by Vaseem Khan
The boy’s gaze alighted on Chopra. He hesitated, then ran forward and flung his arms around him. At first stunned, Chopra finally felt his own arms moving to embrace the boy. A knot of emotion bobbed in his throat.
‘How are you, boy?’ he said, finally.
Irfan wiped his eyes with the curved back of his malformed left hand. ‘I am not crying,’ he said. ‘I have been cutting onions for Chef.’
Chopra smiled. ‘Is Ganesha asleep?’
Irfan shook his head. ‘No. He is waiting for you.’
‘Then let us not keep him waiting.’
Ganesha was standing under his mango tree playing with a series of red balls that jangled as he moved them about with his trunk. Chopra recognised them as the ones used by blind cricket players.
The elephant turned as Chopra approached, then trotted forward and butted him in the midriff, almost knocking him off his feet. Having recovered from this violent demonstration of affection, Chopra knelt down and looked the little elephant squarely in the eye. ‘I am very sorry that I was not there to protect you,’ he said. ‘It will never happen again.’
In this Chopra was merely stating a fact. It was one of the concessions he had wrung from the Chief Minister in return for his cooperation in the expansive exercise of backside-covering that was now underway in the halls of Mumbai’s civic administration.
There would be no more visits from Pramod Kondvilkar or his ilk, of that he could be certain.
Ganesha bugled his understanding, then turned back to his game.
Rangwalla coughed behind Chopra. ‘So what happens now? With the Koh-i-Noor case, I mean?’
‘Now? Now they will search the harbour until they either find the diamond or give up.’
‘They will never give up. The British won’t allow it.’
‘Maybe not. In the meantime, Kartik has been released on bail. He is confined to his home. His lawyers are already claiming that he is the victim of a conspiracy. Without the diamond it is going to be an uphill struggle to convict him.’
‘What about Kanodia?’
‘Kanodia is in big trouble. Kartik has blamed everything on him. The Commissioner’s informants are saying that even the Chauhan gang has disowned him. I think Kanodia will end up taking the fall. It does not matter that Bomberton and I have testified against Kartik as the real mastermind behind the plot. Everyone wants Kanodia to be the scapegoat. Everyone needs him to be the scapegoat.’ Chopra’s expression was morose.
‘Well, at least he got to hold the Koh-i-Noor,’ said Rangwalla, his tone bordering on the wistful.
‘Yes,’ said Chopra, recalling how lovingly Kanodia had cradled the Koh-i—
He froze. A thought burst into his mind like a new sun igniting inside a nebula.
‘Rangwalla, get the van. We are going to Seven Roads.’
‘But what about your supper?’ said Poppy.
‘It will have to wait.’
BULBUL KANODIA COMES CLEAN
‘The door is open, sir. You may go inside.’
Chopra gave the guard a stern look. It was the same man that he had threatened when he had come here in a rage, certain that Garewal had lied to him. The guard grinned queasily. Word had obviously been passed down from on high that he should extend every courtesy to his visitor. The guard was probably wondering if Chopra would use his newfound influence to have him removed from his post.
It was, after all, his third visit to Mumbai Central Prison in the space of a few days.
Bulbul Kanodia did not rise from the hard contours of his bunk to greet him. Dark-circled eyes looked out from a slack face at the bare ceiling above. His arms lay flat by the sides of his large belly. In his white prison suit, he looked like a corpse laid out for holy cremation.
‘What do you want?’ he finally asked.
‘I need to ask you a question,’ replied Chopra.
‘Haven’t you done enough? Because of you I am ruined.’
Chopra had heard this lament many times during his career. A captured criminal laying the blame for his predicament on the men who had brought him to justice.
‘Why did you do it?’ asked Chopra. ‘You are a wealthy man. You are not chasing excitement like Kartik and his friends. So why?’
‘You could not possibly understand.’
Chopra fell silent, waiting. He sensed that Kanodia had a wish to talk, a wish to confide in someone, even the man who had brought him down.
Kanodia shifted his vacant stare to his feet. ‘It was the diamond. I wanted to touch the diamond. To hold it in my hand. Since before I could walk I have worked with precious stones. My family come from a long line of gemworkers. The Koh-i-Noor is a legend to us. I never thought that I would have the opportunity to see it with my own eyes, let alone touch it.’
Chopra’s mouth lifted in the tightest of smiles. ‘Is that why you stole it?’
A heartbeat of time ticked away.
‘I did not steal it. Sunny Kartik stole it.’
‘And then you stole it from him.’
Finally, Kanodia looked at Chopra. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I have come for the diamond, Bulbul. I know that you have it.’
Kanodia’s eyes narrowed. ‘You are mistaken. The Koh-i-Noor is lying at the bottom of Mumbai harbour. It may never be found again.’
‘You are right, Bulbul. That Koh-i-Noor will never be found. Even if it is, it will be worthless. Because you and I both know that it is a fake.’
‘I believe you were present when it was authenticated by an expert.’
‘I was,’ agreed Chopra. ‘Which is why I saw you reach into your pocket for a handkerchief to clean it after he had touched it. That was when you made the switch. You never had any intention of letting Kartik sell the diamond. From the moment he brought you into his plan, you knew what you were going to do.’
Kanodia swung his legs down from the bunk and heaved himself to his feet. His eyes seemed to glitter in the dim light of the cell. ‘You are fantasising, Chopra. You caught the thieves, but lost the diamond. Be content with that.’
‘I cannot. Not while I know you have it.’ Chopra stepped forward until he was standing only inches from Kanodia. ‘You have a child. You have a wife. You have a life that you can return to. If you give back the diamond and testify against Kartik you will receive a very light sentence. If you do not they will lock you up and throw away the key.’
Kanodia was silent. Chopra could see conflicting emotions warring in the jeweller’s haggard face.
‘It is just a diamond.’
‘It is the Koh-i-Noor,’ whispered Kanodia.
‘Is it worth the rest of your life?’
Kanodia stared at Chopra and then he turned away. He paced the cell in agitation, and then stood with his back to Chopra, staring at the bleak wall. Finally, he spoke: ‘I hid the diamond on the yacht.’
‘Then it must still be there,’ said Chopra. ‘The yacht has been impounded since we arrested you. It is moored in the Indira dock, strictly off limits.’
Kanodia unleashed a bray of laughter. ‘That does not mean it is inaccessible. The guards you have placed on the yacht are no more honest than the next man.’
‘Are you saying that you have had the diamond removed from The King’s Ransom?’ Chopra grimaced. ‘Did you give it to the Chauhan gang?’
Kanodia bared his teeth. ‘You have no idea, do you?’ He shook his head. ‘Have you ever met Chauhan? He is no fool. His men befriended me in prison – on his orders. He saved my life. Why do you think he did that? It was because he saw potential in me.’
‘So I was right in thinking that Chauhan bankrolled your jewellery stores.’
‘He is an investor just like any other. Where his capital comes from is his business, not mine. I am a jeweller. That is what I do.’
‘Was Chauhan the real mastermind behind the theft of the Koh-i-Noor?’
‘Didn’t you hear what I said? The Koh-i-Noor is a poisoned chalice. Chauhan is too smart to drink from
it. Why do you think he has yet to see the inside of a jail cell?’
Chopra’s brow furrowed in confusion. ‘Then how is the gang involved?’
‘Sunny Kartik has many friends in low places. He put the word out that he was looking for professional help, the sort of help that a man like Chauhan could provide. He made contact with Chauhan through an intermediary. He explained what he was planning. It wasn’t that Chauhan hadn’t dreamed of stealing the Koh-i-Noor; no doubt every criminal in the country has had delusions of grandeur since the exhibition was announced. But he was not so stupid as to throw in his lot with Sunny. Chauhan thought Kartik was a rich fool on a fool’s errand. And yet he didn’t refuse him, either. He wanted to see if Kartik would actually try to do what he had said he would. In some ways Sunny fascinates a man like Chauhan.’
‘So Chauhan had his eyes on the diamond all along. He just didn’t want to get his own hands dirty.’
‘You’re not getting me, Chopra,’ said Bulbul irritably. ‘Chauhan wanted nothing to do with the Koh-i-Noor. He knew that if the diamond was stolen, he would be one of the first people the authorities would look at. If a single rumour spread that he was holding the Koh-i-Noor his whole organisation would be in jeopardy. He couldn’t bribe or bully his way out of something like that. Kartik, on the other hand – by virtue of his father’s political connections – might just slip through the net. No, Chauhan never wanted the diamond.’
‘You expect me to believe Chauhan helped Kartik out of the goodness of his heart?’
‘Of course not. He is a practical man. He asked for his price. A “consultancy fee”, he called it. One million dollars, U.S. In return he helped source the things Kartik needed – from an appropriate distance, of course. The gas canisters, the explosives, the computer virus. He hired professionals from down south to plant the crown in Garewal’s home, moved funds into his account through the gang’s overseas hawala operation. And, of course, he provided me. Aside from authenticating the diamond, I was also to keep tabs on Kartik. To make sure he didn’t do something foolish that implicated Chauhan.’
‘Whose idea was the auction?’
‘Sunny’s. Chauhan was very unhappy about that. He never expected Kartik to actually pull off the robbery. Once he did, he wanted Sunny to return the diamond immediately. That way the heat would come off. There would be no chance of any of this coming back to him. Of course, as soon as Sunny told me about the auction I got the idea to take the Koh-i-Noor for myself.’
‘You intended to cheat both Kartik and Chauhan,’ said Chopra matter-of-factly. ‘A double double-cross.’
Bulbul shrugged. ‘Sunny deserved everything he got. As for Chauhan… Like I said, he wanted us to return the diamond.’
‘But you did not return it, did you?’
Another yawning silence. ‘It is the Koh-i-Noor,’ Kanodia said softly. ‘I could not.’
‘Tell me where it is, Bulbul. Let me help you.’
Kanodia turned and looked at Chopra, his eyes heavy with a strange sadness. It wasn’t greed, thought Chopra. It was something else; a madness, a crazed sort of love, for an idea. The idea of the Koh-i-Noor.
Then Kanodia reached out and gripped Chopra’s forearm. ‘Promise me! Promise me that you will get me out of here.’
‘I can make no promises.’
‘You have to promise me!’
Chopra hesitated. ‘I promise that I will do the best that I can. I will speak on your behalf. I will ask for clemency. That is all I can do.’
Kanodia turned away. He was silent for a long time. Finally, he said, ‘Before the police unit arrived on the yacht, I asked the English detective if I could use the facilities. There is a toilet at the rear of the ballroom. I hid the Koh-i-Noor inside the cistern. I knew they would not search the yacht, not once they discovered Kartik had already fled with the diamond.’
Chopra nodded grimly. ‘Thank you.’
‘Go,’ said Kanodia. ‘And may God go with you.’
A PRIVATE AUDIENCE FOR GANESHA
As the lift whirred to a halt Chopra was overcome by a sudden quiver of anxiety. The anxiety had churned inside his stomach since that morning when the unexpected phone call had invited him to the British High Commission in Mumbai. The caller, a senior factotum of some description, had been tight-lipped, refusing to divulge the exact nature of the summons whilst simultaneously impressing upon Chopra the necessity of his attendance. He had revealed only that the British High Commissioner was hosting a New Year’s dinner and that Chopra was invited en famille.
Chopra glanced at his wife, standing beside him in a flutter of nervous energy. ‘Do I look OK?’ she asked him for the umpteenth time.
Chopra nodded reassuringly.
Poppy was resplendent in a brand-new sari, a spectacular maroon affair with silver trim and imprinted with whorls reminiscent of spiral galaxies. Her dark hair, newly sculpted into a modern, shoulder-length style – the result of an emergency visit to Laila Beg’s Beauty Emporium – was immaculate.
Chopra was once again wearing his only suit.
Poppy had harangued him to purchase a new one, but he had refused. ‘This suit has been good enough for every important occasion in the past fifteen years,’ he had said sternly. ‘It will be good enough for today.’
But now, as he stared at the back of the security officer who had led them through the imposing glass skyscraper in the elite Bandra-Kurla Complex where the High Commission offices were located, he wondered if, perhaps, for once, he should have listened to his wife.
The doors of the lift slid open and the officer, a tall, white male with a blond military haircut, leaped out into the corridor, brandishing his automatic pistol. He spun in both directions, as if he were in a Bollywood blockbuster, then straightened and spoke into his earpiece, the coiled white cable of which Chopra could see disappearing beneath his collar. ‘This is Rogers to Station 1. Corridor is clear. Over.’
A tinny voice came back. ‘Roger, Rogers. You are cleared to proceed. Over.’
Rogers turned and ushered them briskly into the deserted corridor.
They trotted after him towards a set of double doors, outside which were stationed two armed security officers in black military fatigues. Behind the doors, a babble of conversation and music could be heard.
A brief exchange followed and the guards stepped aside.
The first thing Chopra saw was the sweating presence of Detective Chief Inspector Maxwell Bomberton standing beneath a colossal Christmas tree with a glass of what looked like whisky in his enormous fist. He was wearing a brand-new but ill-fitting suit with a tie that seemed halfway to strangling him. His face gleamed as if it had been newly scrubbed and his few wisps of remaining hair had been neatly lacquered over his shining pate. His gruff moustache lifted into the ghost of a smile as he spotted Chopra.
Chopra’s eyes fell on the man Bomberton had been speaking to, a tall, thin gentleman in an immaculate pinstriped suit with a head of distinguished grey hair and avuncular features. He looked vaguely familiar, though Chopra couldn’t quite place him.
Around the room sixty or seventy people in evening finery milled around drinking champagne and eating canapés, whilst an orchestral band played ‘Carol of the Bells’.
Bomberton’s companion spotted them and waved enthusiastically. ‘Chopra! Delighted that you could make it. Robert Mallory at your service. Please step this way.’
Mallory, Mallory… Now Chopra knew who he was: the new British High Commissioner to India.
But why had Mallory invited them here this evening?
They followed the High Commissioner in mystification as he led them through the throng of urbane revellers and into an oak-panelled office.
Inside the office a short white man was busily organising manila folders on the gargantuan desk behind which a portrait of Queen Elizabeth II had been artfully hung.
‘Reginald, it is New Year’s Eve,’ said Mallory. ‘You should be out there getting drunk, not fiddling with files.’
>
‘I don’t drink, sir,’ said Reginald calmly.
‘Well, I order you to go and have some fun, man.’
‘I had some fun last year,’ said Reginald.
Mallory shook his head in mock exasperation, then turned to Chopra and Poppy.
‘And this must be your lovely wife?’
Chopra’s mouth opened, but he could not think of a suitable beginning. He turned to his wife.
For the first time in living memory, however, Poppy was utterly lost for words.
‘What is your name, my dear?’
Eventually Poppy cleared her throat. ‘Poppy, sir.’
‘Poppy? I once had a nanny called Poppy. Well, that wasn’t her name, but that’s what we christened her. She always had one in her buttonhole, you see – a poppy, that is. Lost her young man in the Great War. Never remarried… Of course, she did not own such a splendid garment as the one you are wearing. Goodness, what a lovely sari. One is almost tempted to drape the old ball and chain in one.’
Poppy smiled uncertainly, wondering exactly what the Commissioner meant by ‘ball and chain’. She glanced at Chopra for inspiration.
‘Come and sit down,’ Mallory continued. ‘Have a cup of chai with me. You too, Chopra.’
‘I prefer to stand, sir.’
The Commissioner nodded. ‘I thought you might. I couldn’t persuade young Bomberton here to sit down either.’
Poppy flung her husband another anxious look before advancing to the desk. She gently lowered herself into the Edwardian leather armchair. A silver serving trolley stood by the desk on which was arrayed a sumptuous tea.
‘Pour me another cup of that lovely cardamom tea, will you, Poppy? And perhaps I will have another of those delicious, er, what are they called, Reginald?’
‘I believe they are commonly referred to as “masala idlis”, sir.’
‘Ah, yes. Masala idlis. I must confess one is becoming quite addicted to them.’ Mallory turned to Chopra. ‘Well, Chopra, young Bomberton here advises me that we owe you a debt of gratitude. For recovering the Koh-i-Noor, I mean.’