Don't Tell the Governor Read online

  To my daughter, Anusha

  CONTENTS

  Author’s Note

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  75

  76

  Epilogue

  St Kitts, 2017

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Copyright

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The book refers to real places and real titles of people who operate in these places and in the government and law-enforcement agencies. These have been used to lend an air of authenticity to the story, just as in a fictitious story about the Pope or the Prime Minister of the nation or the President of the United States of America. The characters who occupy these positions in the book do not, and are not meant to resemble the real-life incumbents in any manner. This story is entirely fictional and is not intended to be a depiction of individuals who, in real life occupy these exalted positions that their titles suggest. If, despite my best efforts, some similarities have crept in, I apologize. While reading this story, I recommend that you read it to enjoy what could be, rather than as a depiction of what is.

  1

  April 2015

  ENGLAND

  The phones at the Hampshire office of Le Da Spire hadn’t stopped ringing. Mike Smith, the CEO, was closeted with his team of advisors, and the six men had spent the morning trying to gauge the impact of the massive PR fallout that was about to hit them. Smith had never faced a situation like this before – a situation that could, if not handled carefully, see him out of his job. And that could singe his and Le Da Spire’s carefully built reputation. After all, in this business, trust was key.

  Le Da Spire was the world’s leading commercial banknote printer, and supported 140 countries around the globe. Not only did it print currency notes, it also managed every part of the cash supply chain. Listed on the London Stock Exchange, Le Da Spire was the founding member of the Banknote Ethics Initiative, established to promote ethical business practices in the banknote industry.

  Exercising a virtual monopoly in its trade, Le Da Spire was run by a team of professional managers and controlled from behind the scenes by its promoters.

  ‘These disclosures will impact our stock price when the markets open today,’ Mike Smith thundered at his team. There was still an hour to go for the markets to start buzzing. ‘We will need to come out with an official statement by then.’

  The source of all this worry was an incident that had transpired in a tiny country in Central America, bordered by the Caribbean Sea and the North Pacific Ocean – Panama.

  Over 11.5 million documents, mostly created by the law firm Mossack Fonseca and detailing client-attorney confidential documents for over two hundred and fifty thousand companies worldwide, had been released by an anonymous Panama-based whistle-blower to ICIJ – the International Consortium of Investigative Journalists.

  The documents revealed that Mossack Fonseca had helped thousands of companies and individuals create shell companies, with the sole intent of hiding presumably ill-gotten wealth. Now, with this exposé, every little detail – from the simple creation of companies to deals routed through them and complex trades indicating kickbacks – was out there, published in the Panama Papers.

  Obviously, this exposé had had a massive impact on the world of finance, sending the rich scurrying for cover as all their misdeeds and attempts to launder money were now out in the open.

  Le Da Spire was one such impacted company, and its name featured prominently in the Panama Papers. The most damning of allegations made against it concerned the clandestine payments made to one Danish Khosla in India. It was not too difficult to establish that such payments could only have been made to lobbyists, to someone trying to curry favours with the Government of India on behalf of Le Da Spire. The payouts indicated were so large that it didn’t take a genius to figure out how sizeable the value of the deal itself must have been.

  And now, Mike Smith was panicking. India contributed to 40 per cent of Le Da Spire’s global business. If the Indian government took umbrage and stopped dealing with the company, it would lead to a significant fall in Le Da Spire’s turnover. And of late, the company had already been going through some tough times in India. A few indiscretions on its part had come to the notice of the Reserve Bank of India. They were on the verge of getting blacklisted. The Panama Papers exposé couldn’t have come at a worse time.

  2

  April 2015

  BENGALURU

  Danish Khosla was all of twenty-six when he had travelled from his hometown, Malerkotla in Punjab, to Delhi. Malerkotla, once a princely state whose last king acceded to the Government of India in 1971, was now a small town with a population of less than two hundred thousand. Opportunities were limited, and the ambitious felt stifled there. Danish felt the need to explore greener pastures. Leaving behind his aged parents, two sisters and hordes of friends, he packed his bags and landed in Delhi in the mid-1970s.

  In 1977, within a few months of the Emergency being lifted, Danish found something which not many at that time did – a career swinging deals in the power-hungry and greedy-as-a-pig capital of the country. Deals were made in billions of dollars, often tens of billions. A small cut of the deal would make a phenomenal difference to someone like him. For a person with his aggression, tact and foresight, the sky was the limit, and in no time, he had become one of the biggest fixers in Delhi.

  When he was not fixing deals or influencing decision makers or in other words, lobbying, Danish ran a few transport companies – Deekay Transports, Khosla Cash and Logistics – moving goods and cash from one location to the other. And, thanks to his friends in power, he was also one of the biggest in this trade.

  ₹

  That evening of April 2015, Harsha Ranjan, the Governor of the Reserve Bank of India, was delivering the keynote address at the convocation of the Indian Institute of Management, Bengaluru, when he felt his iPhone vibrate in his pocket.

  He ignored it. It persisted. Finally, after it rang five times in less than a minute, he pulled it out, but not before apologizing politely to the audience.

  When he looked at the number on the screen, his worry grew.

  It was the Finance Minister calling.

  Normally, the FM calling the RBI Governor would not be cause for concern. However, they had not exchanged more than a few cu
rsory nods and handshakes for over two months. The government’s dislike for Harsha Ranjan was no state secret. The media too had quickly caught on to it. Had the government been able to get rid of him, he’d have been long gone, but in India, the central government cannot unilaterally sack the RBI Governor.

  Lately though, speculations were rife that Harsha, an appointee of the previous government, would go anytime. Even though three months of his term remained, the word on the street was that he would soon realize he no longer enjoyed the government’s confidence and put in his papers.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Harsha said to the audience. ‘This looks like an emergency.’ He walked to the side and took the call.

  ‘Sir,’ he acknowledged the caller. As he listened, a few wrinkles appeared on his forehead.

  ‘Now?’ he asked once the person on the other end had finished talking, his voice a whisper. ‘As in, right now?’

  ‘How long will it take you to get here?’ Siddharth Pande, the Finance Minister, bellowed.

  ‘If I leave now, two hours to get to the airport, another two-and-a-half hours of flying time and then from the Delhi airport to the PMO.’

  ‘A helicopter will pick you up from the IIM football ground in the next twenty minutes. Wind up your address by then. It will take you to the Bengaluru airport. There’ll be an aircraft waiting to get you to Delhi.’

  ‘Okay.’ Harsha sighed resignedly. ‘Will finish quickly and come.’

  After disconnecting the call, the Finance Minister turned to his right and looked at the person standing next to him. ‘He will be here in a few hours, Khosla. You wait till he comes.’

  Perturbed by the Panama Papers linking his name with Le Da Spire, a worried Danish Khosla had gone running to the Finance Minister to try and make sure that it didn’t impact either his reputation or Le Da Spire’s business in India.

  In Bengaluru, Harsha walked back to the podium, apologized once again to the audience and resumed his speech.

  But he had to cut it short because, as promised by the Finance Minister, the helicopter landed in twenty minutes.

  In another five, Harsha Ranjan was airborne.

  3

  Jan–March 2015

  NEW YORK CITY

  Aditya Kesavan had been asleep for hardly three hours when the blare of his cell-phone alarm woke him up. Rubbing his eyes, he pushed off the quilt and climbed out of bed, walking to the bathroom. He had slept late the previous night after spending the entire evening stocking up on food and groceries. NYC was on high alert following a blizzard warning.

  He came out of the bathroom and switched on the coffee maker. His was a small but sufficient two-bedroom apartment, located close to the university campus. Aditya also owned a huge five-bedroom mansion a few miles to the north, where his wife and daughter stayed. Not too long ago, all three of them had lived there together, but one day his wife had caught him frolicking with his PHD student in the kitchen and thrown him out. Thankfully, she hadn’t made the matter public or his reputation as a tenured professor at NYU would have been in tatters. There were three cardinal sins in the academia in the US; sleeping with a student was one of them, and possibly the most frowned upon. The other two were plagiarism and stealing from federal grants.

  His wife had ultimately let him off the hook, but only after she got her pound of flesh. She had also made two more demands – that he walk out of the house then and there, and that their daughter continue to stay with her. Not in a position to negotiate, Aditya had agreed to both.

  That morning, he was concerned about his students. Many of them would struggle to make it to class in this weather. Back in India, people would use bad weather as an excuse to take a day off. But it was different here. He glanced at the stack of papers on the table next to his bed. It was the final version of the manuscript that his publisher had sent him. He had to go over the entire pile and send his confirmation by the weekend. Sixty days to the release of his book, and he still wasn’t mentally ready. The publishers wanted to cash in on the success of his earlier book – a controversial one that explained how the Chinese economy was really a bubble, one that would burst in a year. That book had been a big hit and broken all records. Not only had Aditya become the darling of the publishing house that had published the book, his success had also won him various consulting assignments with the Federal Reserve System – the central banking system of the US. And to top it all, television channels and online media began projecting him as an expert on China’s economic policies.

  His first book had changed his life. He didn’t make enough money as an academician, but his book had more than made up for that. Translated into seventeen languages globally, it had sold hundreds of thousands of copies. Looking back, Aditya just wished that he had negotiated a higher advance. But then, at that time, China was on a roll and no one was willing to publish a book which talked about the imminent failure of that country’s economy. So when a publisher finally accepted the manuscript, Aditya was relieved that at least he had found a good brand to publish his book.

  Anyway, more than money, what the book had given him was recognition, and that was something you couldn’t put a price on.

  Pulling off his clothes to get into the shower, Aditya stopped in front of the mirror. Despite his advancing age, he still looked great. A sculpted body, with not an inch of fat, abs that would give any Hollywood star a run for his money and on top of that, a face like a Greek god – well, he was certainly gifted, wasn’t he, he thought to himself.

  Within the next fifteen minutes, he had showered and dressed. Once he was ready, he picked up his iPad, poured himself a large mug of coffee and and gulped it down. Breakfast could wait till he reached the Starbucks on campus.

  On the way out, he opened the bedroom door and looked inside. The girl curled up on the bed was still asleep. He had met her last night for the first time. Someone he knew had introduced him to her at the bar. Hurriedly, he closed the door and walked out of his apartment. Once she woke up, the girl could let herself out. He didn’t worry about leaving her alone in his home. He didn’t have anything worth stealing.

  As he walked down the snow-lined path to the subway station a few blocks away, he thought about his daughter. Would he ever see her again? Possibly not. His wife would never allow it. He remembered her anger; thought about that fateful evening when she’d walked in on him and his student.

  Well, it had to happen, he rationalized, shaking his head. Intellect and indiscretion were the two conflicting sides to his personality. And both had to coexist without impacting each other.

  4

  March 2015

  LONDON

  ‘WHO WILL TAKE HOME A MILLION POUNDS?’ screamed the headline on The Sun’s front page. Vicky Malhotra picked up a copy from the lobby of the Metropolitan in Central London and smiled. He knew the answer to that question.. His company, Robert and Bright LLC owned the luxury jewellery brand Tiara, which was the prime sponsor of the reality TV show, Big Survivor. After an enormously successful run over three months, the show’s finale, which would make its winner richer by a million, was being telecast that night. But the show was already over, the recording done.

  Big Survivor was an extremely popular show all over the UK. A dozen people from all walks of life were thrown into a house and forced to live together for three months. One member would be eliminated every week and in the end, the lone survivor would be declared the winner. The show had inspired numerous adaptations world over. The Sun’s headline was speculating on who would emerge as this season’s winner.

  Metropolitan had a wide lobby with six lifts, so one never had to wait. Vicky walked into the fourth carriage and pressed the button for the top floor – where the conference rooms were located. Today, the seventy-fourth floor was playing host to the annual board meeting of Robert and Bright LLC. Vicky’s demeanour changed as he got into the lift. He was reminded of the anxious mood most of the board members had been in of late. Unit sales had gone up, but profits had tanked. In order t
o garner sales, the company had dropped prices, thereby impacting margins – not a great strategy in a luxury product, many would argue. And since it was his strategy, Vicky Malhotra, the Managing Director and one of the promoters of the company, now had the onerous task of defending it in front of the board. The buck stopped with him. He walked into the boardroom and dumped a copy of The Sun, along with a copy of Dragon on Fire, a book he had been reading, on the table. He looked at all the board members present in the room and then, without saying a word, took his position at the head of the table.

  The initial thirty minutes were about regular statutory stuff. Once those were out of the way, they came down to the real issues bothering the board.

  ‘So, Mr Malhotra,’ Steven Dick, one of the board members, began the discussion. ‘Great work on sales. Unit sales up by 54 per cent. But revenues down by 12 per cent. We must possibly be the only company that has such unusual results.’ The sarcasm was not lost on anyone.

  ‘Well, that’s because we dropped our prices to shore up our market share. You can see that our market share has gone up by 3.8 per cent. That must count for something.’

  ‘You can always sell a pound for ninety-nine pence, Mr Malhotra,’ Steven Dick thundered. ‘Given the position you are in, I am sure you realize that.’ The British businessman’s tone was caustic, much to Vicky’s annoyance.

  ‘I do. And that strategy would have paid out. Our profits would have gone up by 32 per cent this year.’

  ‘They didn’t. They tanked by 41 per cent instead. Didn’t they?’

  ‘Yes they did,’ Vicky shot back. ‘That’s because of the write-off we have had to take this year. We had supplied a large order to Nordstrom, which shut down many of its stores. We haven’t recovered a single pound from them. Once we recover our dues, we will write them back. As of now, that’s the sole reason why our profits are down.’

  ‘Signs of Nordstrom going through trouble were around for a while. Wonder how you didn’t see that coming, Mr Malhotra?’ This came from the member representing Float Partners, the largest private equity firm in UK.

  ‘Oh, I think I know that.’ Steven Dick put down his teacup and stepped in. ‘Mr Malhotra was so caught up with that pretty Indian girl that he couldn’t focus on the job. Perhaps it’s time we have a Managing Director who works for us full time.’