The Shadow Mission

by Shamim Sarif

  Dedication

  For Hanan, Ethan, and Luca, always

  »»»

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Shamim Sarif

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  I’M FINDING IT HARD TO breathe.

  Sweat drips down onto my hands, which cling so tightly to the handlebars in front of me that my knuckles pop out, bone white beneath my skin. Trickles of perspiration trail along the muscles of my arms and onto my thighs; muscles that are screaming at me to stop pedaling. But I won’t.

  I’m winning this race: edging, bit by tiny bit, ahead of Caitlin and Hala. Each of us stares up at the screen illuminated on the wall before us. Our avatars, linked to the exercise bikes we are on, creep slowly around the glowing outline of a virtual track. The three of us are getting toward the end of two hours of early-morning training here at Athena’s headquarters.

  “Is that the best you can do, Cait?” I say. “I’ve seen grandmothers pushing shopping carts faster around grocery stores.”

  I’m gulping for breath but just the fact that I eked out a sentence that long is my way of taunting Caitlin.

  “Yeah, Jessie?” she pants. “Well, not mine. She just chases down chickens for dinner.”

  I grin. It’s a funny image and just possibly true since Caitlin grew up in a tiny Kentucky town.

  Hala doesn’t ever participate in much banter so I just steal a glance at her, a sideways look she won’t catch. Her face is tight with the pressure of riding at this resistance and intensity, her dark hair damp with sweat. She’ll never boast or taunt, and she’s a gracious loser (I should know, I beat her a lot) but she has a competitive streak as wide as a river.

  “Slow down,” says Amber, from behind us, her tone officious. “You’re beating your all-time records for speed, but you’re creeping into the danger zone for heart rate.”

  Well, that’s a momentum killer.

  “Amber!” Caitlin and I exclaim at the same time. Feeling the competition drain out of the room, Hala lets out a mild curse in Arabic. My foot slips off the pedal and the spinning rubber catches on my calf, shearing off a thin layer of skin. I gasp and pause for a moment.

  “Sorry,” Amber replies, in a tone that makes it clear how not sorry she is. “But this is training, not an ego contest.”

  Amber is head of Athena’s technology department and also oversees our training, which she controls mainly by compulsively tapping data into an iPad. I love statistics and numbers, but Amber is off the charts when it comes to tables and graphs, and she might be just a tad obsessive about logging and tracking everything, from our lung capacity to her collection of old vinyl music records. But that obsessive attention to detail also makes her incredibly good at other things, like finding connections between shell companies and offshore bank accounts. Those are the kinds of connections that help Athena to bring down traffickers, terrorists, and a host of others who target mainly women and children. The kind of people that governments rarely have the time or budget to pursue. The kind of people our bosses, Li, Peggy, and Kit, built this rogue agency to fight against.

  I get my feet back onto the pedals, ignoring the scrape on my leg that’s just beginning to ooze a thin film of blood, and Caitlin gets her pace up again too, till we are both matching Hala. But the thrill of the chase has passed. We finish the track without the same intensity, leaving Amber stressing about our mediocre speeds.

  “Li’s not going to be thrilled with these results,” Amber says, trailing us all toward the door that leads to the showers. She’s probably right about that. It usually takes an effort of superhuman proportions for Li to offer anyone a word of appreciation.

  “Then it’s a good thing it’s only ever you that I want to impress.” I smile.

  “Sorry to break it to you, Jessie, but you’re failing miserably—” Amber’s retort is cut short by a message flashing up on her phone. She glances at it and then at us.

  “What’s up?” asks Caitlin.

  “Clean up and report back to the situation room in ten minutes,” she says.

  I’d rather spend the short time we have in the locker room soothing my tired muscles under a scalding shower than wielding a hair dryer, so I leave my washed hair damp and tied back and meet my teammates by the elevator. Hala steps in first and lets a small beam of blue light from the unmarked control panel sweep over her iris. Once it recognizes her, the lift starts to move up.

  None of us speak, and Caitlin leans tiredly against the sidewall. So tiredly that her eyes actually close for a long moment. I’m just about to throw her a sarcastic comment about being out of shape, but a concerned look from Hala stops me. We both sneak glances at Caitlin again. Shadows form gaunt dips beneath her eyes and there are fine frown lines on her forehead. Caitlin has decided she wants to slowly come off the anxiety meds that she’s been on since her military tours in Iraq. Maybe that’s not helping, or maybe she’s reducing them too fast. Either way, she feels us staring.

  “What?” she asks, opening her eyes.

  Always reluctant to get too personal, Hala just shrugs and looks away.

  “You look rough, that’s all,” I say.

  A tiny sigh escapes Caitlin’s lips, a sound that’s almost apologetic. I wait for her to elaborate, but the elevator door opens and she chooses not to answer but to stride out ahead of us into the corridor that leads to the situation room. Coming down to meet us, as he always does, is Thomas. Like Amber, Thomas has been integral to Li’s team since he was out of college. He runs Li’s many agendas, anticipates her requests, arranges her meetings and travel—and yet to call him an assistant feels like it misses the point. It’s more like he’s an extension of Li’s brain; at least the part that organizes the insane schedule she keeps.

  “Good workout?” Thomas asks by way of greeting.

  “Workout?” I sniff. “It was a bit tougher than your usual jog around the park.”

  Thomas smiles, unfazed by my sarcasm. His hair is swept back and perfectly styled; his three-piece suit and shirt are crisp and wrinkle-free. He sports a pink tie and delicate silver cuff links. I’m quite sure that when Thomas slipped out of the womb, his parents asked, “Boy or girl?” and the midwife said, “Neither. You have a beautiful, healthy men’s fashion ad.”

  The door of the situation room clicks open at the touch of Thomas’s pass card and he holds it for us to enter, reserving a special smile for Hala as she passes him. Thomas has a crush on her. It’s become apparent to all of us over the past months, from the longing looks he throws her, not to mention the way he always manages to stock the situation room with Hala’s favorite bran muffins, green apples, and mint tea. It’s crossed my mind that maybe it’s more than an unrequited attraction, that maybe they’re seeing each other—but since Thomas
is the soul of discretion, and Hala would rather eat dirt than reveal much in the way of feelings, I haven’t been sure.

  Thomas sits beside Amber, who has staked out her usual spot at the long table, surrounding herself with multiple laptops and tablets. Across from us are all three of the Athena founders. Li Chen taps on her phone, which sports a very cool red leather case that matches her crimson tailored suit. As the head of one of the world’s largest privately owned technology companies, Li projects the kind of self-assurance that gives everyone the impression that she is definitely in charge. And not just of Chen Technologies, but of the entire universe.

  Kit Love, another cofounder, also happens to be my mother. In stark contrast to Li, she wears faded blue jeans, a printed silk shirt, and cowboy boots. My mother is a music star—or used to be—and wherever she goes, she always just feels like someone you need to pay attention to.

  Between Kit and Li sits Peggy Delaney. One of the first African American women to be a US ambassador to the UK, Peggy is also a trained lawyer, and a woman whose global connections always manage to surprise us. Nobody wears a Chanel suit or a string of pearls better than Peggy, and on top of that, she’s just one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. Of everyone in this room, it’s usually Peggy who will get up to greet us all with hugs. But today, even she makes do with brief smiles of welcome. There’s a nervous tension hanging in the air and we all settle in quickly.

  “Let’s begin,” says Li. “Time is of the essence.”

  Briskly, Amber flicks a picture onto the screen. A sixty-year-old man with a thick beard flecked with gray, heavy eyebrows, and small, sharp eyes. It’s a face we have become familiar with. Imran is from Pakistan. He is the tribal leader in the village where Peggy, Li, and Kit opened a school for girls two years ago under the auspices of the United Nations. And he took it upon himself to burn down that school, while the girls and their teachers were still in it, because he believed that girls should be married off by the age of fourteen. Li, Kit, and Peggy lobbied and fought for justice and got absolutely nowhere. It was a dark few months, but something did change in the end. When no government would help and the UN seemed tied up in political knots, all three women took a stand—a deeply secret stand—and our agency, Athena, was born.

  “As you know, Imran escaped any consequences for . . . what he did,” Li says. Unusually, she seems emotional, and tries to cover it by talking more quickly. “And as you also know, we’ve done our best to track his movements ever since. It hasn’t always been easy, but we’ve had help from this man, Asif. His twin daughters died in Imran’s attack.”

  A new photo pops onto the screen: a young man with high cheekbones, a light growth of beard, and eyes that look older than the rest of his face. Kit’s eyes flicker away from the photo, a tiny muscle in her jaw clenched. It was Kit who convinced Asif to put his daughters back in school when he was afraid of what Imran and his Taliban backers might do. To say it still haunts her would be an understatement. But at least now she deals with it through her work with Athena rather than by staring at the bottom of an empty vodka bottle.

  “Asif gets information from Imran’s housekeeper and passes it to us. The housekeeper is a man who’s worked with Imran for years. He’s been very helpful.”

  “How?” Hala asks.

  Amber chips in: “He’s helped us keep tabs on which phones Imran uses so we can always monitor him. He switches handsets and SIM cards like he’s changing underwear—rather frequently. And now, something’s come up through the phones.” She pulls at the ends of her spiky, purple-highlighted hair, tense.

  “Imran is planning a terror attack in India,” says Li.

  “What kind of attack?” I ask, sitting up.

  “We don’t know.”

  “What’s the target?” I try.

  “We don’t know that either.” Li looks pained at the admission.

  “What do we know?” asks Hala, biting into a muffin.

  “We know it’s happening tomorrow at four thirty a.m. Indian time.”

  The three of us start to look at our watches and phones, but Amber spares us the math. “That’s in just over thirteen hours from now,” she announces, her voice serious.

  “Where?” Caitlin asks.

  “Somewhere in Mumbai, we think.”

  “Somewhere in Mumbai? A city of, what, twenty million people?” I ask, stressed. “How are we supposed to protect the target?”

  “You’re not,” Kit says. “You’re going to track Imran on the ground and find out what the target is. He’s gone completely dark in the past few hours—burner phones included. It’s standard practice for terrorists ahead of an attack, to reduce the chances of being caught or foiled.”

  Peggy chimes in. “You have to keep it clean and simple. No fighting, and minimal danger to the three of you. Amber will outline possible strategies as you fly out. And once you know the target, I have a direct line to the Indian ambassador here and we can get the Indian police involved to stop the attack.” Peggy’s long and illustrious diplomatic career has left her with a wealth of contacts all over the world. I don’t doubt she can arrange an intervention in another country, but the whole mission sounds pretty vague.

  I stand, suddenly too keyed up to even stay in my seat. Pacing around sometimes helps.

  “And what do we do with Imran?” I ask.

  “Hand him over to Asif and his neighbors. They’ve been planning to take back their village for some time. The extremists supporting Imran have moved much farther north and his funding is drying up.”

  That’s all fine and dandy, but another question is bugging me. “Why is Imran targeting somewhere in India? When he’s over the border in Pakistan?”

  “He’s working with a relatively new group called Family First,” Peggy explains. “They are so new we don’t have anything much on them, but he’s referenced them in connection with this upcoming attack, and there is intelligence out of India about them. They are against gender equality, anti-LGBTQI+, and their biggest focus is to stop women and girls being educated or working, because it erodes traditional family values.”

  Hala makes a face that communicates her disgust with that manifesto.

  “Have they committed attacks before?” Caitlin asks.

  “No,” says Peggy.

  There’s a brief lull, but it seems like these scraps are all the information there is. Li nods to Amber to deliver the practicalities.

  “You’ll be on a private flight to Lahore two and a half hours from now,” says Amber, reading from one of her tablet screens.

  “Can’t we leave sooner?” I ask.

  “It’s not a walk in the park arranging private planes to places like northern Pakistan,” replies Amber crisply. “I’ve done my best and the plane you’ll take is faster than a commercial flight. You’ll be in the air for just over seven hours. When you land, a stealth helicopter will be waiting for you. Caitlin will pilot. Estimated time to get to Imran’s village is around thirty minutes. Giving you over an hour to get the target details out of him.”

  Well, there’s not much margin for error there. The room falls silent, probably because we’re all wondering at the immensity of the task. Only the sound of Li’s manicured nails tapping compulsively on the table fills the air. It’s not a sound I’ve ever heard before from her—the sound of nervous tension. And it doesn’t make me feel great.

  “I’m not happy about this,” Li admits, at last. “It’s rushed. But if we do nothing and people die . . .”

  There’s a moment’s pause, broken finally by Caitlin. The oldest of us agents, she’s our team leader and often our unofficial cheerleader too. “I think I speak for all of us in this room when I say we never met a challenge we said no to,” she says seriously. “Let’s get our asses in gear.”

  “How poetic,” Amber comments. “I think Shakespeare may have said that first.” She packs up her workstation.

  “Possibly Maya Angelou?” says Thomas. I snort and even Kit and Peggy stifle smiles.


  “Gimme a break, all of you,” grumbles Caitlin, getting up. We all follow her and rise to clear the room.

  2

  KIT MEETS ME AT HOME, where I’ve rushed back to grab some things before I head to the airfield to board the flight to Pakistan. We live together in an expansive house in Notting Hill, a part of London that Kit moved to fifteen years ago. It’s not as manic as the middle of the city but there are still a ton of great places to hang out, good restaurants, and lots of vintage clothing shops where Kit can satisfy her occasional shopping cravings.

  It takes me about ten minutes to pack. Everything I need is within reach, and though the inside of my closet might look like the aftermath of a burglary, I know where everything is. When I’m done, I haul my backpack into Kit’s bedroom, an oasis of distressed wood floors, crisp white linens, and subdued modern art. My mother has lit a couple of citrus candles, sending warm flickers of light onto the pure white walls. The sounds of whale song and ocean waves issue softly through the ceiling speakers. These weird soundscapes are apparently designed to enhance our well-being, but I find it a bit disorienting to hear crashing breakers on some Hawaiian beach when there’s only a little green English lawn outside the window.

  Kit is busy rummaging around in the vast expanse of her walk-in closet.

  “I have to go,” I call.

  My mother hurries out with a pile of shirts hanging over her arm.

  “What about these?” she asks.

  I sigh. My backpack is stuffed full of plain T-shirts, which vary only in that some of them are white and some of them black. Unsurprisingly, most of Kit’s clothing just looks like it belongs to a music star, and none of it is really my style.

  “Seriously, Mum?” I ask. “If you want to help, why don’t you—”

  The doorbell interrupts me. I’m closest to the video monitor panel mounted next to Kit’s bed. The image is in color, high definition, crisp and clear. I feel like I’ve seen the man standing there before, also on a screen . . . then I realize where. I’ve seen him on the TV news. Not to mention in person, just once.

  “That’s Jake Graham,” I say.