He was using Tor, an abbreviation for “The Onion Router,” an anonymizing filter that could resolve addresses that could not be identified by a regular browser. These websites ended in .onion instead of .com or .org, and were in a constant state of flux so that they were never in a given place for too long.
It was pretty incredible what was on offer. The Hidden Wiki, a directory to all the illegal stuff, had 3,099 listings under drugs alone. In addition, you could find passport forgeries and fake driver’s licenses from around the world, firearms, counterfeit bills, contract hit men accepting fees in Bitcoin, human experimentation, child pornography, sex slaves, snuff films, and human organs. Neel felt sick to his stomach as he continued to explore.
On a thread that helped wannabe murderers, there was someone suggesting that dissolving a body in lye was the quickest way to dispose of it. The message board had other users contributing their own dark expertise to the knowledge forum. An active user seemed to indicate that 70 percent of the bones and teeth would remain if lye were used. He advised using acid to dissolve the remains. Yet another thread was entitled “Producing Kiddie Porn for Dummies.” This was the smelly underbelly of the World Wide Web that highlighted the greatest depravities of human nature.
Neel clicked into the organs marketplace and was dumbfounded to see a price list as though they were offering items from the daily specials of a restaurant:
Pair of eyes: $1,525
Scalp: $607
Skull with teeth: $1,200
Shoulder: $500
Coronary artery: $1,525
Heart: $119,000
Liver: $157,000
Hand and forearm: $385
Pint of blood: $337
Spleen: $508
Stomach: $508
Small intestine: $2,519
Kidney: $262,000
Gallbladder: $1,219
Skin: $10 per square inch
He scanned the comments below the price list. Someone had posted: “If you are reading this thread, it means that you are searching for a human organ for yourself or a loved one. Ignore all the crazy prices that are listed here. We can get you reliable donors at a fraction of the cost from India.” The seller was using the handle “Dr. O. S. Rangoon.” An Indian cell phone number accompanied the message.
Chapter 55
NISHA AND SANTOSH watched the five men working along the banks of the Yamuna river. They hefted heavy, soggy sheets on their heads and dumped them into a milky concoction of bleach, alum, and other compounds before giving them a final rinse in the river. Without this chemical rinse, the men knew they would never be able to get the filth out of the fabric because an extended soak in the effluent-laced river water would always leave a grimy patina on cloth.
The work had used to be much easier some years before. The river’s waters had been clean and had done most of the work. The overall increase in Indian prosperity had, ironically, reduced the prosperity of the dhobis. The washing machine had eaten into the business of dhobis but the men at the Yamuna had faced a double whammy owing to the degeneration of the river. Even hospitals were wary of sending their stuff to the Yamuna. Fear of infection from effluents had stopped most of the better ones. In previous years there would have been fifty men at work instead of five.
Santosh walked up to the group along with Nisha. “Terrible work these days,” he commented. One of them looked up wearily to see a man who looked as though his clothes had been washed by them in the river.
“It’s the only way we know how to keep hunger from our doors, sahib,” said the man. “Most households have given up on us. After a wash in the Yamuna, their garments are often returned reeking of sewage.”
“So how do you survive?” asked Santosh, leaning on his walking stick.
“The cloth sellers still need their fabric to be shrunk before tailoring,” replied the man. “In addition there are government hospitals that still send their bed linen to us.”
Santosh took out a five-hundred-rupee note from his wallet and handed it over to the man.
“What is this for, sahib?” asked the man. His colleagues also stopped their work, eyeing the money.
“It’s for all of you,” said Santosh. “Go have a good meal. It’s my good deed for the day. My good deed.”
“Thank you, sahib,” said the washerman. “May God bless you and the memsahib. If there is anything that I can ever be of help with…”
“Now that you mention it, there is something that you could help me with…” began Santosh. At Private, Neel had reconstructed a larger sample of hospital gown from the tiny fragment they’d been given. Santosh pulled it from his pocket…
Chapter 56
SANTOSH PICKED UP his phone. It was Neel. “Patel has been murdered,” said Neel. “It’s our boy, no doubt about it. His driver was killed and he was kidnapped from Delhi Golf Club then taken home. A housekeeper found what was left of the body this morning.”
“What do you mean, ‘what was left’?”
“He’d been eviscerated. The housekeeper found most of his internal organs nailed to a wall.”
“Most?”
“The heart was missing.”
“Certainly sounds like our man,” said Santosh.
“So we can assume that Patel was an enemy of the organ-harvesting operation?”
“We never assume, Neel.”
“True,” replied Neel. “You want to visit the crime scene?”
“Better that I stay away,” replied Santosh. “No point getting Sharma all worked up. In any case, I have a meeting at noon.”
“You want me to go instead?” asked Neel.
“That would be good,” replied Santosh. “Oh, one more thing, Neel.”
“Yes?”
“That hospital gown came from Delhi Memorial Hospital. Chances are that most of the bodies were from there. Everything seems to be adding up, given that it’s the closest hospital to the Greater Kailash house and the black van seen there was owned by Arora, their chief surgeon.”
“Your hunch turned out right,” said Neel.
“Any luck with the online search?” asked Santosh.
“The biggest supplier from India seems to be a Dr. O. S. Rangoon. I’m searching various databases to find if someone matches up.”
“What did you say the name was?”
“Dr. O. S. Rangoon.”
“Don’t bother with an online or directory search,” said Santosh.
“Why?” asked Neel.
“Dr. O. S. Rangoon is simply an anagram of ‘organ donors.’ Try tracing the cell phone number instead.”
Chapter 57
SANTOSH MADE HIS way to his appointment on foot, partly savoring the heart of Delhi as he moved through the streets, partly thinking about the case.
He passed newspaper vendors and cast his eye over headlines. Patel’s murder dominated the front pages, of course—no attempts made at suppression or spin there—and one or two of the newspapers had linked his death with that of Kumar.
Suddenly a free-sheet was thrust into his hand. They were being handed out by a young man who walked on swiftly, moving against the tide of pedestrian traffic and giving out leaflets to whoever would take them. The leaflet showed pictures of Kumar and Patel, doctored with bloodstains, and the headline: “RIP THE ‘GREAT’ AND THE ‘GOOD.’ ”
Santosh caught sight of a police car in the road and watched the young agitator shove his pamphlets into a backpack and melt into the crowd. He pocketed his own, moving on, wondering about the mood in the city.
There was no doubting the mood at the building occupied by ResQ Insurance. Fear and paranoia ruled over a reception area that teemed with security guards. Santosh passed through a metal detector where his cane was inspected—not very efficiently: the blade inside remained undiscovered—and then he was approached by a guard wielding a wand of some kind.
Finally he made his way in the elevator up to the seventeenth floor of the steel-and-glass tower. Five floors of the building were entirely
occupied by ResQ Insurance, a company that had built its fortune by taking advantage of lower health care costs in India.
Founded by two brothers from Cleveland, ResQ had originally started out as a third-party administrator for the large insurance companies that found it more efficient to allow an outsider to process claims and perform other administrative services. Given that back-office tasks were easily outsourced to India, ResQ had built up a strong team in Gurgaon. At that time the company had been known by a different name.
The company’s NYU-educated CEO, Jai Thakkar, had realized India presented an opportunity to offer medical insurance at significantly lower premiums, and he had succeeded in putting together an investor consortium to buy out the founders. He had changed the name of the company and then put into action his plan to offer low American insurance premiums linked to medical services in India. Thakkar’s idea had worked wonders and ResQ was now one of the most profitable insurance companies in the U.S., with the bulk of its operations in India even though the majority of its customers lived in America.
Santosh exited the elevator on the seventeenth floor and entered a world of soft carpets, deep leather sofas, and understated elegance. He felt slightly intimidated, partly owing to his disheveled appearance.
He passed another security check. Two more armed guards with wands. This time he was asked if he was able to walk without the cane. He agreed that he was. In that case, could he collect it after his meeting with Mr. Thakkar?
Next came Thakkar’s secretary, who surveyed him with a snooty air then led him through corridors to a large corner office with views of the other towers in the business district.
Thakkar was on the phone but hung up when he saw Santosh enter. He rose from behind his desk to shake Santosh’s hand. “I had a call from Denny, the CEO of the National Association of Insurance Commissioners, saying that I had to see you,” he said, friendly enough.
Santosh nodded. “Thank you for meeting me,” he said as he sat. “I was hoping you could help me understand the economics of medical tourism.”
He glanced at the credenza that ran along one side of Thakkar’s desk. On it was a photograph of Thakkar along with Mohan Jaswal. “Where was that taken?” he asked.
“NYU alumni meet,” replied Thakkar, the word “alumni” like the buzzing of a bee due to his nasal twang. “Both of us attended but many years apart. He went first to attend a program on journalism during the period that he was posted there by the Indian Times. I earned my MBA from NYU several years later. We became friends because of the alumni association.”
Santosh kept his expression neutral, not wanting to register a reaction. Thinking, Thakkar and Jaswal. Friends.
Thakkar looked like the typical Indian-American on Wall Street. Well educated, groomed, and urbane. Indian residents deridingly called them ABCDs—“American-Born Confused Desis,” the word “desi” implying Indian descent. Thakkar’s parents had moved from Delhi to America in the seventies but there were enough family ties in Delhi for him to call it home.
“So, coming back to my question,” said Santosh, “I was wondering whether American clients come to India simply on account of lower prices for procedures or because they are able to obtain vital transplant organs that they would be unable to procure back home.”
Thakkar’s face fell. He recovered quickly, though. He was used to dealing with difficult questions from the press and the regulators. “India has become a preferred destination because of the excellent doctors, modern infrastructure, plentiful and qualified nursing staff, and lower prices. Recent technology upgrades and modernization of facilities have made India’s hospitals very attractive to foreign clients.”
Thakkar’s cell phone began to ring. He looked at the number flashing on the screen. “Excuse me for a minute,” he said, getting up from his chair. “This one is urgent.” He gestured for Santosh to remain seated while he took the call in the adjoining conference room.
Santosh got up as soon as Thakkar left and walked over to the desk phone. Looked at the last call, memorized the number, and then texted Neel to run a trace on it. Then he went back to his chair, sat down, and waited for Thakkar.
“I have just one more question to ask,” he said when Thakkar returned.
“Fire away,” smiled Thakkar.
“Why have you beefed up security in the building? Not frightened, by any chance, are you, Mr. Thakkar?”
The smile slid from Thakkar’s face for good. Shortly afterward, Santosh was shown from the office.
Chapter 58
GALI PARANTHE WALI was a narrow street in the Chandni Chowk area of Delhi that was famous for the multitude of shops selling parathas—or stuffed bread, a culinary favorite of North India.
Nisha found herself in a shop no bigger than a closet, along with one of her college friends, Abha, now a senior columnist for a tabloid. She wrote the lifestyle column.
Abha, a strikingly beautiful Punjabi woman, ordered parathas for both of them without bothering to consult Nisha. They quickly sat down on two of the empty chairs in the shop and waited for their lunch.
Nisha would have preferred to meet at the newspaper’s editorial office but Abha was researching an article on the street food of Delhi and had requested Nisha tag along. Nisha had obliged. Not because she particularly savored the food but because Abha always knew the latest gossip in Delhi. Which businessman was down on his luck, which man or woman was having an extramarital affair, which politician had indulged in an outrageously corrupt deal…there was nothing she wasn’t up to date on.
Their food arrived. Stuffed with potato, peas, and cauliflower, the piping-hot breads were served along with sweet tamarind and mint chutney. Abha tucked in. How does she manage to look so good with all that junk going into her? wondered Nisha.
“What’s the matter?” asked Abha, stuffing another delectable morsel in her mouth with her glossy-pink-nail-polished fingers. “Why aren’t you eating?” Nisha reluctantly took a bite.
Nisha continued nibbling as they chatted. First about themselves, then their kids, and then the entire world. The conversation veered to politics. “What’s happening in Delhi these days?” asked Nisha.
“The Lieutenant Governor is pissed off.”
“Why?” asked Nisha.
“It seems that Chopra’s daughter was engaged to Jai Thakkar, the CEO of that insurance company ResQ. The creep broke off the engagement after a few romps in bed with her.”
“Big deal,” said Nisha, licking tamarind chutney off her fingers. “It’s quite common these days to have terminated affairs and broken engagements.”
“True,” said Abha. “But Chopra is old school. You know, ‘family honor’ and all that. He’s vowed to set Thakkar right. You watch—that Thakkar will get into trouble one of these days. He’s been going around town bad-mouthing Chopra and his daughter. News is that Chopra sent him a chopped-off tongue as warning. I did a little snippet for the paper without mentioning names the other day.”
“Thakkar is quite powerful himself, right?” asked Nisha. “I’m told that ResQ is among the most profitable insurance companies in the States. He was on Guha’s Carrot and Stick the other night.”
“True, but you can’t live in Delhi and piss off the Lieutenant Governor. For the life of me, I can’t understand people these days. And that Ajoy Guha is another thing—he’s like a leech. Once he latches on he doesn’t let go of the story until he’s sucked every drop out.”
“Committed, eh?” offered Nisha.
“He lives for it. I don’t think he has much else. Tragic marriage,” said her friend. “The show is the perfect outlet for him to vent all his frustrations. There are also some pretty unsavory rumors about that new Health Secretary, Amit Roy. So high and mighty, yet the word is that he likes them young…”
Chapter 59
AMIT ROY STOOD in the wings of the school assembly hall, tired after what had been one of the best nights of his life. Images of the terrified girl still vividly played on a loop inside h
is head and he felt, not just euphoric, but exalted somehow, sensing a change within himself, as though his disconnection from a society that despised his kind was at last complete. What happened to him now was an irrelevance. He was at one with himself.
Oh, but first, there was this rather boring duty to attend to. Prizegiving at the Vasant Valley School. Yawn.
On stage, the principal made his announcement. “We have a special guest with us today. Mr. Amit Roy is the Principal Secretary in Delhi’s Health Department, and he is here to tell you about how each one of you can contribute toward making Delhi a healthier city. Please welcome him with a round of applause.”
Roy walked on, adjusted the microphone to his height, and spoke, his Adam’s apple bouncing. “I am delighted to be here today in order to award the prize for the best essay on the topic ‘Delhi’s Health: Is It Only the Government’s Problem?’ We received over five thousand submissions from across schools in Delhi but the winning one was from Vasant Valley, so you should be very proud of your school.”
He waited for the applause to die down and then spoke briefly about air pollution, availability of clean water, sanitation, and all the other difficulties the country’s capital was still grappling with, and what ordinary folks could possibly do to play a positive role.
“And that brings me to the end of my talk,” he said, eyes scanning the room. “I shall now announce the winner of the state essay competition.”
The children waited with bated breath. After all, the winner was one among them.
“And the winner, for her essay entitled ‘Health Care, Fair and Square?’, is Maya,” said Roy. “Maya Gandhe.”
He stood back as the auditorium erupted in applause, and from the crowd stood Maya Gandhe.
And the moment he saw her, Amit Roy decided this event wasn’t such a drag after all.
Chapter 60
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