“Yes. If you have managed to penetrate the organization, then start making arrangements for the next phase. Use the Indian Mujahideen network to handle logistics,” responded the Director General, drawing in a deep breath of nicotine and tar. “By the way, who is this man who has managed to get inside the fortress?”
“He is a Muslim from the medical fraternity. He has strong anti-American leanings and is thus the perfect candidate for the job,” replied the CAD man.
“Good,” said the Director General. “Keep me posted regarding your progress.”
Chapter 33
The Haji Ali mosque was a unique structure in Mumbai’s architectural landscape. Built on an islet off the coast of Worli in the southern part of Mumbai, it was only accessible via a narrow causeway that ran for a distance of five hundred meters through the sea. During high tide the mosque was cut off from the mainland when the causeway was entirely submerged. Sensibly, Mubeen had made sure that he reached the mosque well within low-tide hours.
As he neared the whitewashed structure, he could see the eighty-five-foot-high minaret — a familiar feature on Mumbai’s sunset skyline. Upon arriving at the islet, he used the sculpted entrance to reach the marble courtyard containing the central shrine. He paused for a moment before the tomb, covered by a red-, green-, and gold-embroidered sheet and supported by a silver frame. He mouthed a silent prayer before making his way to the men’s prayer hall. Here he stood in a corner, silently reading the ninety-nine names of Allah that made up the Arabic patterns on the marble pillars.
The prayer hall of Haji Ali gave Mubeen a feeling of comfort. It allowed him to silently grieve for his son and remember happier times with his wife. It allowed him to draw sustenance from the prayers that surrounded him. He was particularly grateful for the presence of Sufi singers who filled the air with sweet melodies in honor of Allah.
“What makes man so cruel?” he asked himself. After pondering the question for a while, he realized there was no single answer that could adequately address the question. At that moment, he kneeled down on his prayer mat, faced west toward Mecca, and raised his hands to his ears, chanting, “Allahu Akbar,” and thus drowning out the pain of what he had undergone in America.
Chapter 34
The posh school for girls was very quiet at this hour. Even though it was a day school and none of the students remained on the premises after hours, the principal never left. The vast grounds had ceded space to accommodate a corner cottage for the principal. Separated from the volleyball court by a thick hedge and mango orchard, the cottage was a substantial perk afforded to the person lucky enough to occupy the post. Established by a Scottish missionary many years before Indian Independence, the school was one of the most prestigious girls’ academies in Mumbai.
There was never any reason for the principal to worry about security because the entire five-acre plot in the western suburbs of Mumbai was cordoned off by a high wall and barbed-wire fences. There was only one gate to the entire complex and a team of well-trained security guards patrolled it around the clock.
Within the walls and barbed-wire fences were buildings housing the classrooms, cafeteria, library, gymnasium, auditorium, laboratories, and swimming pools. A football field, cricket pitch, volleyball court, and tennis court occupied the remaining land.
Inside the principal’s cottage there were two floors. The lower one contained the living room, dining room, and kitchen, the upper floor two en suite bedrooms. Adjacent to the principal’s cottage were staff quarters containing a bedroom and bathroom for any domestic help that the principal chose to employ.
Inside the larger bedroom facing the front garden, the principal, Mrs. Elina Xavier — a widow in her mid fifties — was fast asleep. Given that it was the third day of the school’s annual examination week, Mrs. Xavier had taken time off to visit Mahim Church. Getting inside on a Wednesday could be a test of perseverance because of the long queue of devotees waiting for admission. Mrs. Xavier had been exhausted by the visit — particularly given the fact that she was undergoing the last few chemotherapy sessions that had been prescribed by her oncologist.
The full-time maid who cooked Mrs. Xavier’s meals and did the household chores was also asleep in the adjacent staff quarters. A few hours after Mrs. Xavier had slipped into dreamland, there came a very soft creaking noise in the cottage as one of the doors of the closet in the smaller bedroom opened slowly. Someone stepped out of this and tiptoed across the room to the door. The trespasser had been inside the closet for over five hours, having entered the house earlier in the day as part of the school’s outsourced housekeeping team.
Crossing the narrow passage that separated the two bedrooms, the intruder opened the door to the master bedroom and glanced over to where the substantial body of Mrs. Xavier lay asleep, heaving and snoring. Wearing a maintenance boiler suit, shower cap, and rubber gloves, the intruder approached the bed, holding a yellow scarf in one hand, and in the other a plastic bag containing a carton of hard-boiled eggs.
Placing the bag on a side table by the bed, the prowler slipped the scarf around the principal’s neck and pulled on both ends firmly. Mrs. Xavier woke from her dreams only to find that she was in the midst of a nightmare. She gasped for air but her windpipe was obstructed. Her terrified eyes pleaded for mercy but there was none forthcoming. She reached out with both hands to try to free her neck from the excruciating grip of the garrote but all strength seemed to have abandoned her. The strangler continued to pull until Mrs. Xavier’s body went limp.
Staring at her bulging eyes, the killer felt an inner rage bubble up. Spitting on her face, the perpetrator called her a cunt and a whore. Quickly realizing the mistake, the murderer went back to the closet, retrieved a tissue, sprayed it with bleach, and used it to carefully remove any traces of saliva from her face.
The intruder then headed over to the thermostat unit near the bedroom door and adjusted the temperature to the highest possible setting. The carton was removed from the bag and each egg carefully placed on the bed. Soon Mrs. Xavier’s body was surrounded by a dozen eggs, arranged in an oval around her.
Chapter 35
Santosh was livid. His face was flushed red and he was breathing heavily as he strode into Rupesh’s office. He threw down a newspaper on the desk and asked, “How do I solve this case if you do not heed my advice?”
“No idea what you are talking about,” said Rupesh, picking up the paper casually to read the front page.
YELLOW GARROTE KILLINGS, read the headline of the Afternoon Mirror. The article went on to reveal that three murders in the city — including one involving the newspaper’s reporter, Bhavna Choksi — had been perpetrated by a strangler who left a signature yellow scarf at the crime scene. The story went on to say that the police were covering up the news in order to avoid having to answer questions about their inefficient and half-hearted investigations. The report had been picked up by Indian newswires and every hack in town was now chasing the story.
“I took your advice,” said Rupesh, slowly and deliberately chewing on a lump of tobacco in his mouth. “I did not speak with any reporter.”
“I find that difficult to believe,” countered Santosh. “You pick up a phone and tell me about a reporter with suspicions. I request you to avoid answering her questions. In less than a day it’s front-page material.”
Rupesh folded the newspaper calmly and stood up. “Think about it, Santosh,” he said. “If I had given this reporter an exclusive, why the fuck would she trash the cops? This story makes it bloody difficult for me to handle the flak that will come my way from the Police Commissioner and the Home Minister. Tell me, why would I want to put myself in such a mess?”