Neel left the chai stall and drove, not to a safe house, but to a small, anonymous guest house near the train station, paying for a single night in cash. The room was sparse, with a lumpy bed and a single window overlooking a noisy alley, but it was all he needed: a place to think. It was 12:17 AM. Sunday had begun.
He used a cheap burner phone he kept for emergencies to look up "Gupta Event Management." Alok was right. The company had a flashy but poorly designed website, boasting of handling "elite Jodhpur functions." The address listed was for a small commercial building in the Sardarpura area. A business that cut corners wouldn't have high-end security. He had to move now, while the city slept.
Fifteen minutes later, he was outside the building. It was a three-story block of offices, all dark. Gupta's was on the ground floor, its entrance secured by a simple rolling shutter and a standard pin-tumbler lock on the glass door behind it. For a man like Neel, it was a welcome mat.
He found the building's main electrical box in the rear alley. With a practiced hand, he cut the power to the ground floor, disabling the single, cheap CCTV camera pointed at Gupta's door. He returned to the front. The rolling shutter wasn't fully locked to the ground, a common oversight. Using the flat edge of a tire iron from his motorcycle's toolkit, he pried the bottom up just enough to create a gap. He slid under, his movements fluid and silent. The lock on the inner glass door took him less than thirty seconds with a tension wrench and a pick.
He was inside. He didn't use his flashlight, relying on the faint moonlight filtering through the windows. The office was messy, smelling of stale coffee and desperation. Piles of invoices and staffing sheets lay scattered across desks. It was the office of a man stretched too thin.
He found what he was looking for on a large whiteboard under the heading "UBP - POKER NIGHT - AUG 31." It was a list of two dozen names for temporary staff: waiters, bartenders, and valets.
In a back room, he found a rack of uniforms. Crisp, black trousers and maroon jackets with a small, embroidered "G" on the breast pocket. Pinned to each jacket was a temporary ID card with a name and a photograph. He scanned the photos, looking for a match. He found one pinned to a valet's uniform: a man named "Sanjay Sharma," who had a similar height, build, and dark eyes. The photo was low-quality, taken on a cheap webcam. In the low, atmospheric lighting of a palace event, it would pass.
Neel took the uniform and the ID card. He also took a second ID, that of a waiter named "Rahul," and pocketed it. It was always good to have a backup plan. He searched the main desk and found a petty cash box. He took a small handful of notes and scattered a few papers on the floor, making it look like a simple, opportunistic robbery. A minor crime to cover up a major infiltration.
He slipped back out of the office, re-engaged the power, and was gone within ten minutes, leaving no trace that an expert had been there.
Back in his guest room, he laid the maroon jacket and the ID card on the bed. The poker game was tomorrow night. Sunday, August 31st. He was no longer Neel Verma, the detective. He was now Sanjay Sharma, the valet. He had a way into the fortress.
Now, he just had to walk into the lion's den and find the devil who was waiting for him there.