by Mukul Deva
A couple of hours later, her plans tentatively complete, she called it a night. Though she was exhausted, her sleep was hampered by her anxiety about their meeting with Nanda, the arms dealer, in the morning.
I hope that bugger can come up with the Glocks. That was her last thought as she fell asleep.
* * *
Dinner in the Gill home was drawing to a close when the phone began to clamor. Simran’s exasperation was evident as Ravinder wiped his hands and got up to take the call.
“We have two candidates, sir.” Mohite sounded excited. “It took a while, but—”
“Candidates for what, Govind?” Ravinder cut in.
“Oh!” Mohite checked himself, realizing he needed to start at the beginning. “I was helping the Mossad guy, Peled, to sift through our database on the LeT commanders. We have two possible suspects. The first is Pasha.”
“Hmm. Give me a moment while I get my laptop out.” Ravinder retreated to his study. After booting up the device, he pulled up Pasha’s profile. On top were two photos, the only two they had of him.
The first, taken by an Indian intelligence operative, showed a clean-shaven man in a neat and obviously expensive, lightweight, steel gray business suit. He carried the suit well, as though used to it. Short and diminutive; he looked like a jockey. A small but prominent pear-shaped scar was on his right temple.
The second, taken by a Taliban turncoat, showed a different man, heavily bearded with shoulder-length hair, now dressed in typical black Pathani kameez and ankle-high salwar. Almost no resemblance to the man in the first photo.
Ravinder scanned through the man’s profile. Born Khalid Abbas Khawaja, he had been a wing commander in the Pakistan Air Force. No one knew if he had retired or was ordered to retire, or if it was made to look as though he had retired. Either way, one fine day, Khalid Abbas Khawaja shed his uniform and vanished.
He appeared to have little in common with the man who surfaced in Afghanistan a year later, the year the Taliban had begun to make its presence felt. The crew cut and sharp pencil-line mustache had been replaced by an unruly beard and shoulder-length hair. The slightly built man, with an AK-74 in one hand and a radio or satellite phone in the other, soon became a fixture in the entourage of the one-eyed leader of the Taliban. He now piloted people, tweaking their destinies and ensuring they served just one purpose: the jihad.
However, as he had been ordered to do, Pasha stuck to the shadows. He feared the powerful generals in Islamabad; he knew they would throw him to the wolves if he dared cross them.
It was Pasha who had planned and executed the November 26 Mumbai terror attack. This much was known … at least strongly conjectured.
“Who is the second one?” Ravinder asked when he had finished.
“Well, if it is not Pasha, then the other can only be Saeed Anwar.”
Ravinder brought up Anwar’s profile. He saw a lot more photos of this portly, skullcap-wearing, bearded, bespectacled Anwar. Clad in white, he was fond of leading public rallies and was a primary fund-raiser for the LeT. He had helped Osama plan and execute the 9/11 strike and was known to have transferred one hundred thousand dollars to the 9/11 hijackers just before the attack.
Yes, he too is a strong possible. In fact, considering the others in the LeT leadership, it seems certain that one of these two must have been behind the Jerusalem attack.
“Good work, Mohite.” Ravinder knew the analysis was spot-on. For a change, Mohite had delivered. “What does the Israeli have to say?”
“He said his boss would be talking to you soon.”
“Fair enough.” Ravinder rang off.
Sure enough, an hour later his phone rang again and he was talking to Meir Dagan.
Though he had met him only once, Ravinder could easily picture Dagan, the current head of the Mossad. Known to be the antithesis of M, the James Bond spymaster, Dagan—an avid student of history, a no-frills man who clocked eighteen hours of work every day—was famous for his bullheaded doggedness, and commanded respect, both within Mossad and outside.
Though Ravinder did not know it, the reason Dagan took an hour before calling him was because he first needed to get the Israeli PM’s sanction; ordering a Kidon hit was not something he had the authority to do on his own.
To have Pasha and Anwar taken out, he had to first ensure their names were added to the “execution list.”
Given the severity of the Jerusalem attack, Dagan had little doubt that the sanction to place Pasha and Anwar on this list would be accorded. However, as per protocol, such a request could be confirmed by the PM only after it had been cleared by the designated judicial investigator: a person whose identity was so secret that almost no one had heard of him. He must have been clocking serious overtime that day, since he had sent it back with his approval posthaste.
“Do you agree with the possibility of these two being the most likely candidates?” Dagan came to the point immediately.
“Well, the chances of it being one of them are high. None of the others seem to have the authority to organize something of this magnitude,” Ravinder replied. “Also, you can assume that if one is involved, so is the other. These two buggers are thick as thieves.”
“In that case, we have a favor to ask of you.” Dagan was brutally direct. “We would like to deploy a team to bring them in. We need you to help us with a firm base and some logistical support. I know it is a lot to ask, but given the geography, we have no other options. Not if we want to do this fast … and we do.”
“Bring them in, or take them out?” Ravinder asked, equally direct.
“Whatever is possible, Mr. Gill.” Dagan paused briefly. “We cannot … will not … allow such a heinous attack on our country go unpunished.”
“I understand. I really do, but I will need to speak to my boss first.”
“If you want, I can request our PM to talk to yours,” Dagan offered.
“I will let you know if that’s required.” Ravinder knew that the Indian PM would prefer not to know; plausible deniability was much sought after. “Let me clear this with my boss.”
“Will you? Please.”
“I will do my best to get the clearance right away.”
It was with great satisfaction that Ravinder returned Dagan’s call an hour later. It had taken him that long to root out the Home Minister and get him to speak to the PM. For once, Thakur had delivered.
“You will ensure our role in this matter remains totally secret?” That had been Thakur’s primary concern.
“You can rest assured about that,” Dagan confirmed.
Before either of them retired that night, a team from Mossad’s Kidon Unit was en route to Delhi.
Like most men in his position, Ravinder too knew a bit about Mossad’s elite Kidon Unit. Not much, but enough to know that if anyone could do it, they could.
Mad dogs like Pasha and Anwar deserve to die.
Ravinder had no qualms about how it was done. He was happy that they were going to do it; it was never a bad idea to have someone else eliminate your problems.
He fell asleep content.
* * *
It took a long time for Ravinder to realize that it wasn’t just a dream … the phone was actually ringing. Groggy with sleep, he reached for it.
“Sorry to bother you so late, sir, but I thought you’d like to know.” Mohite was sounding shaken. And tired.
“What happened?”
“We just missed them … Javed and Aslam.”
“What?” Ravinder was wide awake now. “What happened?”
“You remember I’d told you about the remaining two leads? Well, I’d ordered the Station House Officers of the concerned areas to follow them up. The SHO of Friends Colony just called me. They raided the suspected house a while ago and discovered that all three of the bastards had been staying there. Apparently Javed and Aslam stepped out minutes before the raid. They just missed them.”
“Missed them or they were warned?”
Mohite w
as silent, obviously he’d not thought of that. “Let me look into that, sir.” Pause. Then he added dubiously, “But Sher Singh, the SHO, is a rock-solid guy.”
“That he is, but ask him to double-check his staff … the people who knew about the raid.” Ravinder ran that thought through again. Maybe he was clutching at straws. “Could be a coincidence, but no harm in checking.”
“Wilco, sir. I agree. And they’re interrogating the house owner now.… He appears to be a supporter.… Let’s hope they come up with something.… I’ll rest easy once we have the bastards behind bars … or six feet under.…” Ravinder could sense his tension. “Damn! To think we almost had the buggers.”
“Don’t stress about it, Govind. Shit happens. We can only try.”
Even to Ravinder the words offered no solace, knowing he was one of the three people the terrorists had been sent in to kill. He knew exactly how Mohite was feeling. Lousy.
Mir Kasab, the suicide bomber he had shot just two days ago, returned to his sleep several times. Whatever little remained of the night passed fitfully.
DAY FOUR
Conditioned by her training, Ruby arrived at the Dilli Haat half an hour before the stipulated time for their meeting with Nanda. She spent it casing the area, watching for anything out of sync. She spotted nothing unusual, no one loitering around surreptitiously, with those giveaway earpieces or bulges under their coats, no hard-looking men … or women … hanging around aimlessly. Not that she was expecting trouble, but it was not her nature to leave things to chance.
Satisfied, she returned to her hired car and sat down to wait in a cream-colored Toyota Innova, common on Delhi roads. The driver, Kishore, was a slim, polite young man about five and a half feet; his gray Safari suit was well maintained and as clean as his car. He saw she was parking herself in the car, so switching on the engine and air conditioner, he walked away. From behind the darkened window, Ruby could see him leaning against a nearby tree, relaxed yet keeping an eye on her, waiting to be summoned. Over the past two days, she had become fond of him, though she knew that she should often be changing vehicles and drivers. Never a good idea to let others know your routine. Ruby decided then that she would switch to a self-drive, one with a GPS device—she could not spend the rest of her life trying to find her way through this maddeningly large city.
These thoughts were running through her head when she saw Mark emerge from a black Hyundai that pulled up in a slot three cars away. Ruby was pleased that he too had arrived early, and functioning in top form. She wondered if the men he had hired were as good. She hoped they were; her life would also depend on them.
Ruby watched Mark survey the area, sweeping over it quadrant by quadrant.
At ten thirty on a weekday morning, Dilli Haat, the famous crafts market opposite the INA Market in South Delhi, had yet to fill to its potential. A short hop from the Hyatt, the colorful, cheerful market, with its tiny stalls and regional, multicuisine food marts, was popular with Delhi-wallahs and foreigners alike.
Fronted by an elaborately carved stone gate, manned by armed khaki-clad cops and a set of massive doorframe metal detectors, the haat had a bright red stone wall encircling it. Ice cream vendors, balloon sellers, and an assortment of ladies in bright ghagra cholis had started setting up shop outside the gates. It was still early, but soon women of all ages would be getting henna applied to their hands and feet by these ladies.
Every so often another car would pull into the parking spaces on either side of the front gate and a crowd of women and children would tumble out, families coming to spend the day at the haat. Ruby could tell that it would not be long before it was teeming. That, in fact, was why Mark must have chosen it for meeting Nanda; crowds always offered safety.
“The cream station wagon to your left.” Ruby shot off in a text to Mark.
A second later he looked up, gave a slight nod, and went back to scanning the crowds. Things must have passed muster, since he headed over, bought an entry ticket, and walked across to the food stall at the end of the haat, the designated meeting point.
When he emerged half an hour later, she saw a portly, slightly balding man with him. Ruby assumed it was Nanda. In the midst of casually dressed holidaymakers, he looked incongruous in his Armani suit. A gold watch and several golden Cross ballpoint pens in his breast pocket lit up his attire. In every way he portrayed a successful businessman. The two parted ways at the entry gates, heading for different parts of the parking lot.
Mark watched Nanda step into a sprightly blue Mercedes 300 as a chauffeur held open the door. The chauffeur was as smartly attired as his boss, his white uniform and cap giving him a regal air. The car pulled out. Only then did Mark make his way to Ruby.
“All taken care of.” Mark opened the door and poked his head in. “We will have the weapons on Wednesday.”
Three days from now. Three days to D-day.
“All four Glock 17s?”
“All four Glock 17s.” Mark nodded. “Ammo and spare clips.”
“You think he is reliable?”
“He won’t let us down,” Mark reassured her with a grin. “Not for the kind of money the bastard is charging us. If he started double-crossing his customers, I don’t think he’d last long in this business.”
* * *
Still parked in the rear of his Mercedes near the parking lot exit, Sanjeev Nanda was watching. He saw Mark walk over to an Innova, lean in, and speak to someone inside, but he was unable to see who. From the faint silhouette, at this distance, it seemed like a woman, but he was not sure. He would have loved to know. Information was money, and to Nanda, money was irresistible.
He felt he had spotted an opportunity. He was not going to let it pass, not if the rewards were lucrative, and in this case the potential was high. A foreign mercenary looking for four deadly, high-capacity weapons, which were hard to detect. The Commonwealth Games about to start. A dozen terror groups had declared that they would not allow them to take place. To Nanda, the numbers looked unbeatable. He knew the cops would pay through the nose for this one.
Nanda, lost in his thoughts, did not notice Mark walk away from the Innova, get into the Accent, and drive off. He started when he heard a loud tap on his window. Mark was staring at him, the Accent idling behind him. He noted a strange expression on the man’s face and knew Mark’s suspicions had been aroused.
Powering down the window, Nanda explained, “I am waiting for my driver.” Luckily, a few minutes back, Nanda had sent him to pick up a packet of cigarettes from a shop near the gate. Just then the driver returned, got into the car, and turned to hand over a packet of Davidoff Lights to Nanda.
Grabbing the pack, Nanda snarled at him. “Drive.”
Used to his boss’s erratic mood swings, the man gunned the engine and they pulled away.
Mark watched Nanda go. The mercenary’s survival instincts were sounding an alarm. Right now it wasn’t shrill, but loud enough for Mark to take note. He had a feeling; maybe things were not so kosher.
* * *
Ruby missed all this. She had stayed on in her car after Mark left. With her reconnaissance complete and most of the preparatory work well in hand, she felt at a loose end. Till the rest of the team arrived, she had only to wait. And going back to the hotel room held no appeal for her.
Deciding to make the most of this unusual venue, she got out and headed for the haat. May as well get in some sightseeing; who knew when she’d come to India again?
Will I even survive this mission? That thought halted her. She shrugged. It does not matter if I don’t. My life has no meaning. Not if the delegates survive and the peace summit succeeds.… They’d slice up Palestine.
Pushing away the dire thought, she bought herself an entry ticket. Picking it up and her change, she was looking down to return the money to her wallet and failed to see the man striding up to her. He was closing in fast and approaching her from behind—with excitement on his face and his arms stretched out wide, ready to encircle her.
“Ruby Gill, I presume.” The familiar, playful tone shocked her into stillness.
Ruby spun around to find Chance Spillman’s smiling face in front of her, just inches away, and he was looking thrilled—the way he had looked at her when they first started dating. God! How she had missed him.
Click!
Something inside her snapped. Leaning forward, she kissed him. For one brief moment, she felt herself in another time as their lips came together. Their breath mingled easily and effortlessly. She could smell that familiar minty taste of his. They were one again. The magic was back.
Then someone passing by laughed, and the moment disintegrated. Reality returned.
“What on earth are you doing in India?” Chance released her. Then that tentativeness, that withholding, so common during the last months of their togetherness, returned. It was again standing between them. Bad. Ugly. But it was there. Both knew they could not wish it away.
Despite that, Ruby could not help smiling. She was thrilled to see Chance. Seeing the feeling mirrored on his face warmed her heart.
Looking at him, in dark blue jeans and white linen shirt, with that cocky Chance smile on his face, Ruby felt her knees go weak. She felt the urge to kiss him again. She might have done it, but just then Chance spoke.
“So? What on earth are you doing in India?” he repeated.
She remembered why, and that Chance was also an MI6 agent.
How long has he been here? Did he see me with Mark? That would be disastrous.
Chance knew Mark well; he’d also know that Mark was now freelancing.
“What are you doing here?” She countered, struggling to regain her balance.
“Security for Sir Geoffrey Tang,” Chance replied, surprising her with the ease with which he divulged that. The son of a senior SAS officer who had been killed in counterterror operations in Ireland, Chance had a personal ax to grind with terrorists. Ruby knew he tended to be pretty anal about security. Perhaps he was talking as one colleague to another, or perhaps he was as shaken by their meeting as she was.
