0x22104

     2012-2-9,
04:55:30; M.S.K.

     St.
Petersburg, Russia . . .

     He kept running, urgency in his every step, taking no note
of the early birds on the pavement who were cursing him for spilling their
coffee. On he went, continually bumping and slipping, unknowingly slinking
towards the very same doom that was imperative for him to outrun: a locked room
mystery with his suicide seeming the only explanation. On he went, ignoring the
melancholy cracking of the snow beneath his feet, the white streets beside him
cut through in grey by tires wide and small. The crass hum of a diesel engine
slowly grew louder as he neared a salt truck; someone was spreading salt on the
ice, making sure people would not fall and hurt themselves by losing their
grip.

     He knew all too well that the salt man was a tad late. He had,
in all fair probability, already lost his hold on life.

     \0

   0x22105

     2012-2-9,
09:25:43; I.S.T.

     New
Delhi, India . . .

     Dr. Kulkarni exhaled with a heavy heart, the static pitch of
the E.C.G. squealing the end of another life, knowing full well that was
audible outside the room too. As much as he would have liked to avoid it, and
although she probably knew it by now, he knew he had to give her the news
formally and professionally. He turned towards the door. Dragging his unwilling
feet across the floor, he removed the stained neoprene gloves and threw them
alongside the other blood painted paraphernalia used in the futile surgery.
Reaching the door, he took a deep breath to stabilize himself, and pulled it
inward.

     As he had expected, she was staring back at him, unwavering watery
eyes pleading him to save her son by any means. He was supposed to be the
messiah who could cure the ailments of mortal men; he was supposed to be the Good
Samaritan who had studied hard and long so as to use his vast knowledge to cure
maladies. But most of all, right now, he was supposed to be the one man that a
mother counted on to save her son, the one man standing between her son’s life
and death.

     And he had failed her.

     A few moments went by while Dr. Kulkarni wondered what to
say. The E.C.G. was very well audible, and she could very definitely see a leg
hanging limply, lifelessly, off the edge of the operating table. He had known
his fellow colleagues to use a preamble like “I’m so sorry for your loss, we
couldn’t . . .” or “We tried our level best, but a complication . . .” But he
was not much used to these tactics.

     Without much procession, he shook his head.

     He had expected her to break down right then, but she didn’t.
Her face did not betray any emotion at all, and she looked just as she had when
her son had went in alive. Kulkarni wondered if she had gone into shock. He was
about to ask her if she was alright, she spoke in a hoarse tone, ‘Please, there
must be something, I―I can pay
. . .’

     Another thing he disliked about his profession; people put
so much faith in doctors that they forget they’re not some almighty being. Alms
cure qualms, true, but not everything can be bought off.

     ‘I assure you, we did all we could,’ he said, hating himself
for using another textbook excuse, ‘but he couldn’t be saved. I’m sorry for
your loss.’

     And with that last half-truth, Dr. Rajesh Kulkarni went off
on his own way, unable to bear the sight of the woman who had slumped down to
the floor, crying.

     \0

   0x22106

     Meanwhile
in St. Petersburg . . .

     Out of breath in the blistering cold, he finally reached his
destination: the S.V.N. Junkyard.

     Quickly going through the unguarded front door, he ran
towards the back, towards the larger scrapheaps. He jogged through the bleak
scene, the decrease in speed attributable to the sharp pieces of rusted metal
and jagged glass all around. Under all that innocent white snow, it was all still
hazardous enough.

     As he neared the center of the vast barren land, he spotted
the largest three heaps the yard had to display. He ran alongside the heap at
the far right, to the left of the humongous wall of seemingly accident riddled
four-wheelers. Reaching a derelict Mercedes,
he opened the passenger door and climbed in. It took a bit of practiced
contortion as he crossed over to the driver’s seat, avoiding the rusty gear
shaft. Opening the driver’s door, he climbed out.

     On the other side of the wall waited a solitary cube like
structure, the polished twin paneled doors contrasting starkly to the
dilapidated stack of automobiles, the purpose of which was to hide the
elevator’s existence. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket, his hands shaky,
and held it against the door. The scanner identified the unique R.F.I.D. chip
in his I.D. card, and granted him entry. Stepping in, he quickly punched the
button to his desired floor underground. The doors closed; the carriage started
moving. He fished his I.D. card out of his wallet, and his phone out of his
pocket.

     A short ride later, a digital bell proclaimed his arrival to
the three armed guards standing outside. Soon as the doors opened, he stepped
out and handed his card to the guard right in front, while the second strolled
up to him and checked him with a metal detector. The first guard placed the
card against a square shaped etched section on the wall to his left. The
scanner checked whether he was allowed to be in this specific part of the
facility, and what the regulations concerning his effects were. He was issued a
standard Makarov M-22, but that was as far his arms permissions extended. No
weaponry was allowed to be carried into the facility, the screen beside the
R.F.I.D. reader indicated; the Makarov was for self-defense outside the
facility only. The second guard confirmed after his thorough check that he was
indeed clean. The third of the guards was standing a few feet away from him, making
sure he could not get in by force even if he managed to disarm his other two
colleagues. Once cleared and handed his I.D. back, he swiftly ran towards his workspace.

     Unlocking the door to his closed cabinet, he locked it back
once he was inside; an unusual thing for him to do. Being a high ranking
official put him in the crosshairs, and it was unlikely that Dusk would try to
defend a single man. They would probably kill him at the first whiff of
trouble. And no one would ever know.

     He went behind his desk – which housed the same telephone
that had most likely caused his demise – and threw his wallet and I.D. on top, pulling
his unregistered, unlicensed Makarov from under it. He had smuggled it in years
ago, knowing to the fullest extent the innocence dwelling around his workplace.

     The Makarov may be handy and small, but the one thing he had
never been a big fan of was its European style magazine release, with every
unload posing the potential threat of ripping off a finger. The button release
on American firearms was much more reliable, not to mention faster. So he had
come up with a simple but elegant solution; he had attached an empty key ring
to the release cache. This way, he could unload the magazine by a simple backward
tug at the ring.

     Tugging at the key ring with all his might, he saw his worst
fears realized. The magazine had been full when he had left the gun here half
an hour ago. The same magazine slid out from inside the grip and hit the floor
with a metallic thud. The sound was enough to tell him it was hollow. Empty.

     Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, heavily seated
himself onto the chair, and waited for his death to arrive. There was no
sincere point in running from those who ran the world.

     \0

   0x22107

     Meanwhile
in New Delhi . . .

     ‘Sir!’

     Bansal turned to look at the squaddie.

     ‘Got an update. BENSUPS Hospital in sector twelve says a guy
named Jay Singhania was brought in about half an hour ago by his mother and a
cop. Gunshot to the chest.’

     ‘Mother, huh,’ Bansal uttered wryly, ‘wonder who that might
be. Let’s get there fast, before they escape again!’

     ‘No need, sir,’ the soldier looked confident, ‘guy’s dead.
Flat-lined three minutes before my call. Succumbed to his injuries, the
receptionist said. She was sorry for my loss,’ he smirked.

     Some good news at last,
Bansal thought, relieved.

     Krishna, Bansal, and the rest of the team climbed into the
armored S.U.V.s and headed towards . . .

     ‘The hospital, sir?’ Krishna looked confused by his
superior’s order, ‘He’s probably on his way to the morgue right now. They
probably didn’t even cause that much of a damage.’

     Bansal looked Krishna dead in the eye, ‘I want to make it
damn sure this bastard’s dead. Even if it means unloading another in his dead
body.’

     Krishna did not dare argue against that. Gently pressing the
self-start button on the steering, he switched gears and headed towards sector
twelve.

     \0

   0x22109

     Location:
St. Petersburg

     ‘Good evening, tovarishch’.

     Opening his eyes, he spotted a radiant face smiling at him.
She must have been hiding in here the entire time. He was so engrossed in the
thoughts of getting to his gun that he had not paid attention to whether or not
he was alone in his office.

     ‘To you too,’ he sighed, signing his resignation from the
pointless errand christened life.

     She was not wearing her default wardrobe. Then again, a
tight fitting, nondescript T-shirt and jeans appeared much less suspicious than
a full black regalia hiding its in own small arsenal comprising all manners of
lethal close combat resources. She was even wearing aviators to top off her
“urban gal” look.

     Striding across the floor with slow, deliberate steps, she
started his last conversation, ‘A situation has arisen that you should not have
known about, but do.’

     And she just made it further obvious. Moments ago when she
had wished him the ironic greet, her voice had been laced with a thick Ukrainian
accent; no one would have suspected otherwise. And now she was speaking in
eloquently in a flawless British one.

     ‘Yes, I’m aware,’ he breathed heavily, no attempts to hide
the Russian accent, closing his eyes again.

     She reached into her coat and pulled out two of the four
things in the particular pocket. ‘Just keep this in your pocket,’ she threw the
thin plastic toward him, which glided across the table until it reached the
other edge of his work table. He picked up his Nexus Russia debit card, eyed it
for a few moments, then slipped it into his wallet. She then threw the second
object towards him, a small vial, which he snatched from the air, his hands
shaky and sweaty. He read the label.

     ЯД

     Убивает всех  мышах
мертва

     He looked at her, ‘And how exactly would you go about making
me drink this?’ She smiled, and for a moment, he caught himself thinking she
looked nothing short of an angel.

     An angel of death.

     ‘Why of course, you will compliantly commit suicide, Gordon,’
she said in a coy, almost flirty tone. She reached into her long black coat,
pulled out what looked like a white cardboard piece, and threw at on the table.
He picked it up and flicked it, studying the photograph.

     ‘Nyet!’ he gasped.

     It was his daughter, tied to a chair, gagged with masking
tape, tears staining her cheeks. She was wearing her favorite pink skirt, which
appeared to be a little torn at the hem, her pale blue shirt barely visible
through the cables securely binding her. A small light bulb hung above her;
rest all was dark.

     ‘Let her go!’ he screamed, his eyes frantic.

     She took off her aviators, revealing hazel eyes. ‘You
desperately want to save her, don’t you?’

     ‘What father wouldn’t?!’

     I could think of a few,
she reflected.

     ‘Then just,’ she motioned at the bottle in his hand with her
chin, ‘and the girl will be freed.’

     He took a long breath, studying the photograph again, ‘How
do I know it for sure?’ He was not uninitiated to digital deception and
trickery. It could all be a carefully crafted hoax.

     She, on the other hand, misinterpreted Gordon’s statement,
assuming he was asking for indemnity that his daughter would indeed be free
after his death. After all, her repute was not to be taken lightly.

     ‘Let me say it this way,’ she made it up, ‘if I’m not out of
this facility within the next fifteen minutes, consider your daughter lost. And
I will walk out only when I witness your suicide firsthand. Your phones are all
working. You can call for the soldiers outside and capture and torture me all
you wish. You can call your wife’s phone, or your daughter’s phone. The former
will be received – if your wife wakes up that is, it’s still early – the later
will not. Walking out of here takes about seven minutes, and two minutes have
already been lost in this lovely conversation. It’s entirely up to you as to
what you want to do with the remaining six.’ Her words had an eerie finality
about them that made Gordon realize how truly helpless a situation he was stuck
in.

     Shaking his head in terrified admiration, he mused through
their plan. They had, as per their status, set it up with the most inhuman
grace. His debit card had been used to buy the vial. He would drink this in his
office within the specified window of time, or risk losing his daughter.
“Compliantly commit suicide”, just like she herself mentioned so elegantly.

     He spent another moment musing over the irony that he had
three other bank accounts they could’ve chosen from, and yet they would never
get caught.

     And in his last moments, he could not help but smile, trying
to lighten his grim termination, ‘Compared to your repertoire, rat poison is
pretty humble.’

     ‘Utilitarian, Comrade Kormarov, not show off,’ she shot
back, undeterred.

     He could not keep up his last smile. As far as an
investigation was concerned, this was a cut case of suicide. The rat poison
angle would rule out any other possibilities concerning external influencers.

     ‘Five minutes,’ she reminded him.

     Unscrewing the sealed top, he took his last deep breath. At
least his daughter would be safe, probably. And so was Alexander; he would have
to manage any further problems.

     She spoke again, with a smile this time, ‘And not to worry,
your friend Blomsky did not have a very bright future in store either.’

     He looked at her, incredulousness dripping from his face;
how did they accomplish to get to him? Even Levin did not know his precise
location.

     ‘Now,’ her smile had vanished, ‘if you’d just get it over
with.’ She looked slightly irritated at his delay.

     ‘Somewhere important you have to be?’ he asked dryly,
swirling the open bottle in his right hand. It did not have a particularly
appetizing smell. ‘A date perhaps?’

     ‘Would you be surprised if my answer were to be in the
affirmative?’ she asked, her eyes narrow.

     ‘Beyond measure,’ he uttered, looking at the deep brown
death still in motion inside the small container.

     ‘Then be surprised and drink up.’

     He almost laughed, wondering who might be the eligible
bachelor for her should she be saying the truth. Is Satan in town? But he refrained from verbalizing his thoughts.

     He tipped his head back and poured the strange smelling and
tasting liquid into his mouth, swallowing sadly. My dear daughter, forgive me.

     Finishing his last drink, he placed the vial right side up
on the table. Then calmly enquired, ‘Now, my girl.’ He did not have much time;
he needed to be sure.

     She smiled and placed her aviators back in their right
place. ‘Right, that . . .’ – she reached into her coat – ‘. . . was . . .’ –
and pulled out a second photograph, which appeared to be folded in half. She
held it in her left hand, unfolding it deftly.

     Through the blurring vision and nausea, he saw his daughter
seated on a chair wearing her pale blue shirt and favorite pink skirt, smile
lines crinkling the corners of her eyes. Gordon remembered this; it was from a
party she went to, about a week ago. Natalia, the birthday girl, had
volunteered to take this pic, and had later posted it on his daughter’s Facebook timeline, not forgetting to tag
her.

     The lighting.

     Yes, the only way he could have seen through the phony
photograph was the lighting. It was wrong to say the least. All the other
effects – the ropes, the tears, the tape – they were all highly realistic, but
the light striking his daughter in both cases was the same camera flash. No
other modifications were possible for that.

     She summed the murder weapon up in one word, ‘. . .
Photoshop.’

     \0

   0x22110

     Location:
New Delhi

     Jay’s body had been loaded into the ambulance to be taken
back to his residence. The ward boys who had made the delivery walked back
inside the hospital. She was still looking at the tattoo on of the first six
Roman numerals written in descending order on his wrist, teary eyed, when
Akhilesh came up from behind, ‘Ma’am, we have to go.’

     She turned and followed the police officer slowly. Throngs
of people around her were either rejoicing or mourning. Some appeared anxious,
while still others happened to be convinced beyond a shred of doubt of the
existence or nonexistence of God.

     Akhilesh held open the passenger
door of the car; she slid in obligingly. He casually sauntered around the
bonnet of the old Mahindra Armada,
and climbed into the driver’s seat. His left leg pressed the clutch hard, his
left hand shifting the gearshift into second while his right simultaneously turning
the key into ignition; he drove slowly, until he was out of the hospital’s
compound.

     Once out on the free road, he turned towards her and
grinned, ‘I have to say, I almost believed you myself. Oscar worthy performance.’

     She was looking straight ahead, ‘Should have stuck with the Hyundai.’

     ‘There we agree,’ he said, turning his eyes back on the road,
‘greed is common thing to come by these days.’

     ‘It is,’ she nodded, ‘but that problem has been solved. Now,
if you would kindly drop me off, I have a birthday to attend.’

     ‘Can’t I join?’ He knew what the answer was going to be, but
it did not hurt to ask.

     ‘No.’

     ‘Right,’ he felt a bit cross at being cut off this direct,
‘if I may, whose birthday is it?’

     A smile lit her face, ‘My daughter’s.’