THE MUSTACHE WAS prominent, and combined with his height and build it gave him an imposing air. He used a discreet entrance next to a private hospital. There was no sign to indicate that what lay beyond the door was a maze of barriers, soldiers, and sniffer dogs. A single plainclothes officer with a pistol tucked away under his jacket directed visitors into the complex that sported the look of a well-funded university—manicured lawns, sparkling fountains, and well-tended buildings.
The imposing man occupying the chair in the central office on the top floor was the chief of the Inter-Services Intelligence—or ISI. The Director General of Pakistan’s premier intelligence service was a veteran, having served as a lieutenant general in the Pakistan Army. It was a powerful job, being the head of an organization that employed over ten thousand officers and staff members, not including informants and assets.
The Chief of Army Staff was his mentor, but occupying the post of Director General was always a balancing act. If one was too successful, one became a target of the political establishment. On the other hand, if one was incapable of delivering results then there were enough people baying for one’s blood in the army.
Headquartered in Islamabad, the ISI had been responsible for supporting the Afghan Mujahideen against the Soviet Union in the erstwhile communist Afghanistan and later providing support to the Taliban against the Indo-Iranian-backed Northern Alliance in the civil war in Afghanistan. Most importantly, the ISI was involved in covert operations in Kashmir and other parts of India, having nurtured and supported several outfits on the ground there that gave the ISI much-needed deniability of its own role.
Inside the Director General’s office was a massive desk capable of doubling up as an impromptu conference table. The Director General was holding a meeting with the head of the CAD—the Covert Action Division of the ISI—a youthful-looking man in his early forties.
“Do we have someone inside as yet or not?” asked the Director General, his voice tinged with a Punjabi accent.
“It has taken us several months,” replied the CAD head smoothly, “but, yes, I am happy to report that we finally do have access to Private.”
A smile hovered on the Director General’s face. “It will give me the greatest pleasure to see that outfit destroyed. Three key operations in India have been botched by the interference of that lot,” he said. “The train blasts, the hotel attack and the Air India hijack … In all instances we’ve had operatives captured or killed.”
“In that case, should I proceed with the next part of my plan?” asked the CAD head.
“Yes. If you have managed to penetrate the organization, then start making arrangements for the next phase. Use the Indian Mujahideen network to handle logistics,” responded the Director General, drawing in a deep breath of nicotine and tar. “By the way, who is this man who has managed to get inside the fortress?”
“He is a Muslim from the medical fraternity. He has strong anti-American leanings and is thus the perfect candidate for the job,” replied the CAD man.
“Good,” said the Director General. “Keep me posted regarding your progress.”
Chapter 33
THE HAJI ALI Mosque was a unique structure in Mumbai’s architectural landscape. Built on an islet off the coast of Worli in the southern part of Mumbai, it was only accessible via a narrow causeway that ran for a distance of five hundred meters through the sea. During high tide the mosque was cut off from the mainland when the causeway was entirely submerged. Sensibly, Mubeen had made sure that he reached the mosque well within low-tide hours.
As he neared the whitewashed structure, he could see the eighty-five-foot-high minaret—a familiar feature on Mumbai’s sunset skyline. Upon arriving at the islet, he used the sculpted entrance to reach the marble courtyard containing the central shrine. He paused for a moment before the tomb, covered by a red-, green-, and gold-embroidered sheet and supported by a silver frame. He mouthed a silent prayer before making his way to the men’s prayer hall. Here he stood in a corner, silently reading the ninety-nine names of Allah that made up the Arabic patterns on the marble pillars.
The prayer hall of Haji Ali gave Mubeen a feeling of comfort. It allowed him to silently grieve for his son and remember happier times with his wife. It allowed him to draw sustenance from the prayers that surrounded him. He was particularly grateful for the presence of Sufi singers who filled the air with sweet melodies in honor of Allah.
“What makes man so cruel?” he asked himself. After pondering the question for a while, he realized there was no single answer that could adequately address the question. At that moment, he kneeled down on his prayer mat, faced west toward Mecca, and raised his hands to his ears, chanting, “Allahu Akbar,” and thus drowning out the pain of what he had undergone in America.
Chapter 34
THE POSH SCHOOL for girls was very quiet at this hour. Even though it was a day school and none of the students remained on the premises after hours, the principal never left. The vast grounds had ceded space to accommodate a corner cottage for the principal. Separated from the volleyball court by a thick hedge and mango orchard, the cottage was a substantial perk afforded to the person lucky enough to occupy the post. Established by a Scottish missionary many years before Indian Independence, the school was one of the most prestigious girls’ academies in Mumbai.
There was never any reason for the principal to worry about security because the entire five-acre plot in the western suburbs of Mumbai was cordoned off by a high wall and barbed-wire fences. There was only one gate to the entire complex and a team of well-trained security guards patrolled it around the clock.
Within the walls and barbed-wire fences were buildings housing the classrooms, cafeteria, library, gymnasium, auditorium, laboratories, and swimming pools. A football field, cricket pitch, volleyball court, and tennis court occupied the remaining land.
Inside the principal’s cottage there were two floors. The lower one contained the living room, dining room, and kitchen, the upper floor two en suite bedrooms. Adjacent to the principal’s cottage were staff quarters containing a bedroom and bathroom for any domestic help that the principal chose to employ.
Inside the larger bedroom facing the front garden, the principal, Mrs. Elina Xavier—a widow in her mid fifties—was fast asleep. Given that it was the third day of the school’s annual examination week, Mrs. Xavier had taken time off to visit Mahim Church. Getting inside on a Wednesday could be a test of perseverance because of the long queue of devotees waiting for admission. Mrs. Xavier had been exhausted by the visit—particularly given the fact that she was undergoing the last few chemotherapy sessions that had been prescribed by her oncologist.
The full-time maid who cooked Mrs. Xavier’s meals and did the household chores was also asleep in the adjacent staff quarters. A few hours after Mrs. Xavier had slipped into dreamland, there came a very soft creaking noise in the cottage as one of the doors of the closet in the smaller bedroom opened slowly. Someone stepped out of this and tiptoed across the room to the door. The trespasser had been inside the closet for over five hours, having entered the house earlier in the day as part of the school’s outsourced housekeeping team.
Crossing the narrow passage that separated the two bedrooms, the intruder opened the door to the master bedroom and glanced over to where the substantial body of Mrs. Xavier lay asleep, heaving and snoring. Wearing a maintenance boiler suit, shower cap, and rubber gloves, the intruder approached the bed, holding a yellow scarf in one hand, and in the other a plastic bag containing a carton of hard-boiled eggs.
Placing the bag on a side table by the bed, the prowler slipped the scarf around the principal’s neck and pulled on both ends firmly. Mrs. Xavier woke from her dreams only to find that she was in the midst of a nightmare. She gasped for air but her windpipe was obstructed. Her terrified eyes pleaded for mercy but there was none forthcoming. She reached out with both hands to try to free her neck from the excruciating grip of the garrote but all strength seemed to have
abandoned her. The strangler continued to pull until Mrs. Xavier’s body went limp.
Staring at her bulging eyes, the killer felt an inner rage bubble up. Spitting on her face, the perpetrator called her a cunt and a whore. Quickly realizing the mistake, the murderer went back to the closet, retrieved a tissue, sprayed it with bleach, and used it to carefully remove any traces of saliva from her face.
The intruder then headed over to the thermostat unit near the bedroom door and adjusted the temperature to the highest possible setting. The carton was removed from the bag and each egg carefully placed on the bed. Soon Mrs. Xavier’s body was surrounded by a dozen eggs, arranged in an oval around her.
Chapter 35
SANTOSH WAS LIVID. His face was flushed red and he was breathing heavily as he strode into Rupesh’s office. He threw down a newspaper on the desk and asked, “How do I solve this case if you do not heed my advice?”
“No idea what you are talking about,” said Rupesh, picking up the paper casually to read the front page.
YELLOW GARROTE KILLINGS, read the headline of the Afternoon Mirror. The article went on to reveal that three murders in the city—including one involving the newspaper’s reporter, Bhavna Choksi—had been perpetrated by a strangler who left a signature yellow scarf at the crime scene. The story went on to say that the police were covering up the news in order to avoid having to answer questions about their inefficient and half-hearted investigations. The report had been picked up by Indian newswires and every hack in town was now chasing the story.
“I took your advice,” said Rupesh, slowly and deliberately chewing on a lump of tobacco in his mouth. “I did not speak with any reporter.”
“I find that difficult to believe,” countered Santosh. “You pick up a phone and tell me about a reporter with suspicions. I request you to avoid answering her questions. In less than a day it’s front-page material.”
Rupesh folded the newspaper calmly and stood up. “Think about it, Santosh,” he said. “If I had given this reporter an exclusive, why the fuck would she trash the cops? This story makes it bloody difficult for me to handle the flak that will come my way from the Police Commissioner and the Home Minister. Tell me, why would I want to put myself in such a mess?”
Santosh was silent as he digested Rupesh’s reasonable argument. “I would suggest that you should look within your own team and see if someone has been indiscreet,” suggested Rupesh craftily as Santosh attempted a graceful exit.
As soon as he was out of the room, Rupesh picked up his cell phone and dialed a number. “Namaskar bhau,” he said by way of greeting when Munna answered his gold-plated phone.
“Did you leak the story?” asked Rupesh, almost whispering.
Munna laughed. “When one has been sitting in the pub all day, one often takes a leak. I have no need for the other variety,” he said mischievously.
Chapter 36
NOT MUCH HAD changed in the newsroom of the Afternoon Mirror. It was mostly as it had been twenty-five years ago when established by a wealthy Parsi industrialist. But the newsroom had been a hive of activity the previous day.
There were sixteen desks, clustered in groups of four. Each desk was designated for specific verticals—politics, entertainment, city news, business, sports and the like. Toward one corner of the newsroom was the glass-walled office occupied by the paper’s chain-smoking editor.
She had picked up the receiver of her desk phone without a second thought. In her profession, it was common to spend the better part of the day on calls.
“Am I speaking to Jamini—editor of the Afternoon Mirror?” a male voice had asked. It had a mysterious quality to it. Commanding yet slightly nervous; strong yet wavering.
“Yes, you are,” the editor had replied, stubbing out her half-smoked cigarette into the overflowing ashtray on her desk. “Who is this?”
“Did you like the gift that I sent you?” the voice had said, not bothering to offer any introduction.
Jamini had suddenly been on full alert. A parcel containing a yellow scarf had been received by her in the morning and she’d immediately realized that the caller was referring to this.
“What is the scarf for?” Jamini had asked, trying to keep the conversation going as she signaled through the glass walls for her senior reporter to come inside. Find out if you can trace this call, she’d scribbled on a piece of paper that she hurriedly handed to him.
“Do not bother tracing this call,” the voice had said. “It is a prepaid SIM registered to a false identity. It will tell you nothing about me.”
Jamini had realized that she was dealing with a highly intelligent individual. “I’m not interested in tracing the call,” she’d lied. “I simply want to know if there is a story in this for me.”
“That pesky reporter—Bhavna Choksi—was killed with a yellow scarf, just like the one you received earlier today. Is that story enough for you?”
“That still doesn’t explain why you are calling me,” the editor had said, warming to the game. “Bhavna was no friend of mine … only an employee. Why should the manner of her death be a story?”
“What if I told you that the singer—Priyanka Talati—was also killed in the same manner? Is that a story?” the confident voice had asked.
“It could be,” the editor had said, attempting to hide her excitement. Her colleague from the newsroom had returned with a slip of paper reading: Have spoken with crime branch. They’re trying to pinpoint the location. Stay on the line.
“What more do you want?” the voice had asked.
Jamini had been about to reply when the line had gone dead. “Hello?” she’d asked, a tad desperately, but had realized that the caller had hung up.
Just as she’d thought that she had blown it, her phone had rung once again. “It’s me calling from a different number,” the voice had said. “I don’t trust your type.”
“Did you kill Bhavna Choksi and Priyanka Talati?” Jamini had asked, scribbling notes on the ruled pad in front of her.
“Absolutely. All three murders have happened in Mumbai, all executed by the same person, in the same manner. The police are covering it up to prevent panic.”
“Who is the third? You mentioned Bhavna Choksi and Priyanka Talati,” Jamini had said rapidly.
“A foreign doctor. Her name was Kanya Jaiyen. She was staying at the Marine Bay Plaza Hotel when she was killed.”
“Why were the women murdered?” Jamini had asked.
“I have done my duty by calling you and telling you that all three murders are connected,” the voice had said. “Do some part of the fucking investigation yourself!”
The second call had lasted less than a minute.
Chapter 37
THE MAN WAS extremely thin, almost gaunt. His eyes seemed to pop out of his face due to the fact that there wasn’t an ounce of extra flesh anywhere on his body. His delicate looks belied his intent, though. He was the chief of the Indian Mujahideen—an Islamist militant group dedicated to carrying out attacks against the Indian state—and one of the most feared individuals among those in the know about terrorism.
Investigations by security agencies had revealed that the Indian Mujahideen was actually a front for the Pakistan-based Lashkar-e-Taiba. The avowed purpose of the Lashkar was to create an Islamic caliphate across South Asia and, to that end, it had been sponsoring acts of terror in Kashmir as well as other parts of India, having been provided with moral, strategic, and financial support by Pakistan’s premier intelligence agency, the ISI.
The gaunt man exited the taxi and waited at the corner of Jai Prakash Road and Yari Road in the Versova district of Mumbai. Less than a minute later a black Mercedes-Benz pulled up beside him. Due to the dark sunblinds the occupant within was not visible to the outside world.
The front door opened and a bodyguard jumped out. He quickly patted down the gaunt man and opened the rear door for him. The Indian Mujahideen man got inside. Already ensconced in the rear was the owner of the vehicle.
“I am only meeting you because I like to consider all business proposals,” said the vehicle’s owner. “So speak.”
“Mumbai is your fiefdom,” replied the thin man. “Anything and everything is possible once you decide to make it happen.”
“What do you want?” asked Munna impatiently.
“I require thirty kilograms of RDX,” explained the Mujahideen man. “I am willing to pay a premium for the right quality, delivered to the right place at the right time.”
“And what makes you think that I can supply that?” asked Munna, playing innocent in his trademark style.
The thin man smiled. “Your reputation is glorious. Your name is mentioned in reverence not only in India but also in Pakistan. I am told that the only reliable source in India is you.”
Munna lit a cigarette with his solid gold lighter. He took a deep puff, exhaled, and thought about the matter for a minute. Without any warning, he stubbed out the cigarette on the Mujahideen man’s hand.
The man screamed in agony as the cigarette seared his skin. Munna laughed. “You can barely handle the heat of a cigarette. What makes you so cocky about handling thirty kilos of deadly explosives?”
The thin man cradled his burned hand in the other and, ignoring the pain, replied: “In your interest and mine, it is better that this transaction should remain a business one only. You do not need to know more than I have told you. Name your price.”
Within a moment, Munna’s vise-like grip was at the other man’s throat. Munna continued to clutch it with one hand, allowing his prey an occasional gasp for breath. Just as the thin man thought that he would pass out, Munna let go abruptly.
“I may have my faults, but I do not do business with terrorists. Got that?” he said gruffly. “Why on earth would you think I would support a terrorist attack—on Indian soil?”
Private India: (Private 8) Page 9
