by Tarquin Hall
“You should really show your father more respect,” said Baba Dhobi as the Afridi drew a revolver.
At the sight of the weapon, Hari balked. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.
“It’s called politics, Hari,” said Baba Dhobi.
“Politics? You and him?”
“We’re going to form an alliance at the next election.”
“Dalit and Brahmin?”
“Why not? Our communities share many of the same threats these days.”
“You mean you’ll lose power to the Yadavs if you don’t.”
“Like I said, Hari, it’s politics.”
“And when you were administrator of the hospital—that was politics as well?” demanded Ram.
“Let’s just say Dr. Pandey and I have had a long-standing understanding,” said Baba Dhobi.
“He paid you off, in other words—and now you’re worried it will all come out, that the voters will learn about your betrayal,” said Ram. “A coalition you can sell them on, but not if it came out that you’d helped cover up the rape of a Dalit woman by a Brahmin.”
He tried to struggle free, but the goon dealt him a blow on the back of his head with the butt of the revolver and he slumped forward.
“Get him out of here,” said Baba Dhobi. “And make sure I never see him again.”
“Now, hold on,” said Hari with alarm as Ram was dragged from the room. “What are you planning to do with him? There are witnesses who saw me take him. How am I going to explain it if he turns up dead?”
“You’ll tell them he escaped—he’s done it before,” said Baba Dhobi.
“You expect Vish Puri to believe that?”
“He won’t be a problem.”
“Don’t tell me you’re planning to eliminate him, too?”
“He’s on his way here now.”
“Now?” exclaimed Hari. He stood suddenly from his chair.
“Puri called on Inspector Gujar not one hour ago, saying that he had proof that Dr. Pandey and I conspired to get the woman killed and that he believes we now have her son.”
“I’ll take my money and be on my way,” said Hari.
But Baba Dhobi told him to sit down. “You work for me now,” he said, and then invited Dr. Pandey to join them for a cup of chai.
Although Puri woke Inspector Gujar well before his usual hour, he agreed to hear the detective’s accusations against the chief minister, who, Puri claimed, had conspired to cover up the rape and pregnancy of Kamlesh Sunder by Dr. Bal Pandey while the two men had worked at Lucknow General Hospital.
He listened also to Tulsi Mishra describe how Ram Sunder had been abducted by Hari Kumar outside the Moonlight Garden in Agra.
When Puri provided him with photographic evidence taken by one of his undercover operatives of Hari’s car entering the chief minister’s private residence and threatened to go to the news channels if nothing was done, the police wallah picked up the phone and called his senior.
A decision was quickly taken to act and six jawans were assembled in front of the station.
Gujar even invited Puri along and they immediately set off together in the police wallah’s jeep.
When they arrived at Baba Dhobi’s private residence, the gates swung open and they were escorted inside by one of the chief minister’s peons.
It all proved a little too easy, in fact. And when they entered the dining room and Baba Dhobi greeted them with the words “Aaah, there you are,” Puri knew that he’d been betrayed.
“Inspector Gujar here is a fast learner, no?” he said as he felt the nozzle of the inspector’s revolver press into the small of his back.
“He understands the value of loyalty,” said Baba Dhobi.
“You ordered him to arrest Vishnu Mishra and frame him with the murder of Kamlesh Sunder,” said Puri.
“It was too good an opportunity.”
“And Hari? He’s willing to take orders?”
“He’s no Gandhi.”
“On that point we are agreed.”
The two private detectives eyed each other with disdain. “Tell me: how much you are paying him, exactly?” asked Puri.
“What’s it to you?” said Hari with a snarl.
The detective shrugged. “For the longest time I’ve suspected there was a price tag somewhere on that fancy Italian suit of yours. Previously I would not have believed that murder would feature on your résumé.”
“I told you before I had nothing to do with her killing.”
“But now you are very much aiding and abetting. Kamlesh’s killer is here very much in our presence, no?” he said, gesturing to Dr. Pandey, who was seated at the table listening to the conversation with smug placidity.
Puri added: “Unless I am very much mistaken the plan is to do away with Ram and my good self, also. If caught, you will hang with them, Hari.”
“That’s enough!”
“I wonder how your silk tie will look with a noose around it?”
Hari suddenly exploded: “Shut up!”
Puri didn’t flinch. “Seems you have a hidden temper after all,” he said.
“Give me a gun and I’ll take care of him myself,” Hari told Baba Dhobi.
“Not here,” said the chief minister with a look that conveyed deep satisfaction. “You can accompany Dr. Pandey’s man.”
“Fine. Let’s get it over with.”
Inspector Gujar took Puri by the arm and, with his pistol still pressed into his back, led him out of the dining room, through the kitchen and out a side entrance to a waiting car.
Puri was cuffed and shoved onto the backseat, where he found Ram now conscious and sitting up.
The goon tossed Hari the keys. “You drive,” he said before climbing into the front passenger seat, revolver in hand.
Hari got behind the wheel, started the engine and reversed down the driveway. He narrowly missed another car pulling in through the gates. Puri caught a glimpse of Justus Bergstrom seated in the back.
“Where are we going to do this thing?” Hari asked the goon once they’d pulled into the road.
“Same place I did the mother. It’s a twenty-minute drive from here. Very secluded. Go straight.”
After a quarter of a mile, they came to a red light. A blind beggar woman led by a young boy approached the goon’s window.
“Saab, paisa dedo!” she called. “Mister, give me money.”
He signaled for her to move on, but she persisted. “Bookhi hoon!”
“Hutt,” shouted the goon.
Undeterred, she continued to rap her knuckles on the window. “We have nothing to eat,” pleaded the boy.
“Oh, for God’s sake, give her this,” said Hari, and handed the Afridi a ten-rupee note.
With a curse, he placed his revolver on his knee and grabbed the money. Then he wound down the window and tossed the crumpled note at the blind beggar woman.
She in turn raised a can of pepper spray and said, “Hands where I can see them.”
An especially insulting expletive left the goon’s mouth and as he reached down for his revolver, she didn’t hesitate to press down on the nozzle.
A full spume hit him in the face. There was a moment’s silence like the one that comes between a child falling and starting to cry. And then from the back of the Afridi’s throat came an agonized scream, and he smothered his face with his hands.
Hari managed to grab his pistol and, coughing and spluttering, opened the door and stumbled out onto the road.
“That wasn’t part of the plan!” he complained, his eyes streaming with tears as he helped Puri and Ram out of the car and unlocked their handcuffs. “You could have warned me that she was going to do that!”
“Don’t talk to me about plans, yaar!” bawled Puri, his eyes also watering from the pepper spray. “You were supposed to disarm him before I arrived!”
“You two are working together?” said Ram.
“I was prepared to make an exception just this once,” said Hari.
“Do you really think I would have walked into such a situation unprepared? I had a Plan B. And a Plan C. Ram was never in danger.”
Flush arrived on the scene and started to unbutton Hari’s shirt to retrieve the pinhole camera and transmitter he’d fitted on him earlier that morning on the edge of Lucknow.
“Boss, we got all of them—Baba, Dr. Pandey, Gujar. Every frame,” Puri’s operative reported.
“Tip-top, very good,” said Puri. “I will join you momentarily. Make two copies. One I want taken directly to the Action News! bureau. Then we two—Hari and I—will go directly to the CBI as per the plan.”
The beggar woman, the boy and two other young men pulled the Afridi from the car and tied his wrists.
“Her I know,” said Hari, who’d recognized Facecream through her disguise. “But who is the boy?”
“A new addition,” said Puri.
“And the other two helping her—yours?”
“Some extra pairs of hands were required. They’re volunteers—Love Commandos, in fact.”
“Love Commandos?”
“My clients, so to speak.”
Hari tilted his head back and glanced up at the sky. “Now I understand,” he said with a slow, deliberate nod. “I’ve been racking my brains trying to figure out how you came to be involved in the case.”
A look of sheer delight came over Puri’s face. “Glad to hear it,” he said. “But one question is there.”
“Your pistol?”
“I want it back, Hari.”
“Not to worry, Mr. Vish Puri, saar, it’s safe and sound.”
They watched as the Afridi was bustled into a car and driven away.
“What’s going to happen to him?” asked Ram.
“He will be delivered to the CBI and charged with murder,” said Puri.
“You trust the CBI?”
“No. But that is why we are releasing the video to the TV news outlets first. Public outrage will force them to act.”
“And me? I’ll be able to testify?” said Ram.
“You will get your day in court, young man. Many days in fact, if you so choose.”
Ram gave a nod. “I’m sorry, Mr. Puri, I misjudged you. I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me.”
“Please, I beg of you, young man, don’t give him a bigger head than he already has!” said Hari.
“I do have one question for you, sir,” said Ram. “Dr. Basu—did Baba Dhobi and Dr. Pandey conspire to have her killed?”
“Not at all. It was one of her work colleagues, in fact.”
“Because they discovered the leak?”
“That I cannot say exactly—but most probably, yes.”
“But as we were pulling out of the gates, I saw in that other car—”
“Justus Bergstrom, the ICMB director.”
“Yes, sir. He interrogated me before I escaped—wanted to know where I’d put the data key.”
“And no doubt that is why he has come calling on Baba Dhobi this morning—to retrieve his property.”
“For a price,” said Hari.
Puri gave a nod. “Knowing Baba Dhobi, he will extract the quantum amount. That is all he is after, no? Wealth at any cost.”
• • •
Two hours later, Puri sought out Justus Bergstrom in the VVIP terminal lounge at Lucknow airport, where he was waiting for his executive jet to refuel. He was sitting back in a comfortable leather lounger with his legs crossed, toying with a USB data key like an expert gambler with a casino chip.
“I see you got what you came here for, sir,” observed the detective.
Bergstrom surveyed him with patient eyes. “I did indeed, Mr. Puri. And you?”
“One piece of the puzzle is missing, in fact.”
“You’re referring to the Dr. Basu affair?”
“Affair, sir? It was murder, as you well know. Even here in India we have laws against it. Allow me to assure you that the guilty will be brought to book.”
Bergstrom played hurt. “You believe I’d stand in the way of justice, Mr. Puri?”
“Sir, I have seen what you are capable of—kidnapping, intimidation, exploitation. In the past few days you have done all within your power to recover that data key you hold in your hand. Profit is your number one goal. Would you cover up a murder to avoid scandal and bad publicity? Of that I am in no doubt at all.”
Bergstrom slipped Ram’s data key into his trouser pocket, sat up and adjusted his cuffs. “I think you misjudge me, Mr. Puri,” he said. “I can hardly run a successful operation if my employees start murdering one another, now, can I?”
He picked up his briefcase and popped open the two locks. From inside he retrieved a file. He held it out for Puri to take.
“After Dr. Basu’s death last week, I ordered an investigation into the circumstances,” said Bergstrom. “My security team—I believe you have crossed paths with them once or twice—quickly came to the conclusion that she’d been murdered. It also became clear from her phone and computer records that Dr. Basu had been in regular contact with a certain Ram Sunder, who was participating in one of our drug trials. After reviewing footage taken by our security cameras as well as our computer records, we came to know that she’d taken a copy of some of our research from the building—illegally.”
“At which point you tracked down Ram Sunder and abducted him. You got his mobile number from Dr. Basu’s phone records. His device was switched on, thus making the task child’s play.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that, Mr. Puri. Kidnapping is not something we indulge in at ICMB.”
“No, sir. You’ve others to do your dirty work—two former British army Gurkhas no less.”
“The point is, Mr. Puri, that we came to the conclusion that Ram Sunder had played no part in Dr. Basu’s murder. Our focus then turned to another individual.”
“Dr. Sengupta, your head of research.”
“Unfortunately, yes. Dr. Sengupta has always been passionate about his work. But the passionate can also be obsessive. And it seems he became obsessed—totally infatuated, in fact—with Dr. Basu. In that file you will find copies of pages from his private diary in which he describes having erotic fantasies about her in the laboratory where they worked side by side. He talks about ‘owning her body and soul.’ On a number of occasions she went on dates and he spied on her. The men she met are described in disturbing terms and he considers using violence to scare them off.”
“Must be Dr. Basu had some idea of his feelings, no?” said Puri. “Any complaints were made against him on her behalf?”
“Several, Mr. Puri. I have included copies of her e-mails in that file. Dr. Sengupta visited her at her apartment on no less than three occasions late at night. Naturally she felt uncomfortable about this and brought his improper behavior to my attention.”
“You acted on her complaints?”
“Yes, I spoke with Dr. Sengupta. He told me he’d gone to see Dr. Basu to discuss work—the project they’d been working on. I warned him that this was highly unprofessional and he assured me that it wouldn’t happen again.”
“No further action was taken?”
“I received no further complaints.”
“But then Dr. Basu announced her engagement and her departure from ICMB, also.”
“She submitted her resignation the day she was killed.”
“And you believe Dr. Sengupta confronted her that very night?”
“Perhaps he stopped her on the road, there was an argument, he strangled her and then arranged the scene to look like an accident.”
“Some further proof is there?”
“He answered a call from his mother soon after midnight in the vicinity of the bridge.”
Puri searched through the file and found a copy of Dr. Sengupta’s phone records with the incriminating call h
ighlighted.
“Who is to say that you are not framing him?” said Puri.
“And why would I do that?”
“You were worried she would spill the beans, so to speak, on your work—and as for Dr. Sengupta, he was unstable.”
“I think you’ve been watching a little too much Bollywood, Mr. Puri. This is the real world.”
“Aaah, the real world, is it? My apologies, sir. For a moment I thought I was dreaming about genetics research companies exploiting Dalits for their DNA and innocent midwives getting raped and murdered.”
The Swede looked mildly irritated. “Please, Mr. Puri, spare me the sarcasm. I played no part in this tragic affair and have taken it upon myself to get to the bottom of what happened. Last night, I submitted a copy of the same file to the Agra police and they arrested Dr. Sengupta this morning.”
“From his residence at seven thirty in fact,” said Puri.
“You knew?” For the first time, Bergstrom showed surprise.
“It is my business to know,” said Puri with triumph. “This is for me to keep, no?” he asked as he held up the file.
“By all means. And now I believe that concludes our business together.” Bergstrom stood and picked up his briefcase. “I trust that there will be no further contact between us.”
“Sir, one thing is there, actually,” said Puri.
“And that is?”
“Contrary to what you have been told, he is alive and well.”
“He?”
“Ram Sunder.”
“Alive?” Bergstrom’s eyes narrowed.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’m very glad to hear it, Mr. Puri.”
“He is now under the special protection of the CBI, in fact, and no doubt his lawyer will be contacting you in the coming days.”
“Regarding?”
“The rights of he and his fellow villagers.”
“Rights? I believe that is something of a gray area here in India, is it not?” said Bergstrom, his lips drawn in a tight smirk.
“That is what the Britishers believed, sir, before they faced a certain Mohandas K. Gandhi,” answered Puri.
And then he watched as the Swede strode purposefully out of the terminal and crossed the tarmac toward his waiting jet.