Page 53 of Into the Gray Zone

Right after breakfast, Brett, Jennifer, and I had traveled to Old Delhi, finding the suspected address after a little bit of searching down the alleys, finding a nondescript space with a roll-up metal door, nothing else. We continued on, locating Nadia’s spice market friend aboutseventy meters farther down. The bazaar was pretty much deserted at this time of day, with most of the proprietors just now opening up, but we were already drawing stares as the only Westerners around.

I’d called Nadia, she’d phoned her “family friend,” and a man had come out, looking furtive. He’d waved us into his little shop and said, “I don’t know what this is about, and I don’t want to know.”

I said, “Don’t worry, we’re not here to cause trouble. Nadia is just doing us a favor.”

“What is this favor? Is it about that shop down the street? Because a lot of strange stuff has happened there.”

“Like what?”

“Like they never sell anything, but there’s always someone coming and going. Four men went in there yesterday afternoon, but not before wandering around as if they didn’t know the address. But they had a key to open the door.”

Which was an indicator. I said, “That’s what we want to check out. Nadia said you had a second story where we could see the front?”

He nodded and said, “I do, but I don’t want any trouble. Why are Americans doing this? Why isn’t Nadia? I know where she works.”

Jennifer smiled at him, disarming his angst. She said, “Your country wants to be completely silent on this. We asked her for a favor, and she is facilitating. Trust me, we won’t be giving you any trouble. This isn’t something that concerns you or the neighborhood.”

He nodded, his wife at his side, and said, “If it’s Muslim terrorists, I’ll do whatever I can. Just don’t let it lead back to me.”

I said, “You have my word. All we want to do is observe.”

He’d given us a little perch in his apartment on the second floor, and we’d started a rotation, keeping eyes on the roll-up door across the way. We saw two people leave later in the morning, getting photos ofboth, and waited. Eventually, the final two exited, both of them carrying backpacks. They left the market and we continued watching, just to make sure.

Nobody else appeared, and I decided that it was time for the break-in. I left Brett upstairs to give us an early heads-up if anything suspicious happened while we were inside, then exited to the street, walking down it like I owned it, Jennifer by my side.

As it was almost noon, the market had picked up considerably with shoppers, but every stall owner seemed to ignore the locals and zero in on us, encouraging us to come inside. Even the beggars began to follow us, like we were the Pied Piper of the homeless. Jennifer was stopped twice by random locals, asking if they could get a selfie with her.

Brett came on the net, saying, “Man alive, you guys look like Taylor Swift just showed up. Why is everyone crowding around you?”

I said, “I have no idea. Probably because they know any Westerner that comes in here didn’t do so for daily shopping, and if we have enough cash to fly to India just to be looky-loos, we must have some spare money to give to them.”

The alley we were in was small enough that the only motorized conveyances were mopeds, and they came zipping by with all manner of things strapped to them, the swirl of people almost claustrophobic. Every five feet some beggar would grab Jennifer’s hand, pleading for money. It was almost as if word had spread that a rich pair of Westerners were walking around, and everyone wanted a piece of us.

After another few feet, I made the call. “Blood, I have a mission for you. This isn’t going to work.”

“What’s that?”

“We’re going to stop at the stall, and I’m going to start flipping money in the air while Jennifer picks the lock. Then we’re going to lead the caravan away, and you’re going to roll up the door after we’regone. We’ll circle the block in a rickshaw, breaking free from them, and come back to your stall.”

“What makes you think I’m not going to have the same problem?”

“Uhhh... you’re black?”

“Seriously? I stand out here just like you do.”

“Yeah, well, I honestly think it’s Jennifer who’s standing out. If I gave them the side-eye with a little Pike behind it, they’d probably leave me alone, but they all want a picture with her.”

Jennifer glared at me and came on the net, saying, “That’s bullshit.”

Off the net I said, “Is it? Really? You think we’d have this caravan of deadbeats asking us for money if it was me alone? All I’d have to do is raise a fist and they’d all flee.”

Brett came back, saying, “Yeah, you probably have a point. Let me know when you want me to execute.”

Jennifer pursed her lips because she knew we were right. She said, “So how am I going to pick a lock in front of everyone?”

“Just bend down to tie your shoe. I’ll be raining dollars like a gangster at a strip club and they’ll be focused on that.”

She shook her head and muttered under her breath, but snaked a hand into her purse, pulling out a neat little device called a Lishi padlock pick. It was a self-contained unit that gave Jennifer the ability to provide tension while she set the pins, all in a single device, allowing her to crack a padlock in seconds, if it had the right keyway. If it was some weird Indian lock, we were out of luck.

---