‘Okay, but what?’ Mankame asked.
They all looked at each other. Finally, Mirza sighed. Vikrant knew that sigh.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘What?’
‘You’re not going to like this, boys,’ Mirza said, standing up.
He picked up a briefcase lying on a couch and pulled out a sheaf of papers.
‘I had someone I know pull out Naidu’s call records. There was nothing significant there. Mostly calls with Vaishali and Daniel.’
‘But?’ Vikrant asked.
‘But,’ Mirza said, looking like he had been given a very bitter pill to swallow, ‘on a hunch, I pulled out Kumar’s call records too.’
No one in the room looked surprised that Mirza had managed to access the call records of a special director with the BSF overnight. Mirza had accessed call records of people far senior than Somesh Kumar at far shorter notice in his career. Mirza laid out the papers on the table around which they were sitting.
‘These are the records for the last one month, up to the day that his convoy was attacked in Bandra and he was killed. He received three calls from a Mumbai-based number during this period. The last call was received four hours before Naidu’s car was run over. The next day, Kumar announced his decision to come to Mumbai to visit Naidu at the hospital.’
‘Whose number was it?’ Daniel asked.
‘Registered to a Charansingh Walia. Last known location in Bandra West.’
They all stared.
‘Bandra West?’ Mankame asked.
‘Reasonably in the vicinity of Naidu’s house, according to cellular location mapping.’
‘Wait,’ Vikrant said. He was about to say something else, but stopped. Mirza looked at him and nodded.
‘Let it sink in, boy,’ he said.
Vikrant stood up.
‘Wait,’ he said again. ‘Fuck … no … okay, wait.’
‘You want to slow down before you have a fit, Toothpick?’ Daniel said quizzically, using the nickname he’d given Vikrant at their first meeting over a decade ago.
Vikrant went over to the cabinet where all their paperwork was stored, found what he was looking for and came hurrying back.
‘Remember we’d talked about this?’ he said to Mirza and Mankame. Daniel had not been at that meeting. He had not been part of the picture back then.
‘Those four terrorists, the four Sheikhs. They joined the construction firm as labourers the same day that Kumar sir announced he was coming to Mumbai. And when I say announced, I mean internally. Only the BSF top brass knew, and passed it on to us because they wanted us running security covertly. We’d discussed how these five had obviously joined the contractor with a purpose and made sure they got the repair job at Grishma society, which would be on Kumar sir’s way to the Juhu airbase,’ Vikrant said, sifting through the documents in his hands.
‘Yes, I remember,’ Mankame said, going over to Vikrant. ‘We wondered how they knew about Kumar’s plans to come to Mumbai when no one in the civilian world did.’
There was another silence as each of the four men pondered the implications of what they were discussing.
‘Now,’ Mirza said. ‘Let’s put it like this. What if whoever is behind Naidu’s killing also knew about Kumar’s visit the next day?’
Vikrant groaned and sat down.
‘I was hoping you wouldn’t say that,’ he said.
‘What’re you two saying, sir?’ Mankame asked.
‘Let’s look at the chronology, with a slight assumption. Whoever hired Patil to kill Naidu planned to kill Patil immediately. Maybe the next day at most. The idea was to kill him in the safe house in Gujarat. Dispose of his body. Take the truck apart in some garage. Finish the chapter,’ Mirza said.
‘But,’ Vikrant continued, ‘that same night, Kumar sir learned about Naidu sir’s accident, thanks to online news media. It was on a few news websites within the hour and on prime-time news by the next morning. So it’s safe to assume that Kumar sir learned about it the same night. Either he saw it himself or learned about it through someone or the other. So he told his orderly to prepare for a visit to Mumbai at the soonest. They scheduled a visit for five days later because that was the soonest he could make it. We need to find out why, but that’s for later.’
‘So whoever had Naidu run over learned of Kumar’s visit and panicked and put Patil’s murder on the back-burner. Because such a senior officer with the BSF rushing down to meet his friend could not be a coincidence. Sure, a lot of Naidu’s friends were concerned and Vaishali answered hundreds of calls the next day. But only Kumar came down to visit him personally,’ Mirza said.
Mankame just stood back and watched. He had seen the mentor and protégé finish each other’s thoughts before and was awestruck every single time.
‘So whoever sanctioned the hit also called up the four Sheikhs,’ Vikrant continued. ‘Told them to get going and be ready. We were informed the morning after the supposed accident about Kumar’s intention to visit, and that same day the Sheikhs went to the contractor and got themselves the repairing job at the society. By the time Kumar came down, they’d smuggled in their weapons and explosives and were in position.’
Daniel, who had been listening silently all this time, finally spoke.
‘I want in,’ he said.
The other three men turned to him.
‘I want to be part of this team,’ he said. ‘Because if what you’re saying is true – and I know that this theory is filled with a lot of assumptions at this point – but if it is true, then Naidu uncle’s death is no longer some random hit-and-run and Kumar’s assassination is no longer just an act of terror. They are connected. And if they are, all of this somehow began with Naidu uncle calling Kumar, which got him killed. And I owe Vaishali that much.’
No one said anything. In any case, the call was Mirza’s to take, and everyone knew how he felt about mixing emotions with work.
‘Plus,’ Daniel went on. ‘I’ve been trying all of Shukla’s known contact numbers since morning and I can’t reach him. I need your help to find him.’
Mirza and Vikrant looked at each other.
‘Fuck,’ was all Vikrant said.
20
The cell-phone repair shop at the end of the corridor on the first floor was one among several packed in the commercial complex in Thane. People bustled about the entire length of the floor, looking for the best deals on accessories and haggling with the shopkeepers. An old song played on a radio somewhere. From another shop, someone yelled out, asking for tea.
The man sat patiently on a chair in the inner room of the shop, absently tapping his finger on the glass table. He was clean-shaven and dressed in a crisp green shirt with black trousers. His shoes were of good quality leather and a steel watch adorned his left wrist.
Across the table, the owner was looking at the many cell phones in front of him. It took five minutes, then one of the phones started buzzing. The owner answered it, listened for a second and then handed it to the customer across the table. The customer took the phone and waited. The shop owner nodded and left the room, closing the thick glass door behind him.
‘Pawshe is missing,’ the clean-shaven man said into the phone. He was never one to waste time on greetings. Besides, time was a luxury right now.
‘Who?’ said the voice at the other end.
‘The man we bought the gelatin sticks from. He’s not at his house in Dahisar and he’s not at his wife’s place in Waliv. I don’t know where he is.’
There was a pause before the man at the other end
spoke again.
‘I thought you were going to take care of this much earlier.’
‘And I would have,’ the man snapped. ‘But I haven’t exactly been idle here. You of all people should know.’
‘Fine,’ the other voice said soothingly. ‘Fine. What do we do next?’
‘I’ll keep look
ing. But I’m doing this alone now, so it won’t be easy.’
‘This is not good, Ayyub.’
‘I know that!’ the young man snapped, scratching his recently shaven cheek. First Sopan Patil and then Pawshe. It wouldn’t be long before either or both fell into the hands of the authorities, if they hadn’t already. From what Ayyub had heard, Mirza was pretty crafty. And Vikrant Singh was one driven son-of-a-bitch.
The technology that the two men were using had burst upon the black market around five years earlier. Some genius in China had invented a SIM box – a device capable of holding up to eight SIM cards at a time, which is connected to a computer. A call made to one of the SIM cards gets routed through the computer and converted into an Internet call, operating on the Internet service rather than the telecom service provider’s network. As a result, the caller effectively makes an Internet call from his cell phone, bypassing the telecommunications network completely, making his number untraceable. This is also safer than other VoIP networks.
Over the years, bigger and better SIM boxes capable of holding up to sixty-four SIM cards at a time were developed. The SIM box racket was primarily invented to enable Indians working in the Middle East to speak to their families in India without incurring international call charges. It caught the eye of terrorist elements and Ayyub, ever at the forefront of using technology, quickly acquainted himself with it.
The cell-phone repair shop was actually a front for one such racket. Even the shop owner thought that Ayyub was talking to his brother working in Qatar. As long as Ayyub paid the money he asked for – which the boy always did – the shop owner was happy to give him all the privacy he needed.
‘Where’s Al Barq?’ the voice from Dubai asked.
‘We’re in touch. When do we move to the next phase of the plan?’
‘All in good time. We need to make sure that the stage is set first. How soon can you move ahead?’
‘Right now, if you tell me to.’
‘No, no. Patience. Patience is very important.’
‘You know what,’ Ayyub said, a hard edge creeping into his voice. ‘I’m getting bloody impatient. This is the fifth time I’ve had to change my appearance and I’m down to the last of my fake identities. You promised me…’
‘I know what I promised, boy…’
‘Do not call me boy, bhenchod,’ Ayyub snarled, taking care to keep his voice down. ‘Remember who you are. You might have your uses, but I am Al Muqadam. This was my idea and it has been me who has been getting his hands bloody while you think you can order me about. It is only because you are still of use to me that I’m putting up with you. But if you try my patience too much, I’ll simply go ahead and do things on my own.’
There was silence.
‘You’re right,’ the man at the other end said. ‘I’m sorry. Just give me a little more time. The next time we speak may well be the last.’
‘It better be,’ Ayyub said.
‘You will have your revenge, Al Muqadam.’
‘Inshallah.’
‘Inshallah.’
Ayyub disconnected, laid a bundle of currency notes on the table and walked out, nodding to the shop owner as he left.
He had discarded his motorcycle for a sedan, which he had parked outside the building. Quickly, he got inside and started the ignition.
Ayyub drove through the narrow lanes for a full ten minutes before he was sure that he was not being tailed. Then he pulled onto the main road and drove straight to the highway, making his way to a popular bar near the Thane–Mulund border that stayed open till the early hours of the morning. Sohail Ansari was a pious Muslim who went to the mosque regularly and did not touch alcohol. But Riyaz Merchant, as his current passport identified him, was a different story.
Ayyub remembered the first time he had had a drink. It had tasted horrible going down and felt even worse when it hit his brain. For the first time, he had not been in full control of himself and he had hated it. But he knew that a fiercely religious Muslim following all the tenets of Islam was the template of a terror suspect for law-enforcement agencies, and to beat them, he would have to change himself. Over the years, he had built up his capacity for alcohol and could now hold his own at a table full of hard drinkers without giving out a single detail about himself that he did not want to.
‘It helps if you believe the lie yourself first,’ his trainers had told him. ‘Forget your real identity. Embrace your false one so completely that even when you are not in full possession of your senses, your slurring speech should only say the things that your fake persona would.’
It had, as Ayyub realized in the last two days, been sound advice. Tonight was the third night he was coming here. The previous night, one of the regulars had nodded at him and waved goodbye. Tonight, he was expecting him to strike up a conversation. While he was lying low as Riyaz Merchant, he would build up a persona of a hard-drinking but responsible young man with plenty of money, who drove to the bar but always hired a party driver to take him home. Money was not a problem. His friend on the other end of the phone had ensured that, and it was the main reason why Ayyub had been so tolerant during the call.
He ordered a quarter of premium whisky with soda but no snacks to go with it. That was part of his persona. Snacks were for wimps, according to the hardcore drinker’s school of thought.
It was almost time for the regular customer who had nodded at him to walk in.
Taking advantage of the few minutes he had, he pulled out his cell phone, which he had bought two days ago, and opened an obscure chatting app.
‘All good?’ he asked in a text message.
‘In position,’ Al Barq replied.
‘Keep me posted.’
‘Okay.’
The regular customer, the one with the balding head and paunch, ambled in at that instant. He saw Ayyub and waved. Ayyub quickly put his phone to his ear and simultaneously held his hand out. The man came over to shake his hand.
‘Yes yes … no, don’t worry … yes of course,’ Ayyub said to his pretend caller while shaking the other man’s hand.
‘Sab theek?’ the man asked. Ayyub made a face.
‘Girlfriend,’ he said, gesturing with his phone. ‘Don’t drink too much, why do you need to drink every day, do yoga for stress, blah blah blah.’
The man threw his head back and laughed, and patted Ayyub on the shoulder before moving to another vacant table down the room.
21
Unlike the last time, Mankame being seen in Mumbra was no longer a concern.
The telecast of Rehmat getting shot resulted in a massive shockwave that reverberated through the country.
Residents of the Kausa locality, where Rehmat used to stay, took out a procession in her memory. The lead vehicle had a large picture of her wearing a simple green salwar-kameez, her dupatta draped over her head and shoulders, smiling brightly. A long line of men, women and children followed. Teenagers of all ages were predominantly visible, most of them crying. These were the souls Rehmat had worked hard to save while other girls of her age were having fun.
A ghaibana namaaz – a prayer held for the deceased in the absence of their dead body – was organized at the biggest mosque in Mumbra. The entire area around it was cordoned off by the police and after the namaaz, the people sat on the road outside the mosque, while one after another, Rehmat’s admirers stepped up to a mic set up in the middle. Her father spoke first, telling the crowd with lowered eyes how he had never valued his daughter while she was alive, how he had been pushing her to get married and stop wasting time mingling with drug addicts. He ended by begging for her forgiveness and was led away shaking, tears streaming down his face. Her friends from college came next, followed by the doctors who had worked with her at the rehabilitation centre.
The last to speak were the boys from the centre. One by one, they narrated how they had fallen prey to street smack and spiralled rapidly
into the dark hole till Rehmat’s saintly touch had reached out and saved them. They vowed that they would honour her memory by not only never touching drugs again, but also running every drug peddler out of their beloved town.
The entire crowd roared in response when the last boy to speak, all of thirteen years old, raised his fist defiantly in the air and thundered, ‘No more drugs in Mumbra! For Rehmat didi!’
Mankame, dressed in plainclothes, stood leaning against his police SUV, watching from behind his sunglasses with burning eyes. He still had his handkerchief tied around his head from when he had entered the mosque to pay his respects. No one had stopped him.
Rehmat’s killing was a clear act of terror and as no one knew exactly where she had been shot dead, there was no argument of jurisdiction. The ATS had claimed the case as its own, and no one objected. Let them burn their hands playing with fire was the general sentiment among the other agencies. Mankame was officially appointed the investigating officer on the case.
As the boy finished speaking, Mankame sighed, pushed his hefty frame off the vehicle and started walking. The crowd parted as he walked through it and went up to the mic. When he started speaking, his voice was even and calm.
‘The man who killed Rehmat…’
‘He is not a man, he is an animal!’ someone shouted, and was quickly shushed by some elders.
‘No,’ Mankame said, looking in the heckler’s direction. ‘He is a man. Like the rest of us. A man with no morals, no values and no God, but a man nevertheless.’
The crowd started going silent.
‘If we are going to fight this menace, we first need to stop looking at terrorists as some foreign species. They are human beings, just like you and me. What separates us from them are the choices we make. And that choice is something we face every single day. You more than me.’
Mankame’s voice was still calm.
‘Yes, I know. Your life is not easy. It has never been. I will not stand here and say the same old things all over again. We all know them. But as a policeman, as a soldier of this country, I will make two things clear. First, I can only promise to deliver justice, not vengeance. That is all that the uniform allows me.’
The Endgame Page 10
