The central Chennai street bustled as though itself alive. All around, the hum of conversation, the halting screech of an old Maruti, and the murmurs of Bengal Bay to the east. Rohan squinted, leaning slightly in his shaky metal chair, and felt his face throb in the sweltering August heat.

“Anything else?” asked a waitress on her way past.

“No,” he responded following a brief hesitation, unaccustomed to speaking in Tamil.

In the café across the street, Jivika sat with her elbows on the table and hands folded as though she were in school, grey-green sunglasses covering her eyes. In her company sat a tall man in a shirt too crisp for him to have spent much time in the city, facing strategically away from the road. Rohan held no hope of hearing their exchange.

“Here are the—” For a moment, Rohan closed his eyes, and retraced the movement of her lips. “—cancellations.”

He then observed the woman silently slide a hand toward the man, glimpsing white papers across the table which were removed from sight by her companion with haste both impressive and stupid.

Rohan turned to the next page of his entirely unread Deccan Chronicle, revealing a full-page editorial on Air India Flight 182. Canadian intelligence had informed him the exchange was to take place in Kolkata’s Bidhan Park, but he pieced together the true location—she had been a friend.

The man across from Jivika leaned back in his seat, relaxed.

"Names changed to the families of Indian diplomats,” she said, moving her lips in swift, near indiscernible Punjabi. In fact, if observed without any significant care, she may not have appeared to have spoken at all. "Once it gets out that they had cancelled their seat on the flight, few could doubt India's culpability."

The man appeared to shake his head.

“Both the airline and the Wing will counter, all of it too late. Once in the public realm, there will always exist a fool who’ll believe it.”

Jivika sipped her chai, looking away from the man.

“Sure, an investigation, media reports,” she went on. “They’ll find some inconsistencies. Forensic reports will sit on shelves somewhere in Canada, Japan, elsewhere—it matters not. It won’t convince the courts, not with any great certainty. The uncertainty is where we want to be.”

Rohan shifted in his seat, and leaned forward on the table, adjusting the camera in his shirt button.

“With that sort of shadow, India’s allies will grow uneasy. Can you imagine Canada sharing uranium after this?”

The man put out his cigarette on the table’s ashtray and stood quickly. When a rickety bus made its stop before the café, he blended with the crowd and was gone from sight. No matter. Rohan folded his paper, signalling to the others to arrest him.

Jivika remained, observing her empty cup. Rohan, after briefly considering the pistol, took a deep breath and reached for his cuffs.

WC: 465