Within a moment, Munna’s vise-like grip was at the other man’s throat. Munna continued to clutch it with one hand, allowing his prey an occasional gasp for breath. Just as the thin man thought that he would pass out, Munna let go abruptly.
“I may have my faults, but I do not do business with terrorists. Got that?” he said gruffly. “Why on earth would you think I would support a terrorist attack — on Indian soil?”
The gaunt man tried one last angle. “Perhaps if I were to tell you the target?”
Munna looked at him, eyebrows raised.
“Go on,” he said.
Part Two
Chapter 38
2006
SANTOSH REMEMBERED THAT week vividly. It was impossible to forget.
Seven bomb blasts had taken place during a period of eleven minutes in Mumbai starting at 6:25 p.m. The bombs had been set off on trains running along the Western Line of the railway network and had gone off in the vicinity of suburban railway stations — Matunga, Mahim, Bandra, Khar, Jogeshwari, Bhayander, and Borivali. Pressure cookers had been used to increase the afterburn of the thermobaric explosions. During those eleven minutes, two hundred and nine people had been killed and over seven hundred injured.
The Prime Minister had called a high-level security meeting at his residence. In attendance were the Home Minister, National Security Advisor, Home Secretary, and Chiefs of the Intelligence Agencies. Accompanying the chief of RAW to that meeting was a much younger and less wise Santosh.
“Around three hundred and fifty people have been detained for questioning,” the Home Minister informed the Prime Minister.
“But do we have any serious leads?” he asked.
“The Indian Mujahideen is our strongest suspect,” said the RAW chief. “Telephone intercepts show a very high volume of calls between India and Pakistan during the period leading up to the blasts.”
“But can we be sure of Pakistani involvement?”
“May I say something, sir?” asked Santosh. The Prime Minister looked at the young man, paused for a moment, and then nodded. Santosh avoided eye contact with his boss, who had specifically instructed him to remain quiet throughout the meeting.
“Sir, the forensic science laboratory has carried out chromatography and has confirmed that a mixture of RDX and ammonium nitrate was used for the bombings. We are also fairly certain that all the explosives were planted at Churchgate railway station, the starting point of all the affected trains.”
“What is your point?” asked the Prime Minister.
“My point is that the presence of RDX indicates that there would have been some support from the ISI.”
The meeting at the Prime Minister’s residence lasted less than an hour. It wound up when an email was received by a TV channel claiming that sixteen terror operatives had been used to plant the bombs and that a local subgroup of the Indian Mujahideen had claimed responsibility.
A memorial service was held a week later in Mumbai at 6:25 p.m. local time, the exact moment that the blasts had started. The President of India raised his hand to his forehead in salute and led a two-minute silence as candles and wreaths were placed at all the affected railway stations. Santosh was at Bandra railway station at that time, his head bowed in silence.
In front of him was a crowd of people who had gathered to pay their respects to the victims. A little boy ran from his father’s grip and was about to fall from the platform onto the tracks when a young woman in uniform managed to catch him.
“Thank you — a million times,” said the grateful father to Nisha as Santosh looked on.
“Listen to your dad,” she said to the young boy. “He loves you. Just ask an orphan and she will tell you how empty life can be.”
Chapter 39
Today, school was out. The ring-round system had been implemented and the girls told to stay at home. Those who’d slipped through the net had turned up to find a notice on the school gates — and beyond the gates police cars littering the drive. And perhaps, if they looked very carefully, the black Honda Civics of the Private India team.
Inside the school, Santosh took a deep breath, leaned on his cane, and stared at the body on the bed. Nisha stood by his side, waiting for her boss to speak, for the cogs of his mind to start turning. Cops moved around them, Mubeen directing them. Camera flashes strobed the room.
“Name is Elina Xavier,” said Nisha by his side, “she’s the school principal. Or was.”
“His fourth victim,” said Santosh, almost to himself.
“He’s really getting a taste for it, isn’t he?”
“No,” said Santosh, almost sharply, “this has nothing whatsoever to do with a taste for killing. The deaths themselves... look at it...”
He took a step forward, indicating the body on the bed with the point of his cane. “The killer enjoys the act of killing, and I dare say it excites in him intense emotions, but he hasn’t changed his modus operandi. There is no experimental edge to them.”
She looked at him. “‘Experimental edge’?”
“If you enjoy painting, do you paint the same picture every time?” he asked her. “Does a photographer take the same photo?”
“But he doesn’t do the same thing each time,” said Nisha. “Each time the ritual changes.”
“Exactly,” said Santosh. His eyes gleamed. “But the ritual is post-mortem. The murder is the same each time. The art is in the ritual, and that is very important, Nisha. That tells us something. It tells us that we should be paying very close attention indeed to the ritual.”
“The eggs,” said Nisha.
“Indeed, the eggs. And the heat. You notice how hot it is in the room?”
Nisha nodded.
“It’s a story he’s telling us, Nisha,” said Santosh, turning to leave. “And he’ll keep on going until he reaches the end of his tale.”
Chapter 40
Jack Morgan was seated on a folding director’s chair while the director herself ran around barking instructions like a woman possessed. The movie involved a star-studded cast and Lara Omprakash was at her cajoling best, attempting to squeeze the finest performances out of her actors.
Lara had suggested that Jack drop in and spend the day with her at Film City, an integrated complex boasting several studios, recording rooms, gardens, lakes, theaters, and open ground for larger custom-built sets.
The shot neared completion. Lara shouted: “Cut! It’s a wrap,” and high-fived the executive producer.
“Let’s have some lunch while we still can,” she said to Jack, leading him away from the buzzing set to her luxurious vanity van. “I have to shoot a cameo appearance for the film and will be needed by makeup and wardrobe in a short while.”
The van had been customized for her on a truck chassis fourteen meters long that could be compressed to half the size when it was on the road. The vanity offered Lara the comfort of a lounge, kitchenette, gym, office, bedroom, and washroom.
The driver of the van — Bhosale — switched on the generator that powered the beast and asked if she needed anything. Lara tipped him and told him to go have his lunch as she and Jack settled down in the lounge. She opened the refrigerator and took out a chilled beer for Jack and an orange juice for herself. “My cook has prepared Greek salad, quiche, chicken and mayo sandwiches, and banana bread,” she said, pulling out the food and placing it on a walnut-veneered dining table.