“There is one major difference, sir,” responded Puri. “We in India have our problems, no doubt. But we’re not in the business of training and abetting terrorists.”
General Aslam replied in a quiet, even tone, “I’m not defending terrorism, Mr. Puri. In the same way, I would hope you would not defend the human rights record of the Indian army in Kashmir or the slaughter of innocent Muslims in Gujarat. I am, however, offering you information—information crucial to solving Faheem Khan’s murder. I indicated as much to you in the fax I sent to your office.”
Puri didn’t react to the revelation. He brushed a piece of lint from his trousers and said in English, “If it is information you’re offering, sir, then answer me this: the man commonly known as Aga, who is wanted in my country for activities ranging from terrorism to narcotics smuggling . . . he has been living here in Pakistan. Correct?”
For years, despite all the intelligence to the contrary, Pakistan had strenuously denied that Aga was on its soil. An acknowledgment to the contrary would go some way to establishing Aslam’s credibility.
The general was stony-faced as he replied, “I don’t deny it.”
“In Karachi?”
“A guest of certain individuals within our security apparatus.”
Puri acknowledged his frankness by reaching for his tea. Aslam took a sip from his own, studying Puri over the edge of his cup.
“Do try the samosas as well,” he said. “My wife made them herself.”
The detective helped himself to one of the snacks and bit into the crispy pastry. It was just the right consistency, the mixed vegetable filling nice and spicy.
“My compliments to Mrs. Aslam,” he said with a full mouth.
“I’ll be sure to tell her, Mr. Puri; she’ll be very glad to hear it.” The general, who’d eaten one of the samosas himself, wiped his lips with his napkin and then placed it back in his lap. “Now, you were asking about Aga,” he continued. “There’s something I should probably tell you before we get to the Faheem Khan case.”
Puri was all ears.
“Aga is no longer in Pakistan.”
The detective stopped chewing and surveyed Aslam with doubting eyes. “Where, then?” he asked, putting his plate aside.
“That you would have to ask our common allies, the Americans. They took him seven months ago.”
“Why keep it secret?”
“Our people could hardly acknowledge that he’d been taken when we’d been denying he’d been here all along. Also, the operation to capture him was conducted by American Special Forces on Pakistani soil. Something of an embarrassment all round.”
“And the Americans have kept it hushed up also?” asked Puri. His voice was loaded with skepticism.
“They’ve their own reasons for doing so.”
“Aga is an Indian citizen, wanted on multiple counts. The Americans would be bound to hand him over to us.”
“Are you so sure your government would want him back?” asked Aslam. He paused to sip his tea. “There are certain powerful individuals in Delhi who’ve done business with Aga in the past. Such men would do everything within their power to ensure that he never sets foot on Indian soil again. If the Americans are not making a song and dance of nabbing him, keeping him in cold storage, so to speak, then so much the better.”
“And how about the betting syndicate? If Aga’s no longer running the show, then who exactly?”
“Someone who knows that Aga’s no longer in charge and has taken advantage of the vacuum. Someone under the radar.”
Puri didn’t believe a word of it. Aslam was playing with him, trying to muddy the water.
“Sir, with respect, I don’t see this conversation is getting us anywhere,” he said. “I would ask you to have me driven back to my vehicle. My work lies elsewhere.”
“If that’s your wish, Mr. Puri . . . But first I’d ask that you indulge me for just five more minutes. I would like to show you something that will undoubtedly be of value to you.”
He picked up a box file from the side table. Inside he found an old black-and-white photograph of a young Punjabi girl in her late teens. Judging by the classic car in front of which she was posing, it had been taken in the 1940s. Aslam handed it to the detective.
“Her name is Kiran Singh,” he said. “But your mother knows her as a young woman called Saroya.”
“Sir, I would ask you again: what is this business about my mother?” demanded Puri.
Aslam handed him another photograph. It was of Mummy standing in front of an army tent.
“This one I took myself,” he said. “I used to have a little Argoflex. There should be a date on the back.”
Puri turned it over. There was indeed a date, written in smudged fountain pen: March 1948.
“What all Mummy was doing in Pakistan at that time? She fled to Delhi in August ’47 only.”
“That you had better ask her yourself,” said Aslam. “She probably wouldn’t appreciate my telling you—not if she’s kept her involvement secret all these days. The two of us are friends, after all.”
A fit young man appeared round the side of the bungalow. He approached, saluted, and then bent down to whisper something in the general’s ear.
“Aaah, I’m afraid we’ve run out of time, Mr. Puri,” said Aslam. “Seems the police are looking for you. We’d better get you back before we spark an international incident.”
The general walked him to the Land Cruiser in the driveway.
“One last thing,” he said. “Tell your mother that Kiran Singh came from Mandra, not far from Bajal, Faheem Khan’s home village. She should remember the place. Her father’s name was Manjit Singh. I’d have passed on this information when I came by it years ago. But I didn’t have an address. Imagine my surprise when I was reading the file on you, in connection with this Faheem Khan business, and her name appeared!”
The detective climbed onto the passenger seat of the Land Cruiser, unsure whether to thank his host or not.
“Please give my salaams to your mother,” said Aslam like an uncle whom he’d known all his life. “And don’t judge her harshly. None of us like to speak of those times. They were . . . complicated.”
The hood was slipped back over Puri’s head and he felt the vehicle pull out of the gates.
• • •
At eight o’clock, when Oily Face, the angadia diamond courier agent, closed up shop for the night, the Most Private Investigators team in Surat were still watching him from the street.
“We’ve missed something,” said Tubelight as their mark got into his car and started the engine. “He wouldn’t take the diamonds with him.”
“What should we do?” asked Flush.
“Hold positions,” ordered Tubelight as he studied the building where the agent had his premises. All the businesses on the ground floor had closed for the night and the corridors that ran between them were empty. A couple of women sweepers, Biharis by the looks of them, were clearing the front steps of the day’s detritus.
It was the action of their reed brooms that led the operative’s eyes to the light coming from a vent at the foot of the building. Tubelight waited until Oily Face pulled away, then hurried across the street, got down on his knees and peered through the opening. He could make out two gray-haired men sitting on the floor playing cards. The small room in which they sat was sparsely furnished with a bed, sink, stove and fridge. There was something else about the room, something remarkable: a chute hung down from the ceiling. Tubelight realized that it originated beneath the safe in the agent’s shop above. In other words, Desai’s package of blood diamonds had slid down into the basement. But had it already been carried from the premises? He could only pray it had not.
“Go round the back. Must be another way out,” Tubelight ordered Chanel No. 5.
A few minutes later, the young Gujarati reported back that an alleyway ran behind the building and stairs leading down into the basement. By then Flush had placed a pinhole camera with a remot
e transmitter through the vent, providing a live picture of the room below.
• • •
At half past nine, “A1” and “A2,” the handles Tubelight had given the two old men, put away their deck of cards and changed out of their clothes.
The disguises they donned were simple; brilliantly so, in Tubelight’s view. A1, the taller of the two, wore an olive-colored shirt with a sleeveless undershirt beneath, a pair of well-creased synthetic trousers that hung loose around his narrow waist, a pair of black shoes and a pair of glasses with thick plastic rims. The pens sticking out of the top pocket and chunky gray briefcase with a couple of tatty old airline security stickers stuck to the lid completed the picture of the Indian company peon or traveling salesman, droves of whom crisscrossed India every day.
A2, a short, wiry figure whose hair was parted down the middle so the top of his head looked like the open pages of a book, adopted the getup of a Gandhian: topi and white khadi kurta pajama. He carried only a simple jute bag over one shoulder.
As Tubelight and Flush watched, riveted, A1 opened the safe, took out six small packets and placed them on the table. Desai’s was amongst them, recognizable by the black tape he’d used.
A2 began to divide them into two piles. But just then, the picture suddenly went black. Flush spotted a rat scurrying away from the fan hole. “Must have knocked into it,” he said.
By the time he had the camera back in position, A1 and A2 had left the room. Chanel No. 5, who was positioned on a fire escape behind the building, reported that they were making their way down the alley to Gandhi Marg.
“On our way!”
Tubelight and Flush soon caught up with their colleague and began to follow the two couriers. At the corner of Nehru Marg, however, they split up. A2 hailed an auto and Chanel No. 5 and Flush followed him into the old Muslim quarter, while Tubelight continued to shadow A1 on foot.
Puri’s senior operative was soon left in no doubt that he was up against an extremely capable individual, one whom he would have happily employed himself. The courier varied his pace, paused now and again to look in shop windows and stopped to drink a banana smoothie at a juice stand with mirrors in which he could study the street behind him.
From there, A1 entered the crowded textile quarter, where Dickensian mills abutted the narrow streets. Amongst an army of porters carrying rolls of silk and linen like jousting knights armed with dummy lances, Tubelight lost sight of his mark. He scrambled up onto the back of a truck to search the crowd and eventually caught sight of him again. In doing so, there was good chance he was spotted. As a precaution, he quickly donned a disguise he carried with him in his satchel—a wig, a Muslim prayer cap and a pair of glasses—and soon caught up with A1.
The courier continued on to the train station and bought a third-class ticket for the Vadodara Express. Its scheduled departure time was 11:37. He then went to the café and sat down with a cup of tea.
• • •
The station floor was littered with bodies huddled under blankets and coats, as cluttered as a battlefield. Victims of long delays on the network caused by Jat protestors squatting on the main lines further east (and demanding a quota of government jobs), they had been stranded in the station for the past twenty-four hours.
Tubelight befriended some Muslims on their way to the city of Ajmer to visit the shrine of the Sufi saint Moinuddin Chishti. Given his garb, they accepted him as one of them and insisted he share the food they had packed for the journey. He did so gratefully, all the while keeping an eye on the courier, who remained in the café.
A2 arrived forty-five minutes before the Vadodara Express was due to depart (with Flush and Chanel No. 5 not that far behind) and bought himself a ticket. Then he headed straight to the men’s public toilets. A couple of minutes later, A1 got up from his table and followed his colleague inside.
Five minutes passed. Neither of them emerged. Tubelight grew anxious. He waited another minute. It was now 11:54 according to the station clock. Something didn’t feel right.
He decided to investigate and found the toilets empty.
There was another door leading directly onto platform one.
The Pune Express was pulling out of the station.
Tubelight made a split-second decision. He ran down the platform and leapt onto the step of the last door of the last carriage. Prising the door open, he clambered inside and fell to the floor.
“Wily old jackals,” he muttered to himself as he stopped to catch his breath.
Twenty-one
At around the same time that Tubelight was picking himself up off the floor of the train, Gopal Ragi reached the first level of the multistory car park in Nehru Place, Delhi. Per the instructions he’d received over the phone, he was carrying a sports bag containing the two-lakh-rupee ransom demand for his moustache. The cryptic voice had insisted he come alone, if he ever wanted to see his “precious pet” again. But he’d ignored the warning. Inspector Thakur and his men were hidden nearby, waiting to pounce.
A car came up the ramp, circled the parked vehicles in search of a space and then continued up to the next level. A security guard walked past, whistling a tune. A couple of pigeons began to flap around in a pool of dirty water.
The voice on the phone had said, “Eleven o’clock and don’t be late.” Ragi checked his watch for the umpteenth time. It was almost half past eleven. He could barely contain his frustration; he felt like going and kicking in the side of the nearest car. But he stayed put. He’d do almost anything to get his moustache back. It had been twenty years in the growing and he had every confidence that it would find a place in the National Museum. That way people would be able to continue to be inspired by his commitment and sacrifice.
More cars came and went. And then a motorbike pulled up the ramp. The driver was wearing a helmet with the visor down. He raced around the parked cars and pulled up next to Ragi, engine running.
“Give me the money!” he demanded.
“Where’s my moustache?”
“Money first, bastard!”
“No moustache, no rupiya!”
Reluctantly the motorcyclist tugged a plastic bag from his jacket and held it up.
“I want to see it!” insisted Ragi.
Thakur and his men came running toward them, shouting, “Stop! Police!”
The motorcylist managed to grab the sports bag and made a hasty getaway, evading the cops and racing down the ramp into the street beyond.
Ragi was left holding the plastic bag. He reached inside and took out the moustache. It was black, about six inches long, with a peel-away sticky back.
“Maaaa-daaaar-chod!” he shouted, the curse echoing off the concrete walls and ceiling of the car park.
• • •
Puri spent the night in Lahore, having arrived at the border after it closed. The setback came with some compensation. After checking into a hotel surrounded by more blast barriers and barbed wire than the American embassy in Saigon in 1975, he sent his driver to Nirala Butt’s restaurant in Lakshmi Chowk to fetch some of its famous kadai gosht.
Puri would never forget the meal as long as he lived. The marinated mutton was so tender, so succulent, that it melted in his mouth. The yogurt-based gravy was a revelation: creamy with a perfect blend of coriander and chilli and just a hint of lemon. He lapped it all up with the crisp pieces of roghini naan, wiped the container clean with his finger and sucked every last bit of marrow from the mutton bones.
It actually crossed his mind that staying in Pakistan for another day might not be the end of the world. Not if it meant he could get his hands on some more of that Mughlai cuisine. Indeed, now that he was back at the border, with his homeland in sight, Puri felt a tinge of regret that his stay had been so brief.
One of Chanakya’s sayings came to mind: “Learning is like a cow of desire. It, like her, yields in all seasons. Like a mother it feeds you on your journey.”
The experience had certainly humanized Pakistan in Puri’s mind.
It was no longer an abstract entity, one that generated only bad news, but a country populated by ordinary people no different from ordinary Indians. They were laboring under many of the same difficult conditions, in fact. And no doubt the vast majority wanted nothing more than to live in peace.
Puri’s distrust of the military, however, was unshakable. And he couldn’t bring himself to trust Aslam. That story about Aga being taken by the Americans was pure fiction. “Cock and bull,” he kept telling himself.
And yet as he waited for the border to open he found himself reasoning the thing out. Could there be some truth to it? The Pakistanis would certainly be loath to admit that Aga had been found on their soil. As for the Americans, they could be equally duplicitous, one minute training Islamic militants, the next spending billions of dollars to hunt them down.
One thing was certain: if Aga was being waterboarded in a CIA interrogation cell (quite a pleasant thought, incidentally), then it helped explain the murder of the bookies and possibly the poisoning of Faheem Khan as well. Aga’s deputies or a rival outfit were vying for control of the syndicate.
Aslam had been adamant that it was someone in India and not Pakistan. Someone who knows that Aga is no longer in charge and has taken advantage of the vacuum. Someone under the radar.
But then he would say that, wouldn’t he?
Puri removed his aviator sunglasses and massaged his eyes. He had a strong aversion to this kind of conjecture. It always led to two things: the wrong conclusion and a headache. Cold, hard facts were the only antidote.
Thirty minutes to go before the border opened. Another fifteen to twenty before he’d be able to use his phone again. He hadn’t dared contact any of his people from Pakistan, certain that his conversations would be recorded. But last night he’d called his elder brother and told him to put Mummy under “house arrest.”
Bhuppi had informed him that their mother wasn’t at home. She had been out all day, apparently, but not left word of her plans.
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