Uday had told him to think like Babloo. ‘Get inside his head. Why do you want to come back? You know you could be jailed for life on past crimes alone. What is your motivation?’
For three weeks, Mayank had asked himself the same question. He was no closer to an answer.
‘I
liked your report on the cricket-betting syndicate,’ Vikram said to Abhishek.
‘I just put down what you gave in the press release, sir,’ Abhishek replied, surprised at the compliment.
‘Boss, that is more than you can ask of reporters these days,’ Vikram snorted.
Abhishek was at the police PRO’s office, waiting to be called in for a meeting with the police commissioner; an honour accorded to few fledgling reporters. He knew that his predecessor’s reputation had much to do with this privilege. Abhishek had been surprised when Vivek had taken him aside three days earlier to advise him on how to use the opportunity. ‘Don’t treat it as a PR exercise. Get the upper hand,’ he had explained.
Amir’s only advice, while agreeing to allow Abhishek to cover crime, had been to keep his trap shut. Agreeing was perhaps not the word – Amir Akhtar had been forced, blackmailed almost, into letting the boy have his way, and Abhishek knew he would not be able to repeat the madness that had gripped him in Amir’s office. It had got him the job, but also earned the ire of the man he most wanted to please.
‘I’ll tell everyone that Babloo Shankar is coming back,’ he had blurted out after the chief reporter had contemptuously dismissed his request for covering crime. Perhaps it was the unpredictability, the hint of machismo, which had swayed Amir. ‘He must know that I don’t have the balls,’ the young man thought.
Yet, here he was, twelve days after first walking into the office of the Express, waiting to meet Delhi’s most senior policeman.
‘I am a bit surprised that the commissioner is meeting you,’ Vikram said to Abhishek. ‘Given what happened the other day with the cricket comment, he is pretty upset with the press.’
‘Why, what happened, sir?’
‘Oh, don’t ask.’ Vikram shook his head before continuing, ‘Three weeks back, an old couple was murdered at their south Delhi residence. The press went to town with it – saturation coverage. A day later, this television reporter, new chap, cornered the commissioner and asked him for an update. Boss got irritated and snapped that police investigations are not a cricket match that you can keep giving live updates. The channel used the byte to suggest that the police equate murders to cricket matches. Others picked it up, and soon it seemed like we were playing cricket in the afternoons while murderers roamed Delhi’s streets looking for victims.’
Abhishek laughed. Vikram Singh had a way of putting things that made you complicit in his indignation.
‘We got the murderer three days later. The story was buried on page four and television reports just about mentioned it. That’s our press.’
It was Abhishek’s turn to shake his head.
An attendant came in to inform them that the commissioner was ready to meet Abhishek.
Commissioner V. N. Pratap was poring over a file on a desk at the end of an enormous room when Abhishek knocked. With a quick upward glance, he waved the reporter in. ‘Please sit,’ he said. ‘I’ll just take a minute.’
This must have been the largest room Abhishek had ever entered. And definitely the most powerful. He sat on the edge of a well-upholstered chair, trying not to look nervous.
‘Good afternoon, Abhishek-ji. Sorry to have kept you waiting.’ Pratap’s voice was as warm and friendly as his smile.
‘Not at all, sir,’ Abhishek replied, overawed.
‘So, what can we do for you?’ The commissioner took off his reading glasses and sat back in his chair.
‘Sir, I am just starting off on the crime beat and thought it would be a good idea to meet you. That’s why I placed the request.’
‘Yes, of course. My door is always open for journalists, and you have Vikram Singh, of course, for any immediate queries. Is this your first job? You look very young.’
On his own turf, Pratap was adept at dealing with young reporters and Abhishek, he quickly surmised, was a rookie. This would not take long. He was careful, however, not to appear dismissive and patiently went through the spiel he reserved for newcomers: The police were public servants and were certainly accountable to the press. The fourth estate was doing an important job and he had the highest respect for it. If the police were wrong – as they often were – it was the duty of the press to pull them up, but the media too must cross-check facts before broadcasting or publishing them. They also had a duty towards their readers and viewers. Pratap smiled at the polite young man drinking his tea, and decided that their meeting was over.
‘I am sorry, Abhishek, but I do have to get on now. I am really glad to see young people like you venturing into journalism, and I’m always available.’ Pratap’s mind was already drifting.
‘Thank you very much, sir. I am very grateful for your support,’ Abhishek said, adding, ‘I was just wondering if I could get a quote from you for a story.’
‘Yes, of course. Go ahead.’ The commissioner was busy checking messages on his mobile phone.
‘Sir, the Delhi Police security wing has not employed a single person of Sikh origin since 1984, after Prime Minister Indira Gandhi was assassinated by her Sikh bodyguards. It seems that there was an unwritten missive from the home ministry about this.’ Pratap’s eyes were now fixed on him and Abhishek felt increasingly nervous. ‘Is this true and if it is, isn’t it unconstitutional?’ He finished his question in a rush, embarrassed and surprised at of his own audacity, and forced himself to meet the police commissioner’s gaze.
The smug, patronizing look had vanished. Vivek was right, he thought; he had the man’s attention.
A hesitant smile now played on Pratap’s lips. ‘I don’t know about this,’ he finally managed to say. ‘I’ll definitely check and get back to you.’
‘Sir, we are running the story tomorrow. My first story … I hope you understand. So if you can just find out … I can wait.’
One of the phones on the desk rang.
‘Yes? Ask them to sit,’ Pratap snapped. ‘Abhishek, you are new to the profession and, of course, will quickly understand.’ He tried to sound brisk and in command. ‘There are some things that are just not written about, you see. Sometimes, in the interest of the nation, we ask the press for embargoes on certain matters.’
‘My editor has approved the story, sir, and I have been asked to get a comment from you,’ Abhishek replied, sticking to what Vivek had told him to say. Abhishek’s admiration for his senior colleague grew as he watched Pratap’s reaction.
‘Okay, Abhishek, I am older than you and I’ll ask you for a favour. We must be together on this.’
The young man wondered at how quickly equations change. The police commissioner of Delhi was invoking age as a shield against a novice reporter.
‘I must request you – no, ask you – not to do this story.’
Abhishek tried to say something, but the policeman put his hand up. ‘Look, you have years ahead of you. Having the police commissioner as your friend is an advantage. Ask any of your colleagues. I’ll assure you open access to this office.’
Vivek had cautioned him against prolonging the moment of victory. ‘Sir, if it is your wish, of course I cannot do the story. The problem will be explaining this to the office,’ Abhishek said gracefully.
‘Your office has intelligent people. Tell Amir it’s a personal request from me. He’ll understand. But in the meantime, is there anything I can do for you?’
Abhishek thought for a while and then hesitantly said, ‘Sir, I would like to meet Uday Kumar.’
‘But of course.’ Pratap was relieved. ‘He’s an excellent officer. I’ll call him this evening.’
As he stood up to shake hands with the commissioner, Abhishek made sure that he appeared grateful.
5
I
&
nbsp; mran observed her as she stood at the window taking photographs of the street below. She clicked several times before turning back to him. The subtlety of her transformations always unnerved him. They were never drastic, a change in gait perhaps or in her manner of speech, but she certainly seemed different today. No longer the coy housewife he had seen her play to the landlord just moments ago, she had returned to the steely professional he knew.
‘This is a good location,’ she said. ‘The hotel next door is ideal. Makes us less noticeable.’
Imran was gladdened by the praise. It had taken him two weeks to find the right place, and before settling on it, she had made him drive between the property and a farmhouse in Mehrauli at different times of the day to observe traffic patterns and check for police barriers.
It was a two-bedroom flat on the second floor, unspectacularly furnished and located in one of the early neighbourhoods of south Delhi: Panchsheel Enclave. Built in the early 1970s, this was an affluent colony in the midst of a construction boom. The government had changed the housing regulations in Delhi and privately owned homes could now be built up to four storeys, one storey higher than what the previous decade’s bureaucrats had sanctioned. To the comfortably retired residents of the area, the lure of selling a floor in an overpriced market justified the sacrifice of peace and obscurity.
Four properties were being reconstructed around the couple’s chosen hideout. Chopra, their new landlord, had complained bitterly about the hotel next door, which was also adding an extra floor.
‘They have not left an inch between my wall and theirs. There’s seepage in the bathrooms, my bedroom has cracks. We can’t do anything. The owner has bribed the police.’
They had nodded sympathetically.
‘Good,’ she told Imran now. ‘The police are busy making money here. It will keep them occupied.’
‘You really charmed the old landlord,’ Imran said admiringly. ‘He was ready in a moment. No talk of police verification once he met you.’
Two days before Uday Kumar got his tip-off from Mumbai that Babloo’s long-time paramour and cohort, the infamous Madame X, had entered India, a couple had checked into the Imperial Hotel in New Delhi. Imran Tahir had arrived from Malaysia and Monika Mathur came in from the United States via Singapore. They were moving back to India after spending a decade abroad, in Alabama, USA.
They had been married for the past four years and it was, Monika had explained shyly to their would-be landlord, time to start a family. Chopra uncle, as she immediately started referring to the man, had nodded appreciatively at her words and her well-rounded breasts.
‘The house is ready, my dear. I was sure you would like it, so I got it cleaned. You just have to move in.’
After they had made the final checks, they drove to the Imperial to check out and settle the bill. As Monika got out of the car and walked down the hallway towards the reception, Imran marvelled again at the ease with which she slid back into character: the banker in town on business with her husband.
‘Have you heard from Sadiq today?’ she asked him.
‘No, nothing. He said he might call later this evening,’ Imran replied.
‘How many spotters do we have now?’
‘Including Sadiq, three. Two for the boy and one for the family, mostly following the father when he is in town.’
‘Okay. I have to call Babloo tonight. Is there anything you think we might need?’
‘No, not right now,’ he answered.
The bill came and Imran paid; sixty per cent in cash and the rest with an American Express card. They left a tip, not miserly but nothing to remark on. To anyone who might have seen them during their stay at the hotel, the couple would have appeared no different from the hundreds of young, successful people who checked in every month.
‘Is there a different route to the house?’ she asked Imran, who instructed the driver to avoid the BRT corridor and go via India Gate, taking the road through Deer Park and Hauz Khas to their new home.
The beat constable would write in the police diary later that week that in C Block, Panchsheel Enclave, a young couple had moved in. The landlord knew the tenants and would not be asking for police verification.
Monika Mathur alias Archana Pandey, known in police circles as Madame X, had arrived in Delhi.
‘I
am struggling to make a list, sir,’ Mayank told Uday. ‘In the ’90s, Babloo was targeting only politicians and top industrialists. He never went for someone who couldn’t pay, or asked for an amount beyond the victim’s capacity. Today, Delhi has several thousand millionaires and kidnapping is the most lucrative crime. With the Commonwealth Games, even small-time contractors have acquired Swiss accounts. Half of Delhi can afford to be kidnapped. How can we monitor such numbers?’ He paused and looked at his boss.
‘You can’t think from the angle of potential victims, Mayank,’ Uday said slowly. ‘I told you to think like Babloo. Why is he coming back? It cannot be for money. That’s not the motivation; there is something else. Let’s start with the assumption that he wants to make a statement by carrying out another kidnapping. Right?’
‘Right, sir.’
‘If that is what he plans, he won’t kidnap just anyone. He’ll go for someone big.’ Uday paused and thought for a while. ‘What about his associates here? Just Salim Khan?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Mayank replied. ‘The other two whom he worked with … Suleiman is dead and Mohan Sharma is in Lucknow jail.’
‘I know the jail superintendent there. Let’s get a fix on Mohan’s mobile phone. Most of these bastards have several SIM cards, but let’s see.’ Uday made a note in his diary. ‘What do you know about Archana Pandey?’ he asked, looking up.
‘From the police records, sir, she lives and works with Babloo in Singapore. He first used her for that hotelier kidnapping in ’92.’
‘Yes.’ Uday smiled. ‘That motherfucker got horny and walked straight into Babloo’s trap. She’s quite sexy, I am told. What else?’
‘Not much, sir. She used to play bit parts in Bollywood before she met Babloo. She got a break as the leading lady in a film financed by him. Mobster, I think it was called. It flopped. After that she took up this alternative acting career with our man, and it has proved far more lucrative. I am told that in police circles she goes by the name Madame X.’
‘That’s right. Now, Mayank, listen very carefully. Forget Babloo for now. Your Madame X is either already here or on her way.’
Uday took a videocassette from one of the desk drawers and handed it to his junior colleague. ‘Here you go – your homework. Mobster. Watch the film. It was hard to find a copy. In the next three days,’ Uday continued, ‘talk to the deputy commissioners of all twelve districts. Get a list of the important people in their area from each. Don’t give them any specifics. Once you get that going, we can start pruning it down. Then …’ The phone on Uday’s desk rang.
‘Hello … Who?’ he asked impatiently. ‘Oh yes, yes. Send him in after five minutes, Mishra-ji.’ He put the phone down and turned towards Mayank. ‘Some new reporter wants to meet me. Comes with the commissioner’s reference. Anyway, what was I saying? Yes, so we tap the phones of those on top of the list. Work on the Archana angle. We also need to put a tap on Salim Khan. I’ll alert the international airports to look out for a man in a wheelchair. Okay?’
Mayank nodded.
‘Good. Now let’s meet this new boy.’
‘Come in, Abhishek.’ Uday appraised the tall young man who stood hesitating at the door. ‘Please sit. This is Assistant Commissioner Mayank Sharma. So, how can I help?’
‘Good afternoon, sir. I have just joined the Express as a crime reporter and thought I should introduce myself. I have heard a lot about you,’ Abhishek said.
‘Where has Vivek Sethi gone?’
‘He is leaving, sir, joining News Today.’
‘Give him my regards and tell him to drop in,’ Uday said. ‘Haven’t seen him in a while. Now tell me something �
� who are you, young man? Should we be afraid of you? You come with the commissioner’s reference.’
Abhishek smiled. ‘Just a coincidence, sir. I met Commissioner Pratap and happened to mention that I would like to meet you. He offered to call.’
‘Boss, in thirty years, no commissioner has ever sent any reporter to me without a reason. There’s something you’re not telling me.’ Uday looked keenly at the boy in front of him. ‘Anyway, you work with Amir?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘The best in the business. We’re contemporaries. You’ll learn a lot from him.’
‘I hope to, sir,’ Abhishek replied politely.
The tea came, and Mayank handed out the cups.
‘So why did you ask for me, Abhishek?’ Uday enquired. ‘Why not go to the senior officers here? They would all have met you. After all, you are the commissioner’s man.’
Mayank knew the drill. He had witnessed it intermittently for two years now. His boss would start with a few self-deprecatory phrases and then, once mollified, would launch into a list of colourful achievements. Mayank’s privileged Delhi background and his assured status as a Central services’ officer did not blind him to the everyday frustrations of a rural man from the state services.
Today, however, something else was on the veteran cop’s mind. Uday was trying to piece together a puzzle even as he kept Abhishek entertained with his stories.
‘People my age want easy postings. All these big men you will meet in the building,’ Uday said, waving his arms, ‘with their fancy designations; all they do is look at files for an hour a day and then have lunch at the India International Centre. On weekends they play golf.’
Abhishek and Mayank, as expected of them, smiled.
‘I might be small fry, bachche, but the commissioner insisted I join the Crime Branch. I told him, “Sir, my married life is in doldrums. My wife beats me every night. This means she will go home to her parents.” He said, “I have been trying to make my wife do that for years!” So here I am, Abhishek babu, fifty-five years old and still working the streets.’
The Price You Pay Page 5