The Bard of Blood

by Bilal Siddiqi

  Isha broke the silence, directing a question to Joshi. ‘So is he accepting responsibility for the metro incident?’

  ‘In a roundabout way, yes,’ Joshi replied. ‘But that doesn’t matter any more. What matters is what’s about to happen. A threat like this cannot be taken lightly.’

  ‘He’s probably being hidden by the ISI in Pakistan itself. This statement has certainly not been issued from Iraq or Syria,’ Nihar added. ‘I won’t be surprised if al-Zawahiri is firmly ensconced in some safe house not far from an army facility in the Gilgit–Baltistan area or some such godforsaken location.’

  Kabir walked up slowly and pulled up a chair.

  ‘He’s probably enjoying Omar’s hospitality in Balochistan, for all we know. The Quetta Shura, Haqqani Network and al-Qaeda are all, at the end of the day, headed by Omar with varying degrees of separation.’ Kabir paused and looked at the frozen frame of al-Zawahiri’s wrinkled face. ‘They may not be directly associated, but they have pledged their allegiance to each other. It’s one large mushroom of terror.’

  ‘Pakistan is preparing itself for the withdrawal of US troops from Afghanistan, and part of the preparations are the way and means to ensure that India does not get the upper hand in Afghanistan,’ Joshi said, adjusting his spectacles. ‘They want the army to remain in control of the situation when it comes to dealing with India and Afghanistan. They will ensure this by keeping the Haqqanis and Quetta Shura untouched. On the Indian front, Lashkar-e-Taiba is no longer potent enough in the present international environment to be seen as encouraging Pakistan-sponsored terrorist organizations in India.’

  ‘And by putting out this video, they have ensured that they have thrown in al-Qaeda for greater effect,’ Nihar said. ‘They are, after all, an organization feared worldwide.’

  Kabir sighed. ‘Now that we’re done playing analyst, it’s time we see the video for what it really is. They are a step ahead of us. They know we have broken into their email account. Zawahiri has personally threatened us. It’s not something to be taken lightly.’

  Kabir directed his gaze at Joshi. ‘Sir, we must not waste a moment now. We don’t have much time on our hands.’

  Joshi nodded in understanding as he saw his phone buzzing with calls from the heads of various security agencies. He was in the midst of organizing the functions for the next three days. The President of the People’s Republic of China was scheduled to fly down to Ahmedabad to meet the Indian prime minister the following afternoon. The agenda was to discuss and peacefully sort out the Sino-Indian border conflict that had broken out in Ladakh. The buzz was that they even planned to sign a few important deals. As if I didn’t have enough on my plate already.

  Kabir stood up. His eyebrows were stitched in a frown. Something had just hit him.

  ‘Nihar, the video was uploaded from Ahmedabad, right?’

  ‘Not uploaded,’ Nihar said. ‘It was routed through a server in Ahmedabad. They wiped out all traces of the account after the video was put up, so I can’t track it back any further. It wouldn’t have been easy to get more anyway, considering they merely dropped the link in the drafts.’

  ‘And do you remember all the films that we had found on Shehzad’s torrent list?’

  ‘Yes,’ Nihar continued. ‘Murder, Life in a Metro, Enter the Dragon . . .’

  ‘Exactly,’ Kabir said. ‘I know this isn’t a strong enough connection. It might be the stupidest of hunches ever. But maybe . . . just maybe, the last film had some cryptic yet simple message to it.’

  ‘Enter the Dragon?’

  ‘Yes. Tomorrow our PM is meeting the Chinese President. It could be nothing, but it could be something. Every other movie on that list added up to something. Except this one.’

  Kabir turned to look at Joshi. They all wore a similar, grim expression. The same thought shot through their minds.

  ‘Sir, I request you to keep me on this case,’ Kabir said plainly. ‘I want to be a part of tomorrow’s security detailing. It might come to nothing, but the fact that the video links back to Ahmedabad is reason enough to believe something might just happen. And if the shit hits the fan again, we’ll have only ourselves to blame.’

  There was a brief pause. Joshi rubbed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. ‘Don’t make me regret it. Isha and Nihar will be with you, too.’

  ‘You won’t, sir. I promise I will stop this. Even if it’s the last thing I ever do.’

  18 September 2014

  Ahmedabad, Gujarat

  A tall man sat cross-legged on the reddish stone steps, watching the tranquil Kankaria Lake. He soaked in the calm—even though all he stood for was destruction. This is it. Today I’m going to wrap up an important chapter in my life. He had waited for the perfect opportunity for years. He was never afraid of death. He was only afraid that he would die before he had exacted his revenge. Revenge for his father. Revenge for his mother. Revenge for his Muslim brethren. There will be death. There will be a sea of innocent blood as well. But a qurbaani, a sacrifice, had to be made for the greater good. He closed his eyes and relived that day again—the day that had transformed him into the merciless man he had now become.

  He remembered the picturesque landscape of Kashmir, his birthplace. He remembered the humble yet beautiful cottage in Srinagar. His father was a local Kashmiri. His mother was a Hindu lady who had converted to Islam after meeting his father. There had been no compulsion as such from his father himself. But his parents wouldn’t accept a Hindu daughter-in-law. In the heart of a conflict-ridden Kashmir, this was a small problem, which was resolved soon enough.

  Just like any other day his mother had helped him dress up in a woollen muffler and a monkey-cap. He wanted to go out and play. He liked collecting acorns from the oak trees nearby. Little did he know then that what was about to happen next was going to replace the acorn with a grenade—for the rest of his life.

  As he stepped out through the back door, he saw three Indian soldiers hop out of their vehicle. Their cruel faces were still etched in the corridors of his memory. They pulled his father out of the house and threw him on the snow-covered gravel. His face was severely bruised. One of the soldiers dragged him through the snow, leaving behind the torturous trail of a man resisting them as they did so. They took him to the doorstep and knocked at the door. He saw his mother rush to open it. Had he been a little older, he would’ve probably warned her against it. But then, he was told by his father that the Indians were good men, that the soldiers were men of integrity. His father was one of the few pro-Indian ethnic Kashmiris—and ironically, he was the one who paid for it.

  He watched through the window as they butchered his father in front of his eyes. They accused him of despicable things. His father was a simple man. He ran a grocery store. He was certainly not a terrorist. Not a bomb-maker, like they insisted. He was a simple Muslim. And that was his only fault. His mother had cried her lungs out. She was called names for being a Hindu and yet marrying this wretched Kashmiri.

  They poured on her the scalding tea that simmered on the stove. They beat her as she bawled in frenzy. Ripped off her clothes. They took their time with her. One by one. Next to her dead husband. She fell unconscious. And then her life slipped out of her. He saw all of this from outside the house, shaking and trembling, but doing his best not to make a sound. And that day, seething with rage, he had made himself a promise. A promise that had led him to this juncture of life where he stood right now. He became everything his parents didn’t want him to. But he did it for them. Maybe they would understand, watching him now from the world above.

  The memories were as vivid as ever. The man looked down at the clear waterbody. A tear rolled down his cheek and fell off his pronounced jaw and on to the red steps below. He had risked his life every single day ever since, waiting for this day to come. He picked up his phone, opened an application that used the Internet instead of cellular networks. He dialled a number and called his mentor, whom he fondly called Chacha.

  ‘Chac
ha . . . Kankaria Lake in fifteen minutes,’ he said and closed the call. He looked at his phone and started to watch the al-Zawahiri video. In the fifteenth minute after the call, he felt a hand rest on his shoulder.

  ‘How are you, Shiv?’

  ‘Did I ever tell you why I picked that name for a cover ID on this mission?’ The tall man’s concentrated gaze was still directed at the water in the lake.

  The mentor was slim, short and in his early sixties. He had a thin, wavy beard, no moustache, and an amiable look. Nobody would suspect him of even swatting a fly.

  ‘No,’ Chacha replied.

  ‘He was the man who murdered my father. The man who raped my mother to death. Colonel Shiv Singh and his two cronies.’

  ‘It’s strange that you chose his name, then. Why would you do that?’

  ‘It gives me purpose. The hatred gives me strength to do what I am about to.’

  ‘So today’s the day we have been working towards,’ Chacha said. ‘We have immense faith in you, beta.’

  The tall man looked down at his shoes. His fingers were intertwined with each other.

  ‘Is everything in place?’ Chacha asked.

  The tall man pointed to the lake. His mentor’s eyes followed his forefinger. He saw a faint white streak coming towards him.

  ‘And what about Tayyab Sahab? Any contact with him?’

  ‘He’s given the go-ahead,’ Chacha replied. ‘No complications there.’

  The tall man stood up and walked down to the lake. He pulled his trouser-legs up to above his knees, removed his slippers and took a few steps into the lake. He stood in the same line as the trail of white light. He heard a slight buzz. In a few moments, the trail had completely died away and the buzzing had stopped. The man put his hand underwater and felt a large, smooth, streamlined metal object. He smiled to himself.

  ‘Is it working?’ the mentor asked him from behind.

  ‘Like a charm.’ The tall man smiled.

  25

  19 September 2014

  Ahmedabad, Gujarat

  ‘President Bocheng has just left the Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel Airport. He should be here within half an hour.’

  It was two-thirty in the afternoon. The Chinese President, Zhou Bocheng, had arrived right on schedule. The Indian prime minister, Shailendra Patel, had already checked into the Grand Hyatt Hotel to welcome him. The security detail organized for both the leaders was impenetrable. The meeting was absolutely necessary and had been planned weeks in advance.

  The primary agenda was serious. A face-off had ensued between the Chinese and Indian troops in the Chumar sector of Ladakh. More than 200 troops of China’s People’s Liberation Army had entered the region and begun to build a 2-kilometre road within the Indian territory. India and China have had long-standing differences over the demarcation of the boundaries along the Himalayan region, dating back to the late 1950s. After the initial conflict in 1962, a demarcation then known informally as the Line of Actual Control—the LAC—was chalked out to prevent any confusion. In 1993 its existence was formally accepted in a bilateral agreement. However, the problems never stopped. India accused China of repeated violations of the LAC in certain sections of Ladakh. Chumar itself had witnessed several situations in the last three years. The two leaders had decided to talk it over amicably, before taking any radical step. The enterprising Indian prime minister also decided to talk business and development, amongst many other things.

  Kabir, Isha and Nihar waited in an OB van, the size of an ambulance, outside the main entrance. On paying it more thought, they had begun to realize that the ISI certainly did have a trick up its sleeve. The timing of the al-Zawahiri video . . . the movie links . . . the metro station incident . . . Everything was a way of messing with India. And they weren’t done yet.

  The team had been holed up in the van since eight in the morning, poring over every minute detail. Nothing seemed out of place. Nihar kept a strict watch on the email ID. It had been inactive since the al-Zawahiri video. The timing of the video, the content, all pointed at a possible attack on the PM. The metro attack had already shaken them up, and they knew they couldn’t afford to have another such incident on their hands—let alone one involving two of the most powerful men in the world. And God forbid, if something happened to the Chinese President on Indian soil—the aftermath would be calamitous. The dragon would crush them.

  ‘It’s a funny thing,’ Isha said. ‘You spend a few days away from this country and you miss a lot.’

  Kabir shrugged. He tightened the knot of his tie and put on his blazer. His hair was smoothed down to the left. He was categorically told by Joshi not to turn up in a pair of ‘trashy’ jeans and an ‘apology for a T-shirt’ like a ‘vagabond’. He looked at his watch.

  ‘Well, that’s the reason we love our country, don’t we?’

  Isha smiled. ‘Looking smart. You should wear such clothes more often.’

  ‘Get a room, the two of you,’ Nihar scoffed, as he watched the CCTV footage. ‘Wait . . . What the hell?’

  Kabir stood up and looked at the screen.

  ‘Why is the PM coming out of the conference room? Isn’t he supposed to wait there until Bocheng arrives?’

  Kabir eased on his earpiece and pressed a button. He asked his point of contact the same question, and sighed and disconnected the call.

  ‘He wants to greet Bocheng at the entrance.’

  ‘It’s things like this that make it dangerous,’ Isha spat. ‘Why does he have to do such stuff?’

  Kabir tucked his gun under his belt and buttoned up his blazer to hide it.

  ‘This is politics, my friend,’ Nihar said. ‘Every minute move has a detailed agenda.’

  ‘Personally, I prefer a PM who is less of a showman and more someone who puts his money where his mouth is. But, well, clearly the others don’t.’

  ‘We haven’t given the man enough time to show what he’s capable of, though,’ Nihar argued.

  Kabir got ready to leave the van as he saw Bocheng’s convoy of identical Mercedes limousines enter the gate. Simultaneously, he saw that the doors of the main entrance to the hotel open and watched the PM stride out confidently. He turned around at Isha and Nihar and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘We live in a country where politicians divide us and terrorists unite us,’ he said, slamming the door of the van behind him.

  Zhou Bocheng, turned out in a sharp suit, stepped out of his Mercedes with his rather glamorous wife, who was known to be on Vanity Fair’s best-dressed list. Prime Minister Patel, who wore his trademark bandhgala suit, stretched out his right hand, which Bocheng grasped firmly. It was as perfect as any political reception could be. Both men smiled at each other. The photographers clicked away, capturing this picture-perfect moment. Kabir’s eyes shifted from one photographer to another. The same guys. Just as a precaution, he had earlier checked each camera and tripod personally. He knew of instances where a disassembled gun had been stored in the hollow legs of a tripod and the remaining bits had been strategically placed within the camera itself. But he was glad that he had found nothing. After exactly a minute the Chinese power couple was led into the Hyatt hallway by the gracious prime minister. Bocheng’s wife was led into an extremely lavish suite, while the PM took him into the conference room for a session of diplomatic discussion.

  It was going to take a while. Kabir summoned Isha and Nihar to the lobby, from where they went into a conference room adjacent to the one where the PM and the Chinese President were. If they had to wait, it was better they waited in the comfortable confines of a five-star hotel. Kabir had a look at the official itinerary again. A photo-op session had been scheduled after the meeting, followed by a banquet spread at the Sabarmati Riverfront. After this, the two leaders would fly back to Delhi. Kabir was to accompany them, staying close to the PM throughout. But the fact that the terror video was traced back to Ahmedabad still worried him. He wasn’t going to relax until the PM was back in Delhi.

  So far, so good. Everyth
ing was going according to plan. But he had to wait and see for how long things would stay that way. That’s the worst part of being a man in the intelligence game. The wait. Minutes turn into hours, which turn into days, which turn into months and, sometimes, even years. But then, all of it boils down to those few seconds. The seconds that justify the wait. The seconds that make or break. The seconds that determine life and death.

  At exactly ten minutes to five, Kabir got a text message that told him the meeting was over. The prime minister stepped out of the conference room first, leading Bocheng on his way out. They continued to smile as they made some small talk. The PM told Bocheng of his plans to treat him to a lavish dinner by the picturesque Sabarmati Riverfront Park. Bocheng nodded and thanked him appropriately. His bodyguard, who was probably a Chinese intelligence agent of the Ministry of State Security, or MSS, whispered something in his ear. Bocheng frowned and nodded.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ the PM addressed a slightly perturbed Bocheng.

  ‘Yes,’ Bocheng replied. ‘I’m afraid I will be slightly delayed for dinner. I shall see you at the venue. You please carry on. Sorry for the inconvenience.’

  The PM nodded and said that it shouldn’t matter. He walked away to the lobby. He looked at Kabir’s stern face and acknowledged it with a nod and a polite smile.

  ‘Good evening, sir. Please come this way.’

  Kabir led the PM to his armoured navy-blue BMW. He let the PM’s security open the door and let him in. He turned around and informed Nihar and Isha about Bocheng and his slight delay. They decided to move to the venue and scan it for any discrepancies one more time. He informed the representatives of the local police, the Intelligence Bureau and state intelligence before leaving the hotel for the waterfront. On the way to the venue they learnt about the three memoranda of understanding that had been signed. Bocheng and the PM had struck deals that envisaged promoting bilateral trade, setting up of industrial parks and developing cultural ties. They had also nominated Guangzhou and Ahmedabad as ‘sister cities’. Another detail, which hadn’t quite made it out into the open yet, was a probable nuclear deal. They decided to discuss it in more detail once they were in New Delhi, before announcing it formally.