The Last Goal

By Surender Mohan Pathak

About the BookIn this thrilling novel, The famous detective-sudhir kohli-is caught in a quagmire of murder mystery and lethal attack on his life. He acts quickly, speaks interesting dialogues, takes you on a romantic trip and finally, nabs the killer. Another thriller from pathak, this plot would enthral you beyond compare.
A big wow !
* It is an edge-of - seat murder thriller.
* A must read in one sitting. A real unputdownable. * Don't read the end. Just enjoy the anonymity of the murderer.
About the Author : Surender Mohan Pathak is an author of Hindi Crime fiction with nearly 300 novels to his credit. His writing career, along with his full time job in Indian Telephone Industries, Delhi, began in the early 1960s with his brilliant Hindi translations of Ian Fleming’s James bond novels and the works of james hadley chase. His books have been sold over 25 million copies, making him india's No.1 bestseller.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Diamond Books
• Release date: Jul 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9789350835227

Book preview

THE LAST GOAL

eISBN:978-93-5083-522-7

© Author

Publisher: Diamond Pocket Books (P) Ltd.

X-30, Okhla Industrial Area, Phase-II

New Delhi-110020

Phone: [phone]

Fax: [phone]

E-mail: [e-mail]

Website: www.diamondbook.in

Edition: 2011

THE LAST GOAL

By - Surender Mohan Pathak

I opened my eyes.

I glanced at the wall clock which had a radium dial.

It was 1:30 a.m.

That meant I had been in the bed for hardly two hours.

Both my eyes moved around in a circular motion. Without making any movement and without moving my neck, I looked around in my bedroom. I could not see anything in the darkness, but I was sure that there was someone in the room; my eyes had opened because of his presence.

Someone was present in the bedroom of my flat at 1:30 a.m.

I remained motionless on my bed. Then, I turned and extended my hand towards the table lamp lying on the side table.

Before I could reach the switch of the table lamp, the room was lit up. Now, the room was full of bright light being emanated by a fluorescent tube.

I saw a heavy man near the electric switchboard. He was looking at me, his eyelids were not winking. He was laughing without any reason. His gums, made violet due to betel chewing, were visible to me; so were his teeth. His back was against the wall. He was holding a very dangerous-looking gun. He had not aimed it at me, but I knew that in a jiffy, he could not only aim it at me, but also shoot with it to make a window in any contour of my body.

Then, someone coughed. My eyes followed the sound of cough.

He was another hefty, wrestler-like man who seemed to be as dangerous as the first man near the switchboard. He was standing on the bedside, his back against the wall.

Awake now? The first wrestler like man asked in a nonchalant manner.

What do you see here? I asked.

You have woken up early. You did so without our efforts. Do you have very thin ears, or had you not slept yet?

Who are you? What do you want? How did you get in?

Allah! So many questions all at once!

Answer me.

So, are you a police officer trying to cross-question?

Ustad Ji, the young man standing by the side of my bed said, May I thrash him?

No! No! said the wrestler, If you thrash him, he would die.

No! He would die.

Just a sampler?

No! He’ll be annoyed. We have to keep him well and willing.

The young man’s face showed disappointment. He was too eager to deliver a couple of punches.

I turned my gaze towards the wrestler.

Why do you want me to be well and willing? I asked him.

That’s the right question.

Why?

If you remain well, you would do everything perfect. If you are not well, you would create chaos. Who wants hullabaloo in the middle of the night?

I want. You scoundrels! You have broken into my home and now . . .

Ustad Ji, the young man said in a hopeful tone, Let me give a punch or two on his bloody face. At least, he would stop bickering.

Let him bicker, the wrestler said in a philosophical manner, because it doesn’t matter.

I’ll call the police, I said, and get both of you arrested.

Lo! said the young man, Now listen to him.

If, I continued, you want your well-being, then . . .

That means, the wrestler interrupted me and said without any excitement, You want to go to hell now, not later?

He straightened his hand holding the gun. He cocked it without any emotion.

The small sound thus created was so much sharper than an actual sound of firing that I was terrified.

The change in my behaviour was quickly read by the wrestler.

Good! He said.

What do you want? I asked in a low tone.

See! the wrestler said to his young companion, You were trying to hit him without any rhyme or reason. He is doing everything willingly. The poor chap himself is asking what we want.

The young man said nothing.

What happened now? the wrestler said, Cat took your tongue? Tell him what we want from him.

Get off the bed, ordered the young man, Change your clothes. Get ready to accompany us.

Where do you want to take me? I asked with a suspicious tone.

Ustad Ji, see now, he’s again giving me tongue.

It was clear that the young goon was ready to have a duel with me.

He is not asking you useless questions, the wrestler politely reprimanded him, rather, he is asking a genuine question. He certainly has the right to ask where he is to be taken.

But . . .

I’ll tell him, the wrestler now turned towards me, My dear, you dress yourself casually. You are not getting ready for a party or celebration, so you need not dress up like a prince. Got it?

I didn’t reply.

We are supposed to deliver you to someone, without hurting you. All in one piece. Alive and kicking. I request you to co-operate with us. If you try to be stubborn, or if you threaten Hamid, I would not be able to guarantee that you would remain in one-piece. I do not intend to deliver damaged merchandise.

Why not?

Because one of the terms of contract is the safe and sound delivery of commodity to the client.

Am I commodity?

Yes! Worth fifty thousand Rupees. If you are damaged in any manner, we would lose this money.

So I am goods worth fifty thousand Rupees?

Cash! On the dot! COD, as they say in trade lingo!

COD – Cash on Delivery! Oho! So, my honored guest of midnight knows English too.

I don’t, but that man does who is supposed to receive your delivery. He was stating ‘COD, COD’ time and again, so I repeated the term.

Good! How easy it is to understand when it is stated in our common lingo! So, you have been designated by someone to kidnap me and deliver me to him and you would get fifty thousand rupees for the services rendered.

Wah! Great! When things are stated in Hindustani, they sure are comprehended in a jiffy.

Who’s the guy?

A customer.

What would he do to me?

He would do exactly what Hamid wants to do to you. But he would do so when the time comes.

He would send me to hell. Won’t he?

Yeah!

That means my death is only a matter of time.

Yeah! But do not try to cut down the span of time now. If you remain stubborn, or if you die here, our fifty thousand would go down the drain. Hence, be a noble guy and be of some use to us. Be ready and come along. Allah would give you the fruit of this act of yours. Stand up! Shabash!

I got off the bed and marched to the attached bathroom.

Where are you going? asked the wrestler.

Bathroom, I said, I would take a bath.

This is not the time to take bath. Dress up casually as I said before and come along.

Let me at least wash my hands and face.

Oh! Have lions ever washed their face?

This son of Englishman, young Hamid hissed with anger, thinks that his face would be licked by beautiful white dames where he is being taken.

Hamid! the wrestler reprimanded him sweetly, Keep quite, else I shall thrash you.

Hamid closed his mouth, his lips fully tight.

Hey! You haven’t started yet! the wrestler addressed me in surprise, You haven’t finished wearing clothes yet! You are not ready yet!

In my view, the temperament of a person should be according to his caste and status in society. The honey-dipped tongue of the wrestler was oozing out such words as were disturbing me. Had he been yelling bloody murder, yours truly had been terrified less but he was giving me a doze of poison with a coating of honey and that I could not comprehend in me present situation.

Folks, I hope to God that you have not forgotten yours truly, Sudhir Kohli, the only one. But it you have by any chance I’ll introduce myself again. Yours truly was named so by his esteemed mother twenty nine years back and I happen to be connected with the profession of private detective service, a field of operation which is not yet too well known in India. Just like tobacco and potato, the profession of private detective is also a gift of west. The crop of private detectives has come up in India in only recent years. You know that if one-odd sapling comes out of the ground, a new crop starts. Private detectives are mushrooming in India. But they have yet to be nourished and re-planted. One-odd plant was cut off in raw form, so it had failed. Only I have become a complete tree till date. What I mean is that you may call it a wonder of nature but yours truly, that’s me, is in demand in Delhi. I had my clients spread not only to the elite but also to the mawalis and gangsters of the kind the two were standing before me and giving me a choice—whether I’d prefer dying now or later.

Before the alert watch of the two goons, I discorded my payjama-kurta and wore jeans and jacket. There was a .38 caliber lying in the drawer inside the wardrobe; it was my licensed gun of Smith and Wasson make. However, the sharp, clever eyes of those two intruders did not allow me to reach up to my weapon.

In the end, I lit up a Dunhill cigarette and said, What’s the order now?

It’s not an order, said the wrestler, It’s a humble request.

Speak up.

One car is parked in front of this building in which your flat is located. You will come along with us and ride it. Then, the car would push off. OK?

Is that all?

Yes! Except that if you make a noise while going up to the car or if you try to act smart, a bullet would pierce your skull and your soul would depart from your body.

Khalifa! If I die, your remuneration would go down the drain.

That’s true, he spoke like a true gentleman, but I can’t help it, can i? There can always be profit or loss in business.

Ustad Ji, why should we incur loss? said a miffed Hamid, Let him try his one smart act and I will . . .

Saale, I said scornfully, you are trying to be a hero because you have a gun! Put it aside and make your Ustad Ji the referee of this contest. I’ll be son of a goon if I don’t crush your bones here and now.

Ustad Ji Hamid said in a highly dangerous voice, He is crossing all limits.

Go screw yourself, you son of a bitch! I said.

Hamid pounced upon me but the wrestler intervened.

Idiot! he said in a harsh tone, Come to your senses. Control your temper. This action of yours can cost me twenty-five thousand.

I don’t bother. I swear by the name of Allah, I shall…

I care. I do care. Got it?

Yeah! Got it, Hamid said timidly.

Is he on drugs? I asked.

What do you mean?

Opium and smack addicts are on a short fuse the way he is. He must be…

The heavy hand of the wrestler slapped across my cheek.

That was a hint for the wise, he said. For the first time, his voice had become cruel. He continued, Now, you prove that you are wise.

That goes without saying. I said but with great difficulty.

Then, you must remember what’s there on the roadside opposite this building.

Your car.

What you are supposed to do after reaching downstairs along with us?

I have to ride the car.

And how would this happen?

Quietly.

"Without making a fuss? Without trying to act smart?’

Yes.

Shabash! Now do your things here in the flat.

I switched off the lights and locked its main door of the flat. They bracketed me between them and escorted me to a black Ambassador parked across the road downstairs. Hamid sat in the driving seat and the wrestler pushed me on the rear seat of the car and parked himself beside me.

The car sped up in a jiffy.

We have to go to Moti Bagh, the wrestler said, the police are patrolling very strictly nowadays. They enquire too much during the night. Our car can also be stopped. On sight of policemen, you can try to act smart. My dear, It’s my sincere advice – do not try to create a scene upon seeing the police. If you did anything wrong, the first life that’ll be lost, will be yours.

And, I asked, what would be your fate?

We’ll be in trouble no doubt but you shall not live to see us in trouble. Before the police has a sight of us, you’ll be knocking the door of hell. Got it?

Yeah.

Then, what’s up?

The intention is good.

Keep it good, brother. It’s my request.

Good! I hope this is not a threat.

No.

I am surprised. The goons of today have become very decent and respectful.

He grinned.

All right then, he asked, Would you keep mum?

Yes.

Shabash!

Till Moti Bagh, we came across two road blocks monitored by the police. At both the barriers, the police only switched on torches and pointed the same towards our car, but we were not asked to stop. Had this happened—even a minor search operation on the car could suffice—it would have been possible for me to do a real son of Punjab act and I would have tried to free myself from the culprits in the presence of Delhi police jawans. But it seemed that these road blocks, which became active only during the night at various places, were meant only to harass law abiding citizens. The goons and anti-social elements were immune from their wrath.

Now, I could well understand why no terrorist had ever been caught at such road blocks, despite such fine police bandobast.

There was one such thing that I was feeling since long could come to stand in my good stead.

I knew the wrestler.

But the wrestler did not know that I knew him very well.

The name of this wrestler was Habibullah Khan but he was better known as Habib Bakra in Delhi’s underworld. Long ago, he used to run a butcher’s shop in Jama Masjid area. At that time, he was known by the name of Habibullah Khan Bakrewala. He had become a goon from a butcher, so his name had shrunk to ‘Habib Bakra’. He had been to jail many times due to his involvement in several cases of beating and initiating riots. But since he had gone under the aegis of Lekhraj Madan, the notorious don of Delhi, he had not seen the inside of a police lock-up since then.

Lekhraj Madan used to be a very ordinary man at the beginning of his adult life. He had started as a daily wage labourer at construction sites working for chicken feed. Then, he became a building contractor and eventually, a property dealer. But all and sundry in Delhi knew for sure that his real business areas were smuggling and prostitution. He had earned a lot of money by doing shady deeds. But recently, he had become a victim of government’s wrath. The collective focus of the IT department, anti-corruption squad and the Municipal Corporation of Delhi was on trail of Lekhraj Madan. The collective attention of these law enforcing organizations has shaken his criminal infrastructure. Newspapers had splashed news about him. Then only, had I learnt about Habib Bakra. He was arrested, along with Lekhraj Madan, in the context of an illegal construction case. Both of them were released on bail.

I had learnt from newspapers that Lekhraj had a brother who was 22 years younger than him. He was involved in underworld operations of Lekhraj but overtly, he used to run a night club at Rajendra Palace. I had read his name many times in newspapers but it hadn’t stuck to my mind, and his mug was never published in the newspapers along with any news related to him. Yours truly had the honour of meeting with the big boss but never with his younger brother.

The car pulled up in front of a dark building located in Moti Bagh.

Hamid alighted from the car and opened the iron gate of the building. He stepped into the front yard and opened the door of a car garage which was right in front of the iron gate.

After a minute, the car was inside the garage. The garage door and iron gate were closed.

We alighted from the car. Hamid switched on a light. A small, hazy and sick bulb spread some light. I could see a closed door in the rear wall of the garage. Hamid opened it. We entered into a room. In the light being poorly reflected from the outside source, I found it to be a well appointed bedroom. Hamid closed the door connecting the garage. He pulled a thick curtain across that door as well as curtains across the only two windows of that room. Then, he switched on the tube light which well illuminated the room.

Habib Bakra lowered himself on a chair. He took out his gun and put it in his lap. He took out a pouch of tobacco leaves and transferred a part of the same to his mouth. He started chewing it sans any worry or excitement.

Then, he gestured to Hamid in a secret manner. In response, Hamid arranged a nylon rope and tied my hands and feet with the help of it. In the end, he made me lie on the bed.

My dear, Habib Bakra spoke sweetly, you’ll be bothered for only a short while.

You do care for me. I said in a sarcastic tone.

You are getting angry.

No! Not at all! I am elated. I would like to dance and sing.

Don’t try the second thing; else I would have to gag you as well.

I kept quiet.

Bakra continued to chew tobacco like a machine. Then, he gestured Hamid to get him the telephone. Hamid picked up the telephone and put it beside him on a small stool.

Go prepare tea, Bakra ordered.

Hamid responded in the affirmative. Then, nodding silently, he left the room.

Habib dialed a number on the telephone and waited for a response from the other end. He was not fully sticking the earpiece to his ear, so, when someone responded from the other end, I could clearly listen to his voice in the silence of the room.

Yes! Who is it?

I could clearly recognize the voice of Lekhraj Madan.

Malik, Bakra spoke in a saccharine-laced tone, the job has been done.

Got him?

Yeah!

Did he create a hue and cry?

He did. He tried everything he could. Threw tantrums left and right, but I did not let him have his way.

Good. Where is he now?

At Moti Bagh.

He’s safe and secure with you?

Yes.

Are you sure he won’t be able to escape?

"No chance, malik."

Good! Now, you know what’s to be done next.

"Yes! We shall keep him here overnight. In the morning, at 11 O’ clock, I will take him to the residence of the chhota malik."

You’ll do it yourself.

"Yes, malik."

Deal with him nicely. This is not the occasion to push your weight around. Do not thrash him in a fit of excitement.

"Got it, malik."

He may not know that you are haughty from inside but soft from outside but I know you very well.

"You rest assured, malik, I . . ."

I hope you haven’t already let him have a taste of your bad temper?

"Arre, malik, nothing happened. Just once… "

What just once?

I had to slap across him . . . but just once.

That was wrong. You shouldn’t have done that.

He was very adamant . . .

Even then, you should not have done so. Now, has he got a mark on his cheek?

Habib Bakra carefully examined my countenance and then, spoke over telephone, No.

Good! Be careful in the future. At the time of delivery, there should be no sign of thrashing, scratches, abrasions etc. on his face or any part of his body. Followed?

Yes.

What did you follow?

No marks, no cuts, no scratches, no wounds, .

Good!

"Anything else, malik!"

What did you think about your sidekick?

His task would be done.

When?

Tonight itself. Before the dawn.

There should be no negligence on your part.

"Rest assured, malik. There would be no negligence."

Good!

The line was then probably disconnected. Habib replaced the receiver on the cradle and pushed the stool away from him.

I kept lying down on the bed without making a sound.

The situation was taking a dangerous turn. Now, I was sure my kidnapping was no ordinary incident; it was likely to take a very dangerous turn. The series of events was so grave that no witness of the kidnapping was likely to be left behind.

Before sunrise, Hamid was going to be eliminated.

Next day, at 11 O’clock, I was supposed to be delivered to the younger brother of