“It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter,” insisted Santosh with a raised finger. “Our remit was different then. Besides—” But then he stopped. “Oh, that’s interesting.”
He was heading off the path that led to the front door and onto the grass. Then stopped and knelt down.
Once again, Nisha was half surprised, half amused at how sprightly Santosh was, despite the cane he always carried.
“Look,” he said. And Nisha found her attention directed to a bald patch in the grass.
“Yes?”
“Something’s been taken from here.”
Santosh stood. His head twitched this way and that as though he was looking for something in the overgrown garden, and then he was setting off with great strides toward the far corner. There they found another bald patch, similar to the first.
“Something has been taken from here,” he repeated. He pointed with the cane from one empty patch to another. “My hunch is we’ll find two, maybe more of these, and that they are—or were—some kind of surveillance, security device.”
“A laser mesh trap.”
“Possibly.”
“But one that’s been removed.”
“Exactly.” Santosh’s eyes sparkled. “And do you know what? I’d bet my life that it was disguised to look like something different, a sprinkler or something. That girl the neighbor saw running away, who fell through the subsidence and into the cellar below—she and her boyfriend presumably triggered the warning system. Some kind of cleanup team came and removed the equipment.”
“Why not remove the bodies?”
“No time. The neighbor had already called the police—the regular police.”
Then Nisha said, “Something’s occurred to me.”
Santosh looked at her. “Let’s hear it.”
It was her turn to lead him across the grass to where the incident tape marked out the courting couple’s unfortunate entrance into the basement. They peered into the basement below but there was nothing to see. Forensics had taken everything; crime-scene cleanup teams had done the rest. Not a single shred of evidence would be left.
But then, that wasn’t where Nisha and Santosh’s interest lay.
“They went through here, yes?” Nisha said. “And given that the neighbor saw the girl’s clothes in disarray, we can be reasonably sure what they were up to at the time.”
“Yes.”
“Well, why here? Why outside on a cold night?”
Santosh nodded almost happily. “Of course, Nisha, of course. A neglected, near-derelict, and very obviously empty house—they would have tried to get in first.”
“Break a window, pick a lock.”
Together they strode to the front door of the house and within seconds they spotted that almost out of sight, close to the door, was a clean space. Something removed.
“A mailbox, perhaps?” said Santosh. “Or some kind of entry panel disguised to look like a mailbox. Our libidinous friends tried to get in, failed, so found a spot over there. It was just dumb luck and no doubt the fact that the acid had weakened the structure that they fell through. Otherwise, this was a virtually impregnable facility.”
“Was this what you were expecting?” asked Nisha.
“Something like this, yes. Something to confirm my suspicion that we’re dealing with a large conspiracy here, an outfit that is evidently well funded and blessed with top-level access.”
“And their business?”
“Organ harvesting.”
They looked at one another, both knowing what the other was thinking: this was big and Private was getting close to being out of its depth. They hurried back to the car, both glowing with the thrill of their discoveries.
“There are still so many imponderables,” said Santosh. “Why was Kumar killed?”
“Because he was getting in the way. Whatever this outfit is doing, the Health Minister was either blocking it, threatening it, or wanting a slice—and so he paid with his life.”
“He certainly did. Drained of blood like that. But why like that, do you think? Why in such an attention-grabbing manner? Why not just a bullet in the back of the head?”
“As a grisly warning to those in the know.”
“It could be,” said Santosh. “It could be.”
Nisha started the engine. “So we have a name: Dr. Pankaj Arora. Isn’t that enough to take to Jaswal? Or the police?”
“Not until we can be sure who’s involved and who’s not,” sighed Santosh. “It could be that Jaswal is involved at some level.”
“We need to put a stop to it, Santosh,” warned Nisha. “People are dying.”
But Santosh shook his head, resolute. “I understand, and we must work quickly. But even more people will die if we reveal our findings prematurely. There’s no point in standing on the tail of the snake, Nisha. We need to cut off its head.”
Part Two
Deliverer
Chapter 43
FROM THAT NIGHT when he had killed his drunk father to his escape on a train to the holy city of Varanasi, every detail was firmly etched in the killer’s mind. His subsequent experiences had taught him to be prepared and extra vigilant.
Upon arriving in the holy city, the boy had made the railway station his home. What little money he’d had was used to purchase a single meal each day. It hadn’t been too long before his money had run out.
One day a priest wearing a white dhoti and saffron shawl with beads around his neck had seen the boy. Realizing he was hungry and lost, the priest had bought him a sumptuous meal. The boy had eaten ravenously as the priest sipped from a cup of masala tea. His hunger satiated, the boy had confided that he had no place to live and that his parents were dead.
The priest had taken the boy to his home, a basic hut by the banks of the Ganges. “You can stay here with me till such time as you find something better,” the priest had said. “You will need to help me with all the household chores though.” The boy had gratefully accepted the proposal.
The next day they had headed to the woods that bordered the railway tracks to collect firewood for the traditional stove in the priest’s house. The boy had gathered all the branches that had fallen from trees, tying them into bundles that could eventually be carried back. The priest had sat under a tree, looking at the boy’s sweating torso.
“Let me wipe the sweat off your body,” the priest had said, getting up and using his cotton shawl to dry the boy’s back. He’d asked the boy to turn around and face him but instead of drying him, he had attempted to kiss the boy on his lips. The boy had backed off in shock, but the priest had been persistent. “Love is a natural thing,” he had said. “God tells us to love our fellow human beings. I am merely expressing my affection for you,” and he had grasped the boy and pulled him toward his body.
The boy had now been fully alert. It had been as though that terrible night when his father had killed his mother was being played out with him as victim. He’d played along with the priest, allowing the pervert to kiss him and shove his tongue inside his mouth.
And then he had made his move.
The boy had been holding a heavy branch in his other hand when the priest had grabbed for him. He’d now swung it up toward the priest’s head with as much force as he could muster. An involuntary scream had emerged from the boy as he’d brought the wood into contact with the man’s chin.
The priest had sunk to the ground, dazed by the blow. The boy had continued to smash the priest’s skull with the branch until his head was a bloody pulp. “Die! Die! Die!” he’d shouted. He had pulled the priest’s lifeless body to the nearby railway tracks and lain him across the line. He’d waited by the side, at a safe distance, until a passing train ran over the corpse.
That day he had realized that as well as no longer just being a boy, he was no mere killer either. He was capable of taking care of himself and cleansing the world of vermin. Delivering purity in a world of filth. Delivering light in a world of darkness.
He was now the Deliv
erer.
Chapter 44
THE WINDOWLESS OPERATING room of the Delhi Memorial Hospital was freezing cold. Under the surgical lights a patient lay on the operating table, his eyes closed, an anesthesia mask over his face.
Doesn’t the patient wonder why a routine gallbladder operation is taking place so late at night? thought the senior nurse. She threw a look at Dr. Pankaj Arora: the slicked-back hair, the gap in his teeth. If only the world knew what a butcher he is. She should never have allowed herself to get sucked into his scheme, but the money was good—enough to pay off the staggering debts her husband had accumulated.
The anesthesia machine stood at the head of the table, and a tube ran from it to the mask that had been placed over the patient’s mouth and nose.
Wearing protective caps, surgical masks, vinyl gloves, and long green surgical gowns, the team was led by Dr. Pankaj Arora. It wasn’t an urgent surgery; it could have waited until morning. But Arora had insisted and no one ever argued with him. His temper was notorious.
Arora applied antiseptic solution to the areas he’d marked on the body. He then made a small incision above the belly button and inserted a hollow needle through the abdominal wall. This would pump carbon dioxide into the abdomen, inflating the cavity.
“Do we need intraoperative cholangiography?” asked the senior nurse. It was standard procedure to check if there were any stones outside the gallbladder.
Arora gave the woman a terrifying look. No one asked unnecessary questions while he was operating. “If you had bothered to check,” said Arora, “you would know that he has no stones outside the gallbladder.”
In fact, he has none inside the gallbladder either.
The senior nurse cursed herself for asking a stupid question. It was never a good idea to get on the wrong side of Arora.
He efficiently attached the umbilical port and then made three more incisions, no more than an inch each, in the patient’s belly. Next he inserted a wand-like laparoscope that was equipped with cameras and surgical tools into the umbilical port. Immediately, the monitor in front of him came to life with a view from inside the patient.
“How’s the blood pressure?” he asked the anesthesiologist.
“Steady—one hundred and ten over seventy,” replied the anesthesiologist, looking at the iridescent numbers and squiggles that mapped the patient’s vital signs.
Arora used the laparoscope to pull back both the liver and gallbladder and removed the connecting tissue to expose the cystic duct and artery. The senior nurse quickly used clips to clamp off the duct and artery. Arora cut the duct, the artery, and the connecting tissue between the gallbladder and liver, and used the laparoscope to suck out the pear-shaped gallbladder.
At this stage all the instruments should have been withdrawn, the carbon dioxide allowed to escape, and the patient stitched up. Instead, Arora increased the size of one of the incisions—to almost four inches.
“More suction,” he said to the senior nurse. She immediately grabbed a long plastic tube, and began using it to vacuum the puddles of blood. Arora was like a drill sergeant inside the operating room.
He used his instruments to separate the colon from the right kidney. He cut the splenorenal ligament to free the kidney entirely. He then cut the ureter, placed an endoscopic specimen retrieval bag around the patient’s kidney, and pulled it out through the larger cut.
From the corner of his eye he saw the senior nurse place the kidney in the Surgiquip LifePort unit, a transport device that would continuously pump the kidney with a cold liquid solution. It would double the organ storage time until it could be transplanted.
Arora began to stitch up the patient.
Surgery completed, he walked over to the scrubbing area, removed his gloves, mask, and cap, and washed his hands. He then walked through the doctors’ lounge and into the corridor. The patient’s wife was seated in one of the visitors’ chairs. She had been looking at the clock anxiously for the past four hours.
She got up instantly. “Is everything all right, Dr. Arora?” she asked.
He smiled at her, his expression softening only momentarily. “Don’t worry,” he said, placing his hand on her shoulder. “He’s perfectly fine. He’ll be discharged in two days.”
A look of relief was evident on the wife’s face. “I was worried when it took so long. I was under the impression that the gallbladder could be removed in two hours.”
“Laparoscopy takes a little longer but most patients seem to recover faster and feel less pain after the surgery,” he explained, taking off his glasses and using his kerchief to clean them. “We also needed to carry out intraoperative cholangiography to check for stones outside the gallbladder. That’s why it took some more time.”
Oh, and we also removed a healthy kidney along the way.
Chapter 45
IN HIS OFFICE, Santosh pressed a button on the multipoint controller and watched the oversized LCD screen spring to life. There was a time difference of twelve and a half hours between Delhi and Los Angeles. It would be ten thirty in the morning for Jack, a good time to reach him.
“What’s bugging you?” asked Jack, picking up on Santosh’s worried expression.
“The case,” said Santosh. “I’m wondering whether it leads Private Delhi into a political quagmire.”
“Well, it was always a bit boggy,” drawled Jack. “But how come I’m getting the funny feeling that it turns out to involve the suicide of your Health Minister.”
“Kumar,” offered Santosh. “That’s what they’re saying in the States, is it? That it was suicide?”
“I’ll be honest, Santosh, it’s not that big a story here. But yeah, that’s what they’re saying.”
“Well, it wasn’t. I saw the body. It was murder. We’ve established a link between the city’s hospitals and the body parts found at Greater Kailash. We think there’s a link between that find and an earlier murder in which the victim’s eyeballs were removed. And now Kumar, who was drained of all blood and the blood taken. The theory I’m currently working on is that we’ve stumbled across some kind of organ-harvesting or illegal-transplants operation. And my instinct is that this goes right to the top.”
“Okay, hang in there. I’m on my way back to Delhi to address the Global Security and Intelligence Conference. We can talk more when I arrive.”
“The one being held at Vigyan Bhawan?” asked Santosh.
“Precisely,” said Jack. “Grab a cab, pick me up from the airport, and we’ll chat in the car on the drive into town.”
“Will do. Just one small request in the meantime.”
“Shoot.”
“I need you to find out whether any American insurance companies encourage their customers to come to India,” said Santosh.
“For what?” asked Jack.
“For organ transplants or medical procedures,” replied Santosh. “It’s called medical tourism.”
“Anything else?” asked Jack.
“If any of them do encourage clients to have their procedures performed in India, then which ones? I’m particularly interested in one company: ResQ.”
Chapter 46
JACK MORGAN SAT at the round ink-black lacquered table in the octagonal “war room” of Private Los Angeles. Padded swivel chairs were clustered around the table, jumbo flat-screens mounted wall to wall.
Opposite sat the CEO of the National Association of Insurance Commissioners, headquartered in Kansas City—a man called Denny. Jack had helped him with several delicate investigations involving insurance frauds worth millions. Requesting Denny’s help that morning, he had not expected him to be in LA for a meeting, but as fortune would have it…
“So here’s the deal, Jack,” said the insurance man, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses to read from a folder on the table. “There is indeed an increasing trend to send American patients to India on account of the new super-specialty hospitals that have been established there. Doctors’ services are a fraction of the cost. In addition, postoperative
care is also cheap. Insurance providers can cut costs tremendously by doing this.”
“And clients are willing to travel halfway around the world for medical procedures?” asked Jack.
“Around a hundred and fifty thousand patients travel to India each year for medical procedures. The size of the industry is already around two billion dollars per year.”
“Any specific insurance companies that specialize in the India game?” asked Jack.
“Leading the pack in this effort is a company called ResQ,” said his friend. “It’s listed on the NASDAQ but their main operations are now in India. The name of their CEO is Jai Thakkar.”
Chapter 47
RAM CHOPRA SIPPED his morning coffee as he scanned the newspapers. In New Delhi, the commonly accepted joke was that the Times of India and the Indian Times were read by people who ran the government; the Hindustan Times and the Daily Express were read by people who thought they ought to run the government; the Indian Express was read by the people who used to run the government. The Mail Today was read by the wives of the people who ran the government. And The Hindu was read by people who thought the government ought to be run by another government. The readers of the Delhi Times weren’t bothered about who ran the government as long as the women on page three had big tits.
Chopra was almost unique because he read them all. His routine started with the mainstream dailies published in Delhi, followed by the morning dailies from outside Delhi. The tabloids came last. They were usually vulgar but utterly delicious.
His wife and daughter were asleep, both being late risers. Usually, Chopra enjoyed the solitude of his mornings with a cup of coffee and the first cigar of the day.
But not today. The butler had just poured him a second cup of arabica plucked from the plantations of Coorg when Chopra clumsily dropped the cup. It fell to the floor, the delicate china shattering to little pieces along with the rich brew. “Bastard!” shouted Chopra, crushing the offending tabloid page in his hand and flinging it across the table.
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