Santosh tried the desk drawer. It was locked. He used his paper clips to open the simple lock and shone the flashlight inside. A single register with several slips of paper clipped together sat inside. Santosh took it out and began looking through it.
What he found were names of patients and the date and time on which they had checked in. The register then outlined their ailments and the date of surgery. So far so good. After that came the details of organs that had been removed and whether the patient had survived or not.
There were plenty who hadn’t. Eleven? Santosh counted. More than that. He had a feeling that if it were possible to match the names here with the bodies found at Greater Kailash then they would indeed correspond.
What’s more, in all cases there was only one consulting doctor. Dr. Pankaj Arora. The register was being used by MGT to maintain a macabre record of surreptitious organ removals that were communicated to him through those ubiquitous slips.
It was evident that he was fully supporting the activities of Arora. But why? He was from a very affluent family and certainly didn’t need the money. Wilson’s disease! MGT had lost his only son due to nonavailability of a liver. It would have been easy for Arora to emotionally blackmail MGT into allowing the racket to go on, almost convincing him that his son could have been saved if such a service had been available back then.
Santosh examined the back of the drawer. There was a carton of cigarettes. It was in silver finish with an impressive crest at the front. It read “Treasurer.” That was the cigarette brand Nisha had found at the Greater Kailash house, the one by Chancellor Tobacco. Santosh remembered that MGT had lived in England as a young man. No doubt that was when he had acquired the taste for those expensive cigarettes.
There was the sudden sound of a door opening. Someone was accessing the outer office. Santosh froze. He cursed himself for having switched on the lights initially.
He quickly put the register back inside the drawer, closed it, switched off his flashlight, and crept under the desk, fervently praying it wasn’t MGT himself.
He heard the door handle to the inner office turn and the door open. Footsteps headed toward the desk and a beam of light from a flashlight danced around the room. Santosh attempted to bundle himself tighter while restricting his breathing.
The beam danced around some more. The man in the inner office called out to a colleague in the outer office, “It’s empty. I told you that you were imagining it. Let’s go back to that card game I was winning.” Santosh heard the door close.
He sat crumpled like a paper ball under the desk until he was satisfied there was no one there but him. Then he gingerly began to make his way into the dark outer office, the door of which had been closed by the guards on their way out.
He didn’t see who was waiting for him. Didn’t see the blow coming. Just pain as he hit the deck.
Chapter 89
SANTOSH FELL TO the floor, dazed by the severity of the blow. He tasted blood in his mouth. He quickly spat it out and forced himself to get up and face his attacker.
“Bastard,” said the hoarse voice. It was unmistakable. MGT!
He charged at Santosh, but this time Santosh was prepared. He deftly sidestepped the charge and kicked MGT between his legs.
MGT grunted and doubled over. “Motherfucker,” he gasped. “I should have had you killed the day you walked into my office.”
“That would be easy enough for you given the machinery you seem to have established for taking lives,” said Santosh warily, looking out for any moves by MGT.
“I saved lives,” said MGT indignantly. “Hundreds of them. But it’s something that I cannot expect people like you to understand.”
“Level with me,” reasoned Santosh. “Expose the network and we’ll call it quits … quits. I know about your son. I understand why you’re doing this.”
The mention of his son only drove MGT to greater fury. He leaped up and grabbed Santosh by the ears, attempting to headbutt him. Santosh preempted it by headbutting MGT first. MGT staggered back, dazed by the shock. He picked up the slim vase on his secretary’s table, knocked it against the desk, and held the jagged neck like a weapon.
“Don’t you dare ever mention my son!” he said, taking a few steps toward Santosh. “No one was there to help him and I had to watch him die. Now you want to prevent others from being saved.” MGT lunged at Santosh with the broken vase.
Santosh parried the lunge and swung the flashlight that was in his left hand. It caught MGT’s right hand and the vase fell to the floor with a crash. “Fuck!” yelled MGT, his voice cracking.
“Don’t fight me, MGT,” urged Santosh as he assumed a defensive posture once again. “Help me unravel the network instead.”
“Fuck off,” said MGT. “You didn’t give a damn about me in college because I hung out with the druggies and drunks. So high and mighty, you were! And now you want me to help you?” His hands were desperately searching for something on his secretary’s table.
“There is only one way … one way … that this will end,” said Santosh softly, holding the flashlight like a weapon.
“Yes, there is,” said MGT as he found what he was looking for. A letter opener.
MGT charged at Santosh, thrusting the metal letter opener.
Santosh swung the flashlight in his hand to deflect the blow. The letter opener stabbed into his forearm. His flashlight fell to the ground.
He then grabbed the hand in which MGT was holding the letter opener and simultaneously kicked MGT on the left side of his torso. It caused MGT to turn ever so slightly, just enough for Santosh to twist his arm behind his back. Santosh applied pressure until MGT yelled in agony and the letter opener clattered noisily to the floor.