The grand salon of the Maharani Suite was a universe of quiet power. Diamonds glittered on wrinkled hands, and the fates of corporations were decided in hushed tones between sips of vintage wine. Neel, disguised once more as 'Rahul the waiter,' moved through it all like a phantom. His eyes were on two men: his target, the venerable Ratan Shekhawat, and the clock on the marble mantelpiece. 🕰️
10:29 PM. Neel was positioned near the entrance to the private study, holding a tray of untouched glasses. His heart was a slow, steady drum.
10:30 PM. A sudden commotion erupted from the far end of the corridor. A junior security officer ran in, his face pale, speaking urgently into his radio. He rushed to Nayak, Singh's head of security. The words "suspicious package" and "main entrance" were just audible. Nayak's face hardened. He barked orders, pulling his two men from their post outside the study. "Lock it down! Move, now!"
Alok's diversion was perfect. The fortress had a crack in its wall.
Neel didn't hesitate. He slipped into the now unguarded study, the door closing silently behind him. The room was empty, lit only by a single desk lamp. He moved with a surgeon's precision. The button camera was peeled from its backing and stuck to the spine of a thick book on the shelf, its tiny lens perfectly angled towards the Starlight Terrace. The audio transmitter was pressed into the thick felt beneath the conference table.
He was out in the corridor thirty seconds before Nayak's men returned to their post, his heart hammering against his ribs. No one had seen him. He was just a waiter, clearing glasses.
A few minutes later, he watched as Abhijit Singh rose from the dinner table. He approached Ratan Shekhawat with a warm, predatory smile.
"Ratan-ji," Singh said, his voice a smooth purr. "A word in private? I have a proposal for your heritage foundation that I think you will find most... enlightening."
The old philanthropist beamed, honored by the attention. He followed Singh into the study, and the door closed behind them.
In a parked Maruti a kilometer away, Alok watched the feed from the button camera on a tablet. Neel stood in a dark service alley, watching the same feed on his burner phone, listening through an earpiece. They were the silent audience.
They watched as Singh poured two glasses of brandy and led Shekhawat onto the Starlight Terrace. The view of the illuminated fort was magnificent.
"You have dedicated your life to preserving our history, Ratan-ji," Singh began, handing a glass to the old man. "A noble cause."
"It is my life's work," Shekhawat agreed, sipping the brandy.
"Indeed," Singh said, his voice turning cold. "But tell me, what of the history you buried? The history of the families in Nagaur whose ancestral havelis you acquired for pennies on the rupee? The history of the artists in Bikaner whose life's work you seized to pay off manufactured debts?"
Shekhawat froze, the glass trembling in his hand. "I... I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, I think you do," Singh said, his voice a low hiss. He hadn't touched his own drink. "You are the greatest hypocrite of all. You pretend to be a guardian of culture, but you are its greatest thief. You are a masterpiece of deceit. And tonight, your story ends."
Shekhawat stumbled backward, his face ashen, clutching his chest. His breath came in ragged gasps. "The brandy..."
"A simple, fast-acting poison," Singh said calmly, watching him with the detached curiosity of a scientist. "A quiet end for a man who made so much noise about his own virtue. This is not murder. It is a correction."
As Shekhawat collapsed to his knees, the doors to the terrace burst open.
Inspector Alok Prakash stood there, his service pistol drawn. "Abhijit Singh, you are under arrest."
Behind him were two of his most trusted officers, and beside them, no longer a waiter, stood Neel Verma.
Singh stared at them, not with fear, but with pure, unadulterated fury. His perfect performance had been interrupted. His masterpiece was ruined.
Neel walked forward and placed the small, tarnished silver locket on the table next to the poisoned glass. "This is for Maya," he said, his voice quiet but clear.
The case was closed. The ghost was caught. The sermon was over.