"-and make sure to tell the others. Zara, Hafiz, Hussein, Rayaan."

The urchin nods, a little girl with cunning eyes and quick hands, and scampers off with the money in her fist.

Raina has asked the other networks she knows to keep a eye out for this sort of thing. With tensions the way they are, a desecration of such a divine Hindu deity is sure to be the gasoline on the flame. 

She cuts a look at Carter, sitting down next to him. They've figured it's safe enough to be out in public if she's posing as his chosen escort - Usmaan won't raise many eyebrows at the dumb American.

"What luck on your end?" 

He scowls. Raina's operations keep on being the kind of thing that have no business working as well as they, actually, do. He never would have thought having little beggar-children minions would work in real life, but apparently people really don't think of kids as people and really will tell them things they wouldn't tell grown-ups. 

It has nothing to do with the fact that his own investigations have hit a dead end. 

His little trick with Usmaan opened up whole new vistas for them, which Raina promptly took advantage of, but now something's spooked the man. The last time Carter saw him, he barely spoke, just sat in a mess of broken syringes and pill-packets clutching his bottle and mumbling about some kind of fever-dream crap. 

And his idiot-American gambit worked well to get him in, but now nobody takes him seriously. Again. 

...

...And honestly those pictures give him the fucking creeps. Blasphemy ain't a shock to him - it's a free country, he'd say, except it isn't - but there's something fucking wrong about those pictures. It shouldn't be a surprise, gangs of toughs aren't the most tolerant guys around, but it just doesn't feel right. 

"Not much," he grinds out. "Usmaan's acting weird. Drowning his demons every night, up like a jack-in-the-box the next day, freaks out and goes medieval if you even remind him Hindus exist. Something's got to him. Apart from that, fuck knows. They're having some pretty nasty... supply problems, though." Their plan to stop the trafficking isn't a complete success, but they have at least slowed it down.

She slides a grin at him, like the starting flame of a bonfire. "What a shame. Business is sure to be bad."

She gets to thinking, rapping long nails against her coffee cup. "It seems that they could use a boost to business right now, doesn't it? What if we arranged a meal with some potential suppliers and investors? Get ourselves into the web and make it into his home. We can disappear for an hour or two to find some stuff." 

He stares. "You're saying... we can't beat the bad guys, so we become the bad guys?"

What a thought. 

He's still staring at her. 

"If you were anyone else I'd say you were crazy. But... God damn, that might actually work. We're gonna need to make it believable..."

She takes a sip, staring at him over the top of her cup with mischief in her eyes. "It gets you taken seriously and gets you much deeper in. It also gives us a chance to plant a few more of our own people in the mix so we can have some backup. I feel like it's the best way forward. Hospitality and shows of faith go very far here."

He nods. She'd know. "Yeah, makes sense. How d'you wanna play this? I'm guessing by 'people' you don't mean more kids - unless you do?" He's honestly not sure at this point. "And then - makes sense for you to take the lead on making them feel at home, but it means we'll need to have our story straight. Not too late to change tack from the escort story. Unless you like it that way." He winks. 

"I rather think you like it that way, Carter," she returns coolly. She's noticed, then. The appreciative way his eyes dip to her all the time. Perhaps might even have returned the sentiment, had it not been this life.

She shakes her at his suggestions. "No children. I actually don't really like to employ them, but... It's a tough life on the streets here. They're useful, and I don't have enough money to take them in, but I have enough money to make sure they eat.

'We'll suggest it to Usmaan. Or rather, I'll plant the idea of a house visit, and you'll plant the idea of him meeting investors, and we hope he comes up with the real plan on his own. Because we need to understand what's happening with him if we want to start unravelling this."

He just shrugs easily. Maybe it's doomed and maybe it's not, but he's not a gloomy kind of guy and he never believed in all the destiny bullshit. "It has its perks. We can just pretend you're a working girl the dumb Yankee started falling for. And yeah, at this point if I bring him the right gear he'll agree to anything, but we're going to have to do the actual heavy lifting here. Don't suppose you got any more leads? Anyone else big we should invite?"

A slow smile spreads across her face. "Leave it with me."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Shoaib..." she wheedles, leaning forward in the chair. "You know you want to see what all the fuss is about this gora." 

She gives him the kind of cheeky, charming smile she is very well-known for to those who love her. 

He gives her a flat look. 

She's very, very good at them, but her charms don't quite work on him. 

Mostly. 

He takes a deep breath. 

She's not wrong that he's curious, but that's a very small consideration in the balance of things. 

He risks exposure, as always, which would be deeply inconvenient; he's confident, perhaps nineteen parts in twenty, that he can escape the immediate consequences; less confident that he can ever rebuild his position to something like this; only barely mostly confident that he can recover within five years, if he's compromised. 

He stands to gain... all the kinds of intangible knowledge one only gets from personal acquaintance, progress in the plan, progress in Khan learning to work with others, possible American assets. 

It's not an easy call. You do take small risks seriously if you want to stay in this job long. But by the same token, you can't never take them. 

"...Explain this plan to me in detail. Slowly."

It's as good as a capitulation. 

Raina explains. It's a very good plan, with almost flawless coverage of all the backdoors Usmaan's gang might take if things go south - which they won't, because she's this good only because Shoaib taught her everything she knows, which means he probably knows about double. 

It's an excellent in. The information they have comes from children, yes, but they're more reliable than they are accurate. All Shoaib has to do is drink a little and bring a few thugs with him. 

Plus. She wants her Baba superior to play with her in the field.

Carter is collecting more investors and they want the balance to be 90% real investors and 10% plants. Raina's working on finding more dirty leads. Her righteous crusade (which she has earned an earful for) actually proves useful in creating a profit vacuum they can fill.

She sits back at last, crossing her legs. "Well?" 

...

...

Oh, look how they grow up. 

She's actually learned a lot about how and when to pull things like this and not die. 

He makes a few suggestions, the odd correction. Mentally shortlists agents to bring on board, stories to tell them. 

And he does want to see this American and work out just what the hell is the problem Khan has with him. 

Time to roll the dice. 

"I'm in."

She does not squeal, but she uncrosses her legs and flicks open her dossier, which is basically the equivalent in their line of work. 

"I'll pick out a suit for you. Western, not traditional. And bring a date - Amira, perhaps?" she asks innocently. They have so much history, and she's tough as nails... 

Oh, dear. 

"Don't push it, Khan," he says mildly, already planning how on earth he's going to ask her. 

She's stood up and halfway out the door when she calls back, "She hates flowers!" before he can toss her out by the scruff of her neck.

Usmaan's place can sparkle when he wants it to. 

He must have got someone in to clean and decorate it - why the man doesn't just have a second apartment he doesn't know - because it's warm and jasmine-scented and slightly smoky and full of wine and laughter and pliant girls in less than underwear. 

It makes his skin crawl. 

Their actual host had glazed eyes when they got here and is now sprawled in a stupor on a couch, so it falls to him and his 'escort'. 

He's more than well-trained enough not to blink when Raina's mysterious commanding officer shows up, with a woman on his arm who might be polite and painted and smiling but nonetheless looks like she could gut him and not lose a wink of sleep, and to act the part of the American drunkard with too much money and not enough sense. 

There's a lot of dirty money here. 

"Wanna make sure everybody's got a drink, toots?" Only Raina will see the faint twinkle in his eye. 

She gives him a crafted smile, shy and hesitant but coquettish and alluring, and leans in to whisper, "I'll make you pay for every Americanism and insult later, just so you're aware."

She flicks her tongue against the soft, warm skin under his ear, trying her best not to breathe in his scent as if it's morphine - woodsmoke, chestnuts, warm whiskey, honey. 

His heart stutters in his chest. Well, this is a very tense and high-stakes environment. So that makes sense. 

He does breathe her in. Cardamom and cinnamon and something dark and rich... 

His breath is warm on her cheek, replies in her mother tongue. "Is that a promise, dollface?" It sounds wrong as a calque, which is the point. 

She can feel him smirk. 

"It's a prophecy, sweet one," she murmurs back, and sashays away to get drinks. The tops of her shoulders and chest are bared for the men to follow with their eyes, and they linger on her even after she passes to settle on the sheer drop in the back which reaches her hips.

Good. They want them all sated and distracted when they're talking business. She sees a few other agents and only interacts with about two of them, trusting Shoaib to have briefed them on everything. 

It should be a very simple night. It shouldn't go wrong, not really. Plus, there's alcohol and a weapons-at-the-door policy, but that is mostly for appearances. It shouldn't go wrong. 

She wanders particularly over to Usmaan, the sheer red fabric whispering over her skin as she slides him a drink. 

"We haven't met in too long, Sahib. Are you displeased with me?" Her voice is coy and teasing, the courtesan who has grown confident in her position on the arm of a man. 

His eyes are bloodshot, his voice watery. 

"How could I be," he manages, seizing his drink with hands that absolutely do not tremble. "You know how to be obedient. What to do, and not to do." His eyes slide over her, and it's like a physical touch, sticky and cloying. He chuckles, and it sounds wrong. "If only I were not so busy with my clients. I am in- in demand. I would have more time for you." He drinks noisily. "You are- right." He paws at her, in a way unlike him, almost clumsy. "Such a good little Muslim girl." He's staring at her... almost desperately. 

"You flatter me, Sahib," she titters, looking down, the picture of modesty. Of course, it doesn't quite work as well when her tits are in his face but they can blame that on Carter.

"I know that I owe my loyalty and livelihood to you. I am so grateful for the opportunities you have given us. I believe Mr Agan..." she flicks a glance at the American, "Wishes to create some more for you." 

"Does he now?" Suddenly his voice is bright, too bright, and brittle. "Is that what he talks about when you dance for him? More of the same, is it?" That last question is a little too sharp. He desperately, desperately, desperately wants it to be something new. 

"I-I don't know, Sahib," she admits, looking away. "He seems to enjoy your company, I think, but this gora has never seen our hospitality before, and you command respect wherever you go."

She leans in, wide-eyed and eager to please. "Would you like me to convince him for you?" 

"Right. Right. Of course, little one. Don't be afraid." His eyes are distant, unfocussed. "It's never wise to show fear." He takes another swig, fingertips pressed white against the glass. "Go and ask him."