The Case of the Love Commandos (18 page)

The female assistant, who’d escorted Puri from reception and lingered in the doorway for further instruction, pulled the door shut.

“I understand you found us all on your own?” said Dr. Sengupta as Puri placed a copy of his card on the desk and sat down. “Would you mind telling me how you managed that?”

“Will and way, sir—will and way,” said Puri.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“A trade secret if you like.”

“I see,” said Dr. Sengupta with impatience. “Well, I suppose we all have them—trade secrets. It’s just that we have gone to considerable lengths to remain anonymous.”

“I would certainly say so, sir. There is not even so much as one sign outside your facility.”

“I suppose that makes you suspicious?”

“It is certainly unusual, is it not?”

“Our research is extremely sensitive, Mr. Puri. We have to take our security seriously.”

“You’ve been threatened, is it, sir?”

“We deal with genetics, Mr. Puri, and by default that’s about people’s identities. I don’t need to tell you that identity—or at least people’s perceived notions of their identities—can be a thorny issue in India to say the least. Our findings are highly controversial. They answer definitively, once and for all, who we are and where we came from. Potentially that poses a
threat to certain sections of society. When it comes to caste and Hindu identity, there are numerous vested interests. But then science always threatens preconceived notions amongst the narrow-minded.”

There was a hint of the evangelical in Dr. Sengupta’s voice.

“You are on something of a crusade, is it, sir?” asked the detective.

“We are a research institute, Mr. Puri. But I would say this: India will never progress, never join the rest of the civilized world, until we are rid of the caste system once and for all. It is utterly divisive, breeds corruption in our political system and ensures that tens of millions of Indians remain mired in poverty and ignorance—a great albatross around our collective necks. So, yes, it is my sincerest hope that our research will change the way society regards itself.”

“You’ve no argument from me on that count, sir,” said Puri, who wasn’t sure what an albatross was but decided not to ask. “But I fail to understand how your research will change things.”

“Mr. Puri, what is caste?” asked Dr. Sengupta, although the question was clearly rhetorical. “A hereditary transmission of a style of life that often includes an occupation, ritual status in a hierarchy and customary interaction and exclusion based on cultural notions of purity and pollution. We are born into it, in other words. I, for example, am a Vaidya Brahmin. We are one of the elite classes of Bengal—physicians by tradition. If you believe in fairy tales, I’m descended from Pandit Budhsen, a notable Vedic scholar. That chain is believed to be unbroken, lending us a perceived purity. However, an analysis of my own genetic sequencing proves that although my forebears have long remained endogamous—that is to say they have married within their own community—I’m the product of two genetically divergent
and heterogeneous populations that mixed in ancient times: in lay terms, Indo-Europeans and Dravidians.”

“The concept of racial purity is thus proven false,” ventured Puri.

“As is the entire basis of the hierarchical structure of caste.”

“Mind-blowing,” murmured the detective, who could certainly see why such findings would prove controversial.

“You see, Mr. Puri, India is quite unique. The range of genetic diversity is up to four times higher here than it is in, say, Europe. Yet for the best part of three millennia, there’s been little mixing between communities. Time and again we’re finding people from different castes, religions and tribes living in close proximity to one another—sometimes separated by a matter of meters—who’ve never intermarried. You might liken this phenomenon to pools of water high up on a beach, separated from one another and the tide.”

Puri took out his notebook and scribbled a few lines. Then he stopped, frowned and rubbed his forehead. “I’m getting confusion,” he said.

Dr. Sengupta checked his watch. “Yes, Mr. Puri,” he breathed.

“You say you are mapping the population’s DNA, but for the purposes of knowledge, only, or you are seeking some profit, also?”

“Our principal activity here at ICMB is the study of genetic disorders.”

“Disorders, sir?”

“Mr. Puri, I’m not sure I have time to explain the whole science to you. But genetic disorders are caused by sequence variation in genes and chromosomes. Some are inherited, others are caused by new mutations. Some types of recessive gene disorders confer an advantage in certain environments.”

There was a knock on the door and Dr. Sengupta greeted it with marked relief. “Come!”

A tall, broad-shouldered foreign gentleman with combed-back flaxen hair appeared. He was wearing a flannel suit and a sharp, blue-striped shirt. “Justus Bergstrom, ICMB director,” was how he introduced himself in an accent reminiscent of the old newsreaders on Radio Moscow—a kind of cross between American and Eastern European.

“My apologies, I was in another meeting,” he said as he shook Puri by the hand. “I hope Dr. Sengupta here has cleared up any preconceived notions you might have formed?”

“Preconceived notions, sir?” asked Puri.

“That we might be exploiting people,” said Bergstrom, who hovered to one side of the desk. “You’ve been in one of the villages where we’ve been working, I understand.”

“In one such village, sir.”

“Our team was there some three months ago, I believe?” Bergstrom looked to Dr. Sengupta for verification of this and the Bengali gave a nod.

“So what exactly is your concern, um, sorry, Mr.”—he looked at the detective’s business card—“Mr. Poori.”

“A poori is a type of fried bread, puffed and all. I’m a Puri, actually,” said the detective.

“My apologies. My Swedish accent. And these Indian names, you know.” He emitted a stabbing laugh. Dr. Sengupta smiled in concert.

“It is my understanding you paid some Dalits one hundred rupees in return for a sample of their blood and asked them to sign some kind of release form,” stated Puri.

“Perfectly standard practice—all within the guidelines set out by your health ministry, I can assure you,” replied Bergstrom.

“But with such DNA samples your organization could benefit to the tune of tens of millions of dollars—hundreds possibly—through the genetic research you’re conducting, no?”

Bergstrom met this statement with a quizzical smile, as if he regarded it as pitifully naïve. “Why don’t we take a little walk, you and I,” he said. “There’s something I’d like you to see. Perhaps then this thing will become a little clearer.”

Bergstrom went and held the door open. “Please, Mr. Puri,” he said, one arm held out toward him.

The detective put away his notebook and pen, stood from his chair and thanked Dr. Sengupta for his time.

“Pleasure,” he said with the most perfunctory of handshakes.

Puri moved toward the door but stopped halfway across the office. “By the way, my deepest condolences,” he said.

“Condolences?”

“For your loss. I understand one of your faculty was killed on Thursday, only.”

Dr. Sengupta nodded sadly. “Yes, poor Anju,” he said. “A terrible loss for all of us. I still can’t quite believe what happened.”

“A car crash?”

“She lost control of the wheel and spun off the road,” he added.

“She was a brilliant scientist and will be sorely missed,” said Bergstrom in a dry, corporate tone. “Now, if you’d like to follow me, Mr. Puri.”

The Swede led the detective to an elevator. This took them up to the second floor, every movement monitored by dome cameras fixed to the ceilings. Puri found himself standing behind the glass wall of a large laboratory. It looked like something out of a James Bond set with a cast of anonymous
men and women in identical white coats, masks and rubber gloves. Some of them were peering into microscopes. One took samples out of a large refrigerator.

“Take a guess as to how much this facility cost to build,” said Bergstrom.

“Some millions of rupees I would imagine.”

“Fifty million dollars, Mr. Puri. Everything you see here is state-of-the-art. The laboratory is air sealed. Only recently, after all the failures on the national grid, we had to build our own power plant providing an uninterrupted supply twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I can’t tell you how challenging it’s been to set up this kind of research facility here in India. The business environment is extraordinarily discouraging.”

“Your investment comes from where exactly?”

“International equity firms mostly. Some Indian money also.”

“All looking for a healthy return no doubt.”

“If you’re asking whether they’ll profit, the answer is that I jolly well hope so. Millions of Indians will also benefit from the drugs that will be developed thanks to our research, I might add. So when you accuse us of taking advantage of ignorant villagers, you would do well to keep in mind that we’re working to improve their lives and those of their children and their children’s children.”

“Sir, I’ve not accused you people of anything,” said Puri, who’d stomached about as much corporate rhetoric as he could take for one day. “It is my sworn duty to investigate the case inside and out, leaving no stone unturned.”

“And what is this case you’re investigating?”

“I’m endeavoring to locate a certain young Dalit by name of Ram Sunder, who was forcibly abducted from where he was staying in Agra. I am endeavoring, also, to find out who brutally murdered his mother.”

Bergstrom’s face revealed startled dismay.

“And you think there’s some connection with ICMB?”

“Sir, their native place is Govind, near to Lucknow, from where your organization took blood samples some three months back.”

“We’ve taken blood from a hundred or more villages.”

“Sir, as I previously intimated, I am simply following up any and all leads.”

The frown etched across Bergstrom’s forehead set. “I fail to understand what it is that you hoped to achieve by coming here today, Mr. Puri,” he said.

“It would help if you could tell me whether you took any blood from this Ram Sunder.”

“That’s completely out of the question. We’re not at liberty to share the details of our research with anyone. The identities of our subjects must remain strictly confidential.”

He strode over to the elevator and pressed the call button. When the doors opened, he told the security guard inside to escort the detective to the front gate.

Puri stepped inside.

“Let me also assure you that our lawyers in Delhi will deal vehemently with anyone who suggests any wrong conduct on our part and we will take our complaints to the very pinnacle of government,” said Bergstrom.

His words were punctuated with a ping as the elevator doors closed.

Puri drove away, wondering if he’d erred in admitting the real purpose of his visit and whether Bergstrom’s indignation had been genuine. It seemed to have been. But then he didn’t know how to read Swedish people. Perhaps they were all brilliant actors.

He couldn’t even be sure that there was a connection between
Ram Sunder’s disappearance, his mother’s murder and ICMB. The fact that their team visited Govind three months ago and their facility was in Agra, just a few miles from the university, might have been a wild coincidence.

Was he barking up the wrong tree?

Somehow Puri doubted it.

“I want round-the-clock surveillance of this facility,” he told Tubelight over the phone. “Send two of your boys to Agra without delay. Tell them to keep all eyes and ears peeled.”

Next he put Flush to work trying to hack into the ICMB computer system. “Leave no computer chip unturned.”

Finally he called Elizabeth Rani and asked her to “do background checking” on Dr. Arnab Sengupta and the gora, Justus Bergstrom.

That left him free to find out more about the death of their colleague.

“What’s her name?” asked Facecream when Puri called to update her on his end of the investigation.

“Anju Basu.”

“Another Bengali?”

“And a PhD, also. I tell you these people are such intellectual brainy types. Must be all that fish they eat, yaar.”

“The report says the car, an Indica, skidded off the road,” said Puri’s contact in the Agra police department when they spoke on the phone soon after Puri was ejected from ICMB. “Dr. Basu sustained a head injury and drowned.”

“What time the accident occurred, exactly?” asked the detective.

“Two in the morning—last Thursday.”

“Any sign of foul play?”

Puri knew he was wasting his breath with such a fundamental question. On average, fourteen people died and fifty-seven others were injured on the roads of India every hour. Even if the police had wanted to investigate each incident, there wasn’t the manpower to do so. Uttar Pradesh alone was short of nearly a quarter of a million civil and armed police. And its serving officers were essentially uniformed bribe takers. Most raked in several lakhs per month from truck drivers alone, a goodly percentage of which ended up in the pockets of their superiors and political masters.

Puri put the odds of the scene of Dr. Basu’s accident being professionally investigated at about ten billion to one, give or take the odd billion.

“That’s an accident-prone zone” was the predictable response from his contact. “Cars are always overtaking and turning turtle.”

Puri thanked him, ended the call and told his driver to take him directly to the bridge.

It spanned the Yamuna River beyond the Babarpur Reserved Forest, a few miles to the northwest of Agra. A quarter of the way across, a section of the barrier was missing.

It took the detective little more than three minutes to conclude that the “accident” had been nothing of the sort.

Such was his incredulity that he found himself sharing his reasoning with his driver. The fact that the sum total of the man’s English vocabulary was “left side,” “right side” and “backside” mattered little. Puri was hardly seeking a second opinion.