To

  Nikita—my soulmate, best friend and biggest supporter

  CONTENTS

  A Few Days Ago …

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  Acknowledgements

  Praise for the Book

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Copyright

  A Few Days Ago …

  ‘A thousand dollars,’ he read aloud from his computer screen.

  ‘Not bad for a simple job,’ he thought, leaning back in his chair. ‘This client must be desperate. At least they know stuff like this is paid for in dollars.’

  He clicked open a chat window to begin an encrypted response.

  Can do. 50 per cent in advance.

  A minute passed. There was no reply.

  He tapped his fingers nervously on the heavy engineering college textbook on his table that was doubling up as a mousepad.

  Another minute. Still nothing. He began typing again.

  Are you on for this or n—

  A ping interrupted him.

  OK.

  The confirmation was in.

  ‘Easy-peasy,’ he said to himself, swiftly responding with instructions to complete the transaction securely.

  Use this payment link. And send me the material to work on right here.

  Five minutes later, he received a notification from his offshore account confirming the expected dollar credit. Soon after, the material arrived.

  ‘Just a few hours of work tonight. Better than cramming pointless chapters on hardware architecture.’ He laughed.

  He took a large swig of his cold coffee. Caffeine and sugar were his only allies for the night in his bare hostel room.

  He wondered, as he had done on previous jobs, what his work would be used for. But for a part-time cracker like him, it didn’t matter, he reminded himself. It didn’t matter who the client was. It didn’t matter why they did what they did. It didn’t matter what they were going to do next. All that mattered was that he was getting a good stash of cash for straightforward work. Besides, on the dark web, nothing could ever be traced back to him.

  Even if his client botched it all up …

  1

  Russi Batliwala paced up and down his living room, the tuft of black hair stretched across the bald patch at the top of his head bouncing in step with him. It had been twenty minutes since his taxi app had informed him that his driver would be there ‘in five minutes’.

  He was gripping his phone with his pudgy fingers when it let out a weak beep.

  Thank you for your patience. Your driver will be reaching the pick-up location soon.

  ‘Reaching the pick-up location soon, I believe. My foot!’ said Russi. ‘The chap hasn’t moved an inch from Dadar Circle in the last fifteen minutes. My dear bapaiji—bless her grandmotherly soul—would have walked here faster, despite her arthritic knees and permanently swollen ankles.’

  He slumped into a large worn-out leather chair, which creaked in protest as he adjusted his pear-shaped frame into it.

  ‘Bad enough I need to go to this bloody cricket club dinner, now I will be properly late for it,’ he said. ‘Sherbanoo dear, I wonder if there is some sudden traffic jam. Or worse, has this taxi fellow gone for his own dinner while ensuring I am late for mine?’

  Sherbanoo shuffled in her cane chair in the corner of the room. She had been Russi’s housekeeper for twenty-five years, from the peak of his umpiring days to the devastating accident that forever changed his life, and beyond, well into his retirement. Sherbanoo knew Russi better than anyone else. But even she hadn’t quite figured out whether his questions in such situations were meant to be answered or not. Venture a response, and he would either leave it unacknowledged or interject with a ‘rhetorical question, dear’. Remain silent, and that would likely invite a rebuke along the lines of ‘Sherbanoo dear, as far as I know, nobody else lives in Flat Number 2, Peer Manzil, Parsi Colony other than the two of us and your assortment of stray cats. So till these felines learn Gujarati or English, you can assume my questions are for you.’

  Sherbanoo didn’t take any of these inconsistencies to heart, simply assuming that they were part of the deal with clever people. And to her, Russi bhai was definitely clever, even if sometimes a little difficult to decode.

  After all, cricket umpires have to be the cleverest among us, she reasoned. Who else could at once watch the bowler’s foot, the angle and trajectory of the ball, the batter’s footwork, the face and edge of the bat, then decipher the movement and sounds these make, and come to a split-second decision from among dozens of possibilities—all in the din created by eleven clamorous players and thousands of screaming spectators? Russi bhai had done this at the national level for years, most of it with just one functional eye. Yes, aapro Russi bhai is a clever man, Sherbanoo reminded herself. Not always easy to understand, but clever.

  But why, then, has he not asked Gopal, his driver of ten years, to ferry him to this important dinner at the Pavilion Club, she wondered. That’s not very clever.

  Having concluded that Russi’s enquiries on the whereabouts of his errant taxi driver were in the rhetorical category, Sherbanoo fired a question of her own: ‘Why isn’t Gopal here to drive you to the club, Russi bhai?’

  Russi sat up from his slouch and the leather chair protested again.

  ‘I had sent him to buy my research books this afternoon from Flora Fountain, dear,’ he said. ‘But it turned out that Ismail had run out of copies in his bookshop, so he asked poor Gopal to wait till he arranged for new ones. I thought of calling Gopal back and sending him there some other day—but then, those books are quite important as well …’

  He tailed off sheepishly when he noticed Sherbanoo’s unimpressed stare. She knew exactly what those ‘research books’ were. A new bunch of tomes on detective work and investigative methods to add to Russi’s ever-increasing library of crime literature! She couldn’t for the life of her understand why Russi buried himself in those ghoulish books, and was worried that he had begun fancying himself as a local Sherlock Holmes ever since he solved the mystery of their neighbour Pestonjee Aunty’s stolen necklace (the culprit turned out to be her grand-nephew Khurshed, who’d flicked it to repay his gambling debts).

  ‘These books are magnets for dust,’ said Sherbanoo, running her finger across the dusty covers of two fat volumes of 99 Things Every Detective Must Know that had found a permanent home on the dining table. ‘Then you go about sneezing like a Diwali ladi-pataka.’

  ‘A few sneezes are a small price to pay for all the knowledge squeezed into these pages, dear,’ said Russi, fishing out his handkerchief and delicately wiping the offending pair of books like a jeweller polishing his most prized gems. ‘You have already seen it serving society—so far maybe only our building society, but that doesn’t matter.’

  Sherbanoo’s frown grew deeper, but Russi kept going, steadfastly avoiding eye contact.

  ‘Of course, all this works only because of my undoubtedly sharp umpire’s mind,’ he said. ‘Actually, rascal fielders on the cricket ground are quite similar to scoundrel crime suspects, you know. Both are experts at deception—the fielders when they appeal with full sincerity no matter how obviously not-out the batter is, the suspects when they put on their saintly faces and plead complete innocence. But the cricketers’ overacting didn’t put shendi on Russi Batliwala back then, and there’s no chance any criminal’s overacting will put shendi on him now. Impossible to be fooled when you have full knowledge of the lawbook and see every small detail before making any decision.’

  Russi paused, chuffed with his quickly constructed case for his sleuthing pursuits, even though he was certain it would effect no change of heart in its intended audience. He carefully placed the now dust-free books back in the same spot on the dining table they had previously occupied.

  ‘We will need a new bookcase if more books are arriving,’ declared Sherbanoo.

  ‘Ah, for that, I have another solution, dear. It involves reorganizing the crockery cabinet, which has far too many things for our simple household,’ replied Russi, a mischievous glint in his eye.

  His phone beeped before he caught Sherbanoo’s heavy sigh.

  ‘But we can discuss that once I have returned,’ he said. ‘My ghelsappo taxi driver is finally here and I must jump in before he decides to scoot off for some after-dinner kulfi-custard.’

  Russi sprang to his feet, stood before the wall mirror beside the door and smoothen the fabric of his untucked white cotton shirt. He proceeded to whip out a comb from the back pocket of his trousers and effect a final, smoothening flourish on the tuft of hair across his bald pate.

  ‘Trim taraak—that’s what my bapaiji would have said.’ He was clearly pleased with what he saw in his reflection. ‘Sherbanoo dear, it’s time for me to wine and dine with India’s cricketing elite. Wish me luck—with the greasy food and the greasier people!’

  Through a combination of good fortune with traffic lights, frequent backseat rebukes from Russi and bursts of unapologetically rash driving, Russi’s cabbie made u p for the delayed pick-up and reached the Pavilion Club only slightly later than the appointed hour.

  The club was situated just off the Queen’s Necklace, the after-dark name for Marine Drive, Mumbai’s most famous seafront—magnificently illuminated by streetlights, billboards and low-rise buildings, even if the persistent smog had in recent times dimmed the lustre of its jewels. The club occupied a vast expanse that included its own cricket ground, sporting facilities of nearly every kind, guest accommodation, function halls and restaurants. Its prime location and sprawling premises were as much a testament to the foresight of India’s early cricket administrators as they were to the riches of the present-day establishment.

  As he walked past the tall wooden pillars at the club’s entrance and into its high, airy lobby, Russi remembered the time he was offered membership by the management. He had turned it down, to the shock of the cricketing fraternity at large.

  ‘Everyone worried that this Bawaji had lost not only his left eye during that runout fiasco, but also his mind,’ he thought, chuckling. ‘Confirmed case of bheja turned to dahi, they assumed.’

  The truth was that he hadn’t lost his mind, but feared that he would if he spent his spare time hobnobbing with cricketing bigwigs over tikkas and beer. Russi’s intense love for cricket was matched only by his loathing for most of its officials, especially the politicians who had infiltrated every part of the administration and dominated the membership rolls at the club.

  The Annual Banquet was the club’s only event in the year that managed to attract Russi, mostly because it was a large enough bash for him to find some interesting people to meet. Tonight’s event seemed to be even bigger than previous years—numerous waiters scurrying amidst at least twenty-five large round tables encircled by an expansive buffet. The whole set-up occupied nearly half of the club’s cricket ground.

  ‘Without doubt my favourite cricket ground,’ reminisced Russi, momentarily picturing himself standing behind the stumps in a high-stakes Mumbai–Delhi Ranji game. ‘A pitch with just that little uneven grass that bowlers of all types relish, but once a batter’s eye is in, there are big runs to be scored—helped along by the lightning-fast outfield. Now of course, with other newer stadiums having popped up in the city, these lawns are used less for cricket and more for tambu-shamiana events.’

  Tonight’s dinner was one such affair, and Russi concluded there were already over a hundred attendees enjoying their drinks and kebabs when he entered. Thanks to his old friend Hormazd Tarapore, who was still general secretary of the club, Russi had been able to orchestrate the table he was assigned to—and thereby choose the evening’s company.

  ‘Look who’s joining our table tonight—one of Mumbai cricket’s finest ever umpires, the one and only … Russi Batliwala!’

  The clear deep voice that greeted Russi as he approached his table belonged to a small-built man with thinning black hair and round plastic spectacles. A handshake and a warm hug followed.

  ‘Justice Sundaram Shankar! You are too kind,’ said Russi, finding the introduction entirely fitting. ‘Especially generous of you, SS, since I am the same umpire who, in his debut Ranji game, gave you out LBW. Apparently, I was the only ghunchukker in the stadium who didn’t hear the thick inside edge before the ball thudded onto pad!’

  Shankar smiled. ‘Well, we’ve all had our off days, and it was your first big game so your nerves must have played their part,’ he said. ‘Those were the days before DRS and TV replays could salvage poor decisions, eh?’

  ‘Now, don’t get me started on this DRS business,’ said Russi. ‘A bunch of cameras and computers that are no more accurate than a good ump’s vision and yet celebrated as if they are a divine gift to cricket! Even with just one eye, I was excellent without all this technology, na? So why do the two-eyed chaps today need twenty-four cameras and God-knows-how-many mics to help them?’

  ‘Let us leave that debate for another time, Russi,’ said Shankar, realizing this was a matter close to his dinner companion’s heart and that a tactful change of subject was in order. ‘Tell me how you are spending your post-retirement days.’

  ‘Doing punchayati into matters that don’t always concern me,’ replied Russi cheerfully. ‘I was good at nosing around even before retirement, and now have all the time in the world to perfect it.’

  The two men laughed.

  Their first encounter—marked by Russi’s incorrect LBW decision against Shankar in the twilight of the latter’s cricketing career—had been thirty years ago. Cricket had kept them connected on-and-off since then, and over the years they had developed high regard for one another.

  ‘But retirement seems to be quite different for exalted former judges of the Bombay High Court, eh?’ said Russi. ‘Chairperson of the Shankar Commission, the country’s most high-profile enquiry into match-fixing. Finally bringing the goondas of cricket to book, huh?’

  Shankar shrugged. ‘Well, this is my second retirement, Russi. The first was when I retired from cricket as a Ranji player in my early thirties and began practising law. And now, after hanging up my robes, who would’ve thought I would be back to cricket, trying to uphold the law?’

  A uniformed waiter carrying a tray of charred paneer tikkas squashed between flaccid cubes of capsicum stopped politely by their table. Seeing little interest, he moved on briskly.

  ‘It is nice to be doing something for the game,’ said Shankar. ‘But my gosh, what a mess it is! The rot runs deep and unravelling it is more of a full-time job than being a judge. So much for my retirement …’

  ‘You’re performing a great service, SS. Fixing the fixers is the noblest thing one can do for this game,’ said Russi. ‘Thankfully, despite all vested interests, they found a person with the standing to get the job done.’

  ‘Now you are the one being too kind, my friend,’ said Shankar. ‘The truth is that the Commission is far from a one-man show. I’m lucky to work with a bunch of excellent people with a shared goal of bringing the culprits to book. Ah, just as I speak, here’s one of them.’

  A lean, athletic man with a square jaw and gelled hair as black as night joined their table, drink in hand.

  ‘Khan. Aziz Khan,’ said the new arrival, extending a firm handshake to Russi as he took his seat. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr …?’

  ‘Russi Batliwala,’ said Russi. ‘Fan and student of cricket—but, as you may have realized from my frame, not a player.’

  ‘Russi was one of our finest umpires in his day,’ said Shankar. ‘Could have, and should have, officiated at the international level. But his no-nonsense frankness did not endear him, shall we say, to the powers in the Board. But on the domestic circuit, he was everywhere and forever. Over twenty years, wasn’t it, Russi?’

  Russi smiled. ‘Twenty-three, to be precise.’

  ‘That’s impressive,’ said Aziz.

  ‘Aziz is a DSP in the CBI. We are lucky to have such a fine officer on deputation to the Commission,’ said Shankar. ‘He provides us with investigative firepower, so we know who is up to what.’

  ‘So who is up to what then, DSP Khan?’ asked Russi, thrilled to be anywhere close to an investigation.

  ‘The official answer, Mr Batliwala, is that our work is still ongoing,’ said Aziz, his pursed lips almost easing into a smile. ‘But I can tell you we are close. Close to nabbing those who have been taking the Indian public for a ride. No one will be spared—not the rogue cricketers, not the politicians and not the so-called businesspeople who oil the machines of fixing with cash.’

  Russi wondered if the glass was changing shape in Aziz’s hardened grip.

  ‘Netas, industrialists and cricketers—they form what we call the unscrupulous triumvirate of fixing,’ said Shankar, looking off into the distance. ‘It seems like we have some of the more dishonourable members of that gang amongst us this evening.’

  Russi followed Shankar’s gaze to a table across the lawn where a bald, potato-shaped man packed into a white khadi kurta–pyjama was seated. A smug grin was plastered across his oily face as he examined the massive emerald-encrusted gold ring on his middle finger.

  Next to him sat a willowy woman with long brown hair and protruding collarbones, dressed in a bejewelled lilac georgette sari.

  The presence of multiple hangers-on around the table was an indication that Brajesh Choksi and Navika Mahadevia were important and powerful people. Choksi’s attire gave away his profession—but he was no ordinary politician. After making his money in the gutkha business in Gujarat, he then made a name for himself as a three-time MLA from Navsari. This combination of resources and resourcefulness saw his stock rise rapidly in the corridors of power in Gandhinagar and Delhi. Thereafter, the journey from force in politics to influence in cricket was not long. Having warmed the seats of various ‘honorary’ offices in the state association and the Indian National Cricket Board, Choksi no longer held any official administrative position. But if sections of the media were to be believed, he was very much part of the unelected cabal that dictated how the INCB functioned from ‘behind the scenes’.

 

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