The week until the meeting crawled by. Every clang of metal in the scrapyard, every unexpected footstep near the garage, felt like a potential herald of discovery. Harsh moved through his duties like an automaton, overseeing the kerosene distribution to Ghorpade, handing over the seventy percent cut to the ghost, all while his mind was a world away in a hotel room on Marine Drive.
He was playing a dangerous double game, and the slightest misstep would bury him.
When the day finally arrived, he dressed with deliberate care. Not in the cheap formality he'd worn for the customs officer, but in new, crisply tailored trousers and a sharp collared shirt bought from a proper showroom. He had to look the part. Not a street rat from Bhuleshwar, and not a pawn of Venkat Swami. He had to look like a man capable of handling a deal worth lakhs.
The Sea Green Hotel was an artifact of old Bombay elegance, all art deco lines and sea-weathered grandeur. The lobby was cool and quiet, a world away from the chaotic, oily heat of the docks. The air smelled of polish and money. Harsh's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat at odds with the calm surroundings. He took the stairs to the fourth floor, each step echoing his isolation. He was utterly alone in this.
He knocked on the door of Room 407.
The man who opened it was not what Harsh expected. Vijay Malhotra was young, perhaps only a few years older than Harsh himself. He was dressed in smart Western clothes—designer jeans and a polo shirt—and had the well-groomed confidence of someone who'd grown up with money. But his eyes were sharp, calculating, and held a hunger that Harsh recognized instantly. It was the same hunger that had driven him from a hundred-rupee note to this hotel room.
"You are the electronics man?" Vijay asked, his English crisp, tinged with a Gulf accent.
"I am," Harsh replied, matching his language. "Prakash Rao sends his regards."
A quick, assessing smile. "Come in."
The room was spacious, with a view of the Arabian Sea stretching to the horizon. A briefcase sat open on the bed, filled not with clothes, but with brochures, charts, and a sleek calculator.
"Let's not waste time," Vijay said, gesturing for Harsh to sit. "Rao says you have distribution. That you move product. But the product we are discussing is… sensitive. And the people who usually control it here are not known for sharing."
"I'm aware of the people," Harsh said, his voice neutral. "I have an arrangement with them."
Vijay's eyebrows rose slightly. "An arrangement? You work for Venkat Swami?"
"I move some of his product," Harsh corrected carefully. "It doesn't mean I work for him. It means I understand the logistics. The risks."
This seemed to impress Vijay. He leaned forward. "Good. Then you understand my problem. I have access to product. Good product. Kerosene, diesel, even some industrial lubricants. It can be… diverted. But getting it into Mumbai, past the port authorities, and then into the market without Swami's people noticing is impossible for an outsider."
"Nothing is impossible," Harsh said, the gambler in him taking over. "It's a question of cost and leverage. You have the supply. I have the distribution network. A quiet one. We use the same gaps in the system that Swami uses. We move smaller, faster shipments. We don't try to challenge his monopoly; we operate in the shadows he thinks he owns."
He laid out a rough plan, using the contacts he'd made through the scrap trade and his own oil runs—the truck drivers, the warehouse owners on the outskirts, the smaller fuel depots like Ghorpade's who were always hungry for more. He spoke of timelines, of payment in hard currency, of using multiple, changing entry points to avoid a pattern.
Vijay listened intently, his fingers steepled. "You are talking about running a ghost operation inside the giant's house," he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. It was a smile of pure, avaricious thrill. "It is insane."
"It's business," Harsh countered. "The question is, what is your cut?"
"Fifty-fifty," Vijay said without hesitation. "On the net profit, after all your costs. I handle the sourcing and loading in Dubai. You handle everything from the waterline to the end buyer."
It was a fair offer. Dangerously fair. Fifty percent of a clandestine operation was infinitely better than thirty percent of a controlled one.
Harsh extended his hand. "We have a deal."
Vijay shook it, his grip firm. "The first shipment will be small. A test. Forty barrels of diesel. The vessel is the Al-Habib, a dhow. It will arrive at the old fishing wharf near Sassoon Dock in one week. It will be listed as carrying dates. You will be there to receive the dates."
Harsh nodded. The old fishing wharf was perfect—poorly patrolled, chaotic, and far from the main commercial docks Venkat Swami's people watched.
He left the Sea Green Hotel fifteen minutes later, the sea breeze feeling colder, sharper. The deal was struck. The path was set.
He was no longer just a cog in the machine. He had just become a saboteur. He was about to steal from Venkat Swami, not product, but something far more valuable: opportunity.
The fear was still there, a constant companion. But now, it was fused with a terrifying, exhilarating sense of freedom. He was sailing into the storm, but for the first time, he was the one holding the wheel.
The ghost thought he was collecting his seventy percent. Officer Desai thought he was waiting for his bribe.
None of them knew that Harsh Patel had just decided to build his own damn ocean.
(Chapter End)