0x2000100

  2012-2-8, 17:04:01; CET

16 hours 21 minutes 42 seconds ago

Lucerne, Switzerland . . .

Hugo had his concentration solely fixated upon his computer as usual, a host of other people in the same mien. Scores of screens were in place to show if anything was out of place. It was their job; a very important job.

And yet everyone missed a single little blip; a very important little blip.

  -/0/-

  0x2000101

  2012-2-8, 22:48:45; IST

Location: New Delhi

The sky had darkened, and the streets of New Delhi had never been much for safety. News of women and children being raped and murdered, and not necessarily in that order, was the eidos of life. On one hand, India worshipped the female deity; on the other, it screwed every female it could get its hands on.

Around ten to fifteen years ago, the Indian government decided to give the capital and its residents an American-dream feel. So the Delhi Development Authority, or the DDA as it is called, announced a new plan; the area known as Dwarka would be the one to receive wide tree-lined streets, top class eateries, best hospitals, a condo lifestyle and many other west inspired civil feats. The claim met widespread criticism. Why? Because the farms in the particular area were the most fertile in all of Delhi; so much so that the residents of the neighboring areas never stepped on the land out of their ardent beliefs that it had been blessed by the gods, and that barging in uninvited would provoke terrible wrath upon them. The government showed the finger and went forward with the plan anyway.

Ten to fifteen years later, today, nobody remembers the gods, their blessings, or their wrath. Dwarka is the hot-spot for schools, luxury shops, import cars and foreign workshops. Property rates are sky high and fee for even nominal items in the local shops are around twice the rates being asked for in the outside areas, just because their address has that little word “Dwarka” in print. People regularly go for morning walks and other sport-related activities in the evenly spread parks and gardens. Everything is pretty much close to what was dreamt.

Or, is it?

The area may have developed up to western standards, but the people haven’t. Spits, coughs and chewed gum are a sight adorning each road, street, pavement and even seat. Now ravaged by a trigger-happy generation of criminals, the people do not dare to step out after dark. Moreover, there have been fatal muggings, even in broad daylight. The callous attitude of security authorities only adds to the problem. Parks and gardens transform into meeting grounds for drug peddlers and pimps at nightfall.

Braving the chilling gusts of wind, Radhe, one of these very criminals, made his way to a little known inn. He had received a text message on his cell at half past 10, which was not something he could discard as commercial spam from Africa based outsourcers.

 Wanna be rich? Come down @ the bitch

“The Bitch” was a sort of code for the shady motel where one could get as much drugs and girls as they wanted, maybe more, which was where he was currently headed. The location wasn’t very secure – it was located just on the periphery of the city, near the slum dwellings – but its workings were a well-kept secret and any common idiot with a phone did not know about it. And the cops were blissfully happy in exchange for free services and information whenever they pleased.

He reached at 11, stalked straight towards the makeshift reception, and grabbed the receptionist’s collar, ‘Anybody here to see me?’

‘A woman, boss!’ said the plump thug. He had developed the rather useful habit of addressing everyone as “boss”; it kept him out of trouble. ‘I got a call from a woman saying she will meet you in room #8. No one has come though. The caller also asked to keep the door closed, boss.’

Radhe let go of his collar, thinking, blinking, trying to make sense of that. Usually he was the one who called, especially when women were concerned. The receptionist himself wasn’t the least bit worried about the recent odd events in his motel; he had already been endowed with enough money for keeping mum, and had been notified of the consequence should he not oblige.

Radhe went up the stairs and turned left, not noticing the black silhouette in the far right standing in the shadows, a woman, waiting, watching, observing, and reporting.

‘Incoming,’ she whispered into the small microphone on the collar of her coat.

‘Got it’ was the reply heard by her in the headset in her ear, so small it was nearly as invisible as the air.

  -/0/-

  0x2000102

Radhe stepped in, looked around. Nothing. On the way up he had assumed it to be an ambush by some rival, but nothing. Just an empty room, a bed, a ceiling fan, a small window on the far side, one open bathroom door, and a television near the entrance.

He closed the door without looking back, went up to the bed and gazed. What was another curiosity factor was that he had preferred this same room whenever it had come to girls, the television being the reason. Only three rooms had TVs here, and the other two were on the ground floor, “lower” than the rest. Was that somehow connected? He turned around to sit on the bed.

He never did, never could.

Behind the door was a note, printed on a small hand-torn piece of paper:

  Come to room #2. Alone. Take this note with you.

A fucking goose chase?

He felt an overpowering urge to kill the woman behind this; why not room #2 at once? Why the great game?

Not finding anyone he could kill at the moment, he decided to move to his new pilgrimage. He hated being a puppet, to be played with. Tearing the note brashly from the door, he moved out and towards room #2. The floor was empty, quieter than usual. Almost every time he had come here, he had heard moans, grunts, and occasional screams, from the other rooms. But again, this wasn’t an ordinary night, he figured.

He stepped near the door and just as he was about to open it, heard something from the inside.

Male voices, talking. More importantly, familiar voices.

He pulled out the gun from under his shirt. So it was an ambush after all. But it had been dumb of them to talk. He kicked open the door, and his own jaw dropped open.

Equally surprised were the three faces staring back at him, all too familiar.

Anil . . . the dabangg of his gang, this brazen little horror had joined his crew about five years ago when he had raped his household help and fled with some, nay, most of the bricks of money his miser father had accumulated over the years. With a physique of granite and the strength and mental development of an animal, he was something to watch out for.

Karim . . . the oldest surviving member of the gang, he had personally seen Radhe kill Vijay, the previous leader, with a jackhammer and take over his gang. He had been the creative head – so to speak – to Radhe when he had first started making headlines in this world.

And the last face. His rare find, Madhavan. Just about two years old since his initiation in the business, and he was already in bed with most of the power holders around town. Radhe had never really found out where he was from, as Madhav would go full-blown depressive drama queen on asking. But it never really mattered; he was the smartest of them all. His plans never, absolutely never failed, backfired, or went off routine.

Three of his best men. What the fuckéty fuck?

‘Boss, you too?’ Karim asked.

‘Me too what?’

Anil answered his confused interrogation, ‘Called by a woman and found a note on the door?’

Shit. What’s happening here? ‘You guys too?’

‘Yup,’ it was Madhavan this time, ‘So, you got any idea what’s up?’

‘No better than you I guess’ was all Radhe could say.

‘So . . . you were in room 8?’ Anil asked, smiling a little, while the other two started guffawing. Effect of their recent bong voyage, Radhe judged by the stench that hung around him, of which he took a deep drag, making him feel slightly hungry. He was the only person in the vicinity who did not appear entertained, ‘How’d you know that?’

Silence plummeted like the bass in a Skrillex soundbyte. ‘Serious boss?’

‘Do I sound like laughing, sweetheart?’

‘But then . . .’ Karim trailed off. He then explained how they had been brought here by the same messaging scam, and that the three of them were brought in the impeccable order of rooms #4, 3 and 1.

4318. Their gang.

They had been too lazy to think up a catchy name for their gang, so they had just advertised themselves by that number, Dwarka’s sectors 4, 3, 1 and 8 being their strongholds. Earlier, the other three men had been discussing how cool it would be if another of their “brother” came from room #8.

Not so cool, Karim figured.

Just then, like an answer from god, or probably the devil depending on who they worshipped, Radhe’s phone rang, the number being same as the message.

He picked it up, ‘Who the fuck is this?!’

He, same as his other colleagues, had tried to call the number earlier, and to their surprise, had heard a computerized male voice calling them a dummy for dialing an incorrect number.

‘Someone who will make you rich, as promised’ was the curt reply. In a woman’s voice.

‘How’s that?’

‘Be patient honey, and turn on the loudspeaker in your phone.’

Radhe hesitated, but did so.

‘Now, hello to all you fine gentlemen of 4318. You have been gathered here today for a special purpose. What will just be proposed is both highly lucrative and highly dangerous. If it does not sound like your brand of pot, feel free to walk out. You have 5 seconds.’

None of the four men moved, probably too stunned to do so, for the 5 specified seconds.

‘Impressive! Looks like we have brave men here.’

Anil blinked; how did the woman know none of them had left? Moreover, had the referral to “their brand of pot” been a coincidence or did the woman know what they had been up to while inside the room?

‘So, let’s get to business. If you follow our rules, you would become so rich that you won’t have to earn another penny for the rest of your lives. To give you a fair idea of what that means, we’re talking about $15 million . . .’

The four men were stone cold criminals. None of them remembered having second thoughts about what agony their deeds might cause to anyone else. No remorse whatsoever.

But hearing that made them gasp in a fearfully accurate unison.

‘. . . each.’

Karim almost felt weak in his knees; Madhavan and Anil had already dropped on the bed.

‘A plan is in place, and you are our puppets for executing it.’

Radhe was too stupefied to hate the word “puppet”; but he did have a thought he wanted to share, a question he wanted answered actually. ‘Where do you get that much money in one place?’

‘Simple, a bank’ was her reply.

Of course, a bank, thought Radhe, feeling stupid.

‘Now listen very carefully, we roll tomorrow morning at 7 . . .’