The phantom regulator business was a delicate, high-wire act. Harsh became a master of logistics and misdirection. He limited sales, creating artificial scarcity to keep demand from exploding. He rotated his customer base, never visiting the same shop twice in a month, ensuring no single outlet became too dependent or curious. The untraceable pager was his only tether to this shadow enterprise, and its every buzz was a shot of adrenaline and anxiety.
Meanwhile, the legitimate world, the one owned by Venkat Swami, boomed. The gold workshop, under Rohan's sharp management, was a stunning success. The Marwari industrialist's wedding order had been a masterpiece, and photographs of the exquisite jewelry had circulated through high society like a virus. New orders poured in—from a film star's birthday, a politician's anniversary, a industrialist's daughter's engagement.
The "consortium," as Harsh had dubbed it, was now the worst-kept secret in the upper echelons of Zaveri Bazaar. Everyone knew a new, powerful player had arrived, with bottomless pockets and impeccable craftsmanship. They just didn't know who.
This success drew the eye of the empire's higher echelons. Mr. Dalal, the resentful accountant, began appearing at the Kalbadevi workshop more frequently, his pinched face scrutinizing every ledger entry, every gram of gold. His presence was a constant, silent accusation.
One afternoon, he cornered Harsh as he was reviewing a design with the stone-setter.
"The volume of raw material required is increasing," Dalal stated, his voice like the rustle of dry leaves. "The source requires more… specific assurances. The next shipment will be ten kilos. You will personally oversee the logistics. The margin for error is zero."
Ten kilos. The number was staggering. It was also a test. Swami was pushing him, seeing how much weight his new, useful tool could bear.
The pickup was a nerve-shredding ballet of silence and shadows at a different, even more remote dock. The ghost was there, a silent observer. The case was heavier this time, its weight a physical manifestation of the burden Harsh now carried. The stakes were being raised, deliberately.
But the gold business was only one front. The empire was a hydra, and its heads were all hungry.
The ghost delivered another message, this time about Sigma Electro-components. "The telephone department contract was satisfactory," he rasped. "The client has a new project. A national defense contractor requires secure communication boards. The specifications are… complex. The penalties for failure are total."
Harsh understood the unspoken message. This was no longer about consumer goods. This was about touching the government. About the military. The stakes had just skyrocketed from profit and loss to national security and treason.
He brought the specifications to Mr. Iyer. The factory owner's face, once full of grateful enthusiasm, now paled as he read the technical documents.
"This… this is impossible!" Iyer stammered, wiping his brow. "The tolerances… the shielding requirements… we don't have the equipment for this! This is a job for a German factory, not us!"
"The consortium will provide the necessary equipment and expertise," Harsh said, the lie now smooth and automatic on his tongue. He was channeling Swami's own methods, offering solutions that only deepened his dependence. "You just need to manage the production."
But he had no such equipment. No such expertise. The defense contract was a mountain he had no idea how to climb. He spent a sleepless night staring at the complex schematics, knowing failure was not an option. Swami did not accept excuses.
In his desperation, he did the one thing he had vowed not to do. He brought the problem to the one man whose mind could solve it: Yevgeny.
He took the schematics to the secret garage. The Russian studied them for a long, silent hour, his face grim.
"This is military-grade," Yevgeny said finally, tapping the diagram with a grease-stained finger. "Very good. Very difficult. The etching process for the boards must be flawless. The shielding requires a vacuum deposition chamber. This…" he gestured around their humble garage, "...this is not enough."
Harsh's heart sank. This was it. The wall he couldn't scale.
"But," Yevgeny continued, a sly, defiant glint in his eye, "the Soviet Union did not always have vacuum chambers. We had ingenuity." He began sketching on a scrap of paper, muttering in Russian. "We can build a clean room. A small one. With filters and positive pressure. For the deposition… a modified vacuum pump from a refrigerator compressor, a bell jar… it will be crude. It will not pass a NATO inspection. But for this?" He shrugged. "It might work. It is a challenge."
It was a insane, makeshift plan. But it was a plan. Harsh felt a surge of hope. His two worlds—the oppressive empire and his secret workshop—were about to collide in a dangerous, necessary fusion. Yevgeny's genius was being used to save the very operation that was funding his own rebellion.
He authorized the purchase of the obscure parts Yevgeny needed, using his phantom regulator profits. The secret garage now had a second, even more secret project: building a machine to fool the Indian defense department.
The pressure was immense, coming from all sides. The gold business demanded more volume, more security. The defense contract demanded impossible precision. The phantom regulator business demanded absolute secrecy.
Harsh moved between these worlds like a ghost, his mind constantly shifting gears. He was no longer just a hustler or a pawn. He was a conductor, trying to manage a rising chorus of demands, any one of which could destroy him if he hit a wrong note.
The empire was stretching him, testing his limits, trying to see if he would break.
But Harsh Patel was no longer just bending. He was learning how to stretch back.
(Chapter End)