Chapter 31

  

“Wait here,” Lane said to me as he ducked out of the front door of the store.

“Oh no, you don’t,” I said. “You’re going to disappear again.”

“I won’t,” he said before turning away from me. “Abdul, could you come with me?”

I waited inside and opened the folded letter. I skimmed Anand’s short letter to his friend Faruk Marikayaer, which had been written in English.

 

I have the Heart of India. I have a plan, but I must not say more. If I encounter difficulties, I will give my brother Vishwan the information he needs to retrieve it from where it is kept. He may turn to you for assistance. Treat him as you would a brother.

 

A hand touched my elbow, startling me and nearly making me drop the letter. It was a man I hadn’t seen before. Though much younger, he had the same eyes and nose as Abdul. His son?

“Madame,” he said, tugging on my elbow. “Madame would like to see one more thing. Special for you. In the back of the store.”

Had Lane sent him to get me? I gave a hesitant nod.

“Thank you, madame,” the younger shopkeeper said. “Just this way, madame. Through this curtain.”

The moment I stepped through the door, strong arms grabbed me.

“Don’t scream, Jones,” a familiar voice said in my ear. “I’m trying to save you. Naveen is here.” Lane relaxed his grip on my arms as I stopped squirming.

“I’ve got us a motorcycle,” he continued. “Abdul is fulfilling his duty to help you. It’ll get us away from here—and back to Trivandrum before Naveen can get there. There isn’t time to catch a flight tonight. But I want to talk to the archivist again in person before Naveen can.”

I hesitated.

“We don’t have much time,” Lane said. “Do you trust Naveen?”

“No.”

“And he isn’t stupid. He’ll realize before too long that we’re out back. He’s too involved to get out now. He’s already killed once. Who knows what he’ll do?”

Before I had time to think about what Naveen might possibly do, the bells at the front of the store jangled.

Our young helper poked his head out from behind the curtain into the front section of the store. “One moment, sir!” he called out.

Lane grabbed my hand with a firm grip and pulled me toward the back door.

“Even if you’re right,” I said, “we can’t outrun him and make it to Trivandrum on some moped Abdul uses to get around Kochi.”

“That’s not what I had in mind,” Lane said, pushing open the back door.

In a small alley, a bright yellow motorcycle as large as a baby elephant sat on a small strip of concrete behind the shop. This was no outdated city bike. In spite of the dirt and mud in the alley, the bike had been polished so rigorously that any bugs that landed on it must have slipped right off. And there were a lot of bugs flying around that alley. One of them flew into my mouth that was hanging ajar.

I coughed. “This isn’t a moped.”

“This isn’t Abdul’s bike. You met his son inside just now. This is his bike. I paid him generously for it, so he was happy to do as his father wished.”

“A racing bike,” I said, feeling my stomach churn—whether with excitement or fear, I wasn’t sure.

“Indians do love their motorcycles.” Lane picked up the helmet from the bike’s storage basket and tossed it to me. It was as sleek as the bike.

Lane straddled the bike as I adjusted the helmet strap. Luckily Abdul’s son was a small man, so the helmet was only a couple sizes too big for me.

“Acha!” A muffled voice yelled from behind the door.

More raised voices sounded inside the shop. Lane looked up sharply at me. I slid onto the leather seat behind him.

“You know how to drive this type of bike?” I asked as I wrapped my arms around him.

“Only one way to find out.” He revved the engine. I held on tighter.

Abdul appeared in the back doorway. “Assalamu alaikum, my friends,” he said.

“Walaikum assalam,” Lane replied.

A cloud of dust filled the alley as we sped into the streets of Kochi.