“Ohhh… but…”
“Wait… wait… wait,” Raman cut him off mid-way in his sentence, his eyes still on the scope. “I think they just got into an auto. I can see an auto-rickshaw nosing out of the main gate.”
“OK. Great. We are going after them,” Patil said and hung up.
Raman dropped his mobile on the ground. One final shot. He took a long breath in, and did not breathe out. He turned his rifle slowly, its scope tracing the auto-rickshaw’s line of motion. With a minor adjustment of the focus, he brought the vehicle’s linen covered back into the cross-hairs.
His finger caressed the trigger. The shot was only a millisecond away.
He heard some commotion behind him. Turning around, he saw a couple of workers standing near the staircase, looking at him with suspicion. He sprung from his position, dismantled the gun and wrapped up his things. For once, he thought about killing the witnesses, but decided against it. That’ll complicate things. He rushed out of the building, took out his mobile and dialled Patil’s number.
“Patil, pick me up from the main road. I’ll be there in a few seconds.”
59
Seema was looking at a half-awake Mrinal with concern. The handkerchief she had tied over his wound had turned crimson in colour. “We have to find a hospital immediately. He’s losing blood.”
Prakash nodded. He knew time was running out for Mrinal. A wave of guilt swept through him. Mrinal had come to help only at his insistence. And he was going to die now. He looked at him. His eyes were narrowed to slits and his breathing had slowed.
“We are going to save you Mrinal,” Prakash whispered in his ears. “Just hang on.”
He shifted his gaze from Mrinal to look at the road. Just then, he glimpsed something odd in the driver’s side mirror: an SUV, about half a kilometer away, moving at an unusually high speed. His eyes became wide with fear.
“Drive fast, bhaiya, people are coming after us,” Prakash yelled.
“You guys have put me in trouble,” complained the driver uneasily. “How fast can an auto run?” He twisted the accelerator to its maximum. In response, the engine growled like an alien creature. The vehicle shook and swayed as its speed touched eighty kilometres per hour.
Prakash looked at the mirror. The SUV was catching up fast. We can’t run away. He felt a nudge on his hand. It was Mrinal. He was mumbling something.
Prakash brought his ears near his friend’s lips.
“There’s something… in the small of my back…. Take it out,” Mrinal whispered, with short gasps.
Prakash frowned, but still eased his hand behind Mrinal’s back. He felt something hard and metallic. A pistol! He pulled it out and felt his way around its trigger. “You picked up Divakar’s gun?” he asked with surprise.
Mrinal nodded. He had a faint smile on his lips.
“You’re an intelligent bastard!” Prakash said. “But, I don’t know how much it’s going to help.”
He looked at the mirror again. The SUV was only a few dozen meters away. He saw the barrel of a rifle protruding from its rear seat.
Before he could figure out how his puny pistol would match a bunch of rifle-toting men, the big vehicle curved sharply like a cheetah and blocked the path of another auto-rickshaw running parallel to it. The latter stopped with a loud screech. Men carrying guns sprung out of the SUV and thrust them into the smaller vehicle.
Prakash realized what had just happened. Their pursuers had waylaid the wrong vehicle. It would be one minute before the men realized their mistake and resumed their pursuit. Bhaiya, drive faster. Drive faster.
“Have they ambushed the wrong auto?” Seema asked, intrigued by the scene behind them.
“Yes. We’re next,” Prakash replied. For once, he thought of getting down and running into the bylanes. But that might prove disastrous. They’ll hunt us down easily.
“What are we going to do? ... Are you going to use that?” she asked with fearful eyes, pointing at the pistol he was holding.
“I don’t know.”
The SUV had started again and was quickly closing in on them. Their auto-rickshaw was grinding its wheels at eighty-five kilometres an hour. The big vehicle took only half a minute to cover the distance between them. The chase was over.
It was time to do something.
Prakash’s heart was beating rapidly. He gripped the pistol hard. In a second, the SUV emerged from behind and began running parallel to their vehicle.
Let’s do it, then.
He fired two bullets at the front wheel.
* * *
In that scary, spine-chilling moment when his vehicle veered out of control, Raman knew his time was up. With eyes full of horror, he looked at the man who had just fired a few bullets into the front tyre and sealed his fate. There was going to be no retirement, no hiding away in a blissful countryside.
He closed his eyes for a second and found himself lying on the ground under the dusky sky, staring down the barrel of an HK417 held at his face by a masked man. It was the same dream he often used to have. But, to his surprise, he could actually feel the cold touch of metal against his chin.
“This is the end,” the assailant hissed.
“Who… who are you?”
In the mouth of the balaclava, he could see a smile form on the man’s lips. He removed his mask in an unhurried manner.
Raman shook his head, perplexed. He gazed at his enemy with bulging eyes. “Your face… you are… you are…”
“I am you.”
The man pressed his finger on the trigger. Bang!
Raman opened his eyes in an instant. He was panting, his stomach churning, bile rising up his throat. In slow motion, he saw his vehicle glide towards a concrete wall. The wall kept coming near and near till there was complete darkness.
* * *
The SUV collided head-on with the wall of a farmhouse. The impact was brutal. The front part of the big vehicle was pulverized in a second. One tire got flung almost ten meters away.
The auto-rickshaw driver pushed his brake with all his might, making it screech to a halt hardly twenty meters from the accident site.
“What… what the hell have you done?” the driver yelped. He was aghast. “Get down from my auto. Niklo!”
“This is the moment,” Prakash said, clenching his jaws. “Get out and run, Seema! I’ll bring Mrinal.”
Seema was too shocked to react. She budged only when Prakash pushed her outwards. She got down from the vehicle and then helped Mrinal get down. Prakash was the last one to emerge.
He eyed the accident site. A plume of smoke was coming out from the place and a small crowd had gathered in front of it – some looking at the obliterated SUV and some looking suspiciously at their auto-rickshaw. He decided to ignore them. There were bigger things at stake.
He wedged Mrinal’s head in his right armpit and passed his left hand around his neck like a necklace. “We will have to walk like this for a few moments till we find a cab,” he whispered to his friend.
Mrinal nodded. He looked tired.
Prakash scanned the place for any exit routes. He saw an alley on the opposite side of the road. It led into a few bylanes a hundred meters away.
“Seema, let’s get into that alley. I’m coming behind you,” he said.
Seema complied and strode into the alley. Prakash plodded behind, carrying Mrinal who seemed to have lost all his energy. She was now walking almost fifty meters ahead of them. At one point, she took a left turn and disappeared into a bylane.
After a few minutes, when Prakash reached the mouth of that bylane, he saw her standing with face towards them about twenty meters away. She had a look of terror in her eyes.
Prakash noticed a couple of cars parked behind her. In a second, the doors of the cars opened and 5-6 men came out. They were holding rifles and pistols – all aimed at him and Mrinal.
Prakash closed his eyes. Game over.
60
Kushwaha Farmhouse, Jharoda Kalan, Delhi
/> Sultan’s lips curved into a smile as he watched the breaking news on Al Jazeera: Another Iranian nuclear scientist dead. Govt. claims ‘accidental death’.
The news anchor said that Kamran Ebrahimi, a retired nuclear scientist, was killed in a car explosion that took place in the basement parking of his apartment. He was 76. Previously, he oversaw a program at the Natanz uranium enrichment complex in Isfahan province in Iran. Hinting at assassination, not accidental death, the anchor expressed surprise at the killing of an old man, who supposedly had no contact with the Iranian nuclear program for the last four years.
The news then displayed a list of Iranian nuclear scientists, who had been assassinated in the last five years. It concluded with the testimony of a few Iranian security analysts who hinted at Israel’s hand in this assassination. According to an analyst, the Israelis might have been helped by the PMI, People’s Mujahedin of Iran, a terrorist organization in Iran. US involvement too, was suspected.
Sultan grinned. This was good news. Qasab had done his job, making the assassination look like a continuation of attacks against Iranian nuclear scientists. The blame had as usual passed on to Israel, PMI and the US. Any attack on Israeli nuclear scientists would now look like retaliation from Iran. That keeps us out of the picture.
There was some movement behind him. He turned around and saw Vinod Kushwaha standing.
“Good job, Sultan. That was swift and smooth,” Vinod said in a low voice, almost whispering. “But, why choose this old man?”
“Because he was an easy kill,” Sultan shrugged, smiling. “Kamran Ebrahimi was retired and used to live without any personal security.”
“How many people know about our role in this?”
“No one except you and me,” Sultan replied. “Not even your old man.”
“Good. What about the Bangalore mission?”
“On track. We will do it tonight. Unless you tell me to stand down.”
“And why would I say so?”
“Don’t you think that the Iranians might call off our mission after knowing about Kamran’s assassination? Any attack on Israeli people now will obviously point at Iranians however strongly they deny it.”
“That’s not going to happen. I had a discussion with Massoud a few minutes ago. He says our mission is a ‘go’. Iranians are really pissed off with Israel. They want revenge. They have been trying to give back the favour to Israel for years. But all they have achieved is a series of ludicrous failures. Their best chance is now. The Israeli scientists are already in India, out of their comfort zone. So, the Iranians realize that today may be the day to give the Zionists a taste of their own medicine.”
“Hmmm… But the Israelis have become cautious now, after Kamran’s death. They would be fools not to prepare for a backlash from Iran. I’ve heard that a team from the Mossad is already in India, to protect their scientists.”
“Thank God they didn’t pull out their scientists from India. Otherwise, all our plans would’ve come to naught. And as far as Mossad goes, we can tackle them in our country,” Vinod said while leaving the room.
Sultan did not react to Vinod’s boast. He knew he needed additional preparation to handle Mossad’s agents. Let’s take care of the more pressing issue first. He took out his mobile and checked for any missed calls. No calls from Raman and Patil. He called up Raman. Switched off.
He frowned and dialled Patil’s number. Again switched off.
Worried, he called one of his men in Delhi. “Why are Raman and Patil’s phones switched off?”
“It’s bad news, Sultan. Four of our members are dead including Patil and Raman. They got into a horrific accident near our Chattarpur safe house,” the henchman replied.
Sultan closed his eyes, absorbing the shock. He felt rage build up under his skin. This is getting out of control. “What about the targets?”
“Kunal Chaubey is dead. One more is heavily injured. But… but the other two targets managed to escape with him.”
“You mean you’ve no idea where they might be?”
“None as of now.”
“Get another team and carry on with the pursuit,” Sultan snapped. “And did you dig up the targets’ identities?”
“Besides Seema Sharma, we’ve identified one more. His name is Prakash Sinha, a reporter for Globe News.”
“Wow, two fucking journos are playing this game with us,” Sultan muttered. “What about the third guy?”
“We’re still working on him.”
“Find out quickly.”
61
“Where are you taking us?” Prakash enquired.
He had been blindfolded. So were Seema and Mrinal. They were sitting in the rear side of a Mahindra Scorpio, which had been moving since half an hour.
“I told you. No questions,” one of his captors growled.
“My friend is dying,” Prakash said. “He needs a doctor.”
“You open your bloody mouth once more, and I’ll blow your knee-cap away,” the man barked. “Boss will decide what to do with you people. If your friend can survive till then, well and good. Else…”
Prakash stopped bugging them. He wanted to ask the man who his boss was, but then thought otherwise. I’ll soon know.
Behind the blindfold, his eyes were weary with tiredness. The darkness was suffocating. As he leaned back on his seat with anxiety, he felt a warm touch on his left hand. It was Seema. He held her palm in his.
Are we going to get out of this alive?
62
Koramangala, Bangalore
Over the years, Hotel Le Regalia has emerged as the preferred destination for global summits and symposiums in Bangalore. It houses one of the largest convention centers in South India. So, when Bangalore decided to host the 6th Nuclear Science Summit, Le Regalia was the obvious choice.
The first day of the three-day summit had begun amid much fanfare, but not without the usual protests from environmentalists and nuclear disarmament supporters. Bangalore Police had placed barricades outside the hotel to prevent the protestors from entering its compound. A couple of water cannon vehicles were ready as part of contingency measures.
Unlike the buzz outside, the atmosphere inside the convention centre was relatively subdued. Discussions ranging from advancements in nuclear instrumentation and radiation technology, to quantum physics and astrophysics, whetted the scientific appetites of the intelligentsia. Representatives from 35 countries and journalists from many more were present there, and the organizers were elated that India and Bangalore were getting the world’s attention.
But their party was going to be spoiled horribly in a matter of hours. Unbeknownst to them, Le Regalia was going to be a battlefield soon. The seeds of the war had been sown two days ago, when a man identifying himself as Tilak Jaiswal had checked-in into the hotel. Wearing a neatly pressed suit and tie, he looked like a senior level manager at a company.
While walking towards his room from the reception, Tilak had made mental notes of the security arrangements and all possible exits. Once inside, he dialled a number from his mobile and said, “Room 406.” He then ordered some food using the room telephone.
In fifteen minutes, he heard a knock on his door. “Room Service,” someone called out. He opened the door and eyed the visitor, a waiter carrying a food trolley. “Everything is ready, Sir,” the waiter said, looking into Tilak’s eyes and nodding slightly.
Tilak checked for any onlookers in the corridor outside. Satisfied that no one else was there, let his visitor in and closed the door.
The waiter pulled out a duffel bag from under the food trolley and kept it on the bed. “Check it.”
Tilak unzipped the bag and went through its contents. He found a small chit in the bag. It had a list of five room numbers and a person’s name against each number. He noticed that all the room numbers started with 7. 7th floor.
“Good. You’re ready to play your part, right?” Tilak asked his visitor.
The man nodded and left.
&nbs
p; 63
From the echoes, Prakash could sense that they were inside a large room with a high ceiling. Walking with a blindfold had made him dizzy. He wondered what Seema was feeling. Her hand felt warm and sweaty. She seemed to be completely silent, complying obediently to their captors’ instructions.
Mrinal was no longer with them. After dropping the two at this place, their SUV had taken off with him. “We’re taking him to a doctor,” one man had said. Prakash did not resist. He knew Mrinal would be dead within an hour without treatment.
An abrupt silence in the room suggested that someone important had entered. The air in the room felt heavy with a sudden urgency. Prakash could hear people moving out and doors being closed.
A commanding voice broke the silence after a minute.
“Seema and Prakash! Two unusually stubborn reporters…” a mocking voice said. “Oh let me say it correctly… two Pulitzer Prize winning, ruthlessly stubborn reporters are standing blindfolded in front of me.”
Prakash could feel some twitching in Seema’s hand. It was followed by her voice.
“I know you… I know you” she mumbled and then said loudly, “I’ve heard your voice somewhere.”
“C’mon… I’m not that popular… Am I? Your blindfolds are still not open and you’ve already started identifying me… No point in playing hide-and-seek then. You can remove them.”
Prakash hastily removed the cloth tied around his eyes, but squinted with pain on opening them. Before he could adjust to the light and recognize the man, he heard Seema gasp and say loudly, “Anwar Shah!”
In a few moments, the shock had passed on to Prakash. He too recognized the tall and lanky figure of the man standing in front of him. Anwar Shah! The billionaire industrialist. It flashed into his mind that Century News, the channel for which Seema worked, was owned by Anwar.
Brutal Page 19
