Devras Sikari, the hunter chosen by god, would change the world too, though far differently than Gandhi. He would make a mark in a way that befit his name.

Balan now recalled the day he left for this mission. The dark, diminutive Sikari—his age impossible to guess—came to Balan’s safe house in Northern India. Sikari was wearing wrinkled white slacks and a loose shirt. From the chest pocket blossomed a red handkerchief. (Red was the color associated with the Kshatriya caste and Sikari always wore or carried something red.) The leader had greeted him in a soft voice and gentle smile—he never shouted or displayed anger—and then explained how vital it was that he find a particular American, a geologist who had been making inquiries about Sikari in Paris.

“I need to know what he’s learned. And why he wants to know about me.”

“Yes, Devras. Of course.” Sikari insisted that his people use his first name.

“He’s left India. But find him. Kill anyone with him, then torture him,” he said as casually as if he were ordering a cup of Kashmiri shir chai—pink salt tea.

“Of course.”

His mentor had then smiled, taken Balan’s hand and given him a present: a thick copper bracelet, an antique, it seemed. A beautiful piece, streaked with a patina of green. It was decorated with ancient writing and an etching of an elephant. He’d slipped the bracelet on Balan’s wrist and stepped back.

“Oh, thank you, Devras.”

Another smile and the man who had brought so much death to some and hope to others whispered one of his favorite expressions: “Go and do well for me.”

And with that Devras Sikari stepped out the door and vanished back into the countryside of Kashmir.

Now, remaining hidden from the victims soon to die, Balan glanced down at the bracelet. He knew it signified more than gratitude: the gift meant that he was destined for some place high in Sikari’s organization.

It was also a reminder not to fail.

Do well for me . . .

Balan’s phone trilled.

“Yes?”

Without any greeting, Jana asked coolly, “Are you in position?”

“Yes.”

“I’m up the beach road, a hundred yards.” Jana had a low and sultry voice. He loved the sound. He pictured her voluptuous body. In the past few days, as they’d prepared for the attack and conducted their surveillance, she’d worn bulky clothes that had concealed her figure. Only last night, when they’d met in a café to survey the escape route, had she worn anything revealing: a thin t-shirt and tight skirt. She’d glanced down at the outfit and explained dismissively that it was just another costume. “I’m only playing tourist.”

Meaning I’m not sending you a message.