

  “There’s another guy up there,” Riya says.

  Sunil sighs and gives further instructions in Hindi to the officers, then turns a stern glare onto me next.

  “How did you get mixed up in all this?” he wants to know.

  “Following my own lead,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “Why?” I shoot back, unfazed. “Because that’s what Kit hired me to do.”

  “What lead? Where from?” he demands. I don’t even glance at Riya. The last thing I want is for him to suspect her of helping me in any way.

  “You might want to get everything in this lab down to the station for processing as evidence,” I reply. I’m just trying to dodge his question, but the look on Sunil’s face reminds me that there’s possibly nothing more antagonistic than telling a senior police detective how to do his job.

  “What lead did you follow?” he repeats, slowly. As if I’m too daft to understand him.

  “I’m sure you’ll find your answers,” I say, sweeping my arm to indicate the lab. “If you have any more questions, arrest me,” I continue. “Otherwise I’m done here.”

  Behind Sunil, Riya gives me a pained look at my aggressive tone. But I really want to get out of there and find out what I’m carrying around buried in my jacket. And I’m gambling that Sunil didn’t get where he is by wasting time teaching lessons to mouthy young women. Still, he does look as if he’d like to handcuff me and throw me in a cell. But instead, he turns to Riya, and takes his irritation out on her.

  “I told you to come to me with anything you find,” he berates her.

  “I know, sir.”

  “But you know better, it seems. One whole year as a detective, and you are the Sherlock Holmes of this force. . . .”

  “I felt so sure . . . ,” she begins.

  “You felt?” he yaps. “Don’t feel. We are not in the psychic business. We are not some Bollywood film where the heroine feels the answer. This story does not end by you running into danger and being a hero.”

  Ouch. I try to give Riya an encouraging look, but her eyes are downcast.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she mutters.

  “Did it occur to you,” Sunil continues, “that I might be piecing together this part of the puzzle already?”

  She looks up at him, surprised. “No, sir.”

  He grunts, like she just proved his point. “You know, detective work is slow and painstaking. This hotheadedness is not an asset.”

  “I understand, sir,” she replies.

  Sidling slowly toward the door, I decide this is a good time to get out of here. Sunil notices my shuffling and turns and fixes me with a pointed stare that I return with a quick smile. But he doesn’t stop me from exiting. I turn to take a last look at Riya to send her a silent message of support, but she doesn’t meet my eyes.

  Outside, I walk quickly past the cops in the parking lot and run across the street. Getting back on my motorbike feels like freedom. But I’m still very aware that I’m carrying around a little package of god-knows-what in my pocket. I drive as carefully as I can through the traffic tumult of central Mumbai, calling in to speak to Thomas along the way.

  “Tell me,” he answers.

  “I’ve got something I took from the lab.”

  “Where is this ‘something’?” he inquires.

  “In my pocket.”

  “Good grief,” he says. “Is it sealed?”

  “Yes. I need to find somewhere to take it for testing,” I tell him.

  “Just sent you an address,” he says. “Want directions piped into your comms unit?”

  Well, that was quick.

  “Yes, great,” I reply. “But, Thomas? It can’t be some random lab—who knows what’s in this thing?”

  “Random?” repeats Thomas, sounding mortally offended. “This is one of the city’s most sophisticated university research labs,” he continues. “Peggy knows the owner and I’ve just asked if they will both meet you there.”

  “How did you manage all that so fast?” I wonder, relieved.

  “It’s called the art of anticipation,” Thomas explains patiently. “I knew you were scheduled to explore a lab this morning. That meant an outside chance you’d find something that needed testing.”

  “Thanks,” I say, impressed. “You’re the best.”

  “I’m sure Amber would disagree,” he says. “Anyway, good luck. And let me know how it goes.”

  If the lab I just left was eerie and downright dangerous, the one I pull into feels like a happy contrast—calm, safe, bright, efficient. I pull up to the front door and am immediately greeted by a shy young woman in jeans and a lab coat, who looks like she’s been posted there for the express purpose of meeting me. She does not engage in any small talk but immediately directs me to a back entrance. There, right inside the doors, I find Peggy herself, accompanied by an imposing man around Peggy’s age.

  “This is Ajay,” says Peggy, introducing me. “He owns this lab and has been a dear friend to me since the days when I was leading trade delegations to India.”

  Ajay chuckles. “More years ago than I care to remember,” he says. I hold out my hand to be polite, but he does not sha
ke it.

  “Apologies, ma’am,” he says. “I do not mean to be rude, but we do not know what you are carrying, or to what contaminants you may have been exposed. We must take all necessary precautions.”

  Peggy shoots me a worried glance as we follow him inside. Around us a small team of people in protective aprons, masks, and gloves gathers, and they walk with us down a series of corridors.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “We have labs that are level three biosafety areas,” he tells me. “Until we know what gift you have brought us, it is better to be safe than sorry.”

  We are shown into a room that features a secure area on the other side of a glass-and-steel wall. That section seems to be accessed through a series of small chambers that look like air locks. One person is already in there, standing around in what looks like a full hazmat suit.

  “How does all this work, Ajay?” asks Peggy, always curious.

  “Our staff enter without any clothing,” he says. “They go through to a shower room, then into a changing area where they then dress in decontaminated scrubs on the other side.”

  Ajay has me follow exactly that procedure. I step into a closed chamber, remove everything I’m wearing, underwear included, then pass through the shower, and help myself to scrubs. The little box is the only thing I can take with me, wrapped up as it was when I left the lab.

  Once I’m into the sterilized side of the lab, I’m instructed to leave my mystery package on the counter. Then Ajay directs me to come back to his side. On the other side of the glass, we watch the suited technician painstakingly remove the gauze and protective packaging and unseal the small box. Inside is a tiny metal vial.

  “We will take it from here,” Ajay says.

  “How long do you need to analyze it?” I ask.

  “That is hard to say until we know what it is. Ideally, we must run it through a full centrifuge-type process that separates out the tiniest particles. It takes time, many hours. But we will run it overnight, so there should be news in the morning, if not before.”

  “Thank you, we so appreciate this,” says Peggy. Ajay turns to me.

  “I am afraid we will also have to incinerate all your clothing as a precaution,” he continues. “You can keep these scrubs and wear them to go home. But before you leave, we will take swabs and blood tests. Just to be sure you have not been infected.”

  Well, that little speech makes me anxious. I pull Peggy aside.

  “Riya, the police detective, was also with me at the lab,” I say.

  “Then I think you need to ask her to come in and go through the same protocol,” Peggy says. She steps over to Ajay, letting him know that he has one more person to decontaminate.

  In the meantime, I text Riya, trying to make it clear that this is important. She messages me straight back to say that she will come over at once. I write back:

  Good. I’m sure Sunil will understand

  Her reply flies in:

  He doesn’t have to. I’m suspended

  20

  “MY PARENTS ALWAYS WANTED ME to become a doctor,” Riya notes as we sit side by side on a long row of chairs, waiting for the results of our medical checks and blood tests. Ruefully, she looks down at the green medical scrubs that we’ve both been wearing since our clothes were tossed into a furnace. I’m not much for fashion, but I was gutted to lose my leather biker jacket. It was a vintage piece that Kit had bought for me in Portobello market.

  “How’d they feel when you joined the police?” I ask.

  “They weren’t thrilled about it,” she replies. “But I’ve been obsessed about fighting for justice since I was a child.”

  Her fingers tap nervously on the arm of her chair.

  “I’m sorry you got suspended,” I venture.

  “It’s my own fault,” she says softly. “I broke into a lab without a warrant. And Sunil doesn’t even know the part where I met you in a bar and gave you a thumb drive full of information that I stole from a politician’s home. None of it is really standard procedure.”

  “Standard procedure can be overrated,” I say.

  “Trust me, I’m learning that,” Riya returns. “But I’m a police detective. Not some rogue agent. Or private investigator, like you.”

  I try not to smile at that. Riya’s police training and instinct to circumvent process might actually be a great combination if she worked at Athena. But right now, she’s completely angst-ridden about losing her place by Sunil’s side.

  “How long did he suspend you for?” I ask.

  “A week. And it goes on my record,” she sighs.

  The sound of footsteps ringing down the hallway makes us both look up. It’s Ajay, brandishing two sheets of paper and wearing a reassuringly wide smile. Peggy left the lab before Riya arrived. She and Kit have things to do, plus there’s no need for her to come into contact with anyone from the police.

  “Ladies,” Ajay announces, “you will be delighted to know you are both all clear. No sign of contamination, pathogens, or anything else.”

  Riya and I exchange a relieved smile as we shake hands with Ajay. He escorts us to the back door of the clinic.

  “Make sure to keep me informed if you develop any reactions or symptoms,” he says. “But I suspect everything will be fine.”

  We both thank him as I collect my motorbike and Riya hails a cab.

  “What are your plans for the rest of the day?” I ask her.

  Her eyes turn away, to the street, watching the constant blur of passing traffic while she considers.

  “I’ll go home to get some clothes,” she replies. “Then, I suppose I’ll stay at home. And think about the fact that Family First is busy plotting terrible things while I sit around and do nothing.”

  “Well, at least you’re not feeling sorry for yourself,” I say. She hits my arm in response.

  “What are you going to do?” she asks.

  “Once I’m out of these scrubs? I was going to eat lunch. Are suspended cops allowed out for lunch?”

  “I believe it’s acceptable.” She smiles.

  “But before that, I have one little thing to do . . . just routine. Want to come?”

  “Something to do with the case?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I say. Her eyes stay on mine as she hesitates. “What are you thinking?” I ask.

  “I’m thinking that Sunil told me not to come to work,” she replies. “But he didn’t actually say anything about staying off the case.”

  I don’t want Riya to come with me to my hotel, in case we bump into Peggy or Kit. So under pretense of saving time, I let her go home in a taxi to get changed, and arrange to pick her up outside her apartment an hour from now so that we can travel together to my errand.

  As soon as I reach the hotel, I throw on some cargo pants and a shirt, and let Peggy and Kit know I’m back. Then I check in with Hala and Caitlin.

  “How’s the stakeout on Jingo going?” I ask.

  “Like watching paint dry,” Caitlin complains. “Hala’s gone out to get us some lunch. Jingo hasn’t left the house. Amber intercepted an email from his girlfriend, though. He has a date at her place later tonight. I’ll need you for that.”

  “Sure thing,” I confirm.

  “How are you?” Caitlin asks. “Your morning sounded more exciting than ours.”

  “You’d rather be shot at in a lab filled with horrible poisons than hang out in your car eating Indian food?” I ask.

  “I think here, it’s just ‘food,’” ponders Caitlin, missing my point.

  There’s a knock at my door, so I hang up with Caitlin. I check the peephole—it’s Kit. Opening up, I find her in a subdued but graceful flowing tunic that falls low over matching pants. It’s an Indian-style ensemble that looks elegant but tells me that she’s heading to another funeral or set of condolence rites. Without saying anything, I just offer my mother a hug. She clings on, emotional. When she pulls out of the embrace, her eyes search my face. Her hand comes up to touch my jaw, where a
slight bruise is forming from the glancing blow I took in this morning’s fight.

  “What happened?” Kit asks.

  “Did Peggy not bring you up to speed?”

  “She did. But I mean, what happened to your chin? What’s this bruise?”

  There’s a good reason we don’t share that level of detail all the time. Kit is clearly stressed and anxious. I have no idea how to deal with her questions. If I ignore them, she’ll get upset. If I address them in too much detail, I’ll freak her out.

  “Jessie?” she persists.

  “You know how these things go,” I say lightly. “Half the time you’re watching us through our lapel cams.”

  I’m not super keen to share with my mother the intimate details of how I feel every time I dodge a bullet or a knife. How I attacked the guy this morning. How I wasn’t 100 percent sure I wouldn’t be hit when I ran out into the path of his gun. Those details alone could drive her back to the solace of vodka, for all I know.

  “Mum, you’re just feeling fragile because of the girls who died. It’s understandable . . .”

  “Are you even wearing the bracelet I gave you?”

  I wonder at how desperate Kit is, that she’s clinging to the superstition that her magic wooden beads will save me. Maybe that’s what we all do when things feel shaky. Cling to whatever we think we can control. I look at my naked wrist, then remember.

  “I’m sorry, Mum. I had to give it to the lab. They incinerated it. Procedure.”

  Kit nods. “I suppose that’s safer,” she says, but she doesn’t look like she really believes it. She seems seriously upset. I’m relieved when there’s a knock on the door of my room.

  “That’ll be Peggy,” Kit mutters. “I have to go.”

  Riya’s wearing jeans and a white blouse, maybe not the best ensemble for traveling on the back of a motorbike. But the afternoon is warm and muggy, and I keep our speed down as we head toward Bandra. Riya hangs on tightly on the turns, and a few times, she directs me onto side streets that help us cut the route shorter. As we drive down quiet residential roads, with lush vegetation on each side, we pass many older villas with verandas, wooden shutters, and arched windows. I slow down so we can take everything in. It feels good to be together, without any pressure, without anyone else.