KUMAR SWIVELED IN his chair, irritated, expecting to see his wife, son, a member of staff or security—an unwelcome presence, interrupting his train of thought.
But it was none of those. The figure in the doorway was dressed in black, complete with balaclava covering all but his eyes, and his nose and lips that protruded obscenely through the mouth hole. And for a second, frozen by shock, Kumar dithered, unable to decide whether to scream for help or make a dash for the panic button, when what he should have done was both at the same time. The intruder lurched forward. At that moment Kumar saw what he held. A hypodermic syringe, whose needle was jabbed into his neck.
And for Kumar, the lights went out.
When he regained consciousness it was to find that he’d been duct-taped to his office chair and moved to the other side of the desk. The man in black stood before him, still wearing his balaclava. Using a flashlight, the intruder checked Kumar’s pupils and then stepped back, satisfied, his eyes gleaming in the eye holes of the balaclava, his bulging lips wet.
“I injected you with etorphine, an opioid possessing three thousand times the analgesic potency of morphine,” he said. “I find it very useful indeed. However, I’m not going to give you the pleasure of dying while you’re asleep. No, you must be fully awake.”
The attacker was disguising his voice, yet there was something familiar about it.
“Who are you?” managed Kumar. He was wondering if there’d been enough noise to rouse his sleeping family. Probably not. He was too weak to scream now. The intruder was clearly no madman. He gave every indication of having a well-thought-out plan. It was this more than anything that terrified Kumar. Here he was in a house surrounded by staff and security and yet he was going to die.
But not yet.
“Who are you?” he repeated. “I know you, don’t I? If you’re going to kill me then why not reveal yourself to me? Tell me what you want.”
“Tell you what I want? Very well. I want you, who has done so much taking, to give.”
“What are you talking about, ‘give’? Give what?”
“I’ll show you.” The attacker turned to reach into a small rucksack, retrieving a pair of blood bags, each attached to a length of surgical hose and a needle. He arranged the bags on the floor at Kumar’s feet. It was only then that Kumar realized his arms had been duct-taped a certain way, palms upward, like a man offering a peace settlement.
The only light in the room was the glow of the laptop screen. In the gloom of his office Kumar looked down to see his attacker peering up at him, and he gazed into the man’s eyes hoping to see some shred of mercy or pity, but found none.
“Please don’t do this,” he whimpered. “I’m a very powerful man. There is so much I can do for you. Name it. Name your price.”
“I have already named my price, Honorable Minister for Health and Family Welfare. I have already named it. You are about to pay it. You ask if there is anything you can do for me—the answer is no, you have already done enough. You are corrupt and venal and you have done enough.”
The intruder rose, and in his hand he held one of the needles. Kumar’s struggles were futile as the intruder used his index and middle fingers to tap up a vein in Kumar’s left forearm. The radial artery. In went the first needle. Blood flowed along the opaque medical tube and began to fill the bag below.
“Please…”
But the man in black was not listening. He was now holding the other needle, repeating the process in the other arm.
“Are you feeling your heart rate increasing?” he said, and drew over a second chair in order to sit opposite Kumar and watch the show. Kumar could indeed feel his heart beating rapidly, suddenly accompanied by a clammy sensation.
“You will now feel dizzy,” said the man in black.
Again, that voice. Kumar recognized the voice.
“Soon you will turn pale. Then shortness of breath will kick in. Once your blood pressure has dropped far enough, you will lose consciousness. Anywhere between twenty and thirty minutes’ time.”
Kumar watched helplessly as the man in black moved over to dismiss the screensaver of his laptop and read the letter on his screen. “Very interesting,” he said after some moments. “Very interesting indeed.”
And then he deleted the letter. Next he began opening other documents, reading e-mails, pleased at what he learned.
Ten minutes passed. The only sound in the room was Kumar’s whimpering, and even that began to fade as he felt his strength recede. As the blood was taken from him so was the will to live, as though his spirit and soul were being taken too. Suddenly he was gripped by a desire to say sorry for everything he had done, but knew the sudden need for what it was—a hypocritical, self-serving reaction to his imminent death. A need to salve his conscience.
His eyelids began to flutter. His blood flowed into the bags more slowly now. With it went hope. With it went everything he had ever been or ever would be. With it came the end.
And then, just as he was about to die, the man in black leaned forward in his chair, took hold of the balaclava from the bottom, and peeled it up over his face.
The last word Kumar ever said was “You.”