by Deva,Mukul
westland ltd
RIP
An alumnus of La Martiniere College, Lucknow, the National Defence Academy, Pune and the Indian Military Academy, Dehradun, Mukul Deva was commissioned in December 1981 into the Sikh Light Infantry of the Indian Army. He took early retirement from the army after fifteen years of service, including a decade of combat operations in India and overseas. Now settled in Singapore, he is an entrepreneur, motivational speaker and an executive, business and creativity coach. He is also a Mentor on the United Nations Institute of Training and Research Afghanistan Fellowship.
For more about him please visit his website www.mukuldeva.com
BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Time After Time . . . It All Happened (2000);
S.T.R.I.P.T.E.A.S.E: The Art of Corporate Warfare (2005);
M.O.D.E.L.: The Return of the Employee (2006);
Lashkar (2008); Soon to be a major motion picture
Salim Must Die (2009);
Blowback (2010),
Tanzeem (2011)
The Dust Will Never Settle (2012).
PRAISE FOR MUKUL DEVA
‘The God of all things . . . it is tough describing Mukul Deva.’ —Business World
‘Deva has a Nostradamus touch.’ —The Statesman
‘India’s literary stormtrooper.’ —Business Standard
‘India’s only military thriller writer.’ —The Week
‘Mukul Deva wears the crown of India’s premier military thriller writer with great skill and panache.’ —www.indepepal.com
‘India finally has a writer of international calibre in the genre of military fiction.’ —First City
‘Deva is a quintessential literary stormtrooper . . . his books are fast-paced thrillers that have broken new ground.’ —Yuva
PRAISE FOR THE LASHKAR SERIES
‘Exciting . . . with some action, some introspection, some retrospection . . . A racy read.’ —The Times of India
‘An edge-of-the-seat-thriller . . . His insightful writing is lucid . . . Deva can play political commentator and soothsayer of national defence and novelist . . . a heady cocktail of chill and thrill.’ —The Hindustan Times
‘Fast and furious . . . the action is non-stop, more sophisticated and terrifyingly real . . . moves seamlessly across a dozen time zones . . . thoroughly entertaining and extremely well-researched.’ —Business Standard
‘Deva is an equal with the likes of Robert Ludlum and Sidney Sheldon . . . a tight plot bound together by intricate but brilliant narration leaves the reader in awe . . . Deva’s biggest strength is the smoothness of his prose, crisp and fast-moving, and you never get distracted from the story.’ —The Deccan Herald
‘Full of excitement and suspense . . . the emotive quality in Deva’s writing is powerful and the logic crisply military . . . a surprisingly touching statement from a man who has lived by the gun.’ —Express Buzz
‘The ease with which Deva combines well-known facts with popular fiction makes for a fantastic read . . . his writing style is top-notch . . . the story is tight and gripping.’ —First City
‘A riveting read . . . unnervingly prophetic . . . heartbreaking . . . a must read . . . he paints the picture of geo-politics and terrorism with fantastic clarity.’ —The Hindu
‘Simply superb . . . the descriptions are vivid, the plot racy and the detail very convincingly developed.’ —Mid-Day
‘Taut and gripping . . . technical knowledge and research are remarkable, as is the plotting and the premise. Great read for the fans of Tom Clancy.’ —Delhi Times
RIP
MUKUL DEVA
westland ltd
Venkat Towers, 165, P.H. Road, Maduravoyal, Chennai 600 095
No. 38/10 (New No. 5), Raghava Nagar, New Timber Yard Layout, Bangalore 560 026
23/181, Anand Nagar, Nehru Road, Santacruz East, Mumbai 400 055
93, 1st Floor, Sham Lal Road, Daryaganj, New Delhi 110 002
First published in India by westland ltd 2012
Copyright © Mukul Deva 2012
All rights reserved
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN: 978-93-82618-19-5
Typeset in Adobe Jenson Pro by SÜRYA, New Delhi
Printed at Manipal Technologies Ltd, Manipal
This book is a complete work of fiction, a product of the author’s imagination, although some of the events mentioned here may have actually taken place. However even these events have been fictitiously used. Likewise all characters, countries, places, political parties and organizations described or mentioned in this book are fictitious or have been fictitiously used. Any resemblance to any actual person or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. There is no intention to cause hurt to anyone and no slur or malice is intended against any religion, race, caste, creed, nation, political party, organization or people.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, circulated, and no reproduction in any form, in whole or in part (except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews) may be made without written permission of the publishers.
This book is dedicated to Lady Hope—may she always shine bright.
And to Dusky.
My constant companion during the writing of this book.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
WHILE WRITING THIS book I could easily notice the impact that Al Zuckerman has had on my narrative style and storytelling. It was indeed a good day when our paths crossed. More power to him!
To my wonderful family for giving me the time and space to indulge in the (almost) solitary love of my life, writing.
To the National Arts Council, Singapore for providing me the wonderful opportunity and mind space I needed to finish this book in double-quick time. And to Gautam Padmanabhan, Paul Vinay Kumar, Renuka Chatterjee, Gunjan Ahlawat and Vipin Vijay at Westland for getting this book out at a mind-boggling speed. To all those valiant women and men who have taken up cudgels on behalf of my country—India certainly deserves better. This second struggle, for our freedom from corruption and the right to lead a dignified and secure life, is no less important than the one our forefathers waged against the British Raj.
And of course, last but not the least, to those of you who have read, criticized, commented, appreciated and encouraged me.
Any errors, factual or technical, that still exist in this book are solely my fault or have been deliberately left in there by me to prevent any misuse of a technology or an idea.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
AS MENTIONED IN the disclaimer I believe it is important to stress that this book is a complete work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, party or organization is purely coincidental, fictitious and / or has been fictitiously used.
Artistic licence has also been taken with the places mentioned, distances between places and the topography. The location, layouts and security arrangements of all buildings mentioned in this book have been fictitiously described. Likewise, the technical details of all weapon systems, as well as the tactics and procedures employed by any VIP protection group, police, military, intelligence organization, and/or militant organization, as also all criminal, forensic and investigative procedures, have been deliberately kept slightly vague, inaccurate and/or incomplete, once again to prevent any misuse, accidental or otherwise.
This book was born out of an extreme sense of anger and shame. Anger at the appalling, naked greed so shamelessly displayed by the Indian political class. And shame that they happen to be fellow-Indians.
It is shocking to note that if we had been able to, or even now, are able to prevent these scams and theft of public money by these conniving, unscrupulous ‘national leaders’, the face of our country would be so different today.
I abhor viol
ence and do not advocate vigilante action of any kind, but in my heart I would certainly not condemn anyone who rid our country of such ‘leaders’.
And, whenever I hear or read of yet another scam and how blatantly the people concerned get away with it, I do wonder, ‘Will we ever be free of this scourge?’
November 2012 MUKUL DEVA
ONE
Patna
THE TALL, ATHLETICALLY built man, dressed in an elegant but subdued steel grey business suit slid out the vibrating mobile. He blended in well with the dozens of men thronging the rich but gaudily decorated banquet hall of Patna’s posh Chanakya Hotel. Some of them wore traditional dhotis and kurtas. But most were in suits. The aroma of expensive perfumes, aftershave lotions and eau de toilette hung heavy in the air. Like twinkling pinpoints diamonds, rubies and emeralds, sparkled on necks, ears and wrists as they caught the light of the chandeliers.
Considering the kind of people present at the wedding, security was pretty tight. Yet not tight enough to stop those trained to penetrate through barbed wires, minefields and surveillance radars, and infiltrate into enemy territory.
After all, how difficult is it to copy wedding cards, no matter how ornate and intricate?
A taut smile creased his lips as Colonel Krishna Athawale, now retired, but once a proud member of the elite 19th Para Commando, noted the time on his iPhone’s screen. But the smile did not reach his eyes. Surprisingly warm, caring eyes, which stood out in a ruggedly handsome face, weathered and hardened by two decades of combat.
Precisely 1900 hours.
In all the years that Krishna had known the man, Major Karan Singh, also ex-19th Para Commando, had never been late. Not once. The Swiss watchmakers could have used him as a precision tool.
‘Locked.’ Karan reported, his voice a trifle tinny on the Bluetooth headset plugged into Krishna’s ear. It was almost overpowered by the loud music throbbing all around him. ‘We’re ready to rock, sir.’ The sir slipped out effortlessly, bred in by years of habit. Though it had been a while since they had shed the uniform and Krishna had repeatedly briefed them to keep communications informal, he realized that old habits die hard.
‘Wait one.’ Krishna put Karan on hold and tapping the iPhone’s touch screen with light, expert fingers, added another number to the conference call. A radio system would have been more efficient, but Krishna, aware that all radio transmissions were monitored by security agencies, had decided to stick with civilian technology for this operation, barring the weapons of course. It was almost as efficient, far cheaper to procure, blended into the ever-increasing electronic clutter easily, and was much easier to dispose of. And, if intelligently used, almost impossible to trace back to the user.
The second call was answered instantly. ‘Status?’ Krishna asked before the man at the other end could speak.
‘We have him. Ten feet away.’ Major Kevin David’s voice was also almost smothered by the loud music. ‘Just say the word.’
‘Hang on.’ Krishna rapidly scanned the room. He saw his teammate, Major Kashif Nadeem, lounging on the periphery of the crowd, on the other side of their target. Almost as tall, but more solidly built and fairer, Kashif, also clad in a grey business suit, was the striker this evening, but he looked relaxed and at ease. Not surprising. Kashif had nerves that would have made a deep freeze run for cover.
Kashif noticed his glance and acknowledged Krishna’s unspoken query with a headshake, one, which would have been noticed only by a focused, careful observer. In the milling, chattering crowd no one paid attention to them. Barring the occasional woman, throwing appreciative glances, mostly shy, but some blatant.
Colonel Krishna Athawale knew all three men, Karan, Kevin and Kashif were ready. As would be their backups. He drew a deep breath, trying to still the chaotic medley of thoughts churning through him. Weeks of planning were now coming to fruition. Success seemed within reach. Of that he was reasonably certain; as sure as one could be when entering the fog of battle. Especially with this first set of targets . . . they were sitting ducks, with almost no security to worry about.
Yet uncertainty assailed him. A deeper, almost existential uncertainty. Krishna was keenly aware that his next words would catapult all six of them down a path from which they might never emerge unscathed. If at all.
And even if they did, no reward or glory awaited them. Nothing except knowing that they would have done their duty. That they would have honoured the pledge each one had taken whilst graduating from the Indian Military Academy.
The safety, honour and welfare of your country comes first, always and every time . . . Krishna knew their duty was clear.
Yet he hesitated.
The safety, honour and welfare of the men you command comes next, always and every time . . . These five men trusted him . . . had trusted him all those years that they had served together. The six were bound together with that incredible bond of having served in the 19th together. The K-Team they had been called, simply because all their names began with K. Proud wearers of the prestigious red beret. The best of the best. They had fought together. Been blooded together. And bled together. More often that any of them could now remember.
How often had they sallied forward in harm’s way? To cut down those that threatened the peace and security of the Motherland.
Krishna had led them then. Now they were expecting him to lead them again. One word from him and K-Team would happily cross the Rubicon. Knowing that only made the decision harder. It was a heavy cross to bear. No matter how righteous the cause . . . or justification . . . they would become outlaws.
So be it!
Krishna knew he was right ... they were right. They had done this before many times. Whenever India had been threatened. The difference was that this time the enemy was within the gates, their own countrymen. Traitors. Eating away at India’s innards like termites. Doubly culpable since it was the people of India who had voted them to power . . . and trusted them to serve, the country and the people. Instead they had been constantly misusing the power vested with them to loot the country. Over sixty years since Independence and the rape was still continuing.
Scum! Krishna felt a surge of anger.
Honour. Integrity. Honesty. Patriotism. These words meant nothing to these shameless people. But they would understand fear. Death he knew was the ultimate motivator.
But would it really make a difference? Killing a few of them? Would their replacements be any better?
Krishna knew it would probably not. Unless they could provide a viable alternative. But could they? Politics was not something soldiers considered often. Doubt tugged at his resolve.
‘Karmanye vaadhikaarasthay maa phaleshu kadachana, maa karma-phala-hetur bhur maa te sangho ‘stv akarmaani.’ One of Krishna’s favourite verses from the Bhagvad Gita skimmed through his head. We have a right to perform our prescribed duty, but we’re not entitled to the fruits of our actions. We should never consider ourselves the cause of the results of our actions, and never be attached to not doing our duty.
Doubt faltered.
Yes, we are right. The guilty have to be punished. And perhaps a new brand of leadership would emerge . . . thrown up by the outrage currently sweeping through the country, led by Hazarika the social activist. The people certainly seemed ready for change . . . no longer willing to tolerate the current criminal crop of politicians. But would someone . . . the correct someone . . . step forward? Krishna shrugged, unaware he had done so. One could only hope . . . they had to create the vacuum first . . . fear was the key.
Doubt melted. Like an ice cube thrown on a hot pan.
Steeling himself Krishna spoke quietly into the headset. ‘Go for it, guys. Confirm when clear.’ His calm even tone displayed none of the tension coursing through him. The tension of impending combat and the uncertainty that always accompanied it. But Krishna knew it would vanish once battle was joined. It was always so.
Silence returned to his ear as first Kevin, then Karan acknowledged and clic
ked off. Time for talk was over. Now it was time to walk the talk. And as it always did, instantly, all uncertainty slid away. Replaced by the Zen-like stillness of battle. In the space of a heartbeat the man within died, as the warrior came alive. Krishna felt his senses tingle to a new level of awareness. All at once he was acutely aware of every sight, sound and smell surrounding him.
Slipping the headset and phone into his pocket Krishna turned to Kashif. And to their target standing between them.
A short, pot-bellied man, surrounded by a group of fawning, whisky-swilling men; most of them clad in business suits, though a fair number were also in khadi kurta-pyjamas, Nehru vests and Gandhi caps, the trademark of the Indian politician.
His bodyguards, two thickset men, also clad in matching khadi kurta-pyjamas, with scowls etched on their faces, hovered on the periphery. Neither seemed exceptionally alert. Perhaps the merrymaking of the wedding had gotten to them. Or, more probably, it was the fact that their protectee was not actually exposed to any real security threat; they were there chiefly to add to his stature as an important man. Krishna could see the bodyguard on his right surreptitiously eyeing the women milling around. One, with a daringly low-cut blouse and an hourglass figure tautly displayed by a clinging sari, seemed to have caught his fancy.
Steering between them and careful to avoid the video cameras filming the wedding reception Krishna threaded his way across the room, heading for the right.
From the other end of the room Kashif took note and also started making his play, pushing gently through the crowd towards the left, approaching their target from directly behind the video camera recording their target’s presence at the wedding.
Mission RIP had begun.
*
The dozen men surrounding the pot-bellied man brandishing a glass of whisky guffawed as he said something. The joke must not have been good since the laughter sounded false, even to Krishna, now about fifteen feet away.
