CARROT AND STICK began. And what the watching public saw was Ajoy Guha in his usual black leather seat. Sharp-eyed viewers might have noticed that there was a splotch of blood on the sleeve of his white shirt, and that he was a little more agitated and unkempt than usual, but otherwise it was the same Ajoy Guha in his usual place, legs crossed, cheek bulging slightly with a lozenge that he sucked, beadily regarding his viewers through his glasses.
“Good evening,” he said. “Tonight I would like to talk to you about our wonderful city’s health care.”
He held up Maya’s essay and read the title. “ ‘Health Care, Fair and Square?’ by Maya Gandhe. This essay came into my possession a few days ago, when I was in the act of murdering the pedophile Amit Roy.”
Here Guha paused, as though to leave room for the audience reaction. However, there was never any audience for Carrot and Stick, and on this particular occasion there were no production staff present either. Moments before the show had gone live, with the producer and various researchers panicking that their host had not yet appeared, Ajoy Guha had turned up. He had been using one hand to push a bound, gagged, and beaten-looking Jai Thakkar into the studio. In the other hand he’d held a Glock 17.
In moments Guha had cleared the studio, using locks designed to prevent intruders disrupting the show to lock himself and Thakkar alone into the studio. A skeleton staff had remained behind in the control room. Guha had warned them that Thakkar would die if they failed to broadcast events as they unfolded. Threats or not, all involved knew full well that the broadcast would continue.
Among those locked out were the Private team, Sharma, and a small squad of armed response officers, all of them watching on monitors in a corridor outside the studio. Guha had set the camera to roll but couldn’t change the angle or depth of vision, so what it failed to broadcast was that at Guha’s feet lay Thakkar, his eyes nervously fixed on the Glock Guha held to his forehead, also out of sight.
At the mention of Maya, Nisha’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh God,” she said, as Guha continued his monologue.
“From the pen of this young girl comes hope for the future. A simple desire that health care for Delhi, for the whole of India, should be delivered in a more egalitarian fashion.” He held up the essay, now somewhat dog-eared. “This essay—I’ve posted it to my Twitter account and I urge you to read it—this essay is a vision of the future penned by a little girl. Just a child. However, the piece of film I’m about to show you is a terrifying vision of the present—though soon, I hope to consign it to the past—run by the so-called adults, our leaders and representatives, our corporate heads and ministers, the doctors who command our trust—all of them committed not to saving lives as they would have us believe, but to lining their own pockets at our expense.
“This bit of film will shock you, I guarantee it. And you may watch it and feel the familiar sense of injustice and impotence. You will ask yourself if things will ever change. Well, ladies and gentlemen, when the report is over, we’ll come back and I will show you change. I will show you change in action.”
He looked over the top of his glasses at the control room, waggling the Glock threateningly. Those in the control room did as they were asked, and as newsmen, they did it gladly. They ran the story.
In the corridor outside, cops and the Private team gathered around a flustered studio manager. “The idea is that if you know the code you can lock the door from the inside,” she explained nervously, “and of course Ajoy knows the code.”
“There must be a way to override it,” said Santosh.
“There is. It needs two of us to input a master code. The head of security is on his way now.”
“Is there another way into the studio?” asked Sharma.
“The code controls all doors,” she explained. “Once the doors are overridden, you can come in through the control room, or from the other end, but you’d be coming at Ajoy from the front. This is the only door that brings you in from the side.”
“What kind of screwy security system is this anyway?” frowned Sharma.
An elderly security man arriving fixed him with a stare. “We have all sorts of celebrities, dignitaries, and notables in and out of our studios, Mr. Sharma,” he said. “We need to be able to guarantee their safety.”
Sharma indicated through the porthole window. “Mr. Thakkar doesn’t look particularly safe to me.”
“We’ve never had a journalist produce a gun before, Mr. Sharma,” said the security guard reasonably. “This is what you call an unprecedented situation.” He nodded to the studio manager, keyed in three digits to a door panel, and then stepped aside to allow her to finish the code. There was a click and a light turned from red to green.
Now a silence fell across those in the corridor as Sharma issued whispered instructions to his armed response team. Officers brought assault rifles to bear and took up positions by the door.
Back in the studio, if Guha was aware that the door lock had been circumvented, he made no sign. The film had ended. The story was out there, and now he was telling the story of the Deliverer, telling of his beloved wife Rita and how he pledged to take up arms against the same corruption and degeneracy that had killed her.
“I am sorry, people of Delhi, that my actions as the Deliverer brought you a period of unrest and uncertainty. But I promise with my hand on my heart that my intentions were benign, that I intended to rid the city of those elements that would seek to suck it of its lifeblood in order to deliver it into a better future.”
He stood, kicking his seat aside, reached down, grabbed Thakkar, and hauled him backward so that for the first time the CEO appeared on screen. “Meet Jai Thakkar of ResQ.” He stooped to rip off the tape from Thakkar’s mouth. “Mr. Thakkar, say hello to the people of Delhi. Tell them what you have done.”
In the corridor the elderly security guard spoke to Sharma. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Commissioner. You may not realize, but out there in the city everybody is watching what’s going on in here. Other channels are covering this channel. Traffic is at a virtual standstill. Millions of people are going to see every move you make.”
Sweat glistened on Sharma’s forehead. “Then millions of people are going to see us take down one of the sickest serial killers the city has ever seen.”
“You sure the people see it that way?” asked Santosh.
“I don’t give a fuck what the people think right now, Wagh,” snapped Sharma, and then addressed the armed response team leader. “Go in there, take him out before he kills a CEO on air. Do it. Now!”
The team leader nodded, twirled his finger in the air. Everybody else pressed themselves to the walls as the armed response team readied themselves and one of the men knelt, the barrel of his assault rifle pointing to the ceiling as with his other hand he reached to the handle and eased the door open a sliver.
Inside, Guha saw the door begin to open, the armed officers about to launch their incursion. At his feet, Thakkar was mewling, crying, and pleading, admitting all his many sins, spilling the beans to an audience of millions.
“But if the police come in here now, then I end it with a bullet to his head,” said Guha loudly, directing his comments more to the doorway than to his audience. The armed officers froze. Something seemed to occur to Guha. “The person I would like to see is Maya Gandhe. Bring her here to me. Bring her so that she can appear to the people as a symbol of hope for the future.”
In the corridor, the elderly security guard shot Sharma a look that said I told you so and the Commissioner cursed, knowing that Guha was giving him no choice. He couldn’t play games with Thakkar’s life. At least, not live on television. “Can we get her?” he said dreamily, as though he was far away. “Can we get the Gandhe girl?”
Nisha burst forward. “I beg your pardon!” she snapped. “Maya is coming nowhere near here!” Her face was right up to Sharma’s. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”
Sharma looked at her and his eyes were unfocused. He gave a tiny shake of his head and came back to himself. “I’m sorry. You’re quite right. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Tell your men to stand down—I’m going in,” said Nisha.
“No, Nisha, you can’t,” said Santosh.
Jack shook his head.
“He knows me.” Nisha drew her gun, herding armed response officers out of the way like a harassed teacher, and then made her way to the door. “We have history.”
And with that she slipped through the door and into the studio.