Free Six Suspects by Vikas Swarup Page A

a
brand-new Nokia E61, so new that the cellophane had not even
been removed from the display window. I knew it would fetch me
a lot of money on the black market.
    I think a woman in a Ford Ikon immediately behind the
Esteem saw me take the mobile. She glared at me as she drove
past. Before she could raise the alarm, I decamped from the scene,
criss-crossing streets for almost two kilometres till I reached the
safety of the petrol pump.
    As I stand under the grey awning, panting from exertion, the
stolen mobile rings. The caller ID says 'Private number'.
    I am not sure what to do. Mechanically I press the green 'talk'
button.
    'Hello, Brijesh? I am going to give you the pick-up location.
Are you listening?'
    It is a harsh, guttural voice. A voice with authority. A voice
which cannot be ignored. Which has to be answered.
    'Yes,' I say in an equally guttural voice. A monosyllabic answer
which reveals nothing about the person answering.
    'Go to the alley next to Goenka Public School on Ramoji
Road. The maal has been left in a black briefcase inside the
municipal dustbin. Collect it within the next half-hour. OK?'
    ' Haan ,' I say again.
    'Good. We shall talk again after your pick-up. Bye.'
    Maal . The word keeps ringing inside my brain like an alarm
clock. Maal can mean any number of things. Literally, it means
'goods'. In old Hindi films, gangsters used to refer to contraband
consignments of drugs and bullion as maal which would be
offloaded from ships on Mumbai's Versova Beach. A beautiful girl
is also maal , but unlikely to be packed inside a briefcase. For that
matter, even groceries from a provision store can be maal . There
is only one thing to do. I have to find out what the maal is.
    I try and get my bearings. Ramoji Road is just a five-minute
drive from the petrol pump, twenty minutes on foot. I walk.
    The Goenka Public School is one of the premier private schools
in Mehrauli. In the morning when the children begin their classes
and in the afternoon when they leave, there is a mini traffic jam in
the area, caused by all the cars of the rich businessmen whose children
study here. However, at eight p.m. it is completely deserted.
Only a couple of guards stand in front of its imposing gates, warming
their hands over a fire. I pass the school and enter the narrow
alley. It is deserted. I find the dustbin almost immediately. It stands
unobtrusively at the back of the alley, illuminated by the yellow
glare of a lamppost. There is a dog sleeping next to it. 'Shoo!' I say
and the dog pricks up his ears and slinks off into the shadows. I
push open the lid of the bin to find it brimming with rubbish. I
feel around with my hand but my fingers scrape only bulging plastic
bags, glass bottles and metal cans. So I begin emptying the bin,
removing the plastic bags and stacking them up against the side.
The stench of rotting food makes me gag. The dank recesses of the
dustbin yield various kinds of rubbish, even a few soiled nappies
and a broken transistor. And at the very bottom is a briefcase,
wrapped in a white plastic sheet. I have to lean right in to pull it
out. It is an expensive black VIP attaché case with a hard top. I rip
off the plastic sheet, and press the two side latches. The briefcase
clicks open and my eyes are dazzled by stacks of thousand-rupee
notes lining the inside. It looks like a lottery advertisement. How
could I forget that cash is the ultimate maal ! I hastily close the
briefcase. I do not need to count the wads of notes to know that
it contains more money than I have seen in my life.
    I take a good look around. Not a soul appears to be in the
vicinity. I put all the plastic bags back into the bin. As I am about
to leave, the stolen mobile trills again. Its incessant ringing almost
paralyses me. With trembling fingers I switch it off and push it
deep inside the dustbin. Then, with my heart thumping madly, I
pick up the briefcase and hasten towards the main road.

6
The Politician
    'Hello. Is this the Spiritual