The train ride back from the shipyard was a blur of rusted landscapes and roaring noise, but Harsh saw none of it. His mind was a silent, screaming chamber where two words echoed on a loop: Agni-1.
He had been a fool. A proud, arrogant fool. He had thought himself a player in the game, building his own empire, outsmarting rivals and corrupt officials. He had believed his future knowledge made him untouchable, a chess master moving pieces on a board only he could see.
But he was not a player. He was a pawn. He had always been a pawn.
The demotion to the docks wasn't a punishment. It was a strategic placement. Swami, or more likely the coldly efficient Mr. Dalal, had known about Yevgeny. They had known about the Russian's expertise. They had let Harsh believe he was orchestrating a secret rebellion, all the while watching him, waiting for him to deliver a brilliant, desperate engineer right into their hands. Harsh had been the unwitting recruiter, his alcove the perfect interview room. Yevgeny, seeing a bigger stage and better resources, had switched loyalties without a second thought. The betrayal was personal, a deep, humiliating wound.
And the business? The gold, the electronics, the smuggling? It was all a sideshow. A way to generate capital and launder the real money. The real empire was being built in that windowless warehouse on a poisoned coast, with stolen technology and treasonous ambition. Swami wasn't just corrupting the system; he was embedding himself into the very architecture of the nation's security. He was making himself indispensable, too big to fail. If the Agni missile flew, part of it would be his. If it failed, the scandal would cripple the country.
Harsh was no longer just a business rival to be squeezed out. He was a witness to a crime that reached the highest levels of power and threatened national security. His life was measured in hours, maybe days.
The ghost's words in the alcove now made terrifying sense. "You are in the current now." He was in a riptide, and it was pulling him out to a deep, dark sea where he would vanish without a trace.
Panic was a cold animal clawing at his throat. He wanted to run. To grab his parents, Priya, and disappear into the vastness of India. But he knew it was useless. Swami's reach was long. The police, the railways, the hotels—every artery of escape would be watched.
He got off the train at his usual stop, the familiar grime and chaos of his neighborhood feeling like a grotesque parody of safety. Every face in the crowd seemed like a threat. Every glance felt like a assessment.
He couldn't go home. He couldn't go to the alcove. He was a magnet, and anywhere he went would draw danger to those around him.
He found himself at the one place that felt like a forgotten corner of the world: the small, dusty public library where he sometimes went to read old newspapers and business journals. It was silent, empty except for a sleeping old man in the corner. The air smelled of decaying paper and dust.
He sat at a scarred wooden table, his head in his hands. Think. You have to think. Survival was no longer about profit. It was about leverage. He needed a weapon.
The blueprint. PROJECT: AGNI-1. SUB-ASSEMBLY: GUIDANCE SYSTEM.
He had no photograph. No document. It was his word against Swami's. And who would believe a dockworker from Bhuleshwar over the mysterious, powerful businessman who was secretly helping the nation's missile program? He would be branded a lunatic, a traitor trying to sabotage national security. They would lock him away and throw away the key.
He needed proof. Something tangible.
His mind raced, sifting through every interaction, every piece of information. Rao, the nervous scrap dealer. The Eastern European engineers. The new foreman. The manifest for the flat-pack furniture.
The manifest.
It was a long shot, a desperate gamble. But it was the only thread he had.
He went to the library's front desk. The young, bored librarian looked up.
"I need to use the telephone," Harsh said, his voice hoarse.
"It is not for public use," she said dismissively.
Harsh leaned forward, putting every ounce of his desperation into his eyes. "It is a matter of life and death." He wasn't lying.
Perhaps it was the raw intensity in his gaze, or perhaps she was just bored enough to be intrigued. She shrugged and slid the heavy black rotary phone across the desk to him.
His hand trembled as he dialed. He called the main switchboard for the shipping line listed on the Taiwan furniture manifest. He was put through to records.
"Yes, hello," he said, forcing his voice into a calm, bureaucratic tone. "This is Accounts Payable from Supreme Furnishings. We have an invoice for a shipment, consignment number TPE-788345, but our copy of the bill of lading is smudged. Could you please confirm the full and exact delivery address for our records?"
He held his breath. There was a rustle of paper on the other end.
"Consignment TPE-788345. Delivery to: 'Apex Holdings,' care of the site foreman, Godrej Shipbreaking Yard, North Coastal Road, Ghansoli."
It was the same address. But now he had a name. Apex Holdings. The numbered company. It was a ghost, but it was a name.
"Thank you," Harsh said, and hung up before the clerk could ask any questions.
Apex Holdings. It was something. But it wasn't enough. He needed a connection. A link between that shell company and Venkat Swami.
He spent the next two hours poring over old business directories and registry microfiches, his eyes straining in the dim light. He found nothing. Apex Holdings was a ghost, untraceable through public records.
Defeat began to wash over him again. He was so tired. The weight of it all was crushing him.
The sleeping old man in the corner snorted and shifted in his chair, mumbling something in his sleep. The sound jolted Harsh.
The old man. The library. The public records.
There was one person who knew everything about every business in Mumbai, legitimate or not. A man who traded in information, who connected the dots everyone else missed.
Prakash Rao. His old scrap supplier.
Rao was scared. He had been silenced by Swami. But fear could be worked with. It was a lever.
It was a huge risk. Rao could easily be being watched. Contacting him could sign both their death warrants.
But it was the only move left.
Harsh left the library as the sun began to set, casting long, sinister shadows across the streets. He moved like a ghost himself, sticking to back alleys, his senses screaming. He had to get to Rao before Swami's men decided to permanently silence the loose end that was Harsh Patel.
He was no longer trying to win the game. He was just trying to flip the board over before he was swept off it entirely.
The trap had been set for him long ago. Now, he had to walk into its center and see if he could break its jaws before they snapped shut.
(Chapter End)