Private Delhi

Chapter 81

Death is the great equalizer. The Deliverer had seen hundreds of corpses being cremated at the burning ghats as he grew up in Varanasi. From ashes to ashes, from dust to dust. It didn’t matter if you were rich or poor, king or beggar, saint or sinner. The River Ganges could wash away your sins, and if you were cremated by its banks, you could also be guaranteed salvation if your ashes were immersed in the river. Instant moksha.

After he had killed the priest, the Deliverer had run to the Ganges to bathe and wash off his sins. He had taken up the worst job — that of a “Dom.” Cremations occurred at the burning ghats throughout the day and night. After the cremation, the leftovers would be immersed into the river by the chief mourner, usually the son of the deceased. The bones did not burn completely, so the Doms were responsible for collecting the remaining bone fragments and immersing them in the river. It was a sickening and filthy job. The smell of death had seemed to permanently attach itself to his skin, no matter how many times he took a dip.

One day a young army captain had arrived at the burning ghats in order to cremate his father. He’d noticed the boy scavenging for bones when the cremation was over. The captain’s heart had gone out to the boy doing that despicable job. He’d pulled him aside and asked him his name.

“Deliverer,” the boy had replied.

“Well, Deliverer, do you go to school or do you simply deliver?” the army man had asked. “What do your parents do?”

“My parents are dead,” the boy had replied without any expression. “I work here to earn enough to feed myself.”

The army captain had taken the boy to the cantonment school and convinced the reluctant headmaster to accept him. It would be a tough slog with this one. It had taken several days just to get him clean. When food had been placed on his plate in the canteen, he had eaten ravenously like a dog, almost immersing his face in the plate. Not surprisingly, he had been picked on by one of the seniors, a cruel bully.

One day he’d found that his plate had been replaced with a dog bowl. The bully and his friends had been shouting “Woof! Woof!” as the boy looked at the bowl. He had been desperately hungry, so he’d eaten from the bowl, ignoring the howls of laughter from the bully and his friends.

At night, when he’d retired in the dormitory, he had made sure all the boys were asleep before pulling out a small fork — much smaller than an ordinary dining fork — from under his mattress. It had been presented to him by a wandering sadhu who’d been happy with the respect the boy had shown toward him.

The sadhu had explained to him all the intricacies of different types of poisons and the different ways by which human life could be expended — stabbing, decapitating, shooting, strangling, drowning, poisoning, and burning. The knowledge had been delivered with a disclaimer, though: that human life was a gift and should never be taken unjustly.

The fork that the sadhu had given him was no ordinary fork. A vegetable extract known as Abrus precatorius was mixed with powdered glass, opium, datura, onion, and alcohol to create a thick paste. Sharp spikes were then fashioned out of this paste by drying them in the sun. Once hardened, two spikes measuring less than two centimeters each would be mounted on a wooden handle to create the fork. The distance between the two mounted needles was carefully calibrated to resemble the fangs of a viper.

The Deliverer had crept up to the bully’s bed and plunged the fork into his thigh. The bully had screamed in agony but the lights of the dormitory had been off. The Deliverer had retrieved the fork and crawled back to his bed, pretending to be asleep. By the time the lights had been switched on a few minutes later, the bully had been writhing in agony.

He had been quickly transferred to the Army Hospital and was declared dead from snake bite — a common occurrence in Varanasi — six hours later.

The Indian Machiavelli, Chanakya, had said in 300 BCE, “Even if a snake is not venomous, it should pretend to be so.”

The Deliverer had stopped pretending. He knew he was venomous.

Chapter 82

Santosh lay propped up on his hospital bed, with Jack, Nisha, and Neel at his bedside. A nurse popped in to check his blood pressure and temperature then left. It had taken almost an entire day for him to emerge from his near-dead state.

“You really need to stop landing up in hospital,” joked Jack, going on to tell Santosh of the timely intervention that had stopped him from dying.

“How did you know your approach would work?” Santosh asked Neel.

“There is significant research on this subject,” replied Neel. “A case in point is the ordinary garden worm. Research shows that ninety-nine percent of garden worms die within twenty-four hours of exposure to temperatures just above freezing point. But if they are first deprived of oxygen, their survival rate is almost ninety-seven percent. Upon rewarming and reintroduction of oxygen, the worms reanimate and show normal life spans.”

Santosh thanked him with a nod. “And now we find ourselves in the lion’s den,” he said.

He looked at Nisha. After just two days off looking after Maya she’d insisted on returning to work — ignoring Jack and Neel, who’d urged her to spend more time with Maya — and she looked exhausted.

“How is Maya?” asked Santosh.

“She’s being looked after at the Oberoi,” said Nisha, flashing a tired but grateful smile at Jack.

“Little Miss Gandhe could charm the birds out of the trees,” laughed Jack. “She already has the entire staff wrapped around her little finger.”

“I can’t imagine what she’s been through,” said Santosh.

Nisha dropped her eyes. A sympathetic, respectful silence fell across the room. “She needs me at night but otherwise she doesn’t want to talk about it. She’s repressing it. Outwardly she seems fine. Like Jack says, she gives the appearance of having the time of her life, and yet she witnessed Heena’s murder. She was tied up — on the point of being assaulted by Roy. I can’t even begin to comprehend what that might do to a little girl.”

“Children are very resilient,” said Santosh. “More so than adults.”

“I hope so,” said Nisha quietly.

“And now you’re in the position of having had contact with the killer,” said Santosh.

“I saw him briefly on the drive. He was running away.”

“But you’ve formed the opinion that he’s a vigilante?”

“Yes. We’ve been assuming that it’s some kind of organized crime war going on. But what if we were talking about a personal vendetta? What if this were the family of one of the victims? What he said to Maya suggests someone driven by a desire to do...”

“Good?” said Santosh.

“In his mind at least, yes.”

“Saving Maya was a humane act, but even hit men have a moral code,” said Jack.

“It’s not just that. It’s his interest in the essay, not to mention his MO.”

“You said yourself, the gruesome murders could be a warning,” Santosh reminded her.

Jack cut in. “I gotta say, I’m warming to Nisha’s theory. The Godfather movies get it right: when organized crime cleans house they do it in one fell swoop. Boom, boom, boom. Not one at a time like this, giving the enemy time to regroup and prepare. You said yourself, Santosh, that Thakkar’s increased his security.”

“So have Jaswal and Chopra,” said Neel. “Whatever our killer’s motives, he has the great and the good of Delhi in a spin.”

“It couldn’t happen to a nicer bunch,” said Nisha tartly, earning a penetrating look from Santosh.

“There are armed guards in this very hospital, too,” noted Jack. “No doubt here to look after Dr. Arora. They’ve all got them. Nisha’s right, Santosh, this is a rogue agent we’re dealing with here.”

“Then the motive is revenge, and we must work out who is the killer’s next victim,” said Santosh.

“In the meantime, I’m not comfortable leaving you here,” said Jack. “It seems we’re investigating on two fronts now: a vengeful serial killer and an organ-harvesting operation — and they’re as defensive as each other. Someone tipped off Ibrahim about you. What’s to stop them having another go?”

“I’ll be on my guard, Jack,” said Santosh. “But for the time being here is where I want to be. What are your plans?”

Jack pushed his hands into his jeans pockets and stood thinking for a moment, chewing his lip. “I think it’s about time I had a word with our friend Mohan Jaswal.”

The Private team went to leave but Santosh called Nisha back. She hung by the door, unwilling to meet his eye.

“It’s not just Maya who went through an ordeal the other day, is it?” said Santosh, pulling himself up in bed a little.

“You almost lost your life.”

“That’s not what I mean, and I think you know it.”

“She’s alive and unharmed, that’s the important thing. If only I could say the same for Heena.”

“For Maya things could have been much worse.”

Anger flashed across her face. “You don’t say.”

But Santosh plowed on. “Things could have been worse if not for the intervention of the killer. I can’t be the only one who feels that if this killer is targeting the men behind an organ-harvesting scheme, and if he’s killing the likes of Amit Roy, then maybe he’s doing the world a favor.”

And now she was rolling her eyes. “Oh God, not you as well. I got this from Sharma. He went as far as to insinuate that the killer and I were in league together.”

“You’re an excellent shot, Nisha.”

“It was dark. What if I’d killed him? What if I’d killed him and he turned out not to be the killer but a burglar who was in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“We have to stop him, Nisha. The fact that he saved Maya cannot have a bearing on that.”

“I know,” she said tightly. “Can I go now, please, and get on with the business of trying to catch him?”

“Just as long as you are,” he said.

And now she rounded on him. “You’re sounding fairly sanctimonious for someone who sat on evidence! We knew Arora had links to the bodies at Greater Kailash and we haven’t done a thing about it. For all your talk about cutting off the head of the snake, we’ve done precious little cutting of any description, and in the meantime more people have died, and my little girl...”

For Nisha that was as much as she could take. Choking on her words, she wheeled, snatched open the treatment-room door and stormed out, leaving Santosh alone.

“I’m sorry,” he told the empty room, judged by the silence.

Chapter 83

Jaswal sat in his usual place in the Delhi Legislative Assembly, attempting to stay calm. The doors were covered by armed guards, strong and impassive, silent sentinels amid the ruckus. The opposition seemed to have ganged up to accuse the government of every conceivable crime. Jaswal consoled himself by stroking his beard.

The leader of the opposition, a balding, chubby man in his sixties, was attempting to have his voice heard over the din. “This government has lost the moral authority to rule. Multiple corpses of patients were discovered inside a house at Greater Kailash. We have been kept in the dark regarding who these victims were. Three key people associated with the health sector — the Health Minister, a health care tycoon, and the Health Secretary — have died in mysterious circumstances. We’re being told that Kumar committed suicide when, as anybody knows, he was murdered, just as Patel and Roy have been murdered. It is evident that there is a deeper conspiracy that the government is attempting to hush up.” He brandished a poster satirizing the recent murders, adding, “You see this? Even rabble-rousers on the streets know our system is corrupt. We demand that the Chief Minister must resign.”

Almost all seventy members of the house were on their feet, shouting at each other. The helpless speaker of the house kept urging the honorable members to sit down in order to restore order but nobody was interested in listening. Jaswal was probably the only person who remained seated and utterly quiet. He looked positively haggard.

Chapter 84

The lotus temple was a Baha’i House of Worship and an architectural symbol as striking as the Sydney Opera House. Inspired by the lotus flower, the temple was composed of twenty-seven free-standing marble-clad “petals” arranged in clusters of three to form nine sides. The nine doors to the temple led into a vast central hall more than forty meters tall and capable of holding up to two and a half thousand people.

In a corner of the massive hall sat an odd couple: TV reporter Ajoy Guha and the police chief, Sharma. A fine pair they made: the overweight, perspiring Sharma; the tall, bespectacled Guha. The meeting had been initiated by Sharma but Guha had been happy to oblige.

“So, what did you want to see me about?” he asked Sharma, regarding the cop through his wire-framed glasses.

“For a start I thought you might want to thank me for giving you the lowdown on Roy. That little scoop sparked off the most dramatic thing to happen in Delhi for years. You must be very pleased.”

Guha preened a little. “Well, if the cat wasn’t already among the pigeons it certainly is now. It’s a good time to be a newsman in the city, watching its high rollers run around like headless chickens. I suspect the security companies are pleased too.”

Sharma chuckled. “The whole city is awash with conspiracy theories, bloodlust, tales of corruption, lies, and more damned lies, and it’s only getting more and more fervent. The other day I saw a bit of graffiti that said, ‘Are they telling us the truth?’ Today I saw graffiti that said, ‘You are being lied to.’” He smirked, evidently enjoying himself.

“In such circumstances revolutions are born,” said Guha.

“It won’t go that far. You know why? Because the likes of you and me won’t let it. The current system favors you just as much as it does me. I think we’ll give the city a shake-up and see who comes tumbling out of the bag afterward. No doubt there will be changes, but all for the better, I’m sure of it.”

“In other words, changes that favor your boss, Ram Chopra.”

“You’re wrinkling your nose at the smell of dirty tricks, are you? Let me tell you, Jaswal is not above employing them himself. Rumor has it that he’s hired himself a detective agency, the Private agency, no less, to do his dirty work for him. Anyway, what does it matter to you? A scoop is a scoop.”

Guha frowned. “You might be right.”

“And now I’ve got another one for you,” said Sharma. He handed over a small package.

“What’s inside?” asked Guha.

“Details of preliminary investigations into how illegal organ removals are being carried out at the behest of a company called ResQ,” replied Sharma.

“Aha, now I see,” said Guha. “Head of ResQ is Jai Thakkar, who just happens to be good buddies with Jaswal, your boss’s mortal enemy?”

Sharma shrugged. “I say again, does it matter? Any man involved in organ harvesting is a man who needs to be stopped.”

Guha stood. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Oh, and Guha?” Sharma stared up at the journalist. “I’m continuing my investigations, so watch this space.”

Chapter 85

The two men sat at a table of the upmarket Cafe E, in the opulent surroundings of the DLF Emporio Mall, Delhi’s best luxury mall.

The well-dressed Thakkar sipped mineral water with a calm, meditative air that belied how he really felt, which, if he was honest, was a touch on the nervy side. Added to the recent spate of murders — among them his business associate Samir Patel — was the distinct sense that things were coming apart at the seams. It was an impression not helped by the somewhat harassed and bedraggled appearance of Arora, who sat opposite, an untouched coffee in front of him.

On tables at either side were their security details, four men in total, two for each man. They wore sharp suits tailored to disguise a bulge at the armpit, and dark Ray-Bans to hide eyes that constantly scanned the area around them, ever alert for danger. Cafe E occupied the entire ground floor of the mall, giving them unrestricted sight, which was just how they liked it.

Thakkar set down his glass. “We have over a hundred patients from the United States lined up to visit Delhi next month,” he said. “As of now you have arranged organs for less than fifty percent of them.”

Arora swallowed. “Why does everything become a crisis with you? You have now started bypassing me and have been directly in touch with Ibrahim. I’m the one who set him up. I even provided him with the van. And now you bypass me and go to him?”

“I wouldn’t need to directly contact Ibrahim if you delivered on your commitments,” replied Thakkar.

“But this is getting dangerous,” argued Arora. “You know what happened at Greater Kailash.”

“Was that Ibrahim’s fault?”

“Of course it was. And now he’s going after poor residents of the slums at Yamuna Pushta. Such an aggressive strategy is a recipe for disaster.”

“What’s the harm in that?” asked Thakkar.

“He and that hack he calls a surgeon do not have the required medical capabilities,” hissed Arora. “Surgeries are being performed in his fucking van! We will all get into trouble... He’s using guys who don’t even have a medical license. If this were ever to get out—”

Before Arora could finish the sentence, Thakkar’s cell phone rang. He took the call. “Hello,” he said, “who’s this?” — already regretting instinctively answering his phone when he didn’t recognize the number.

“Mr. Thakkar? Is that Mr. Thakkar?”

And now Thakkar regretted answering the phone even more bitterly, because though he didn’t outright recognize the voice, there was something about it that pointed to the drawer marked “irritant,” “troublemaker,” “enemy.”

“Who is this?” he repeated cautiously.

“Why, this would be Ajoy Guha of DETV. You were recently a guest on my program, Carrot and Stick.”

“Yes, I remember. I remember it being a most unpleasant experience.”

“Well, I must apologize for that. It is not our aim to make our guests feel uncomfortable. Perhaps you would like to make another appearance, a return visit, so to speak? There is a most important issue I would be very keen to discuss.”

Thakkar felt his insides clench. First Arora’s doom-mongering. Now this. He had a sudden flash of insight: he should have got out while the going was good. He had taken things too far. He hardly dared ask his next question. “What issue are you keen to discuss?”

Now Guha’s voice took on a different tone, as if — yes, of course — the bastard would be recording it. “Mr. Thakkar, I have information that you are illegally trading organs. Would you like to confirm or deny the allegation?”

Oh God, oh God, oh God. This was what it felt like when your world came crashing down.

“Of course I deny it,” hissed Thakkar, “of course I fucking deny it.”

But as if Guha’s call wasn’t bad enough, Thakkar now saw another situation develop. Opposite him Dr. Arora’s eyes had risen from the tabletop and gone to something happening at the far end of the mall. Thakkar turned to see a squad of four armed police enter, and his mouth dropped open. Guha forgotten about, he ended the call, watching as the squad led by the chief, Sharma, made their way across the mall toward the cafe.

As one, the security guards rose to their feet, their seats skidding back on the marble flooring as they reached inside their jackets. At the same time two of the armed policemen brought assault rifles to their shoulders and the other two moved smartly to one side as though to outflank the security detail. Sharma’s voice boomed: “Draw your weapons and we will open fire, gentlemen. It’s that simple.”

To a background of audible gasps from shoppers as they realized what was happening and took shelter behind columns lining either side of the atrium, the security men froze mid-draw, looking to their respective employers for guidance.

Arora gave a nod. Do as you’re told. Thakkar the same.

“Good lads.” By now Sharma was on top of them. “Thakkar,” he boomed, and the ResQ CEO shrank in his seat, “I have a warrant for your arrest under the provisions of the Transplantation of Human Organs Act 1994.” He turned his attention to Arora. “And who might you be?”

Thakkar could see the temptation to lie flick across Arora’s face, but evidently he chose to come clean. “Dr. Arora,” he whimpered. “I’m just a doctor.”

“Just a doctor, are you?” sneered Sharma. “Just a doctor in league with this one, perhaps?”

“No, no, no,” protested Arora, giving himself away in the process.

“I see. What’s so bad about being in business with Thakkar that you’d deny it so vigorously? Not telling me he’s up to no good, are you?”

Locks of greasy hair fell across Arora’s forehead as he grew even more agitated, realizing he was digging himself into a hole. “No, no. I don’t know anything.”

“We’ll soon see about that, won’t we?” said Sharma. For a moment or so it looked as though he was seriously considering arresting Arora, but then for whatever reason thought better of it. With a wave of his hand he indicated to two of his men, who yanked Thakkar from his chair. A moment after that they were gone, leaving Dr. Arora perspiring, despite the arctic chill of the mall’s air conditioning.

Chapter 86

Sharma let Thakkar stew. Of course he did. Despite his fear of the situation, not to mention the temptation to kick himself very hard and repeatedly at pushing his luck over this whole transplant network, Thakkar still felt a wave of contempt for the fat policeman and his ancient, desperately banal methods of intimidation.

The cell was small, hot, and stuffy. He dreaded to think how it felt in summer. He took off his jacket and let the act of neatly folding it shoulder to shoulder calm him, before sitting, smoothing his trousers, then crossing his legs.

Okay, he was in trouble. But he had money. And what was money good for if not for buying yourself out of trouble? What’s more, and perhaps even more importantly, he had friends — or at least one very powerful friend — in high places. They weren’t going to kill him in prison. They couldn’t just keep him here indefinitely. So while there was no doubt he was about to embark on a period of discomfort, it would surely be a relatively short period of discomfort. No, keeping things in perspective, he had nothing overly serious to worry about. At least he was safe from the killer.

Unless the killer turned out to be Sharma. And...

No. No, that was just ridiculous.

Now the cell door opened to admit Sharma and his assistant Nanda. The pair of them looked at Thakkar, perched on the edge of the cot, then Sharma indicated for him to rise. A short time later they were installed in chairs in some kind of interrogation room. An interview suite, they called it, but Thakkar wasn’t fooled.

“We have a lot of questions to ask you, Thakkar,” said Sharma, his customary toothpick wedged between his teeth, “things about your relationship with Jaswal, what you know about the Private detective agency and what they’re doing in Delhi, the role played by this Dr. Arora that I met at Cafe E. But first this racket that you and your friends are running. Let’s start with that.”

“Racket?” said Thakkar disingenuously.

“You’ve been running a racket that buys or steals organs and makes them available to your American insurance patients,” he said. “You may as well come clean. We know your entire modus operandi.”

Thakkar remained quiet. He had asked to see his lawyer but Sharma denied him the privilege.

Then, “You have nothing against me,” he said defiantly.

“We have accessed your company’s bank statements and balance sheet,” said Sharma. “You have made hundreds of payments to an unregistered firm. We’ve done our investigations. That unregistered firm belongs to Iqbal Ibrahim, someone who is notorious for the thriving black market he runs in human organs.”

“Then go get him,” replied Thakkar. “As CEO of a multinational company, you can’t seriously expect me to know every small payment that is made by my managers and staff!”

Sharma ignored the interjection and continued, “At first we were confused. The Indian arm of ResQ buys human organs. American patients are charged insurance premiums that cover this service. The question in my mind was this: how would the Indian operation ever make a profit?”

“So now you’re a chartered accountant?” asked Thakkar sarcastically.

“And then we realized that you don’t care,” continued Sharma, refusing to rise to the jibe. “You have a web of companies and subsidiaries and so long as they make money in the aggregate, individual losses are irrelevant. I think we have an excellent case to prosecute you as well as your company under the Transplantation of Human Organs Act 1994.”

Thakkar was quiet.

“In effect, you transfer profits to the American parent while bearing all the organ procurement expenses in India,” continued Sharma. “And since the money is a consequence of an illegal act, this is a perfect case for prosecution under the Prevention of Money Laundering Act too.”

“You do know that the Chief Minister is my friend?” said Thakkar, his cockiness having disappeared.

“I don’t report to fucking Jaswal,” snapped Sharma, the toothpick falling out of his mouth. “My boss is Chopra and he hates Jaswal. You also fall into the enemy camp by association. Hell, I’ll even get promoted if I make your life miserable. It’s only fair given that you fucked and then abandoned the boss’s daughter!”

“Bastard!” shouted Thakkar as he stood up.

He received a resounding slap from Sharma. “Sit down unless you are told that you can get up!” commanded Sharma.

Thakkar was stunned. His cheek had turned red from the slap but his other cheek went pink from the embarrassment and shame. He had never been treated this way.

“Now, here’s how this can play out,” said Sharma. “Either you cooperate with me or I will have to take you out of Tihar Jail.”

“I get out of jail for not cooperating?” asked Thakkar, confused.

“You are then taken to a place that is much worse,” explained Sharma. “There are a few interrogation rooms at the Red Fort. Usually they are only used by the intelligence agencies when they wish to break terror suspects. The big advantage of using these rooms is that anything goes. I can do whatever I want to make you squeal.”

Sweat dripped down Thakkar’s face. His throat was parched.

“My men will strip you naked and string you up spreadeagled,” whispered Sharma into Thakkar’s ear. “Then we will go to work on you with our interrogation tools. You will wish that you were dead by the time we are finished with you.”

“Could I get some water please?” whined Thakkar.

“Sure,” replied Sharma. “After we’re done. So, are you ready to cooperate or not?”

Chapter 87

Arora hopped aboard the Blue Line train of the Delhi Metro at Indraprastha station and sat down. He waited for the next stop — Yamuna Bank. Apart from an elderly gentleman who sat reading a newspaper bearing the headline ‘WHEN WILL WE HAVE ANSWERS?’, he had the carriage to himself.

The doors opened at Yamuna Bank and a familiar face appeared. Ibrahim. A mere nod was exchanged between them before the train took off.

“I had told you to stop. Now Thakkar has been picked up by the cops!” said Arora, the urgency in his voice all too apparent.

Ibrahim looked at him and smiled. “It bothers you that, inshallah, I’m able to get the same stuff at a fraction of the price, right? You’re worried that your tidy little business model is getting disrupted by me. You were happy to use me as a conduit to Thakkar in the early days, only to cut me off when it suited you. You were happy to use me to dispose of the bodies...” Ibrahim grinned, revealing brown, crooked teeth. “Tell me, what did happen at Greater Kailash?”

With a curse, Arora looked left and right. “You know full well. You — that’s you, my friend — were supposed to destroy the... evidence in a safe, controlled space provided to you by myself, MGT, and Thakkar. We gave you the venue. All you had to do was concentrate on melting down the bodies.”

Ibrahim spread his hands. “Well then, I fulfilled my part of the deal because the bodies were indeed melted.”

“The operation was discovered.”

“A technicality. Answer me this: were any of the victims named? Were any of the bodies identified as patients of Dr. Pankaj Arora — the famous Dr. Pankaj Arora? TV’s Dr. Pankaj Arora? Did the discovery of those bodies result in policemen knocking on your door in the middle of the night? No, none of that happened, did it?”

Arora’s crimson face conceded the point.

“Let me tell you something else,” continued Ibrahim, warming to his theme. “That particular — what was the word you used? — venue was provided for a reason, was it not? So that if the operation was discovered then suspicion would fall on Mr. Chopra.”

“Well, that didn’t happen, did it?”

“Presumably because you failed to take into account the strength of Chopra’s relationship with the police chief, Sharma. Again, that’s not something for which I can be held responsible. Now, listen to me, my friend: I’m the man who procured valuable stuff for you. I’m the man who took those bodies to Greater Kailash for you. And yes, you got me started, but now you’re simply getting in the way. Your ego is getting the better of you.”

“I strongly suggest that we should let this activity be confined to what I do in my hospital,” said Arora menacingly. “If we have more deaths we’ll all be in trouble.”

Ibrahim scoffed so loudly that the old gentleman reading the newspaper looked across at them. “Take a look at what’s going on around you. Hasn’t it occurred to you that we’re already in trouble?” he laughed.

Chapter 88

Santosh opened the door of his hospital room and peered out. There wasn’t a soul in sight. The corridor lights had been dimmed to night mode. Santosh knew that he was on the tenth floor. Room 1016. It was the same floor on which the chief administrator’s office was located.

He should have been discharged by 5 p.m. but he had complained of severe stomach cramps. The doctor on duty had been forced to extend his stay by a day. Santosh had then requested Nisha bring him a flashlight. His cell phone — which had an inbuilt flashlight option — had been shattered during his altercation with Ibrahim.

He walked barefooted toward the nurses’ station that was next to the elevator bank. The corridor ended there and a right turn from that point would take him toward the administrative wing. He wondered how many nurses would be on duty at that time.

He reached the end of the corridor and stopped. He needed to know whether any of the night-duty nurses were looking out of the glass panel that separated the nurses’ station from the corridor. He peeped from the corner of the panel. Two of them were inside, both with their backs to him. They seemed to be helping themselves to coffee from a machine.

Santosh quickly crossed the station and took a right turn toward the administrative wing. Another corridor. This one was entirely dark. Administrative staff had left for the day and no lighting was required. Santosh squinted his eyes to adjust to the darkness and felt his way along the corridor. He tried to recall how far along the chief administrator’s office had been. As far as he could remember, it was about halfway down the corridor.

He tried one of the doors but it was locked. The second door opened with a gentle push but it opened into a storage closet. He was in luck with the third. He entered the room and shut the door behind him. Once he was sure there were no footsteps in the corridor, he felt for the light switch and turned it on.

The harsh overhead lighting hurt his eyes. He quickly turned it off. The office had a window that overlooked the hospital’s entrance porch and it was possible that the security guards could become suspicious seeing a light in a supposedly closed area of the hospital. He switched on the flashlight instead and headed to MGT’s office, which connected to the outer office where his secretary sat.

The inner office door was locked. Santosh walked back to the secretary’s desk, opened a drawer, and took out two ordinary paper clips. Putting down the flashlight on the desk, he straightened out both the clips. He converted one into a pressure pin by bending it at ninety degrees. The other clip he converted into a rake by creating a zigzag pattern using the secretary’s scissors.

Santosh bent down and inserted the rake into the key slot and pulled down in an effort to push some of the lock levers down. He then inserted the pressure pin and rotated it left then right. Two minutes later the door was open.

He picked up the flashlight and walked into the office, shutting the door behind him. The desk was untidy and several files and documents lay strewn across it. Santosh began looking through the papers on the desk. Most of it was mundane stuff. Uniform requisitions, staff attendance and overtime reports, equipment repair orders, and canteen instructions.

Santosh tried the desk drawer. It was locked. He used his paper clips to open the simple lock and shone the flashlight inside. A single register with several slips of paper clipped together sat inside. Santosh took it out and began looking through it.

What he found were names of patients and the date and time on which they had checked in. The register then outlined their ailments and the date of surgery. So far so good. After that came the details of organs that had been removed and whether the patient had survived or not.

There were plenty who hadn’t. Eleven? Santosh counted. More than that. He had a feeling that if it were possible to match the names here with the bodies found at Greater Kailash then they would indeed correspond.

What’s more, in all cases there was only one consulting doctor. Dr. Pankaj Arora. The register was being used by MGT to maintain a macabre record of surreptitious organ removals that were communicated to him through those ubiquitous slips.

It was evident that he was fully supporting the activities of Arora. But why? He was from a very affluent family and certainly didn’t need the money. Wilson’s disease! MGT had lost his only son due to nonavailability of a liver. It would have been easy for Arora to emotionally blackmail MGT into allowing the racket to go on, almost convincing him that his son could have been saved if such a service had been available back then.

Santosh examined the back of the drawer. There was a carton of cigarettes. It was in silver finish with an impressive crest at the front. It read “Treasurer.” That was the cigarette brand Nisha had found at the Greater Kailash house, the one by Chancellor Tobacco. Santosh remembered that MGT had lived in England as a young man. No doubt that was when he had acquired the taste for those expensive cigarettes.

There was the sudden sound of a door opening. Someone was accessing the outer office. Santosh froze. He cursed himself for having switched on the lights initially.

He quickly put the register back inside the drawer, closed it, switched off his flashlight, and crept under the desk, fervently praying it wasn’t MGT himself.

He heard the door handle to the inner office turn and the door open. Footsteps headed toward the desk and a beam of light from a flashlight danced around the room. Santosh attempted to bundle himself tighter while restricting his breathing.

The beam danced around some more. The man in the inner office called out to a colleague in the outer office, “It’s empty. I told you that you were imagining it. Let’s go back to that card game I was winning.” Santosh heard the door close.

He sat crumpled like a paper ball under the desk until he was satisfied there was no one there but him. Then he gingerly began to make his way into the dark outer office, the door of which had been closed by the guards on their way out.

He didn’t see who was waiting for him. Didn’t see the blow coming. Just pain as he hit the deck.

Chapter 89

Santosh fell to the floor, dazed by the severity of the blow. He tasted blood in his mouth. He quickly spat it out and forced himself to get up and face his attacker.

“Bastard,” said the hoarse voice. It was unmistakable. MGT!

He charged at Santosh, but this time Santosh was prepared. He deftly sidestepped the charge and kicked MGT between his legs.

MGT grunted and doubled over. “Motherfucker,” he gasped. “I should have had you killed the day you walked into my office.”

“That would be easy enough for you given the machinery you seem to have established for taking lives,” said Santosh warily, looking out for any moves by MGT.

“I saved lives,” said MGT indignantly. “Hundreds of them. But it’s something that I cannot expect people like you to understand.”

“Level with me,” reasoned Santosh. “Expose the network and we’ll call it quits... quits. I know about your son. I understand why you’re doing this.”

The mention of his son only drove MGT to greater fury. He leaped up and grabbed Santosh by the ears, attempting to headbutt him. Santosh preempted it by headbutting MGT first. MGT staggered back, dazed by the shock. He picked up the slim vase on his secretary’s table, knocked it against the desk, and held the jagged neck like a weapon.

“Don’t you dare ever mention my son!” he said, taking a few steps toward Santosh. “No one was there to help him and I had to watch him die. Now you want to prevent others from being saved.” MGT lunged at Santosh with the broken vase.

Santosh parried the lunge and swung the flashlight that was in his left hand. It caught MGT’s right hand and the vase fell to the floor with a crash. “Fuck!” yelled MGT, his voice cracking.

“Don’t fight me, MGT,” urged Santosh as he assumed a defensive posture once again. “Help me unravel the network instead.”

“Fuck off,” said MGT. “You didn’t give a damn about me in college because I hung out with the druggies and drunks. So high and mighty, you were! And now you want me to help you?” His hands were desperately searching for something on his secretary’s table.

“There is only one way... one way... that this will end,” said Santosh softly, holding the flashlight like a weapon.

“Yes, there is,” said MGT as he found what he was looking for. A letter opener.

MGT charged at Santosh, thrusting the metal letter opener.

Santosh swung the flashlight in his hand to deflect the blow. The letter opener stabbed into his forearm. His flashlight fell to the ground.

He then grabbed the hand in which MGT was holding the letter opener and simultaneously kicked MGT on the left side of his torso. It caused MGT to turn ever so slightly, just enough for Santosh to twist his arm behind his back. Santosh applied pressure until MGT yelled in agony and the letter opener clattered noisily to the floor.

“I give up,” said MGT in pain, and Santosh let go of his arm. It wasn’t a good idea. MGT swung around and planted an uppercut on his chin.

Santosh crumpled to the ground as MGT ran out the door.

Chapter 90

Sharma adjusted his belt, feeling exceedingly pleased with himself. His interrogation of Thakkar had gone very well indeed; the head of ResQ had given up the goods without Sharma needing to resort to some of the more tried and tested methods to be found in the Red Fort.

He sucked his teeth distastefully. No doubt Thakkar imagined he was somehow immune from prosecution. Perhaps he thought Jaswal would put in a call and get him off the hook. It didn’t really matter now. Sharma had the names he needed. All the information he required was his.

Installed in his office, he maneuvered himself behind his desk and dropped to his chair with a corpulent grunt. This was why he was the Police Commissioner, he reflected. Crisis management. That was what it was all about. Firefighting. Turning an awkward situation to your advantage.

He reached for the phone and dialed.

“Hello, Guha?” he said.

“Commissioner. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I have something for you. Some more information regarding our little band of medical buccaneers. But first, how are the preparations for your story going?”

Guha sighed. “Not especially well, truth be told.”

“Oh, really? What’s the holdup?”

“A group calling themselves the Coalition for Freedom of Speech have applied for an injunction. Somehow they got wind of our story and want to stop it.”

Sharma gave a low, throaty chuckle. “Such are the daily hurdles faced by a pioneering broadcaster such as yourself, Guha.”

“It’s serious. If the judge agrees with this coalition then my producer won’t allow me to show the story.”

“And the hearing is imminent, is it?”

“Very.”

“Well, I suppose this means you won’t want to hear what else I have to tell you then,” said Sharma airily.

“Will it strengthen my case with the judge?”

“That’s for you to decide.”

And Sharma gave Guha the final details, straight from Thakkar’s guts and poured into the journalist’s ear.

When he had finished he relaxed into his seat, allowing himself a smile. “And that’s it,” he concluded. “Let me know how you get on with the judge and give me advance warning when you plan to broadcast. I intend to time my sensational arrests accordingly. I trust DETV will be there to record the historic events?”

“First things first, Commissioner.”

Chapter 91

Shortly after his conversation with Guha, Sharma’s phone rang again. This time it was Chopra, asking if he could pay him a visit, hinting that cigars and whisky would be on offer. And after a hard afternoon spent interrogating Thakkar and schmoozing Guha, that sounded a very attractive offer indeed.

Sharma informed Nanda he’d been summoned and took a car to the Lieutenant Governor’s opulent residence. There he was greeted by a housekeeper and led to the familiar study, where Chopra stood, indicating for him to settle into the same leather armchair in which he had spent so many happy hours.

He sat down. But Chopra remained standing, the welcome not as warm as usual, the atmosphere markedly less convivial.

“I have good news,” said Sharma, feeling uneasy but trying to behave as though nothing was amiss. “I have put into place a plan that will soon make life decidedly uncomfortable for our friend Jaswal.”

Chopra’s hands went to his hips. Big man though he was, Sharma was sitting and he felt small as the Lieutenant Governor towered over him. His eyes were fierce. His lips pursed. And when he spoke he roared: “I don’t give a fuck about Jaswal!”

“But—” spluttered Sharma.

“No, you moron!” boomed Chopra. “This has gone beyond trying to score political points! You think I wanted to become Lieutenant Governor in order to watch Delhi tearing itself apart with gossip, suspicion, and innuendo? What point is there in wresting power from Jaswal if it is to rule over the smoking rubble of a riot-torn city? This has gone too far, Sharma.” He pointed an accusing finger. “You have let this go too far. We have bodies piling up. Some kind of sick freak skinning his victims, for God’s sake! We’ve practically got marchers on the streets. The newspapers are demanding answers; DETV is on the phone night and day asking all kinds of questions to which I don’t have the answers: who is behind the killings? Why are we not releasing details? Is our ruling body riddled with corruption and pedophiles? You’ve been fiddling while Rome burns, Sharma. And now I want you to put away the fiddle. And get something done. I want you to put a stop to this! Is that clear?”

“Yes,” gulped Sharma. “Yes, sir, that’s clear.”

Chapter 92

Santosh had not waited to be discharged from the hospital. He was well recovered, although the encounter with MGT had left him slightly unnerved. He hadn’t wanted to have a nurse bandage the gash on his forearm so he’d helped himself to antiseptic and bandages from the supply closet he had passed. He’d then gone back to his room, changed out of the hospital clothes, and walked out through the service entrance a little after midnight. He had spent the night on Neel’s couch.

In the morning, Jack and Nisha had come over and the four of them had dropped in for breakfast at a cafe in Khan Market.

Santosh was exceptionally fidgety without his walking stick.

“You don’t need it anymore,” Jack told him.

But Santosh was convinced he did. “It is my only constant companion,” he said. “It saved my life at the Tower of Silence in Mumbai. Moreover, it helps me think.”

“Well, at least you have a new phone now,” said Nisha. She had picked up a replacement unit after getting the old SIM deactivated and a new SIM initialized.

“Thanks,” mumbled Santosh.

“The little run-in you had with MGT,” began Jack. “Could he be mentally disturbed? Killing people while saving others?”

“Unlikely,” said Santosh. “I could have caught him had I not trusted him in that final instant. I guess there was a part of me that felt guilty for his situation... I felt guilty.”

“Why?” asked Jack.

“We treated him rather shabbily in college,” admitted Santosh. “He was an outlier. Almost an outcast. A—”

“I have tracked down the registration number of his car,” interjected Neel. “Passed it on to Ash. He’ll get the cops to find him.”

“I’m convinced they’re all in it together,” said Santosh.

“Who?” asked Jack.

“Patel and Thakkar. One man’s company gets lucrative contracts to modernize hospitals. The other one drives American patients to the newly modernized hospitals and makes a killing on the insurance,” said Santosh. “I call it having one’s cake and eating it too.”

“But Kumar was supposedly the partner of Patel,” said Nisha. “In fact, my friend at the Indian Times says that Patel had promised Kumar extra equity for his help in managing the regulatory environment and that this extra stock was to come out of Patel’s own shareholding.”

“That makes him the third partner of this unholy alliance,” said Santosh. “Both these businessmen would have needed Delhi’s Health Ministry on their side. Solution? Make the minister your partner... your partner.”

“But these men would have needed a godfather, someone who had vast amounts of capital to deploy,” said Jack. “I called up Denny — the CEO of the National Association of Insurance Commissioners — and asked him to find out about the key investors in ResQ. It turns out that the major equity of ResQ is held by the same entity that is the major equity owner of Surgiquip. It’s a company in the Bahamas.”

“They’re affiliated?” said Santosh disbelievingly.

“Santosh,” said Jack, “they’re practically the same company.”

Chapter 93

Iqbal Ibrahim added milk and sugar into his tea and stirred it. He stared at the man who sat across from him. He had introduced himself as Dr. Khan. Ibrahim was not sure about what was being offered but knew it could mean freedom from Arora.

“We are well aware that you are the engine that drives ResQ’s profitability,” said Khan. “We have had you under surveillance for weeks. We know how you operate. We believe that your abilities and resourcefulness are not being appreciated at the moment.”

He was right. Ibrahim busted his ass procuring the right material only to be reprimanded by Arora repeatedly.

“What are you suggesting?” asked Ibrahim.

“Our business model is different to that of ResQ,” said Khan, avoiding staring at Ibrahim’s hooked nose. “In fact we are not even competing with them. But we believe that our business will become far bigger than theirs in a few years.”

“Please explain.”

“Unlike ResQ, which sells insurance policies to American clients and charges them low premiums to have their medical issues attended in India,” said Khan, “our company operates differently. For starters, we’re not an insurance company. We’re transplant specialists.”

“Transplant specialists for American clients?” asked Ibrahim.

“No. Our key market is the Middle East. Our patients belong to countries such as Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Jordan, and the United Arab Emirates. Our medical infrastructure is entirely centralized at a spanking-new facility that we have established in Gurgaon. Patients from all over the Arab world come here for their procedures.”

“Why?”

“Most of these customers have no option but to travel abroad,” said Khan. “For example, transplants in the United Arab Emirates were legalized in 1993 but the law failed to include a medical definition of death, thus making it impossible to use organs from dead patients. The result was that no transplant operations could actually take place. Organ transplant infrastructure is virtually nonexistent in those markets.”

“Why should I consider it?” said Ibrahim, rearranging the skullcap on his head ever so slightly. “I’m making good money where I am. Inshallah, the money may also increase.”

“These are rich Arabs and hence we are dealing with a much more lucrative segment of customers — those who will pay high prices for these procedures. This also means that we can pay you double what ResQ pays.”

Ibrahim sipped his tea. In his mind, he was totting up the numbers and figuring out what double the rates would mean for him. And what it would mean to be finally free of that Nazi Arora.

“The ResQ network is a strong one,” he said. “They may come after me once they know I am working against them.”

“Not if you destroy them first,” said Khan.

Chapter 94

Judges at the Delhi High Court usually heard matters between ten in the morning and four in the afternoon. Weekends were off. But the high-powered appellants in this particular case had forced the bench to conduct a special sitting outside of normal working hours, that too on a weekend.

The appellants were a group calling themselves the Coalition for Freedom of Speech. They were worried that information had been received by DETV. DETV had already started airing commercials on the channel indicating that a major disclosure was on the way.

“What do you want?” asked the irritated judge. He had been forced to forego his Saturday bridge game in order to hear this matter, hence the annoyance.

“This may be privileged information,” argued the counsel representing the Coalition for Freedom of Speech. “We believe some of the information is fabricated and could grievously damage the reputations of parties involved. For all of the above reasons, we request an injunction preventing the news channel DETV from broadcasting any story based on this information.”

The judge looked at the counsel representing the appellants. “You call yourselves the Coalition for Freedom of Speech and here you are making an application to muzzle free speech?” he asked sarcastically.

“Your honor, freedom of speech comes with responsibility,” said their advocate. “If you give us an early hearing, we will convince you that it is not in the public interest to broadcast the story.”

The judge turned his attention to the lawyer representing DETV. “Any reasons why I should not grant an injunction?” he asked.

“Your honor,” began the counsel for DETV. “This application deserves to be treated with contempt. It is a barefaced attempt by vested interests to prevent the truth from emerging. If you do pass an order restraining DETV, you will be playing with freedom of expression and the liberty of the press.”

The graying judge looked at his wristwatch. If he passed interim orders, he could still make it to his bridge game, albeit a little late. Delay was the best way to play this.

“I need time to consider the facts of this case,” he said. “I am temporarily restraining DETV from airing the contents until Monday, at which time I shall hear detailed arguments to decide the case in finality.”

It also helped that the judge was a friend of the Chief Minister, Mohan Jaswal.

Chapter 95

Guha sat at his desk surrounded by his team, the atmosphere despondent. They were still attempting to come to grips with the temporary restraining order.

“How could the judge pass such a stupid order?” asked Guha’s research assistant, chewing the end of her pencil vigorously.

“He was possibly intimidated by the powerful people who had applied for the restraining order,” said Guha, looking haggard. His customary blue jacket and red tie looked even more worn out than usual.

“Who?” asked Guha’s producer.

“Patel’s company Surgiquip,” said Guha. “Thakkar’s company ResQ... Those are obviously affected parties. I believe,” he continued, taking off his wire-framed glasses momentarily, “that it’s also possible Jaswal may have played a role by influencing the judge. After all, he is a close friend of Thakkar, and a negative disclosure about Thakkar would have serious political ramifications for Jaswal.

“In business and politics there are no permanent friends or enemies. There are only permanent interests. It is a common interest that would bring them on the same side.

“Maybe what they want is time. But time for what? What can they do to make our story weaker?”

Guha paused in thought. “I wonder...” he murmured.

“They could try smearing you,” replied the research assistant. “A hatchet job to make you sound less credible.”

“Or someone could actually use the hatchet,” said the producer, instantly regretting his words.

“Kill me?” asked Guha.

“Several people have already died,” said his producer. “You need to be careful.”

The producer avoided mentioning the fact that many media companies — including DETV — received their funds from questionable foreign sources.

“Are you asking me to avoid airing the story?” asked Guha, the anger evident in his voice.

“I’m not suggesting that,” said the producer smoothly. “I’m simply advising that you should slow down. It’s never a good idea to get emotional about news stories.”

Guha nodded. “I’ll take your advice,” he said as he wound up the meeting.

Guha’s research assistant felt a tad sorry for him. Guha was always among the last to leave the studio. Perhaps if he had a wife or family, he wouldn’t devote his entire attention to pursuing the truth relentlessly. Guha hadn’t gotten over his wife. Her photograph steadfastly remained on his shelf.

When everyone else had left, Guha quietly spoke to his research assistant. “I have decided I shall not give anyone the luxury of time,” he said.

“What do you mean? We’re legally prohibited from going to air,” she said.

“I plan to defy the court order,” said Guha, the determination in his eyes all too evident.

“It would be contempt of court. DETV could get into trouble.”

“What’s the worst that can happen?” said Guha. “I get arrested? Fine. Public opinion will force the court to release me within the day.” He got up from his desk excitedly. He was pumped up once again.

“But why the sudden urgency?” asked his assistant.

“Because DETV is trying to bury the story,” said Guha, putting a fresh lozenge into his mouth. “The longer I wait, the higher the chances that the story will never be aired.”

“How do we manage our producer?”

“He won’t know what hit him,” said Guha as he packed up. “Make preparations for a completely different subject so that everyone is caught off guard.”

Chapter 96

It was becoming a little too easy these days. Or maybe the Deliverer was simply a genius. It was probably the latter. The Deliverer knew everything.

Over the past week he had killed so many people. With each kill, he had felt a sense of elation. And why not? He had done the world a favor in each instance! The world owed him a debt of gratitude and a medal of honor for making the world a better place.

After completing his twelfth grade at the cantonment school, he had joined the army at the age of seventeen as a soldier. He had loved every minute of his experience, surrounded by people who were bound by the call of duty. A couple of years later the war had happened and he had ended up with a bullet to his lung.

Luckily the doctor at the hospital had succeeded in patching him up, even though the wound had left him plagued with chest infections that refused to go away. It also left him with a persistent cough.

The army had no longer been an option for the Deliverer. It was almost like starting his life all over again. The newspaper stint had been just what the doctor ordered.

The Deliverer had been lucky to have survived the bullet to his lung but it had disqualified him from active duty in the armed forces. He had realized that he would soon be unemployed.

One day, while the Deliverer had still been recuperating in hospital, someone had visited the patient occupying the bed next to his. The visitor had struck up a conversation with the Deliverer and he had been forced to put down his book. The visitor had been an impeccably groomed man. It had turned out that he was the editor of a major newspaper. He had graciously offered the Deliverer an opportunity to come work for him — to report from the front lines for the newspaper. The Deliverer had gratefully accepted the offer and had spent several years providing the newspaper with scoops that were unprecedented.

While on the reporting beat, the Deliverer had begun to realize that the country was a shambles. Crimes went unpunished because of notorious delays in the justice system. Innocents lay locked up for years even though there was no real evidence against them. The law and order administration was inefficient and some police officers were busy lining their own pockets. The apathy and inefficiency had made the Deliverer’s blood boil. Men like him were giving up their lives on the nation’s borders while others sucked the country dry! It had riled him to see that the mainstream press was turning a blind eye to many such injustices.

He’d decided the only way to change the system was to occupy a position of power. He’d decided that he would need to contest elections soon.

Chapter 97

In a meeting room of Delhi’s Oberoi Hotel assembled a group of people who could never have expected to assemble in amicable circumstances.

On one side of the table sat the Police Commissioner, Sharma, who wore a uniform that strained at its buttons, as well as a distinctly sour expression, and beside him his assistant Nanda, who wore no expression at all, as though he were simply an interested bystander, an impartial observer.

Across from them sat Jack Morgan, relaxed, stubbled, his polo shirt open at the neck and a dazzling grin never far from the surface; Santosh, whose own stubble gave him a weary, troubled look; beside him Neel; and on the end Nisha, who glared with unreserved distaste at Sharma.

The cop cleared his throat to address the Private team. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me. The reason I wanted to—”

“Wait a minute,” cut in Jack. “Wait just a goddamn minute. I told you we would agree to meet on one condition. Let’s see that condition met first, shall we?”

Sharma picked up a hotel pen then placed it down again. His eyes dropped to the tabletop and his color rose as he cleared his throat and mumbled something.

“A little louder, please,” said Jack. “Aim for audible and we’ll take it from there.”

“Okay,” said Sharma, throwing back his shoulders, “let’s get this over with, shall we? I would like to say sorry to you, Mrs. Gandhe,” he nodded toward her, “for your treatment at the station the other day. It was inexcusable. I of course accept that you have nothing to do with the spate of killings, and I should never have insinuated as much. Please accept my apologies.”

“Thank you,” said Nisha tightly.

Sharma’s eyes rose to meet hers. “How is she?” he asked, with a tenderness that took her by surprise. “How is your little girl?”

“Oh, she’s... Well, she’s bearing up. She still has night terrors. She still talks about the killer as the good man. She hopes that he’s read her essay.”

Sharma nodded, tucking his chin into his chest. “And what do you think? Do you still think he’s a good man?”

Nisha’s hackles rose. “Oh? We’re starting that again?”

“I’m interested to know what you think, that’s all,” responded Sharma.

“Okay then,” began Nisha. “Our theory here at Private is that—”

Now it was Santosh’s turn to clear his throat, sitting upright in his chair. “Wait a minute, if you would. Perhaps we might first learn what is the purpose of this meeting? Up until now, Commissioner, you’ve made it very clear that you have no intention of cooperating with us. Why the sudden change of heart?”

Sharma shifted. “Not long ago somebody said to me that the fervor we’re seeing on the streets is the kind in which revolutions are forged. I didn’t agree with him then, but I’m beginning to agree with him now. Things have gone too far, they’ve gotten out of hand. We need to put a stop to it and I’m proposing that in order to do that we pool our resources. We are, after all, investigating the same thing.”

“The same two things,” Nisha reminded him. “We have a serial killer on the street and an organ-harvesting network.”

“If you’re suggesting that my own investigations into either of those things have been half-hearted then you’re wrong,” said Sharma, with a touch of wounded pride. “In fact, I’ve established the identities of all the major players in the organ-harvesting network. I believe I know the identity of the killer.”

Eyebrows were raised on the other side of the table.

“In return for you sharing what information you have with me, I will give you that information,” he continued. “And in return for giving my team access to what I’m told is your state-of-the-art investigative technology,” he waved a hand at Jack, “I’m prepared to patch you into a surveillance feed I’m setting up at the homes of Thakkar and Dr. Arora.”

“We accept,” said Jack happily. “That seems like an excellent pooling of resources. You’re right: too many people have died. We need to prevent any more casualties.”

“Wait.” Sharma held up a hand. “As part of the treaty, I would like your assurance that you won’t use any of your investigative findings against the Lieutenant Governor.”

“Oh yes?” said Jack. “And what about you? Do you have anything damaging on the Chief Minister?”

For the first time since the beginning of the meeting, Sharma smiled. “Oh yes. Something very damaging to the Chief Minister. It appears that Jaswal and Thakkar are old buddies from NYU. No doubt you’ve been sitting on that information too?”

Jack ignored the question. “Do you have any evidence that Jaswal is implicated in the transplant network?”

Sharma let them dangle for a moment, then his smile broadened. “No. As far as I know, he’s clean. But then as far as I know, Chopra is clean too. They run Delhi, for God’s sake. Why would they get their hands dirty with something as tawdry as this?”

“The answer, Mr. Sharma, is money,” said Santosh. “The answer is always money. But I grant you, all evidence points to both men being innocent.” He paused. “At least in this particular matter.”

“That’s what you’re here for, is it? To make sure that nothing potentially damaging emerges?” said Nisha, her voice dripping with contempt.

“It was Chopra who insisted we put a stop to this, young lady,” snapped Sharma. “It’s to him we should be thankful.”

Nisha scoffed. “Thankful? What’s clear is that the state government has allowed things to reach boiling point in an attempt to score political points. And don’t call me young lady.”

“And what have you been doing at Private, then?” retorted Sharma. “Twiddling your thumbs?”

“The political situation made it difficult for us to come to the police with our findings,” said Santosh calmly. Did he imagine it, or did he feel Nisha’s eyes burning accusingly into him?

“Very well, very well,” said Sharma, hands spread. “Then let this be the dawn of a new era between us.”

“Good,” said Jack. He looked left and right at his colleagues, drawing a line under the dispute. “You said earlier you know who the killer is. How about starting our new dawn by sharing that particular piece of information with us?”

“It’s a man named Ibrahim,” said Sharma. “He’s been working with Dr. Arora at the Memorial Hospital, but he’s gone rogue. He’s been negotiating with someone else to shift his business to them instead of Thakkar’s mob, ResQ. Most likely he’s trying to destroy the entire ResQ network — Kumar, Patel, Thakkar. With all the key players gone, he’d have a free hand to expand with a rival corporation.”

Nisha was shaking her head. “What about Roy’s murder?” she said.

Sharma shrugged. “Roy was Health Secretary. We’ll have to ask Ibrahim why he deserved to die when we catch him.”

Still shaking her head, Nisha looked across at her colleagues. “No, no, this is wrong.”

“Well, let me hear your better ideas, then,” frowned Sharma.

“Wait. If you think it’s Ibrahim, then why come to us?” said Santosh. “Why not just bring him in?”

“Because I want to be sure. Because I’m betting you can help find him. Because your associate Mrs. Gandhe here has seen the killer, remember?”

“And because you want to tie up any political loose ends,” said Nisha.

Sharma rolled his eyes. “To our mutual benefit.”

Jack signaled cool it and then turned to Sharma. “You’ve got surveillance on Thakkar and Dr. Arora?”

“Logic tells us they’ll be the next victims,” said Sharma. “In the meantime, if we could locate Ibrahim, that would be helpful as well. Unless you really have been sitting around scratching your asses, I’m guessing you’ve got to Ibrahim and I’m guessing you have something on him.”

Santosh nodded. “We have cell phone numbers.”

“Then we can trace him,” said Neel, the first words he’d spoken since the meeting began. He looked at Santosh. “We can trace him more quickly than the police. We have the StingRay.”

Chapter 98

“Sure, let’s trace Ibrahim’s numbers,” said Santosh. “It’s the easiest and most effective way to reach him. Neel, you think we can do it?”

Neel nodded. “We’ll head to his usual area in the StingRay.”

An hour later, Neel, Nisha, Jack, and Santosh were in the StingRay van. Nisha took the wheel because Neel needed to operate the equipment at the back of the van. Jack got into the passenger seat next to Nisha, his Colt .45 tucked away under his jacket.

Private had invested substantially in StingRay technology because all other wiretapping and tracking systems needed the cooperation of telephone companies. The telecom operators would usually only respond to law enforcement requests or court orders. This left agencies like Private out in the cold.

Neel had outfitted a van with international mobile subscriber identity (IMSI) catchers — also called StingRays. A StingRay was essentially a portable “fake” cellular base station that could be driven to the area of interest. Once activated, the StingRay unit sent out a strong signal to cell phones within its range, thus causing such phones to attempt a handshake with the StingRay as though it were a real base station of the cellular company. Instead of latching on, the StingRay device would simply record the identity of each cellular phone that registered with it and then shut itself down.

The van made its way through the congested Delhi roads crossing Kalka Das Marg and Sri Aurobindo Marg. Nisha unashamedly blasted the horn to get auto rickshaws to move out of her way. She continued along Prithviraj Road, Tilak Marg, and Bahadur Shah Zafar Road to Urdu Bazar Road. She swerved the van toward an empty parking slot by the side of the road and asked, “Now what?”

“Now we activate the StingRay,” said Neel, opening up his laptop. The screen immediately presented a map of the locality and little dots began to light up. Neel punched in the two cell phone numbers that ostensibly belonged to Ibrahim and waited for the next fifteen minutes, allowing the StingRay unit to make friends with various cell phones in the locality.

“Got him,” said Neel, looking at the Delhi map on his computer screen. “He’s heading toward the hospital.”

“Arora,” said Santosh. “He’s going after Arora.”

They looked at each other, all four members of the Private team.

“Come on,” sighed Jack. “Let’s go save the heartless butcher.”

Chapter 99

The office lights were turned off except for the desk lamp. Seated in the visitors’ chair was Ibrahim with his hands tucked into the side pockets of his calfskin jacket, his head protected by his customary skullcap. Dr. Pankaj Arora sat on his usual executive chair, sipping hot water and honey. It was cold in Delhi and the hospital’s heating system seemed to be on the blink.

“It has become clear to me that you will never allow me to receive a fair market value for my efforts,” said Ibrahim. “I’m now evaluating other options that, inshallah, may be more lucrative.”

“Don’t forget who got you started,” said Arora brusquely, baring the gap between his teeth. “If I could get you started, I can also get a hundred others to do my bidding. No one is indispensable — including you.” The threat was unmistakable. Arora wiped his glasses.

Ibrahim felt his anger welling up. Sure, Arora had gotten him started and given him a fresh lease of life with the business. But did that mean lifelong servility? No! Enough was enough. It was time for Ibrahim to be his own man. The offer from the Middle East was an exciting one and Ibrahim was going to take it. But before that there was unfinished business. The ResQ network had to be debilitated.

Arora picked up on the determination in Ibrahim’s voice. He would need to try a different tack — one of gentle persuasion. He got up from his chair and walked around to sit on the edge of the desk, near Ibrahim. He gently placed his hand on Ibrahim’s shoulder. “You are like my son,” he said. “I’m the person who trained you and taught you everything there is to know. If you want to work for someone else, I shall not get in your way.”

Ibrahim’s hands stayed inside his calfskin jacket as though he were attempting to stay warm. Inside the right pocket was a syringe with the plunger extended all the way up. Inside the plastic tube was a full dose of etorphine. Ibrahim held the syringe gently, his thumb stationed on the plunger. He was careful not to put any pressure on it, though. He did not want any of the liquid getting wasted before the needle met its target.

Chapter 100

From outside came a noise, and when Ibrahim moved to the window and used a finger to shift the blind, what he saw was a van screech noisily into the forecourt below. From it tumbled several figures, one of whom he recognized: Santosh Wagh, the guy from the detective agency — supposed to be dead — as well as a woman and two other men.

And in the distance he heard the wail of sirens.

Shit, he thought. He’d told Arora they were in trouble, and now they really were. He glanced across at the doctor, thinking of the syringe in his pocket and wondering if he should finish the job, salvage something, but then decided that discretion was the better part of valor. It was time for his grand exit.

“What’s going on out there?” snapped Arora.

“Oh, nothing,” said Ibrahim airily. “Just an ambulance arriving. With any luck the occupant will have some fresh organs for us.”

“You’ve seen sense at last, have you? You’ll stick to doing things through the usual channels?” said Arora with audible relief.

“That’s right, old man,” said Ibrahim. “You win. But for now I have business to attend to. I’ll be in touch.”

And with that he left, trying to look as casual as possible, even as he hurried out of the darkened office and into the corridor beyond, heading for the elevator.

They’d be in the reception area by now, he thought, probably making their way to the elevator. There were four of them. If they had any sense they’d send one guy up the stairs, a couple in the elevator, one keeping an eye on the reception area.

In other words, they’d have the exits covered.

Shit.

He stepped away from the elevator, looking wildly left and right. Emergency exit. There. He trotted toward it, steeling himself for an alarm as he pressed the bar.

It stayed silent. It wasn’t alarmed. Yes. Now he found himself on a set of gray-painted back stairs. Not that he was an expert on evacuation protocol, but he’d bet that going down would lead him out into the parking lot.

Bye bye, suckers, he thought, closed the emergency exit door softly behind him, and descended.

Sure enough, at the bottom was a second door. This time an alarm did sound, but he didn’t care, the wailing accompanying him as he trotted away from the open door and toward his van. There were times he’d wondered about the wisdom of driving such a conspicuous vehicle, but the advantage was you could quickly find it in a parking lot. He fumbled for the keys and, glancing back at the hospital, he saw security men carrying walkie-talkies arrive at the open emergency exit. Abruptly the alarm stopped.

“Ibrahim,” came a voice, and he swung around to see a figure standing between the vehicles, blocking his way to the driver’s door. Moonlight scuttled down the long curved blade of a scalpel.

Ibrahim stood and gaped. It took a second, but he recognized the newcomer. “It’s you,” he said, forehead furrowing beneath his skullcap. “What do you want with me?”

“I’ve come to collect your dues,” said the man.

He stepped forward, his knife hand swept upward, and Ibrahim looked down to where his clothes and the stomach beneath had parted. His hands reached to collect his intestines as they spilled from his stomach cavity, and for a split second he thought he might simply push them back inside and everything would be all right. But instead they slithered from his grasp and slapped to the asphalt of the parking lot, and in the next instant Ibrahim followed them, keeling forward to land on top of his own heaped insides.

Chapter 101

Jack and Santosh stepped out of the elevator on the fifth floor of the hospital to be confronted by Dr. Arora, who looked taken aback.

“Is there something I can do for you two gentlemen?” asked the doctor.

Jack and Santosh both looked up and down the deserted corridor, Jack’s hand inching toward the Colt slung beneath his leather jacket. “You all right?” he asked the doctor.

“Yes, I’m perfectly well, thank you. Now, I ask you again: what are you doing here?”

“Where’s Ibrahim?” said Santosh.

Arora stepped back, suddenly wary. “I’m quite sure I don’t know who you mean.”

“We’re working on a theory that Ibrahim is behind the recent spate of serial murders,” said Jack. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“No,” smiled Arora, as though talking to a small child. “But you can be assured that if I did I would convey my suspicions to the police rather than to... well, you two gentlemen. And if you’ve quite finished, I think I should like to go home for the evening. Perhaps you would care to share the elevator?”

Silently the three men descended to the ground floor, where Dr. Arora bid them farewell then left for his car.

The Private team watched him go, frustrated that Ibrahim had evaded them and hardly able to believe that Arora was simply walking away, the butcher strolling to his Jaguar.

Jack spoke for them all when he said, “You know what, guys? I think I’d have preferred it if he’d been murdered.”

A second later there came a commotion from outside. They ran toward the noise and there found the body of Ibrahim.

Chapter 102

Dr. Arora arrived home, closing the door behind him and locking it. Those people at the hospital, were they something to do with that agency Ibrahim had told him about? And while on the subject, what had gotten into Ibrahim? Why had he been acting so strangely?

On second thoughts, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now. Dr. Arora had made a decision. He was leaving Delhi. Let them wallow in their own filth. Let them sort it all out. He’d always said, half jokingly, that the advantage of being a single man with no kids was that you could always make a quick exit if you needed to.

Half joking. Always in the back of his mind was the fact that the same extracurricular activities that had paid for the large, well-appointed house in which he now stood, the Jaguar, five-star hotels, and high-class hookers, might also one day require him to disappear at a moment’s notice. He’d seen Heat. That De Niro quote about how you needed to be able to leave in thirty seconds if you felt the heat around the corner? Dr. Arora had taken that to heart.

But he was going to make things slightly easier for himself. He was going to leave in thirty minutes. He shrugged himself out of his jacket as he passed through the large reception hall of his home, opened the double doors that led into the dining room.

He stopped.

Laid out on the dining-room table were three large jars and a plastic funnel. Inside one of the jars was a human heart. The second was full of blood. The third one was more difficult to distinguish in the low lights of the room, but it looked like...

It was. Preserved in some kind of liquid was a large lump of skin that was pressed up against the glass, floating like a gelatinous marine specimen.

The killer. He was here. Arora turned and tried to run but a figure stepped out from behind the door, a glittering hypodermic syringe in his hand. The attacker’s arm swung in a blur. The next thing Arora saw was the floor as it rushed to meet him.

Chapter 103

Arora awoke from the sedative — etorphine, if he wasn’t very much mistaken — to find himself taped to one of his own dining chairs and seated in a privileged position at the head of the table.

And there they were, still laid out in front of him. The jars.

Oh God.

“Are you hungry?” came a voice from behind, and he twisted his head to see the intruder move from his rear to the edge of his peripheral vision. All he saw was a man in black.

“What are you going to do to me?” he said, and was pleased to find that he sounded strong and resolute. Who knew, perhaps he could talk his way out of this.

The man gave a soft chuckle. “What I’m going to do is serve you dinner.” A black-gloved hand indicated the three jars.

“Come on,” said Arora. “You don’t really believe you’re going to be able to get me to eat that.”

“I’ll have help,” said the attacker, and he placed something on the table next to the jars, a piece of metal apparatus that Dr. Arora recognized as a speculum.

“Look...” the doctor tried to say, but his mouth was dry. The words wouldn’t come. He gathered himself. “Look, why are you doing this? Whatever your reasons, let’s talk about them.”

“You don’t know why I’m doing it?”

His voice was familiar. He was making an effort to disguise it but, even so, Arora recognized it. Just a question of trying to place it. If he could work out the man’s identity then maybe he could establish some kind of bond between them.

“No, I don’t know why you’re doing it,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me?”

A gloved fist slammed down on the table, and even that gesture seemed familiar to Dr. Arora. “You should know!” he spat. “You tell me. You tell me now.”

Again the voice was so familiar. It was as though the intruder’s identity was there, on the tip of Arora’s tongue, dancing around in his memory but not quite staying still long enough for him to recall it.

“Okay, okay, keep your cool,” panted Arora. “It’s the transplants, isn’t it? Are you from Ibrahim? Do you work for people who want a cut? That can be arranged. Just say the word.”

“Venal to the last. You shouldn’t judge others by your own standards. No, Dr. Arora, this has nothing to do with wanting a cut and everything to do with... Well, I suppose it’s revenge.”

Arora changed tack. “Well, I can see that you’re well informed and you’ve been told that I’m heavily involved. But you do know that’s not strictly speaking true, don’t you? I’m very much on the sidelines. It’s true, I perform operations, but the life-saving operations, not those... other ones.”

“What other ones?”

“You know...”

“No. What other ones? The other ones that Rahul told me about before I scooped out his eyes, perhaps? The other ones who were found at the house in Greater Kailash?”

“Yes, those.”

“You had nothing to do with those?”

“No.”

The man in black paused, as though mulling things over, then, as if suddenly deciding, said, “Well, I’m afraid I don’t believe you. Now, shall we begin?”

“No!” pleaded Dr. Arora. That note of strength in his voice was absent now. He strained at the tape that bound him to the chair, whipping his head back and forth as the attacker inserted the speculum between his lips. With his mouth clamped he wanted to swallow but found he couldn’t and began gagging at once. He heard the ripping of tape and saw the intruder advance, the black balaclava closing in as tape was pulled across his forehead and his head was jerked back. Arora bucked and gurgled, pulling against his bindings, but to no avail, knowing that his ordeal had only just begun — knowing only that he wanted it over with as quickly as possible.

“This won’t be swift, you do know that, don’t you?” said the intruder, as though reading his mind.

And now the man in black lifted the jar containing the heart above Arora’s head so that the doctor could see it. The screw lid jangled as gloved hands unfastened it. Next he reached into the glass with one of Arora’s own forks, speared the organ, and removed it. Preserving fluid splattered Arora’s face as the heart was taken out of view, presumably to the table, and he heard the unmistakable sound of a knife and fork at work.

“Perhaps I should have cooked it first,” said the man in black. More fluid dripped to Arora’s face as the fork reappeared, this time with a smaller morsel on the prongs.

“Patel’s heart,” explained the attacker matter-of-factly. “A bit of it, anyway. Who knew he even had one?”

Arora could only make a dry sound, trying unsuccessfully to pull away as the fork disappeared into his mouth and he felt the meat touch his tongue, a taste that was at once gamy and metallic, before it slid down his throat. He spluttered. His mouth filled with vomit. His chest heaved and he coughed, expelling just enough vomit — and possibly even a bit of the heart — to allow himself to breathe, and then again he coughed, trying to clear his airways but dragging bits of meat and vomit into his windpipe.

Another jar was opened. “This is Roy’s skin,” stated the man in black, and continued to feed him, spooning chunks of skin into his mouth and using the fork to shove them into his throat. Trying to breathe through his nose, Arora snorted like a horse, but he could feel that airway blocking too.

“Now, let’s wash it down, shall we?” said the man in black, and in the next instant Arora felt the plastic of the funnel against his teeth, the nozzle nudging it way down his throat, setting off his gag reflex. The jar containing the blood was presented to him. “Kumar’s blood.” Arora watched as hands unscrewed the lid, tossed it aside, and then began to pour the contents of the jar into the funnel.

As he poured, the man in black spoke. “This is for Rita,” he was saying. “This is for my beloved wife.”

The funnel filled. Arora felt Kumar’s blood run thickly down his throat, spill out of his mouth and over his chin, knowing he would soon drown in it. And then, as the darkness beckoned, and Dr. Arora came to the end of his wicked life, the man in black reached to remove his balaclava.

Chapter 104

A temporary office had been set up in a conference room at the Oberoi. There a police tech guy in a headset sat watching the surveillance feed from vans parked outside Arora’s and Thakkar’s houses. Opposite sat Commissioner Sharma and Nanda. All three men jumped slightly as the door to the meeting room slammed open and in burst Jack, Santosh, Nisha, and Neel.

“Well?” said Sharma, standing. “Did you pick him up?”

“You were wrong,” said Nisha bitterly, “just as I said you were. The killer is not Ibrahim. Ibrahim was his latest victim.”

Sharma seemed about to take it up with her, but Santosh was already moving in to calm the situation. “It simply means that Private’s theory currently remains the most plausible,” he said, looking quickly between Sharma and Nisha, “and it seems as though the killer is reaching the closing stages of his campaign. If we stay here for the time being, we’re perfectly situated to—”

“Hey,” said Neel from the other side of the room. He’d taken a seat beside the tech guy. “What’s this?”

The investigators clustered around his monitor. There on the feed from Dr. Arora’s residence they could see a figure leaving the grounds then crossing the street.

“Who’s that?” asked Sharma.

The figure was careful to keep his back to the camera as he stepped into a BMW parked at the curb. Rear lights flared. A moment or so later the car drew away.

The tech guy looked nervous as all faces swung toward him. “We didn’t see anyone going in,” he said defensively, hands upraised.

“Get Red Team in there, now,” demanded Sharma, and the tech guy relayed the order into his headset. Seconds later they watched as armed officers from the surveillance van appeared on screen and ran to the gates of the house, nimbly climbing the low wall and disappearing into the grounds.

Sharma was pacing, hand to his forehead. “Jesus! Jesus! Somebody went in there right under our very noses. Run that plate, Nanda. Tell me you got the plate, right?”

“I got the plate, boss,” said Nanda. “Running it now.”

“He must have got in through the back,” said the tech guy. Into his headset he said, “Red Team, get a couple of guys around the back, see if there’s access.”

“You didn’t check access?” exploded Sharma.

The tech guy quailed. “I don’t know, sir, I don’t know. That would be down to the team commander on the ground.”

“For fuck’s sake!” Sharma swept a coffee cup from the conference room table that dinged off the wall and left a brown splat on the wallpaper.

Jack looked disdainfully from the stain to Sharma. “That’s on your bill,” he said, finger pointed. “Now, will you calm the fuck down and act like a professional.”

All stood waiting now, watching the screen intently, the camera trained on Dr. Arora’s gate.

Santosh glanced at Nisha, who stood with her hands on the small of her back, also watching. “Was that him?” he asked.

“I think so,” she nodded. “Same build. Same height.”

The call came back. The tech guy directed it onto overhead speaker. “Go ahead, squad leader.”

“Sir, Arora’s dead. No sign of the killer, just the body all tied up and jars full of... stuff.”

“Stuff?” barked Sharma.

“Sir,” they heard, “it looks as though the killer fed him bits of skin and heart, then poured blood into him until he drowned.”

Chapter 105

“We know the killer found another way in,” said Santosh suddenly. “He’s determined. Sharma, deploy more men at the house of Thakkar — send men around the back. My guess is he’ll be on his way there now.”

“The idea was to mount covert surveillance,” hissed Sharma, rounding on Santosh. “We want to catch him, not send him scurrying for cover.”

“He knew we were there,” reasoned Santosh. “He was looking out for a surveillance van. He evaded it easily.”

“If he knew we were there, then why did he allow himself to be seen on the way out?” said Sharma. “Why draw attention to himself?”

Santosh put a hand to his forehead, thinking hard. “I don’t know,” he said, feeling suddenly useless, knowing that the eyes of the room were on him, the great detective, head of Private India, outfoxed by a killer moving around under his very nose.

Now came a fresh development. The screen showed DETV news vans arriving at Dr. Arora’s house. Sharma’s mouth worked up and down in rank confusion. His deputy Nanda crossed to a television, snatched at a controller, and turned it to DETV, where a presenter was already broadcasting from the gates of the house: “Information received moments ago suggests that the killer may have struck again...”

“What the fuck is going on?” said Jack, his gaze going from the television to the two monitors. “How in the hell did they find out so fast?”

On the second screen more news vans arrived outside the gates of Thakkar’s home.

“Blue Team, you see what I’m seeing?” said the tech guy. “Because I’m seeing a bunch of news vans arriving at Thakkar’s house. What the fuck are DETV doing there?”

The reply came over the speaker: “Beats me, sir.”

Sharma had scuttled over to watch what was going on, hardly able to believe his eyes. He snatched at the headset, tearing it off the tech guy’s head. “Blue Team leader, get men outside — find out what the news people are doing there.”

Nanda came off the phone. “They ran the plates, sir. The car was stolen an hour ago. It belongs to a woman in Noida.”

Sharma cursed loudly then switched his attention back to the screen. “What are they doing?” he asked, indignant. “What are all these bloody news vans doing here?” Then, screaming into the mic, “Blue Team? Blue Team, are you reading me? Have you found out what all these news vans are doing?”

“It’s a diversion.”

Jack and Nisha both looked at Santosh, both familiar with the detective’s sudden brainwaves, knowing one was on its way.

“The vans,” said Santosh, pointing at the screen, finger waving from one screen to the other, “they’re a smokescreen. It’s a trick, a simple diversionary tactic to make us look one way, in one direction, and miss what’s happening in the other direction.” He turned to Sharma. “Get men at the rear of the property, at once. That’s where he’ll be.”

“How, though?” said Nisha. “How could he organize all this?”

“Same reason he was able to recognize a surveillance van when he saw it. Same reason he was able to tip off his own news channel to attend the houses of Arora and Thakkar. Same reason he stole a car at Noida, the media hub of Delhi. Because the killer is Ajoy Guha.”

Chapter 106

Now Sharma was bawling into the headset mic, “Blue Team, get men in the house, now! Report on the status of Thakkar. Do it at once, do you hear me? Do it at once!”

The investigators paced. Moments later the report came back.

“He’s gone, sir. Thakkar has gone.”

“What? You mean he’s there and dead? Or he’s gone, as in literally gone?” barked Sharma.

“The second one, sir. Literally gone. No longer there.”

Sharma snatched off the headset and sent it the same way as the coffee cup. “We’ve lost him. We’ve lost them both,” he said, suddenly ashen-faced. His eyes rose to meet Santosh’s. “If it is him. Ajoy Guha. I was feeding him information. I was practically giving him a list of victims.”

“I have a feeling there will be a great many recriminations on this one,” said Santosh. Once again he was thinking. “He’s got a show tonight. Carrot and Stick is on in just a few minutes.”

“Is he likely to do the show now?” said Jack. “Won’t he be busy scooping out Thakkar’s vital organs?”

“No,” said Santosh. “The other day, the judge handed down a gagging order on a story Guha wanted to run...” He looked inquiringly at Sharma, who nodded gravely.

“Yes,” admitted the Commissioner. “It was the story about the organ transplants. Some coalition of Patel and Thakkar’s companies was trying to stop him.”

“He’ll run it,” said Santosh, certain of it. “He’ll run the story and end it with the death of Thakkar.”

“You seem awfully sure,” said Sharma.

“He’s a man on a mission,” said Santosh, cursing himself for having been so blind. “He always has been.”

Chapter 107

The deliverer made his way to the studio, sucking on his lozenge. It was medication that he constantly needed to prevent upper respiratory tract infections. It had become a constant worry after he’d received a bullet to his lung during the Kargil War between Pakistan and India.

Guha recalled his early days as a newspaper reporter at the Daily Express. He had been one of their best reporters. He had imagined that his outstanding work would also make him popular among his colleagues. He’d almost imagined himself as universally loved and admired. That had been when he’d decided to contest elections for the Press Council of India.

It was a twenty-nine-member body ensuring press freedoms were maintained and that members of the fourth estate exercised responsibility and maintained ethical standards in their reporting. Guha had been convinced he would be able to force the mainstream press to report freely and fearlessly once he was on the council.

Of the twenty-nine members, thirteen represented working journalists, of whom six were to be editors of newspapers and the remaining seven were to be working journalists other than editors. These seven positions would usually be filled by nominations from newspapers around the country but the Daily Express was different and egalitarian. It allowed for internal elections that would decide who would be sent as the newspaper’s representative to the council.

Guha had lost badly.

Dejected, he had been about to hand in his resignation at the Daily Express when his editor had called him into his office. “Even though you lost, I like your spunk,” the editor had told him. “I had a chance to hear some of the talks that you gave to your colleagues. They were pretty good. Have you considered a career in television?”

The editor had proceeded to tell Guha that the Daily Express had decided to start a twenty-four-hour news channel called DETV. A consortium of investors had agreed to fund the project. The editor had felt that Guha would be ideally suited to anchor the primetime news show and spearhead the channel’s investigations. Guha had jumped at the opportunity.

Life was suddenly being kind to him. During his stint contesting elections, he had met a young columnist who worked the entertainment desk. Her name was Rita and she’d had the most gorgeous dimples when she smiled. Guha had fallen head over heels in love with her and they had ended up getting married just three months later.

Guha had worshiped the ground Rita walked on. Never had a day gone by without him sending her notes, flowers, and little presents to tell her how much he loved her. They had taken weekend trips to romantic hotels and on one such trip Rita had collapsed as she was getting into the car. An ambulance had rushed her to hospital, where a series of diagnostic tests had been performed. The doctor had informed Guha that Rita had a condition known as cardiomyopathy. It was a disease in which the heart muscle — the myocardium — progressively deteriorated, eventually leading to heart failure. While less severe versions of the condition could be handled with medication, pacemakers, defibrillators, or ablation, the severest forms would eventually result in death. The only alternative was a heart transplant.

Guha’s life had been turned upside down yet again. While Rita had remained in a hospital bed, Guha had begun to meet cardiologists and heart specialists to find ways to save the life of the woman he loved. He had eventually settled on a brilliant surgeon from Kerala whose practice was from a private hospital in New Delhi. He had successfully carried out eleven heart transplants and was acknowledged as India’s leading specialist in the procedure. He had painstakingly put out the word to various hospitals that he was in need of a heart that matched the age, weight, and size requirements of Rita.

Usually such requests took months for any response, but then there had been a miracle. A young man who was brain dead was being taken off life support at a hospital in Pune and the family had decided that the best tribute they could pay their son would be to allow his organs to live on inside others. The Pune surgeon had telephoned Rita’s doctor to convey the good news. “We’ll ensure that the organ reaches you within four hours of removal,” he’d said.

The next day they had waited. And then waited some more. And then there had been a call from Pune. There had been a delay in transporting the organ to Pune Airport owing to traffic. They had diverted the organ to Mumbai instead in order to ensure that the ischemic time requirement was met and that the organ was put to use for another patient.

A week later Rita had died.

Guha had been a broken man but he had refused to cry. After all, he was the Deliverer. How could the Deliverer go soft? His whole life had been a series of terrible events. Guha had picked himself up and gone back to the studio and that had become his new battlefield. It was Rita’s death that had made Guha into the aggressive and relentless television crusader that people now knew him as.

Several months after Rita had died, his Kerala-based doctor had met with him. He’d revealed to Guha that he was suspicious of what had transpired. Upon making inquiries, he had found that there had been no transport delay in Pune. He had been convinced that someone somewhere had been bribed in order to make the organ available to someone else.

“Who?” Guha had asked.

The doctor had shrugged. “Difficult to say. There are many unscrupulous people and dodgy organizations that are profiting from such activities. This is nothing short of a war.”

It had been no longer sufficient to seek the truth by ruthlessly pursuing criminals and scammers in his studio. The entire nation depended on him to clean up the mess created by politicians and corrupt officials. The nation wanted justice. It was the Deliverer’s job to deliver it.

Chapter 108

Carrot and Stick began. And what the watching public saw was Ajoy Guha in his usual black leather seat. Sharp-eyed viewers might have noticed that there was a splodge of blood on the sleeve of his white shirt, and that he was a little more agitated and unkempt than usual, but otherwise it was the same Ajoy Guha in his usual place, legs crossed, cheek bulging slightly with a lozenge that he sucked, beadily regarding his viewers through his glasses.

“Good evening,” he said. “Tonight I would like to talk to you about our wonderful city’s health care.”

He held up Maya’s essay and read the title. “‘Health Care, Fair and Square?’ by Maya Gandhe. This essay came into my possession a few days ago, when I was in the act of murdering the pedophile Amit Roy.”

Here Guha paused, as though to leave room for the audience reaction. However, there was never any audience for Carrot and Stick, and on this particular occasion there were no production staff present either. Moments before the show had gone live, with the producer and various researchers panicking that their presenter had not yet appeared, Ajoy Guha had turned up. He had been using one hand to push a bound, gagged, and beaten-looking Jai Thakkar into the studio. In the other hand he’d held a Glock 17.

In moments Guha had cleared the studio, using locks designed to prevent intruders disrupting the show to lock himself and Thakkar alone into the studio. A skeleton staff had remained behind in the control room. Guha had warned them that Thakkar would die if they failed to broadcast events as they unfolded. Threats or not, all involved knew full well that the broadcast would continue.

Among those locked out were the Private team, Sharma, and a small squad of armed response officers, all of them watching on monitors in a corridor outside the studio. Guha had set the camera to roll but couldn’t change the angle or depth of vision, so what it failed to broadcast was that at Guha’s feet lay Thakkar, his eyes nervously fixed on the Glock Guha held to his forehead, also out of sight.

At the mention of Maya, Nisha’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh God,” she said, as Guha continued his monologue.

“From the pen of this young girl comes hope for the future. A simple desire that health care for Delhi, for the whole of India, should be delivered in a more egalitarian fashion.” He held up the essay, now somewhat dog-eared. “This essay — I’ve posted it to my Twitter account and I urge you to read it — this essay is a vision of the future penned by a little girl. Just a child. However, the piece of film I’m about to show you is a terrifying vision of the present — though soon, I hope to consign it to the past — run by the so-called adults, our leaders and representatives, our corporate heads and ministers, the doctors who command our trust — all of them committed not to saving lives as they would have us believe, but to lining their own pockets at our expense.

“This bit of film will shock you, I guarantee it. And you may watch it and feel the familiar sense of injustice and impotence. You will ask yourself if things will ever change. Well, ladies and gentlemen, when the report is over, we’ll come back and I will show you change. I will show you change in action.”

He looked over the top of his glasses at the control room, waggling the Glock threateningly. Those in the control room did as they were asked, and as newsmen, they did it gladly. They ran the story.

In the corridor outside, cops and the Private team gathered around a flustered studio manager. “The idea is that if you know the code you can lock the door from the inside,” she explained nervously, “and of course Ajoy knows the code.”

“There must be a way to override it,” said Santosh.

“There is. It needs two of us to input a master code. The head of security is on his way now.”

“Is there another way into the studio?” asked Sharma.

“The code controls all doors,” she explained. “Once the doors are overridden, you can come in through the control room, or from the other end, but you’d be coming at Ajoy from the front. This is the only door that brings you in from the side.”

“What kind of screwy security system is this anyway?” frowned Sharma.

An elderly security man arriving fixed him with a stare. “We have all sorts of celebrities, dignitaries, and notables in and out of our studios, Mr. Sharma,” he said. “We need to be able to guarantee their safety.”

Sharma indicated through the porthole window. “Mr. Thakkar doesn’t look particularly safe to me.”

“We’ve never had a presenter produce a gun before, Mr. Sharma,” said the security guard reasonably. “This is what you call an unprecedented situation.” He nodded to the studio manager, keyed in three digits to a door panel, and then stepped aside to allow her to finish the code. There was a click and a light turned from red to green.

Now a silence fell across those in the corridor as Sharma issued whispered instructions to his armed response team. Officers brought assault rifles to bear and took up positions by the door.

Back in the studio, if Guha was aware that the door lock had been circumvented, he made no sign. The film had ended. The story was out there, and now he was telling the story of the Deliverer, telling of his beloved wife Rita and how he pledged to take up arms against the same corruption and degeneracy that had killed her.

“I am sorry, people of Delhi, that my actions as the Deliverer brought you a period of unrest and uncertainty. But I promise with my hand on my heart that my intentions were benign, that I intended to rid the city of those elements that would seek to suck it of its lifeblood in order to deliver it into a better future.”

He stood, kicking his seat aside, reached down, grabbed Thakkar, and hauled him backward so that for the first time the CEO appeared on screen. “Meet Jai Thakkar of ResQ.” He stooped to rip off the tape from Thakkar’s mouth. “Mr. Thakkar, say hello to the people of Delhi. Tell them what you have done.”

In the corridor the elderly security guard spoke to Sharma. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Commissioner. You may not realize, but out there in the city everybody is watching what’s going on in here. Other channels are covering this channel. Traffic is at a virtual standstill. Millions of people are going to see every move you make.”

Sweat glistened on Sharma’s forehead. “Then millions of people are going to see us take down one of the sickest serial killers the city has ever seen.”

“You sure the people see it that way?” asked Santosh.

“I don’t give a fuck what the people think right now, Wagh,” snapped Sharma, and then addressed the armed response team leader. “Go in there, take him out before he kills a CEO on air. Do it. Now!”

The team leader nodded, twirled his finger in the air. Everybody else pressed themselves to the walls as the armed response team readied themselves and one of the men knelt, the barrel of his assault rifle pointing to the ceiling as with his other hand he reached to the handle and eased the door open a sliver.

Inside, Guha saw the door begin to open, the armed officers about to launch their incursion. At his feet, Thakkar was mewling, crying, and pleading, admitting all his many sins, spilling the beans to an audience of millions.

“But if the police come in here now, then I end it with a bullet to his head,” said Guha loudly, directing his comments more to the doorway than to his audience. The armed officers froze. Something seemed to occur to Guha. “The person I would like to see is Maya Gandhe. Bring her here to me. Bring her so that she can appear to the people as a symbol of hope for the future.”

In the corridor, the elderly security guard shot Sharma a look that said I told you so and the Commissioner cursed, knowing that Guha was giving him no choice. He couldn’t play games with Thakkar’s life. At least, not live on television. “Can we get her?” he said dreamily, as though he was far away. “Can we get the Gandhe girl?”

Nisha burst forward. “I beg your pardon!” she snapped. “Maya is coming nowhere near here!” Her face was right up to Sharma’s. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”

Sharma looked at her and his eyes were unfocused. He gave a tiny shake of his head and came back to himself. “I’m sorry. You’re quite right. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Tell your men to stand down — I’m going in,” said Nisha.

“No, Nisha, you can’t,” said Santosh.

Jack shook his head.

“He knows me.” Nisha drew her gun, herding armed response officers out of the way like a harassed teacher, and then made her way to the door. “We have history.”

And with that she slipped through the door and into the studio.

Chapter 109

She came into the studio, weapon raised, two-handed, taking short steps inside. There stood Guha. At his feet lay Thakkar, terrified and wracked by snotty sobs, his bound hands held almost as if in prayer. Guha stood with one foot on top of him, stooping slightly to hold the Glock to his head. When he looked up to see Nisha, the studio lights reflected off his glasses so that his eyes seemed to shine white.

“I’m sure I remember giving instructions that if the next person to walk through that door wasn’t Maya Gandhe then I shoot Thakkar,” he said. “Yes, I’m certain I can recollect giving those exact instructions. And yet, and yet, I am greeted by the sight of her mother.” He addressed the camera. “Ladies and gentlemen, you probably can’t see her, but I have been joined by Nisha Gandhe, the mother of Maya, our guide to a better future.”

“How’d you know my name?” Nisha’s voice sounded flat and muffled in the empty studio.

“Why, it’s in the essay... You have read the essay, haven’t you?” he said.

A guilty shockwave passed through Nisha as she stood with her gun trained on Guha. The truth was, she hadn’t read it. She’d fallen asleep reading it and had never gotten around to finishing it. She hadn’t been there to see Maya pick up her prize. Hadn’t been there for Maya at all.

“How is she?” asked Guha. “How is Maya, the little girl I saved from the pedophile Amit Roy? How is that little girl?”

“She’s very well, thank you. Now drop the gun and step away from Thakkar.”

The light flashed on his glasses again. His Glock pressed harder into Thakkar, who whimpered in return. “Are you my assassin?” Guha taunted. “Have they sent you to kill me?”

“Nobody needs to die,” said Nisha. She took a step forward.

“Oh, you know very well that’s not true.” His body language warned her to stay back. “I think we both know that Mr. Thakkar here needs to die. The last of the old guard, the final bloodsucker to extinguish before we can begin again.”

“And you know very well I can’t let you do that,” replied Nisha evenly.

“You won’t shoot. To stop me you’d have to kill me and you don’t want to kill me.”

“I don’t want to kill you but I will if I have to.”

He chuckled. “You had your chance to kill me the other night, and you didn’t.”

“I didn’t have a clean shot. You were a shrinking target.”

“Oh, and there was also the small matter of your little girl urging you not to shoot. Because she knows, doesn’t she? Little Maya knows that the Deliverer is a force for good in this world, and that it’s the likes of Roy, Thakkar, Kumar, and Patel who deserve to die. Essays are a start. They’re a good start, but in order to effect true change — real, profound change — we need to show those who exploit us that we are not prepared to take it any more. And to do that we have to take up arms. The Deliverer has done more to root out corruption in Delhi in weeks than Ajoy Guha managed in years. You can’t deny that.”

“Perhaps,” said Nisha. “And you’re right, Maya thinks you’re a good man.”

“She does?” Guha seemed genuinely touched. “She really does?”

“Yes, she does. But what if she were to see you kill a man in cold blood on television. Would she still think so then?”

“She would understand in time that I did what had to be done.”

“The fact remains that I can’t let you do it, Guha.”

The tension in the room rose. Nisha controlled her breathing, feeling her heart rate settle. Her hands were steady, her head inclined as she stared down the sight of her .38. Thakkar’s whimpering increased in response to the increased pressure of the Glock pushed at his head, and Guha locked eyes with Nisha, a smile playing at his lips. He turned his head to address the camera. “We’ve reached that point in the show, ladies and gentlemen, where we have to say goodbye to one of our guests.”

With no warning, Guha’s Glock swung upward to point at Nisha.

She squeezed the trigger.

The two shots rang out simultaneously, like every other noise strangely deadened by the sound stage of the studio. Nisha felt a blow, staggered backward from the force of something that punched into her left shoulder, and knew right away she’d been shot. She looked down to see the hole in her jacket, warm blood already beginning to flow down her upper arm. She was struck by a dizzy feeling, knowing the pain would hit her any second now.

And then it did — with a rush of white-hot agony that sent her to her knees on the studio carpet. Her gun arm went limp and the .38 hung uselessly from her fingertips, but at least Guha was also wounded, his shirt bloodied and tattered along one side. Stooping, he bared his teeth in pain as he placed the Glock back to Thakkar’s head.

“Don’t,” she called to him weakly, still unable to raise the .38, her vision clouding.

Guha’s shoulders rose and fell. He shuddered and then pulled the trigger. Thakkar’s head disintegrated, bits of blood, brains, and skull splattering Guha’s face. Grinning. Triumphant. Behind Nisha the door opened and the armed response team burst into the studio.

All she heard as she lost consciousness was the sound of cops shouting. All she saw was Guha grinning.

Chapter 110

The man checked into the motel off the Delhi — Jaipur highway at around five in the evening. He paid cash in advance for one night and headed to his room without any luggage. The reception clerk did not bother about him. He was used to seeing all manner of strange people. Any type of business was welcome.

The man locked his room door, stood on the bed, and reached up to unscrew the fire alarm. He pulled out the batteries and screwed back the lid. He then sat on the bed for the next hour, chain smoking. In his head were images of his son in a hospital bed. Then images of his son’s funeral pyre.

If someone had cared, my son would still be alive.

He stubbed out the last cigarette and stood up once more on the bed. He pulled off the belt from his trousers and looped it into the ceiling fan. He tugged at it to check the strength of the fan. Satisfied that it could take his weight, he placed his head into the noose that he had fashioned. He then bent his legs, allowing his entire body weight to shift to the belt.

MGT’s body was discovered around six hours later after the police identified his car in the parking lot of the motel.