Special 26

by Gabriel Khan

  He sat as still as he could, trying to emanate confidence. It didn’t fool the only other man in the room. It wouldn’t even have fooled a newborn who’d just opened his eyes.

  Ajay sat on the other side of the table, totally occupied by the sheaf of papers in front of him, apparently reading them with great concentration. He certainly seemed to have forgotten all about the nervous man in front of him, who was trying to gauge what Ajay might be like from what he saw.

  The first thing he saw was that Ajay was well dressed. He wore black trousers and a cream shirt, with the collar open and the button at the top undone. His hair was parted on the right and neatly brushed back, and his close-shaven face was smooth and unblemished. His shoes were highly polished and he sat with his legs crossed. He was probably in his early thirties. Despite the chill, he seemed totally at ease.

  Breaking the silence seemed like a very bad idea, like poking a stick at a lion that’s waiting to pounce. So the nervous man kept quiet and tried to study his surroundings as surreptitiously as he could.

  He was in a hall. A big one. One of those fancy, high-ceilinged halls where you could hear the smallest indiscretion from across the room. It was sparsely furnished, if you could describe a 50-by-50 foot room containing just a table and two chairs on either end as furnished. Big door, the high windows. Airy and bright, no doubt about it. Cold as hell.

  Feeling even more intimidated, the nervous man looked back at Ajay, and shivered as he saw that he was being subjected to a keen scrutiny. Measured. Sized up.

  The man couldn’t hold the intensity of that calm, liquid gaze, and looked down. At the papers strewn on the table. They all bore the seal of either the Government of India or the Central Bureau of Investigation.

  Knowing they were not for his eyes, the man panicked, and his eyes darted back up. To return to that same cool gaze. What the hell was he supposed to do with his eyes, shut them? Gouge them out? What?

  He tried to smile, and felt his face rearrange itself into a pained grimace.

  Ajay spoke.

  ‘Why are you here?’

  It was a voice of velvet. A male equivalent of Lata Mangeshkar, only with a hidden menace lurking just beneath.

  The man’s grimace changed to uncomprehending terror. He knew he would give up anything this man asked for; it was what he might ask that terrified him.

  ‘S-s-s-sorry, sir?’

  ‘Why do you want to join the Bureau?’

  Now that was a question he was ready for. He had spent the entire morning rehearsing just the perfect answer for that question. Yes, he would kill this test!

  ‘Sir, India is great. Myself Santosh Mane, sir. India is my mother. India is corrupt. I want to…’ His brain finally caught up with his mouth. What the hell? That wasn’t what he had practised.

  His interviewer had arched one eyebrow. It was more frightening than standing in the path of an approaching train.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Sir, there is a lot of corruption in our country, sir. The entire system is in a mess, sir. India’s enemies are wringing her dry, sir,’ he managed to blurt out.

  ‘So?’

  Now he was panicking. Of course he hadn’t expected the CBI interview to be easy, but this! This was beyond what he’d imagined. Atlas held up the world, but he felt he was holding up Atlas and the world and the solar system and whatever the hell else there was in the universe.

  ‘S-s-s-so, sir, I want to stop those bastards, sir!’

  There was that damned eyebrow again. It danced a knuckle-duster’s pattern against his mind.

  ‘You’re going to stop them?’ The interviewer seemed amused.

  Feeling reckless at the encouraging tone, the man said, ‘Sir, we’ll do it together, sir!’

  ‘And what do you think you’ll get out of it?’

  It was, the man felt, a loaded question. Was he talking about money? He decided to take a chance. ‘Some for you, sir, and some for me…’ His voice trailed off.

  Ajay raised his hand. The interviewee clamped his mouth shut.

  He watched as the other man referred to the paper in front of him again. He glanced through four pages, and finally looked back up at the interviewee.

  This time, the man held his gaze, frozen in anticipation.

  Then Ajay smiled.

  Relief flooded through the man as he grasped that smile and pulled himself out of the quicksand of anxiety.

  ‘Welcome to the CBI, Mr Mane.’

  The nervous man stood up and beamed at his interviewer. He felt he should say something, but he was damned if he knew what. ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you! Many, many thanks.’

  ‘Yes, yes. You’re welcome. Please be here tomorrow, Mr Mane, at ten a.m. sharp.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I’ll be here, sir. I won’t be late. Thank you, sir.’ The nervous man almost bowed in his relief.

  ‘Good. The door is right behind you. Could you show the next man in on your way out?’

  ‘Of course, sir! I shall tell him, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  The nervous man tried to stand up, realized he had already stood up without knowing it, turned and almost ran to the door. There, he checked himself in time, opened it carefully and walked out. The door closed on the silent hall with its lone occupant.

  There were several more left to interview. Ajay smiled to himself. Most of them seemed promising.

  It would be a long day. But he hoped it would be interesting.

  The candidates were all standard fare.

  ‘I want to join the CBI because I want to do good in my country.’

  ‘…I want to put an end to corruption.’

  ‘…I’ve always been intelligent.’

  ‘…I couldn’t get another job.’

  ‘…I am always very honest. Because I want to do something for my country. I love my country.’

  ‘…Peoples wanted to be become filmstar, cricketer, I want to be become Intelligence.’

  The gang was spoilt for choice.

  Not the most riveting day he’d had. The men who’d come to be interviewed for a ‘job’ in the country’s most elite investigation agency weren’t exactly a cross section of the country’s most intelligent. There were a few who hovered dangerously near a three-figure IQ, but ultimately didn’t pose a problem.

  All of them had one thing in common. None of them stopped to wonder and, even if they did, to actually ask, why the CBI was recruiting men through an advertisement in the newspaper.

  The idea had started mostly as a joke. Sharmaji had been pestering Ajay to set his sights higher, play a really big con. And Ajay had been constantly laughing it off, mostly because of the manpower it would require. This wasn’t something he was prepared to do. He wasn’t going to hire downright crooks. He was fine with people who were a little bent but had their hearts in the right place, as long as they knew to back off when they saw a line they shouldn’t cross. But there were some people who either didn’t know about such lines or if they did, didn’t care about them. These were the hardened criminals, the people who were almost as bad as the politicians and the corrupt people in power. Ajay would never work with them, he was clear about that.

  He was perfectly happy with the three others in the gang. None of them was really evil. Joginder had been a poor kid on the streets who was forced to turn pickpocket to make ends meet. As they had found out soon after recruiting him, he refused to get drawn into full-fledged thievery, despite his obvious skills and dexterity. In fact, he’d refused to join Ajay and Sharmaji until he’d been persuaded that they would only steal from those who could afford it and deserved it.

  Iqbal, however, had been a different matter. He had turned up one day at the garage where Ajay was working at the time, and asked for a job. He was decent with his hands and at the work too, as he soon showed his employers. But he was a strange man, an opinion shared by everyone else who worked in the garage. He was a loner, and hardly spoke. If asked a question, he would reply in monosyllables – saying as much as possible in as fe
w words as was possible – then get back to work. He didn’t treat anyone with disrespect; it was not as though he behaved as if he didn’t care what the others thought. It was just that he wanted to keep a distance because that was the only way he knew to live.

  Within a few weeks, Ajay knew there was more to it. From his vantage point on the first floor of the garage, he could see the entire floor below him, and he observed Iqbal toiling away unquestioningly, unwaveringly. His instinct told him that Iqbal had more to hide than he was letting on. And so, one Friday, when he was getting ready to go to the bank, Ajay paused where Iqbal was sitting, morosely drinking a cup of tea, and asked him to accompany him. It took Ajay not even half the distance to the bank to break through Iqbal’s defences and uncover his struggles growing up in poverty; his father’s reputation as a gambler, whore-lover and robber; how he’d tried to get job after job but was turned away for being the son of a man with such a black reputation. He’d even applied for a job with the police force, although without much hope. To his surprise, he was rejected not because his father was on the wrong side of the law, but because he was too quiet a person. No aggression, he was told. It took all of a minute for Ajay to convince him that the reason must have been something else, another minute to tell him how he had been given the boot himself, and thirty more seconds to completely win him over with the plan he’d been working on with Sharmaji.

  With Joginder, the circle was closed. Ajay didn’t want anyone else. But Sharmaji did. He believed that Ajay was gifted enough to play the really big cons. So, as they sat in Ajay’s flat in Dongri, Bombay, a few days after the Calcutta heists, he brought up the topic again. Not surprisingly, Iqbal and Joginder joined him in support.

  Ajay looked at each of them in turn. ‘All of you really think that’s what we should do?’

  In answer, Sharmaji brought out a crumpled newspaper from his bag and smoothed it open on the table. Written in bold across the front page was the headline: ‘Daring Gang Poses As Cops, Pulls Off Heists’.

  ‘That’s why we should, Ajay,’ he said, jabbing at the headline. ‘They’re on to us now. They know what we’re doing, and how we’re doing it. It’s only a matter of time before they catch up.’

  ‘So you should be telling me to stop all this, Sharmaji,’ said Ajay, frowning. ‘But you’re telling me the opposite. You’re asking me to do something even bigger!’

  Sharmaji nodded. ‘Yes. And I’ll tell you why. Because you can, I know you can, and I want to see you do it and prove me right. And because this will be our last job.’

  He got up and started pacing agitatedly. ‘You know I’m not as young as I used to be. My mind doesn’t work as fast it used to. My reflexes are slower.’ He stopped and turned to the others. ‘I’m not young, boys. I’ve married off four daughters now. Soon, they’ll all go away. And then it’ll only be the missus and me. I want to have a life with her again.’

  He slumped down on the chair. ‘I-I’m afraid, Ajay,’ he said, staring at the floor. ‘I’m afraid of screwing up and spending the rest of my life behind bars. Before, it was all adrenalin, excitement, the thrill, the risk… Now, it’s all gone. Now, all I have left is the fear.’

  That was the moment Ajay made up his mind. He’d never thought Sharmaji would make it up for him – he’d always thought he’d go out when he wanted to. But looking at Sharmaji, he realized the truth of what he was saying. Maybe it was time to stop. Maybe Sharmaji was right. if he made a mistake, especially with the cop he suspected was on his tail, he wouldn’t live to see a day outside of a prison. Neither would any of them. And of course, it meant he would never see Priya again…

  ‘I understand, Sharmaji,’ he said, patting the older man on his shoulder. ‘Maybe you’re right. I brought you here for something slightly bigger than what we’ve been doing, but now, come to think of it, we might just raise the stakes even higher.’

  He paused, thoughtful. Then he looked around at the others. ‘I’ll get us something big. Really big. At least a crore.’

  There was a collective gasp. ‘A cr-crore?’ stammered Iqbal. Till now, the most they’d lifted had been six lakh rupees in Madras – and, of course, eleven lakhs in Ludhiana. This last gig had been their biggest ever, they knew. That was in January 1987. The biggest known gang robbery record was still held by Dawood Ibrahim, who, with around seven or eight men, had made away with four lakh seventy-five thousand rupees almost a decade earlier. Of course, few knew of Ajay’s gang’s antics, and he liked to keep it that way. So a six lakh, or even a ten lakh figure meant an astronomical sum for the gang. And here was Ajay talking about a crore. Hell, they didn’t know what a crore looked like!

  But Ajay was serious, that much they could tell. ‘Yes, a crore,’ he said, getting up and walking to the window. ‘And I know exactly where to get it. I even know how we can get it. But it’ll need a lot of heads, at least twenty people to make it work. How the hell do we get so many men?’ He turned back to the others. ‘You know what it means, don’t you? More men means a greater risk; one of them may talk, and then we’re finished.’

  They were all silent. Joginder pulled a face, lost in thought. Sharmaji, who’d perked up enormously when Ajay had dangled the word ‘crore’ in front of them, picked his nose gloomily. Iqbal too looked blank.

  ‘I don’t know how, Ajay,’ he said, sighing. ‘It’s not like we can place an ad in the paper for something like this.’

  A second later, Ajay spun around, his eyes gleaming, a wicked smile on his lips. ‘Why not?’

  ‘How did all the interviews go?’ said Sharmaji, huddled in his armchair. Ajay had just walked into the room they had booked at the Holiday Inn near Andheri.

  Ajay nodded as he stretched out on the bed, still fully dressed except for his shoes, which he’d kicked into a corner. ‘Went well. I’ve sized up a few fellows, told them to come tomorrow.’

  The three of them – Ajay, Sharmaji and Iqbal – had been interviewing people who’d turned up in response to the ad in the newspapers. Joginder, meanwhile, had been sent to the target site, to case the joint, as it were. All of them were staying at the hotel – they’d checked in on Wednesday, the day before the interviews – but the meeting point was Ajay’s room. From the minute they arrived, they had been impressed by how Ajay seemed to have everything and everyone in control – the hotel waiters, bellboys, porters, everyone seemed to want to wait on them. How, they asked him, but he just winked mysteriously. Clearly, his charm had worked wonders.

  There was a coded knock on the door, and Iqbal entered. Ajay sat up. ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘Most of them looked pretty innocent. A couple of guys, I don’t know. I lost them in the crowd.’ He flopped down in a chair next to Sharmaji, grabbed the bottle of whisky on the table and poured himself a stiff one. ‘Seemed all right to me.’

  He drained his glass in a single gulp, poured himself another tall one and sloshed it down immediately. Sharmaji looked at him critically. ‘After that display, I can’t believe it all went well.’

  ‘Yeah?’ said Iqbal nastily. ‘Well, you just sit in a room that’s being filled one guy after another, with a total of fifty stinking guys for a whole goddamn day, and you tell me how things are.’

  ‘I just did!’ exclaimed Sharmaji indignantly.

  Ajay held up his hand. ‘Peace. Iqbal, you did a brilliant job. What about Joginder?’

  ‘He’s casing the place now. It’s like he’s lived there all his life! He really blends into that place.’

  Ajay nodded. ‘Good. He’ll get the info we need.’ He bent down to the briefcase he’d been carrying with him, and opened it. ‘I need to show you something.’

  The others watched curiously as he rummaged inside the briefcase, pushing aside clothes and papers. Then finally, with a flourish, he drew out a holster. It was empty.

  ‘Really, Ajay?’ said Iqbal, sarcasm dripping from his voice. ‘An empty holster? Wow, that shit will scare even the army away.’

  Ajay nodded. ‘Good, then it worke
d.’ He bent to take off his socks.

  ‘What worked?’ said Sharmaji.

  When Ajay straightened up, he was holding a gun. A pistol, to be precise.

  Sharmaji and Iqbal went rigid with shock. The pistol was pointing right at them.

  Then Ajay smiled his mischievous smile. ‘I’m not going to shoot you, you idiots!’ he said, putting it down on the table.

  Sharmaji found his voice. ‘Ajay! You?’ he cried in disbelief. ‘ I can’t believe this. You’re the one who said he would never use an actual weapon.’

  Iqbal joined in. ‘Yeah, man. What the hell is this? Where did you get it?’

  Ajay sat back down on the bed. ‘Sit down, please. There’s no need to worry.’

  Iqbal sat down, still wary. But Sharmaji stood where he was, a thousand apprehensions and fears flitting across his face.

  ‘Please, Sharmaji,’ said Ajay kindly. ‘Please sit down. You trust me, don’t you?’

  Sharmaji didn’t say anything, and after a moment, sat stiffly on the bed next to Ajay’s.

  ‘I know this goes against the way we’ve been doing things. But you have to trust me. This is too big a job. We may need the firepower. But,’ and here, Ajay leaned forward, and spoke as earnestly as he could, ‘I won’t let anything go wrong. You know me. I’ll plan ahead so we don’t have to use this. You have to trust me.’

  With great reluctance, Iqbal nodded. But Sharmaji still said nothing, just sat there looking miserable and unsure. Finally, he nodded. ‘But,’ he said, ‘only because it’s you, Ajay.’

  Ajay inclined his head. ‘I won’t let you down, I promise.’

  Their eyes met, and a look of mutual understanding passed between them.

  Ajay got up, carefully put the gun into the holster, and stashed it under his mattress. ‘There, forget about it. Now where the hell is Joginder?’

  Sharmaji got up, went to the wardrobe and took out his jersey. ‘He’ll be back soon, don’t fret,’ he said, his nonchalance sounding very forced. ‘Meanwhile, I’m going out for a walk.’