It’s raining in Mumbai. But this isn’t polite British drizzle; this is amped-up, torrential precipitation, fat drops of water drumming relentlessly out of a steel-gray sky. I’ve fallen asleep on the couch in Caitlin and Hala’s apartment—all this travel back and forth is taking a toll—but the sound of the rain wakes me. I stretch and come out to the balcony, where Caitlin stands watching the water cascade down onto the street. Dusk is beginning to settle soft shadows over the city. Below us, the usual mishmash of vehicles fight each other through a crush of gaudy street stalls, limp and battered by the rain. Lights come on in a temple on a distant hill, and streetlamps glow orange in the gathering gloom.
“Wow,” Caitlin says. “This place is really something.”
And then, as suddenly as it began, the rain stops—as definitively as if some huge tap in the heavens has been turned off. Within seconds, people start to crowd back out into the street.
“Good timing,” Caitlin says, consulting her watch. “We need to head out to meet Hala.”
We follow each other down the stairs and onto the road, negotiating oozing puddles and overflowing drains. It’s a short drive on the motorbike to the second school, the one in Bandra that all the girls have now been moved into. As we approach the place, we can see guards within the building and outside, hired from the private security firm that Peggy’s ambassador friend recommended. Additionally, two policemen in khaki uniforms maintain an official presence, standing on each corner of the block.
Hala is parked outside the school perimeter, waiting for us. She lets us into the iron gates of the school and we walk toward the building through a playground shaded by trees. Before we get very far, two tall men step out like shadows. They are in light combat gear, and holsters sit across their broad chests. These are Peggy’s ex-SEAL guys. Our final layer of defense against another attack by Family First. We shake hands.
“I’m Luca,” says the taller of the two giants. He has short, curly hair, and a couple of days’ worth of stubble coat his chin and throat. He jerks a nod toward his companion, who is clean shaven with night-vision glasses perched on top of long, tied-back hair. He raises a hand in greeting.
“That’s Ethan,” Luca continues. “We call him Ethan for short.”
Maybe that kind of thing passes for hilarious banter in the military. In any event, Caitlin seems to find it funny.
“Anything you need, and I mean anything, you holler,” Luca says. “Peggy Delaney saved my life once and I’ll never forget it.”
The three of us look at each other in surprise. I mean, I know Peggy spreads trust and loyalty everywhere she goes—but saving a SEAL’s life? I’d like to hear that story.
“Really?” I say. “How?”
But Luca’s eyes just crinkle into an enigmatic smile and suddenly he’s as tight-lipped as the Mona Lisa. He turns to lead us into the school.
“How are the girls?” asks Caitlin.
“They’re back on their class schedule,” Luca says. He directs Ethan to keep a close watch on the outside of the building, then he turns to shepherd us through the inside and run us through all the security measures in detail. Caitlin walks beside him while I tag along behind them, next to Hala. As they go, I can hear them start to talk about Iraq and their respective military careers. Maybe it’s just me, but shared laughs seem to be flashing between the two of them pretty quickly.
Before we get very far into our tour of the building, though, my phone rings. It’s Riya, and she doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. In fact, she sounds totally stressed.
“I need to see you,” she says.
“What’s up?”
“I can’t discuss it on the phone.”
She gives me the name of a bar where we can meet in an hour.
“They have a terrace,” she says. “I’ll meet you there.”
I confirm, then hang up and relay the contents of the call to Caitlin and Hala.
“Riya’s been open with the information flow this far,” I finish. “And it sounds like there’s a real problem.”
“Then you should go and see her,” says Caitlin. “But, Jessie—be careful.” She gives me a quick smile—a look that makes me wonder what she thinks I should be careful of. My safety or my feelings.
“Of course,” I reply, feeling just a little defensive. “You don’t have anything to worry about.”
16
I HAIL AN AUTO-RICKSHAW AND give the driver the address of the meeting place that Riya has suggested. At the first red light we encounter, I find myself surrounded by little kids begging for coins. They swarm up to me, leaning into the tiny back seat of the rickshaw, holding out their hands, crying, pleading.
The driver barks at them to leave, but they hang on, pushing to get something before the lights change.
“Don’t look at them,” the driver tells me.
I try to ignore them at first, but I just can’t. They are tiny children, with no shoes, unwashed, uncared for, painfully thin. One girl, who can’t be more than eight or nine, carries a baby on her hip. I’m not stupid. I know they are most likely owned by a street gang or pimp or trafficker who will take whatever money I give them. But still, as the light turns green and horns explode around me, I pull out a handful of rupee banknotes and pass them around as the driver takes off. Then I turn to watch as the children run back to the sidewalk. My eyes sting with sudden tears, but I blink them back, swallowing hard.
Within a few minutes, though, the rickshaw driver pulls in at the curb and deposits me outside my destination, turning my mind back to Riya. Stepping up to the door, I immediately judge this bar as one of those places that’s trying a bit
