Private Delhi Read online

  He’d decided the only way to change the system was to occupy a position of power. He’d decided that he would need to contest elections soon.

  Chapter 97

  IN A MEETING room of Delhi’s Oberoi Hotel assembled a group of people who could never have expected to assemble in amicable circumstances.

  On one side of the table sat the Police Commissioner, Sharma, who wore a uniform that strained at its buttons, as well as a distinctly sour expression, and beside him his assistant Nanda, who wore no expression at all, as though he were simply an interested bystander, an impartial observer.

  Across from them sat Jack Morgan, relaxed, stubbled, his polo shirt open at the neck and a dazzling grin never far from the surface; Santosh, whose own stubble gave him a weary, troubled look; beside him Neel; and on the end Nisha, who glared with unreserved distaste at Sharma.

  The cop cleared his throat to address the Private team. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me. The reason I wanted to—”

  “Wait a minute,” cut in Jack. “Wait just a goddamn minute. I told you we would agree to meet on one condition. Let’s see that condition met first, shall we?”

  Sharma picked up a hotel pen then placed it down again. His eyes dropped to the tabletop and his color rose as he cleared his throat and mumbled something.

  “A little louder, please,” said Jack. “Aim for audible and we’ll take it from there.”

  “Okay,” said Sharma, throwing back his shoulders, “let’s get this over with, shall we? I would like to say sorry to you, Mrs. Gandhe,” he nodded toward her, “for your treatment at the station the other day. It was inexcusable. I of course accept that you have nothing to do with the spate of killings, and I should never have insinuated as much. Please accept my apologies.”

  “Thank you,” said Nisha tightly.

  Sharma’s eyes rose to meet hers. “How is she?” he asked, with a tenderness that took her by surprise. “How is your little girl?”

  “Oh, she’s … Well, she’s bearing up. She still has night terrors. She still talks about the killer as the good man. She hopes that he’s read her essay.”

  Sharma nodded, tucking his chin into his chest. “And what do you think? Do you still think he’s a good man?”

  Nisha’s hackles rose. “Oh? We’re starting that again?”

  “I’m interested to know what you think, that’s all,” responded Sharma.

  “Okay then,” began Nisha. “Our theory here at Private is that—”

  Now it was Santosh’s turn to clear his throat, sitting upright in his chair. “Wait a minute, if you would. Perhaps we might first learn what is the purpose of this meeting? Up until now, Commissioner, you’ve made it very clear that you have no intention of cooperating with us. Why the sudden change of heart?”

  Sharma shifted. “Not long ago somebody said to me that the fervor we’re seeing on the streets is the kind in which revolutions are forged. I didn’t agree with him then, but I’m beginning to agree with him now. Things have gone too far, they’ve gotten out of hand. We need to put a stop to it and I’m proposing that in order to do that we pool our resources. We are, after all, investigating the same thing.”

  “The same two things,” Nisha reminded him. “We have a serial killer on the street and an organ-harvesting network.”

  “If you’re suggesting that my own investigations into either of those things have been half-hearted then you’re wrong,” said Sharma, with a touch of wounded pride. “In fact, I’ve established the identities of all the major players in the organ-harvesting network. I believe I know the identity of the killer.”

  Eyebrows were raised on the other side of the table.

  “In return for you sharing what information you have with me, I will give you that information,” he continued. “And in return for giving my team access to what I’m told is your state-of-the-art investigative technology,” he waved a hand at Jack, “I’m prepared to patch you into a surveillance feed I’m setting up at the homes of Thakkar and Dr. Arora.”

  “We accept,” said Jack happily. “That seems like an excellent pooling of resources. You’re right: too many people have died. We need to prevent any more casualties.”

  “Wait.” Sharma held up a hand. “As part of the treaty, I would like your assurance that you won’t use any of your investigative findings against the Lieutenant Governor.”

  “Oh yes?” said Jack. “And what about you? Do you have anything damaging on the Chief Minister?”

  For the first time since the beginning of the meeting, Sharma smiled. “Oh yes. Something very damaging to the Chief Minister. It appears that Jaswal and Thakkar are old buddies from NYU. No doubt you’ve been sitting on that information too?”

  Jack ignored the question. “Do you have any evidence that Jaswal is implicated in the transplant network?”

  Sharma let them dangle for a moment, then his smile broadened. “No. As far as I know, he’s clean. But then as far as I know, Chopra is clean too. They run Delhi, for God’s sake. Why would they get their hands dirty with something as tawdry as this?”

  “The answer, Mr. Sharma, is money,” said Santosh. “The answer is always money. But I grant you, all evidence points to both men being innocent.” He paused. “At least in this particular matter.”

  “That’s what you’re here for, is it? To make sure that nothing potentially damaging emerges?” said Nisha, her voice dripping with contempt.

  “It was Chopra who insisted we put a stop to this, young lady,” snapped Sharma. “It’s to him we should be thankful.”

  Nisha scoffed. “Thankful? What’s clear is that the state government has allowed things to reach boiling point in an attempt to score political points. And don’t call me young lady.”

  “And what have you been doing at Private, then?” retorted Sharma. “Twiddling your thumbs?”

  “The political situation made it difficult for us to come to the police with our findings,” said Santosh calmly. Did he imagine it, or did he feel Nisha’s eyes burning accusingly into him?

  “Very well, very well,” said Sharma, hands spread. “Then let this be the dawn of a new era between us.”

  “Good,” said Jack. He looked left and right at his colleagues, drawing a line under the dispute. “You said earlier you know who the killer is. How about starting our new dawn by sharing that particular piece of information with us?”

  “It’s a man named Ibrahim,” said Sharma. “He’s been working with Dr. Arora at the Memorial Hospital, but he’s gone rogue. He’s been negotiating with someone else to shift his business to them instead of Thakkar’s mob, ResQ. Most likely he’s trying to destroy the entire ResQ network—Kumar, Patel, Thakkar. With all the key players gone, he’d have a free hand to expand with a rival corporation.”

  Nisha was shaking her head. “What about Roy’s murder?” she said.

  Sharma shrugged. “Roy was Health Secretary. We’ll have to ask Ibrahim why he deserved to die when we catch him.”

  Still shaking her head, Nisha looked across at her colleagues. “No, no, this is wrong.”

  “Well, let me hear your better ideas, then,” frowned Sharma.

  “Wait. If you think it’s Ibrahim, then why come to us?” said Santosh. “Why not just bring him in?”

  “Because I want to be sure. Because I’m betting you can help find him. Because your associate Mrs. Gandhe here has seen the killer, remember?”

  “And because you want to tie up any political loose ends,” said Nisha.

  Sharma rolled his eyes. “To our mutual benefit.”

  Jack signaled cool it and then turned to Sharma. “You’ve got surveillance on Thakkar and Dr. Arora?”

  “Logic tells us they’ll be the next victims,” said Sharma. “In the meantime, if we could locate Ibrahim, that would be helpful as well. Unless you really have been sitting around scratching your asses, I’m guessing you’ve got to Ibrahim and I’m guessing you have something on him.”

  Santosh nodded. “We have ce
ll phone numbers.”

  “Then we can trace him,” said Neel, the first words he’d spoken since the meeting began. He looked at Santosh. “We can trace him more quickly than the police. We have the StingRay.”

  Chapter 98

  “SURE, LET’S TRACE Ibrahim’s numbers,” said Santosh. “It’s the easiest and most effective way to reach him. Neel, you think we can do it?”

  Neel nodded. “We’ll head to his usual area in the StingRay.”

  An hour later, Neel, Nisha, Jack, and Santosh were in the StingRay van. Nisha took the wheel because Neel needed to operate the equipment at the back of the van. Jack got into the passenger seat next to Nisha, his Colt .45 tucked away under his jacket.

  Private had invested substantially in StingRay technology because all other wiretapping and tracking systems needed the cooperation of telephone companies. The telecom operators would usually only respond to law enforcement requests or court orders. This left agencies like Private out in the cold.

  Neel had outfitted a van with international mobile subscriber identity (IMSI) catchers—also called StingRays. A StingRay was essentially a portable “fake” cellular base station that could be driven to the area of interest. Once activated, the StingRay unit sent out a strong signal to cell phones within its range, thus causing such phones to attempt a handshake with the StingRay as though it were a real base station of the cellular company. Instead of latching on, the StingRay device would simply record the identity of each cellular phone that registered with it and then shut itself down.

  The van made its way through the congested Delhi roads crossing Kalka Das Marg and Sri Aurobindo Marg. Nisha unashamedly blasted the horn to get auto rickshaws to move out of her way. She continued along Prithviraj Road, Tilak Marg, and Bahadur Shah Zafar Road to Urdu Bazar Road. She swerved the van toward an empty parking slot by the side of the road and asked, “Now what?”

  “Now we activate the StingRay,” said Neel, opening up his laptop. The screen immediately presented a map of the locality and little dots began to light up. Neel punched in the two cell phone numbers that ostensibly belonged to Ibrahim and waited for the next fifteen minutes, allowing the StingRay unit to make friends with various cell phones in the locality.

  “Got him,” said Neel, looking at the Delhi map on his computer screen. “He’s heading toward the hospital.”

  “Arora,” said Santosh. “He’s going after Arora.”

  They looked at each other, all four members of the Private team.

  “Come on,” sighed Jack. “Let’s go save the heartless butcher.”

  Chapter 99

  THE OFFICE LIGHTS were turned off except for the desk lamp. Seated in the visitors’ chair was Ibrahim with his hands tucked into the side pockets of his calfskin jacket, his head protected by his customary skullcap. Dr. Pankaj Arora sat on his usual executive chair, sipping hot water and honey. It was cold in Delhi and the hospital’s heating system seemed to be on the blink.

  “It has become clear to me that you will never allow me to receive a fair market value for my efforts,” said Ibrahim. “I’m now evaluating other options that, inshallah, may be more lucrative.”

  “Don’t forget who got you started,” said Arora brusquely, baring the gap between his teeth. “If I could get you started, I can also get a hundred others to do my bidding. No one is indispensable—including you.” The threat was unmistakable. Arora wiped his glasses.

  Ibrahim felt his anger welling up. Sure, Arora had gotten him started and given him a fresh lease of life with the business. But did that mean lifelong servility? No! Enough was enough. It was time for Ibrahim to be his own man. The offer from the Middle East was an exciting one and Ibrahim was going to take it. But before that there was unfinished business. The ResQ network had to be debilitated.

  Arora picked up on the determination in Ibrahim’s voice. He would need to try a different tack—one of gentle persuasion. He got up from his chair and walked around to sit on the edge of the desk, near Ibrahim. He gently placed his hand on Ibrahim’s shoulder. “You are like my son,” he said. “I’m the person who trained you and taught you everything there is to know. If you want to work for someone else, I shall not get in your way.”

  Ibrahim’s hands stayed inside his calfskin jacket as though he were attempting to stay warm. Inside the right pocket was a syringe with the plunger extended all the way up. Inside the plastic tube was a full dose of etorphine. Ibrahim held the syringe gently, his thumb stationed on the plunger. He was careful not to put any pressure on it, though. He did not want any of the liquid getting wasted before the needle met its target.

  Chapter 100

  FROM OUTSIDE CAME a noise, and when Ibrahim moved to the window and used a finger to shift the blind, what he saw was a van screech noisily into the forecourt below. From it tumbled several figures, one of whom he recognized: Santosh Wagh, the guy from the detective agency—supposed to be dead—as well as a woman and two other men.

  And in the distance he heard the wail of sirens.

  Shit, he thought. He’d told Arora they were in trouble, and now they really were. He glanced across at the doctor, thinking of the syringe in his pocket and wondering if he should finish the job, salvage something, but then decided that discretion was the better part of valor. It was time for his grand exit.

  “What’s going on out there?” snapped Arora.

  “Oh, nothing,” said Ibrahim airily. “Just an ambulance arriving. With any luck the occupant will have some fresh organs for us.”

  “You’ve seen sense at last, have you? You’ll stick to doing things through the usual channels?” said Arora with audible relief.

  “That’s right, old man,” said Ibrahim. “You win. But for now I have business to attend to. I’ll be in touch.”

  And with that he left, trying to look as casual as possible, even as he hurried out of the darkened office and into the corridor beyond, heading for the elevator.

  They’d be in the reception area by now, he thought, probably making their way to the elevator. There were four of them. If they had any sense they’d send one guy up the stairs, a couple in the elevator, one keeping an eye on the reception area.

  In other words, they’d have the exits covered.

  Shit.

  He stepped away from the elevator, looking wildly left and right. Emergency exit. There. He trotted toward it, steeling himself for an alarm as he pressed the bar.

  It stayed silent. It wasn’t alarmed. Yes. Now he found himself on a set of gray-painted back stairs. Not that he was an expert on evacuation protocol, but he’d bet that going down would lead him out into the parking lot.

  Bye bye, suckers, he thought, closed the emergency exit door softly behind him, and descended.

  Sure enough, at the bottom was a second door. This time an alarm did sound, but he didn’t care, the wailing accompanying him as he trotted away from the open door and toward his van. There were times he’d wondered about the wisdom of driving such a conspicuous vehicle, but the advantage was you could quickly find it in a parking lot. He fumbled for the keys and, glancing back at the hospital, he saw security men carrying walkie-talkies arrive at the open emergency exit. Abruptly the alarm stopped.

  “Ibrahim,” came a voice, and he swung around to see a figure standing between the vehicles, blocking his way to the driver’s door. Moonlight scuttled down the long curved blade of a scalpel.

  Ibrahim stood and gaped. It took a second, but he recognized the newcomer. “It’s you,” he said, forehead furrowing beneath his skullcap. “What do you want with me?”

  “I’ve come to collect your dues,” said the man.

  He stepped forward, his knife hand swept upward, and Ibrahim looked down to where his clothes and the stomach beneath had parted. His hands reached to collect his intestines as they spilled from his stomach cavity, and for a split second he thought he might simply push them back inside and everything would be all right. But instead they slithered from his grasp and slapped to the as
phalt of the parking lot, and in the next instant Ibrahim followed them, keeling forward to land on top of his own heaped insides.

  Chapter 101

  JACK AND SANTOSH stepped out of the elevator on the fifth floor of the hospital to be confronted by Dr. Arora, who looked taken aback.

  “Is there something I can do for you two gentlemen?” asked the doctor.

  Jack and Santosh both looked up and down the deserted corridor, Jack’s hand inching toward the Colt slung beneath his leather jacket. “You all right?” he asked the doctor.

  “Yes, I’m perfectly well, thank you. Now, I ask you again: what are you doing here?”

  “Where’s Ibrahim?” said Santosh.

  Arora stepped back, suddenly wary. “I’m quite sure I don’t know who you mean.”

  “We’re working on a theory that Ibrahim is behind the recent spate of serial murders,” said Jack. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

  “No,” smiled Arora, as though talking to a small child. “But you can be assured that if I did I would convey my suspicions to the police rather than to … well, you two gentlemen. And if you’ve quite finished, I think I should like to go home for the evening. Perhaps you would care to share the elevator?”

  Silently the three men descended to the ground floor, where Dr. Arora bid them farewell then left for his car.

  The Private team watched him go, frustrated that Ibrahim had evaded them and hardly able to believe that Arora was simply walking away, the butcher strolling to his Jaguar.