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“What more do you want?” the voice had asked.
Jamini had been about to reply when the line had gone dead. “Hello?” she’d asked, a tad desperately, but had realized that the caller had hung up.
Just as she’d thought that she had blown it, her phone had rung once again. “It’s me calling from a different number,” the voice had said. “I don’t trust your type.”
“Did you kill Bhavna Choksi and Priyanka Talati?” Jamini had asked, scribbling notes on the ruled pad in front of her.
“Absolutely. All three murders have happened in Mumbai, all executed by the same person, in the same manner. The police are covering it up to prevent panic.”
“Who is the third? You mentioned Bhavna Choksi and Priyanka Talati,” Jamini had said rapidly.
“A foreign doctor. Her name was Kanya Jaiyen. She was staying at the Marine Bay Plaza Hotel when she was killed.”
“Why were the women murdered?” Jamini had asked.
“I have done my duty by calling you and telling you that all three murders are connected,” the voice had said. “Do some part of the fucking investigation yourself!”
The second call had lasted less than a minute.
Chapter 37
THE MAN WAS extremely thin, almost gaunt. His eyes seemed to pop out of his face due to the fact that there wasn’t an ounce of extra flesh anywhere on his body. His delicate looks belied his intent, though. He was the chief of the Indian Mujahideen—an Islamist militant group dedicated to carrying out attacks against the Indian state—and one of the most feared individuals among those in the know about terrorism.
Investigations by security agencies had revealed that the Indian Mujahideen was actually a front for the Pakistan-based Lashkar-e-Taiba. The avowed purpose of the Lashkar was to create an Islamic caliphate across South Asia and, to that end, it had been sponsoring acts of terror in Kashmir as well as other parts of India, having been provided with moral, strategic, and financial support by Pakistan’s premier intelligence agency, the ISI.
The gaunt man exited the taxi and waited at the corner of Jai Prakash Road and Yari Road in the Versova district of Mumbai. Less than a minute later a black Mercedes-Benz pulled up beside him. Due to the dark sunblinds the occupant within was not visible to the outside world.
The front door opened and a bodyguard jumped out. He quickly patted down the gaunt man and opened the rear door for him. The Indian Mujahideen man got inside. Already ensconced in the rear was the owner of the vehicle.
“I am only meeting you because I like to consider all business proposals,” said the vehicle’s owner. “So speak.”
“Mumbai is your fiefdom,” replied the thin man. “Anything and everything is possible once you decide to make it happen.”
“What do you want?” asked Munna impatiently.
“I require thirty kilograms of RDX,” explained the Mujahideen man. “I am willing to pay a premium for the right quality, delivered to the right place at the right time.”
“And what makes you think that I can supply that?” asked Munna, playing innocent in his trademark style.
The thin man smiled. “Your reputation is glorious. Your name is mentioned in reverence not only in India but also in Pakistan. I am told that the only reliable source in India is you.”
Munna lit a cigarette with his solid gold lighter. He took
a deep puff, exhaled, and thought about the matter for a minute. Without any warning, he stubbed out the cigarette on the Mujahideen man’s hand.
The man screamed in agony as the cigarette seared his skin. Munna laughed. “You can barely handle the heat of a cigarette. What makes you so cocky about handling thirty kilos of deadly explosives?”
The thin man cradled his burned hand in the other and, ignoring the pain, replied: “In your interest and mine, it is better that this transaction should remain a business one only. You do not need to know more than I have told you. Name your price.”
Within a moment, Munna’s vise-like grip was at the other man’s throat. Munna continued to clutch it with one hand, allowing his prey an occasional gasp for breath. Just as the thin man thought that he would pass out, Munna let go abruptly.
“I may have my faults, but I do not do business with terrorists. Got that?” he said gruffly. “Why on earth would you think I would support a terrorist attack—on Indian soil?”
The gaunt man tried one last angle. “Perhaps if I were to tell you the target?”
Munna looked at him, eyebrows raised.
“Go on,” he said.
