Mumbai Avengers

by S. Hussain Zaidi

  It was only the second time that Afridi had come to this huge suite. It was booked in the name of a Chinese diplomat and Wang used it as his office whenever he was in town. Through the glass walls the tall buildings below look like soldiers standing to attention before a gigantic general.

  ‘Mr Afridi, I must tell you that our Indian friends have plans for you,’ said a beaming Wang.

  ‘And what makes you so sure of this in two days?’ asked an incredulous Afridi.

  ‘This is the era of cyber warfare. These days, a mouse and keyboard are the most powerful weapons of war, and what’s more, they have unlimited ammo. Bigger and better things can be achieved in a jiffy – what used to take months, and at times years, to find out. You know a whole country can be brought to its knees in a few minutes, and for that you don’t have to fly planes into towers.’

  Afridi was aware of the exploits of Pakistani hackers and how they had defaced various websites of the Indian government and left their imprint. In fact, he also knew that Pakistani hackers, most of whom were barely in their teens, had caused havoc on Indian defence sites; the Indian techies had taken weeks to restore them. One particular hacker group had defaced over 300 Indian websites.

  Elsewhere, a handful of Ukrainian hackers using scores of computers had shut down the country of Estonia for four days in April and May 2007. The online assault had been triggered by a seemingly inconsequential political decision by the Estonian government on 27 April 2007: to move a Soviet World War II memorial from downtown Tallinn. This sparked furious protests from the Russian government and rioting among Estonia’s ethnic Russian minority, followed by four days of chaos in cyberspace. Estonian authorities traced the so-called denial of service attacks to Russia, and suggested they had been orchestrated by the Kremlin.

  However, it was later established that they had been unleashed by Ukrainian hackers who were widely regarded as the deadliest in the cyber world.

  The Chinese spy agency – Ministry of State Security (MSS) – had raised a huge group of over 10,000 hackers and trained them for cyber armageddon. Known as the Red Army, their clear mandate was to monitor the Dalai Lama, Tibet, Taiwan and, most importantly, India. The hackers first accessed other people’s computers through zombie applications – malicious software that overrides security measures or creates an entry point. Once hackers gain control over so-called zombie computers, they can network them together to form cyber armies, or botnets. This either results in denial of service or pilferage of information.

  It was this Red Army and their Ukrainian pals who managed to penetrate Indian systems and, subsequently, Ray and Laila’s communications, to unearth Waris’s team’s plans. ‘We were watching the Indians for a long time, especially since they began planning to set up their National Centre for Counter Terrorism (NCTC). It was in the last few weeks that we managed to make a breakthrough and found an interesting piece of information that would be useful for you,’ Wang said.

  Afridi was all ears.

  ‘What information is it?’ he asked impatiently.

  ‘Lieutenant Ali Waris has planned an important operation which is named BMW–UH–Car Series,’ Wang said, with relish.

  ‘Fucking BMW car series?’

  ‘Yes, our boys thought like that, but then we managed to crack it with a little bit of patience and persistence,’ Wang said.

  ‘You have my attention,’Afridi said.

  ‘B is Bradley, M is Mehmood Azhar, W is Wajid Mir, U is Umavi and H is for Haaris Saeed. The last time we checked, they had started discussing the remaining HW, since they have already taken care of B, M and U,’ Wang said with a devilish grin.

  Afridi was numb with disbelief. How and when had the Indians managed to muster up the courage to take on the Lashkar-e-Toiba stalwarts? It was so unlike them.

  ‘What about Bradley? How was he found in a Stockholm lake?’ he asked.

  ‘Bradley was transferred to the American Witness Protection Programme. He was given a new identity and relocated to Europe. The FBI wanted to place him in Lisbon but he preferred Stockholm because he wasn’t too fond of the Portuguese ladies,’ Wang explained.

  ‘You mean the Indians got wind of Bradley’s stay in Stockholm and then got to him?’ asked Afridi incredulously. Wang nodded. Of course, he wasn’t going to let on that it was the Chinese who had tipped off the Indians about Bradley’s hideout.

  Afridi rose and shook hands with Wang, thanking him profusely. Rashid and Brigadier Baig were due to join him in a few minutes. The restaurant was almost empty. The usual lunch hour patrons were yet to troop in, and the three Pakistani men could not have found more privacy than in this secluded corner of the hotel’s premiere restaurant.

  ‘Wajid was on his way to Syria to help the Free Syrian Army (FSA) plan their confrontation, aided by Russian supplies. The last man who went into the washroom after him was an Asian, probably an Indian. He was a temporary worker, never seen after that. We’ve managed to get a CCTV grab of him entering the loo,’ Brigadier Shamshad Baig said.

  ‘RAW operative,’ Afridi added.

  ‘Actually, we checked our database but couldn’t find a match for his image,’ said the Brigadier.

  ‘But he seems to resemble a major in the Indian Army, Brijesh Singh. He looks a lot like the man we met in the lobby of Hotel Marmara Taksim in Istanbul,’ offered Rashid.

  ‘But the most intriguing part is that when we checked the call data records of people in the area, we found that there were three prepaid UK numbers which had never been used earlier but were used immediately after the killing. A particular number in Haifa, Israel was dialled. The SIM cards were apparently destroyed after a brief conversation with the Israeli contacts,’ the Brigadier said.

  ‘That means that Mossad and the Indians are working together in this operation,’ Rashid added.

  Afridi’s brooding eyes had narrowed to slits.

  ‘We were aware that the Indians and Israelis were close, but the idea that they would collaborate so closely to eliminate our assets is unimaginable,’ he said.

  ‘Sir, I beg to differ. The Israeli hand seems absolutely plausible. Wajid Mir was the man who choreographed the killing at the Jewish Outreach Centre in Mumbai. He issued instructions pertaining to the killing of the Rabbi. It’s quite likely that the Israelis wanted to help the Indians with this operation with limited involvement,’ said the Brigadier.

  ‘Yes, I see.’ Afridi had to concede.

  ‘Sir, another thing. Wajid Mir was injected with the same muscle relaxant, succinylcholine, that was used in the Shaikh Mahbouh killing in Dubai, which was orchestrated by Mossad,’ the Brigadier continued.

  ‘Okay Rashid, tell me what you found out,’ Afridi said turning to his analyst.

  ‘Sir, some Ansarul Ikhwanul Muslimeen had fixed to meet Umavi in Istanbul with the purpose of donating two million dollars to his charity over two years. Umavi did not want to go but when his assistant, Qandahari, gave them a clean chit, he agreed to meet them in Istanbul.’ Rashid then added, ‘The IP address of the computer used to contact Umavi was traced to a computer in New Delhi. It was all part of a popular phishing technique, to lure Umavi in.’

  ‘Fuck these greedy mullahs. Why are they so hungry for worldly riches and comforts?’ Afridi erupted. ‘Any idea if his trip was cleared by someone from the agency?’

  ‘Sir, I’ll have to check with his handler,’ the Brigadier said, nervous again.

  ‘And how did he die?’

  ‘I interviewed the doctor personally and also pressured the Turkish National police. They had to conduct two autopsies on him to establish that he died of a rare hazelnut allergy,’ Rashid said.

  ‘Hazelnut allergy?’ Afridi and the Brigadier chorused, in disbelief.

  ‘Was he aware of this?’Afridi asked.

  ‘No sir, the allergy was not known to anyone. We interviewed over eighty people, including his wives, children, friends, relatives …’ Rashid said.

  ‘Then how the fuck did the Indians know
about this hidden allergy when even his family and friends didn’t?’ asked Afridi.

  There was silence.

  They finished their meal without any further conversation. But it was clear in Afridi’s mind that the next move would be his.

  ‘You will make a detailed report for me so that I can debrief the director,’ he told the two men.

  He began walking towards the lift. This project BMW-HU, or whatever was left of it, called for his total and immediate attention. He could put other initiatives on the backburner but this had to be dealt with as a top priority. He needed to not only save H and W but also finish the Indians involved in this. And it had to begin with the man behind this operation—this Ali Waris—and end with Brijesh Singh and company. Waris was spared when he had shown the temerity to cross the LoC after Kargil. But it had been a mistake to think that the invasion had been the cause of his funeral.

  Now, Afridi would begin to write the script for Waris’s actual funeral.

  19

  Jeddah

  There are very few people in this world who can tolerate the prospect of being outsmarted. Lt Gen. Sayed Ali Waris was not among them. He had been caught off guard by the ISI and it was galling to a man of his experience and expertise that he hadn’t been able to foresee this. He was used to seeing things coming from a long way off, and foiling them. That was his special skill. He simply had no experience in being upstaged in this manner.

  It had started with a seemingly innocuous article in the Pakistani firebrand newspaper, Nawai Waqt, which reported that Maulana Mahmood Azhar would not be allowed to go for Umrah this year owing to a security threat. The government had opposed the idea of his travelling to Saudi Arabia, it said. This mushroomed into a story for various news channels and the English press went to town in its inimitably shrill manner, reporting how the government had proactively stepped in to protect an eminent member of the clergy of Pakistan. The next day, however, Azhar lambasted the government, saying that nobody could stop him from travelling to Saudi Arabia. He was, after all, visiting the abode of God, considered to be the safest sanctuary according to Islamic belief, and if he wasn’t safe there, then he was never meant to be safe. He refused to comment further and his spokesperson stated that he would be ridiculed by his enemies if he acknowledged this particular threat to his life. He was, after all, Mahmood Azhar.

  The Lieutenant General’s team saw this as the perfect opportunity to strike. The only glitch—and to call it a glitch would be euphemistic at best—was that Saudi Arabia was like a jungle in the midst of modern civilization. It was difficult for non-Muslims to enter and move around without raising any eyebrows. After a long discussion, they settled on Jeddah as the location for their rendezvous with him.

  ‘We have to kill him in Jeddah,’ Brijesh declared. ‘If he manages to cross over, any further attempts on his life would be pointless.’

  ‘He won’t cross over,’ Vikrant said boisterously. ‘Except in a box …’

  ‘So how do you propose we about it?’ Waris directed the question at Brijesh.

  ‘Well, we certainly can’t sprinkle powdered hazelnut on his raan,’ grinned the affable Kang. He always had time for a bit of light-hearted comic relief, no matter how grave the situation.

  ‘You don’t say?’ Laila rolled her eyes.

  ‘Nor can we use succinylcholine again, after Mir. What are our options?’ Vikrant asked Waris, as he scribbled illegibly on a notepad.

  ‘Well, it has to look natural. Not that the ISI won’t know it’s us, but they can’t tie it to us if we make it look natural,’ Waris reasoned.

  ‘I guess we’ll settle for a consumable poison then,’ Vikrant said. ‘Cyanide? Arsenic?’

  ‘No, not arsenic. Cyanide will do just fine,’ Laila said. ‘It’s easier to handle and, in its powdered form, is easy to carry around.’

  ‘But we can’t get access to his food this time,’ Waris said.

  There was a brief silence. Vikrant got up and moved to the window that looked out into the street, which was bathed in neon lights. After a few minutes, he pulled himself away from the window and said, with grim determination, ‘Let’s inflict some physical harm. Stab him with a blade. We’ll take the chance of getting caught.’

  His idea floated past the others, unheard. Vikrant was an incredibly smart man, but he was given to the occasional impulsive urge.

  Then Brijesh slammed the table with his hand. ‘I’ve got it!’ He stood up. ‘These fellows still use those pieces of wood to brush, right? Datoon, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘Miswak,’ Kang corrected him.

  ‘Powdered cyanide sprinkled on his miswak will be …’ Brijesh trailed off. He didn’t need to say any more. Every head in the room nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ Waris agreed. ‘Just remember, it should not pop up in the post-mortem reports.’

  ‘We’ll just have to haul our asses back to India before it does,’ Laila smiled.

  ‘But who will do the spiking?’ Kang asked, stroking his long beard.

  ‘The answer, my friend, lies in your hands. Quite literally.’ Brijesh allowed himself a smile.

  Kang’s confusion was plain to all as he turned his hands over and examined them. Everyone, including Waris, burst out laughing.

  ‘I meant your beard, Kang. Nobody will bother questioning you. They’ll think you’re one of them.’

  ‘And your Urdu is well above average,’ Waris said.

  ‘It’s not at their level, sir. Besides, my Arabic isn’t exactly fluent,’ said Kang matter-of-factly.

  ‘You don’t need to bother too much about that, Kang. It’s your appearance that is key here,’ Brijesh said.

  Suddenly, Kang’s eyes shut tight as he placed his hand behind his head and said, ‘Kesha.’

  Everyone looked at him, puzzled.

  ‘My long hair, how will I hide it? I can’t wear my turban, after all.’

  ‘You can part your hair in the middle and leave it loose. It’s a Sufi thing to do, having long, untamed tresses. Hazrat Mohammad – peace be upon him – and his progeny had long hair,’ said Waris.

  ‘You can trim it a bit if you wish. The revered gurus sacrificed their heads and their young children. So why can’t you sacrifice a bit of your hair?’ asked Brijesh.

  ‘That settles it. Kang will take the lead on this mission and the rest of us will just have to play our parts,’ Waris concluded, as Kang nodded.

  Laila looked at him and grinned. ‘Let me get my kohl and trim your beard. I’ll be playing the role of a make-up artist!’

  ‘Yes, all right, Laila,’ said Waris, a little dismissively, before turning to Vikrant. ‘You will organize all the documents Kang needs.’

  ‘And so, please meet Maulana Iqbal Zafar Kangi!’ Brijesh grinned, as they went about their different tasks.

  Maulana Mahmood Azhar was scheduled to travel to Saudi Arabia in the holy month of Ramzan, for umrah – a minor pilgrimage. After a little of research, the team knew exactly where he planned to stay and with how many men. The Al Bastan Hotel on Palestine Street was no Burj Khalifa, that much was certain. But what it lacked in opulent modern luxury, it made up for with a rich and elegant feel. Stepping through the doors of this, one of the oldest hotels in Jeddah, felt like stepping into a time capsule, away from the breakneck speed of life in the twenty-first century. Rather appropriately, this would be the Maulana’s temporary residence, offering him the sort of temporal setting that matched his mindset. Also, the eighty-two-room hotel boasted a prayer room that met his requirements. Azhar and his entourage had booked the entire sixth floor.

  Kang was to occupy a room right above Azhar’s, and Vikrant and Brijesh, posing as a journalist and a businessman respectively, were to stay two floors below him. If shit hit the roof, they had to be ready to extract Kang as soon as possible.

  Kang was given a Bangladeshi passport, but was posing as a Pathan who originated from Lahore and had settled in Bangladesh. That would explain his thick Punjabi accent.

 
On that fateful day, there was a commotion late in the evening.

  ‘Naaretaqbeer!’ came the call. ‘Allah o Akbar!’ the crowd chanted.

  ‘Target has arrived. Awaiting visual confirmation,’ Brijesh told Kang and Vikrant.

  ‘Copy that,’ Vikrant replied. He came down to the lobby within the next two minutes, and saw Brijesh reading a newspaper in the corner. The lobby was swarming with faces covered with thick beards and flowing robes.

  The cynosure of all eyes was a bespectacled man with a gentle yet wily smile. He was waving while getting the top of his forehead and the back of his hand kissed by his loyalists. His entourage was trying to shield him, but he stopped them and allowed his devoted followers to continue with their extravagant greetings. For devout Muslims this might be a spiritual scene, but for those not familiar with the practice, it bordered on the obscene.

  ‘Target is headed towards his room,’ Brijesh said into his transmitting device, pleased that the team’s research had provided accurate results.

  Kang asked, ‘How many men does he have with him?’

  ‘Thirteen, to my knowledge,’ Brijesh replied. ‘All of them are likely to travel with him. But on the plus side, they are all staying on separate floors, save for a couple, who are on the same floor as him.’

  ‘That’s enough for today, boys. We’ll have to get to work when he’s away. Once we get a better idea of his habits,’ Brijesh said, as he got up and tossed the newspaper on the couch. He walked up the staircase and met Vikrant.

  ‘We’re halfway there, Vikrant. Mumbai is this close to being avenged.’

  ‘India is this close to being avenged,’ Vikrant corrected him.

  Every minute that passed seemed like an eternity. The target was within kicking distance and yet, the team had to wait for the right moment to strike.

  Hours passed and much later in the evening a commotion in the lobby caught Vikrant’s attention. The target was leaving with his entourage. Vikrant went up to a bearded man, who was trying to catch a glimpse of Azhar.

  ‘Who’s that man?’ Vikrant inquired. ‘He seems to have quite a few followers.’