The Siege: The Attack on the Taj Mumbai

by Cathy Scott-Clark

  On the fifteenth day of Roza, Qahafa the Bull and the Indian mujahid Hamza took the team into the hills above the House of the Holy Warriors to let off steam. They were ordered to run and fire, rolling and diving. There was a surfeit of ammunition. ‘Do as you please.’ They spent the afternoon being taught how to prepare a lunch box bomb, cramming sticky white RDX into tiffin tins layered with pink foam, attaching a fuse and timer of a kind that Al-Qama bragged had been used by the Taliban and Al-Qaeda in 2,800 attacks in Afghanistan and Pakistan. The fidayeen capped the evening off with shooting practice. ‘Fire until you can shoot no more,’ Al-Qama shouted through the confetti of shredded targets.

  On the sixteenth day of Roza, the barber arrived. He took a cut-throat razor to their Hadeethi beards and straggly locks before they were photographed for their student ID cards.

  On the seventeenth day of Roza, the team returned to Karachi and the Azizabad safe house. An Urdu magazine, Tayabat, had been left lying around. Ajmal noticed a brief item about six fidayeen who had been martyred in Indian-administered Kashmir. He recognized the names and his stomach flipped. They were his recently departed comrades. He was transfixed by the news, trying to suppress the feeling that they, too, were destined to die. He hid the magazine from the team. It was bad enough that he knew. Why scare them too?

  On the nineteenth day of Roza, Qahafa distributed ten timers and explained how to prime them, asking each team member to mark one with his name, as if telling school children to label their coats before hanging them in the cloakroom. ‘These are for the big bangs,’ he said simply. They were taken back to the creek. They sailed out to meet Hakim-saab aboard the Al-Hussaini, growing more confi-dent on the water, the captain showing them how to pilot a yellow inflatable speedboat, their landing craft for Mumbai. He taught them how to sink a boat by ‘removing its valve’ and explained tul and chaurai, the lines of longitude and latitude. At night they worked on learning their ciphers: names, addresses, colleges. They lay on the deck, staring at the stars.

  On the twenty-sixth day of Roza, each team member was given a well-packed rucksack containing enough ammunition to launch a sustained terrorist attack and enough food and water to keep them going for more than twenty-four hours. There were a Kalashnikov, eight magazines – 240 rounds – eight hand grenades, one bayonet, one pistol, three pistol magazines, one water bottle, a one-kilo pack of raisins and almonds, headphones, three nine-volt batteries, a battery charger and a tiffin box containing eight kilos of RDX. Supply sacks for the journey were also handed over and contained blankets, rice, flour, oil, pickles, milk powder, matches, detergent, tissue paper, bottles of Mountain Dew, toothpaste, tooth brushes, razors and towels. They were issued with new Western clothes and told to cut out the labels. All of them were handed watches set thirty minutes ahead, to Indian time. Abu Hamza distributed an emergency float of 10,800 Indian rupees (£130) for each buddy pair, a GPS handset, and a black and silver pre-programmed Nokia 1200. Finally the men taped their AK-47 magazines together in combat configuration, allowing a rapid turn-around. ‘Sleep well,’ Hamza whispered, as he switched off the light.

  On 27 September, they set out in two dinghies. The currents swirled around them, the wind whipping in, hauling them on to rocks, sinking the boats and leaving the inexperienced sailors treading water for hours in their life jackets, fearing they would die, until at last they were rescued, disorientated and terrified.

  A few nights later, they tried again, another boat having been purchased. A growling storm from nowhere ran them down. They could not break through it. Hundreds of gallons of diesel were wasted and Hakim-saab lost control of the Al-Hussaini, steering too close to an Indian trawler that, fearing pirates, fired on them. The crew of seasick Punjabis beat a retreat. Back on dry land, their battle packs and new clothes were taken away and the dejected team were led back to Azizabad. They sat waiting, doing nothing, until Eid arrived on 1 October. Now the trainers tried to rebuild their confidence, throwing a lavish feast, making a biryani from a whole goat. Afterwards, two of the recruits demonstrated how to plant bombs beneath the seat of a moving taxi, without being seen by the unsuspecting driver – while all the others watched and ate sweet jalabis.

  Then there was nothing. For six dead weeks they sat around. Ajmal counted the days, becoming desperate. They all ate and slept, their frustration and fear mounting – the atmosphere inside the house sliding into paranoia. Finally, on 21 November, the team were woken and packed into a jeep with blacked-out windows that drove to the creek-side base. They got out to find their planners – chacha Zaki, Hamza, Zarrar, Qahafa and Al-Qama – waiting in a line. The battle packs, cash, mobiles, satellite phones and GPS machines were redistributed before chacha Zaki addressed them all. The weather was fine and a moonless night was coming. This was their window. Brother Ismail was to be made overall leader, while Umer would take charge of the two teams in the Taj. Finally, Zaki told them he was off on haj, from where he would pray for success.

  ‘Amir Hafiz and all of us have made huge efforts for this mission. Your training must now come to fruition. We have made you capable and skilled warriors. Do your duty and do not bring shame on yourself.’ Zaki surveyed the ten frowning faces. He solemnly held out his hands upturned, and prayed like a true Hadeethi.

  ‘May Allah take care of you and protect you.’

  At 5.00 a.m. on 22 November, the teams were woken for namaz. By 6 a.m., they started walking with their packs, reaching the creek. Ismail was issued with the satellite phone. At 7 a.m., a dinghy drew in, and they clambered aboard. Sea-going currents tugged at them gently for ninety minutes, until they reached a bigger vessel. They boarded and sailed for many hours.

  By 9 p.m. that night they glimpsed the familiar silhouette of the Al-Hussaini. Aboard, Hakim-saab was waiting and had his crew haul the kitbags and men on to the deck, before he and three others sailed back for Karachi. The ten attackers and a crew of seven set a course south-east across the Arabian Sea, inhaling the smell of fuel and fish that set their stomachs on edge.

  The following morning, 23 November, they crossed into Indian waters. From now on, even their cover story would not save them if they came across an Indian navy patrol. Jails in Gujarat were crammed with trespassing Pakistani sailors, some of whom might have been fishermen, none of whom were spared by the courts that condemned them to squalid prisons, where they rotted.

  Finally, they spotted an Indian fishing trawler with its elevated wooden prow rising like a Viking warship, its name, MV Kuber, painted in black, blue and yellow letters on the wheelhouse. The first test was upon them. As it drew near, a Lashkar brother produced a broken fan belt and waved it in the air as if they were adrift. The two boats came together, and the fidayeen leapt on to the Indian vessel, overpowering the crew, wrestling the unsuspecting fishermen on to Al-Hussaini, leaving only the Indian nakhva (captain), Amarchand Solanki, on board MV Kuber. After transferring their kit on to the new vessel, Solanki was dragged into the engine room and tied up.

  The Al-Hussaini crew slaughtered the rest of the Indian fishing party and threw their bodies over the side, before turning back towards Karachi.

  Aboard the MV Kuber, the fidayeen were finally alone. All of them sat on deck, grim-faced, as for the first time heavy waves reared up and slapped the deck. Brother Ismail knew what to do. He switched on his satellite phone and listened to the static. ‘Salaam Alaikum?’ he tried, his voice breaking up as his nerves got the better of him. They all waited, afraid of the phone. Had they been abandoned?

  Then a voice: ‘Walaikum assalam.’

  They cheered. It was the familiar tone of Abu Hamza, the Indian mujahid, replying from the Karachi control room at Malir Town. They had not been abandoned, even if they were pitching and yawing. For the next thirty-two hours they sailed, feeling more optimistic, bearing south-south-east for 309 nautical miles, forcing Solanki to check his boat’s course, keeping the control room up to date with their progress. The team took it in turns to stand guard, cook and sleep, wr
iting their duty times in a ruled schoolbook.

  At 4 p.m. on 26 November, their confidence ebbed when they spotted the coastline of India. Soon after, recalled Ajmal, ‘We started seeing the tall buildings of Bombay.’ Stunned, they stood on deck and stared. By 6 p.m., they could see before them all the evidence that a person who had never left Pakistan needed of the riches gleaned from near-stability and partial secularism, a vista of palms, towers and villas, strung with lights, of hotels and offices blazing with neon.

  ‘Make it burn. Set it all alight, my brothers,’ Al-Qama had said, as the dinghies left the creek in Karachi. Did he worry that they might waver upon arrival, preferring to abscond, and disappear in successful, mercantile Mumbai? ‘What should we do with the Indian captain?’ Ajmal asked, snapping everyone out of their reverie, and not wanting to decide on his own.

  Ismail got on the phone to Abu Hamza in Karachi control. ‘Do whatever you want,’ the Indian mujahid said, urging them to make the decision. Ajmal looked at Ismail: ‘Kill him?’ he whispered, shaking. Ismail nodded. Shoaib and Umer held Solanki’s legs while Ajmal closed his eyes, scrunching his face up, clutching the man’s hair, before cutting his throat, concealing the horror that overcame him.

  They had stepped over a threshold. All of them were blooded.

  Above deck, the yellow inflatable was prepared. Before lowering it into the sea, they prayed, and changed into their new clothes. Ismail handed out the ID cards and red Hindu threads that Headley had bought at Mumbai’s Shree Siddhivinayak Ganapati Mandir, a multi-storey cream-coloured Ganesha temple, popular with Bollywood stars.

  The few signs that pointed to Pakistan as their homeland had been shorn and they had been turned into faceless martyrs in a conscious process of attenuation that saw their willpower and self-image whittled away, until they felt grateful for being sent to their deaths. Looking at the others, their hair slicked down with almond oil, Ajmal recalled being briefly unable to tell them apart. They could be anyone among one billion people, he thought. They were no one.

  Above the roar of the Yamaha engine, Brother Ismail held a GPS aloft, like the boat’s figurehead, guiding them to the darkened huts of Badhwar Park and the fishermen’s colony that David Headley had earmarked as the perfect landing spot.

  ‘Let’s not bring disgrace upon us all,’ Ismail shouted before the engines were cut, and the boat glided between the fishing boats, nudging up to the shore.

  Ahead Ajmal could hear muffled voices, and inhaled the smell of frying fish and fenugreek that made their stomachs growl. They allowed their eyes to grow accustomed to the gloaming, their ears attuning to the foreign accents. A TV was blaring, tuned in to the India–England cricket match. In the shacks ahead, a boisterous crowd of drinkers had gathered, their silhouettes weaving and swaying.

  As he leapt ashore, Ajmal recalled chacha Zaki’s parting blessing: ‘May Allah make true everything you wish for in your heart.’ He raced up the slip and into the city, heart pumping, tears in his eyes.

  An hour later, David Headley received an SMS. With M1 (Shazia) ensconced in Chicago, he was back with M2 (Faiza) in a rented apartment in Lahore. ‘Turn on your TV.’ The sender was Sajid Mir. A second text bleeped soon after, from M1 herself. Shazia was watching television, too, and she congratulated her husband on ‘the graduation’.

  5

  Lambs and Chickens

  Wednesday, 26 November 2008, 11.30 p.m. – the Taj

  A legion of camera crews from all over the subcontinent swirled around the Taj, reporters, anchors and their producers pooling in the lanes around its perimeter, their kitbags spilling and cables coiling. ‘The city that never sleeps has been brought to its knees this Wednesday night by unprecedented multiple terror attack, bringing areas from the south to the north of the metropolis under its grip,’ a CNN–IBN reporter bellowed, in the manner of Dashiell Hammett. Everyone was shouting to be heard, illuminating the night sky with their floodlights, leaching into each other’s sightlines.

  From his eyrie in the Rendezvous Room at the top of the Tower, the Marine captain, Ravi Dharnidharka, looked down over the scene in dismay. Why had no one locked down the perimeter? It all seemed out of control. The only thing that was missing was the most important thing of all: where were the blinking lights from the rescue vehicles? Bob Nicholls, an old hand in Mumbai who had had many dealings with the security establishment, feared that the response, when it came, would be too little, too late. ‘We’re going to have to look after ourselves,’ he warned.

  Down below, on the third floor of the Palace, Will and Kelly sat holding one another, listening out for the sounds of commandos clattering in to save them. ‘That’s what happens, right?’ Will asked.

  One and a half miles away, Commissioner Gafoor sat outside the Trident–Oberoi in his staff car, playing it by the book, which required him to lead from a secure position out in the field. But he and his front-line forces remained invisible to the besieged citizens of a terrified city and its guests. The specialist Quick Response Teams had finally made it downtown, only to be assigned to marshal the press, although they were so outnumbered that they hung back, listless and demoralized. Small units of police and soldiers aimlessly circled the hotel, like pedalos in a park, following Gafoor’s instruction not to take on the gunmen inside the besieged buildings. They were to stand down until the National Security Guard (NSG), India’s elite counter-terrorism force, arrived – Rakesh Maria had called for it almost immediately. ‘Let the correct agency handle it,’ the Commissioner argued, paralysing the whole emergency response network.

  What no one in Mumbai realized was that the NSG was still penned in its barracks near Delhi, a three-hour flight away, and could only be mobilized when the Maharashtra government requested help. Yet state officials were still not ready to admit they were overwhelmed. The MARCOS, India’s equivalent of the UK’s Special Boat Service or the US Navy SEALs, were more accessible, with some men stationed down the road in Colaba. They could literally have jogged to the Taj. But they also required Maharashtra to make a formal call to the Western Naval Command. There, officers already had reservations, making it clear in high-level secret discussions that the MARCOS were ‘the wrong dog for the fight’. Trained in anti-piracy actions, these Marines were happy on a Halo drop into a heaving sea, strapped into their 30kg kit, each with a cross-bow across his back to silently knock out sentries on a ship’s deck. But a five-star hotel was unknown territory.

  It was more than two hours since the gunmen had entered the Taj, and so far only six policemen had followed them in, led by Vishwas Patil, the Deputy Commissioner of Police of Zone 1.

  Inside, Patil, Rajvardhan – the chief of SB2 – and their small team were still flummoxed by the hotel’s complex layout, while the gunmen seemed to have a far superior understanding of it and were using it to their advantage, playing hit-and-run among the 567 guest rooms. Recently the Black Suits had come up with an idea to narrow the odds, suggesting that the hotel’s CCTV room, on the Palace’s second floor, could afford a bird’s-eye view.

  Patil consulted Rajvardhan, who, in the last half-hour, had locked down the hotel’s exits, immobilizing its lifts, and evacuated hundreds of guests hiding in ground floor shops and restaurants. He was ready for the hunt but warned they would need a guide to get up there. The Black Suit Puru Petwal, who had helped evacuate the Tower lobby, volunteered.

  Petwal and the police party gingerly crossed into the Palace lobby, and almost immediately an ear-splitting blast knocked them off their feet. The gunmen were at the top of the Grand Staircase, hurling down grenades. Rolling clear, Petwal suggested an alternative route, leading the shaken team up a fire exit. Rajvardhan was cursing. Petwal was armed only with his mobile phone. No one had body armour or helmets. The police team of constables and inspectors had about fifty rounds between them. The two DCPs only had side arms, which were practically useless unless there was close-quarters fighting. They faced men with a full complement of firepower.

  ‘The only p
erson you can reliably kill with a high-power 9mm is yourself,’ Rajvardhan whispered to his batch-mate, recalling the old training mantra about drawing your pistol, as they loped along the second floor of the south wing, passing the Taj Data Centre.

  Inside, Florence Martis was agitated. Faustine had finally got through to her at 10 p.m. and had tried to break it to her gently. ‘Don’t get scared,’ he said, ‘but gunmen are inside the building. You should hide.’ Faustine tried to steady his daughter: ‘The Data Centre is not on the hotel map. No outsider can know it’s there. I will come for you. Do you hear?’

  But Florence was scared. She felt like a shaken bottle of cola. She frantically looked around: desks along three walls, half a dozen chairs, a small number of terminals and a printer, a couple of ancient upright fans. There was a small stationery room, where they hung their jackets, and the server room. She entered the latter, and her phone rang. ‘Hello?’ It was Precilla, her mother. ‘Where are you?’ she asked. ‘Mum, I’m trapped in my office.’ Florence felt tears welling, imagining being curled up on the sofa in her mother’s arms. But right now she needed inspiration and not consolation.

  Florence scrabbled for a calming thought, settling on Faustine on a Sunday, the only time all of them were together. He was steaming idli (savoury rice cakes), with mutton stewing on the back ring. Later, they would go to Mass at St Lawrence’s, where they always sat on the same bench. She imagined walking in with her father to greet the congregation.

  She turned off the lights, locked the door and sat in the dark, praying for her father to come. Suddenly all the phones started ringing. Was it the gunmen, hunting for hostages? She left the server room and went into the storeroom, hiding behind the coats. But it felt too claustrophobic.