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ALSO BY JAMES W. ZISKIN

The Ellie Stone Novels

Styx & Stone

No Stone Unturned

Stone Cold Dead

Heart of Stone

Cast the First Stone

A Stone’s Throw

Turn to Stone

Dedication

To Bill, whom I miss every day.

So proud of you, brother.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book would not have been possible without the advice and encouragement of a lot of dear people. I must thank friends and family for their generous assistance. From vetting the language—Hindi and Marathi—to confirming everyday details about Bombay in the 1970s, to reading and critiquing my story and characters, these wonderful folks have earned my heartfelt gratitude.

For helping me navigate the India of 1975—and today—thank you to Dr. Kunda, Vidhya Kannan, Vinu Syriac, Raik Sabeel, Anand Sethi, and Deepa Raghavan Sethi.

To my writer friends who offered their advice and expertise, I’m grateful to Robert Rotstein, Keenan Powell, Keith Raffel, Diana Chambers, Claire Thompson, and Kim Hays.

To Lani Stone and Fred Glienna, I appreciate your friendship and willingness to read an unfinished product.

To Bill Reiss, Ann Hawkins, Moses Cardona, and Warren Frazier of John Hawkins and Associates, thank you for your honest critiques and all you’ve done for me.

Thank you to the team at Oceanview Publishing: Bob and Pat Gussin, Lee Randall, Faith Matson, and Christian Storm.

Warmest appreciation to my brilliant, tireless agent and champion, Kimberley Cameron.

To my siblings, Bill Ziskin, Jennifer Ziskin, Lynnette Ziskin, Mary Ziskin, Susie Mudge, and Joe Ziskin, thank you for your support and opinions.

And, of course, my greatest gratitude—as always—is reserved for Lakshmi.

PART ONE

THE EMERGENCY

CHAPTER ONE

BOMBAY, INDIA

TUESDAY, JUNE 17, 1975, 4:15 P.M.

“Tell me. Why did you plant the bomb?”

The guy squinted at me in the low light of the hut. I stared back at him. We sat cross-legged on the dirt floor. What little concrete there was had crumbled long ago and been swept into the corners.

“To kill him,” he said.

His eyes twinkled. I couldn’t tell if he was smiling beneath the scarf he’d tied over his face, but I thought so.

“Well, good job, then,” I said, shifting in my uncomfortable seat.

The hut was tucked away deep inside the dense labyrinth of Dharavi, Bombay’s—and the world’s—largest slum. Acre after acre of shacks packed together as far as you could see. Some—the nicer ones—were built partially of brick, semi-permanent if lopsided. Most, however, were corrugated tin with burlap sacks for doors and tarpaulins on the roof to keep out the rain. Rat’s nests of wires, strung along crooked poles, carried stolen electricity to the shanties. And there was even the odd TV antenna, aimed cockeyed at the sky.

I asked him why he’d wanted to kill a sub-inspector of the CID—the Criminal Investigation Department—in the first place.

“Revolution,” was all he said.

I found that obvious and trite.