Thakkar set down his glass. “We have over a hundred patients from the United States lined up to visit Delhi next month,” he said. “As of now you have arranged organs for less than fifty percent of them.”
Arora swallowed. “Why does everything become a crisis with you? You have now started bypassing me and have been directly in touch with Ibrahim. I’m the one who set him up. I even provided him with the van. And now you bypass me and go to him?”
“I wouldn’t need to directly contact Ibrahim if you delivered on your commitments,” replied Thakkar.
“But this is getting dangerous,” argued Arora. “You know what happened at Greater Kailash.”
“Was that Ibrahim’s fault?”
“Of course it was. And now he’s going after poor residents of the slums at Yamuna Pushta. Such an aggressive strategy is a recipe for disaster.”
“What’s the harm in that?” asked Thakkar.
“He and that hack he calls a surgeon do not have the required medical capabilities,” hissed Arora. “Surgeries are being performed in his fucking van! We will all get into trouble…He’s using guys who don’t even have a medical license. If this were ever to get out—”
Before Arora could finish the sentence, Thakkar’s cell phone rang. He took the call. “Hello,” he said, “who’s this?”—already regretting instinctively answering his phone when he didn’t recognize the number.
“Mr. Thakkar? Is that Mr. Thakkar?”
And now Thakkar regretted answering the phone even more bitterly, because though he didn’t outright recognize the voice, there was something about it that pointed to the drawer marked “irritant,” “troublemaker,” “enemy.”
“Who is this?” he repeated cautiously.
“Why, this would be Ajoy Guha of DETV. You were recently a guest on my program, Carrot and Stick.”
“Yes, I remember. I remember it being a most unpleasant experience.”
“Well, I must apologize for that. It is not our aim to make our guests feel uncomfortable. Perhaps you would like to make another appearance, a return visit, so to speak? There is a most important issue I would be very keen to discuss.”
Thakkar felt his insides clench. First Arora’s doom-mongering. Now this. He had a sudden flash of insight: he should have got out while the going was good. He had taken things too far. He hardly dared ask his next question. “What issue are you keen to discuss?”
Now Guha’s voice took on a different tone, as if—yes, of course—the bastard would be recording it. “Mr. Thakkar, I have information that you are illegally trading organs. Would you like to confirm or deny the allegation?”
Oh God, oh God, oh God. This was what it felt like when your world came crashing down.
“Of course I deny it,” hissed Thakkar, “of course I fucking deny it.”
But as if Guha’s call wasn’t bad enough, Thakkar now saw another situation develop. Opposite him Dr. Arora’s eyes had risen from the tabletop and gone to something happening at the far end of the mall. Thakkar turned to see a squad of four armed police enter, and his mouth dropped open. Guha forgotten about, he ended the call, watching as the squad led by the chief, Sharma, made their way across the mall toward the cafe.
As one, the security guards rose to their feet, their seats skidding back on the marble flooring as they reached inside their jackets. At the same time two of the armed policemen brought assault rifles to their shoulders and the other two moved smartly to one side as though to outflank the security detail. Sharma’s voice boomed: “Draw your weapons and we will open fire, gentlemen. It’s that simple.”
To a background of audible gasps from shoppers as they realized what was happening and took shelter behind columns lining either side of the atrium, the security men froze mid-draw, looking to their respective employers for guidance.
Arora gave a nod. Do as you’re told. Thakkar the same.
“Good lads.” By now Sharma was on top of them. “Thakkar,” he boomed, and the ResQ CEO shrank in his seat, “I have a warrant for your arrest under the provisions of the Transplantation of Human Organs Act 1994.” He turned his attention to Arora. “And who might you be?”
Thakkar could see the temptation to lie flick across Arora’s face, but evidently he chose to come clean. “Dr. Arora,” he whimpered. “I’m just a doctor.”
“Just a doctor, are you?” sneered Sharma. “Just a doctor in league with this one, perhaps?”
“No, no, no,” protested Arora, giving himself away in the process.
“I see. What’s so bad about being in business with Thakkar that you’d deny it so vigorously? Not telling me he’s up to no good, are you?”
Locks of greasy hair fell across Arora’s forehead as he grew even more agitated, realizing he was digging himself into a hole. “No, no. I don’t know anything.”
“We’ll soon see about that, won’t we?” said Sharma. For a moment or so it looked as though he was seriously considering arresting Arora, but then for whatever reason thought better of it. With a wave of his hand he indicated to two of his men, who yanked Thakkar from his chair. A moment after that they were gone, leaving Dr. Arora perspiring, despite the arctic chill of the mall’s air conditioning.
Chapter 86
SHARMA LET THAKKAR stew. Of course he did. Despite his fear of the situation, not to mention the temptation to kick himself very hard and repeatedly at pushing his luck over this whole transplant network, Thakkar still felt a wave of contempt for the fat policeman and his ancient, desperately banal methods of intimidation.
The cell was small, hot, and stuffy. He dreaded to think how it felt in summer. He took off his jacket and let the act of neatly folding it shoulder to shoulder calm him, before sitting, smoothing his trousers, then crossing his legs.
Okay, he was in trouble. But he had money. And what was money good for if not for buying yourself out of trouble? What’s more, and perhaps even more importantly, he had friends—or at least one very powerful friend—in high places. They weren’t going to kill him in prison. They couldn’t just keep him here indefinitely. So while there was no doubt he was about to embark on a period of discomfort, it would surely be a relatively short period of discomfort. No, keeping things in perspective, he had nothing overly serious to worry about. At least he was safe from the killer.
Unless the killer turned out to be Sharma. And…
No. No, that was just ridiculous.
Now the cell door opened to admit Sharma and his assistant Nanda. The pair of them looked at Thakkar, perched on the edge of the cot, then Sharma indicated for him to rise. A short time later they were installed in chairs in some kind of interrogation room. An interview suite, they called it, but Thakkar wasn’t fooled.
“We have a lot of questions to ask you, Thakkar,” said Sharma, his customary toothpick wedged between his teeth, “things about your relationship with Jaswal, what you know about the Private detective agency and what they’re doing in Delhi, the role played by this Dr. Arora that I met at Cafe E. But first this racket that you and your friends are running. Let’s start with that.”