by Adrian Levy
Behind the locked Chambers doors, Bhisham and his mother were catching their breath. They had been in the fourth group to leave, and were nearing the kitchen end of the corridor, when the gunmen had burst in from the other side. Now, as he lay on the carpet of the Lavender Room, arms wrapped around himself, trying to control his shaking hands and twitching legs, a Western man appeared in the doorway, carrying a limp body.
It was Mike Pollack shouldering Rajan Kamble, the engineer who had tried to protect the guests. ‘He’s been hit,’ the American financier whispered, gently placing the man on a couch, before heading back out. Mike knew that Anjali was just along the corridor in the library with their dinner companions, Shiv and Reshma Darshit, but he did not intend to join her. He had come to a difficult decision: this was a war. If probability is the likelihood of one or more events happening, divided by the number of possible outcomes, then why double the chances of orphaning their children? From the start he had hated the idea of pooling so many guests in a place like Chambers, transforming it into a potential silo of hostages, and he knew his white skin and accent made him a prime target. Without consulting Anjali, he had decided she had more chance of surviving without him.
‘This was never a great idea,’ he said to himself, as he set off to find a new bolthole, ‘in fact it has turned out to be a fucking terrible idea.’ Mike spotted the club toilets and dropped down into a darkened stall, listening to gunfire starting up again in the kitchens. With his head rammed between the bowl and toilet brush holder, he found himself staring into a huge pair of mahogany eyes and his heart leapt into his mouth. Guest or hunter? ‘Joe,’ a deep voice offered, by way of introduction. ‘Mike,’ he replied, breathing out. Noting Mike’s accent, Joe described himself as ‘kind of American’. Nigerian-born, he had a green card. A relieved Pollack fell back into his own world. There was much to be done.
Lying on the floor of the toilet, he texted Anjali, explaining his decision to go it alone. He hoped she had found a good hiding spot with their friends. Next he messaged a colleague in Washington DC who had government connections. Too much time had been wasted already and he asked the friend to arrange for him to get through to the FBI. Within ten minutes he was up and running, exchanging updates and advice with agents. Mike was all set. He lay back in the dark, beside Joe, listening to the harrowing cracks of single shots that sounded as if they were just the other side of the door. With adrenalin coursing through his veins, sound travelled in weird ways, he noted. But the shock was doing wonders for his synapses, which felt as if they were firing in ways they had never done before. For the first time in years all his worries about failure and embarrassment, his pride and expectations fell away. There was nothing to lose. There was no reason now not to follow his heart.
He concentrated on the gunmen and could see them in his head. They were no longer spraying rooms but firing off single shots, as if they were selecting specific targets. Mike could see the hammer cocked, and the trigger squeezed. ‘I have total control of my autonomic functions,’ he told himself, impressed by the acuity of his hearing and his heightened sense of smell. ‘I can readjust to different things instantly.’ An image came to him: Alexander the Great riding at the front of his army. You had to feel it to understand it. He also found himself doing something unthinkable. ‘Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me.’ A man who had often felt as if there were no God found comfort in the words of a psalm.
Anjali Pollack was sitting on the library floor coming to terms with the stark reality as she saw it: Mike was dead. She had last seen him in the corridor waiting for evacuation. In the chaos of the shooting, she had lost him. She was contemplating that there was no way he could have survived that gun battle, when her phone whirred. She cupped it tightly; trying to mask the vibration, when she saw the message from Mike. She was overcome by relief and fury and began sobbing. They were on different paths now, but this was not the time to weigh up the niceties of his solo decision-making processes. She winced as more shots resounded in the kitchens. Some, she was certain, were being fired from within the Chambers. Was Mike the target? She had no idea where he was hiding. ‘I have made peace with myself,’ she told herself and she began to pray harder than she had ever prayed before. Mostly, she prayed for Mike and the children. ‘If anyone has to die, please let it be me,’ she urged.
Gradually, she became drawn to the sound of others hiding around her, people who constantly whispered and coughed. Could they not just stay quiet? She cast about, wondering who might inadvertently betray them, her eyes settling on a bronzed, white-haired man sprawled decadently across a chaise longue, tapping on his phone, which shone out like a cat’s eye. He had not even bothered to get up during the failed evacuation. And he would not stop texting. It was Andreas Liveras. All around guests, frightened by his endeavours, tried to hush him. ‘Be quiet,’ an elderly lady urged. He carried on clicking away on his BlackBerry, determined to raise the BBC again. ‘Why are we still here, Remesh?’ he whispered to his aide. Remesh didn’t answer. He had just ducked, having seen two shadows flickering past the library door, one black and one red. Ack, ack, ack. Rounds smashed through the door. ‘Sir, please stop,’ Remesh whispered, touching his boss’s knee. Ack, ack. Another short burst drilled into the library. ‘Oh, my God,’ Andreas murmured.
Remesh groaned, feeling a burning sensation bloom across his shoulder. He investigated with his fingertips, and felt blood pooling. He had been shot twice. He slumped a little, clutching his boss’s feet, whispering: ‘Don’t worry, sir, we will make it.’ He collapsed on the floor, gritting his teeth. How could this happen? At least Mr L. had finally got the message and quietened down. Remesh lay there, rigid, for what seemed like an age.
Along the corridor in the Lavender Room, Bhisham recoiled from every shot that felt only inches away. He lay on the carpet, his mother sitting beside him on a chair, blocking out the sound, haunted by the sight of his school friend Gunjan Narang diving into cellars from where the most hellish sounds had risen. No one could have got out of that. Sick at having cursed Gunjan earlier, Bhisham felt his mind unravelling.
5.10 a.m. – the Taj kitchens
A reel of rounds pinged off metal surfaces close by. Chef Raghu, who had his back resting against a range, an Indian guest crouched on each side of him, knew instantly that one or more of the killers had found a way in. Seconds later, the gunman was standing in front of them, dressed all in black, but Raghu barely reacted, having already decided on his course of action. He looked into the face. It was not a man but a child. ‘Lie down,’ the youthful gunman ordered, as the Indian guests began to beg for mercy. Raghu whispered for them to stop, knowing it would make matters worse. They had to avoid making victims of themselves. The guests had no comprehension of the psychology of extremism, but coming from Mumbai, he felt as if he had a doctorate.
‘Face down,’ the gunman bellowed, before changing his mind. ‘Go on your backs. Turn to look at me.’ Raghu lay down silently as the guests rolled over on to their backs, offering money, wallets and watches. Raghu wished they would stop. Ack, ack, ack. Gunfire bounced around the confined kitchen and Raghu closed his eyes. One sweep and then another: he felt blood splattering his face. Was it his or theirs? ‘Raghu is dead,’ he said to himself, willing himself to remain motionless as the gunman closed in. Beside him two guests thrashed out their violent death throes.
Sunil Kudiyadi, who had somehow got back in, came running around the corner, stopping in time to see the terrorist in black, sitting between three bodies like a hungry rook, his gun resting on a bloody leg. He turned, spotted Kudiyadi and roared, ‘Idhar ao [come here]’, as the security chief pelted for his life in the opposite direction, followed by a plume of rounds.
Bhisham held his breath, blocking his ears. As he prayed for the gunmen to go away, he noticed that the Lavender Room’s door was now ajar. ‘How the hell?’ They needed to shut it but he was so paralysed by fear that nothing could r
aise him off the floor. He turned to a man next to him and whimpered instructions: ‘The door … we need to shut it.’ If a gunman stepped in they would be the first to die. ‘You shut it,’ the man snarled with a look of disgust.
Bhisham took in the twenty or so refugees around him. Some had gone out of their way to make everyone feel safe tonight, acting collectively, making sure everyone had water before turning off the lights, telephones, air conditioning, transforming the private dining room into a dead space. He beat himself up. He needed to do more. When an old lady arrived, supported on a crutch, having crawled solo out of the kitchens, he felt his eyes well up. Then he finally struggled to his feet and, with the help of others, dragged a heavy table and chairs over to the vulnerable doorway.
His mother’s friend Dr Tilu Mangeshikar, an anaesthetist at Bombay Hospital, had no time for soul-searching. Her hands were deep inside the abdomen of Rajan Kamble, the injured engineer. A bullet had entered through his back and exploded out of the front, leaving a gaping wound five times bigger. ‘You sure got shot,’ she said, jollying Kamble along. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he whimpered, ramming his fist into his mouth, trying to stifle his crying. Dr Tilu kept him still, worried that his bowel and intestine would flop out. She pushed some fabric inside and held it in place by wrapping a tablecloth around his torso. She felt his pulse. At least his bleeding was under control. ‘We’ll manage,’ she said, as a grenade blast rattled the Lavender’s walls. Bhisham fired up his phone and sent a text, anything to distract his mind: ‘Evacuation aborted. Shooting in passage. Dnt know if commandos there anymore. Man shot in stomach. Mom with me. Shut lights. Waiting.’
The friend texted back: ‘Commandos and navy out there. Should be a matter of time. Dnt worry.’
He sent a message to a friend in Delhi: ‘This could be it.’ And five minutes later another: ‘So what : )’
The friend got back to him, alarmed: ‘Can’t get thru to you. Fire still on. Ppl jumping off. Are you there?’
Was he here? Bhisham was fast-forwarding through all of the misery that lay ahead of him, his mind a spinning zoetrope of dreadful scenes.
5.15 a.m. – the Data Centre
From the second floor, the Chambers assault sounded like bulls stampeding. Florence Martis listened from her bolthole beneath the desk, imagining the slaughter. With the chair pulled up, phones cradled under her chin, Roshan, the Samaritan who had rung in earlier, remained on the line, calling her name continuously. He had to stop her slipping into unconsciousness as another cloud of smoke was drawn into the room.
A strip of emergency lights flashed on and off, revealing the smashed door. She could see through a tiny window that dawn was breaking and knew she would soon be fully exposed. She concentrated on Roshan’s voice: ‘Florence, I am still, here for you. Don’t forget me.’
She could hear wood snapping and then boots squeaking. Someone was stalking through the room, getting nearer. ‘He’s searching,’ she said to herself, holding her breath, her back pressed against the wall, as a gunman entered. She caught a glimpse of his boots and watched them come towards her. Now she could also see the barrel of a gun. ‘R-o-s-h-a-n,’ she mouthed into the mobile. ‘The gunman is in … someone is … in the room.’
He wore black trousers. She could smell his sweat and fire. He searched across the desk, his hips just inches from her face, then swivelled around and crunched out, through the busted side door. Florence, her heart pounding, drifted off into a world in which everything looked as if it were stretched out like putty. Another phone trilled in the mid-distance. Was it her father? ‘Dad?’ What had happened to him? He had told her that he was on his way. But that had been hours ago.
5.16 a.m. – the kitchens
In the bone-cold meat store on the first floor, Faustine Martis was hiding alongside several Taj staffers when his phone began to trill. Oh, God, he thought, whipping it out with trembling hands, looking aghast at the shiny new handset, a gift from his family. He had no idea how to shut it off.
When it eventually stopped, Faustine stared at the others, apologizing, wondering if the walls were thick enough to have smothered the sound. His fellow staffers watched as Faustine gingerly pulled aside the hessian curtain to peek out of the glass porthole and into the dark kitchens beyond. The frosty glass reflected his own face, and he rubbed at it, before realizing that someone was looking in.
Ack, ack, ack.
9.
Allah Does Not Want You
Thursday, 27 November 2008, 5 a.m.
Amit Peshave was still stuck at Bombay Hospital. An hour ago he had managed to establish that the missing wife of the injured British guest, whom he’d brought to the hospital, had been found alive, but was still trapped in the Taj. Now, he ranged around the white towers of the hospital, where the injured and dead piled up in corridors, desperate to rejoin his marooned friends and colleagues. He texted his boss, Hemant Oberoi.
The Executive Chef was insistent: ‘Stay put at the hospital.’ He did not reveal why, saying nothing about his own incarceration in the darkened cellars or the Kitchen Brigade massacre. The terseness of the message compounded a feeling of foreboding that had kicked in when Amit received the call an hour before about Thomas Varghese’s point-blank death.
He went outside for a smoke, conscious for the first time of dawn breaking. He was just thinking about how a new day brought hope, when sirens screamed and an ambulance pulled up, the doors swinging open even before it came to a stop. Wandering over, he stared at the comatose and bloodied figure on the stretcher and started. ‘My God.’ It was Hemant Talim, the Golden Dragon chef, his buddy from Abbas Mansions. The last time they’d spoken was several hours previously, when Talim had been in Chambers. An orderly shouted out: ‘Liver, kidney and thigh.’ Amit stared at the chef. Was he lost already? He whispered into his ear: ‘Hemant.’
Amit had an idea. ‘Doctor, we need help. This man is dying.’ He found an orderly. ‘Where are you taking him?’ Amit took out a pen and found some paper, noting the ward his friend was being admitted to. This is what he would do for everyone who turned up. Inside a chaotic hospital, with 800 beds, those who lobbied hardest received treatment first.
He waited by the steps, checking every arriving ambulance. Where was Rego Jr, his protégé, who had promised him the pizza of his dreams? Where was Kaizad Kamdin, the Parsi giant from banqueting? Behind the ranges in Chambers and the banqueting halls, he was known as bawa, affectionate slang for a Parsi. A weekend hockey player, Kamdin could hold the line tonight, Amit had no doubt. He read back through his texts to check what time he had last heard from Kamdin and other colleagues, when a third ambulance drew up. Amit ran over, heart in mouth. He stared at the body but it was no one he knew. Where was Chef Vijay Banja, Oberoi’s generous, loveable deputy? What of Chef Zaheen Mateen, the rising star from Zodiac?
As the dawn spread its slippery light over the city, Amit had found his purpose. Hemant Oberoi, the kitchen God, needed him here to save his colleagues. A motorcycle came by with three men on it. In the middle, he saw a semi-comatose Nitin Minocha, his shattered forearm cradled in his lap and his face as white as the canvas sail on a Mumbai clinker.
‘Water,’ Minocha croaked, as he was helped down and collapsed. ‘Who else?’ Amit urged. Minocha simply shook his head and Amit marked his admission in his log.
When Minocha came to, he was lying alone on a bed. Something caught his eye: a black spot on his breast pocket. He pulled out his Golden Dragon chopsticks and saw they had been smashed in two. Minocha was overcome by a feeling of euphoria: a bullet heading for his heart had glanced off them. On his chest was a tender, fist-sized bruise.
5.30 a.m. – the Control Room
At the police Control Room, near Crawford Market, news about the Kitchen Brigade slaughter was filtering through, and Crime Branch’s chief, Rakesh Maria, was incredulous. ‘Never before have we stood down and waited,’ he raged. ‘We are being attacked from a position of strategic advantage – and we’ve not even regroup
ed.’ He had been repeating the same observations to whoever would listen for several hours as a picture of debilitating terror sank force morale.
The Control Room felt like a tense, airless vault, everyone trapped before glowing screens since the assault had begun. Exhausted phone operators lifted their heads momentarily to hear him out before returning to their headsets.
Maria felt claustrophobic and frustrated, emotions he had experienced many times before in this über-political force. It had happened before he got a handle on the serial blasts inquiry of 1993 and again in 2003. But he would never admit to these misgivings publicly. Self-criticism was actively discouraged, the state institutions preferring to create glycerine versions of events that ultimately stifled the truth.
Still, irked by Gafoor’s decision to stand down and put all his hopes in the National Security Guard, Maria grappled with the line of command. Why was he pinned down in the Control Room doing a job that someone else could have done – and perhaps better? As Joint Commissioner Crime he should have been out there fighting in the streets and in the Taj lobby, rather than stuck, high and dry, liaising with the force across the city. The Commissioner was still in his car parked near the Trident–Oberoi.
