by Ruchi Singh
Ignoring the sub-inspector glaring at her, she looked around the dingy, dusty cell in the police station. The bulb hanging from the high ceiling threw pale golden shadows all over, not doing anything for the dismal ambience of the room. The offensive stench drifting from the small round ventilator, high up on the back wall, indicated that the urinals were next to the lock-up—a deliberate ploy to weaken the fainthearted. But what they refused to believe was that she was not some common criminal or an ordinary female.
"Ma'am please, tell us the truth. It is in your interest." The young officer stepped towards her, playing the part of good cop to perfection.
"I've already told you everything," she answered, just to ease his distress.
The senior inspector had asked the same question several times before someone called him away. The bruise on her cheek throbbed, along with the anger she felt at the fools. Beside the knock on her hip, her midriff ached if she took deep breaths. Her ribs had probably taken a blow when the man fell on her. On top of all this, she had eaten nothing after breakfast. Her stomach gurgled in agreement.
For once, she cursed her habit of taking charge of a situation that was not her responsibility. But years of training had kicked in the moment she saw blood when the other man had keeled over. Trying to estimate the direction of the bullet and running towards the woods was a wrong move. They believed her to be an accomplice, whereas she had acted on impulse the moment she had realized the direction from where the shots were fired and had gone after the culprit. She had scanned the woods but didn't see anything or anyone. Some unknown force had stopped her before she could climb the fence, else it would have been really incriminating for her.
"Who sent you there?"
Esha stared at her hands. They hadn't put handcuffs on her wrists.
The lady constable fidgeted, shifting her weight on her left foot and began the mouth-manicure of the other hand. At this rate, she wouldn't be left with any nails, Esha thought, but couldn't blame her for the boredom. The woman had not budged from her position since the time Esha had been brought in to the police lock-up.
"Whom are you working with? Why did you run towards the woods? Who was there?" With each question, the sub-inspector stabbed the scarred wooden desk with his flimsy pen. The tip broke at the final question.
Esha glanced at him, taking in the scowling gaze, fisted hands and sweating arm-pits. His condescending attitude was getting on her nerves.
"Am I under arrest? Do you have a warrant? If yes, I need a lawyer and if not, then you cannot detain me."
"So you will teach me the law? Will you... you bitch?" The fatso sneered. "Why were you there? Whom are you working for?"
"Ma'am please..." The other officer appeared genuinely embarrassed at the insult the fat sub-inspector had hurled at her.
She exhaled, knowing that rubbing them the wrong way would not go well for her under the circumstances. "I'm not working for anyone. I went there for a job interview. I would request you to talk to Mr. Singhal. He had fixed the meeting well in advance."
"Why did you detain Mr. Seth when he was entering the restaurant?"
"I didn't! I told you he came in my way. Listen, at least check my credentials with—"
The door of the cell opened, screeching ominously, and the inspector, who had made her life hell for the first two hours of the interrogation, entered the dusty room. The sub-inspector stood up deferentially and made way for him. Not meeting her eyes, the inspector glanced sheepishly at his team members and said, "I apologize for detaining you, Ms. Sinha. Here is your phone. You are free to go, but Mr. Kaul would like to have a word with you before you leave."
Esha wasn't surprised hearing the name. She had reported to DIG Kaul for a brief period of time during her service. Though the delay was unexpected, she had been waiting for his intervention the moment she had given her credentials to the police.
The sub-inspector did not meet her eyes, as she left the lock-up.
* * * *
Hotel Taj Mahal, New Delhi
1st October, 8:00 PM
"Looks innocent enough... her foot got entangled in the chair and she fell. Her fall, kind of saved me..." Vikram replayed the grainy black and white CCTV footage of the incident for the third time in his suite at the Taj Mahal hotel. The video had been enlarged at some crucial places, distorting the resolution. "...though why did she run to the boundary wall is beyond me."
He squinted at the images and adjusted the laptop sitting on the top of his notes on the study table for a better view. The cameras did not capture anything beyond the fence of the golf club, though the police had found an abandoned sniper rifle in the green-belt adjoining the club's boundary.
Baggah, hit by the first shot, was in the hospital undergoing surgery. He was critical, and the doctors were not very hopeful.
Nikhil, studied the crime scene pictures left by the police ten minutes back. The dead chameleon cut precisely in two halves gave him goosebumps. What kind of maniac could have done that? He shoved the pics back in the yellow manila envelope and threw them on the coffee table.
"I have a bad feeling about this, Vikram. I've called Uday into this and I think you should go back to Mumbai immediately." Nikhil handed him his drink from the room's well stocked bar. The snacks trolley they had ordered an hour back stood near the table, forgotten in the flurry of phone calls from family, friends, and police officials.
"Not again! We have had this discussion a number of times Nick. I'll go as scheduled, after the dinner meeting tomorrow. Have to tie up a few loose ends of the Myanmar deal. No crazy gun-toting person can make me hide in a cave. If I do, they win." Vikram paused the video when he didn't get a response from Nikhil and glanced back craning his neck. Nikhil stood behind massaging his jaw, eyes intent on something above the screen. "Nick?"
"Hmm... I was just thinking..."
"What?"
"What if Baggah hadn't stood up?"
"He would have received the bullet on his head instead of the chest. He was being threatened for quite some time—"
"So are you. Remember the IB report on the Myanmar project you are investing in?"
"Hah... that's hogwash... rebels in Myanmar don't have enough funds to operate in their own country, leave aside planning an assassination attempt on me here in India." He lit a cigarette.
"Then why the second bullet?"
Vikram took a deep drag. In all probability he was the target, but he didn't want to attach more importance to the incident in front of his family and Nick till the time the investigations didn't reveal the entire picture. Adding to their worry and anxiety with unnecessary attention would not help anyone.
"I have no idea, Nick." He tapped the cigarette over the ash tray. "Let's wait for the detailed reports from Uday and the police. Tighten the security, I won't mind, but don't ask me to stop work. If I agree to all your precautions, I'll end up sitting inside a bunker room with three exits, playing Poker with you." He smiled to take out the sting that had crept in his tone.
Nikhil, as usual, indifferent to his requirement of striking the right balance between security and freedom, continued to stare at something outside the window. He was a loyal friend, a fierce bodyguard, and a dedicated chauffeur all rolled into one. Vikram could never thank God enough for his friendship, even if the man was a paranoid sonofabitch. He chuckled silently.
It had all started that winter years back, when he had met Nikhil on a treacherous Kangari Mountain trek in Ladakh. The guide had paired them for the duration of the trek. Along with sharing the tent, they found they shared many a things as young, twenty-something year olds. He had loved Nikhil's down-to-earth attitude, more so since he was completely oblivious to Vikram's status and family fame. That winter was the beginning of a lifelong friendship and a deep bond between them.
Seven days into the trek, when they were returning, Nikhil's rope broke. He slipped on the incline and toppled over. It was Vikram's quick reflexes that had saved him. Catching hold of Nikhil's jacket
belt, he had hauled him to safety by sheer will power. In the process, Vikram had dislocated a shoulder and cracked a couple of ribs, but had earned Nikhil's priceless loyalty.
After that near meeting with God, Nikhil had become a devoted slave to Vikram. He closed his private investigation agency and joined Vikram as his round-the-clock personal bodyguard cum chauffeur. Heading the security department of Seth Industries, he took care of the personal security for Vikram's mother too. He was as dedicated as humanly possible, so much so that Vikram had to force him to take a break once in a while.
"Tighten the security. Yes—" Nikhil broke off as his cell phone rang and took the call. "Mahajan speaking... yes. Ah yes... okay... really? This is surprising. Yes, of course, I'd like to thank her personally. Thank you. And Mr. Kaul, I request you to keep the lid on Major Sinha's identity... er yes, thank you." He disconnected and looked at Vikram. "Your savior is a decorated ex-army officer. Major Esha Sinha, NSG trained black cat commando, one of the few ladies to have successfully completed the training and having five years of classified service under her belt. She has been given a clean chit. No wonder she assessed the situation so fast."
"No wonder..." Something clicked in Vikram's mind like a jigsaw puzzle falling in place—the posture, the alert, intelligent eyes, and the dash to the boundary fence.
"She had come there for an interview for some position in a security firm," Nikhil continued. "Though she has given her statement to the police, I wanted to hear a firsthand account of events from her point of view. I have asked Kaul to request her to meet us today, if that's possible. Would you like to be present?"
"Yes, of course." Vikram was surprised not just at his quick response, but also at the potent desire to see her again.
* * * *
Esha reached the Taj and scanned the lobby. The reception area was brimming with policemen, both in uniform and in plainclothes. She tried hard, but couldn't locate anyone who might look like her impression of Nikhil Kumar Mahajan.
Contrary to her nature, she was rapidly losing patience with the mess she had been involved just by being at a place at an inopportune time. Now she had been requested—more like ordered—to go to the Taj Mahal hotel. Though DIG Kaul had apologized on behalf of the police department, he had commanded her to meet Mr. Seth's security in-charge the same evening. He had even arranged for a police vehicle and a driver.
"Major Sinha," someone called from her left.
She turned. It was due to her years of army training that she managed to mask her surprise at the handsome, well-built man in blue jeans and a black t-shirt smiling at her. As the personal bodyguard responsible for every moment of Vikramaditya Seth's life, she had assumed Mahajan to be an aging, nondescript man, and was ill prepared for a taller and leaner version of actor Salman Khan.
"Major Sinha? Nikhil Mahajan." He scowled when he spotted her bruise. "You are hurt!"
"It's nothing. Esha Sinha." She took the hand he extended.
He gave her hand a firm shake and moved towards the lifts, oblivious of the admiring attention from a couple of girls and an old lady on the way.
"I'm so sorry you had to go through so much trouble. If circumstances would have permitted, I'd have come to meet you personally, but I can't leave Vikram at all, certainly not after this afternoon's incident."
Slightly taken aback with his affability, Esha nodded and brushed away the apology with a wave of her hand as they entered the lift. The gratefulness of people always embarrassed her. She always thought of it as her duty, something she had been trained to do. Protecting civilians was second nature to her. A habit she was trying hard to break, since after retirement she had no authority to take the law in her hand.
"I wanted to seek your opinion on the incident before we leave Delhi and Vikram wanted to thank you for saving his life."
That did it—her hands and toes went cold hearing the name. She rubbed her suddenly sweaty hands on her trousers unable to understand her juvenile reaction to someone who, up till now, existed just in newspapers and on television channels. She had been associated with many famous people and high profile dignitaries, but had never experienced this strange nervousness at the thought of meeting someone. Clamping down the urge to turn around and leave, she checked her mobile for distraction.
"I hope you don't have any firearm?" Mahajan enquired as they exited the lift and nodded at the plainclothes man stationed on a door to their left. "I'm sorry I'll have to follow the regular security protocol."
"No issues." She held up her hands.
Mahajan frisked her impersonally, then swiped the magnetic card, and pushed open the door on the right—one which didn't have a guard posted. She wouldn't be surprised if they told her that they had booked the entire floor of the hotel.
She sensed Seth the moment they stepped inside the room. To her brief reprieve, he stood looking at a file on the desk, talking to someone on his mobile. The smell of tobacco assaulted her almost immediately, causing her to take shallow breaths. Frowning, she scanned the room and found him holding a half-length glowing stub with the ash falling on the expensive carpet. He smoked!
Like Mahajan, he had also changed into a pair of jeans and a polo t-shirt—while the security-aide was in black, his was a light shade of grey. Though shorter than Mahajan by a couple of inches, he was muscular of the two. Both men had a rugged charm that might appeal to the opposite sex, but not to her, she reiterated the thought silently. Then why in God's name was she comparing two men she had no business with? She mentally smacked her head.
"If you don't mind, could you describe the whole incident from your point of view?" Moving towards the recessed living area, Mahajan interrupted her chain of thoughts and gestured her to sit.
Shutting the men and the smoke out of her mind, she began narrating the incident, trying to recall even the minuscule details. Starting from the time she entered the restaurant, she told him about her fall and her move towards Baggah to assess the direction of the shot and the likely location of the sniper.
"You could have been shot."
"Highly unlikely. I wasn't the target. An assassin never stays at his location after taking down the target—they just run. The two shots were taken one after the other, one that hit the man and the other hit Mr. Seth's chair. After that there were none. It took me at least five to eight seconds to get up. He might have run away during that time." She suppressed the urge to rub her nose. "If you don't mind, may I see the video footage?"
"By all means." Mahajan pulled the laptop towards her and replayed the CD.
She sat watching the whole incident, replaying it a second time.
"So what's the verdict?"
Vikram Seth's deep baritone cut through her calm speculations and her heart expanded in her chest. Her ribs throbbed in protest at her need for more air. She raised her glance and found him towering over them with that same unconcerned smile. But her attention was drawn to the scar on his right cheek, running below his ear and ending at the chin, making him a normal flesh and blood man instead of a larger-than-life film star as projected by the paparazzi.
"I think first of all you should thank Major Sinha for saving your life," Mahajan interrupted.
She was surprised at his friendly tone that had the slightest trace of admonition, quite unusual for a mere employee. Maybe their association was more than that of an employee and his employer.
"Inadvertently," she insisted, unwilling to establish any sort of connection with Seth. She had to stand up since Seth had extended his hand for a greeting.
His warm hand enveloped her cold one. "Inadvertently or accidentally, you did save my life Ms... er... Major Sinha. What happened to your face?" His eyes locked onto her face, as if she was the center of his universe and nothing was more important to him than her.
"T's nothing."
"You are hurt." Instead of releasing her hand, he pulled her to the sofa and sat beside her. "Nick, why don't you hand me the first-aid box? It must be in the washroom cabinet." Rele
asing her hand, he took out another cigarette. Her nose began twitching.
"T's nothing," she insisted, as Mahajan went to do his bidding.
"You must have been hurting a lot, I remember my head rammed into your stomach when Nick, the idiot, pushed me down." He lit the cigarette.
"I'm good." Esha shifted away on the sofa, but there was no space, she was already on the edge of the seat.
A ringtone broke the silence in the room. Mahajan handed Seth the first-aid box then moved to the balcony with his mobile phone.
Her gaze flickered from Seth to her watch and then back to him. "Should be going." Get a grip, she chided herself, she was thirty, not thirteen.
"What's the hurry? Someone's waiting for you at home?" Seth opened the box and examined the contents.
She scowled. Was it a deliberate reference to her status or just an innocent question?
"They have an off-the-shelf ointment here. But first we need to clean it, right?"
"I really don't need anything, it's a minor bruise." Esha stood up ignoring her aching muscles when he picked up a cotton swab.
What was he playing at, behaving like a perfect host in a hotel to a virtual stranger? Shouldn't they be discussing the shooting? He had been shot at in the afternoon and, instead of treating the incident seriously, he was brushing it away like a minor mishap. Maybe he was in denial. Or maybe he didn't trust the observation of a woman. She tightened her lips as the thought invaded her mind. From her point of view, it was wise and professional to come back to the disturbing topic of the shooting.
She cleared her mind, locked her hands behind her back and stated clearly. "I think you should look for a reason or motive for anyone to harm you. In my opinion, the bullets were aimed at you."
His eyebrows went up as he scanned her from head to toe taking in her rigid stance. "You think so?" A corner of his mouth lifted in amusement.