by Mukul Deva
The Team Three men did not hear the explosion or see the devastation. They only got confirmed news of the blasts when they arrived at the Cantonment Railway Station. By that time the television cameras and crew had reached the sites of most of the bomb blasts. The platform was abuzz with the shock of the blasts that were decimating the city. Knots of people clustered around the television sets positioned on the platform.
*
‘The blast at Sarojini Nagar seems to have caused almost as many casualties as the March 1993 blast at Century Market in Mumbai. The police are still trying to ascertain the number of dead …’ The camera cut away from the fear-stricken reporter trying to make some sense of the terrible mayhem and moved on to another grim-faced reporter at the Shivaji Nagar Bus Terminus. ‘This is where the first blast took place.’ The camera panned to the shattered bus. ‘It is still not clear how many more buses have been affected. So far we only have confirmation of one more blast onboard the bus that was operating on route No 505. No one has so far claimed responsibility for these blasts, but one of the suspects was gunned down by…’
At 2136 hours, when the 4791 Bikaner Mail left the platform of the Delhi Cantonment Railway Station both men of Team Three were safely on board. Like the men of Team Two, they also were in different compartments. Once again, the ticket-checker did not notice anything untoward or suspicious about either of them.
Team Three boarded the train and left behind a city torn apart with fear, death and destruction.
And a nation seething in anger.
1820 hours, 29 October 2005, Aftab Cyber Café, New Delhi.
Sitting in the rear room of the Aftab Cyber Café Furkan watched the coverage on television with keen interest. Like the rest of the Lashkar he too was saddened by the death of his young colleague. ‘Thank God he was martyred instantly and the operation was not compromised,’ he consoled himself. When Furkan had watched enough he muted the television. By now it was pitch dark outside. Erratic blue, yellow, red and black images from the television screen flashed through the otherwise darkened room. Squinting slightly in the darkness he stared at the screen of his mobile phone and carefully dialled a pre-stored number. When he spoke into it there was a distinct pride in his voice. And rightly so. After all, all the men of the Lashkar had been recruited and trained by him. When he finally depressed the disconnect button his phone informed him that the call had lasted ninety-seven seconds. Then he went back to the television and turned up the volume.
But, unable to contain his excitement, and despite being warned to do no such thing, an hour after his exhilarating talk with Maulana Fazlur Rehman, he picked up the mobile phone again. This time he dialled a number that had been added to his phone book fairly recently. ‘Is this the Aaj Tak news channel?’
The stunned Aaj Tak staffer who took the call was speechless with horror when she answered the phone. Luckily she did not have to do much except listen. By now it was the norm for all calls coming into any television network to be recorded automatically. The calling line identification facility on the telephone of the news channel duly noted the number of the mobile phone the call was originating from.
The young Aaj Tak staffer called up her boss as soon as the call ended. ‘What? Say that again!’ The senior editor had just parked his car outside his house when he took the call. His mind raced. A slow day had suddenly been converted into a major news exclusive. Cutting the call he jumped back into his car and gunned the engine as he reversed out. His rear fender hit his wife’s car parked by the side, but for once he didn’t care. His hands were busy dialling another number. The Deputy Commissioner of Police for South Delhi was well known to him. Consequently the police were informed within minutes of the call made by Furkan claiming responsibility for the bombings.
Furkan was a trained and highly motivated terrorist but there were obvious gaps in his knowledge of technology. He had little idea what mobile telephone companies were capable of doing. Not only did they maintain extensive records of who owned which phone, they could almost instantly track down the location of the owner by following the electronic trace left by his mobile phone. By making this phone call the seventh man had just signed his own death warrant.
It took a few minutes for the Deputy Commissioner of Police to rouse the senior operational staff of the cellular service provider that Furkan was using. In this day and age of terrorism all cellular companies have to function within strict operational and security guidelines. Most governments have mandated that all operators instal the technology required to track and monitor all their subscribers on real-time basis. Unknown to most people this technology is put to use almost every day for a host of reasons.
Each mobile phone handset has a unique ESN (Electronic Serial Number). Whenever a mobile phone is switched on the handset periodically broadcasts the ESN to let the cellular company know where it is located. This is how the cellular phone company knows where to route a call received for a particular phone. That is why they always know where each phone user is. The cellular operator can also ping any phone and then use overlapping signal monitors to triangulate and give its most likely global positioning coordinates. This tower triangulation method enables them to pin down the precise location of any mobile phone to within a few feet.
Had Furkan switched off his mobile phone after calling Aaj Tak it is possible that he may have lived a little longer. Unfortunately, he didn’t.
Within a few minutes of the request, the Vice President, Operations, of the concerned mobile phone company called up the Deputy Commissioner of Police who headed the Anti-Terrorist Cell. ‘The phone is registered to a Furkan Sheikh and the billing address is of a cyber café in Khirki Gaon.’ He read out the address. ‘In fact, that is where the phone is located right now.’
‘Keep tracking the phone and let me know immediately if it changes location.’ The cop disconnected the call and dialled again. ‘Mathur, move the strike team out immediately. What? Yes, of course I want them loaded for bear. Tell them to meet me in front of Panchsheel Rendezvous…and listen, call up the Saket people and tell them to keep a team ready…just in case.’
As his vehicle sped through the traffic the DCP called the Delhi Police Commissioner and briefed him. He had barely finished when Mathur’s name flashed on the screen of his mobile phone: ‘Our strike team is on its way and Saket’s is standing by, sir. The team should be at the Rendezvous in five minutes…max seven, sir.’
Clearly, sitting in the control room, Mathur had no clue what hell had broken loose on the streets. The strike team took much longer to reach simply because traffic was in complete chaos. The city was in turmoil over news of the horrific blasts and the news channels were doing nothing to dissipate the panic. People swamped the streets as they fled their workplaces and rushed to the apparent and elusive safety of their homes. Consequently it was almost 2200 hours by the time the anti-terrorist team finally moved into place. Fortunately, this was the only glitch.
The strike team surrounded the cyber café deftly in a slickly choreographed manoeuvre. They moved in so fast and so unobtrusively that passers-by barely noticed them.
The operation was over almost before it had begun.
2201 hours, 29 October 2005, Aftab Cyber Café, Khirki Gaon, New Delhi.
‘Now!’
The Bikaner Mail was still pulling out of Delhi Cantonment Railway Station with the Team Three men on board when the first police commando braced himself to kick in the door of the cyber café. The flimsy door crashed open and hit the wall. Furkan was sitting behind a computer, lost in thought, when the commandos burst in.
‘Son of a bitch! How…?’ Furkan’s mind was still adjusting to the stunning reality of the two helmeted figures in black bullet-proof jackets as his hand reflexively freed the small Chinese automatic pistol from his belt.
‘Police! Raise your hands in the air!’ one of the commandos shouted.
Furkan’s mind was screaming into overdrive. He heard the call but it did not really register. He sp
rung to his feet and was raising his pistol to take aim at the black figure racing towards him when the second commando, who stood near the door with his weapon already raised, fired. The tiny 9 mm lead slug slashed through the air. It was travelling at sub-sonic speed. Even so it spanned the scant seven feet between them almost instantly and reached Furkan as his finger groped for the trigger. The blunt, soft-nosed slug hit Furkan high on the chest and flung him backward. The first commando pounced on him and wrested the pistol away. Furkan never even managed to get off a shot.
In retrospect, that single shot fired by the second police commando proved a serious error in an otherwise perfect operation. Had that shot not been fired they would have taken the seventh man alive. If they had taken him alive the Indian Government would have been able to unravel the conspiracy much faster and they’d have been able to produce walking-talking proof of the terror strike to the world.
Not that anyone could find much fault with the shot. The commando had been working on a highlykeyed-up adrenaline response. He’d fired only when he saw there was no other way to prevent the terrorist from using his weapon on his buddy.
*
The man named Furkan was unconscious when the police ambulance carrying him raced into Modi Hospital in nearby Saket. The ambulance entered the hospital gate at almost the same time as the Bikaner Mail cleared the city limits on its way to Bikaner.
‘We need this bastard alive,’ the cop told the doctor on duty. ‘He is one of the men involved in today’s bomb blasts.’ The hospital activated its best medical team to stabilize the injured terrorist who had lost a lot of blood. The head injury was far more critical than it looked. The police was so keen to revive the man and question him that they had a Deputy Commissioner of Police from the Crisis Management Team sitting right outside the door of the ICU. However, it was to be a long and agonizing wait.
It was almost two hours after midnight when Furkan regained consciousness and spoke his first word since he had been hit. ‘Water.’ The croaked whisper was barely audible but everyone was so keyed up that the sound electrified the atmosphere. The news that he had spoken swept through the hospital and within seconds a cabal of khaki descended on the room he was in.
‘You will definitely kill him if you start questioning him right now,’ Manish, the doctor who had taken charge of the wounded man said. ‘Give us some time to stabilize him first.’ He had to literally fight off the police but was not able to do it for long; too much rode on the man talking. Around 0230 hours Dr Manish finally came out of the room with a resigned expression on his face. He nodded to the cops waiting impatiently outside. ‘Question him now. He won’t last much longer.’
By 0300 hours the man known to the world as Furkan Sheikh had told the police the whole story, chapter and verse. The only thing he did not disclose was the role of the Maulavi from the Savita Nagar mosque. Whether he did not wish to involve a man of God or did not consider it important to do so, no one will ever know, because he succumbed to his wounds just as he was coming to the end of his story. Whirring video and audio recorders captured every last thing he said, right to his rasping last breaths.
Within minutes, copies of the tape were rushed to the Crisis Management Committee. The tapes had complete details of the Lashkar team members who had carried out the strike, their escape routes, details of the training camp in Muzaffarabad where the strike had been planned and the Lashkar had trained and information about Maulana Fazlur Rehman and Brigadier Murad Salim who had masterminded, coordinated and executed the strike.
‘Send a copy to the PMO,’ the Task Force Commander told his assistant.
‘At this time of the night?’ The man looked up incredulously.
‘The Headman had said he wanted to be in the loop at all times.’
The Task Force Commander was right; twenty minutes later the Indian Prime Minister was listening to the recording. Despite the late hour he was wide awake.
Soon a lot of other people would be too.
The Indian Government was well aware of the location of the terrorist training camp that Furkan had referred to, as it was one of seventeen other similar camps that dotted the landscape of Pakistan and the POK. So were the Chinese, the Russians, the Americans, the Israelis, the British, the French, the Germans, the Somalis, the Guatemalans and anyone else who cared to know. It was an open international secret.
Almost every nation was aware that the Pakistani General’s claim that he had curbed all terrorist activity in his country was a blatant lie. The whole world knew about it yet refused to acknowledge it. The Americans even went about applauding the General and praising him for his help in hunting down the Al-Qaida. But the time for beating about the bush was over. Every successive terrorist strike was shortening the global fuse.
IQBAL
1950 hours, 30 October 2005, Terrorist Camp in Jungle above Hari, Kashmir.
Even through the thick fog of sleep shrouding him Iqbal heard the scream and felt a hand grip his shoulder. A panic-stricken scream erupted uncontrollably from his own mouth as the horror of the night gone by returned. Once again, the ricochet of gunfire shattered his mind. He saw the illuminating rounds flare up in the dark sky with harsh metallic clicks. Psychedelic flashes of guns firing tracer rounds, bullets arcing through the night like fireflies, and the images of writhing men falling lifelessly to the ground suffused his mind. Literally gibbering with fear he pushed away the hand clutching his shoulder and forced his eyes to open. There was no one there. That is when another moan of pain broke through the fog of his nightmare and Iqbal realized that it was only Wahid, the instructor, crying out in pain.
Reality returned like a cold shock.
Except for a few smouldering embers, the fire in the angeethi in the centre of the hut was dead. However it was obvious that someone had fed the fire at some point in the night or it would have gone cold by now. Iqbal could hear the wind hissing in the trees around. He guessed night had fallen many hours ago because his body told him that he had been asleep for a long time; it felt painfully stiff and ached from countless sores and bruises. But the hunger pangs gnawing at his stomach reassured him. If you’re hungry you’re okay. The voice of the instructor conducting the first-aid class at the training camp came back to him. He suddenly realized the same man now lay a few feet from him; and he was far from okay.
Iqbal forced himself to go across to him. When he knelt down beside him a sickly sweet smell assaulted his senses. He felt more than saw the pool of blood the instructor lay in. Wahid Ali was slipping in and out of consciousness and was obviously in tremendous pain. Lying restlessly on the cold, hard floor, he still clutched his side as though desperate to keep life from flowing out of him. Blood seeped from between his fingers.
‘He is going to die.’
Iqbal gave a half scream as he turned with a start and saw the sentry who had met them at the outskirts of the camp. ‘There is nothing we can do for him here. Maybe if you all had returned to Chakoti last night he might have made it. Maybe…’ The sentry spoke in a dryly matter-of-fact manner. Almost as though he was discussing the weather.
‘There must be something we can do.’
The sentry had been hardened to the realities of life by almost three years as a jihadi. He had seen his contemporaries fall to the bullets of the Indian security forces. Some, he had even seen felled by other jihadi groups. He knew it all. The reality of life on the run. Living in hellish camps such as this one. Then dying the death of an animal without even the courtesy of a proper burial.
He looked bemused by Iqbal’s innocence, as though unable to fathom how Iqbal was missing the obvious. ‘Look around you. There is nothing here. Nothing except a few bandages and some basic medication for headaches, fever, loose motions and shit like that. This bugger,’ he pointed at the gut-shot instructor, ‘needs to be taken to hospital. That’s not going to happen, you know.’ He sighed wearily and shook his head in disgust. ‘Inshahallah, he will go soon and not be tormented by the pain much longer.
’
How can he be so damn cold-blooded? How can he not care for his own comrades?
The sentry saw the shocked look on Iqbal’s face. It seemed to arouse something inside him and for one brief moment he wanted to reach out and speak to him: Don’t judge me, my young friend. You don’t know what it is like to live in perennial fear of betrayal by villagers who are sick of the constant turmoil and killing that plagues their lives, of colleagues who are disillusioned by the futility of the fight, of our own treacherous masters sitting in Pakistan who have their own agenda that has nothing to do with Islam, the liberation of Kashmir or the jihad.
Instead he said harshly: ‘Don’t you know this is how it ends for most of us? Barely a handful of people who enter the mujahideen mill that flourishes in the Kashmir Valley live to see the end of the first year. As for those who live out the second year, you can count them on your bloody fingers.’
At twenty-six years of age the sentry was already a bitter old man. ‘Come,’ he said to Iqbal a shade more gently, ‘look after this one instead.’ He pointed to Omar who lay as still as a corpse on the other side of the hut. ’I’ll go out and get some wood.’
Iqbal tried to turn his attention to Omar and tend to him but the instructor’s screams of pain began again a few minutes later. Every successive scream was like a spear jabbed into his head. Then, abruptly, the screaming stopped. It took him a while to register that something had changed. Sudden, illogical and childish hope lit up in him. Maybe the bleeding has stopped!
Hope died abruptly when he saw the darkness of death settled on the instructor’s face. It was drained white; the pool of blood around him had spread all over the floor. A fearful sob escaped unbidden from him as he stared at the dead man. Iqbal stumbled out of the hut and collided with the sentry who was now returning with a pile of wood chips in his arms.
