The boss, who was at least six feet tall with a wiry frame and a thin moustache, was Shekhar Singh. It was he who had led the operation to grab Salim from the sleepy Rukhsar Ganj. Salim was now being held at the New Delhi zonal headquarters of Delhi Police’s Special Squad, which worked closely with the CTC.

‘Good afternoon, Salim,’ Shekhar said, smiling. ‘But who are you? Salim, a garage owner from Hyderabad and the son-in-law of a law-abiding imam? Or Pakistan’s Farhan? When did you slip into Hyderabad?’ Shekhar’s voice began in an even tone. But it was rising rapidly.

‘Janaab, there is some confusion, I am sure … I am Salim Khwaja Amjad. I am an automobile engineer and run a garage in Hyderabad. Padha-likha, ek professional hoon, sir,’ he said.

‘A “professional” you are, and well trained at that, if I may add,’ Shekhar said. ‘Let me ask you a few things: When were you dispatched to India from Pakistan? Did the Lashkar-e-Taiba send you? LeT’s India operations boss Al-Cheema sent you, right? Who are you reporting to in ISI? You Lashkar men sent on long-term covert missions report to two masters, to LeT and ISI, right? What are you working on?’

‘What rubbish is this? Sir, you are mistaking me for someone else. Your men thrashed me, kidnapped me from in front of my home. Is this how educated youth are being treated by whoever is running you? You can ask my family, my relatives in Hyderabad and Patna, who I am,’ Salim’s words came in a torrent. He seemed to be in a rage over Shekhar’s accusations.

‘Don’t worry, we will ask your relatives too. Where are your parents? Tell me, where you are going to conduct your blasts?’ Shekhar asked. His query appeared to have jolted Salim, who just stared at him.

‘I know you already have the explosives required for the job. When is your return to Pakistan scheduled for, or will you stay back to carry out the mission yourself? Are you a fidayeen? A suicide attacker?’ Shekhar asked.

‘Zulm hai yeh, to defame an innocent person. This is an attempt to frame me,’ Salim retorted, glaring at Shekhar. Shekhar smiled at him.

‘But, considering the rat that you appear to be, even your Babaji would not trust you with a suicide mission,’ Shekhar said, chuckling. Shekhar noticed Salim’s jaw had tightened.

‘Sir, I am not a Pakistani, I am from Patna; my parents are dead, and I was brought up in an orphanage there.’

For a few moments, the interrogator and the accused merely looked at each other. Shekhar turned his face towards one of the two men who had assaulted Salim. The muscular man came bounding down towards Salim, picked up his five-foot, nine-inch frame and threw him back on to the floor. He slapped Salim twice as well.