The Third Squad: A Noir Novel - Brossura

Kumar, V. Sanjay

Brossura

ISBN 10: 1617754978 ISBN 13: 9781617754975

Casa editrice: Akashic Books, 2017

Riassunto

"The Third Squad ends with an emotional wallop, making it stand out among crime novels. It has the chiaroscuro effects of classic noir, but also the philosophical depth of highbrow literary fiction...Mumbai teems with lurid intrigue in this smart and affecting work of postmodern noir."
--Shelf Awareness for Readers, Starred review

"Kumar evokes [Mumbai] with lyrical prose."
--Publishers Weekly

Included in Publishers Weekly's Crime Fiction feature on police corruption and brutality.

"A melancholy cop's obsessions are just the tip of the iceberg as he leads a two-fisted team determined to clean up Mumbai's mean streets...Kumar's style, blunt but often by turns poetic and droll, is arresting...As unusual as it is compelling, this entry lays the groundwork for an entertaining series."
--Kirkus Reviews

"[A] gripping thriller...Kumar has created some thoroughly intriguing characters...but the most fascinating of Kumar’s characters is Mumbai itself--enormous, crowded, hyperactive, roiling, stunningly rich and grindingly poor, and teeming with almost unfathomable energy. International-crime fans should flock to this one."
--Booklist

"Kumar does a masterful job building the story’s tension level as Karan draws closer and closer to his final confrontation with his superiors in the Indian Police Service."
--Book Chase

The Third Squad is an arresting, ripped-from-the-headlines noir novel that deftly explores how in recent decades, to ostensibly combat the rising tide of criminality in Mumbai's underworld, the Indian Police Service has carried out many hundreds of extrajudicial assassinations of suspected criminals. Karan, an expert sharpshooter in an elite branch of the Indian police dispensed with dishing out this peculiar blend of vigilante justice, has a difficult choice to make: should he continue to blindly follow orders from his superiors, regardless of their moral standing, or should he take matters into his own hands and do what he believes to be right?

Belonging to a hit squad whose members all fall somewhere along the autism spectrum, Karan, who has been diagnosed with mild Asperger's syndrome, is notorious for his ruthless precision and efficiency in carrying out these assassinations, yet he remains aloof and distant. Gradually, his impenetrable façade begins to crack, and Karan's emotional and psychological depth reveals itself as he is forced to make decisions where the stakes are literally life-and-death. Also at play is the looming specter of the city of Mumbai itself, seemingly at the cusp of a neoliberal era of enlightenment and progress, yet still trapped under the ineluctable burden of old Bombay history, which can never quite be forgotten or suppressed.

Dark and gritty, raw and fast-paced, and never sentimental, The Third Squad distills the best aspects of classic American noir writing into a uniquely Indian context, revealing V. Sanjay Kumar as a singular talent on the crime fiction circuit.

Su questo libro

Informazioni sull?autore

V. Sanjay Kumar runs an art gallery and writes about art for various magazines. His two previous novels--Artist, Undone and Virgin Gingelly--take place in the bustling cities of Mumbai and Chennai (where Kumar grew up), exploring the fringes of middle-class life there. The Third Squad is his most recent novel.

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The Third Squad

By V. Sanjay Kumar

Akashic Books

Copyright © 2017 V. Sanjay Kumar
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-61775-497-5

CHAPTER 1

Somewhere Outside Pune, IndiaPolice Headquarters: Special Training Unit

"You don't have to strip a man to see his face,"says the controller. "But it helps."I examine myself closely in the handheld mirror.The first rays slant through the wooden slats in thedark barracks. The sun rises between two peaks of theSahyadri Hills, a range that shelters our training camp.In the last year we have grown to hate this valley. It hasbeen a rigorous incarceration. Today it is all over anddone with, and one way or another we will be freed. Iam anxious; I feel like I have never seen myself before.

I get dressed quickly. The summons comes and thefour of us soon file down a narrow corridor, shufflingand stumbling and smelling of sweat. We duck througha low door and emerge into bright sunshine and we arrangeourselves as we always do, forming a straight linewith the tips of our polished boots. The roll call is poignant;one of us is missing.

He keeps us waiting as he examines each of us. Ihold my breath.

"Spell discipline," he says.

I begin spelling the world and am cut off.

"Chutiya, define it!"

I glance around at the three others who are staringstraight ahead. Munna, Tapas, and Kumaran. It suitsthem to behave like three monkeys. I start again.

"Discipline: training expected to produce a specificcharacter or pattern of behavior."

The controller nods. He holds a polished stick in hishand that he raps on his thigh.

The fleshy sound brings back memories and I wince.He has his back turned toward us. His worn brown belthas a tear and sweat is building under his armpits. Hetalks to the wall.

"And how do we go about achieving this?"

I look to my colleagues and they are still motionless,backs ramrod straight and showing no signs that theyare about to respond. It is up to me again.

"Discipline is instilled by a combination of repetition,physical and mental challenges, and punishmentfor failing to meet certain standards." I could rephrasethat. I could use sister this and mother that and tell youmore succinctly that we were taught to follow fuckingorders, or else.

In truth, there was no real need to teach us discipline;it was something that came naturally to each ofus. We hardly spoke to one other and none of us madefriends. And we busied ourselves in routine. Like takingapart and assembling our firearms every day. The wholeday was lived by the clock, the week was lived by thecalendar, and changing seasons made no difference tous. In the worst of rains we would still be out on ourrun every morning. We would still go to the range andshoot our socks off.

The controller nods again, gripping the cane firmlyin the palm of his other hand, and a rap follows. He pivotson the toes of his left leg. He regards each of us inturn with bulging eyes and a hint of distaste around hismouth. Somebody needs to clean his spectacles.

"Why have you been called here, gentlemen?" hebarks. He speaks without pausing and his phrasing isconfusing — nobody has ever called us gentlemen before.

None of us wants to say why we are here. We allknow it but are loath to speak. I sense his irritation andI crack first; I always do.

"To learn from those who have passed on?"

He clucks his tongue. "Why do you talk like this,Karan? Vague, roundabout, and always with a question.Say it as it is. One of you has died, has fallen, has failed.It is a failure."

I breathe deeply. One of us had taken a bullet betweenthe eyes. The rest of us were asked to inform thefamily.

"He did not die in vain," I say. I sound like a school-boy.

After a moment of silence the controller shrugs. "Weneed to learn. If you men learn from this incident, thenwhat you say is true." And then he speaks in French:"Dans ce pays-ci, il est bon de tuer de temps en temps un amiral pourencourager les autres."

I alone understand what he is saying. He looks towardme expectantly.

"Karan, you seem upset. If you know the meaningof this expression, why don't you translate it for theothers?"

I rephrase it to make him seem less heartless than heis: "It is strange how it is good that from time to timesomeone dies so others don't have to."

Ranvir Pratap looks at me. He is surprised and thereis a hint of respect as he nods slightly in my direction.They do not expect us to think, and they get worriedwhen our gray cells start working, because thinking istheir job and doing is ours.

"You may be feeling raw right now but I will not lectureyou. Get used to death. I have operated in its realmlong enough to respect it. It is extreme, and its finalityis hard to stomach. You guys are not meant to respondlike the rest of humanity. That's not your nature. Right,Karan?"

He wheels around and glares at me because I ama known weak link, someone who occasionally getsmuddled and hesitates. I am in the squad only becauseI topped every shooting test, busting their all-time records.They could not dump me on paper. But I was onthe case that claimed my friend and colleague. I was thebackup and the sod who was slow to pull the trigger,who gave benefit of doubt to his target, and my colleaguepaid for it with his life. I did make amends. Ifinished the target, made him pay. A rage I never knew Ihad ruled me for a few minutes. The controller had arrivedat the scene and was speechless at my handiwork.I guessed then that I had lost my chances of qualifyingand they would post me back to a desk job in that morassof clerkdom from which we were pulled out. Rageis not good in this business because it's unpredictable.

Summing-up time, and Ranvir Pratap is brief. I expectthe worst.

"We experienced a live situation and, despite yourtraining, you came up short. None of us know how wewill respond in a moment of extreme stress, when a splitsecond decides life and death. We try to train you for itbut that is only half the job. The other half comes fromwho you are, your genetic code. As trainers, our job isto choose correctly." He looks at each of us and settleshis gaze on me. "Karan, you have barely survived thisprogram. But I have decided to back you — I was the decidingvote. You will be under my direct command, so ifanybody has to hold the can it will be me."

Later he pulls me to the side. "What I said there wasfor the others. Do you know why we chose you despiteyour mistake?"

"Sir?"

"All trainers look for just one thing and you have it.You have something that cannot be taught."

We entered Mumbai by road; there was no welcomecommittee. The four of us were in an unmarked jeep andas instructed we were in plainclothes. We hardly spokeduring the winding journey through the hills. I felt a tinglingsensation as we approached Special Branch whichI chalked up to pins and needles. Ranvir Pratap's wordsstill rang in my head. You will lead a simple life, he said.There will be no statistics in the Third Squad, not if I can helpit. There will be no presentations, no bar charts, and no medals. Youwill clean your guns, mark your ammunition, and do God's work.

Arriving at Special Branch I caught myself smiling aswe stepped out of the jeep. Kumaran had a pronouncedlimp, Munna the "lookout" was bumping into objectsanimate and inanimate, and Tapas was memorizing allthe signs including one that said, No paan chewing, no spitting,and no loitering.

The four of us walked up to a drab building with alow entrance on the side. At the door we turned, stoodwith our backs to it, and clicked our heels.

"Stand down!" barked Munna, imitating RanvirPratap.

"Gentlemen," said Tapas, sotto voce.

We flipped open our minicameras, raised our handsin unison, and took selfies.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Third Squad by V. Sanjay Kumar. Copyright © 2017 V. Sanjay Kumar. Excerpted by permission of Akashic Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Dettagli dell?edizione

• Editore: Akashic Books
• Data di pubblicazione: 2017
• Lingua: Inglese
• ISBN 10: 1617754978
• ISBN 13: 9781617754975
• Rilegatura: Copertina flessibile
• Numero di pagine: 284
• Contatto del produttore: non disponibile
• Persona responsabile: non disponibile