A Walk Across the Sun (53 page)

Sita jumped with fright when the shot was fired. In the still air, its highpitched crack shocked her senses. She was even more terrified when Dietrich Klein crumpled to the ground in front of the window, blood pooling under his head. She sat paralyzed for long seconds until sounds erupted on the floor below. Boots stomped and voices shouted. When the heavy footsteps reached the stairs, she began to rock back and forth, nearly insensate.

Seconds later, the door crashed in and men rushed into the room, dressed in black and khaki and wielding machine guns. One of the men ran to the body of Dietrich Klein and checked his pulse. The other slapped cuffs on Li, who was still unconscious. The second man then turned to DeFoe and knelt before him, closing his eyelids.

“Clear,” the first man said.

“Clear,” the second echoed.

The first man approached the bed and took off his mask. “You must be Sita,” he said.

She looked at him, dazed. In his helmet and combat dress, he looked like some sort of fearsome monster. Yet his voice sounded no different from a man's.

She hesitated and began to breathe again. “Yes,” she said.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded.

“I'm Evans,” the agent said. “This is Garcia. Can you walk on your own?”

Sita swung her feet over the edge of the bed and stood up. “I'm all right.”

She followed them to the door and out into the hallway. The guesthouse was crawling with black-clad men with guns. Evans led her down the steps to the living room, and Garcia followed. Evans gestured for Sita to sit on the couch, and then he and Garcia spoke with another man. Sita overheard their words.

“Where are the other girls?” the third man said.

Evans shrugged. “She was alone.”

Sita stood up and touched his shoulder. “Excuse me,” she said.

The men turned toward her.

“You haven't found the other girls because they are hidden.”

“Where?” Evans asked gently.

“In the basement.”

The third man spoke. “I'm Agent Trudeau. I'm in charge. Just tell us what you know, and we'll take it from here.”

Sita shook her head, feeling almost weightless in her freedom. “It's difficult to explain. I have to show you.”

“You sure about that?” Trudeau asked.

She nodded.

“Suit yourself. I'll take the point.”

Sita entered the pitch-dark wine cellar like a celebrity surrounded by bodyguards. Agent Trudeau was in front of her, his gun at the ready, and Evans and Garcia followed behind. Trudeau found the light switch. Bottles of wine gleamed in the light, but otherwise the cellar was empty. They stood still and listened but heard no sound.

Sita walked to the far side of the room and opened the door to the storage cabinet she remembered Li selecting. She looked closely at the rack and blessed her memory for detail. The bottle Li had manipulated had a black and gold label. She saw the bottle and turned it over. The motor engaged and the hidden chamber opened.

Agent Trudeau gestured for Sita to stay back, and he and Evans entered the hallway, pointing their guns at the doors. They paused, listening, but heard nothing. Trudeau and Evans knocked on each door and repeated: “FBI! Open up!” None of the doors opened.

Evans stood beside Sita, shielding her with his body. She tapped him on the shoulder.

“I saw him punch in the code for the room at the end.”

“What's the number?”

She closed her eyes and tried to remember. “I only know the placement of the buttons.”

Evans waved at Trudeau and relayed the information.

Trudeau looked at Sita. “Will you enter the code for us?”

“Yes,” she whispered and followed him down the hallway toward the studio.

She stood in front of the door and closed her eyes, replaying in her mind the rapid five-key sequence Li had tapped out, and repeated it flawlessly. She heard the latch disengage, and then Evans lifted her off her feet and carried her back to the wine cellar. A moment later she heard the piercing sound of gunfire. Then all was still.

Garcia poked his head out of the door. “You guys deserve to see this.”

Sita took Evans's hand and walked with him to the studio. They entered the room and found the blond woman lying in front of the bed, a gun in her hand. An auburn-haired girl sat on the ground in front of her, shaking in terror.

“She was holding the girl hostage,” Garcia said, shaking his head.

Five more children between the ages of twelve and sixteen were tied up on the bed, their wrists and ankles bound and their mouths sealed with tape. They sat up one by one and looked at Sita, their eyes round and fearful. For a long moment she stood unmoving, hearing again the sound of Li's camera and feeling the shame of undressing before Dietrich Klein. Then she shook her head. It was over. Klein was dead.

She crossed the room and touched the face of the youngest girl, peeling back the tape from her mouth. The girl winced, but Sita soothed her with a smile.

“It's all right,” she said. “You're safe now.”

When the girls were free and able to walk, Trudeau and Garcia took them upstairs. Sita, however, asked Evans to wait for her while she retrieved her coat from the corner of the basement studio. She put the coat on over her sari and then reached into the inside pocket, tracing the outline of Hanuman. She took a deep breath, vowing in her heart never to forget Shyam, and then followed Evans to the stairs.

Evans took a seat in the dining room off the entrance hall and delivered a statement to another man wielding a clipboard. Sita sat beside him but found it difficult to pay attention to what he was saying. Instead, her mind drifted. She remembered her father standing on the beach in front of their bungalow, waving for her to join him for the sunset. She remembered walking out on the beach and seeing her parents waiting for her. Ahalya was down by the waterline, searching for conch shells. It was a day like any other—a good day.

She looked up as two men entered the house in civilian clothes. One was tall, with dark hair and kind eyes, and the other was shorter and more muscular. She stared at the tall man. She had seen him before. She wracked her brain for the connection. Then it came to her. On the street outside Dmitri's flat in Paris. He was the one who had chased their car down the street.

At once all of the pieces fell into place. He had been looking for her! But how had he known? And why had he cared? She was sure they had never met before. She followed him with her eyes, wondering whether she would get a chance to speak with him.

Thomas stood in the foyer and searched among the milling agents for a sign of Sita.

“Where do you think she'd be?” he asked Porter.

“They probably have all of the girls together,” Porter replied, starting down the hallway toward the living room. “I'll see if I can find Agent Trudeau.”

Thomas was about to follow him when he glanced to his left. At a polished mahogany table sat a towering SWAT commando, a jacket-clad field agent, and a thin-boned Indian girl dressed like a princess. The girl was staring at him, her lovely eyes wide. She was older than she looked in the photograph in his pocket, but it was her. He knew it right away.

He stood frozen for a moment, and then he began to finger the bracelet on his wrist. He walked slowly toward her.

“Are you Sita Ghai?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sita replied.

He unfastened the rakhi bracelet, bent down, and placed it on the table before her.

“I'm Thomas Clarke. Your sister asked me to give this to you.”

He saw tears come to her eyes. “You know Ahalya?”

He nodded, finding it hard to breathe. “We rescued her from Suchir's brothel. She is waiting for you at an ashram in Bombay.”

Thomas marveled as the radiance of the dawn spread across her face. She clutched the bracelet and began to sob. It was as if all of the terror, the doubt, the despair, and the failing hope of the past two and a half months had converged in a great tide of tears.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Porter. “It seems that you found her,” he said.

Thomas let out the breath he was holding and began to smile.

“Well done,” Porter said.

When the gale of Sita's emotions subsided, she fastened the bracelet on her wrist. “I made this for her birthday last year,” she whispered. “She said she would wear it always.”

“You'll have to return it to her, then.”

Sita thought for a moment and reached into her coat, extracting Hanuman. She held the figurine reverently, then placed it on the table.

“Do you know the story of the Ramayana?” she asked him.

Thomas nodded, staring at the little statue.

“Hanuman was a friend of Rama. He found Sita. You should have him.”

Thomas picked up the statue. He remembered what Surekha had said about Priya's father at the mendhi event.
“When Priya was young, he told me that the man who married her would have to possess the character of Lord Rama. Rama is a guiltless man.”
Thomas knew he would never live up to such a standard. But Rama wasn't really the hero of the story. It was Hanuman who had crossed the ocean and rescued the princess of Mithila.

“Thank you,” he said. She would never know the importance of the gift.

Sita looked around at the FBI men. “Will they let me go?” she asked.

Agent Evans attempted an answer. “It's complicated. But we'll do everything we can to get you home soon.”

Thomas glanced at Porter. “Holi is on the twenty-sixth. It's the second biggest holiday in India. Any chance you can pull some more strings and get us on a plane before then?”

Porter laughed. “I've pulled so many strings in the past few days that I'm starting to think about a career as a marionettist. I'll put in the request and see what the people on high have to say about it. A lot of it will depend upon the Indian government. They'll have to take her into custody on the other side.”

“What happens now?” Sita asked, glancing between Thomas and Evans.

“We'll put you under protection and ask a lot of questions,” Evans responded. “We need your help to put quite a few criminals behind bars.”

“Will you stay with me?” Sita asked Thomas.

Thomas nodded, holding little Hanuman and relishing the sweet exhilaration of victory.

“I'll stay with you as long as it takes to get you home.”

Chapter 32

The mark of wisdom is to see the reality behind each appearance.
—T
HIRUVALLUVAR

Atlanta, Georgia

Thomas sat in a drab conference room inside the FBI's Atlanta field office. Across the table from him were two agents in plainclothes and Andrew Porter, who had been assigned to act as Justice liaison for the Atlanta phase of the investigation. Their conversation, which had dragged on for more than three days, was being recorded by a digital device at the center of the table.

“I know we've been talking a long time,” said Special Agent Alfonso Romero, an Italian American from Brooklyn. “I think we're almost through.”