“You did everything you could, you all did. We got so close.”
“How’s Kit?” I ask.
Peggy hesitates. “She’s taking it hard. She’s off comms right now, getting ready to head to Mumbai on the next flight out, to meet the families of the victims, attend funerals. . . . I’ll travel out too. Separately.”
There’s a moment of quiet, of respect and reflection, before Caitlin gently breaks the silence with a question.
“So, what’s our plan now?”
Li chimes in, focusing us all with a set of efficient orders:
“Amber will get you to Mumbai this morning,” she says. “You have three things to do. Find the bombers. Investigate this Family First outfit. And protect the remaining girls.”
We are all tired, but in the early-morning traffic of Mumbai, the possibility of sleep fades pretty fast. I’ve never tried drugs but negotiating the city’s dense traffic from the back seat of a taxi, with windows open to the damp, surging heat outside, feels like some kind of bizarre rush. Even Hala, who claims that roads in the Middle East provide the true test of driving ability, hangs on to the passenger strap as we career past acres of land covered in tented slums and into town.
“Feeling okay?” Caitlin asks Hala.
“No. We failed in our mission,” Hala replies, ignoring the fact that she was clearly being asked about her recovery from the sleep dart. But her churlish reply is only self-blame, directed outward. Caitlin looks at me, pained, but says nothing more to Hala, who turns away, sullen, and goes back to watching the road beside us.
The truth is that we’ve all spent the past few hours replaying the whole Pakistan mission in our heads, trying to think of ways we could have done better, ways we might have coaxed Imran to speak earlier. Our only consolation is that since Imran’s cronies were drugged, Asif was able to mobilize the village to drag them into jail. There were more than enough angry fathers and mothers to take on the extra men who turned up with missiles too. Now that the power balance has shifted, and especially in light of Imran’s death, it looks as if the village will at last be back under the control of the farmers who live there.
Ahead of us, a truck crammed with chickens bursting out of wooden crates wavers as it turns a sharp corner. To our right, three goats are driven along by a young boy. To our left, a family of four cruise by, all of them riding on one moped and with one helmet between them. I pay attention to how our driver negotiates the whole mess. He’s certainly skilled in a way they don’t teach you at any driving school. He spots gaps where the rest of us would see only bumper-to-bumper gridlock and wheedles the taxi in and out of different traffic lanes with minimal fuss but plenty of horn tooting.
Our first stop is a monolithic, faceless apartment building in Andheri. We approach it along side roads where people linger at tea and food stalls built in ramshackle lines along the sidewalks. It’s here that Caitlin and Hala will stay. The building is popular with tourists who can book its apartments through an online app, so it’s a place where newcomers are always coming and going. This way, they should attract as little notice as possible. They exit the cab and collect their backpacks from the trunk. Before I continue on in the taxi, Caitlin looks in at me through the window, while Hala waits behind her.
“We’ll go get some food and clothes. Then we’ll explore how to secure the girls at the other school,” says Caitlin.
“Keep me updated,” I say.
“Yeah. Enjoy your swanky hotel.” She smiles briefly, trying to lighten the heaviness we all feel.
“I will,” I say, giving the taxi driver the address of the hotel where Kit will be staying when she lands later today. The plan is for me to stay at the same place, posing as an investigator working for her foundation, the person she wants the police to keep apprised of their findings. I check my watch. Kit will be on the plane, mid-flight by now. She’s on a commercial flight, but she will be greeted off the plane by the airline’s special services crew, who cater to celebrities and make sure they don’t have to negotiate the queues at immigration with people who might gawk at them or try to snap a selfie.
In the absence of any air-conditioning, a fine mist of sweat gradually coats my arms and forehead as we drive. We pass a temple, tall and white and gleaming; then a shopping mall; then a line of shanty homes. They form incongruous neighbors on this one stretch of street. Soon, we veer back onto the main road and the sea comes into focus on one side. The shoreline curves around, lined with high-end clubs, restaurants, and hotels; places that can afford to buy or rent a coveted view of the ocean. Along the way, I ask the driver to stop at a drugstore. He swerves to the curb in front of a row of tiny shops, their merchandise piled up on all sides, protected from rain only by tarpaulins stretched across to form an insubstantial roof. But one of the vendors has all the paraphernalia of a drugstore, including the hair dye I need. Quickly, I make my purchase and get back into the taxi. As we go to turn into the driveway of the hotel, private armed guards stop the car.
“What’s going on?” I ask the driver.
“They check for explosives,” he says. “Since Mumbai suffered the hotel terror attacks years ago.”
I watch as the guards look beneath the vehicle with mirrors on poles, check inside the seating area and trunk, and finally wave us through.
The lobby is enormous; an air-conditioned, high-ceilinged, marble-paved oasis. A fountain trickles peacefully. A smiling bellman spirits my luggage up to my room. The receptionist offers me a complimentary beverage. I glance
