Doosra: The Other One

by Vish Dhamija

  The cameras installed in room 513 had started relaying activities of room 513 to room 514.

  Jogani walked into the room, closed the door, double locked and engaged the door chain and looked around. It didn't appear that he had found anything off kilter. It was reasonable to expect him to go straight to the — unbeknown to him, new — safe, extract the diamonds from wherever he had them and lock them there. So far so good, but the briefcase wasn't anticipated in the plan since Jogani hadn't carried one from Mumbai. Where the fuck had he got it from? Instead of heading to the safe, Jogani went directly to the bed, used his index finger to open the biometric lock on the briefcase and removed a pair of shiny handcuffs. He attached one cuff to the handle of the briefcase and clicked it shut, and then locked it with a combination — so even that wasn't a bare standard handcuff that typically had a universal key. He looked around the room, found nothing he could attach the other side of the cuff to. He moved into the bathroom — there was a camera implanted there too — and behind the commode he found what he appeared to be looking for. He placed the briefcase on the floor and secured the other cuff to the chrome water inlet and charily locked it with a combination too. He forcefully yanked at the briefcase to check if it was fortified. Holy Fuck!

  ***

  18:30 Hours: Jogani lay on his bed and the television was on. Fatigue had started catching up; he had been up since last night, save some sleep on the flight. He had looked into the drink cabinet and decided he should take it easy. He had to get up early tomorrow morning to allow himself enough time to get to the airport. And although he had no reason to suspect someone was watching him or the merchandise that he carried, it was still simply good caution not to be tanked-up when you were responsible for merchandise of that value. Having flicked through channels, he decided nothing was sufficiently interesting for him to watch. He picked up the menu. The restaurants below had some appetizing French classics, but he wasn't keen to step out of the room leaving the diamonds even though they were fastened. Carrying them around didn't appear a sound option either. Room service, like anywhere else in the world, listed appetite-subsiding sandwiches.

  He glanced at his Rolex again. The entire process of securing the diamonds, channel hopping, menu thrashing had consumed all of fifteen minutes, and he had another few hours to kill till sleep knocked him out.

  The drinks cabinet suddenly looked appealing. Belgium, he knew, was famous for its beers: Hoegaarden, Leffe Brune, Leffe Blond, Rochefort all adorned the little refrigerator. Conscious that he hadn't tasted Rochefort before, he pulled out the bottle and came back to the bed.

  It was nine-thirty and he lay on his bed in his boxers enjoying the late night film he'd paid for, one that was graphically amorous enough to stir him. He had chomped on the sandwich and fries he had ordered from room service, consumed six beers and was ready to tuck in. He called Reception and requested a wake-up call for six in the morning, then additionally set the morning alarm for 6:15 on his bedside clock and dozed off with the telly on.

  ***

  Jogani did not appear to have any inkling that the prominent flickering of light from the screen would indicate to the observers that the room lights had been switched off and that the target had turned in. Thank you very much!

  ***

  Jogani woke up to his bedside phone shrilling. Coming out of his stupor he read the display: Reception. He reckoned it was morning already and this was his wake-up call till he looked at the time: 00:03. They better have a good reason for this, he thought and picked up the receiver.

  'Sorry to bother you at this hour Mr Jogani, but could you come down to the reception please?'

  'You got to be kidding me, it's midnight for God's sake.'

  'I know that sir, and I wouldn't have called you at this hour if it wasn't urgent and important,' the receptionist politely responded.

  'What's the urgency? Is there a fire in the building?'

  'Nothing of that sort sir.'

  'What is the problem then?'

  'This is a reputable hotel sir, and it's against policy to invite escorts into your room—'

  'Excuse me? Who's called for an escort?'

  'It seems that you called her, sir. We have here... a lady of suspicious character...' there was a pause, like the receptionist was looking at the lady in question, ' .. .somewhat inappropriately clad, and she is looking for you.'

  'For me?'

  'Yes sir, she asked for you by name.'

  'There must be some mistake. I didn't call for any escort, you can send her back.'

  'Mr Jogani, she even knew your room number, and our records show that you made a call at seven minutes past eleven…'

  'I made no such calls, in fact I didn't make any calls whatsoever.' Jogani could sense his temper and voice rising. Wary that he might disturb people in the nearby rooms, he lowered his voice. 'There must be some mistake. Listen—'

  'I'm afraid Mr Jogani, if you do not come down to the reception right away I'll have no choice but to call the police.' The receptionist did not raise his voice but there was certainly a hint of menace in it.

  'OK, I'll be down. Hold her there, I would also like to know who called her.'

  'Certainly sir, she isn't going anywhere.'

  Jogani rubbed his eyes. Was it some hooker from his last visit who had seen him in Brussels today? He thought about other possibilities as he put on his jeans and T-shirt and glanced in the bathroom. The briefcase was safely tucked away. This should be a quick conversation, there seemed no need to unlock and carry the briefcase with him downstairs to Reception at this hour.

  ***

  In room 514 they waited for the elevator door to close, and the moment it chimed they knew the target was now away. They sprang into action.

  No time to squander.

  ***

  Jogani seethed as he rushed out of the lift on the ground floor and headed to Reception only to find it unattended. There was a bell kept on the desk that he fisted repeatedly, till it sounded like continuous trill and not staccato tings, to beckon the receptionist who had awakened him and roused him out of his bed just minutes ago, and had now appeared to have gone missing from his post.

  'How may I help you sir?' The receptionist yawned and sounded sleepy.

  'I'm Ron Jogani — you just called me in room 513 and told me there was someone down here to see me.'

  The receptionist looked perplexed. 'Sorry sir… I called you? I didn't call anyone.' He glanced around to see if someone was around who might have used the unattended phone at the desk. No one. The hotel's main entrance was locked. Anyone arriving this late needed to buzz to gain entry.

  'Then who called me?' Jogani gave a once over. 'Who else has been manning this desk?'

  'I don't know sir. I'm the only one on duty and I made no calls.'

  'The call was from reception, I saw the display...' Jogani realised mid-sentence that he had been deked. He had made a huge mistake by falling for — what now sounded like — some kind of a trap. The rage morphed into nervous energy as he turned around and ran to the elevators making his second mistake of the day, which he didn't realise, and it was a mistake he would never get time to regret.

  He didn't think about the odds that someone who had deked him out of his room at midnight to burgle diamonds was unarmed? None. But his mind wasn't thinking how deleterious his next move could be. He could only feel cold tiny rivulets running down his back. Cold sweat.

  He hurried out of the elevator car and darted to his room, swiped the key, opened the door and shut it behind him immediately.

  ***

  But it was too late. The invader in room 514 had already been informed about Jogani's truncated visit to the reception.

  Even when it is most meticulously planned there are so many things that can go wrong in a burglary. Like in this case they hadn't planned to kill but there was no other way to jettison Jogani now. There was no other way if they were to finish their job. There hadn't been a plan B. There was no plan to eliminate
Jogani, but the bald truth was that Ron Jogani was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Only this time it was fatal. The coda was as dramatic as it is meant to be — sepulchral sound of two bullets muffled by a silencer.

  Hadn't Don McLean warned about fire being the Devil's only friend”?

  ***

  The police would later discover that two bullets had been fired. One into the chest of Ron Jogani from close range — close enough to singe his T-shirt and skin, and the other one on a handcuff behind the commode.

  Three Months Later

  GOA, INDIA.

  There are, in living memory, two distinct periods in history: pre 9/11 and post 9/11. The rights enjoyed by individuals in any country could no longer be enjoyed if the world — in the words of Darwin — did not adapt to the new world order. 9/11 changed the world. Not all changes precipitated by it were bad — though no one in their right mind should even argue that what happened on that day was evil, sinister even — some changes were essential, and had these been in place before that dark day in human history, perhaps the disaster could have been controlled, if not completely avoided.

  Then the November bombings in Mumbai in 2008 roused even the sleepiest of governments. And now, DCP Rita Ferreira mused, despite being a senior police officer she wasn't permitted to carry her service revolver on a commercial airliner. OK, the airport officials were polite enough not to pat-search her, considering she had been in the news all over the country after having chased down a serial killer only a few months earlier. Not to mention that the two uniformed policemen who had escorted her to the security gate provided instant recognition. She was waved in with deference.

  The flight took off on time. Rita reclined into the seat. Fortunately, as there was no one else in her row she parked her handbag on the middle seat and contemplated the past three months she had spent in Goa under the circumstances.

  She had been shot at while nabbing the serial killer, and the bullet had grazed her shoulder. The physical recovery had been quick, but the psychological trauma — albeit unknown to Rita — needed to be dealt with. DCP Rita Ferreira had been discharged from duty after the shootout in her last case. Much as she had wanted to carry on — she was chagrined when they had signed her off: “official procedure”, they had said — she was ordered to take time off. Having been taken captive or overpowered by a criminal — if only for a few minutes — and use of firearms usually mandated that the police officer involved be sent on statutory leave and psychological analysis. There seemed little point in challenging that. However, what had commenced as a two-week break had become a three-month hiatus as Rita's therapist disagreed to give her a clean chit to resume her position in the police force in the initial time allocated. Fortunately for her, Rita didn't have to live in her Mumbai flat. She had sojourned to one of her ancestral properties in the small village of Benaulim on the south coastline of Goa. Benaulim has been part of Goa lore for generations: Parshurama — the sixth avatar of Vishnu — had shot an arrow from somewhere above in the Western Ghats, and that arrow descended upon what came to be known as Banavalli: the village of the arrow. The Portuguese rechristened it to Benaulim. The place was full of natural beauty: the sound of the endless sea and the fragrance of local vegetation that Rita had grown up appreciating as a kid. It helped her recover a lot faster than if she had stayed back in Mumbai. In her mind she was ready to resume her duty, but she waited. No one in the bureaucracy, she knew, could or would override a psychological evaluation. The psychobabble of the therapist could never be vetoed. Hence she had lodged at the seaside villa she had spent her growing years in for most of those three months. It was a white, colonial house that had a huge garden in front, and the rear door unlatched on to a private beach for residents. Luckily the neighbours, too, used their properties for vacations, and hence Rita had the beach all to herself. She sunbathed in the day, enjoyed a drink at sunset, swam in the evening. She had spent days, weeks on this beach with her father. They had talked endless hours, late in the night, him telling her about growing up and looking for pastures beyond Goa: a guy, a family, maybe a career. “Someone or something will take you away” he had prophesised. Robert Ferreira's little girl had finally grown up. An inadvertent smile passed through her lips reminiscing the days.

  There were days she supposed that she could get used to this life. She neither needed the money nor the stress. Her parents had bequeathed their only child with more than she could spend in her lifetime. And with her history of broken relationships it still looked unlikely that there would be anyone to inherit it after her. But she hadn't joined the police force for money; there were far better professions to make money if that was what one desired. Police was her calling, she always reminded herself.

  However, three months and numerous sessions later, the therapist's evaluation was decisively complete and Rita was finally on a flight to recommence work. Vinay Joshi, her immediate supervisor and Joint Commissioner of Mumbai Police, had spoken to her about a case that Interpol had asked Mumbai Crime Squad to look into.

  Thus began another one of Rita's chartless journeys.

  It was almost getting to be a cold case, as far as the Belgian Police were concerned, but they had found some new clues that had pointed them towards Mumbai. Joshi had provided no further information, and Rita hadn't yet looked up on the web for any news regarding the same. With so little detail it would have been a sheer waste of time: how could one look at all crimes that occurred in Belgium, and how far would one go digging for a cold case?

  The coincidence of the two events — her successful evaluation and the urgency of the international case was a bit baffling though. But when the bureaucratic machinery really decided to do something, she knew, it got done much faster than it took Tendulkar to score a century. Rita involuntarily smiled as the plane touched down at Mumbai. The flight had landed on the dot like it had taken off. The plane taxied for a little longer than usual, waiting for passengers from earlier flights to disembark before it docked on to the next available aerobridge.

  As she collected her baggage from the carousel, her mind drifted to the case at hand. A cold case leading to “some pointer to Mumbai” could well mean that it would have provided the perpetrators with ample time to get away and move to Australia by now.

  It would be frustrating.

  It would be challenging.

  But she was ready for it. She had had enough cessation from duty, and after a while it had actually grown into boredom. Her alcohol intake had also increased, which she had to consciously break the dependence on. Yes she was ready, she murmured in her brain and walked out to her driver waiting for her, and who came running the minute he saw her exit and, mocking a salute, took her luggage and walked her to her new official white Volkswagen Jetta.

  'How have you been, Kuldeep?' Rita asked as she climbed into the car.

  'Very much thank you, madam.' Kuldeep was a reticent man. He spoke very little and was uncomfortable whenever Rita made an attempt, but he responded, nevertheless, in his dialectal English.

  There seemed little point in labouring the dialogue further.

  'Home.' It was late and Rita was tired. It was better to begin work the next day, she reckoned.

  Kuldeep just nodded and put the car in gear and drove to Bandra.

  ***

  Whatever class of travel you picked in India, the car journey from the airport to your final destination ultimately coated you with a fine layer of grime, even if it is in an air-conditioned car with the windows closed. Rita unpacked, doffed her clothes and went straight into the shower. She stood five-six in socks, or without them, as she currently was under the jet flow of cold water that she needed to relax. She never considered herself beautiful — and conventionally she wasn't — but she knew well she drew glances from men of all ages. Blessed with a great metabolism, she made the most of it by never restricting her diet. She was in fantastic shape for a woman of thirty-something; like most other women she, too, maintained ambiguity of her precise age.
Whenever she missed gym for more than a week — normally when in the middle of a big case — she kept on with calisthenics at home: light yoga was best for toning the body. Tawny coloured body, with not an ounce of undesired fat. Flat stomach, not well endowed — certainly not the kind that was in your face — yet curvaceous enough. 56 kilos. And a God-gifted zillion-dollar arse to top that. Beauty can be an opinion steered by preconceived notion or your upbringing; sensuality was near absolute. Sensual: that was what she was if she were to be styled in one word.

  They say a woman's intuition is far greater than a man's. Combine that with police training and years of experience: a perfect marriage of nature and nurture. And above everything else DCP Rita Ferreira was a class A workaholic.

  Kuldeep had a set of keys and he had got the house cleaned and filled the refrigerator with fresh bread, milk and eggs. And ice. Rita unpacked and went around her apartment looking at all the things she had missed. It was mostly full of paperbacks and music. And there it was: a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam.

  Should she? Shouldn't she?

  She had, on too many occasions, witnessed her father get swacked, burst into fits of laughter, get angry, get over-effusive and loud, then get all maudlin and finally apologise; all in one evening. He was never rude or violent, just noisy. All side effects of Scotch. As a result she never drank Scotch. Important precautionary measure that. She was in love with Bourbon: Jim. Sex, lies, and Bourbon.

  Should she? Shouldn't she?

  What the heck! It was the last day of the three-month vacation that had been forced upon her.

  A couple of large drinks down and she drifted into her unsuccessful love life. Where had she gone wrong? Yes, she'd had some relationships that didn't work — who didn't? — but she wasn't what someone would call rambunctious. Still single. As for life so for love: you couldn't let your failures cling to you. Accept defeat or loss and then breaking the old and unavailing ties tightly shut the door on the past.