by Deva, Mukul
‘Then why are you helping us?’ Iqbal asked, almost petulantly.
‘Because I, like many others here, believe that the Pakistani leadership is wrong. The rabid power-hungry Generals and some mad mullahs have betrayed our country by giving free rein to these fundamentalist jihadis… for their own shortsighted and selfish gains. Do you realize where Pakistan would be today if we had concentrated our energies on our economy instead of frittering away our frugal resources on this futile, endless war with India?’
There was a long pause. The anger in her was palpable. So was the sadness.
‘Don't you think we Pakistanis also want to live peacefully?’
None of the three men responded. In any case, no response was required.
‘You think we are not aware of how different things are there?’ Tanaz jabbed a finger across the border towards India. ‘Where is India and where is Pakistan today? This so-called religious war has drained us of every inch of life and left us bleeding. Today we have to fight for basic things like food, clothing, shelter, healthcare… and basic education for our children.’ Her voice rose in anger. ‘For these so-called basics we are today at the mercy of bullies like America, who want to interfere in our country and use us for their own petty gains. And, mind you, we share the same culture, the same land as your people… no matter which way you look at it, we are the same people… separated by religion and by an artificial line drawn on a map.’
‘True!’ Mohammed Sami said softly. ‘What difference does it make which God we worship… or don't worship?’
‘Absolutely! Religion should unite, not divide. It should foster peace and love, not hatred or violence.’
There was a longer silence this time, as they pondered the futility of it all.
Sami regained his composure first. ‘Hello Tanaz, I am Humayun.’ He gave the cover name allotted to him for this operation. ‘This is Akbar,’ Sami pointed at Tiwathi, ‘and that's….’
‘Jahangir,’ Tanaz finished his sentence. ‘And I, Jahanpanah,’ she added dramatically, ‘am Anarkali.’ They all laughed and the gray mood that had fallen upon them dissipated slightly. ‘They really come up with some strange cover names, don't they?’
‘They sure do,’ Vikram Tiwathia replied with a smile. ‘Where did you learn to handle that?’ He gestured to the Uzi now concealed in the folds of her burqa.
‘Where else?’ Tanaz gave a grim laugh. ‘I joined the jihadis. They were more than happy to teach me whatever I needed to know. Of course, your RAW helped close whatever gaps remained in my trade and field craft.’
‘How did you get into this… this… line of work?’ Iqbal broke in suddenly.
Without warning, the gray mood returned. For a long time Tanaz did not reply. ‘We all have our reasons,’ she finally said. Since the veil was back in place, her expression remained hidden, but her tone was flat and did not encourage any further communication.
‘I'm sorry,’ Iqbal replied red-faced, realizing he had overstepped some unseen line. ‘I did not mean to pry. It's just….’ He broke off lamely.
‘I think you're right.’ Sami broke the awkward silence that threatened to settle upon them. ‘We will get some rest.’ He got into the station wagon. Tiwathia was right behind him.
‘My name is Iqbal.’ Iqbal spoke up suddenly, as he started to follow them. ‘My real one, I mean.’ He paused. ‘I don't really need a cover name, you see,’ he added lamely. Tanaz merely nodded. Perhaps her controller had briefed her. Perhaps she didn't really care. Either way, silence returned.
A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER, TANAZ SHOOK THEM AWAKE. ‘It's time,’ she said as she got into the rear seat of the station wagon with Iqbal.
Tiwathia was already in the driver's seat, with Sami seated beside him. The engine leaped to life immediately, its powerful hum contrasting with the battered exterior of the vehicle.
‘Just head for that highway.’ Tanaz pointed from the rear seat as Tiwathia engaged gears. ‘Turn north and keep going.’
The station wagon powered its way through the early morning traffic, its powerful engine eating up the miles effortlessly. Barring the wind rushing past, the occasional cacophony of horns from the traffic around, and the deep-throated thrum of the engine, there was silence.
On the tiny screen of the mobile phone in Sami's hand, the tiny green dot representing them could be seen moving steadily along the glowing blue line that snaked towards the glowing red dot beckoning in the far north.
All of a sudden, Iqbal broke the silence. ‘I'm here because they killed my mother and my sister. Both of them died because of the bombs planted on Salim's orders in Delhi's Sarojini Nagar market.’ His voice was soft. It barely overrode the thrumming of the engine and the whoosh of tyres on the road. ‘Can you imagine I have actually been trained by these… these….’
No one in the vehicle responded as Iqbal spoke; yet he continued, almost as though he were unburdening his soul. Or maybe he was not sure if he would return alive and felt the need to let someone else know the ugly truth he had nursed within for all these years.
It was a very long time after Iqbal's cathartic monologue had trailed into an awkward silence that Tanaz spoke equally suddenly.
‘I'm here because of my brothers. They were subverted by the Jaish-e-Mohammed and before anyone in the family even realized it, both of them had been pumped into the Kashmir valley. The Jaish sent both of them to carry out a suicide attack on the Jammu Police Lines.’ She paused. ‘One was twenty. The other was only eighteen. Neither came back alive.’
The silence this time was oppressive.
‘They were both good, caring boys. I cannot even imagine them doing any harm to anyone. Neither of our parents survived the blow.’
Her voice broke. When she spoke again, the words came like an angry torrent of molten lava.
‘All our lives we supported them… the mullahs who exhorted us and appealed to us to donate to the cause from our meagre earnings. We need to help our Muslim brothers in Kashmir to overthrow the kafir yoke, they told us… and we gave…. It is for Allah, they told us… and we often went hungry, but we gave… we were so stupid….’
Iqbal leaned forward slightly and touched her lightly on the arm. The gesture was curiously formal, yet intensely intimate. ‘I'm sorry’, he said. Tanaz did not respond but she did not draw away from him either.
Twin souls! With their own terrible crosses to carry. Tiwathia watched them in the rear-view mirror. Maybe they can help each other sort out the demons that torment them.
SAN FRANCISCO
THE AVENGERS HAD BEGUN THEIR JOURNEY TOWARDS MURREE when Rahim Khan strolled into the lobby of the San Francisco Marriott hotel. Fifteen minutes later, he and his precious briefcase were safely ensconced in a room on the fifth floor.
Five has always been my lucky number. Rahim gave a satisfied smile as he used his laptop to report his arrival to Salim's meetyourmatch profile. That was also when he read Salim's last message.
The traitor's fall marks the beginning. On the morrow the world will shudder and you shall be remembered forever. Khuda hafiz.
He was pondering over the message as he settled into the huge armchair facing the television and flicked it on. News of the Pakistani dictator's assassination filled the room. He jerked forward in surprise as the contents of the message clicked into place. Then he laughed aloud. That Salim is a cool bastard.
RAHIM KHAN WOULD HAVE BEEN A LOT LESS HAPPY HAD HE known that Ankita had read his arrival message to Salim at almost the same time as Salim had. So had the FBI counter-terror specialist who was by now firmly in the loop. If Rahim Khan had remained online for a little more time, the Feds would have been able to locate him and bring him down immediately.
By now the hunters were very awake and very alert. The only problem was that none of their quarry had as yet surfaced on any of the radars which were desperately searching for them.
But in battle that is the way it often is. Just as it is true that in no battle do things remain static for very long. Dyn
amics change. People move. People attack and people defend. In both cases, people die.
Strike One
NEW ORLEANS
DESPITE THE LATE HOUR AT WHICH THE LOCAL FBI OFFICE got the alert, it reacted quickly. Which was not surprising, considering the alarming brief they had just received.
The subject Erik Segan is a white male in his mid-thirties. He is alleged to be in possession of a highly virulent chemical or biological weapon. The weapon is most probably packaged and ready for use as an aerosol. Subject is likely to be armed and dangerous. Approach with extreme caution. No chances are to be taken.
The resultant APB (All Points Bulletin) that went out conveyed nothing of the acute anxiety being experienced by the officer who had been given charge of the situation.
In a matter of hours, hundreds of boots hit the ground. Telephone wires and airwaves burned as every possible source was contacted and activated. Hundreds of electronic sentries stood alert with raised antennae as they began a relentless vigil over Erik Segan's home, car, the warehouse where his band usually hung out, the restaurants they played at, the rehab centres he had been to, the church he used to frequent, the mosque he had prayed at more recently, his credit cards, bank accounts, police files, telephone bills, mobile phone… anything and everything that could help find him. Photographs were shown to hotel receptionists and cab drivers, to the hookers and dealers in his neighbourhood. The tapes from surveillance cameras at airports, railway stations and all major traffic junctions in the city were placed under 24x7 surveillance.
Nothing! Nada! Ziltch!
The man seemed to have completely vanished once he got off the flight from Chicago.
‘Listen, it doesn't matter. At this time of the year, in this city, we certainly don't need Einstein to tell us what the target is going to be.’ The Head Fed was trying to keep his morale up and sound as upbeat as possible. ‘I want every possible entry point to the fairgrounds locked down… as tight as a goddamn virgin. Get every pair of eyes, ears and boots out there. If that psycho gets into the fest grounds, we're screwed.’
Tirelessly, the vigil continued.
ALL THIS TIME, THEIR QUARRY LAY SLEEPLESS ON HIS HOTEL bed, tossing and turning restlessly. Finally, Erik couldn't take it any more.
You are the only one who does not have to worry about keeping to a precise schedule. Salim's voice echoed in his mind. The weapon you are going to deploy will have no immediate effect. In fact, no one will even know you have released the weapon until ten or eleven days have passed. Of course, once it starts working, it will spread like wildfire. Millions of kafir will die.
Hauling himself out of bed, Erik took out the cans of Variola virus and arrayed them on the bedside table, like a child marshalling his army of toys. One by one, he picked them up and went over the operating mechanism to reassure himself that he had not forgotten what he had to do.
The timer is a very simple one that can be set for five, ten, fifteen or twenty minutes. Erik replayed Mai's briefing in his head for the nth time. All four settings are more than adequate to allow you to deploy the weapon and get away safely. Use the highest time setting on the first one you deploy and then come down progressively as you go along. Immediately after deploying the last one, head for the airport and get out.
What if the timer gets spoilt or jammed? Or if I need to release the virus manually?
That's simple. In both cases, just unscrew the timer and depress the knob that is exposed. Mai had removed the tiny timing device carefully and shown it to him.
Finally satisfied that he had it all under control, Erik put the cans back into their small knapsack and placed it next to his guitar case.
The guitar was an exclusive, top of the line, handmade Heins, the sole surviving souvenir of Erik Segan's brief brush with stardom. Erik treated it with the same love and affection with which he would have treated his child, if he'd had one. At that moment, his prized possession was safely ensconced in its beautiful black case, with the name of the maker proudly emblazoned on it.
The bath he took was long and leisurely. Rather like the last meal of a man on death row. Then, having cleansed his body, he surrendered his soul to the One God. Silently repeating the niyyah in his heart, as he unfurled his prayer mat, Erik faced the Qiblah, the direction of the Holy City of Mecca, raised his hands to his ears with his palms facing outwards and, adopting the Qiyam posture, began to chant the Salat Al-Fajr, the dawn prayer.
Like the bath, the prayer too was long and unhurried. When he finally arose he was seized by a strange calm. Erik Segan was ready to take on the world.
Slinging the knapsack over one shoulder and his precious Heins guitar case over the other, he left the hotel room and descended to the lobby.
IT IS ALMOST CERTAIN THAT IN 1970, WHEN GEORGE WEIN started the New Orleans Jazz Festival, he had great expectations from it. However, it is doubtful that even he would have imagined that thirty years later 650,000 people of all colours, nationalities and religions, from all walks of life, from all over the world, would flock to attend the Jazz Fest, as it had come to be popularly called. It had already grown beyond just a music festival and was now a well-established tourist attraction rivalled only by the Mardi Gras. Signalling the resurgence of New Orleans after the devastation wrought by Hurricane Katrina, the Jazz Fest this year was heralded to be one of the biggest in recent times. New Orleans had begun to bustle with crowds several days before the fest was due to begin. By now the crowds had surpassed all expectations. A riot of colours and a medley of music merged to make the city unbelievably vibrant.
Pushing his way through the crowd, Erik had just exited the French Quarter and was crossing the road to head for the Fairgrounds Racing Track, the venue of the Jazz Fest, when he was spotted.
ALICE DESTIN LOVED MUSIC WITH A PASSION THAT BORDERED on the fanatic. She had devoted a better part of her youth to music and had been the lead guitarist at one of the local bands before an early marriage to her childhood sweetheart, the pressures of domestic life, and the need to balance the home budget drove her to take up the relatively sedate life of a city cop. On that day, she had been pulled out of her routine shift to man the surveillance cameras that stood sentinel on the roads leading in and out of the French Quarter. Taped to the top of the small bank of monitors that she was watching was the photograph of a man that she, like the eighteen other men and women in her shift, had been given. She had no idea who he was or what he had done.
Keep an eye open for him. If you spot him, call it in immediately. Right?
That had been the mandate given to all of them.
The exercise of watching cameras transmitting live feed of city traffic to spot a single person is quite akin to looking for a needle in a haystack, or water in the Sahara desert. More than anything else, it betrayed the frustration and desperation of the people hunting down the fugitive. It is almost certain that the exercise would have proved fruitless if it had not been for one of those quirks of fate which occur once in a rare while and get termed as miraculous.
Alice Destin was staring at the monitors gleaming in front of her, diligently but desolately, when the beautiful black guitar case with Heins painted all over it in startling white floated into her field of vision. The fabled name drew her envious eyes like a magnet. She was fondling it with her eyes, trying to visualize the beautiful instrument in the case, when her gaze happened to fall on the man on whose shoulder the guitar rode. It took a moment for the face to register. When it did, Alice sat up straight. Her gaze flicked between the face on the screen in front of her and the photograph tagged on above the monitor.
Goddamn! That's him alright!
Electrified, Alice reached for the phone and called the number she had been given. The Federal agent manning the control desk who took her call leaped out of his chair as though he'd been touched with a hot cattle prod in a tender part of his anatomy.
Almost immediately, the ball began to roll.
‘All units! We have a confirmed sighting of th
e subject Erik Segan. The man is at the crossing of….’
FBI AGENTS MURRAY AND LANGER WERE CRUISING DOWN Columbus Street towards the point where Bayou Road turns on to Gentilly Boulevard when the call came in. ‘We're right there, Control,’ Langer snapped into the radio immediately. ‘Give us more details.’
‘Subject has just crossed the Columbus intersection and is heading down Gentilly. Likely destination is the Gentilly Pedestrian entrance to fairgrounds. He is wearing a white tee with I Love Rod on the front and has a guitar case slung on his right shoulder. He also has a black knapsack on the other shoulder. We're losing him now, till he comes up to the next camera on the Paul Morphy intersection.’ Control's voice crackled with tension.
Murray, the younger and more enthusiastic of the two agents, who was at the wheel, was about to floor the accelerator when Langer preempted him. ‘Easy now! We don't want to spook him by blazing in. Go slow and keep your eyes peeled. Don't pull up in mid-traffic when you spot him. That would definitely give us away.’
Murray nodded.
The Fed car flowed along with the traffic.
‘There!’ Langer prompted. ‘That should be him… the one going past those two drag queens there.’ Murray followed Langer's pointing finger. He nodded as he confirmed the sighting.
‘Now pull over to the side and let's take him on foot.’
Murray slowly eased out of the traffic and pulled up along the kerb, drawing the ire of the cars behind. One of them tooted its horn angrily.
‘Shit!’ Murray hissed. ‘Don't do that, arsehole. You'll have the whole world looking at us.’ He cursed, willing the other man to stop honking, as Erik Segan strode past them, barely fifteen feet away.
The minute the car had slowed down adequately, Langer jumped out. ‘Park somewhere and catch up soon,’ he hissed at Murray as he turned to follow Segan.
‘Control, we have him now,’ Murray barked into the radio. ‘Langer is onto him. I'm just going to ground the wheels and go after them.’
