“The company was created by a retired armed forces man—squeaky-clean track record. The reason that Xilon was at all three initial murder sites was because they have a monopoly of sorts … they control around two-thirds of the security business in Mumbai.”
> “What about the company’s employees?” asked Santosh.
“I am still looking into individual employee records,” said Nisha. “Two of the senior engineers are on leave and one hasn’t reported in for a couple of days.”
“Find out about the missing employee,” said Santosh, his antennae picking up on a possible angle.
“Sure, I’ll get on it first thing tomorrow.”
The library was almost empty at this hour. Most of the senior citizens who had been perusing newspapers and magazines in the public reading room had left. Any sound made within the imposing space was amplified by its high ceilings and marble pillars. Santosh’s excitement caused his voice to rise and echo. In the center of the generously proportioned room the old librarian sat in his wooden chair, dozing off intermittently, absorbing snatches of conversation emanating from the table occupied by the Private India team.
They fell silent as Jack and Nisha stared across the table at Santosh, who seemed to be lost in thought, his lips moving as his mind chewed over the latest developments.
As they waited for the great detective’s next pronouncement they cast amused glances at each other. Nisha, aware of Jack’s hugely magnetic charm, felt herself redden all of a sudden, and was grateful when Santosh looked up from the book at them, his eyes shining with excitement.
“He’s not being worshipful to Durga,” he told them. “The trinkets he attaches to them, they’re not respectful tokens, they’re silly toys. A Viking helmet, for God’s sakes. This is not some kind of veneration, it’s a desecration. Why? Because our man hates women. He’s not just killing women, he’s killing womankind.”
Chapter 48
THE SEA OF humanity dressed in white was overwhelming. It was high noon and the weather was hot and muggy but that had not deterred over a hundred thousand devotees from gathering in open ground on the outskirts of Mumbai. A roar of approval erupted from the crowd as Nimboo Baba pressed his palms together and greeted his followers with the traditional Indian greeting, “Namaste.”
Nimboo Baba had been born Nimesh in the holy city of Benares, by the banks of the Ganges. His family had moved to Delhi and Nimesh had been placed in a municipal school from which he had dropped out in the fourth grade. Having run away from his parents, he did everything he could in order to survive on the streets. He had sold newspapers on the pavements, washed cars at parking lots, prepared tea on railway station platforms, and even picked pockets. One day he had met a wandering ascetic and had been miraculously transformed.
The stories cranked out many years later by Nimboo Baba’s PR machinery would go on to say that a sage had visited Nimesh’s parents on the day that he had been born and had gifted them with a lemon. Apparently he had told them that, while a lemon was sour, it had incredible curative properties. “Your son shall be like a lemon—a healing medication—for the world,” the sage had supposedly said.
In Hindi, the word for lemon was nimboo and thus Nimesh the pickpocket would soon become Nimboo Baba the great spiritual master. He opened his first ashram—a meditation center—in Delhi. His evening sermons, during which he would use ordinary examples and simple language, began to be attended by ever-increasing numbers. Over the next two decades, Nimboo Baba would open over a hundred such ashrams in India and would claim to have over twenty million disciples, including followers from the United States, Europe, and the Far East.
The man waited in the cool, air-conditioned interior of his black Mercedes-Benz for Nimboo Baba’s sermon to be over. When it was time for the Baba to exit the grounds and head over to the luxury suite that was permanently booked for his comfort at a prominent Mumbai hotel, he chose to get into the waiting car instead.
Munna offered Nimboo Baba a bottle of chilled mineral water from the small refrigerator built into the armrest. The godman accepted it and quickly gulped down the contents. “These sermons leave my throat parched,” he complained.
“Given the amount of land and money that you have amassed from your sermons, I imagined you would never thirst for anything,” replied Munna, with a twinkle in his eyes. Nimboo Baba laughed. The only one who could speak to him so openly was Munna.
What was never mentioned in the PR material published by the Baba’s marketing machinery was the fact that his outfit acted as a massive money-laundering center for Munna’s ill-gotten wealth. Millions of rupees from illicit operations found their way as “donations” into Nimboo Baba’s ashrams, from where they were converted into legal assets such as land, buildings, bank balances, and legitimate businesses. A perfect instance of Hindu–Muslim partnership.
Munna’s association with Nimboo Baba went back several years, to the time when Munna had been attempting to establish his supremacy in Mumbai’s underworld. On one particular evening he had been injured during a shoot-out with a rival gang. Wounded and bleeding, Munna had sought refuge in one of Nimboo Baba’s ashrams. The Baba had kept the police away and ensured that Munna was provided with medical attention. That day had been the genesis of a symbiotic relationship between the two men, the guru providing occasional advice and spiritual wisdom—besides a nifty way of laundering Munna’s money—and Munna providing financial support to the Baba.
“How is my special disciple getting along?” asked Nimboo Baba. “I hope you are assisting in every way that you can after the Thailand return.”
“Getting along rather well, I would say,” replied Munna. “And yes, I am happy to help. How are your dealings with the Attorney General progressing?”
Nimboo Baba laughed. “He’s up to his neck in gambling debts. I have been bailing him out whenever he needs me to.”
“Good,” replied Munna. “With him so indebted to you, we continue to have leverage. I must tell my betting managers to keep taking wagers from him.”
“He was the country’s top-earning lawyer before he accepted the Attorney General’s position. Where did all his money go?” asked Nimboo Baba.
“Men who are very active in their professional lives tend to be equally active in their personal ones,” offered Munna sagely. “He changes his woman almost every month. Expensive proposition.”
Chapter 49
RUPESH LEFT HIS Jeep to navigate the last few yards on foot. His team briskly jogged ahead of him. Rupesh felt his shoes squelch in the muck along the banks of the canal. Scrap-metal houses bordered the sewer that lazily flowed through the slum, carrying a thick sludge of floating plastic bags, bottles, chemicals, garbage, and tons of human and animal excrement. Asia’s largest slum—Dharavi—was spread over a square mile of Mumbai and over a million wretched souls called it home.
“Do we know the exact house where he was spotted?” asked Rupesh, keeping up with his men.
“Yes, we do, sir. This lane is the recycling area of Dharavi, full of small workshops that reprocess paper, tin cans, plastic, and cardboard. Toward the end of the lane is the bootlegging operation that our informer told us about. He’s holed up there.” Rupesh looked at his watch. It was ten minutes past midnight.
They reached the target shed in a few minutes. It was single-storey and ramshackle with a footprint of less than a couple of hundred square feet. Patched together from rusting and mismatched corrugated-metal sheets, the windows and door were simply jagged holes cut through the tinwork. The stench from the brew could be detected from far away in spite of the overhanging and all-pervading stink of sewage that thickly enveloped Dharavi.