by Deva,Mukul
Walking a few feet ahead of him Karan led the way.
Knowing that their target was not important enough to merit personal security neither of them had expected any real trouble.
Two minutes later the duo was on their way to Pune airport. As Karan drove, Kulwant changed into a clean shirt, used a water bottle, mouthwash and a liberal dosage of after-shave to rid himself of the alcohol stench. And of course disposed of the syringe, latex gloves and the SIM cards. Yet again, like the others, a fresh set of SIM cards were inserted into their phones.
They were in no hurry. Their flight only took off at 2045 hours.
By then their target also would be dead.
*
Patna Airport
Krishna’s mobile beeped as they walked away from the check-in counter. The frog-like croak of an incoming message, but not a normal text. K-Team was using the Tiger Text app; ensuring that every message auto-erased from both mobiles as soon as it had been read.
Clicking it open Krishna smiled. This time the smile did reach his eyes. His relief was evident. Even though they had not been expecting any trouble with any of these three targets, since none of them were important enough to warrant any meaningful security. Despite that, Krishna, aware that in any operation the unexpected could always throw things off course, was glad it was over.
‘Kevin and Kamlesh are through,’ he murmured to Kashif as they halted for the security check. ‘Both are now at Chennai airport. Boarding now.’
‘Good! If they’d missed that one, they wouldn’t get another till five in the morning.’ As always, Kashif focused on the practicalities.
Before Krishna could respond his mobile croaked again.
‘So are Karan and Kulwant.’ Krishna’s smile conveyed his relief and satisfaction.
‘Fantastic.’ Kashif mirrored his satisfaction. ‘Now that the cat has been set amongst the pigeons, let’s see what it throws up.’
Krishna’s smile faded. Despite his good feeling, Krishna’s brow was furrowed as a khaki-clad security man ran the metal detector over his body, then stamped his boarding pass with a flourish and nodded him on. He could not push away the gloomy feeling that this was a futile road they had started out on. It nagged as he boarded, took his seat and turned his mobile to flight mode.
But we had no choice. They had all been through it so often. These thieving bastards are above reproach . . . no one can ever touch them . . . not legally. India will never get her rightful place in the sun till these corrupt politicians are forced to be accountable.
‘But will these killings change anything? Won’t the ones we take out simply be replaced by others just as corrupt?’ he almost asked Kashif. But he didn’t, knowing what Kashif’s answer would be; they’d debated it at length already. We have to ensure the politicians and bureaucrats are so scared that they don’t try to sabotage the Lokpal Bill. Maybe then the social activists led by Hazarika would feel empowered enough and a new group of leaders would rise. There were several in Hazarika’s entourage who fit the bill.
Krishna knew it was a slim hope. But a hope it certainly was. And he was feeling a bit better about it all by the time the aircraft doors closed and Delhi-bound Air India flight 416 rumbled down the runway of Patna airport.
The brightly lit runway was soon an uncertain memory. Then the glow of the city also faded away. Replaced by the pitch-black night.
*
At 2045 hours Indigo Airlines flight G8-364 lifted off from Pune airport and also turned north towards Delhi. It was still within eye-shot of Pune when the electronic greeting cards set for a delayed send by Karan from the complimentary computer in the passenger waiting area of Pune airport lanced out in cyber space.
TWO
NEWS DESKS ALL over the world are always manned. Especially in all major newspapers and television channels. The ones selected by Karan definitely were; that’s why they had been chosen.
Seconds later these addressees clicked open the newly arrived messages.
Shock.
Disbelief.
Then excitement.
The excitement of news people for what they knew would rule the headlines for weeks.
With the ongoing anti-corruption agitation it had not exactly been a slow month for the media. But it was now going to get frenzied.
The women and men manning the news desks of NDTV, TV Today, Hindustan Times, the Times of India, the Telegraph, the Statesmen and The Hindu reached for their phones almost simultaneously. Moments later they had the confirmations they needed.
All three men mentioned in the e-greetings they had received had dropped dead. Suddenly. Just like that. Within minutes of each other. No one still quite knew why.
A beehive of activity erupted.
The newspapers rushed to alter their headlines.
The TV channels raced to interrupt their regular programmes.
Radio jockeys swung into action as the ripples spread.
They all knew.
This is as big as it gets.
*
More out of habit and training than necessity, Reena Bhagat checked herself in the giant mirror at the far end of the studio and patted back her shoulder-length hair as the tiny green light in front of her turned red and began to blink. Then it glowed; a steady, bright red dot.
24x7, NDTV’s famous news show was now on air.
‘Good evening India!’ Without even realizing it, Reena had pumped the right amount of excitement into her tone.
Though new to NDTV, Reena had learnt a lot in the four years since she had started out as a news anchor for a smaller, regional TV channel and then moved to Doordarshan, the national, state-owned channel. It did not take her long to make a mark and attract the attention of NDTV, the market leader.
Petite, with a flawless complexion, jet-black hair, large matching eyes and an exquisite figure, her visual impact was heightened by that special grace and maturity which motherhood and a successful career sometimes bring with them.
A camera natural was what Vikram, her programme director, called her.
The red BREAKING NEWS bar began to flash across the lower half of the TV screen as her, by now well-known, face and carefully schooled voice reached into several million Indian homes.
‘We at NDTV have just learnt that in a series of daring attacks Sheru Yadav, the brother-in-law of Bihar chief minister Lalit Yadav, Muthuvel Rajappan the brother of telecom minister Anduvetti Rajappan and Sanjive Kamble, the cousin and chief aide of Pune MP Sharad Kamble have been murdered.’
Reena paused theatrically to allow that to sink in. However, before the camera silence could become awkward she was off again.
‘In a shocking, electronic message delivered to the media by the killers, a group of people calling themselves RIP, or Resurgent Indian Patriots, have claimed responsibility for these murders, which they say are a punishment for the scams that these men and the politicians they work for have been involved in. As claimed by the RIP, the police have confirmed that all three victims were injected with succinylcholine, a muscle relaxant used in anaesthetics.’
Despite having tried it out beforehand, Reena stumbled over the long, unfamiliar name.
‘The police have also confirmed that succinylcholine is a special chemical and not easily available, and that the modus operandi in all three murders was strikingly similar, lending credence to RIP’s claim.’
Reena ramped it up now.
‘RIP has warned that unless the prime minister takes immediate action to punish the guilty and bring the stolen scam money back into the economy, the corrupt politicians themselves will be executed. The RIP has stated its demands in a special message for the prime minister, Mr Nirmal Khanna.’
A bulleted list began to scroll across the screen as Reena continued; now reading from the prompter in front of her.
‘The rigged courts and corrupt judges who granted bail to the accused in the Bofors, the 2G-Spectrum and the Commonwealth Games scams should be replaced by specially constituted, fast tr
ack courts. They must ensure these scammers are punished and their assets taken over by the state since they rightfully belong to the country. Be warned. Any attempt to subvert the judicial process will be met with a swift and terminal response.’
Reena kept pace with the scrolling list and enunciated each point forcefully.
‘Ensure the Lokpal Bill is passed by parliament within fifteen days. All politicians with criminal records must be immediately relieved of their portfolios, and decisive action initiated against all officers facing corruption charges.’
The points continued to scroll across, flashing brightly. Reena was reading out verbatim.
‘Ensure the money stolen from India is brought back from overseas banks and used to fund welfare projects, erase the budget deficit and reduce the tax burden on the common man.’
Her pause this time was not deliberate. By now Reena was in the thrall of the message she was reading out, keenly aware of the impact these demands would have, on the politicians, the bureaucrats and the public. The politicians and bureaucrats would go ape-shit, and the public would be in righteous frenzy. As it is people were so worked up with the recent anticorruption agitation spearheaded by civil rights activists like Hazarika.
‘The message ends by saying,’ Reena looked up momentarily. ‘Our demands are non-negotiable. We, the people, are watching you. Have no doubts, if immediate action is not taken RIP shall act again. Just to drive home the point, starting tomorrow, for three days, one corrupt person will be executed every day. No more excuses. Act or die.’
Reena gave another dramatic pause, milking the moment for all it was worth.
‘If you think you can protect yourself, try. Just to show you how futile it will be, we will tell you who our next three targets are.’
Reena did not need to put any effort in portraying excitement. Her pulse was pounding. The audacity of the RIP threat took her breath away.
‘The first will be a politician involved in a major land scam. The second, a judge who shamelessly sold justice down the road at the behest of a corrupt politician. And the third will be an arms dealer, who compromised the security of the country and the lives of those safeguarding it.’
By now Reena’s throat was dry. Controlling the urge to take a sip of water she continued.
‘All three are guilty of treason, of selling out the country. They shall pay with their lives. They will be made examples. Examples of what will happen to those who murder the faith vested in them. If that does not force the government to act, the killings will continue. The only way you can stop them is to meet our demands. India will no longer tolerate the rape of the motherland. Jai Hind. Resurgent Indian Patriots.’
There was silence in the studio when she finished. And in the homes of her stunned audience. She drew the silence out as long as she dared.
‘Who are these people? Misguided patriots? Vigilantes? Or criminals out to destabilize the country? Are they the underground arm of the anti-corruption movement sweeping through the country? The country is asking. Is such vigilante action acceptable to India? We now take you over to our panel of . . .’
Outside, in the real world, all hell began to break loose.
Many who had missed her broadcast, had caught similar ones on the other news channels. Shortly the radio stations would carry it too. The newspapers being cranked out now would be hitting the streets in a few hours.
Soon the entire country would be buzzing.
But the drama had just begun.
Three more men, or women, were destined to die.
Suddenly the anti-corruption agitations that had already been rocking the country had gained a new and totally terrifying dimension.
The corridors of power were abuzz. Shocked. And petrified.
*
Special Director Vinod Bedi, heading the Special Crimes Division (SCD) of the Central Bureau of Investigation (CBI), paused outside the door of the home minster’s office to straighten out his clothes and compose himself.
In a formal black sherwani, cream churidar and leather jootis, the five-ten, forty-year-old, trimly built cop knew he looked good. He also knew he was overdressed for this meeting. But it couldn’t be helped. Vinod shrugged. He had been on his way to a cousin’s wedding when the home minister himself had called.
Who expects to be called to his office by the home minister at ten o’clock at night? Well.
Vinod reminded himself. Odder things than that had happened to him during his years with SCD, more colloquially known as SCREWED by those who had the dubious pleasure of filling its rank and file. Wiping the rueful smile off his face, Vinod took a deep breath and pulled on a suitably sombre expression as he raised his hand to knock.
‘Come in,’ the home minister, DM Karunakaran called out. He sounded agitated. Understandably. This unbelievable shit was going down on his watch.
The short, almost bald, bespectacled and portly politician was restlessly patrolling his office when Vinod entered. The harried expression on his droopy face tightened, making him look even funnier. His almost comical demeanour had lulled many an adversary into underestimating him. However Vinod knew better. He had been around many such men for many years now and knew just how deadly . . . and deceitful . . . they could be.
Watch your step! he reminded himself as he entered.
‘Bedi! You! About time too. Where the hell have you been? I’ve been waiting for you for hours.’
‘Sorry sir, but I was halfway to Ghaziabad when you called. I came as fast as I could. Our director has still not reached?’
‘Your director? Why? Why should he? I didn’t call him.’
Both men knew that as per protocol the CBI director was supposed to be present whenever one of his Special Directors was being tasked, no matter who was doing the tasking.
Karunakaran glared at him, as though daring him to challenge his authority. ‘I am tasking you directly for this assignment. Any problems?’
‘None at all, sir.’ Vinod was by now clued in enough to know that such technicalities did not matter to the politicians in power. ‘I will brief the director later.’
‘You can brief him all you want Bedi, but for this case I want you reporting to me directly . . . twice every day . . . more if you think it’s required. Is that clear?’
‘Of course, sir.’ Vinod met his basilisk stare evenly, refusing to be cowed down. ‘I will report to the director first and tell him you wish to be briefed twice a day.’
‘But I want you to report to me directly.’ Karunakaran glowered, trying to stare him down. Vinod looked away, but stayed silent. He was aware that flouting protocol would earn him no brownie points if an inquiry were ever ordered. And also aware that Karunakaran would deny telling him to do so. Sensing that a loss of face was imminent if he pushed further, Karunakaran abruptly changed track. ‘Have you heard the news?’
‘About the Resurgent Indian Patriots? Yes, sir, I caught it on the car radio on the way down.’
‘What the hell is going on?’ Now suddenly plaintive. ‘No one is safe these days?’ Karunakaran stopped short of wringing his hands. Almost.
Vinod thought of reminding him of the hundreds who were murdered everyday. No point, he reminded himself. These guys only worry about a problem if it hits them in the face. Otherwise who gives a shit about John Doe?
‘I want you to take charge of this investigation personally.’ Vinod saw a decisive finger take aim between his eyes. ‘Drop everything else. Find out who these criminals are and stop them.’
‘Right, sir.’ He kept his cool.
‘Right, sir? How can you be so calm, Bedi,’ Karunakaran spluttered. ‘Its outrageous.’
‘You’re right, sir.’ Vinod allowed the required concern to show on his face. ‘It certainly is. We must put an end to it.’
‘Yes! Do whatever it takes but find out who this RIP is . . . and stop them. Dead or . . .’ Karunakaran broke off as it suddenly struck him that he did not really want the RIP taken alive. Generally the agenda of peopl
e who kill politicians is as explosive as the act itself. It would be smarter to let them carry it to their graves. However, in the wake of Vinod’s reluctance to even deviate from the reporting protocol, Karunakaran did not deem it prudent to share this thought. Vinod could see the minister fighting to keep his composure, but attributed his turmoil to the fraught situation. ‘Do we have any clues?’
‘No sir, not yet. Not as far as I know. But it is still too early.’ He saw the query on Karunakaran’s face and clarified. ‘I guessed this would be what you’d called me for and checked on some things en route. Keeping in view the chemical used and the manner in which the hits were executed, it all points towards highly trained professionals.’
‘Who could it be?’ Another bout of near-hand-wringing. ‘The mafia? The Dubai lot?’
‘I doubt it sir.’ Vinod had to work hard to control his laughter. ‘Not with the demands they have made. RIP looks more like a vigilante group . . . someone obviously fed up with . . .’ he trailed off, rapidly realizing that he was heading for politically incorrect quicksand.
‘Could it be the opposition party trying to stir up trouble?’
Vinod didn’t bother to reply, knowing that no matter what he said, it would be the wrong answer.
‘Do you think it could be that troublemaker Hazarika?’ Karunakaran was not paying attention. Yet. ‘Or one of his activist supporters trying to draw more attention to their so-called anti-corruption agitation?’
‘It could be anybody, sir.’ Vinod pulled on a thoughtful expression and chose his words with care. ‘But I don’t think Hazarika is part of this . . . he’s getting enough attention and support from the people as it is.’
As expected that did not go down well with Karunakaran. Both were aware that, backed by unprecedented support from the press and an unusually virulent social media, there was now an outpouring of support from the generally dormant Indian middle class. An aging Gandhian activist, who had brought several state politicians to their knees earlier, Hazarika’s hunger strike had enflamed the nation and, for a change, gotten the political class running for cover. It was the third day of Hazarika’s hunger strike and the support he had garnered was scarily overwhelming.
