The Huntsmen

By Bappaditya Chakravarty

An explosion shatters a peaceful evening at the India Gate lawns in New Delhi.

In London, two Muslim clerics are murdered.

Police discover the tortured body of a prominent geologist in Goa.

Two women, on holiday in Mumbai, are kidnapped.

Who is the mastermind behind these seemingly unrelated incidents, and what is their ultimate agenda?

Rudra, along with Vijay, agents of an unnamed, high-risk, high-security, Indian agency, race from Mumbai to Cairo and beyond in an exhilarating hunt for truth and justice.

Will the huntsmen pin down their prey?

Or will their quest come to an explosive end?

About the Author: Born in 1951, Bappaditya Chakravarty was educated at Delhi University and at the Indian Institute of Management, Calcutta. He has been an educationist, an executive in the public and private sectors, as well as a consultant, and returned to India in 2020 after spending nearly two decades in various countries. He has written four books in English, Samudragupta – The Making of an Emperor, which was released at the Dhaka LitFest (2016), two thrillers The Goa Connection (2013) and Swordplay (2023) and an immersive travel-fiction Two Wanderers (2023). He has published three fictional books in Bengali. He has also written a number of essays, articles and short stories in Bengali, published in reputed journals and magazines. He is married to a Danish diplomat and currently lives in Delhi and Kyrgyzstan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Niyogi
• Release date: May 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9789389136951

Book preview

The Main Players

The ‘Good’

Brigadier Paramjyot Singh: Head of an unnamed security and intelligence agency in India. Reports only to the PM.

Rudra Sengupta: Senior agent of the agency, ex-Special Forces

Vijay Upadhyay: Agent of the same agency

Santhanam, aka Santa: Resident computer genius of the agency

Sushmita: A young geologist, kidnapped by The Uglies

Sharmila: A young chartered accountant, also kidnapped by The Uglies

Derek O’Connor: A marine engineer

John ‘Baby’ McAllister: Chief engine room artificer, ex-Royal Navy

Ben Wilder: A thief

Gregory Bateman: Inspector, Scotland Yard

Harald Rasmussen: Senior Officer, Europol

The ‘Bad’

Carl Forbes: Chief Financial Officer of Radovsevic

Elena: Radovsevic’s girlfriend

The ‘Ugly’

Radovsevic: Ex-Serbian shady billionaire

Ray: Ex-Serbian assassin, Serbian Secret Police

Pieter Richt: South African mercenary

Petrov: Ex-FSB, Russian Secret Service

Mahtab: Yemeni assassin

Salahuddin: Terrorist and paymaster

Abdur Rehman: Terrorist

Author’s Note: The classification of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, has been shamelessly taken from the movie of the same name, and due apologies are rendered.

Prologue

North Goa

July 14, 1939

The rain beat down on the hillside with the primal ferocity that defines Goa for six months of the year. But this evening was a little special—a premonition of the things that were to happen, perhaps.

The narrow path up the mountain was slippery, the muddy earth combining with the gravel slithering down the precipitous sides into a sickly slush. The wavering light of an electric torch slowly made its way up the path. Clad in a raincoat and a wide-brimmed hat, a man slowly pushed a bicycle, taking careful steps.

The path ended at the bottom of a staircase made of rough stones. A few bushes on one side of the path, and a steep gorge on the other. A minor waterfall roared its way over the path and down the mountainside. The man stopped, looked around and pushed his bicycle into the bushes. Next to the bush stood a weather-beaten board that said in faded letters,

Joachim Brunel

General Manager

Minerale et Metallurgie, SA

Bruxelles

The man looked up. The stairs ended at a small bungalow a little way up. Light from a window made its halting way out through the rain. Switching off his torch, the man climbed the stairs and knelt under the window. The panes were open, and the man bent his head to listen.

‘I am sorry to have called you out in this weather, Alex, but there is a reason. And a very important one. I want to send you home.’

Joachim Brunel, the man behind the words, was a stocky individual with a grave face. He was an engineer and geologist—a rare combination. Clad in a thick dressing gown, with a cigar in his mouth, Brunel got up from his cushioned chair, walked to the window and opened the panes a little wider. The man ducked down below the sill.

The other man in the room, a man in his mid-twenties called Alex, who had been in Goa for hardly a year as assistant to Brunel, was quite surprised.

‘Sir, you have already sent everyone else home. There are just two of us left, Stanley and me, and he was also saying that he will be going back at the end of the month. If you send me home, you will be completely alone in this place…’

‘I know, I know. But I do not have a choice now. I still have to wrap up a few things here. And before you ask, there is also a reason why I am not going to ask Stanley to do what I want you to do.’ Brunel came even closer to the window and blew a thick fog of smoke out in the rain. Turning back, he looked at Alex carefully. An honest face, a little too young for the job perhaps, but it would have to do. Times were changing too rapidly.

‘Whatever else Stanley is, he is an Englishman, and you are Belgian. Any day now, Europe will go to war. I cannot trust anyone except a countryman at this time.’

Brunel walked to a cupboard on the far side of the room. Unlocking it, he took out a leather bag and handed it to Alex.

‘You have a cabin on the S.S. Nordland sailing from Mormugao tomorrow morning. You must reach Vasco tonight. I have instructed the garage at Mapusa to have a car waiting for you on the main road.’

He put his hand on the shoulder of the young man. A curiously affectionate gesture.

Recovering himself almost immediately, Brunel added in a rather gruff voice that did not fool Alex at all, ‘Do not part with this bag until you are actually face-to-face with our managing director. Only then will you be free.’

Before Alex could reply, Brunel walked to his table, and opening a drawer with another key, took out a few notes. ‘Three hundred pounds here. Enough to see you through. Bon voyage.’

Alex took the money. Strapping the bag to his body, he walked to the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he turned. ‘Sir, if you wouldn’t mind, may I say something?’

‘Yes?’

‘No letter for Madame Brunel?’

Brunel smiled. A ghostly thing that came and went in an instant. Suddenly, he seemed to grow older before Alex’s eyes. When he spoke, his voice was tired—tired of himself, and tired of life itself perhaps. ‘I forgot to tell you. Madame Brunel left me all alone three months ago. Cancer. I have no one else.’ Somehow, he seemed to gather himself. ‘Now go. It is late enough already, and the rain shows no sign of letting up.’

Alex came out on the verandah that ran around three sides of the house. He shrugged on his raincoat that was hanging on the rack and put his cap on. His bicycle was on its stand on the verandah. Pensive, and a little sad, he slowly pushed the bicycle down the two steps and then the rough-hewn stone staircase. The stairs were slippery, and Alex stepped warily, his whole focus on the unsteady circle of light of his torch.

And so, when the stiletto pierced his neck, he had no warning at all.

The body fell onto the last step. The man wiped the blade on Alex’s raincoat. Good Toledo steel, worth much more than the life of the kid. He cut the leather bag off and took the pound notes from Alex’s pocket. Any extra earning was welcome. Looking around once, he rolled the body over to the edge of the gorge with his feet and then, with a sudden jerk, pushed it over. The torch made a wild pattern in the rain before falling in the deep blackness, striking a stone somewhere, and going out.

The knock on the door surprised Brunel. Had Alex come back? Perhaps he had forgotten something?

Brunel walked to the door. The man ran in before he could open the door properly. The stiletto pierced the heart before Brunel had time to even recover from the rush.

The dying man’s surprise was evident. ‘Stanley, you, you?’

‘Perdão, senhor. My name is not Stanley, and I am not English. I am sorry to leave you like this, but you have to go. You do not get to be at the end of what you have begun. Sinto muito.’ Almost unconsciously, the man betrayed his Portuguese origins, but Brunel had breathed his last before the apology was made. ‘Stanley’ closed the door slowly and walked down the staircase to where his own cycle leaned against the bush. He looked at the wooden name board once, and then pulled it out of the ground and threw it into the gorge. ‘Rest in peace, Monsieur Brunel.’

Panaji, Goa

December 14, 1942

For the past few days, the three of them, Elesbao Da Cunha, a Portuguese, Heinrich Bundt, a half-German, and Saldanha, a Goan, had met at this small bar on the Panaji waterfront in the evening. It served a reasonably good arrack. It was smoother than the more common drink, feni, and one could down a bottle with warm water and a slice of lime and not feel any worse for it.

The evening was going as usual and the first bottle had been polished off when. Elesbao looked round the table.

‘Any news of Ram Pershad?’ He said, simultaneously lighting a cigarette. His voice was languid, as behooved one who moved in the Portuguese social circles.

It was the Goan, Saldanha, who replied in between sips of arrack. ‘No, but something happened today. Fellow came from Mapusa. Said Silvera wants to meet.’

‘Why?’

‘Search me. Just said that if we get word to Robert or Greta, there will be something for us.’

Heinrich chipped in, ‘You cannot trust Silveira. Might have already sold whatever he has to someone else. I heard he has some Spanish blood in him. Desgraçado.’

At that time there were only two or three Germans in Goa. Heinrich worked for them. Elesbao took money from the Nazis and managed the Portuguese civil bureaucracy. It was Elesbao who ensured that the German ship Ehrenfel could continue to be anchored in the Mormugao Roads, sending messages to Germany, and that Robert and Greta Koch could continue operating their spy ring right from the heart of Panaji. Hah, thought Elesbao to himself. Silveira was a nobody.

Aloud, he said, ‘See if you can get Silveira.’ Saldanha went to the bar.

Thanks to the war and the intelligence police, every bar had a phone. The instrument was on one corner of the counter, and Saldanha, a regular, cradled the receiver in a rather proprietary manner as he asked the operator for Silveira’s number.

The others had almost finished the second bottle when Saldanha returned. He poured himself a drink before looking at the expectant faces. ‘I got him. Silvera knows nothing of importance. There is a man. Seems that three years ago, a German called Helmut asked him to collect some papers. He had paid half up front. Helmut vanished by the time this man got hold of the papers. He has been looking for Helmut ever since.’

‘So?’ This from Elesbao.

‘So, the man now wants to sell them. He has heard that Robert is buying things of this kind. He approached Silveira.’ With a great burp, which made Elesbao crinkle his nose, Saldanha shouted for a third bottle.

Heinrich was shaking his head silently. Lighting a cigarette, he turned to Saldanha. ‘And what the hell has this man been doing all these years?’

‘Who knows? Silvera doesn’t know. Maybe he was serving a term. Silvera’s friend, after all.’ Saldanha was unconcerned. Elesbao blew a smoke ring. ‘And what is in it for us?’

Heinrich was thoughtfully looking at the blackened rafters of the ceiling. He turned to Elesbao. ‘We could take a chance. If Robert pays up, we shall get something from him in any case. But we must get this man also to pay some advance. After all, we don’t have to get involved. We are doing everybody a favor.’

Heinrich poured himself another drink. ‘I shall get going. Tell Silveira to be ready. Ram Pershad may contact us any time. That is our real work.’ He left the table.

Ram Pershad Gupta—one could call him a Goan freedom fighter—worked at the Bombay docks and sent news of troopship movements to Goa. Heinrich and others sold the information to the Kochs, and they, in turn, sent it out from the transmitter on the Ehrenfel.

With the half-German gone, the other two started talking between themselves. It would not be possible to double-cross Heinrich, but it would be possible to get something from Silvera without Heinrich coming to know of it.

The unshaved man in rather ordinary street clothes, who had been sitting at the next table throughout this conversation, ordered a second bottle of feni. The radio on the bar counter was blaring out war news. The man was apparently absorbed in that.

War makes some people rich, but the other way round is more common. That is what had happened to the man. God knew where the bastard Helmut had gone…after so many years, one had to depend on these lowlifes to earn a few thousand pounds. Well, that is the way the cookie crumbles—the Americanism came to him unbidden, and the man smiled to himself.

Hotel Palladio, Vasco, Goa

December 17, 1942

Today there were hardly any diners in the hotel. Raoul Diaz, the dining hall steward, was practically unemployed. Business was not very good these days, what with the war and the shortages. And now to top it off, from the day that those three German ships—Ehrenfel, Drachenfel and Braunfel —had anchored in the Roads, there had been all kinds of rumors, people talking quietly on street corners, stepped-up patrolling by the Portuguese police, random questioning by the intelligence police—in short, a mess. Raoul heaved a sigh and started thinking of telling the waiters to remove the buffet. At that moment, two men walked in. They looked like Englishmen and were talking to themselves in English. Well, that was no crime in neutral Portuguese Goa. But he paid a bit more attention to what was going on at their table. With a bit of luck, the intelligence fellows might turn up in the morning, and he might have something for them. The voices of the two men were scarcely above a whisper, and all Raoul could hear were bits and pieces: ‘Belgaum’, ‘Trompeta’ and so on.

At length, Raoul went and called his friend, Jose Corba, the concierge, to learn a little more. ‘Yes, they are Englishmen’, said Jose, ‘names of Pugh and Stewart. They are businessmen. Came in around six-thirty today. Asked to be woken up early. Said they have a meeting in Panaji at seven in the morning.’

Altinho, Cidade de Goa, Panaji

December 18, 1942

Saldanha had come through.

The man was now hidden in a bush behind a bungalow in the posh locality of Altinho. The house backed onto the side of a small hill. The man had an appointment with Robert and Greta Koch at eight. Ever suspicious, he had decided to take an early look at the whole setup.

From where he crouched, he could see both the front and the back of the house: A middle-aged couple were taking their morning coffee on the front lawn. Must be the Kochs. Towards the back, a maid in a black skirt and white apron was arguing with an egg-seller. Peaceful all around.

A white Chevrolet screeched to a stop in front of the main gate of the bungalow. The man could read the number—DL 9241. What was a car registered in Delhi doing here? Before he could think it through, two men got down from the car and walked in through the gate.

The man could not hear what they said to the couple. But suddenly, one of the men took out a gun and pointed it at them and, within a second, the other man jumped behind the couple and hit them with something heavy. Both the bodies were now lolling on the cane chairs. The men pulled and pushed the bodies into the car and closed the door. The car streaked off with a burning smell of rubber.

The whole thing had taken less than two minutes. It was over before the man could bring himself to react. He ran to the bushes where he had hidden his motorbike and kick-started it. But, by the time he came down the mountainside and got on the metaled road, the white car was almost a mile away.

Nevertheless, the man followed. If he could save the Kochs, there would certainly be a reward.

Reaching the customs post at Belgaum, he looked around, but the white car was nowhere to be seen. The road ahead was narrow, with jungle on both sides. The man slowed down. The two men in the car might have seen him and could be waiting in ambush.

Suddenly, with a crash of breaking branches and torn bushes, the white car emerged a little ahead, turned towards Belgaum and vanished at high speed. The man stopped.

The jungle was not very dense here. The man put the motorbike on its stand and looked at the place where the car had emerged. He followed the tyre marks and saw the two bodies lying side by side, flattening the foliage. He went closer. Robert Koch’s clothes were torn, and there were burn marks on his eyelids. He appeared to have been tortured, and the torturers had not learned much. Greta Koch must have been shot while Robert was alive. Her face still showed surprise.

Anger, and disgust, bubbled in the man’s mind. Whatever happened, the papers would not go to the English.

He started up the motorbike, feeling a little dejected. The sale was a flop, and petrol had been wasted. That was worth quite a lot these days.

Nineteen years later: Dabolim Airport, Goa

December 18, 1961

Solano Da Almeida, Colonel in the Portuguese Air Force. A daredevil. Early thirties. Known as ‘Mad’ Solano to all and sundry.

Today, Solano was trying to rescue what remained of the Portuguese Air Force in Goa—two DC 6’s. Both new. Both belonging to the Portuguese airlines. Solano was determined that these two aircrafts would not fall into the hands of the Indians. ‘Mad’ Solano had conscripted every single man, woman and child from the surrounding villages and had pressed them into repairing the runway. Bombing by the Indians had thrown up huge chunks of the runway, leaving great potholes. The people were putting these chunks back in the holes and filling in the cracks with earth. There were no tools, and Mad Solano’s labourers were using their hands. Once the cracks were filled, the women jumped up and down on them trying to compact the earth.

Solano himself was everywhere with a whangee in his hand—abusing the men and kissing a girl who he thought was working well. No one said anything to Mad Solano. The man was well liked, in spite of his behavior today.

A girl sat on one side of the runway. Her face was smoke blackened and she had on a dress, somewhat torn and uniformly dirty. She was crying. Tears had left white furrows on her face.

Solano noticed her on one of his rounds. ‘Who are you?’ His voice was gruff.

The girl looked up. It was obvious that she would come out as a ravishing beauty once she was washed and scrubbed. Solano softened a little.

‘Maria Manuela.’

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Since day before yesterday.’

‘Eaten anything?’

Manuela shook her head. She had survived on glucose tablets for the last forty-eight hours. Dry. There was no water in Dabolim Airport after the bombings.

Solano now looked at the man standing next to Manuela. Medium height. Features indeterminate. ‘A half caste’, thought Solano.

The man volunteered his answer to the unasked question. And told the truth, for once. ‘Casimiro. Casimiro Monteiro. Returning from Borim. I had gone there to blow up the Borim Bridge with this woman’s husband, Roberto.’

Solano was intrigued. ‘So what happened?’

‘Nothing. Failed. Roberto died in the firing by the Indian army. Somehow, I escaped and came here because of Roberto’s last wish. He wanted me to take his wife to Lisboa. But now…’

He gestured towards the runway which still looked like the result of a volcanic eruption and shrugged. ‘I just don’t know.’

Solano thought a little. At length, he gestured with his head. ‘Come with me’. He took the pair to the plane, climbed up and got a water bottle from inside. He handed it to Manuela. ‘Drink and wash your face. Don’t worry, I have more.’ He did not say anything to Casimiro.

Evening was now creeping up on the airfield. Solano went out for a last round. There was nothing more that could be done. In any case he had to take off before last light. There were no lights on the airfield. The saving grace was that for the past hour there had been no reconnaissance sorties by the Indian Air Force. There was a strange silence now. The labourers had stopped work, and the constant roar of naval guns from the engagement between the Portuguese frigate Albuquerque and the Indian ship INS Betwa had also ceased.

Solano took off a few minutes before seven. The other DC 6 also took off immediately after him. First halt: Karachi.

Casimiro was drawing up the accounts of his life. He had been carrying these papers around for the last twenty-two years. They were still with him. Of course, he had tried to sell them off from time to time. The last time was when he had gone to Portugal on a summons from Dictator Salazar himself—to remove Umberto Delgado from this earth. He had had a lead but had not been able to follow up. It had been necessary to exit Portugal quickly. But now…this was the last time. There would be no coming back to Goa.

Only one thing remained. No one who had ever seen him had lived, and neither would the Colonel and the girl. There would be no one left on earth to recognize him either by name or face. But that was for Lisboa. He took a sip from the water bottle.

The lights of Karachi blinked far below.

Forty-three years later: Ostend, Belgium

December 16, 2005

The morning had dawned bright and sunny. This part of the town, almost next door to the Sint-Petrus-en-Pauluskerk, was old, and many discreet businesses were operated from some of the town houses there. Ostermark’s rare book business was one of these. It was in one of the side lanes, and there was no signboard announcing business intentions. There was, however, a small brass plaque on one side of the green wooden door that said ‘Ostermark: Rare Books and Artifacts’. The door was usually locked. Neighbors thought that Ostermark traveled widely for his business and did not enquire further.

That day, however, the man himself came out when it was striking eleven, looked at the sky. Apparently a man at leisure, about to take a walk in Leopold Park. A man of medium height, he looked the quintessential retiree—a few white hairs peeking from under a black beret, wearing thick pebble glasses, corduroy trousers and a black scarf over a blue pullover. Ostermark pulled the door to and started locking it with an old-fashioned padlock.

About to put the keys in his pocket, he was a little startled by a tap on his hand. A tallish man, dressed in leather jacket and jeans and standing with his legs a little apart, like a sailor, was holding out his hand. Slightly dark; perhaps Spanish or Portuguese.

‘Bonjour, Monsieur Ostermark.’

Ostermark looked at him, making no move to hold out his own. He did not shake hands with everyone. The man continued, withdrawing his own as he did so, ‘Manuelo. Manuelo Monteiro.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I have some papers. They belonged to my grandfather, and I wanted to show them to you.’

Ostermark thought a little. He had no desire to waste time on this man. But, then, on the other hand…one never knew where treasures might lurk. ‘Come inside,’ he said.

Entering, Ostermark pulled the curtains aside, and the morning sun flowed in. The man looked around. A small bar on one side of the room. The walls were covered by tall shelves piled high with books and documents; three cushioned armchairs clustered in a corner. The smell of old cigar smoke lingered in the air.

Asking Manuelo to sit down, Ostermark helped himself to a cigar from a box on the counter. He cut it with a gold clipper and lit it with a gold Dunhill lighter. Once he had the cigar going well, he came and sat down on one of the chairs

‘Let me see what you have.’

Manuelo took out a thick, yellowed envelope from his jacket pocket. Opening it, he took out about twenty-odd sheets of equally yellowed paper and handed them over to Ostermark.

Running his eyes over the sheets, Ostermark was disappointed. ‘These seem to be geological reports, of no use to me.’ Curious nevertheless, he looked at the man who now looked dejected, ‘Where did you get them?’

‘I am a sailor on the Maria del Rosa. I don’t know anything about these things. I got these papers from a box that belonged to my grandfather. My father gave them to me.’

‘How did you know my name?’

‘A friend of mine, Alberto, Alberto Rosca, had once sold an old map to you. He told me.’

‘All right. Do you have anything else that could give me a clue as to