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Jeda was striding through Empress Market. His steps were unnaturally fast, cutting through the thick crowd on the pavement.
His face carried an unusual, compelling charm—freckled, yet his forehead bore the lines of contempt and hatred. His features radiated savagery and violence, his eyes glimmered with a hatred for humanity, and his chest seemed to burn with a hidden fire. Restlessness in his hands, unease in his steps, and a mysterious smile on his lips—this was his true form. But today, he was enraged.
Three or four months ago, he had received word that in a grand bungalow of a new colony in Karachi lay a necklace worth twenty thousand—and along with it, a young girl. Shami had demanded an expensive necklace, and apart from that, a teacher from Punjab who dealt in veils had asked him for the girl. A deal had been settled for fifteen thousand.
The necklace could have been stolen easily, but extracting the girl through blackmailers and tricksters was no easy feat, for the bungalow belonged to high society people, mingling with ministers and men of wealth. To get close to the girl was impossible. So Jeda had decided to take both—the necklace and the girl.
That bungalow was not fit for an ordinary theft, burglary, or dacoity. For that, an insider was needed. Jeda had planted a man named Ibn as a servant in the bungalow and gave him all the instructions. Ibn was to identify the girl, locate the necklace, and point out the best time for the strike. He was also to prepare the ground for robbery. Ibn remained in service there for three months. Twenty days before the planned act, he informed Jeda exactly where the necklace was kept and which room the girl slept in. He also described the routes of entry and escape. Jeda himself could not go, so he sent three of his men in a taxi.
By midnight, his men reached the room of the necklace. Just as they touched the safe, four policemen, a sub-inspector, and the bungalow's owner emerged from behind the curtains. The three men were caught, and Ibn too was arrested. But Jeda showed no surprise, no worry—crime and prison were the story of his life. What was there to regret?
But three days later, when he learned that Ibn had turned approver, Jeda flew into a rage.
Jeda knew how to play with the law. He always had a group of false witnesses ready who could shatter the prosecution's case. He had money to buy government lawyers and important witnesses. He had women like Bali, Guli, Shami, and Gulnar—lures to distract and sway. For him, bending witnesses was no great challenge. But an approver, a state witness—this created complications he knew well. Their standing with the prosecution was unbearable to him.
Ibn had been released on bail, while the other men's bail was denied.
Jeda went to the police inspector in charge and asked him to kill the case. The inspector had summoned him:
"Do you know whose bungalow that is? Ministers are under his thumb. He is international. The C.I.A. is investigating the case—this is no ordinary matter."
"Who tipped you off?" Jeda demanded.
"I can't tell you," the inspector replied in a pleading tone. "I am helpless, Jeda. Haven't I done so much for you already? But don't ask me in this matter. I'll only say this much—yes, someone betrayed you."
If Jeda's men had gone to jail for a year or two, it wouldn't have mattered. But he had never fallen prey to betrayal before. It felt as though his enemies were laughing behind his back. He burned with fury. There was only one path left—he must find the informer, punish him by his own law, and silence the approver forever. And who else could it be but Ibn? His turning approver was open proof.
For days now, police had been searching for their approver. No one knew where he had vanished. They had scoured every corner of his home and even placed C.I.D. men there, but no trace was found. The police had begun harassing his wife and young daughter.
That very afternoon, Jeda was returning from the police station. The inspector had summoned him. Jeda hadn't wanted to go, but the inspector had begged.
"Jeda, the headquarters are after my job," the inspector had pleaded. "For God's sake, let Ibn go. Let him appear in court. We regret releasing him on bail. He should have been kept in judicial custody."
The inspector was certain—only Jeda could have made Ibn disappear.
"Ibn is not with me," Jeda replied.
"Jeda…" the inspector begged. "I've done so much for you. Do this one favor for me. Bring him back. He is a government witness. If not, you know well what will happen to me."
"Name one thing you've ever done free for me," Jeda retorted. "I'll pay you the full price. Ibn is not with me. Kill this case, and I'll give you five hundred rupees. If you want more, take Guli for a night. If you don't want that, then arrest me. But remember how many times I've saved your job. Your uniform belongs to me."
The inspector looked deep into Jeda's eyes, swallowed his rage like poison, and said nothing. When the pickpocket glared back, the inspector's eyes fell to the ground.
Jeda walked out from the station. The police had blundered—they had released their star witness without ensuring protection. And Jeda had made his own mistake too—planting Ibn in the bungalow. He should have placed one of his own men instead. Alongside this failure burned another thought—the necklace of twenty thousand and the girl of fifteen thousand had slipped away. Worse still, what would the Punjab dealer say? That Karachi's master was such a novice? Jeda's head hung in shame before Punjab.
And then, anger flared toward Naz as well. She had been a burden, a white elephant for so long, refusing to walk the path he demanded.
Jeda marched furiously. A half-burned cigarette was tucked behind his ear. On the footpath, a constable on duty was smoking. Jeda stopped, lit his cigarette with the constable's, pocketed the constable's full cigarette, and handed him the half-burned stub. Then he strode on. The constable stared after him, bewildered, and then laughed nervously, realizing what had happened.
When Jeda passed Burns Road crossing, he noticed a man outside a shop slipping banknotes into his wallet. Jeda stopped a little ahead. The man tucked the wallet into the inner pocket of his coat and stood waiting for a bus. Jeda, watching from the corner of his eye, edged closer.
Buses rolled in lines, swallowing passengers. The man stood firm, and Jeda watched like a hawk. At last, the bus arrived. The man readied himself, and so did Jeda. The bus halted, and the scramble began. People pushing to get off, others forcing to get on. In that chaos, pickpockets find their feast.
The man knew well—any pocket could be picked in Karachi. He also knew his wallet brimmed with cash. But he didn't know that at his back stood Karachi's master cutpurse, chest to chest with him, on the bus step.
Jeda climbed aboard just ahead of him. As the man struggled and was shoved into the bus, Jeda swung his elbow up, and with two deft fingers made the lightest movement. The wallet was gone—inside Jeda's pocket—while the victim was still inside, unaware.
Meanwhile, Muna, Teepo, and Badal were in their room. Muna lay stretched on the mattress spread on the floor. Teepo sat against the wall, while Badal sat by the door, mixing hashish into tobacco.
A knock came at the door.
Muna and the others leapt to their feet like lightning, knives drawn, ready. One stood on one side of the door, the other on the opposite.
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To be continue...