“That’s a copy of Jingo’s hard drive,” she says quietly, into my ear.
Then she turns and weaves between the crowds of drinkers, between the mass of people who are now dancing inside. Within moments, she disappears out the front door of the bar and into the night.
17
AMBER PICKS UP MY CALL but she’s not happy about it.
“I’m trying to get to sleep,” she complains, before treating me to an audible yawn. “If you need something from me, it had better be chick lit recommendations.”
“Really, Amber? I always imagine you reading science journals in bed.”
“That’s what you imagine when you think of me in bed?”
I actually feel myself blush at that, but the moment passes quickly because Amber starts huffing unhappily.
“My goodness, now Li is pinging me every five seconds. What’s going on?”
“I uploaded the contents of Jingo Jain’s home hard drive to you just now. I copied Li so she’d be sure to get on your case as well.”
“So kind, thank you,” says Amber, with weary sarcasm.
I can hear the sounds of movement as Amber gets up to check her computer.
“I’ve got the drive copy here, thanks. How did you get it?” Amber asks, sounding more awake now. “I don’t remember breaking into Jingo’s house being on today’s agenda.”
“It was given to me by Riya.”
“How thoughtful of her,” Amber says. “By the way, I checked her out thoroughly. Her whole story about the orphanage and being adopted is true.”
“Good to know,” I reply.
“I did it because you clearly didn’t think it was important to do a proper background analysis on her. . . .”
“I’m kind of busy out here,” I return. “I rely on you for that stuff, tech genius. If I thought Google searches would be adequate for everyone I meet, I’d do them myself.”
“Just make sure your brain is doing the thinking, not any other part of your anatomy,” Amber mutters. “When it comes to Riya.”
“Of course,” I reply indignantly. She’s right, though; I need to take her advice. But still, the impulse to needle her takes over. “Hey, Amber—you’re not jealous, are you?” I ask, teasing.
“No, but I am tired,” she says. “Is there anything else I can do for you now that you’ve ruined my chances of sleep?”
“One more thing, since you ask,” I say. Briefly I fill Amber in on my suspicions about Sunil, especially since he sent Riya to see Jingo for the express purpose of warning her off the case. “Can you dig around Sunil for me? Personal background, any weaknesses that Family First or Jingo might be exploiting?” I ask.
“I already did. Give me a second . . . ,” Amber says. I can hear her mouse clicking as she looks for the right file. “Sunil Patel . . . lifetime officer, excellent record. Divorced, one daughter, aged twenty-two, recently graduated with a law degree. His ex-wife runs a textile business.”
I process that. There’s nothing about Sunil that looks particularly dodgy, unless he hates his wife and daughter being educated and independent. Amber is busy murmuring to herself—a sure sign she’s fallen deep into the hard drive contents already.
She surfaces for just a moment. “I’ll dig into this,” she says. “Anything specific you’re looking for?”
“I just want links. To Family First, and whoever is behind Family First.”
“Don’t we all?” says Amber. And then she hangs up.
While Amber gears up to work through the night, I get to drift off for my first full night’s sleep in ages, in the comforting embrace of my hotel duvet, feather pillow, and silent air-conditioning. Over in their apartment, Caitlin and Hala get some rest too, and we all meet for breakfast at a buzzing street café that Kit takes us to. Peggy has gone off to a meeting with someone she knows from years ago at the justice ministry. I don’t know whether she has a particular agenda, but I do know that part of Peggy’s travel is always reserved for building relationships and keeping alive contacts that might help us on our current mission, or future ones.
“Masala dosa—a typical South Indian breakfast,” Kit announces as she and Hala carry over plates from the service counter, to where Caitlin and I have saved a table the size of a postage stamp. Each of us has a big, round, lace-thin pancake filled with spiced potatoes. On the side is a dish of pale coconut chutney, and a bowl of sambar, a spicy lentil soup.
“Beats eggs and bacon,” I say.
“But not hummus and zaa’tar,” notes Hala sorrowfully. “That’s what we had every day when I was growing up in Palestine.”
We all listen, intrigued. This kind of reminiscence from Hala is rare. But she says nothing more.
“Speaking of home,” Kit asks her, a little overcasually. “I don’t want to pry, but is there any news from your brother?”
Hala hasn’t seen Omar since she escaped from Syria years ago. But in the past year, he got back in touch, trying to get asylum in the UK. His request was denied because of evidence linking him to extremists in Afghanistan.
“The pictures Peggy showed us were of Omar,” Hala says quietly. “But he was infiltrating that group to get information against them.”
“Why would he do something so dangerous?” Kit asks.
It’s clearly difficult for Hala to talk about, but she is deferential to Kit and all of the Athena founders. There’s a very deep respect ingrained in her for anyone who’s from an older generation than she is. She would never use the offhand, sarcastic tone with them that she generally treats me and Caitlin to.
“Revenge,” she answers simply. “They killed our parents. I hope one day he can tell what he knows to MI5 or the CIA. If he gives them enough, maybe he can come and live with me.”
Kit’s eyes touch briefly on mine. We’re both thinking that her
