The Perplexing Theft of the Jewel in the Crown

by Vaseem Khan

  Once upon a time this skeletal structure had possibly dreamed of being a magnificent modern edifice, a leviathan of steel, concrete and glass. But that grand vision had barely got beyond the architect’s drawing board. The reality had stopped at these naked walls of grey, weather-ravaged cinderblock, walls with gaping hollows where windows, doors and even whole wall sections should have been. Rusted steel rebar poked out of crumbling columns like the ribs of desert-dried skeletons.

  A wind howled through the uppermost floors, which were open to the elements. A fire flickered on the top floor.

  Ganesha trotted into the building.

  Inside, he stopped and looked around. Between the mouldering twelve-foot-high walls, rusted I-beams and broken sections of concrete pipe were haphazardly strewn. Rubble and fallen masonry made little pyramids in darkened corners.

  Ganesha sniffed the air again. Then, following his nose, he turned and walked up a flight of shallow concrete steps to the floor above.

  He continued until he had reached the third floor. Here he paused and surveyed the scene.

  More grey columns rose up around him, holding up a temporary roof fashioned from corroded sheets of corrugated iron.

  And now there were the first signs of human habitation.

  The fire that he had seen from the ground was constrained inside a pit of bricks, the edges of the pit lined with the stumps of charred logs. The fire flickered in a cross-breeze that cut across the floor, which was open to the elements on all sides. Motes of red ash danced in the wind.

  A sudden blur of movement jerked Ganesha’s head around. He was just in time to see the shape of a small boy in ragged shorts and vest sprint through an open doorway into darkness.

  Ganesha trotted after him.

  He paused in the open doorway. Then he unfurled his trunk and sniffed. He could not see into the dark, but he could sense that a room lay ahead of him, one of the few intact rooms in the whole edifice. He sensed that Irfan had been there not long ago.

  He walked into the room.

  For a moment he stood in the gloom, allowing his eyes to adjust. And then he saw the rope, dangling down from a ragged hole in the far corner of the room’s crumbling ceiling. The rope was still swaying.

  Ganesha realised that the boy had shimmied up the rope and disappeared, but why?

  The little elephant turned in alarm… too late.

  The door clanged shut, and he heard a rusted steel bolt slide into place.

  For the second time that day, he was trapped.

  THE BBC REVEALED

  Chopra had once read a book by a noted Mughal scholar which suggested that until the Mughal emperors arrived on the subcontinent the word opulence held no meaning. The Persian descendants of the Timurid dynasty had redefined how royal incontinence was measured, cowing visitors to their imperial courts with stunning exhibitions of wealth and grandeur that, even by the standards of the day, elevated ostentation to new heights. This approach had culminated in the practice, first consecrated by Emperor Akbar, of distributing the grand mughal’s bodyweight in gold as alms to the poor each year.

  As they were led through the yacht Chopra could not help but think that in some ways the past was always to be found reflected in the present.

  The modern-day successors to the Mughal overlords – the great tycoons of globalised, industrialised India – remained faithful to the principles of their distant ancestors. After all, there was no point in being rich if you could not flaunt it.

  And yet, in spite of himself, Chopra could not help but marvel at the splendour of the floating palace within which he now found himself. Limitless vulgarity seemed to be the order of the day. Imported marble, walnut veneer, hand-tooled leather, Venetian crystal, priceless treasures from the art world – there seemed to be no end to the expense that had been lavished on The King’s Ransom.

  He wondered briefly what Gandhi would have made of it.

  While millions starved on the streets of India’s greatest city, there were some who could not live without a hundred-thousand-dollar bathroom suite.

  Eventually they entered a red-carpeted ballroom at one end of which was a bar stocked with an array of fine liquors. A barman in a white tuxedo served the forty or so male guests milling about the room. As Chopra looked around he saw that the face of each man was indeed partially concealed beneath a mask.

  A waiter materialised bearing a tray of drinks.

  Bomberton deftly plucked a champagne flute from the silver platter, threw it back in one go and remarked, ‘Château Lafite. Nothing but the best for this sort of skullduggery, eh, Chopra?’

  ‘Do not use my name,’ muttered Chopra. ‘Remember, we are in character.’

  ‘Damned nonsense,’ Bomberton growled. ‘We should just arrest the bloody lot of them. Hold them upside down by the ankles until the diamond drops out. If it’s actually here, of course.’

  Chopra ignored him.

  His eyes worked their way around the ballroom.

  Although the faces of the individuals were hidden, he believed that he recognised some of the men in the room. For instance, this gentleman with the silver-topped cane and the red-hennaed hair – surely that was the noted media magnate who had recently built a thirty-storey skyscraper as his private residence down in Cuffe Parade? And over there, the gentleman with the trademark black-and-white beard? Wasn’t that the Keralan steel tycoon now rumoured to be the seventh richest man in the world?

  ‘Knew a cat burglar once,’ continued Bomberton, cracking his knuckles savagely. ‘Had a fetish for diamond tiaras. I tracked him down to a little cottage in the Pyrenees. He had a bunch locked away in a safe. Took them out once a week so he could parade around in them wearing a dress. Just goes to show, you can never tell about people.’

  A sudden hush descended on the room.

  Chopra turned to see two men entering the ballroom, the first a tall, broad-shouldered figure in a black tuxedo, the second a portly gentleman with grey hair carrying a small strongbox handcuffed to his wrist. Both men wore masks yet Chopra felt the immediate hum of recognition as he watched the older man make his way across the carpet. Bulbul Kanodia!

  And there was something familiar too about the younger figure leading Kanodia into the room. The imposing physique; the square, cleft chin; the swarthy, pouting lips; the swept-back dark hair… Chopra couldn’t quite place him, but he was sure that he had seen this young man before.

  Eventually, the newcomers reached the bar, whereupon the taller of the two turned and held up his hands. He waited as the last murmurs of conversation died away and the serving staff melted from the room, closing the doors behind them.

  ‘Welcome, friends, welcome,’ boomed the man. ‘Let me begin by thanking you all for attending tonight’s gathering at such short notice. As I look around I see many old friends, and others who I am certain must be trusted acquaintances for, let us not forget, we are all brothers here today. What befalls one, befalls all.’ He paused to allow this not-so-concealed warning to sink in. ‘But let us not dwell on such trivialities. Let us instead talk about why we are here.

  ‘Tonight, gentlemen, we are gathered, we like-minded souls, to celebrate the latest and greatest achievement of the Bombay Billionaires Club. For those of you who are new to us, permit me to explain.

  ‘When I was a boy my favourite subject was history. It gave me the greatest pleasure to hear how the world that we know today was shaped. What struck me then was that history is not a matter of dates and dry facts. The history of the world is a living, breathing testament to the greatness of individuals.

  ‘What do I mean by this? A moment’s thought and it will become obvious. The history of the world is the history of great men. Those men who have, through their actions, through their influence, through their sheer force of will, shaped the future.

  ‘Of course, you all know the type I mean. The great kings of the past, the military strategists, the thinkers. Those who refuse to be shackled by the ordinariness that binds lesser men
. After all, it is a simple truth that most people are cowards, doomed to live and die without making the slightest mark on the world. Why, you only have to look around at our own dear country to see a multitude of them. They are there in every government office, on every street corner, in every gully and village of our land. And yet there are others, like all of you here, who have chosen not to accept such ignominy. Many years ago I too made that choice.’

  The tall youth paused momentarily, as if to allow his grandiose words to sink in.

  ‘Of all the great men of history my personal favourite is Alexander the Great. The boy-general who conquered the known world, even making it as far as our very own India. It will not surprise you to learn that Alexander’s success was founded on one simple trait of character – boldness! He took the risks that others balked at. And by so doing he achieved what others believed impossible.’ Another pause. ‘This, gentlemen, is the ethos of the Bombay Billionaires Club. We have shown that even the impossible is nothing if you have the courage to determine your own destiny.’

  The man turned and waved a hand at Bulbul Kanodia. ‘If you please.’

  Chopra felt his insides tighten. His hands clenched and unclenched anxiously as Kanodia set the strongbox on the bar, then removed a key from his pocket. He inserted the key into the strongbox, then waited as the taller man took a second key from his own tuxedo and inserted it into a lock on the opposite side of the box. The two men looked at each other before turning both keys simultaneously. The top of the strongbox split into two halves, each half swinging back to reveal an interior lined with red velvet.

  And there, nestled within a moulded compartment, something glittered beneath the ballroom chandeliers.

  The taller man reached into the box. With great reverence he took out the glittering object, then held it up triumphantly. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you… the Mountain of Light, the Koh-i-Noor!’

  A collective gasp was pulled from the throats of the rapt audience and then a wave of spontaneous applause swept around the room. A flush of exultation moved over the visible lower half of the speaker’s face.

  As the applause died down another immaculately dressed young man with slicked-back hair and a lantern jaw stepped forward from the crowd.

  ‘Well, Sunny, I have to take my hat off to you. I said it couldn’t be done, but you have made me eat my words.’ He reached into the breast pocket of his tuxedo with a manicured hand and fumbled out a leather wallet. ‘As per our wager, gentlemen, I will now hand over to my esteemed colleague, my childhood friend, and undisputed leader of the Bombay Billionaires Club, the princely sum of… one rupee!’

  He raised the crisp new banknote for everyone’s inspection and then handed it with great ceremony to the man he had addressed as ‘Sunny’. Then he performed a short bow with the theatrical flourish of a court dandy and retreated to the edges of the circle.

  And suddenly, in a flash, things came crashing together.

  Chopra now knew the identity of the young man holding the Koh-i-Noor. He had been wrestling with his memory ever since the youth had swaggered into the ballroom, but with the name ‘Sunny’ everything fell into place. The man holding the Koh-i-Noor must be Sunil ‘Sunny’ Kartik, only son of industrialist Mohan Kartik, billionaire owner of The King’s Ransom.

  Sunny Kartik seemed to be a permanent fixture on Mumbai’s celebrity scene, the subject of much scandalous gossip, a young man widely considered to be a wastrel of the first order. The prodigal fruit of Mohan Kartik’s loins, the junior Kartik spent more time on the front pages of the tabloids than in the boardroom of his father’s company. He was notorious for his profligate ways and his intermittent run-ins with the law, from which he was invariably rescued by the long reach of his father’s chequebook. Mohan Kartik appeared to dote on his only child. The consequences of such behaviour had always seemed clear to Chopra.

  Spare the rod and spoil the child – hadn’t he just seen an example of this very thing in the four would-be exam cheats at Poppy’s school?

  As he dwelt on Sunny Kartik’s career of well-heeled villainy, he realised that his memory had also subconsciously identified the youth who had presented Kartik with the one-rupee note – Faisal Hussain, another scion of a noted, wealthy Mumbai family, another young man known for his prodigal bent.

  The two were inseparable, the scourge of Mumbai’s jet set.

  He dwelt now on Faisal’s words: ‘the Bombay Billionaires Club’… So, the riddle of the ‘BBC’ had been solved. But what exactly was the Bombay Billionaires Club? What was its purpose?

  Sunny Kartik turned to the bar, picked up a champagne flute, drained it, then flung it against the wall. ‘Salut!’ he shouted, an extravagant smile appearing below his mask. ‘And now, gentlemen, the moment you have been waiting for. It is time for the evening’s business to begin.’

  ‘Let us not be so hasty,’ growled a very fat man to Chopra’s left who had been scowling as Sunny and Faisal performed their double act. ‘I for one would like to be reassured of the authenticity of the, ah, object before we proceed.’

  A chorus of ‘hear! hear!’s circled the room.

  ‘You do not trust me?’ Kartik said, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘I did not make my fortune by trusting people, sir,’ asserted the fat man pompously.

  Kartik pointed at Bulbul Kanodia. ‘My man here is a jewellery aficionado. He has certified the diamond.’

  ‘As you rightly say, sir, he is your man. Forgive me if I do not rush to touch his feet in gratitude.’

  There was a round of gentle laughter.

  ‘Then what do you suggest?’

  The fat man clicked his fingers and a much leaner gentleman in an oversized tuxedo materialised from behind him as if summoned forth by magic. The man blinked owlishly, putting those watching in mind of a creature of the dark suddenly exposed to the light.

  ‘I have taken the liberty of inviting my own expert along,’ declared the fat man. ‘Let us say that his name is Hirachand. He is one of the foremost diamond assessors in the Zhaveri Bazaar. I assume you have no objection…?’

  Kartik smiled menacingly. ‘Not at all.’

  The gaunt-faced assessor removed a jeweller’s loupe from his pocket and carefully screwed it into the right eyehole of his mask. He approached the bar, then held out his hand. Kartik made as if to hand over the diamond, then snatched it back. The predatory smile widened. Then he dropped the Koh-i-Noor into Hirachand’s palm.

  Hirachand held the diamond up to the light as he examined it. Then he unbuckled a tool-belt from beneath his jacket and placed it reverentially onto the bar. From this he extracted a pair of Vernier calipers and an electronic gemstone gauge before setting to work.

  Five minutes later, he returned the diamond to the strongbox.

  ‘Well?’ barked the fat man.

  ‘The cut, colour and clarity are consistent with descriptions of the Koh-i-Noor,’ declared Hirachand. ‘The diamond weighs 21.6 grams and has a carat weight of 105.6 metric carats. Both these measurements are in line with the known dimensions of the Koh-i-Noor.’ He paused, and then, in a dry, flat tone, said, ‘Gentlemen, it is my considered opinion that this piece is authentic. It is the Koh-i-Noor.’

  Another round of spontaneous applause engulfed the room.

  ‘Of course it is genuine,’ said Bulbul Kanodia crossly. ‘Did you take me for an amateur?’ He glared at the rival expert, took a handkerchief from his pocket and picked up the diamond, cradling it gently in the palm of his hand. He proceeded to buff it extravagantly before holding it up to the light. Satisfied with his efforts, he returned it to the strongbox.

  ‘Well then,’ said Sunny Kartik, sweeping the gathered notables with an imperious look, ‘let us not waste any more time. Gentlemen… where shall we start the bidding?’

  ‘I bid ten million US,’ barked the fat man immediately. Chopra noted that sweat had pooled on his upper lip in spite of the ballroom’s fierce air-conditioning. Naked greed makes men hot, he thought.
In the presence of that which they covet, their internal fires work overtime.

  ‘Ten million?’ someone shouted out. ‘For the Koh-i-Noor? Have you lost your marbles? Sunny, I’ll write you a bearer cheque for twenty right now.’

  This declaration of war set off a feeding frenzy as various bids, each more outlandish than the last, were thrown into the fray.

  Kartik listened, an amused smile on his face. Then he held up both hands, demanding silence. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, calm yourselves. Your offers, though generous, are also worthless. Have you forgotten our creed? None of us here are in need of more gold to pour into our ample coffers. I formed the Bombay Billionaires Club so that I might bring excitement to my life, not more wealth. Remember our manifesto! Like the nawabs of old, we stalwarts of the BBC constantly challenge each other with ever more inventive wagers. In this manner we keep things interesting. Stealing the Koh-i-Noor is merely the latest and greatest in our catalogue of achievements. Frankly, I would have preferred to retain the diamond as a souvenir, but I think that would be a little too tempting of fate, even for me. But please understand – it is not your money I am after. What I covet is something that I cannot attain for myself. Now, do any of you have such a prize? If not, you are wasting my time.’

  There was a thoughtful silence as the gathered moguls looked at each other in consternation.

  And then a tall man spoke up. ‘Last year I purchased a medieval castle set high in the Bavarian Alps. It is like something out of a fairy tale. There is no other castle like it in the world. It is yours in exchange for the Koh-i-Noor.’

  Kartik smiled. ‘Now that is more like it!’

  The fat man scowled at the taller gentleman, then said, ‘My garage houses the world’s finest collection of Rolls-Royces, over one hundred. Just tell me where to deliver them.’

  A short bald man who had been scratching his jowls whilst puffing furiously on a Cuban cigar now piped up. ‘I own the most coveted stable of Arabian stallions in Asia. Say the word, Sunny, and this year you will surely sit in the winner’s box at the Indian derby.’