Authors: R. SREERAM
The chief harrumphed. ‘Well, they are out in the open now, and so are we. But it’s going to take them a while to realize that the demolition was not to cover her escape – that will be their first assumption. What’s next?’
‘Simps has been in touch. Apparently Jackson has approved the assassination of GK at the earliest if we can get Patil on board. The CIA’s shopping around for an assassin.’
The chief almost clapped his hand in glee. He wasn’t a very devout person usually, but there were times when the Divine Plan seemed to fall in with his wishes with uncanny precision. This was yet another instance, yet more proof that the role he played in this life had supernatural sanction.
‘Jacob’s already there – let him take this one.’
The protégé nodded. Jacob was a good choice. He was an Asian of indeterminate race, a chameleon who had been trained by the best in the world and had fought for and against the occupation forces in Afghanistan and Iraq after going private. What made him especially invaluable was his ability to work with teams as well as by himself. Of course, once an assignment was over, Jacob often took out the rest of the team so that there were no loose ends left behind – which suited Powerhouse just fine. No one who was still alive could ever claim to have worked with him. Powerhouse had used him so often recently it almost felt like he was on the payroll.
As the protégé turned to leave, the chief shared one last thought. ‘I wonder what the Indians will do once they get to know.’
17th September, 2012. New Delhi.
They waited for a few minutes to ensure that no one had survived before heading for the exit. But just as they were sliding the gates open, a high-pitched whine rent the air. Even as the attackers watched in open-mouthed surprise, a rocket trailing a white plume impacted the lower middle of the truck they had come in and exploded underneath, flipping it over.
Llong heard the lead gunman next to him mutter an oath under his breath before he directed the others to fire in the direction that the missile had come from. The men shook off their surprise and turned their guns to the right of the compound, towards where they assumed their attackers to be, and in a few seconds, even as the underside of the truck started to glow with small flames licking at the steel, the air was filled with the hum of their automatic rifles raking the darkness ahead of them.
Llong thought he heard a muffled scream. Someone was hit.
He considered making a break for it but dismissed the idea the very next instant. There was no cover in either direction and he had no intention of letting whoever was on the other side get a clear shot at him. Whoever they were, they were clearly pitted against his captors – but that did not necessarily mean that they were his friends. Lesser evils, perhaps, but nothing else could be guaranteed.
He was probably the first one to register the metallic clink that seemed to emanate from their midst and was moving away even before his conscious mind had registered the danger. The lead gunman – whether it was the clink or the sight of Llong moving – reacted as well, jumping after him and running for the cover that the gates provided.
The fragmentation grenades exploded in the midst of the gunmen, ripping their bodies to shreds, turning their weapons and ammo packs to shrapnel that were just as dangerous as the blasts themselves. For the men caught on the outer edges of the blasts, the heat seared them but left them alive; the shrapnel piercing their armour and cutting into vital organs made them wish it hadn’t.
The few survivors fired wildly, dispersing in all directions, creating more targets for the bomber. Llong, gasping for breath behind the gate – which was bent inward due to the nearest blast – peeked around the edges and saw two of the gunmen heading towards the truck jerk like puppets before collapsing to the ground. Someone was on the other side of the truck, on the empty plot opposite the safe-house, picking off his targets easily against the back-light from the burning truck and the lights on the street.
The masked gunman who had taken refuge with him jumped to his feet and pulled Llong up. They were so close that Llong could see his eyes, have them etched on his memory for a lifetime. The gunman was agitated but not panicked; his eyes bore into him steadily instead of darting around all over. ‘Who is it?’ he thundered, bringing a pistol to Llong’s forehead. ‘Have they come for you? Who are you?’
Llong had enough sense to cower, to look scared – hell, it did not need much acting anyway. Nothing at Langley had ever prepared him for this.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, trying to raise his hands. ‘I swear.’
Llong sensed the movement behind him, maybe even saw the shadow flit across the masked gunman’s eyes, and reacted before thinking. Even as he felt the pistol being moved away from his head, he brought his duct-taped hands up between them and tried to hammer the jaw of the gunman.
The gunman moved his head back at the last instant, his reflexes too good for Llong. But the action also caused him to lose his balance and Llong stepped closer, looping his clasped hands around his neck and twisting him around while moving in the opposite direction at the same time. Before the other man could blink, Llong had moved behind him and used his knees on the gunman’s kidneys a couple of times.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Llong saw for the first time what had caused his captor to be distracted. The man was dressed in army fatigues and had an assault rifle aimed at them, walking diagonally away from the gate, making sure he would notice if someone followed him from the other side. The barrel of the weapon barely wavered. The hand was rock-steady.
‘Drop that gun and kick it over to me,’ Nawaz Qureshi told him.
17th September, 2012. Hyderabad.
Nazim Qazi walked through the stalls in the shadow of the Charminar, inhaling the scents that were so familiar to him. It had taken him the better part of an hour to get to the market from where he had been dropped off, an anonymous point on the highway leading to the city.
Here, in the heart of the city, death once again seemed to distance itself, to withdraw from the intrusive presence it had cloaked itself with less than twenty-four hours earlier. Those hours were a blur to him, a vague memory of forests, graves, bullets, bumpy rides and questions. The only thing that had felt real to him was the small military aircraft that had touched down at the old airport before dawn.
Of all the words that he had listened to and uttered since his last-second respite, only a part continued to resonate within him. The man who had saved him from execution – twice – had dropped him off with that promise. ‘We’ll protect your family, Qazi. And you keep your end of our bargain.’
With each passing step, though, the doubts were creeping back. It was obvious the man who had saved him was part of the Army’s Special Forces – he could not ask for more substantial proof than the aircraft he had been flown into Hyderabad on – and as such, a part of the same establishment that Qazi had been fighting against. It was hard to surrender a lifetime of hate, of distrust . . . the only thing that made it easier was his own need to believe that man. That there was, perhaps, some good in this world after all.
And not for the first time, he wondered if his disguise would fool anyone. True, everyone who’d met his eye had given a bow of respect; some had even offered the goodies from their stall to the man of God. But these were all strangers, people who had never met The Pathan or would have him introduced to them as such. What would happen once he finally ran into someone who knew The Pathan personally?
Allah ki marzi
, he thought, pausing mid-stride to bow in the direction of Mecca, the small prayer refreshing his sense of purpose.
As He wishes.
17th September, 2012. New Delhi.
The gun clattered to the ground.
The next instant, so did the gunman.
He dropped out of Llong’s grip and to the ground. Before the latter could react, he moved his body behind Llong’s, shielding himself from the gun trained on them; he withdrew a knife from his belt and jammed it against the soft part of Llong’s jaw.
Nawaz’s eyes never left them. As Llong watched, he brought his rifle higher until the stock was wedged against his shoulder and the scope was right in front of his eyes. His finger caressed the trigger.
Talk about a rock and a hard place, Llong thought glumly. The only choice he seemed to have was the manner of death. Shot or knifed. It was like walking around New York at night.
He felt the gunman behind him pull him slowly towards the gate and had no choice but to comply – the slight increase in pressure of the tip of the blade, at the smallest sign of resistance from him, was a powerful argument for obeisance.
‘Stop, or I’ll shoot,’ said the Army man.
Llong closed his eyes when the gunman behind him stopped, knowing instinctively what would happen. It was the only thing that
could
happen, anyway, if the gunman didn’t want to surrender and was willing to take a risk.
When the push came, Llong was expecting it. But he had expected it to be gentler, more of a shove towards the gunman in front as the one behind him made a dash for the gate. Reflexes would cause the one in front to fire and hit Llong before he would recover enough to aim for the fleeing attacker, who would be ducking and weaving and creating as small a target as possible.
As he stumbled towards the Army officer, Llong saw his finger tighten on the trigger. The thought of death – so close once again – fuelled his body as it reacted without thinking. Using the momentum he already had, Llong charged Nawaz, hoping that he was far enough ahead of the spot the man had
been aiming at. He closed the distance between them faster than expected and had the air knocked out of him when they collided.
Nawaz grunted as Llong slammed his shoulder into his abdomen and went down in a flurry of arms and legs. He felt the rifle drop from his hands and heard it clatter away before the weight moved off him. He felt a tug at his waist and looked down just in time to spot his Glock being pulled out of its holster. He reached for it too late and found himself staring into the barrel of his own weapon.
He was worried by the fact that the gun wobbled dangerously in the other man’s hands. Hampered by the duct tape, Llong was finding it extremely difficult to hold the gun and get his finger on the trigger so that he could pose a credible threat instead of looking idiotic. Cursing, he started to move backwards.
When his feet hit the rifle that Nawaz had dropped, he looked down, giving Nawaz the break he was looking for. Twisting quickly where he lay, Nawaz propelled himself towards Llong and slammed into him mid-thigh, knocking both of them back to the ground. As he cocked his fist back to land one on the jaw and hopefully knock him out of the contest, he noticed Llong’s face for the first time. He hesitated.
Llong managed to get a good-enough grip on the butt of the Glock that he thought he could slam it against the head of the man on top of him. He did not intend to kill – he simply wanted to escape.
Nawaz blocked the blow inches before it could land and pushed against Llong, forcing the hands back over his head and flat against the ground. With his hands tied, Llong did not have the leverage to power up against Nawaz and stopped struggling as he realized the futility of it. All the fight almost went out of Llong at that instant.
Almost.
17th September, 2012. New Delhi.
Raghav and I did not speak much on the way over, except for him giving me a few terse instructions on being careful. The late major-general’s office was situated just off-centre inside one of the more anonymous camps that dot the capital and Raghav knew of an obscure gate – unmarked, unlit, unpaved – where the guards had apparently been told to clear our arrivals. That did not prevent a rather uncomfortably long scrutiny that I had to squirm under, with the jawan staring at me with obvious disdain. Before he finally waved us through, he put his head through the window and said, loudly enough for the guard on the other side to hear, ‘
Yeh Qureshi saab ka camp hai. Yaadh rakhna.
’
He didn’t wait for my reassurance that I wouldn’t forget and stepped away as the gates swung open on noisy hinges. We drove through in silence and parked at the back of a building with a sloped-roof. Raghav led the way, pausing at corners each time before he would beckon me forward, and it took a few more minutes for us to reach our destination.
There was a jawan posted at the entrance but Raghav produced another set of papers that seemed to have the same magic as at the gate. A key was produced and we were ushered into the major-general’s office, into utter darkness.
My hand reached out automatically for the lights but Raghav slapped it down. ‘No lights,’ he cautioned. ‘Use your mobile.’
What little I could see confirmed the stereotype of officers’ offices. There was nothing out of place – except for a silver tray that had the remnants of three circles on its surface and dark blotches on the wall by the side of the desk. I did not need to ask to know what those blotches were, nor did I want confirmation of their morbid tale. Even if you’ve never seen blood and brain matter splattered before, you recognize it if you’re expecting it.
I shadowed Raghav all over the place, trying to get a better feel for the major-general, for the man whose death I seemed to be the least affected by – at least directly. And I failed. The place was pristinely sterile, a textbook office whose only personal accessories were the couple of family pictures. Happier times, or at least what must have passed for happy in the Qureshi household. The middle-aged lady beside Major-General Qureshi and the little boy on her lap were the only ones who looked truly happy. I wondered if someone had told that little boy that he’d lost both his grandparents now.
As professional as Raghav’s approach was – systematically going through everything that could have held anything, putting each object back in its place before moving to the next one, fast but careful – mine was anything but. I did not know what to look for, and in the absence of a living being to talk to, I had no idea what question to ask. The cause of death was incontestably a self-inflicted gunshot to the temple, nor was there any evidence so far of a second party’s involvement. Coercion, perhaps . . . but what the fuck was I supposed to do? What could I find out that was eluding everyone else?