The Phoenix

by Bilal Siddiqi

  At the funeral, Aryaman noticed Randheer talking animatedly with Jyoti’s colleague Ehsaan. He was too numb to speak to them, so he walked back to his son and held him by the shoulders.

  ‘Your mother never told you what I did in the past, Aditya. You know me as a man with a drinking problem. A bad father. A bad husband. A waste of space even. But I wasn’t so, once upon a time. And I swear, I will not spare the people who did this.’

  Aditya had nothing to say. He just nodded, so his father would stop speaking. He walked away and stood next to his grandmother. This little act of his stung Aryaman in a way he couldn’t have imagined.

  The Hindu priest performed Jyoti’s last rites. Most people had paid their respects and had left. Eventually, what remained was the burning pyre—its flickering flames—with Aryaman, his family and Randheer standing near it, as the priest and his assistants began to clean up the area.

  Aryaman walked towards his mother. He leaned over to speak into her ear, so Aditya wouldn’t hear him.

  ‘Take him and wait in the car. I will settle the money with the priest. And I need to have a word with Randheer.’

  Soon after, she led a listless Aditya away.

  Aryaman turned to approach Randheer, who was already striding towards him.

  ‘Randheer,’ Aryaman said tiredly. ‘This. This won’t go down well for you. Leave if you have to.’

  ‘I am going nowhere, Arya. Definitely not now.’

  Aryaman was about to speak when Randheer lifted his hand to stop him. He gave Aryaman a cell phone. There was a video on it, waiting to be played: the footage of the assassin getting into a car and zipping off. He was a rather large man.

  ‘No face. Nothing,’ Randheer said. ‘Just a video of him getting into his car. He’s a big son of a bitch.’

  Aryaman sighed and handed Randheer his phone back.

  ‘I will figure this out, Randheer. Thanks for trying . . .’

  ‘Let me complete,’ Randheer said. ‘I ran the number plates. They’re bogus. But . . . I have fed it into our Gait Identification System.’

  ‘And?’ Aryaman lit himself a cigarette, watching the pyre.

  ‘It matched that of a certain Lars Christiansen,’ Randheer said. ‘European hitman. Works for hire, so his motive would have been nothing more than money.’

  This took Aryaman by surprise. ‘Is he still in town?’

  Randheer nodded and showed Aryaman a video analysis of Lars’s gait.

  ‘We don’t have the means to run this ourselves, Aryaman. Local agencies will take over.’

  Aryaman blew out a cloud of smoke.

  ‘Fuck them. She was my wife.’

  ‘And she had information that these bastards didn’t want leaked out. I spoke to her friend, who’d asked her to drop the story.’

  Aryaman processed this information silently. He had suspected this when he’d seen the two of them talking.

  ‘What story was this?’

  ‘Wouldn’t say. Wanted me to show my badge. We can get into trouble for taking matters in our own hands . . . Grant me some credit, Aryaman. I have been reduced to a desk agent, but my mind is still sharp. I knew I had to break the news to you.’

  Aryaman took one long, last drag of his cigarette and threw it on the ground, crushing it under his shoe.

  ‘Where is Christiansen?’

  Goa, a few hours later . . .

  Aryaman and Randheer exited the airport and got into the car that the latter had arranged. During the flight, Randheer had told Aryaman all he knew and showed him, on an iPad, the few file photos that the internal IRW directory had of Lars Christiansen, who was in India under a fake name: Lucas Hansen.

  Randheer also mentioned that Christiansen worked as a bodyguard for a private security firm, which assigned its men to top European celebrities who toured around the world. In fact, that very night, Christiansen was handling the security detail for a Swedish DJ slated to perform on an upscale cruise ship, which even had an in-house casino.

  ‘Funny thing is, Christiansen came to Mumbai a month prior to this DJ’s arrival,’ Randheer said as they drove towards Panjim. ‘Something doesn’t feel right about why he killed Jyoti the way he did. It was rather shabby for someone with his skills.’

  ‘Shabby? She was my fucking wife,’ Aryaman spat out before he lighting another cigarette.

  ‘Aryaman?’

  ‘Randheer, just fucking drive.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ Randheer said. ‘This is a terrible idea. We should turn back and let the law take care of this.’

  Aryaman glared at him. Then he spoke in a voice bereft of emotion. ‘The hit was probably decided last minute, in my opinion. Jyoti was never supposed to die in their initial plan. Whoever “they” are.’

  Randheer watched Aryaman’s cigarette burn out and the ash drop on his shirt.

  ‘Randheer, you can drop me at that damn casino and get back to work on the first flight out of here. But I’m going to end the son of a bitch who did this to my wife.’

  The rest of the drive passed in silence. Aryaman looked ahead at the dark highway as they sped towards the location where Christiansen and the DJ were supposed to be.

  They pulled up not far from where the lavishly decorated cruise ship was docked. A narrow wooden path led to the ship, which was fitted with a staircase to climb aboard. Aryaman scanned for the various entry and exit points. There seemed just one way to enter and exit, since the ship was already afloat. Stepping out of the car, Randheer handed Aryaman a ticket to the DJ’s event.

  Randheer began to put on a dinner jacket as they approached the entrance. Aryaman gripped Randheer’s hand and, eyeing the jacket, said, ‘It will look better on me.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry but you might have to get your own.’

  But Aryaman, much to Randheer’s surprise, wasn’t joking. ‘I don’t think you’re needed. Just track me. I will be on the phone with you throughout and update you as I go along.’

  ‘No offence,’ Randheer said, ‘but he can snap you like a twig.’

  ‘Let me worry about that,’ Aryaman said as he pointed at the ship. ‘There’s just this one route to enter and exit the ship. By the time I’m done with Christiansen, I don’t think getting away from this route will be an option.’

  Aryaman saw the few motorboats hitched at the pier. Randheer followed Aryaman’s gaze and then, looking back at Aryaman, got the hint. He tore his ticket dramatically. Aryaman put on the jacket. It didn’t do him justice but masked the shabbiness of his crumpled shirt and jeans.

  ‘These were expensive, just so you know.’

  Aryaman allowed himself a smile as he firmly held Randheer’s shoulders.

  ‘If I come out alive, I’ll refund the amount.’

  ‘Trust me,’ Randheer implored. ‘I’m ready for this.’

  Aryaman boarded the ship and, showing his ticket at the security counter, headed straight for the casino. Randheer watched him walk past the tough bouncers as they frisked him for weapons. They found none, of course. Aryaman is the weapon, Randheer thought.

  Randheer had his work cut out. Three motorboats were chained to the pier. A guard sat comfortably on the landing, earphones plugged in. He probably had the keys to unlock the boats. But first, Randheer had to park the car at the next dock, so that they could make a quick getaway after the mission.

  But Aryaman had no plans on how to accomplish this mission yet. The thought didn’t worry Randheer as much as the reality of Aryaman going in did. He was on that ship unarmed, rusty and still reeling emotionally from a hole in his heart.

  Aryaman was transported into an entirely different world on the ship. The casino, though grand in appearance, had all kinds of crass people gambling their ill-gotten money away. Aryaman had never seen the inside of a casino. Well, these motherfuckers haven’t seen the inside of the kind of prison I have, Aryaman thought sourly.

  With his head hanging low to avoid the CCTVs capturing his face, Aryaman made his way towards the third level
of the ship, where the DJ, apparently called Wesley, was performing. He entered through a narrow corridor that led to the suites and smaller rooms. The casino below was pleasant in comparison to the disco-like hall where the DJ was performing. The stench of alcohol and smoke enveloped everything.

  Aryaman’s face contorted in disgust as the jarring electronic dance music blared from the speakers. He pushed past a few twenty-somethings who were dancing wildly in their drunken stupor. As he got to the front, he got a clear view of the peroxide-blonde DJ who was hopping and stupidly waving his arms to match the beat. Aryaman scanned the guards behind the DJ. Two Indians, and Lars Christiansen. Jyoti’s killer . . .

  Unfazed by the noise, Christiansen stood with his arms crossed, carefully surveying the crowd. Aryaman felt his rage boiling over. He walked across to the bar and ordered a vodka, neat. He lit a cigarette, took the glass and walked towards Wesley.

  He waited for a set to end before yelling out, ‘Hey, motherfucker! Yes you, you piece of shit. Wesley. Play some real music!’ He sounded adequately drunk

  Wesley looked at Aryaman, shrugged and laughed. He played his next track. Aryaman continued to sway, playing the part of a sloshed man. The stone-faced Christiansen had his eyes on him. Aryaman showed him the middle-finger and laughed, but Christiansen didn’t react. Then, Aryaman made his move. He filled his mouth with vodka, ran towards the DJ console, spat it all out on Wesley’s face and started laughing maniacally. Wesley was stunned. A few people, who had noticed this, were laughing. The others were too immersed in the music to care. Christiansen sprang into action and dragged Aryaman out through the backdoor.

  ‘I’ll handle this bastard,’ Christiansen said to the two guards who were part of the security detail. ‘Keep an eye on the boss. Get him a towel to wipe his face.’

  They were in another corridor, almost mirroring the one that Aryaman had entered the venue through. Christiansen’s grip around Aryaman’s nape was firm. He was dragged into a room and then slammed against the wall by Christiansen. But Aryaman looked back at him defiantly, long and hard; he was face to face with his wife’s killer. He felt a rage he hadn’t felt in years as he observed Christiansen’s pale, rough face and his cold, blue eyes.

  ‘It’s best you leave now, mister.’

  Aryaman’s face hardened. He shook with the anger that was building up within him.

  ‘Do we have a problem, dude?’

  ‘I was hoping you’d ask, Lucas. Or should I say . . . Lars Christiansen?’

  Christiansen’s eyes widened.

  ‘I’ve never met a man,’ Aryaman continued, ‘who wouldn’t have a problem with his wife getting killed.’

  Christiansen swiftly reached for his gun and pressed it into Aryaman’s belly. Smiling, Aryaman looked up at the CCTV camera.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ Aryaman said. ‘Or maybe you can tell me in private. I’m sure your DJ boss does drugs in that suite there which doesn’t have CCTVs. Am I right?’

  Christiansen dragged Aryaman to Wesley’s suite, opening the door with his electronic card. He shoved Aryaman towards a wall, still aiming his gun at him. Aryaman raised his hands.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ Christiansen asked him.

  Aryaman noticed Christiansen’s tense stance and bulging muscles.

  ‘Have the steroids damaged your brains, Christiansen? Why did you kill my wife? I know you’re a contract killer. Just tell me who ordered the hit and I might make this less painful for you.’

  Christiansen smirked as he made his way to the corner of the grand suite. He pulled out a silencer from a drawer and screwed it on to his gun.

  ‘You’re a loose end,’ he said softly. ‘Guess I’ve got to tie you up.’

  ‘Do you really need a silencer with all that noise your boss is making outside?’

  Aryaman scanned the room out of the corner of his eye. He saw an unopened bottle of champagne in an ice bucket; a small glass table with a few lines of cocaine and a laptop on it; a pool table slightly away from him. Aryaman calculated his moves in his head.

  Christiansen raised the gun and was about to shoot when Aryaman leapt across to the pool table, picked up the champagne bottle and flung it at Christiansen, who got startled but moved aside in the nick of time and fired a volley of bullets. Aryaman took cover behind the pool table. He picked up the balls on the table and threw them with great force at Christiansen, sending him diving for cover behind a sofa. The 8 ball smashed into Christiansen’s nose and split it open.

  Aryaman charged at him. Both the men matched each other’s moves, each landing the occasional blow. But Christiansen soon overpowered Aryaman and began pounding him repeatedly with his fist. Bruised and winded, Aryaman struggled to catch his breath.

  The moment Christiansen eased up with the punches, Aryaman kicked him in the crotch and broke free of his grip. He then picked up the laptop and whacked it against Christiansen’s head, disorienting him for a second. Aryaman then saw his chance. He wrenched the gun out of Christiansen’s hand and shot him in the kneecap.

  ‘Why did you kill my wife?’ he screamed.

  ‘The bitch probably had it coming.’

  Aryaman shot him in the other kneecap. Christiansen was now yelping in pain.

  ‘I will die before I say a word.’

  Christiansen slipped a hand into his pocket and began to fiddle with something. The next instant, Aryaman seized his arm and wrenched out of his hand the phone he had been trying to use. Its display flashed this message: ‘Restoring to factory settings.’ Aryaman aborted the command just in time. Christiansen mustered the strength to throw one final blow at Aryaman, who evaded it comfortably. Using a jagged piece of porcelain from a broken plate, Aryaman stabbed Christiansen in the throat. The blood spurted out.

  ‘Have it your way then.’

  The music outside had died down. There were a few rounds of knocks on the door. Aryaman presumed it was either Wesley, or the guards wanting to check on Christiansen. Either way, he needed to get out of the suite. He looked at the glass window and pulled out his own phone. Randheer was on the line.

  ‘Third level,’ Aryaman said. ‘I’m going to get into the sea.’

  ‘I’ve got the boat,’ came the reply from Randheer. ‘Ready when you are.’

  Aryaman pocketed Christiansen’s gun and then lifted his lifeless, heavy body. With great force he rammed the body into the glass window, smashing it open. First, he threw Christiansen’s body out. Then, just as the door behind him was kicked open, he jumped out himself, landing hard on the water.

  Randheer sped towards Aryaman and helped him on to the boat. The guards began to fire at them from above while calling for backup. Dodging the bullets with much difficulty, Randheer steered the boat away.

  ‘Why did he do it?’

  ‘Wouldn’t say,’ Aryaman responded, weakly. ‘There’s honour among thieves clearly.’

  ‘He tried to erase the data in his phone,’ Aryaman continued, pulling out the drenched phone and handing it to Randheer. ‘I managed to stop him. I’m sure there’s something important on it. Extract the data as soon as you can.’

  They sped towards the shore, and the boat soon came to a halt. Randheer examined the phone, wiping it dry and then dismantling it to stop the water from seeping into the hardware.

  ‘We’ll clean up and get back to Mumbai tonight itself. The Goan authorities will be after us in no time. I had to thrash a security guard to get this boat.’

  But Aryaman wasn’t listening. He had blacked out on the floor of the boat, blood and water mingling around his body.

  ‘And he thinks he’s ready for this,’ Randheer sighed.

  8

  Islamabad, Pakistan

  Ashraf Asif was not sure how the Scorpion would take the latest piece of news. He took the usual precautions to shake off any tail and reached the secret location to phone his boss. The Scorpion didn’t usually encourage one-to-one calls. But Ashraf wanted his core team to be aware of all aspects of the operations. He sent
out a distress signal to indicate that he had something important to report. And the Scorpion, a paranoid man in many ways, responded almost immediately by setting up a time to chat with him.

  When Ashraf logged in to the software through the Dark Web, he found the Scorpion was already waiting online. Ashraf had been all of forty seconds late in joining in.

  ‘Sir,’ he said urgently. ‘The bioweapon has been picked up by my people. You will also be glad to know that the journalist who was nosing into our affairs has been taken care of.’

  Ashraf lit a cigarette and rubbed his temple nervously.

  ‘Then why did you set up this call? This seems like good news.’

  ‘Sir,’ Ashraf continued, mustering up the courage to deliver the news. ‘The hitman who took care of the journalist was killed soon after. In Goa, while he was undercover. We don’t know who did it.’

  There was silence at the other end. Ashraf waited for a bit, hoping the Scorpion would say something.

  ‘That isn’t all,’ Ashraf resumed, his voice struggling to maintain its composure. ‘The scientist who has the antidote to the bioweapon that Lior Myers created is on the run. Her name is Dr Avantika Advani. My people should find her soon and take care of it. That won’t be a problem, but it is something you should know.’

  The Scorpion didn’t speak.

  ‘Sir?’ Ashraf prompted him for a response.

  ‘Okay. Find out who killed your hitman. And get the antidote to the bioweapon. Without that, even we are susceptible to its effects.’

  Ashraf had expected a strict rebuke and was relieved by what he heard.

  ‘Yes, sir. We are working on this.’

  ‘Good,’ the Scorpion said flatly. ‘Or you would have failed at your assignment. And you know how much I hate that.’

  Ashraf did know. He’d heard stories he didn’t want to think about right now. The phone went dead. The cigarette had burnt out to a stub in his hand without him realizing.

  IRW office, Mumbai

  Randheer was not way out of line in entering the IRW’s Mumbai office. But he wasn’t exactly welcome either. The station chief, Rajendra Nath, was a little surprised to find that he had a visitor from New Delhi. Nath, who reported directly to Bipin Sharma, was touted as the next in line after Sharma’s promotion to Ashish Singh’s position.