“Seema is not just another employee. She has given my company a lot. Besides, she is a widow and has a little daughter. I can’t leave her amid the wolves.”
“What makes you think she’s alive?”
“She might not be. But I won’t sleep without ensuring I’ve done everything possible to bring her back.”
“What do you want from me, Diya?”
“Use your contacts. Use your power. Pull some levers.”
Anwar made a brooding face. He seemed to be exploring options.
“I’m going to call up a few top law enforcement officials. Let’s see what they can do.”
Diya nodded. At least that’s a start.
“But promise me one thing. You’re not going to personally get into Seema’s investigation. These people look dangerous. You better stay away from them.”
“OK.”
32
Seema opened her eyes and winced, trying to fight the brightness piercing her eyes. She remembered passing out with nausea some time back. How long ago, she didn’t remember. Maybe hours, maybe days. She felt a cold sensation on her right hand. It turned out to be a handcuff, fastened to a shackle protruding from the floor.
Her eyes caught the figure of someone standing in front of her. It was an old man; tall and lean, his head almost touching the low height ceiling. He was wearing rimless glasses and was dressed impressively – a jet black suit, spotless white shirt and shiny black shoes.
“Mrs Seema. One of the top journalists of India. How does it feel to be caged like an animal?” the man sneered with a slightly nasal voice. His face bore an intellectual look, accentuated by his French cut beard and greying hair, which had retreated enough to make his temple look broader.
“So you’re the bastard who got me kidnapped?”
“Impressive statement. I expected a more common question from you, like ‘Where am I?’ or ‘Who are you?’ But now that you have asked me a different question, let me answer it like this…,” he said with a flowing language and a condescending tone, as if conducting an orchestra. “You’re not kidnapped. You are dead. Dead, the moment you entered this facility. The powers that be, wanted you dead immediately. But I convinced them of your value. You can be such an important subject for our… projects.”
Seema was confused. “Who are you?”
“That’s the last thing you should be worried about… considering that you are about to go through a … transformative experience,” he said with a cunning smile. “I am usually called by the name Doctor.”
“Dr Avneesh Chauhan?”
“Oh! You have done your research. But unfortunately, you kicked a hornet’s nest with your little curiosity and look where it brought you,” the Doctor said. “To answer your question, Dr Avneesh Chauhan is only a name. Just a channel for me to get access to subjects.”
“What kind of subjects?”
“Subjects for our clinical trials,” he said. Seeing her confused and at sea, he smiled and continued, “Ohhh… I’m so sorry. You don’t know what’s happening, do you? That’s good. That mitigates the risk of you telling someone else about all this. Let me now explain to you in very simple words what’s happening. We are testing a molecule on humans.”
“Molecule?”
“Yes. A molecule, which has now been achieved as a drug, both in solid and liquid formulations. We call it NB-67. What does it do? It makes you dream. Simple.” His smile widened. “Actually, it makes you fear. It makes you feel threatened. To a point that you can no longer escape. So you react. You react with the primeval instincts of the human species. You attack your enemy and finish him off. NB-67 wakes up the inner demons in you, buried in the recesses of your mind.”
Seema’s stomach started churning. She could feel herself being consumed by a terrible sense of fear. Inner Demons. Are Nitin Tomar’s actions and Bandhavgarh killings related to NB-67?
“You look lost. Won’t you ask me why you’re here?” the Doctor questioned. “You’re here as a trial subject. The plan is to administer you with NB-67 and then monitor you. There are lingering problems with the efficacy of this drug. It’s quite selective. Almost at a genetic level. Many a time when the subject is on NB-67, the results are not as we like them to be. The drug fails to express itself and subject is unaffected. We are still trying to remove all such deficiencies in the drug. But don’t worry. In case we fail to see the desired effect in you, we’ll do something to make the game interesting.”
“Son-of-a-bitch. You’re going to rot in hell,” Seema screamed. She tried to grab the man’s collar, but was restrained by her shackles.
“Good to see you behave like that,” the man said, laughing. “It’s going to help us.”
“I’m finally getting what you bastards are up to. What you’re doing to me, you did to Nitin Tomar and Kunal Chaubey also. They were depressed. They were fighting with life. And you guys approached them with phony psychiatrists and administered them with your drug. They murdered innocents and you watched them. That must have been your eureka moment. Isn’t it?”
“Phony psychiatrists! That’s an insult, my dear,” he said. “Ever heard these words from the Bhagavad Gita? – ‘I am become death, the destroyer of worlds!’… There was only one psychiatrist. Me. I’m the father of this drug. It’s me who finds the subjects. It’s me who tells them to consume it. It has been only me all the way.”
“You’ve betrayed the trust of your patients…”
“Every drug has some side effect. So does every big mission.”
“What’s your mission?”
“That’s none of your business. You aren’t going to endure our trial anyways.”
Seema’s eyes started to swell with tears. She thought about Vidisha, who would be all alone in the world now. You don’t deserve this, my child.
“Are you thinking about your daughter?”
Seema looked at him with rage. Is the bastard reading my thoughts?
“Poor girl. How will she survive?” he taunted her with a sad face. “Both her parents dying horrible deaths. Really awful.”
“You’re going to pay for your deeds. I might be dead then, but remember what I say today. You’ll die in excruciating pain. There will be retribution for every horror you’ve committed.”
He didn’t reply. Just kept looking into Seema’s eyes with a smirk.
“I have a gift for you,” he said, pulling out a manila envelope from his coat pocket. He passed it to Seema, who hesitated for a moment, but couldn’t avoid taking it.
Seema looked at what was inside. It was a stack of photographs. She eased them out. Her eyeballs almost popped out on seeing the first photo. Oh my God! It was the severed head of a man she had met recently. Dr Kalyan Ghosh. Her hands began trembling. She quickly shuffled through the next few photos. All of them were images of Dr. Kalyan’s headless corpse, taken from different angles. She felt sick, but being a crime reporter, it wasn’t the first time she was looking at such photos. She tried to pull herself together.
However, the next photo gave her nothing short of a nervous breakdown. It was the picture of a completely mangled car taken from the front. A smashed skull was protruding from its shattered windshield. Her heart began thumping. The churning in her stomach grew worse. No. No. Please, no. She looked at the number plate. No. It was her husband’s car. The photo was of the horrific road accident in which Mohit had passed away.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” she screamed and tossed the photos at the Doctor’s face.
The man didn’t flinch. He was smiling.
“We administered you with NB-67 a couple of hours ago. But you’re a tough bitch. The drug failed to express itself within your body. As I told you before, I had a card up my sleeves to make this game interesting. We call it external stimulation. These photos have helped us achieve that. What I’ve shown you is absolutely nothing in comparison to what you’ll go through now. Good luck!” he said and left the room.
33
11 Am, Ambala City
Prakash was the last man to leave Roshni Lodge. The trio had decided to move out one by one in different directions to avoid being trailed. The plan was to meet at the Ambala Cantt. Railway Station in two hours and take a train to New Delhi. That appeared to be the safest way out of this place.
Mrinal had gone to check out his car in spite of Prakash’s warning. It was just too much for him to dump his car in some alley. He wanted to place it in some car garage for repairs and come back for it when things cooled off.
It was a bright sunny day. Prakash walked on the road in front of the lodge for a few minutes and then sneaked into a narrow lane. He kept his pace normal. Any sign of panic could be a giveaway. The lane ended in another road leading up to the Grand Trunk road. He checked for any suspicious movement in the small betel shops, metal works shops and car-repair garages lined up on the road. An auto-rickshaw was coming his way. He signalled it to stop. It was time to visit the hotel he was previously checked in at Ambala. He had called up the reception at the hotel to pack-up his bag and send it downstairs. Let’s hope everything goes well.
* * *
An auto-rickshaw laboured past the heavy traffic on Jagadhari Road. The heat had steadily risen in the last few hours and it seemed to have rubbed off the driver the wrong way. He was cursing every obstacle on the road, be it living or non-living. In contrast, the passenger sitting behind him was feeling a lot lighter.
Kunal felt as if a ton of weight had been lifted off his chest. Consumed by the guilt of murdering his friends, he had seen his life become hell over the years. But now, he had the chance to redeem himself. He had put Prakash on the right track. Once they reached New Delhi, he would become an undercover source for him. The devil will finally be defeated.
He recalled the hardships he had faced since that fateful night. After the gruesome turn of events, he could never gather the courage to return to his college. There was also no family to go back to. His parents were long dead. He couldn’t even claim their insurance money because he was believed to be dead or missing. Getting back to live a normal life was too risky.
So, he took up small time jobs of a driver, a waiter and an insurance salesman, often shifting bases from one part of the country to another. He had not been able to sleep peacefully a single day, often awakened by the slightest of sounds. One day, unable to bear the mental torture any more, he decided that enough was enough. He would find and bring to justice the men who destroyed his life.
He clenched his jaws with anger. These bastards will be on TV soon. Open for vultures to feast on them. A lot of sins are going to be paid for.
34
A usually secluded farmhouse in the Jharoda Kalan village, located in one of the green belts of Delhi, was witnessing some unusual action today. Two bulky Toyota Land Cruisers had made their way through the gates. They were followed by a Swift Dzire and an Indica. A couple of hours ago a Toyota Innova had also found its way into the farmhouse. Once these cars were inside, the gates of the farmhouse were locked. A few men dressed in military camouflage attire and armed with M-4 carbine rifles spread themselves throughout the compound.
Tejeshwar Kushwaha was happy to be back in Delhi after almost two years. This was the city that had helped him become who he was today. Delhi often made him feel more powerful. He looked out his window, as his Land Cruiser passed by a carefully manicured garden. It pulled over near the entrance of a large hall connected to a two-storied building at its back. His driver Dara Singh stepped out to open the door of the SUV for him.
Another Land Cruiser stopped exactly behind his. Vinod Kushwaha came out of it. The other cars streamed into a small parking lot beside the garden and stopped there.
A muscular man with crew-cut hair came out from the hall and greeted Tejeshwar. Not able to recognize him, he turned his head towards his son Vinod in an asking gesture.
“He is Jatin Solanki. We call him Sultan. He is Ex-MARCOS, and leads our core operations,” said Vinod. MARCOS stood for Marine Commandos, the elite Special Ops unit of the Indian Navy.
“Where’s Pramod?” Tejeshwar asked with a frown. “I thought he was in-charge when you took over.”
“He has joined Academi full-time.”
Academi was the new identity for Blackwater, the powerful private military organization of the US.
“Why? And when?” Tejeshwar shot back. “You should’ve informed me.”
Pramod used to be his old warhorse and an exceptional operative. Losing him to another organization was a big loss.
“He was too old-fashioned. Unwilling to toe the line,” Vinod said bluntly. “The new line.”
Tejeshwar shook his head with regret. Vinod is changing the core of what we stood for.
Sultan tried to deflect the topic of discussion. “The Quds party is already here. They are sitting in the quarters.”
“Let’s go then,” Vinod said, not looking at his father.
Sultan led them through the hall into a room furnished with three large sofa sets. A mini bar stood at one corner of the room. It often served as the meeting room for the Kushwahas.
There were three men sitting on a sofa. They were of middle-eastern origins – fair and dark haired. Their casual clothes intended to present them as common tourists from the Middle East. But Tejeshwar knew otherwise.
These men belonged to the Quds Force, a Special Forces unit of Iran’s Revolutionary Guard. It was devoted to spreading the Islamic revolution throughout the world. The current tug-of-war between Iran and their old foe Israel over the former’s attempts at building a nuclear arsenal had prepared the ground for the Quds. They were now spread over countries like Thailand, India, Kenya, Georgia and Azerbaijan, hunting down Israeli diplomats and Mossad agents. The Quds were behind the recent spate of attacks on Israeli embassy staff in India, Georgia and Thailand.
The Iranians stood up seeing Tejeshwar and Vinod enter the room. Sultan began introducing them, reading their names from a small chit.
“Meet Mr. Karim Behzadi, Mr. Ali Jabbari and Mr. Massoud Fallahi.”
Tejeshwar shook hands with them. So did his son. He gestured towards Sultan, telling him to move out of the room.
Massoud looked like their leader to Tejeshwar. He was old, but his eyes held the sharpness of a spy who had seen the world a lot. The man was looking at him, reading him. Tejeshwar didn’t expect this man to do the talking. He’ll just observe.
He was proven correct when Karim began the discussion, looking at Vinod. “Mr. Kushwaha we come with a reference from one of your previous clients and we desire to use your services.”
“Call me Vinod, please. So, who’s the client you’re talking about?”
Tejeshwar interjected before Karim could reply. “Let us not discuss any client names or previous missions in this forum.” He looked into his son’s eyes, indicating what he said was meant for him. How many times will I have to tell you not to discuss our clients openly?
Vinod understood his father’s intent and changed the topic. “How do you want us to help you?”
“We understand that the Kushwaha family has been in the business of special operations which can be executed outside the perimeter of law. We desire to carry out one such operation in your country. But it will not be against India, it will be against an old enemy.”
“And what would that operation be?”
“We want you to carry out an attack on an Israeli contingent visiting Bangalore. They are here for an international nuclear science summit.”
“It would be great if you can clarify what you mean by an attack?” Vinod asked.
“We want everyone in the contingent dead. These people are Israeli scientists,” Karim said.
“Scientists!” Vinod frowned. “Why do you want to kill scientists?”
Karim looked at Massoud, as if asking for his permission to continue. Massoud closed his eyes for a moment and then nodded.
Karim continued, “The war between Iran and Israel is no longer between the soldiers and the diplomats. It has spilled o
ver to the civilians. Our country’s nuclear weapons program has been sabotaged by the bloody Zionist regime, with ample support from the Americans. They have used every means possible – sanctions, war threats, assassinations, computer viruses and God knows what. We have lost a lot of our key nuclear scientists over the years in attacks perpetrated by the Mossad. Most have been killed in our own country. Some were going to work, some traveling with family, some picking up children from day care. All killed in cold blood.”
He went on, “Then they attacked us with a computer virus… Stuxnet, one of the most sophisticated computer viruses ever. It led to many industrial accidents in our nuclear plants. We lost probably a decade of work because of this Goddamn virus. So, we decided to attack these motherfuckers back. Quds Force, that is us, has taken this war back to them. You remember the attacks on Israeli diplomats across the world as few years back?”
“The magnetic ‘sticky bombs’ you stuck on cars?” Vinod asked.
“Yes.”
Tejeshwar recalled the attack on an Israel diplomat’s wife in New Delhi a few years back. She was moving around the city in a car when a motorcyclist stuck a ‘sticky bomb’ at its rear. It was a big failure because the lady survived the explosion. He was amused when the hilarious failures of Quds Force came to his mind. Their agents would visit countries for big missions and then stay at five star hotels. They would get attracted to honey traps in nightclubs and bars and then caught by counter-agents.
“This time we want to hit the Israelis in their guts,” Karim continued. “You kill our scientists, we will kill yours.”
“If your men can bomb a car in India’s capital city on your own, why can’t you do it again in Bangalore?” Vinod asked. “Why do you need our help?”
Tejeshwar was really happy his son asked this question. Even though cross-questioning could make them lose the deal, it was important to ask difficult questions. Taking up missions you can’t accomplish can land you in big trouble.
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