*11*
‘Sir he is going with that
woman and her son’ The constable reported over the phone.
‘Keep following him. There
is something really fishy about that gora. Keep me informed every half an hour’ Inspector Hemant Gowda
instructed before hanging up.
The inspector’s eyes glanced from Mr. Smith’s passport and impatiently
waited for the screen to show the place where he would enter his password, one
character at a time. But all he stared was the annoying bar flashing ever so
slowly with the colorful words, ‘Windows 98’ spelled out in block letters. Inspector
Hemant Gowda flipped through the passport and found that multiple pages had
been stamped. Thailand, Greece, Spain, Bolivia. Mr. Smith seemed like a
globetrotter. He wondered what was so great about the chain which this man was
so keen on reacquiring. He had informed Rajshekar to track down Prasanna
Gundappa and ensure that he got hold of this dastard chain that the firang
seemed so keen on.
He had to keep things low and quiet. If the news spread about
some marauding foreigner on the streets of Bangalore then the media circus
would effectively end not just Hemant’s career. He also didn’t want Rajshekar
calling up Vishwa Anna. He wanted to wrap things up neatly. He shuddered at the
thought of Vishwa Anna.
Vishwa Anna had been a small time goon fifteen years ago. Some
ambitious, quick thinking and brutal violence soon saw Vishwa Anna not only
holding the post of a MP, but also substantial prime real estate around
Commercial street and Hebbal. For the last two terms, he had stood uncontested
from the Hennur Taluk. The money, the women, the power, the many children he
had fathered over the years or the multiple cases of murder, rape, corruption had
dimed the man’s bloodlust. Nothing got him excited than getting his fat fingers
wrapped around the handle of a sickle. Nothing got a smile on the man’s face
than watching the last breath leave a man’s mangled bloodied body. Vishwa Anna
was a man you met before you knocked on the gates of heaven or hell. A man,
Inspector Hemant Gowda wanted to avoid at all costs. It had been a good thing
that Rajshekar had informed him about what he was planning on. But how was he
to know that the stupid fuck was going to go around chopping a foreigner.
He had been smart enough to put two men on the gora’s tail even
before he visited the hospital where Rajshekar and his men were admitted. The
doctor on duty informed him that two men were still fighting for their life. Among
those who were lucky to be still breathing, albeit with great difficulty. The
litany of injuries ran for miles - broken larynx, ruptured knee cap, multiple
broken bones, multiple cuts and abrasions. One was paralyzed from the neck
down. The inspector had stopped listening midway while the doctor continued
narrating from the thick wad of papers he held clutched in his hands.
‘Look saar! Look!’ Rajshekar
beseeched the inspector. It was faintly comical as grown men winced and moaned
on the metal hospital bed.
‘Tell Prasanna to come
meet me. And he better have this stupid bracelet with him’ The inspector
bent down and whispered his instructions into Rajshekar’s ear.
‘Chain saar!’
Rajshekar corrected the inspector. The inspector’s eyes narrowed sinisterly.
‘And if I get to know that
Vishwa Anna knows about this then god help you and your newly wedded wife. I
hear she likes fried fish and expensive whisky.’ The inspector smiled to
offset the threat in his voice.
‘Sir! He got off at
Mallaya Hospital. The woman and her kid have gone’ The constable informed
the inspector.
‘Forget the woman and the kid.
Keep your eyes on him’ The inspector instructed.
The man had waved Shivu and his mother goodbye. He noticed the
Tata-Indica stopping few cars behind them. He quickly turned and entered the
hospital reception. The two constables followed him inside. He slowed his walk
for them to notice that he took the fire exit. The man quickly climbed up the
stairs, followed loudly by the out of shape pot bellied men. Having climbed five
floors, the man stopped and hid himself behind a column jutting out of the wall.
The men stopped below to catch their breath, each urging the other to hurry up.
The man rolled his eyes as he waited for his tail and checked his watch.
One constable stopped and turned, waiting for his partner to
catch up with him. ‘Where do you think he is running to?’ he whispered his
question. The man stepped out from his hiding place, his hand placed firmly
under the constable’s chin, the other at the top of his head. He smiled as he
looked at the constable huffing and puffing at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Your mobile phone!’ the man directed the constable in his grasp
slowly down the stairs to where his colleague stood.
‘You are a fucking dead
man’ The constable hissed as he pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket.
The man quickly searched both their pockets. He pulled out their ID cards,
mobile phones and wallets.
He karate chopped one on the neck and kicked the other right
between his legs, before he ran up the stairs and took the elevator down.
He hit the button for basement in the elevator. As people got on
and got off the elevator, he studied their IDs and drivers’ license. He got off
the lift and stepped into the parking lot. Soon enough he found just the sort
of vehicle he was searching for. A bike with the helmet clasped to the rearview
mirror. He pulled out the knife from his socks, and placed the blade on the
ignition lock. With his hand wrapped around the handle like a nail head, he
thumped it till the lock gave way. He bent down under the handlebar, found the
wire connected to the battery and hotwired the bike.
As he revved the bike, he turned his wrist to make note of the
time.
1608 hrs.
He had twelve more hours to get the chain. Come thirteenth hour,
he would find himself strapped to a first class seat on a flight headed to
Lisbon. It was a good thing that the CRPF, the guys who were responsible for
airport security were independent of the local cops. He checked his front
pocket and felt the outline of his passport. And if anybody at customs inquired
about the lack of baggage on him, he would just repeat the woe of the unlucky.
‘Airline lost his baggage.’
But first, the inspector, his only lead, a solid lead, and
that’s all he needed.
*12*
‘Sir!’ The constable
gasped for air as he stood leaning against the reception desk.
‘Who is this?’ the
inspector barked into the phone.
‘Murthy sir!’ The
constable answered.
‘What happened to your
mobile?’
‘He…’ Murthy began to
explain.
‘What the fuck! Why you
calling me from your mobile now? Hold on’ The inspector spoke irritatedly
into the phone.
‘Inspector? I have something you want’ The man spoke in a calm
manner.
‘Where are you?’ The
inspector questioned, he clenched his fists with anger. He wanted to bang it
hard against the wooden desk.
‘I am at Prasanna’s house. You know the place. And I hope that
when you come, you don’t come empty handed.’ The man hung up. The constable was
still holding the other line open.
‘He fucking got away
didn’t he? You fucking whores! All I asked you to do was fucking keep an eye on
him. You useless pieces of shit!’ The inspector yelled loud enough for the receptionist
to step back a little. The two constables looked at each other sheepishly as
one massaged his neck.
The inspector cussed loud enough for the entire station to hear
and be wary of him as he stepped out and motioned to his driver to get the Hoysala
jeep out.
He got into the jeep and shouted at the driver to take him back
to the hospital where Rajshekar and his men were admitted, when his phone
buzzed again. He looked at the name flashing on the screen and cussed aloud
again. The inspector held out his hand, motioning at the driver to stop for a
moment. He continued to stare at the name on the screen and weighed the pros
and cons of answering the call.
Somebody had snitched. Inspector banged his hand hard against
the dashboard before pasting a wide smile on his phone and swiped across the
screen to answer the phone.
‘Vishwa Anna! How are you?
I was just thinking about you?’ The inspector gushed into the phone. The
driver took his cue and immediately got off the jeep.
‘What inspector? You
thought that my men will get admitted in a hospital and I won’t get to know
about it? What is the motherfucking
point of giving you money and free pussy? Huh?’ Vishwa Anna barked into the phone, his voice crude and raspy
with years of smoking beedis.
‘I didn’t want to disturb
you Anna! This is all small matter Anna!’ The inspector groveled.
‘Who is this man?’
Vishwa Anna demanded as he held aloft the chain in his hand and inspected the
medallion on it, Prasanna sat squatted next to his feet.
‘Some foreigner Anna!’
The Inspector began explaining.
‘Then nobody will cry when
he goes missing. Everyday some foreigner or the other goes missing. I keep
reading it in the newspapers’ Vishwa Anna chuckled, Prasanna allowed
himself to smile. Vishwa Anna kicked him hard, his white leather sandals
planted right on Prasanna’s face.
‘What the fuck are you
smiling at? You fucking whore’s son! All this is because of you! And you alone!
I will deal with you later’ Vishwa Anna screamed at Prasanna who pushed
himself away using his palms before clutching his cheeks. Prasanna wiped the
corner of his mouth which had begun bleeding, the inside of his cheek had cut
itself against his teeth.
‘Where can I find this man
inspector? Give me a good reason to understand as to why I give you money’
Vishwa Anna demanded. Prasanna strained his eyes through his bushy eyebrows and
looked at Vishwa Anna. Vishwa Anna was dressed in a crisp white shirt and white
dhoti with matching leather sandals. His neck was covered with three thick
chains of gold. His fat fingers covered in gold rings, each studded with a
different stone. One look at Vishwa Anna and one realized that this is the man
you don’t want to engage in a physical fight with. His eyes were bloodshot, his
jowls heavy and hard. Vishwa Anna was what Prasanna imagined the devil looked
like.
‘Wait there, I will be
there in twenty minutes’ Vishwa Anna ordered as he hung up on the
inspector. He turned his attention to Prasanna who still sat squatting on the
floor.
‘You have a kid right?’
Vishwa Anna inquired benevolently.
‘A boy anna!’ Prasanna
mumbled.
‘Che!’ Vishwa Anna
shook his head with disappointment, ‘If
you had a daughter then I could have written off your debt. What should I do
with a boy?’ Vishwa Anna looked around at his coterie of loyal men.
‘Anna, Ramaiah anna likes
them young.’ One of the cohorts spoke softly with a knowing smile.
‘Looks like you are lucky
after all!’ Vishwa Anna’s belly shook like a water trapped in a canister.
‘No anna! Please’
Prasanna launched himself off the floor and on Vishwa Anna’s feet.
‘Ay!’ Vishwa Anna’s
eyebrows frowned, his lips tightened as he pelted Prasanna with hard slaps, the
rings on his hand made a clunking noise as they landed on Prasanna’s head. ‘Get off me!’ Vishwa Anna yelled. Couple
of the men standing around Vishwa Anna jumped and pulled Prasanna away. One of
the men slid his hands under Prasanna’s armpits, his fingers closing behind
Prasanna’s neck. The others took turns at punching Prasanna hard in the gut and
face.
‘Spoiled the crease in my
dhoti’ Vishwa Anna commented as stood up to inspect his dhoti.
‘Anna! Please! Not my son!
Please!!!’ Prasanna managed to cry aloud his pleas even as the blows rained
hard and fast on him.
Vishwa Anna bent down and picked up the chain and inspected with
the medallion on it. Like a loose thread hanging off a dupatta drying in the
rainy breeze, Vishwa Anna flayed Prasanna’s face with the gold chain. Flesh
split open upon contact with the auric metal, blood splashed on Vishwa Anna’s
pristine white shirt and on the man holding Prasanna from behind.
‘I don’t like it when men cry’ Vishwa Anna stopped to catch his
breath. He threw the chain at one his men who handed him a brand new white
shirt and a towel to dry himself off. Having wiped himself off Prasanna’s
blood, Vishwa Anna asked for the chain again. The medallion had split open like
ripe pistachio nut. One half of the medallion held a photo of a pretty young
woman and the other half held the picture of a young boy.
Vishwa Anna smiled to himself as he clasped the chain with the
medallion around his own neck.
*13*
The bike put-puted at the signal. The LED board about the red
signal suggested another 190 seconds before it turned green. He maneuvered his
bike between a school bus and an auto in the traffic. He looked at the auto
driver and smiled. The auto driver, unaware of the man and his antics the day
before turned his head away.
‘Uncle? Uncle?’ The man heard a soft innocent voice calling out
to him. He turned his head around and saw a bunch of kids sticking their heads
outside their school bus window.
‘Which country?’ The kid questioned as the others giggled and
continued staring at the man with big toothy smiles. The man smiled back but the
smile didn’t reach his eyes, neither did he answer the kid’s question.
His mind flashed images, he tried shaking his head clear of
them, but his memory had already started playing the movie. A movie he had put
the end title in the hotel room with a definitive bullet.
Eleven men jumped over the side of the dingy boat with their
rucksacks and AK-47s slung over their shoulders. They quickly made their ashore
on Israeli coast of Lebanon. A woman yelled and shouted in an American accent,
calling out to her husband. Her screams were silenced along with that of her
husband with a quick burst of gunfire. The men quickly got rid of their wet
suits, and jogged up to the coastal highway. The men were members of Fatah, the
militant arm of PLO. Fatah group had gained international prominence when they
carried out the brutal Black September Massacre.
They moment their feet touched the concrete highway, they opened
fire. The bullets caught the sides of passing traffic. One of the taxis
ferrying its passengers from Juniyah to the town of Jubayl skidded to a halt as
the driver reacted to the distinctive sound of gunfire. Three men ran towards
the taxi, spraying bullets like gardener sprays water from a hose. The pushed
and pulled the bodies out and commandeered the taxi.
One of the armed men, having crossed the highway positioned
himself at a convenient location giving him unfettered view of the long stretch
of road. He was the only one who preferred the American M-40 with the mounted
scope. He lay flat on his belly, his eye firmly placed behind the telescopic
sight as he picked his target. His first was a teenager seated in the backseat
of a car, gesticulating wildly and worriedly at his parents in the front car. He
gently squeezed the trigger. Moments later, the teenager slumped in his seat.
The rear window resembled a mural made out of spaghetti and tomato sauce.
Seven men got aboard a school bus, carrying 36 school children
and three teachers. The men shot the bus driver at point blank range before
throwing his body overboard.
The eleven men had an open brief.
‘Spread mayhem.’
The objective was to thwart the Israeli-Egyptian peace talks due
the following week.
The man was in-charge of overseeing security for the talks. He
sat in his office going through the Hotel American Colony’s blueprint. Marking
the ins and out. He lit a cigarette and closed his eyes, imagining himself in
the shoes of a possible attacker. Yvet ran into his office, sadness and anger
streaming down his eyes.
‘Aaliyah and Jonah!’
Yvet mouthed the names as the man watched him take support of the doorway
before slumping on the floor and breaking down.
The man switched on the TV set sitting in the corner of his
room. The news showed Israeli police cars chasing a school bus as the bus
bulldozed its way through the roadblocks. The man managed to read the name of
the school painted on the side of the bus despite the blurry images flashing on
the screen.
‘Yehowah!’ The man
silently exclaimed as he grabbed the corner of the TV set and crouched on the
floor, willing the TV to change reality. The chain with the medallion swayed
around his neck, tinkling as it hit the TV screen, joining him in his prayers.
March 14, 1988. The 11 armed men took the lives of 51 Israelis –
including 27 children and wounded 83. In the final firefight, which ensued
between the seven men aboard the school bus and the Israeli police, the bus
burst into flames and exploded as one of the grenades slipped from the bloodied
hands of one of the men inside the bus.
27 years later, the man who concocted the plan, the man who
financed the operation lay gunned down in a hotel room number 614, in
Bangalore. The death had brought closure to a three decade long pain. It was
meant to be the man’s last mission.
He was giving up everything after this mission. All his years in
training, everything he knew. The world it seemed to him, wasn’t done with him.
He heard the voice of Al Pacino in his head yell, ‘Right when I was out… They pull me back in!’
‘Nice bike’ the schoolboy
complimented the man.
‘Fuck off kid!’ The man spat out as he revved the bike and shot
through the traffic as the LED counter counted down 3…2…1 and the lights changed from amber to green.
*14*
‘I need a favor saar’
The inspector beseeched the person he was speaking to over the phone.
‘What is it this time Gowda?’ The speaker on the other end of
the satellite call spoke in anglicized English. His tone ruing the day he had
to get his no-good son out of a DUI. The two men, the inspector and he had been
classmates back in Mandya.
‘I need the number of that fellow you know’ Inspector continued with
his pleading tone.
‘Which fellow Gowda? I
don’t have time for this. I am in the middle of something here’ he replied
as he excused himself with a smile from the group of Japanese men dressed in a
sharp business he sat in the midst of. He buttoned his jacket and motioned to
the steward to get another round of expensive whisky for the Japanese
gentlemen. He tilted his head ever so slightly towards the young woman he was
seated beside him to engage the Japs. He watched her slide into his chair and
run her manicured fingers up one of the Japs’ thighs.
‘This better be fucking
good Gowda, because if this deal tanks then I am going to fuck you till you
bleed tears out of your ass’ The man broke into chaste Kannada as he
admonished the inspector.
‘I need the number of the
CBI fellow. The one you gifted the escalate car to’
‘Escalade! Not escalate. And
what have you got yourself into?’ The man scowled before turning his back,
a big smile etched on his face and mimed ‘two minutes’ with his raised hand to
the bored Japanese men who were whispering to each other in loud hushed tones.
‘Vishwa Anna’
Inspector explained. The name held enough gravitas for the man to acknowledge
that the call was warranted.
‘Fine! I am texting his
number and I will tell him to help you out with whatever you need.’ The man
replied with resignation. ‘But this is
going to be last fucking favor I do for you Gowda. You and me are done. You
understand me?’ The man added.
‘Thanks maga’ The
inspector smiled as he hung up. He was still seated in the white Mahindra
Scorpio with the red and blue stripes down its side popularly referred to as Hoysala.
His phone buzzed. His lips spread in a sigh of relief, with hope. He tapped his
phone screen twice and held the phone next to his ear. He pushed open the car
door and stepped out. He heard the phone ringing on the other end of the line,
he prompted for the driver to give him a cigarette. The driver did his bidding.
The ringing stopped, and a weak male voice answered the phone.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Mr. Chakravarthy?’ Inspector Gowda inquired.
‘Chakraborthy… Buh… Not vuh…’ The bespectacled man pushed back
against his chair and closed the browser window with two women cavorting each
other on his desktop.
‘Yes. This is Inspector Gowda, I hope our mutual friend…’ The
inspector began explaining before being abrupting cut short.
‘Yes. Tell me what do you want, and tell abour frand he and I
are done.’ The man spoke, his heavy Bengali mother tongue twisting and turning
his tongue to speak in a language he considered his inheritance.
‘I have a passport. His name John Smith, I want you to take the
passport number down. And I want to know everything you can get’ Inspector
Gowda explained as he pulled out Mr. Smith’s passport from his breast shirt
pocket.
‘I am listening’ the CBI man tapped few keys on his keyboard,
double clicked on the proprietary Central Bureau of Investigation’s software.
The software linked all the databases shared by Intelligence Bureau, the Indian
equivalent to United States Homeland Security, United Kingdom’s MI5 and the Research
& Analysis Wing, the Indian equivalent to United States CIA and United
Kingdom’s MI6. He waited as he heard cloth and paper rustling on the other end
of the line.
Inspector Gowda held his mobile phone between his cheek and
shoulder as he tried keeping the page away from the thick cardboard cover.
‘3.0.6.7.8.5.8.8.1’ Inspector Gowda narrated the passport
number.
‘What’s the authority code’ the Bengali man inquired as his
fingers quickly pushed down on the number pad on his keyboard.
‘Ah yes!’ Inspector Gowda exclaimed as he spotted the code on
the passport. ‘U for You. K for Kangaroo. P for paisa. A for Apple’.
‘That’s the press corp’ Chakravarty explained as he waited for
the computer to spew out the results.
‘What does that mean?’ the inspector wanted to know.
‘It means that the man you are looking for is a journalist. But
then again a lot of people are journalist. Them and their blogs and facebook
posts.’ The man half heartedly explained as he waited for the sand timer to
stop turning and change its shape back to a pointer. The screen turned blue,
with two words written in big block letters in black flashing across his screen
every second.
‘Access restricted: 753’
‘Aaga’ Mr.
Charkravarthy cussed under his breath. This wasn’t normal. He looked at the
code, ‘753’. He hadn’t come across this code in all his thirty one years of
experience. Something didn’t sit right.
‘Hello?’ The inspector
inquired, wondering if his man in CBI was still on the other line or if the
connection had dropped out. He was after making what he presumed to be an STD
call. Inspector Gowda prided himself to be as old school as they came, much to
his teenage son and daughter’s embarrassment.
‘Yes, yes. How soon do you bhaant this?’ The CBI man inquired as
he continued staring at the computer screen. This was a puzzle he could put his
esoteric Bengali brain behind.
‘The sooner the better sir, I am in how they say in English, in
a of fix’ Inspector Gowda smiled vacuously at his reflection in the Hoysala’s
tinted glasses.
‘Okay, give me half an hour, I bill call you back’ Said the CBI
man before he hung up. He called out to his assistant and instructed him to
bring him the big instruction manual he hadn’t seen or read in over two years.
‘Seven pi three’ Mr. Chakravarthy muttered under his breath.
‘Nanna helu tinnu baa!
Half an hour!’ Inspector Gowda cussed
under his breath, inviting the arrogant Bengali man to come eat his shit.
‘Sir? Shall we go?’
The driver inquired.
‘Go? Go fucking where?’
The inspector scowled and spat the question at the poor unsuspecting driver in
frustration.
As he flung the spent cigarette butt against the side of the car
and watched the embers split from the butt, a neural pathway in his old school
brain lit up. He quickly pulled his phone out of his pocket and scrolled down
the list of called numbers till he found Rajshekar’s number. He waited till his
phone was answered.
‘Where did Prasanna say he
dropped the girl last night?’ The inspector jumped his question, this was
no time for foreplay.
‘Acropolees, the big
building next to Forum mall’ Rajshekar wheezed his response.
*15*
Charkravarthy’s phone buzzed, like a fly caught
inside a car with its windows rolled up. His beady eyes glistened with the
black and white text flashing before his eyes as he frantically tapped the keys
on his keyboard. The manual which lay spread beside his terminal didn’t list
any error code numbered ‘753’.
‘Sir?’
The wiry kid dressed in ill fitted hand stitched clothes stuck his head through
the door.
‘Haram jada!’ Charkravarthy cussed as he opened his eyes as wide as they
could, trying to summon all the telekinetic powers needed to incinerate the man
standing in front of him.
‘Bhaat?’ he barked at
the kid who stood perplexed, with thick beads of sweat rolling down his back.
‘Sir, your phone?’ The young man pointed towards the blinking
3.7 inch phone screen. The assistant just paused long enough for his boss to shift
his angry eyes from him and look at his phone.
‘Hello?’ Charkravarthy barked into the phone.
‘Mr. Charkravarthy?’ The voice on the other end of the phone was
both electronic in its tone and muffled in its volume.
‘Yes?’ Charkravarthy knew an authoritative tone in someone’s
voice even in his sleep. And this was definitely authoritative voice on the
phone speaking to him.
‘Step away from your
computer!’ The muffled electronic voice on the other end of the phone line
instructed the now visibly nervous Bangla man.
‘Move! Move! Move! Move! Move!’
Charkravarthy heard the command being barked, not from the phone
but from outside his office. Black uniformed guards put his poor assistant in a
stronghold as Charkravarthy stared at the opening of a gun barrel.
Charkravarthy’s reflexes kicked in as he put his hands behind
his head and waited for further instructions. His sub-consciousness had
registered enough action movies his teenage sons watched for his body to
respond accordingly to the situation. He strained his eyes and looked beyond
his bushy eyebrows and saw a tall angular faced man pushing his phone back into
his pocket.
‘At ease!’ The man
commanded the armed guards surrounding Charkravarthy.
‘Mr. Charkravarthy?’ The angular faced man questioned as he
seated himself on the other side of the table.
‘Yes.’ Charkravarthy
replied, his bottom lip quivered as his mind tried to settle the bet between
flight and fight.
‘My name is Shankar Vaidyanathan. And I am from Intelligence
Bureau’ The man with the clean shaven angular face introduced himself. He
didn’t extend his hand forward neither did he join them together in a Namaste. Charkravarthy’s
lower lip stopped quivering.
‘You know what annoys me on early Sunday evening?’ Shankar posed
the rhetoric question.
‘Getting called to take care of business. Though I must say that
I much prefer doing this than listening to my son practice playing the violin.’
Shankar smiled as he slipped his hands into his pant pockets. Charkravarthy’s
eyes followed Shankar’s hands and saw him pulling a cigarette case.
‘You smoke?’ Shankar snapped open the cigarette case and offered
it to Charkravarthy who suspiciously pulled a singular cigarette out of the
neatly lined case. ‘Of course you do. I am sure that you have many questions
running through your head. Such as, who am I? What am I doing in your office?
Who are these armed men?’ Shankar paused long enough to light his cigarette.
Charkravarthy leaned forward with the cigarette cupped between his lips.
‘Like I said I am Shankar Vaidyanathan from IB and these men
are, well they are armed and trigger happy’ Shankar chuckled as he coughed up
smoke caught in his lungs. ‘The rea…’ He coughed some more.
‘The reason I am in your office right now is because you ran a
check on a passport number UKPA 306785881’
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