by Deva, Mukul
‘That could also explain the similarities of the Jerusalem strike to the 26/11 LeT ghazwa on Mumbai,’ Chance pointed out. ‘Mumbai was also their doing.’
‘Yes,’ Peled nodded. ‘We have certain leads about this man but have yet to ascertain his identity.’
‘You know, we have a very extensive database on all LeT commanders,’ Ravinder offered. ‘We have suffered because of these lunatics and their ISI handlers for decades now. Let us know if we can help.’
‘That is kind of you, sir.’ Peled gave a grateful smile. ‘We shall take you up on that.’
‘Just share your leads with us and Mohite will help you dig up possible matches.’
‘Right, so…’ Again, it was Jennifer who brought them back to the present. ‘Twelve women and two guys… that takes care of fourteen people. You said there were fifteen. Who was the fifteenth?’
‘There was a thirteenth woman,’ Peled replied. Damn! Thirteen, again! Ravinder swore under his breath. It had become a recurring theme with this damn Summit.
Peled continued, ‘We do not know much except that she is probably Caucasian. The terrorist we captured caught a glimpse of her and heard her talking when she came to meet the Qassam commander. She says she heard a British accent. As of now, that is all we know.’
The others were listening, but did not catch the unspoken. Ravinder did. He sensed that Peled knew more than he was telling.
At that moment, barely thirteen miles away, the thirteenth woman, dressed as a tourist, complete with camera, hat and water bottle, approached Ashoka hotel.
Ruby carried out two runs to and through the hotel. The minute she entered it, she knew she had no hope of going past the main lobby or the restaurants. Disappointed, but not surprised, she surveyed as best she could.
On her first run she studied the layout and identified ingress points. On the second, she confirmed the observations she had made, double-checking to ensure she was correct.
By sunset, Ruby had every detail of the venue embedded in her head. Satisfied with the day’s work, she returned to her hotel room and began to work out attack combinations.
It was not going to be easy. She’d seen cops crawling all over the place, in plainclothes and in uniform. Most inner areas in the hotel had already been cordoned off. Roadblocks had been set up on all approaches and there were security posts at both hotel gates.
It did not take her long to realize that a frontal assault would fail. It would have to be a covert attack – though a frontal assault could be a useful diversion. In fact, a critical one, if delivered right.
A couple of hours later, her plans tentatively complete, she called it a night. Though exhausted, her sleep was hampered by her anxiety about the meeting with Nanda, the arms dealer, the next morning.
I hope that bugger can come up with the Glocks. That was her last thought as she fell asleep.
Dinner was drawing to a close when the phone began to clamour. Simran frowned as Ravinder wiped his hands and got up to answer it.
‘We have two candidates, sir,’ Mohite sounded excited. ‘It took a while, but…’
‘Candidates for what, Govind?’ Ravinder cut in. ‘Oh!’ Mohite checked himself. ‘I was helping Peled to sift through our database on the LeT commanders and we have two possible suspects. The first is Pasha.’
‘Hmm. Give me a moment while I get my laptop out.’ Ravinder retreated to his study. Booting up the device, he pulled up Pasha’s profile. The screen showed two photos, the only two they had of him.
The first, taken by an Indian intelligence operative, showed a clean-shaven man in a neat and obviously expensive steel-grey business suit. He carried the suit well, as though used to it. Short and diminutive, he looked like a jockey. A small but prominent pear-shaped scar marked his right temple.
The second, taken by a Taliban turncoat, showed a different man, heavily bearded with shoulder-length hair, now dressed in a typical black Pathani kameez and ankle-high salwar. There was little resemblance to the man in the first photo.
Ravinder scanned through the man’s profile. Born Khalid Abbas Khawaja, he had been a Wing Commander in the Pakistan Air Force. No one knew whether he had retired or had been ordered to retire, or if it had been made to look like he had retired. Mysteriously, one fine day Wing Commander Khalid Abbas Khawaja had just vanished.
He appeared to have little in common with the man who surfaced in Afghanistan a year later, the year the Taliban had begun to make its presence felt. The crew cut and sharp pencil line moustache had been replaced by an unruly beard and shoulder-length hair. This slightly built man, with an AK-74 in one hand and a radio or satellite phone in the other, soon became a fixture in the entourage of the one-eyed leader of the Taliban. He now piloted people, not planes, tweaking their destinies and ensuring they served just one purpose, the jihad.
However, as he had been ordered to do, Pasha stuck to the shadows. He feared the powerful generals in Islamabad. He knew they would throw him to the wolves if he dared cross them.
It was Pasha who had planned and executed the 26/11 Mumbai terror attack. This much was known – or at least strongly conjectured.
‘Who is the other suspect?’ Ravinder asked.
‘Well, if it is not Pasha then it could only be Saeed Anwar.’
Ravinder opened Anwar’s profile. There were many photos of the portly, skullcap-wearing, bearded, bespectacled man. Clad in white, he was fond of leading public rallies and was a primary fundraiser for the LeT. He had helped Osama plan and execute the 9/11 strike and was known to have transferred 100,000 US dollars to the hijackers just before the attack.
Yes, he too is a strong possibility. In fact, considering the others in the LeT leadership, it seems certain that one of the two would have been behind the Jerusalem attack.
‘Good work, Mohite. What does the Israeli have to say?’
‘He said his boss would be talking to you soon.’
‘All right.’ Ravinder rang off.
Sure enough, an hour later his phone rang again and on the line was Meir Dagan.
Though he had met him only once, Ravinder could easily picture Dagan, the current head of Mossad. Known to be the antithesis of M, the James Bond spymaster, Dagan, an avid student of history, a no-frills man who clocked eighteen hours of work every day, was famous for his bull-headed doggedness, and commanded respect, both within Mossad and outside.
Though Ravinder did not know it yet, the reason Dagan took an hour to finally call him, was because he first needed to get the Israeli PM’s sanction. Ordering a kidon hit was not something Dagan had the authority to do on his own.
To have Pasha and Anwar taken out, he had to first get their names added to the ‘execution list.’
Given the severity of the Jerusalem attack, Dagan had little doubt that the sanction to place Pasha and Anwar on this list would be accorded. However, as per protocol, such a request could be confirmed by the Israeli PM only after a go-ahead by the designated judicial investigator, a person whose identity is so secret almost no one has heard of him. The judicial investigator must have been clocking serious overtime that day since he had given his approval quite fast.
‘Do you agree with the possibility of these two being the most likely candidates?’ Dagan came to the point immediately.
‘Well, the chances of it being one of them are high. None of the others seem to have the authority to organize something of this magnitude,’ Ravinder replied. ‘Also, you can assume that if one is involved, the other will be too. These two buggers are thick as thieves.’
‘In that case, we have a favour to ask of you,’ Dagan said. ‘We would like to deploy a team to bring them in. We need you to help us with a firm base and some logistical support. I know it is a lot to ask, but given the geography, we have no other option. Not if we want to do this fast – and we do.’
‘Bring them in, or take them out?’ Ravinder asked.
‘Whatever is possible, Mr Gill.’ Dagan did not hesitate. ‘We cannot – will n
ot – allow such a heinous attack on our country to go unpunished.’
‘I understand. I really do, but I will need to speak to my boss first.’
‘If you want, I can request our PM to talk to yours,’ Dagan offered.
‘I will let you know if that’s required.’ Ravinder knew that the Indian PM would prefer not to know; plausible deniability was much sought after. ‘Let me clear this with my boss.’
It was with great satisfaction that Ravinder returned Dagan’s call an hour later. It had taken him that long to root out the home minister and get him to speak to the PM. For once, Thakur had delivered.
‘You will see that our role in this matter remains totally secret?’ That had been Thakur’s primary concern.
‘You can rest assured about that,’ Dagan confirmed.
Even before either of them retired to bed, a team from Mossad’s kidon unit was headed to Delhi.
Ravinder felt content as he fell asleep that night.
It took a long time for Ravinder to realize that it wasn’t just a dream – the phone was actually ringing.
‘Sorry to bother you so late, sir, but I thought you’d like to know.’ Mohite sounded shaken.
‘What happened?’ Ravinder asked, still groggy with sleep.
‘We just missed them… Javed and Aslam… the two remaining Jaish terrorists.’
‘What?’ Ravinder was wide awake now. ‘What happened?’
‘You remember I’d told you about the remaining two leads? Well, I’d ordered the SHOs of the concerned areas to follow up on them. The SHO of Friends Colony just called me. They raided a suspected house a while ago and discovered that the bastards had been staying there. Apparently Javed and Aslam stepped out minutes before the raid. They just missed them.’
‘Missed them by chance or had they been warned about the raid?’
Mohite was silent. He had obviously not thought of that. ‘Let me look into it, sir.’ Pause. Then he added dubiously, ‘But Sher Singh, the SHO, is a loyal guy.’
‘He is, but ask him to double-check his staff… everyone who knew about the raid. Could be a coincidence, but no harm in checking.’
‘Wilco, sir. I agree. And they’re interrogating the owner of the house now. He appears to be a supporter… let’s hope they come up with something. I’ll rest easy only when we have the bastards behind bars… or six feet under.’ Ravinder could sense his tension. ‘Damn! To think we almost had the bastards!’
‘Don’t stress about it, Govind. Shit happens. We can only try.’
Even to Ravinder the words offered no solace, knowing he was one of the three people the terrorists had been sent in to kill. He knew exactly how Mohite was feeling – lousy.
Day Four
Ruby arrived at Dilli Haat half an hour early for her meeting with Nanda. She spent it casing the area, watching for anything out of sync. She spotted nothing unusual, no one loitering around surreptitiously with those giveaway earpieces or bulges under their coats. She wasn’t expecting trouble, but she wasn’t about to leave things to chance.
Satisfied, she returned to the cream coloured Toyota Innova she had hired and waited. The driver, Kishore, was a polite young man about five-and-a-half feet. His grey Safari suit was well-maintained and as clean as his car. He left the air conditioner on for her as she waited, and stood beside a tree a short distance away.
After a few minutes she saw Mark emerge from a black Hyundai sedan that pulled up in a slot three cars away. Ruby was pleased that he too had arrived early and was in top form. She wondered if the men he had hired were as good. She hoped they were – their lives and, more importantly, the mission, depended on it. Ruby saw Mark survey the area, sweeping it quadrant by quadrant, just as she had done.
At ten thirty on a weekday morning, Dilli Haat, the famous arts and crafts market, had yet to fill to its potential. A short hop from the Hyatt, the colourful market, with its tiny stalls and regional, multi-cuisine food stalls, was popular with locals and foreigners alike.
Fronted by an elaborately carved stone gate, manned by armed khaki-clad cops and a set of massive doorframe metal detectors, the market had a bright red stone wall around it. By now the ice-cream vendors, balloon sellers and ladies in bright Rajasthani skirts selling bangles and applying the traditional henna, had started setting up shop outside the gates.
It would not be long before the market began teeming with people. That, in fact, was why they had chosen to meet Nanda here – crowds always offered safety.
The cream suburban to your left, Ruby shot off a text to Mark.
Mark spotted Ruby’s car and then headed over to the counter. He bought an entry ticket and walked across to the food stalls at the end of the Haat, the designated meeting point.
Half an hour later, he walked out, a portly, balding man with him. In the midst of the casually dressed holidaymakers, he looked incongruous in his Armani suit. A gold watch and several golden Cross ballpoint pens in his breast pocket lit up his attire. The two parted ways at the entry gates, both heading for different parts of the parking lot.
Mark watched Nanda climb into a blue Mercedes 300 as a chauffeur held the door open. The chauffeur was as smartly dressed as his boss, his white uniform and cap giving him a regal air. Once the car pulled out, Mark made his way to Ruby.
‘All taken care of.’ Mark opened the door and poked his head in. ‘We will have the stuff on Wednesday.’
That was three days from now. And three days to D-day.
‘All four Glock 17s?’
‘All four Glock 17s.’ Mark nodded. ‘Ammo and spare clips.’
‘You think he is reliable?’
‘He won’t let us down,’ Mark reassured her. ‘Not for the kind of money the bastard is charging us. If he started double-crossing his customers, I don’t think he’d last long in this business.’
Parked near the parking lot exit, Sanjeev Nanda was watching from the rear window of his Mercedes. He saw Mark walk over to an Innova and speak to someone inside, but he was unable to see who it was. It seemed to be a woman, but he was not sure.
He knew he had spotted an opportunity: a foreign mercenary looking for four deadly, high-capacity weapons which were hard to detect. The Commonwealth Games was around the corner and a dozen Pakistan-based terror groups had declared that they would not allow them to take place. The cops would pay through their nose for this one.
Nanda, lost in his thoughts, did not notice Mark walk away from the Innova and drive off. He was startled when he heard a loud tap on his window. Mark was staring at him hard. Nanda knew his suspicions had been aroused.
Powering down the window, Nanda conjured up an explanation. ‘I am waiting for my driver.’ Luckily, a few minutes back Nanda had sent him to buy a packet of cigarettes from a shop near the gate. Just then, the driver returned, got into the car and handed over a packet of Davidoff Lights to Nanda.
Grabbing the pack, Nanda snarled at him, ‘Drive.’
Mark watched Nanda go. He had a feeling that things were not so kosher.
Ruby was still in the car after Mark left. With her reconnaissance complete and most of the preparatory work well under control, she wondered what to do next.
May as well get in some sightseeing. Who knew when she’d come to India again? Will I even survive this mission? The thought halted her. She shrugged. It does not matter if I don’t. My life has no meaning. Not if the delegates survive and the Peace Summit succeeds… they’ll slice up Palestine.
Pushing the thought away, she bought herself an entry ticket to the Haat. She took the ticket and opened her wallet to keep the change back, failing to see a man approaching behind her. Arms closed in around her waist and her body automatically moved to counter the assault. She was about to raise her hands to break the hold when he spoke.
‘Ruby Gill, I presume.’ The familiar voice shocked her into stillness.
She spun around to find Chance Spillman’s smiling face inches away. An overwhelming memory of the past took over her and som
ething inside her snapped. She leaned forward and kissed him. For one brief moment she felt herself in another time, as their lips came together. The magic was back.
Then someone passing by giggled and the moment disintegrated. Reality returned.
‘What on earth are you doing in India?’ Chance released her. That tentativeness, that withholding, so frequent in the last few months that they had been together, returned. It stood between them once again.
But Ruby could not help smiling. She was thrilled to see Chance. Seeing the feeling mirrored on his face warmed her heart.
Looking at him, in dark blue jeans and a white linen shirt, with that cocky smile on his face, Ruby felt her knees go weak. She felt the urge to kiss him again. She might have done it, but just then Chance spoke.
‘So? What on earth are you doing in India?’ he repeated.
She remembered why and that Chance was also an MI6 agent.
How long has he been here? Has he seen me with Mark? That would be disastrous.
Chance knew Mark well. He also knew that Mark was now freelancing.
‘What are you doing here?’ she countered, struggling to regain her composure.
‘Security for Sir Geoffrey Tang,’ Chance replied, surprising her with the ease with which he divulged that. Ruby knew he tended to be pretty anal about security. The son of a senior SAS officer who had been killed in counter-terror operations in Ireland, Chance had a personal axe to grind with terrorists. Perhaps he was talking as one colleague to another.
Or perhaps he is as shaken by our meeting as I am.
The name struck a chord in Ruby’s head; the name of every Summit delegate was imbedded in her. ‘Tang is here?’ she asked innocently. ‘How is the cranky old bugger?’
Both laughed. Sir Tang had given Ruby hell when she rode shepherd on him during a state visit to Pakistan. It had happened when she was living with Chance.
