The Third Squad

by V. Sanjay Kumar

  Mishra thought for a while. “I believe the gangs have put out a contract on Karan. Who is their shooter with the supari?”

  “Atmaram Bhosle,” replied Partha.

  Mishra whistled when he heard the name. This was suddenly an opportunity to get even with a cop killer. “Let’s suppose Bhosle learns about Karan’s next move, and that Karan is told who is after him . . .”

  “Are you thinking of staging a confrontation?” said Partha.

  The chief drummed his fingers on the table.

  “Shall we go ahead then?” asked Partha. “Perhaps in Lonavla? Karan is comfortable there, and our people know the area well.”

  The chief nodded and left Partha sitting in his office. Down the corridor was a small room without a nameplate. He entered without knocking on the door. Seated inside, looking like a ghost of his former self, was Ranvir Pratap. Standing next to him was Pandey; his hands were folded in front of him.

  “I expect hanky-panky from Tiwari in this assignment,” said the chief. “There is going to be a classic showdown between two hunters: Karan and a sharpshooter from a gang. Mr. Desai, here’s what you need to do . . .”

  Encounter Thirty-Five

  I blanked out. The only measure was time.

  I realize I’ve been scrolling through photographs on my phone. Places, people, thoughts. Targets. Human stains. I can make sense of what happened. If I had time and someone to talk to I could calm myself.

  I keep fiddling with my phone. Time yawns and I yawn. I should brush my teeth. There are two messages from Evam Bhaskar. Urgent. Important. I don’t open them. Should I make a call? Who should I call? I’m surprised they haven’t traced me yet. I have stopped zigzagging my way around Mumbai. If they want to come and get me they can. I have my Ruger and it’s loaded.

  I call Ranvir Pratap knowing he will not answer. My charge sheet is now long and infamous. I have shot a man I shouldn’t have, I have disobeyed an order to execute someone, I have absconded, and now I have killed someone else who was unarmed, hopefully a gangster. In Ranvir Pratap’s books I am guilty many times over. Yet my mind is at peace. I am just dog-tired.

  My thoughts drift to the last conversation with Desai. It was a long, unconvincing monologue. They are setting me up, I think.

  * * *

  There is a pileup at the highway tollbooth. As if on cue, the phone rings again.

  “This could be your last assignment,” murmurs Desai. His tone is conspiratorial.

  “Any assignment could be my last,” I reply.

  “You know what I mean, Karan. They are going to test you.” He pauses. Desai rarely pauses so there must be advice on the way. “Just don’t make a spectacle. I know people who make grand gestures. Or they do foolish things. We don’t want that. Treat it like any assignment.”

  “Nothing you say will change me,” I say.

  He laughs. “I know that. You are special. You always were.”

  “That sounds like an epitaph. Anything else?” I ask.

  “You did good, Karan.” For a moment he seems less inscrutable.

  The next stop is in the town of Khopoli. I order the local delicacy, a bun filled with hot potato mash. As I sit at a table the phone rings. This time Desai sounds unhurried, almost leisurely.

  “Have you heard of a death wish?” he asks.

  The snack is spicy, there’s an ant climbing my plate, and a family next to me has a bawling kid with snot in her nose. I slap down hard on the ant, sending onions flying from the plate and onto the child. Her bawling stops momentarily in her amazement, then more tears. I walk to the counter and buy an ice cream for the kid. Her parents wave me away. I lick the sticky cream that runs down my fingers. The child bawls some more. And Desai rambles on.

  “A death wish comes when you are driving endlessly and nothing is happening; you have passed thousands of vehicles and your leg feels wooden and your neck is stiff and your mind is idling toward the inevitable question of what would happen if I was a little slow on the uptake, what if I pulled out of the way of that huge trailer a little late? You need to see that gruesome image in your mind. You ask yourself: can this really happen to me?”

  “Are you driving?” I ask him.

  He hesitates and I suddenly realize he’s following me. Now I know why he calls only when I have stopped.

  He continues: “I don’t want you to think—not when you drive, not when you are up against another with a gun in your hand. You have strange habits. You almost always face your quarry when you shoot. You give the other a chance. Why?”

  “What if I cannot help it?” I say, as I brush crumbs off my shirt. “Sometimes things seem unreal because despite everything I do, nothing happens to me.”

  He pauses. This pause is unhappy.

  “What is your real name, Desai?” I ask him suddenly.

  He doesn’t respond.

  I enter the ghats and start the climb up the snaking road. Trucks and buses groan and belch smoke around the bends. The fumes make me cough. I am exposed to the elements in my open jeep. I sneak a glimpse behind to see if I’m being followed and I realize my tailpipe is spurting black puffs of smoke. I negotiate a bend too quickly and have to brake hard. Pulled over ahead is a recreational vehicle whose occupants have spilled out onto the road and broken into song. A few drops of rain arrive and that sets them off into a paroxysm of hip thrusts. The road farther up is blocked by an overturned truck. I settle down and wait and watch the revelry. Desai calls one last time.

  “Any questions?” he asks.

  “None that you will answer,” I reply. But then I voice one anyway: “You’ve already written my epitaph—what am I missing?”

  He remains quiet.

  “Because the target’s name is Bhosle?” I ask. “Is he that good?”

  “Yes,” he replies. “I have left some things for you. When you get there, pay attention. Pay attention to the plants.”

  Plants?

  * * *

  Tiwari knew Bhosle was a rogue who the khabaris needed to get rid off, an ace marksman who was in hiding. This was someone who the police hated because he had taken out a cop some years before and that wound had festered. Bhosle could shoot and pit a grape without squinting. His only weakness was disdain. Bhosle was told that if he were to be successful in this mission, he would be welcomed back into their fold. For Tiwari this was a dream scenario. By getting rid of Bhosle, Tiwari would regain lost ground with the khabaris. Pitting him against Karan was a master stroke. Either way he would win. He wasn’t sure which loss would please him more. Bhosle was told that Karan would arrive at his hideout in Lonavla following the recent assignment in Mumbai.

  “Is Atmaram battle-ready?” Tiwari asked of the khabaris. “Do you know who he’ll be up against?”

  The khabaris knew of Karan; everyone did.

  “Bhosle can do it,” they said. “He is possibly the only one. Just don’t put the heat on him, that’s all.”

  Atmaram Bhosle surfaced quietly, camping on the terrain and taking up a prime spot with a clear view of the lodge’s entrance.

  Tiwari had also planted a creature of the night in Lonavla for himself. She was someone with fight and he could hardly wait for the two days of role-play ahead with a busty woman. He would be the wanderer and she would play the waif. This would be thrilling in the cooler, wetter climate of Lonavla, a hill town that cultivated licentiousness.

  * * *

  “Are you going there directly?” asks Desai.

  “Would I tell you if I were?”

  “You could lie.”

  “I can never lie. But I can disappear.”

  And then Karan falls off the radar like a plane from the sky.

  Tiwari is lost, but in the folds of a dress that is held up by pins and needles. Someone knocks, rudely interrupting his night of lust. He opens the door, bare-chested. Kamte and Pandey try not to look at him or beyond him. Their boss rants at the news till reason returns. He knows Karan will come. But he doesn’t know when.

>   “Should we call in reinforcements for Karan?” asks Pandey.

  Tiwari laughs, his pajamas hanging on him precariously. “Don’t bother defending Karan. Where is Atmaram?” He leans heavily on a chair.

  “In position, sir; I believe he’s directly opposite the cottage on the first floor of a house slightly uphill. He has a clear view of the entrance, along with a scope rifle. His bullets can tear into armor. Karan will be a mess when he gets hit.”

  Tiwari drums his fingers against his legs. There is pent-up energy in him that has been deprived. The smell of cheap perfume fills the room.

  “There’s an undercover agent tracking Bhosle, sir,” says Pandey, glancing toward the bed in the room. The blinds have been drawn and it’s dark inside.

  “He must be tired—it’s been thirty-six hours of waiting. Who will keep him awake?”

  Pandey laughs loudly and someone stirs in the bed under the sheets. “Sir, the agent is unlikely to fall sleep with Bhosle nearby.”

  The agent had wanted to call home. Upon learning that the job was a face-off between Atmaram and Karan, he thought it prudent to inform his family of his whereabouts.

  Tiwari has a last-minute instruction. He looks at this young officer he has grown to like and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Pandey, are you carrying a gun? If so, keep it cocked and ready.”

  “Why do you ask, sir?” Pandey’s voice shakes and he hates that it does.

  “You and I will be in the vicinity. If Atmaram succeeds, then you have to be quick. Fire at him if you have a clear shot. But make no mistake—kill him. There should be no survivors.”

  Pandey stares at his fingers. He wraps them around his weapon but the cold metal gives no comfort. He has never killed a man, and a crack assassin is supposed to be his first victim? All he has to do is pull the trigger; at that range he would need more balls than accuracy.

  “Sir,” says Pandey, “why are we doing this?” It’s obvious to him that the hierarchy has failed. The complex police machinery has derailed. This could easily turn into a botched operation and the participants know it; the problem is they don’t care. All outcomes are acceptable.

  * * *

  I lie awake in the jeep at the edge of a precipice that defines a hill. There is condensation on my clothes, the seat, and the steering wheel. The windscreen has rivulets. Below me is a familiar cottage that awaits my arrival. I massage my temples to ease the pain. I need a coffee to clear my head. The remnants of a dream linger; last night’s was a curiously serene one, bathed in a silver moon. It’s time to rinse my face and get going.

  I am hungry and if I don’t eat I will wander. I abandon the jeep and descend toward the lodge, carefully observing every tree and its shadow. But then I invade a neighbor’s home, setting off a mad dog. Soon the whole place echoes with barking, lights come on, and people emerge with flashlights and shout at each other. I set off two car alarms to drown out the sound. Amid the cacophony I ascend to a hidden approach along a side street.

  I scale a low brick wall and vault over an iron fence. I land on my toes and wince as my weight comes down on my knees. My moon shadow drops down beside me and waits. There is no one around the bungalow. The watchman has gone for a cup of tea down the road. The car park is empty and I use the cover of a cloud to reach the fire escape. I climb the stairs sideways, chasing my shadow. My rubber soles soften my step but squeak over some water. I collapse like a shroud, crouch in a huddle, and scan the corridor. Nobody at this hour. The entrance is covered. I unlock the front door, three locks in sequence. The last is electronic and beeps before opening. I slip my right hand inside, bracing my left palm against the door. I find the alarm switch and a Post-it note. I slip inside, grab a flashlight, and read the note; it contains a code that I immediately feed into a keypad inside the door.

  Desai has left me instructions, as usual. I take off my shoes and examine the soles out of habit. No debris. I step in carefully, survey the room end-to-end, and switch on a light. Bhosle will know I have entered. I turn around and kick the door shut. The second Post-it note is near the eyehole. Desai knew I would turn around and peer out.

  Wash your feet first, then your hands and face.

  Per routine, I amble into the washroom on the left. I scrub my hands with soap, then rinse my feet with hot water. I use a clean white towel and rub myself down hard. Next to the washroom mirror is a third note.

  Sit at the table and empty your pockets.

  I walk to the table in the living room and empty my pockets. Near the table is a small shredder. Stuck on it is a pink Post-it.

  Paper trail goes here.

  I had no ticket stubs this time so I dump the Post-its. I walk up to the kitchen counter. Placed on it is a tumbler with a full finger of amber liquid. I down the stuff in a single gulp and wait for the burn. I twirl the glass like I always do after draining the last drop.

  Every time I visit here I stay for a week. Half an hour after I leave, my shadow will come in and check the sequence meticulously. He is a trained poacher, taught to track people like me. He will sweep the place like an anthropologist and if anything is amiss he will spot it and he will know what to do. If he feels I have made a run for it, he will hunt me down. Informers who have been sent here for safekeeping and have tried to flee have all been tracked and captured.

  I would typically feed the Post-its into the shredder, bide my time as prescribed, and then leave just before daybreak. The door would shut behind me with a click and the electronics would kick in. There would be a slight breeze that ruffles the potted plants standing like sentries in the corridor. I would slip on my shoes and weave my way out.

  Now what? I remember past instructions and move without thinking to the bedroom and look for a note under the alarm clock. This time the instructions are different. I half-expected what I read, but still, to see it in black-and-white and face the reality is difficult. I feel queasy and my stomach turns at what’s in store. I am suddenly out of time.

  There’s a CD player beside the open window where I stand. A few minutes of eternal sound? Why not. Another drink? Why not. Something is happening. Something is welling up inside me and I cannot fight it. That last Post-it says, Karan, this is your final encounter. Today you are the target.

  * * *

  It happens in some kind of slow motion. Karan moves as if in a daze. He considers the glass, rolls it around, and tilts it to his mouth again. He shrugs his shoulders and walks up to the liquor cabinet. He has broken the chain of command. The last Post-it under the alarm clock should have said, There is a change of plan. Take your things and leave immediately. If he had done so then he would never have needed to return to Lonavla again. Atmaram would have drilled a hole in his head as he left.

  Instead he pours himself another drink. He walks up to the CD player. He has never used it, ever. He shuffles through the discs on the rack above it and picks one. He plays it. It starts slowly and some words are spoken. Karan waits for the music to build up and the sound swells gradually. They see him turn his back on them.

  “Atmaram is shifting positions,” says Pandey. “Because Karan hasn’t left yet.”

  Pandey is on the phone with the undercover agent who has hurried toward the other side of the terrace. There he glimpses Atmaram looking around for a clear shot.

  Tiwari shivers. “He can’t see us, can he?”

  I hope he can, thinks Pandey. He has been told of Tiwari’s violent escapades at various brothels. News like this travels fast through the very network he created. Pandey has instructions from Mishra as well.

  Suddenly Atmaram comes into view, his scope rifle waving dangerously in front of him. They watch Karan pour some more whiskey.

  Karan downs the liquid and the sniper gets set. The drumbeats intensify, filling the bungalow.

  “What is he up to?”

  Karan walks up to the window and, seemingly counter to his instincts, stands directly in front of it with his hands on his hips. Atmaram isn’t quite set yet. “Come on, bhosadik
e,” he urges softly as he opens his scope and leans on the frame.

  “I’m surprised nobody has taken a shot yet,” says Tiwari.

  Karan stretches out his arms, slowly steps back in front of the open window, then sticks his head out. The wind hits his face; he looks straight ahead.

  Karan appears in Bhosle’s scope camera. The auto focus zooms onto his face, blurs, and then adjusts. They can see his face clearly now in the corresponding video feed too. There, in full view, for the first time they see him cry.

  “Wait,” says Pandey, speaking out of turn. “This changes everything.”

  Tiwari looks at him in astonishment. Pandey speaks to the agent, who distracts Atmaram momentarily.

  What on earth was Karan doing?

  * * *

  Somewhere across from the bungalow, up there in some house, somebody must be thinking that it probably took me enormous effort to step out into full view, unprotected. That goes completely against my training. I would never do that unless the place was secured. And to cry was even stranger. I was crying. I could feel all the tears that had never come before.

  Why?

  I had no idea. What I was going to do was new for me. I had no time to think through every step I was to take. Actually, I had no plan at all.

  I step back into the room, just in time. Is it important that I survive this? There are three of them in that dark sky among the stars that matter to me. I should not let my team down and follow in their footsteps. Come on, shake off that memory.

  I have to deal with this sniper. What caliber do they have in mind for me?

  Karan?

  I can hear Ranvir’s voice in my head. My holster feels heavy and I slide my hand in and take my gun. The chamber is loaded. The gun has no sight but I can see well enough as I peek out through a corner of the window. I can see him across this divide, up there in the bay window where he is crouched, watching. I can pick him off in a fraction of a second. It would not take much time for the bullet to traverse and pierce that glass and what lays behind.

  Stretch that ligature, Karan.