Assassins

by Mukul Deva

  “Your father is losing his marbles.” Simran threw Ravinder an angry look. “Why don’t you tell her what you’ve agreed to do? Let’s see what she has to say.”

  Jasmine noticed Ravinder’s face was bright red. In light of the doctor’s warning a fortnight ago, that alarmed her. “I think that can wait, Mom.” Taking Ravinder’s arm she led him to a sofa. “Why don’t you sit down, Dad? Looks like your blood pressure is acting up again. Didn’t the doctor tell you to take it easy?”

  “That is precisely the point,” Simran raged. “Despite that, your father has decided to take on another case … to stop some assassinations … and that too he is going to be working with that rascal Kurup from the NIA.”

  What the hell?

  Jasmine was stunned. Kurup and his accusations against Ravinder for failing to protect the Peace Summit was a hot topic in the Gill house. There were no points for guessing that Suresh Kurup was not high on their dinner invitation list. Jasmine’s instincts screamed at her to ally with her mother. But worry about Ravinder’s health and their collective peace of mind trumped that. She knew this wasn’t the time to allow her emotions to take charge.

  “And the worst is, he refuses to even tell me what he’s going to do.” Simran’s anger had spiraled out of control. “That’s why I know it’s dangerous … he always…”

  “Guys, guys.” Jasmine mustered her most soothing tone. “Could we take a moment? Have a cup of tea … and calm down a bit.”

  “Calm down?” Jasmine saw Simran’s lips thin out and knew she was on the verge of going thermonuclear. “How can…”

  “Mom!” Jasmine realized that came out a lot sharper than she had intended. Both Ravinder and Simran looked startled. And Simran looked offended, too; no one spoke to her like that.

  Realizing she’d gone too far, Jasmine took a deep breath. Contrite. Softened. “Mom. Please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice, but getting worked up is not going to help anyone.” Her mind whirling, she rang for the maid and ordered tea.

  It came and was consumed in uncomfortable silence. But the stress in the room had abated, enough to permit a nearly civil conversation.

  Half an hour later, the facts lay bare before Jasmine. She felt strange; having to arbitrate between her parents was a new and quite nerve-racking experience. As a lawyer in training, she now got a sense of what it was like to be a judge; to make decisions with the pressure of getting it right, every time. It discomfited her.

  Glad that’s not going to happen to me any time soon.

  Realizing she was procrastinating, Jasmine focused. Ravinder’s decision to reenter the fray dismayed her. Jasmine was aware Ruby’s death had been a tremendous shock for him. That she’d died at his hands had all but killed Ravinder. She had seen how hard he’d struggled to hold it together, especially during the inquiry that followed. Though Ravinder never spoke about it, Jasmine sensed his self-esteem and confidence had both taken a massive beating.

  Yet … Jasmine could see the change; now his shoulders were level and, though he looked worried and stressed, that familiar, determined gleam was back in his eyes. Jasmine sensed Ravinder needed to do this. Badly. She decided to help. If he succeeded, the father she hero-worshiped and doted on would be back.

  If he fails … Jasmine pushed away that awful thought and turned to her mother.

  “Mom, I understand where you are coming from.” Simran, sitting straight as a soldier, shimmered with righteous anger. “I know it’s only concern for Dad’s health, which is upsetting you. But let’s look at it from his point of view, too.”

  “What. Point. Of. View.” Each word was delivered explosively. “Are you supporting him?” Jasmine saw her fighting for control, incredulous. “What do you know? You’re just a child.”

  “I am not a child, mom.” Jasmine kept a tight leash on her anger, but was firm. “And I worry for both of you.” Simran made to speak, but Jasmine headed her off. “No, Mom, please allow me to finish.” A shocked Simran subsided in her chair. “We’ve all gone through so much in the past few months. Especially Dad … we’ve both seen what he has been through. And yes, we are both worried about his health, but…”

  “No buts, Jasmine,” Simran interrupted coldly. “I will not sit back and allow my husband to self-destruct. He has done enough and given enough for his precious uniform. And it has gotten him nothing … nothing but trouble and hurt.”

  “Mom, do you remember when I was learning to ride and fell off the horse on the very first day?” Jasmine was not sure where the words came from. But she sensed that if she did not get the situation in check, it would spiral out of control. And without knowing why, she knew she had it in her to do so. “You remember how badly my leg had been hurt?”

  Simran nodded, puzzled. “So?”

  “I still remember what you did the next day. You told me to get back on the horse. Don’t let your fears stop you from doing what you need to. That’s what you told me, Mom. Likewise, today if Dad needs to do this, we must support him.”

  Jasmine saw her parents staring at her. Despite the tension-ridden atmosphere, there was, as always, love in their eyes. Today, along with the surprise, there was something else, too.

  Respect?

  A wave of warmth swamped Jasmine. Her bubble of self-confidence and poise burst. Knowing she was about to tear up, she left the room hurriedly.

  TWELVE

  Ravinder was unable to keep the pride out of his voice. “Simran, our baby has grown up.”

  Simran could not look away from the door slowly swinging shut behind Jasmine. “Yes, she has.” She sounded subdued.

  Ravinder sensed her confusion; knowing Jasmine was right, and yet disliking the implications. “Jasmine is right.” He added gently, “I need to do this, Simran. Please.” Simran stiffened. “I need your support, Simran.” He was barely audible now. “I need to find myself again. Please.”

  Ravinder saw her look away. Torn. But she was silent. Finally, in a low, hesitant tone, as though not sure if she should voice the fear at all, she said, “I have always supported you, but … what if you…” Simran was unable to complete the sentence.

  For a very long moment that fear hung between them. Dark and heavy, like a rain-laden cloud.

  “I will not fail,” Ravinder said firmly. “I cannot.” That last word was expelled forcefully. “If I pull back now … if I don’t finish this, I will not be able to live with myself.”

  Silence returned.

  When Simran finally looked up, Ravinder saw desperation in her eyes, and a compelling need to leave this moment behind.

  “You are right. Our baby has grown up,” Simran said loudly. Much louder than usual, as though keen to drown out the thoughts plaguing her. “This is the first time I have seen her like this.”

  Relief hissed through him. He knew Simran well enough to know he had just received her support, though she would not say it out loud. Not just yet, anyway. He smiled, grateful for that, and the diversion. “I know what you mean. For a moment there, I could have sworn that was you talking.”

  Simran gave a wan smile. “Haven’t I been telling you that we need to find a boy for her and get her married?”

  “There you go again.” Ravinder was relieved to see her smile. “But I hear you. And between the two of us I think you’re the best person to do so. You obviously have much better taste in spouses than I do.”

  They both laughed. The laughter submerged the tension. But not too deep. Ravinder sensed it lay just beneath a wafer-thin layer. And would linger there, just waiting to break surface, till this whole thing was over.

  As if to reinforce that, Simran said, “I still think it’s a lousy idea, Ravinder.” Then, after a longer pause. “I have a really bad feeling about this mission of yours.”

  Ravinder didn’t know how to respond; he was feeling lousy, too, but he knew he couldn’t not do it.

  So be it.

  Ravinder knew his best bet was to wrap up this messy operation fast.

&n
bsp; Where are you, Leon Binder?

  Knowing Leon, he was aware the hunt would be hard. And deadly.

  Cross-country, chess, shooting, boxing … no matter what … Ravinder remembered Leon had always bested him. Except fencing … but even that had been a close thing; Leon had won as often as he had lost.

  Yet there is no way but forward. Damned if I don’t. Maybe even if I do. But at least there is a chance if I try. I must. I have to.

  Ravinder steeled himself for the hunt.

  THIRTEEN

  Leon knew he needed to find another, safer place to stay. The Sarita Vihar serviced apartment did not give him good vibes. Though, when he broke it down, he could not find any specific problem with it. Located in a middle-class residential complex, the apartment was secluded, was safe from prying eyes and, most important, in addition to the main entrance, had two possible exit points, which would be invaluable in case of an emergency.

  It’s that damn landlord.

  Om Chandra gave him the creeps. Leon had learned to trust his instincts. That’s what had saved him so many times.

  Especially that day in Istanbul.

  Suddenly Leon realized why Om Chandra was making him so uneasy; he closely resembled the owner of the service apartment Leon had hired in Istanbul when he had been engaged to take out that diamond merchant.

  What was his name?

  Leon tried hard, but twenty-six years had rolled by and the names had been eradicated from his memory: of the diamond merchant he had terminated and of the landlord he’d hired the safe house from.

  Funny! Both of them almost got me killed and now I can’t even remember their names.

  An ironic laugh escaped him.

  Luckily he had been alert that day. The landlord’s shiftiness had first alerted Leon. That’s when he began to notice all the telltale signs: the landlord was sweating profusely, exhibiting a twitch on his right side, repeatedly checking his watch, and constantly peering out the window. When Leon heard cars screech to a halt outside, he’d been sure. By time the cops broke in, the snitch was dead and Leon gone. Vanished in the byways of Istanbul.

  That was the last time Leon had operated from a single safe house. Since then, having one secure base per tactical identity was an essential part of his SOP. For this mission Leon needed at least two. And, if he managed to find time, three.

  Backups are always good.

  From that day he had also ensured that every safe house he selected had at least two entries and exits, the more the merrier.

  Leon pulled out his mobile. It was a brand-new Samsung Galaxy S Duos. A dual-SIM phone and perfect for his purpose. Both lines were hooked onto Hotspot Shield, a commercial VPN service, which he used to effectively mask his current location by switching server countries randomly. Launching the Notes app, Leon tapped open the list of six serviced apartments he had culled from the Internet before coming to India. The two he had checked out before Sarita Vihar had not made the cut; both had only one way in and out; absolute deal breakers for Leon.

  The next serviced apartment on his list was in Jorbagh, which Google informed him was a posh residential colony located in central Delhi.

  This apartment listing had four photos, all of which appeared promising. However, Leon had by now realized that Kodak and reality rarely ever saw eye to eye.

  Tapping the address on Google maps, Leon instructed his phone to chart out the route and began to follow it.

  Half an hour later he drove past a quiet old but primly maintained bungalow located beside Jorbagh market. Slowing down, he surveyed the house. By now last light was almost upon him, but it was still bright enough to give him a fair idea of the layout.

  Worth exploring.

  He drove on till he found an isolated side lane to park in. Surrounded by the gloom, after twenty minutes in the backseat, the aging American hippie had been replaced by a much more staid-looking British travel writer. The well-worn tweed jacket, turtleneck pullover, fashionable horn-rimmed spectacles, and neatly tied ponytail went well with the new persona of Noel Rednib.

  Life had also taught Leon Binder the wisdom of keeping every operational identity apart and sheltered from the others. That way he would run out of options only when all his identities got blown. For that to happen the cops needed a lot of resources, even more luck, and tons of time. By then Leon would be long gone.

  Parking on the other side of the market, he walked back to the bungalow with the serviced apartment and rang the doorbell. The stocky, sixty-plus lady who came to the door had a pleasant, motherly feel. And, from the way she peered at him through thick bifocals, Leon sensed she was half blind.

  This is getting better and better.

  “Good evening, ma’am.” Leon reverted to the clipped London accent he had grown up with. “I would like to have a look at the service apartment you have advertised.”

  She seemed delighted and, chattering incessantly, led him up to the right portion of the house, the part looking out on the road in front and the market across from it.

  “What do you do, young man?”

  “Not so young, ma’am.” Leon laughed. “I’m a travel writer. Here to do a piece on the Golden Triangle.” Leon knew that is how most tourists referred to the Delhi-Agra-Rajasthan circuit.

  “Ah, but isn’t that what everyone does? There is a lot more to write about. Every bit of India reeks with so much history.” She bestowed a benign smile on him. “We used to travel so much when Mr. Kapoor was alive. He was a civil servant, you see … so life was good. Now, of course.” She sighed. “But I shouldn’t be complaining … life could be so much worse.”

  From that and the general condition of the house, Leon guessed money was now tight; the furniture and fitments were neat and clean, but had seen better days.

  “Well, here we are.” She showed Leon in.

  “This is just what I need.” Leon did not need to fake enthusiasm. The one-bedroom suite was as warm and cozy as its pictures on the website.

  The absent-minded Mrs. Kapoor sealed the deal by forgetting to ask Leon for identification. Leon liked even more that the bungalow had no other occupants, barring her and the equally geriatric couple who worked there. But it was the treadmill in the garage that clinched the deal; Leon hadn’t exercised for ten days and could feel his body, used to a five-mile run every day, stiffening.

  A half hour later, Leon was alone in the apartment. He felt strangely at peace for the first time since he had reached Delhi. Aware he had caught a break with this house.

  Don’t get complacent.

  He cautioned himself, aware complacency was his deadliest foe. But the bed looked inviting and Leon was unable to resist the temptation to take a load off his feet. Lying there, looking through the large French windows, he could see the colony market across the road.

  THE MEAT LOCKER. The neon sign above the corner shop beckoned, reminding him it had been a while since he had eaten.

  I’ll grab a bite when I step out to meet Vishal.

  Unwilling to expose this safe house to anyone, he had already decided to meet Vishal at Sarita Vihar.

  As if on cue his mobile rang. Vishal.

  Giving him the Sarita Vihar address, Leon got ready to leave. Though he still had an hour and a half, Leon factored in the time to change back to the American hippie persona, a spot of food, and the drive across town.

  The mission was back to the forefront of his thoughts by the time he put down the phone. The knot of tension inside drew tauter as his mind sifted through the operational details and began to work out the outcomes he wanted from his meeting with Vishal.

  Though he knew meeting Vishal was important, the risk of additional exposure made him uneasy. It reminded him that there were too many firsts on this mission, and most of them not the good sort.

  I need to be more careful.

  Opening his laptop, Leon retrieved the file Fatima had emailed him on Vishal Bhardwaj and went through it.

  Within minutes, Leon realized Vishal’s dossier was
what people in service call a steady record. Peppered with a string of small but regular successes. None individually earthshaking, but collectively enough to show a steady worker. The best way to justify regular promotions, yet not to expose himself to any major risk or controversy. Leon knew this was how most cops on the take survived and flourished.

  Interesting.

  Leon then mulled over everything Verma had shared with him.

  Vishal’s handling of the kidnapping, interrogation, and elimination of his boss, Goel, was ample testimony of his ruthlessness and the precision with which he planned and operated. The fact that he had gotten away with it, from right under the noses of his STF colleagues, confirmed he was smart, too.

  The photograph with Vishal’s dossier drew Leon’s attention. It showed a well-built clean-cut man crossing the road and getting into a maroon Ford Fiesta. The date stamp showed it was recent. The man’s demeanor showed he had been aware of the camera. Leon studied him: tall, dark and … hungry looking?

  And such men are dangerous.

  But if he were not, what use would he be to me? Leon rationalized. But he knew he’d need to be on his toes; accomplices such as this could be as deadly as the cops hunting him down.

  And what could be more dangerous than a cop gone rogue?

  That reminded him of Edward and Ravinder. Both had been hovering just below the radar ever since his conversation with Ashok Verma. So far Leon had kept them at bay. He pushed them away again, aware they would unleash memories and emotions he did not wish to deal with.

  Not now.

  Not whilst in the thick of such a crucial operation.

  FOURTEEN

  Vishal was excited. Since he had learned he would be working with Leon Binder, he’d pored over Binder’s file with the enthusiasm of an evangelist, absorbing every detail of the thirty-six operations executed by him.

  Allegedly executed by him, Vishal corrected. Barring the first few, possibly when he had been perfecting his tradecraft, Binder had seldom left any traces. The man is a fucking ghost. But a rich one, if he’s carried out even half the hits attributed to him. Just the one Binder client the cops managed to arrest had confessed to paying Leon a million dollars to take out a business rival. And that was over seventeen years ago. And here I am, content with pocketing a few measly thousand rupees in weekly kickbacks.