Kabir glared angrily at them.
‘After we step out of the door and fly down to Delhi,’ Kabir hissed, ‘be careful never to cross my path again—both of you!’
3
29 August 2014
RAW HQ, New Delhi
It was ten minutes past ten when the chopper touched base. Kabir was reluctant to be where he was, but the little episode at the college had left him with no choice. He didn’t know why he was being called back and wasn’t sure if he wanted to know. He had bittersweet memories of his past life—mostly bitter, though, because of the unceremonious exit he was handed. He promised himself to hear out what they had to say now, but nothing more.
Earlier, the agents assigned with the task of bringing Kabir to Delhi had planned to take him directly to the chopper that awaited him. Kabir had insisted on going home first to shower and change before flying. The game had left him sweaty.
He had left the agents waiting outside and taken a good forty minutes to get ready. He did this more to annoy them than anything else. He combed his long hair back neatly, wore one of his standard white Arrow shirts with a pair of grey trousers, and put on his only black jacket. Even though he hated to admit it to himself, his muscles had begun to ache after playing that little bit of football.
He got into the standard-issue black Tata SUV and the two men followed in another vehicle. He recalled the last time he had travelled to the RAW HQ. It was a long time ago. Something he had wished to get out of his head over the past few years. His mentor, a father figure to him, Lieutenant General Sadiq Sheikh had led him to quit the service.
The driver got out of the car and rushed to open Kabir’s door the moment they arrived at the Wing. Kabir had already opened it himself. He didn’t much like ceremony. The driver then went on to flash his ID at the entrance, to a guard who unlocked the door. Once in the Wing, the driver began to instruct Kabir as to where the Chief sat. Kabir already knew, but listened anyway and then patted him on his back gently. He walked towards the Chief’s cabin, and found his assistant’s desk outside. Unlike those portrayed in popular culture, the chief of this intelligence agency didn’t have a leggy lass with a tight shirt and skirt to welcome his guests. Instead, the assistant was a rather ordinary-looking middle-aged man, with his hair combed severely to the right, and a pencil moustache. He looked up at Kabir and acknowledged him.
He pushed a little buzzer and said into the microphone, ‘He’s here, sir.’
‘Send him in,’ the voice replied immediately. Kabir was already in the process of pushing open the Chief’s door.
He entered and looked at the Chief’s cabin with a sense of familiarity. Not much had changed. The same old yellow light, resembling that of a five-star hotel, illuminated the room. The wooden flooring was intact. The picture of Mahatma Gandhi hung exactly where it had the last time Kabir had seen it. There were more books this time around and the TV was almost as large as the wooden panel on the wall. The entire office was simple yet grand, and the Chief’s cabin stood testimony to this. Arun Joshi, who was watching the news, made a great show of switching the TV off. He was fifty-five, dyed his wavy hair an awkward jet black and wore a pair of silver glasses and a sharp navy blue suit. He got up swiftly and stretched his right hand out. Kabir shook it firmly.
‘Please sit, Mr Anand.’
His voice was calm, but at the same time not one that you’d want to disobey. Kabir sat down.
‘Would you like some tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee,’ Kabir replied instantly. Never refuse coffee.
The Chief pressed a button on his desk and asked for two cups of coffee. Almost immediately, an orderly came running in with a tray with two cups of steaming coffee. He asked Joshi if he should bring in something to eat. Joshi looked at Kabir, who declined. Joshi thanked the orderly and sent him away, and then looking towards Kabir clasped his hands together, making a let’s-get-down-to-business gesture.
‘I’m sorry about the little hiccups we had earlier this evening,’ Joshi said.
‘Let’s cut to the chase already.’
He stared at Kabir’s inscrutable face for a moment before he broke the news to him. Sadiq Sheikh was shot dead last night. Kabir closed his eyes and breathed in deeply when he heard it. His throat had gone dry all of a sudden, his stomach lurched. A slideshow of repressed memories flashed through his mind. But his face remained expressionless in the moments of silence that ensued. It is impossible to judge a person’s feelings by his countenance. Joshi knew that Kabir was hurt deeply, even though his face did not betray any such emotion.
‘Before dying,’ Joshi continued, as he adjusted his spectacles, ‘he left a message through a concealed transmitter in his wristwatch.’
He then went on to play the message by tapping a button on a small Sony recorder. Kabir listened silently to the audio. There was a lot of static throughout the recording. The voice of the killer was almost inaudible, and Sadiq’s voice could just barely be deciphered.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,
It seems to me most strange that men should fear;
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come when it will come.
And then the muffled gunshot was heard.
Act 2, Scene 2, Julius Caesar, Kabir recalled instantly.
‘The bad sound quality is because of the scramblers present in the room,’ Joshi explained. ‘The killer was careful. He suspected Sadiq might have left his phone on in his pocket, which I’m glad he didn’t. Had he done that instead, we wouldn’t have gotten even this piece. The phone wasn’t found on his body anyway. The techs are still working on the other man’s voice. I’ll tell you more about that when I get to know.’
‘Why didn’t he name his killer in the conversation, if he was transmitting,’ Kabir asked, swallowing his coffee, in an attempt to do something about his dry throat.
Joshi shrugged. ‘The killer would know for certain then—that he was trying to leave us a message. He knew he was going to die and didn’t want to take the chance of not letting his message get to us.’
Kabir just sat silently, scratching his stubble. He couldn’t quite decide on a single emotion. Joshi continued to explain.
‘When the message popped up on our computers this morning, it took us a while to figure out what had happened.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ Kabir said sourly. Joshi ignored the jibe.
‘When we did figure out that Sadiq quoted Shakespeare, we realized it was because he was trying to tell us something.’
Joshi paused. He needed to be careful how he approached the subject from here.
He continued, ‘It’s common knowledge in the Wing that Sadiq Sheikh had a young protégé in the Military Intelligence, who was asked to leave due to certain circumstances that went out of hand. There are various versions of the tale floating around. But apparently, he now teaches Shakespeare at a college in Mumbai.’
‘And why is he here now?’
‘Look, Kabir. I wasn’t Chief when you were serving our country. I didn’t know the finer details about what happened in Balochistan until I looked up your files and your impressive track record. Rumour has it that you turned on us and that may have gotten Vikramjit Singh killed. But Sadiq didn’t believe that. And I believed in Sadiq.’
Kabir cleared his throat and then looked at the clock. It was closing in on eleven.
‘That still doesn’t answer my question.’
‘We need your assistance,’ Joshi said finally. ‘Four of our agents have been compromised. They were embedded in Balochistan a few years after your incident. We use them to fund the Balochistan Liberation Army and other such militia that are fighting for secession against the Pakistani government and the ISI.’
Kabir leaned in towards Joshi and spoke softly. ‘This is not my life any more. You all took that away from me a while back. I don’t understand why you’re telling me all of this.’
‘I wasn’t the Chief that time, Kabir,’ Jos
hi repeated.
‘I couldn’t care less,’ Kabir said. ‘The only thing that has hurt me is the fact that Sadiq is no more. So tell me when the funeral is, and I will be there. But that’s it. I believe we’re done here.’
‘His death is just a piece of a larger puzzle. Don’t you want to know who may have gotten him killed?’
‘There’s nothing I can do about it. Besides, I was told seven years ago that there are better agents than me in the game. I’m sure you can make them do something about it.’
Kabir got up, turned and began to walk towards the door.
‘Mullah Omar,’ Joshi said flatly. Two dreadful words.
Kabir halted in his tracks. He stood still for a few seconds. He turned to face Joshi, his arched eyebrows stitched together in a frown.
‘Sit down, Kabir.’
Kabir was drawn back to the chair, his body reluctant, his mind inquisitive. He sat down.
‘The last piece of information we had about Omar recently was that he was dead. But then again, he dies every two months,’ Joshi spat out. ‘Of course, he resides in Quetta and keeps shuffling around within Balochistan. But the last time he made an appearance was around four years back.’
Kabir ran his hand through his long hair. Joshi noticed the streaks of silver hair and the ashen temples.
‘It beats me,’ Kabir said. ‘Omar doesn’t give a hoot about India. He has other fish to fry. Even when I was in Balochistan, he was busy directing the Taliban insurgency against the US-led NATO forces and the Government of Afghanistan. When he found someone spying on him, he had him executed immediately. Then why is he holding these guys hostage?’
Joshi nodded his head understandingly.
‘Mullah Omar is, for the lack of a better explanation, the ISI’s puppet. His second-in-command Mullah Baradar is the one who looks after his day-to-day affairs. They fund him and so they get him to do some of their dirty work. For instance, Omar and Baradar had helped the ISI kill Balach Marri and Akbar Bugti in Balochistan. You know that, of course.’
Kabir nodded. He was there when Bugti was killed.
Balach Marri was the leader of the Balochistan Liberation Army—the BLA—a militant organization fighting for the independence of Balochistan from Pakistan and Iran. The BLA had been pronounced a terror organization, rather ironically, by the Pakistani government. And Marri had been killed by the ISI and the Pakistani military in 2007.
Akbar Bugti, too, had run a well-organized militia against the Pakistani Army. It was on the lines of the BLA, and Pakistan believed that it was the BLA itself. He fought for autonomy, something that cost him his life in 2006.
RAW believes that Mullah Omar played a big hand in assisting the ISI kill these two revolutionaries.
Kabir was posted in Quetta when Bugti and his son were killed. It was the sixth day of August. A Saturday. Kabir relived the moment day after day. He, along with Vikramjit Singh, had spied on a special camp of the Quetta Shura, set up by Omar, which trained terrorists and insurgents to attack Indian interests in Kashmir during that time. The day had started off no differently. But it ended with the death of Akbar Bugti. And Vikramjit Singh. And soon enough, that of Major Kabir Anand’s career.
‘Why he would keep our agents alive didn’t make sense to me.’ Joshi broke Kabir out of his trance. ‘Until I got the demands from the Taliban spokesman, Zabiullah Mujahid.’
‘Which are?’
‘Mullah Omar, apparently, wants us to free four of the terrorists we have captured, in exchange for our agents.’
He held up the remote and switched the TV on. He tapped something urgently on his laptop and a grainy video filled up the screen.
It had the four Indian men kneeling next to each other. A turbaned man, with his face covered, stood with a rifle behind them. Not Mullah Omar, of course. Unlike Osama bin Laden, he didn’t believe in recording his showmanship on tape.
The screen blacked out, and four names popped up: Yasin Bhatkal, Assadullah Akhtar, Fayaz Mir, Umar Madni. After which, there was a simple message.
Freedom in exchange for freedom. You have ten days.
As if it were that simple.
Joshi turned to face Kabir, who had a half-smile on his face.
‘Freedom in exchange for freedom,’ he repeated. ‘Omar is clearly acting as the ISI’s mouthpiece.’
Joshi nodded, poured Kabir and himself a glass of water, and gulped his down. Kabir left his untouched.
‘I’ve had a good time catching up with you, sir. But, unfortunately, I have a class waiting to learn how Macbeth met his end.’
‘Macbeth has already met his end, Kabir. But you can stop four of ours from meeting theirs.’
The words floated in the silence that ensued.
Kabir scratched some invisible lint off his jacket, and finally asked: ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Clearly, there is a larger conspiracy at play. The ISI is up to no good as usual, and Sadiq’s death is connected. The mole—that my predecessor mistook you to be—is still in the agency. I want you to help me connect the dots. There is a reason Sadiq asked for you before he died.’
‘He didn’t ask for me,’ Kabir said, avoiding eye contact. ‘How exactly do you want me to connect the dots?’
‘I want you to meet the former Afghan head of intelligence, who is in Mumbai currently. He’s dissatisfied with President Hamid Karzai’s appeasement policies. Needless to say, he strongly dislikes the Pakistani government and the ISI. His bitterness led him to quit the agency, but he still wields a lot of influence amongst his supporters back in Afghanistan.’
‘Arifullah Umar Saleh,’ Kabir said. ‘I meet him, then what?’
‘He will tell you everything you need to know,’ Joshi stated. ‘Omar’s location in Quetta. Omar’s camps and their infrastructure—something Afghanistan’s current director of intelligence would deny. Saleh is helping us settle a score, which kind of helps him settle his. Amongst other things, he’s a good guy at heart.’
‘Hard for the head of an intelligence agency to be a “good guy at heart”,’ Kabir said sardonically.
‘Former head of an intelligence agency,’ Joshi corrected him with a wry smile. ‘After that, you meet a team of three that I will send down. And then you leave for Balochistan.’
Kabir looked up, surprised.
‘And then I leave for Balochistan,’ he repeated and laughed softly. ‘Are there any good end-of-season sales in Quetta, Mr Joshi? Should I pick up a few RPGs for you?’
‘No.’ Joshi forced a slight laugh. ‘Bring back my agents to me.’
‘Ridiculous.’ Kabir sighed. ‘I’m not fit, mentally or physically, to get back in the field. And that is only if I consider it in the first place.’
‘That is why you’ll be leading a team of those who are physically fit,’ Joshi said. ‘I don’t believe that you aren’t mentally fit, though. Secretly, I know you’re enjoying the prospect of getting back.’
Kabir couldn’t place a finger on the emotion he felt. The news of Sadiq’s death had shaken him. And then he was flooded with a sudden surge of information that made him feel he could do something about it. And now that Joshi had asked him too, he was confused.
‘Do you have clearance for the rescue mission from our government? After all, we’re no Mossad.’
‘Leave that to me,’ Joshi replied with a reassuring smile. ‘Besides, the new prime minister is a little more open to these kinds of ideas.’
Kabir laughed and shook his head uncertainly, and was about to say something when Joshi interrupted him.
‘Stop playing hard to get. Do it for Sadiq, Kabir. Do it for Vikramjit. Do it for your country,’ he said as he dropped a large folder in front of Kabir. ‘Dossiers with everything you need.’
Kabir lifted his glass of water and took a big gulp.
‘More importantly, do it for yourself,’ continued Joshi. ‘In my opinion, I don’t think anyone else knows as much about that part of Pakistan than you do. If you believe you were wro
nged, this is your way to prove it.’
Kabir stared at the folder with the dossiers for a moment. This was his chance to avenge his friend and mentor. It was also his only shot at redemption.
‘It’s your choice at the end of the day. You can walk out. I have a Plan B in place.’
Kabir shot one final look at Joshi’s face, as he got up from his chair. He picked up the folder from the table casually and strode out of the office. Joshi smiled to himself. He didn’t actually have a Plan B.
4
30 August 2014
Quetta, Balochistan
Akhtar Mohammad Road was crowded with chirpy adolescent boys who cared little about the oncoming traffic and walked like carefree sheep in front of the vehicles. The incessant honking didn’t seem to bother them at all. It was four in the afternoon. They had just got out of the Dar-ul-Islam madrasa, which on the face of it was supposed to teach them the principles of Islam and make them learn the Quran and the Hadees by rote. What they did end up learning eventually was another story altogether. These young children wore tight skullcaps and clutched copies of the pa’ara (chapter of the Quran) they were being taught at the time, while being brainwashed and trained, simultaneously, to be the future faces of terror. And most of their parents were willing accomplices.
Behind the steering wheel of one such honking off-white Mercedes car was an anxious brigadier, Tanveer Shehzad. The forty-year-old Shehzad, a typical military beefcake, was the Pakistani Army’s ace weapon against India. He was given the volatile area of Balochistan to take care of by the ISI chief. He was also the only ISI operative who had direct access to Mullah Omar, after the latter went entirely off the radar four years ago. He had the intelligence to match up to the task and physical prowess to boot. He was the architect of terror organizations like the Indian Mujahideen, a group based in India that was a front for the Lashkar-e-Taiba. A fact that he took great pride in was that he had trained Mohammed Ahmad Siddibaapa—or Yasin Bhatkal as India knows him.
The Bard of Blood Page 3
