The next two weeks were a blur of sleeplessness and manic focus. Harsh's life became a meticulously partitioned series of lies.
His days were spent at Sigma Electro-components, where a section of the factory was curtained off under the guise of "proprietary process development." Inside, under Yevgeny's furious, exacting direction, they built a mad scientist's version of a clean room from plastic sheeting, HEPA filters, and industrial fans. The vacuum deposition chamber, Yevgeny's masterpiece of jury-rigging, hissed and sputtered like something from a forgotten Soviet lab, its core a modified compressor from a scrap refrigerator.
Harsh, the prodigy from the alley, became Yevgeny's apprentice, his hands learning the delicate art of handling the sensitive boards, his mind absorbing the principles of electromagnetic shielding. Iyer watched from a distance, his face a mask of terrified hope, praying this insane gamble would work.
His evenings were spent at the gold workshop, where Rohan's ambition was now a roaring fire. The ten kilos of gold were transforming into a breathtaking inventory. Rohan had secured orders from a Bollywood director for an entire film's worth of jewelry and from a Swiss hotel chain for commemorative gifts for VIP guests. The pressure to deliver was immense, and Dalal's hawk-like presence was a constant reminder of the price of failure.
His nights were for the phantom. The pager buzzed incessantly. The demand for his regulators was a hungry beast he struggled to feed without being eaten. He made his rounds in the dark, a specter of quality in a world of cheap junk, the cash from these sales fueling the secret defense project and Yevgeny's salary.
He was juggling torches, and the air was getting hot.
The first crisis arrived from the unlikeliest place: his own alcove. Sanjay pulled him aside one afternoon, his face uncharacteristically grim.
"The sales are good, Harsh Bhai. Better than good. But the other wholesalers… they are talking."
"Let them talk," Harsh said, distracted, his mind on circuit board etching chemicals.
"No, you don't understand," Sanjay insisted, lowering his voice. "They are saying we are not just lucky. They are saying we have… backing. They are saying we are the front for Venkat Swami."
The words landed like a physical blow. His carefully constructed façade of legitimate success was cracking. The shadow of the empire was stretching over his first, original business, the one thing that had ever truly been his. If the market believed he was Swami's man, any independence he had would vanish. He would be forever branded.
"Who started this rumor?" Harsh asked, his voice tight.
Sanjay shrugged helplessly. "It is just in the air. People put things together. The police left you alone after Kersi. Our supplies are always the best. They see the car that sometimes waits for you at the end of the alley."
It was the ghost. His presence, meant to protect, was now a beacon pointing directly at Harsh's throat.
The second crisis was more direct. Mr. Dalal approached him at the gold workshop, holding a finished necklace up to the light. It was one of Kumar's finest filigree pieces, a web of dazzling complexity.
"The weight," Dalal said, his voice cold and flat. "It is 0.3 grams light."
A chill ran down Harsh's spine. The skim. His tiny, precious rebellion. They had noticed.
"Perhaps a weighing error at the outset," Harsh said, keeping his voice even. "Or a slight variance in the alloy. Kumar is an artist, not a machine."
Dalal's eyes, magnified by his glasses, were unblinking. "The alloy is twenty-four karat. There is no variance. And my scales do not make errors. There will be an audit. Of all the swarf recovery. From the beginning."
It was a declaration of war. Dalal had never liked him, had always resented his rise. Now, he had sniffed blood in the water. An audit would uncover the tiny, systematic leak. It would lead back to Harsh.
The noose was tightening from all sides. The market was branding him. The accountant was hunting him.
And in the middle of it all, the defense boards were due.
The day of delivery arrived. The boards, produced in their makeshift clean room under Yevgeny's obsessive care, looked pristine. But were they to spec? Would they work? Failure meant the end of Sigma, the end of Iyer, and a catastrophic loss of face with Swami.
A black car arrived at Sigma to collect the shipment. But it wasn't the ghost who stepped out. It was Venkat Swami himself.
The emperor had come to inspect the troops.
He stood in the factory, an island of calm in a sea of panic. He didn't look at the boards. He looked at Iyer's terrified face, at the exhausted workers, at the curtained-off section that hummed with strange energy. Finally, his ancient eyes settled on Harsh.
"Well?" was all he said.
Harsh handed him one of the boards. Swami took it, feeling its weight, running his thumb over the precise tracings and the odd, shimmering layer of shielding Yevgeny had deposited.
"It will work," Harsh said, the words a prayer.
Swami held his gaze for a long moment, then handed the board back. "See that it does."
He left as silently as he had arrived. The boards were taken away.
There was nothing to do but wait.
The tension was unbearable. Harsh couldn't go to the alcove. He couldn't face the gold workshop. He couldn't bear to look at Yevgeny. He spent the night on the roof of his building, staring at the city lights, waiting for the axe to fall.
The call came to the factory the next morning. Iyer answered, his hand trembling so violently he could barely hold the receiver. Harsh stood beside him, his heart a stone in his chest.
Iyer listened, his face a canvas of fear. Then, slowly, the fear melted away, replaced by disbelief, then by pure, unadulterated joy. He hung up the phone and turned to Harsh, tears in his eyes.
"They passed!" he whispered, then shouted it. "THEY PASSED! The initial tests! They are better than the imported ones! They want to place a repeat order! Twice the size!"
The factory erupted in cheers. Iyer was weeping, hugging his foreman.
Harsh didn't cheer. He leaned against the wall, his legs weak with relief. He had done it. He had conducted the impossible symphony.
But as he looked out at the celebrating workers, he knew the reprieve was temporary. He had just impressed the emperor, but he had also drawn the full, hungry attention of the jackals like Dalal. He had proven he could handle immense pressure, which meant even more would be applied.
He had won the battle, but the war was escalating. And he was running out of places to hide.
(Chapter End)