Within a few minutes, they were ready to get out. ‘Quick! His guards will be here any moment!’
The smaller man held out a muscular arm, and the tall man held it firmly. He mustered up all his strength and pulled his colleague up until his free hand could reach the ceiling. The tall man heard the footsteps right outside the door, and in one swift motion got into the duct. The door opened and the plastic covering of the air duct closed simultaneously. The two of them left the same way they had come, as silently as before.
‘That was a close shave,’ the tall man whispered. ‘Now let’s get the hell out of here!’
Umavi’s death was discovered barely an hour later, when the waiter came back to collect the dishes and found his body sprawled on the floor, food splattered all around him. His cries brought in the bodyguards, but they knew it was too late. They threatened the waiter, who was trembling in fright, and found out how Umavi had forced him into tasting the raan curry. Unbelieving, one of the guards knelt and cautiously licked a sliver of the raan, then put it into his mouth, chewed and swallowed it. Nothing happened, which left them totally bewildered.
The hotel authorities went into a tizzy upon discovering one of their guests had died. The body was taken to the local hospital, where a reluctant doctor was forced by the two bodyguards into venturing his opinion that the victim might have died from an allergic reaction. The hotel employee who was with them conveyed this information to his seniors and soon, news of the death and its probable cause had spread, subject to official confirmation.
This was what the two men heard as they stood at the front desk half an hour later, waiting to check out. Umavi had died a natural death, brought on by a severe allergy. The post mortem had confirmed that it was a hazelnut allergy, and the hotel authorities also stated that the bowl of hazelnuts in his room was half empty.
The smaller man was chatting with the concierge as he drew up the paperwork for their check-out. ‘But why the hell did he have the hazelnuts? He must’ve known he was allergic.’
The concierge, a small portly man with a harried expression, shook his head. ‘God only knows, sir. Maybe he didn’t know he had the allergy.’
The smaller man also shook his head, thanked the concierge as he pocketed the slip, assured him they would have a safe flight back home, and left. Around them, the commotion was rapidly escalating.
The mission was a success. The two men had been tense throughout, as this was a new method of killing for them. In a career that collectively spanned more than four decades, they had faced many combat situations, killed men with guns and knives and tanks and bombs. They were skilled in delivering death, but they had never used such a gentle method—something that they had both been highly sceptical about—as a means of killing. The innocuous hazelnut powder, which they had tasted themselves, killed their target in less than a minute.
The moment the two men exited the building, the bigger man took out his cell phone and dialled a number. It was answered on the first ring. ‘Yes?’
‘The groom has left to meet the bride, sir.’
‘Mubarak. Let’s have the wedding celebrations here.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the man and hung up. His colleague signalled for a cab and minutes later, they were on their way to the Ataturk International Airport, where a Turkish Airlines flight would take them to New Delhi.
Sitting in his study inside his Delhi home, Lt Gen. Sayed Ali Waris struck Umavi’s name off a list in his diary. There were two names left.
The army man smiled to himself. The odyssey of retribution had begun.
2
2 February 2013
It was a lazy Sunday morning, just warm enough for people to stroll out and bask in the sun. Amritsar’s usually freezing winters seemed to be on their way to becoming a thing of the past, thanks to global warming and the resultant rise in the earth’s temperature. Not that people here really cared—it was just another thing to adapt to, in their view.
But when the lazy peace of their day was disturbed by the roar of a motorcycle, people stared at the miscreant astride it, some curious, some annoyed. The rider was massively built, with a bushy beard and eyebrows obscuring most of his face, leaving only a fierce pair of eyes visible. He weaved his way through the obstacle course of men and machines with obvious expertise, sometimes shouting when a particularly obstinate individual refused to move out of his way. Most of the men he passed assumed he was on his way to the rally and was late. They could have been right.
Deputy Superintendent of Police Iqbal Singh Kang was late, but he wasn’t going to the rally. He was on his way to see the man who would be speaking at the rally – to try and stop him.
It hadn’t been planned as a big rally initially. A few local leaders were slated to stop by and mutter a few words into the microphone to an audience that would probably not even touch 500. Which was why the ground they’d chosen was a small one. But then, it was suddenly announced that Ranjit Raina would be present at the rally, and the local partymen and netas went berserk. From a tiny ground they moved the rally to the Ranjit Avenue Ground, off Ajnala Road, and the anticipated audience swelled to an easy 20,000. After all, it wasn’t every day that the prime-minister-in-waiting addressed a rally and few would want to miss a man who was known for his fiery, charismatic oratory.
Indeed, Ranjit’s impulsive remarks sometimes sparked controversies and even furores, such as when he’d quipped just a few days ago that nearly seventy per cent of Punjabis were addicted to drugs like opium. Swati Raina, his mother and the supremo of the ruling National Democratic Party (NDP), had disapproved of her son’s remark. Rumour was that she had instructed him to visit Amritsar to make amends for the grief he had caused the Punjabi populace. The Sikhs had always been a patriotic race and had contributed vastly to the freedom struggle and post-Independence wars. As they were also one-time NDP loyalists, Mrs Raina knew she could not afford to alienate them; this sort of a remark should not have been made by a potential prime ministerial candidate. Ranjit’s trip was intended therefore as more placatory than campaign-oriented (the elections were to be held the following year).
The sudden announcement that Ranjit would attend the Amritsar rally wasn’t sudden enough, though. Ample time was given to a group that hadn’t been active in years to prepare a crude welcome for him. Kang had found out about it just ten minutes ago, which meant that he had very little time, if any at all, to stop Ranjit from receiving that welcome.
Kang had just entered his gym for a muscle-blasting workout when he saw his informant Bashir looking at him from the other end of the gym. Bashir was a failed bodybuilder and one of Kang’s most prized informants. The price he demanded was unique: he would challenge Kang to deadlifts and the officer would have to lose publicly. Once he had, Bashir would give him the tip. Even though Kang could easily have defeated Bashir, he knew the information he got in return for losing would be accurate. Today was no different.
‘Raina is getting married today,’ Bashir said in an undertone to him, just after he had ‘won’.
That was enough for Kang. He was on his bike in the next ten seconds.
He drove crazily through the narrow streets, not caring if he knocked someone down – though he knew that with his training guiding his reflexes, he would never hit anyone. The men in the Special Task Force might not be the most talked about security force in the country, but they were as well trained as any other officers.
As he turned a corner, Kang’s digital wristwatch beeped. It was 10 a.m. Ranjit’s rally was expected to start in half an hour, and he was a punctual man who was never late for anything, be it rally, a meeting or a doctor’s appointment. Kang knew that he would leave for the ground with his security any moment now. He revved his bike and drove harder, yelling at people to get out of his way. His voice held a slight note of panic now.
Three corners and six minutes later, he sighted his destination and knew he was almost out of time. Three cars and a few police motorcycles were lined up outside t
he bungalow and there were security officers milling around. As Kang approached, there was a slight stir of activity, and he realized that Ranjit must have left the bungalow; there he was, walking towards his car.
Horn at full blast and shouting at the top of his lungs, Kang drove straight towards the cars. He saw the alarm in the eyes of the security officers. At once, they raised their assault rifles and pistols – but relaxed upon identifying him. Had it been a civilian approaching in that manner, they wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot, but Kang was in standard STF uniform. He was one of them. So, for the moment they held their fire, although they remained on alert.
Kang knew this and decided not to push his luck any further. A little distance from the cars, he screeched to a halt and dismounted. Not bothering to keep the bike upright, he let it fall and approached the men, staring down a dozen barrels.
He kept his eyes on the unit chief in front of him — the inspector general was the only man who hadn’t unsheathed his pistol. ‘Stop right there. You are not supposed to be part of this set up. What do you want?’ Mukhtar Singh Dhillon was composed, but the note of warning in his voice was unmistakable.
‘Sir, my name is Iqbal, Chandigarh STF. I have an urgent input and I need to speak to Mr Raina immediately.’
‘I thought as much. Why?’
‘Sir, I don’t want to explain out here in the open. But I need to see him urgently.’
‘Everyone wants to see him urgently. Why—’
‘Sir, we don’t have time!’ screamed Kang. ‘It’s a matter of life and death!’
The chief remained unfazed. ‘Please control yourself, Officer. Shouting won’t solve anything. What do you mean by life and death? We have adequate protection in place. The Special Protection Group, the Punjab Police, and you can see that chopper hovering over us. What are you afraid of?’
Kang could see a knot of men moving toward the cars and realized Ranjit was on his way.
Kang took a deep breath to steady himself. ‘Sir, I’m begging you. I have important information that Ranjit sir needs to know. I found out just this morning. Sir, I cannot let him go to that rally. It’s dangerous. No security is foolproof. What if there’s a Trojan horse? Please, you have to trust me!’ By the time he’d finished, Kang was shouting again.
There was a slight commotion behind the chief and suddenly Ranjit Raina walked into the fray, followed closely by five anxious bodyguards. True to form, he’d ignored his security cordon and walked out into the open.
‘Sir, what—’ the chief started to say, but was cut short.
‘I’m all right, Singh. With so many of you to guard me, I’m quite safe, I should think.’ He smiled at the chief and then turned and looked curiously at Kang. ‘What is it, officer? Was it you shouting?’
‘Yes sir. Please don’t go to the rally,’ Kang said urgently. ‘I beg you not to go. It isn’t safe.’
Ranjit frowned. ‘What do you mean, not safe?’
‘I mean, sir, that your life will be in danger if you go to that rally.’
‘Really?’ Ranjit threw back his head and laughed. ‘My life in danger? Officer, let me tell you something. My life is always in danger. I know that. These men around me know that. But I refuse to let that scare me. Both my grandmother and my father were assassinated, and if it’s my fate to die in the same way, I will. But I won’t cower like a frightened rabbit behind lines and lines of bodyguards, you understand?’
‘But sir,’ pleaded Kang. ‘I have concrete information that there is a threat to your life!’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Kang, sir. Iqbal Singh Kang.’
‘Well, Kang, I get this information every day. Every time I go to a rally or a meeting or out anywhere, I get concrete information, just like yours, that I will die. Does that mean I should stop going out at all?’
‘But sir—’
‘Enough.’ Ranjit held up his hand. ‘Thank you for your concern, Kang, I appreciate it. But I’m going to that rally now.’
He turned and started to walk back to his car.
Kang couldn’t control himself anymore. Before anyone realized what he was doing, he strode forward and stood in front of Ranjit, blocking his way.
A frown appeared on Raina’s face and he looked at IG Dhillon, who immediately yelled at Kang. ’Officer, this is gross insubordination! Get out of the way at once or I’ll have you suspended right now!’
Kang refused to budge.
Dhillon clicked his fingers at his men and six of them came forward, muscles flexing as they holstered their weapons with the intention of hauling him away.
They underestimated him. Kang was a 110-kilo behemoth who stood six and a half feet tall. He was also a professional wrestler with several gold medals under his belt.
The six men trying to drag him away found this out the hard way. Despite their efforts, Kang stood unmoved, yelling all the while for Ranjit to stay. Two more men came forward, and the odds shifted slightly in their favour.
Suddenly Raina held up his hand and walked forward. The men paused and stood still, huffing.
‘I’ll ignore this misbehaviour, Kang,’ he said, ‘because I can see you really believe you’re right. I won’t press charges against you. I know you’re concerned, but watch yourself and don’t cross the line. Now, I’m already ten minutes late. Since you’re so convinced that I’m in danger, you can travel in the car with me and see for yourself how most of these threats are just hoaxes.’
‘But sir—’ started IG Dhillon, only to be interrupted.
‘Please, I’m late. Let’s get moving.’
‘I’m against Kang travelling with you, sir,’ said Dhillon firmly.
‘Point taken, Singh. Can we go now?’
With that, Ranjit strode towards his car and got in, followed by Kang. The three cars and a host of accompanying officers on motorcycles rode off in a cloud of dust.
The Ranjit Avenue ground was massive, but the security forces were used to covering large areas. Under normal circumstances, the local cops would have been enough, but since Ranjit Raina himself was going to be present, nothing had been left to chance. After all, with someone like him, it was impossible to be too careful. The man was known to recklessly shove his guards aside and mingle freely with the public, making him a security official’s nightmare. He often declared that he was a people’s person, that he refused to hide behind a ring of bodyguards.
All the big guns had been called in: the Special Protection Group, the Punjab Anti-Terrorist Squad (ATS), RAW, local police, Special Branch. Everyone had arrived to make sure it was safe. Sniper patrol was in place, dog squads had sniffed around, and all paraphernalia had been checked and double checked. There were no loopholes. Not that they could see, at any rate.
They were wrong. This was proved within a matter of minutes.
Raina had been delayed by a good twenty-five minutes, and instead of arriving at the podium at exactly 10.30 a.m., he reached the flower-bedecked gate at 10.55 a.m.
He was greeted by a welcoming party, all carrying huge garlands. Raina kept accepting the garlands, letting them accumulate and then removing them and handing them to his aides, as was his wont at every rally. He greeted the women party workers with a folded namaste, a bright smile on his face throughout.
Behind him, Kang seemed to have been lost in the crowd, but he was watching everything like a hawk, his eyes darting here and there. The car park was too far, so that ruled out a car bomb. All the entrances had high-tech metal detectors, so a human bomb couldn’t sneak in either. Then where?
Raina was the target, not the public. His informant had told him that much. Ranjit had moved past the entrance and, till he reached the stage, he would be surrounded by people. That left the makeshift corridor to the stage as the only possibility. The corridor was around sixty yards long, and ended at the steps up to the dais.
As Raina stepped into the cordoned off area of the corridor, all the while waving at the cheering crowd, Kang’s heart began thu
mping loudly. It was all too familiar. It was as if the old failure had taken place just now.
Three white Ambassadors halted near the VIP portico of the secretariat. Within minutes, Chief Minister Beant Singh emerged from his second-floor office, dressed in a spotless white kurta pajama, and began moving towards his car. There was a bit of jostling as his security staff struggled to keep bystanders at bay.
Kang, eighteen years younger and brimming with enthusiasm, was waiting outside on his motorbike. He couldn’t enter the secretariat with the vehicle until the CM had left.
He parked the bike outside and was strolling towards the gate when he saw a figure moving purposefully towards the CM. The man was dressed in standard police uniform, but something about his movements seemed wrong. He didn’t seem to have the loitering gait typical of someone who had come with an application to the secretariat. He also appeared unconcerned about his surroundings, which was unnatural given that he was a cop near the CM’s security cordon. But most importantly, his movements suggested a purpose, a deliberate mission.
Suddenly, Kang realized what he was seeing. The uniformed man was no policeman. He wanted to scream and alert Beant Singh’s men – but then he saw something that made his blood run cold. The man was only a few feet from the CM, and his hand was moving towards his pocket. He was a human bomb.
Kang froze. His voice was trapped in his throat, his hands and legs seemed to have turned to lead. The distance between him and the minister was less than thirty metres, but there were too many men between them. A part of Kang’s brain told him that he should use his amazing strength to push everyone aside and rush to save the CM. That was his duty – to protect the country that he loved, the state, his land, his people. And his chief minister, the man who had single-handedly tamed terrorism in the state.
Before Kang could pull himself out of his frozen state, there was a massive explosion right in front of him, and he was thrown back like a toy. A dark pall of smoke engulfed everything. Then, as the shock wave cleared the building, there was a deathly silence. Kang was lying on a heap of bicycles; all around him people were rushing about, screaming, wailing and calling for help, but he couldn’t hear them.
Mumbai Avengers Page 3
