The Shadow Mission

by Shamim Sarif

  “Like what?” I demand. “You have to give us a list, a full list, of every possible trigger.”

  He’s taken aback but answers, spreading his hands.

  “It could be something in the food supply, the water . . .” He trails off.

  Well, that’s a huge task to manage on its own. “What else?” I press.

  “Another particle could be introduced through a ventilation system, or into the general air supply; something that could be inhaled. . . . Basically, it has to affect the girls internally. But it wouldn’t have the slightest effect on people who aren’t carrying the toxin.”

  It’s just too vague. There’s nothing I can catch hold of. My desperate look meets Peggy’s frown. She shakes her head at the doctor.

  “We really need a list. What else could trigger it?”

  “Perhaps we are not explaining this well,” Ajay interrupts with a sigh. “The science around virus delivery has grown exponentially in the past few years. And that’s the science we know about, not the top-secret work that governments get up to, that terror groups could steal.”

  Raj nods. “We don’t have a corresponding sample, or a list of characteristics, for this particular particle. It’s specifically engineered.”

  “So, there must be a specific trigger?” I ask, almost pleading.

  “Yes, that’s true. It won’t be any one of a hundred things; it will be one specific thing. But it’s not like we can just guess or do one single test to find out. There are any number of ways it could be triggered, depending on the nature of the particle. It’s never happened before, but there’s even a theoretical possibility that something like a microwave could trigger it, if the particle is engineered that way.”

  “So, tell us how the particle is engineered,” I snap.

  “I should be able to do that,” Raj says, eager to be able to finally toss us some hope. “My initial tests have been to figure out what this virus is meant to do, not how it does it. That alone often takes days. We’ve done it in under twenty hours.”

  “And we are extremely grateful.” Peggy nods, waiting for more.

  “There is good news,” he says. “Once we pull apart the structure of this nanoparticle, the chances are very high that we can defuse it. We can construct a new particle which conjugates with the first one but has a targeted antiviral.”

  I glance at Peggy. I’ll literally give this guy my life if he’ll stop talking like he swallowed a medical dictionary.

  “Do you mean you can make an antibody?” Peggy clarifies.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Raj says.

  It’s like I can breathe again. There’s hope. Some hope.

  “How soon can you do it?”

  “If we work round the clock and everything breaks in our favor—twenty to thirty hours. But that’s never been done before. It would be miraculous. But worst case, double that.”

  Maybe it would be a miracle, but it feels like an eternity. Peggy puts a calming hand on my arm.

  “That’s a day or two,” she tells me. “We can work with that.”

  “Then, if you have no more questions,” Raj says apologetically, “I will get back to my team and I will call you the moment I have anything that could possibly help.”

  25

  PEGGY AND I GET BACK to our hotel just after 8:30 a.m. and, with Kit in tow, we join the Athena team in London by video. Hala and Caitlin link in by audio from outside Jingo’s home, where Hala has just arrived to take over from Caitlin in watching the place.

  “We have one clear focus over the next several hours,” says Peggy after she’s summarized our visit to the lab. “To figure out what the trigger for the nanoparticle might be.”

  “Thomas is leaving messages at all of the top research universities here in London,” says Li. “He’ll find any brain virus or neurotoxin experts and track them down in person as soon as he can.”

  “Well, it is four in the morning over there,” says Kit, with understanding.

  “Oh, I’m having him hunt down their home addresses and phone numbers,” says Li briskly. “We can’t wait for London to open for normal working hours. Meanwhile, I have calls in to my contacts in nanotechnology in San Francisco and in Beijing.”

  “Needless to say, I’m researching too,” says Amber.

  Kit asks Caitlin about the school, since she’s been spending the most time there.

  “Those girls are well protected,” Caitlin tells us. “But I’ll talk to Luca and Ethan right now about tightening up security and what other kinds of safeguards we can place around the girls.”

  “Hala, anything from Jingo ahead of his deadline?” asks Peggy.

  “Not yet,” says Hala through a mouthful of something that’s presumably her breakfast. I’m still waiting to find the stressor that would cause her to lose her appetite. “I got a text ten minutes ago saying he’s working on it,” she continues.

  Peggy turns to me. “Jessie? Go and meet with Hala. In case you need to strong-arm Jingo again.”

  The call ends, leaving me alone with Kit and Peggy in the hotel room. Hastily, I get up to go to Jingo’s, trying to move past the helplessness I feel inside. But I have to ask permission for something first.

  “Someone needs to tell Riya what’s going on,” I say. “What she’s carrying.”

  “Perhaps the lab would be best placed to explain it?” Peggy suggests kindly.

  But Kit’s looking at me. “You’ve become friends with Riya?” she asks. She doesn’t try to imply anything more to the relationship.

  I nod. “She’s a very good detective. We trust each other.” I look away from Kit’s keen gaze. “Anyway, I feel like I should be the one to tell her,” I add.

  Kit and Peggy exchange a glance and then nod.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll call her to find a time. I don’t want to leave my post, in case Hala needs me.”

  “I think that’s sensible,” Peggy says.

  I leave Kit’s room and try Riya’s home line while I’m making my way out through the lobby. She picks up on the first ring.

  “I got a new cell phone,” she tells me. She dictates the number and I save it into my own cell. It gives me something to do while I figure out how to approach this. I decide to be businesslike.

  “I need to talk to you later,” I say. “I went to the lab earlier today and we should go over what they said.”

  There’s a long pause before Riya answers.

  “You don’t have to worry, Jessie. I just called them.”

  I swallow, hardly daring to ask.

  “They told me what was in the vial,” she says. “And they told me that the nanoparticle is also in my blood sample.”

  There’s a terrible silence, and all I can hear is my own breathing. “I’m sorry,” I say, inadequately.

  “Don’t be,” Riya replies. “And don’t worry, I’m fine.”

  “I’ll come over, as soon as I can,” I tell her.

  “No, I just . . . I just need some time on my own. To get used to the idea. Okay?”

  “Okay. Riya?”

  “Yes?”

  I’d like to tell her she’s amazing, that she’s a good cop, that I care about her. That she doesn’t deserve any of this. But I can’t put into words the fear and pain rising in my chest.

  “Jessie?” she asks, waiting.

  “Nothing. I’ll call you later,” I say.

  The truth is that thinking about Riya leaves a heaviness in my heart that makes it hard to function. And I have to stay sharp. I have to find solutions. To that virus and also to the puzzle of what havoc Family First are planning to unleash. Sprinting out of the hotel, I collect my motorbike and rev it as fast as it will go, weaving my way down to the street where Jingo Jain lives.

  I park the motorcycle several cars behind the vehicle that Hala is sitting in. Her car keeps a substantial distance from Jingo’s home too, a distance we can maximize because we each wear contact lenses that give us a nice zoom view of the house. I join Hala, slipping into th
e passenger seat and handing her a sweet milky coffee, while I sip on my own macchiato.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “Hey. Listen. We need to think about getting into his house and persuading him to find out more, faster.”

  Hala agrees. “Want me to circle around the back of his place and find a way in?”

  Right now, we can only see the front of Jingo’s home and it doesn’t look promising as a subtle way to enter. I give her a nod, but before Hala can exit the car, an old Honda pulls into Jingo’s driveway.

  “Hold on,” I say. “Let’s see who we have here.”

  “I think that’s the same car from last night, at the morgue,” says Hala.

  Sure enough, the driver’s door opens and Sunil gets out. He tucks in his shirt and straightens his tie, looking around at the street for any sign he’s being watched. That gives us a nice view of his face for the snapshots we’re taking through our lenses. Then he knocks and disappears into Jingo’s house.

  “I can’t believe this,” I growl. “Well, actually, I can. This asshole has been stonewalling us and Riya from the start. I just knew he was in Jingo’s pocket.”

  “Jingo or Family First?” Hala asks.

  I shrug, because that might be the same thing. Either way, it’s a huge problem. “We have to get him removed as a detective. I have the pictures from last night, where he’s paying off the guys at the morgue. And now these photos . . .”

  Hala nods.

  “Maybe Riya should report it?” I go on, thinking through options. “She could start the case with Internal Affairs, or whatever the police disciplinary department is over here?”

  I don’t have time to finish that thought because the front door opens again. That must have been the quickest meeting in history. Jingo has come out to the porch to see Sunil off. Jingo’s doing all the talking, looking relaxed in an open-necked shirt, his hands thrust casually into his pockets, while Sunil nods and scrapes like the toad he is, practically backing into his car.

  “I’ll follow him,” I suggest.

  Hala nods. “Take the bike.”

  While Sunil negotiates his old banger of a car back into the road from the driveway, I have plenty of time to pull on my helmet and hop on my motorbike. Giving Sunil a very healthy lead, I ease the motorcycle out with low throttle and minimal noise, and trail him, leaving four or five cars between us. We travel along for around twenty minutes, half of which is spent waiting for two angry bus drivers to stop fighting over a collision and clear the road in front of us. Sunil, policeman or not, makes no attempt to intervene, only shoves in earbuds.

  Hala checks in with me on the comms. “Where’s Sunil heading?” she asks.

  “Beats me,” I say. “He’s driven right past the usual turnoff for the police station. He’s listening to music or something.”

  “Maybe he’s on a phone call?” Hala asks.

  “If it is a call, he’s not saying much. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Switching lanes so as to avoid getting caught in Sunil’s rearview mirror, I toy with calling Riya and bringing her up to speed. But she calls me first. I pick up the call on my hands-free.

  “Riya, hi. I was just thinking about you.”

  “Jessie, I had the strangest call, a few seconds ago. From Sunil. He wants to meet.”

  I feel the hairs prickle on the back of my neck.

  “Where? Why?”

  “He said now. At Bandra Terminus.”

  “The railway station?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Riya, I’m trailing him right now. He just had a meeting with Jingo Jain, at his home.”

  Riya lets out an audible breath that sounds like despair. “So he is mixed up in this?” she asks.

  “It looks that way. I’m sorry,” I tell her. “Did he say why he wants to meet?”

  “No, he was very short on the phone. He did say one more thing, though,” she says. “He asked for you to come too.”

  Bandra Terminus is a large train station, all columns and arches topped with a sloping tiled roof and a small watchtower on the top. Outside, lines of black and yellow rickshaws and taxis pull in and out from the curb, fighting their way through layers of vehicles that are three deep from the sidewalk.

  At the fast-food restaurant across the street from the station, the smell of grease and oil feels like it’s soaked into the walls. I check that my comms unit is working, deep in my ear, and that my team can pick up sound from me and my surroundings too.

  “All good here for me and Li,” Amber says.

  “Same here for us,” says Peggy.

  “Check,” says Caitlin, and Hala gives a quick confirmation as well.

  Within minutes, Riya walks into the restaurant, looking for me just as we have planned. I wave from the stool where I’ve been perched and we both hurry straight out, dodging the passing cars and bikes on the road, heading over to the station.

  “It’s a good thing you’re here, Jessie; you can stop me from killing Sunil,” she says by way of greeting. “If he thinks he’s going to threaten us off the case, he has another thing coming.”

  “Take a breath,” I tell her.

  “I can’t take a breath,” she says, turning to me. When our eyes meet, it’s like the fierce anger drops away suddenly, replaced by disappointment. “I’m still in shock. It’s not who he is.”

  Clearly, she’s struggling with believing the worst about her mentor. There’s no reason to add my two cents and make her feel worse.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask, indicating her torso.

  “On the upside? Every time I think about the brain toxin I’m carrying around in my bloodstream, I forget the pain of the bruises.”

  She tries a brief smile but neither of us finds her attempted humor amusing. But it makes me stop walking. Something in what she just said, about carrying around the virus, freaks me out. I grab hold of her arm, holding her back before she can head into the station.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  I pull her along with me, away from the terminus, ducking into a small street off to the side.

  “Jessie, what are you doing?”

  “Just come with me,” I reply. My heart is beating a million miles a minute. “What if Sunil has the trigger that sets off the virus?” I ask. “Those men from India Lab died on his watch yesterday . . .”

  “But he wasn’t there.”

  “So he says. But do we know that for sure?”

  I watch her turn it over in her mind. “I suppose it’s possible. He might have wanted them dead before they could spill too much information,” she muses. “Information that might implicate him . . .”

  We walk down the side road, which is crammed with shops catering to the train passengers, and I install Riya in a cramped store selling women’s clothes. She hangs around pretending to be interested in the rolls of fabric piled up right in the back. The front of the place is busy and lively, with plenty of women choosing cloth, unwinding long, colorful saris, and generally hanging around chatting. Sunil would never find her there. I promise to keep in touch and turn away to head into the station alone.

  The thunderous clatter of an arriving train forms a wall of noise. Scores of people wash in and out onto the platform below us, like waves onto a beach. I locate the steps that lead down to where Sunil has asked us to meet. This platform is off to the side and feels unused and empty. On the tracks, an old engine squats, listing tiredly to one side. As I descend, Sunil steps out to beckon to me, then quickly disappears back into the shadows behind the stairs.

  “Where’s Riya?” he says as I reach him. “We don’t have much time.”

  “She doesn’t want to see you. She’s feeling . . . betrayed,” I say.

  Poor Sunil looks hurt. “Betrayed?” he repeats, shocked. “By me?”

  I shrug, because I could care less about his feelings. I’m alert, wary—scanning Sunil’s hands, his pockets, his face for a sign of malicious intent. But he seems tired and dispirited, not to mention awkward
and nervous.

  “You’ll report back to her at least?” he asks, talking quickly.

  I nod.

  “First off, tell her she’s back on duty, with immediate effect.”

  Is he serious? The gall of this guy. Riya’s not around to listen to threats so now he’s trying to buy her allegiance? I’m getting steamed but I try to keep my mouth shut. Ripping into Sunil might give me a moment’s satisfaction but it’s not likely to help our case. Still, the detective’s next words take me by surprise.

  “There’s a cover-up going on,” Sunil says firmly. “Within the police.”

  While that’s hardly news at this point, I wasn’t expecting him to spill his guts about it, especially to me.

  “No kidding,” I say. “Care to elaborate?”

  “I told you last night that the police commissioner had me deal with those bodies to avoid a panic. Well, it’s the kind of thing that happens, but now I don’t believe that is the real reason he wanted them gone.”

  “What is the reason?”

  “I just found out. From Jingo Jain. He’s a politician. . . .”

  “I know who he is. You went to see him?” I ask. Like I have no idea.

  “Just now. I went for one purpose,” Sunil says urgently. “To bug his landline. I’ve tapped his cell for the past two months and—nothing. But something is building here. The lab you found with Riya contained a toxin.”

  “What toxin?” I ask. It’s annoying to have to ask about stuff we’re already on top of, but I need to find out what he knows.

  Sunil almost grinds his teeth with frustration. “Our forensics had to send it out for specialized analysis. No matter, the suspicious thing is that the two men who were handling the toxin are now dead, before they could speak. And now . . .”

  He trails off, frowning at the floor.

  “And now?”

  “I just intercepted a call on Jingo’s home line. Family First plan to kill the schoolgirls at twelve noon today with some kind of bio-terror attack. But I don’t know how. On tonight’s television news, Jingo is to wear his army uniform and prepare a speech unifying the nation against the attack, and by tomorrow, he will be the obvious winner even as the voting opens. Next, they want to push him toward a run for prime minister.”