by Shamim Sarif
“Election tampering?”
Sunil nods. My head is spinning. I don’t know what to think of him, what to believe.
“And Jingo knew this all along?” I ask.
“From the call, I would say this last part came as a surprise to him. But he didn’t argue.”
I look at my watch. Twelve noon is an hour and a half away. Eighty-nine minutes, to be precise. I stare at Sunil. His eyes meet mine, unwavering, as he speaks.
“I called you here because I think you and Kit-ma’am may have resources that we don’t have. I need your help—and Riya’s—to stop this, because I don’t know who I can trust in the police anymore. Jingo was once head of the police force and he may have friends all over the top ranks.”
I hesitate. Sunil pulls out his wallet and flips it open to a picture of a young woman in a university gown and cap.
“This is my daughter,” he says, and his face softens. “Jingo would have her and all young women married instead of at university. He would take away her chance to practice law, and have her stay home, dependent on the man she marries. He is a monster and I’ve been looking for a way to stop him and whoever funds him. But now I need your help.”
26
THE FIRST THING I DO is get hold of the recording of the call Sunil intercepted between Jingo and Family First. I upload it to Amber, then return it to Sunil. He doesn’t feel that Jingo has any idea what form the attack will take, but I’d prefer to get Amber’s confirmation about that. While I wait for her analysis, Li tells me that I can go ahead and tell Sunil that I have photos of Jingo that could be used to blackmail him. Obviously, I don’t tell him how I got them, not that I feel Sunil much cares.
“Photos of him with a lover?” he asks.
That surprises me, that he guessed the content of the photos.
“You knew he was having an affair?” I reply.
“No. But for the last few minutes, my phone has been pinging nonstop. Here . . .”
He swipes into the news notifications on his phone, showing me. I flick on my own local news app. An array of breaking news greets me—all of them Jingo-related headlines:
Military Hero Falls Victim to Fake News by Liberal Left Jingo Jain: Photoshopped Images “A Low Attack on My High Character”
Similar headlines continue to pop up, overlapping each other. No one even has these photos yet, but it seems clear that Jingo and/or Family First have decided to come out ahead of our threat to expose him.
“I can prove the photos are real. And we have video . . . ,” I begin, indignant.
“Even if we can prove the photos are real, do we want to spend the time we have bringing down Jingo?” asks Sunil.
In my ear, Peggy comes in: “Jessie, he may be right. There’s no guarantee that discrediting Jingo will protect the girls,” she says.
On that, I agree with Sunil to let the blackmail angle drop for now. In my ear, I’m being further instructed by Peggy to bring Sunil up to date on the virus and the fact that there is a trigger. He stares at me, openmouthed.
“What trigger?” he asks me, appalled.
“We don’t know yet.”
Sunil lets out a choice string of curse words in Hindi. Don’t ask me how I know that they are swearwords; it just always seems to be the first vocabulary I pick up, whichever country I get sent to. I don’t feel right telling him that Riya is carrying the toxin—that should be her decision to make. I call her and direct her to meet with Sunil, leaving them together outside Bandra Terminus while I race back to Ajay’s lab. Before I head off, I text a piece of software to Sunil and he obligingly opens it when I ask.
“This gives me access to your phone’s microphone. So I can hear you if you learn anything from Jingo, or if you need me.”
“Millennials,” Sunil grunts, grudgingly impressed.
On the way to Ajay’s lab, I check in with Thomas. The reality is that I don’t have time to listen in to Sunil’s phone, so Thomas will be on that. Watching over everything Sunil gets up to is also extra insurance for us. Since we’ve decided to trust him, it doesn’t hurt to keep tabs on him. Thomas confirms he has access and that he will keep me updated. It takes me fifteen minutes to reach my destination. I drop the motorbike right outside the front door and run in, hurrying my way through security and up to the top floor.
I burst out of the elevator just as the lab door opens.
“They told me you were coming up,” Raj says politely. His pleasantries fade away when faced with my wild-eyed stare. I hurry him into the lab where we met not two hours ago.
“Those girls are set to die—to be triggered—in fifty-nine minutes from now,” I tell him.
He makes a gasping sound and pulls at his beard. “We can’t even decipher the particle we have in that time,” he says.
“What about somewhere with better equipment?” I ask.
“Stanford might have something,” he offers.
“Stanford University in California?” I ask.
Raj shakes himself, crestfallen. “I know, stupid idea. It would take a day just to get the samples to them.” He’s clearly panicking and not thinking very well under pressure. I try to calm him down, not to infect him with my own stress.
“Isn’t there some general antivirus we can give them?” I ask.
“No. We can kill bacteria with high-dose antibiotics. But not an unknown virus. And we can’t risk giving the carriers anything by mouth. Even an antibiotic or antiviral could be a trigger, if this particle is set up for that.”
I know he’s trying his best, but it’s not helping us. What he’s saying is that anything and everything near the girls could be fraught with danger. If we split them up, that danger will multiply, because our control of their immediate environment will be diluted.
“How’s the deconstruction of the particle going?” I ask as I head out the door.
“As well as it can,” Raj replies. He really doesn’t want to commit to a time frame but I pin him to the spot with my gaze till he provides one. “No guarantees, but I think we can crack this within twenty-four hours.”
I glance at the countdown timer that I’ve set up as my watch face. Fifty-five minutes left. Within me, frustration rises with such force and heat that I feel like kicking in a wall. Instead, I thank him and run.
If this nightmare has to happen, it’s a small mercy that the main places we have to travel between are concentrated within a relatively small area of Mumbai, because just crossing the city in its entirety can take two hours or more. But from the lab to the school in Bandra, it’s less than twenty.
Still, I rev the bike harder as I ride along the road that runs down to the sea. Forced to stop at a red light, I edge forward, trying to push past the thronging traffic that floods the street in front of me, blocking my progress, but I can’t find a way through. Desperate to contain my panic, to avoid the phantom ticking of the countdown in my head, I turn to look at the water, gleaming in the sun. The waves lap in, creating lacy edges of white froth at the shore as they push themselves over the backwash. It’s soothing, primal, true. The water exists free of chaos, choices, dilemmas. Right now, I wish that could be how our messy lives are. Ahead of me the opposing traffic finally pauses and, before the light can even change, I’m speeding over the junction. At the school, Caitlin has the gate open, ready for me. I pick her up onto the bike behind me and we roar up the driveway.
“What’s the update?” I ask as we disembark and head inside the building.
“We got rid of the private security firm in case they were infiltrated,” she says. “Only Luca and Ethan are in here now. They have complete surveillance around the school and a bunch of cool weapons—don’t ask me how they got them. And Hala just got here. And then there’s you and me.”
“Five of us guarding a hundred girls? Feels a bit light,” I suggest.
“Yeah, well, think of it as ‘lean,’” she replies.
She leads me through the foyer and back toward where Jaya has her office. The door hangs open an
d the room is empty as we stride in.
“We’ve put together our own list of things that could potentially activate the virus, and we’re trying to cross them off, but damn,” Caitlin says, discouraged, “with every expert Amber and Thomas talk to, there just seem to be more.”
On the main wall, next to the girls’ art about their dream careers, Caitlin has pinned up a list. New triggers are scrawled into an increasingly tight space at the bottom, while most of the top ones are ticked. Caitlin whips through them:
“We cut off all food and water deliveries yesterday morning, and got rid of existing stocks, in case the supply chain was compromised.”
“How are you feeding the girls?” I ask.
“Ethan went out with Jaya to buy supplies from an hour away, spread across a bunch of different stores. But right now, we’re not giving them anything by mouth, no medicine, nothing until . . .”
She trails off. Until the deadline comes and goes, she means. The thought of it makes us both check our watches. Thirty-two minutes to go. We leave the office to continue our circuit of the inside of the school.
“What if it’s an airborne trigger?” I ask.
“The air-conditioning vents are clear,” replies Caitlin. “There’s no tampering with the units that we could see, but we’ve switched them off, obviously. The guys have sealed off the vents and grilles that lead into the classrooms and dorms. In the basement there’s nothing but an old cooling unit and some gas heaters. They’re clean but Ethan pretty much took them apart anyway.”
“And you’ve scoured the place for any other kind of device?” I check.
“What, like a bomb?” Caitlin asks. “Sure. We’ve checked every nook and cranny, tested for any trace of explosive residue, any places of ingress, the works.”
We keep moving through a corridor hung with more artwork and with photos of famous female scientists. It feels like we are pacing, marking time. And yet, it’s hard to know what more we can do except be on our guard and wait, ensuring the girls are isolated from any possible contaminant.
“We’re keeping them all in the dining hall for now,” Caitlin explains. “The teachers were sent home yesterday as a precaution, and we don’t have much in the way of supervision for the kids.”
“Have they figured out what’s going on?” I ask.
“No. I mean, they know something’s up, because they’re all moved into one room. A few of them have been getting nervous, asking questions. But Jaya’s keeping them calm and busy.”
As we approach the dining hall the sound of young voices bubbles up, chattering, bickering, laughing. It sounds strange—wrong, even—to hear laughter when terror and death are bearing down on us. And yet, there’s relief in it too; the sound of life. A few of the girls have started singing at one end of the hall, and more of them join in. Ahead of us, right before the entrance to the dining hall, Jaya’s stocky outline leans against the doorframe, watching the girls, unseen. As we peek inside from the corridor, some of the girls are up and dancing, a perfectly coordinated set of moves that make the others laugh and clap. Jaya looks back at us over her shoulder as we approach.
“It’s a dance number from one of our most popular Bollywood films,” Jaya explains. “Normally, I would be in there telling them not to waste time.”
Her voice breaks. I draw her back from the doorway so that the girls won’t see her and become alarmed.
“Jaya, it is time for you to leave,” Caitlin says. “We can’t put you at risk.”
Jaya sniffs wetly and Caitlin rummages in her jacket pocket, finding some tissues for her to blow her nose into. When the headmistress is done, she shakes her head emphatically.
“I am not leaving. These are my girls. This is my school. I will not abandon it.”
She turns back to watch the girls, cutting off any further discussion. I look at Caitlin for guidance on how to handle her, but now Luca comes striding down the hallway toward us.
“I have a breach,” he says. “That young police detective is outside. The one you were here with before.”
“Let her in, fast,” says Caitlin. “She’s carrying the virus too. The last thing we need is for her to be out there exposed to anything Family First wants to throw at her. . . .”
Luca sprints out, and I’m right behind him. Meeting Riya at the gate, I hurry her back up to the school building while Luca brings up the rear, sweeping the school grounds and the street with his gun. Once we’re inside, Luca goes back to his post, leaving me and Riya alone in the foyer. It’s a large entrance area, painted in pale blues and greens. On one wall, a welcoming mural painted by the girls brightens the space. On the opposite wall, near the front door, neat rows of pegs hold school blazers and backpacks. Just seeing them there reminds me of the girls that we need to protect. I’m antsy, my foot tapping up and down on the wooden floorboards, as I watch Riya.
“You can’t stay here,” I tell her.
“Why not?”
“You need to keep away from the other girls. If Family First trigger them, they’ll trigger you.”
“Twenty minutes from now,” she says softly. I look down, away from her gaze. “Sunil told me the deadline,” she adds. “Before I told him I have the virus too.”
Despite myself, I feel a lump rise in my throat. I take a breath to steady my voice.
“Riya, please, let me try to protect you at least—”
“Really, Jessie?” she interrupts, frowning at me.
“Really what?” I ask.
“Tell me I didn’t misjudge you all this time,” she says. “Tricking your way into my crime scene. Brawling with those men at the lab. I thought you were a fighter. But now you sound like you’ve given up.”
I almost smile at the tone of challenge in her voice.
“I’m still fighting, but we have to think about the worst that could . . .”
The rest of the words collapse in my mouth before I can even form them. Who am I telling about the worst that could happen? Just looking at her—high cheekbones, expressive eyes, and, somehow, a small smile forming at the sides of her mouth—makes me so deeply sad. Tears sting at my eyes suddenly and I hit the wall with my palm, forcing them back.
Without warning, Riya grabs me in a hug that is passionate, intense, laden with too many emotions for me to grasp at. It’s like she understands everything I’m feeling, all the things I can’t put into words. I feel her lips on my cheek, my neck, my forehead. Her eyes are closed as she kisses me. I hold her close, taking in the feel of her, the scent of her. The moments stretch out, like they might just last forever and yet, suddenly, it’s over so fast. She pulls away, and reluctantly I let her go.
“You know what I figured out since I found out about this toxin?” she asks gently.
“What?” I say. Despite my best efforts not to cry, I feel tears on my lashes. Riya’s finger comes up to brush them softly away.
“We can’t worry about failing, Jessie. We have to figure out how to win.”
27
LUCA GIVES RIYA AN EARPIECE that will give her a communications link to all of us here in the school and I introduce her briefly to Caitlin. Then I leave her in Jaya’s office to sift through the last few days, to go over all the events since the bombing of the first school and think about any evidence or events that could help us identify the trigger. Even though we are under the impending pressure of this deadline, I’m hoping that maybe by sitting still for a few minutes, Riya can come up with some clue that Family First have left us, even inadvertently.
I look into classrooms as I go back to Caitlin. The spaces echo back at me, silent, deserted. Only the computer room buzzes with life. Inside, Caitlin and Luca watch a set of three monitors. He’s still wearing Caitlin’s bandanna, and I don’t think I imagined that her hand was holding on to his when I walked in. But she’s standing up now, arms crossed. I keep my eyes on the screens.
“This looks good,” I say. The streets outside the school appear live before us.
“I’ve had this
set up since we got here,” says Luca. “Using the Wi-Fi, it’s a cinch. And just today, I’ve added lasers. If anyone breaks the beams coming onto the school grounds, we’ll know about it.”
All of this technology would usually make me feel safer, and yet, as Luca talks, I suddenly get a pit in my stomach. I ask Caitlin to step outside, and take her into an empty music room. She sits on a piano stool while I put in a call to Amber.
“Sixteen minutes left,” Amber says as a greeting. Really, what does she think? That maybe I forgot to watch the clock over here?
“Listen,” I say, urgently. “The guys have all this camera and laser stuff set up for surveillance. It’s all running on Wi-Fi.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” replies Amber. “Someone could tamper with the Wi-Fi and that might somehow activate the toxin?”
“Exactly.”
“We didn’t add it to our list for a reason. It would take equipment that’s not commercially available to even begin to mess with those kinds of waves. . . .”
“Is that equipment available somewhere, in some form?” I ask.
Amber hesitates. “Barely. And it’s mostly untried, even by the military.”
“I still think it’s safer to cut all Wi-Fi signals,” I say.
Li comes in now. “Jessie, that would leave you without any visual security beyond the eyes and ears you have between you. You’d be much more exposed to an attack. . . .”
“It also cuts out vulnerabilities,” I argue. “What if they’re using the Wi-Fi to watch us? Or to mess with our phones? What if there’s some way to concentrate a signal to be a trigger?”
“That’s science fiction,” Li says. “Or, at least, unproven . . .”
She trails off. Li’s business, her legitimate business, is to know all about tech that is months, and sometimes years, away from being usable. If she had said “impossible,” I would have left it alone. But “unproven” suggests that there’s some evidence that it is possible, and that idea doesn’t thrill me.
