“Do you want the good news or the bad news?” she asks.
“Good news.”
“I did manage to get into Jake’s email this morning.”
“Well done,” I say. I don’t ask how she did it, because chances are good that I’ll end up with my head on the desk, drooling from boredom. “So, what’s the bad news?”
“I found out from his email that he never keeps any of his investigations on a computer,” she says. “They’re all on paper.”
She points out the relevant messages on the screen. Notes that Jake has written to anonymous-looking email addresses to reassure potential sources that they won’t be tracked through him.
“Can’t be,” I say. “How does he write his reports?”
“Oh, he does write his actual journalism pieces on a laptop. Because within hours, they’re published in a newspaper or live on TV anyway. It’s only the sources and the ongoing research and unfinished investigations that he keeps in notebooks or whatever.”
Well, that sucks. I lean back in the chair, frowning.
“Don’t bother,” Amber says.
“Don’t bother what?”
“Thinking. I’ve already done it for you and run the plan by Li. You’re going to have to break into Jake Graham’s home.”
12
THOUGH ALL OF US ARE nervous about our intrepid reporter friend, I also have to hang on to the fact that my main mission back in London is still to track down more on this AAB Enterprises outfit that Hassan spilled the name of after our colorful chase through the slums of Mumbai. That means working with Li and Caitlin to get into the private bank where AAB holds its accounts. But now, I’ll also need to find a way into Jake’s home to see if Athena is about to be blown out of the water. It’s going to be a busy couple of days, and once Amber runs me and Caitlin through the plan to access the bank, I decide to fill in the rest of the morning with a workout. Caitlin stays at Athena to check in with our private doctor about progress in coming off her meds. I’m feeling edgy and nervous, not to mention lethargic from jet lag, so I head out for some fresh air and a lengthy run along the river. My feet hit a rhythm early on; nice and steady, nothing earth-shattering in terms of speed. It’s just enough to stop me from thinking, to scour my mind clean of all the noise. There’s a breeze that carries the metallic smell of rain from the gathering clouds that lie crouched on top of the city. I sprint down as far as the wedding-cake spires of the Albert Bridge, then jog across it and through Battersea Park before making a big circle back to where I started.
It’s only when I’m done and back at Athena, slumped gratefully in the baking heat of the steam room that connects to the gym, that my mind starts going back to India again. I’m puzzling over the warehouse—the garments printed with Jingo Jain’s political slogans, and the sophistication of guarding the place with an active denial system. It makes Family First, or whoever is behind them, feel bigger and better organized than we would have hoped. While I think, my eyes trace a hundred different trails carved out by the water droplets coursing down the glass door of the steam room.
I wonder if Riya has turned anything up yet. Then I recall our conversation, about how personal this case is to her. What must it have been like for her, growing up in an orphanage? Did the people who adopted her take care of her, love her? I wonder if it would be okay to ask her to lunch or dinner; somewhere off-duty, a setting where we could be free from constantly having to worry about the stresses of the case.
But then, I think it might be better to not go there. I’m beginning to find several things about Riya—her ethics, her commitment, her sharp intelligence—attractive. And the truth is, the very idea of being attracted to someone related to my work scares me. I’m sure it has something to do with the fact that the last girl I thought was a knockout was the daughter of a human trafficking kingpin. Not only did my overactive hormones compromise my judgment but, in the end, she turned out to be a chip off the old block when it came to selling women like they were commodities. All in all, I’m not thrilled with my recent track record. Reluctantly, I decide that it would be logical to keep personal feelings at a distance, and just focus on the jobs at hand.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in the locker room, standing side by side with Caitlin in front of full-length mirrors. Both of us are getting dressed up for our next job, in navy trousers and jackets, with pressed white shirts beneath.
“I feel like your suit fits better than mine,” I mutter, pulling at my outfit.
“Let me get this straight,” Caitlin says in her dry drawl. “You’re wearing a wig that a Vegas showgirl would find tacky, but it’s your suit that bothers you?”
She has a point. My real hair is covered with a wig that’s really expensive and realistic, but it’s a dark, short, spiky cut with reddish highlights. It serves its purpose because, undoubtedly, it’s only this dubious hairstyle that anyone would remember about me if they met me just once. Caitlin adjusts the tight skullcap that’s covering her dark gold hair and then pulls on her own fake hairpiece—long, brunette, straight. I watch her run her hands through it as she looks approvingly at herself in the mirror.
“How come you get ‘elegant’ and I get ‘drag artist’?” I protest.
“Maybe because you give Amber shit all the time.” Caitlin grins. “And Amber chooses our disguises. You
