SALIM MUST DIE

by Deva, Mukul

  ‘Right, miss. I'll personally ensure that he gets it.’ Twirling the lethal necklace casually in the air, the security guard briskly rejoined his mates and vanished inside the stadium.

  Sahiba stood rooted to the spot, her mind having totally shut down on her.

  ‘What happened?’ Kismat's voice nudged her back to the present.

  ‘I… I… he stopped me… just when….’ Sahiba mumbled, feeling embarrassed and deeply ashamed. ‘I have let them all down.’ She was unable to meet Kismat's eyes.

  ‘Don't worry.’ Her twin could feel Sahiba's agony. She reached out and patted her back. ‘You couldn't help it.’ For a moment they stood in silence.

  ‘Why didn't you….’ Sahiba asked tentatively.

  ‘I saw him stop you and didn't know what had happened, so I….’ Kismat hesitated. ‘I was worried about you getting caught in the middle of….’ She gestured at the necklace in her hand.

  ‘Salim will be very upset with us,’ said Sahiba.

  ‘Let him.’ Kismat's chin went up defiantly. ‘We couldn't help it.’

  ‘And we still have these.’ Sahiba gestured at the necklace in Kismat's hand. ‘Maybe we'll get an even better opportunity to use it.’

  The two sisters began to slowly walk back towards their car.

  ‘I wonder what the guard has done with the necklace he took from me.’

  They mulled over that for a moment.

  ‘I hope he sits on it.’

  That made Sahiba giggle; a neighing, high-pitched giggle. The giggle became a laugh and by the time the twins got into their car, they were in splits. They were still laughing as they drove out of the parking lot and headed home.

  INSIDE THE STADIUM, THE SECURITY GUARD WAITED TILL THE players had vanished inside the dressing rooms and he was placed on standby by the leader of the security detail. Then he sauntered off to the area reserved for them. Just at the entrance was a coke vending machine. He pumped in the required change and watched a can clang out.

  Just beside the vending machine stood the mandatory garbage can. For a moment, the guard looked at the ugly beads still in his hand, and without a second thought, he tossed the necklace into the garbage can.

  The necklace landed with a soft plop on the clutter of paper cups and assorted items that were stuffed inside. And there it lay, waiting.

  HALFWAY ACROSS THE WORLD, THE TWO PUPPET MASTERS anxiously awaited news of the Barbados strike.

  ‘It should have happened by now.’ Salim checked the array of clocks on the wall; each of them displayed the local time in the city where the action was taking place.

  ‘Maybe they got caught.’

  ‘Maybe they lost their nerve.’

  ‘Maybe they were not able to do it at the designated time.’

  While they surfed the airwaves, the red and white station wagon carrying the Indian commandos crested the final slope and began to nose its way through the dense, slow moving Murree traffic.

  Strike Eight

  TORONTO

  ABRAHAM REIS WAS SO CONFIDENT THAT HE WOULD BE ABLE to sail through the security barrier at the new BMO Field Stadium that he did not bother to take any major precautions. After cleaning all traces of cream from the vials of VX Gas, he simply placed them in his lunch box on a cotton pad. Before closing the box, he placed another large wad of cotton over them to cushion the vials and prevent them from knocking against each other.

  Most of the security personnel know me well. He could visualize himself smiling at them and nodding at their how're-you-doing-todays as he went past.

  To be on the safe side, Reis ensured that he reached the stadium a little after the match had started. People are always more antsy and alert at the start of any event. Hopefully things have settled down by now and the security will be engrossed in, or at least distracted by, the game.

  When Abraham Reis reached the parking lot, nearly thirty minutes had elapsed since the kick-off.

  Toronto FC, Canada's first professional soccer team, was playing its first home match against the Kansas City Wizards. It also happened to be the inaugural match being played at the newly completed BMO Field, an open-air stadium with a seating capacity of over twenty thousand. It was primarily because of this that the stadium was filled to capacity.

  A festive air permeated the atmosphere and the raucous chant of fans boomed through the stadium in rhythmic waves. Reis could feel the excitement pounding through the stadium even as he approached the entrance. Coupled with the adrenaline rushing through him, it unleashed a huge surge of energy that threatened to swamp him. Controlling himself with an effort, he kept his pace even and the pleasant Reis smile plastered on his face as he headed for the entrance.

  Situated in the northwest corner of the spanking new stadium is the reception area that has the ticketing offices and the offices of the bus operators, team coaches, sales managers, communications personnel and the various BMO officials. Down the hall lies the vast VIP area that serves food and beverages to the privileged clients who can then move directly to the VIP lounge that comfortably seats three hundred people. Off to one side are stairs that descend to the ground floor and lead to the eight community dressing rooms, each of which can be used to access the field directly.

  To the southwest of the stadium is the four-thousand capacity supporters’ section. Sandwiched between the first and second decks is a huge concession area that serves everything from fish and chips to samosas. To cater to those too lazy to move out of their seats, there are seven authorized portable carts that move through the decks dispensing food, drinks and souvenirs.

  REIS PLANNED TO GET IN AND CROSS THE HALL TO REACH the VIP area.

  That's the best place for me to transfer the VX vials from the lunch box to my pockets.

  Having done that, he planned to walk straight to the VIP lounge. As it was the inaugural day, there were bound to be more VIPs than usual.

  Let some of them die today. Commoners die every day in any case. Reis gave a wry smile as he walked up to the main entrance.

  Reis had been right. All the security personnel there knew him well. But not one of them smiled when they saw him.

  That's understandable. It's the first game and a big one at that. They must be stressed, Reis told himself as cognitive dissonance kicked in; he needed to know that everything was fine.

  Reis nodded to them half-smilingly as he came closer. That was when he saw the second tier of security personnel and knew he had miscalculated.

  None of the second tier of security men knew him and none of them was smiling. They did know of him. In fact, it was suddenly clear that they had been waiting for him. He could tell from the expressions on their faces and the way they moved towards him.

  ‘What should I do if they do manage to find me?’

  ‘Then you are as good as dead in any case. No matter what happens, don't let them take you alive. Your best bet is to head straight for the enemy and activate your weapon. Make sure you are in the thickest part of the crowd and take as many of the kafirs with you as you can. Don't let your sacrifice go to waste.’

  Without further thought, he began to grope at the lunch box in his hand, but even as he did that he knew it was too late. Four burly cops closed in on him rapidly and boxed him in. Unforgiving hands gripped him from both sides. Even rougher hands relieved him of his deadly meal box.

  ‘Take it easy, pal,’ the man on his right growled. ‘Don't make us hurt you.’ His tone was taunting and harsh, almost as though he was daring Reis to try something.

  They marched him off to the small side exit and towards the patrol car waiting outside.

  They can't take me alive. Damned if I am going to spend the rest of my life in jail.

  As they frog-marched him out, Reis allowed his shoulders to slump and his body to go slack, as though in defeat and despair. With every step, he felt the grip of his escort loosen; not much, by just a tiny fraction. It was not enough for him to break free and make a run for it. However, it was enough for him to jer
k his hand free and grab at the holstered weapon of the man on his right. The attempt was as amateurish as it was ill-advised.

  ‘You stupid fuck!’

  The butt of the pistol in the hands of the cop behind him slammed down remorselessly on Reis's head. He lost consciousness instantly and slumped to the ground.

  FAR AWAY IN MURREE, THE TWO TERROR MASTERS WAITED impatiently for news of the terror spectacular to beam in from Toronto.

  ‘Do you think something has gone wrong?’ Cheema asked for the umpteenth time.

  ‘Let's wait and see.’ Salim's tone and expression were noncommittal. ‘The game lasts a long time. Perhaps Reis is waiting for the best possible time to strike.’

  And so they waited, unaware that retribution was at hand.

  Not too far away, Tiwathia pulled over to the side as Sami took a moment to get their bearings right.

  ‘That's the ridge.’ Sami pointed. ‘That's where the house should be. Take that turn ahead.’

  Tiwathia engaged gears and headed for the turn Sami had indicated.

  Strike Nine

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THE PATROL CAR CARRYING REIS HAD BARELY REACHED THE maximum security detention centre he was being taken to for interrogation when Liaquat Ali entered the Washington Convention Centre. The Experimental Biology Conference was due to start this morning. The innocuous looking Chote Miyan was in Ali's hand. It had already been primed and armed by him in the hotel room earlier that morning; now only the activation code had to be keyed in. In his other hand was the cardboard carton he had procured some time ago. The carton had the words ‘Alpan Packaging’ printed prominently on all sides. The same words were also printed in red alongside the company logo on the identity tag pinned to Ali's coat label. If somebody had bothered to look closely at the photograph on the identity tag, he would have noticed that it bore only a cursory resemblance to the man wearing it. The real owner of that particular identity tag lay dead in a toilet cubicle not far away from the conference registration desk. Ali had killed him barely five minutes ago.

  Ali had then walked up to the venue layout map displayed near the registration desk and checked out the location. His destination, Booth No. 730, was a tiny box located in the inner circle of Hall B of the convention centre. Alpan Packaging, a laboratory and miscellaneous equipment manufacturer, had booked it and the adjacent booth, to display its wares. Hall B lay on the level immediately below the street level of the lovely five-storied building that housed the convention centre. Two of these five levels lay below the street level and two above it.

  Hefting the Chote Miyan in one hand and the cardboard carton in the other, Liaquat Ali forced himself to look purposeful as he headed for the booth on the lower level. Between the booth and him lay the final security barrier that he had to breach.

  There were four men manning the entrance to Hall B, two on either side of the gate. Squaring his shoulders, Liaquat Ali stepped off the escalator and headed towards them.

  THE SECURITY GUARD AT THE ENTRANCE OF HALL B DID NOT recognize the face of the wanted man walking up to him. He had received the APB issued for Rahim Khan and Liaquat Ali. However, the photographs used in the APB had been of two men in uniform. That proved to be a mistake. Men in uniform always look different.

  But the guard was a diligent man and adhered strictly to the basics that had been drilled into him. The basics dictated that one must always tally the photograph on the identity card with the person wearing it. That was precisely what he did each time someone came up to him.

  That was how he noticed that the man who had now halted in front of him did not match the photograph on the Alpan Packaging identity tag pinned to his lapel.

  Bloody cheapskate! Why don't these companies just pay the entry fees for all their people instead of switching tags all the time? The bastards earn enough.

  Raising his eyes, the guard gestured to his shift supervisor and the other security man standing across, on the other side of the entrance, behind Ali. It was a very slight gesture, a tiny, barely discernible shake of his head.

  If he had not been so pumped up, Ali would not have caught the gesture. But he was and he did. He automatically assumed the worst.

  They're onto me! The soldier-terrorist reacted on highly honed reflexes. I must get away from here. Find a place where I can be alone for a moment. That's all the time I need.

  Dropping the cardboard carton, he whirled around and started to run. The security personnel stared in disbelief at the sudden commotion. As Ali turned, he collided with the two men who were coming up just behind him. They were so close that he had no chance of avoiding them. Suddenly they were a tangle of arms and legs. The Chote Miyan fell out of his hand and away from him as his hands automatically came up to try and break his fall.

  By the time Ali regained his balance, his precious suitcase had been picked up by one of the security guards, who was quite taken aback by its weight. Ali made a run for it, but they had surrounded him. Seconds later, they had him dead to rights. A short while later, they recognized him.

  Another man had been taken alive.

  MURREE

  TIWATHIA PARKED THE STATION WAGON ON THE NARROW, winding road at the base of the ridge on which the bungalow was sited. The road straddled the outermost periphery of the town and there was very little traffic, barring the occasional pedestrian and the even more occasional vehicle. The red-roofed, low-slung target building was barely visible through the shroud of pine trees all around.

  They waited till there was no one in sight on either side. Then, retrieving their weapons, the four of them raced through the trees and up the hill. Moving cautiously and ensuring that they made no noise, they began to close in on the man they had come to kill.

  Strike Ten

  SAN FRANCISCO

  THE INTERNATIONAL PERFORMANCE IMPROVEMENT conference being held at the San Francisco Marriott Convention Centre was just about to kick off that morning. Rahim Khan did not anticipate any problems in reaching the venue since he was already staying at the Marriott.

  Like his comrade-in-arms, Rahim Khan had woken up early and prepped the bomb and himself. Then, impatiently pacing the hotel room, he had waited for zero hour to arrive.

  Timing! The timing is important. We want the maximum strikes to take place at the same time… or as close to each other as possible.

  The two soldiers had coordinated their clocks before they parted ways at Washington. Rahim Khan took one final look at his watch.

  Liaquat should be entering the target area about now. I wonder how he is faring. He tuned out the random thoughts cluttering his head and forced his attention back to the task at hand.

  Picking up the armed and ticking Chote Miyan, he left his room and descended to the Conference Centre level. Rahim tried to still the battle nerves beginning to clamour for attention inside him by focusing hard on what he had to do over the next few minutes. In his mind's eye, he could see himself striding in, getting into an appropriate corner, keying in the digits of the activation code, putting down the case, exiting the hall, and making his way out to the first cab that he could find. Then a little while later… BOOM!

  Preoccupied though he was, the minute he emerged from the elevator, Rahim Khan noticed the beefed-up security arrangements at the entrance.

  Shit! Either they know about me or they're being extra cautious.

  The death dealer stopped and pondered for a moment.

  We will assume at all times that the mission is blown and act with total caution. That way we can be sure…. Cheema's advice came back to him. Making up his mind, he turned swiftly on his heel and headed straight back towards the hotel lobby.

  There were groups of people crowding the lobby when he entered. Rahim Khan spotted an empty couch somewhere in the centre of the lobby. There was a group of people standing beside it, talking excitedly.

  Good! This should do very well.

  But can I leave the bomb behind, unattended?

  No!

  He paus
ed momentarily.

  So be it!

  He altered direction slightly and headed straight for the couch. He sat down, placed the Chote Miyan on his lap and opened it. Raising the lid just a bit, he put his hand into the case and set the timer for immediate detonation. Then, slowly and cautiously, he began to key in the 12-digit activation code.

  … they fight in Allah's way, so they slay and are slain; a promise which is binding on Him in the Taurat and the Injeel and the Koran….

  The glorious verse from the Holy Koran reverberated in his mind as his fingers punched in the fatal digits one by one.

  Fourteen seconds later, the last digit of the activation code silently glowed into place. A nanosecond later, with a thunderous roar, the plutonium fuelled atomic bomb cradled on Rahim Khan's lap exploded. It vapourised him into nothingness, along with the others around him.

  No one would ever know for certain how many people were annihilated by the bomb that day. Very little of anything or anyone was left behind. No one who had been present in or around the hotel survived the explosion. The few who survived the initial blast succumbed to the huge ball of fire that raced out and away from the epicentre of the explosion. As for the number of people whose lives would be blighted by the radiation… only time would tell.

  MURREE

  AS NEWS OF THE HORRENDOUS EXPLOSION SPANNED THE globe, several hundred miles away, the terror maestros gloated.

  ‘Bring out the champagne,’ Salim yelled at their elderly servant.

  Standing in front of the giant plasma television screen, which was beaming scenes of bloodshed and mayhem, Salim and Cheema were hugging each other, delirious with joy, when there was a loud crash followed by a dull thump.

  Before either of them realized what was happening, the XM-84 Flash-and-Bang grenade that had blown in through the glass window, landed in the centre of the room and exploded. There was a roar and a blaze of bright, blinding light filled the room.