‘What about the lesion marks?’ Pratap asked.

  ‘Forensics is still trying to figure out if the lesions are forced or voluntary. Even if the marks are voluntary, we cannot rule out a hangman-style execution.’

  ‘But …’ Pratap said. The cockiness in his voice had disappeared. ‘There is also the question of the alcohol which the victim had consumed.’

  Ajay could see that Pratap was clueless now. He suppressed a smile and went on to hammer the last nail in the coffin of Pratap’s theory. Ajay explained that at a blood alcohol content (BAC) level of 0.03 per cent, a person is deemed legally unfit to drive. At 0.15 per cent, the individual will not be able to walk in a straight line. And a BAC level around 0.35 per cent, which Chandrashekhar’s blood report seemed to suggest, was close to surgically administered anaesthesia. So the victim could have hardly even stood straight. Suicide by hanging was out of the question.

  ‘And then …’ Kumar began and Ajay nodded.

  ‘And then there’s the CCTV footage,’ he said.

  ‘What CCTV footage?’ Pratap snapped sourly.

  ‘We got CCTV footage of all the shops in the lane where Chandrashekhar’s house is located. Several of them have captured a group of seven to eight women in burqas going up and down the lane, with the timing of their entry and exit corresponding with his rough time of death.’

  There was a short silence. Pratap was fuming internally because he had ordered his team to check the footage and Ajay had clearly beaten them to it. Ajay seemed to read his mind.

  ‘I’m sure your team would have got the footage soon, sir. It’s just that I was working with a different theory and hence went after the footage first.’

  It was an olive branch and Pratap decided to take it.

  ‘Six to seven women, you said?’

  Ajay nodded.

  ‘The problem is that the lack of light and hence the grainy footage makes it impossible to discern the exact number. Which means that one of them could have easily slipped inside Chandrashekhar’s house, killed him and emerged as a completely different person without the burqa, with no one the wiser.’

  A silence engulfed the room before Kumar tapped his knuckles on the table.

  ‘Thank you, Ajay,’ the CP said. ‘Both of you are capable officers. We can build from here and lead this case to its logical conclusion.’

  Pratap was staring at the floor. Ajay shook the CP’s hand. He hadn’t revealed the serial killer theory to Pratap yet because he wanted to keep that line of investigation a secret until he found something more concrete. Already, Pratap’s cheeks had flared and he was fuming under his breath. Ajay walked out of the cabin, sure that Kumar would subject Pratap to a verbal lashing at any moment.

  Then Ajay glanced at his wristwatch. Damn, he was already running late for his meeting with Asiya.

  9

  Ajay drove towards Bandra as fast as he could. The traffic signal at Mahim turned red just as he was about to cross it and he stomped his boot hard on the brake. The vehicle screeched to a halt. He was the kind of officer who usually abided by the rules. He’d exercised great discretion when subverting the law even in his pursuit of terrorists and criminals. But this was a different game and he was already walking a very thin line with Asiya. He didn’t want to give her a reason to walk away from him. He turned on the siren of his car.

  The traffic constable manning the beat on the junction immediately took note of the familiar sound. He went to the middle of the road and blocked the incoming traffic to make way for Ajay’s official vehicle. Ajay put his foot on the accelerator, quickly killing all feelings of guilt. He wanted to meet Asiya, yes. But the meeting was also linked to his investigation into a sleeper cell. If not for love, he smirked, a man on the right side of the law could surely break a traffic signal in the war against terror.

  The air shifted when he turned onto Carter Road. His life was far from the carnival evenings of Bandra, which was called the ‘Queen of the Suburbs’ in Mumbai. This cosmopolitan area was home to a multitude of Bollywood stars, cricketers and politicians. A sense of freedom and the rich carefulness of life flowed in the air. The promenade was filled with people walking their Dalmatians and mastiffs. Families from all strata of society were enjoying the scenic beauty of the seafront. The play area was filled with children lining up for their turn at the seesaws and swings. The guitars and saxophones of a street band sounded from a nearby amphitheatre. A crowd of onlookers cheered the band. Ajay allowed himself a prudent smile. There was something beautiful and democratic about this city and the country. He was duty-bound to protect it.

  The coffee shop was located at the turn of the road. He parked outside and rushed up the stairs. Asiya was sitting at a table in the corner under an umbrella-like shade. The breeze was making her hair fly as she looked into the distance where the waves from the Arabian Sea were lashing the rocks. Her chiffon dupatta swayed in the wind.

  Ajay raised his hand to wave at her but she was so caught up in the moment that she failed to notice him altogether. It seemed like time had slowed. Finally, she broke the spell and turned, noticed him and waved back.

  He strode towards her. She tried to contain an impish smile. It warmed his heart that she’d taken the effort to dress for the occasion. Outside the aura of his official cabin, Ajay realized that looking into her hazel-brown eyes needed tons of confidence. He was worried that his shy politeness would mar any chances of her taking a liking to him.

  Asiya pointed to her elegant wristwatch.

  ‘You’re late,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry.’ Ajay glanced at his watch and then rechecked the time on his cellphone. ‘I walked into an important meeting and lost track of time.’

  ‘A man with a watch knows what time it is,’ Asiya said. ‘A man with two watches is never sure. This is called Segal’s Law.’

  ‘Impressive,’ Ajay said and tipped his head. ‘I knew you were a lawyer, but Segal’s Law is more of an irony than legality.’

  ‘Well, a lawyer needs to know a variety of subjects, Mr Ajay, to argue with the might of the state. Your Sanskrit shloka-quoting public prosecutor being a case in point.’

  This was the first time he’d heard his name in her voice. And never had he liked the sound of his name more.

  A waiter arrived with the menu and she grabbed one. The waiter pushed a menu into Ajay’s hands too.

  Ajay flipped through the pages. All the items seemed Greek and Latin to him. The Blue Lagoon sounded like a stretch of salt water. He had no clue how to pronounce Macchiato. He was fond of coffee, yes, but plain filter coffee, which found on the menu after much struggle. When Asiya ordered a cappuccino, he watched the pout of her lips and listened to the pronunciation so that he could order the beverage the next time they met. And then he realized he was getting his hopes too high. What if there was no next time?

  When the coffee arrived, Asiya perfectly tore open the perforation of the sugar sachet using only her fingers. Ajay consciously stopped himself from using his teeth for the task. Asiya poured the sugar in her coffee. He looked at her high cheekbones and sipped from his cup. Wow, he thought. This was the best filter coffee in the world.

  Asiya was doing her bit to keep the conversation flowing. He could only respond in monosyllables.

  ‘Sorry for yesterday,’ Asiya said. ‘My emotions overpowered my discretion.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Ajay said. ‘Being thick-skinned is a prerequisite to policing.’

  ‘So you are? Thick-skinned?’

  ‘I’d like to think so. I’ve shed my share of blood.’ He folded his shirtsleeve till above his forearm to show a scar caused by a grazing bullet in the Northeast. The sutures had dissolved but the scar hadn’t healed. There was also a scar on his thumb. ‘And I’ve paid my pound of flesh.’

  ‘Don’t be so intense.’ Asiya smiled. ‘Love can heal you. You know, right?’

  ‘It can?’ Ajay scoffed. ‘I’ve never experienced it.’

  ‘Yes. A state of imbalance can be restored by applying remedies with the opposite qualities to the imbalance. This is called the Doctrine of Contraries.’

  ‘Deep. So you are into Greek philosophy too?’

  ‘Of course.’ Asiya laughed and raised her hand to cover her mouth. ‘Are all NIA officers so secretive and intense?’

  ‘I think it becomes a part of our mental make-up. Our successes are like eel eggs in the ocean,’ Ajay said. ‘Eels deliver millions of eggs under the sea, but not a soul on land knows about it. And a crow delivers just one egg, but it will fly onto the highest branch of the tree and caw until the entire jungle knows about its deed. We are the eels that no one knows about.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Asiya said. ‘Now please tell me. How can I get my three clients out on bail?’

  Ajay paused thoughtfully. ‘You managed to get bail for Nazneen. But she is still on the department’s radar. The only way she can get a clean chit is if we know for sure that she isn’t involved with any splinter group or sleeper cell of a terrorist organization.’

  ‘And how will you know for sure?’

  Ajay leaned back into the chair. ‘If you find out and tell me, I will take your word for it.’

  Asiya seemed to understand this exchange. ‘So, because I am her lawyer, you want me to dig deeper?’

  Ajay nodded.

  ‘I’m not asking you to spy on your client for me, or to violate any kind of client–attorney privilege. Maybe Nazneen is completely innocent, as are your other clients. But in my experience, innocents who are caught on the wrong side of the law are in that position because of their association with the guilty. In all my years of service, I am yet to see a person who was innocent AND surrounded by innocents. That just doesn’t happen.’

  ‘So what are you proposing?’ Asiya asked.

  ‘If your clients are innocent, someone else around them is guilty. Help me get to the guilty ones and I’ll see to it that your clients go back to their families.’

  He didn’t know what to expect now. Asiya could easily throw a fit, stomp out of the coffee shop and never call him again.

  Asiya sipped the last drops of cappuccino. ‘Deal,’ she said resolutely. ‘The bail hearing for my clients comes up next week.’

  ‘The NIA will not oppose it,’ Ajay said. ‘I will hold up my end if you hold up yours.’

  Asiya smiled and extended her hand. He reached out and shook it like a gentleman. But once her hand was in his, he found that letting go was a tad more difficult than he’d thought. Her touch seemed to heal his anxieties and his fears. He wanted to hold onto her forever. She seemed to realize his conundrum and the impish smile was back on her glossed lips. She made no effort to draw her hand back. Finally, he let go. Her fingers lingered over his, and then she called for the tab and paid her share. She called for a cab using an app. And the damn cab arrived rather too soon, he thought.

  As she stood up to leave, Asiya leaned closer to Ajay. She closed her eyes for a moment and when she reopened them, there was a certain playfulness. ‘Is that your deo?’ she asked. ‘Or are there a lot of pheromones floating around?’

  She turned around and left before Ajay could muster a response. He was zapped. Had she made a pass at him? His eyes followed her until she got into the cab. And then she was gone. Damn. Ajay took another sip of the coffee and found that now that Asiya had left, it had turned into the most tasteless beverage in the world.

  10

  Quality intel was the precursor to preventing a terror attack. And to gather such intel, one had to meet their sources, identify patterns from the data and prepare a lot of reports for the chain of command.

  Later that evening, Ajay parked his vehicle at a police barricade near the Gateway of India. He’d come to meet a trusted source from another agency, Moshe Frischman, an Israeli agent who worked for the Mossad. Ajay was sure that that was not his real name.

  Ajay walked towards the monument. A group of foreigners was headed towards Cafe Leopold, which was popular among the tourists. This area was often the first choice for terrorists who wanted to target the city. In 2003, twin bombs planted in taxis around the Gateway had killed fifty-four people and injured nearly 240.

  The iconic Taj Mahal Palace hotel stood tall in the backdrop. In November 2008, the hotel and its guests were held hostage by rampaging terrorists who were neutralized only after the National Security Guard and Marine Commandos stormed the premises. More than a decade had passed since the incident. Things had remained largely peaceful in the city since then, though the undercurrents were evident. Ajay could feel that the city was sitting on a pile of gunpowder. And somewhere in the dark alleys, someone was trying to light a match.

  Moshe was hunching over the stone walls overlooking the seafront. He pulled out a steel flask from the pocket of his Bermuda shorts and gulped down a shot of whisky. His eyes flared with a tinge of red. Ajay stood next to him, staring at a naval ship anchored in the distance. The high tide lashed against the shore.

  ‘How was your trip to Iraq?’ Ajay asked.

  ‘Terrible,’ Moshe shook his head. ‘The Daesh were all over the place, my man.’

  Moshe described how the Mossad had planted him in the Saladin province, a stronghold of the Daesh – al-Dawla al-Islamiyya fil Iraq wa al-Sham – a group better known to the world as ISIS. While uncovering the sources through which money was being laundered into its coffers, Moshe had landed up at an auction – the barbarians were selling off young women to fight their dirty war. Ajay shook his head.

  Years ago, when he was a young DCP posted with the Maharashtra ATS, Ajay had to learn Urdu and Arabic till he could speak both languages fluently. His next task had been to read the Quran and the Hadith in original Arabic, over and over, till any reference to any verse immediately made sense to him. It had taken him six long years, during which he was promoted to the rank of DIG and granted a deputation with the NIA, before he could claim some mastery over the religious texts.

  ‘It’s just the way things are,’ his instructor had told him. ‘The majority of terrorist organizations follow Islam and speak Arabic and Urdu, and hence, we must be well versed with their motivations – or supposed motivations. Had their religion and language been different, your study material too would have been different.’

  This, however, was certainly not the religion he had read about in the Holy Book. He had read in the Hadith that the heavens were underneath the feet of one’s mother. The Daesh were demeaning an entire religion and its people.

  ‘Then,’ Moshe said, ‘I marched with a group of pilgrims from Najaf to Karbala.’

  This 90-kilometre-long march culminated at the shrine of Imam Hussain, the grandson of Prophet Mohammed. The pilgrims carried black flags to mourn Hussain’s martyrdom. In 2014, the Daesh had fired a rocket even at these innocent pilgrims. ‘The Daesh see this as a stream of revenue, my man,’ Moshe said. ‘The government of Iraq pays a lot of money to the terrorists for letting this event pass peacefully.’

  ‘This is transient peace,’ Ajay said. ‘It won’t last.’

  Moshe agreed. He went on to describe what he’d learnt from his source, a man named Abu Refai who had been part of the Iraqi secret service during Saddam Hussein’s regime. The Daesh had made over 500 million dollars from the sale of Iraqi oil in the black market. ‘That is ridiculous money,’ Moshe said.

  ‘How many fighters does the Daesh have on the ground?’ Ajay asked.

  ‘Twenty thousand.’ Moshe shrugged his shoulders. ‘Maybe thirty.’

  ‘Overthrowing Saddam’s regime stirred a hornet’s nest, didn’t it?’

  Moshe agreed. Three top commanders of the Daesh were erstwhile officers of the Iraqi armed forces.

  The roots of the conflict were laid by the American invasion of Iraq in 2003, which caused the power to shift to the Shia politicians. Two invasions and three decades later, there was no end in sight to this war. The sacred shrine of Askariyain in Samarra had been bombed by terrorists a few years back. Areas near the Samarra and Balad shrines, which had a sizable Shia population, had to be vacated. Where was the conflict headed? Ajay knew that India would not remain unaffected by the seismic activity emanating from the epicentre of terror.

  ‘How does all of this affect the subcontinent in general, and India in particular?’

  ‘The radicalization happens in various ways,’ Moshe said. ‘There was this baffling case of a young girl from India who wanted to join the Daesh despite the risk of being turned into a sex slave for these maniacs. If they are not stopped, they will shake the foundations on which the world exists. Truth be told, many Muslim countries are also fighting this monster.’

  Moshe’s assessment was in line with Ajay’s information. India’s Muslim population was second only to Indonesia. The country could have been a hotbed for ISIS activity. But so far, only twenty-one cases had been detected where youth had either joined or attempted to join the Daesh. Four of these known cases were from Mumbai, one from Kashmir, one from Uttar Pradesh and seventeen from the south, especially Kerala. ISIS had cleverly played up these youth with doomsday prophecies, references to a glorious past and a call to seek revenge for historical wrongs. Such a playbook was often utilized by extremist organizations across the spectrum.

  Ajay realized that an ideology which keeps dragging someone to the past was completely incapable of leading its people into the future. Asia was home to three nuclear powers. If the flames of extremism were to spread, the entire region would be engulfed in a fire which could reduce the subcontinent to ashes.

  ‘But you came here looking for something more, yes?’ Moshe asked.

  Ajay nodded. ‘We suspect a splinter group of this terror umbrella has set up a cell in Mumbai,’ he said. ‘I’m trying to find out what or who their target is.’

  Moshe scratched his chin.

  Ajay was convinced that the agent had more up his sleeve. ‘Have you heard something?’