Who Painted My Money White Page 3

  One Friday, after the prayer meeting at the local mosque, Imtiaz saw a stranger catch his eye. The man was tall and dusky. In accented Malayalam, he introduced himself as Shamsuddin. Something about him was odd but Imtiaz couldn’t quite tell what. He seemed like the kind who was used to having his way. Only weeks ago, one stranger had dramatically changed Imtiaz’s life; perhaps this one would take the happy story forward.

  His defenses began to relax. Shamsuddin drew him aside and asked straightaway if he could host three men at his house. “Friends of mine,” he said. They would come in late in the night and stay for a week. All Imtiaz had to do was feed them and host them well and let them have one room all to themselves. They would not leave the house; in fact they would stay in their room for the most part. “And you don’t need to worry over what these people would do, since they will not bother your family in any way.”

  It was said like a request but came across as an order. It was not something that Imtiaz had a choice about. The stranger placed a hand on Imtiaz’s shoulder and said he would get in touch soon with the arrival details of his ‘friends.’ He left immediately, before it even occurred to Imtiaz to say something.

  The thought of housing three strangers for a week troubled him as he trudged back home. The more he thought about it, the more he became anxious. It was true his benefactor had said that when the time came, he would have to do something in return. But this? To host three strangers at home for a full week was not a welcome prospect.

  He knew that his wife, Rehana, would never accept having strange men live in their house. After all, they had grown-up daughters. She was surprised that her husband had even brought up the matter at home. She promptly refused but Imtiaz knew he was helpless. He had to obey the directive. “What if you said no?” She asked. He had no answer except a strong foreboding. If he did not cooperate, something really bad could happen. He felt it in his guts. At the very least, he would be pushed back to his poverty-stricken life.

  Some 40 kilometers away, in another picturesque hamlet in Kerala, Javed Mir cursed his fate one more time. The thirty-year-old youth undertook minor electric repairs in neighbouring homes, but of late business had turned dull. He would be summoned for odd jobs but the work barely earned him a living. On a lucky day, he would manage to get Rs.500. He was unmarried but had elderly parents and their never-ending medical expenses to look after. Mir was forever borrowing from friends. His two sisters were married and had their own expenses to meet, though they chipped in when they could.

  It was one of those all-too-frequent lean days and Mir spotted a well-dressed gentleman (rather out of place) - among low-income carpenters and labourers – at the tea stall he stopped by every day. He tapped Mir on the shoulder and politely asked if he could have a word with him. Mir had not seen the man before. Perhaps he lived in one of the palatial row houses that had sprung up in the last few years in the outskirts of town, owned by people who got their money from high-end jobs at the Gulf.

  The offer left Mir too stunned to speak. He first thought that the stranger was offering him some kind of electrical repair work. But when the man introduced himself as a chartered accountant and said he had a plan that would take care of Mir’s financial worries for good, he couldn’t help but start relaxing and rejoicing already. His daily struggles would be over and his parents would never be deprived of decent medical treatment.

  Mir was taken to a nearby private bank, where the chartered accountant gave him a big bundle of notes. Mir had no idea how much it was but realised it was way more than he had ever seen. He too went through the same drill of meeting the branch manager and opening a savings account. A sum of Rs.5 crores was deposited in the account, much to Mir’s amazement. “Is this all mine from today?” he asked. The chartered accountant assured him that it was indeed the case, but added that the money had to be invested with care since it could be spent soon enough if not properly handled.

  His benefactor suggested that Mir float a new business in his own name. A cheque of Rs.3 crores would be made in the chartered accountant’s name, accompanied by a letter stating that he had been authorised to invest part or the entire amount on Mir’s behalf in a clutch of solar farms — a few were named for his benefit. Mir was told that he would thereafter be left with Rs.2 crores, half of which he could use for himself in whatever way he desired — the chartered accountant advised him that a substantial part of that should be put in a fixed deposit account - and the rest could be utilised to buy property. The chartered accountant would get him a seller and a good deal. There would be no need, thereafter, to be dependent on menial work. The remaining Rs.1 crore, Mir was told firmly, should be kept in the savings account until further instructions.

  It had all happened before Mir could register anything. It rattled him. But one thing he was sure of: He was getting Rs.1 crore in full to spend as he liked. In lieu, he was willing to follow the chartered accountant’s directives on the rest of the matter, though he still could not understand why this man was doing all that he was. He did buy a decent apartment for himself with the chartered accountant’s help. Then again, Mir too didn’t see that the bank manager, the man he had purchased the property from and the owners of the solar energy firms were all Muslim.

  Elsewhere across Kerala, more such ‘lucky beneficiaries’ were identified. They all had Rs.5 crores deposited in their newly opened accounts. Each was given precise instructions on ways to spend that money, but leaving enough in hand to keep them happy and unquestioning. The total number of beneficiaries that received Rs.5 crores each was finally 2000. Chartered Accountant No 21 and his likes were only very minor cogs in the huge and complex money laundering industry that stretched well beyond Kerala and the real beneficiaries were men and women far removed from the game itself, sitting on high positions in public life, hiding behind their clean and media-polished masks…

  On the upper end of the societal spectrum, a similar game was being played. Jai Mangalam Jewels had an imposing showroom in Kochi. Regular clients here included the highly monied from the timber and sandalwood trade in the Gulf and personalities from the southern Indian film industry. Jai Mangalam Jewels boasted of the best and most expensive jewellery, the priciest diamonds and superior quality gold.

  There was an exclusive inner circle of clients that Jai Mangalam catered to. It would sell them fake pieces for the price of real jewellery and transfer the balance amount to one of the offshore accounts the clients had, receiving an attractive ‘commission’ in the process. Everyone was happy; the clients accumulated unaccounted wealth and the jewellery store made a neat profit on its ledgers. An added bonus was that a celebrity or two would always be game to endorse the Jai Mangalam brand.

  The store was owned by Mohammad Iqbal, who had turned his modest family-owned business into an internationally recognised brand. But big business requires big money, especially when laundering is involved, and Iqbal had hit upon a devious plan to achieve liquidity. Through his contacts in the bank branch where his business had accounts, he would procure fake letters of undertaking (LoU) on behalf of firms he had floated under various names, and use them to get credit from overseas branches of the same branch. The elaborate banking system which kept track of fraudulent deals such as these was short-circuited with the help of his ‘men’ in the bank. The money thus procured would be used to import high quality pearls. Thanks to his contacts at the bank, he could get the LoUs without being asked for cash margins — in most cases it was supposed to be 100%. However, not every transaction involved the purchase of pearls. Most often, nothing was actually purchased. The money raised through the fake LoUs was used by the firm for various other purposes.

  Jai Mangalam Jewels was not the only one, but it was certainly among the most high profile. Mohammad Iqbal and the slew of chartered accountants were not that different with what they did. Only the scale of the game differed. They and many like them were, after all, being nourished by a lackadaisical central government and a Finance Minister who had mas
tered the art of frauds.

  CHAPTER 5.

  Triumph Here, Helplessness There

  Deepak was glad to be back home. The trip to the Amazon forests had left him drained and each time he thought of the Pakistani official at the Rio airport, he felt more than a tad uneasy. The only respite was the stopover at London, where he caught up with a friend who worked for a leading financial services firm. The friend too had got through the Indian Revenue Service but decided to take up a private job abroad, instead. He was earning four times as much as Deepak took home every month. It was not for the first time that Deepak wondered if he made the wrong career choice. Every time he reflected on this, Deepak would slip into a depressed mood.

  But he did not have the luxury to linger in the past right now. There was much to finish before his dreaded meeting with the Finance Minister. This meeting had to happen since his expedition and all that had followed during the bid process was off the record and could not be put in a file to be officially presented to the minister. He made his way to the minister’s chamber in North Block, carrying the sealed envelope which he was given after the bidding was done.

  He made it to the minister’s outer office well within the scheduled time but had to wait for more than 15 minutes, as Maida was busy with a delegation of industrialists. They had come to petition him for sops to kickstart the country’s economic growth, he was told by the secretary, who sometimes shared tidbits of such information. Deepak was momentarily distracted from his thoughts as he saw the delegation troop out — each immaculately dressed in three-piece suits with the exception of one, who sported an old-fashioned safari suit. He was ushered in soon after. The office boy was clearing the table of the tea things. Once he was gone and the door shut, the minister said, “Well, Deepak, you managed just one machine?”

  “Sir.”

  “My orders were clear, that we must get two.”

  “We were outbid for two of the machines.”

  Maida lost his cool, which he did quite frequently in private, though his public image was that of a calm and unflappable leader.

  “You failed the assignment,” he hissed loudly, “and that has spoilt all our plans.”

  Deepak was tempted to ask what exactly had got spoilt but shut up, instead.

  “Sir, I did as I had been told. You had asked me to bid with one code first and then with a higher one the next time. I did exactly that.” He felt his usual unease in Maida’s presence, but managed to continue. “I could have used the code for the higher bid amount on both occasions if I had been directed to do so.”

  The minister realised they would get nowhere with such discussions. Besides, he did not want to get so tough with the IRS officer that he would start to feel aggrieved and open his mouth in public, god forbid, the media. He changed tack and softened his tone. “Anyway, what has happened has happened. Let me have the envelope. I’ll call you if needed.”

  It signaled the end of the conversation and Deepak walked out of the chamber sans the envelope. Once the door shut, Maida carefully opened the cover, looked at the contents inside, placed it in a safe and turned the lock. He buzzed his assistant to cancel all appointments for the day. Nobody was to disturb him for at least the next couple of hours. Now, he could strategise his next course of action.

  The first task was to deliver the money for the second-hand LEPE. He dialed a number from an unlisted mobile phone. The recipient of the call was known by his initials, KK, and was a well-regarded figure in the world of hawala transactions in India and abroad. Maida told him of the amount to be transferred and the address that it had to go to. Very soon, the hawala agent would get the money and a handsome commission as well. The hawala business worked entirely on trust and discreetness.

  The next thing would be to arrange for the machine to be delivered for a revamp, from where it would come back looking new. He used the same phone and called up Cutting Edge Metallics, which was ostensibly engaged in designing high tech tools used by the aviation industry. The firm was housed in a nondescript structure in downtown Bengaluru and much of its profits came off the books — redoing old machines that could then pass off as new, going unnoticed from under the scrutiny of experienced eyes. Maida spoke to its chief executive, who had many years earlier been jailed on charges of embezzlement of the company’s funds. The money involved was easily to the tune of several crores of rupees. However, he came out unscathed in a legal battle that Maida - then not a minister but a highly successful corporate lawyer - had bailed him out of. Since then, the Cutting Edge chief and Maida turned thick friends with the friendship continuing well into Maida’s ministership.

  There was also a third task waiting to be done. Once the machines turned ‘new’, they had to be delivered to the Indian government. But the government does not simply make a purchase worth crores of rupees just like that. There had to be a transparent bidding process and only creditworthy bidders with enough technical and financial credentials could partake in the process. But since there was no e-bidding, the process could be rigged to some extent.

  Jeevan Technologies was among the dozen companies empaneled with the government of India for the supply of LEPE machines. Maida called up its managing director, with whom he had had a long and mutually beneficial relationship, and asked him to be prepared to receive a machine soon. He would be told in advance of the amount he had to bid to ensure that he got the contract. How Jeevan Technologies would account for the ‘new machine’ in its books, was for them to figure out. After all, it would receive a second-hand machine on which it could make money using its technical expertise.

  The Finance Minister did some quick back of the envelope calculations and concluded that everyone involved, including himself, could make a good load of profit if things went right as planned. He had also ensured that if something were to go awry, the deal could not be traced back to him. Besides, he was well padded in every way. The two senior bureaucrats, whom he had recently promoted as chairman and managing director of the entity hived off the Finance Ministry, were pretty much in his pocket. He had briefed them on the LEPE affair and from this point onwards, they would interact with the various other players involved, till the time came to close the financial deals and the ‘new’ currency printing machines were delivered to the government of India.

  By all accounts, it was a daring and audacious operation that Maida had taken on. His motivation for such risky ventures came from his seemingly limitless lust for money, but also from the confidence that he was untouchable, thanks to the Freedom Party that he belonged to and which ruled the country.

  Heading the Freedom Party was the charismatic Dipika Bancroft; Dipika Sharma, before she was married to an American, Richard Bancroft. Dipika’s grandfather was independent India’s first Prime Minister. She had secretly felt like the royalty, growing up, Maida had heard from a very close aide of hers. It was a case of a small measure of charisma, and mostly a big measure of luck that turned the tide in senior Mr. Sharma’s favour. Plus, he was adept at staying on top, while warding off contenders, a quality that his son neither inherited nor understood. The art of keeping political enemies at bay seemed to skip a generation and showed up in his grand daughter, who made her foray into politics equipped with the right genes for the job and her own shrewd observations of him. She learnt the game fast and had a huge head start in any case.

  Politics ran in her blood, which became apparent to Richard, within a decade of marriage. He eventually walked out of the marriage and returned to the US, rather heartbroken. She was happy to retain the surname and let go of the husband. More recently, she received news that he had passed away in Los Angeles. A carefully orchestrated accident, Maida was sure. Their two children, who lived with her, were called ‘Sharma’ after their names rather than Bancroft.

  Dipika held Maida Damodaran in high esteem, despite the fact that he had once quit the party and joined hands with their rivals. Somehow, all was forgotten once he returned. The process of forgiveness had sped up, thanks to the
many financial jigs he pulled off for the party’s first family.

  If the party was taken care of, the government too was not a problem. Prime Minister Jagat Dhillon was a mild man who barely ever spoke up, let alone took strong action on anything fishy. He was seen as a personally clean and upright man but did not have it in him to talk down senior ministers like Maida. His reluctance stemmed from the manner in which he had been made the Prime Minister. In the last general elections, the Freedom Party had emerged the single largest entity, and with the support of allies, was ready to form the government at the centre. Dipika had led the party to victory and there was much clamour for her to become the Prime Minister. But she refused the offer, claiming that her inner voice advised against it.

  A good amount of drama ensued, with one sword-wielding youngster of the Freedom Party cadre climbing up a tree and threatening to slash himself half if she did not change her decision. But when it was clear that the party chief was not going to relent, senior leaders passed a resolution requesting her to anoint someone of her choice to the post.

  The senior most leader was Biplab Banerjee, who had served as a minister for decades in various Freedom Party regimes. He was experienced, articulate, well-informed and widely respected not just within his own party but the opposition too. Earlier, he had come within striking distance of becoming the Prime Minister. The only issue was that he spoke his mind too openly and was difficult to manage. Thanks to his booming voice, he was also called Boom-Boom Banerjee, behind his back.

  Dipika needed someone she could dictate to constantly and Banerjee was not puppet enough. She finally chose an academic-turned politician, Jagat Dhillon, who could be trusted to toe her line. Jagat was as surprised as the others, with his name being finalised for the post of the Prime Minister.