“Sorry, Boss!” the driver quickly said apologetically. “But he drives like an old woman!”
“All Americans drive in this style,” affirmed the detective.
“They must be having a lot of accidents in Am-ree-ka,” muttered Handbrake.
It was a quarter past eight by the time Rathinasabapathy reached his destination and parked outside Fun ‘N’ Food Village. He hurried to the ticket office, duffel bag in hand, and got in line.
Bracing himself, Puri opened his door and the heat and humidity hit him full on. He felt winded and had to steady himself. It was only a matter of seconds before the first trickle of sweat ran down his neck. Perspiration began to form on his upper lip beneath his wide handlebar moustache.
Fanning himself with a newspaper, the detective bought himself an entry token and followed his client through the turnstile.
Fun ‘N’ Food Village, a distinctly Indian amusement park with popular water features, was packed with giddy children. Squeals filled the air as they careered down Aqua Shutes and doggy-paddled along the Lazy River: “Phir, phir! Again, again!” Mothers in bright Punjabi cotton suits, with their baggy trousers rolled up just beneath their knees, stood half-soaked in the shallow end of the Tiny Tots Pond playing with their toddlers. In the Wave Pool, a group of Sikh boys in swimming trunks and patkas played volleyball. On benches arranged along the sidelines, aunties dipped their toes into the cool water and ate spicy dhokla garnished with fresh coriander and green chilies. Occasionally, cheeky grandsons and nephews splashed them with water.
Puri followed Rathinasabapathy as he squeezed through the crowd toward one of the many plaster-of-paris characters dotted about the park: a fearsome ten-foot-tall effigy of the ferocious, ten-headed demon king Ravana. With savage eyes and sneering lip, he brandished a great scimitar with which he was preparing to smite a hideous serpent.
It was in front of Ravana that the middleman had instructed Puri’s client to wait.
Rathinasabapathy stopped in the shadow of the towering divinity. His apprehensive eyes scanned the crowd of revelers passing back and forth. Meanwhile, the detective, keeping his client in his sights, joined the unruly queue in front of a nearby dhaba. When it came to his turn, he ordered a plate of aloo tikki masala. It might be hours before he got to eat again, he reasoned, and the Gymkhana Club’s lunchtime special of ‘veg cutlet’ had left him craving something spicy – no matter that he had drenched the food in a quarter-bottle of Maggi Chili Sauce.
The food was delicious and when he had scraped every last bit of chutney off the bottom of the tobacco-leaf plate, he ordered another. This was followed by a chuski, a jeera cola one with extra syrup, which he had to eat quickly before it melted, avoiding incriminating stains on his clothes that would be noticed by his eagle-eyed wife.
By eight thirty, there was still no sign of the middleman. Puri was beginning to wonder if the plan had been blown. He cursed under his breath for not having anticipated his client’s poor driving skills. But then what sort of fellow didn’t employ a driver?
An announcement sounded over the PA system, first in Hindi and then in English. “Namashkar,” said a pleasant singsong voice. “Guests are kindly requested not to do urination in water. WC facilities are provided in rear. Your kind cooperation is appreciated.”
Another five minutes passed. Puri diligently avoided eye contact with his client in case the middleman was close by. A balloon wallah, who had been doing brisk business in front of the Wave Pool, came and stood a few feet to the left of Rathinasabapathy.
Then a short, chunky man with a thick neck and dyed black hair approached the nuclear physicist. His back was turned to the dhaba so that the detective was unable to see his face. But beyond the obvious – that the man was in his early to mid-fifties, married, owned a dog and had reached the rendezvous within the past few minutes – Puri was able to deduce that he was having an affair (there was a clear impression of an unwrapped condom in his back pocket) and had grown up in a rural area where the drinking water was contaminated by arsenic (his hands were covered in black blotches).
Puri pressed the mini receiver he was wearing deeper into his ear. It was tuned to the listening device housed in a flag of India pinned to his client’s shirt pocket.
“Mr. Rathinasabapathy, is it?” the detective heard the middleman ask over the din of the children. His voice suggested a confident smugness.
“Yeah, that’s right,” answered the nuclear physicist, sounding apprehensive. “Who are you?”
“We spoke earlier on phone.”
“You said to be here at eight o’clock. I’ve been waiting nearly half an hour.”
“Eight o’clock
“Look, I’m not handing over any money until I know exactly whom I’m dealing with,” insisted Rathinasabapathy, repeating the words Puri had coached him to say.
The middleman gave a petulant shake of the head and turned his back on the balloon wallah.
“Don’t be so concerned with my identity. Important thing is, I’m a man who gets things done,” he said.
“You must have a name. What am I supposed to call you?”
“Some people know me as Mr. Ten Percent.”
“That’s very amusing,” said Rathinasabapathy drily.
“So glad you think
“Yes, I’ve brought your two lakh rupees,” said Rathinasabapathy, returning to the dialogue Puri had scripted for him. “But how do I know you’ll keep up your end of the bargain? How do I know you won’t just take the cash and my kids still won’t – ”
“Listen, Textbook!” interjected Mr. Ten Percent. “In India deal is deal. This is not America with your Enron. Everything’s arranged. Now, you’re going to give over the cash or what?”
Rathinasabapathy hesitated for a moment and then handed over the duffel bag. “It’s all in there. Two – hundred – thousand – rupees,” he said, raising his voice and enunciating each word clearly.
The middleman took hold of the bag and held it by the straps in his right hand, gauging its weight.
“Very good,” he said, apparently satisfied.
“You’re not going to count it?”
“Here? In such a public place?” He chuckled. “Someone seeing so much of cash might get a wrong idea. Who knows? They might rob me. I tell you there’s dacoity all about these days. One more piece advice to you, scientist sahib: keep hold of your wallet, ha? The other day, only, a thief grabbed my portable straight out my hand. Can you believe? Right there on the street in daylight hours. Luckily for me I got it back one hour later. The thief himself returned it. That is after discovering to whom it belonged. He was most apologetic.”
Mr. Ten Percent extended his hand. “Good doing business with you,” he said. “Welcome to India, haa, and best of luck.”
“That’s it? When will I hear from you again?”
“You’ll not be hearing from me. Next communication will come from the principal.”
With that, the middleman walked off in the direction of the exit, soon vanishing amidst the crowd.
The balloon wallah was close behind him.
His bunch of silver helium balloons bobbed along above the heads of all the happy children and parents, indicating his position and that of his mark as accurately as a homing device.
Puri watched their progress for a few seconds. Then the detective signaled to his client to stay put for at least ten minutes as per the plan and went in pursuit of Tubelight and his balloons – and Mr. Ten Percent.
Two
At five forty-five the following morning, Dr. Suresh Jha reached India Gate, the centerpiece of Lutyens’s colonial New Delhi. He looked calm, in spite of having been told this was the day he was going to die.
Leaving his old Premier Padmini Fiat in the usual spot in the car park, he set off along Rajpath, the grand imperial boulevard that led past Parliament House and the Secretariat to the gates of Rashtrapati Bhavan – once
