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  “Welcome to my humble abode,” said Santosh. Looking around, he saw his living quarters through Jack’s eyes: hardly furnished, dark, and a little musty. “I would give you a tour, but I believe you know your way around already.”

  “I don’t follow,” said Jack quizzically.

  “Years ago when you hired me you told me you thought I was an exceptional detective. Did you really think you could break into my apartment and I wouldn’t notice?”

  Jack relaxed, allowing himself a smile. The game was up. “Well, I’m an exceptional cat burglar, so I played the odds. How did you know?”

  Santosh’s cane clicked on the wooden floor as he made his way to the kitchen and then returned with a bottle of whisky that he placed on his makeshift table. He pointed to the bottle with the tip of his cane. “Perhaps you’d like to check it.”

  Jack leaned forward, holding Santosh’s gaze as he reached for the bottle, inverted it, and studied the almost invisible mark he had made with a small bar of hotel soap two nights before.

  “It’s just as it was the other night,” he said, replacing the bottle. “And I’m pleased to see it.”

  Santosh blinked slowly. “Not nearly as pleased as I am.”

  “I had to check, Santosh. I had to know.”

  “You could have asked me.”

  “But addicts lie. That’s what they do. Besides, why even have it in the house if you don’t plan to drink it?”

  The answer was that Santosh preferred to face temptation head-on. He would spend hours just staring at the bottle. It was for that reason, not his renowned detective skills, that he had seen the soap mark, and having spotted it he’d studied his front-door lock and detected the odor of lubricant. One phone call to Private HQ later and his suspicions had been confirmed.

  Jack had been checking up on him.

  But of course he couldn’t blame Jack for that. Private was the world’s biggest investigation agency, with offices in Los Angeles, London, Berlin, Sydney, Paris, Rio, Mumbai, and, most recently, Delhi. Jack had invested a huge amount of faith in Santosh by making him Private’s chief of operations in India.

  Santosh had been an agent with the Research and Analysis Wing, India’s external intelligence agency, when investigations into the 2006 Mumbai train blasts had brought him into contact with Jack. It had been only a matter of time before he’d recruited Santosh to establish Private in Mumbai. Setting up Private’s office in Mumbai had been challenging; his last case had almost killed him and at the very least it had looked as though he might have lost his ongoing battle with the bottle.

  Jack had come to his rescue by persuading him to go to rehab, the Cabin in Thailand. Six months later, Jack had persuaded Santosh to move to Delhi to establish Private in the capital.

  So Jack had to know that Santosh was still in control of his addiction. And he was. The bottle of whisky had hung around his home untouched for the whole three months he’d been there. Every day Santosh had resisted the temptation to open it and banish his private pain. And every day it got a little easier.

  Privately, though, he worried if he could truly operate without it. He worried that his brain might not be able to make the same leaps of logic it once had; he worried that kicking the booze might make him a worse detective, not a better one. These were just a few of the things keeping him awake at night.

  “I don’t drink it,” he told Jack. “That’s the important thing.”

  Chapter 7

  JACK LOVED TO drive in Delhi. First of all he always made sure to hire an old car, one that already had its fair share of bumps and scrapes, and then he’d climb in, wind down the window, and plunge headlong into the sheer mayhem of one of his favorite cities.

  He liked to drive fast. Or at least as fast as he dared, leaning on the horn like a local and winding his way through lines of busses, scooters, cyclists, and auto rickshaws, past glass-fronted buildings and ancient temples, broken-down housing and luxury hotels with glove-wearing staff at the gates. Delhi was a vibrant, colorful mix of cultures old and new. A genuine melting pot. To Jack it felt as though Delhi’s entire history—Hindu Rajputs, Muslim Mughals, and Christian Englishmen—all came to him through the open window of the car, and he breathed it all in—good and bad—breathing its very essence.

  At times like that, Jack felt most alive. Blessed. He thought that being Jack Morgan in Delhi was just about the best thing you could be in this world.

  Usually, that is.

  But not today. Because one thing stronger than his love for driving fast through Delhi was his respect for Santosh Wagh. It was in a car accident that the investigator had lost his wife and child, Isha and Pravir. So, for that reason, Jack drove slowly, with the window closed.

  As they made their way through the streets Jack cast a sideways glance at his passenger, a man he was proud to call a friend.

  In his early fifties, Santosh looked older than his age. Sleep deprivation and alcohol abuse had taken their toll. His salt-and-pepper stubble was more salt than pepper and the brown wool jacket with leather patches at the elbows gave him the look of a university professor. His eyeglasses were unfashionable and his scarf should have been replaced years earlier. Not that he seemed to care. Aloof and cerebral, permanently ruminative, Santosh was far too preoccupied to care about such trivial matters.

  “Tell me about Delhi’s political makeup,” Jack asked him, more to keep his passenger’s mind off the journey than genuine ignorance on his part.

  Santosh cleared his throat. “Delhi’s a strange place. It’s not only a state in the Indian federation but also India’s capital—like Washington, DC. The city’s government is split down the middle: civic administration is managed by the Chief Minister, Mohan Jaswal, while law and order is managed by the Lieutenant Governor, Ram Chopra.”

  Jack slowed to allow a pair of motorbikes to pass, and then immediately regretted it when a cab and an auto rickshaw nipped in front of him as well. Any other day…he thought ruefully.

  “The Chief Minister and the Lieutenant Governor. Do they see eye to eye?” he asked Santosh.

  “Jaswal and Chopra?” mused Santosh. “Do they see eye to eye? Now there’s a good question. Before I answer it, how about you tell me which one of them we’re due to meet.”

  Jack laughed. He loved to see Santosh’s mind working. “I tell you what, my brainy friend. How about you tell me what the beef is all about, and then I’ll tell you which one we’re due to see.”

  “Very well,” said Santosh. “The answer to your question is no, Jaswal and Chopra do not see eye to eye. As Chief Minister and Lieutenant Governor respectively, they’re supposed to run Delhi in partnership, but the fact of the matter is they agree on nothing. There is what you might call a difference of opinion when it comes to interpreting the rules of their partnership.”

  “They hate each other?”

  “Pretty much. A jurisdictional war is not the best path to a lasting friendship.”

  “One of them would dearly like to put one over on the other?”

  “As a means of wresting complete control, no doubt.” Santosh flinched slightly as a pedestrian passed too close to their car. “Now, how about you tell me which one it is?”

  “Chief Minister Mohan Jaswal.”

  Santosh nodded. “Has he told you why?”

  “Nope. Just that he wants to meet. He asked for both of us. What do you know about him?”

  “Jaswal started his career with the army and was part of the Indian Peace Keeping Force sent to Sri Lanka in 1987. He opted for early retirement upon his return—traumatized at seeing Tamil Tigers blowing themselves up with explosives strapped to their chests.

  “He then became a journalist for the Indian Times in Mumbai, working as the newspaper’s senior correspondent in New York. A plum posting that most would have coveted. But not Jaswal. He returned to India to enter the political arena, claiming he wanted to ‘make a difference.’

  “We were acquainted in the days when he was a journalist and I wa
s with the Research and Analysis Wing. He used to try to pump me for information.”

  “Were you friendly?”

  Santosh looked at Jack. “I didn’t particularly trust him, if that’s what you mean.”

  Chapter 8

  THE CHIEF MINISTER’S Residence at Motilal Nehru Marg occupied over three acres of Delhi’s prime real estate, a sprawling white-stuccoed bungalow reminiscent of the colonial era, surrounded by sweeping lawns.

  Santosh and Jack stepped out of the battered Fiat and into the cold Delhi air, where Jaswal’s secretary waited for them. They were whisked inside without any of the usual security checks, and then ushered into a book-lined study where the Chief Minister, Mohan Jaswal, sat behind his desk.

  Now in his early sixties, Jaswal had a youthful vigor that belied his age. He had not an ounce of fat on his body and he sported a neatly trimmed white mustache. His crisp white kurta pajama and sky-blue turban indicated his Sikh faith.

  “Good to meet you, Mr. Morgan,” he said, and the two men shook hands.

  “Just Jack is fine.”

  And then to Santosh, Jaswal said, “It’s been years.”

  “I know,” replied Santosh curtly.

  There was an awkward moment between the two acquaintances, broken only when Jaswal invited them to sit. Tea was served and more pleasantries exchanged: yes, it was cold outside; yes, Jack Morgan had been to Delhi many times before; yes, he was delighted to set up a bureau in the city; no, Santosh had not lived here for very long. Just three months.

  All the while the two men from Private sipped their Kashmiri tea, answered Jaswal’s questions politely, and waited for him to get to the point of the meeting.

  “I need you to handle an exceptionally delicate matter,” the Chief Minister said at last.

  They waited for him to continue as he took a puff from a bronchodilator. “I hear news of a gruesome discovery at a house in Greater Kailash,” he said. “Any more than that, however, is being kept a secret from me.”

  Questions forming, Jack leaned forward before stopping himself and sitting back to watch Santosh take the lead.

  “What sort of gruesome discovery?” asked Santosh, thanking Jack with the merest incline of his head. His hands were knotted together on the head of his cane; his heart beat just that tiny bit faster. Ushered in to see the Chief Minister, he’d wondered if this might turn out to be a dry, political request. Evidently not.

  “Bodies,” sniffed Jaswal. “Up to a dozen of them, in various states of…decomposition. It seems they were being melted down in some way.”

  “Some kind of corrosive involved?”

  “It would seem that way. Body parts were found in thick barrels full of the stuff.”

  Jack shifted forward. He and Santosh exchanged a look. “What sort of barrels?” asked Santosh.

  “Plastic, as far as I’m aware,” said Jaswal.

  “Hydrofluoric acid,” Santosh and Jack said in unison. Even Santosh allowed himself a thin smile at that one.

  “That’s significant, is it?” asked Jaswal, looking from one to the other.

  “Very,” said Santosh. “It tells us that whoever is responsible is concerned firstly with hiding the identity of the victims and secondly with disposing of the corpses. In that specific order. Which means that the identity of the victims is extremely important.”

  Jaswal raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that always the case?”

  “Not at all. For many serial killers the process of killing is what defines the act; the choice of victim can be random, based only on the ability to fulfill that need. It’s what often makes them so hard to catch.” He threw a look at Jaswal. “What’s your particular interest in this discovery? Over and above curiosity.”

  “The house in which this…grisly operation was discovered is government property.”

  “And yet you’re not being given any information?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  For a moment or so, Santosh seemed to be lost in his thoughts before he collected himself and addressed Jaswal once more. “Do you believe Ram Chopra is the one suppressing information?”

  Jaswal shot Santosh a wintry smile. “What do you think?”

  “What I think is irrelevant. It’s what you think that is important.”

  “Point taken. And the answer is yes, I do.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s one of the things I’d like you to find out.”

  “Of course. But let me rephrase the question. Why might Ram Chopra want to keep you in the dark regarding the discovery at Greater Kailash?”

  “Possibly to wrong-foot me, make me appear ill-informed. Possibly something more.”

  “How did you find out about the bodies?” Jack asked.

  “Police tip-off,” said Jaswal. “Nobody directly involved with the case. I’m afraid you’ll be on your own with this one.”

  Santosh looked at Jaswal, knowing that if Private accepted this job then Jack would jet off and it would be he, Santosh, who entered the lion’s den.

  Santosh was intrigued. Bodies. Hidden motives. It would be messy. Just the way he liked it.

  On the other hand, there was something about the case that troubled him. But he couldn’t pin down what it was.

  Chapter 9

  SANTOSH WAS RELIEVED to leave Jack with Jaswal. Finances were not his strong suit. Haggling, negotiating, “doing business” even less so. Besides, as soon as Jack had finished with Jaswal he was flying back to the States. And Santosh had a crime to solve.

  A cab dropped him off on the outskirts of Mehrauli, home to Private Delhi, and he went the rest of the way to the office on foot, his cane tapping briskly and a new spring in his step as he passed quaint shops, restaurants, and pubs near the twelfth-century Qutb Minar tower.

  He came to an antiques shop tucked away in the old quarter, bell tinkling as he went inside. He nodded to the proprietor and passed through the shop to a door at the back.

  Through that he entered a clinical-looking anteroom, bare save for a second door and a retina-scan unit. Santosh bent slightly for the scan and the door slid open, allowing him to access the Private Delhi office.

  The office was well hidden for good reason. The Mumbai team had helped Indian law enforcement agencies solve key cases related to attacks by Pakistani terror groups on Indian soil. Both the Mumbai and Delhi offices were on the radar of Pakistan-based jihadi outfits. It was vital to keep the office impregnable. As was the protocol in Mumbai, established clients of Private India communicated with the firm via a dedicated and secure helpline. The screening process for any new clients was rigorous. Investigators from Private visited clients at their homes and offices instead of the other way round. Private’s sanctum remained invisible to the world outside.

  Inside, polished marble floors were complemented by a bright-yellow staircase connecting the two levels of the office. White acrylic dome lights hung from exposed beams. Santosh greeted the receptionist and crossed the floor where junior investigators handled routine cases, and then took the stairs to his office.

  The first member of the team he saw was Nisha Gandhe, his indefatigable assistant. In her mid-forties, Nisha was still capable of making heads turn. The gym and yoga kept her in good shape. But her beauty could not hide a permanent sadness in her eyes.

  It had been a tumultuous six months since her abduction by a serial killer in Mumbai. She had still been struggling with the trauma when her husband, Sanjeev, a successful Mumbai stockbroker, had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.

  Two months later, Sanjeev had lost his battle with the disease. So when Private had opened in Delhi, Nisha and her daughter, Maya, had taken up Jack’s offer of a fresh start and had joined Santosh.

  Santosh beckoned her into his office, calling Neel Mehra in too. Neel was a brilliant criminologist. In his thirties and dashingly handsome, he attracted the attention of women around him. However, not much escaped the sharp eyes of the Private Delhi investigative team and both Santosh and N
isha had worked out on their own that Neel was gay. With homosexuality still technically illegal in India, his two superiors respected Neel’s privacy.

  Five minutes later, Nisha and Neel had been briefed. Half an hour after that they had scattered to the winds, flushed with the thrill of a new case, and Santosh’s phone was ringing—Jack was on his way over.

  Chapter 10

  “HOW DID IT go with Jaswal after I left?” asked Santosh.

  Jack sat opposite, lounging in an office chair, one knee pulled up and resting on the edge of Santosh’s desk. Admin staff from the floor below found excuses to pass the office window, hardly bothering to disguise their curiosity as they craned to see inside. Everybody wanted a look at the great Jack Morgan. It was like having Salman Khan or Tom Cruise in the office.

  “It went well,” said Jack. “Terms were agreed. Don’t tell me you’re interested to know the finer points?”

  “Not really,” said Santosh.

  “What, then? You look even more pensive than usual, which, I have to be honest, is normally pretty pensive.”

  “What were your impressions of him?” asked Santosh.

  “I thought he was a well-dressed little weasel. But he could potentially be an important weasel. If we’re to establish the agency in the city then we’re going to need friends in high places, and he would be a friend in a very high place.”

  “But his friendship comes with a price. If the friend of my friend is my enemy then the friend of my enemy is also my enemy.”

  Bemused, Jack shook his head. “In English please, Santosh.”

  “I’m thinking from Ram Chopra’s perspective. He and Jaswal are enemies. If Chopra discovers we’re working for Jaswal then he won’t see Private as a friend, but rather an enemy, and as he’s Lieutenant Governor that effectively cancels out the advantage of being in with Jaswal.”

  Jack beamed. “Then be discreet, Santosh.” He leaned forward, hoisted a cup of coffee from the desk, and took a long gulp. “That’s why I employed you, after all.”