by Gabriel Khan
‘Waseem Khan.’
‘I trust you will not follow me out, Waseem Khan. It won’t end well.’
I rallied. ‘You have nowhere to go, mister. There are policemen everywhere. Why don’t you just give up?’
The man laughed. It was like icicles grating on glass. ‘Is that the best line you have? If that represents your intelligence, Waseem Khan, you will never catch me.’
‘Listen to me. You can’t—’
At that point, I registered a thud; my brain communicated to me that I’d just been hit in the back of the head. It communicated to my legs to fold up beneath me, told my nerves I was hurting like hell, and then I blacked out.
Ajay opened the door to the toilet and walked out. Iqbal was waiting just outside. He reached out as the door closed, and ripped out the ‘Gents’ sticker. Underneath it, the sign said ‘Ladies’.
The two of them walked away slowly, past the two guards who were standing to attention outside the men’s toilet, arguing with a couple of men who clearly were having bladder issues. As they passed them, one of the cops’ radios crackled and they heard a voice say, ‘Sir, Rahul here. Have just got hold of a tout. They’re heading to Bombay, sir. Sir?’
There were barely five minutes left for the train’s departure. The two of them walked as fast as they could without drawing attention, and got in.
Ajay had regained his composure, but Sharmaji was still looking ashen. ‘Ajay, what the hell was that! How did you—’
‘No time now, Sharmaji,’ Joginder interrupted. ‘They know we’re going to Bombay. They know we’re on this train. They’ll just stop the train at the next station and—’
Ajay interrupted him. ‘All of you, go to your seats. First change into your… outfits. Don’t worry, we’re safe for now.’
With a loud hoot, the train started. The four of them were staring out of the window, looking for any signs of the police. There didn’t seem to be any.
Just as the train picked up speed, they saw a man running next to it. He was trying hard to keep up, but was slowly falling behind.
Waseem Khan, thought Ajay. Persistent fellow.
But the train was going too fast now, and Waseem was falling behind. Suddenly, before any of them could stop him, Sharmaji leaned forward, towards the window. Waseem saw him, and his eyes registered the shock; Sharmaji was waving a cheeky goodbye.
The next station, Ambala, was swarming with policemen. They had clearly been told to be on alert, and were checking every passenger thoroughly. They had a detailed description of Sharmaji, and a sketchy one of Joginder.
None of them noticed that among the many people boarding and alighting, four men had got off and met at the ticket counter. The descriptions that the police had didn’t match any of them, although if someone pulled at the facial foliage on display, they would have been surprised. One of the men extracted two envelopes from his pocket, one of which had already been torn open. He tore the other one open now, and took out four tickets. He then handed a ticket each to the others.
If anyone had been keeping watch, they would have seen the four men boarding the next train to Howrah, and heading for berths in four different coaches.
12
Looking for Mr X
I made my report to the AD. He wasn’t happy. I wasn’t either, but then I didn’t have to listen to myself shouting at me for having screwed up.
After nearly half an hour’s worth of decibel-intensive abuse, I was told to pull up my socks and summarily dismissed. That smarted. Almost more than the humiliation at the station had. I couldn’t summon up the courage to ask about the promotion or the increment. Not because I would have been yelled at again, but because they might just block it forever.
I saw the concerned faces of Rahul and Ranveer the moment I returned to our floor. They were doing their best not to look at me, perhaps fearing they would catch me in a vulnerable moment, and the anxiety radiated off them: tangible, disheartening.
I couldn’t think, couldn’t process anything. Not just yet. After what had happened yesterday in Chandigarh, I had felt my mind go blank, let my brain shut down. And even now, it had not rebooted properly.
Fuck it all. I needed a smoke.
I went downstairs, out of the building and into the alley. There were a couple of other people there, but only those who had truly got the shit kicked out of them dared go out to this godforsaken place and stand there breathing in its rancid staleness along with the nicotine. We all nodded at each other, not speaking, not needing to. There were no ranks here, only the shared stench of desperation and defeat.
The nicotine switched the power back on in my head. And with it came the shocking realization – I had been beaten. It was the first time that a criminal, a common, petty, low-class breaker of the law had outsmarted me. I, who had spent more than two decades with the best law-enforcement agency in the country, who had put over two hundred crooks, big and small, behind bars. I was the agency’s go-to man, the one officer they knew was infallible, who would not go wrong, who they knew would never fail. And I had just failed.
The rage, the hurt, the pride, all that was eating away at me welled up, seeking an outlet, seeking to howl at the world, and in my anger, I aimed a punch at the wall beside me.
Damn fool thing to do. The moment my fist hit the concrete, the pain exploded in my hand, shot up my arm, reverberated right up to my brain. For a full twenty seconds, there was nothing but sheer, mind-numbing pain, and only after that did I come to my senses. I found myself standing clutching my right wrist, which was already bruising. Slowly, through the haze, I looked around and saw, thankfully, that the alley was empty. That was a bit of luck.
And then it hit me. The simplest solution to it all. It was so blindingly obvious, right there in plain sight, and it had taken me another broken promise to myself (the cigarette) and a moronic bit of activity – by which I’d probably broken my wrist – to realize that.
I smiled at nothing in particular, clutched at my broken wrist again, thanked the nicotine for the epiphany, told myself it wasn’t the nicotine, and went back inside.
‘What the hell!’ cried Ranveer when he saw me. ‘What happened to you?’
I grinned at him in manic euphoria. ‘It’s nothing, just a flesh wound. Listen—’
‘Just a flesh wound?’ said Rahul, and looked at me oddly. ‘Sir, you’ve broken at least two fingers here!’
‘Fingers?’ I looked down at my hand. ‘I thought it was just the wrist!’
‘I said at least.’
I shrugged. ‘It was worth it. Forget it. Now listen to me—’
‘No, you listen to me,’ he interrupted. ‘This has to be checked out. You can’t go around like this! What if—’
I realized it was time I pulled myself together; I most certainly did not need a ‘needs therapy’ tag on me, especially now that I was down in the AD’s eyes. With a great effort, I gathered myself. It was time to take charge.
‘I said, forget it, Rahul.’
He looked at me again, and seemed satisfied this time that his boss was back.
‘Listen to me. We’ve been going about this the wrong way. Remember I told you that Sharma can’t be the brains behind the whole thing?’
Rahul and Ranveer nodded.
‘Well, now we know I was right. He’s not the main man. So who’s the main man?’ I looked at their faces, and then at the others who were standing gazing at me. They all had the same half-incredulous look.
Then I caught sight of myself in the mirror and sighed. In the reflection, I saw my haggard, stubble-faced, sunken-eyed self, bent over with pain. No wonder they were looking at me so oddly.
No matter. I gestured impatiently. ‘All right, all right, you bloody idiots. I’ll bloody well get the hand fixed, okay? Now can someone please focus on what I’m saying?’
That seemed to satisfy them. Mohan and Shankar exchanged a knowing glance and went back to their desks. Rahul sat back in the chair, leaving only Ranveer still gazing at my face with a worri
ed expression.
‘Wipe that look off your face, man, and grow some balls,’ I told Ranveer. ‘This is much more important.’
He reddened and assumed an attentive look. Good enough.
‘We’ve been fools,’ I told the two of them. ‘We’ve been going at the gang, but we know that when together, they’re clearly quite smart. NOT smarter,’ I told Rahul, who had just opened his mouth, ‘than us, just very, very smart. So we have to make them dumb.’
I waited for the ‘How?’ to come. It had to be Ranveer.
It was. ‘How?’
‘We hit them where it hurts. We know there’s one man behind it, and you know I’ve heard his voice. Clearly, Sharma is a big part of his plans and the gang. And he’s got experience. A copper’s experience. So we take him out of the equation.’
There was a silence. ‘You mean – ahem,’ started Ranveer, ‘you mean?’
‘No, no. Of course not. What are you, crazy? No, we don’t kill him, we just turn him. Get him to work for us. Then maybe get one of the others after that. If the leader falls short of men, he’s bound to try and compensate, and he’ll make a mistake. And then, we’ll be there to rub his face in the mud.’
Get at the periphery. Get the others out of the way. That’ll harm the brain. It’ll take time to reboot from its pain, and in that time, when it’s not aware of its surroundings, we pounce.
‘There’s something I don’t understand, sir,’ said Rahul, looking a little puzzled. ‘Why didn’t we do this earlier? It would have worked in Chandigarh.’
I sighed. ‘My oversight, Rahul. I underestimated them. I thought they were clever and lucky. But the truth is that they’re very, very clever and cunning, plus really, really lucky. We know that now.’
Ranveer got up. ‘So what do you want us to do?’
I thought for a full minute before replying. ‘Get on the phone. I want the two of you to contact every single major police station in the country. Don’t give me those looks, you’re paid to do this stuff. Get some men to help you, but I want your eyes on the table at all times. They’ll strike again, but not very soon.’ I remembered the look in Sharma’s eyes as he waved to me. It was cocky, cheeky and everything else, but there had also been relief. And that meant we had got really close. ‘They’ll lie low for a while, but they will strike, believe me.’
I turned to Rahul. ‘I also want your report on their escape, but write two. I don’t care about the official one, write what you want to and shove it up the AD’s ass. I want another one, only for me. You write down everything, and I mean everything you saw, did, everyone you noticed, suspicious, routine, the whole jing bang. Leave nothing out. There was a hole in their escape plan, and I’m going to find it. That’s why I need other perspectives.’
Ranveer got up. ‘Okay, sir. And I don’t think it will be difficult to trace Sharma and bring him in—’
‘No!’ I said firmly. Don’t bring him in. Let him remain free, but keep a watch over him.’
‘But why?’ he said, surprised.
‘Because we’ll need him when they’re planning something. If we get him before, they’ll know the game’s up, and we’ll never catch them. Wait for them to plan something, then we bring him in. Make him spill on the others, see if we can’t turn him to our side and play him against them.’
Rahul nodded. ‘Of course. It sounds simple,’ he said, getting up and coming over to me. ‘You’ll get them, sir. This is just temporary.’
I grunted my thanks.
All right, clever boy. Mr X, I’ll call you. Mr X who’s pulling all the strings and making your three puppets dance. Let’s see how clever you are when the ground has been taken out from under you. I’m prepared to wait, the way only cops can wait for a criminal – who can never wait long enough.
You won round one, Mr X, but I’m taking you out in round two. You made a mistake, and it’s going to cost you.
As Rahul patched up my mutilated hand, the cool monologue in my brain paused for a few minutes to let my throat do a little screaming.
13
Calcutta Caper
Sharmaji had almost begun to fear Ajay had ditched him for good when his call came through.
‘Hello, Sharmaji, how are you?’ he said, sounding absolutely normal, the friendly Ajay he had always known.
Sharmaji’s voice fawned over Ajay, like a dog with its long-lost master. ‘I’m very well, thank you, Ajay! Thanks for calling, yaar. I was so afraid you were never going to talk to me again. I didn’t know what to do—’
Ajay interrupted, a little sharply. ‘It’s done, Sharmaji. Let’s put the past behind us. I was thinking that we’re becoming a little rusty. Maybe it’s time we tried something?’
‘Of course, of course! Exactly what I was thinking too!’ gasped Sharmaji.
‘Good, good. I’ll meet you at Chandigarh airport then.’
‘When?’
‘Soon. You’ll know when,’ said Ajay and hung up.
Sharmaji put the receiver back on the hook, enormously relieved, and thoughtful. Several things about the call disturbed him, most of all the fact that Ajay had called directly on his landline. Earlier, it would always be a cryptic message, upon which Sharmaji would make a mad dash for the nearest telephone booth and wait for Ajay to call there. But this time, he had called him at his home. And spoken freely. He must know that after their narrow escape, the police would be hot on their tail; the first thing they would do was to bug Sharmaji’s house and phone. Strangely, they’d never called on him, never dragged him away for questioning, even after he’d returned home more than two weeks later. That surprised him no end. The police, however lazy they may be, would never give up the hunt if they had a clue to follow. So why were they ignoring him now?
It had been nearly three months since that day. Three months without a word from Ajay. he’d tried several times to get in touch with Ajay, but always got the cold shoulder. He’d been expecting it, of course, especially after the drubbing he’d received that day on the train.
Ajay never shouted. He had this curiously, quiet way of speaking, which was worse than any yelling. And in that soft voice, he had torn Sharmaji to shreds. ‘What were you thinking, Sharmaji? Can you really be such a moron?’ he’d said, as the train chugged its way to Howrah. They had met just outside the pantry car, since they were in different coaches.
‘I thought you were a conman, the best there was. I thought you knew what you were doing. But to show your hand like a rank amateur—’
Sharmaji rebelled. Well, his pride did, at any rate. ‘That’s unfair, Ajay. Be careful what you say, it won’t—’
‘You can’t threaten me, Sharmaji. You know that. You can’t hope to win against me. The least you could have done was to follow my instructions, as you usually do. To the letter. You can read, can’t you?’
Sharmaji maintained a sullen silence. You really couldn’t talk back to a man who’d just taken your warning and thrown it back in your face, with a side helping of his own.
‘You’ve been in this business for more than a decade, and this is what you do? Reveal yourself to a cop who’s clever enough to track us down to the station? How do you know he’s not tracking us right now? What if I’m not clever enough, what if he sees through my plan?’
It had gone on for a while, even Joginder and Iqbal remaining silent. Finally, Ajay said, ‘We’ll have to stay out of all of this for a while. At least until the heat cools. After we get to Howrah, we’ll go our separate ways. Don’t contact anyone. Wait two weeks, before you go back home.’
Iqbal spoke. ‘What about us? You know, the gang?’
There was steel in Ajay’s voice as he replied, ‘There might not be an “us” much longer. We’ll just have to wait and see how much Sharmaji’s stupidity has cost us.’
That was the last time they’d spoken. Sharmaji spent the rest of the train ride to Calcutta and the next two weeks there in utter misery and fear of being apprehended. But nothing happened. Then Ajay called abruptly at h
is hotel, told him to go back home, and hung up. He hadn’t even waited for Sharmaji to ask him how he’d found out where the older man was staying. Sharmaji was sure he’d left no tracks, but Ajay always found out. He was a genius, and a small part of Sharmaji was still feeling guilty for letting him down.
He’d gone back home, fully expecting to be hauled to the police station in a matter of hours. But the hours went by, and then the days, and the weeks, and nothing happened. It was too easy.
Now that Ajay had called, they were sure to know about it. But then, knowing Ajay, he would know they were listening too. Then why?
Sharmaji shook his head. Maybe Ajay had some game to play, or maybe he’d just screwed up. He’d have to sort it out later. Right now, it seemed they might be back in business soon.
Two weeks later, Sharmaji met Ajay at the airport. In his usual ingenious way, Ajay had waited until the last moment to tell him when they would be travelling, and even then, the note had come inside the morning newspaper. Not just any paper, the one that Sharmaji alone read in the entire household. How Ajay discovered these killer details was something Sharmaji was content to marvel at, because he never revealed his secrets.
That night, he told his wife that he would be leaving on business for a while, forbidden her to tell anyone about it, prayed that she wouldn’t, and left in the dead of night.
Early next morning, they met at the airport. Ajay was waiting for him, concealed beneath one of his disguises; Sharmaji would have completely missed him had he not walked straight into him.
‘Nobody followed you,’ said Ajay.
‘No, I wasn’t followed. I kept checking,’ replied Sharmaji,
‘I know, I wasn’t asking. I am telling you.’
He handed the older man a cup of tea, and they sat down on a bench just outside the airport. ‘So, where are we going?’ said Sharmaji.
‘Calcutta,’ said Ajay, sipping his tea.
‘We’re going back there?’
Ajay nodded. ‘Yes. Practice runs. And to get some cash flow,’ he said, smiling a little ruefully. ‘We do need the cash, don’t we?’
