by Tony Bulmer
“I don’t like it here. This place scares me Ranjit.”
Ranjit gulped whisky, then laughed contemptuously. “You and your vertigo.”
“But the rain, don’t you hear it?
“I hear your imagination running riot. Come, have a drink.”
“It is as if the gods of old are rising up to punish the wicked.”
“Have you heard yourself woman? Get a grip on your emotions, mother and father will be here very soon—and our sisters new husband.” Ranjit gave a chuckle. “Imagine how jealous your friends will be Meena, the foremost movie director in the whole of India, if not the world, as your new brother in law.”
“But when Yolanda discovers our subterfuge, she will become enraged—uncooperative.”
Ranjit swilled more whisky. “The marriage is already agreed. She will act as directed, or I will ruin her for the whole world, a pretty little martyr damned by her own stupidity. Do you think our clever little sister will choose that path? Total destruction or total obedience, it really is that simple.”
“But Nashik Khadki, is old and ugly—he has a reputation.”
“A reputation for success. He is rich and powerful and desires her. What more could a woman want?”
Mena could think of many things. But with the monsoon rains lashing in hard from every side and her brother swilling whisky, she thought it best to hold her tongue. She clutched the bar, her fingers growing white. A metallic groan rose up from deep inside the building. What was that? It was as though a great beast was awakening. Her eyes grew wider. Before there had been fear, now there was abject terror.
29
Police Headquarters, Mumbai, India
“There has to be something we can do!” blurted Commissioner Arjun Anish rising to his feet. He turned to Pranav Shaurya. “Tell me again, how you will renew efforts to thwart the plans of our enemies.”
The terror chief opened his mouth to say something, but for the first time since the meeting started, Karyn could see a look of fear creeping into Pranav Shaurya’s resolute gaze. “We seized the Maharashtra. Those fiends chose a ship named after our proud state, so they might compound our anguish!” His voice pitched upwards, then he paused, composed himself and said, “I instructed our partners in the army to carry out a further search of the container terminal, but they have found nothing as yet. Perhaps our American friends are mistaken, perhaps…”
Jack Senegar gave a tight, wooden smile and said, “No mistake. The device was on the Maharashtra. The ship sailed into Nhava Sheva two days ago, so I think we can agree that the elements who are making this play will have shifted the device out of the container terminal by now.”
“In that case, they could have shipped it out by road or rail, to almost anywhere in the country,” said the Commissioner quietly. “Our logistical networks are second to none.” He looked anxiously from face to face, seeking confirmation that there might be a chance, even a slim one, that the city of Mumbai could avoid destruction. He found no such reassurance.
Karyn nodded. “I am afraid you are right Commissioner. Your city is a very valuable symbol of India’s status as an emergent power in the world. It is also an essential hub for transport and commerce and that is precisely why that bomb is still here. The maniacs who stole these weapons want to send a message, spread terror and desperation across the world by destroying the golden cities of their greatest enemies.
“There are more of these devices?” snapped Pranav Shaurya.
“I am afraid so.”
Commissioner Anish and Pranav Shaurya exchanged glances. “They would destroy our whole country with these devices? Where next, Delhi? Kolkata?”
“We don’t know for sure,” said Karyn. “And we haven’t got time to throw guesswork into the equation. What we do know however is the idea they had for Shanghai. They planted the weapon in the heart of the financial district, which means they are looking to hit signature financial targets and kill as many civilians as possible.”
“We have received detailed reports of the attempt on Shanghai. ” snapped Pranav Shaurya, his voice brusque. “Unlike America, we have a very close relationship with the Chinese. It is no surprise that the Islamic supremacists of Xinjiang are seeking to widen the scope of their Jihad against civilized nations everywhere. But we will find these zealots and punish them for their impudence.”
Karyn’s eyebrows bounced fractionally higher. The ATS mouthpiece in the smart uniform was touchy. Not only that, he had an uptight angry look he had no business having—not at this level. Yet, there he was, just another over nourished bureaucrat guarding his red-tape responsibilities, like a rutting water buffalo. Karyn stood relaxed, leaning by the window, arms casually folded, as he gave her the boardroom stink-eye. At last she said, “You’ve got real impressive credentials Shaurya. I bet you also got yourself a whole bunch of people in smart uniforms saluting you every hour of the day. But here’s the thing, you are staring down the barrel of a terrorist atrocity the like of which the world has never seen, and like it or not you need our help. So why don’t you skip the attitude, then just maybe, we can work this thing out together?”
Pranav Shaurya rose to his feet. “You would lecture us about terrorism—what does a woman know of such things and an American woman at that? America is nothing more than an impotent spectator to world events. Your secret empire is no more—torn to pieces by a legacy of defeat. And you have the audacity to lecture us here in India about the ways of terror? We have been fighting such evils for centuries!”
The Commissioner emitted a loud choking cough then barked, “That is quite enough Pranev. Our respected guests are here to assist us.”
“Then they should be out, in the monsoon rains with my men; helping to search down this apocalypse bomb and arrest those who would bring India to its knees.”
“We have got every asset in South Asia looking for those bombs,” snapped Karyn. Jack Senegar silenced her with a single tilt of his head. He paused momentarily then said quietly. “We do one thing at the CIA and we do it very well—we seek out enemies of the world who would bring harm to the United States and our friends and we destroy them.” He let this quiet revelation sink home, as he brushed the crease in his pants leg with a casual flick of his wrist; then he said, “We will do everything in our power to help you to find this device. I pray to God we will find it. But even if we don’t, I can assure you of this—the Central Intelligence Agency and the United States Government will work night and day until we bring each and every one of the conspirators involved in this plot to justice.”
Pranav Shaurya gave a derisive snort. “Conspirators? Justice? If you had even the vaguest idea who these animals were, I have no doubt your famed murder squads would have executed them already Mr. Senegar. But you don’t know who they are do you? And you sit here, offering only talk, while our city teeters on the verge of oblivion.”
“You need to sit back down fellah. Get a grip of yourself,” ordered Karyn. She held up her hand. “No, don’t say another word. You had your chance to make a contribution. Now you will listen to what I have to say and like it.”
Pranav Shaurya opened his mouth to argue but the Commissioner gave him a hard look and waved him into his seat. The terror chief didn’t like it, not in the slightest, but he sat down anyway, his knees bending slowly, reluctantly until he was back in the overstuffed club chair that looked like it had been there since the days of the Raj.
Karyn said, “In Shanghai the Uyghur radicals planted one of the EMP devices in to the air conditioning system at the top of the Shangahai Tower in Lujiazui Finance and Trade Zone. The tower is situated adjacent to the Shanghai World Financial Center, the home to the largest stock exchange in Asia.”
“Mumbai has the largest stock exchange in Asia” interrupted Pranav Shaurya.
“Precisely,” said Karyn.
“They want to destroy the financial centre—the Stock Market?” said the Commissioner.”
“Yes, of course they do. But if they really w
anted to stop there, they would try bombing the car park underneath the Stock Exchange like they did back in ’93, only this time they would take out the whole building.”
“911 upped the stakes,” said Jack Senegar. “These scumbags know that the only way they can truly make their mark is by killing thousands of people and changing the skyline of your city permanently—they are going to try to take out a landmark, an iconic building that defines your city.”
“We have hundreds of iconic buildings,” blurted Pranav Shaurya. “Many as big as the Shanghai Tower.”
“They won’t take out a building just because it is big—look at the attacks on New York back in 2001, al–Qaeda wanted to destroy the U.S. economy and disrupt world trade, so they bombed the most iconic buildings in Manhattan’s downtown financial district. We are looking at the same kind of attack here, only bigger. What is the biggest building you’ve got Commissioner?”
“World One Tower? But that is unthinkable. It is the tallest residential tower in the World!”
“And security is impregnable—no terrorist could get near the place,” added Pranav Shaurya dismissively.”
“Security at the World Trade Centre was impregnable, until al-Qaeda flew two fully-loaded passenger jets into it,” fired back Karyn.
The Commissioner breathed deep. He rose from his chair and stared at a map of the city on his office wall. What is the range of this weapon?
Karyn frowned; thought for a moment and said, “That depends what altitude it is detonated at.”
“World One is over 1,400 feet tall.”
She shot Jack Senegar a glance.
“A detonation radius at that altitude would reach a perimeter of forty maybe fifty miles, every single piece of electronic equipment within that perimeter would be fried.” Senegar paused then added, “This thing is big Commissioner, bigger than anything we have seen before.”
Karyn looked out the window, as the rain lashed hard against the glass. She said, “The prevailing weather conditions could have a mitigating effect on the blast.”
“The rain could also serve to magnify the intensity of the electronic surge,” said Jack Senegar. “Normally, EMP weapons don’t cause surge based casualties, but in this weather, it would be like dropping an high voltage cable into a crowded swimming pool.”
The Commissioner rattled his teacup back into its saucer, the shock on his face unmistakable.
Outside, in the square, the man with black eyes sat behind the wheel of the shabby air-conditioning van with the snowflake logo. He had been staring at the throw-down cell phone for sometime, now he picked it up and began pushing buttons in the way he had been shown. Soon, the new world would come, a new destiny for the whole of mankind.
30
Yolanda Madhuri
She just couldn’t figure it. Nashik Khadki had been cloyingly sweet the whole morning. It was almost as though he knew something she didn’t. Either that, or he was sick with something that was affecting his brain, probably syphilis again if the rumor mill was anything to go by. It was getting to the point you had to cop a shot of
Penicillin just to be in the same room as the guy. Yolanda Madhuri gave a cold shudder. The shoot was coming to an end. If she played her cards right, she wouldn’t have to see Bollywood’s most famous director for another couple of weeks at least and by that time, her secret plans to launch her own production company would have finally come to fruition. She would be free at last, to control her own destiny. Her new company would allow her total artistic and creative freedom, along with the ability to finance and make her very own feature films. The growth in her personal brand would be exponential and best of all, she would be able to make the kind of movies she had always dreamed of, unfettered by the vulgar demands of a male dominated culture that strove to subjugate women into roles of compliance.
But, as ever, there was a fly in the ointment and today’s most unwelcome fly had come in the shape of yet another hectoring phone call from her mother. Her mom had insisted that they meet for dinner. Mother had said that both she and father had words to say. Ominous. No doubt the words would come in the form of yet another lecture regarding her marital status. Yolanda didn’t want to get married. Not ever. Not even so she could stage some multi-million dollar magazine spread marriage event to wow the media. Sure, you could boost any kind of film project with that kind of publicity. If you played things right you could string out the ‘joy’ of the announcement over six months or more—but then, after that, you had to actually go through with it—sign your life over to some man so you could become his property and he could insinuate his lame-minded ideas on every part of your life. Yolanda just couldn’t do it. She couldn’t imagine how any woman could. Unless they were signing up for money and power, but of course Yolanda had that already and everything else it entailed besides. So why bother? The media loved her already. She was the most successful woman in the whole of India and to her adoring public she was mysterious, glamorous, unattainable—a perfectly balanced image of engaging virginity and lustful sex appeal. But Yolanda was smart enough to know that her box office draw wouldn’t last forever. Diversification was the only answer. But that was OK. She had sacrificed everything so that her career could get this far. Every minute of the day these last thirteen years dedicated to a career that would lead her out of her controlled life, into a new world of freedom. And her family expected her to give all that up, just so as they could trap her inside a life of married respectability, whatever that meant. Well, there was no way in hell that was going to happen, not ever.
Sitting in the back of her chauffeur driven Rolls–Royce Phantom, she was still fuming about the prospect of another lecture on her marital status, when the traffic ground to a sudden standstill. She cursed to herself. Her parents, neither of whom had worked in years, were sticklers for punctuality—if she was late for dinner they would use that as further ammunition against her.
Horns blared, engines revved and motor scooters weaved in and out of the stationary traffic, despite the heavy monsoon rains. The Rolls Royce wasn’t going anywhere.
Yolanda pressed the intercom switch so she could speak with the chauffer, partitioned from her by a bulletproof Lexan screen. “What the hell is going on? I have a very important appointment this evening and I cannot be late.”
“Sorry miss, it’s not just the rains. There is some kind of security clampdown going on. The nav-system is showing red all over the city. I will take the first detour I can find, but at the moment everything is jammed solid.”
Yolanda Madhuri sank back in her seat. Her parents would be furious, but it wouldn’t be the first time. The only thing certain now was that the evening was ruined beyond the hope of redemption.
31
Mumbai Police Headquarters
The knock came on the window. The man with the black eyes looked up in surprise, a frown creasing his brow. The knock came again—a traffic cop rapping on the window. The man with the black eyes paused, his fingers hovering above the cell phone keypad. The traffic cop made a gesture, spinning his index finger, indicating he wanted the window rolled down. The man with the black eyes balanced the cell phone on the edge of the dash and complied.
“You cannot park here. This is a restricted zone. You are blocking traffic.”
The man with black eyes shrugged. “I am late. I had to call my boss. The traffic is very bad today, what is going on?”
The cop said, “Never mind what is going on. Get this heap out of here right now, or I will slap you with a citation—selfish parking wastes everybody’s time.” The cop frowned. “Are you looking to waste my time?”
The man with black eyes shook his head slowly. “I got no beef with you officer. All I want to do is fire off this message. I finish up and we can both move on with our business, How’s that sound?”
The cop frowned harder. “No, it’s not alright. I don’t like your backchat. I want you out of here right now or I will…”
Horns blared. The cop glanced sideways, ju
st for a moment, but a moment was all it took. When he looked back inside the van, he found himself staring down the barrel of large caliber handgun. There was nothing he could say, the yawning blackness of the gun said it all, closing out the conversation permanently.
The man with the black eyes paused for a long moment; his finger on the trigger, absorbing the horror on his victims face, drinking in the fear and desperation of a man who knew the end was upon him. All those long years of uncertainty—long days and sleepless nights spent worrying about just such an eventuality as this—well, now it was here—over in a fraction of a second. A mundane life filled with servitude and futility, shut down by a single trigger pull.
The hollow point .45 took the cops face clean off, most of his head too; the power of the point-blank impact toppling the body backwards into traffic. The man with the black eyes didn’t bother to roll the window back up. Large drops of rain spattered heavily into the van, blackening the dirty-grey interior.
All around, horns blared. A rising cacophony, as desperate shouts, and the sound of running feet came pounding through the rain-filled horror.
Everything was rain now, the whole world awash, in awful melting panorama of glistening death. Perhaps the rain would never stop? Perhaps it would always be this way? The man with the black eyes reached for the cell phone. He pressed buttons. It only took a moment and then, seconds after that—
32
The flash came first, a blinding burst of light that bounced down off the cloud base and filled the city with a momentary sense of wonder. All eyes turned to the sky, so they might witness the spectacle. But the light, almost brighter than the sun, dazzled only for the very briefest fraction of a second. The blast came next, a gargantuan roar that funneled down the canyon streets of Mumbai’s financial district. The blast consumed everything—swallowing entire city blocks in a vast pyroclastic flow of molten debris—burgeoning, tumbling, devouring every last trace of humanity.
