Do they know?
“We have news,” Bunty says. “Something we can’t ignore.”
Tinu turns to Sunny. “We found him.”
He feels his stomach drop. “Found who?”
* * *
—
Sunil Rastogi. He has been spotted in the alleys of Old Delhi. It was a rumor at first, from an informant, now Tinu’s men have it confirmed. He’s been sighted in Darya Ganj. He’s been followed to an old Christian community, a colony bungalow forgotten in time, hidden behind rose gardens and hedges in Civil Lines.
“He’s going by an alias. Peter Mathews,” Tinu says.
The sweat creeps on Sunny’s brow.
“We have people watching the perimeter, we have eyes on the escape routes. We have eyes on the wider roads. We have to be careful not to spook him or he’ll escape again. Like he did in Saharanpur.”
“In Saharanpur,” Bunty adds, “he didn’t get away on his own.”
* * *
—
From the front gate, six black Subaru SUVs cruise toward the mansion. Sleek, muscular, covered in dust.
* * *
—
“Kill him,” Sunny says.
Bunty looks to Tinu. “We could fly in Shiva or Dadapir from Bombay.”
Tinu holds up a cautious hand. “But we should watch him first.”
“There’s nothing to watch,” Sunny says. “I want him dead.”
Tinu looks at his phone, offers another way. “We can bring some UP contacts in tonight. I can make some calls.”
From the corner of his eye, Ajay sees the video screens hanging on the wall.
Black SUVs arriving at the front of the mansion.
* * *
—
From the frontmost, Vicky steps out, dressed in his long black Pathani suit, his forehead daubed with red and orange tilak, his eyes covered by wraparound shades, his fingers glistening with his rings.
* * *
—
Bunty looks from Ajay to the screen.
Back at Ajay.
Notices his eyes are wide, his hands are trembling.
“He’ll do it,” Bunty says.
It takes a moment for Ajay to realize everyone’s looking his way.
“He can’t,” Tinu protests. “He’s only here for the wedding. He’s still in jail.”
“He’ll do it,” Bunty persists. “He’ll kill this Rastogi for me.” Bunty looks to Sunny. “For you.”
But Sunny’s eyes have already traveled to the wall.
The distraction outside.
The many goons pouring out of the other cars.
Vicky at the heart of it all.
“I’ll do it,” Ajay says. “But, sir, do one thing for me.”
He reaches into his inner pocket, pulls out the torn, worn photograph.
His sister.
Naked.
Alone.
Holds it out.
Bunty examines it, the woman on the bed, doesn’t flinch. Turns it over, reads the cut-off words: . . . WHAT YOU’RE TOLD.
“What’s this?”
“She’s my sister.”
“What do you want from me?”
“She’s in Benares. Make her safe.”
Voices outside. A rabble.
Bunty looks into Ajay’s eyes. Hands the photo back to him. “Bring this to me once the job is done. Then we’ll find her. You have my word.”
With that said, Vicky Wadia swaggers in.
“Looks like the party started without me,” Vicky purrs, “but where’s the whisky, brother?”
Sunny looks to be in pain.
He puts his shades on. “I have to go.”
He turns to march past Vicky, but Vicky grabs him by the arm. “Congratulations, son.”
But Sunny pulls his arm away.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” Bunty calls out in a measured tone.
Vicky approaches his desk. “You thought wrong.”
He stops beside Ajay. “How’s your mother?” he says in a mocking tone. “And your sisters? Are they all well?”
“Let’s go.” Tinu gives Vicky a foul look, leads Ajay off by the arm.
“We’ll catch up later!” Vicky calls.
7.
In the corporate competence of Bunty’s office Vicky’s eyes probe with pointed interest the photographs on the walls: Bunty outside a sugar mill, Bunty on a construction site, Bunty and Ram Singh. He pauses at a yellowed photo of two teenage boys, posing outside the cabin of a truck, one shielding the sun from his eyes, the other with a pistol in his hand.
“Ah, there we are.” Vicky smiles. “I thought I’d been erased completely.”