by M J Anand
There were still a few things Amjad couldn’t discuss on the line. ‘I’d need to meet you physically, sir,’ he said in a burst of spontaneity.
‘Sure. My office will connect you soon.’ The prime minister didn’t inquire much. He knew Amjad well by now. Such requests were typically followed by conversations that could only be spoken about in person.
‘Thank you, sir.’ The call was done. Amjad kept the phone down. The promotion was a thought bygone. His thoughts returned to Abhimanyu. He called the soldier who had been waiting to be released, standing a few meters away. ‘Get me my Jeep.’ He turned to Sonia. ‘We need to visit the military Hospital.’ The terrorists had been taken to the high security army intelligence hospital situated near the Guwahati military hospital. Situated in the outskirts of Guwahati, it was amply disguised for seekers. A vast stretch of land lay barren deep inside the well-guarded military cantonment. It was a well-disguised helipad capable to accommodate twenty helicopters at a time. At the end of the ground, a stone structure of Scottish baronial vintage rose to the skies—an imprint of the imperial times—and the army had converted it into a hundred-bed hospital since then.
Amjad arrived at the gates. ‘Where is he?’
Major Prakash, area commander of the army intelligence unit, showed him through the alley to block M5, room 216 where Abhimanyu was being treated.
‘And where is she?’ he inquired about Sasha.
‘Quarantined underground in the army intelligence wing. Block G1, room 119.’
The underground facility was a specially secluded place rarely opened to visitors. Very few people even knew about its existence. Many layers of security protocol and a ten-ton metallic door separated it from the outside world. To avoid any suspicion on personnel, all the sleuths here were officially on the military hospital’s payroll that operated from the front of the compound and catered to only defense families living in the cantonment. The facility had different entrance and exit points to set apart the visitors. Only senior military officers with the right top-level clearances could enter the intelligence wing. The checks and balances had ensured that the facility was neve compromised, at least as far as the Indians knew.
Hindu Kush Mountains, January 25
Abdullah Bahri was an angry man. He paced down the dark alleys of a cavern in the deep mountains of Hindu Kush. The cold winds couldn’t breach its hull as Abdullah had poured money to carve out a hot bubble for himself here—a safe spot. The cave walls had been reinforced to withstand a barrage of the Tomahawk missiles—the fulcrum of US Navy. This was Al Malik’s den of safety amidst the chaos he had orchestrated. Rather, just one of the many he had across the globe hidden from the public eyes. For all that investment, today, he felt as unsafe as a commoner on the road. The Indians had captured Al Malik’s own protégé. While very few knew of it, Al Malik had been responsible for Sasha’s upbringing. She was the closest to a daughter he’d had, and he had raised her to be a warrior. Abdullah would speak of her with great pride when he was with the other Lords of the Golden Circle. Putting your own family in the line of fire was never easy. It was a statement of personal sacrifice, the highest offering one could make. The few who mattered knew it and respected Abdullah for it. However, he had never thought sacrifice would become a reality one day.
The culprit had arrived. Abdullah sat in his chair and looked at the camera.
This time, his personal guards brought in Bilal. Paths to this cave couldn’t be exposed to even the most trustworthy of his assets. They had picked him up in the nearby town of Chitral and brought him to this cavern in the Wakhan corridor nature reserve at the trijunction of India, Pakistan, and Afghanistan border. Bilal shivered, for he knew he would pay a price for the failure, but he wasn’t sure to what extent.
The men boarded him on the wooden lift. ‘Stand still.’
The blindfold was tight, but Bilal could tell he was underground. The smell of the rocks and the brush of the hot air was conspicuous. He budged toward the walls.
‘Don’t move if you want to stay alive.’ The guard stopped him.
Bilal felt the gravity churn in his stomach and realized a lift was transporting him somewhere deeper underground. Heat and humidity increased exponentially as their distance from the ground increased. Soon, it became unbearable. The creaking iron shafts of the moving lift made him more nervous. Sweat covered Bilal’s face, hands, legs, and even groin. The lift hit the floor with a bang that almost threw Bilal off balance.
The guard caught him.
Bilal was scared now. It felt worse than he had expected. The lift door opened, and Bilal saw a ray of light brighten the blindfold. He remembered the instructions to stand still and obeyed. The light ray was followed by a gush of cold wind, dry and unnatural. It must be a centralized air-conditioning unit, Bilal guessed. A semblance of normality returned to him.
The men took his hands and pulled him from the lift.
‘Careful. You’re dealing with an officer,’ Bilal said.
They ignored him, took him to a large hall where his steps reverberated back to him and finally opened his blindfold.
‘Where am I?’
‘Only we ask the questions here.’ The handlers were wearing masks.
Bilal gauged their specs immediately—military grade, anti-gas. Not many militaries carried them, but he wasn’t surprised. After all, these were Abdullah’s men.
‘Follow us.’
Bilal walked with them. The comforting cold air humidified near surfaces with strange patterns. One by one, he passed many cages of bodies of goats, pigs, mules, camels, leopard, and even a tiger. He realized the animals were being subjected to chemical experiments. Certainly, governments on either side of the border weren’t aware of it. The specimens were in a bad condition. Some of them were perhaps even dead. Bilal was shaken, and his confidence was sinking by the moment.
They entered another large hall with marble floor and black stone linings. Their steps reverberated off the shiny surfaces and filled the air with an echo. The acoustics were designed to intimidate.
‘Please sit here.’
The echo of the voice startled Bilal. He immediately sat on the chair. At the center of the room, another chair with cushions stood out at an elevated height. These hair-raising mannerisms had spooked him enough, and he just wished to get done with this as soon as possible. A veteran officer himself, Bilal recognized the theatrics. The army officer in him was enraged. He had helped Al Malik raise billions of dollars in Pakistan, Middle East, and Africa. Even though they had failed this time, he expected a better treatment. The cow they had been feeding for so long had lost the sense of gratefulness. In his mind, Bilal decided to make Al Malik pay for this treatment once he had things under his control. Holy as he may be, the line had to be understood, both ways.
He heard footsteps. The sounds reverberated, and it felt like stereo surround sound. No one was visible yet. A lone shadow emerged from the dark corridor behind the heightened chair. It was indeed Abdullah Bahri, whom he was seeing after twenty-five years finally. Bilal bowed his head.
Al Malik took the chair. ‘Five years of effort, sweat, and money. Everything went down the drain.’
‘We will strike again, Al Malik,’ Bilal said, his head still bowed.
‘Of course. But first, we need to pay penance for this failure.’
Bilal looked up with fear. ‘Yes, Al Malik. As you wish.’ Bilal wanted to get out of here alive at any cost. ‘You are right. We need to make an example out of it.’
‘I am told your recruit from the army, Rup … What’s his name?’
‘Rupesh, Al Malik.’
‘Yes. He spoke.’
Al Malik had his own sources independent of Bilal. The thought scared him more. ‘We should have never trusted that Indian. He was just a traitor.’ Bilal disbanded Rupesh, or at least pretended to show disdain. In his own mind, he knew Rupesh was the best money could buy.
‘How did they get Subramanian’s coordinate?’
‘ISI is working on it, Al Malik. Our sources in RAW are also working on it.’
‘Your sources? Your sources couldn’t even protect Aaleyah!’ A fit of rage engulfed Abdullah.
Bilal sat with his head down. For twenty-five years, they hadn’t met each other in person. Today, they were scheduled to meet and celebrate the success. Instead, it was Bilal’s greatest moment of failure.
‘I had asked you to take care of her!’ Al Malik said in an emotional way Bilal had never heard before.
‘I sent more men to protect her.’
‘Yes, but incompetent. All of them. Just as you were. They couldn’t use the bomb, couldn’t keep their mouths shut, and couldn’t protect Aaleyah.’ Abdullah lost his cool and made some hand gestures.
Bilal looked up, and shadows reappeared behind him; they guards were back. Almost immediately, Bilal’s chair heated up. The seats were wet and sticky. He tried to jump, out of reflex, but his clothes were stuck to the chair. He was stuck. It became clear that Al Malik would punish him for his failure. Till a moment ago, Bilal was still contemplating retaliation at Abdullah Bahri for this treatment, but now, he just wanted to survive. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Just what you said.’ Abdullah smiled, and the lights brightened. ‘Setting an example. In a war, you win, or you die.’
‘I have sacrificed everything for you. I have served you for so long and ever so honestly. Why me?’
‘Not as much as Aaliyah.’ Al Malik called the guard and handed him his gun.
Bilal wondered what was so special about this Aaleyah; after all, they are meant to be sacrificed one day in the war. Bilal had only heard stories of Abdullah Bahri’s punishments. But there was definitely more to this than just revenge. ‘No, no! Spare me. I’ll get her out. I promise.’
The shot went right through his temples even as he was pleading. The shirt, glued to the chair, prevented his body from tipping over, but his head fell forward and stared at the floor, dead.
‘Because no one plays around with my daughter’s life.’
Chapter 23 - The River
Military Hospital, Guwahati
India would celebrate another Republic Day without a terrorist incident. However, the human price it had paid was high yet again. No one knew how Abhimanyu’s body had survived, but everyone knew why his soul had been crushed. His body recovered well, but his mind had been scarred beyond mends. He had been sleeping under the effect of morphine, but the doctors were struggling to balance morphine dosage with intravenous paracetamol dosages. His mind had shunted reality for his body to rest in peace. The truth was hard to digest and even harder to explain to oneself. Destiny had had played a cruel hand.
An hour ago, Abhimanyu had dozed off under the effect of morphine again. It was wearing off again. The heat in his sweat drained him of his last ounce of energy. His body convulsed; he could feel his breath rise, but he could not yet see anything—anything except one image. As soon as he opened his eyes, he saw Qadir’s image in front of him. It was his image from the jungles outside the Bagyidaw’s, the last time he had seen him in flesh. Abhimanyu screamed at him in anger but couldn’t pull out his hand. The nurse had tied it to the clamps.
Another dose of morphine kept him quiet for a couple hours, but upon opening his eyes, he saw the same image again. He could have killed Qadir that day and not only avenged Bhavya’s death but perhaps also stopped the events that had transpired at Bagyidaw’s. The sweat on Abhimanyu’s face heated by the second and seared through his body till the nurse calmed him with another round of intravenous fluids. The next time Abhimanyu opened his eyes, he saw Qadir’s image from the jungles in even more detail. Qadir was looking for him with his fingers on the trigger, ready to shoot. It was all about his failure that night—the mistake that had cost him the lives of Akram, Siddhartha, Thapa, and many other commandos.
Abhimanyu searched for an escape, but the walls were closing in on him even as, still by still, his portray in the vignette disappeared. But another image appeared, that of Sasha this time. His mind relapsed, and his soul froze for a moment. He felt love and hate simultaneously. He felt a surging heat inside him again, only to be interrupted by an occasional beep that dialed down gradually, but a louder siren simultaneously took over—an emergency call for the doctor.
Even as the nurse increased the paracetamol dosage, she was failing to control the temperature.
‘Give me the defibrillator.’
The nurse handed it to the doctor. ‘Why is he shouting?’ the nurse asked worryingly.
‘He’s hallucinating.’ The doctor knew he didn’t have much time. Abhimanyu was going through a bad dream, and the mental trauma was paralyzing Abhimanyu’s body. They had to break the chain. ‘His temperature is one hundred and six.’ It would be a miracle if he recovered from here without any brain damage. Abhimanyu’s body was self-inflicting irreparable damage. The doctor used the defibrillators and prevented him from going into a coma.
His heartbeat regularized, and they put him on heavy fluids to lower the temperature. He had survived by a whisker. Death was still knocking at his doors.
‘We need continuous monitoring on all the vitals,’ the doctor announced and left a nurse stationed permanently.
Meanwhile, Amjad had spotted the slayer. He looked through the glass window of room 119 just wide enough to sneak a peek. She had regained consciousness and was as calm as the sea, unperturbed by her surroundings—no fear, no remorse, and no sign of anxiety. It was a trained blank expression. Amjad recognized it when he saw one. She stood to have a glass of water and went back to sleep. Amjad realized she was mentally preparing for the interrogations ahead, the ways of which she knew all too well. Her demeanor and cool, calm confidence oozed years of practice and rigorous training. She was much more than what appeared on the surface and wouldn’t be easy to break.
‘Can she talk?’ he asked Major Prakash who had just entered and stood beside him.
‘Medically, she is more than fit to talk. Nothing stops her from talking, but she hasn’t spoken a word to anyone yet. No action, no reaction, not even a gesture. The only thing she cares is to take her medicines as prescribed, drink water, and eat timely.’
‘Following the manual.’ Amjad deduced she was conserving her energy and recovering. With every observation, his estimation of her training only increased.
‘Heard she is a spy. She was on the inside?’ Prakash eyed Amjad.
He nodded. ‘Which makes her very dangerous. I want you to have twenty-four-hour surveillance on her. Your men should shadow her everywhere she goes, including the washroom.’
Prakash nodded uncomfortably. ‘We’ll get women for that.’ He smiled awkwardly.
‘Construct an online observation room and get cameras inside her room as well. Do whatever you need to keep her under constant watch.’
‘Sir, she can’t pull a smart one here.’ Major Prakash had taken offence to Amjad’s thought; this place was impenetrable.
‘That doesn’t prevent her from trying.’ Prakash was still not fully onboard, but Amjad couldn’t tell him about Cortex, for it was still classified. ‘See, I trust your protocols, but we just can’t be careful enough on this one. Remember Decot?’
Major Prakash’s face yellowed. He remembered Decot too well—the attack that had almost blew Chennai to ashes. ‘What about Decot?’
‘Something similar has happened again. Only this time, they came even closer.’
‘We’ll do just as you say, sir.’ The mere mention of Decot was enough.
Details of the shootout in the Siang hills would be under wraps for a long time. Intelligence agencies were sanitizing the village, but he knew a leak was eventually inevitable. Amjad had his one eye on the cleanup underway. They’d have to get their public story right by the time it was finished. No story could explain Sasha’s acts without embarrassment. No spin would conceal a human breach of such magnitude. What would happen to their credibility? And with such low credibility, how could they guaran
tee no such breach would happen ever again? That was as far as the public management was concerned. Internally, he had even bigger problems to tackle. The real cost to the agency’s operations due to this breach would unfold with time. Segregating friends from foe across the entire intelligence apparatus was incomprehensible. They would have to vet every asset and employee. It was an impractical exercise but necessary. There was only one way to short circuit this laborious task.
‘I need her across the table as soon as she is ready.’
‘In an hour, sir?’
‘No sooner?’ Amjad was longing.
‘We’re waiting for her morning reports—blood, urine, stool, liver, kidney, swab, and X-rays. The entire roll,’ Prakash responded.
‘You’ve missed the most important one. Get me the polygraph machine.’
Polygraph Room, Military Cantonment, Guwahati
They sat quietly across the table. Neither was in rush. The others carefully observed them and stood in silence across the glass partition. Custom lights lined the room, but Amjad had chosen to keep it simple today. It was all white. The play of lights was meant to disorient the prisoner, but today, he needed to see her reactions clearly to convince himself.
Major Prakash watched through the tinted glass—an age-old setup for monitoring interrogations—but this glass was different. It could instantly judge a person’s response and predict the probability of truth in their admissions, all of this without the prisoner having the slightest idea that he or she was under observation. The software could also foretell questions to maintain a fruitful line of interrogation. The questions were fed directly to the tab, the one Amjad was staring at now.
