Quickly, we run. Hala goes ahead of me, turning at the top of the stairs and opening up the only room with a thin bar of light under the door. I have a knife at the ready, while Hala has her phone out, taking video. Jingo is certainly in a compromising position but, funnily enough, it’s not with a woman. A young man, slim and with a delicate, beautiful face, looks up at Hala and me. So much for Family First’s anti-LGBTQI+ stance.
Jingo takes a moment to process and then he’s up, snatching his pants from a chair next to the bed. But before he can get a leg anywhere near them, I push him back onto the mattress and show him my knife, keeping it close to his throat. Hala is busy turning his young companion toward the wall so he can’t watch us, pulling his arm back behind him so that he feels it will break if he moves. He whimpers but complies.
With my free hand, I rummage around in Jingo’s trouser pocket. Inside is his phone. I message my own burner handset from it, then text back a little attachment that will give us access to everything on Jingo’s handset at all times. Then I turn my attention back to Jingo himself, keeping a knee pressed to his chest. He watches my blade, gleaming in the lamplight. Dim lighting is supposed to be kinder to people, but he looks older up close, his eyes wide and strained, his body lean and pale, without much hair on his chest and legs.
“Tell us about your links to Family First,” I say.
Jingo hesitates, then clears his throat, like a politician about to give a speech. “As I have said on record, I am shocked by their terror tactics and condemn them in the strongest possible—”
He stops talking when I carve a line in his chest, drawing blood just from the top layer of skin.
“Let’s stop wasting time,” I suggest. “Does a company called AAB Enterprises ring a bell?”
Jingo watches, dismayed, as the blood rises to seep out from the cut on his chest. He begins to shiver now, perhaps from the pain, but more likely from my question.
“They paid you,” I continue. “By putting shares of a medical company into your name.”
“Not in my name,” he says. His eyes slide away from mine.
“My mistake,” I reply. “The shares are in the name of your shell company. You know the one—it uses the Cypriot Private Bank as a trustee.”
Jingo looks at me again, his eyes wider now and more anxious. “Who are you?” he asks.
Well, obviously, the information flow is only going to go one way here, so I ignore that question.
“We have enough to send you to prison right now,” I say. “Not to mention pictures and video that will make you a beacon of hope for the LGBT community in India. So, do you want to talk, or play games?”
On that, the young man tries to make a break from Hala.
“Give me those pictures!” he mutters, going for her pocket, looking for her phone.
Hala doesn’t take kindly to that. She kicks him behind the knees so he hits the ground, and cuffs him on the head, twice, till he falls flat. He lies there, arms spread out, too fearful to move, but she keeps her boot on his head for good measure.
Watching his boyfriend get a little beaten up seems to affect Jingo and loosen his tongue. His breath becomes ragged, audible shreds of sound that follow the rise and fall of his thin chest.
“I need immunity. I want to know I’ll be safe.”
“You’re not really in a position to bargain,” I point out.
“What are you hoping?” he asks, his voice shaky. “To stop Family First?” He smiles but it’s not a happy look. More like a wide-eyed grimace. “Their power base is growing internationally.”
“Who is behind them?” I ask.
“A few, very powerful men.”
“Names?”
“You think they give me their business cards?” He laughs mirthlessly. “They are deep in the shadows.”
“Where are they based?”
Jingo hesitates. “Here. Pakistan too.”
“Who do you report to?”
“Nobody. All communication, from the start, has been through low-level bankers, lawyers. . . . Even with them—it’s not like they deliver checks by hand or come anywhere near me. It would look bad for me and make their strategy too obvious. They fund me very indirectly, because we believe in the same things.”
“Do you really?” I ask, puzzled. “How would they like a picture of you and your lover here? I mean, they’re bound to notice it when it hits the front page of the Times of India, right? And right before the election.”
“I’ll make you a list of everyone I know that’s connected,” he offers. I let him up and switch on my recording app.
“Spell out all the names,” I instruct. “And give me where you met them and when. And any addresses you have.”
He rubs his temples, trying to gather his thoughts, and starts talking into the phone. When he’s done, I put the knife back at his neck and address the bigger issue that’s troubling me.
“What does your medical company do? What goes on at India Laboratory?”
He looks surprised at the question.
“I’ve never even been there. I don’t know and I don’t care. It turns over ten million dollars a year. It’s just a payoff from Family First, a way to get money to me without transferring funds into a bank account.”
“What else is planned against those girls at the school?”
“Nothing,” Jingo says, his voice breaking. “I’m set to win the election. The truth is that the bombing of the school last week boosted my numbers and made me the front-runner. I doubt Family First needs anything else. Now, I’ve told you everything I know,” Jingo rasps. “I want to see you delete those pictures.”
“They’re on a remote server,” I
