by Anil John
For the visits of the prostitutes had nothing to do with sex. They were a part of self punishment.
Once a week, Morad stripped himself naked and had a woman tie him to a chair and whip him mercilessly, until the blood flowed, and each time he was whipped, he could see his wife and daughter being raped to death, screaming for help and then he used to cry out, ‘I am sorry begum jaan, I am sorry beta jaan, I will talk. Please let me talk...’
In the meanwhile, the much awaited telephone call on the Pindar’s private number rang ten days after Lucas’s dead body was found in the water tank on the roof top of a hotel in Rio de Janeiro.
The Pindar was in the middle of a staff meeting in the conference room when the intercom buzzer sounded.
‘I know you asked not to be disturbed, but there is an overseas call for you. It sounds very urgent. A Padre is calling from Rio de Janeiro, I told him...’
‘It’s all right,’ The Pindar kept his emotions under tight control.
‘I will take the call in my private office.’ He excused himself, went into his office, and locked the door.
He picked up the telephone, ‘Hello is this Padre Pio?’
‘Yeah,’ it was a voice with a coarse German accent. ‘I got a message for you from Carlos. He did not like the bossy messenger you sent.’
The Pindar knew, he had to choose his words carefully, ‘I am sorry, but we would still like Carlos to go ahead with our proposal. Would that be possible?’
‘Yeah, He said he wants to do it.’
The Pindar held back a sigh of relief. ‘Excellent, how shall I arrange his advance’
The Padre laughed, ‘Carlos needs no advance. Nobody cheats Carlos.’
The words from the Padre were spine chilling and the Pindar felt a few drops of cold sweat on his forehead.
‘When the job is finished, you put the money in - wait a minute - I got it wrote down - here it is - The Swiss National Bank, in Switzerland –No reminders.’
‘I will need an account number.’ The chairman quoted wiping his forehead.
‘Oh, yeah, the number is - I forgot, Hold on. I got it written somewhere.’ The Padre sounded like a moron.
The Chairman heard the rustle of papers and finally the Padre was back on the telephone. ‘Here it is, E-6-V-6-I-6-L.’
The Chairman stammered to repeat the bank account number of the evil. ‘How soon can he handle the matter, May I ask?’
‘When he is ready, Carlos said you will know when it is done. The news channels will let you know when to celebrate.’
‘Very well. I am giving you my private cell phone number and you can give it to Carlos, in case he needs to reach me.’
The line was dead with a beep.
Chapter 9
The host said, ‘Two urgent matters have arisen. The first is good news. Our Chief, The Pindar has had a word with Padre Pio, the one point contact with Carlos. The proposal is moving forward.
‘That’s very good news!’ Gluttony exclaimed. ‘What’s the bad news?’
‘The Indian Prime Minister’s nominated candidate for the Ambassadorship to Pakistan, but the situation can be handled...’
Guangzhou, China
It was Sunday and church bells pealed rang out across the quiet noon air. The paramilitary officers guarding Morad Amir’s villa had no reason to pay attention to the dusty Renault cruising by.
Carlos drove slowly, but not slowly enough to arouse suspicion, taking everything in.
Two guards in front, a high wall, probably electrified, and inside of course, the usual electronic high tech nonsense of CCTV cameras, beams, sensors, alarms, dogs and above all, a small army of highly skilled security guards. It would take an army to storm the villa.
But I don’t need an army, Carlos thought. It will only take my genius and Morad Amir is a dead meat.
He drove away with a malicious grin on his face.
There was a popular bar called Mint on the outskirts of Guangzhou that Morad Amir’s guards frequented when they were not on duty at the villa. Even Yakov occasionally visited the bar.
Carlos chose a table in an area of the room where conversation could be overheard. The guards, away from the rigid routine of the villa, liked to drink, and when they drank, they talked.
Carlos frequently visited and listened, seeking the villa’s vulnerable point. There was always a vulnerable point. One simply had to be clever enough to find it.
Finally, one night, Carlos overheard a conversation that gave the clue to the solution of the impregnable villa of Morad Amir.
A guard said, ‘I don’t know what Morad Amir is doing to the whores he brings in here, but they were sure whipping the hell out of him kinky way. You should hear the screaming and moaning that goes on.’
And the next night... ‘The hookers our fearless leader gets up at the villa are real beauties. They bring them in from all over the world. Yakov arranges it himself. He is smart. He never uses the same girl twice. That way, no one can use the girls to get at Morad Amir.’
It was all that Carlos needed.
Next morning, Carlos took a flight to Paris, changed rental cars and drove in to a sex shop near Pigalle Metro station, in the middle of a section populated by whores and pimps.
Carlos went inside, walking slowly along aisles, carefully studying the merchandise for sale.
There were shackles, chains, iron-studded helmets, and black leather pants with slits in the front, joy jelly, inflatable rubber dolls and porno DVDs. There were male douches and braided leather whips with thongs at the end.
Carlos bought a whip, paid cash for it and left.
The next morning, Carlos brought the whip back to the shop. The manager looked up and growled, ‘No returns, no refunds.’
‘I don’t want to return or a refund,’ Carlos explained, ‘I feel awkward carrying this around. I would appreciate it if you would ship it for me. I will pay the shipping charges, of course.’
‘With pleasure,’ the manager replied and assured him of a guaranteed delivery at his door step.
Later that evening, Carlos was on a plane to Rio de Janeiro.
The whip, carefully wrapped and packed, arrived at the villa in Guangzhou, China after three days. It was intercepted by the guard at the gates. He read the store label on the package, opened it and examined the whip with great care. He passed it through, and a guard took it to Morad Amir’s bedroom closet, where he placed it with the other whips.
Prime Minister’s Office, New Delhi, India
Sunny Jordan was sitting across the Indian Foreign Minister, Debrato Roy. They had finished the royal lunch and they talked about the colourful history of Lucknow city over coffee, and Roy finally brought the discussion around to Pakistan.’
‘What is your opinion about Khan’s government in Pakistan?’ He asked Jordan.
‘There is no government in Pakistan, in the real sense of the word,’ Jordan replied, ‘Pakistan’s intelligence agency ISI and Prime Minister Khan who was an ex Pakistani Army General is the government. They are in total control.’
‘Do you think there will be a revolution in Pakistan?’
‘Not in the present circumstances. The only man powerful and popular enough to depose Khan is Morad Amir, who is rumoured to be in exile somewhere in China.’
The questioning went on, Sunny Jordan was an expert on the Iron Curtain countries, and Debrato Roy was visibly impressed.
Prime Minister Vir Sanghvi was right, Roy thought. Sunny Jordan can be more useful than he realizes.
At the end of the meeting, Roy said, ‘Mr. Sunny Jordan, I am going to be frank with you. I was against the Prime Minister appointing you to a post as sensitive as Pakistan. I tell you this now because I have changed my mind; I think you may very well make an excellent Ambassador to Pakistan. Last but not the least, you have the kind of image the Prime Minister wants to project in the Iron Curtain countries, where they are fed so much adverse propaganda about India. You are the new face of India – the opposite of the Intoler
ant and Impulsive Indian.’
‘Thank you, Mr. Roy, I will do my best and won’t let anybody down.’
‘As you might not be aware, you have already been investigated very thoroughly. You have been approved of security clearance by the Central Bureau of Investigation and surprisingly there is no conflict of interest from the cabinet and Opposition parties.’
‘I am honoured to accept the post of Indian Ambassador to Pakistan, Sir.’
Chapter 10
Morad Amir’s Villa, Guangzhou, China
This one is even more beautiful than others, the guard thought. She did not look like a prostitute. She could have been a model. She was in her early twenties with shiny brown hair and a clear, smooth, milky complexion and wore a designer dress and high heels to compliment her hip movements while she walked.
Yakov came to the gate himself to conduct her to the villa.
The girl was a Russian and it was her first trip to China. The sight of all the armed security guards made her nervous. All she knew that her pimp had handed her a round trip plane ticket and told her she would be paid 3000 US dollars for an hour’s work.
Yakov knocked at the bedroom door and Morad Amir’s voice called out, ‘Come in.’
Yakov opened the door and ushered the girl inside. Morad Amir was standing at the foot of the bed. He had on a robe and she could tell he was naked under it.
‘Good evening, my dear, Come closer.’
Yakov left, carefully closing the door behind him, and Morad Amir was alone with the girl.
She moved towards him and smiled seductively. ‘You look comfortable, why don’t both of us get undressed and we can both be comfortable?’ She started to get out of her dress.
‘No, keep your clothes on, please.’
She looked at him in surprise, ‘Don’t you want me to - ?’
Morad Amir walked over to the closet and opened it,
‘I want you to use any of these whips.’
So that was it, a slave fetish, strange. He did not look the kinky type, she thought and said, ‘Sure Honey, whatever turns you on.’
Morad Amir took off his robe and turned around. She was shocked by the sight of the scarred body. It was covered with red and raised scars. There was something in his expression that puzzled her, and when she realized what it was, she was even more baffled. It was suffering.
The man was in enormous amount of pain. She watched him as he walked over to a stool and sat on it.
‘Hard.’ He commanded, ‘Whip me very hard, I deserve it.’
‘All right,’ she picked up the brand new braided leather whip.
Sadomasochism was new to her, but there was something different here that she did not understand. Well, it’s none of my business. She thought, Finish the job, and take the money and leave.
She raised the whip and cracked it down against his naked back.
‘Harder,’ He urged,’
He flinched with pain as the tough leather whip beat against his skin.
The vision he had been waiting for came to him. Scenes of his beloved wife and his daughter being gang raped seared through his brain. Morad Amir strained against the stool as though bound to it.
As the whip fell again and again, he could hear the screams of his wife and wife begging for mercy, until the blood started pouring out and their cries finally trailed off.
Morad Amir groaned with every crack of the whip. He was having difficulty breathing. His lungs felt paralyzed after some time.
The girl stopped, holding the whip in mid-air.
‘Hey, are you all right?’
She watched as he toppled on the floor, his eyes open, staring at nothing.
She screamed at the top of her voice and yelled, ‘Help, Help.’
Yakov came running in, gun in hand. He saw the man he admired on the ground.
‘What happened?’
‘I didn’t do anything; I just whipped him the way he told me to. I swear.’ She replied hysterically.
The doctor, who lived in the villa, came running to the room within seconds. He bent down to Morad Amir’s body to examine him.
The skin of the body had turned blue in a matter of few minutes.
He picked up the whip and smelled it from a distance.
‘What?’ Yakov yelled.
‘Damn! It’s the kiss of death. It’s the venom of the deadliest and the most feared snake Black Mamba in Africa. The ancient tribes of Africa used the venom of Black Mamba to poison their arrow heads and used them at warfare.
Everyone around in the room stood there, staring helplessly at each other and at the dead body of the revolutionary leader, Morad Amir.
The news of Morad Amir’s assassination was carried all over the world by satellite. Yakov was able to keep the details away from the media.
In New Delhi, at the Prime Minister’s Office, Prime Minister Vir Sanghvi called for an urgent meeting with his friend and India’s foreign minister, Debrato Roy.
‘Who do you think is behind it, Roy?’
‘Absolutely no idea, Vir, in the end, it comes to the same thing, doesn’t it?’
Far, far away in Rio de Janeiro, Carlos smiled on hearing the news on his television.
At 10 pm, the cell phone of the Pindar rang and he picked it, ‘Hello?’
‘Carlos has sent his Congratulations,’ It was Padre Pio on the other side.
‘Thank you and please convey my congratulations to Carlos also, please inform him that the money transfer will be taken care immediately. Tell him that I am very pleased and I may need him again very soon for another contract.’ The line went dead with a beep.
Chapter 11
Padre Pio wanted to have a drink before he could convey the message to his friend Carlos.
The world’s deadliest assassin trusted just one person and it was him. Padre did not know how to react to that thought.
He made a drink for himself and rested back on his chair and thought of his journey with Carlos.
An imposing figure at over 6 feet 9 inches and 300 pounds, with an Intelligence Quotient in the range of 140, Carlos who is world’s most dreaded assassin today started his journey as a serial killer at the age of 14 when he killed his mother and his mother’s best friend in Germany.
Carlos was born in Frankfurt in Germany to Adolf and Emilia. He was a middle child and the only son. Carlos notwithstanding his immense intellect was a deeply troubled child. He had exhibited sociopathic tendencies before, including killing his mother’s pet cat, burying animals in the garden and then digging them out later, and enacting dark sexual rituals with his sister’s dolls.
Carlos had a difficult relationship with his sisters – whom he claimed used to dunk his head under water in their swimming pool for long stretches of time, and also had pushed him before approaching trains, for fun.
Later, his parents divorced. Carlos who had been very close to his father was devastated. He forced to, against his will, stay with his mother. Both mother and son shared by all accounts a deeply dysfunctional relationship.
His mother was identified by some, as exhibiting obvious signs of Advanced Borderline Personality Disorder.
She was a short tempered and aggressively assertive woman who hated and feared her son. She was also a violent alcoholic, who would spare no opportunity to berate, insult and humiliate him.
She forced him to sleep all on his own at the young age of 9 in a dark basement, ostensibly because she was afraid that he would rape his younger sister.
His relationship with his mother worsened over time, and at the age of 14, Carlos ran away to his father.
He found his father, who had remarried and had another son. Carlos lived there for a while, but eventually was sent back to his mother.
One dreadful night, his mother had gone for a party.
Whilst waiting for her to return, Carlos fell asleep and woke up when she returned home. He walked to her room and saw her reading a paperback book.
She insulted him once more, and asked him
if he probably wanted to spend the night talking about the party. Carlos replied, “No, good night” and then beat her with a pink claw hammer to death.
He decapitated her, and then used it as a dartboard. He removed her vocal chords and tried to put them in the garbage disposal, but the disposal couldn’t take care of the tough tissue and ejected it back out, which amused him.
Once done, he hid the remains of the body in his room, and then invited his mother’s best friend Molly, ostensibly on behalf of his mother, over. Molly had previously taken part in several of his mother’s ‘abuse sessions’ with her son, and when she arrived he strangled the woman to death.
Carlos then left the scene of the crime. He called the police from a booth and confessed, to his murders of his mother and her friend Molly.
Incredibly, the police did not believe him, and thinking him to be some disturbed teen, asked him to call them when they were not busy.
He then called his orphan friend Pio and confessed the murders to him and both of them fled from Germany.
Today, the world knew Carlos as a grotesque monster, who was ugly to look at and was an embodiment of evil, whereas Carlos in reality was a handsome and strapping man who was charming and friendly, and quick to gain the trust of men and women alike.
Padre Pio finished his drink and picked up his phone to inform Carlos about the Chairman’s message and his interest in giving him a new contract.
