A flash of light. A deafening sound. A huge sacrifice.
23
17 September 2014
Islamabad, Pakistan
‘Is there anything else that I should know of?’ Rameez Nawaz, the incumbent Prime Minister of Pakistan, asked tersely. His steely gaze was met with an equally steady one from the Director General of the ISI, Azhar-ul-Islam Tayyab.
The atmosphere in Nawaz’s cabin was tense. Both men were seated. The air conditioning was doing its job well enough, but there was a stifling silence for a few moments.
‘I know nothing, Wazir-e-Azam,’ Tayyab replied, his liver-spotted hands resting on the table.
He did a good job of remaining unfazed. He headed a highly efficient organization, which had the reputation of being one of the deadliest in the world. He had been instrumental in building the ISI to what he proudly thought of as a ‘state within a state’. This wasn’t the first time a prime minister had sat opposite him, questioning him about some of his lesser-known activities.
‘Tayyab,’ the prime minister growled as he wiped away beads of sweat from his thinning, henna-dyed-orange hairline. ‘There are better ways to tackle a problem than play dumb.’
Tayyab simply shrugged.
‘Wazir-e-Azam,’ he said, leaning in, his voice intense, ‘whatever it is you suspect me of you know very well you would’ve done the same.’
‘No,’ Nawaz replied. ‘You have been reckless throughout your career.’
‘I’m loyal to my country, Wazir-e-Azam. I do what I do for Pakistan alone.’
‘This was our time to lie low, Tayyab. We fucking hid Osama. We are actively involved with al-Qaeda. You are covertly hiding Mullah Omar. That skirmish that broke out in Quetta could’ve brought hell down upon us, had Omar not escaped. I know you couldn’t resist the urge to exact revenge for what they did in Balochistan. But this soon? I’m amazed at your capabilities, and disgusted at your insolence.’
It never was meant to be revenge for Balochistan. The plan was always in place, still is . . . Tayyab looked back at Nawaz, who had got off his chair and was pacing around the room.
‘I still don’t understand this conversation, Wazir-e-Azam.’
‘Take a fucking hike!’ The PM kicked his chair. ‘The train that blew up? The gunmen in Delhi?’
Tayyab maintained a stony silence.
‘If I had informed you about what was going to happen, would you have approved of it?’
‘I wouldn’t have let you do it right away,’ Nawaz said. ‘There is no love lost between us and India. But there’s a way things are done.’
‘If there’s anyone who knows how things are done, Wazir-e-Azam, it’s me.’
‘Imagine, Tayyab, had one of them been caught, it would’ve been a Kasab-like situation all over again. He would surely have spilled the beans sooner or later. And this time, we would’ve been in deeper shit. India and America would’ve joined forces to wipe us off the map! Is that what you want for Pakistan, you son of a bitch?’
Tayyab remained quiet and looked down at his feet, trying to feign shame. The prime minister stood still, glaring at Tayyab. His clenched fists and knees shook violently.
‘I could have you arrested for treason,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I could serve your head on a platter to the rest of the world!’
‘That wouldn’t be a good move,’ Tayyab replied sardonically.
The prime minister fumed away. Tayyab got up and walked towards him.
‘You could do that if you think I’m guilty of treason. But then, fighting an enemy isn’t treason,’ he continued. ‘If the world fears Pakistan today, it is because of the ISI.’
‘We could well be on the brink of war because of your short-sightedness,’ Nawaz replied.
‘And it’s my job to ensure that it remains at just that.’ Tayyab’s voice dropped as he scratched his silver stubble. ‘There are days I fear myself, Wazir-e-Azam. I make cruel decisions that are more often right than wrong. Since you brought Balochistan up, don’t you think my operations there are justified? We are only taking our land back from some ill-mannered villagers . . .’
‘I’m not talking about that. Balochistan is justified. What about India? I agree that there’s no love lost between us. But these are fragile times and I would like to be kept in the loop before you take such a drastic step.’
Tayyab shrugged.
‘It was a train blast. That’s it. You have plausible deniability.’
The prime minister scoffed. Plausible deniability.
‘I want you to tell me everything,’ the prime minister said as he sat down. He gestured for Tayyab to begin.
‘There is nothing to tell, sir.’
‘We’ve been going around in circles for far too long,’ said Nawaz, banging his fists on the table. ‘You may enjoy taking innocent lives. But I don’t. Especially if I’m going to lose my countrymen to some sort of retaliation!’
‘You won’t. I assure you.’
Tayyab’s defiance was getting to Nawaz. He poured himself a glass of water, spilling some on his table, and chugged it down. He began to understand why Tayyab was always in people’s bad books, from ex-PMs to various political executives. But at the same time all of them respected and admired Tayyab for the job he was doing. He got his hands dirty. And he enjoyed doing it.
‘Tell me one thing, Tayyab.’
Rameez Nawaz’s voice was artificially calm. Tayyab nodded fervently.
‘Is there anything else I should know?’
‘I don’t get what you mean.’
‘Anything else up your sleeve! Any future attacks you have masterminded along with the brainwashed militants you have trained!’ snapped the prime minister.
‘That sentence is heavily peppered with conjecture, Wazir-e-Azam.’
‘You’re pushing me to the limit, Tayyab.’
‘Well,’ Tayyab said stoically, ‘there is nothing up my sleeve. And there are no future attacks that I have masterminded with my brainwashed militants.’
With that, he swivelled around and closed the door shut behind him. The prime minister breathed in deeply and buried his head in his hands. Tayyab has lied through his teeth. Again.
17 September 2014
RAW HQ, New Delhi
‘I still can’t believe he’s gone,’ Isha said solemnly.
‘He had told me in confidence about his plans once he returned to India,’ Nihar said in a low voice. ‘Unfortunately, they weren’t meant to be.’
‘What do you mean?’ Isha asked.
‘He had plans to marry a girl before his stay in Afghanistan got extended. After Balochistan, he was going to go back to Mohali and meet her. If she wasn’t married, he said he would walk up to her and coax her to take him back. If she was, he said he would never cross her path again. He wanted a shot at a normal life.’
The sides of Nihar’s eyes were moist. Isha wore a grim expression. Just like the grieving families of the dead, they only mourned the person they had lost. That was the harsh reality. No matter how much one sympathizes for the others, one always tends to mourn what one has lost more. Veer Singh was one of the eighteen dead. He was reduced to a mere number for those who didn’t know him. But for those in the train, he was a hero. He had jumped out, unflinchingly, in an attempt to save their lives, even if it had meant sacrificing his. And he had succeeded.
Kabir had his back to them as he looked out of the window on to the desolate streets. He did his best to never wear his emotions on his sleeve. He had never cried even when he had witnessed gruesome deaths of people he knew before. But they always did take a part of him away with them. Like Vikramjit . . . Sadiq . . . And now, Veer . . .
Cry woe, destruction, ruin and decay;
The worst is death, and death will have his day.
‘We didn’t know him for too long,’ Nihar said, a lump forming in his throat. ‘But he might’ve just been the best friend I’ve ever had. He makes me proud to be an Indian.’
Isha was redu
ced to tears, which she quickly wiped away with the edge of her shirt. She had been taught never to succumb to emotion when on the job—be it deep sorrow or uncontrollable rage—because it made you weak. It clouded your judgement. Kabir was still frozen in his posture. His free arm rested in his pocket, while the other hung in a sling. He hadn’t slept in days.
‘We will mourn Veer when circumstances allow us to,’ he said finally, his face still turned. ‘Just as we will mourn every other innocent life that was lost yesterday and any time before that. But more importantly, we have screwed up. We knew they were coming. And we couldn’t stop it.’
He banged his fist on the window in disgust. Nihar nodded as he lifted his iPad and swiped at it. Isha crossed her hands and looked at him. It was well past midnight. The city was hauntingly silent. None of them had had adequate rest since they had got back from Balochistan. If anything, they had rested more there.
‘Where’s Mr Joshi?’
‘He’s gone for a meeting with the senior officials of other agencies. NSA, IB, DIA, you name it . . .’ Nihar said. ‘They’re deciding their next move. Besides, the PM doesn’t want the attack to get in the way of the meeting in Ahmedabad.’
‘Do you think Mr Joshi will tell them about my involvement?’ Kabir asked.
‘No,’ Nihar replied. ‘Not unless he has reason to. In fact, he’s keeping his cards close to his chest.’
‘And no terrorist group has taken responsibility yet, either,’ Isha said.
Kabir walked back, pulled up a chair and sat beside them. He shot a quick glance at the newspaper that was lying on the coffee table. Entire pages were filled with reports about the incident. He diverted his gaze to the computers running a program in the background.
‘Have you found anything else?’
Kabir had a nagging feeling that it wasn’t over yet. Even though he desperately wished it was, he knew the ISI always had tricks up its sleeve. Nihar nodded as he passed his iPad to Kabir. A few images appeared. They were hand-drawn maps.
‘Here’s something else we found in their email drafts. Omar’s laptop has crashed, but from what we could recover, we found similar images.’
‘These are floor plans of some kind.’ Kabir frowned. ‘Did you figure out more?’
‘Ivan managed to get these out a few hours ago,’ Nihar said. ‘He is at the Defence Intelligence Agency office right now, trying to pull out a match and revive the disk to get more data. They have advanced technical equipment there.’
Kabir scratched his chin. He felt his hands tremble, and clenched his fists to stop anyone else from noticing. He could feel the vial in his pocket beg to be injected into his bloodstream. He needed his fix again. I need to stop before I go out of control . . . A few last hits . . .
‘Kabir, are you all right?’ Isha asked.
‘Of course,’ he replied.
‘You’re sweating.’
‘It’s nothing,’ Kabir said, getting up. He walked into the toilet, the door slamming behind him. Isha and Nihar shot each other confused looks.
‘He’s been through a lot.’ Nihar shrugged. ‘Just when he thought he had gotten out of it for good, circumstances thrust him back into the game. That must he affecting him.’
Isha nodded and was about to speak, when Nihar’s phone rang. He picked it up quickly. It was Ivan. Isha looked at the washroom door. Kabir had left it ajar. He’s forgotten to lock it.
She got up and walked slowly towards it. Meanwhile, Nihar had rushed to the computer and begun typing furiously. Ivan was explaining something to him on the other end of the phone. Isha peeked through the gap in the door. Kabir was leaning over the washbasin. The tap was running and he was splashing water on his face wildly, wetting his T-shirt in the bargain. Isha pushed the door open and looked at him. Kabir looked up, his eyes bloodshot. He was trembling violently.
‘Get out, Isha!’
‘You have to tell me what’s wrong, Kabir!’
Kabir was silent. On his drenched face he wore a guilty look. Isha shut the door behind her.
‘Tell me, Kabir. I won’t tell a soul. What’s the matter?’
‘I don’t know, Isha . . .’ His voice was far away. ‘It’s this entire thing. And I have to stay strong and see it through to the end. I know how these people are. It’s not over. It’s never over.’
Isha took a step closer to him. Her eyes met his. She looked at them. Fierce, cold, lonely and, for the first time . . . vulnerable. And then her eyes slipped lower and she saw something on the ground. An empty vial.
‘What is that?’
Kabir kicked the vial away. Isha turned and was about to pick it up, when Kabir grabbed her by the arm and drew her close. She looked at him unfazed.
Her voice was stern. ‘What was that, Kabir?’
‘Painkillers,’ Kabir said. ‘For my arm and back.’
‘Why are you hiding them, then?’
Kabir was silent. He was still holding Isha tightly. She looked down at his arm and noticed the reddened skin around the tiny needle-punctures.
‘I’ve been using them more than I have been instructed to,’ Kabir said finally. Isha glared at him. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get done with them soon,’ he said.
‘Kabir, I am taking you to a doctor right away. This can prove to be fatal!’
She turned around and tried to free her arm. Kabir held it tight and pulled her back. She was inches away from his face.
‘Isha, I can do it myself. I don’t need a doctor.’
‘That’s not for you to decide.’ Her voice softened. She could feel his breath against her face. Kabir’s eyes were intense.
‘I’ll quit,’ he whispered. ‘I promise.’
She closed her eyes and tilted her head. Kabir drew her closer. She could feel his beard touch her face. His free arm held her by her waist. She could feel his breath against her forehead. Her pheromones soothed him. He ran his nose down the side of her neck. She closed her eyes as their lips met. They didn’t know how long it lasted, but they drew apart because of a knock at the door. Kabir bent down and picked up the vial. Isha opened the door hastily. Nihar shot them a questioning look. He wore a harassed expression. Isha opened her mouth to explain.
‘It’s okay, I don’t want to know.’
He lifted his iPad and pointed at the screen. It just had the ‘play’ button.
‘A downloadable link just dropped into the mailbox. I traced it back to a source in Ahmedabad,’ Nihar said quickly. ‘I clicked the link and it led me to this video. They have come to know that we’ve found an entry into their email account.’
‘What’s the video about?’ Kabir asked, towelling his face dry.
‘It’s a message,’ Nihar said solemnly. ‘From the al-Qaeda leader, Ayman al-Zawahiri.’
24
18 September 2014
RAW HQ, New Delhi
A massacre of Muslims is being carried out these days by you, and most of the Muslim world is totally oblivious to it.
The footage was clear in terms of voice and video quality. The elderly man’s droopy eyes looked right into the camera. He wore a skullcap and a clean white kurta. On his forehead was a dark spot, probably gained from the number of times he pressed it to a rock-hard floor during namaz. His neat, steel-rimmed spectacles rested halfway down the bridge of his nose. If he wasn’t the man he was, he would probably come across as a harmless old man, popular among the children of his area for his eccentricity and storytelling. But this man was no ordinary storyteller. He was none other than Ayman al-Zawahiri, the chief of al-Qaeda. The man who had once been Osama bin Laden’s trusted aide and was now his successor. One of the most feared men in the world.
A brown curtain behind him shimmered as he continued.
And on our part, my warriors and I have pledged to make a serious effort to bring an end to this wave of oppression on Muslims in Bangladesh, India, Myanmar and Sri Lanka, with everything in our capacity. As for our brothers and our people in Kashmir, Gujarat and Assam who are living unde
r the dark shadow of Hindu occupation, I would like to say that the crimes that they have witnessed, and that are still taking place before their eyes, expose the extent of deception of the nationalist democratic way, which calls for their participation, side by side with the Hindus, in a system that brings together Hindus and Muslims. If they haven’t already noticed, they should realize that this so-called ‘democracy’ brings Muslims and Hindus together only to present the Muslims as an easy target for the Hindus.
He swallowed and continued with gusto.
My respected Muslim brothers, in the face of adversity, we must firmly hold on to the creed of loyalty to the believers and disassociation from the kafirs! I will make sure that every kafir pays for the injustice that has been meted out to my fellowmen.
He raised his forefinger and steadied it towards the camera as his voice boomed on.
I would like to remind the oppressive and criminal government of India that every crime has a punishment. The new prime minister is our sworn enemy, but he better remember that the one who sows thorns never reaps flowers. My Amir, Mullah Mohammed Omar, my late brother, Osama bin Laden, and myself have always believed that the oppressed will get their rights back, even if does take some time. We have made our sacrifices and, inevitably, we will make some more. But understand one thing, the time has arrived! Prepare to repent. A tempest is about to shake you soon. The little incident in Delhi was just a prelude to the chaos. A mere taste of things to come. Get ready for the beginning of the endgame.
Zawahiri breathed in deeply, his face calculatedly calm. He was about to conclude.
Allah the Glorious has stated the truth, ‘Those who do wrong will come to know by what a (great) reverse they will be overturned!’ My fighters of al-Qaeda, all of you who have worked tediously for years to set up a base in your wretched country, India, are all set to prove Him right.
It was five in the morning. Kabir’s face was morose as he sipped another cup of black coffee. He stood upright, behind Joshi, Nihar and Isha. He still smelled strongly of the muscle-relaxant balm. They had seen the entire video five times since it had been downloaded. For Kabir, watching the footage once was more than enough. Zawahiri’s words were set in his mind. There was no cryptic element in the message. The man conveyed what he wanted plainly. What angered him more was the fact that al-Zawahiri, just like every other terrorist, had quoted Allah out of context. No god has ever told his creations to kill one another.
The Bard of Blood Page 20
