‘Shoot her and you’re dead, Akram!’ Madhav growled. ‘Walk away. This is your chance.’
‘You Indians don’t learn, do you?’ Akram grinned, his finger firmly placed on the trigger of the gun aimed at Jennifer. ‘Death doesn’t inspire fear in our hearts the way it does in yours.’
Aryaman assessed the situation as an agitated Amarjyot asked him for an update.
‘For God’s sake, sir. Hold on,’ he muttered into the earpiece.
Randheer’s hands were shaking in agitation. He spotted two more of what he rightly presumed to be Akram’s men running towards them. Swiftly taking aim, he shot them both dead before they could react.
Akram had heard the gunshots. He looked at Madhav and then at Jennifer, who had come to her senses and was reaching for her gun. On impulse, Akram pulled the trigger.
Things slowed before Madhav’s eyes as he saw Jennifer’s brains blown to bits, staining the interior of the car. He yelled out in pain as he watched the love of his life die. He pointed his gun and fired at Akram, who had run for cover behind the car. Madhav followed him furiously.
Aryaman and Randheer ran after him. And then Aryaman saw it: the jacket. Akram didn’t have it on earlier, when they were tracking him. The jacket was wired to explosives. Aryaman took Randheer by the arm and pulled him back towards him.
‘Madhav, stay back!’
But it was too late. Aryaman saw Akram press the button of the detonator that he’d pulled out of his jacket’s front pocket.
‘Allahu Akbar!’ Akram yelled one final time.
A deafening explosion rocked the neighbourhood. Fire engulfed Madhav. Aryaman and Randheer were flung backwards. After a short while, Aryaman tried to get to his feet but struggled to do so. He saw Madhav’s charred body, still ablaze. Where Akram was supposed to be standing there were bits of flesh mangled with metal from the destroyed car. Aryaman’s vision began to fade as he inhaled the toxic black smoke.
‘Sir, they are gone. Jen. Madhav. Gone . . .’ Aryaman lost consciousness.
Amarjyot buried his head in his hands. Failure had met them when they least expected it. Akram was gone. But was this a victory when two of his best agents were dead? He sank back in his chair, feeling nauseated. He couldn’t even share his burden. There’d be a price to pay if he were to walk into his boss’s cabin and tell him about the unsanctioned operation going south.
Two Days Later: New Delhi, IRW HQ
Amarjyot’s boss Ashish Singh was furious upon learning what had transpired. He looked distraught, scratching his bald head. There was just Amarjyot with him in his cabin, which housed various medals and certificates he had received in his career. He looked up at the screen that displayed a paused smartphone video of the Southall incident, shot by an onlooker. The grainy footage had found its way to mainstream media and was being broadcast all over the world. Amarjyot had a blank expression on his hardened, aged face.
‘Two of our agents, dead in public view.’
‘Maqsood Akram dead too. Don’t forget that, sir.’
Singh played the video again. They saw Akram pressing the detonator.
‘He killed himself,’ Singh said. ‘Your men didn’t do it. He will go down as a hero for the jihadis waiting to join the fight.’
‘Sir? With all due respect, can you hear how ridiculous you sound?’
Singh did not take this well. He leaned forward. And Amarjyot, not one to back down easily, mirrored his boss’s body language.
‘Bipin has briefed me about this Phoenix 5 business, Amarjyot. This is what happens when you start thinking you are above the law.’
‘Bipin wants my job, sir. So he could bring his spinelessness to bear on the important decisions that we have to make as guardians of the country.’
Amarjyot’s sarcasm wasn’t lost on Singh.
‘Nevertheless,’ Singh said. ‘You have acted of your own volition. Your two boys, Aryaman and Randheer, will get the punishment that is due to them as well. There will be a formal inquiry.’
Amarjyot slammed the table and stood up.
‘The Phoenix 5 has been active for only a short span of time and has been successful on numerous occasions, sir. What about those? The one time we “fail”—which is how you insist on looking at it—you want to crucify us? We took out a major enemy of the country. So what if there’s a damn clip circulating on social media?’
‘And Madhav and Jennifer?’
‘I hate the fact that we lost them,’ Amarjyot said gravely. ‘But they were soldiers. They knew what they were signing up for. If they wanted to play it safe, they would have opted to become bureaucrats like you and that fucking Bipin Sharma.’
Amarjyot stormed out of the room, banging the door shut behind him. Singh knew that Amarjyot wasn’t one for theatrics and that this operation had really affected him. But this was impertinence of the highest kind. He wouldn’t react to it now. There would be an inquiry in a couple of days, he thought. Amarjyot would be history after that.
On the morning of the inquiry, Amarjyot woke up with a terrible headache. The last two days had been a nightmare for him, and he had relied on large volumes of alcohol to divert his mind and to put himself to sleep. He knew what was coming his way. He was going to be discharged and stripped of his rank. A lifetime of dedication towards his country had trickled down to this. A ceremony of humiliation.
He struggled to get out of bed. His wife, Savita, walked in with a cup of tea. She had tears in her eyes when she saw her husband distraught. He looked at the cup of tea and shook his head. She sat beside him. Their son, Abhay, watched this for a few moments before stepping into the room.
‘It’s over, Savita.’
‘Don’t say that. You did all you could and more. The country doesn’t deserve you.’
‘The country deserves more. I just tried to push myself to that limit. All five of us believed we could make a change. Such fucking fools. And now some stupid bastard is going to pass judgement on my contributions. And some other fool is going to replace me. All that I did, I did honourably. But they won’t see it that way.’
His voice trailed away as he burst into tears. The seventeen-year-old Abhay, too young to know how to react, sat by his father’s shivering feet.
‘I can’t take this humiliation,’ Amarjyot cried. ‘I won’t allow it.’
Savita hugged him, letting him sob. Abhay pressed his father’s legs softly, wondering how a war hero could be reduced to this.
Amarjyot sat up straight, wiping his tears.
‘I need some paracetamol,’ he said. ‘I feel a fever coming on. I looked for some last night, but we are out of the tablets. Can you go and buy some?’ At this, Abhay obediently walked out of the room.
‘Savita, I’ll be fine,’ Amarjyot stood up, taking a sip of tea. ‘Go with Abhay. Speak to him. Get some fresh air. This shouldn’t affect him. He’s too young.’
Savita looked at him, tears in her eyes. She stood up to walk away, trying hard to put on a smile.
‘We’ll be back in ten minutes,’ she said. ‘Freshen up, and then we’ll eat breakfast together.’
Amarjyot nodded. She walked up to him and, bending a little, pecked him tenderly on the forehead. He smiled as he watched her leave.
He stood by the window, watching his wife and son speak animatedly as they walked to the chemist’s at the end of the lane. He turned around and walked to his closet with great resolve. He opened it and unlocked his safe with the passcode that only he knew. The safe carried a few important documents, a few gadgets and a gun.
He didn’t wait another moment. He already knew what people were going to say. Some would call him a coward; others would take his name with great respect for his contribution to the realm of Indian intelligence. He did not want to be at the receiving end of an inquiry where all his detractors scavenged off his remains. For him, this was the only way to save face. He raised the gun to his temple and looked, one last time, at the family photo propped up on his desk. He would be a burden to h
is wife if he was chucked out of the agency. Even she knew she came a close second to his job. A close second but still second. Hopefully, his son would be dissuaded from following in his father’s footsteps, dissuaded from joining the military or espionage agencies. And that would be a great thing for him. Amarjyot Bhushan closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. His last.
Then he pulled the trigger.
At the inquiry later that day, the third chair that was meant for Amarjyot Bhushan remained empty. Bipin Sharma had walked in early, his mousy features not contorting even to feign remorse for Amarjyot’s death. Chief Ashish Singh looked adequately affected when he took his seat. He had never expected this of Amarjyot. He learnt the news about an hour after the body was discovered by Amarjyot’s wife and son. It jolted him in a way he never thought anything could.
Aryaman’s straight, black hair was tousled, and his eyes were bloodshot when he was brought in to sit before Singh and Sharma. His shirt was buttoned up all wrong, and he reeked of cigarettes. He stared at the ground.
Randheer, his head hanging in shame, was brought into the stuffy room by a young guard.
‘Okay,’ Sharma said. ‘Aryaman, we want to hear your version of the story first. Go on.’
Aryaman cast a sideways glance at Amarjyot’s chair and then at a crestfallen Randheer. He turned to Sharma defiantly.
‘Bipin Sir, I know you are itching to get into Amarjyot’s shoes. But maybe we can hold on for a few minutes and wait for him to join us before we start the grilling?’
There was silence. Ashish Singh looked at Bipin Sharma and then nodded curtly, as if to say, ‘Let me handle this.’ He then turned his gaze to a confused Randheer and an adamant-looking Aryaman.
‘Amarjyot Bhushan was found dead at his residence earlier this morning,’ he said flatly. ‘Suicide. No signs of foul play. Shot himself.’
The words lingered in the air. Randheer broke down instantly, tears streaming out, his body shaking with soft sobs. Aryaman let the fact sink in. He could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage, his teeth grinding, his jaw hardening. Fighting back the urge to yell out angrily or burst into tears, all he could feebly manage were two words.
‘Well, then,’ he said, softly.
‘Shall we proceed?’ Sharma asked.
Aryaman looked at Randheer and nodded.
‘Randheer had nothing to do with this,’ Aryaman said. ‘As far as Randheer, Madhav and Jennifer were concerned, they didn’t know the mission was unsanctioned.’
‘You liar!’ Sharma raised his voice.
Singh appealed for calm with a gesture towards Sharma. Randheer looked taken aback at what Aryaman had just said. He was about to speak when Aryaman shot him one stern glance that implied, ‘Don’t even think about it.’
‘If we are getting into name-calling, maybe I should call you an opportunist too, Bipin Sir.’
‘Aryaman,’ Singh said to defuse the situation. ‘Carry on with your deposition. If what you are saying is indeed true, the blame falls squarely on you and Amarjyot.’
‘The other three were young and impressionable,’ Aryaman continued. ‘Amarjyot Sir was in his early sixties. I am in my mid-forties. We were their seniors. Age- and rank-wise. They believed what we said blindly.’
‘And the Phoenix 5?’ Sharma spluttered.
‘A fancy name Amarjyot Sir and I made up just to make it seem like this whole thing was official. Again, I state that the other three had nothing to do with it. They were misled by Amarjyot Bhushan and me into becoming a part of these unsanctioned operations.’
Both Singh and Sharma looked helpless. Aryaman seemed determined to sell them this story. They looked at Randheer.
Sharma addressed him. ‘Is this true? You had no knowledge that these operations were unsanctioned?’
Randheer felt his face going numb. Aryaman turned towards him, expecting him to back the lie. Randheer heard the question being repeated.
‘Yes,’ he said, after what seemed like an eternity. ‘I had no knowledge about these operations being unsanctioned.’
He turned to look at Aryaman, who had slumped back into his chair. Expressionless.
‘Then in that case,’ Singh said with an air of finality, ‘Randheer, you will be limited to being a desk agent after six months of suspension.’
Randheer was being let off easily and even he knew it. The attention shifted to Aryaman.
‘As for you,’ Singh continued. ‘Seven years of rigorous imprisonment at the Quarry in Lakshadweep.’
Aryaman nodded and said, ‘May Amarjyot Bhushan’s soul rest in peace.’ He then stood up to be led away.
2
Her eyes had a lot to say. They let on more than she ever did with her words. He was her husband. He was the father of their child. But even then, there were things about her he did not know. She had opened up as much as she could have, but some things had never been expressed in words. He would often think of those things. And he had a strong hunch what they could have been. He was a spy after all.
She was protective of their son to the point of obsession. Things that she would say to him would surprise him sometimes. He would always reassure her that the environment their son was growing up in was secure.
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ she would say with an air of finality.
He knew his wife had been abused as a child. And he knew it was her father. For a person brimming with love, his wife despised the man responsible for her existence with a caustic hatred. Her father pretended never to know why, but he did, although he never spoke to her about it. She did not want to attend his last rites when he passed away. She never said why.
Aryaman remembered the first time they made love. The scent in her wild hair. Her full lips against his. It was on their third date. She didn’t know about his actual work until they were married. She wasn’t completely surprised, though. Her line of work involved fraternizing with men like him. And she had always suspected he belonged to the shadowy world of espionage. But there was an honesty about him that made her fall for him. Honesty and resolve that saw them through some difficult times. Their first child was stillborn. The news had shattered them. They were luckier the next time, a couple of years later. Blessed with a baby boy, they finally got to know real happiness. He made her feel safe. And she made him feel safe too. This was how it was meant to be. But not for long . . .
His son must have turned fifteen now. The last time he had seen him, he was just seven. He knew, too, that his wife must have changed. But he hoped and prayed that her compassion for him had remained. He had spent years trying to imagine what she must have gone through. If she were to tell him she loathes him, he’d understand. It would have been tough to raise a child without being able to justify the father’s disappearance. She had been through a lot. He was supposed to step in and make things right. Instead, he had made them worse.
He had had no contact with the external world. No man was tough enough to go through this. He longed for her more than for anything else. And in ways that transcended physical intimacy. She was his support system, even if he hadn’t seen her all this while.
There were butterflies in his stomach. He was about to go back to his family—his wife and son—soon. And his mother? He didn’t know if she was still alive. The prisoners were usually intimated about the death of a family member, but sometimes the messages didn’t get through in time. Bureaucracy everywhere. It scared him each time he thought about getting out. He felt as though a hand had grabbed him by the throat and was choking him. Maybe he was better off in this shithole, not seeing his family, not knowing what was happening to them; this was better than realizing his worst fears had been confirmed. By now, they had probably got used to living without him. Why shake things up now . . .
Clang!
The noise broke his chain of thoughts. It was time.
A plate came sliding against the ground and hit his head. He sat up, squinting at the little opening through which a man stared at him.
‘Last day today?’
A bare-bodied Aryaman, wearing nothing save for a pair of boxers, sat up on his haunches. He noticed the man’s clean-shaven face and neat haircut.
‘Is it your first?’ he asked in his gravelly voice.
The man nodded.
‘I’ve heard stories about you,’ the guard said. ‘If left to me, I wouldn’t have had you imprisoned. And definitely not here.’
Aryaman smiled as he picked up the sticky rice from the plate and swallowed it without chewing. Some of it got stuck in his grimy, long beard.
‘Well, if things were left up to you or me, the world would have been a different place.’
The guard’s face softened. ‘Well, have your meal. And then shower and get ready to leave. You have an hour.’
‘Thanks, kid.’
The opening in the door clamped up, rendering the room dark again except for a few rays of sunlight. Aryaman polished the food off his plate as he watched the dancing specks of dust in the light. He looked at the drab walls with the paint peeling off; the single mattress that he would roll up and use as a punching bag during the day; the unsteady commode that barely functioned. All witnesses to his last seven years of existence.
The door slid open again. The guard picked up the plate and then scrutinized Aryaman’s chiselled body, aged and scarred, though solid. The cell door was opened all the way and Aryaman stepped out.
He was led to the common shower area. Aryaman stepped in while the guard stayed back at the door. There was a group of inmates already here. Most of them were stark naked, singing and cracking crude jokes at the top of their voices. He stood under a shower and disrobed.
In prison, he had rubbed shoulders, sometimes literally, with the scum of the earth. International terrorists, gun runners, drug dealers, murderers, all of whom the Indian authorities had captured in covert missions and imprisoned. Aryaman had never imagined breaking bread with the very men he was trained to bring to book. But this was where circumstances had led him.
The Phoenix Page 2
