Free PRIMAL Mirza (A PRIMAL Series Novella) by Jack Silkstone Page B

fashion. They’ve trained together so they’ll move
as unit of sorts.”
    “No,
I’m sorry. I haven’t seen or heard of any men like that.” He glanced at his
colleague manning the window.
    The
duty officer shook his head.
    The
third policeman walked back in placed a tray of cold soft drinks on the table. The
constable passed them each a beverage.
    Mirza held an ice cold can of
soda, hoping its coolness would counter the heat and humidity. If it was this
hot this early, Allah save them. Popping open the can, he guzzled the soda.
    “What
about you, Ranbir?” the constable asked the man who had fetched the drinks.
“Have you heard anything?”
    One
glance told Mirza the policeman was a Sikh. Tall and bearded, he wore a khaki
turban wrapped around his head.
    “No,
nothing… actually, one of the street urchins was babbling something about Pakis
yesterday. Atal, his face was all bruised.”
    “Atal,
is that his name?” Mirza asked.
    “Yes,
he’s a street brat. Usually hangs out over by the markets. Bit of a trouble
maker, always getting into mischief.”
    “What
does he look like?”
    “Same
as all the others. Skinny. Filthy rags for clothes, no shoes and light fingers.
I’d say he’s about twelve. Likes the sound of his own voice.”
    Himesh
finished his soda and set the empty can on the table. “So we can find him at
the markets?”
    “Yes.
Head further down this street and then left. I can show you if you like.”
    “Appreciated,
but we don’t want to impose. Thanks for all your help, we’ll try to drop by
later today to let you know how we went.” Himesh gave a nod and disappeared out
the door.
    “Let
us know if you need anything else,” the constable said to Mirza.
    “Thanks.”
He shook each man’s hand, then headed for the exit and returned to the
maelstrom of humanity and humidity that was Chandni Chowk.

 
    CHAPTER
13

 
    Mirza checked his watch. An hour
and they were still searching for Atal. They had worked their way through
nearly half the sprawling market and questioned a dozen shopkeepers. When they
paused in the shade of one of the stalls, he said, “I think we’ll have better
luck if we split up.”
    A
merchant approached with an armful of plastic sheeting. Himesh waved him away.
“You’re right, you head that way. Stay in touch over the radio. I’ll go to the
northern end.”
    Mirza
strode between the rows of stalls. He caught the odd glimpse of street urchins
to no avail. Every time he got near them, they melted into the crowd. He had to
give them credit. They were a cagey bunch and recognized the difference between
a cop and a free handout. This required a different approach.
    He
spotted a gaggle of kids hanging around what looked to be a street kitchen. As
he got closer, he noticed an old woman handing out bread. He smiled. Even in
suffocating poverty, a glimmer of humanity existed. Once the woman finished
giving out the stale loaves, he approached. She smiled from under her orange
headscarf. Her face was creased like old leather; her eyes dark brown and warm.
“Hello, handsome.”
    “Hello.”
    She
reached into a battered, ice-filled cooler and pulled out a cold can of Pocari
Sweat. “Could I interest you in a cold drink?”
    Mirza
dropped a handful of coins into her hand and accepted the soda. “Thank you.” He
rolled the can across his forehead. “I’m not used to the heat.”
    “I
didn’t think you were a local.”
    Mirza
cracked the can and took a swig. “Not a local. But I could sure do with some
local knowledge.”
    The
old woman returned to her cooking pots. “What can I help you with?”
    “I’m
looking for a street kid called Atal.”
    The
woman squinted. “What has that little ruffian done?”
    “No,
don’t worry. It’s nothing like that. I just want to talk to him about something
he saw.”
    “Are
you a policeman?”
    “Sort
of, I work for the government.”
    “You
promise he isn’t in trouble?”
    “I
promise.”
    The
old lady studied