The Phoenix

by Bilal Siddiqi

  There was something familiar about his eyes. The rest of his face looked like it had been worked upon, by time. His wiry hair was cropped close to his skull, and his smile revealed everything Aryaman needed to know about the man.

  ‘Remember me?’ the Scorpion asked, still grinning.

  ‘Ab-Abhay?’ Aryaman stared in disbelief, his gun still pointed at Ashraf.

  ‘It’s good to see you again, Aryaman Uncle.’

  Aryaman’s hands were trembling. To think that Abhay, Amarjyot’s son, was the Scorpion!

  ‘Your father . . .’

  ‘Is dead, thanks to you,’ Abhay said flatly. ‘You and your band of idiots. The Phoenix 5. Dad always had an affinity for these fancy codenames. Wonder what he thinks of the Scorpion.’

  ‘You killed my wife,’ Aryaman said. ‘You killed Randheer.’

  Abhay shook his head. ‘She was getting in our way. Funny that it had to be her of all people. But well, you took someone I loved, and I did the same. So we are even.’

  ‘I loved your father like I would my own,’ Aryaman said through gritted teeth. ‘The mission failed because of all of us. Not him or me alone.’

  Ashraf listened to them in rapt attention, joining the dots wherever he could.

  ‘You didn’t have to do this, Abhay.’

  ‘Do you even know what happened to my mother after my father’s death? Her immune system broke down. She stopped eating and shrivelled to the bone. Cancer consumed her. We did not have enough money to treat her either. And there was nobody to go to. The pension was dismal. She withered away before my eyes. A patriot’s wife had no money to fight a disease. That is how the country treated us after all my father had given to it.’

  Aryaman was silent.

  ‘Which is why I did what I did, Aryaman. I put all these high-level operatives and mercenaries together to drive an ideology that doesn’t require one to only think of their country. But to put themselves before everything else. Their needs—money or otherwise—will be fulfilled as we change the map of South Asia one step at a time. And then, we can go to a higher level with a bigger network of spies—including those who are still serving and those who have gone rogue.’

  ‘If your father were to see you like this, it would have killed him,’ Aryaman said. ‘You have worked against his principles, against the kind of person he was.’

  ‘That’s the point,’ Abhay said, exasperated. ‘You have given everything to the country. You, my father, Randheer, the others. And what did you get in return? Jail? Death? Was any of it worth it?’

  Abhay indicated Ashraf to lower his gun. Ashraf obeyed and stepped backwards. There was an open laptop on the table.

  ‘Join us, Aryaman.’

  Aryaman lowered his weapon too. He looked at his feet. His mind had gone numb.

  ‘Join me,’ Abhay said. ‘We can take over the world if we join forces. Enough of doing the right thing for the country. Do the right thing for yourself. Our first attack in India was a success. You are a lone wolf to them. Their intelligence services abandoned you long ago.’

  After a few moments of silence, Aryaman looked Abhay right in the eye. ‘Your attack in India was a failure,’ he said.

  Ashraf jumped into the conversation. ‘That’s ridiculous. You did it in front of all of us.’

  Aryaman shook his head. ‘There are some people money can’t buy. Their love for the country exceeds everything else. The gas that we let out was a decoy.’

  Abhay threw Ashraf a scathing look. ‘But . . . The news? The antidote camps? The quarantine?’

  ‘It was all part of the plan.’ Aryaman smiled. ‘We led you to believe that it worked. I was the only Indian infected by it. And, I’ve survived.’

  Ashraf’s face went white. Abhay’s nostrils had begun to flare, and his eyes grew fierce. He pulled out his pistol and, with a clean shot, killed Ashraf. The blood splattered over the walls and furniture. Aryaman watched the body drop to the ground; he watched the sea of blood spilling out.

  ‘Abhay,’ Aryaman said. ‘It’s over. Turn yourself in and start afresh.’ Pointing his gun at Abhay, Aryaman stepped towards him.

  ‘You mean like you did?’ Abhay laughed nervously. ‘No thanks.’ He had his gun trained at Aryaman.

  ‘I don’t want to be the one taking your life,’ Aryaman said. ‘For whatever it’s worth, you are Amarjyot’s son.’

  ‘I’m going to shoot you and get the fuck out of here.’

  ‘That’s not possible,’ Aryaman said. ‘Our agents have secured the building by now. There’s no escape. Turn yourself in.’

  ‘The network that I have begun,’ Abhay said with some confidence, ‘is way bigger than you can imagine. The attack in Mumbai may have failed, but what I have planned goes beyond that. Arresting me won’t mean I will stop what has been set in motion. You will spend the rest of your life trying to figure out a way to stop what I have started.’

  ‘If you stop that,’ Aryaman said, ‘you have a shot at a normal life.’

  ‘Normal life?’ Abhay smiled despondently. ‘It’s too late for that, isn’t it?’

  His finger was firm on the trigger. Aryaman was expecting the bullet, and he dived for cover.

  But Abhay had put the gun to his own throat.

  ‘I’ll die like my father. Except on my own terms.’

  ‘No!’ Aryaman leapt forward to stop him.

  But Abhay had pulled the trigger, and that was that.

  Dehradun, a month later . . .

  Aryaman was beginning to like his new lifestyle. The greenery around him; the jovial kids strumming guitars; his son coming out to play after finishing homework; Avantika reading books in the library; his mother and him sitting silently, doing nothing; Chor settling in their laps. He wanted the rest of his life to be this way. And it seemed like it was going to, until Bipin Sharma decided to drop in uninvited one day, ruining the dinner plans Aarti had made for that evening.

  Sharma lit a cigarette and when he offered one to Aryaman, he took it almost instantly.

  ‘I thought you didn’t smoke?’ Sharma said with a wry smile.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Aryaman asked bluntly.

  Sharma handed Aryaman an iPad. Aryaman swiped through some documents on it, smoking away all the while, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He then slid the iPad back to Sharma.

  ‘So?’ Aryaman asked.

  ‘At least five attacks in motion, Aryaman. We believe there is more to this than meets the eye. Abhay might have been led into this by higher forces that made him the Scorpion. And the people doing this don’t know that the Scorpion is dead. If we impersonate the Scorpion smartly enough, we can figure the details out and bring them down.’

  ‘We?’ Aryaman scoffed. ‘There is no “we”.’

  ‘It’s fairly simple,’ Sharma said. ‘You step into the Scorpion’s shoes and unearth the various attacks that he has planned. You can do it from the confines of your home and you will have our entire machinery at your disposal.’

  Chor came running towards Aryaman and leapt into his lap.

  ‘Chor,’ Aryaman said, rubbing the dog’s belly. ‘Uncle here wants me to leave you again. No? I shouldn’t? Okay. I won’t.’

  Aryaman turned to Sharma. ‘You hear that, uncle?’

  Sharma smiled and stood up. He left the iPad behind for Aryaman.

  ‘In case you change your mind,’ Sharma said. ‘Everything you need to begin the mission is in there. It would help us to have you on board.’

  Aryaman looked at the iPad as he stroked Chor’s head.

  ‘Hope to hear from you,’ Sharma said, preparing to leave.

  ‘I wouldn’t hold my breath,’ Aryaman said with a smile. He then turned to see Avantika and Aarti speaking to each other in the kitchen. ‘I have too much to lose if I do this. And God knows I’ve lost enough.’

  Sharma nodded and began to walk away. He then stopped and turned to Aryaman. ‘I’m sorry for everything,’ he said. ‘And thank you for all that you have done.�
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  Aryaman smiled as he watched Sharma leave. Then, he turned his attention to Chor. But his eyes kept returning to the iPad.

  Acknowledgements

  This book is a work of fiction interspersed with a few realities to create a believable plot. The characters, the situations and the storyline, however, are all figments of my imagination. I wrote this book to entertain, not educate, and I hope I have succeeded at that. I have always been an ardent fan of espionage novels and films. The Phoenix is my second attempt at a spy thriller, after The Bard of Blood.

  The bravery of Indian intelligence officials and defence personnel far surpasses that of characters penned down by novelists. So I’d like to thank all those involved in keeping our country safe.

  S. Hussain Zaidi Sir, thank you for always standing by me and helping me realize my dream of becoming a writer. Like a true mentor and father figure, you are willing to do for me more than I would be willing to do for myself. Love to you and the family—Velly Ma’am, Zain and Ammar—always.

  Thank you, Milee Ashwarya, for being extremely supportive and for offering insights and creative pointers that helped shape this book as well as my previous work. It’s a delight to have a publisher like you to lean back on when the writing gets hard!

  Thank you to Roshini Dadlani who has helped shape and tighten the narrative of this book. Vineet Gill has been extremely prompt and thorough in editing it. Sorry for my erratic delivery dates, and thanks for making this book happen. Thank you to Khyati Behl for all her marketing efforts. Thank you, Devangana, for this unique cover. You are truly one of the best in the business!

  A big thank you to Shah Rukh Sir for the warmth and encouragement that he showers upon me. He is and always will be an inspiration to me. (Goes without saying, I’m just one of the billions he has touched and inspired.)

  After The Bard of Blood and The Kiss of Life, I have found a true friend and brother in Emraan Hashmi. He is someone I can call with the smallest of worries and who, after he has had a good laugh, comes up with solutions to tackle them. Thank you for the love, Emi, Parveen and Ayaan!

  My friends—Veer, Nabeel, Siddhesh—have stuck by me through thick and thin. The friends you make in school are all that you need to get by.

  And finally, my family: my grandmother, Hamida; my parents, Farhat and Mansoor; and my sister, Zayna. It may seem like I take you all for granted, but I don’t. I love you all more than I can put down here. More of that in my autobiography whenever there’s one.

  Now to the good (hopefully) spy stuff . . .

  THE BEGINNING

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  Ebury Press is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

  This collection published 2020

  Copyright © Bilal Siddiqi 2020

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Jacket images © Devangana Dash

  This digital edition published in 2020.

  e-ISBN: 978-9-353-05953-8

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.