Private Delhi (Private 13)

Locks of greasy hair fell across Arora’s forehead as he grew even more agitated, realizing he was digging himself into a hole. “No, no. I don’t know anything.”

“We’ll soon see about that, won’t we?” said Sharma. For a moment or so it looked as though he was seriously considering arresting Arora, but then for whatever reason thought better of it. With a wave of his hand he indicated to two of his men, who yanked Thakkar from his chair. A moment after that they were gone, leaving Dr. Arora perspiring, despite the arctic chill of the mall’s air conditioning.

Chapter 86

SHARMA LET THAKKAR stew. Of course he did. Despite his fear of the situation, not to mention the temptation to kick himself very hard and repeatedly at pushing his luck over this whole transplant network, Thakkar still felt a wave of contempt for the fat policeman and his ancient, desperately banal methods of intimidation.

The cell was small, hot, and stuffy. He dreaded to think how it felt in summer. He took off his jacket and let the act of neatly folding it shoulder to shoulder calm him, before sitting, smoothing his trousers, then crossing his legs.

Okay, he was in trouble. But he had money. And what was money good for if not for buying yourself out of trouble? What’s more, and perhaps even more importantly, he had friends—or at least one very powerful friend—in high places. They weren’t going to kill him in prison. They couldn’t just keep him here indefinitely. So while there was no doubt he was about to embark on a period of discomfort, it would surely be a relatively short period of discomfort. No, keeping things in perspective, he had nothing overly serious to worry about. At least he was safe from the killer.

Unless the killer turned out to be Sharma. And …

No. No, that was just ridiculous.

Now the cell door opened to admit Sharma and his assistant Nanda. The pair of them looked at Thakkar, perched on the edge of the cot, then Sharma indicated for him to rise. A short time later they were installed in chairs in some kind of interrogation room. An interview suite, they called it, but Thakkar wasn’t fooled.

“We have a lot of questions to ask you, Thakkar,” said Sharma, his customary toothpick wedged between his teeth, “things about your relationship with Jaswal, what you know about the Private detective agency and what they’re doing in Delhi, the role played by this Dr. Arora that I met at Cafe E. But first this racket that you and your friends are running. Let’s start with that.”

“Racket?” said Thakkar disingenuously.

“You’ve been running a racket that buys or steals organs and makes them available to your American insurance patients,” he said. “You may as well come clean. We know your entire modus operandi.”

Thakkar remained quiet. He had asked to see his lawyer but Sharma denied him the privilege.

Then, “You have nothing against me,” he said defiantly.

“We have accessed your company’s bank statements and balance sheet,” said Sharma. “You have made hundreds of payments to an unregistered firm. We’ve done our investigations. That unregistered firm belongs to Iqbal Ibrahim, someone who is notorious for the thriving black market he runs in human organs.”

“Then go get him,” replied Thakkar. “As CEO of a multinational company, you can’t seriously expect me to know every small payment that is made by my managers and staff!”

Sharma ignored the interjection and continued, “At first we were confused. The Indian arm of ResQ buys human organs. American patients are charged insurance premiums that cover this service. The question in my mind was this: how would the Indian operation ever make a profit?”

“So now you’re a chartered accountant?” asked Thakkar sarcastically.

“And then we realized that you don’t care,” continued Sharma, refusing to rise to the jibe. “You have a web of companies and subsidiaries and so long as they make money in the aggregate, individual losses are irrelevant. I think we have an excellent case to prosecute you as well as your company under the Transplantation of Human Organs Act 1994.”

Thakkar was quiet.

“In effect, you transfer profits to the American parent while bearing all the organ procurement expenses in India,” continued Sharma. “And since the money is a consequence of an illegal act, this is a perfect case for prosecution under the Prevention of Money Laundering Act too.”

“You do know that the Chief Minister is my friend?” said Thakkar, his cockiness having disappeared.

“I don’t report to fucking Jaswal,” snapped Sharma, the toothpick falling out of his mouth. “My boss is Chopra and he hates Jaswal. You also fall into the enemy camp by association. Hell, I’ll even get promoted if I make your life miserable. It’s only fair given that you fucked and then abandoned the boss’s daughter!”

“Bastard!” shouted Thakkar as he stood up.

He received a resounding slap from Sharma. “Sit down unless you are told that you can get up!” commanded Sharma.

Thakkar was stunned. His cheek had turned red from the slap but his other cheek went pink from the embarrassment and shame. He had never been treated this way.

“Now, here’s how this can play out,” said Sharma. “Either you cooperate with me or I will have to take you out of Tihar Jail.”

“I get out of jail for not cooperating?” asked Thakkar, confused.

“You are then taken to a place that is much worse,” explained Sharma. “There are a few interrogation rooms at the Red Fort. Usually they are only used by the intelligence agencies when they wish to break terror suspects. The big advantage of using these rooms is that anything goes. I can do whatever I want to make you squeal.”

Sweat dripped down Thakkar’s face. His throat was parched.