The Case of the Love Commandos (2 page)

He would have caught her had it not been for Laxmi’s colleague Sanjoy, a third Love Commando volunteer, who’d been mingling with the students.

Stepping forward, a can of pepper spray at the ready, he nailed the goon right in the face.

Naga reared up, roaring like a wounded animal, clasping his hands to his face, and staggered away. Sanjoy then climbed onto the back of the scootie and he, Tulsi and Laxmi sped off toward the main gate.

Behind them Vishnu Mishra ran into the middle of the street. He was wielding his revolver and gesticulating wildly to his driver to start the engine. But the man was fast asleep at the wheel of the Range Rover. The knockout pill Laxmi had slipped into his nimboo pani had done the trick.

The trio passed beneath the red sandstone ramparts of Agra Fort and crossed the sluggish, polluted waters of the Yamuna River. Between the iron supports of the bridge, they glimpsed the gleaming white marble of the Taj Mahal before plunging headfirst into a maze of filthy alleys and lanes as cramped and teeming as an ant colony. The shop fronts of ironmongers, jewelers, dried-fruit sellers and cigarette-paan vendors interspersed with light industry units housing ironworks, printers and cardboard recyclers all appeared in rapid succession like the frames of a cartoon viewed through a Victorian zoetrope. Motorbikes and three-wheelers bullied their way through a multitude of pedestrians, cows and goats. Children spun metal bicycle wheels along the ground with sticks. At a water pump, men wearing chuddies lathered themselves in suds.

Tulsi bore the stench of raw sewage and diesel fumes and potholes without complaint. Only after they’d emerged into a landscape of houses dotted amongst virgin paddy fields on the edge of the city did she call out, “Where are we going? Where’s Ram?”

The answer was a nondescript building of red brick that served as the Love Commandos safe house.

“I can’t believe we got away!” gushed Tulsi as she dismounted
from the scootie, shaking with fear and excitement. “Oh my God, I don’t know how to thank you!”

Laxmi didn’t respond. Her attention was focused on the front door of the building. It was hanging, broken, from its hinges.

“Is Ram inside? Can I see him?” asked Tulsi.

“Keep her here,” Laxmi instructed Sanjoy as she stepped forward to investigate.

Pushing the door aside, she discovered a flower pot lying shattered in the corridor beyond. In the room where Ram had been staying, there were signs of a struggle. His new pair of black shoes, purchased for his impending wedding, had been thrown at the assailants who’d broken in. There were a few spots of blood on the concrete floor as well.

Laxmi searched the rest of the house, fearful of finding a body, but it was empty.

Somehow—God only knew how—Vishnu Mishra’s people had finally tracked Ram down. They’d waited until he was alone and then grabbed him. That, surely, was the only explanation.

Laxmi went outside to break the bad news to Tulsi.

Her face fell and turned pale. “Pa will kill him!” she cried. “Oh my God! I’ve got to talk to him!”

Laxmi handed the young woman her phone.

Tulsi’s hands shook, but she managed to dial the number. “Please pick up, Pa. Please, please, please,” she kept saying.

Laxmi put her head close to the phone so she could eavesdrop on the conversation.

The call was answered by a gruff male voice. “Who is this?”

Tulsi’s answer caught in her throat. “Paaaa … I’m … soooo … saaarreee,” she wept.

“Where are you, beta?”

“Please don’t hurt him, Pa. I’m begging you.”

“Hurt who?”

Tulsi let out a couple of long, hard sobs. “Raaaaam!” she wailed. “I love him sooo much!”

“Listen, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now I’m going to come and get you. Tell me where you are. I’m not angry. Your mother and I want you home—that is all.”

Tulsi wiped her wet cheeks and managed to compose herself. “Let me speak with Ram first,” she said. “I want to know he’s all right. Let him go and I’ll come home. Papa, I’ll never forgive you if anything happens to him.”

“Listen to me very carefully, beta. I don’t know where he is. And I don’t care. My only concern is your future. Tell me your exact location immediately.”

“You’re lying, Pa. He’s not here.”

“Where is
here
? Tell me! I’m your father!”

Laxmi grabbed the phone and disconnected the call.

She and Tulsi stared at each other, confusion and disbelief writ across their faces.

“What did he say?” asked Sanjoy, who looked equally baffled.

“He says he doesn’t have Ram,” said Laxmi.

“You believe him?”

“He sounded genuine,” said Tulsi.

One of the neighbors, whose house stood a couple of hundred yards away, pedaled past on his bicycle. Had he seen anything? Laxmi asked.

“A black SUV with tinted windows was parked here earlier.”

“Did you see who was inside?”

“Two men got out.”

“What did they look like?”

“I was too far away.”

“Did you see anyone leave with them?”

“A young man, I think. They dragged him out of the house.”

Laxmi thanked the neighbor and hurried back into the safe house to grab her bag. She emerged again to find Tulsi in a flood of tears.

“I should just go home. That way no one will get hurt,” she said, gripped by grief.

“I don’t think that’s the answer,” said Laxmi as she tried to comfort her. “Now, listen: I promise we’ll get to the bottom of this. For all we know Ram was taken by someone hoping to get a reward from your father. I’ve a friend who can help—a private detective. In the meantime I need to get you somewhere safe. You’re going to have to trust me. Will you do that?”

Tulsi thought for a moment and then gave a nod. They remounted the scootie.

“We should split up,” Laxmi told Sanjoy. “Rendezvous at the bus station in three hours. Make sure you’re not followed—and change your mobile chip.”

She disposed of her own down a drain and then headed back through Agra’s burgeoning suburbs.

Once Tulsi was out of harm’s reach, she’d call Vish Puri using another number.

The fact that he was supposed to be going on a pilgrimage with the rest of his family wouldn’t prove an issue. The man hated taking time off.

Still, it was going to prove awkward having to explain what she, Laxmi—or rather, Facecream, the sobriquet Puri always used for her—had been doing in Agra when she was supposed to be enjoying her offs sunning in Goa.

It had been a quiet month—as quiet as it ever got in a nation of 1.2 billion people.

The start of June had brought a desperate call from the Khannas. The couple had arrived to take possession of their new apartment in Ecotech Park Phase 7, greater NOIDA, on a day deemed auspicious by their astrologer, only to find another family simultaneously trying to move in. Vish Puri’s task had been to track down the double-crossing real estate broker, whom he’d located in the bowels of northeast Delhi.

Next, celebrity chef Inder Kapoor had commissioned Most Private Investigators Ltd. to find out who hacked his computer and stole his mother’s famous recipe for chilli mint marinade. Puri’s reward for identifying the culprit had been several helpings of homemade papri chaat drizzled with yogurt and tamarind chutney spiked with pomegranate, black salt and just the right amount of fiery coriander-chilli sauce.

“Should you have need of my services, I am at your disposal night or day,” Puri had told Kapoor after finishing every last morsel.

Then last week he’d played bagman for Mr. and Mrs. Pathak and got back their precious Roger from his kidnappers. How
they could have brought themselves to pay the five lakh rupees was beyond him. It was a staggering amount—more than the average worker made in ten years. But what was even more shocking—“absolutely mind-blowing” in Puri’s words—was madam’s claim that she would have paid ten times that amount after receiving the “traumatizing” ransom video that showed her pooch being “tortured”—lying on a dirty concrete floor rather than a silk cushion.

The detective almost wished he hadn’t bothered delivering the cash. He would rather have enjoyed the prospect of the kidnap gang carrying out their threat to eat Roger. And they would have done it too, given that they hailed from Nagaland, where pug kebab was considered something of a delicacy. But being “a man of his word and integrity, also,” Puri—along with his faithful team of undercover operatives—had caught the goondas by using a miniature pinscher as bait.

June had also brought in a few standard matrimonial investigations—although with the monsoon almost upon them, India’s wedding industry had taken a honeymoon.

And then there was the Jain Jewelry Heist.

Puri had caught the thieves. Within seven hours of receiving the call from his client, First National Hindustan Insurance Corporation Inc.

“These Charlies left so many of clues when they decamped with the loot, it is like following crumbs to the cookie jar,” Puri declared at the time, certain that he’d broken some kind of record.

But then he’d hit something of a brick wall.

Of the 2.5 crore of jewelry taken from the Jains’ multimillion-dollar luxury Delhi villa, Puri had recovered just two pairs of earrings, four bangles and a couple of hundred thousand rupees in cash.

Delhi’s chief of police gloated, telling the baying press corps
that “amateurs” were not up to the task. And yet the chief fared no better, soon coming to the stunning conclusion that the gang had stashed the loot at some secret location between the Jains’ palatial residence and their hideout.

Desperate, the chief had then reverted to a “narco analysis test.” Although a violation of an individual’s rights under the Indian constitution—not to mention a form of torture according to international law—this involved injecting the accused with a truth serum and monitoring their brain patterns.

The results were comic at best. Under the influence, the gang members, who all giggled as they “deposed,” told their interrogators that they might care to find the jewelry in a variety of different locations. These included the top of Mount Everest and up the chief’s rear passage. Yet, when sober, they strenuously denied having taken anything more than the earrings, bangles and cash.

“That was all there was in the safe!” their leader insisted.

In the three weeks since, Puri had questioned everyone who’d had access to the house. He’d also put every known fence or dealer of stolen gemstones in north India “under the scanner” in case one of them had been passed the consignment. But to no avail.

“Only one case has slipped through my fingers in my long and illustrious career and that through no fault of my own,” Puri reminded his executive secretary, Elizabeth Rani, as he sat in his office at Khan Market that Saturday morning.

The Jain Jewelry Heist file lay on the desk in front of him. The words STATUS: CASE SUCCESSFULLY CONCLUDED AND CLOSED, which he’d hoped to stamp in bold definitive letters across the front some days ago, were conspicuous by their absence.

“Even the most rare of diamonds has flaws,” he added. “Yet when it comes to Vish Puri’s performance, ’til date you will not find a single one.”

Elizabeth Rani had brought him a fresh cup of masala chai only to find the last one still lying untouched on his desk along with his favorite coconut biscuits. This was unprecedented. Usually the refreshments lasted only minutes. Things must be bad, she reflected.

“I’m sure it will only be a question of time before you locate the jewels,” she said, as supportive as ever. “It has only been a few weeks after all. No one evades sir forever.”

“Most true, Madam Rani, most true. Even Jagga, one of the most notorious dacoits to terrorize India ’til date, did not escape the net.”

Puri’s eyes wandered listlessly around his office, lingering on the portrait of his late father, Om Chander Puri, who’d served with the Delhi police. Next to him hung a likeness of the patron saint of private investigators, a man synonymous with guile and cunning—the political genius Chanakya.

The sounds of flapping feathers and cooing came from outside the office window as a pigeon landed on top of the air conditioner unit. The detective’s attention was drawn to the darkening sky beyond. A squall was brewing. It perfectly reflected his mood.

“Madam Rani, there is no point ignoring the elephant in the room: the case has gone for a toss,” he said. “I am clueless in every way and Mr. Rajesh of First National Hindustan Insurance Corporation Incorporated is getting worried—and justifiably so. What all I should tell him, I don’t know.”

“You visited the house again this morning, sir?”

“I have come directly from there, only. I was doing follow-up interviews of the employees. As you are very much aware, there has not been one shred of doubt in my mind from the start that an inside man or inside female was there. Some individual guided them—that much is certain.”

“Perhaps one of the Jain family, sir?”

Puri gave an exasperated sigh. “Naturally, Madam Rani, I considered that as a possibility some days back. But I am satisfied none of them were party to the crime.”

“Yes, sir.”

She eyed the clock. It was almost six. Sir was due to leave for the railway station in fifteen minutes. She was growing concerned that he was stalling.

“Should I call the driver?” she asked.

Puri didn’t seem to register her question. His eyes remained fixed on the Jain Jewelry Heist file.

“Who all provided the gang with the insider information? That is the question,” he said, half to himself.

“Sir, your car?” prompted Elizabeth Rani.

Puri looked up, puzzled.

“Ma’am must have reached the station by now,” she said.

By “ma’am,” she meant his wife, Rumpi.

The detective responded with a half shrug like a child who didn’t want to take his medicine. “Really I don’t see how I can go out of station. What with this case pending and all, it is really impossible. Should Mr. Rajesh of First National Hindustan Insurance Corporation Incorporated come to know, my reputation would lie in tatters,” he said.

Elizabeth Rani had feared as much. Given his workaholic nature, Puri was always loath to take offs. In the twenty-odd years she’d worked for Most Private Investigators Ltd., he and Rumpi had enjoyed only a few holidays away—and invariably these had combined work with pleasure.