The work had used to be much easier some years before. The river’s waters had been clean and had done most of the work. The overall increase in Indian prosperity had, ironically, reduced the prosperity of the dhobis. The washing machine had eaten into the business of dhobis but the men at the Yamuna had faced a double whammy owing to the degeneration of the river. Even hospitals were wary of sending their stuff to the Yamuna. Fear of infection from effluents had stopped most of the better ones. In previous years there would have been fifty men at work instead of five.
Santosh walked up to the group along with Nisha. “Terrible work these days,” he commented. One of them looked up wearily to see a man who looked as though his clothes had been washed by them in the river.
“It’s the only way we know how to keep hunger from our doors, sahib,” said the man. “Most households have given up on us. After a wash in the Yamuna, their garments are often returned reeking of sewage.”
“So how do you survive?” asked Santosh, leaning on his walking stick.
“The cloth sellers still need their fabric to be shrunk before tailoring,” replied the man. “In addition there are government hospitals that still send their bed linen to us.”
Santosh took out a five-hundred-rupee note from his wallet and handed it over to the man.
“What is this for, sahib?” asked the man. His colleagues also stopped their work, eyeing the money.
“It’s for all of you,” said Santosh. “Go have a good meal. It’s my good deed for the day. My good deed.”
“Thank you, sahib,” said the washerman. “May God bless you and the memsahib. If there is anything that I can ever be of help with...”
“Now that you mention it, there is something that you could help me with...” began Santosh. At Private, Neel had reconstructed a larger sample of hospital gown from the tiny fragment they’d been given. Santosh pulled it from his pocket...
Chapter 56
Santosh picked up his phone. It was Neel. “Patel has been murdered,” said Neel. “It’s our boy, no doubt about it. His driver was killed and he was kidnapped from Delhi Golf Club then taken home. A housekeeper found what was left of the body this morning.”
“What do you mean, ‘what was left’?”
“He’d been eviscerated. The housekeeper found most of his internal organs nailed to a wall.”
“Most?”
“The heart was missing.”
“Certainly sounds like our man,” said Santosh.
“So we can assume that Patel was an enemy of the organ-harvesting operation?”
“We never assume, Neel.”
“True,” replied Neel. “You want to visit the crime scene?”
“Better that I stay away,” replied Santosh. “No point getting Sharma all worked up. In any case, I have a meeting at noon.”
“You want me to go instead?” asked Neel.
“That would be good,” replied Santosh. “Oh, one more thing, Neel.”
“Yes?”
“That hospital gown came from Delhi Memorial Hospital. Chances are that most of the bodies were from there. Everything seems to be adding up, given that it’s the closest hospital to the Greater Kailash house and the black van seen there was owned by Arora, their chief surgeon.”
“Your hunch turned out right,” said Neel.
“Any luck with the online search?” asked Santosh.
“The biggest supplier from India seems to be a Dr. O. S. Rangoon. I’m searching various databases to find if someone matches up.”
“What did you say the name was?”
“Dr. O. S. Rangoon.”
“Don’t bother with an online or directory search,” said Santosh.
“Why?” asked Neel.
“Dr. O. S. Rangoon is simply an anagram of ‘organ donors.’ Try tracing the cell phone number instead.”
Chapter 57
Santosh made his way to his appointment on foot, partly savoring the heart of Delhi as he moved through the streets, partly thinking about the case.
He passed newspaper vendors and cast his eye over headlines. Patel’s murder dominated the front pages, of course — no attempts made at suppression or spin there — and one or two of the newspapers had linked his death with that of Kumar.
Suddenly a free-sheet was thrust into his hand. They were being handed out by a young man who walked on swiftly, moving against the tide of pedestrian traffic and giving out leaflets to whoever would take them. The leaflet showed pictures of Kumar and Patel, doctored with bloodstains, and the headline: “RIP THE ‘GREAT’ AND THE ‘GOOD.’”
Santosh caught sight of a police car in the road and watched the young agitator shove his pamphlets into a backpack and melt into the crowd. He pocketed his own, moving on, wondering about the mood in the city.
There was no doubting the mood at the building occupied by ResQ Insurance. Fear and paranoia ruled over a reception area that teemed with security guards. Santosh passed through a metal detector where his cane was inspected — not very efficiently: the blade inside remained undiscovered — and then he was approached by a guard wielding a wand of some kind.
Finally he made his way in the elevator up to the seventeenth floor of the steel-and-glass tower. Five floors of the building were entirely occupied by ResQ Insurance, a company that had built its fortune by taking advantage of lower health care costs in India.
Founded by two brothers from Cleveland, ResQ had originally started out as a third-party administrator for the large insurance companies that found it more efficient to allow an outsider to process claims and perform other administrative services. Given that back-office tasks were easily outsourced to India, ResQ had built up a strong team in Gurgaon. At that time the company had been known by a different name.
The company’s NYU-educated CEO, Jai Thakkar, had realized India presented an opportunity to offer medical insurance at significantly lower premiums, and he had succeeded in putting together an investor consortium to buy out the founders. He had changed the name of the company and then put into action his plan to offer low American insurance premiums linked to medical services in India. Thakkar’s idea had worked wonders and ResQ was now one of the most profitable insurance companies in the US, with the bulk of its operations in India even though the majority of its customers lived in America.
Santosh exited the elevator on the seventeenth floor and entered a world of soft carpets, deep leather sofas, and understated elegance. He felt slightly intimidated, partly owing to his disheveled appearance.
He passed another security check. Two more armed guards with wands. This time he was asked if he was able to walk without the cane. He agreed that he was. In that case, could he collect it after his meeting with Mr. Thakkar?
Next came Thakkar’s secretary, who surveyed him with a snooty air then led him through corridors to a large corner office with views of the other towers in the business district.
Thakkar was on the phone but hung up when he saw Santosh enter. He rose from behind his desk to shake Santosh’s hand. “I had a call from Denny, the CEO of the National Association of Insurance Commissioners, saying that I had to see you,” he said, friendly enough.
Santosh nodded. “Thank you for meeting me,” he said as he sat. “I was hoping you could help me understand the economics of medical tourism.”
He glanced at the credenza that ran along one side of Thakkar’s desk. On it was a photograph of Thakkar along with Mohan Jaswal. “Where was that taken?” he asked.