CHAPTER 81: CHAPTER 74: REAPER ARRIVES

Calcutta – December 29th, 1948

The December air in Calcutta felt thick with coal smoke from cooking fires. Four days had passed since Christmas, and the city’s narrow streets were quieter but never empty. People moved through the winding lanes as darkness fell.

Street lamps flickered to life, casting weak yellow circles that barely pushed back the shadows.

The old Humber sedan crawled through evening traffic. Its engine coughed and wheezed as the headlights cut through the gloom. In the backseat, Mother Teresa sat with her three companions.

Sisters Agnes, Marie, and Bernadette all showed deep exhaustion from another long day in the slums. Their faces were drawn and pale, but their eyes still burned with fierce determination.

Sister Clara gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. She was barely twenty-five but had been driving the nuns for over a year. She knew every pothole and dangerous intersection on their route.

"The Vatican is growing impatient with these delays," Sister Agnes said quietly. "The new government regulations are making it much harder to expand our work into East Bengal. They want us to fill out so many forms now."

Mother Teresa watched the street scenes passing by her window. A young mother sat on crumbling steps, trying to feed a baby while two children played in the dirt. An old man pushed a cart loaded with vegetables through the narrow spaces between cars.

"God tests our resolve, Sister Agnes," Teresa said. Her voice carried absolute certainty that had drawn followers to her cause and made government officials nervous.

"Our mission here is too important to be stopped by bureaucratic obstacles. Every soul we reach is a victory. The Vatican understands we must play a longer game."

What none of them knew was that they were being watched.

Two blocks away, Director Sharma stood in the doorway of an abandoned building. His dark raincoat blended with the shadows. Next to him, an IB operative known only as Kali spoke into a concealed radio.

"They are moving along expected route," Kali said calmly. "Normal pattern. Weather conditions are perfect for the operation."

Sharma’s voice had little emotion. "Proceed as planned. Remember, no witnesses, no traces. It must appear completely accidental."

The surveillance team had been tracking Mother Teresa for more than a week. They had studied her routines and mapped her movements, waiting for the right opportunity. They had expected it might take months to find the perfect moment.

Teresa was well known and constantly surrounded by other nuns and volunteers.

But tonight everything had aligned. The late journey through the slum district. The isolated route back to the convent. And now the heavy rain beginning to fall would provide perfect cover.

Hours earlier, an IB operative disguised as a street mechanic had made a subtle alteration to the Humber’s brake system. A small cut in the brake line, designed to fail under pressure, would appear to be simple mechanical wear on an aging vehicle.

The rain began falling heavily as Sister Clara guided the car through a narrow street known for deep potholes and poor drainage. The windshield wipers struggled against the sudden downpour. Visibility dropped to almost nothing.

"Be careful, Sister Clara," Teresa said, noticing how the young nun was leaning forward and straining to see ahead.

"Don’t worry, Mother," Clara replied, but her knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "I know this route like my own prayers."

The heavy goods truck emerged from a side alley without warning. Its driver was apparently as blinded by rain as everyone else. Clara’s foot slammed down on the brake pedal.

The pedal went straight to the floor.

Nothing happened. No slowing, no stopping, just the dawning realization that the brakes might have failed.

"Hold on!" Clara shouted, trying desperately to steer around the massive truck. But the wet street offered no grip for the old tires.

The Humber slid sideways on the slick asphalt. For a terrifying moment, the car seemed to hang in the air, defying physics. Then it slammed into the rear of the truck with a sound like thunder.

Metal screamed against metal, as bits of glass exploded inward. The old car crumpled like paper around its passengers. The force of impact crushed the front seats back into the rear compartment.

Then silence. Only the steady drumming of rain on twisted metal and the slow hiss of escaping steam from the ruined engine.

Within minutes, local residents emerged from nearby buildings, drawn by the terrible sound. Their shouts mixed with the growing wail of sirens.

Police and ambulance crews arrived quickly. Perhaps too quickly for a routine traffic accident in this part of the city. They worked efficiently, documenting the scene and extracting victims from the wreckage.

The assessment was swift and definitive. A tragic road accident caused by poor visibility, slick roads, and mechanical failure in an aging vehicle. The kind of heartbreaking incident that happened far too often in Calcutta.

There were no survivors.

Delhi – Prime Minister’s Office – December 30th, 1948

The secure telephone on Arjun Mehra’s desk rang at exactly 6:30 AM. He picked it up before the second ring.

"Prime Minister," Director Sharma’s voice was calm. "There was an accident in Calcutta yesterday. Mother Teresa and four companions, were unfortunately killed during this accident. Local authorities have confirmed bad weather and mechanical failure of braking system as the primary causes."

Arjun listened without emotion. "Unfortunate indeed, Director. Initial public reaction?"

"As predicted. Shock and grief from local residents. Our media teams are managing the narrative. Rajaji’s unit issued a statement within two hours, emphasizing her selfless service and the nation’s sorrow at this tragic loss."

"Good. And her remaining associates?"

"Under surveillance. The long term plan will proceed over the next twelve months as discussed. Each incident will be isolated, untraceable. Natural deaths, departures from the country, career changes. No patterns, no connections.

By year’s end, the Vatican’s network in entire Bengal region will be dismantled."

Arjun nodded with satisfaction. This was not about cruelty or revenge. It was about ensuring that India’s future would be shaped by Indians, not by foreign organizations with their own agendas, however noble they might appear.

"Maintain absolute operational security, Director. No deviations from the timeline. No evidence that could connect these events."

After ending the call, Arjun walked to his window overlooking the government complex. The sun was rising over New Delhi, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson. Somewhere in that sprawling bureaucracy, officials were already preparing press releases and coordinating with local authorities.

The world would see this as a tragic accident that claimed a beloved humanitarian. They would mourn someone who had dedicated her life to serving the poor. International newspapers would write touching obituaries about her selfless service.

And that was exactly how it should be. The truth would remain known only to a handful of people. Future historians might speculate, but they would never find proof.

Arjun pressed the intercom button. "Send for Minister Rajagopalachari. Tell him it’s urgent."

Within minutes, the Information Minister arrived, carrying a folder thick with press clippings and draft statements.

"Prime Minister," Rajaji said, "initial coverage is exactly as planned. Profound grief, tributes to her service, no questions about circumstances. Our coordinators are ensuring consistent messaging across all outlets."

"Excellent. International response?"

"Condolence cables are arriving from world leaders. The Vatican has requested permission to send a delegation for funeral arrangements. The British and American ambassadors want meetings to discuss memorial services."

Arjun returned to his desk. "Grant all requests. We will be the most gracious hosts imaginable. India mourns this tragic loss alongside the entire world."

He opened the folder and scanned the draft releases. Everything was perfect. The right tone of grief mixed with celebration of her life’s work. No hint of suspicion or political motivation.

"What about connection to our NGO restrictions?"

"Completely separated, as instructed. The press treats them as unrelated events. A tragic accident involving a beloved humanitarian, and a separate policy decision about foreign aid accountability. No one is suggesting any connection."

"Keep it that way. This tragedy must never be politicized or used to question our policies. Anyone who attempts to do so will be painted as exploiting the death of a saint for political gain."

Rajaji nodded, understanding perfectly. The narrative was set. The story would be told exactly as Arjun wanted, and any alternative interpretations would be swiftly discredited.

After the minister left, Arjun remained at his desk, lost in thought. The elimination of Mother Teresa was just one operation among many that would take place over the coming months. Some would happen within India’s borders, others beyond them. Each would appear completely unrelated to the others, just tragic coincidences in an uncertain world.

But together, they would reshape the balance of power in ways that few would ever understand.