Private Delhi (Private 13)

“They went through here, yes?” Nisha said. “And given that the neighbor saw the girl’s clothes in disarray, we can be reasonably sure what they were up to at the time.”

“Yes.”

“Well, why here? Why outside on a cold night?”

Santosh nodded almost happily. “Of course, Nisha, of course. A neglected, near-derelict, and very obviously empty house—they would have tried to get in first.”

“Break a window, pick a lock.”

Together they strode to the front door of the house and within seconds they spotted that almost out of sight, close to the door, was a clean space. Something removed.

“A mailbox, perhaps?” said Santosh. “Or some kind of entry panel disguised to look like a mailbox. Our libidinous friends tried to get in, failed, so found a spot over there. It was just dumb luck and no doubt the fact that the acid had weakened the structure that they fell through. Otherwise, this was a virtually impregnable facility.”

“Was this what you were expecting?” asked Nisha.

“Something like this, yes. Something to confirm my suspicion that we’re dealing with a large conspiracy here, an outfit that is evidently well funded and blessed with top-level access.”

“And their business?”

“Organ harvesting.”

They looked at one another, both knowing what the other was thinking: this was big and Private was getting close to being out of its depth. They hurried back to the car, both glowing with the thrill of their discoveries.

“There are still so many imponderables,” said Santosh. “Why was Kumar killed?”

“Because he was getting in the way. Whatever this outfit is doing, the Health Minister was either blocking it, threatening it, or wanting a slice—and so he paid with his life.”

“He certainly did. Drained of blood like that. But why like that, do you think? Why in such an attention-grabbing manner? Why not just a bullet in the back of the head?”

“As a grisly warning to those in the know.”

“It could be,” said Santosh. “It could be.”

Nisha started the engine. “So we have a name: Dr. Pankaj Arora. Isn’t that enough to take to Jaswal? Or the police?”

“Not until we can be sure who’s involved and who’s not,” sighed Santosh. “It could be that Jaswal is involved at some level.”

“We need to put a stop to it, Santosh,” warned Nisha. “People are dying.”

But Santosh shook his head, resolute. “I understand, and we must work quickly. But even more people will die if we reveal our findings prematurely. There’s no point in standing on the tail of the snake, Nisha. We need to cut off its head.”

PART TWO

DELIVERER

Chapter 43

FROM THAT NIGHT when he had killed his drunk father to his escape on a train to the holy city of Varanasi, every detail was firmly etched in the killer’s mind. His subsequent experiences had taught him to be prepared and extra vigilant.

Upon arriving in the holy city, the boy had made the railway station his home. What little money he’d had was used to purchase a single meal each day. It hadn’t been too long before his money had run out.

One day a priest wearing a white dhoti and saffron shawl with beads around his neck had seen the boy. Realizing he was hungry and lost, the priest had bought him a sumptuous meal. The boy had eaten ravenously as the priest sipped from a cup of masala tea. His hunger satiated, the boy had confided that he had no place to live and that his parents were dead.

The priest had taken the boy to his home, a basic hut by the banks of the Ganges. “You can stay here with me till such time as you find something better,” the priest had said. “You will need to help me with all the household chores though.” The boy had gratefully accepted the proposal.

The next day they had headed to the woods that bordered the railway tracks to collect firewood for the traditional stove in the priest’s house. The boy had gathered all the branches that had fallen from trees, tying them into bundles that could eventually be carried back. The priest had sat under a tree, looking at the boy’s sweating torso.

“Let me wipe the sweat off your body,” the priest had said, getting up and using his cotton shawl to dry the boy’s back. He’d asked the boy to turn around and face him but instead of drying him, he had attempted to kiss the boy on his lips. The boy had backed off in shock, but the priest had been persistent. “Love is a natural thing,” he had said. “God tells us to love our fellow human beings. I am merely expressing my affection for you,” and he had grasped the boy and pulled him toward his body.