Mumbai Avengers

by S. Hussain Zaidi

  Earlier, they had met at Sharif’s brother Shahbaz’s New Model Town bungalow. The prime minister was a different man now, much more confident, aggressive, in total command of himself and full of bluster. He had called for a meeting at his office in Islamabad.

  He and two other men were present at the meeting who were summoned by Prime Minister Nawaz Sharif: Arif Afridi and the ISI chief, Zaheerul Islam. The atmosphere in the room was grim.

  ‘So you mean to say that those Indian army men just walked into our country and killed Haaris Saeed?’ Sharif posed the question to Islam with incredulity.

  ‘Janab Wazire Azamsahab, they entered the country under cover, as archaeologists, with a team of UNESCO officials. The immigration officials swear their documents were genuine. Adnan Ghuman, the UNESCO representative, said their credentials were impeccable,’ Islam said, clearing his throat.

  ‘I gather that earlier they were involved in the killing of other Lashkar people like Umavi, Mir and Bradley. I think they had some kind of … er … skirmish with your men, Arif.’ Sharif made the last sound more like a question than a statement.

  There was silence in the room.

  Zaheer looked at Afridi, indicating that he had to explain himself.

  Afridi looked ashen-faced, but he mustered up the courage to speak. ‘We had laid a trap for them in Jeddah quite successfully and managed to get one of their agents. But he was not willing to speak, despite our attempts to coerce him; we realized that the man would rather die than open up. Then we changed our strategy. We wanted to get to the brain behind the conspiracy, so we let him go and tracked his movements.’

  Sharif was listening to every word intently. ‘Then what happened? Instead of you zeroing in on their kingpin, you let them sneak into our country and kill another man?’

  ‘I cannot explain exactly how this happened. They are quite cunning and deceptive. They came in with absolutely unexpected techniques. While we were watching their leader Ali Waris and the man who came to Jeddah – a Sikh called Iqbal Kang – as well as their tech experts, they changed tracks and sent two different men,’ Afridi said, regaining his composure.

  ‘What did you hope to get by just watching them? Why have you not put any trackers on them?’ Sharif was now becoming impatient.

  Afridi was ready for this question. He said, ‘Sir, my estimate is that it would have taken them less than half an hour to locate the tracking device. It would have been a major waste.’ He pulled out a chart with maps and diagrams. Swiftly, he spread everything out on the table and began explaining in detail.

  Afterwards, Sharif turned towards Raheel and Zaheer.

  ‘General sahab, I need them dead or alive. I have to expose the hypocritical Indian face to our friend John Kerry. This is how the US can be convinced to bestow new allowances on our country,’ Sharif said.

  Raheel rose and walked up to where the map lay.

  ‘Sir, we have sealed the border areas of Jammu and Kashmir, Azad Kashmir, Punjab, Rajasthan and even the Gujarat desert areas. There is no way that they can cross the border. I have asked my men to get them alive and not shoot to kill,’ Raheel said.

  He continued, ‘Our border with India stretches over 553 kilometres, of which nearly 450 kilometres are fenced. The unfenced area includes natural river gaps of about 26.6 kilometres, spread over several different places. We are watching these areas and have increased our surveillance, including motor boat patrolling.’

  Sharif nodded, affirming his faith in Raheel and his men.

  The meeting seemed to have reached its conclusion when Islam decided to pipe up.

  ‘Our intel gathering and collating is at its most sensitive and effective level. We have alerted all our dormant and active assets. Our men are roaming around in most of the villages in the border areas,’ he said. ‘We suspect that they might try to hide and lie low for a while before they make an attempt to cross over, so we have also started combing those areas where there might be Indian sympathizers. They could be among the Hindus, Sindhis and Hazaras. We are watching the Hindu localities in Jacobabad, Balochistan and the Sind borders where the Bheel tribe lives. Also, we have increased surveillance near the Gilgit-Baltistan mountains, especially near Azad Kashmir.’

  He felt better after this long demonstration of intelligence prowess.

  Sharif finally smiled and gave his verdict. ‘The pride of Pakistan is in your hands. They should not get away.’

  Raheel, Zaheer and Afridi stood ramrod straight, saluted Sharif and walked out of the room.

  ‘Who the fuck wants to get away?’ Brijesh turned and looked at Vikrant.

  ‘Our orders are clear, Brijesh. We have to make an exit and exfiltrate from Pakistan as and when it’s convenient,’ Vikrant reminded his senior.

  ‘Yes, as and when it’s convenient. Right now, it’s not convenient at all. Secondly, we have to leave for India. We cannot do so immediately and it need not be through the Kashmir border. We can go to Wagah or even Afghanistan,’ Brijesh retorted.

  Vikrant did not look convinced.

  ‘Vikrant, don’t you want to be of help to Waris and Laila? Don’t you think they may do better with a little bit of backup and help from us?’ Brijesh tried to appeal to Vikrant’s sense of duty.

  Vikrant perked up. ‘I guess you are right. It’s fair to defy orders if we can save the old man. Otherwise, if we obey his orders and survive, we would have to live with the guilt of leaving him high and dry.’

  ‘Okay, now we have to focus on ensuring that the Pakistani army does not kill or capture us before we reach Muridke in Lahore,’ Brijesh said, dryly.

  ‘By now, Hafeez must have started singing like a canary – those men might knock on our door at any moment,’ Vikrant reminded him.

  Before he could finish his sentence, Brijesh whipped out his Thuraya and was dialling Waris’s number.

  ‘I knew you would not go to your mother’s house today,’ said Waris, in code. ‘Quickly now, pay attention. Look good, wear nice sherwanis, clear the kitchen and take a cab to Faisal Masjid. Loiter around there and wait for the next namaaz.’ Brijesh turned to Vikrant. ‘He has asked us to shave, change our clothes, check out, dump our luggage and rush to Faisal Masjid for namaaz.’

  ‘What? Namaaz? Has the old man forgotten we are not Muslims?’

  ‘Vikrant, where do you hide a tree? In the jungle. Faisal is the biggest mosque in south Asia. It’s always crowded; as two men in sherwanis, we will be inconspicuous. They’ll never think to look for us there. He also asked us to dump our belongings on the way,’ Brijesh instructed. He dialled the reception’s number and asked for a taxi to Faisal Masjid while issuing instructions for checkout.

  The two men got cracking. They shaved, then sprinkled excessive amounts of attar on their sherwanis and spread rouge on their cheeks.

  In the lobby Vikrant ensured that a bellboy took their luggage to the waiting taxi while Brijesh settled the bill in cash.

  As the car left the sprawling premises of the Mariott, Brijesh spotted three army vehicles entering the gate of the hotel. They’d left just in time.

  Hafeez had finally cracked, from fear of getting booked for complicity. He had haltingly raised his suspicions with his boss, who informed the local police. They had called the ISI and began questioning Hafeez. By the time the Federal Investigation Agency (FIA), ISI and the army got into action, Brijesh and Vikrant had left the hotel for Masjid-e-Faisal.

  On A.K.M. Fazal Road, there were rows of taxis at the corner of the intersection. Brijesh asked the driver to halt at a little distance from the cars, but before he could stop, Brijesh cracked him in the neck with a single karate chop. The blow was severe enough for the driver to pass out without a sound. Vikrant threw a thousand-rupee note into his lap and left the car, their luggage still in the boot.

  They walked towards the row of taxis without showing any signs of hurry.

  ‘Bhai, will you take us to Lal Masjid?’ Vikrant asked, trying sound like a local.

  The drive
r sized him up.

  ‘I’ll charge Rs 700 for the trip,’ he said.

  ‘Why such a steep price, bhai?’ Vikrant asked.

  ‘That’s a Deobandi masjid. I don’t normally go there,’ the driver explained.

  ‘Acha acha, no problem, let’s go,’ Brijesh said, agreeing to the price.

  Their route took them past Parliament House and the ISI headquarters. Vikrant and Brijesh kept their eyes open.

  The founder of Lal Masjid, Mohammad Abdullah, had been a friend of former president Pervez Musharraf. After his death, his two sons took over the administration of the mosque.They formed their own vigilance squads, which raided brothels, punished corrupt cops, kidnapped other government servants and established shariat courts. Finally, following a standoff between the students of the seminary in Lal Masjid and government authorities, the army raided the masjid and took control of it, resulting in a situation much like Operation Blue Star at the Golden Temple in Amritsar in 1984.

  Brijesh got on his Thuraya again.

  ‘Chacha assalamalaikum, hum aaj shaam ki namaaz Lal Masjid mein ada karenge.’

  Waris understood immediately.

  ‘Okay, a van marked Gurdwara Tours will pick you up from outside Lal Masjid. Don’t enter the mosque.’

  Brijesh was mystified by Waris’s level of preparation and organization in hostile territory at such short notice.

  They were passing the ISI HQ now and he mouthed an expletive under his breath. So close to the enemy, yet so far.

  They paid the driver and pretended to walk towards the masjid gates. Once the cab was out of sight, they turned and stood on the road, waiting for their pickup.

  Within a couple of minutes, a van approached them. Brijesh made eye contact with the elderly driver and asked him to stop at a little distance from the gate.

  ‘I have been instructed to take you to Gurdwara Panja Sahib at Hassan Abdal. Take this bag and wear the clothes that are inside it. If we get stopped en route, pretend that you have come for the annual pilgrimage of Nankana Sahib and Panja Sahib. My friend Rajinder here will prepare your documents right now. You must maintain that you have come from New Jersey. These are your American passports. He will click your pictures and put the finishing touches on your documents as we travel,’ the driver said.

  ‘What is the distance to Hassan Abdal?’

  ‘We will reach in forty minutes. Now smile,’ the assistant said and started clicking their pictures.

  As the van sped down the smooth road that led to Hassan Abdal, the calming sounds of the Gurbani playing on the stereo which was accompanied by the humming of the driver did little to quell the sense of uncertainty brewing inside Brijesh and Vikrant. For who knew what might happen next?

  30

  Muridke, Lahore, 12 November

  The whole plan had gone for a toss. Originally Waris, Kang and Laila were to have been left in the country. But with Brijesh’s turnaround, they now had two additional soldiers to carry, which greatly increased their chances of being spotted.

  Ray and Laila had followed the plan and landed in Karachi, to be admitted to the Sind Institute of Urology and Transplantation (SIUT) at Karachi Civil Hospital. Laila played the part of the concerned wife to perfection, and remained in burqa the whole time. Ray also gave a passable performance as a patient with kidney ailments.

  On the day that Ray began undergoing mandatory tests before renal transplant, Laila instructed the nurses to watch him; she had to meet her relatives in Lahore, she told them, and would be back in the evening.

  Brijesh and Vikrant had a slightly longer journey by road from Hassan Abdal; four hours in a fifteen-seater minibus, dressed just like the thirteen other Sikhs with them. Their co-passengers immediately took a liking to ‘Avtar Singh’ and ‘Kartar Singh’, who throughout the 385-kilometre long journey were most helpful and entertaining.

  They were stopped at Bahlol Road, Islamabad–Peshawar motorway point M-1, Islamabad-Lahore motorway M-2, then Lahore Bypass, Grand Trunk Road N-5 and Shahdara. At every checkpoint, the army men scrutinized every document and every Sikh passenger closely. Even if they had cause to suspect Brijesh and Vikrant, when they saw that Brijesh was a hunchback with one eye, and that Vikrant was using a walking stick as his legs had been weakened due to polio, their suspicions dissipated.

  Soon after the sixth checkpoint at Shahdara, the duo alighted from the bus, pretending they had some relatives in the locality. Their instructions were to check in at a guesthouse in Shahdara, which was 25 km from Muridke.

  Brijesh kept replaying in his mind the shot that had taken out Saeed and, each time, he felt a surge of pride. Vikrant, on the other hand, tried his best to keep his mind blank. He was no Buddhist monk, but he tried to keep disturbing thoughts at bay, even if temporarily.

  Meanwhile, Waris and Kang had travelled on the Samjhauta Express and arrived at the Lahore railway station.

  They took a cab to Shahdara, which was barely thirty minutes away from the railway junction, and arrived at the guesthouse where Ray and Laila had reached shortly before them.

  They were all together at last, the A-team – and in foreign territory.

  Aamir Ajmal Kasab, the lone terrorist who was captured alive in Mumbai after 26/11, was supposed to have studied in an infamous facility in Muridke, according to his interrogators. The others involved had also trained there. Its manicured lawns and immaculately painted walls belied the fact that it was a terror training facility. Jamaat-ud-Dawa claimed to be a charitable organization, but in reality it was a house of terror. The organization, which had been banned by the US in 2005 for being a Lashkar front, drew patronage from the ISI – and though proscribed abroad, it had a free reign in Pakistan. It had branches all over the country and was as famous for the social work it allegedly rendered, as it was for its terror activities. It saw itself as a movement and not as an organization, and had a wide appeal in both rural and urban areas.

  Now, the A-Team was stuck next to it. They had relocated to a tiny, crappy hotel just within the borders of Muridke.

  ‘Well, at least we don’t need to be subtle any more,’ said Waris. ‘Makes things easier in some ways, but also trickier.’

  They all nodded.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this Azhar chap,’ Waris continued in his raspy voice, his fake wispy grey beard neatly covering his mouth.

  ‘We share the sentiment,’ Laila said. ‘But sir, it might be unwise to go after him now. He would have doubled his security.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Waris replied. ‘He’s moved to Muridke, within the JuD HQ. It’s their fortress and he is possibly Saeed’s successor. He has more than just “doubled” his security.’

  ‘If he’s in a damned fortress,’ Brijesh said, ‘it’ll be quite difficult to get in quietly and kill him.’

  Waris smacked the glass pane of the window with his right hand impatiently.

  Kang said smilingly, ‘This is going to be amazing. I know exactly what you plan to do, sir. You want us to go and kill him out in the open.’

  ‘Yes,’ Waris said. ‘And survive too. I’ve heard from my sources that a majority of the militants, barring Azhar’s personal guards, are on vacation.’

  ‘Brijesh and I,’ Vikrant began. ‘We’ll go in. We don’t even have a fucking pistol with us now, but if anyone can handle them right now, it’s us.’

  Waris raised an eyebrow and walked slowly towards him. Kang cracked his knuckles.

  ‘Did you just call me old?’ Waris asked.

  ‘Or me a wuss?’ Kang added, as he flexed his biceps. ‘Just because of what happened in Jeddah?’

  Vikrant looked at Laila. ‘Aren’t you going to play the part of the feminist?’

  ‘No,’ Laila shrugged. ‘I just wish I had some popcorn to accompany this matinee show – featuring you getting your ass kicked.’

  ‘Here’s the deal, Vikrant. We’re going to torch this place. Azhar won’t walk out alive. Neither will his men. And if we perish as well, so be it,’ said Wa
ris.

  At last, it had come to this.

  ‘So who do you want inside the HQ?’ Vikrant asked resignedly.

  ‘I’m going in,’ Waris said bluntly. He looked at them, challenging them to object. ‘With Laila. Just because I’m old and she is a woman doesn’t mean we can’t wipe that place off the map.’

  Brijesh looked on, his face not betraying any emotion. Finally, he nodded.

  ‘What’s the plan?’

  ‘I’m glad you asked,’ Waris said, with a smile. He settled down on the bed and cleared his throat. The team gathered around.

  Waris explained the plan, then turned towards Laila.

  ‘Have you told Ray the exact time at which he is supposed to tinker with the mobile networks in the Muridke-Lahore circuit? He must disable the phone lines in the government offices from his suite in the hospital.’

  ‘Sir, he is prepared and ready; he is only a bit nervous because he is alone. And he has never been on field duty before,’ Laila explained.

  ‘There is always a first time,’ Brijesh said.

  The JuD was the parent organization of the Lashkar-e-Toiba. In 1990, Haaris Saeed had started the LeT, which literally translates to ‘army of the good’. He established the headquarters in Muridke, in the Punjab province of Pakistan, thirty kilometres from Lahore. The headquarters were nothing short of a fortress and stretched over acres of land. But they claimed it was a hospital and an educational centre which included a school and a college.

  Mahmood Azhar, India’s most wanted person, had sought refuge here after a couple of failed attempts on his life. But Haaris Saeed hadn’t been so lucky. Azhar still saw Saeed’s head being blown up every time he tried to sleep, though it had been a couple of weeks since it had happened. It was not like he hadn’t seen gore before. But the very thought of it being his head that could have been blown up sent a chill down his spine. Suddenly, there was an urgent knock on his door.

  ‘Maulana,’ a young man spoke from outside the door. ‘There is a call for you.’