by Mukul Deva
Kingsley’s anxiety counterattacked with renewed vigor.
* * *
Suresh saw Kingsley’s ruddy face turn redder still and sensed his discomfiture.
Before more talk could develop, their convoy pulled up at a black metallic gate. Inset into a twelve-foot-high boundary wall, the gate was shut. A guard peered out from a grilled window to the right. Both spymasters watched one of the agents in the lead vehicle lean out and parlay.
“Do you think he will let us in?” Kurup’s fingers nervously tap-danced on the car seat as he saw the guard reach for a phone.
“He has to.” But again, there was more hope than certainty in Kingsley’s reply. As if to substantiate that, he added, “Did you know, back in college the three of us were called KGB?”
“KGB?”
“Kingsley, Gill, and Binder.” The MI6 man elaborated with a vague half smile, but his attention was on the gate guard. “We were apartment mates and very good friends … really close. Inseparable. Till…” Kingsley broke off as the huge gates swung open. Soundlessly. “He is going to meet us. I told you he would.” He was unable to keep the triumphant note out of his voice. But his relief was far more evident.
The opened gate revealed a six-hundred-foot-long graveled drive, which led to a sparkling white farmhouse, standing in a lush, well-manicured garden.
As they drove down, to the right was a swimming pool, over which hovered the mist of a chilly December morning. To the left, a tennis court, but the missing net gave it a desolate look. Between that and the porch was a garage large enough for three, perhaps four, cars, but it was empty.
Except for the guard at the gate and a gardener puttering in the distance everything was silent. Graveyard silent.
Even Suresh, a Delhi-ite, found it hard to imagine that the nonstop cacophonous hustle-bustle of Delhi lay within reach. He felt a twinge of envy as he took in the surroundings. The place reeked of money. Old money.
No wonder this guy is so snooty.
Then, on the stairs to the porch, Suresh spied the man they had come to meet. Though on the uphill side of fifty, the tall Sikh with a black, tautly bound turban stood ramrod straight. His chin jutted forward. Unblinking eyes tracked the inbound cars. He looked agitated.
As they drew closer Kurup noticed the grief lines that had aged his face. But from his demeanor and carriage it was easy to deduce he had spent the better part of his life in uniform.
Then the cars halted. Steeling themselves, the spymaster duo got ready to alight. Kurup knew Kingsley was equally eager to get to the business at hand.
THREE
Ravinder Singh Gill stood on the stairs dominating the porch and watched the trio of cars come up the drive, their heavy tires crunching the gravel. He could not decide what he was feeling more, anger or curiosity.
Kurup was the last man on earth he expected to play host to.
What the heck is he doing here? Didn’t the blighter get the hint when I declined his invitation yesterday?
In light of Kurup’s shoddy behavior as chairperson of the inquiry investigating the disastrous Israeli-Palestinian Peace Summit and his attempt to pin the blame on Ravinder, the NIA chief was not someone Ravinder wished to see, and certainly not at his house. Shocked at the Kurup’s audacity, Ravinder had been about to order the guard not to open the gate when he mentioned that Sir Edward Kingsley was accompanying Kurup.
That had taken him by surprise. Ravinder liked Edward, though he mistrusted the spymaster’s motives. Above all, Ravinder could not walk away from the fact that, though it ended badly, Edward had been helpful during the Ruby investigation. That obligation and Ravinder’s curiosity had led to the gates being opened.
But what could he possibly want? MI6 directors don’t go around paying impromptu visits to old college mates … even those they were close to.
They had been close to … Ravinder corrected. They had kept in touch, but never regained that magical camaraderie they had once shared.
Farah’s death had extinguished that.
Ravinder pushed away the memory of Farah Fairfowler, Edward’s long-dead fiancée; it was ugly and unsettling, the first time he had confronted death. It had been up close and gruesome. Though the incident happened three decades ago, the recollection was painful still. Farah’s bloodied face, contorted in fear, still haunted him. Those memories left him with mixed feelings concerning Kingsley; a part of him missed the friendship they had once shared, and yet another part wished they would never have to meet again.
The lead car pulled past and the Škoda Yeti slid to a halt beside him. Ravinder picked up Kurup’s sheepishness the minute the NIA chief alighted. Making little effort to conceal his distaste he shook Kurup’s hand, but a brief, perfunctory shake. Ravinder then turned to greet Kingsley; the bulkier man was a bit slower in alighting.
What on earth could they want from me? Cannot be anything straightforward … it never is with these intelligence types … devious blighters.
“It’s great to see you again, Edward.” Ravinder’s curiosity was aching to burst free. “A long way from your usual beat, aren’t you?”
“You haven’t changed a bit, Ravinder. Well, perhaps a couple more wrinkles since we last met.” Kingsley bypassed the question as they shook. “How long has it been? And how are you, old boy?”
Ravinder examined the Englishman, keen to spot the changes the last thirty years had inflicted on him. Barring the gray hair and a dozen more kilograms, Ravinder could not spot any.
He has fared well. Good. Ravinder smiled. “The years have been kind to you, Edward.”
“I’m not complaining, old chap.” Edward grinned, patting his girth. Ravinder sensed Kingsley, too, was happy to see him, but also uneasy. Then Edward’s grip tightened and his smile faded. “Terribly sorry about what happened with Ruby,” he murmured.
With a thud Ravinder was back in the present. Suddenly he felt that awkwardness again, akin to what Farah’s death had unleashed. Ravinder could sense Edward’s anxiety, mirroring his own. It persisted as Ravinder led the way to a patio adjacent to the living room, overlooking the pool. Six garden chairs circling an oval center table were arranged in the patio. Despite a weak sun fighting to make its presence felt through the heavy December fog, it was a pleasant place. Peaceful.
However, the peace did not last long.
“We have a problem, Mr. Gill,” Suresh said without preamble; both spies sat on one side and Ravinder across, facing Kingsley.
Kurup’s tone again reminded Ravinder that these two men wanted something from him. Badly.
And that something would probably not be good for me.
“Don’t we all have problems?” Ravinder quipped, swiveling his chair to keep an eye on both opponents.
Opponents? The word stuck in his head.
Why had he chosen it?
It felt appropriate.
Wonder which of the two I need to watch out for? Kurup? Aggressive and demanding. Or Kingsley? The friend and hence harder to refuse.
Unsure, Ravinder perched on the edge of his chair, eying both warily. “I certainly have enough, so I’m not sure if I even want to listen to your problems.”
“Ravinder, we need your help,” Edward chipped in, trying to keep his tone collegial. “Have you heard of the SOB … the Sisters of Benazir?”
“Sounds like a corny soap opera,” Ravinder quipped. “Has it something to do with Benazir Basheer, the Pakistani politician who was assassinated at Rawalpindi some years ago?”
“That’s right. The SOB is a group of her supporters. Based in London … a rabid bunch. Very fanatic lot and loaded to boot. Hence capable of tremendous damage.”
“Aren’t they all?” Ravinder tried to show he didn’t care. But he was intrigued. “And what about this SOB is disturbing your sleep, Edward?”
“Not his alone,” Suresh interjected, “they are about to disturb everyone’s.”
Ravinder’s eyebrows hiked one notch up. “How so?”
Suresh e
laborated. “Benazir’s people believe three men were behind her murder. Pervaiz Masharrat, then the military dictator, Abid Zardosi, the current Pakistani prime minister, and Beitullah Mehsud, then the commander of the Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan.”
“Masharrat and Mehsud I can understand; they definitely had it in for her. But Zardosi?” Ravinder’s eyebrow hiked higher. “Her husband? Seriously?”
“That’s what they believe,” Suresh stressed.
“I guess we’re all entitled to our beliefs.” Ravinder shrugged.
However, his curiosity had been aroused and Edward picked that up. “The problem is the SOB have decided to act on this belief.” Ravinder noticed his worried tone. “They’ve already taken out Beitullah Mehsud and have now decided to assassinate the other two.”
Ravinder tutted. “I thought it was the Americans that got Mehsud.”
“The missile that took out Mehsud was certainly American, as was the drone it was fired from, but it was an SOB operative who guided it there,” Kurup responded.
“Right.” Ravinder’s snort communicated his disbelief.
“It is no laughing matter, Mr. Gill.”
Ignoring Kurup’s irritated frown, Ravinder grilled Kingsley. “Let’s get real, Edward. This is assassination we are talking about. Of two people who take their security obsessively. Not a public rally in Hyde Park. Also, I must confess that, considering the two gentlemen you say they are targeting, the lethal little sisters have my best wishes. Someone should have done this a long time ago. By actively aiding and abetting the jihadis these two gentlemen have done more damage to global security than a dozen Osamas.”
“That’s what many in London believe, too”—Kingsley gave a rueful smile—“but the problem is the SOB are planning to hit one or both of them in Delhi. That would create a grave problem, Ravinder.”
The NIA director again made to speak, but Ravinder cut him off. “Let me get this straight, Edward. We have a bunch of political activists … people who have never wielded anything deadlier than a fork and knife … planning to assassinate an ex-dictator who has survived a dozen such attempts and the prime minister of Pakistan … a banana republic, I grant you … or should I say a mango republic”—Ravinder could not help the sarcastic reference to the exploding mangoes that had allegedly been used to murder an earlier dictator of Pakistan—“but a country nonetheless.”
Conversation stalled as a maid emerged with a laden tea service, an assortment of biscuits, and some savory sandwiches.
“Our intelligence confirms they are doing just that,” Suresh said after the maid had gone inside. “Either Masharrat when he speaks at the New India Times Summit, or Zardosi when he comes to Delhi for the Indo-Pak T20 cricket match.”
“Your intelligence?” Ravinder threw him a withering look.
The gibe made Kurup go red.
“We infiltrated the SOB a long time ago.” Kingsley preempted Kurup’s angry outburst. “The intel is positive, Ravinder. They have already launched the operation.”
“Either way I see no problem.” Ravinder was still not sure what they wanted from him, but was determined to steer clear. “Just tell both those buggers to stay the hell out of India. Cricket diplomacy has never achieved a damn thing. Besides, given the state of affairs in Pakistan, who the hell listens to Zardosi, anyway? He cannot even buy toilet paper without an approval from his army chief.” Suresh made to speak, but Ravinder headed him off. “And Masharrat! Why should we even allow him in India? That fork-tongued bastard was planning the attack on Kargil even when he was sitting here in Agra, allegedly talking peace with our prime minister.”
“Come on, Ravinder. You know things don’t work like that,” Suresh responded. “Diplomacy must go on.”
“Not from where I am looking at things. Pakistan never has and never will stop attacking India, and since they don’t have the balls to do so openly, they will continue using terrorist groups to fight their proxy war. Nothing has changed in the last sixty years, so why should we kid ourselves that it will be any different this time?” Ravinder countered. “And in any case, I’m sure MI6 and NIA are more than a match for a ragtag bunch of political activists. At least, I hope to God they are.”
“They are not the problem.” Kingsley sounded grimmer now. “The big worry is that the SOB leader Fatima Basheer has hired one of the world’s deadliest assassins for this job.”
Claustrophobia clutched Ravinder. He sensed something sinister straining to be unleashed, and desperately hoped the Englishman would stop.
But Kingsley leaned in closer, intruding on his air space, denying that hope. “They have hired Binder. Leon Binder.”
His words struck like hammer blows. Ravinder started violently. “Leon Binder? Our Leon?”
“Yes. Our Leon.” Edward spat out the name as though it were an epithet. “And once again, he brings nothing but death and ugliness into our lives.”
Ravinder was blown away. This unexpected blast from the past had taken the wind out of his sails.
Kingsley saw he had scored and drove home the advantage. “Please help us stop him, Ravinder. You’re the only one who can.”
“Why me, Edward?” A strangled croak. Ravinder was struggling to cope with this sudden ghost from a long-dead past. Never had he imagined life would again deliver all three of them to the same crossroads at the same time.
“Who knows him better?” Kingsley countered. “And Ravinder…”
“This could be the ideal opportunity to prove your loyalty and redeem yourself,” Kurup arrowed in.
Ravinder blanched as the words jabbed him, barbs of cancerous pain.
How dare he? After three decades in uniform and everything that I have done, do I still need to prove my loyalty?
Suppressing the urge to slap Kurup, Ravinder focused on Kingsley, searching for words to explain why he could not take on this assignment … to share the self-doubt threatening to submerge him … of not knowing whether he could successfully complete this mission. And, even worse, of knowing that when he failed, he would not survive the failure.
Ravinder thought the MI6 man sensed it too, Kurup’s insensitivity and his self-doubts. He felt Edward’s hand on his shoulder. “Don’t sell yourself short, my friend. I can think of no one better to watch my six.”
That unexpected touch felt like balm to Ravinder. It unleashed memories of the camaraderie they’d once shared. With that also came thoughts of Leon and the accompanying guilt those memories invoked. Right from the day Farah had died.
How can I explain my guilt about Leon? Especially to Edward … he will never understand. But I need to know if …
“That’s your only reason for wanting to go after Binder?” Ravinder pinned Edward with a questioning look, aware how badly the MI6 man had taken his fiancée’s, Farah’s, death.
Has he gotten over it even now? Ravinder reflected.
Perhaps not. Ravinder knew Edward was still a bachelor.
Silence gripped the patio. The sun had strengthened and it was a beautiful day. However, this was lost on the three men. Like the tea service lying untouched on the center table.
“Are you sure what happened back then…”—Ravinder did not take his gaze off the Britisher—“between Leon and Farah has nothing to do with it?”
Taken aback by his directness, Edward blinked. Finally shook his head. “No. You know that’s not true, Ravinder.”
“Do I?” Neither man broke eye contact.
Edward pulled his hand back from Ravinder’s shoulder. Hurt. Perhaps also angry. Ravinder felt the chasm between them widen. It saddened him, but he needed to know.
Kurup was watching both, riveted. Head swiveling like a Wimbledon fanatic.
“Come on, man. That was…” Kingsley faltered, broke eye contact. Ravinder noticed he was trying hard to stay calm.
Kingsley sought eye contact again. “That’s not fair, Ravinder.”
And Ravinder knew it wasn’t. The Edward he had known was a fair man. He wanted to give Kingsle
y the benefit of the doubt. Simultaneously, his instincts were screaming at him to walk away.
Intellect clashed with emotion as Ravinder tried to rationalize. He was aware Edward was right; there was no one who knew Leon better. And Ravinder could easily visualize the consequences if Leon succeeded in killing either Zardosi or Masharrat on Indian soil; the severity was an undisputed nine on the Richter scale. Indo-Pak relations were always precariously teetering on the edge of a deadly cliff; the slightest push could unleash the dogs of war. The thought of a war between the two nuclear-armed neighbors was terrifying. However, Ravinder’s emotional flux and insecurity maxed even that.
“No, Edward. Perhaps it is not. I’m sorry.” Ravinder stood up and moved away, suddenly eager to distance himself from the spymasters. Though unable to suppress a twinge of guilt, Ravinder was firm, hardened as much by his mistrust of Kurup as by his desire to steer clear of anything to do with Binder. “I do understand the magnitude of the problem, but I want nothing to do with it.”
Kingsley opened his mouth to protest. And Kurup looked as though he were about to explode. That’s when Kurup’s mobile began to ring.
FOUR
Fatima Basheer could appreciate neither the luxurious fourth-floor suite of Delhi’s Maurya Sheraton hotel she’d checked into on arrival from London fifteen minutes ago, nor the beautifully landscaped garden outside her window. She was hyperventilating; her worst fear, that Binder would refuse to proceed with the mission, was coming alive. She’d been dreading that since she had discovered Cherry Rehmat, the SOB financial controller, had leaked information to MI6 about their hiring Binder.
“If there is a leak at your end I will call it off and keep the retainer.” She remembered Leon’s warning when he had taken on the assignment.
“What exactly did he say, Mr. Verma?” She tiredly rubbed her well-sculpted face, for once unmindful of the makeup. “Tell me again.” Worry lines creased her peachy skin. Even her lush black waist-length and usually immaculately coiffured hair were disheveled. Right now she was showing every one of her forty-four years.
