In the shop’s basement, accessible only by a concealed entrance, Nazneen sat cross-legged on the floor. Another woman in her fifties, Hafsa Begum, was sitting on the sofa. Tears streamed down Nazneen’s eyes as she held Hafsa’s legs and begged for mercy.

  ‘You were careless,’ Hafsa said. ‘I should have let you rot in jail!’

  ‘Forgive me, Hafsa Bi.’

  ‘I should have never trusted you,’ Hafsa thundered. ‘You almost blew our cover.’

  This shop was one of the many fronts used by the ‘Khwaharan-e-Millat’, a sisterhood which had spread its tentacles in India with the sole aim of destabilizing the nation. Hafsa was at the apex of this movement.

  The events leading to Nazneen’s arrest had originated with an indiscreet phone call. The Data Intelligence Unit of the NIA would routinely scan millions of telephone call records across the country for suspicious calls using artificial intelligence. In this data mining exercise, a handful of numbers were flagged as suspect, based on the locations with which they were communicating and the frequency and duration of the calls. Nazneen had called a contact of the ‘Khwaharan-e-Millat’ who was currently operating across the border without taking the necessary precautions. Based on this intel from the NIA, the Maharashtra Anti-Terrorism Squad had put her number under surveillance.

  Even prior to her arrest, Nazneen had received a verbal lashing from Hafsa after her indiscretion was discovered. She took due care not to repeat the same mistake. However, the ATS grew tired of the waiting game and decided to arrest her, with the hope that it would gather more evidence against her later. But using the layers of social connections established by Hafsa Begum over the years, legal help had been arranged.

  ‘I will repay this debt with my life,’ Nazneen declared, kissing Hafsa’s hands.

  At this, Hafsa’s fury mellowed and she placed her palm on Nazneen’s head. ‘My child, your life is precious for our goal.’

  Hafsa switched on a news channel on the television. The prime-time debate was about to begin. Chandrashekhar’s death was being covered by the media round the clock and was the subject of discussion here as well.

  The opening visual of the news debate was a badly photoshopped picture of Chandrashekhar in a lab coat with a rope around his neck. The media tended to overdramatize deaths.

  Hafsa chuckled and increased the volume. The male anchor was dressed in a black suit and red tie. In an overdramatic manner, he revealed that Chandrashekhar’s death was being investigated by the National Investigation Agency. Ajay’s photo was displayed. Nazneen flew into a rage at the mere sight of his face.

  ‘This bastard was responsible for my arrest,’ Nazneen said.

  ‘I’m aware,’ Hafsa replied. ‘He has caused me a lot of grief too. The police had never seen my face until Javed Bukhari was encountered in Kashmir. The bakery blasts got to Javed’s head. He was under strict orders not to establish any contact, but the khabees actually had the gall to come to my house for a pit stop before crossing the border. Had I not portrayed myself as a hostage, I too would be sleeping in my grave like Javed right now.’

  Nazneen looked at Hafsa in awe.

  However, Javed’s encounter had led to Hafsa becoming a person of interest for the authorities. To continue laying low, she moved out of Kashmir on the pretext that she feared the terrorists would seek revenge from her for Javed’s killing. Mumbai was the perfect destination. The K-e-M network in the city would provide refuge and she could also keep a close eye on Ajay.

  ‘But what are we going to do about this policewala?’ Nazneen asked.

  Hafsa stared at Ajay’s photograph. She dipped her hand into a box of clothes on a table nearby and pulled out a Russian Makarov pistol. Then she closed an eye and aimed the gun at Ajay’s face.

  ‘My child,’ Hafsa said. ‘We are already making arrangements. Wait and watch.’

  7

  In the seventh-floor NIA office at Cumbala Hill, Ajay leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. For two and a half hours, he’d been submerged in a chart he had drawn to analyse the link between the death of the three scientists. His mind was now tired and hazy. He then got up and opened the window to breathe in some fresh air.

  Outside, the many high-rises peaked towards the Mumbai skyline. Tall mobile towers lined the terraces. Warning lights for aeroplanes blinked in red against the dark grey clouds. Ajay had felt a certain despondency in this city after his mother had passed away many years ago in their small apartment in Colaba. It was one of the reasons why he had moved to Delhi, and he wanted to get back to the capital now, even though its air pollution levels were poisonous for his lungs. Somehow, he found that notion much more acceptable than being distraught remembering his mother.

  The phone on his desk rang.

  ‘Sir,’ the constable at the reception said. ‘A lawyer is here to meet you.’

  ‘Is this by appointment?’ he said tersely.

  ‘I tried explaining to her, sir,’ the constable said. ‘But she is adamant.’

  ‘Her?’ The aggression in Ajay’s voice toned down. ‘What is her … the lawyer’s name?’

  The constable placed a hand over the receiver and Ajay heard him ask the visitor in a rather courteous voice: ‘Naav kay apla?’

  Ajay recognized the voice even before he heard the name. He contained the excitement in his voice and ordered the constable to allow the visitor through, with due respect. Soon enough, the door opened with a click.

  Asiya was wearing a white dress with a black dupatta. Light from the corridor was shining directly behind her. His heart thumped like he was back in college, but he quickly regained his composure and stood up to greet her. She responded to his gentle smile with the forced seriousness of a lawyer. With each step she took, the tinkle of her anklets echoed in his ears. He pulled out a chair for her and retreated to the other side of the table. She took her seat, and the subtle scent of her perfume infused his heart with an emotion of such complexity that he feared it might be love after all.

  Asiya was caught off-guard, as she had expected a rather hostile reception. She shifted in her chair a few times. Filigree diamond studs were shining in her earlobes. She moved a strand of hair across her forehead with her long, slender fingers.

  Ajay asked for her choice of hot beverage but she refused – rather curtly, he thought. Then she opened the file which she was carrying and placed it on the table. It was time for business and she put on her best poker face.

  ‘You’ve secured bail for your client already,’ Ajay said. ‘How can I help you now?’

  ‘Countless others like Nazneen, from my community, are still rotting in jail.’

  ‘And there are reasons behind their arrest.’

  ‘It stands to logic that a government servant would have a lot of faith in charges which are slapped by his government against members of a certain community,’ Asiya said. ‘Admit it or not, the religion of my clients is the only reason for their prolonged detention.’

  She jerked her arm. Ajay noticed that her triceps were in perfect shape. He was taken aback by her offensive, though, as Asiya went on with her impassioned tirade against the system.

  She explained that a few months ago, the police had picked up thirty-five-year-old Iqbal Qureishi from Aurangabad on mere suspicion of terror links. His wife had been unable to secure bail for him because she could not afford a good lawyer. In Mumbra, nineteen-year-old Asif Shaikh was arrested for exchanging messages with a social media account, which was later discovered to be operating from beyond the border. Common sense dictated that this account was a catfish – a man posing as a woman – and had enticed Asif’s raging hormones into a discussion about ISIS. But now Asif was languishing in jail, even when his messages to the catfish had showed no signs of any radical intentions. Lastly, in the Konkan region, the police had arrested Imran Parkar, who was also struggling for bail, despite the flimsy evidence that had been allegedly planted on him.

  ‘I’ve followed these three cases closely,’ Asiya concluded. ‘These men deserve bail. And the orders to oppose the bail, I have been told, originate from the NIA.’

  Ajay picked up the file and turned over the pages. ‘The NIA officer who was in charge before me had ordered these arrests,’ he said. ‘I will go through their files and see what I can do.’

  ‘That sounds perfunctory.’ Asiya extended her hand to take the file back. ‘For the state, the lives of these innocent people are meaningless. But every day I see men and women from our community being picked up on flimsy grounds. They get locked up for years and their cases drag on for eternity. Even if they are acquitted in the end, their families are shattered. Is this justice?’

  Ajay tried to remain disconnected and made a few mental calculations. ‘We can work out something specific for these three men,’ he said. ‘But only if you will assist the department in a matter of high confidentiality. The department won’t oppose the bail of your clients if you work with us. You have my word on that.’

  ‘Bail is a legal remedy provided by the court.’ Asiya placed her palms on the table and stood. ‘I will not negotiate over the lives of innocents.’

  Ajay placed his visiting card on the table. ‘Call me if you change your mind.’

  Asiya was now locked in a momentary stare down with Ajay. His guard lowered at the sight of her hazel-brown eyes. But he jammed the emotion from showing on his face.

  Asiya spun around and thumped her way towards the door. She held the door ajar for a moment. He kept his gaze on her back. Then she turned and walked back to the desk and collected Ajay’s contact card from the table. She stormed out again and slammed the door behind her. Ajay grinned. He had planted the seed in her mind. Now he would wait to see if it bore fruit.

  Back home, Ajay sat at the dining table with little appetite. His orderly served him a plate of curd and rice. This was his comfort food, and he found solace in mixing grains of rice with chunks of curd using his fingers. Above, the fan twirled.

  Asiya had left an imprint on his mind. He did not want to give her more reasons to hate him. She was angry with the system. And he was part of the system she hated.

  Halfway into the meal, he gulped down a glass of water and went to wash his hands, while the orderly picked up the unfinished plate with a shake of his head. He then retired to his bedroom and changed into a loose kurta and white pyjama. He sat cross-legged on his bed. Another thought of his mother shoved him further into loneliness. He switched off the lights and closed his eyes, but couldn’t sleep. A speeding car drove through the street below.

  His thoughts went to Asiya again. He’d had his share of relationships, but he’d never felt this kind of longing before. He wanted to be in Asiya’s company all the time.

  His phone lit up. The notifications showed that he had received an instant message from an unknown number. He enlarged the sender’s display picture. It was Asiya, holding a bouquet of white lilies. She was leaning back and smiling, with her hair covering part of her face.

  The message read: Awake?

  Yes, he responded.

  Sorry for what happened in the evening. Can we meet tomorrow?

  Sure. How about before noon? At my office?

  Not possible. Hearing at the Bandra court. How about Romano Cafe at Carter Road in the evening?

  Ajay started typing an answer, but he found that saying yes was harder than he thought it would have been. Another message popped up on his screen.

  Cops are supposed to show some urgency to late-night messages, no? ;-)

  He smiled and typed: Okay. 1800 hours?

  Ajay bit his tongue lightly as soon as he sent the message. Officers always referred to the time as per the twenty-four-hour clock.

  Asiya, however, seemed to be used to this, maybe because she spent most of her time interacting with cops.

  Done, she replied. I’ll be waiting. Goodnight.

  She went offline even as Ajay was typing his goodbye. He deleted the message and placed the phone on the dressing table next to the bed. He recited a prayer which his amme had taught him. In his mind, he could hear it in her voice. Now his eyes closed.

  Some distance apart, in Byculla, Asiya was thinking about Ajay too. Sure, he had been polite and courteous to her. Also, she could see that he was smitten with her. She smiled. He wasn’t that bad-looking either. She allowed herself a giggle. But amidst all this, she was also thinking about the offer Ajay had made for the bail of her three clients. What kind of deal did he want to strike with her?

  8

  The next morning, Ajay drove to Chandrashekhar’s apartment in the IARC officers’ quarters, accompanied by two constables. The building was located on the outskirts of the city, close to the atomic centre. Ajay took the elevator to Chandrashekhar’s floor. The door of the flat had been sealed by the police.

  ‘Open it,’ Ajay said.

  The constables broke the seal and opened the door. Ajay stepped into the house. A repugnant but familiar stench of death wafted through the air. He checked the wooden frame for signs of chipping. He ran his hand over the door to check for recent repairs or fresh coats of paint. There were none. Pratap was right. There were no signs of forced entry. The tick-tock of the wall clock sounded clear in the silence. Perhaps Chandrashekhar had known his killer. Had the hunter and the hunted entered the house together?

  Pratap had done a decent job in preserving the scene of crime. Much of the house was undisturbed since his investigation. It meant that no other agencies had entered the premises. Good. Ajay felt better knowing that the scene had not been contaminated.

  He put on a pair of white gloves and entered Chandrashekhar’s bedroom. His objective today was to conduct a blood-spatter analysis, which could be used to detect traces of blood in the room. He hung a dual-band UV and infrared camera around his neck. On his signal, the constables closed the door and pulled the curtains tight. The room went dark. Ajay’s eyes fluttered. He switched on the camera and scanned the room for blood. The camera could identify patterns in which different substrates reflected and absorbed ultraviolet and infrared illumination in different quantities. He could see no signs of blood. Dead end.

  On the white bedsheet, he could see traces of body fluids. Sweat. Semen. Was this a crime of passion? He didn’t know yet. He rummaged through the drawer in the wardrobe. A half-empty packet of condoms was hidden under a notepad. The notepad contained a lot of handwritten text and Ajay clicked photographs of a few pages where Chandrashekhar’s handwriting was clear. Then he pulled out his cellphone and called up a contact in the Document Analysis Unit of the NIA.

  ‘I am sending two handwriting samples for comparison,’ he said.

  ‘Sure. Please submit the physical samples today and we’ll send the reports in two weeks,’ the bored-sounding analyst replied.

  ‘If I don’t get the reports in two hours,’ Ajay answered, ‘I will personally ensure your transfer to a remote corner of the country.’

  He disconnected the call before the analyst had any time to react. Then he picked up the packet of condoms, using a pair of tweezers, and packed it as evidence.

  Ajay retreated to the living room. From the photographs of the crime scene clicked by Pratap’s team, he identified the stool, which Chandrashekhar had apparently kicked away. Ajay placed the same stool underneath the fan again. He picked up a stuffed dummy, weighing as much as Chandrashekhar, which the constables had brought along.

  Climbing up on the stool, he tied the rope, with a noose already at its end, around the ceiling fan and then tried slipping the noose around the dummy’s neck. But the stool was too small for him to complete the act while supporting the dummy’s weight.

  He ordered the constables to search the house for something heavier than the stool, and the men found a metal ladder in the drying area. Ajay repeated the test with the ladder and found some success in manoeuvring the body into the position in which it was found. The ladder’s rungs bore footmarks in the accumulated dust. Their size did not seem to match Chandrashekhar’s foot size. Ajay photographed the marks.

  And then Ajay found something stuck in the lower rungs. He looked closely. A broken fingernail. He pulled out the nail with tweezers and placed it in a plastic pouch. Ajay smiled. He loved being right.

  Pratap was sitting in his cabin at the commissionerate and browsing through a file when he was summoned to Kumar’s cabin. When he entered the room, he found Ajay already seated there. The commissioner asked Pratap to also take a seat. His face appeared rather grim.

  ‘Pratap,’ Kumar said, ‘a good cop is one who never gets complacent.’ He paused. Pratap said nothing, but experience had taught him that whenever your senior begins the conversation on a philosophical note, it never bodes well for you.

  ‘Are you sure that Chandrashekhar committed suicide?’ Kumar asked.

  ‘Absolutely, sir,’ Pratap said. ‘I found a suicide note in the room. The lesion marks on the victim’s neck matched the coir rope wrapped around it. At the time of death, the victim was under the influence of alcohol. He was also consulting a top therapist in south Mumbai. I don’t see another angle to this case, sir.’

  Kumar pointed towards Ajay. ‘The NIA has a different view.’

  Pratap scoffed. ‘My investigation is thorough, sir.’

  Kumar gave Ajay the go-ahead to explain his position. Ajay proceeded to tear Pratap’s theory apart, point by point.

  The first piece which he had analysed was the suicide note. Firstly, Ajay explained, it was not an elaborate note but a single line: Is any cause worth bringing death upon a million lives? This looked like a philosopher’s musing. And the Document Analysis Unit of the NIA had confirmed that even though the handwriting sample from the suicide note closely resembled the handwriting from the notepad which Ajay had sent across, the samples were not an exact match. ‘There’s a difference in the cross over the t’s,’ Ajay said and showed the report in which the differences were circled in red ink.’