Guha had lost badly.
Dejected, he had been about to hand in his resignation at the Daily Express when his editor had called him into his office. “Even though you lost, I like your spunk,” the editor had told him. “I had a chance to hear some of the talks that you gave to your colleagues. They were pretty good. Have you considered a career in television?”
The editor had proceeded to tell Guha that the Daily Express had decided to start a twenty-four-hour news channel called DETV. A consortium of investors had agreed to fund the project. The editor had felt that Guha would be ideally suited to anchor the primetime news show and spearhead the channel’s investigations. Guha had jumped at the opportunity.
Life was suddenly being kind to him. During his stint contesting elections, he had met a young columnist who worked the entertainment desk. Her name was Rita and she’d had the most gorgeous dimples when she smiled. Guha had fallen head over heels in love with her and they had ended up getting married just three months later.
Guha had worshiped the ground Rita walked on. Never had a day gone by without him sending her notes, flowers, and little presents to tell her how much he loved her. They had taken weekend trips to romantic hotels and on one such trip Rita had collapsed as she was getting into the car. An ambulance had rushed her to hospital, where a series of diagnostic tests had been performed. The doctor had informed Guha that Rita had a condition known as cardiomyopathy. It was a disease in which the heart muscle—the myocardium—progressively deteriorated, eventually leading to heart failure. While less severe versions of the condition could be handled with medication, pacemakers, defibrillators, or ablation, the severest forms would eventually result in death. The only alternative was a heart transplant.
Guha’s life had been turned upside down yet again. While Rita had remained in a hospital bed, Guha had begun to meet cardiologists and heart specialists to find ways to save the life of the woman he loved. He had eventually settled on a brilliant surgeon from Kerala whose practice was from a private hospital in New Delhi. He had successfully carried out eleven heart transplants and was acknowledged as India’s leading specialist in the procedure. He had painstakingly put out the word to various hospitals that he was in need of a heart that matched the age, weight, and size requirements of Rita.
Usually such requests took months for any response, but then there had been a miracle. A young man who was brain dead was being taken off life support at a hospital in Pune and the family had decided that the best tribute they could pay their son would be to allow his organs to live on inside others. The Pune surgeon had telephoned Rita’s doctor to convey the good news. “We’ll ensure that the organ reaches you within four hours of removal,” he’d said.
The next day they had waited. And then waited some more. And then there had been a call from Pune. There had been a delay in transporting the organ to Pune Airport owing to traffic. They had diverted the organ to Mumbai instead in order to ensure that the ischemic time requirement was met and that the organ was put to use for another patient.
A week later Rita had died.
Guha had been a broken man but he had refused to cry. After all, he was the Deliverer. How could the Deliverer go soft? His whole life had been a series of terrible events. Guha had picked himself up and gone back to the studio and that had become his new battlefield. It was Rita’s death that had made Guha into the aggressive and relentless television crusader that people now knew him as.
Several months after Rita had died, his Kerala-based doctor had met with him. He’d revealed to Guha that he was suspicious of what had transpired. Upon making inquiries, he had found that there had been no transport delay in Pune. He had been convinced that someone somewhere had been bribed in order to make the organ available to someone else.
“Who?” Guha had asked.
The doctor had shrugged. “Difficult to say. There are many unscrupulous people and dodgy organizations that are profiting from such activities. This is nothing short of a war.”
It had been no longer sufficient to seek the truth by ruthlessly pursuing criminals and scammers in his studio. The entire nation depended on him to clean up the mess created by politicians and corrupt officials. The nation wanted justice. It was the Deliverer’s job to deliver it.
Chapter 108
CARROT AND STICK began. And what the watching public saw was Ajoy Guha in his usual black leather seat. Sharp-eyed viewers might have noticed that there was a splodge of blood on the sleeve of his white shirt, and that he was a little more agitated and unkempt than usual, but otherwise it was the same Ajoy Guha in his usual place, legs crossed, cheek bulging slightly with a lozenge that he sucked, beadily regarding his viewers through his glasses.
“Good evening,” he said. “Tonight I would like to talk to you about our wonderful city’s health care.”
He held up Maya’s essay and read the title. “‘Health Care, Fair and Square?’ by Maya Gandhe. This essay came into my possession a few days ago, when I was in the act of murdering the pedophile Amit Roy.”
Here Guha paused, as though to leave room for the audience reaction. However, there was never any audience for Carrot and Stick, and on this particular occasion there were no production staff present either. Moments before the show had gone live, with the producer and various researchers panicking that their presenter had not yet appeared, Ajoy Guha had turned up. He had been using one hand to push a bound, gagged, and beaten-looking Jai Thakkar into the studio. In the other hand he’d held a Glock 17.
In moments Guha had cleared the studio, using locks designed to prevent intruders disrupting the show to lock himself and Thakkar alone into the studio. A skeleton staff had remained behind in the control room. Guha had warned them that Thakkar would die if they failed to broadcast events as they unfolded. Threats or not, all involved knew full well that the broadcast would continue.
Among those locked out were the Private team, Sharma, and a small squad of armed response officers, all of them watching on monitors in a corridor outside the studio. Guha had set the camera to roll but couldn’t change the angle or depth of vision, so what it failed to broadcast was that at Guha’s feet lay Thakkar, his eyes nervously fixed on the Glock Guha held to his forehead, also out of sight.
At the mention of Maya, Nisha’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh God,” she said, as Guha continued his monologue.
“From the pen of this young girl comes hope for the future. A simple desire that health care for Delhi, for the whole of India, should be delivered in a more egalitarian fashion.” He held up the essay, now somewhat dog-eared. “This essay—I’ve posted it to my Twitter account and I urge you to read it—this essay is a vision of the future penned by a little girl. Just a child. However, the piece of film I’m about to show you is a terrifying vision of the present—though soon, I hope to consign it to the past—run by the so-called adults, our leaders and representatives, our corporate heads and ministers, the doctors who command our trust—all of them committed not to saving lives as they would have us believe, but to lining their own pockets at our expense.
“This bit of film will shock you, I guarantee it. And you may watch it and feel the familiar sense of injustice and impotence. You will ask yourself if things will ever change. Well, ladies and gentlemen, when the report is over, we’ll come back and I will show you change. I will show you change in action.”
He looked over the top of his glasses at the control room, waggling the Glock threateningly. Those in the control room did as they were asked, and as newsmen, they did it gladly. They ran the story.
In the corridor outside, cops and the Private team gathered around a flustered studio manager. “The idea is that if you know the code you can lock the door from the inside,” she explained nervously, “and of course Ajoy knows the code.”
“There must be a way to override it,” said Santosh.
“There is. It needs two of us to input a master code. The head of security is on his way now.”
“Is there a
nother way into the studio?” asked Sharma.
“The code controls all doors,” she explained. “Once the doors are overridden, you can come in through the control room, or from the other end, but you’d be coming at Ajoy from the front. This is the only door that brings you in from the side.”
“What kind of screwy security system is this anyway?” frowned Sharma.
An elderly security man arriving fixed him with a stare. “We have all sorts of celebrities, dignitaries, and notables in and out of our studios, Mr. Sharma,” he said. “We need to be able to guarantee their safety.”
Sharma indicated through the porthole window. “Mr. Thakkar doesn’t look particularly safe to me.”
“We’ve never had a presenter produce a gun before, Mr. Sharma,” said the security guard reasonably. “This is what you call an unprecedented situation.” He nodded to the studio manager, keyed in three digits to a door panel, and then stepped aside to allow her to finish the code. There was a click and a light turned from red to green.
Now a silence fell across those in the corridor as Sharma issued whispered instructions to his armed response team. Officers brought assault rifles to bear and took up positions by the door.
Back in the studio, if Guha was aware that the door lock had been circumvented, he made no sign. The film had ended. The story was out there, and now he was telling the story of the Deliverer, telling of his beloved wife Rita and how he pledged to take up arms against the same corruption and degeneracy that had killed her.
“I am sorry, people of Delhi, that my actions as the Deliverer brought you a period of unrest and uncertainty. But I promise with my hand on my heart that my intentions were benign, that I intended to rid the city of those elements that would seek to suck it of its lifeblood in order to deliver it into a better future.”
He stood, kicking his seat aside, reached down, grabbed Thakkar, and hauled him backward so that for the first time the CEO appeared on screen. “Meet Jai Thakkar of ResQ.” He stooped to rip off the tape from Thakkar’s mouth. “Mr. Thakkar, say hello to the people of Delhi. Tell them what you have done.”
In the corridor the elderly security guard spoke to Sharma. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Commissioner. You may not realize, but out there in the city everybody is watching what’s going on in here. Other channels are covering this channel. Traffic is at a virtual standstill. Millions of people are going to see every move you make.”
Sweat glistened on Sharma’s forehead. “Then millions of people are going to see us take down one of the sickest serial killers the city has ever seen.”
“You sure the people see it that way?” asked Santosh.
“I don’t give a fuck what the people think right now, Wagh,” snapped Sharma, and then addressed the armed response team leader. “Go in there, take him out before he kills a CEO on air. Do it. Now!”
The team leader nodded, twirled his finger in the air. Everybody else pressed themselves to the walls as the armed response team readied themselves and one of the men knelt, the barrel of his assault rifle pointing to the ceiling as with his other hand he reached to the handle and eased the door open a sliver.
Inside, Guha saw the door begin to open, the armed officers about to launch their incursion. At his feet, Thakkar was mewling, crying, and pleading, admitting all his many sins, spilling the beans to an audience of millions.
“But if the police come in here now, then I end it with a bullet to his head,” said Guha loudly, directing his comments more to the doorway than to his audience. The armed officers froze. Something seemed to occur to Guha. “The person I would like to see is Maya Gandhe. Bring her here to me. Bring her so that she can appear to the people as a symbol of hope for the future.”
In the corridor, the elderly security guard shot Sharma a look that said I told you so and the Commissioner cursed, knowing that Guha was giving him no choice. He couldn’t play games with Thakkar’s life. At least, not live on television. “Can we get her?” he said dreamily, as though he was far away. “Can we get the Gandhe girl?”
Nisha burst forward. “I beg your pardon!” she snapped. “Maya is coming nowhere near here!” Her face was right up to Sharma’s. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”
Sharma looked at her and his eyes were unfocused. He gave a tiny shake of his head and came back to himself. “I’m sorry. You’re quite right. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Tell your men to stand down—I’m going in,” said Nisha.
“No, Nisha, you can’t,” said Santosh.
Jack shook his head.
“He knows me.” Nisha drew her gun, herding armed response officers out of the way like a harassed teacher, and then made her way to the door. “We have history.”
And with that she slipped through the door and into the studio.
Chapter 109
SHE CAME INTO the studio, weapon raised, two-handed, taking short steps inside. There stood Guha. At his feet lay Thakkar, terrified and wracked by snotty sobs, his bound hands held almost as if in prayer. Guha stood with one foot on top of him, stooping slightly to hold the Glock to his head. When he looked up to see Nisha, the studio lights reflected off his glasses so that his eyes seemed to shine white.
“I’m sure I remember giving instructions that if the next person to walk through that door wasn’t Maya Gandhe then I shoot Thakkar,” he said. “Yes, I’m certain I can recollect giving those exact instructions. And yet, and yet, I am greeted by the sight of her mother.” He addressed the camera. “Ladies and gentlemen, you probably can’t see her, but I have been joined by Nisha Gandhe, the mother of Maya, our guide to a better future.”
“How’d you know my name?” Nisha’s voice sounded flat and muffled in the empty studio.
“Why, it’s in the essay … You have read the essay, haven’t you?” he said.
A guilty shockwave passed through Nisha as she stood with her gun trained on Guha. The truth was, she hadn’t read it. She’d fallen asleep reading it and had never gotten around to finishing it. She hadn’t been there to see Maya pick up her prize. Hadn’t been there for Maya at all.
“How is she?” asked Guha. “How is Maya, the little girl I saved from the pedophile Amit Roy? How is that little girl?”
“She’s very well, thank you. Now drop the gun and step away from Thakkar.”
The light flashed on his glasses again. His Glock pressed harder into Thakkar, who whimpered in return. “Are you my assassin?” Guha taunted. “Have they sent you to kill me?”
“Nobody needs to die,” said Nisha. She took a step forward.
“Oh, you know very well that’s not true.” His body language warned her to stay back. “I think we both know that Mr. Thakkar here needs to die. The last of the old guard, the final bloodsucker to extinguish before we can begin again.”
“And you know very well I can’t let you do that,” replied Nisha evenly.
“You won’t shoot. To stop me you’d have to kill me and you don’t want to kill me.”
“I don’t want to kill you but I will if I have to.”
He chuckled. “You had your chance to kill me the other night, and you didn’t.”
“I didn’t have a clean shot. You were a shrinking target.”
“Oh, and there was also the small matter of your little girl urging you not to shoot. Because she knows, doesn’t she? Little Maya knows that the Deliverer is a force for good in this world, and that it’s the likes of Roy, Thakkar, Kumar, and Patel who deserve to die. Essays are a start. They’re a good start, but in order to effect true change—real, profound change—we need to show those who exploit us that we are not prepared to take it any more. And to do that we have to take up arms. The Deliverer has done more to root out corruption in Delhi in weeks than Ajoy Guha managed in years. You can’t deny that.”
“Perhaps,” said Nisha. “And you’re right, Maya thinks you’re a good man.”
“She does?” Guha seemed genuinely touched. “She really does?
”
“Yes, she does. But what if she were to see you kill a man in cold blood on television. Would she still think so then?”
“She would understand in time that I did what had to be done.”
“The fact remains that I can’t let you do it, Guha.”
The tension in the room rose. Nisha controlled her breathing, feeling her heart rate settle. Her hands were steady, her head inclined as she stared down the sight of her .38. Thakkar’s whimpering increased in response to the increased pressure of the Glock pushed at his head, and Guha locked eyes with Nisha, a smile playing at his lips. He turned his head to address the camera. “We’ve reached that point in the show, ladies and gentlemen, where we have to say goodbye to one of our guests.”
With no warning, Guha’s Glock swung upward to point at Nisha.
She squeezed the trigger.
The two shots rang out simultaneously, like every other noise strangely deadened by the sound stage of the studio. Nisha felt a blow, staggered backward from the force of something that punched into her left shoulder, and knew right away she’d been shot. She looked down to see the hole in her jacket, warm blood already beginning to flow down her upper arm. She was struck by a dizzy feeling, knowing the pain would hit her any second now.
And then it did—with a rush of white-hot agony that sent her to her knees on the studio carpet. Her gun arm went limp and the .38 hung uselessly from her fingertips, but at least Guha was also wounded, his shirt bloodied and tattered along one side. Stooping, he bared his teeth in pain as he placed the Glock back to Thakkar’s head.
“Don’t,” she called to him weakly, still unable to raise the .38, her vision clouding.
Guha’s shoulders rose and fell. He shuddered and then pulled the trigger. Thakkar’s head disintegrated, bits of blood, brains, and skull splattering Guha’s face. Grinning. Triumphant. Behind Nisha the door opened and the armed response team burst into the studio.