“That is circumstantial evidence, Santosh,” replied Jack. “We can’t suspect one of our own based upon conjecture.”
“Where is the digital photo frame from Hari’s desk?” asked Santosh. Mubeen passed it over. The rest of the team watched as Santosh ran his fingers over the frame containing the picture of the young woman in Hari’s life. He was at his obsessive and compulsive best, and Jack knew better than to ask too many questions.
Within a few minutes Santosh had found a small, almost imperceptible toggle switch. The electronic frame could be used to display either a single photo in static mode or several sequentially in presentation mode. The toggle switch on the rear of the frame determined the mode.
Santosh flicked the toggle and the frame blinked and reset itself. It then went into presentation mode. Hari did not have too many pictures — only two, actually. They appeared on the frame alternately. One was that of the pretty woman on the couch. The other was a representation of the Hindu goddess Durga holding a human head in one of her many hands.
Chapter 60
The man kept his head down as he made his way toward passport control, his leather satchel slung over his shoulder. Holding his ticket, boarding card, Indian embarkation form, and passport in one hand, and a switched-off cell phone in the other, he presented his papers to the immigration officer.
The officer looked at the passport, plugged some information into the computer terminal in front of him, and asked the passenger to move to the center of the counter so that a digital photograph of him could be dumped into the database. He then picked up a rubber stamp and proceeded to stamp the passport and embarkation form. Handing back the papers, he wished the passenger a pleasant flight.
His flight had already been announced and the man hurried along to clear the long security queue. He presented the security officer with a small laminated card that indicated he was fitted with a pacemaker, thus avoiding the X-ray scanners. It was another ten minutes by the time he’d cleared security and his flight listing had begun to blink green on the information displays.
The man ran toward gate 11A. He hurriedly presented his boarding card to the Emirates Airlines representative, who smiled at him and requested him to board immediately, given that they were running late.
Relieved at having boarded the flight, the man found his window seat in the economy section and settled down after placing his leather satchel in the overhead luggage bin. He looked at his watch. The flight should have taken off twenty minutes earlier but the aerobridge had still not been pulled away. He took off his shoes and closed his eyes. A little nap would prepare him better.
He felt the irritation of a mild rash caused by the adhesive tape on his upper back. Under his shirt was a piece of thick metallic foil around five inches square. It was held in place by duct tape. RFID tags — used as implantable devices for humans and pets — were relatively resistant to shielding, but thick metallic foil could prevent detection in most cases.
Chapter 61
He was seated on a damp concrete floor. The heat and humidity of the cell coupled with total darkness was claustrophobic — almost terrifyingly so. Hanging over the place was the conspicuous stink of stale piss.
He felt something brush his toes. He squinted his eyes to catch a glimpse of a furry rodent, its eyes gleaming red in the dark. He hated rats and kicked away the pest only to be greeted by several squeaks. The area was infested with them and it seemed as though they were getting ready to gang up on him.
He shuddered as he felt sweat trickle down his naked back. He realized then that he had no clothes on. The sudden loud clanging of the steel gate being opened was strangely comforting for a moment, although a strong sense of foreboding bubbled within him.
“Welcome to the Mumbai Hilton,” said Rupesh, switching on a naked light bulb inside the cell. “I thought you might like a little room service.” Hari screwed up his eyes to cope with the sudden brightness. His heart was racing wildly and he could hear every thump it made in his chest. Thankfully, the bright light and additional human presence sent the rats scurrying off to more secure territory.
Hari desperately tried to recall the events that had brought him here. He had been comfortably ensconced in his aircraft seat, having a catnap while awaiting a take-off that never happened. “Any idea what’s causing the delay?” he had asked the passenger next to him when he woke from his slumber. Before the gentleman could reply, one of the flight attendants had come up to Hari’s seat, greeting him by the assumed identity on his ticket and passport. “Mr. Hari Pandit?” she’d asked. “There are some police officers on the aerobridge just outside the entrance to this aircraft. They say that they must talk to you immediately.” A couple of minutes later, he had found himself being led away in handcuffs from the aircraft and into a police van.
Rupesh was holding a small portable DVD player in his hands. He bent down and set it on the cell floor next to Hari. “This is a small orientation video that will help you understand what we do with people who do not cooperate,” he said, pressing the play button. Hari felt the pit of his stomach give way as he saw ghastly images of inmates being beaten till they coughed blood, prisoners being administered electric shocks on their genitals, and detainees being suspended from ceiling fans or forced to drink gallons of water. He had thought that police brutality was only the stuff of Bollywood movies — reel life, not real life. Apparently he’d been mistaken.
Ten minutes later Rupesh snapped the DVD player’s lid shut. “I hope you enjoyed the inflight entertainment, even though your flight to Dubai had to be abandoned. Now, will you confess to these murders?” he asked as he rolled up his sleeves. “Or do I need to make you the star attraction of a future video clip?”
Chapter 62
Santosh sat slumped over his desk. The decision to put out a red-corner alert for Hari through Rupesh had left him drained.
Apparently Hari had adopted an alias to book his airline tickets, using a fudged passport created for him by a dodgy travel agent in Lamington Road. He had kept his cell phone powered off and had cloaked his RFID locator chip with a strip of metallic foil. For several hours Santosh and his team had lost all contact with him, but then Santosh had remembered something. Calling a number from his phone’s speed-dial, he had spoken to his amputee friend. “Tell me, if I wanted to flee the country under a false identity, who would be the best chap for a passport?”
He knew the way that Rupesh and his men worked once an arrest was made. He shut his eyes in a vain attempt to block out thoughts of what the police would do to Hari.
There was still a part of Santosh that wanted to trust Hari. He opened his eyes, stood up, opened the cabinet behind his desk, and pulled out a bottle of Johnnie Walker. After pouring three fingers of the golden liquid into a glass, he gulped it down like a thirsty desert traveler arriving at an oasis. Back at his desk, Santosh placed the bottle in front of him. He slipped into a stupor and his nightmare returned.
The soundtrack to it was from a Broadway musical, The Phantom of the Opera. It was playing on the car stereo because Isha loved it. The drive back to Mumbai was a picturesque one with a monsoon mist hanging over the distant hills. Pravir had insisted on buying a new cartridge for his hand-held game console and was contentedly battling demons on its tiny screen. Santosh was happy. It had been a peaceful break. He looked across at his wife. Even after ten years of marriage she looked as ravishingly beautiful as the day that he had married her. She smiled back when she realized that he was staring at her. Santosh tried to set aside his worries about the emotional distance that had developed between them. He would balance work and family going forward and would ensure that his wife had no reason to feel isolated or abandoned.