“No, no. Of course I’ll take it over to her.”

Janice handed me an envelope. She’d scrawled something across the front in Hindi. I asked what it said, and she told me it was “Sushmita.”

I spent my lunch break learning how to write it.

FRIDAY, JULY 11, 1975, 4:16 P.M.

I was on the phone to a producer named Ravi Om Gopal. He’d made a couple of successful Hindi-language films—the typical melodrama they churned out: boy meets girl, three fight scenes, and six songs. I’d read in my film magazine that he was considered to be a man on the rise. He wasn’t thrilled about the idea of talking to a journalist about the Emergency. He made a big show of supporting Mrs. Gandhi and her efforts to defend the nation from “internal disturbances.” I told him I wasn’t interested in his politics, but only in the challenges or advantages the Emergency had created in the film business. I promised him anonymity, if he wanted, but he wasn’t biting. He finally asked me to leave him out of my story.

I hung up and rubbed my eyes. Next on the list was an up-and-coming actor a director had referred me to. I was about to pick up the receiver when Janice interrupted me.

“That man called again,” she said. “While you were on the phone.”

“Which man?”

She pulled up a chair next to me and spoke in a low voice. “Bikas. Danny, I’m worried for you.”

“Why? What did he say?”

“He said he’s changed his mind. He wants the film back. What film?”

“There’s no film. I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Danny,” she said, fixing me with a dead-serious gaze. “He said he left a note at your place with instructions to deliver the film tonight. If you don’t do it, he says he’ll kill you.”

PART TWO

FLIGHT

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

FRIDAY, JULY 11, 1975, 4:41 P.M.

Panting for breath, soaked from the rain and my sweat, I arrived to find my door open. I called for Ramu, but got no response. Everything seemed quiet, so I slipped inside. His chappals were not in the entryway. He wasn’t there.

“Bikas?” I asked, dreading an answer. Still nothing.

I grabbed the only object handy—a letter opener—and made my way into the corridor. To my right, I could see that my bedroom had been ransacked. To my left, the kitchen, as well. Both rooms were empty of burglars. I quickly checked the second bedroom and bathroom down the hall. They’d been turned upside down as well. I drew a breath. There was no one in the house but me. Where the hell was Ramu?

He was, in fact, standing right behind me.

“Sir, kya hua?” he asked. I’d learned this phrase. It meant, “What happened?”