A Walk Across the Sun

by Corban Addison

  “I’m not sure it would help,” he responded. “Anyway, I’m less concerned about the deputy commissioner.”

  “You’re worried about Sita.”

  He nodded.

  She looked thoughtful. “Do you know why Navin took her to France?”

  “His uncle owns a restaurant in Paris. She’s working for him.”

  “Are the French looking into it?”

  “The CBI hasn’t told us anything. What the French will do is anyone’s guess.”

  She eyed him closely. “That isn’t the end. You have something more to say.”

  “The CIA should hire you. You’re better than a polygraph.”

  She smiled. “It’s only your mind I can read.”

  “I need to go to France,” he said. “I think I can find Sita.”

  She stared at him, her dark eyes shimmering in the torch light. “You mean that.”

  “Yes.”

  “My father won’t understand.”

  “Of course he won’t.”

  “It’s too bad. He was just starting to like you.”

  Thomas’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “His exact words were ‘You picked yourself a smart one.’”

  “Ah, but respect is not affection.”

  “Neither is it loathing.”

  He laughed. “I think it was I who picked a smart one.”

  She reached out and touched his arm. “Go to Paris,” she said. “I’ll deal with my father.”

  Thomas checked his watch and saw that he still had thirty minutes before the plane boarded. He took out his BlackBerry and placed a call to Andrew Porter at the Justice Department. Porter picked up on the first ring. The ten-and-a-half-hour time difference meant that it was early afternoon in Washington.

  Thomas briefed him on the situation and asked if he knew anyone in the French government who could offer assistance.

  “Our relations with the French are always a bit sensitive,” Porter said. “But a friend of mine works at the legal attaché’s office in Paris. The legats know the diplomatic ropes and have the respect of the government. I could give Julia a call if you’d like.”

  “How good a friend is she?” Thomas asked. “What I’m doing isn’t exactly orthodox.”

  “Julia and I were at Columbia together. She’s one of my favorite people. Anybody else at the FBI wouldn’t give you the time of day. But she’ll do me a favor. Besides, she’ll be intrigued. Her sister was abducted when she was a child.”

  “Okay,” Thomas said. “Give her a call.”

  “Good. Wait twenty minutes and then dial this number.”

  Porter recited an eight-digit number with a Paris exchange. Thomas wrote it on the palm of his hand. After signing off, he read a copy of the Times of India and watched the clock.

  When twenty minutes elapsed, he placed the call. Julia answered the phone in French. Although Thomas spoke the language passably, he identified himself in English.

  She changed languages easily. “I’ll do anything I can to help. Where do we start?”

  “I want to know if the French police have heard from the CBI in Bombay.”

  “We have contacts at the BRP here in Paris. I’ll ring them tomorrow morning. How familiar are you with Paris?”

  “I spent a semester at the Sorbonne in college. Why?”

  “I’m guessing you’re going to want to do a bit of gumshoe investigating. It’s better if you know your way around.” She paused. “When do you get into Charles de Gaulle?”

  “Seven thirty tomorrow morning.”

  “Take the RER Line B to Châtelet–Les Halles. I’ll meet you outside the Église Saint Eustache at nine o’clock.”

  “How will I know you?”

  “I’ll be wearing a red coat,” she said.

  The plane took off on time and Thomas slept through most of the flight. At Charles de Gaulle, he passed through customs without delay and followed the signs to the RER suburban rail station, where he bought a five-day pass. It had been nearly a decade since his last trip to Paris, but it felt like yesterday.

  The ride into the city was a bouquet of memories. He recalled the smell of espresso at the little café in the Fifth where he had often eaten breakfast. He remembered the silence of the great lecture hall at the Sorbonne and the Beaux Arts reading room at the Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève where he went to study when it became too cold to read in the gardens at Pont Neuf, overlooking the Seine.

  The train made quick progress toward the city center. He disembarked at Châtelet–Les Halles and followed the signs to the Forum Les Halles, a flashy underground shopping mall in the First Arrondissement. He walked by a multiplex cinema and scaled a long flight of steps before emerging on Rue Rambuteau.

  The day was bright and cold. The edge of winter persisted, but the sun had reclaimed some of its natural brilliance, forecasting the arrival of spring. The Église Saint Eustache, one of Paris’s many historic Gothic churches, dominated the skyline. He walked through the gardens and around the spiral plaza, looking for Julia. She was standing at the tourist entrance, hands pressed into the pockets of her crimson town coat. She was tall and attractive and wore her chestnut brown hair at shoulder length. He introduced himself and she greeted him with an airy kiss on both cheeks.

  “Faire la bise,” Thomas said, returning the gesture. “It’s been ages since I did that.”

  “I’ve been here only a year, and I don’t think about it anymore,” she told him.

  He laughed. “You stay here long enough, you’ll forget about everywhere else.”

  “Ah, a Francophile,” she said, leading him back the way he came.

  “I was infected long ago. It’s an incurable condition.”

  Julia smiled. “Andrew told me I’d like you.”

  “He’s not much of an authority,” Thomas said. “He likes everyone, even the criminals.”

  “Touché,” she said with a laugh. Then she changed direction. “I placed a call to our contact at the Paris prefecture. He hadn’t heard anything about Navin or Sita, but he’s going to look into it. I sent along her picture from Interpol. I should hear from him this afternoon.”

  “So what’s the plan for the morning?” Thomas asked.

  “There’s a man you need to meet,” she replied. “Jean-Pierre Léon. He knows everything there is to know about trafficking in this city. And he’s one of the most interesting conversationalists I’ve met in Paris. You won’t regret it.”

  Julia led him down an alleyway along Rue Mondétour. They stopped at a nondescript door beneath a green awning. She pushed the button beside a sign that read LE PROJET DE JUSTICE. The door opened with a buzz and she led him up two flights of steps to a windowless lobby. She greeted the receptionist in French and the woman waved her through.

  “You’re a known quantity here.”

  “Not really,” Julia said. “I just called ahead.”

  They met Léon in an office so crowded with books that the furniture was nearly invisible. Thomas appraised the man and decided he would like him. The Frenchman was in his forties and had sharp eyes and a lean build. He was dressed foppishly in a sport coat and wool tie and had a pipe dangling from his lips.

  He stood to greet them and gestured for them to take a seat. Thomas looked questioningly at a chair covered with a mound of hard-bound tomes.

  “Sit, sit,” Léon said in lightly accented English, waving his arms. “Move aside the books. I will find them later.”

  Thomas sat awkwardly in the cramped space and waited for Julia to initiate the conversation. Léon, however, had been briefed and he took the reins.

  “Julia tells me you come to Paris looking for a girl. An Indian girl.” Thomas nodded.

  “There aren’t many Indians in Paris.”

  “I remember an Indian enclave in the Tenth.”

  “The Tenth is a global village. Most countries are represented. But you are right. There are Indians around Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis.”

  “Is that where I sh
ould look?”

  Léon scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps.” He glanced at Julia. “But Paris is a large city. She could be anywhere.”

  “Or nowhere,” Thomas added. “She was trafficked in early January.”

  Léon shook his head. “If she came to work in a restaurant, I doubt she is gone. Good workers are hard to replace.”

  “So how do I find her?”

  Léon shrugged. “Julia says the trafficker—Navin, was it?—had a family connection, an uncle. The police might be able to trace him if he is here legally. But if he purchased his documents on the black market, they won’t find him. You know, I am sure, that France has a certain problem with illegal immigration.”

  “We have the same problem in the United States,” Thomas said, trying to be polite. In truth, he wasn’t satisfied with Léon’s evasive answer. “Julia told me on the way over that you’re the resident expert on trafficking in Paris,” he went on. “Is that true?”

  Léon held up his hands. “Some have said that. But there are others.”

  “I’m satisfied with you. So here’s the deal. Sita was in the city in the past two months, and as you say, she’s probably still here. She must have left a trace. I need you to give me a lead. Tell me where to go, who to talk to. If she’s out there, there has to be a way to find her.”

  The Frenchman thought for a moment and asked a question: “Are you a religious man, Mr. Clarke?”

  Thomas raised his eyebrows. “Not particularly.”

  “Too bad. I might have suggested prayer.”

  Thomas waited for something more. Eventually the silence became awkward.

  “That’s your answer?” he said, growing frustrated.

  The Frenchman scrunched his face and sighed. “Forgive me. Julia will tell you that I have a visceral aversion to dispensing advice. It’s a personal peccadillo, a fear of being wrong, I suppose. Do you have a picture of this girl?”

  Thomas nodded and showed the photograph of Sita to Léon.

  The Frenchman pursed his lips. “That will do. I have only one thought. If I wanted to find her, I would take the picture to the streets. I’d start in the Tenth and move into the Eighteenth. I’d ask women and children, especially South Asians. But I would be realistic. It will take a miracle to find her.”

  Thomas looked at Julia and she nodded. “Jean-Pierre’s idea is as good as any.”

  “Occasionally we eggheads prove useful,” Léon said. He stood and gave Thomas his business card. “Best of luck to you. Let me know if you find her.”

  “I will,” Thomas replied and followed Julia to the street. He checked his watch as they walked back toward Forum Les Halles. It was nearly eleven o’clock.

  “I forgot to ask where you’re staying,” she said.

  “A hotel by the Luxembourg Gardens.”

  Julia smiled. “Your old haunts.”

  “I figured a flight of nostalgia couldn’t hurt.”

  “Why don’t you go check in? I’ll give you a call later if I hear anything. You can start pounding the pavement this afternoon if you like. I might be able to help you tomorrow.”

  They entered the shopping complex and wound their way through the labyrinth to the Metro station. Julia stopped before the turnstiles and placed her hand on Thomas’s arm.

  “I think what you’re doing is very noble,” she said. “Andrew told you about my sister.”

  Thomas nodded.

  “We still don’t know whether she’s dead or alive in some awful place.” She gave him an imploring look. “I know your chances are slim. But promise me you’ll do everything in your power to find this girl.”

  “Sita has a sister, too,” he said, showing her the rakhi bracelet. “She made me promise the same thing.”

  The boutique hotel he had selected was tucked away in a cul-de-sac off Rue Gay Lussac, a short walk from the Luxembourg Metro stop. The establishment’s claim to fame was a long-ago visit by Sigmund Freud. After checking in and taking a shower, Thomas returned to the street and bought a map from a nearby bookshop. He took a seat at a café across from the eastern entrance to the Luxembourg Gardens and studied the map while sipping an espresso. The layout of Paris came back to him and he began to formulate a plan.

  Returning to the Metro station, he took the train to Châtelet–Les Halles and traversed the endless tunnels and stairwells to the No. 4 line, which serviced the Tenth and Eighteenth Arrondissements. He boarded the train along with a cluster of Africans, Asians, and Eastern Europeans.

  He got off at Château d’Eau and emerged from the underground tunnels onto Boulevard de Strasbourg. He checked his map and set off in the direction of Gare du Nord. Stopping at a bus stand, he fished in his coat pocket for Sita’s picture. He surveyed the boulevard of shops and flats. The air was warming up, and pedestrians were out in force.

  He veered left along Boulevard de Magenta and walked to the northernmost corner of Rue de Faubourg-Saint-Denis. He approached a shop with South Asian lettering overhead. The proprietor was standing outside, speaking to a customer. Thomas waited his turn, the photograph of Sita in his hand.

  When the proprietor looked at him, Thomas nodded. “Bonjour, Monsieur.”

  “Bonjour,” the man replied. He didn’t smile.

  “I have a friend who lives in this neighborhood,” Thomas began, spinning what he hoped was a plausible story. “I wish to surprise her. I have an old picture. I was wondering if you’ve seen her.”

  He held out the picture and pointed at Sita.

  “Non,” the man said with a wave. “Not here.” He turned away and walked into his shop.

  Thomas returned to the street and ambled south. A young African woman pushing a baby carriage smiled at him.

  “Excusez-moi,” he said, stopping in front of her. “I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for an old friend. She lives in the neighborhood.”

  The woman barely glanced at the photograph in his hand before shaking her head. “Non, je suis désolée,” she said and continued her stroll.

  Thomas asked the same question of three more women and two men, all of diverse ages. Each denied having seen her and none had any interest in follow-up questions. Thomas decided to change his strategy. He began looking for Indian restaurants, hoping to find one serving lunch. He saw a tandoori place a block away. The restaurant had a red awning bearing script in French and Hindi. He approached the door and saw that the establishment served dinner only.

  He continued south along Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and his stomach began to rumble. He realized he hadn’t eaten since the pre-arrival meal on the plane. He stopped at a café and ordered a sandwich. Taking a seat at a table by the window, he watched people pass by on the sidewalk. At some point, he looked across the street and saw a narrow pedestrian walkway that led to the east toward Boulevard de Strasbourg. Inside the arcade, he saw what appeared to be an Indian restaurant.

  He left the café and angled toward the passage. To his surprise, it turned out to be an Indo-Pakistani oasis dominated by South Asian restaurants. The first restaurant he saw was closed. The lights in the dining room were off and chairs were stacked on tables. He was about to turn away when he saw a light flicker on in the back. After a moment, a large Indian woman appeared, holding a hand broom and a trash bag. She was wearing a purple sari embellished with blue lotus flowers. She scurried about, sweeping up dust and straightening things.

  He knocked on the glass and got her attention. She looked at him with an annoyed expression. She shook her head and said something he couldn’t hear. He held up Sita’s photograph to the windowpane, and she came closer, her face a mask of irritation. She spoke loudly enough to carry her words through the window.

  “Le restaurant est fermé,” she said, waving her broom in the air. “Fermé!” she repeated. Then she continued her sweeping.

  Thomas turned away and approached an Indian man tending to a row of outdoor plants beside the entrance to another restaurant.
He showed him Sita’s picture.

  The man glanced at the photograph and gave Thomas the sort of beaming smile that Indians wore more naturally in Bombay. “How do you know this girl?” he asked.

  “She is a friend from the university,” Thomas replied, thinking quickly.

  “The University of Paris?” the man inquired. “Are you a student there?”

  “I studied at the Sorbonne.” He held up the photo again. “Might you have seen her somewhere? Please think. It’s very important.”

  The man shook his head. “I have not seen this girl. But I have a friend who might know her. You follow me, sir?”

  Thomas trailed the man down the arcade. “Where are we going?”

  “It’s not far, sir,” the man replied.

  They left the passage and crossed Boulevard de Strasbourg. The man stopped on the sidewalk and pointed down a second passage, covered with a canopy of glass.

  “My friend is this way,” he said. “He comes to my restaurant all the time.” He stuck out his hand. “I am Ajit.”

  Thomas shook the man’s hand. “Thomas Clarke.”

  Ajit led the way into the second arcade. They entered a shop advertising hand-woven rugs from Persia and Afghanistan. Ajit made his way to the back and peeked through a door that led to a storage area. He spoke a loud greeting in Hindi.

  “He is hard of hearing,” Ajit said. “But he will come.”

  “Who is he?” Thomas asked.

  “He is Prabodhan-dada. He has lived here a long time.”

  After a minute, an elderly man appeared, holding a calculator. He had salt-and-pepper hair and wore thick glasses. He greeted Ajit kindly and delivered Thomas a look that was at once open and quizzical.

  “Prabodhan-dada,” Ajit said, using French so that Thomas could understand, “Mister Thomas is looking for a girl.”

  The rug dealer tilted his head and blinked. When he didn’t speak, Thomas took out Ahalya’s photograph and handed it to him.

  “She looks like this,” he said, pointing at Sita. “Though she is older now.”