An Imperial Affliction

Chapter 21- All is riddle

All is riddle, and the key to a riddle is another riddle.

- Emerson

He tried, really tried. He made fake ID, booked tickets of several trains to reach the destination in the most roundabout way possible. He packed his bags, put on fake moustache, and changed 3 taxis to reach VT station.

He did all those things he had recommended other people in his daily work.

Still it could not save him.

As soon as he walked through the giant entrance of VT, someone grabbed him and then there was this bag on his head. He tried to fight back but whoever were holding him, were more powerful. He figured there are 5 people, one driving the van, 2 holding him and other 2 just keeping a look. As he could not fight, he screamed his lungs out, for which he got a weird pinch in his neck which made him semi paralytic.

He knew this can't be any law enforcement. Did anyone see those fatso officers whose belly were bursting through their shirts? There were reasons why he survived all these years, also he made occasional payments to them as well. They can't betray him like that, after all he was laying law for a week. He got the most stupid tip some days earlier, and that IB was on his tail. He thought maybe the people for whom he made those fake IDs, one of them might have turned out terrorists or something, it's not like he made them filled out any kind of form. He had decided to flee city for some months, just to be safe, but now he was caught by bouncers and here he is.

No, definitely not Police.

Did he unintentionally crossed some big mafia? He was always blind when it came to money though, he might have help someone who betrayed mafia boss and now mafia boss wants his head on a platter? What's next? Will it be bullet or knife? He had heard some mafia bosses are pretty sadistic, they like to cut limbs. He shuddered, will his limbs be cut before his death or after?

The van stopped suddenly and then the men were dragging him. He felt they pushed him into a wooden chair, and then tied his limbs with ropes tightly, he could barely move his hand. The bag was pulled off his head and he was blinded by the amount of light around him. He adjusted to it, and then saw the room. What a cliche, he thought, old warehouse. Bollywood films really cemented the use of these kind of places. There were at least 10 people, and now he noticed, there was a girl too. Mafia girlfriend? But if she was, he was disappointed, does not mafia GFs dress up like hookers? If this was his death, the sight was not pretty.

One of the Man, who was wearing a suit and tie in this 40+ degree heat, dragged a chair in front of him and sat on it, his face impossibly calm.

Here it begins.

"Nasir Jamal." The Man started speaking, "I am Vir Rahane, from IB. We would like to ask you a few questions, and hoping full co-operation from you."

He blinked in surprise, looking around the warehouse and then back to him. No Mafia?

That's good news.

But IB?

Umm . . .

"Shall we start?" The Man, Vir, asked, and actually waited for him to do something. He nodded stupidly in response.

"It has come to our attention that you help illegal immigrants to settle here in our Country with fake IDs, also provide fake passports to people, possibly dangerous criminals, so that they can flee the country. Do you deny these accusations?"

Sounds like normal interrogation. But the official way this Man is asking, also, the way they pulled him from VT, he might have dealt with a very nasty kind of guy to get IB on his ass, he thought to himself.