house. The layout of his living space would be a mystery until they crossed the threshold, but Takeri had spotted exits, elevators, where the doorman stood, which entrances were normally unwatched.
“You’ve thought this through,” Bolan observed.
“I guessed it might be necessary to approach him,” Takeri said, “but I had no plans to go inside myself.”
“Plans change. Go with the flow.”
The smile was thin. “I’ll do my best.”
“He doesn’t have security? No bodyguards?”
Takeri shook his head. “Nothing like that. Vyasa is—or claims to be—simply a public servant. Who would wish to harm him?”
“Good,” Bolan replied. “That makes it easier.”
He spread a large map of Calcutta on the bed, smoothing its creases with his hand, and said, “Let’s plot the route and find at least one alternative in case we have to bail.”
Takeri bent over the map, peering closely at it, finally bringing an index finger to rest on the glossy paper. “We are here,” he told Bolan, “and Vyasa lives…here.”
A maze of streets some two miles wide separated Bolan’s hotel from his target. One major street cut through the heart of it, a virtual straight-line approach with minor jogs at either end. Bolan memorized the street names, thankful most of them were printed on the map in English. Then, having accomplished that, he set about selecting paths of possible retreat.
He didn’t plan to fail but knew it was always possible. They might be intercepted prior to reaching Vyasa’s apartment—by police, an unexpected bodyguard, more of the thugs who’d tried to kill Takeri earlier—and so have to abort the mission. Even at the threshold or beyond, security devices might compel a hasty exit from Vyasa’s eighth-floor flat. In that case, they’d be glad to have escape routes plotted, memorized, ready to use.
Calcutta’s teeming streets could be a help, then, if they had to fight or run. A help…or just a maze, where all roads led to death.
Bolan spent time tracing the streets, burning that section of the map into his memory. Takeri indicated certain one-way streets, others where foot traffic made passage slow or even dangerous in darkness. The nearest police substation was fifteen minutes from Vyasa’s apartment under normal nighttime driving conditions.
Bolan listened and absorbed the information, hoping it would serve him well. He needed information from Girish Vyasa, but there was a limit to his need. He wouldn’t jeopardize the innocent, and he wouldn’t fire on police officers doing their duty.
Bolan had bruised his share of lawmen, frightened some, and even helped to put a few in prison—but he wouldn’t kill an honest cop to save his own life, or Takeri’s.
A crooked customs agent, though, was a different story.
When he was finished charting streets, Bolan turned to Takeri once again and said, “Give me the rundown on Vyasa.”
“Rundown?”
“What’s he like? Describe him physically, his habits, anything you have. Fill in the blanks.”
“Of course.” Takeri closed his eyes briefly, as if reviewing data tattooed on the inside of his eyelids, then began. “He has a birthday in October, at which time he will be forty-two years old. He is five feet and seven inches tall, weighing 150 pounds. He has a small tattoo—”
“I’ll recognize him,” Bolan interrupted. “What about the rest?”
“His customs personnel file will not have the information you require,” Takeri said, “but Captain Gupta and my private observations may, as you say, fill the blanks.”
“I’m listening.”
“Vyasa is a lifelong bachelor. Women apparently hold no attraction for him. He prefers…young men.”
“I take it that’s still frowned upon in India?” Bolan asked.
“Most assuredly. It is a fact of life, perhaps, but still repressed. There is no movement here, as in America, to bring homosexuals out of the cupboard.”
“Closet,” Bolan corrected him.
“Sorry?”
“It’s not important. Go ahead.”
“Vyasa’s lifestyle has not been exposed. He would be driven from his public office if that were the case.”
“But Captain Gupta knows?”
“Of course.”
“So, why not play that card and flush him out if he’s regarded as corrupt?”
“Again, there is the matter of protection. Captain Gupta might succeed in ruining Vyasa’s reputation, but his own would also suffer.”
“From the backlash?” When Takeri only stared and frowned, Bolan revised his choice of terms. “Reprisals.”
“Ah. Exactly so. He might not be dismissed, you understand, but there are other ways to force him out. Transfers, official reprimands, demotions based on petty incidents.”
“Bureaucracy,” Bolan replied.
“The very thing.”
It was the same in every nation, Bolan supposed. Benedict Arnold had been driven to betray America, at least in part, by petty bureaucratic slights that kept him from promotion in the Continental Army. Every government employee had at least one tale of persecution to relate.
“You think Naraka may have used Vyasa’s sex life to control him?”
“With the money, which Vyasa obviously craves,” Takeri said, “it is a possibility.”
“Okay,” Bolan replied. “Let’s go and see the man.”
BOLAN’S RENTAL CAR was a four-door Skoda Octavia, a midsize Indian model in silver that looked more like battleship gray. Before leaving the hotel room, he took the Steyr AUG from its hiding place, assembled it and stowed it in a nylon tote.
Takeri watched Bolan sling the bag over his shoulder, then inquired, “Are we going to war?”
“You never know,” Bolan said. “Better safe than sorry.”
Takeri’s expression suggested that he was sorry already, but he made no comment as they rode the elevator down and crossed the lobby, turning left and passing through a narrow alley to the hotel’s small, fenced parking lot. A middle-aged attendant dressed in what appeared to be a Boy Scout uniform examined Bolan’s key, then wheeled the gate open and waved them out into the sultry night.
Bolan had left the city map behind, trusting his memory and good sense of direction to convey him through the streets. Calcutta was a crowded, often wretched city, but it was a city nonetheless. Bolan was not intimidated by its architecture, slums or residents. His focus on the mission didn’t leave him any time to dwell on the affluence or poverty surrounding him.
