by Vish Dhamija
Another crackle. Another question.
'We fly from Delhi to London, then to Miami and then to our heaven... yes, that's the best route, there is no direct flight. Our flight is early morning, so get to the airport like I told you. Yes, I know it's very early but trust me. The earlier we get there, the better.'
The person on the other side asked something more.
'Take as circuitous a route as possible. Change cabs if you have to. We can't fail now.'
The entire circus had been incredibly well planned. Rita's brain was clouded: it wouldn't be the first time some criminal got away. Police files around the world are full of cold cases. Unsolved crimes.
There was no duplicate Honey Singh. Nene's next set of informers had found the only Honey Singh they already knew about. Take it to a court of law and say: “there is another one but we can't find him”, and the case is over. That is, if it can even be filed in the first place.
Veer Singh's death could conjecturally be linked to Honey Singh and, perhaps, Kitty Varghese. No evidence there either.
Rita and team were confident it was Honey Singh. Kitty could be an accomplice, but they weren't certain.
'I cannot fathom how one person could fly into another country and manage a burglary in that manner all by himself... we thought there were two Honey Singhs, which, unbelievable as it was, offered some credibility to our theory.' Rita couldn't come up with any reasonable explanation.
'It has to be Kitty,' Vikram said.
'My gut feel tells me that too, but we know she was in Köln. And we also know she was never out of sight of someone in the group for more than an hour or so. How could she have made it to Brussels and back without being missed?'
'Let's me get Honey Singh in a lock-up ma'am and I'll get him to speak,' Nene offered.
Jatin smiled. He knew that given the opportunity, Nene was more than capable of making Honey Singh talk. He also recognised Rita wouldn't permit any of those old police tactics.
'Let' go and talk to him once more.' Rita stood up. She had no more patience. 'Who's coming?'
Nene and Vikram stood up.
'I think Nene should come with me, this time. A fresh pair of eyes.'
***
Rita and Nene stormed into Honey Singh's office like on the previous occasion. No calling ahead, no notice. The little receptionist guy sat there, but he didn't as much as make the effort of asking who they were, what they wanted or check if his boss had time to see them.
'Good morning, Mr Singh.' Rita opened Honey Singh's office door and entered, followed by Nene.
'You, again?' He sounded irritated.
'Do we stink?' Nene asked impolitely.
'I didn't say that—'
'What is the problem in seeing us again then?'
'Look, I didn't mean to be disrespectful, it was just something uttered.' Honey Singh's countenance shouted that he comprehended this meeting wasn't going to another soft-spoken one. The body, the posture was confident; his eyes were nervous. 'I'm sorry. Sit down please. What can I do for you?'
'We can have this conversation back at the police station of your choice if you want.'
'I said I'm sorry.'
'Apology accepted.' Rita took over. She realised Nene had rankled him enough. 'God, my watch has stopped. What time is it?' She intentionally looked at Honey Singh. Honey Singh was working on a laptop and there was a big-screen computer behind him, and Rita caught a partial reflection of some brochure but she couldn't see the full screen as his body was in-between the two screens. It was some place beginning with CA...
'11:04.' Honey closed his laptop.
Yep. Same watch. She could see the slight dent from across the desk where she sat. The scratches on the chain weren't visible; they weren't required to confirm those in any case. If she had any evidence, only then would the watch be confiscated and compared to the photographs. Getting a warrant based on photographs to prove that the two were one. It didn't make someone guilty of murder or burglary.
'Any leads on the murder investigation you were working on?' Honey Singh started.
'Yes, very concrete ones in fact. But that's not what we are here to discuss.'
'How may I help you DCP Ferreira, and...' he looked at Nene who hadn't found Honey Singh worthy enough to introduce himself.
Nene still didn't say his name or rank.
'You friend Veer Singh died.' Rita broke the news calmly.
No remorse. No shock. Honey Singh stayed poker face.
'I don't see why you've come to inform me of the death of someone who, as I mentioned when you were here last time with Senior Inspector Patil,' Honey Singh ensured he looked at Nene when he mentioned Vikram's name, '.that Veer Singh and I split ages ago—'
'Wasn't he a close friend at one point in your life?'
'He was indeed, but I have had no contact with him for years now.'
'Do you know if he has any distant relatives?'
'None.'
'I guess it was a wasted visit then.'
'What part of India was he killed in?''
Guilt, besides being an extremely strong emotion, is also a fantastic phenomenon. You can, of course, hide it if you're a serial offender or a good actor like Honey Singh. But — and here's the thing — it spills out in other ways. If someone fed you partial information on a situation that you are fully aware of, it can put you in a quandary sometime. Did I hear that? Or do I know that? There is a fragile line. You need to keep a record of everything because you're living a lie.
'I didn't say he was killed, did I?'
'Well…' Honey stopped, but only for a split-second. 'If he had died a natural death I wouldn't be hearing it from you DCP Ferreira.'
Great comeback on Rita's question.
How could Honey Singh have known Veer Singh had been killed in India? A crucial thought had pushed through and she got up without a warning.
'We'll be seeing you soon, Mr Singh.'
'And don't you even try leaving this city till I tell you or you'll be sorry you tried,' Nene shot before they walked out.
***
Rita and Nene updated the others on their short meeting with Honey Singh. Both confirmed that the watch was a giveaway. Rita also revealed that she had sighted a holiday brochure of some country on Honey Singh's screen when they barged in unannounced. He had subsequently closed his laptop, but the initial two letters of the place was C and A; she hadn't caught anything else.
'The plan is on the mark: to put as much geographical distance between them and their crimes,' Rita concluded.
'Europe?'
'Europe should not be it, not with the seat of European headquarters in Belgium after them for the murder in Brussels. I want a list of countries starting with C, second letter A.'
'Canada.'
'I said the whole list. Canada is too risky. Even if he has a passport and visa he still has to return at some point. Get a list. There can't be that many... '
'I'm on it.' For once Vikram didn't note the task down. He started typing on his computer pronto. 'Cambodia, Cameroon, Canada, Cape Verde, and that's it.'
'Jatin, call up our sources — ask Commissioner Saxena's secretary to make calls if required — and check the names of people who've been granted visas to these countries in the last six months. Save for Canada, I can't imagine too many Indians flying to the other three countries for vacations or business.'
'But surely they would have been issued under aliases.'
'We have Non-disclosure agreements in place with embassies for security reasons. Share the description, photographs of Honey and Kitty, their backgrounds, addresses. They cannot beat all the scrutiny.'
Jatin rushed out.
There was no indication when — if it were actually happening at all — Honey Singh and Kitty Varghese were flying out, but with this entire discovery there was a certain urgency in the team. Like they were close to the finish line somehow. They had got Honey Singh, but still they hadn't. And that frustration, that anger was pushing the
adrenaline.
***
Save for the Canadian Embassy, which asked for a court order before revealing any personal information on the visas they granted, the other three embassies didn't require much cajoling. Or arm twisting. A simple request from the Mumbai Police Commissioner's Office was treated with urgency. The Cape Verde and Cambodian embassies were in New Delhi; all info was sent to them digitally. Being the only offices in India they didn't take long in coming back with a negative response. No one that remotely resembled Honey Singh or Kitty Varghese — physically, financially or professionally — had applied for a visa for either country. No one by the name Sishir Singh either. Rita knew that it was next to impossible for any national to apply for a visa to a nation when they were out of their native country. Honey Singh couldn't just fly to Dubai or Singapore and apply for a Cape Verde visa there. You had to show residency in a country to use the local embassy.
Cameroon didn't have an embassy in India. Indians can apply for tourist visas when they land. It isn't one of the countries you escaped to, though the nation not having diplomatic ties with India might be an advantage. How do you ask them to extradite a criminal? Cameroon is right above the equator in West Africa, and Rita couldn't imagine that after making all the money that they had, Honey Singh would be desirous of spending the rest of his life in Cameroon. Although, it wasn't a bad stopgap before seeking asylum somewhere in some South America nation, such as Uruguay, which had harboured and sheltered criminal refugees including Nazis from the Second World War. It was a long shot, but a shot nevertheless. She made it a point to ask Vikram to check the flight connections to Cameroon. She was quite certain that there wouldn't be any direct flights. The team would have to watch pretty much every flight out of Mumbai. Also, domestic flights to other international airports in India.
The Canadian Embassy finally, after a lot of pressure from some minister Sexy knew, promised to send over their response the following day. The whole running round for embassy confirmations took the best part of the day.
Jatin confirmed that besides the discreet security, now a visible team had also been contrived and put in place for Handlebar Raja and his extended family. As such, it wasn't essential for Mr Raja to capitulate in the face of the threats issued by his elusive client and alter his last report.
***
Rita sat in her apartment, laptop switched on. The half-empty bottle of Jim Beam lay exactly where she and Ash had left it on Sunday night. She waited for the temptation to pass and then filled her glass with the Diet Coke that had come free with the pizzas that Ash had ordered.
Google is a magnificent phenomenon. It can find you anything you want on the web — and these days almost everything is on the web — it can also make suggestions and recommendations based on what you search. It even starts serving what it thinks are relevant ads. Conversely, what it lacks is a human brain and eyes to look at you and around you to determine why you are rummaging for something particular. It can be extremely irritating at times, but it can be exceptionally valuable. You search for information on Care Verde and Google deduces that you are looking for your next holiday destination though Rita wasn't planning on one, but there is no way Google knew that. How could it? So if Rita Ferreira was viewing pages on Cape Verde the dazzling algorithm processed that Miss Ferreira was seeking a vacation on some islands. What's better it deliberated that Miss Ferreira aspired a vacation in a warm climate with lots of sun and sea. Cape Verde is a small island country. And if Miss Ferreira was keen on an island, what better than throw up an offer for holidays in the Caribbean Sea? The Cayman Islands popped up, and they caught Rita's eye. They weren't in the list of countries beginning with CA only because the Cayman Islands are a territory of three islands in the Caribbean. Though located south of Cuba they, at independence, they voted to remain a British Overseas Territory and remain under the jurisdiction and sovereignty of the United Kingdom, taking the British monarch as the head of state. But there's the catch: they do not form a part of the UK, ergo, they have their own government, their own leadership and are not governed or regulated by the UK.
Everyone and their dog knows that the Islands are known to be a major financial centre with 300 banks, sixty thousand local population in approximately 100 square miles of total area. So, it's simple maths who these banks service? Besides international players like Deutsche Bank, UBS, Goldman Sachs and HSBC, there are a plethora of local and regional players stealing assets and accounts from the ever-secretive Swiss. Same principles of banking, equal anonymity is guaranteed.
But.
What everyone and their dog does not know is that, unlike Switzerland, moving to the Cayman Islands and taking up residency is as simple as stealing a lollipop from the baby. All you need is money and patience.
$1.6 million — the Cayman Island Dollar is almost the same value as a Euro — of investment gets you permanent residency on the islands. There are enough consultants around the globe to help you invest that money in the right mix of assets to get you started in the right direction. Once the countdown begins, living five years on the Islands grants you citizenship of British Overseas Territory. The Indian Police can only watch the contrails of your flight thereafter.
Rita had been, for a long time, a preponderant of syllogism: an ancient Greek logical deduction that combines two separate pieces of information. She was well aware that none of those burgled had declared the total extent of their loss due to tax reasons. Extrapolating the declared loss she did some woolly maths on fingertips — Mumbai: $525K, New Delhi: $790K and Brussels: $10m — whoever was behind them could easily afford a resident permit right away with enough left in the bank to build it from there. The fact that it hadn't happened yet meant there was some delay caused on account of pending paperwork. Or else, if they were close to their target wouldn't they jump and finish the game they started?
Rita still held her hypothesis that none of the three heists were carried out by a single individual. It was a team. Small team. You needed as few links in the chain as possible to keep it strong. A secret needs as few people as possible to keep it under wraps. Not finding any other players to benefit from these capers besides Honey Singh and Kitty Varghese, she inferred it was a two-person team. They could have flown under the radar but for collateral damage: Ron Jogani.
The only gap was how it was possible with Kitty's alibi in Germany.
Doubt crept in when she couldn't find the answers. Am I doing it right? Am I even on the right track?
She was so exhausted she was in a state of fugue. She had lost track of time, and Jim she reasoned wouldn't help. It was midnight when she shut her laptop and tapped on her Blackberry to pick up any new messages. There were a few. She scanned till she saw one from Jatin. He had finally found the owner of the reckless motorcycle rider they had encountered a few weeks prior. Nothing major.
Switching off the lights, she slipped out of her jeans and wore the shirt to bed.
A stray thought floated along like a latent dandelion suddenly chartering up and down in the gentle wind: a reckless motorcyclist drifting through lined cars, missing traffic lights, disregarding the risk to his own life in the process. Was he doing it for kicks or was he rushing to accomplish something? What could be worth endangering one's own life for? You might be closer to the treasure, but dead.
She switched on the bedside light and got up with a jolt, sweating. Without bothering to put on her jeans she walked into the living room and switched on the lights. The tunnel was ending; the light was turning from hazy to bright.
Hadn't they already risked their lives for diamonds? Would a small compromise like reckless motorcycling halt anyone from staying away from diamonds worth ten million Euros?
She poured herself a Jim Beam and restarted her laptop and waited for it to reboot.
And what made her so sexist to think that a motorcycle rider can only be a male?
You only need an Einstein to break a cipher. For everything else there's mathematics. As per Google maps
the Dom Hotel in Köln, Germany, where Kitty Varghese resided for her fashion show, was approximately 214 kilometres from the Crowne Plaza Hotel in Brussels where Ron Jogani had been killed. A distance that Google Maps showed could be covered in just over two-and-a half-hours in a car, which could take a reckless motorcyclist much less. One hour thirty minutes, give or take. But the whole premise hinged on one single posit: Kitty Varghese rode a motorbike...
Rita ran her hands through her hair in frustration. Frustration sired by months of failure that had been boring holes in her forbearance. For a long time they hadn't had a single break in the case. Now, when her instinct told her that she was on the right track she did not have access to the office files. She winced at the taste of despondency that had suddenly dried her mouth. She took a sip of Jim and looked at the time on her screen: 01:17. She couldn't call anyone at this hour for the files. If only she had the report with Kitty Varghese's alibi — what time did the fashion shows culminate in the evenings and when did the group split for the night? All Kitty needed was a clean seven/eight hours. Less than a two-hour bike ride to Brussels, a three-hour halt, which were adequate to collect the gun and other gadgets, deliver at the Crowne Plaza, maybe collect the diamonds, return or dispose of the gun and race back to her hotel. If she left after nine in the evening, she could be back in bed by five the following morning. Presto! But all this was conjecture. She could only get confirmation that that would be possible in the morning. 01:17 in New Delhi meant it was still 21:47 in Brussels. She called Victor, who picked up his mobile on the third ring.
'Good evening Victor, I'm sorry to bother you.'
'Hello Rita.' Victor must have stored her number, as she didn't have to introduce herself. 'It must be quite late in India.'
'It is one-twenty in the morning.'
'Then it must be urgent. How may I help you?'
'I'm wondering if you know. could someone ride a motorcycle from Köln to Brussels and back in a night?'
'Twice.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'I mean any good motorcyclist can do that journey twice in a night. You see some of the Autobahns in Germany have no speed limits, so that part could be covered at, say... over 220 kilometres an hour. What is this regarding?'