The kerosene shipment moved exactly like the diesel. The same predawn ritual at a different, equally dilapidated dock. The same silent, efficient dockworkers. The same grunting negotiation with Ghorpade, who was now noticeably less suspicious and more eager. The same thick envelope of cash, and the same silent, grim-faced collection by the ghost.
Seventy percent.
The number was a drumbeat in Harsh's skull, a rhythm that measured his servitude. He was a highly efficient engine, and Venkat Swami was siphoning off most of the fuel. The profit was good, better than the electronics business at its peak, but it was tainted. It was a salary for compliance.
The cage was comfortable, well-funded, and it was shrinking every day.
It was Prakash Rao, his old scrap supplier turned occasional informant, who brought the key. He found Harsh not at the alcove, which was now mostly Sanjay and Deepak's domain, but at the grimy garage where they counted the oil money.
"You look like a man who has learned the price of everything and the value of nothing," Rao observed, leaning against the doorframe.
"It's a profitable way to look," Harsh replied, not looking up from the ledger. The numbers were good. They were also meaningless.
"The word on the docks is that you are Venkat Swami's newest and most efficient mule," Rao said, his voice dropping. There was no judgment in it, only a trader's assessment of a fact.
Harsh finally looked up, his eyes flat. "Is there a point to this, Rao?"
"The point is, the biggest dogs get the meatiest bones. But sometimes, a clever jackal can snatch a piece before the pack notices." Rao stepped inside, the smell of the scrapyard clinging to him. "The big dogs are getting nervous. The word from the Gulf is no longer a whisper; it is a shout. Saddam Hussein is not leaving Kuwait. The Americans are sending more than ships; they are sending soldiers. Real war."
Harsh's blood, which had felt like sludge moments before, began to pump faster. The Gulf War. He knew its timeline, its global shockwaves, its opportunities. His future knowledge, dormant under the weight of his compliance, surged to the forefront of his mind.
"Oil," Harsh said, the word hanging in the oily air of the garage.
Rao nodded, a sharp, excited movement. "The prices are starting to climb. Every man with a barrel and a connection is trying to position himself. Venkat Swami and his kind are consolidating, squeezing out the small players to maximize their own haul. It is a closed sea."
The familiar wall. The monopoly.
"But," Rao continued, his voice falling to a conspiratorial whisper, "where there is a great wave, there is always foam at the edges that the big fish cannot control. I know a man. His nephew. Works for an oil services company in Dubai. He is coming home next week. He is... ambitious. He sees the same wave you do. But he has no distribution here. No one to move the product. He needs a local partner. Someone with... your particular skills." Rao's meaning was clear. Someone who knew how to navigate the grey areas, who had connections to both the underworld and the streets, and who was already moving product.
It was a terrifying proposition. Going behind Venkat Swami's back on a deal of this magnitude wasn't suicide; it was a potential massacre. This wasn't running a few barrels of diverted fuel; this was trying to tap into the main vein right under the dragon's snout.
But the opportunity was astronomical. To get a source outside of Venkat Swami's control. To keep more than thirty percent. To build something that was his own, even if it was hidden.
"The nephew's name?" Harsh asked, his voice steady.
"Vijay Malhotra," Rao whispered. "He will be at the Sea Green Hotel on Marine Drive, one week from Tuesday. Room 407. He is asking for the 'man who moves kerosene.'"
The use of the specific product was a code, a sign that this was real. Harsh gave a single, sharp nod. The meeting was set.
Rao left, and Harsh was alone with the ledger and the smell of diesel. The fear was a cold stone in his gut. The ghost's weekly visits, the ever-present threat of Venkat Swami's displeasure.
But overriding it was something else, something he hadn't felt since before the police raid: agency. This was no longer just about surviving the machine. It was about finding a way to build his own.
He was a cog in Venkat Swami's empire. But perhaps, just perhaps, he could learn enough to one day build an empire of his own.
The first taste of power had been borrowed. The next would have to be stolen.
(Chapter End)