Installed in his office, he maneuvered himself behind his desk and dropped to his chair with a corpulent grunt. This was why he was the Police Commissioner, he reflected. Crisis management. That was what it was all about. Firefighting. Turning an awkward situation to your advantage.
He reached for the phone and dialed.
“Hello, Guha?” he said.
“Commissioner. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I have something for you. Some more information regarding our little band of medical buccaneers. But first, how are the preparations for your story going?”
Guha sighed. “Not especially well, truth be told.”
“Oh, really? What’s the holdup?”
“A group calling themselves the Coalition for Freedom of Speech have applied for an injunction. Somehow they got wind of our story and want to stop it.”
Sharma gave a low, throaty chuckle. “Such are the daily hurdles faced by a pioneering broadcaster such as yourself, Guha.”
“It’s serious. If the judge agrees with this coalition then my producer won’t allow me to show the story.”
“And the hearing is imminent, is it?”
“Very.”
“Well, I suppose this means you won’t want to hear what else I have to tell you then,” said Sharma airily.
“Will it strengthen my case with the judge?”
“That’s for you to decide.”
And Sharma gave Guha the final details, straight from Thakkar’s guts and poured into the journalist’s ear.
When he had finished he relaxed into his seat, allowing himself a smile. “And that’s it,” he concluded. “Let me know how you get on with the judge and give me advance warning when you plan to broadcast. I intend to time my sensational arrests accordingly. I trust DETV will be there to record the historic events?”
“First things first, Commissioner.”
Chapter 91
SHORTLY AFTER HIS conversation with Guha, Sharma’s phone rang again. This time it was Chopra, asking if he could pay him a visit, hinting that cigars and whisky would be on offer. And after a hard afternoon spent interrogating Thakkar and schmoozing Guha, that sounded a very attractive offer indeed.
Sharma informed Nanda he’d been summoned and took a car to the Lieutenant Governor’s opulent residence. There he was greeted by a housekeeper and led to the familiar study, where Chopra stood, indicating for him to settle into the same leather armchair in which he had spent so many happy hours.
He sat down. But Chopra remained standing, the welcome not as warm as usual, the atmosphere markedly less convivial.
“I have good news,” said Sharma, feeling uneasy but trying to behave as though nothing was amiss. “I have put into place a plan that will soon make life decidedly uncomfortable for our friend Jaswal.”
Chopra’s hands went to his hips. Big man though he was, Sharma was sitting and he felt small as the Lieutenant Governor towered over him. His eyes were fierce. His lips pursed. And when he spoke he roared: “I don’t give a fuck about Jaswal!”
“But—” spluttered Sharma.
“No, you moron!” boomed Chopra. “This has gone beyond trying to score political points! You think I wanted to become Lieutenant Governor in order to watch Delhi tearing itself apart with gossip, suspicion, and innuendo? What point is there in wresting power from Jaswal if it is to rule over the smoking rubble of a riot-torn city? This has gone too far, Sharma.” He pointed an accusing finger. “You have let this go too far. We have bodies piling up. Some kind of sick freak skinning his victims, for God’s sake! We’ve practically got marchers on the streets. The newspapers are demanding answers; DETV is on the phone night and day asking all kinds of questions to which I don’t have the answers: who is behind the killings? Why are we not releasing details? Is our ruling body riddled with corruption and pedophiles? You’ve been fiddling while Rome burns, Sharma. And now I want you to put away the fiddle. And get something done. I want you to put a stop to this! Is that clear?”
“Yes,” gulped Sharma. “Yes, sir, that’s clear.”
Chapter 92
SANTOSH HAD NOT waited to be discharged from the hospital. He was well recovered, although the encounter with MGT had left him slightly unnerved. He hadn’t wanted to have a nurse bandage the gash on his forearm so he’d helped himself to antiseptic and bandages from the supply closet he had passed. He’d then gone back to his room, changed out of the hospital clothes, and walked out through the service entrance a little after midnight. He had spent the night on Neel’s couch.
In the morning, Jack and Nisha had come over and the four of them had dropped in for breakfast at a cafe in Khan Market.
Santosh was exceptionally fidgety without his walking stick.
“You don’t need it anymore,” Jack told him.
But Santosh was convinced he did. “It is my only constant companion,” he said. “It saved my life at the Tower of Silence in Mumbai. Moreover, it helps me think.”
“Well, at least you have a new phone now,” said Nisha. She had picked up a replacement unit after getting the old SIM deactivated and a new SIM initialized.
“Thanks,” mumbled Santosh.
“The little run-in you had with MGT,” began Jack. “Could he be mentally disturbed? Killing people while saving others?”
“Unlikely,” said Santosh. “I could have caught him had I not trusted him in that final instant. I guess there was a part of me that felt guilty for his situation … I felt guilty.”
“Why?” asked Jack.
“We treated him rather shabbily in college,” admitted Santosh. “He was an outlier. Almost an outcast. A—”
“I have tracked down the registration number of his car,” interjected Neel. “Passed it on to Ash. He’ll get the cops to find him.”
“I’m convinced they’re all in it together,” said Santosh.
“Who?” asked Jack.
“Patel and Thakkar. One man’s company gets lucrative contracts to modernize hospitals. The other one drives American patients to the newly modernized hospitals and makes a killing on the insurance,” said Santosh. “I call it having one’s cake and eating it too.”
“But Kumar was supposedly the partner of Patel,” said Nisha. “In fact, my friend at the Indian Times says that Patel had promised Kumar extra equity for his help in managing the regulatory environment and that this extra stock was to come out of Patel’s own shareholding.”
“That makes him the third partner of this unholy alliance,” said Santosh. “Both these businessmen would have needed Delhi’s Health Ministry on their side. Solution? Make the minister your partner … your partner.”
“But these men would have needed a godfather, someone who had vast amounts of capital to deploy,” said Jack. “I called up Denny—the CEO of the National Association of Insurance Commissioners—and asked him to find out about the key investors in ResQ. It turns out that the major equity of ResQ is held by the same entity that is the major equity owner of Surgiquip. It’s a company in the Bahamas.”
“They’re affiliated?” said Santosh disbelievingly.
“Santosh,” said Jack, “they’re practically the same company.”
Chapter 93
IQBAL IBRAHIM ADDED milk and sugar into his tea and stirred it. He stared at the man who sat across from him. He had introduced himself as Dr. Khan. Ibrahim was not sure about what was being offered but knew it could mean freedom from Arora.
“We are well aware that you are the engine that drives ResQ’s profitability,” said Khan. “We have had you under surveillance for weeks. We know how you operate. We believe that your abilities and resourcefulness are not being appreciated at the moment.”
He was right. Ibrahim busted his ass procuring the right material only to be reprimanded by Arora repeatedly.
“What are you suggesting?” asked Ibrahim.
“Our business model is different to that of ResQ,” said Khan, avoiding staring at Ibrahim’s hooked nose. “In fact we are not even
competing with them. But we believe that our business will become far bigger than theirs in a few years.”
“Please explain.”
“Unlike ResQ, which sells insurance policies to American clients and charges them low premiums to have their medical issues attended in India,” said Khan, “our company operates differently. For starters, we’re not an insurance company. We’re transplant specialists.”
“Transplant specialists for American clients?” asked Ibrahim.
“No. Our key market is the Middle East. Our patients belong to countries such as Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Jordan, and the United Arab Emirates. Our medical infrastructure is entirely centralized at a spanking-new facility that we have established in Gurgaon. Patients from all over the Arab world come here for their procedures.”
“Why?”
“Most of these customers have no option but to travel abroad,” said Khan. “For example, transplants in the United Arab Emirates were legalized in 1993 but the law failed to include a medical definition of death, thus making it impossible to use organs from dead patients. The result was that no transplant operations could actually take place. Organ transplant infrastructure is virtually nonexistent in those markets.”
“Why should I consider it?” said Ibrahim, rearranging the skullcap on his head ever so slightly. “I’m making good money where I am. Inshallah, the money may also increase.”
“These are rich Arabs and hence we are dealing with a much more lucrative segment of customers—those who will pay high prices for these procedures. This also means that we can pay you double what ResQ pays.”
Ibrahim sipped his tea. In his mind, he was totting up the numbers and figuring out what double the rates would mean for him. And what it would mean to be finally free of that Nazi Arora.
“The ResQ network is a strong one,” he said. “They may come after me once they know I am working against them.”
“Not if you destroy them first,” said Khan.
Chapter 94
JUDGES AT THE Delhi High Court usually heard matters between ten in the morning and four in the afternoon. Weekends were off. But the high-powered appellants in this particular case had forced the bench to conduct a special sitting outside of normal working hours, that too on a weekend.
The appellants were a group calling themselves the Coalition for Freedom of Speech. They were worried that information had been received by DETV. DETV had already started airing commercials on the channel indicating that a major disclosure was on the way.
“What do you want?” asked the irritated judge. He had been forced to forego his Saturday bridge game in order to hear this matter, hence the annoyance.
“This may be privileged information,” argued the counsel representing the Coalition for Freedom of Speech. “We believe some of the information is fabricated and could grievously damage the reputations of parties involved. For all of the above reasons, we request an injunction preventing the news channel DETV from broadcasting any story based on this information.”
The judge looked at the counsel representing the appellants. “You call yourselves the Coalition for Freedom of Speech and here you are making an application to muzzle free speech?” he asked sarcastically.
“Your honor, freedom of speech comes with responsibility,” said their advocate. “If you give us an early hearing, we will convince you that it is not in the public interest to broadcast the story.”
The judge turned his attention to the lawyer representing DETV. “Any reasons why I should not grant an injunction?” he asked.
“Your honor,” began the counsel for DETV. “This application deserves to be treated with contempt. It is a barefaced attempt by vested interests to prevent the truth from emerging. If you do pass an order restraining DETV, you will be playing with freedom of expression and the liberty of the press.”
The graying judge looked at his wristwatch. If he passed interim orders, he could still make it to his bridge game, albeit a little late. Delay was the best way to play this.
“I need time to consider the facts of this case,” he said. “I am temporarily restraining DETV from airing the contents until Monday, at which time I shall hear detailed arguments to decide the case in finality.”
It also helped that the judge was a friend of the Chief Minister, Mohan Jaswal.
Chapter 95
GUHA SAT AT his desk surrounded by his team, the atmosphere despondent. They were still attempting to come to grips with the temporary restraining order.
“How could the judge pass such a stupid order?” asked Guha’s research assistant, chewing the end of her pencil vigorously.
“He was possibly intimidated by the powerful people who had applied for the restraining order,” said Guha, looking haggard. His customary blue jacket and red tie looked even more worn out than usual.
“Who?” asked Guha’s producer.
“Patel’s company Surgiquip,” said Guha. “Thakkar’s company ResQ … Those are obviously affected parties. I believe,” he continued, taking off his wire-framed glasses momentarily, “that it’s also possible Jaswal may have played a role by influencing the judge. After all, he is a close friend of Thakkar, and a negative disclosure about Thakkar would have serious political ramifications for Jaswal.
“In business and politics there are no permanent friends or enemies. There are only permanent interests. It is a common interest that would bring them on the same side.
“Maybe what they want is time. But time for what? What can they do to make our story weaker?”
Guha paused in thought. “I wonder …” he murmured.
“They could try smearing you,” replied the research assistant. “A hatchet job to make you sound less credible.”
“Or someone could actually use the hatchet,” said the producer, instantly regretting his words.
“Kill me?” asked Guha.
“Several people have already died,” said his producer. “You need to be careful.”
The producer avoided mentioning the fact that many media companies—including DETV—received their funds from questionable foreign sources.
“Are you asking me to avoid airing the story?” asked Guha, the anger evident in his voice.
“I’m not suggesting that,” said the producer smoothly. “I’m simply advising that you should slow down. It’s never a good idea to get emotional about news stories.”
Guha nodded. “I’ll take your advice,” he said as he wound up the meeting.
Guha’s research assistant felt a tad sorry for him. Guha was always among the last to leave the studio. Perhaps if he had a wife or family, he wouldn’t devote his entire attention to pursuing the truth relentlessly. Guha hadn’t gotten over his wife. Her photograph steadfastly remained on his shelf.
When everyone else had left, Guha quietly spoke to his research assistant. “I have decided I shall not give anyone the luxury of time,” he said.
“What do you mean? We’re legally prohibited from going to air,” she said.
“I plan to defy the court order,” said Guha, the determination in his eyes all too evident.
“It would be contempt of court. DETV could get into trouble.”
“What’s the worst that can happen?” said Guha. “I get arrested? Fine. Public opinion will force the court to release me within the day.” He got up from his desk excitedly. He was pumped up once again.
“But why the sudden urgency?” asked his assistant.
“Because DETV is trying to bury the story,” said Guha, putting a fresh lozenge into his mouth. “The longer I wait, the higher the chances that the story will never be aired.”
“How do we manage our producer?”
“He won’t know what hit him,” said Guha as he packed up. “Make preparations for a completely different subject so that everyone is caught off guard.”
Chapter 96
IT WAS BECOMING a little too easy these days. Or maybe the Deliverer was simply a genius. It was probably the latter. The Deliverer knew ever
ything.
Over the past week he had killed so many people. With each kill, he had felt a sense of elation. And why not? He had done the world a favor in each instance! The world owed him a debt of gratitude and a medal of honor for making the world a better place.
After completing his twelfth grade at the cantonment school, he had joined the army at the age of seventeen as a soldier. He had loved every minute of his experience, surrounded by people who were bound by the call of duty. A couple of years later the war had happened and he had ended up with a bullet to his lung.
Luckily the doctor at the hospital had succeeded in patching him up, even though the wound had left him plagued with chest infections that refused to go away. It also left him with a persistent cough.
The army had no longer been an option for the Deliverer. It was almost like starting his life all over again. The newspaper stint had been just what the doctor ordered.
The Deliverer had been lucky to have survived the bullet to his lung but it had disqualified him from active duty in the armed forces. He had realized that he would soon be unemployed.
One day, while the Deliverer had still been recuperating in hospital, someone had visited the patient occupying the bed next to his. The visitor had struck up a conversation with the Deliverer and he had been forced to put down his book. The visitor had been an impeccably groomed man. It had turned out that he was the editor of a major newspaper. He had graciously offered the Deliverer an opportunity to come work for him—to report from the front lines for the newspaper. The Deliverer had gratefully accepted the offer and had spent several years providing the newspaper with scoops that were unprecedented.
While on the reporting beat, the Deliverer had begun to realize that the country was a shambles. Crimes went unpunished because of notorious delays in the justice system. Innocents lay locked up for years even though there was no real evidence against them. The law and order administration was inefficient and some police officers were busy lining their own pockets. The apathy and inefficiency had made the Deliverer’s blood boil. Men like him were giving up their lives on the nation’s borders while others sucked the country dry! It had riled him to see that the mainstream press was turning a blind eye to many such injustices.
Private Delhi Page 17
