The crowd had gone deathly silent.
‘Next, if any single one of you takes the violent path in her name, you will be spitting on her memory.’
It was as if the air too had stopped moving.
‘I am setting up my team right here. I’ll be working out of the Mumbra police station till we finish this. Anything, any single thing you think can help me … you know where to find me.’
Nobody spoke. Nobody moved.
‘Also,’ Mankame went on, ‘a journalist working for an international agency has come down to make a documentary on Rehmat. I think it would be a great way to honour her memory if you could offer him all the help possible. I can vouch for him.’
The journalist, a bald, clean-shaven man with a stocky build, stepped forward and walked up to the mic. An identity card around his neck said ‘Mitchell Sanders’. He just shook Mankame’s hand and acknowledged the crowd with a slight wave. A few from the crowd waved back. He was accepted.
Mankame and Sanders walked to the police SUV and got inside. A constable slid into the driver’s seat and the SUV started towards the Mumbra police station, even as the crowd continued to sit still, thinking of their beloved Rehmat.
‘That was good,’ Ben Solo said to Mankame.
‘As good as it could have been, I guess,’ Mankame said, looking out of the window.
They had already set up a helpline where people could call in with their tips, with a team of police personnel to receive calls round the clock. The senior inspector, Manoj Borade, himself would take stock of all the tips coming in.
Ben and Mankame did not speak further till they reached the police station. At the gate, Mankame got off and nodded to Solo. The Israeli spy-assassin had to keep his cover and was hence driven to a government guest house in Thane, where he was staying. He would start work on the ‘documentary’ the next day.
Borade had offered Mankame his cabin to work out of, but he declined and chose an inner room instead. The helpline was already up and running, with six phones connected to it. The television set on a table was tuned into the news.
‘Where are we with the CCTV footage?’ he asked Borade.
‘It’s here, sir,’ Borade replied, pointing at a digital video recorder player set up on another table.
Mankame pulled up a chair in front of it. Borade hit a switch.
In Thane, Solo stretched out on the bed in his room and made an Internet call.
‘Sorry,’ he told Samuel. ‘I was at the memorial service.’
‘What does the name Al Barq mean to you?’ Samuel Joseph asked from the other end. He was in Israel for a short trip.
‘Absolutely nothing,’ Solo replied.
‘You’re sure?’
Solo ignored the question.
‘What’s this about?’
‘We’re picking up sudden chatter. Al Muqadam now has help from Al Barq. Victory is inevitable. The infidels are going to wish they were never born. Blah blah blah.’
‘How reliable is this chatter?’
‘Semi. Only a few are talking about it on the dark net, but at least three of them are known to have links to ISIS. And all three are Indians. Nothing heavy, just propaganda warriors, but these people have been involved in chatter that’s turned out to be pretty concrete in the past.’
‘What are other agencies saying?’ Solo said, switching on the TV and scrolling through news channels.
‘We haven’t asked them yet.’
Solo understood. Samuel was concerned about telling too many people, because intelligence was a game where too many cooks could spoil the broth in a second. If even one other intelligence agency turned out to have this Al Barq on their wanted list, they would start digging further or demanding to be let in on the operation.
‘Wait and watch?’ Solo asked.
‘For now. But if you have any favours you can call in, we could use some help here.’
They went silent for a bit.
‘I’ll have to call you back,’ Solo said.
‘What happened?’
‘Just switch on any Indian news channel,’ Solo said and rang off.
The news channel that Solo had just tuned into was flashing a picture of Sohail Ansari, known only to a few as Ayyub Khan.
22
‘With all due respect, sir, who’s running this investigation?’ Mirza demanded.
‘Mirza,’ NSA Pradeep Singh said. ‘Calm down, man. Listen to me.’
‘No, you listen to me, sir,’ Mirza said through gritted teeth. ‘When you were the IB chief, when I was working with you, you once told me that there’s only one thing that can cause the best and greatest of operations to fall flat. And that is political interference.’
‘And I meant that!’ Singh said, his voice rising a little. ‘But I am not a spy anymore. I am a politician, whether I like it or not. And however much I may hate it, there are times when I have to play it like a politician. Even I have someone to fucking answer to!’
Vikrant looked on silently as Mirza bent over a table, both hands on it, talking into the phone that was on speaker. Only the two of them were present in the hotel suite in Bandra, speaking to Singh, who was in Delhi.
‘Suppose…’ Vikrant intervened from his spot on the couch near the table, and Mirza glared at him.
‘Suppose you tell us,’ Vikrant went on, unruffled, ‘what you had in mind, sir?’
Vikrant was the only one who could stand in the face of the deadliest of Mirza’s glares without flinching.
‘Just watch the news, Vikrant! The Opposition’s been slamming us every single day since Kumar was gunned down in Bandra in broad daylight. And even so, we managed to keep them at bay. But then that fucking Sohail Ansari shot the poor girl dead on camera! Hundreds of people saw it on their television sets! Women, children … fuck the Opposition, even public morale is dangerously low!’
‘And so you put out his picture on the news?’ Mirza snapped.
‘Well, why not? Every single Indian is our eyes and ears now. We have a better chance of getting information if he is seen anywhere! What is your problem with that?’
Mirza and Vikrant exchanged looks.
Mazhar, they both thought, but said nothing.
‘This is a terror investigation, sir,’ Mirza said instead. ‘Every little step matters. We had a couple of ideas which we will now have to rethink.’
‘Well, rethink them then!’ Singh said impatiently. ‘I don’t know if you got the memo, Mirza, but I don’t play by your rules. You play by mine!’
Mirza said nothing, but Vikrant could see him breathing heavily.
‘Look,’ Singh said. ‘When this began, I told you I want every single person who was involved dead. And I still stand by it. Fucking kill them and I’ll take care of the bodies for you. But in return, I expect you to also understand where I am coming from. Like I said, not just the Opposition, even the common public now believes that we are getting somewhere, that we have something more than just a masked figure who shot a girl dead on camera. We have a face, we know what name he used. It’s progress, man! It counts!’
‘This is the PM talking, isn’t it?’ Mirza asked quietly.
‘Even if it is, I don’t disagree with him, Mirza. So I suggest you stop fighting with me and focus on bringing the fight to the actual enemy,’ Singh replied coldly.
This was a stalemate. Mirza stayed still, leaning over the table. Vikrant kept sitting on the couch and looking at him, waiting to see what he would say next.
‘I want to bring someone into the team,’ Mirza finally said.
‘Who?’
‘A civilian asset. Well, he’s now a civilian. Major Daniel Fernando. Ex-Special Forces.’
‘Fernando? Why do I know that name?’ Singh asked.
‘Lakshadweep. Also, he’s engaged to Naidu’s daughter.’
‘Why do you want Naidu’s daughter’s fiancé o
n your team?’
‘Because he’s good. We’ve worked with him before and he played a big role in saving the day at Lakshadweep. And I need someone not within the system whom I can trust.’
‘You could literally get any number of civilian assets you want, Mirza. And don’t tell me Fernando’s the only one you trust. What’s your play here?’
Mirza stoically refused to open his mouth.
‘Fine.’ Singh sighed. ‘Don’t tell me. But I have to say this for the record: You and Vikrant I can deal with. Even DCP Mankame I can help. But if Fernando gets himself in a hairy situation, he’s on his own. I’m not building up some elaborate cover story to save his ass.’
‘Understood, sir,’ Mirza said.
There was a pause.
‘You should have told me, sir,’ Mirza said.
‘You’d have fought me, Mirza.’
‘I’m fighting you now.’
‘Yes, but now at least I have the Opposition and the PM off my back for a while. Good luck, Mirza.’
The line went dead.
Mirza straightened up and looked towards the TV. Ayyub’s face was still on the screen while the anchor flailed about, talking at the top of his voice, looking red in the face. Fortunately, the TV was on mute.
‘Right, lad,’ Mirza said. ‘What’s this about Al Barq?’
Vikrant was sitting back on the couch, looking at the open window, a cigarette twirling idly between his fingers.
‘Something on your mind?’
‘Mazhar called,’ Vikrant said. ‘He recognized Ayyub on the news and called me an hour ago, demanding answers. He sounded like he was about to strangle somebody.’
‘And?’
‘He’s on his way here from Pune. I’ll meet him and tell him everything,’ Vikrant said tonelessly.
‘I guess I can’t stop you,’ Mirza said finally, after a long pause.
‘No, sir, you can’t,’ Vikrant said, standing up. ‘We should have told him the very second we knew. Mazhar literally put his life on the line for us, and we treated him like we would treat any other asset in the field.’
‘He was any other asset in the field. I’ve warned you about getting attached to your assets.’
‘Is that why you’ve never had a family?’ Vikrant snarled furiously. ‘Does it make it easier, being so cold-hearted?’
‘Careful, lad…’
‘Oh, please, sir!’ Vikrant nearly uttered an expletive but held back at the last instant. His anger notwithstanding, he still respected his mentor and father figure too much to do that.
‘Mazhar was twenty years old when he went undercover for us,’ he went on. ‘Twenty! Boys his age were luring girls into their beds, promising them the moon, and he was moving around in extremist circles, trying to catch the attention of the Indian Mujahideen. He spent a year on the run and stayed among hardened terrorists who would have slit his throat at the first suspicion. And he did it all because his little brother ran away to join the cause of jihad. He did it because he really wanted to contribute to the fight against terror.’
Mirza said nothing.
‘All I was asking was that we treat him the way he deserves to be. But no. The mission is paramount, right, sir? Is that how I’m going to end up? Cold, calculating and alone? With no family because it’s easier that way? Thinking only about the next play in the game and looking at human beings like pawns on a chessboard? Not giving a shi—’ Vikrant checked himself again. ‘Not giving a single thought about anyone’s feelings? Is that my future too? Because you once told me that you see your younger self in me, and I am not sure anymore if that’s a compliment!’
Mirza still said nothing.
Vikrant grabbed a folder that had been lying on the couch next to him and flung it on the table.
‘Everything about Al Barq is in there,’ he said. ‘I’m going for a walk.’
Mirza stood still as Vikrant stormed out. He stood like that for a long minute before finally picking up the folder and settling down on the same couch that Vikrant had been seated on. As he sat, he slid his hand into his trouser pocket and brought out his cell phone to check for notifications.
There were three missed calls and a text message from DCP Akhil Jaiswal.
‘Need to meet urgently, sir. Kindly let me know. Repeat, urgent.’
23
Dhanraj Shetty was in heaven.
Figuratively, of course, but this was as good as it could get, in his opinion.
He looked around his plush flat in Lokhandwala, which he had bought five years ago and decorated over the years with the most expensive furniture that money could afford. His bedroom was soundproofed, which was why the loud music did not matter. Three semi-naked girls were dancing around, high on his best cocaine, totally in love with him at the moment. He himself was comfortably numb, and even as some part of him knew that they were only being paid to pretend to love him, it was still heaven.
Life is good, he thought.
For no apparent reason, the two current DCPs of the Mumbai Crime Branch seemed to have taken a liking to him. Akhil Jaiswal, in whose area he operated, and Samar Goyal had both had a secret meeting with him within two months of their posting and struck a pact. He would keep feeding them information about the other drug dealers in the city and they would leave him alone, as long as he stayed within reasonable limits.
Shetty tried hard to make sure he stayed within the limit. But it wasn’t always easy. The money had really been rolling in since Goyal and Jaiswal had started taking out his competition. Which was great, because he could use all the money right now.
The speaker blared an English song that he did not understand at all, but that was fine. The beats of the song were perfectly in sync with his high and that was all that mattered.
Some corner of his brain suddenly became aware of a slight commotion in the living room. He had three bodyguards sitting there and guessed that they had got into some sort of an argument. He just shrugged. It was only natural for three sober men guarding a posse of intoxicated people to be on edge. He wasn’t worried. He paid them enough and was sure of their loyalty.
What he wasn’t prepared for, however, was the door to his bedroom being kicked open a minute later, and a group of men armed with handguns storming into the room.
One of the three girls started screaming and a man grabbed her by the throat and rammed his gun into her mouth. Another went over to the sound system and turned it off. A third came and stood in the middle of the room.
‘You girls!’ he thundered. ‘Get out. Now!’
Another man grabbed their clothes from the floor and threw them out of the room.
The man who had yelled at the girls to get out came over to the bed, where Shetty was still half-sprawled, his mouth open in shock.
‘Having fun, Shetty?’ the man asked.
The clouds slowly started clearing and Shetty realized that the man was Police Inspector Sushil Kadam, in charge of Unit XII.
‘Chal uth,’ Kadam said. Shetty stayed immobile. ‘Get up!’
Two constables dragged Shetty off the bed and all the way to the living room. As the shock wore off, Shetty saw his three bodyguards sitting on the floor, their hands cuffed behind their backs.
‘What … what … what the fuck?’
‘Shut up!’ Kadam snarled.
‘Call your DCP … call Jaiswal … call Jaiswal…’
Kadam turned around and delivered a resounding slap across Shetty’s face. ‘That’s Jaiswal SAHEB to you,’ Kadam said, a slight smile on his face.
A stupefied Shetty was forced into his clothes and half-dragged, half-pulled out of his house. There were more cops outside. Roughly, he was passed from one team to another till he was pushed into an unmarked SUV. The ignition turned on barely a second after his body touched the seat. A black hood was forced over his head.
Shetty had no idea how long he had been in t
he car when he felt it slow down and ultimately come to a stop. Nor did he have any clue where he was.
He was dragged out as violently as he had been forced in and stumbled about as the cops took him inside a building. He could tell he was inside by the change in temperature. Then he was taken up a flight of stairs into a room and shoved upon a chair. The cowl was taken off and he blinked rapidly.
The room was not very well lit. There was only one another chair in the room and a metal table. The walls were bare and painted a dull white. He could see stains on the walls, which he hoped were not blood.
The cops who had planted him on the chair walked away and in that very instant, DCPs Akhil Jaiswal and Samar Goyal walked into the room, shutting the door behind them. Jaiswal sat on the second chair and Goyal stood just behind him. Neither of them was smiling.
‘What … what’s happening? Where am I?’ Shetty asked.
Neither cop spoke.
‘Where am I??’ Shetty asked again, panicking a little now.
‘You’re at the Juhu unit of the ATS, Shetty,’ Jaiswal said, smiling. Shetty’s jaw dropped.
‘ATS? What? Why ATS?’
The door opened and another man walked in. He was obviously someone senior and important, the way the other cops saluted him. But Shetty had no idea who he was.
Calmly, Shahwaz Ali Mirza came to a stop, leaning against the table, his frame inches away from Shetty’s face. ‘Seen the news lately, Shetty?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘The news. A face has been flashing on the news since this morning. Have you switched on your TV at all?’
Shetty only shook his head. He had no idea where this was going.
Mirza placed a photograph on the table.
‘Six months ago, from what Jaiswal tells me, you had a meeting with this man,’ he said.
Shetty squinted hard at the photo in the dim light and took a minute to place the face.
‘I … I did … yes. What about him?’ he asked.
The Endgame Page 11
