When seven o’clock came and went, one of the field agents approached Suchir to light his cigarette. They chatted for a while before the agent sauntered away. Greer’s mobile rang a few seconds later. He listened briefly and then hung up.
“Suchir said he’s expecting a good customer in the next hour,” Greer told Khan.
The inspector picked up his radio and relayed the information to the CBI.
The minutes passed sluggishly in the unairconditioned car. The moist air filtering through half-open windows was thick with the stench of garbage and cigarette smoke. Men walked along the street in clumps, fending off propositions from pimps. Brothel owners like Suchir stood idly, observing the marketing ritual but not participating in it. Thomas kept his head down, but his eyes were alert, observing everything.
At ten minutes past eight, a taxi pulled up to the brothel and Suchir put away his pipe.
A voice came over the radio. “We have a suspect. Mid-thirties, dark hair, fashionably dressed.”
Thomas watched as a man in a pink shirt climbed out of a taxi and greeted Suchir on the street. The man handed Suchir a duffel bag, and the malik took it and opened it. Thomas felt his body tense. He was certain it was Navin.
The radio crackled again. “All units, move in.”
At once field agents converged on the brothel. Suchir clutched the duffel bag and fled up the stairs. At the same time, the man in the pink shirt moved toward an alleyway. Rohit stepped out of a doorwayand blocked the man’s path, but the man put his shoulder down and crashed into the field agent, bowling him over. Rohit landed hard and lost hold of the man’s shirt. Scrambling to his feet, the man ran headlong into the maze.
In that instant, something snapped inside of Thomas. Before he could think, before his mind could calculate the risk or comprehend the instinct that had overtaken him, he threw open the car door and stepped into the street. Ignoring the shouts of Greer and Khan, he took off toward the spot where the man had disappeared. The man had a ten-second head-start, but Thomas was fast. He was confident that he could catch him.
Dancing around Rohit, who had lurched to his feet looking dazed, he ran down the lane, dodging bullock carts, customers, and clotheslines hung so close together they obscured the sky. All around him people stared, but Thomas paid no attention to them. As long as he could hear the man’s feet pounding the dirt, his only interest was speed.
Time stretched out as he raced down the gully. As he moved, he scanned the path in front of him for a glimpse of his target. He heard a crash and moments later came upon an overturned vendor cart. He jumped it without breaking stride and ducked under a line of saris hanging out to dry. Rounding a bend in the lane, he caught sight of the man about fifteen paces away. He was moving quickly, but he appeared to be favoring his right leg. Thomas increased his speed, ignoring the pimps and brothel owners glaring at him from the shadows.
The man changed direction and darted into a brothel. Thomas hesitated only a moment before following him. The man disappeared through a door at the far end of the hall and Thomas ran after him, barely glancing at the lineup of girls loitering along the wall. He charged through the door, scaled a flight of steps, and entered a second hallway lined with girls. They laughed and blew him kisses, but he shrugged them off, concentrating on gaining ground.
The second hallway led to a third and then a fourth. All around were girls and sex rooms. The fourth hallway emptied into a larger space cluttered with mattresses and partitioned by sheets hanging from the ceiling. A number of the beds were occupied. He heard squeals and an angry shout and saw a girl and her customer scrambling to cover themselves. The man jumped over their bed, angling for a door in the far wall.
Thomas followed the man into another spider web of hallways. He ran down a set of stairs and felt a draft of cooler air. At last, he saw a doorway at the end of the tunnel. A brothel owner stepped in front of the exit, trying to impede his passage, but Thomas shoved him aside and ran into the street.
The man was only a few steps ahead of him and limping more obviously now.
“Navin!” he shouted. The man looked back.
Thomas poured all his remaining strength into half a dozen strides. When Navin came within reach, he launched himself through the air and hit him with an open-field tackle. They tumbled into the dirt and rolled into a cluster of pimps who were sharing a hash joint. In the melee, Navin tried to slither out of Thomas’s grasp, but Thomas wrapped his arms around Navin’s midsection and held fast. In the rush of adrenaline, he was overcome with anger.
“What did you do with her, you bastard? Where did you take her?”
Instead of answering, Navin lashed out with his elbow and connected with Thomas’s head. Thomas thought he was going to black out, but the moment passed and he tightened his grip. He heard shouts in the distance and, after that, footsteps. Rohit was the first to reach them. The field officer dragged Navin to his feet and threw him against a wall. A CBI agent stepped forward and put him in handcuffs.
Another CBI agent helped Thomas to his feet. “Okay?” he asked.
Thomas nodded, heaving in air and feeling sore all over. He wiped dirt from his face and watched CBI men lead Navin down the lane. Rohit approached Thomas, wearing a look that was part congratulatory and part embarrassed.
“Fine work,” he said.
Thomas grinned. “It felt good to do that again.”
Rohit frowned. “Again?”
“I was an all-state cornerback in high school.”
When Rohit gave him a blank look, Thomas shook his head. “Never mind.”
The CBI team escorted Navin to M. R. Road and locked him in one of their vans. After a brief turf scuffle with Inspector Khan, the CBI superintendent gave the order for Navin to be driven to the Nagpada police station. Greer, meanwhile, released the CASE field agents. He and Thomas drove to the station with Inspector Khan.
Greer rounded on Thomas. “Look, I understand why you did it. But do you know how dangerous it was? The lanes are completely unpoliced.”
Thomas shrugged. “I take it you don’t object to the outcome.”
“Of course not,” Greer replied.“It’s just that if something had happened to you, it would be my head on a platter.”
Thomas saw no point in responding to this. “So what happened to Suchir?”
“He got away,” Greer said. “All of them did. Sumeera, Prasad, the customers, the girls. Apparently the attic room had a hidden door that led to the roof. They were gone by the time the CBI guys found it.”
“Do you think he’ll run this time?”
“That depends on how afraid he is of Navin. He’ll probably stay away for a while. But I doubt he’ll give it up. The money’s too easy.”
“What are the chances he’ll stand trial?” Thomas asked. “I saw his lawyer. The judge was eating out of his hand.”
Greer met his eyes. “Ahalya will get her day in court. We’ll make sure of that.”
When the caravan arrived at the station, Inspector Khan led Navin into a room at the back. Greer and Thomas found seats in the inspector’s office and waited. Half an hour later, Thomas heard the first scream. He gripped the arm of the chair. The second scream came a moment later. After that, they came periodically. Thomas pursed his lips, struggling with the implications of what he was hearing.
He looked at Greer. “How long will this go on?”
Greer waggled his head. “Until Khan is satisfied.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“My opinion doesn’t matter. This is Bombay. The police do what they want.”
Thomas thought about this. “Will Navin talk?”
Greer nodded. “He’ll talk. The better question is will Khan get him to tell the truth?”
Down the hall, Khan stood in front of Navin, catching his breath. He had shackled him to a metal chair and beat him until the trafficker’s ribs began to crack, asking questions between punches. Navin, however, was surprisingly tough. He gave Khan his name and admitted to
buying Sita. He claimed, however, that he had sold her to another pimp. Khan asked him where this man lived, and Navin told him Kalina. Khan said he didn’t believe him.
“Tell me where you took her!” he shouted, cracking his knuckles.
Navin stared back at him defiantly.
“You can prolong this if you like,” Khan said, hooking his fingers up to a hand-powered dynamo. “Or you can tell me the truth. What’s it going to be?”
Navin screamed when the current flowed, but he didn’t change his story.
Khan asked him about Europe. “You like sambhoga with European women?”
Navin nodded, his voice slurring. “Why not? You like sambhoga with your wife?”
The comeuppance infuriated the inspector. He moved the electrical leads to Navin’s genitals and worked the crank. Navin shrieked and began to drool. He began to show signs of cracking.
“Tell me where you took the girl!” the inspector demanded. “You took her out of Bombay, I know you did.”
Navin’s head lolled back and forth, and then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.
“Good,” Khan said. “Is she still in India?”
Navin looked at Khan and spit a wad of saliva. Khan turned the crank again, and Navin screamed. “No, no, no,” he said, chanting desperately. “Not in India.”
“Where did you take her, then? Britain? Germany? Where?”
“France,” Navin finally whispered.
Khan took a deep breath. “Why France?”
Navin sat silently and Khan waited. After a minute, the inspector got impatient and picked up the dynamo again. The prospect of further suffering compelled Navin to speak.
“I have an uncle in Paris.”
Khan put the dynamo back on the floor. “Is your uncle a malik like Suchir?”
Navin shook his head. “The girl is not there for sex. She is working at his restaurant.”
Khan heard a knock at the door. He turned around irritably. He had left strict orders that he was not to be disturbed.
“What?” he barked.
The door opened and into the room walked the deputy commissioner of police. He looked at Navin and then at Khan.
“Inspector Khan,” the DCP said, “this man was arrested by mistake.”
Khan could not believe his ears. “The suspect has already confessed to buying a minor girl from a brothel and transporting her to France. He has violated Indian and international law. What mistake is there in his arrest?”
“Inspector, I am ordering you to release him,” the DCP said.
Khan stared at his boss, his spine tingling with rage and shame. He reached in his pocket for the key to Navin’s cuffs. He had no choice. If he disobeyed, he would lose his job, and his family would be put out on the street.
As soon as he was free, Navin struggled to his feet and spat in the inspector’s face.
“Muth mar, bhenchod,” he said under his breath. “You will never find the girl.”
Khan walked back to his office. “We have a problem,” he said, looking between Greer and Thomas. “The DCP released Navin.”
“What do you mean the DCP released him?” Greer demanded.
“I mean just what I said. Navin is gone.”
Thomas was aghast. “How could you let that happen?”
Khan frowned. “You don’t understand. I had no choice.”
“This whole place is a circus,” Thomas said angrily, standing up and heading toward the door. “We have to do something.”
Khan blocked his way. “Do you want to go to jail?” he asked. “Because the DCP will lock you up and throw the key in Mahim Bay. You will never win fighting the corruption. There is only one way to find the girl, and that is to talk to the French police.”
Thomas took a deep breath and tried to calm down. “Navin took Sita to France?”
“She is working in his uncle’s restaurant in Paris.”
Thomas shook his head. “Of all places, Sita is in Paris.”
“Why is that remarkable?” Greer asked.
“Because I know Paris. I spent a semester at the Sorbonne.”
“So?” Greer stared at him. “You’re not thinking of going after her? The French police are far better equipped to track her down.”
“Of course,” Thomas conceded. The idea was absurd, but for some reason it took flight in his mind and ran like a kite in the wind.
“I’ll contact the CBI tomorrow,” Khan said. “They will help with the French.”
Thomas accompanied Greer into the sticky Bombay night. Greer flagged a taxi and told the driver to take them to Mumbai Central Station.
Thomas didn’t speak on the ride. The easiest of his options—deferring to the authorities—was also the most reasonable. The thing that now mattered most to him—Priya—was in Bombay. It was possible that she might encourage a trip to Paris. But her opinion wasn’t the only one in play. However persistently they had tried to ignore him, her father still had influence. Priya wouldn’t leave India without his blessing. If Thomas stood any chance of wooing her back to the United States, he had to win over the Professor.
He and Greer bought tickets to Bandra and descended to the platform. Ten minutes later, the slow train lumbered up the tracks. They boarded a second-class car, and Thomas stood by the door, looking out into the night. The train started off toward the suburbs at an unhurried gait. The lights of the city were like a glowing river, endlessly in motion. The warm wind tussled his hair and smelled of paan and heavy cologne.
As the miles passed, he made his decision. Perhaps it was the rhythm of the wheels, the feeling of salt-laden air on his skin, and the cadence of foreign speech on the tongues of strangers. Or perhaps it was the euphoria of finding Navin after giving up hope. But as soon as he made it, the decision seemed inevitable, as if the path had chosen him. He would go to Paris.
He owed that much to Ahalya.
He owed that much to himself.
Chapter 18
Where is the extinguished lamp that made night day? Where is the sun?
—HAFIZ
Paris, France
As time passed, Sita continued to clean Vasily’s flat. Every other day, at Dmitri’s bidding, she gathered the linens and underwear from the adjoining apartments. The girls always appeared in the hallway dressed in T-shirts and gym shorts. Sita saw no evidence of men in the girls’ quarters—no condoms or cigarettes or overnight bags. Their only possessions appeared to be lacy underwear and a few paperback books.
One morning, Tatiana led her to the third floor of the flat and asked her to dust a room filled with clutter and computer equipment.
“Vasily out of town,” she explained. “Look at filth.”
She lifted a glass of stale beer off a filing cabinet and turned up her nose at the sight of a packet of cigarettes and a half-full ashtray.
“Disgusting,” she said. She turned to Sita with a conspiratorial expression. “No tell Vasily you here. He not like.” She shrugged. “But place needs clean.”
Tatiana left her with a rag and a dusting brush and returned to the second floor. Sita knew a little about computers, but Vasily’s array of electronics was far more sophisticated than anything she had seen. On a desk in the center of the room were two flat-screen monitors on standby, a keyboard and mouse, and a white tablet of some kind with a plastic stylus.
The room reeked of smoke and cheap alcohol. She started her cleaning with the frame and sill of a small circular window—the only window in the room. Then she moved to the desk and dusted the monitors. When she swept the surface of the keyboard, she brushed a key inadvertently. At once both screens came alive. She took an instinctive step back. The images depicted a masked man and a woman performing a sex act.
She looked away quickly, and her cheeks burned. She turned her back to the monitors, searching for a distraction. Taking the rag in her hand, she cleaned and polished the handles of the filing cabinet until they shone. The rhythmic motions were soothing, and at last the monitors turned black. She gl
anced at them again. Where had the images come from? And who was the man in the mask?
When she reached the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, she found that it wasn’t properly closed. Her first instinct was to shut it and move on, but she was seized by a dreadful curiosity. Perhaps the filing cabinet could explain the images and the girls across the courtyard.
Her heartbeat quickened as she slid the drawer open. Inside, she found folders hand-labeled in foreign script. She removed the top file and found a dozen Polaroid pictures. Each picture showed a Caucasian girl dressed in underwear standing in an empty room. The walls were bare and crumbling with age. The girls regarded the camera with glazed eyes. No one else was present in the room with them, but the angle of the lens was identical in all of the frames. Also in the file was a sheet of paper printed in strange characters. Sita wondered if the words were names.
Placing the file carefully back in the drawer, she skimmed the folders behind it, all of which contained Polaroid photographs accompanied by an indecipherable list. She pulled the drawer all the way to its stop and found a stack of pornographic magazines in the well behind the folders. Recoiling in disgust, she shut the drawer and picked up the rag from the floor.
When Tatiana returned for her, she felt such relief that she nearly hugged the woman. Tatiana gave her another chore, and Sita applied herself to trifles for the rest of the day, trying to forget the things she had seen.
That evening at the restaurant, Uncle-ji told Sita that Varuni was ill and that she would be waiting tables. Sita donned a patterned sari supplied by Aunti-ji and wiped the tables in preparation for opening. Afterward, she hastily memorized the menu. It was written in Hindi and translated into French and English.
Aunti-ji scurried around arranging tablecloths and place settings. She gave Sita the job of lighting a candle at each table. In her haste, Aunti-ji had little time for criticism. For the first time since Sita’s arrival, she treated her with a modicum of respect.
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