Private Delhi (Private 13)

“There is. It needs two of us to input a master code. The head of security is on his way now.”

“Is there a

nother way into the studio?” asked Sharma.

“The code controls all doors,” she explained. “Once the doors are overridden, you can come in through the control room, or from the other end, but you’d be coming at Ajoy from the front. This is the only door that brings you in from the side.”

“What kind of screwy security system is this anyway?” frowned Sharma.

An elderly security man arriving fixed him with a stare. “We have all sorts of celebrities, dignitaries, and notables in and out of our studios, Mr. Sharma,” he said. “We need to be able to guarantee their safety.”

Sharma indicated through the porthole window. “Mr. Thakkar doesn’t look particularly safe to me.”

“We’ve never had a presenter produce a gun before, Mr. Sharma,” said the security guard reasonably. “This is what you call an unprecedented situation.” He nodded to the studio manager, keyed in three digits to a door panel, and then stepped aside to allow her to finish the code. There was a click and a light turned from red to green.

Now a silence fell across those in the corridor as Sharma issued whispered instructions to his armed response team. Officers brought assault rifles to bear and took up positions by the door.

Back in the studio, if Guha was aware that the door lock had been circumvented, he made no sign. The film had ended. The story was out there, and now he was telling the story of the Deliverer, telling of his beloved wife Rita and how he pledged to take up arms against the same corruption and degeneracy that had killed her.

“I am sorry, people of Delhi, that my actions as the Deliverer brought you a period of unrest and uncertainty. But I promise with my hand on my heart that my intentions were benign, that I intended to rid the city of those elements that would seek to suck it of its lifeblood in order to deliver it into a better future.”

He stood, kicking his seat aside, reached down, grabbed Thakkar, and hauled him backward so that for the first time the CEO appeared on screen. “Meet Jai Thakkar of ResQ.” He stooped to rip off the tape from Thakkar’s mouth. “Mr. Thakkar, say hello to the people of Delhi. Tell them what you have done.”

In the corridor the elderly security guard spoke to Sharma. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Commissioner. You may not realize, but out there in the city everybody is watching what’s going on in here. Other channels are covering this channel. Traffic is at a virtual standstill. Millions of people are going to see every move you make.”

Sweat glistened on Sharma’s forehead. “Then millions of people are going to see us take down one of the sickest serial killers the city has ever seen.”

“You sure the people see it that way?” asked Santosh.

“I don’t give a fuck what the people think right now, Wagh,” snapped Sharma, and then addressed the armed response team leader. “Go in there, take him out before he kills a CEO on air. Do it. Now!”

The team leader nodded, twirled his finger in the air. Everybody else pressed themselves to the walls as the armed response team readied themselves and one of the men knelt, the barrel of his assault rifle pointing to the ceiling as with his other hand he reached to the handle and eased the door open a sliver.

Inside, Guha saw the door begin to open, the armed officers about to launch their incursion. At his feet, Thakkar was mewling, crying, and pleading, admitting all his many sins, spilling the beans to an audience of millions.

“But if the police come in here now, then I end it with a bullet to his head,” said Guha loudly, directing his comments more to the doorway than to his audience. The armed officers froze. Something seemed to occur to Guha. “The person I would like to see is Maya Gandhe. Bring her here to me. Bring her so that she can appear to the people as a symbol of hope for the future.”

In the corridor, the elderly security guard shot Sharma a look that said I told you so and the Commissioner cursed, knowing that Guha was giving him no choice. He couldn’t play games with Thakkar’s life. At least, not live on television. “Can we get her?” he said dreamily, as though he was far away. “Can we get the Gandhe girl?”

Nisha burst forward. “I beg your pardon!” she snapped. “Maya is coming nowhere near here!” Her face was right up to Sharma’s. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”

Sharma looked at her and his eyes were unfocused. He gave a tiny shake of his head and came back to himself. “I’m sorry. You’re quite right. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Tell your men to stand down—I’m going in,” said Nisha.

“No, Nisha, you can’t,” said Santosh.

Jack shook his head.

“He knows me.” Nisha drew her gun, herding armed response officers out of the way like a harassed teacher, and then made her way to the door. “We have history.”

And with that she slipped through the door and into the studio.

Chapter 109

SHE CAME INTO the studio, weapon raised, two-handed, taking short steps inside. There stood Guha. At his feet lay Thakkar, terrified and wracked by snotty sobs, his bound hands held almost as if in prayer. Guha stood with one foot on top of him, stooping slightly to hold the Glock to his head. When he looked up to see Nisha, the studio lights reflected off his glasses so that his eyes seemed to shine white.

“I’m sure I remember giving instructions that if the next person to walk through that door wasn’t Maya Gandhe then I shoot Thakkar,” he said. “Yes, I’m certain I can recollect giving those exact instructions. And yet, and yet, I am greeted by the sight of her mother.” He addressed the camera. “Ladies and gentlemen, you probably can’t see her, but I have been joined by Nisha Gandhe, the mother of Maya, our guide to a better future.”