by Deva,Mukul
That is where Sharad Kamble stayed when he was in Delhi. Right now he was.
Raghav knew the Kamble house well. Its location was such that it could only be attacked from the front. There were equally well-guarded houses of other ministers on the other three sides. Raghav was confident the two of them would be able to cover it adequately.
Satisfied he had done everything he could for the moment, Raghav grabbed a coke from the fridge and putting up his feet settled down with the paper. This was the first time since morning that he had gotten a moment for himself.
PAK TALKS ABOUT MFN STATUS WITH INDIA.
The Economic Times headline screamed at him.
He laughed.
‘Most Fucked Nation.’ The words rang out loudly in the empty room. ‘Sure! Give it to them.’
He flipped through the paper and then, noting that there was nothing much in it, threw it down and flicked on the television. His fingers automatically sought out 24x7, the NDTV news channel.
Reena Bhagat hove into view. She was standing on a roof, pointing at the dead judge’s house in the distance.
‘This is the roof on which the RIP sniper was shot dead by the police.’ The camera panned to the bloodstains, outlined by a white chalk mark. ‘Identified as Mahinder Singh Mann, an ex-NSG commando . . .’
Raghav did not even notice that she was talking about one of his men. Or feel anything at his death. His attention was riveted on Reena.
God! She looks lovelier by the day.
A shard of pain drove through him. He knew he loved her even now. Wanted her back. Despite everything that had transpired between them. Abruptly his pain mutated into self-righteous anger as he remembered that she had also taken his son away from him.
She flushed all those years of marriage down the toilet just because she caught me having a fling? ‘It didn’t mean anything, Reena,’ he shouted at the TV. He wanted to shake her. Hard. ‘Don’t you see? It was just a silly fling. It didn’t mean anything, you fool.’
Then Reena faded from the screen. His anger too abated equally abruptly. Replaced by a sharp ache in his heart. He knew he missed her. Needed her. Desperately.
Getting up he abandoned the coke and fixed a whisky. A large one, with a handful of ice cubes. He drained it in two long swallows. The whisky burned its way down his throat. Adding to the fire within. He poured again. A larger drink. This time not even bothering with ice.
I cannot let her go. A half whisper, mostly in his head. But the words bounced off the walls and drifted back to him. Tauntingly. I must try once again . . . before the damn final divorce hearing. She will listen. She has to. I need her back in my life. And Azaan also.
As daylight receded into darkness, and the level in the whisky bottle dropped, his despondency grew. Somewhere deep down Raghav knew that Reena would not relent. She may have only caught him once, but he sensed that by now she was aware of the endless flings that had peppered their marriage.
Somewhere deep down Raghav also knew that even if she did forgive him and return, he would not stop. These one-night stands had been a part of his existence for so long now that he knew he could not do without them. Raghav also knew that he was fighting for Azaan’s custody only because he hoped that would bring Reena back to him; she could never live without her son. All he had to do was win the custody case. Azaan was the key.
Nobody has ever left me. Ever!
Now angry again Raghav snatched up his mobile and called his lawyer. ‘I will pay you ten times the agreed fees if you get me the kid’s custody,’ he told him. ‘Do what it takes. Bribe the judge if you have to, but win this one for me.’
The lawyer, a whoring-buddy of his, made the usual placating sounds, but Raghav could sense he was bullshitting . . . stringing him along. That angered him even more. Cursing, he slammed down the phone. Then, feeling like shit, for some reason he could not quite fathom, he threw himself on the bed and passed out.
Raghav would have felt even worse had he come to know that this time the dice had betrayed him. He had picked the wrong target to protect.
*
Sachin and Azaan were happily plonked in front of the TV when Payal led Krishna into the staff room. An empty pizza carton, two demolished popcorn bags and some coke cans were stacked on the table before them. Neither looked any worse for wear, from the mishap they had suffered earlier in the morning.
‘They seem fine,’ Krishna said after spending half an hour with them. ‘I’d better get going then. Haven’t even packed yet.’
‘Of course they’re fine.’ Payal smiled as she led the way. Then noticing that Krishna was looking around as he walked out, asked with a mischievous smile, ‘Hoping to run into someone, brother mine?’
Krishna blushed, a deep beetroot red. ‘Nothing like that,’ he mumbled.
‘Why not?’ Payal turned to him. ‘Reena is a really wonderful person. I know her really well.’ She smiled encouragingly. ‘Both of you will be very good for each other.’ By now they had crossed the reception area and were heading for the exit. ‘Want me to check if she’s free, K?’ Payal the matchmaker was in full stride.
‘No. Maybe later.’ Payal calling him K, something she had done ever since they were kids, suddenly reminded Krishna of K-Team and where they would all be heading in a few hours. Just as the call to arms, and knowing that this day may well be his last, had unleashed his long, pent-up loneliness. It had also made him aware that he may not return at all . . . if they ran out of luck. Much as his heart tugged him towards Reena, he knew where his duty lay; K-Team trusted him to lead. The team had embarked on this mission together, mostly because of him. Krishna knew they would expect him to see it through with them.
And the country. India needs to be rid of this menace. Once rid of these thieving politicians she would find her rightful place in the sun. A day would come when every Indian would have a roof over his head, two square meals a day and the right to live with dignity and security. Soon.
Also, though he would not have accepted it easily, Pooja’s memory held him back. This sudden storm of feelings for Reena made him feel disloyal.
Krishna shook his head, more firmly this time. ‘Maybe later,’ he said again.
Masking her disappointment Payal saw him off to his car.
SEVEN
KASHIF BROUGHT THE Scorpio to a halt when they were a dozen miles from Lucknow. The rather rundown roadside dhaba was open, but at this unearthly hour of the morning had no customers. They used the tiny, not too clean toilet to freshen up. Then, fortified by mugs of hot, sugar-laden tea and scrumptious butter-soaked aloo-parathas, they hit the road again.
It was just a few minutes past five a.m. when they arrived at the hotel near Charbagh railway station that Kamlesh had checked into. It was big enough to have all the required comforts and yet small enough to remain suitably anonymous.
Three hours later when they left, all five of them were dressed in the typical grey safari suits that the target’s security personnel generally wore. The tiny earpieces, giveaway bulge of weapons strapped to their waists and the prominently displayed identification cards on their chests completed the carefully crafted illusion.
The target did not know it yet, but she had just acquired some additional personal security officers.
The identity cards would not hold up to a close scrutiny, but considering their plan, that was not likely to happen.
If it did, Krishna shrugged as he ran through the plan in his head again, we will just have to fight our way out.
Knowing how lethal his team could be, he hoped that would not happen. Too many people would die. Collateral damage was not something he was ready to accept. The shades of grey surrounding this mission were hard enough for him to deal with.
*
It was an extremely critical public rally for Kalpana Kumari, the chief minister of Uttar Pradesh. Hurting from a spate of allegations regarding a dozen land scams and a disproportionate assets case filed against her by the Income Tax department, she knew tha
t she would have to pull out all stops if she was to win the elections this time.
Today’s Lucknow rally was to mark the start of her statewide pre-election tour. She was planning to cover twenty cities in the coming forty days.
The rally today was also meant to counter the campaign that had been launched against her by Ranvijay Kaul, the NDC president’s son, who was using the scam allegations and her legal woes to erode her vote bank, and to enhance his political image as part of his mother’s strategy to pole vault him into a cognizable player in the national political arena. For the past few days many high decibel media salvos had been exchanged between Kalpana Kumari and Ranvijay. More were expected at today’s rally.
The huge, newly commissioned park on the banks of the Gomti River was bustling with people by the time K-Team hit the parking lot one click away. Hundreds more, herded by supporters, some paid, some loyal, were arriving at regular intervals. Buses, vans, open trucks, cars, two-wheelers and of course the ever present Lucknow rickshaw, everything had been deployed for this purpose. Huge colourful canopies covered the park. Volunteers moved around, handing out bottles of drinking water and biscuit packets.
‘Stay ready to roll,’ Krishna told Kamlesh, who was manning the wheel. ‘When we return we will need to get clear fast.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve gotten it covered,’ Kamlesh assured him. ‘Break a leg.’
Exiting the car Krishna, Karan, Kulwant, and Kashif walked briskly towards the dais. They moved authoritatively, hustling and guiding people, the way other security personnel were doing. Finally halting near the stairs leading up to the dais they took position, two on either side. Now, like a Roman phalanx, all four of them were facing out. Hands hovered close to the automatic pistols on their belts.
Just in time.
With a whoop of sirens the CM’s cavalcade came to a dust-churning halt and Kalpana Kumari alighted. She strode up to the dais ringed by four PSOs providing close-in protection, also clad in grey safari suits.
Krishna kept the smile of satisfaction off his face as he noted that she and her PSOs were following the exact same pattern that Kulwant and Kamlesh, who had run a six-daylong pre-target selection surveillance on her, had reported.
The four PSOs were shielding her from the four cardinal points. Their hands were on the pistols slung on their belts. About ten metres away from them, moving on either side of the cocoon, was an outer protective layer of four black-dungaree-clad commandos toting automatic rifles, two on either flank. Kalpana Kumari’s bulky kameez indicated that she was wearing a bulletproof vest under it, a precaution she was known to take, especially recently.
Krishna was expecting her to be wearing one, especially after the judge’s execution. Their plan catered for it.
A welcoming roar, initiated by her loyals, went up. Clapping of hands and the stamping of feet added to the confusion, sending fresh gusts of dust soaring in the air. Despite the water that had been sprinkled in good measure since morning, it did not do much to keep the dust down. The bedlam increased as she drew closer.
Good! Krishna kept the smile off his face. Confusion always favoured the attacker.
Having been part of the security solution earlier Krishna was aware that most Indian politicians appeared far better protected than they really were. Their erratic, and generally almost always, arrogant temperament made it pretty hard to actually keep them safe from a determined attacker. This had less to do with the training of their protectors and more to do with the fact that they were seldom willing to follow security protocols. Krishna noted with satisfaction that today was no exception; Kalpana Kumari made little effort to stay within the security envelope, foraying out randomly to wave at her supporters and even, a couple of times, stopping to shake hands with a few she recognized, or at least pretended she did.
Also helping K-Team was the plethora of media people running alongside the flank guards, on either side of the CM, shouting out questions.
‘What do you have to say about the RIP?’
‘Is it true that the CBI feels you are one of RIP’s targets because of the various corruption allegations against you?’
‘Have you increased your security because of the RIP threat?’
‘Are these corruption charges likely to affect the election results?’
The questions were endless. Most of them spot on, but they had no visible impact on Kalpana Kumari; by now she was shamelessly hardened. However, the line of cops trying to hold back the agitated media were stretched to their limits.
Finally she was at the foot of the dais. Kalpana Kumari swept ahead, not even noticing the four new security men deployed at the base of the stairs. Even if her PSOs did, they assumed the additional men had been brought in due to the RIP threat, just as the guards at home had been doubled on orders from Vinod.
The PSO bringing up the CM’s right rear was about to start up the steps when he felt a light tap on his shoulder, turned and saw another similarly-clad man holding out a mobile. The PSO’s trained eye took him in; he had all the correct security tags on display and the telltale earpiece sticking out of his right ear.
Must be one of the new ones, brought in since the threat from that RIP group.
‘Urgent call for madam.’ Holding out the phone Kulwant waved his other hand frantically in front of his face, as though to keep the rising dust at bay, ensuring the PSO did not get a clear shot of his face.
Without thinking, and in a hurry to keep up with his protectee, the PSO grabbed the mobile and went after the CM, who was by now on top of the dais. He did not notice the man who had handed him the phone peel away and head for the exit. The other K-Team members followed suit, close behind. Krishna threw a quick glance over his shoulder when he was a dozen feet away. He saw the PSO reach up and hold the phone out to Kalpana Kumari. Krishna saw the PSO nod and say something as she gave him an enquiring look. Now in a rush to get to the microphone and address the roaring audience, she reached out for the mobile. Krishna immediately hit the dial button on the mobile in his hand.
The target phone was ringing by the time it arrived into Kalpana Kumari’s hands. Responding instinctively she hit the green button and put the phone to her ear. The carefully constructed circuit accounted and compensated for the slight delay, required for the phone to reach her ear.
There was a sharp, short roar. Like an errant thunderclap. The amount of RDX in the mobile that had been handed to her was not much, but it was enough to blow her head to smithereens. It was also enough to inflict some pain to the PSO who had handed her the phone. And to disorient the other three PSOs. It would take them several precious seconds to recover and react.
Blood and gore billowed up around her.
By the time Kalpana Kumari’s headless body hit the ground and panic erupted in the crowd, K-Team had already reached the exit.
In the parking lot Kamlesh had the SUV engine started and was ready to roll. He drove off the minute they got in.
Nine minutes from the time Kalpana Kumari’s head exploded and her heart stopped beating, K-Team was clear of the target area. By the time Forensics and Bomb Disposal reached the site they were halfway to the airport.
Two down. One to go.
Kamlesh dropped Krishna, Karan, Kulwant and Kashif to the airport, so that they could return to Delhi and catch the evening flight to Mumbai to strike at the final target. He remained behind to wrap up the logistics and get the hardware back to Delhi by road.
*
‘The RIP has struck again.’ Reena’s excited voice beamed into a million equally excited homes. ‘The daring assassination of UP chief minister Kalpana Kumari has sent shock waves down the spine of the establishment. On the other hand the RIP seems to have struck a chord with the masses. Our studio has received thousands of text and email messages expressing their support for this bold band of people who are taking on the corruption-riddled establishment. Many claim this will save a lot of taxpayer money from being wasted on taking these corrupt politicians to court. Eq
ually surprising are the reports coming in of bookies and punters placing bets on who will be the next RIP victim. The police estimate betting to be on the same astronomical level as an India-Pakistan cricket match.’
Simultaneously scrolling along the lower half of the screen were the telephone numbers and mail addresses of NDTV 24x7, exhorting people to send in their views. As with every such event, every news channel in the country was milking it for all it was worth.
Reena continued, ‘Condemning the RIP, Ashok Gupta, spokesman of the Hazarika movement, said that no matter how laudable the cause, such extra-judicial vigilante action was not acceptable. He strongly denied allegations levelled by several politicians that the Hazarika movement had anything to do with the RIP.’
The camera panned to bring into focus a slightly built, middle-aged and mild-looking Gupta. ‘These allegations are baseless and politically motivated with a view to discredit and derail the nation-wide anti-corruption stir that has shaken the establishment. Our movement is Gandhian and peaceful.’
The camera now switched to another khadi-clad politician, who had an angry scowl on his face and was waving his hands indignantly.
‘The opposition party has also condemned the killings and the government for failing to protect innocent people. Demanding the resignation of the PM and the home minister, the opposition spokesman, Mr Tiwari said . . .’ After a long-winded speech the camera switched again, back to Reena in the studio. ‘And so it may well be, but there is no denying that whoever they are, the RIP has jolted the nation. So much so that several fan pages have sprouted on various social media websites, giving suggestions to them about other corrupt figures that deserve to be eliminated. This has led several political leaders from various parties to claim that RIP is a terror group out to destabilize the country at the behest of an unfriendly foreign power.’
*
Karunakaran flicked off the TV and slammed down the remote next to the mobile kept on his table. The mobile was already on silent but its screen glowed intermittently, showing dozens of missed calls. It had been ringing relentlessly since the bomb in the mobile had decimated Kalpana Kumari’s head. Everyone wanted to reach out to him. His office was inundated with messages from the media, the PM’s office, but especially from other politicians, from all possible parties, demanding to know when this RIP madness would end.
