“Shit.”
The rickshaw wallah looked back, “Saar?”
“Nothing, keep going.”
The rickshaw waited for a gap, then took the turn for the hotel, and John reached forward and tapped the rickshaw wallah on the shoulder.
“Go slowly.”
The rickshaw slowed down, and John peered out the side toward the hotel. The Mercedes had pulled up in the porte cochere and between the bodies of the security surrounding him, he could see the unmistakable figure of Surya Patil.
The rickshaw swerved across the road to turn into the entrance of the hotel.
“No, no, go straight.”
The driver shook his head, and John saw him give him a questioning look in the mirror.
“I’ve changed my mind. Keep going. Don’t worry, I’ll pay you extra.”
The rickshaw wallah’s head bobbed, his frown changing to a smile in the mirror.
John sat back in his seat. Bugger. Now, what did he do? He didn’t want to go home. It felt like wasting an evening. How was he ever going to get close to Patil with three vehicles filled with armed policemen, accompanying him wherever he went?
The rickshaw pulled up at the end of the road, and the rickshaw wallah looked in the mirror.
“Saar, which way?”
John looked left, then right. He didn’t know where to go... then it hit him.
63
John directed the rickshaw wallah for the next ten minutes until they pulled up in Shivnagar, near the turn for Surya Patil’s street. John handed over double the previously agreed fare and waited as the thrilled rickshaw wallah sped off down the street, waiting until he turned the corner. If all the security was with Patil at the hotel, the house would be unprotected. He walked down the footpath on the opposite side to Patil’s house, keeping to the shadows, his eyes on the house.
Lights were on inside, but from the street, there seemed to be little activity. John waited while a car drove past, then stepped off the curb and crossed the road toward the main gate. Just as he was about to step onto the curb between two parked cars, the gate opened. Shit. He froze, bent down and peered through the windows of the car at the gate, ready to run if necessary. An elderly man, in an ill-fitting guard’s uniform and rubber flip-flops, stepped outside with a plastic chair, placed it on the path in front of the gate, and sat down. Crossing one leg onto his other knee, he started picking at his toenails. John slowly straightened up, turned around, and casually stepped out from between the cars, heading back in the direction he came from.
He remembered a few years ago when he had been staking out the house, Patil’s son, Sunil, had somehow left the house and sneaked up on him. There must be a back way in.
He turned right at the end of the street, then right again at the end of the block. Walking down the street, he counted the houses until he estimated he was behind Patil’s house. The house on this street was of a similar size, though all the windows were dark, suggesting it was unoccupied. It had a high wall and a locked gate. John frowned as he walked past, sneaking glances at the property in case he was being observed. He reached the end of the street and turned around. Apart from a few passing cars and two wheelers, the street was empty, the residents locked away in their air-conditioned castles behind high walls.
John walked past again and this time, stopped at the gate. He checked the padlock, but it was too strong to break, and besides, that would make too much noise. But the service door next to it, near the end of the front wall? Maybe that was worth a try? Walking over after glancing up and down the street again, he pushed on the door—locked. Bugger it. John puffed out air and frowned, then looked again at the handle.
There was a gap between the door and the frame, and as he looked closely, he could see the end of the slide bolt where it fitted into the receiver on the frame. Inserting his index finger and thumb into the gap, they just fit, and he wiggled the bolt. It moved. He tried sliding it back; it moved a fraction, then stopped. Shit. He shook his fingers out and glanced around again. A dog wandered past in the middle of the street, paused to look at him, then carried on.
John visualized the door bolts he had seen, realizing the handle of the bolt must be down, preventing it from sliding. He inserted his fingers again and gripping the bolt, rotated it toward him, hoping it wasn’t padlocked from the inside. Sure enough, it moved. He kept twisting until he lost his grip, and the bolt slid back to its original position. He shook his cramping finger and this time, adjusted his grip. He twisted again until he felt it loosen, then slipped it to the right, so it wouldn’t clip shut again. Still a little way to go. He gripped it again, sliding it a little more. He did this a couple more times until the end of the bolt slipped out of the receiver, and the door creaked open on protesting hinges. John winced at the noise and looked around, but he was clear.
Stepping inside, he pushed the door shut, just snicking the bolt to keep the door from swinging open, then looked around. He was standing in a paved parking area in front of a palatial three-story home. The windows were dark, the blinds and curtains closed. In the dull glow from the streetlamps, he could see the flower beds lining the parking area were unkempt, the plants dead from lack of water and maintenance. The area was strewn with leaves, weeds growing through the cracks in the paving stones. The house obviously hadn’t been occupied for some time. That suited John. Pulling out his phone, covering the light with his hand, he turned on the torch, adjusting the brightness until it was very dim, then walked toward the house. The house took up most of the plot, the boundary walls as high as the front, but on closer examination, he saw on each side of the house, there was a gap of around a meter, allowing access to the rear. Shielding the light, John walked toward the right side and headed to the back.
64
Surya climbed out of the car and marched toward the entrance. Again, ignoring the metal detector and pushing the doorman aside, he stepped into the lobby, then stopped and turned, pointing at Captain Sharma.
“Tell your men to stay outside,” Surya growled.
The commando captain stopped and raised a hand, signaling his men to stay back.
Surya turned to his two bodyguards who were hanging around near the vehicles.
“You two, come here.”
The men grinned and swaggered past the armed police and two commandos. As one of them unsuccessfully attempted to shoulder his way past the captain, Surya impatiently commanded, “Hurry up!”
The grins disappeared, and the two men sheepishly increased their pace and joined Surya in the lobby as the door swung closed behind them. Surya glanced toward the reception desk where three staff were manning the desk, two young women and a young man. The young man nodded toward the bar entrance.
Surya glared at his men.
“She’s in there. Bring her up to the suite. Twenty third floor, Suite 2301.”
The two men stared at him vacantly, then one asked, “Who, Sir?”
Surya closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Who were these morons? He opened them again.
“Maadhavi Rao!”
The men looked at each other in surprise. “The actress?”
Surya stepped up to the questioner until his nose was almost touching.
“Yes, the actress, you bloody idiot. Bring her upstairs, and don’t fuck it up.” He raised a finger and jabbed the man in his chest. “If you fuck this up, that’s the end of your days in the party.”
The man gulped, grabbed his colleague by the sleeve, and headed to the bar.
Surya turned on his heel, ignoring the hesitant wave from the staff member, and strode toward the lifts.
Outside, Captain Ankit Sharma finished counting to fifty, then, his anger under control, turned to his number two.
“Rahul, leave one vehicle and three men with me. Take the rest of the boys back to the house.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“There’s no point all of us hanging out here all night again.”
“Are you sure, Sir? It feels different toni
ght. He seems pretty angry.”
Ankit turned to look back at the hotel and adjusted his MP-5 on its sling.
“He’s always angry.” Turning back, he placed a reassuring hand on Rahul’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it. If anything, I’ll radio you.”
His second-in-command nodded, gave a half salute, and instructed the men. Ankit walked over to the side of the entrance and watched as two of the vehicles pulled out of the porte cochere.
“Can’t be easy, working for a man like him.”
Ankit turned toward the voice and saw the doorman standing next to him, watching the vehicles.
Ankit just smiled.
“We see a lot like him. They think they own the world, pushing us around and treating us like dirt.” The doorman turned to face Ankit. “These politicians are destroying the country.”
“We can’t change the world in one day, brother.” Ankit patted him on the shoulder. With a shake of his head, he walked over to his remaining vehicle.
65
John reached the end of the alley next to the house and turned off his phone light, slipping the phone into his pocket. There was plenty of light coming over the wall from Patil’s house.
Strangely, the wall between the house and Surya Patil’s house was lower, just over five feet high. The owners obviously didn’t feel the need to have high security on Patil’s side. Ironic, considering how dirty his hands were.
John approached slowly until he could see over into what appeared to be the service area of the house. The back of the house was dirty and unmaintained, in complete contrast to the glossy front facade. To the far left, at right angles to the house and abutting the boundary wall, was a small, ramshackle, single-story room, John assumed to be staff quarters. Next to it, a door hung open, exposing a squat toilet, lit by a single bare-light bulb hanging from an electric cable. Next to that, in the rear wall of the house was a row of windows, opening onto a darkened room. A door in the middle of the house stood open, light streaming out, and next to it were the windows into the kitchen. John could see a woman, Patil’s cook, moving around inside, preparing food. The smell of spices and the hissing of a pressure cooker carried easily through a half-open window. John watched for a while from the shadows, waiting to see if anyone else came in. After a couple of minutes, a thin man, perhaps in his thirties, appeared. John guessed by his clothing, he was also a servant.
John thought for a while about what to do. He had found a weak spot, but it was only feasible when Surya wasn’t home and had taken his security with him. John assumed they would station a guard at the rear when Surya was home. He was sure they wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave the rear unguarded… although there was no one there now. He could always come back and check, but that would be risky. If a guard was in place when he came back, John would be spotted coming down the side of the house. Unless he waited now for them to return.
John looked around, his eyes adjusted to the poor light. There was nowhere at the rear of this house where he could hide. Perhaps, he could get inside. John walked over to the rear door and wiggled the handle—locked, of course. He retrieved his phone and shone the light on the lock and the handle. It looked strong, and John had no idea how to pick a lock. He couldn’t bash the door in because of the noise. Moving over to the windows, he pushed and wiggled them, but they were strong, double-glazed glass, set in aluminum frames. Damn. He headed back around to the front of the house and tried the front door. If anything, it seemed more secure than the rear door. The front windows were strong as well with the additional protection of wrought iron grills. There was no way he could get in there. He stepped back and looked up at the house. The roof? He quickly dismissed the idea. The house was three stories high with no obvious way of getting up there. His earlier positive mood about finding a weak spot was rapidly disappearing.
What if he got into Surya’s house and hid? It was risky, potentially trapping him, but did he have any other options? John stood in the darkness, his hands on his hips, chewing his lip. What was the sensible thing to do? He paced in circles. If he wanted sensible, he would have gone to Lisbon with Adriana. Fuck it.
He headed back down the side of the house. Nearing the back, he slowed and peered over the wall into the kitchen. The male servant was saying something to the cook as she kneaded dough on the bench top. She giggled and threw a piece of dough at him. He pretended to duck but caught the dough and tossed it back at her, sending her into another fit of giggles. Good, they were busy. John moved to the other end of the wall, next to the staff quarters. Jumping up, he got his right hand and left forearm on top of the wall, and using the toes of his new leather shoes for purchase, scrambled up the wall until he could push down with his right hand and lever himself up, so his chest was on the top of the wall. He swung his right leg up and over the wall, then pushed himself up, so he was sitting astride. Swinging the other leg over, looking for a clear place to land, he jumped off the wall.
66
Landing, his left leg slipped out from beneath him, and he fell back on the ground with a thud, knocking the air out of him. Gasping for breath, he forced himself up to watch the rear door in case the staff had heard him. He waited as he regained his breath, but no one came, the noise from the pressure cooker and exhaust fan enough to drown out any noise he had made. Sitting up, he climbed to his feet, cursing the new shoes, wishing he was wearing his hiking boots.
Bending double, John crept toward the kitchen window and cautiously peeked in. The two staff were still busy flirting. Good.
John moved back to the rear door and peered into the narrow hallway—a dirty rag served as a doormat and next to it were two battered gas cylinders. John stepped inside, slipped around the cylinders, and moved to the half-open kitchen door. Pausing at the door, he listened for any break in their conversation, but they were still unaware he was there.
John eased past the door, keeping his back to the wall, and headed toward the end of the hallway. Putting his ear to the door, there was no sound from the other side, so he gently pushed down on the handle, opening the door just a little, and looked into the empty entrance lobby. He opened the door wider and looked around. An ostentatious chandelier hung down from the double height ceiling. Fortunately, it was turned off, or John would have been blinded. The light came from a pair of table lamps on a console table along the back wall. In contrast to the grimy service area, the floor gleamed in shiny white marble, and gilt-edged cornices crowned the walls and the top of the doors. To his left, a closed door stood at the foot of a curved staircase that wound its way up to the next floor. To his right, light filtered from the gap in a half-open door. Through the windows at the front of the lobby, John could see the front garden and parking area, now empty, apart from a pair of motorbikes parked near the side wall.
John walked to the door on his right, listened, then poked his head inside. Bedrolls covered the floor, and backpacks were piled against the wall. John stepped inside and had a quick look around. He needed a weapon, and perhaps, one had been left behind. There was nothing to be seen on the furniture, so he took a cursory look at a couple of backpacks, but they were only filled with dirty clothing and toiletry kits.
John went back to the lobby and crossed over to the other door. He put his ear to the door, then satisfied no one was inside, cracked it open. The room appeared to be a waiting room. Piles of chairs were stacked against one wall, a trestle table was set up at the rear, another backpack sat on the floor beside it, and a neatly rolled bedroll stood on its end in the corner. John walked over and took a quick look in the bag which held a black uniform. This must be where the commando was sleeping. Again, no sign of any weapons, so John moved back to the lobby. He stood at the bottom of the stairs and looked up. He couldn’t hide downstairs, so he would have to go up.
He put his foot on the bottom step and froze as a red flashing light filled the lobby. He ducked down and spun around to look through the front window, seeing the gate swing open and two white SUVs pullin
g up to the curb. Fuck!
John heard a noise behind him and turned to see the door to the service area open and the thin male servant step out. Their eyes met, and the servant opened his mouth to shout. John sprang to his feet and rushed toward him. The servant was rooted to the spot, his mouth open, his eyes wide. John balled his fist and punched him straight in the stomach. The man bent double as a swoosh of air escaped his open mouth, then collapsed to the floor, winded.
John jumped over him and ran for the back door. He jumped out onto the rear step, then spun around and tipped the two gas cylinders over, blocking the hallway in a clatter of steel on tile. He heard a scream from the kitchen but didn’t wait. Leaping at the wall, scrabbling for grip, he levered himself over, dropped to the other side, and sprinted for the front gate. He had to get out of there... fast!
67
Surya let himself into the suite with his personal key card. Maadhavi didn’t know he had one. Why would he tell her? He could have a key to any room, the perks of being the owner of the hotel, but he wouldn’t tell her that, either. Some things needed to remain secret, hence the need for offshore trusts and nominee shareholders.
He left the door partially open and walked over to the bar, pouring himself a large whisky. He drank half, then turned to look around the room. It looked the same as it usually did—the L-shaped sofa facing full-height windows with a view over the Bangalore cityscape, the flat screen TV on the wall, a white orchid on the side table beside a row of silver-framed photos of Maadhavi with her parents. She kept it tidy, he’d give her that. He wandered around slowly, looking for signs anyone other than Maadhavi had been in the suite, but the place was spotless. He turned and looked into the bedroom. The bed was made, a book on one bedside table, a copper tray with a small brass idol of Ganesha, and the remains of an incense stick on the other.
Reprisal Page 15
