‘Let me get straight to the point,’ said Aziz Khan. ‘You know the Commission’s image has taken a beating in the media and that’s going to cast a shadow on our report and allow these corrupt match-fixers to get away, yet again. I need your help to fix that.’
‘I’m a journalist, not a PR manager,’ said Kajal Banerjee softly, looking around to check no one else was in earshot.
Meetings in her office lobby were becoming more regular than she liked, although on a Sunday afternoon it was relatively safer.
‘Kajal, you are in the media, you write well, Express Today is read widely and even has a TV channel of its own,’ said Aziz. ‘You know you can help us. You know the work we are doing is important and honest.’
‘Honest? Don’t forget you were the guys who leaked stuff to me and turned public perception against Choksi and Mahadevia!’ said Kajal. ‘Now it seems like you even carried out illegal phone tapping. So forgive me if “honest” is not the word that comes to mind when I think of you.’
‘It was all for the right cause, Kajal,’ said Aziz calmly. ‘Choksi is corrupt—you know that. Mahadevia has been fixing matches left, right and centre. We have enough evidence. But we need the world to listen to us, which they won’t after this slander campaign.’
‘Does Justice Shankar know you are here asking me for this?’ asked Kajal. ‘He was against the earlier leaks as well. Shreya told me that. He wanted the media away from the case but he backed off when you guys insisted.’
‘Listen, Shankar wants to do the right thing, but let’s face it—the old man is at a loss how to manage this situation. He thinks merely submitting the report to the court is enough, that the truth will prevail on its own. He doesn’t realize that it’s going to get no coverage in the sold-out media, and in any case, no one is going to read a long-winded report. Our findings and evidence need to be made media-friendly and we need a proper campaign that shouts the truth from the rooftops. He doesn’t get this, and to be honest, the events of the last week have shaken him. His wife has been unwell for years now. All this has taken a toll on him.’
‘So the short answer is that Shankar doesn’t know you’re asking for this PR campaign,’ said Kajal.
‘He doesn’t. But this is the most important thing we can do now,’ said Aziz. ‘We have evidence on Choksi and Mahadevia and some big cricketers. We have phone recordings that make everything clear. But we need people to hear all of this, so we can drown out the din of the useless gossip that has been spread about the Commission.’
‘No one will broadcast unverified stuff in this way,’ said Kajal. ‘You’ll only invite defamation cases.’
‘But it’s all right for them to defame us? It’s okay to discredit the work of months? Doesn’t the Indian public deserve to know that their revered idols are fixers? It’ll be the first time top cricketers will be in the dock, with real evidence. That’s how important all this is,’ said Aziz.
‘I thought differently of you, Aziz,’ said Kajal. ‘I thought that catching Shreya’s killers would be the most important thing for you. When you asked me to meet you today, I thought that’s what would be on the top of your mind. But I was clearly wrong. I thought you really cared for her, but I guess now she’s just … history.’
‘This is what Shreya would want as well,’ said Aziz dryly. ‘I have done what I can to help the police. They’re closing in on Choksi.’
‘So you think it’s Choksi?’ asked Kajal.
‘Through one of his henchmen,’ said Aziz.
Kajal thought of her last conversation with Choksi. Her mind went back to the time she had followed Rishi. She pictured Shreya’s face. Shreya, her fiercely independent collegemate, out to do the right thing.
‘What Shreya would really have wanted is for you to complete your report rigorously,’ said Kajal. ‘Nail whomever you need to—Choksi, Mahadevia … Rishi.’
‘How do you know that we have something on Rishi?’ asked Aziz, looking Kajal straight in the eye. ‘That wasn’t part of the info you got for the article.’
‘When I spoke to her … the day she was killed … she told me you guys have him on the radar,’ said Kajal, biting her lower lip.
‘Did she? Why would she do that?’ asked Aziz.
‘I don’t know. She said someone had called her earlier that day with some unverified information on Rishi. She wasn’t sure it was true and wanted to meet Rishi in person.’
‘Shreya wanted to meet Rishi? Why? And what did she want from you?’ persisted Aziz.
‘She asked me about his involvement in fixing. I had no information. All I knew was that he’s gay, and I told her that.’
‘Rishi is gay?’
‘Yes, it was news to me as well. Don’t ask me how I know,’ said Kajal.
Aziz sank back in his seat, his attention wandering away from the conversation he had just been engaged in.
Kajal looked at the time on her mobile and hastily picked up her handbag. ‘I need to go back up to the office,’ she said abruptly.
That was, of course, a lie.
She had something far more important lined up.
Jayesh Acharya put his feet up on the couch and switched his phone to flight mode. Half a dozen empty beer cans and an ashtray stuffed with cigarette stubs lay on a low coffee table in front of him. The TV was on but he had put it on mute.
‘Still playing the same news,’ he muttered with a laugh, his long, wiry face contorting as he did so.
He had had no idea what would come of the information he had passed on. But seeing the outcome blaring on all the news channels now, he was pleased—a sense of satisfaction he hadn’t felt even after her death. He finally felt like he had got his own back at Shreya.
‘I gave her a final chance, going all the way to her damn office to see if she was willing to atone,’ he thought. ‘But I knew she wasn’t going to change her ways.’
It was on his motorcycle that evening, while speeding along JJ Flyover on his way to Shanti Chambers with the wind whipping his body, that he had made up his mind. If she was going to do what she wanted to, then he was going to do what he needed to.
Jayesh scrolled through the screenshots he had saved on his phone. It had been so easy to get them. For a privacy-obsessed woman, her mistakes were pretty stupid—leaving her phone outside when she was in the shower and using her birthday as her phone’s passcode. All he had needed to do was dip in every couple of days, and in a few weeks, he had taken dozens of screenshots on her phone and sent them to himself.
‘The ugly drunkard was pretty thorough,’ he thought. Affair. Leaks. Tapping. Vasu had used whatever he had given him. ‘He never said whom he was working for, though. Wanted to act like the boss when he was nothing but a fixer—a puppet who does crooked work. Wonder who the puppeteer is.’
Jayesh cast a look at the maroon duffle bag lying on the floor. It had been there since that night. It didn’t have all the cash he had demanded, but it was still a lot of money.
He continued looking through the screenshots. He hadn’t properly read the conversations in many of the chats before, focusing only on the ones he needed to get to Vasu. There were several conversations with Shankar and Aziz Khan.
He scoffed. ‘Wow, these guys really thought they were saving the world. What bullshit.’
Swipe, swipe, swipe, swipe—pause. One of the conversations caught Jayesh’s attention. A message from Shreya to Shankar.
The picture I emailed you is of Vasu Langda. He works for Choksi and Mahadevia.
Jayesh sat up from his slumped posture. So that’s who the puppeteers were.
‘Brajesh Choksi and Navika Mahadevia. As powerful—and frickin’ rich—as they come!’ he thought.
He swung his feet off the couch and looked at the maroon duffle bag again.
‘Small change for such loaded crooks, rolling in fixing money,’ he thought. ‘How much would they … can they … pay to ensure that their purchase of Shreya’s phone chats remains a secret?’
Jayesh guffawed thinking of the goldmine he had discovered. He hadn’t felt this good in ages.
With Shreya out of the way, he was convinced his time had come.
As if on cue, the doorbell rang.
Vichare had no idea what Russi was up to, and where his trail of logic was heading. It was 5 p.m. Choksi was in custody, the clock was ticking and the only thing on the inspector’s mind was whether he would be able to file charges—and if not, how he would deal with the consequences to his career. He chewed at the ends of his moustache more forcefully than usual, while his left leg shook nervously.
‘Inspector saheb, it’s a masterstroke to have got Choksi in custody already,’ said Russi.
Vichare appreciated the old umpire’s sincere attempts at providing him a shot in the arm—his sagging spirit was probably all too visible, and in obvious need of a little boost of encouragement. But, he thought, how could anyone be sure of Choksi’s guilt with this new CCTV video?
‘Good you have hope, Russiji,’ said Vichare. ‘But after this Langda double role discovery, there’s fresh doubt. At least I am full-to confused now. The only thing clear to me is what Sabse Bada Boss will soon be doing to my career. I must discuss with my missus today about going back to Satara and joining my brother as a farmer—’
The sound of a ringing phone put a brake on Vichare’s grim forecast of his future.
It was Russi’s mobile, and it was just the voice the umpire wanted to hear.
‘Russi, those Authics guys have quite an amazing level of security. Not easy to get anything from them,’ said Diwakar.
‘That’s precisely why I called you for help, my friend,’ said Russi. ‘The best for the toughest.’
‘Come on now, no need to flatter your old roommate,’ said Diwakar. ‘You were the reason I retired from umpiring—I knew I wouldn’t be the best in the country while you were active. Lucky Bengaluru Police decided to hire me all those years ago. I managed to muster enough influence in the system for Authics to finally open up.’
‘I’m all ears,’ said Russi, turning on his phone speaker so Vichare and Lobo could listen in. ‘We are all ears.’
‘So you know that the files they received from Shreya Ved were audio recordings,’ said Diwakar. ‘There were six of them. They are recordings of tapped or intercepted phone calls.’
‘We thought they might be,’ said Russi, looking at Lobo.
‘Now here’s what’s interesting. Shreya sent them to Authics—a company she had never hired before—to look into their authenticity.’
‘You mean to check if they were genuine or fake?’ asked Russi.
‘That’s correct,’ said Diwakar.
‘Hmm. I assume then that these were phone recordings she got from some other source,’ said Russi. ‘Had they been from the Commission’s tappings, she wouldn’t have needed to validate their authenticity.’
‘Perhaps. But remember … don’t assume anything,’ said Diwakar.
‘What were Authics’s findings on the recordings?’ asked Lobo.
‘Well, their work is pretty comprehensive. They looked at the technical aspects of the recordings—what they call the metadata—as well as the human aspects, such as the pauses, intonation and sentence construction. They found that five of the six files were genuine—they had no signs of being tampered with post recording. But one was a fake.’
The trio at the other end of the call could hear him tap a few keys on his keypad.
‘I’m sending the recordings now to Constable Lobo’s email address,’ continued Diwakar. ‘They are labelled A to F, and there’s a separate note at the end that contains Authics’s analysis and comments. I hope this helps you catch the crook.’
‘I owe you for this, Diwakar,’ said Russi. ‘Next time you’re in Mumbai, the beers will be on me.’
Lobo’s laptop pinged with the new email as soon as the call was over.
‘Download it immediately,’ instructed Vichare as he and Russi gathered around the laptop once again.
A blue progress bar began inching forward.
‘Of all times, now is when the internet speed has to be so slow!’ groaned Vichare.
After what felt like an hour to the anxious men but was in reality under two minutes, the progress bar reached completion.
Lobo pressed the play button on the audio files and turned up the volume on his laptop speaker.
The recordings were not just any ordinary tappings. These were the ones that nailed the big names that the Commission was after. The voices belonged to the cast of characters they had now become familiar with.
File A began with Choksi’s unmistakable voice.
There’s fifty crore riding on three wides this over. Hope you have this boy in the pocket.
Absolutely, he knows and will comply.
The reply was from a female voice that had the calm of certainty and experience.
‘That’s Navika Mahadevia, all right,’ said Russi, as he pictured her perched on the scarlet sofa in the clubhouse at the Pavilion Club.
File B also began with Choksi.
Good job, Xavier. Do as you’re told, and you’ll be fine. You’ll get your money for today’s dropped catches and overthrows. As usual, before the clock strikes midnight.
Lobo paused the clip. ‘Sounds like he’s speaking to Xavier D’Souza, the wicketkeeper for Karnataka Kings.’ He pressed play again. His hunch was confirmed when they heard the voice of the person replying. There was a slight quiver as he spoke.
Choksiji, I don’t think I can do this any longer.
What do you mean? You can’t take money when you wish to and then decide you have had enough. For an average keeper like you, this is bloody good money. If you want to lead a happy life, remember you need to pass me information on where your friend Jeevan Pujari can be found.
Vichare had heard tales of fixing kingpins luring young cricketers into their net and then enslaving them into a career of crime—but this was the first time he’d heard it on record. He nearly couldn’t believe that the man making the threats was in his custody, in a room just down the corridor.
Russi remembered Shankar’s words about the bit players who were the engine of the fixing racket. Cricketers who hadn’t ‘made it’ and who may never—easy prey for those willing to pay good money in return for a couple of innocuous mistakes during a game. He noticed how Choksi used one player to find a route to another, in this case Jeevan Pujari of the Goa Gunners.
‘Let’s play File C,’ said Vichare.
An unfamiliar voice initiated the conversation in a mix of English and Urdu.
Navika madam, yeh dil maange more. Yakoob bhai is asking for more.
Tell Yakoob bhai he has made more money from the MCL in the last two years than he has made ever before from cricket.
He has a khwaahish for something big, a dhamaka. He’s tired of watching from Dubai and waiting for a wide here and a dropped catch there. He wants a full game done. 100 per cent.
Tell him that his patience will pay off. We have plans. Yakoob bhai will be happy.
‘Bloody greedy people,’ muttered Vichare. ‘How much do they fix? How much money do they need? And this Yakoob bhai is undoubtedly Yakoob Elaichi, the dreaded gangster who runs his empire from Dubai.’
Lobo moved on to File D.
It began, yet again, with Choksi. But he had a new conversation partner: Rishi Girhotra.
You said you will think about it. Did you?
Let me be sure I’ve understood you clearly. You make me an offer of some cash and expect that it’s game on … that I will work for you to throw matches?
Some cash? It’s not some cash! It will take care of three future generations of yours.
Find something more interesting. Or find someone else.
A brief silence hung in the air after the clip had played out.
Lobo proceeded to File E. It was the shortest of the lot and started with Navika’s voice.
Think of a way, Choksi. We need RG on board to take this to the next level.
He is a scoundrel acting like a saint. I will find a way.
The final clip, File F, followed. Choksi was the first voice again, followed by Rishi.
If making your future generations richer doesn’t cut it for you, then how about we do it the good old-fashioned way?
Interesting.
Exotic hot babes! We all know you like keeping your little johnny well-exercised. We all know that with a click of my fingers I can get the juiciest flesh in town—sorry, in the world—gift-wrapped and delivered to your bed for you to relish. Just tell me what you want.
Make me an offer.
You choose the actress or model or cheerleader you want, when you want. I deliver. I choose the match and moment that you throw your wicket away. You deliver. Simple.
There was a pause.
Game on.
‘So Rishi did sell out,’ said Lobo despondently as the clip finished playing.
‘The bloody scoundrel,’ said Vichare. ‘As for Choksi, there is enough material here to keep him locked away for centuries.’
‘Let’s not forget the note from Authics,’ said Russi.
Lobo pulled up the document. It was a short and precise summary. He read it aloud.
‘Authics Labs’ analysis of the six files submitted for investigation concludes that five of them are authentic, while one has been deliberately altered from its original form. Selected words from File D (belonging to Speaker 2) have been cropped from that clip and placed within File F. With spatial and temporal analysis it is clear beyond reasonable doubt that the words of Speaker 2 in File F have been planted in from File D. This appears to be the job of a proficient cracker, although with our tools of analysis, the tampering of File F stands irrefutably exposed.’