The Shadow Mission

by Shamim Sarif

  On my way to see Riya, I’m told by Li and the Athena team to give the detective the details of the warehouse we broke into last night. I’m assuming the men who arrived cleared it out, but the police might still be able to track the weapons. Also, the clothing items we discovered have added a strange piece to the puzzle that I need to discuss with Riya.

  Running up the front steps of the police station that she’s based in, I pause just inside the front door. The building’s exterior is painted in pale pink and blue, the colors slowly fading under accumulated layers of dirt and pollution. Inside, a ceiling fan chugs in lazy circles, doing very little to supplement the portable air-conditioning unit that’s blasting lukewarm air into a corner. People are in and out of the place like it’s Heathrow Airport, and there’s already a queue waiting for attention from the lethargic cop at the front desk.

  Rather than stand in line, I text Riya a message. She replies back with her usual effusiveness (Wait there) and within five minutes, arrives in the vestibule to meet me. Alongside her is a man in his late forties, not much taller than she is. He is slightly built, so slight that it looks like a blast from the air conditioner might send him tumbling away, but his handshake is exceptionally firm.

  “Sunil Patel, detective,” he says. He wears black-framed glasses and watches me without blinking.

  “Sunil is my boss,” Riya explains. “He’s extremely experienced.”

  “I think that means ‘extremely old,’” Sunil says.

  At least he has a sense of humor. I smile and look at them both politely.

  “Are you on this case as well, Sunil?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “Great, then I can speak to both of you.” I look around for a place where we can sit quietly together, but neither of them moves. In fact, Sunil clears his throat officiously.

  “Excuse me, Jessie-ma’am—it’s Jessie, right? We are all big fans of Kit Love—her charity work and, in my case, her music too. I want you to go back to Kit-ma’am and let her know that we are leaving no stone unturned in our quest to find these bombers.”

  “And to find out who is behind the bombers?” I suggest.

  He looks pained at my pushiness but maintains a calm tone.

  “Obviously,” he says, shaking his head gently in the Indian way of saying yes. “There is a bigger picture here, and we will fill in the blanks posthaste.”

  Posthaste. One of the many things I love about India so far is that everyone uses such precise English. And phrases that went out of fashion in London in the 1960s, and sometimes the 1860s, are still big here. Like, Indians will say “thrice” instead of “three times.” Nevertheless, as delicious as Sunil’s little speeches are, they are full of platitudes, and I’m not buying much of anything that comes out of his mouth. I glance at Riya. Even she has the grace to realize how dismissive he must sound.

  “Well, I may have a bit more information for you,” I say, eager to fill them in on last night’s proceedings. Or at least a sanitized version of them, one that leaves out the part where we broke into private property and defused a bomb. But Sunil raises his hands, as if warding me away.

  “We have too many cooks in this kitchen, spoiling the broth,” he says. “When you interfere, you could be putting our own investigations at risk. I hope you understand that.”

  “Of course. But two heads are better than one,” I try, since he seems to be into meaningless mottos. But he just regards me, unmoved. Thankfully, Riya steps in.

  “Why don’t you and I go across the street and have a coffee?” she offers.

  She turns to Sunil and speaks in Hindi. Though I don’t understand the words, the tone seems to suggest that she is offering to get me off their backs for both of them. He nods, gives me a fake smile along with another knuckle-crunching handshake, and heads back into the police station. Meanwhile, Riya opens the main door for me to exit down the wide steps.

  Trucks, vans, cars, and rickshaws, not to mention a tired-looking donkey, fill the space between us and a small café across the road. But Riya doesn’t wait for a gap in the endless flow of vehicles; she just steps out into the chaos and gracefully weaves her way through. I follow closely.

  Inside are rows of densely packed tables where a few diners eat breakfast. I follow Riya to the empty counter, where we each take a stool and she orders us both chai—milky tea fragrant with spices.

  “I get the feeling your boss would probably prefer me to hang out in my hotel spa and leave you alone,” I say.

  “Would you consider it?” she asks, hopeful.

  “No.”

  She smiles. “Sunil’s not so bad. He’s just formal. But he’s good at his job.”

  I’m glad, if slightly surprised, to hear it. Sunil didn’t feel like the most progressive guy I’d ever met. But that might just have been because he was defensive around me.

  “So that’s why you wanted to see me,” I say. “So that Sunil could tell me to back off.” I am disappointed, to be honest. I’d hoped she was taking the pledge to share her findings more seriously.

  “Not just that,” she says, and her tone holds annoyance now. “I also want to know what information you got from Hassan. Because clearly you got something from him. But he’s not talking to us. What did you do to him?”

  “Gosh, nothing!” I say innocently.

  “Do I look like I was born yesterday?” she shoots back. “He was quivering like a milk pudding by the time we reached him.”

  I try not to smile at her simile, but just the hint of amusement on my face irritates her even more. She slams a hand onto the countertop.

  “Do you really want me to arrest you for whatever investigative methods you are using? This is India, not the Wild West. We have a refined justice system, processes that must be followed. You keep this up, Jessie, you are going to be investigating only the inside of a jail cell. How will you like that?”

  Her dark eyes flash at me, keeping me pinned down by her gaze. Suddenly I feel nervous. But not about the investigation. Just, awkward about being around her. I look away and pick up my tea.

  “Was there any sign that I hurt Hassan?” I ask.

  “He couldn’t walk,” she accuses.

  “Oh, come on,” I scoff. “He sprained his ankle, running from me.”

  I smile at her, like I couldn’t hurt a fly. I’m pretty sure Hassan is too scared that Hala will go after his kids to blame any of his injuries on us. Riya shakes her head, and a strand of hair comes loose from her ponytail, falling over her eye. For a fleeting moment, I have the ridiculous urge to push it back, but Riya herself does that, impatiently retying it.

  “So, do you want to know what Hassan told me or not?” I say.

  She groans. “My God, Jessie, you would try the patience of a saint. Of course I do. Tell me.”

  “This is where he was sent to collect his fake ID and the address of the school.”

  I hand her a piece of paper with the warehouse address on it. She takes it and taps the information into her phone for good measure.

  “Is that everything you have?” she asks.

  I hesitate. “No. But if I tell you more, you can’t ask me questions about how I found out.”

  She makes a despairing sound. “Do you realize what you’re asking of me? I am an officer of the law.”

  “Yes, I know it’s a lot to ask. I’m sorry, Riya.”

  She glances at me, uncertain. “I really hate this.”

  While she decides, I lean on the counter and my gaze flits up to the portable TV mounted in the corner. It plays a silent loop of today’s hot stories. There’s a major local election coming up at the end of next week and a reporter is interviewing a politician—a tall, elegant man with delicate features.

  “That’s Jingo Jain?” I ask her, nodding at the television.

  “Janveer Jain,” she says. “Informally, ‘Jingo.’ He’s running for office. Why?”

  But I need her to agree to my terms first. “No other questions?” I push.

  Sh
e’s dying to know more.

  “Fine,” she says, through gritted teeth.

  I pull out my phone and show her some of the images that Caitlin took the night before. The weapons stockpile and also the clothing. All the clothes are campaign merchandise—T-shirts and caps promoting only one politician—Jingo Jain. Riya leans in closer, studying the photos.

  “These were in the warehouse,” I say. “And there were lots of them. Could Jingo be involved with Family First somehow?”

  She frowns. “I’d be surprised. He was one of the most vocal in condemning the attack on Kit’s school. He’s ex-military, ex-police. People see him as someone safe, someone who will protect Mumbai and Maharashtra state from terror.”

  I can see Riya chewing over the photos. Part of her wants to tell me off for going there, for being a step ahead and not sharing earlier. But she manages to hold it in. Curiosity seems to be slowly dampening her passion for process.

  “I need these pictures,” she says.

  I nod and continue talking, telling her about the ADS that was used on me. And warning her that the place may be booby-trapped in case of a visit from unwanted guests. Like the police.

  Riya stares at me, amazed. “Where did you learn how to do all this?”

  “Investigating? I’m just nosy. I like putting two and two together,” I say, brushing off her interest. I don’t want to start the long litany of lies that my current cover backstory would entail.

  “What about you?” I ask quickly. “It can’t have been easy, becoming a police officer. And making it to detective.”

  “You mean because of the work, or because of male attitudes?”

  “Both.”

  “Why do you assume India is worse than anywhere else?”

  “I don’t. It could be tough anywhere.”

  She nods, but I can see she’s eager to get back to work and follow up the lead I just gave her. So I take out a rupee note to pay the bill for the tea—but Riya covers my hand with hers, pushing me gently away.

  “You’re in my city. You can’t pay.”

  She passes some money of her own to the café owner, talking all the while.

  “To be honest, it wasn’t easy at times. Joining the police. But Sunil has always stood up for me, given me responsibility, pushed me to do more than I was assigned. Especially on this case.”

  “Why this case?”

  “It means a lot to me and he knows that.”

  We walk to the door together and she holds it open for me. The street is raucous and bright after the cool quiet of the café. Before she can cross over to the station again, I stop her with a brief hand on her arm.

  “Why does it mean a lot to you?”

  She turns to face me. “Because I think we need many more of these schools, and we need to protect the few that we have. Nearly half the girls in India are married before the age of eighteen. And almost twenty percent are married by the time they are fifteen.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “No, but it’s culturally accepted . . . maybe a little less here in Mumbai. Some poorer states, like Bihar, run at seventy percent. Those girls have to stop school—if they were ever in school to begin with—marry a man they don’t know, often much older than them, have kids, and be confined to the home. Kit’s schools save at least some of these girls from that fate.”

  There’s an impassioned note in her voice that I haven’t heard before. I navigate the road with her, and when we are both outside her workplace, she starts up the short flight of stairs that leads into the police station, but then stops suddenly. From the bottom step she watches me for a moment, hesitating.

  “What is it?” I say. “You can tell me.”

  “I was one of those girls, once,” she says, biting at her lip. With the toe of her shoe she stabs at the edge of the step. “I never knew my birth parents. I lived in a crowded orphanage until I was eight. It would have been my destiny to marry someone as soon as I reached puberty, just to make room for another child to take my place at the orphanage.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was adopted. Very few kids are, in India. There are not even a few thousand adoptions each year, but there are maybe thirty million abandoned children.”

  She looks down, as if she might have shared too much. But I’m glad she said something.

  “Riya?” I say, and I wait for her to look up. “Thank you for telling me.”

  “Thank you for this,” she says, holding up the paper with the warehouse address. She runs lightly up the stairs and turns at the door. Below her, on the street, I still stand watching her.

  “I appreciate it, Jessie,” she calls, before she disappears into the building. “But, just so we’re clear—you’re still a big pain in the ass.”

  11

  ON MY WAY BACK TO the hotel, I keep replaying the conversation with Riya, especially the last part, where she talked about herself. I liked glimpsing even small fragments of who she really is. It gave me a sense of the passion that seems to make her police work a calling. Also, after circling each other like boxers in a ring in our first couple of meetings, it’s good to feel that we don’t have to compete all the time—that there are ways we might work together to find out who is behind this terrible crime.

  Riya stays on my mind all the way through a full-blown Athena conference call, held through our secure virtual server. Kit has her feet up on the sofa in her hotel room, hugging her knees, and Peggy perches beside her. Caitlin and I are sprawled on the floor below them, and Hala sits cross-legged beside us, like a morose yogi. All of us are loosely grouped around Kit’s tablet, where Li, Amber, and Thomas are on a secure video stream from London, bringing us up to speed on their findings.

  “We’ve unearthed more info on this Family First mob,” Thomas tells us. “Along the way, we found a distressingly high number of similarly themed organizations, but Family First definitely stood out.”

  “How come?” asks Hala.

  “Good question,” comments Thomas, apparently failing to notice that Hala actually just asked the most obvious question possible. Instead, he gazes at her like she just came up with the solution to climate change. I sneak a sideways glance at Caitlin, who’s clearly trying not to smirk at Thomas’s lovestruck demeanor.

  Thankfully, Amber chips in: “Well, apart from the obvious attack on the school and Family First’s subsequent statement, they seem to be linked to a whole web of offshore companies and bank accounts, which is rarely a sign that someone means well. The accounts they file in the UK are public domain,” she continues, “but they contain more fiction than the New York Times bestseller list. There are obvious markers in their balance sheet and P and L—”

  “That’s okay,” Kit interrupts gently, to spare all of us any more of this fascinating insight into spotting financial skullduggery. “The question is, what do we do next?”

  Li jumps into the conversation.

  “We’ve booked Jessie and Caitlin a flight home tonight,” she tells us. “Hala will stay behind and make sure Peggy’s SEAL guys secure the other school before the girls are moved back in.”

  “Why are we coming home?” Caitlin asks.

  “It’s just for a couple of days at the outside,” Li says. “That company that Hassan gave you, AAB Enterprises, has a link to the Cypriot Private Bank here in London. That is also one of the banks that Amber has tied to large payments received by Imran over the past year. These are very promising leads, but we’ve hit a dead end.”

  Caitlin and I both lean forward, listening as Li continues:

  “To get into a bank like that, we’re going to need you and Caitlin to work together. Those places use black-ops security because they cater to secretive corporations and corrupt governments. Also,” Li continues, “our journalist friend Jake Graham is still sniffing around. Amber hasn’t been able to get into his computer, so we need your undercover skills back here.”

  On-screen, Amber shifts unhappily at the implied slur on her technical abilities. A sarca
stic comment rises to my lips, but I button it. There’ll be plenty of time to tease Amber later. For now, Li has laid out a compelling set of tasks, and her autocratic style doesn’t always appreciate random humor. The call wraps up soon after and, with Caitlin, I get ready to fly back to London.

  It’s still early—8 a.m.—when I arrive home in Notting Hill. It’s getting close to Christmastime and sparkling fairy lights are draped over the trees and along the tops of the still-closed market stalls on Portobello Road. After a quick shower and change, I stride out toward the tube station to make my way back into the heart of the city, where Athena is based. Our rogue agency is hidden in plain sight, occupying two floors of a soaring glass-and-steel building that overlooks the gleaming bends of the river Thames. The building belongs to Chen Technologies, Li’s legitimate company. It’s a conglomerate that she has built from nothing into an enterprise that turns over billions each year with cutting-edge software and hardware. It also allows her to divert interesting technology to us. Athena is such a lean operation that we can use all the help we can get.

  The streets of London feel somber and gray-tinted compared to India. Even the rush hour traffic seems so much calmer and quieter. Before I run down the escalators into the underground train system, I duck into a small French bakery and ignore that morning’s diet recommendation in favor of a croissant that I pull apart into perfectly warm, crisp flakes, and a double espresso that helps dispel the jet lag that’s starting to fog up my brain.

  When I reach the Chen Tech building, I enter through an alley that snakes around the back of the structure. Apart from the myriad of usual security features that prevent anyone outside Athena getting in, Amber has recently installed a hidden camera, a new layer of security that scans my face as I approach. Only when it recognizes me does the finger scanner pad open up, low down on a wall next to an innocuous-looking garage door. Getting through another interior door, I head to an unmarked elevator that opens with a hand scan. Finally, an iris reader gets me up to the floor where Amber is based. This is a huge area, protected with one-way mirrored glass across the wide windows, and dedicated to Athena’s technology research. It’s also where all our weapons, IDs, and communications technology are kept under lock and key by Amber, using her indecipherable inventory system.