Abhishek ordered another round of coffee. He knew that he had just been bestowed a rare honour. Amir Akhtar, he was certain, did not regularly breakfast with a far junior colleague. The cold and discomfort of the previous night had been worth it.
‘Just give me a first-person report,’ Amir had instructed. ‘Detail the scam in two paragraphs, and then give me your story – all the details, what you saw … This is front page. Two front pages in the first three weeks is very good, Abhishek.’
It was actually excellent, Amir was thinking as he looked in the bathroom mirror. What he liked most about Abhishek was that the boy kept quiet, observed and listened.
Amir hummed along with Elvis playing on the diner’s jukebox as he made his way back to the table. He gulped his coffee without sitting down, and waved for the bill. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.
He was looking forward to announcing Abhishek’s latest story at the morning meeting. Some of his team were being nettled by this kid, he thought, a naughty grin spreading across his face.
M
ayank was at his desk, staring at nothing in particular. He had a dilemma. Should he not talk to someone – a fellow officer perhaps, or someone senior – about Uday Kumar and the ongoing investigations? Last night he had finally understood why his boss was being so obstinately secretive with the Babloo Shankar investigations, and it put him in an awkward place. Despite his meticulous research, it was only by chance that Mayank had made the discovery.
In a new development to his formal wooing of Ritika Tytler, he had been invited to a dinner at her house – her birthday dinner, his mother had informed him.
Dressed in a navy-blue blazer Mayank stood at the Tytlers’ front door with a bouquet of roses, the eyes of every aged relative on him. Ritika’s father immediately introduced him to his older brother, a former officer of Delhi Police. ‘I don’t know about birds of a feather, but I hear policemen like to flock together,’ his prospective father-in-law had guffawed.
It was the kind of evening the young man dreaded. He never drank, and so could not fall back on alcohol to numb his brain against the awful inflictions the retired serviceman subjected it to: the unfailingly disappointing jokes, the bragging, the comparisons between the good old and the bad new days, and the worthlessness of the young.
Despite Ritika’s floating presence, Mayank regretted coming. His eyes kept wandering over to the centre of the room where she and her friends had gathered. She, he felt, had barely acknowledged his presence, or his gift. The absence of any young male friend, however, gave him hope.
‘I would have been made the commissioner,’ Ritika’s uncle was telling Mayank. ‘Instead they got in Ravi Mishra. Mind you, he was a fine officer but he had never served in Delhi Police before. They got him because he was a Bihari. The home secretary too was a Bihari then; you see, the Maithili Brahmin lobby was very active. Punjabis were completely sidelined.’
Nodding his head, and sipping his third glass of Coke, Mayank wondered if he should try and talk to Ritika. Perhaps she was just being shy. But the rants of dissatisfied ambition next to him suddenly gave way to something more interesting.
‘You work with Uday Kumar, young man?’
Mayank had not expected to be asked any questions about himself. ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied.
‘Another Bihari. The chap was working under me. Was completely protected by the lobby. Botched up a major case because of his idiocy and lack of planning. But his clan protected him.’
The retired policeman had asked for another whisky and then told Mayank how Uday Kumar, without his boss’s authorization or knowledge, had led a foolhardy operation to catch Babloo Shankar. The criminal had escaped, but with a bullet in his spine.
‘He wanted to kill the man,’ the ex-cop continued. ‘There were no plans to take him alive. The team was a small one: Uday and four encounter specialists. That should have been the end of his career. The kidnapped girl belonged to a big business family, well connected in political circles. The father was willing to pay the ransom, but our hero stepped in. We never heard of the child again.’
Mayank was listening intently.
‘But Uday’s stars were aligned well. His role was hushed up and we as a department took the blame. I was in the south district then, posted as additional commissioner.’
‘But surely Uday sir developed the intelligence with a team. People must have known about it …’ Mayank probed, hoping he sounded casual.
‘Uday briefed his team at the very last minute. He said he had got an anonymous tip-off. Anonymous, my foot! He just wanted all the glory and when it went wrong, he ran to his political bosses to save his career … Ah, the birthday cake. Come, let’s eat.’
It had been an enlightening evening, Mayank thought, and now Uday had asked him to bring over the character profile he had made of Archana.
He walked slowly to his boss’s office.
Uday was sitting with a slim gentleman in his early fifties, who was leaning back casually in his seat, his shiny leather brogues crossed in front of him, when Mayank entered the office.
‘Come,’ Uday said as he saluted. ‘Meet Amir Akhtar of the Express. You must have heard of him.’
‘Of course I have. Pleasure meeting you, sir. I know your reporter Abhishek Dutta quite well.’
‘Yes, that boy of yours is well connected, Amir,’ Uday added. ‘Came with the commissioner’s reference. But I am giving him a proper training. Sent him for a night patrol with Mayank and look, he has done a great story. I continue to be your regular supplier of news.’
‘Yes. I wonder with you around why Delhi Police needs a press officer,’ Amir replied, and Mayank stifled a smile. He had never witnessed a journalist being sardonic with his boss.
‘Shall we start?’ Uday reclaimed authority. ‘Sit, Mayank. Amir has some information which he thinks is important to the Babloo case. You should hear this.’
Mayank kept his face impassive. Another player in Uday’s game? What was going on?
‘Before I do that, can I hear about Archana?’ the journalist asked Mayank, who looked at Uday.
‘Yes, go ahead. Even I want to hear it again,’ Uday nodded.
Mayank was baffled. After all the secrecy, his boss was asking him to talk about the case and of its principal character before a journalist. His mind was frantically trying to make connections.
‘Let me start with the physical characteristics,’ Mayank said slowly. ‘She is 5ft 3 inches. Oval face, dark eyes, small nose, medium build. Weighs just under fifty kilos. The problem with this description is that it applied to her when she was nineteen or twenty. We are not sure what she looks like now. I have three photographs sourced from Interpol taken in the last five years. As far as I can tell, they are of different women. I think in Archana’s case,’ he said, looking at Uday, ‘it might be difficult to go by physical appearance.’
Mayank looked at his files and paused as the tea was served. He glanced at Uday for some clue. Till now he had kept his disclosures to a minimum; things that anyone with an Internet connection could discover. But his boss gave away nothing, so he continued.
‘Archana, unlike Babloo, has no family history of crime. Her parents are from Indore where they still live. The father worked in a multinational pharmaceutical company, never changed jobs, and retired from the same place. Comfortable middle-class existence. She studied at St Mary’s Convent and then came to Lady Shriram College in Delhi where she graduated with honours in history. Like Babloo, she chose to rebel against her family, only with more success. Indore Police confirm that her parents have cut all contact with her.’
‘What you are saying,’ Amir interrupted, ‘is that you cannot find any explicable reason for her turning to crime. There is no childhood trauma, poverty, or anger that can explain it. Life is not a Hindi film where you can find reasons. Cause and effect doesn’t always work, no?’ Amir said, looking at Mayank wryly.
‘Yes, but if you see patterns of the other female gangsters in Mumbai, the
y were all put in certain situations. Zenabai, for example. Or Mrs Paul or Jyoti.’ Mayank did not like Amir’s slightly patronizing tone.
‘OK, let’s do this crime psychology a bit later,’ Uday muttered, suddenly impatient. ‘Carry on with Archana, Mayank.’
‘After graduation she goes off to Mumbai,’ he resumed quickly. ‘We do not know her exact connections there, whom she met, what she did in the early stages. But it seems very likely that her first film role came about because of her association with the top mafia bosses. Mobster was financed by Babloo; that we are certain of. She did a few music videos but nothing of note. The police hear of her first in 1991. She is twenty-one and masterminds the kidnapping of a prominent hotelier. Ransom paid, no case registered. There are five more kidnappings in the next one year: two film producers, two industrialists and the son of a banker. Then follows a period of relative calm before Babloo and Archana start operating here. By 1996, before Babloo escapes, Archana is being called Madame X, the most wanted female gangster in India.’
‘Good. Now, can you tell Mayank what you know, Amir?’ Uday stage-directed.
‘I will, but just before that, what have you done to check on Archana’s whereabouts? Your sources are telling you that she has vanished from Singapore and is headed here or is already here?’
Uday nodded.
Mayank was finding the scene increasingly surreal. Why on earth was his boss sharing all this with this man?
‘This morning, it was just a hunch,’ Amir said to them. ‘But after hearing Uday and you, Mayank, I am pretty certain something is up.’ He told them what Matera had witnessed.
‘Two questions.’ If he was to work like this, Mayank thought, so be it. ‘First, can I meet your source? Second, why do you feel this is out of the ordinary? Salim Khan meets many people; some of them quite important, as we know. And is a Lexus car unusual in that neighbourhood?’
‘I will tell my boy to come in,’ Amir replied. ‘In fact, I will bring him along. He can be a bit nervy. Answer to your second question is a bit more difficult. We know that if Babloo came here, he would most probably contact Salim. They have worked closely in the past, and Salim maintains links with the Mumbai underworld. I think that the possibility of Archana being in town and Babloo planning something here has a connection with what Matera saw. But fundamentally, Mayank, it’s a hunch. And what I call a hunch is called intelligence in your circles.’
Mayank smiled. Amir’s confidence was overpowering. Even his garrulous boss seemed careful. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he replied. ‘I would like to follow this up immediately, if I may.’
‘I will let you know. Uday, I have to leave now but we will be in touch. Pleasure meeting you, Mayank.’
As the reporter left the room, the young police officer turned to his boss. He needed some answers.
9
S
tanding in front of the mirror, Amit Mahajan frowned at his slouching reflection. ‘Stand straight,’ he barked, just as his father would, and pushed his chest out. He was not fat, but his mother’s indulgence and a lack of exercise had produced the hint of a double chin and a readily available dimple. It made him look younger and, to his now critical gaze, childish. That morning he had shorn the few curls from just above his forehead. His mother would be infuriated, Amit knew. But for now there was another woman on his mind.
It was taking him an unusually long time to dress, the floor bearing witness to the decisions and revisions. Amit hoped it would be worth all the trouble. For the past six nights, his mission had failed repeatedly but that had hardly dented his sense of purpose. Each evening at the Sheraton club he felt certain that she would reappear, and her absence only renewed his hope. The morning after made him look forward to sunset.
Amit decided on a white shirt, an ash-coloured woollen jacket and Tommy Hilfiger jeans. No perfume; a dash of a mild aftershave would do. His least flamboyant watch, a brown-leather Swatch, found favour. He looked in the mirror again and was not entirely displeased with the effect.
At 10.15, he asked for the car to be brought to the main entrance. Amit had his own driving licence, acquired illegally, four years ago. But with the recent turmoil in their lives, his father now insisted on a chauffeur who, unknown to his young passenger, was always armed.
The Mahajan family proved what middle-class India could be with a bit of hard work and political dexterity, accompanied by an underdeveloped notion of morality. At this stage, however, calling the family middle class would be considered a serious calumny by Brigadier Devinder Mahajan (Retd). Part owner of Colorado Builders and Associates, Amit’s father was a minor beneficiary of the government’s Commonwealth Games munificence and had amassed a fortune. He, of course, would suggest that his economic achievements began long before pliable ministers and their bureaucrats, industrialists and their middlemen recognized the Games as a money-laundering opportunity on a scale unheard of even in a country riddled with corruption.
No, the Brigadier would say that his success owed as much to the risks he had taken in life, like renouncing his job in the army, where as an engineer with the Madras Sappers, institutionalized and risk-free corruption had been lucrative. Three years prior to retirement – possibly a few more, given the strong likelihood of his promotion to major general, he would add – Brig. Mahajan had resigned.
Along with his older brother who had settled in Colorado, USA, he had started a private venture, supplying spare motor vehicle parts to the Indian Army. His brother-in-law, a small-time industrialist and part-time hoodlum, had muscled his way to a seat in the Punjab Legislative Assembly. Suddenly there were more contracts than Brig. Mahajan could handle.
He branched off into real-estate development and Colorado Builders was born. They signed MoUs with partners in New Zealand and Australia and started buying land in Ethiopia and Kenya, long before such a thing became fashionable among Indian businessmen. He felt justified in thinking of himself as a pioneer.
And then came the Commonwealth Games bonanza. Brigadier Mahajan and his associates acquired wealth beyond their wildest dreams. ‘We are stinking-rich,’ his wife Radha, who now took Dubai shopping vacations and scorned her army wives’ friendship circles, liked to whisper to him in moments of rediscovered passion. Suddenly they needed tax lawyers and havens abroad; Swiss accounts had to be opened and security firms hired.
After the payouts came the payback. There were raids, questions and interrogations. Politician friends refused to take the Brigadier’s calls. The press initially avoided the subject, busy as they were scavenging for their own scraps of this tempting new common wealth. But, once the story became too large to ignore, they turned into a pack of angry hounds. Journalists and their television cameras took up residence on the Mahajans’ well-manicured lawns. Food waste, chocolate bar wrappers and chewing gum piled up under the shade of their imported palm trees. There were reports on Radha Mahajan’s properties and of assets accumulated in the Brigadier’s brother’s name. Newspapers published hints of the foreign bank accounts, and the ex-serviceman’s face began to appear on magazine covers.
The previous week, as their son was being mesmerized by an older woman, Brig. Mahajan and his wife decided to take a much-needed Nevada vacation – days before the investigative agencies and courts would freeze their passports.
I
f Babloo was upset, or his plans delayed by the Mahajans’ departure, he did not convey it to Archana. ‘Concentrate on the boy, but string the process out,’ was the instruction.
Six nights after she had teased Amit with a first glimpse, Archana was also getting ready for her Friday evening. Even before the spotter called Imran to confirm that the boy was making his way to the club, Archana had laid out the dress she would wear. Amit had been to the club every night that week, a deviation from his usually quiet routine. Archana had little doubt that she was the reason for the change in lifestyle. It made Babloo’s plans for an unsuspicious second meeting far easier than anticipated.
The red dres
s she had chosen hugged her body. It did not show off her cleavage, but he had seen enough of that already, she thought. Instead, it accentuated her breasts just enticingly enough. She had been working out in the gym these last four months, and it showed. Archana examined herself closely in the mirror. She would let her hair hang loose, she decided. She was pondering over footwear when Imran called. He was downstairs, waiting in the car.
‘You are not coming to the club,’ Archana told him as they drove. ‘Remain within two miles, and I will call if you are needed.’
Imran remained silent. He was disappointed, but knew better than to argue. He had got a hard-on the moment he’d seen her coming out of the gate and all he wanted to do was to be slammed again on the car seat. He would grab her buttocks this time and lift her onto his cock.
‘Is he alone?’ Archana’s voice cut through his thoughts. ‘What did Usman say?’
‘He reached the club alone but might be meeting friends there,’ Imran replied. ‘In the last week, his friends have accompanied him twice.’
Archana lit a cigarette and studied herself in the rear-view mirror.
‘I almost wish I was the boy,’ Imran said, in spite of himself, and hesitantly smiled at her.
Archana looked at him, and without rancour, malice or flirtation, replied, ‘No, you don’t.’
There was a character she had planned for the boy, a certain persona, and everything needed to be consistent with it. She and Babloo had spent hours going over Amit Mahajan’s details, and Archana had settled on the slightly hungry, horny older woman; just out of reach and something to be strived for. She had several other characters; the submissive girl-next-door being her mentor’s favourite. For the boy, however, she had told Babloo, that wouldn’t work.
The Price You Pay Page 10