‘Our man was a loner in life and death. His colleague Mr Ravindran had kind words to say about his boss. The victim was professional in his interactions at the workplace, but never discussed personal matters. He and his wife had separated in the first year of their marriage. He never remarried. No one knew if he had had any affairs in the interim.’

  ‘What about his neighbours?’

  ‘One of them had invited him to lunch. He politely accepted but never turned up and switched off his phone on the day too. He was quite an anti-social old man. He’d nailed wooden planks to his windows because the kids in the colony played cricket in the compound and it disturbed his afternoon nap. Overall, he was perceived as a person who did not want to be disturbed and everyone left him alone.’

  ‘Known enemies? Ancestral property disputes?’

  ‘None, sir.’

  ‘Anyone who had a word of praise for him?’

  ‘Everyone,’ Pratap said. ‘Even the watchman, whom Mr Chandrashekhar paid thrice the usual rate for washing his Maruti Zen every day, could not stop singing his paeans.’

  Kumar was surprised. Chandrashekhar could have easily afforded a new car, but perhaps the scientist had other priorities.

  The telephone on Kumar’s desk rang. The constable sitting at the reception had called.

  ‘Send them in,’ Kumar said on the phone and turned back to Pratap. ‘New Delhi is interested in this case, Pratap. A team from the NIA is here.’

  At that moment, Pratap could see that Kumar was as displeased as him about a central agency wanting to hog the limelight yet again in a crucial case. It happened all the time and he was tired of it. Nevertheless, he turned his neck at the approaching sound of leather shoes and high heels.

  The NIA team consisted of a woman in her mid-forties, wearing a crisp Paithani saree, and a man in his mid-thirties. Kumar stood up to greet them and Pratap followed suit. He was, after all, his boss’s man.

  The woman introduced herself as Swati Gokhale, deputy director with the NIA, and firmly shook hands with Kumar and Pratap. She pointed at the male officer.

  ‘This is DIG Ajay Rajvardhan,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Pratap said. ‘Mr James Bond has been all over the papers recently for the Javed Bukhari encounter. The approach was quite risky, I must say.’

  Ajay smirked at the underhanded compliment. ‘We suffered no casualties during the encounter. But thank you.’

  ‘Of course,’ Kumar said. He could recognize the start of a rivalry when he saw one. Which was a tad surprising, as Pratap was a rank senior to Ajay.

  Swati and Ajay settled into two empty chairs. Pratap moved his chair slightly to create some space between himself and the NIA officers.

  ‘Can you brief us on the case, JCP Pratap?’ Ajay said.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Pratap said. ‘A request from a super-agent and super-spy has to be acceded to.’

  Pratap reluctantly briefed the team about Chandrashekhar’s death. Ajay heard him out patiently, and many questions began brewing in his mind. He had picked up the sarcasm dripping from Pratap’s tone. He knew he would have to find the answers quickly, before the professional rivalry affected the investigation.

  Ajay listened quietly, didn’t take any notes and asked very few questions.

  But by the time the briefing was done, he was feeling an itch in his brain. Already, it was working overtime to connect the dots that only he could see. There was one thing he was already quite certain about.

  This was not a suicide.

  4

  The special court was jam-packed. A posse of policemen had accompanied Nazneen Dharker. She had been arrested by the state police on charges of terrorism, based on intel passed by the NIA. Her lawyer had filed for bail, citing wrongful custody. Ajay had reluctantly come to the court to represent his organization. He hated attending court hearings, even though he respected them. He took a seat in the gallery strategically close to the public prosecutor.

  Uttam Nigam, the public prosecutor for the case, looked over his shoulder and rolled his eyes as Ajay settled into the wooden bench just as the proceedings were to start. As the judge began, Ajay could not help but wonder which lawyer had picked up Nazneen’s case. Lawyers in the city had become increasingly hesitant about defending terror-related cases.

  As the defence lawyer arrived, Ajay watched her curiously. She carried herself well, exuded confidence and didn’t seem to be very well-known. Hardly three or four other lawyers exchanged nods with her. New to the city, Ajay deduced.

  He was aware of a feeling of childish excitement, tinged with the antagonism any cop feels towards a defence lawyer.

  Nigam was a wily old fox. He would tangle this young lady in a web of legal holds, which he had mastered over three decades. This hearing was the proverbial David against Goliath, but Ajay was sure that his Goliath would crush the supposed David in no time. Which meant that Ajay could return to work soon instead of spending his time in a courtroom.

  Nigam began in his usual style, opening with a Sanskrit shloka about the collective conscience of the society, which had been shaken by recent acts of terror. He put forth a solid argument. The crowd and even the judge appeared mesmerized by his grip on the case. The accused stood in the wooden box with her head lowered. Her shoulders sagged as Nigam pounded on. The defence lawyer narrowed her eyes and leaned forward.

  Nigam pointed a finger at Nazneen. ‘This woman,’ he said, ‘has been making calls to numbers across the border. We have already submitted her call records at the first remand hearing after her arrest. We suspect she had prior knowledge of the bakery blasts, which rocked the city a few months ago. The police need more time to investigate this angle. Hence, we are requesting an extension of her police custody.’

  The judge called for the defence to present their case. ‘Where is the defence attorney?’ he asked.

  The lady lawyer whom Ajay had been watching intently stood up. ‘Here, Your Honour,’ she said. ‘Advocate Asiya Khan, LLB.’

  Ajay repeated the name in his head. Asiya.

  ‘Proceed,’ the judge said.

  ‘Your Honour,’ Asiya said. ‘The police are demanding an extension of custody even though seven days of remand have failed to produce absolutely anything except circumstantial evidence.’

  Nigam interjected. ‘My young colleague,’ he said patronizingly, ‘seems to forget that complex investigations take time. We have sent a letter rogatory to the email provider for the accused. The company is based in Silicon Valley and has not responded so far. And then there is the question of the phone calls to Pakistan.’

  ‘In that case,’ Asiya retorted, ‘the constitutional rights of the accused must be restored until she is proven guilty.’

  ‘What about the calls she made to her handlers?’ Nigam asked.

  ‘The learned counsel is speculating,’ Asiya said.

  ‘An NIA investigation has found calls made from her number to Karachi,’ Nigam said. ‘I fail to see how that amounts to speculation.’

  ‘I am aware of the NIA’s involvement. In fact, I am even aware that the NIA officer who led the probe is present in court today.’ Asiya cast a sharp look in Ajay’s direction.

  Ajay was taken aback. That did not sound good at all.

  Asiya pulled out a cellphone from her pocket and asked the judge for permission to make a demonstration.

  ‘Granted,’ the judge said.

  ‘Technological advancements have their own flaws,’ Asiya said. ‘It is fairly easy for a technologically adept criminal to take control of someone else’s phone and make calls even from a remote location.’ She pressed a few buttons on her phone. Her phone began to ring as if she had received a call. ‘As you can see, a number starting 98207 is calling my phone right now.’ She rattled off the entire number to the court. ‘May I know if this number belongs to someone present in the court?’

  Nigam jumped out of his seat.

  ‘I don’t know what game you’re playing, young lady …’

  ‘If it may please the court,’ Asiya cut in calmly, ‘this number belongs to my learned senior colleague here.’

  For the first time in maybe a decade, or even two, Nigam had no retort.

  ‘And thus,’ Asiya said, ‘I could have made a call to Islamabad or Karachi and claimed that the learned public prosecutor should be put behind bars.’

  Utter silence in the court was followed by murmurs and hushed chaos. Nigam stood where he was, staring daggers at Asiya.

  His brain worked furiously, trying to find a loophole. But the few minor defeats, which he had tasted in his long career, had taught him that this battle was lost already. He tried to keep a straight face, but the fact that a young female lawyer had outsmarted him had punctured his ego.

  ‘And the honourable Supreme Court has dictated multiple times that bail should be the norm instead of jail,’ Asiya continued. ‘I pray to the court that this norm is upheld and my client’s bail is approved.’

  Ajay’s eyes were fixated on Asiya’s sharp movements as the judge approved the bail, subject to conditions that the accused would not travel out of the city and would mark her presence at the local police station at least twice in a calendar month. A fuming Nigam left the court in a huff. The media went into a total frenzy. They started hounding Asiya for a byte, but she just brushed past them into the canteen meant only for lawyers and other officials.

  Ajay followed her and slid into the seat across from her.

  ‘If I may take just one second of your time …’ he said.

  ‘You’re the investigating officer of the case against my client, so ideally, no, you may not,’ she said, but she was grinning. The walls of this canteen had seen the bitterest of adversaries share a meal after battling it out in the courtroom.

  Ajay returned the grin.

  ‘I will deny this if you ever quote me,’ he said, leaning a little closer and lowering his voice, ‘but if you agree, I’d like to buy you coffee, simply for that amazing show you put on in court today.’

  Asiya’s grin widened.

  ‘You want to treat me to coffee because I tore your case apart?’

  ‘Quite the contrary,’ Ajay replied. ‘I was content to let the bail hearings rest on call records, so that we could save the rest for the trial stage. Now I get to break out the big guns.’

  Asiya’s smile remained.

  ‘You don’t have any big guns, Mr Ajay.’

  ‘We’ll see at the next hearing, Ms Asiya.’

  There was a pause. Ajay leaned in even closer.

  ‘Also,’ he said, ‘like we do with any emerging technology, we’ve been quietly monitoring scores of people who’ve been using these call-spoofing programmes for nefarious purposes. Thanks to you, the cat is now out of the bag.’

  ‘Umm … should I be apologizing?’

  ‘Not really. I texted all my officers to move the minute you pulled that stunt in court. They’re raiding seven locations as we speak. We’re having a big press conference in the evening AND the government is finally deeming the apps illegal. So thanks for that.’

  Ajay stood up and walked away, leaving Asiya staring after him.

  5

  Ajay waited outside Commissioner Kumar’s cabin, a laptop bag slung over his shoulder. A constable, who was designated as the stick-walker, was standing at attention by the door. Mumbai police tradition dictated that whenever the commissioner arrived at the office, four armed sentries would give him a guard of honour, then the stick-walker would guide the CP to his cabin on the first floor. At the end of the shift, another stick-walker would guide the commissioner back to his official vehicle.

  The authorities had also installed a mirror near the door for visitors to spruce themselves up before meeting the CP. As Ajay was adjusting his shirt collar, the thought of Asiya grazed his mind. Her kohl-laden eyes, which he had been fixated upon in the court, were imprinted on his mind.

  His recent investigations had thrown up an interesting development, which warranted a discussion with the CP. As he was called into the office, he quickly ran his fingers through his hair and rushed inside. The policemen exchanged salutations.

  With a disarming smile, the CP gestured at Ajay to take a seat and ordered his reception to send in a cup of coffee. Ajay wasn’t surprised. Clearly, Kumar had conducted his due diligence and even knew that Ajay preferred coffee over tea. On the surface, the Mumbai police and the NIA were on the same side. But underneath, the currents of interagency rivalry were heavily at play. Ajay had grown up in Mumbai, but he was currently on deputation to the NIA. His loyalties were firmly with Delhi. Kumar would be well aware of this fact.

  The two cops were still engaged in small talk when the orderly arrived with the tray. The moment he left, Kumar got down to business.

  ‘So, what happened at the bail hearing?’ he asked. ‘Nigam is still fuming?’

  ‘Nazneen’s lawyer was on top of her game,’ Ajay said. ‘So yes, Nigam threw a fit about it when I met him at his office.’

  ‘Asiya may have saved Nazneen for now,’ Kumar said. ‘But we worked on the NIA’s lead along with the ATS, Ajay. Our investigations do not give a clean chit to Nazneen either. She seems to be a part of a larger design.’

  ‘What are you suggesting, sir?’

  ‘An anarchist group,’ Kumar said. ‘Something like a sleeper cell. I am not sure yet. Why don’t you put a tail on her?’ He paused. ‘Pratap can arrange local resources for this task. I can talk to the ATS.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, but I’ll figure something out on that front,’ Ajay said. ‘However, your attention is requested on an important angle related to Chandrashekhar’s death.’

  Kumar leaned forward, suddenly interested. He had not expected this.

  Ajay pulled his laptop out of the bag. He used a dongle to connect to the internet. Using a virtual private network, he established a secure connection to the NIA’s network. A black-and-green screen showed up. He entered his credentials and accessed a confidential document. On the first slide, there was a photograph of a bald man in a lab coat, with text around it. Some keywords were highlighted.

  Ajay cleared his throat. ‘The person on the screen is Manoj Sharma, an experienced engineer, who was last posted with the Defence Research Corporation of India (DRCI), based in Bengaluru. In mid-2017, a railway guard was checking the fish plates along Bengaluru City Railway Station when he noticed an immobile body on the tracks. An incoming freight train was about to pass on its regular schedule. The alert guard communicated with the railway traffic controller and the train was stopped just before it was about to run over the body.’ He paused. ‘Later, at a government hospital, the victim was identified as Manoj Sharma. He’d been dead long before his body was moved to the railway tracks. Eventually, investigations hit a dead end and the case was closed as an accidental death.’

  ‘So what’s the catch?’ Kumar asked.

  ‘In 2016, Dr Sharma had spent time at the Indian Atomic Research Centre. He was a part of the design team working under Mr Chandrashekhar, who was then laying the foundations of “Operation Trishul”, the codename for developing this fusion bomb.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Kumar rested his chin on his thumbs and leaned forward. ‘Very interesting.’

  Ajay clicked ‘next’. Another photograph showed up. The man on the screen was in his fifties and wearing golden-framed spectacles. ‘This is Dr Narasimha Reddy. In 2018, he opted for voluntary retirement from the Directorate of Atomic Energy. Post retirement, he moved to his bungalow on the outskirts of Hyderabad. Later that year, Dr Reddy drowned in his swimming pool.’ Ajay paused. ‘But here’s the surprising fact: Dr Reddy was a gold medallist in swimming during his pre-university days. Like Sharma and Chandrashekhar, he was also a loner. High levels of alcohol found in his bloodstream supposedly caused him to drown.’

  ‘And Dr Reddy spent time with IARC too?’

  ‘Precisely,’ Ajay said. ‘Reddy worked with Chandrashekhar in 2017 on the reactor for Operation Trishul. Chandrashekhar’s blood sample, like Reddy’s, also showed unusually high alcohol levels.’

  ‘So the three deaths are connected to Operation Trishul?’

  ‘Sir, the similarities cannot be ignored. Chandrashekhar was a marked man even before his death. This CCTV footage is the evidence.’

  Ajay played a video file on his laptop. The footage had been collected from a closed-circuit camera near Chandrashekhar’s home. A date of around eight months prior appeared at the bottom right of the screen. The footage was dark and grainy, given the late hour of the night it was captured on. A few vehicles were parked under a ‘No Parking’ sign. Chandrashekhar appeared on the screen, crossing a lonely street near his home. Another camera captured him entering a 24/7 pharmacy. A few minutes later, Chandrashekhar emerged from the shop. He was crossing back when a black sedan with tinted windows came speeding down the road. The car was about to mow him down when he jumped at the last moment and saved his life.

  ‘Sir,’ Ajay said. ‘A random drunkard may have been behind the wheel, but it could also be the first concerted attempt on Chandrashekhar’s life. He probably did not report it, thinking that the incident was a one-off.’

  ‘I’m sure you checked the sedan’s number plate,’ Kumar said.

  ‘The car was reported stolen months before this incident,’ Ajay replied. ‘I checked on the complainant. The owner is a college professor from Andheri. Her background checks show no cause for suspicion.’

  ‘Okay,’ Kumar said. ‘But if your hunch is true, we have a big problem on our hands.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Ajay paused. ‘My theory is that Sharma’s, Reddy’s and Chandrashekhar’s deaths are the handiwork of the same person.’ Another pause. ‘Chandrashekhar’s murder is the third act of a serial killer who is eliminating India’s nuclear scientists, one by one.’

  6

  The ‘Perfect Cut’ boutique shop signboard in Kurla was glowing on and off at regular intervals. Customers would throng the shop during the day, but now, at midnight, it was closed for business. Its top floor had a designer feel to it with elegant yellow lighting and a plaster of Paris ceiling. Black mannequins adorned in white chikankari-embroidered dresses posed elegantly. Exquisite pashminas, shahtoosh and namdas materials from Kashmir were its USP.