“Help!” she shouted in English. “Help me, please!”
The truck decelerated, the driver interrogating her with his eyes. In the light of a nearby streetlamp, she could see that he was heavyset, with a round face and curly hair.
“Help!” she shouted again. She ran up to the side of the truck as it pulled to a stop.
The driver reached across the passenger seat and rolled down the window. “Je peux vous aider?” he asked warily.
“I don’t speak French,” she wheezed, trying to catch her breath. She could see the black Mercedes through the windows of the truck, but Dmitri was not in sight. “Please,” she begged him. “Please let me in.”
“Français! Français!” the driver said, growing impatient.
“No français!” she exclaimed. “Please! Call the police!”
The driver looked scared. “La police?” he asked, looking around. “Non. Je ne veux pas des problèmes,” he said and rolled up his window quickly. He stomped on the gas and drove off.
Sita watched the truck depart with terror and despair. She turned around and bolted down the boulevard, her lungs burning in the cold. Dmitri caught up with her easily and lifted her off her feet. She lashed out at him, kicking and clawing at his eyes, but he held her tightly and piled her into the back seat of the Mercedes. He slipped into the driver’s seat and floored the accelerator.
Sita buried her face in her hands and sobbed. She had been so close! If only she hadn’t fallen asleep! If only she’d taken another street! If only she’d left at midnight when she first had the thought! She cried until the car stopped outside the flat. Dmitri jumped out and keyed the code into the system. The doors swung wide and he drove the Mercedes into the courtyard.
When the car stopped again, Sita looked up and realized she was not alone. Natalia sat beside her. Beneath an open black trench coat, she wore a low-cut halter top and a skintight skirt that showed all of her legs. Her face was a mess. Her makeup had run and her hair was disheveled. Her blue eyes were red, as if she had been crying.
She reached out and touched Sita’s face, wiping away her tears. Their eyes met and held, drawn by understanding. Then the moment passed and Dmitri was at the door, reaching into the seat and dragging Sita out by her hair.
Chapter 21
Human nature is made of faith. As a person believes, so he is.
—BHAGAVAD GITA
Paris, France
Thomas arrived at the grand archway of Porte St. Denis a few minutes before eight. The streets of the Tenth looked different at night. The lamplight cast a warm glow upon the urban scene, but the shadows reminded him of all the things that remained hidden from view.
Julia showed up on time and greeted him with a double kiss. Thomas led her up Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis and pointed toward the entrance to the arcade. It was then that he noticed a sign above the wrought-iron gate. He’d missed it that afternoon. The sign read PASSAGE BRADY.
“Have you ever been here?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I haven’t spent much time in the Tenth.”
Although it was a Monday, the restaurants along the arcade were gaily lit and bustling with business. The only exception was the first restaurant on the passage—the one in which the rotund Indian woman had been cleaning. A curtain had been drawn across its windows, and a placard hanging in the door read, “Fermé jusquçà nouvel ordre.” Closed until further notice.
Thomas saw Ajit standing at the entrance to his establishment. He brightened when he saw Thomas. He greeted him effusively and showered Julia with compliments. Then he showed them to a candlelit table beside the window and commented on the view. Handing them menus, he promised to make them the best meal in Paris.
When Ajit scurried away to greet another customer, Julia laughed. “You obviously made an impression on him.”
After perusing the menus, they delivered their orders to a young Indian waitress. She returned a moment later with two glasses of red wine.
“Tell me about the District,” Julia said, tasting the wine. “I grew up in Reston, but I haven’t been back since college. My parents are in Boston now.”
Thomas spent the next twenty minutes regaling her with tales of scandal and political malfeasance from the Metro section of the Washington Post. Once she asked a question about his family, but he was deft in deflecting her interest. He didn’t mention Priya, and she had the decency not to probe. She seemed content to sip her wine and listen to him talk.
When the food came, they got down to the business of eating. Julia told him about her years at Columbia, including a few humorous memories of Andrew Porter, and about law school at Cornell. She was gregarious and funny, and the meal passed swiftly.
They lingered over drinks until half past ten. After most of the patrons had left, Ajit approached their table and inquired about the fare. Thomas was full of praise, for the food was quite good. Then he took out Sita’s picture.
Ajit nodded and took the photograph. “I will be right back.”
He approached a portly woman across the room who was organizing receipts. They spoke briefly and he showed her the photograph. Ajit returned to their table, looking disappointed. He handed the photo back to Thomas.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “My wife hasn’t seen your friend.”
“What about the waitress?” Thomas asked. “She might know something.”
“Of course.” He summoned the girl.
Thinking they wanted to pay, the waitress brought them their check. Thomas handed his credit card to Ajit. “Do you mind if I speak to her alone?”
Ajit gave him a strange look but took the card and left. For reasons he could not quite understand, Thomas decided to dispense with his cover story.
“I have a friend in Bombay,” he said, meeting the waitress’s eyes. “She’s looking for her sister. I’m wondering if you’ve seen her.”
He held up the picture. The waitress looked worried for an instant but quickly recovered her composure. She walked across the room and met Ajit at the register. They had a brief exchange, and then he handed her a black folder with Thomas’s receipt. When she returned to their table, she used the pen to write something on the back of the receipt.
“If I were you,” she said, “I would call Information.”
Thomas nodded and stood. After thanking Ajit for dinner, he led Julia out of the restaurant. When they reached Boulevard de Strasbourg, he took the receipt out of his pocket and read the inscription on the reverse. The girl had written in scrawling French: “Meet me here at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Thomas felt chills. His hunch had paid off. The girl knew something. He handed the check to Julia. Her eyes widened with astonishment.
“Can I come with you?” she asked.
Thomas grinned. “You’ll probably put her at ease. I usually have the opposite effect.”
Julia laughed. “It’s something about you lawyer types. Andrew was the same way.”
They walked briskly toward the Metro station, seeking shelter from the cold. After they passed through the turnstiles, Julia kissed his cheek, this time only once.
“You want company on the ride?” he asked.
She laughed again. “You’re sweet, but I bet you don’t have a black belt in judo.”
“You’ve got me there.”
“À demain,” she said and walked away, leaving him to ponder how it was possible that she was unattached.
On Thursday morning they met at the base of the great arch beneath gunmetal skies. The air was cold and the ground was covered with light snow. In contrast to her merriment the night before, Julia’s face was all business. She gave Thomas a brief smile and walked beside him toward Passage Brady.
The waitress was standing on the sidewalk beside the wroughtiron gate. When she saw them, she turned without a word and strolled north along Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis. Thomas traded a glance with Julia and trailed the girl, keeping a healthy distance between them.
The waitress made a righ
t turn on Rue du Château d’Eau and walked for a number of blocks before turning down a side street. She stopped beside an alleyway and faced them, drawing the collar of her coat around her neck. She spoke quietly, looking at Julia.
“I am Varuni. The girl you are looking for is Sita. She worked at a restaurant on Passage Brady until a few days ago. The owners told me she was a relative, but I didn’t believe them. Sita also worked during the day for some Russian people. Their flat is there.” She pointed toward a set of double doors. “The man is named Vasily. I don’t know the woman’s name.”
“Do you know where Sita went?” Julia asked gently.
“They didn’t talk to me,” the girl said. “She was there and then she was gone.”
“Do you know what she did for these Russian people?” Thomas asked.
Varuni looked afraid. “I know nothing more than I told you.”
Julia touched Varuni’s arm. “It’s all right. You’re very brave to help us.”
The girl looked at Julia. “I liked Sita very much. I hope nothing happened to her.” She paused. “Please don’t tell anyone I brought you here. It would make trouble for me.”
“Don’t worry,” Julia replied. “We’ll keep your secret.”
Varuni nodded and disappeared around the corner.
Thomas approached the double doors and saw the keypad. The doors had no handle and didn’t budge when he pushed on them. Julia took out her mobile phone and called the office. She recited the address of the flat and asked for information on the occupants.
When the answer came, she hung up. “Vasily and Tatiana Petrovich,” she said. “Ukrainian. Possible connections to organized crime groups in Eastern Europe. Nothing confirmed. We know the BRP has been watching them for a while, but it isn’t clear why. It isn’t our case, and they don’t share unless they have to.”
They stepped away from the door and walked across the street.
“What do we do now?” Thomas asked.
“I’ll give Varuni’s story to the BRP and ask for a warrant.”
“Will you get one?”
Julia shrugged. “Maybe. But if these people are high-profile targets, we may find ourselves waiting in line.”
Thomas was about to reply when the double doors to the Petrovich flat began to open. Moments later, a black Mercedes nosed out of the courtyard. A blond-haired young man was at the wheel and beside him in the passenger seat was a middle-aged woman with dark skin, gesturing animatedly with her hands. Thomas couldn’t see her clearly, but she looked vaguely familiar. The blond driver looked at them intently before accelerating down the street. The rear windows were tinted black, obscuring the back seat.
The connection dawned on him as the car approached the intersection with Rue du Château d’Eau. He took off running. Julia called after him, but he had no time to explain. The woman in the passenger seat wasn’t wearing Western clothing. She was wearing an Indian sari. The woman cleaning the restaurant on Passage Brady—the restaurant that was now closed—had been wearing a sari. When the Mercedes passed, he had seen a flash of purple and blue. It was the same woman. It had to be.
Thomas was fifty feet away when the car disappeared around the bend. He ran as if he was in a race for his life, but on the street he was no match for the Mercedes. When he reached the intersection and looked down Rue du Château d’Eau, the car was gone.
He stared into the sky and struggled to catch his breath. He was still wheezing when Julia caught up with him.
“What in the world was that about?”
“The woman in the front seat,” he said, taking a deep breath, “I’ve seen her before.”
“Where?”
“Yesterday afternoon when I was showing Sita’s picture around. She was cleaning up one of the restaurants on Passage Brady. Last night the restaurant was closed.”
“Did you see the license plate?”
He shook his head. “It was too fast.”
“I’ll get you your warrant,” she said, taking out her phone. “There’s no way the BRP is going to sit on this one.”
Chapter 22
The time that my journey takes is long and the way of it is long.
—RABINDRANATH TAGORE
Paris, France
Minutes before, Sita had stood in the courtyard beside the black Mercedes, shivering and afraid. While she watched, Dmitri slipped into the driver’s seat and keyed the ignition, bringing the car to life with a quiet rumble.
Shyam climbed into the middle of the back seat, Uncle-ji sat on the far side of the bench, and Aunti-ji joined Dmitri in the front. Sita was the last to climb into the car. She took a deep breath and recalled the airline tickets. She felt sure now that they weren’t just for Uncle-ji and Aunti-ji. One of them was for her.
Taking a seat beside Shyam, she looked out the window and tried to ignore the raging wound on her scalp. She remembered every step she had taken across the courtyard the night before. Natalia ahead of them, looking back, terrified. Dmitri yanking her hair. Entering the lobby of the apartment where the girls were kept. Being dragged up the stairs and thrown against the wall in Natalia’s room. Natalia pleading with Dmitri to have mercy. Dmitri’s face inches from hers, his breath hot and heavy with the stench of alcohol. He whispered to her then. She would never forget the words.
“I know you have seen the basement. If you were staying, I would teach you to enjoy it. But my father has made more profitable arrangements with Dietrich.”
Natalia left with Dmitri and reappeared minutes later wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts. She staunched the bleeding on Sita’s scalp with tissues from a box on the dresser and offered her the bed. Sita shook her head and moved over, making a place for the Ukrainian girl. Natalia lay down beside her and held Sita close.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Dmitri is horrible man.”
In the morning, Dmitri came for Sita and threw a brown wool coat on the bed.
“From my mother,” he said with disgust. “If it were up to me, you would freeze.” Then he took her to the car.
Sita watched through tinted glass as the double doors to the courtyard opened and Dmitri pulled the Mercedes out onto the street. She saw a couple standing on the far sidewalk, staring at them. The man was tall with dark hair, and the woman was wearing a crimson coat. As the car pulled away, she turned and observed the couple through the rear window. Something about the man arrested her. She was sure he couldn’t see her, but she felt as if he was looking directly into her eyes.
Suddenly, the man began to run. She clutched the armrest, riveted and bewildered by the spectacle. She felt the car accelerate and realized that Dmitri had noticed him, too. They reached the end of the street and turned the corner in a hurry. The rapid movement threw her against the door, and she lost sight of the man.
When she looked back, he was gone.
A moment later, she caught Dmitri glaring at her in the rearview mirror. He placed a call on his mobile phone and spoke a few inscrutable words. Remembering Navin’s visit to the restaurant, Sita was struck by an exhilarating thought: had the man been looking for her? She searched her memory for his face but found no match. He didn’t look like someone from the police, she thought. But if he wasn’t, then why did he run?
In the front seat, Aunti-ji was prattling away about the élégance and cosmopolitisme of Dmitri’s family, and Uncle-ji was staring out the window in the seat behind her, oblivious to the chase that had begun and ended so quickly. Sita glanced at Shyam and saw him watching her. He gave her a look that said, “I saw it too.”
She sat back and closed her eyes, trying to block out the nagging sense of fear that seemed her constant companion now. Exhaustion weighed on her after the adventures and disappointments of the night. Before long, she fell asleep.
She awoke to the sound of Uncle-ji’s voice and the feeling of Shyam’s hand shaking her arm. “Sita, wake up,” Uncle-ji was saying.
She opened her eyes and saw that they were on the outskirts of Paris. They passed a sig
n indicating that the airport was two kilometers away. She focused on Uncle-ji.
“We are going to New York,” he said, looking nervous. “You are to behave like our daughter until we reach America. It is very important that you follow our instructions. If you do not, there will be consequences.”
He handed her a passport. The picture was identical to the passport Navin had purchased, but her name was now Sundari Raman and she was a naturalized French citizen.
“We are on holiday,” Uncle-ji told her. “You must not talk to strangers. Speak only to us and use Hindi. We will do all of the talking.”
Sita received the news of their destination with despair. She had left Asia for Europe believing that someday she would find a way to return to her sister in Bombay. It was a dream, yes, but it didn’t seem like a fantasy. Now she was about to leave Europe for North America. The United States and India were on opposite sides of the globe. How would she ever find her way back across ten thousand miles?
Hot tears drenched her cheeks, and she wiped them away. She tried to think of a way out but saw none. Vasily and Dmitri had proven themselves to be both powerful and ruthless. They controlled the destinies of six young women and had procured a full suite of passports in a matter of days. If she crossed them again, they would do more to her than leave her with a bloody scalp.
Dmitri dropped them off at Terminal 2A at Charles de Gaulle. He placed their luggage on the curb and knelt in front of Sita.
“You have been much trouble to us,” he said quietly. “You must do everything they say from now on. If you do not, our associates in New York will make you feel pain. Is this clear?”
She nodded.
“Good,” he said, touching her hair to reinforce the threat. With that, he climbed into the Mercedes and sped away.
Aunti-ji gave Sita the heaviest of the suitcases, and Uncle-ji led the way into the terminal. They checked in at the ticket counter and headed toward the security checkpoint. The French security officials eyed the four of them closely, but Sita made no attempt to speak to them.
A Walk Across the Sun Page 25