Day Four: Encounter ThiRty-four

The next morning you woke before sunrise, as you were trained to, and Tapas and Munna convinced you that the right thing to do was to go meet Nandini. Nobody can stop us, they said. You observed their faces in the half-light and you saw them for the first time. You felt a kinship and the feeling was warm, fuzzy, and comforting. This was foolhardy but it was the right thing to do and so much in keeping with what you had done at the airport.

“How long will you run?” asked Munna.

“Who are you running from?” asked Tapas.

“It’s risky,” you replied. The decision was taken, and as you sat in the jeep with the two of them and headed south, you had no more questions.

Cool air rushed past as you ate up the miles. You peered out at the empty streets. You occasionally looked behind as well to see if you were being followed. And you imagined what Nandini would be wearing today besides a slight frown.

* * *

Between the suburbs of Khar and Bandra the highway department had created one-way streets and roundabouts to tackle the traffic jams. The three of them were in a jeep and the morning sun had broken through as they entered Khar, heading south. Munna in dark glasses was driving and Tapas was next to him in the front passenger seat. Karan was in the middle of the backseat and his gun was with him as always.

They turned onto a one-way bylane. Ahead, on the left side of the road, they spotted a colleague. He was bare-headed and was waving at them. But how did he know they were in the jeep? That question came just as Munna dimmed the jeep’s lights and slowed down. The man was carrying a folded newspaper with him.

“Move it!” shouted Tapas. “Something’s not right, damnit!”

Munna gunned the gas, but the jeep struggled to gather speed. Out of nowhere a large SUV threw on its high beams and tore directly at them from the opposite side. It had obviously been lying in wait. Two staccato bursts of gunfire suddenly erupted. Glass flew from the jeep as the windscreen shattered. Behind it Munna lost his dark glasses, his eyes, and some part of his head. Tapas lost his teeth but gained a strange smile. There was a splatter of fluid onto Karan’s clothes. He was sitting erect and miraculously he was unscathed, not even a scratch. And so he survived the gunfire. It seems he did not realize what he did thereafter: without thinking, he took his gun in hand, looked into that den of the SUV’s lights, and let off two shots—one where the driver would be, and the second one next to him where the shooter might be.

Munna must have fallen like a rag doll onto the steering column, as the jeep swung sharply left. The vehicle smashed into a handcart that was reserving a spot between two parked cars, then climbed onto the sidewalk. The SUV continued to scream ahead and slammed head-on into a passing car. The car’s driver had no safety equipment—no air bag or seat belt. He took the steering column in his stomach, the windscreen in his face, and part of the engine block in one knee, momentarily losing consciousness. Meanwhile, one of the assailants flew out of the SUV and landed on top of the car’s hood. He lay there and leered. He had a hole in his head. Stuck inside the SUV was the driver. A neat cavity was drilled through his nose bridge; the back of his head was missing.

Karan claims he does not remember what happened next. At the hospital, a bystander would later emerge from sedation to tell the story. He said what Karan did would give him nightmares for the rest of his life. Karan had jumped out of the car and fallen awkwardly. He had scrambled like a primate, pounced on a third occupant from the SUV, and pulled him apart with his hands. And then Karan sat down on the edge of the pavement and did not move.

“Catatonic state,” said a doctor who quickly arrived at the scene from his nearby apartment. Karan emerged from this state within minutes, asking for biscuits and tea. He only had a few bruises and scratches. But he was drenched in other people’s blood, and had skin under his fingernails.

They used brute force to bend metal and towel-covered hands to pluck away glass before lifting the injured driver from the unfortunate car. He was mumbling incoherently, but someone caught a sentence: “They were coming down a one-way.”

An ambulance arrived and a paramedic dealt with him and then turned to treat Karan. He was gone. It seems he waited for the injured man to be placed in the ambulance and then disappeared from the scene. They checked for him at his residence, just in case. He had not shown up.

But he did call. Karan rang home and spoke to his wife Nandini, finally. It was a very brief chat in which the meaningful remained unsaid. Nandini the brave lady sat down and cried. He asked her why. She said she was crying because he never did. “One day I will,” he replied.

She had some parting words for him which she hoped would keep him alive: “Don’t trust anyone.” It was futile advice and she knew it because Evam had told her this when they met, when she complained that Karan was naive. “Trust comes naturally in the Aspie world,” he said.

* * *

The department asked Parthasarathy for an explanation. He had none. The entire building was in shock. They were trained to routinely handle emergencies, but this was different. The description of the incident seemed a little fantastic. When the details emerged Partha shook his head and said, “This was not supposed to happen.”

“Exactly what do you mean, sir?” they asked him.

“All of it,” he replied.

Some people were puzzled that Karan got away unhurt. Others wondered at the fact that he could look into those bright lights, keep his eyes open, squeeze out shots between two moving cars, and be so accurate. What kind of man sits upright and stays calm when a meteor-like vehicle is hurtling into your face? And then he shoots only two bullets.

Rumbles were heard at the most senior levels. People were more concerned with who the perpetrators were who set this up. Was this an inside job? Two of those in the SUV were from a gang that was linked to Abbas. But this still looked like an inside job because only the khabari network could have tracked the jeep with Ranvir’s team.

Partha was given the task of informing Ranvir. Ranvir, who was still on medical leave following his coronary scare, did not react immediately. Nobody expected him to show too much emotion yet he was expected to retaliate somehow. He asked to meet the chief of counterintelligence—alone. He was granted an immediate audience. The two men had a frank discussion and after an hour or so agreed that they would deal firmly with Karan. It was an informal agreement influenced by Mishra’s view that the police force wasn’t a family franchise. “Dons can be paternal,” he said. “But we cannot. That would be repeating the mistakes of ’83. But if you feel that Karan is ‘special’ and has some disability, then I can take a different view.”

Ranvir thought that over and finally said, “He and the others are no different, and they are as good as any cops I have ever worked with. To give them ‘special’ dispensation would be a travesty.”

Partha was asked to handle the Karan issue on his own. He was reluctant. “I fear he might disregard instructions again, in light of his recent behavior. There is a risk without Ranvir supervising.”

“What’s the risk?” asked the chief.

Partha tried to explain: “We’re concerned because he’s acting unpredictably. He attacked that man literally with his hands, remember?”

“But the doctor who did the postmortem said he died out of fear, from a sudden rush of blood to the head, correct?” said the chief.

Partha nodded. “A technicality. The doctor also said that the man who died had only one testicle.”

“Oh shit,” said Mishra. “Fucking shit. I know where that points.”

Partha prattled on: “The meltdown we feared has happened. Karan is clearly under severe stress and needs to be reined in.”

“So who’s in his line of fire now?” asked the chief.

“Perhaps he’s looking for a villain in all this. He is obsessive and compulsive and while people like him are supposed to be unemotional, how can we be so sure that what has happened to his team will not influence his actions? He must be confused. He needs closure.”

“Could closure for him come from one last assignment?” asked the chief. “I don’t see him coming in on his own otherwise, and honestly, I would hate to hunt him down. After all, he is still one of us.”

“I spoke to Evam,” said Partha. “I asked him if another encounter was the solution. And he said something interesting. He said, If you consider routine to be a destination, then Aspies are habitues. An encounter is Karan’s comfort zone.”

Mishra thought for a while. “I believe the gangs have put out a contract on Karan. Who is their shooter with the supari?”

“Atmaram Bhosle,” replied Partha.

Mishra whistled when he heard the name. This was suddenly an opportunity to get even with a cop killer. “Let’s suppose Bhosle learns about Karan’s next move, and that Karan is told who is after him . . .”

“Are you thinking of staging a confrontation?” said Partha.

The chief drummed his fingers on the table.

“Shall we go ahead then?” asked Partha. “Perhaps in Lonavla? Karan is comfortable there, and our people know the area well.”

The chief nodded and left Partha sitting in his office. Down the corridor was a small room without a nameplate. He entered without knocking on the door. Seated inside, looking like a ghost of his former self, was Ranvir Pratap. Standing next to him was Pandey; his hands were folded in front of him.

“I expect hanky-panky from Tiwari in this assignment,” said the chief. “There is going to be a classic showdown between two hunters: Karan and a sharpshooter from a gang. Mr. Desai, here’s what you need to do . . .”