The Perplexing Theft of the Jewel in the Crown

Chopra hurtled through the interior of the yacht, hot on the heels of Sunil Kartik. Though he prided himself on his fitness Kartik was younger, leaner and in better condition. Kartik had the added advantage of knowing the layout of his pleasure boat intimately.

As Chopra skidded around another corner he caught a flash of Kartik’s handmade brogues as they disappeared down a stairwell. He halted a second, wheezing, then leaped back into the chase.

As Kartik ran he threw obstacles into his pursuer’s path: a bust of his hero Alexander the Great, a gold-plated statue of Shiva in his aspect as destroyer, a priceless Oriental vase that shattered on the marble floor and scattered porcelain shards under Chopra’s feet.

Chopra thundered down a passageway that ran past the galley. At that precise moment a white-suited chef chose to step out from the galley doors holding a punchbowl. ‘Out of the way!’ roared Chopra, but it was too late. He barrelled into the man, whose eyebrows had shot up towards his jauntily angled toque blanche.

The punchbowl completed a somersault in the air, dumping its contents over Chopra and drenching him in rum and fruit. The bowl landed on the chef’s head.

Chopra lay on the tiled floor staring up at the ceiling. A bright white light coalesced above his head. All noises seemed to have become muted, and then he heard a steady thundering like an approaching steam train… He realised that it was his heart, flailing wildly against his ribs. Dammit! Not again! Not now!

In the past few months, his heart had been remarkably well behaved. This had been partly due to Chopra’s own self-enforced avoidance of stressful activity, and partly thanks to Poppy’s stern vigilance. But now, now he was back in the fray, and the old bomb ticking away in the centre of his chest was reminding him that it had merely gone quiescent for a while; it had not been defused.

He struggled to his feet, rubbing his breastbone with the heel of his hand. He heaved in a deep lungful of air, then continued on his way.

He reached the stern of the yacht just in time to see Sunny Kartik scrambling around inside a speedboat bobbing beside the landing apron.

He raced down the shallow stairs leading down to the apron, taking three steps at a time. Just as he bounded onto the apron, Kartik threw off the boat’s moorings, gunned the motor and leaped to the wheel. In a fury of thrashing seawater, it began to pull away.

He raced across the landing apron and leaped after the departing boat, falling against the side of it with a heavy thud. His arms hooked themselves around the starboard gunnel, while his legs plunged into the water.

Chopra was dragged along by the speeding motorboat, clinging on for dear life. The roar of the motor was deafening; backwash from the wake splashed over him in a furious torrent. Each time he attempted to scrabble up, he would lose his footing and slip back down again. If he had not been so preoccupied with survival, he would have been numb with terror.

If he lost his grip, he would drown. It was that simple. There would be no one to save him, not this far out into the harbour, not at this time of night.

Kartik was swinging the speedboat in a wide arc back towards the mainland. The mechanics of the turn lifted the boat’s starboard hull out of the water, dragging Chopra with it. With a monumental effort, he scissored his legs up and over the side of the hull.

He collapsed into the motorboat’s bilge, a froth of seawater spluttering from his mouth, his body drenched from head to toe. Finally, having regained a semblance of composure, he lifted himself onto his haunches.

Kartik, intent on the wheel, had clearly not sensed his presence. The billionaire playboy was focused on guiding the speedboat back towards the distant lights of Apollo Bunder.

Chopra raised his voice above the roar of the outboard motor. ‘Stop the boat!’

Finally Kartik turned. Astonishment flashed across his features. Then he turned back, flipped the boat onto automatic pilot and leaned under the dashboard. When he straightened, he was holding a fishing gaff in his hand.

Steadying himself against the motion of the boat, Chopra got to his feet. Then he reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and took out the gun he had snatched from Bomberton as he ran from the ballroom.

Kartik’s eyes narrowed. His arms fell to his sides. He dropped his gaze to the handgun as if judging whether or not to charge. But Chopra’s arm did not waver.

Finally, Kartik stepped backwards and cut the motor. The boat drifted to a standstill.

‘Sunil Kartik, I am making a citizen’s arrest. I arrest you for the crime of stealing the Crown of Queen Elizabeth.’

Kartik frowned. ‘Citizen’s arrest? Aren’t you a policeman?’ Then his eyes narrowed. ‘Wait a minute. I recognise you. You were in the Tata Gallery when I—’ He stopped.

Chopra nodded. ‘Yes. My name is Chopra. It took me a while to place you, but now I have it. You were the Sikh gentleman, weren’t you?’

Kartik gave a thin smile. ‘A rather convincing disguise, even if I do say so myself.’

‘That’s how you got the crown out,’ continued Chopra. And in his mind’s eye was an image of the circus owner Tiger Singh performing the three-ball trick, making the ball vanish beneath his improvised turban. He now knew that the big Sikh in the Tata Gallery – Sunny Kartik – had executed a similar sleight-of-hand.

The whole plan shimmered in Chopra’s mind now, each detail laid out in blinding clarity.

Months ago Sunny Kartik had installed his man Prakash Yadav in the Prince of Wales Museum to plant the gas canisters and plastic explosive inside the Kali statue. And Chopra was now certain that the explosive had not been brought in on the day of the heist – it had been there all along, left there by Yadav. Chopra thought that he now understood exactly how the explosive had been employed in the heist. He believed that it had been used from inside the jewel room. To his mind, it was the only way to explain the debris that had been found in the corridor, a detail that had bothered him since the very beginning.

A day before the heist, just before he vanished, Yadav had installed a programmed virus into the museum’s new CCTV system, probably using something as simple as a USB stick.

On the day of the robbery Bulbul Kanodia and Sunny Kartik had entered the museum together, Kartik disguised as a Sikh. The metal scanner detected his Sikh kara, his steel bracelet, but Kartik had made such a fuss – claiming that he could not remove the bracelet even if he wished to – that the guards had let it through. This would be vital to the plan later on. Kanodia, for his part, had brought in an asthma inhaler into which had been built the resonance generator that they would subsequently use to crack the display case.

At the pre-planned moment the CCTV cameras were disabled by the computer virus. Kartik and Kanodia had been monitoring the daily queues, knowing that each group of twenty was only permitted to stay inside the jewel room for a set time. They knew roughly when they could expect to enter the museum and had set a window for the start of the CCTV blackout accordingly.

He quickly recovered the pressurised gas canisters, the plastic explosive, and nose filters and latex gloves for himself and Kanodia from the Kali statue. Employing the gas canisters, they swiftly rendered everyone in the room unconscious.

While Kanodia used the resonance generator to smash the display case, Kartik put into effect the ingenious plan they had come up with to throw those who would ultimately investigate the theft off the scent.

Using a minute amount of plastic explosive he blasted a small hole in the sealed rear door of the gallery, just enough to put his arm through and place a much larger quantity of plastic explosive on the outside of the door. The second explosion would blow a bigger hole, enough to obliterate signs of the first. In this way the authorities might be fooled into believing that the thieves had entered the gallery from the corridor. There was nothing Kartik could do about the small amount of debris deposited in the corridor from the first explosion – he had simply relied on the forensics experts assuming this to be blowback. At least for long enough to muddy the initial investigation.

Having set the explosive outside of the door Kartik had then taken the crown from Kanodia and placed it beneath his fake turban before securing the turban back on his head. Chopra guessed that he must have also taken the nose filters from himself and Kanodia – together with their latex gloves – and pushed them into the plastic explosive in an attempt to obliterate this incriminating evidence. He now had only to light the detonation fuse.

Then he and Kanodia had lain down in the gallery and waited for the explosion, just two more innocent victims of the heist.

When the Force One team had hustled them out of the museum just minutes later, Kartik – the crown concealed beneath his turban – would have set off the metal scanner. But he had simply pointed to his kara. The guards already knew that he had taken it in with him. They had not bothered to look further.

‘You and Kanodia planned this together, didn’t you?’ said Chopra. ‘Backed by the Chauhan gang.’

‘Kanodia?’ Kartik sneered. ‘Kanodia wouldn’t have the brains or the guts to pull off something this big. As for the Chauhan gang…’ He laughed. ‘This was my caper, Chopra. I merely brought Kanodia in to authenticate the diamond and remove it from the crown without damaging it. I knew of his past record. I knew he would keep his mouth shut.’

Kartik hesitated before speaking: ‘Have you any idea what it’s like, being the man who has everything? From the moment I was born there was nothing that I had to work for, nothing to strive for. My every whim was taken care of. I had only to crook my little finger and Daddy would take out his chequebook. Everyone around me was there to do my bidding. I was never allowed to achieve a single thing for myself.’

‘But where is the challenge, Chopra? What made Alexander conquer nation after nation? Why did he lie down and die when his men forced him to turn homewards? Without challenge, life has no meaning.’ Kartik’s face was shadowed in the marine night. ‘My father expects me to follow in his footsteps. To take over the empire he has built. But I have no interest in an empire I had no hand in fashioning. I created the Bombay Billionaires Club so that I would have something that was mine; something that belonged to me. It is that simple.’ Suddenly, Kartik’s voice was feverish with excitement. ‘You cannot imagine the rush! To plan something that pushes your abilities to the limit, that requires daring and courage and carries with it the genuine risk of danger. To then execute that plan to perfection. Let me tell you, there is no thrill like the thrill of besting fate.’

‘Killer?’ Kartik’s face radiated confusion. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Prakash Yadav. The man you sent into the museum to plant the gas canisters and the plastic explosive.’

Kartik laughed, the noise echoing over the moonlit water. ‘Yadav – as you call him – is very much alive. His real name is Naresh Gadkar. He was my bodyguard, and a very sharp chap for all that. Now there was a man who understood challenge! He performed his role perfectly. And once he had done so, he understood that he could not hang around. He is thousands of miles away from here, back in his native village in the south. A wealthy man for the rest of his days. Gadkar understands that wealth and health do not always go together. He will never return to Mumbai and he will never open his mouth. He took a risk and it has paid off for him. He is content. And very much alive.’

Kartik shrugged. ‘One cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs. Besides, Garewal is a cop. No one is going to miss one more cop in Mumbai. They are all as crooked as the day is long. The things they do each day make my crime pale by comparison.’

Kartik stared at him. ‘Now I remember where I have seen you before. You are the one who cracked that trafficking ring. “The one honest cop in Mumbai.” Isn’t that what the papers called you? It seems to me as if you are taking your press a bit too seriously, my friend.’ Kartik leaned forward and began to speak more quickly. ‘Look, this does not have to end here. I will return the diamond. You can take it back, be the big hero. Earn yourself some more headlines. All you need to do is look the other way. By tomorrow I will be on another continent. I am thinking South America, one of those hot and humid countries with no extradition treaties. Fast women and samba music. Loud shirts and beach parties till dawn. What do you think?’

‘Garewal has a family. You would have let him rot in jail, just so that you could have your challenge.’

‘When you steal a wallet, you can get away with it. But when you steal the Koh-i-Noor diamond, someone must pay. They won’t just let it go. I am afraid Garewal simply drew the short straw.’

Chopra’s face was suffused with rage. ‘That’s all you have to say? “Garewal drew the short straw”?’ He cocked the revolver. ‘I am taking you in, Kartik. You will answer for your crimes. Let us see how you like it in Arthur Road Jail.’

Kartik reached into the pocket of his tuxedo. He held out his arm and opened his fist. In the centre of his palm lay the Koh-i-Noor diamond.

‘This is what they want, Chopra. Not me.’ With a flick of the wrist he flung the diamond across the boat. Instinctively Chopra made a grab for the jewel… From the corner of his eye he saw Kartik lunging towards him. He turned back, one hand grasping for the diamond, the other attempting to keep the gun trained on his assailant. He failed on both counts.

The diamond bounced off his sleeve and spun away until it was perched on the very rim of the boat, just beside the outboard motor. At the same instant Kartik steamed into him, carrying them both to the floor.

Chopra’s finger tightened around the handgun’s trigger. The gun bucked in his hand, the shot echoing harmlessly over the silent waters.

The two men grappled in the bottom of the boat. Chopra struggled furiously, but Kartik was bigger and stronger. Eventually Kartik landed a solid blow that knocked the wind out of him.

The younger man staggered to his feet as Chopra wheezed beneath him. Stars swam before his eyes, adding new constellations to the ones visible behind Kartik’s shoulder.

‘I’m really sorry to have to do this, but you leave me no choice. I tried being reasonable, but some people just won’t listen to reason.’ He levelled the weapon at Chopra’s leg. ‘Don’t worry. I am not going to kill you. As I have said I am no murderer. I am merely going to incapacitate you long enough to escape. I am afraid I have nothing with which to tie you up, and I cannot pilot the boat and keep an eye on you at the same time… Now, which leg would you prefer to be shot in?’

‘Neither,’ wheezed Chopra and lashed out with a foot, catching Kartik squarely in the groin. With a howl of pain, the younger man doubled up.

His finger tightened on the trigger and the gun went off. By a whim of fate the bullet struck the Koh-i-Noor, pinging it over the edge of the boat and into the water.

For a brief second it bobbed on a wave lapping against the boat’s hull and then sank into the inky darkness.

He leaned down and took the gun from Kartik’s unresisting grip. ‘You do not need ropes to incapacitate a man,’ he said. ‘I have always found that a well-placed boot is just as effective.’

Kartik remained curled up on the floor of the boat, the occasional mewling sound the only message from the particular circle of hell into which he had descended.

Chopra turned to the boat’s stern. His dark eyes scanned the swirling seawater beyond the hull. But there was no sign of the diamond.

A tremendous disappointment roared through him. The harbour was deep out here and the currents unpredictable. The chances were that the diamond would never be recovered, no matter how many men and how much money the governments of Britain and India threw into the search. It was not the resolution that he had hoped for.

But then again, his duty was to his client, to Shekhar Garewal, and he had succeeded in proving Garewal’s innocence.

Scanning the simple set of controls, he managed to switch on the motor. The boat roared to life.

Chopra grabbed the wheel and steered the speedboat back towards The King’s Ransom. Behind him, twinkling like a thousand fireflies in the night, were the lights of the city that he had guarded for more years than he cared to remember.

A SHOWDOWN IN MUMBAI HARBOUR