The reception was at Buckingham Palace, and she was home early this time. She called Paul at ten-fifteen, and she had called the children just before that. They had just come back from skating and were drinking hot chocolate in the kitchen. And this time, when she asked for Doug, they said he was out, but she wasn't sure if she believed them. It was unlikely they'd be home with-out him. But she didn't want to press the issue. And as soon as she hung up, she called Paul. He said he was sitting in the main salon and reading. He wasn't going on watch till midnight.

“How was it?” he asked, curious about what she was doing. He liked hearing about it.

“Unbelievable. A fairy tale. It must have cost a million dollars.”

“Probably.” And then he laughed, he sounded as though he were in good spirits. “Serena and I got married at city hall. And afterward, we bought chili dogs on the street, and spent the night at the Plaza. It was a little unorthodox, but actually very romantic. But Serena was so determined not to marry me, that I figured when I got her to say yes, I'd better nail her down without waiting another minute. She spent our entire wedding night telling me what she wasn't going to do for me, and how she was never going to be a proper wife, and telling me I would never own her. She lived up to most of it, but I think eventually she forgot to make me live up to all the things I agreed to.” He still talked about her constantly, but one of the many things he liked about India was that she didn't seem to mind it.

“Looking at that bride today, knowing what we do about life, you can't help wondering if it will work out, or if they'll be disappointed. It must be a little embarrassing after a wedding like that if it doesn't.”

“I don't think that makes much difference. We did okay with our chili dogs and our night at the Plaza.”

“You probably did better than most,” India said sadly. Weddings always made her nostalgic. Especially lately.

“You did all right,” Paul said quietly. He was feeling relaxed. He had been drinking a glass of wine and reading when she called. He loved to sit and read for hours.

“How was the sailing today?” she asked with a smile, knowing how much he loved it, the rougher the better.

“Pretty good.” And then he changed the subject. “Did you go to the police about your assignment?”

“I spent two hours with them before the wedding. That is a nasty little investigation. They're using kids as young as eight as prostitutes. It's hard to believe they would do that.”

“It sounds like an ugly story.”

“It will be.” But it was more up her alley than the wedding, although it had pained her to see the photographs of the children they were using. They were planning a raid in two days, and they had invited her to be there when they did it.

“Will it be dangerous for you?”

“It could be,” she said honestly, although she wouldn't have admitted it to her husband. He didn't even know about the story, and she was not going to tell him.

“I hope it won't be dangerous for you,” Paul said cautiously. He didn't want to interfere in her work, or her life, in any way. But he didn't like to think about her getting injured.

“They'll have to be careful because of the children. But the guys who run it are a tough group. The police think some of the girls were sold into slavery by their parents.”

“God, that's awful.” She nodded as if he could see her, and they went on to talk of pleasanter subjects.

He told her about the book he was reading then, and his plans in Sicily. And he was excited about going to Venice. He had never taken the boat there.

“I can't think of anything more beautiful than being in Venice on the Sea Star,” she said dreamily, thinking of it.

“It's a shame you and Sam won't be with me.”

“He would love that.”

“So would you.”

They chatted for a while, and then he said he had to adjust some sails, and check the radar, but he said he'd call her the following night. They had talked about Annabelle's, and Harry's Bar, and Mark's Club, and all his favorite hangouts in London. But he also knew it would be a long time before he went back there.

And from the next morning on, her days of elegance in London would end. From then on, she would be working with police, hanging out in smoky rooms in blue jeans, drinking cold coffee.

She read some of the material the police had given her that night, to give her further background on the story, and the men who were running the operation. They sounded like monsters, and just thinking about children Aimee's age being used as prostitutes and slaves turned her stomach. It was a world her children would never know and could never have imagined. Even as an adult, she found it unthinkable, just as Paul had.

She went back to meet with the police the next day at noon, and at eight o'clock at night, she was still with them. After they finished their plans for the raid the next day, two of the inspectors took her to dinner at a pub nearby, and it was interesting talking to them. They drank a lot and gave her a wealth of inside information. And when she got back to Claridge's, there was a message from the children. They sent their love and had all gone to a movie. There was another one from Paul, but when she called him back, he was busy. But he called again as she was getting ready to leave the next morning.

“Sorry about last night. We hit a storm. The wind was fifty knots,” but it was obvious, from what he said, that he loved it.

She told him what she'd learned from the police then, and that they would be conducting the raid that night at midnight.

“I'll be thinking of you. Be careful,” he said soberly.

“I will,” she promised, thinking how odd it was talking to him. There was never any talk of romance between them, and yet he talked to her sometimes like a husband. It was probably out of habit, she assumed, and because he missed Serena. He had never given India any real reason to think he was interested in her in that way, except for the fact that he kept calling. But their conversations were more like the meanderings of old friends than the bonding of two lovers.

“I don't know what time I'll be through. Probably at some ungodly hour of the morning.”

“I hope not.” He was getting an increasing sense of the danger she would be in. The men who ran the prostitution ring were not going to walk away from it with their hands in their pockets, and Paul was suddenly afraid that they might come out with guns blazing, and India could get hurt, or worse, in the process. “Don't take any chances, India. Screw the awards, and even the story, if you have to. It's not worth it.” But it always was to her, and always had been, though she didn't say that to him. But now she had her children to think of, it wasn't like the old days. She was aware of that, and intended to be careful. “Call me when it's over, no matter what time it is. I want to know you're safe. I'm going to be very worried.”

“Don't be. I'll be with about fifteen cops, and probably the equivalent of a SWAT team.”

“Tell them to protect you.”

“I will.”

After she hung up, she ran to Hamley's as quickly as she could, to get some things for the children, mostly souvenirs, and she bought a great pair of shoes and a funny hat for Jessica at Harvey Nichols, and was back with the police by noon, just as she had promised.

And for hours after that, she did nothing but listen to them, take notes, and take pictures. And at midnight, when they struck, she was as ready as they were. She went in right behind the first team, with a bullet-proof vest they'd given her, and her camera poised for action. And what they saw in the house on Wilton Crescent in the West End was heartbreaking and beyond pathetic. Little girls of eight and nine and ten, chained to walls and tied to beds, whipped and abused, and drugged, and being raped by men of every age and description. And much to the police's disgust, they rounded up two well-known M.P.S along with them. But more importantly, they had caught all the men, and one woman, who ran it. India had taken hundreds of photographs of them, and the children. Most of the little girls didn't even speak English. They had been brought from the Middle East and other places, and had been sold by their parents.

They were sent off to children's shelters and hospitals to be checked and healed and tended to. There had been more than thirty of them. And India knew it was going to make an incredible story, although it broke her heart to see them. She had carried one child out herself, a little girl of about Sam's age, with cigarette burns and whip marks all over her body. And she had cried piteously as India held her, and carried her to the ambulance. A huge, fat, ugly man somewhere in his sixties had just finished having sex with her when India took her. She had wanted to hit him with her camera, but the police had warned her not to touch him.

“Are you okay?” Paul asked anxiously when he heard her. True to her word, she called him the minute she got in, at six o'clock in the morning. He had stayed up all night, worrying about her.

“I am. Physically. Mentally, I'm not so sure. Paul, I can't even begin to describe to you what I saw tonight. I know I'll never forget it.”

“Neither will the world, after they see your pictures. It must have been just awful.”

“It was unspeakable.” She told him a few of the things she'd seen and he felt sick listening to her. He was sorry she had had to see it. But he supposed she'd seen worse in her younger days, but nothing more heart-wrenching than the little girls they'd rescued. There had been a few boys too, but not nearly as many.

“Do you suppose you can get some sleep now?” he asked, even more worried. But at least she hadn't been injured.