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“Sure,” said Jack. “Aakash, formerly known as Aditi Chopra. An old friend of yours, I believe?”
Munna pursed his lips. “No friend of mine.”
“No, that’s right, a friend of Nimboo Baba’s. Well, at least Aakash is singing. He’s with the cops right now, telling them everything he knows about you and Nimboo Baba. And given that he’s Nimboo Baba’s lover, I’m guessing he has a lot of dirt. Enough to put you both back inside.”
“Is that so?” said Munna. “And I suppose you’re here to tell me this because of your great regard for me? You just want the best for me, is that right, Jack?”
Jack glanced from one expressionless bodyguard to the other, and then back at Munna. This was why they hadn’t searched him. He was outnumbered, outgunned.
“No,” said Jack, shaking his head, “quite the opposite, but what I want more than your downfall is to know the whereabouts of the bomb.”
“Bomb?”
“Come on, Munna. The bomb planted by the Indian Mujahideen, aimed at an international target in Mumbai. You know where it is. I bet you could even abort it if you needed to.”
“You credit me with far too much influence.”
“Do I? Look, Munna. Let’s get down to business. Let’s you and me do a deal. You give up the bomb and I lose Aakash. I make him disappear. You let that bomb go off and I’ll nail you. I’ll nail you for everything, I’ll place you with the bomb, and the whole fucking world will want to see you hang. Give up the bomb, Munna, it’s a no-brainer.”
Munna sighed. “Jack Morgan, Jack Morgan, you have such a reputation. I expected something more from you, something more sophisticated.”
Jack felt his heart sink. That had been his last gambit. But he flashed Munna a smile, a Jack Morgan smile that said what he was really thinking, which was, Fuck. “I’m sorry to disappoint,” he said.
“Life is full of disappointments,” said Munna, as if saying “c’est la vie.” “Because this—this is your great bluff? Fuck you, Morgan, I have more contacts at the Mumbai police than you give me credit for. Your boy Hari flipped out and put a bullet in Aakash. My troubles ended there. And as for your bomb? Fuck you, I’m admitting nothing. Now get out.” A nod to his left, and the music was turned back up.
Jack swallowed, desperately trying to think.
An idea nagged at him. He let it nag, the beginnings of a dread realization beginning to form.
The gun at his hip. He felt it there.
You’re just going to let me leave, with me knowing you’re behind a bomb about to explode in Mumbai?
On Munna’s face was an odd, uneasy expression. He reached for the drink in front of him and brought it to his lips, and Jack saw the gesture for what it was: an attempt to hide duplicity. He knew that in an ocean of wrongness there was something extra wrong here …
Jack felt himself go cold, and all of a sudden he knew—he knew exactly why Munna wanted him to leave, and time slowed down. Music pounded, but for Jack it faded into the background. He was watching. His face stayed the same, but he was watching: he saw sweat glistening on Munna’s forehead, Munna’s chubby fingers stroking the hair of the girl at his side, the young strung-out girl. He saw the bodyguards, the telltale bulges in their tailored jackets, their watchful eyes, their itchy fingers.
Okay. The bodyguard who stood to the right of Munna was left-handed. He was wearing a gun beneath his right armpit, but he’d need to take a step away from Munna and the girl in order to draw and fire.
In a firefight, he would draw second. Mentally, Jack designated him Costello.
The music t
hrobbed.
From the way he was sniffing, the guy standing to the left of Munna had recently snorted cocaine. Even so, he was right-handed. He could draw and fire across Munna and the girl with ease.
In a firefight he would draw first. Jack designated him Abbott.
And Munna? Well, Munna was sitting, so his draw would be impeded. What’s more, Jack knew that Munna’s sidearm was a gold-plated Desert Eagle, and gold-plated Desert Eagles were notoriously heavy and inaccurate. He’d have been better off carrying a wok.
In a firefight, Munna would draw a dismal third.
He had men stationed in the adjacent booths, through which you had to pass if you wanted to get in or out. No doubt the music was also loud in those booths, but they’d hear the shots and come running. Four more men, two on either side. He’d seen drinks, lots of drinks, and if one of the close protection was doing bumps it was safe to say those guys were coked up to the gunnels too.
So—seven altogether. Not great odds. But Jack had faced worse.
Actually, no. Maybe he hadn’t faced worse.
