by Deva, Mukul
‘Good! I’m happy to hear they’re shaping up well.’ Anbu smiled at him, pleased. ‘They need to be better than good if they have to come out of this alive.’
‘Don’t worry, sir, I’m sure they’ll be fine.’
That wasn’t exactly how Iqbal felt as he pounded through the early morning chill behind Dhankar the next day.
Why the hell am I calling it early morning? It’s late night, that’s what it is! Iqbal mentally cursed Dhankar as he staggered up the hill, trying to keep the rapidly receding figure in sight, as they went through what Dhankar had referred to as a light five-mile warm up. Fucking sadist!
The fucking sadist was waiting for Iqbal when he finally staggered back into the main playground of the base, possibly the only flat piece of ground in the area that nestled at the centre of the Force 22 base. There was a grim look on his face as he watched Iqbal stumble up to him. Iqbal was about to collapse on the fog-laden grass when Dhankar called out, ‘The colonel told me about your injuries. We’ll need to pay special attention to those muscles which have suffered damage. Let’s begin with some light strengthening exercises.’
There was nothing light about the exercises Dhankar put Iqbal through for the next half hour and the only thing they strengthened was Iqbal’s dislike of Dhankar and his training methods. As the minutes slowly and torturously ticked by, Iqbal became more and more convinced that Dhankar had taken an instant dislike to him or that he really was a sadist.
Iqbal would have been quite surprised to hear Dhankar’s report to Anbu later that day. ‘He is in very decent shape considering he has just recovered from a serious injury. Let me tell you, sir,’ Dhankar gave another of his sinister grins, ‘I was pretty hard on the kid this morning, but not once did he crib or moan about it.’
‘Good!’ Anbu was relieved. ‘I was worried about his injuries impacting his performance.’
‘You can see him favouring the injured side, but I think the guy is basically an outdoor type. He has the right physical frame and the mental conditioning of an athlete.’
Anbu’s confidence in his chosen operatives grew with every passing week, as did his affection for the couple who were so willingly and cheerfully putting their lives on the line for the country one loved and the other had adopted. However, it was only after the seventh week of training that he knew for sure that he had chosen wisely and well.
Having laid down the bedrock of physical conditioning, basic field craft and weapon training, the time had come to start putting the final touches.
‘Today,’ began Tiwathia as the trainees reported to him that morning, ‘we are going to understand everything there is to know about bombs – how they are made, how they function and how they can be defused.’
‘I thought we were to pose as fresh terror recruits,’ Iqbal said, ‘so why get into it at all? No one will expect us to know all that.’
‘Yes, you will be new recruits, but you have to know all there is to know about bombs. How else will you sabotage the bombs and make them malfunction?’ Tiwathia pointed out.
‘But the colonel said you guys would be around to help when the need arises,’ Iqbal replied, looking puzzled.
‘Sure we will, Iqbal. We’ll have a team standing by in your area at all times, but you must understand that you cannot and must not bank on us… at least, not until we reach the end game. Once you turn to us, it’s almost certain that your cover will be blown and we’ll have to look at closing down the op.’ Iqbal was about to respond when Tiwathia raised his hand. ‘Please remember that the undercover operative must always be completely self-reliant in every respect. Every contact you make with us once you go undercover is fraught with risk and will simply increase the chances of your cover being blown.’
‘So, basically, we are going to be totally on our own.’
‘That’s the only way to look at it. The simpler you keep this operation, the better your chances of succeeding and coming out of it alive. Just keep in mind the simple fact that if you function with the basic premise that they are onto you and watching you at all times, you will never take them for granted and will always be on guard. That way, you are least likely to make mistakes. Get it?’
Both trainees nodded, the implications of what Tiwathia had said slowly sinking in. Tiwathia noted the change in their mood and quickly added, ‘Just keep the basics in mind and function accordingly. Remember that the best operations are those where we rely on ourselves. Hi-tech gadgets and technology are great force multipliers, but that’s about all they are. They’re also surefire giveaways if they are ever discovered on you. That’s why your best bet is to keep things simple and just stay with the basics. Okay?’
Both trainees nodded again, this time a little more cheerfully.
‘The best part is that you won’t attract any suspicion since both of you will apparently know nothing about bomb making. You see,’ Tiwathia explained, ‘most terrorist modules have their own dedicated bomb makers. They use new recruits only to plant bombs, not to make them.’
There was a sudden shocked silence as Iqbal realized for the first time that he would be called upon to plant bombs during the mission.
‘Then teach me well, sir,’ he said grimly, ‘so I can make sure that no bomb planted by me ever goes off.’
‘No, Iqbal, that’s not the way to go about this mission. If you do that every time, how long do you think you’ll last? They will home in on you and take you apart till they get the truth out of you.’
‘I will not plant bombs that kill innocent people,’ Iqbal replied through clenched teeth.
‘Iqbal!’ Tiwathia spoke sharply. ‘I want you to stop this nonsense and focus on what we’re trying to teach you here. There will be enough time later to deliberate on what you want to do and what you have to do.’
Iqbal was quiet after that, but Tiwathia knew he was not paying attention. His eyes mirrored the turmoil within him.
The turmoil festered through the day. It finally found expression a couple of days later when Anbu chanced upon Tanaz and Iqbal strolling through the playground. They were walking silently; the tension that stalked them was palpable.
‘Something wrong, you two?’ Anbu asked as he began to walk alongside.
‘No, sir!’ Iqbal’s curt tone belied his feelings. Anbu ignored the blunt, almost rude reply.
‘You can talk to me, Iqbal,’ he said gently. ‘In fact, you must talk to me about anything that bothers you. I won’t let you out on this mission if there is the slightest doubt or confusion in your mind.’ He stopped walking and looked Iqbal in the eye. ‘And once you do get going, please remember that Force 22 is your only point of contact, your only lifeline. Nobody will know you are a government-sanctioned infiltrator. So there has to be complete transparency and trust between us.’
Anbu, who had already been given the heads up by Vikram, did not push further. He just kept pace with them as they walked to the end of the playground and then turned back. Nearly two complete circuits went by in stony silence before Iqbal finally began to speak.
‘I will not plant any bombs anywhere, sir, not for anything in the world. I will not be responsible for the death of innocent people –’
‘Iqbal,’ Anbu cut in softly, ‘no one can tell you what you should or should not do. In fact, on a mission like this, no one can even tell you which way things will flow and what you will be required to do at any stage. All I can say is,’ Anbu stopped and looked squarely at Iqbal, ‘you must remember that what you are going to do will save countless lives. You can’t do anything that will jeopardize your cover, not until you have uncovered all possible details of the group that you’ve managed to infiltrate. In fact,’ he added firmly, ‘you will do whatever it takes to ensure your cover is not blown until the mission is over.’
‘But sir…’
‘Think it over, Iqbal.’ Anbu’s tone had the hard finality of a command, it brooked no further discussion. ‘It’s not too late, even now. If you have any doubts about what you can or cannot
do, I suggest you pull out of the mission. Think about it and let me know tomorrow.’ He walked away from them into the fog that had begun to blanket the base. I am glad they feel so strongly about it, he thought. Or else, what difference would there be between the terrorists and the rest?
When Tanaz and Iqbal walked into Anbu’s office the next morning, their expressions were strained but the cloud of confusion was missing.
‘We are ready, sir.’ Iqbal’s voice was clear and his gaze firm.
‘Sure?’ Anbu’s tone was soft as always.
‘Positive, sir!’ Tanaz replied. ‘We understand what has to be done and why.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘I do have a request, sir.’
‘Yes, Iqbal?’
‘We feel we are ready now.’ Iqbal looked at Tanaz. ‘As ready as we will ever be. We would like to begin the mission as soon as possible.’
‘Okay!’ Anbu gave this a moment’s thought. ‘Let me speak to Tiwathia and the others and get back to you.’
The response he received from the others was unanimous.
‘Just give me a few days to get their identity documents and related plastics and brief them about their legends,’ Ankita told him. ‘After that, they’ll be ready to start.’
A week later, Tanaz and Iqbal were back in Anbu’s office for their final briefing.
‘Remember now, both of you,’ were Anbu’s final words, ‘once you leave this place you are completely on your own. Protect your cover at all costs. The enemy is smart, assume that he is onto you – that way you will make few mistakes. Especially you, Tanaz, please stay as far from the forefront as possible.’ He paused briefly before he moved on to the final caution. ‘In case you have the slightest doubt that your cover is blown, I want you to activate the emergency response and we’ll initiate the extraction procedure immediately. Don’t get into any unnecessary heroics… we need you back alive just as much as we need to crack this case.’
‘Don’t worry, sir.’ Iqbal stood tall and determined. ‘We will be back and we will succeed.’
‘Inshallah!’
‘Ameen!’ Sami murmured.
Then they were gone, escorted out by Tiwathia who was to drop them off near the Chandigarh airport.
Anbu watched them leave, his heart heavy. When they had turned the corner and vanished from view, he turned to Sami. ‘I hope it goes well.’
‘It will, sir,’ Sami replied reassuringly. ‘For the good guys, it always works out in the end. In any case, these two are really good.’
‘It’s not their capability that troubles me, MS. In such ops, one can never tell what the blowback will be.’
‘Blowback?’
‘I mean, one never knows what the unintended consequences of any intelligence operation might be. You can never tell which way things will blow… or who they’ll blow away.’
TWELVE
Pune’s Asian Institute of Management, or AIM, as it was popularly known, was one of several private institutes that had emerged after the economic liberalization and the expansion of education as an industry in India. Its impressive name notwithstanding, the institute was located in a small, though well-planned building on the old Pune–Mumbai highway, just a short hop from the Khadki railway station.
In the eight years since it had been in existence, AIM had acquired a healthy reputation for being the school of choice for professionals in their late twenties and early thirties who had decided to take a break from work and obtain the much sought after MBA degree. So it was not uncommon to see AIM students strolling around the campus with young spouses and, in some cases, toddlers in tow. The AIM management, on its part, had earmarked a large part of its residential accommodation for students who were accompanied by their families. Even this wasn’t adequate, however, so several of these young couples, especially those with children and those desirous of something more than the tiny two-room set which AIM offered, rented apartments in a handful of newly constructed, gated communities that had recently sprouted in the vicinity.
Outside one of these, the Golden Heritage residential complex located almost directly opposite the Khadki railway station entrance, a young woman emerged from a white Toyota Innova with ‘CoolCabs’ emblazoned on its sides. She was dressed in a smart, conservatively designed salwar kameez. Her head and part of her face were covered with a chunni, which did nothing to hide or diminish her glowing complexion, her large black eyes and her finely chiselled features. A few wayward strands of lustrous black hair swung tantalizingly out from under the chunni. She stood for a moment, taking in her surroundings.
The tall, broad-shouldered young man who followed her out of the vehicle complemented her appearance in that special made-for-each-other way one doesn’t often encounter. His body was lean and taut, and his gait was that of an athlete at his peak. His stone-washed jeans and deep-blue Adidas T-shirt gave him the appearance of a typical mid-level executive in one of the many MNCs that were burgeoning in India.
Crossing under a big yellow Blue Dart Couriers billboard that spanned the front of the low-slung, single-storey building to the left of the colony gates, the two of them halted at the guard box. A grumpy looking chowkidar who appeared to be well into his sixties was hunched inside, assiduously unclogging his ears with a matchstick.
‘Apartment number C-302, please.’
‘Over there.’ The chowkidar pointed past the huge red cement gates, to the top floor of a three-storey building at the centre of the housing complex. ‘Are you the new people moving in?’
‘Yes,’ the man replied shortly.
‘Haan! I know. Shinde sahib told me to expect you. Here,’ the chowkidar extended a hardbound register towards him, ‘enter your details. Then I’ll show you around and take you to the house.’
In neat, precise handwriting the man carefully wrote their names in the register.
Iqbal and Tanaz Khan.
Apartment C-302 was a two-bedroom apartment with a drawing-cum-dining room. It was newly constructed, like the other buildings in the complex, and the pleasant, tangy aroma of fresh paint lingered. The rooms were not very big but the marble-chip floors contrasted well with the lemoncoloured walls and along with the large windows, lent a bright, cheerful air to the house.
The chowkidar was still showing them around when a truck belonging to Prakash Packers & Movers pulled up outside the complex. There was a flurry of activity as the luggage began to be brought in. The madness lasted two days. By the end of the second day, the house had acquired some shape and was beginning to look more like a home.
Exhausted by the effort, but glowing with the joy of setting up home with the man she loved, Tanaz collapsed on the sofa and called out to Iqbal, who was busy trying to load up the fridge. Half-empty shopping bags from the neighbourhood Reliance Fresh store were strewn all around him.
‘I still can’t believe we have our own home now.’ Tanaz got up and slowly pirouetted, surveying the room lovingly. ‘And such a pretty one at that.’
‘I know.’ He stopped unpacking and went across to her. ‘It does seem unreal, doesn’t it?’
Tanaz’s reply was lost as Iqbal’s lips closed on hers. They kissed, long and deep. Before it could go any further, the doorbell rang. The loud, jarring buzz shocked them apart. They exchanged a glance.
‘Who could it be at this time of the night?’
‘Let me check,’ Iqbal whispered as he moved on soft feet to the door and looked through the peephole. Tanaz instinctively inched closer to the .22 pistol she had taped to the underside of the square four-seater dining table just a while ago.
The woman who stood outside, peering expectantly at the door, was in her early thirties. She was holding something in her hands that looked like a tiffin-carrier.
Iqbal looked back at Tanaz with a shrug and whispered, ‘Some woman... looks like one of the neighbours.’ Then he threw back the bolts and opened the door.
‘Hello.’ The woman had a soft, shy voice. She pulled the chunni closer around her
face when she saw Iqbal in the doorway. ‘I’m Zubaida, your neighbour. Is your wife home?’
‘Tanaz,’ Iqbal called out. ‘Why don’t you come in, please?’ He gestured to Zubaida, stepping away from the door as Tanaz came forward to greet her.
Tanaz’s head was pounding. The young RAW agent had never imagined she would have to play the coy housewife with the neighbours and was totally unsure of how to begin and what to do. She decided to fall back on the various family soap operas that she had surfed on television during their stay at Kasauli, while Iqbal was busy with the training that she had been exempt from.
‘Hello Zubaida, I am Tanaz. And this is my husband, Iqbal.’ They exchanged courteous salaams. ‘Come on in. I’m sorry, we are still in a bit of a mess, so…’
‘No, no, I understand what it must be like.’ Zubaida smiled back at her. ‘That’s why I brought some dinner for you… I know your kitchen can’t be up and running yet.’ She held out the tiffin-carrier. ‘I only got back today from my parents’ home and learned that you had moved in.’
‘Oh, that’s so kind of you.’ Tanaz took the proffered food. ‘But you really shouldn’t have bothered.’
‘Nonsense! That’s what neighbours are for. Please don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything else. I am just across there.’ Zubaida pointed at the apartment door at the far end of the corridor. ‘In fact, we are the only two occupants in this block so far.’
There was a slight, somewhat awkward pause. ‘Now I’ll leave you two alone. I’m sure you have tons to do,’ Zubaida said. Then she was off with a wave and a smile.
‘Phew!’ Tanaz closed the door and leaned back against it with a smile. ‘I’ve never done that before.’
‘Get used to it… it’s what normal life is all about.’ Iqbal took the tiffin from her and putting it down, took her in his arms again. They resumed where they had left off when Zubaida had rung the bell, the unpacking forgotten.
