Who Painted My Money White

by Sree Iyer

  Ordinarily, the Prime Minister of India should have had no hesitation in ordering a covert inquiry into the possible involvement of some of his colleagues in the murky affair. Unfortunately for him, the real power lay with the party president and it was to her that he would have to turn to for approval, even for a crisis situation of this kind. As Prime Minister, he could not ignore such a serious issue. But if he took a unilateral decision and the party chief came to know of it, he would be pulled up for acting without her consent. She had enough moles within the government and administration. He decided to meet her.

  He was under no illusion that this meeting would be any different from the last. After all, the suspects that Mike had mentioned were close associates of the party president, and she would protect them at any cost. While he mulled over the situation, the Prime Minister received confirmation that the party chief would see him the following morning at her residence.

  Dipika greeted the Prime Minister with her customary formal courtesy and casually asked what had brought the most important man in the country to her home, although she knew in advance. She had been told by an official of the PMO of the Director of Intelligent Bureau’s visit the day before and the fact that the Prime Minister had sought to meet with her soon after. Without mincing words, Jagat told her about the fake notes and slipped across the table the dossier the Intelligence Bureau had prepared. Her eyebrows shot up on noticing Finance Minister Damodaran’s name on the suspect list.

  “This is utter nonsense, Dhillon ji! The IB report should be torn to pieces and put in the dustbin.”

  “Madam, we cannot ignore it. It’s not about one person or another. It’s an issue of national security. Counterfeit currency drives the drug trade. Terrorism too. It’s danger-”

  “No, I cannot allow senior ministers to be investigated on the basis of some whim. And this man Srinivasan… Did we elevate him as DIB to create problems for our people?”

  It was, of course, a rhetorical question. Dipika, who was several years younger to the Prime Minister, nodded to him indicating that the conversation was over. This time, though, in a rare show of defiance, he stood his ground.

  “Madam, if you do not step in, I will not hesitate to recommend their names for expulsion from the cabinet. The file will go to the President before the sun sets today. I will then hold a media briefing and let the press know what I am doing. In any case, I will be asking the DIB to go full steam ahead with the probe.” He said it all before he could stop himself.

  The party chief was stunned. The last time someone showed such open defiance to her was a long while ago. Her American husband had left her, fed up of her power-hungry political ambitions and minced no words while standing up to her.

  “I can see that the puppet has found his voice,” she sneered, angry and amused at the same time.

  But the Prime Minister was already on his feet. He made his way to the exit, determined to quit immediately if she tried to create obstacles with his decision to order a full inquiry into the counterfeit notes issue. He asked his driver to head towards his official residence. The Prime Minister’s wife was surprised to see him home this soon and knew in the next instant that something was terribly wrong. Over the next hour, Jagat poured his heart out to her, getting teary at times, recalling the party chief’s insolence. Despite the bravado he had displayed before her, the fact was that he was no longer willing to continue as Prime Minister.

  His wife felt his anguish but was equally worried by what the consequences of his resignation might turn out to be. That he would be publicly humiliated by the Freedom Party’s well-oiled publicity machinery was certain. But it would also give free rein to the criminal and corrupt lot within the party and government to wreak havoc with national security. She persuaded her husband to seek counsel with the one man that everyone turned to in times of dilemma: Fali Mistry.

  Fali Mistry was a politician, statesman, legal luminary and academic. Most importantly, he was honest; a man whose integrity was beyond question. He held a special regard for Prime Minister Dhillon and shared an excellent rapport with him. He was one of those rare people that the Prime Minister could speak freely with. Jagat dialed his number.

  “Fali, I would like to have a word with you. Can you come over for dinner tonight?”

  “Prime Minister, your wish is my command. I’ll be there.”

  Fali lit a cigar and blew smoke rings in the air. He was a stout man and always wore suspenders for that casual air about him, deceptive of the brilliant mind behind. He had authored three books on Indian politics and written countless articles for leading publications. He didn’t take political sides but had strong views, which he displayed for certain. It was pretty common for a party to hail him for his opinion about something and the next day, criticise him for his other views. He loved all the attention and the more he was condemned the more he would chuckle with delight. Given his proximity with the Prime Minister, he was aware of the crises the man faced every day. And he guessed the call indicated a flashpoint of sorts that Jagat had arrived at.

  Fali loved a stiff drink in the evenings but there would be no alcohol at the Prime Minister’s residence; Jagat was a teetotaler. He warmly hugged the Prime Minister and greeted his wife. Soon enough, they headed to the study room.

  After patiently hearing the Prime Minister, Fali said, “Jagat, don’t make the mistake of quitting. If you do, there are all chances for that slimy Damodaran to take your place, and you know what will happen to the country then.”

  The Prime Minister remained quiet.

  “It is also possible that Dalda could merge his regional outfit with the Freedom Party and become the Prime Minister.” Fali said this with a short laugh. “You know that Dipika has a soft corner for him. Surely you don’t wish the country to get into the hands of crooks?”

  “But I cannot function in this helpless state.”

  “So, don’t be helpless. Tell Madam that if she does not listen to you, you will begin to leak out information that will not just nail these buggers but also pull her down and ruin her party’s reputation.”

  “But that’s blackmail.”

  “Hah! Really?”

  Fali complimented Mrs. Dhillon over the excellent dinner and belched openly as he took leave of his friend. “Remember all that we spoke about,” he said and winked.

  Over the next few days, the various scams that had been talked up in hush-hush tones, had started to explode in full public view. For Prime Minister Dhillon, it could not have happened at a more appropriate time.

  CHAPTER 14.

  The Surface Cracks

  The Prime Minister woke up bright and early the next morning. His mind was clear after his conversation with Fali. He would totally bypass the party president this time for the plan of action he was about to initiate. For now, his prime targets would be the Finance Minister and Dalpat Dalvi, two people with deep connections with the counterfeit currency racket. But to nail them, he needed proof, and needed it quickly. He reckoned that faced with hard evidence — some of which would show up in the media as well — the party chief would be left with no option but to accept and relent.

  There was a spring in his step not hidden from his wife. She playfully taunted him: “What! I see a 20-something with whom I had fallen in love.” He dressed up earlier than usual and was at his South Block office desk by 7 AM. On his way to office, he called Mike and asked him to meet up in half hour. Mike was taken aback; he had never been called directly by the Prime Minister on the phone. It was always the PMO through which such calls were routed.

  Mike was not the only one to be surprised, though. Prime Minister Dhillon’s driver could not recall a single instance when he had driven his boss this early to office. The office was deserted barring the cleaning staff, and they stepped aside in alarm as they saw the country’s chief executive walk in at the unearthly hour. The Prime Minister made another short call, to Fali. He said, “I have decided to follow your advice,” and ended the conversation.


  At 7.30, there was a knock on his doors and Mike stepped in. The Prime Minister got straight to the point. “Srinivasan, I want you to put together an inter-disciplinary team consisting of members from the Research and Analysis Wing, the Intelligence Bureau and the Central Bureau of Investigation. Choose officers who can be trusted completely to maintain secrecy. Not a word should be leaked out — no minister or party functionary, including Madam, need be kept in the loop. And remember, the media just cannot know. You will head the team and report to me directly.”

  “Sir,” Mike responded, still unsure of where this conversation was headed.

  “There will be no file, either with you or your team. Everything will be strictly verbal. I want to get to the bottom of the fake currency issue. I have read through the dossier you gave me. You have a free hand.”

  “Sir, the honourable minister and the honourable MP…”

  “I don’t care how honourable they are. If you have material to suspect they are involved, go as far down as you can to collect irrefutable evidence against them. My only advice to you is: Be discreet. I don’t want anyone to be forewarned.”

  “Consider it done, Sir. After I have formed the team, would you like to meet and talk to them? It will help.”

  The Prime Minister agreed but said that the venue would have to be carefully selected. Mike suggested a safe house of the Intelligence Bureau in Delhi, but Jagat turned it down because his presence would be known to the intelligence personnel at the house. It was finally decided that the Prime Minister could meet with the team at Mauritius, where he was due to take a short vacation two weeks later. There would be no official or security hovering around at the private beach resort he was booked to stay at with his family.

  Four days before the briefing, Mike arrived in the Mauritian capital of Port Louis, conveniently to attend an international conference on intelligence gathering methods. A day later, a portly Indian with thick glasses and a bulging briefcase passed through the airport’s immigration counters without attracting a second glance from anyone. He had flown in from Seychelles. The Sir Seewoosagur Ramgoolam International Airport, located roughly 50 kilometres from Port Louis, bustled with Indians on any given day, who arrived as tourists or on business.

  On the same day, a reed-thin man landed from Bengaluru. He was dressed casually, sporting a T-shirt that proclaimed: ‘I love Mauritius,’ and he told the officials at the airport that he would be exploring the enchanting forests of their beautiful country. A day before the meeting, two men and one woman flew in from locations as far away as London, Singapore and California. All of them checked in at different hotels in and around Port Louis.

  Surprising for an international tourist location, Port Louis shuts down by 9 PM. As the five men and the woman made their way — separately — to the resort the Prime Minister was lodged in, they encountered sparse traffic. One by one, they trooped into the small study room attached to the suite. The hotel staff was told the visitors were old friends of the Indian Prime Minister’s daughter.

  The meeting was brief. Jagat emphasised the need for utmost secrecy and to leave absolutely no paper trail. He commended them for their excellent track record and said they had been chosen to undertake an assignment of the greatest national importance. He wished them luck, adding that they would not be meeting him again. Instead, they would get directions from Mike and were to report to him. Jagat’s parting words were: “In your success lies our country’s safety and security.”

  Back home through a similar circuitous route, the team members got cracking. Work was divided among them to expedite the investigation, but with enough flexibility to absorb any overlaps. Special attention was to be paid to the Finance Ministry and to Dalda’s dealings, political and otherwise.

  They were on the job to also track down any unusual happening in the last few months. During the course of its probe, the team stumbled upon the mysterious disappearance of a middle-level Indian Revenue Service official, Deepak Masani, for nearly four days. He had applied for and was sanctioned casual leave, but no one knew where he was during those four days. Team member, Karan Dixit, decided to dig further. He soon learned that Deepak had an impeccable track record and was one of the finest and most honest officers of the IRS. But he had never before utilised his casual leave for a trip abroad. Although it could be nothing, Karan didn’t quite rest easy. If nothing else, Deepak could help with some important lead to understand the fake currency operations.

  Plus, Karan knew Deepak from long ago. They had been schoolmates though a decade apart. They were not really friends but moved in the same circles and were acquainted. When Karan called him for a quick catch up over tea after work, the call came as a bit of a surprise to Deepak, but he instantly agreed.

  After some small talk, Karan came to the point. Deepak was alarmed. Had he done something terribly wrong? Was he in trouble? Karan was quick to dispel those thoughts, but said, “Were you on holiday at Rio? Or was it official?”

  Karan had done his homework well and there was no point in being vague. Deepak had been carrying the burden of his Rio visit for a while now and decided to come clean. He gave Karan the full low down, right from Finance Minister Damodaran’s direct orders for him to go to the Amazon to his encounter with the Pakistani official.

  As Karan processed this information, it was clear to him that there was a Pakistani ISI angle involved as well. The man Deepak had met could not have been anybody but an ISI agent. He had explained to Deepak the process by which various people would make money in India through multi-level invoicing of the LEPE purchased in the grey market, to be bought by the government of India as a new off-the-shelf product. The mystery man did not tell Deepak the details of the counterfeit currency printing and distribution. And, of course, the role played by his agency.

  Mike mulled over the information Karan had brought him. He called a number in Karachi and left a message on voice mail. “The rose has bloomed.” An hour later, there was a similar message on his mailbox: “Spring is around the corner.” Only the two knew that the first message decoded as, ‘Come immediately and meet me’, while the second meant, ‘Okay’. In a couple of days, the man from Karachi, a RAW agent whose declared business was a lucrative car dealership, was in India, ostensibly to explore new business avenues.

  Karan had a set of specific questions. One: The quantum of Pakistani currency printed in its state-owned printing presses. Two: The amount consumed for domestic purposes. Three: The destinations to which the excess currencies went. Four: The proportion of counterfeit FICN that the Pakistani presses produced. And five: Connections between the Pakistani state and Indian outfits/ individuals in such deals.

  In under a week, he received shocking answers to his questions. He went straight to Mike with the information. It was a detailed report of the huge amounts of fake Indian currency printed in Pakistan and transported to India via Dubai, with a sizeable part landing in Kochi in Kerala. The report mentioned a father-son duo - both prominent politicians in Kerala - who took charge of the consignment and processed it. There were details of the most recent landings.

  Karan’s next port of call was Kerala. Over the weekend, he had gathered enough material to push Saga and Harish to the wall, which he did with much relish on meeting them. They put up a show of toughness but turned meek once their bluff was called. It was with a great deal of effort that they had built their political careers and were not inclined to throw them away. They decided it best to fully cooperate with Karan in his inquiries, provided they came to no harm. That assurance was promptly given, though Karan had no intention to honour it. People like them didn’t deserve such considerations. In an interrogation that lasted ten hours spread over two days, the broad contours of the Kerala end of the racket came into view. And so, did the name of one Ramesh Badri and a few chartered accountants who had been dishing out big amounts of cash to various people for mysterious reasons.

  Meanwhile, Mike’s team was pursuing other angles, covering various part
s of the country. A scary threesome of fake currency, drug trade and terror funding began to emerge. Kerala seemed to be the hotspot for all three.

  Despite utmost discretion being exercised, word had begun to go around. It finally reached the office of the Freedom party chief. She did not know how much was revealed so far.

  Dipika was livid, however. Her party’s government in Kerala depended on the outside support of the regional outfit headed by Saga, and she naturally did not want any trouble to befall on him. Kerala was one of the very few states where the Freedom Party was still in power. She decided to act.

  CHAPTER 15.

  A Game Well Played

  Sycophants within the party loved her, some genuinely respected her, and there were those who despised her. But there was none who could challenge the strong-headed Dipika. The way she assumed the party presidentship had been a reflection of her ruthless methods. As an ordinary Freedom Party worker, she was no more equal than the million others who were attached to the party, led by Ram Chandra Pal, a veteran who belonged to the most backward Dalit community. But a group of senior leaders was upset with his leadership and were itching to get rid of him and install her.

  The problem was, nobody seemed to know how this could be done. There was no precedence in the party of sacking an incumbent party president. At first, crude attempts were made to persuade Ram to quit, when the cabal expressed a lack of confidence in him. But the veteran, who had seen many a battle for supremacy in his decades-long career, countered it by having his supporters pass a resolution expressing their faith in his leadership. Knowing that the cabal owed allegiance to Madam, he began to take decisions that were designed to unsettle her. He replaced the most prominent members of the group with his own men. Added to that, he cut down his interactions with Dipika, calling on her only to keep the pretense of formality.