Santosh was silent as he digested Rupesh’s reasonable argument. “I would suggest that you should look within your own team and see if someone has been indiscreet,” suggested Rupesh craftily as Santosh attempted a graceful exit.
As soon as he was out of the room, Rupesh picked up his cell phone and dialed a number. “Namaskar bhau,” he said by way of greeting when Munna answered his gold-plated phone.
“Did you leak the story?” asked Rupesh, almost whispering.
Munna laughed. “When one has been sitting in the pub all day, one often takes a leak. I have no need for the other variety,” he said mischievously.
Chapter 36
Not much had changed in the newsroom of the Afternoon Mirror. It was mostly as it had been twenty-five years ago when established by a wealthy Parsi industrialist. But the newsroom had been a hive of activity the previous day.
There were sixteen desks, clustered in groups of four. Each desk was designated for specific verticals — politics, entertainment, city news, business, sports and the like. Toward one corner of the newsroom was the glass-walled office occupied by the paper’s chain-smoking editor.
She had picked up the receiver of her desk phone without a second thought. In her profession, it was common to spend the better part of the day on calls.
“Am I speaking to Jamini — editor of the Afternoon Mirror?” a male voice had asked. It had a mysterious quality to it. Commanding yet slightly nervous; strong yet wavering.
“Yes, you are,” the editor had replied, stubbing out her half-smoked cigarette into the overflowing ashtray on her desk. “Who is this?”
“Did you like the gift that I sent you?” the voice had said, not bothering to offer any introduction.
Jamini had suddenly been on full alert. A parcel containing a yellow scarf had been received by her in the morning and she’d immediately realized that the caller was referring to this.
“What is the scarf for?” Jamini had asked, trying to keep the conversation going as she signaled through the glass walls for her senior reporter to come inside. Find out if you can trace this call, she’d scribbled on a piece of paper that she hurriedly handed to him.
“Do not bother tracing this call,” the voice had said. “It is a prepaid SIM registered to a false identity. It will tell you nothing about me.”
Jamini had realized that she was dealing with a highly intelligent individual. “I’m not interested in tracing the call,” she’d lied. “I simply want to know if there is a story in this for me.”
“That pesky reporter — Bhavna Choksi — was killed with a yellow scarf, just like the one you received earlier today. Is that story enough for you?”
“That still doesn’t explain why you are calling me,” the editor had said, warming to the game. “Bhavna was no friend of mine... only an employee. Why should the manner of her death be a story?”
“What if I told you that the singer — Priyanka Talati — was also killed in the same manner? Is that a story?” the confident voice had asked.
“It could be,” the editor had said, attempting to hide her excitement. Her colleague from the newsroom had returned with a slip of paper reading: Have spoken with crime branch. They’re trying to pinpoint the location. Stay on the line.
“What more do you want?” the voice had asked.
Jamini had been about to reply when the line had gone dead. “Hello?” she’d asked, a tad desperately, but had realized that the caller had hung up.
Just as she’d thought that she had blown it, her phone had rung once again. “It’s me calling from a different number,” the voice had said. “I don’t trust your type.”
“Did you kill Bhavna Choksi and Priyanka Talati?” Jamini had asked, scribbling notes on the ruled pad in front of her.
“Absolutely. All three murders have happened in Mumbai, all executed by the same person, in the same manner. The police are covering it up to prevent panic.”
“Who is the third? You mentioned Bhavna Choksi and Priyanka Talati,” Jamini had said rapidly.
“A foreign doctor. Her name was Kanya Jaiyen. She was staying at the Marine Bay Plaza Hotel when she was killed.”
“Why were the women murdered?” Jamini had asked.
“I have done my duty by calling you and telling you that all three murders are connected,” the voice had said. “Do some part of the fucking investigation yourself!”
The second call had lasted less than a minute.
Chapter 37
The man was extremely thin, almost gaunt. His eyes seemed to pop out of his face due to the fact that there wasn’t an ounce of extra flesh anywhere on his body. His delicate looks belied his intent, though. He was the chief of the Indian Mujahideen — an Islamist militant group dedicated to carrying out attacks against the Indian state — and one of the most feared individuals among those in the know about terrorism.
Investigations by security agencies had revealed that the Indian Mujahideen was actually a front for the Pakistan-based Lashkar-e-Taiba. The avowed purpose of the Lashkar was to create an Islamic caliphate across South Asia and, to that end, it had been sponsoring acts of terror in Kashmir as well as other parts of India, having been provided with moral, strategic, and financial support by Pakistan’s premier intelligence agency, the ISI.
The gaunt man exited the taxi and waited at the corner of Jai Prakash Road and Yari Road in the Versova district of Mumbai. Less than a minute later a black Mercedes-Benz pulled up beside him. Due to the dark sunblinds the occupant within was not visible to the outside world.
The front door opened and a bodyguard jumped out. He quickly patted down the gaunt man and opened the rear door for him. The Indian Mujahideen man got inside. Already ensconced in the rear was the owner of the vehicle.
“I am only meeting you because I like to consider all business proposals,” said the vehicle’s owner. “So speak.”
“Mumbai is your fiefdom,” replied the thin man. “Anything and everything is possible once you decide to make it happen.”
“What do you want?” asked Munna impatiently.
“I require thirty kilograms of RDX,” explained the Mujahideen man. “I am willing to pay a premium for the right quality, delivered to the right place at the right time.”
“And what makes you think that I can supply that?” asked Munna, playing innocent in his trademark style.
The thin man smiled. “Your reputation is glorious. Your name is mentioned in reverence not only in India but also in Pakistan. I am told that the only reliable source in India is you.”
Munna lit a cigarette with his solid gold lighter. He took a deep puff, exhaled, and thought about the matter for a minute. Without any warning, he stubbed out the cigarette on the Mujahideen man’s hand.
The man screamed in agony as the cigarette seared his skin. Munna laughed. “You can barely handle the heat of a cigarette. What makes you so cocky about handling thirty kilos of deadly explosives?”
The thin man cradled his burned hand in the other and, ignoring the pain, replied: “In your interest and mine, it is better that this transaction should remain a business one only. You do not need to know more than I have told you. Name your price.”