Reprisal

by Mark David Abbott

  He had to admit, he was excited to see Maadhavi again. He missed her, despite the arguments and her disloyalty. Now that she knew her place again, things could go back to normal. Knowing one of the most beautiful women on the silver screen was at his beck-and-call, that he could have his way with her whenever he wanted, gave him immense satisfaction. In fact, since the call the day before, his mood had improved tremendously. Today, he had dealt with one of his more irritating opponents with ease and cut a deal on a major infrastructure project that promised to enrich him for years to come. It was like the old days. She was his lucky charm, his Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth.

  Squaring his shoulders, he straightened his back and raised his chin to reduce the effect of the fleshy jowls around his neck. His reflection stared back at him proudly. He was Surya Patil, King of the Jungle, The Lion of Karnataka.

  85

  The time passed slowly. As it got closer to eight p.m., John’s nerves were increasingly on edge, an uneasy feeling in his chest. Sweating under the burqa, he had already adjusted the air-con twice until finally, it was on the lowest setting, but beads of sweat still formed on his brow. He had contemplated removing it, but it would give him the element of surprise when needed. He stood up for the hundredth time and paced around the suite, ostensibly checking if there was anything he might have missed, but in reality, using the movement to burn off the excess adrenaline and calm his nerves.

  Walking into the bedroom, he tried to remember where he had sat and what he had touched while Maadhavi had made her call, but he had wiped every surface already. His eyes fell on the little brass statue of Ganesha sitting on the bedside table. The elephant-headed Hindu God was said to be the remover of obstacles, the deity all Hindus prayed to first before starting anything. Despite himself, he closed his eyes. He didn’t pray, what was the point? He didn’t believe in God... as such. The world was too shitty to believe a supreme being watched over him, but he remembered what that man had told him, the wandering ascetic at the filling station—breathe.

  John took a deep, slow breath, in through his nostrils, and exhaled slowly through his mouth. He did it again, holding the breath for a moment this time before exhaling. Slowly, he blinked his eyes open. It hadn’t helped. He shook his head. The only one who would fix this was him. He glanced at his watch again—almost time.

  John walked back into the living room, moved the armchair so he could face the door, pulled the veil over his face, and sat down.

  86

  Surya stepped out of the house and walked to the Mercedes, now secretly enjoying the bustle of activity his appearance created. His driver rushed to the car, pressing the key fob, the lights flashed, and he opened the passenger door and stood at attention.

  Two armed police pulled the gates open while the others rushed outside and climbed into the waiting SUVs. The black-clad commando captain strode toward him and snapped to attention.

  “Where to, Sir?”

  Surya avoided looking at him and growled, “Vijaya Palace,” before climbing into his car.

  “Sir.”

  The door closed behind Surya, and he watched through the tinted glass as the captain shouted commands and ran toward the lead SUV. Surya now had four Black Cats looking after him, and his security detail had grown to eighteen armed police. With his own private security, the convoy had increased to eight vehicles, not including his Mercedes. Finally, he had the Z level of security that befitted a man of his stature. All it had taken was a petty thief to break into his house. He settled back into his seat with satisfaction as the Mercedes pulled out onto the street behind the two lead Land Cruisers. Engines revved, doors slammed, and lights flashed on the vehicle roofs, filling the street with strobing red light as the convoy pulled out. The Lion of Karnataka was on the move.

  A mere twenty minutes later, having bullied and forced their way through the evening traffic, the convoy pulled into the forecourt of the Vijaya Palace. Surya waited as the men fanned out, surrounding his car, blocking the entrances and exits, preventing access to the hotel from the street, and forcing the staff to stand back. A polite tap on the window, then the door opened, and Surya climbed out. Adjusting his belt, he smoothed his shirt down over his belly with the palm of his hand, then headed to the entrance, surrounded by a cordon of armed men. The doorman pulled the door open wide and stood to attention as he approached. Surya stopped in the doorway and turned to look at the commando captain. He saw the question in the captain’s eyes, despite his face being covered by the balaclava and shook his head. Surya stepped into the lobby, and the door closed behind him, leaving his security detail outside.

  Pausing, he looked around the lobby, making sure everyone had noticed him, then swaggered across the lobby to the lift. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the general manager heading in his direction.

  “Sir.”

  Surya waved him away. He couldn’t be bothered speaking to that obsequious shit right now.

  “But, Sir...”

  Surya glared at him and snarled, “Not now,” stopping the general manager in his tracks. “Bloody idiot,” Surya muttered. He had better things to do.

  It was time for the Lion to vanquish his lioness.

  87

  Swiping the key card on the lock, the lock whirred and clicked inside the door, and a green light flashed above the handle. He pushed down on the handle and stepped inside, allowing the auto-closer to shut the door behind him.

  “Maadhavi?”

  She wasn’t in the living room. He looked toward the bedroom door. It was slightly open. She must be in there.

  “Maadhavi?” he called again. No response. Frowning, he stepped forward and heard a noise behind him. He turned his head and noticed the Muslim woman for the first time.

  “Who are you? Where’s Maadhavi?”

  The woman said nothing and didn’t move. Surya frowned. She was tall for a woman and seemed stocky under the black burqa which reached to the floor. Why wasn’t she speaking?

  “Maadhavi, is that you? Is this a joke?” No, it couldn’t be her. The woman was too tall and broad to be her. “Who are you?”

  Again, no response. Maybe she didn’t speak English. Most Muslims spoke Hindi, so he switched languages and asked again, “Aap kaun hai? Maadhavi kahan hai? Who are you? Where is Maadhavi?”

  Again, no response or movement. What was wrong with her? Surya turned his head back to the bedroom.

  “Maadhavi, where are you? Who is this here?”

  Silence. He clenched his jaw. This was getting irritating. She had called him last night and pleaded for him to come, and the dumb bitch wasn’t even here. As for this stupid Muslim woman, standing there like a black statue... Surya shook his head and glanced back at the woman. He hated the bloody Muslims. They were causing all the problems in the country. They should have all gone to Pakistan in 1947 when they had the chance.

  “I don’t know who you are, but this is my suite. You need to get out.”

  The woman just stood unmoving, unresponsive.

  “Are you deaf?” He shook his head and muttered, “Mental case.” He turned away and walked to the telephone. Raising his voice, he said over his shoulder. “I’m calling security.”

  Picking up the handset and reaching his other hand forward to punch the keypad, he felt a stinging pain in his right cheek, which knocked his head sideways. His vision starred, and he brought his hand back, touching his fingers to his cheek. What the fuck was that? His fingertips warm and sticky, he looked down to see them covered in blood. Then everything went black.

  88

  Shit! The bloody veil restricted his vision. Quickly flipping it up over his head, he swung again, adjusting the arc of the coin-laden sock, this time, hitting his target. The ball of coins struck Patil on his right temple, his knees shook, and he collapsed to the floor, out cold. John exhaled the breath he had been holding and stepped forward to look at the body lying at his feet. He was still breathing, and a trickle of blood seeped from a split in Patil’s chee
k.

  John had hesitated, seeing the man before him—the man he hated. He was pathetic in person—overweight, balding, his physical presence, in reality, nothing to be afraid of. He’d had doubts, hadn’t been sure if he was doing the right thing. It was the threat of security that had spurred him into action. Now, he had to carry through with it. John took a couple of breaths, calming his nerves, then reached over and grabbed the handset swinging on its cord and replaced it back on the phone.

  Stepping over the body, he moved to the kitchen and tore off a strip of paper towel. In a drawer, he found a plastic bag and dropped the sock weapon into the bag. He walked back to the body and dabbed at the blood on Patil’s cheek and cleaned the blood off his fingertips before adding the used paper towel to the plastic bag. He wanted to avoid contamination of the scene he was setting. So far, everything was going as he had planned.

  John picked up the chair from in front of the writing desk and carried it closer to the body, then took a deep breath, grabbed Patil under the arms, and heaved the body off the floor. Fuck, he was heavy. Dragging Surya toward the chair, he pulled him onto it before letting go of his arms. He stood there panting, regaining his breath. John had never met him in person, just knew him by reputation and deed. He was a man people feared, but the arrogance so clear in the video call he had made from Oman was gone. Now, he was just a fat old man, slumped in a chair.

  Removing the cable ties from his pocket, he secured Patil’s wrists to the arms of the chair, then did the same with his legs. He double checked Patil couldn’t move, then stepped back. Now onto stage two. John grabbed a bottle of Black Label and a glass from the bar and walked back to Patil. He placed the fingers of Patil’s right hand onto the bottle and the glass, ensuring his fingerprints were all over them, then placed them on the coffee table.

  Taking out the box Pournima had given him, he knelt beside the table, scanning the label. He didn’t recognize the brand, but it was a strong opiate-based pain killer, and as Pournima had shown, easily available over the counter—exactly what he needed. Removing a strip, he popped out all twelve tablets onto the table. Using the base of the glass, he crushed them into a powder, then using his hand, swept the powder off the table surface into the glass. He twisted the top off the bottle of Black Label and filled the glass to three-quarters. Dipping his index finger into the glass, he stirred it around, making sure the powdered pain killer mixed in with the whisky. Now to get it into Patil.

  John sat back on his heels and looked up at him. He was still unconscious, his head lolling sideways, a string of spittle hanging from the corner of his mouth. John wrinkled his brow. Patil would probably need to be conscious to swallow the liquid. Standing, he pulled the veil down over his face, stepped toward Patil, and shook him. No response. He slapped him on the face, but he still didn’t respond. Shit. John raised the sleeve of the burqa and looked at his watch. Only ten minutes had passed since Patil had entered the room. John still had time; no one would expect him to leave a visit to his mistress quickly. In fact, Maadhavi had told him, Patil usually stayed most of the night, not leaving until the early morning. But the longer he was here, the more risk John was taking, and he needed Patil to drink the liquid. He had to wait until he came around. John walked to the door and put his ear to it. He couldn’t hear anyone outside. He peered out through the peephole, but again the corridor seemed empty. Slowly, he opened the door and looked out—empty. He slipped the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign over the door handle, then closed the door, latching it with the security bolt. For good measure, he dragged over a dining chair and wedged it under the handle.

  Now, all he could do was wait.

  89

  “Take a left up here,” Rajiv instructed his driver.

  “Sir.”

  Rajiv had half an hour before he planned to call it a day. He was trying to have a few earlier nights this week. He had been neglecting Aarthi and was making a conscious effort to spend a little more time with her. Early was relative, though. It was almost nine in the evening, but at least he would be home before she went to bed. Being married to a policeman often meant you hardly saw him.

  The police Bolero took the left turn, and Rajiv pointed up the street toward the Vijaya Palace.

  “Stop in there.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Earlier, Rajiv had taken a drive past Surya Patil’s house. The street had been clear, Surya’s convoy missing, and the two armed police manning the gate had told Rajiv where Surya had gone. Rajiv’s inquiries had thrown up nothing about the mystery intruder, but Muniappa still demanded daily progress reports. Despite nothing more coming of the investigation, Rajiv thought a friendly visit to Captain Ankit and his team wouldn’t do any harm. He always believed in keeping relations cordial. One never knew when you might need to call on someone for help.

  As they neared the turning for the hotel, Rajiv could see the line of white SUVs filling the forecourt. The entrance barriers were down, and armed police were standing on the footpath, eyeing passing traffic.

  “Lights.”

  Rajiv’s driver reached forward and flipped a switch on the dashboard, the street filling with the blue and red strobe of the police lights. The Bolero pulled up in front of the barrier, and Rajiv wound down his window, smiling at the police guard approaching his side of the vehicle. The police constable snapped to attention and called out to the hotel security to open the gate.

  “All okay?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good.” Rajiv nodded. “Thank you.”

  Rajiv turned to his driver. “Take it inside.”

  The Bolero rolled forward, up the sloping drive, and pulled into the porte cochere. Rajiv opened the door and stepped out, telling the driver to switch off the lights. Looking around, he spotted Ankit walking toward him.

  “Ankit.” He held out his hand.

  Ankit took it in his customary firm grip. “Rajiv. How’s it going?”

  “Good.” Rajiv glanced around at the extensive security detail. “Your team has expanded, I see.”

  “Yes.” Ankit gave a half smile. “He got what he wanted in the end. Any luck with finding our intruder?”

  “No, nothing. He’s like a ghost.” Rajiv shook his head slowly, his eyes on two black-clad commandos, standing beside one of the Land Cruisers. “Are you still in charge?”

  “Yes, for what it’s worth. Although,”—Ankit jerked his head toward the hotel entrance—“he calls all the shots.”

  Rajiv pursed his lips. “What’s he doing here?”

  Ankit guided Rajiv out of earshot of his men and lowered his voice. “Apparently, he has a mistress here. We come here twice a week. Always at night.”

  Rajiv raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

  “Yeah. No wonder his wife left him. She’s an actress, apparently.”

  “His wife?”

  “No, his mistress. Someone big in Kannada movies. I don’t remember her name. I prefer Hindi films.” Ankit sighed and looked toward the convoy of vehicles. “Not that I get time to watch them.”

  “Hmmm...” Rajiv half listened, his mind on the information Ankit had shared. Information was always useful. Snapping back to the present, he placed his hand on Ankit’s arm.

  “Thank you, my friend. I’ll just go in and look around. Never been inside this hotel before.”

  “Ha, enjoy yourself. I’ve never been inside, either.” Ankit shrugged. “He doesn’t allow it.”

  “I’ll take some photos for you.” Rajiv grinned, turning to walk to the entrance.

  90

  Surya jerked and snorted, a deep intake of breath sucking the string of spittle back into his mouth, causing him to choke and cough. John pulled the veil back down over his face. He wanted to keep Patil guessing, keep a psychological advantage.

  Surya blinked his eyes open and went to move his arms. Realizing he was restrained, he looked down and struggled to free his arms and legs.

  “What...?” He looked up in alarm at the burqa-clad figure sitting in fr
ont of him. “Who...? Do you know who I am?” He struggled again to get free. “What’s going on?”

  John said nothing, just watched him struggle for a moment, then reached for the glass of whisky and pain killers and stood. Surya frowned, his head following John as he stepped behind him.

  Grabbing a handful of the hair on the back of Surya’s head, he pulled his head back. Surya’s eyes widened with alarm, his arms and legs twitching in protest.

  “Stop, stop...”

  Raising the glass, he poured the liquid slowly into Surya’s open mouth. Surya spluttered and choked, whisky splashing out over his face and down his neck onto his clothes. He clamped his mouth shut and twisted his head side to side. John yanked on his hair again. Surya cried out, and John poured more liquid in. Surya tried closing his mouth again, but John kept pulling his head back by the hair. Every time Surya closed his mouth, John yanked on his hair, pouring more liquid each time. He got most of it into Surya’s throat, the balance spilling down his face and body.

  The glass empty, John let go of Surya’s head and stepped back, leaving him gasping and coughing.

  John walked around in front of Patil and put the glass on the table, then picked up the bottle, again walking behind him.

  “No, no, stop... please,” Surya cried out, realizing what John was about to do.

  John ignored him, pulled his head back by the hair, and started pouring Black Label into Surya’s mouth. Surya struggled, but the more he twisted his head, the harder John pulled on his hair, causing Surya to keep his mouth open. Emptying half the bottle into Surya, his fingers cramping from pulling Surya’s hair, he let him go and walked in front of him again.