The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken (23 page)

'How long she was gone from your sight exactly?'

'One hour, sir.'

'No more?'

'Could be two maximum.'

More like three, Puri thought.

'After that I stuck to her like sticky toffee, saar!'

'Tell me: these monkeys, they came out of nowhere?' asked the detective.

'No, sir, normally they're hanging round the bridge making trouble and all. Yet somehow - how I cannot fathom or understand - one entire bag of peanuts got spilled and everything went for a toss.'

Aarish was only a tour guide and occasional messenger with no formal training in the ancient Indian art of spycraft. Still, Puri had thought him capable of keeping an eye on a little old lady. Apparently he'd been wrong.

'Sir, your dear mummy-ji and auntie - they've confirmed tickets for today. Train will be reaching Delhi at nine-fifteen p.m.'

Puri told him to stay on the job until they both left Haridwar, then headed back to the Ambassador. The silver sedan was still waiting on the main road. He couldn't be sure - yet whom the occupants were working for (there were at least four possibilities) and decided the best course of action was to string them along.

'Pull someone by the ears and the head will follow,' went the old saying.

No newcomer to Surat's frenetic Varachha Road could ever have imagined that it was home to most of the world's diamond cutting and polishing sweatshops - nor that these businesses each turned over tens of millions of dollars a year. The buildings were cheerless, their concrete facades marked with black stains as if the city itself was shedding self-pitying tears. The lack of signs above the entrances augmented the sense of anonymity.

Even Tubelight couldn't quite fathom it. 'There's no security,' he pointed out in Hindi as he and Chanel No. 5 followed hawala broker Mihir Desai's Range Rover down Varachha Road.

'No need,' explained the local boy. 'Everyone working in the diamond business comes from the same region - Saurashtra, on the coast. They all know one another. If an outsider tried to steal the diamonds, he'd be spotted before he got in through the front door.'

'And where do you fit?' asked Tubelight.

'Saurashtra's my native place,' Chanel said with a grin. 'My father's a pedi-worker. All my uncles and cousins are cutters and polishers.'

Desai, who'd returned home from the river for a few hours before setting off again, parked in front of one of the buildings and entered through the main door. Chanel No. 5 pulled over on the other side of the road, got out and followed him inside.

A staircase led past sweatshop floors where rows of barefoot men in sleeveless vests sat slaving at rudimentary machines. A repetitive whirr of drills, lathes and spinning brushes underscored the monotonous nature of the work, as did the bored expressions on the men's faces.

The sixth floor, however, was different. Here the employees wore smart shirts and trousers and sat at desks equipped with LED lamps. Little paper packets of diamonds lay in front of them. Like myopic pensioners they examined them through magnifying loupes.

The owner, Acharya Bakshi, also had his office on the sixth floor. Chanel No. 5 got a look through the glass door. Desai was seated in front of Bakshi's desk. The latter was examing a large rough stone.

'Who are you? What are you doing here?'

The question came from one of the factory managers who'd come up the stairs behind him.

'I'm looking for a job. Anything going?'

'First floor. Ask for Sanghavi.'

'Got it.'

Chanel No. 5 took the precaution of picking up an application form and then rejoined his colleague.

'What happens after Bakshi's people have cut and polished the diamonds?' asked Tubelight as they sat in the car discussing their next move.

'Smuggle them out of India and sell them on the world market.'

'How?'

'With the legitimate diamonds.'

Chanel No. 5 went on to explain how most of the world's raw diamonds, 92 per cent to be exact, were shipped legally from places like South Africa and Namibia to India. They arrived in Mumbai, where their total weight was recorded by customs. The stones were then transported to Surat for cutting and polishing. From there they were returned to Mumbai and on to Antwerp.

'The blood diamonds are mixed in with the other ones?' guessed Tubelight.

'They're untraceable.'

'And customs clears them.'

'Their counting skills can be weak.'

Tubelight smiled; the old thief in him couldn't help but admire the beauty of the system. 'A foolproof way of laundering black money,' he said.

'Everyone's in on it. The coastguard catches a few every once in a while to keep the media persons happy and our Chief Minister puts on his best kedia and denies India's involved in the trade.'

Desai was on the move again. 'How will they be transported from here to Mumbai?' asked Tubelight as they followed him.

'Angadias - special diamond couriers. They dress like ordinary people and carry the diamonds hidden on their persons - sewn into the inside of their trousers, down their crotch. Who knows? You won't be able to spot them and they won't be easy to follow. Believe me, they're good - as good as you, chief.'

The express train bound for Delhi was scheduled to depart from Haridwar at 12.55. Five minutes ahead of time, Mummy got up from her seat to go to the WC.

'I'll not be long,' she told Ritu.

She made her way to the end of the carriage. But instead of entering the toilet, Mummy carried on into the next compartment . . . and then the next.

When she reached the front of the train, Mummy waited by an open door until the engine shuddered into action and the train began to edge forward. Then she stepped out on to the platform and waited behind a stack of cargo.

It was a couple of minutes before the train had pulled away. Puri's man soon left as well. With the coast clear, Mummy proceeded to the front of the station, hailed an auto and headed back to the old city. En route she called Ritu Auntie.

'Listen, na, just one small problem is there,' she said. 'See I alighted the train to buy one magazine and it took off without me . . . Yes, yes, quite all right . . . Don't do tension, ji. I've my purse. Just I'll purchase one ticket for the next train . . . No, no, pulling of emergency cord is not necessary. You've my tachee, na? Take it home. I'll pass by later. So sorry . . .'

Mummy was soon delving into the past of Jasmeet Bhatia, mother of Call Centre King Satish.

After hours of searching, she discovered that Jasmeet's maiden name was Chuggani.

'Her father's native place was Rawat in today's Pakistan,' a helpful Panda told her, reading from an old ledger. 'Rawat is close to--'

'Rawalpindi,' said Mummy.

She remembered the place, had passed through it many times. It was near the village of Bajal where Faheem Khan had been living during Partition.

The Panda turned the page, reading various entries made by Jasmeet's father, brothers, cousins. Finally he found the details of her birth in 1932. The entry bore her father's signature, indicating he'd been educated. Details in earlier entries also suggested that the family had been wealthy.

Jasmeet Bhatia, nee Chuggani, would have been seventeen in 1947, exactly the right age and from a good family.

It was time to return to Delhi, to do follow-up.

Puri had passed the Pakistan High Commission on Shanti Path in Delhi's diplomatic area countless times over the years, glimpsed the turquoise tiled dome and antenna array on the roof, and wondered what went on behind those high walls. Never had he imagined that he might one day enter inside - enter into enemy territory.

At three o'clock, however, Handbrake dropped him in front of the enormous walled compound and he approached the front gate. He found four men sitting on a wonky bench to one side of it. They looked bored, as if they'd been there for days. One of them directed Puri to the small window in the gatehouse with a gesture that suggested he was about to embark on a hopeless task.

'Yes? What is it?' asked an old man with chiselled cheeks, peering out of the window.

The detective explained that he had an appointment with a political officer by the name of Salim Afridi.

'You're from . . .?'

Puri felt like answering 'India' but instead handed the gatekeeper a copy of his card.

'Wait there.'

Puri sat down on the end of the wonky bench, registering the silver sedan parked down the road. The two occupants had been following him around town all day but were themselves now being shadowed by two of Tubelight's boys, who, naturally, remained out of sight.

Puri watched a wallah sweeping up leaves and a few labourers playing cards on the lawn that ran parallel to the road and wondered if they were with the India Intelligence Bureau - charged with keeping an eye on who came and went from the Pakistani mission.

'Visa?' said the man sitting next to him.

Puri gave a nod. 'You?'

The man was in the export business - 'Wheat to Pakistan,' he said, then gave a shrug. 'India bureaucracy, Pakistan bureaucracy, India corruption, Pakistan corruption - no difference.'

The window opened again and the old man signalled to Puri to enter through the main gate.

Beyond stood a large concrete fountain that had evidently been dry for many years. A driveway encircled it, weeds growing in the cracks in the tarmac, leading to the embassy's main building. It looked just as lifeless. The main doors were closed; there were only a couple of lights on. But most striking of all was the absence of security. There wasn't a guard in sight.

It hadn't been that long since the two countries almost went to war again - a full-blown war with nuclear weapons, Puri reflected as he was asked to sign a register. And yet here were Islamabad's representatives living and working deep inside their enemy's territory, and feeling so secure that they didn't so much as check their visitors' pockets.

The only thing the old man in the gatehouse seemed concerned about was Puri's mobile phone. It could not be taken inside, he explained.

'This never leaves my sight,' said Puri.

'You switch off, don't worry, no one using.'

To make doubly sure, the detective took the device apart, retrieved the chip and the battery, and handed the Pakistani the casing.

The old man smiled. 'As you like, sir.'

A young man escorted Puri along the driveway to the side of the building. They entered a long, empty corridor. All the doors were closed except one. The sound of a ping-pong ball being hit back and forth came from inside. There was no other evidence of activity. At the end of the corridor, he was shown into an office with a big desk equipped with four phones lined up in a row. His eyes were drawn to the portrait of Jinnah, the founder of Pakistan, hanging on the wall. He couldn't help but stare at his drawn, gaunt face - one that he despised.

'Welcome, Mr Puri, it's an honour,' said Afridi. The depth of his desk would have made a handshake challenging and both men were satisfied not to try. 'Please sit, make yourself comfortable.'

Afridi was about Puri's age, Puri's height, Puri's weight, Puri's skin tone. He had a double chin and a tummy just like Puri's as well. They could have been brothers.

'You'll take some tea?' he asked.

'I brought my passport. Forms and photographs, also,' answered the detective. He placed his documentation on the desk and gave them a push in Afridi's direction. The Pakistani picked up the passport and began to flick through the pages. Given that the detective hated to fly, was terrified of it, the pages contained few visas.

'You were in Yemen, I see?' stated Afridi with faint interest.

'Some years back.'

'A holiday?'

'Correct,' lied Puri, who'd gone there undercover in connection with an oil smuggling racket.

The Pakistani turned another page, where he came across one of the detective's Bangladesh visas, and paused. Puri could almost read the man's mind: he didn't want to have to say the name of the country out loud. Bangladesh had been one half of Pakistan after Partition, albeit separated by India. A revolt against West Pakistan's dominance had resulted in civil war. In 1971, with the help of Indian forces, the territory had established itself as a sovereign state. For Islamabad, for the army in particular, it had been a humiliation they would never forget.