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They stepped out of the company Honda Civic and into the searing heat of Mumbai. Stopping to let a couple of stylish ladies pass, they crossed to Michel and tried to enter the store—only to find the door locked.
Santosh stepped back, puzzled. “Oh bloody hell,” he said, realizing the problem. It wasn’t the sort of shop where you just went inside. Oh no. You had to be allowed in.
Sure enough, a snooty sales assistant was watching them from a window, wearing the bored, expressionless look of the terminally trendy. Exactly the same look he’d seen on the customers at the Shiva Spa. “Aakash” would be right at home here, he mused.
“Can we come in?” he mouthed, and the bored-looking sales assistant did all but roll her eyes as she surveyed them from a distance. At last she relented and unlocked the door.
“Good day to you, sirs,” she said. “How may I help you?”
Another assistant, standing at the counter, momentarily glanced up from flicking through a magazine then looked back down.
“I’m looking for information about a pair of shoes,” said Santosh, casting his eyes around the shop.
The assistant smiled wanly as he looked for the pair. He found them with a triumphant “Ah!” and scuttled over to where they were displayed. “These,” he said, holding them up with a glance at Hari, who confirmed that they were indeed the shoes from the CCTV footage.
“Those shoes are for display purposes only, I’m afraid,” said the assistant, evidently relishing the terrible news she was about to impart. “They are custom-made to order and the waiting list is …” She called over her shoulder, “How long for the Oakleys, Ria?”
Without glancing up from her magazine, Ria said, “Two years.”
“Two years,” repeated Assistant One, unnecessarily.
“Ah, but I don’t want to buy a pair,” explained Santosh. “I want to know who else has bought a pair.”
“I’m sorry?” said the assistant, eyebrows shooting up.
Santosh looked at her, his already low expectations sinking further. He could tell how this one was going to end.
Sure enough, in a matter of minutes the two Private men were back in the Honda, with Santosh cursing—cursing his luck, the two snooty assistants; whatever there was to curse, he was cursing it.
“Hey, boss,” said Hari from the driver’s seat, and Santosh became aware that the IT guy was making no move to drive off. Indeed, he was sitting with the laptop on his lap, lid up, tapping away.
“What are you doing?”
“The shop’s router was behind the counter. That particular model came with a generic password you were supposed to change as soon as you’d set it up, but of course nobody ever does so—hey presto—we’re in.”
He beamed at Santosh, who craned over. “What do you mean? You’ve hacked into their computer?”
“No, I’ve hacked into the router. Now …” He jabbed a button with a flourish. “Now I’ve hacked into the computer. What were the shoes called again?”
“Oakleys.”
“Here we go. Oakleys waiting list. God, the lying cow—the waiting list is only six months.”
“Just go to the orders fulfilled,” said Santosh.
A list of twelve or thirteen names scrolled up on the screen in front of him; at least half of them had been shipped overseas. Those left would all have to be checked, of course, but there was one name in particular that jumped out at him.
N. D’Souza, the Attorney General.
Chapter 26
“DOES THAT LOOK like the Attorney General, Nalin D’Souza?” asked Santosh.
In the conference room, the members of the Private team were rewatching the CCTV footage for what must have been the thousandth time. Takeout containers were spread out on the table in front of them but for the time being went ignored.
“It’s difficult to tell from this angle,” said Nisha, studying the 108-inch LCD screen, everything bigger and blurrier than in real life.
“This guy doesn’t seem to have the AG’s bearing,” said Santosh, squaring his own shoulders as if to make the point.
