by Mukul Deva
But his despondency reached out to Jasmine. Taking his arm she walked him back to the car. Ravinder seemed to be sleepwalking; she realized his condition was a lot more fragile than she’d thought.
Or he had, for that matter.
And she again wondered if she had made the right call in supporting his decision to go back to police work.
FIFTEEN
Leon was coming out of the washroom when the gunshot-like sound rang out. He peered out of the window, but it was dark. He saw neither the errant motorcycle nor Ravinder and Jasmine. Then he realized his mobile was glowing; he had put it on silent when entering Batra’s place and forgotten to turn the ringer back on.
“I’ve been trying to reach you for such a long time.” Vishal sounded worried.
Leon ignored that. “What happened? All well?”
“No, all is not well.” Tersely, Vishal brought him up to speed. “If they get their hands on Ashok Verma, I am screwed; he’s a spineless ninny. And they are likely to put out an APB for you tomorrow.” Vishal explained how Archana was going to use a computer program to age the old photo of his, which they had.
Leon was not surprised about the APB; ever since he had learned about the leak to MI6, he had known it was only a matter of time. He was confident his disguises would hold. But their tumbling upon Ashok Verma so fast dismayed him; with Verma out of the loop their advance intel from NIA was gone. However, he kept his apprehension on a leash, unwilling to agitate Vishal any more. “What do you suggest we do?”
“There are no options,” Vishal fired back immediately. “We need to get Verma and Ravinder out of the way.”
“You cannot keep killing everyone, Vishal.”
“But this will buy us the time we need … just a few days more. Verma is a wimp. I know him; no way he will stand up to any interrogation. The minute he opens his mouth, I’m screwed.”
“What if you take out the other deputy?”
“The other deputy? Sikander Ali?” Vishal sounded thoroughly confused. “What good would that do?”
“It could muddy the waters. Ravinder may get the idea that Ali was the mole and that could get Verma off their radar … for now, at least.” Leon let that sink in. “Verma could still be useful, you know.”
From the change in his tone, Leon sensed Vishal liked the idea. “That’s devious. A good double bluff. Definitely worth a shot. It could buy us the time we need.”
“So do it.”
“You want me to do it?”
Leon held his silence, letting Vishal know he was not into rhetorical questions.
“Okay,” Vishal said after a long pause. “I will do it tonight.”
“Keep me posted.”
“And what about Ravinder?”
“What about him? You can’t knock off everyone. What do you think will happen if two STF chiefs die in as many days?”
“But we have to do something. He is too bloody smart for his own good. We have to stop him.” Leon kept quiet. The silence worked because Vishal then added, “At the very least we need to do something that will get him off this investigation for now.”
“Such as?”
“What if something happened to someone in his family? That should get him off our backs for a couple of days. And that’s all we need.”
I need to watch this bugger carefully. Vishal is too ready to kill.
In Leon’s book violence was a last resort, when nothing else would suffice. Violence attracted too much attention, which was never desirable. At the same time, Leon liked the idea of hurting Ravinder. “You have something in mind?” he asked.
“How about”—Leon sensed Vishal was winging it, modifying as he went along—“an accident involving either his wife or his daughter?” The sight of Jasmine picking up Ravinder from the office was still fresh in Vishal’s mind.
“You can set it up?”
“Why not?”
“Then do it.” The more he thought about it, the more Leon relished the idea of causing pain to Ravinder. But he was careful to keep his emotions in check; conscious he did not want to show anything that either fed Vishal’s fears or made his own visible to him. “But make sure nothing happens to Ravinder.”
I want that bastard to feel every possible pain … to suffer the way he made me suffer.
Long after the call ended, Leon lay awake. Now it wasn’t just his stomach that kept him up. It was also the pain in his elbow. Even more, it was the whirl of painful memories. Inch by inch his mind retraced those two years he had spent in jail.
Over seven hundred days.
Of rape. Humiliation. And beatings. Of pounding away the pain in the gym, letting it all out on the punching bag.
In the end those hours paid off. That and the humiliation, which not only kicked all compassion out of him but also helped him realize he was very resilient. In the days after he escaped from jail, it was that physical fitness that kept him going. Got him across the globe to the Congo. And put him on the path he trod today.
Leon remembered the first time he had been engaged to terminate a target. That was the only time he had been to Cairo.
Anwar Sadat had already paid the price for pandering to the Israelis. But Salah Abdel Sabour, the man who had worked out every single detail for Sadat, was still alive. And that was not acceptable to many zealots in the Arab world.
Leon again wondered if they had known he was a Jew when they hired him. Probably not. He found the irony amusing.
His smile matched the darkness of the room, which was complete, barring the flickering light from the Meat Locker’s sign across the street, which intruded, but intermittently.
SIXTEEN
Vishal was not sure which was stronger, his anger at Leon’s cool response to the possible threat he was facing if Verma talked, or his relief that he now had a free hand to address that threat and also put Ravinder out of action.
I’m going to do such a spectacular job that Leon will … But why the hell am I so keen to impress him? In a couple of years no one will even remember him.
Vishal promised himself yet again. I’ll show the world. And by God, my operations will be gloriously spectacular. Not quiet pussy affairs like Leon’s, where people did not even come to know a hit had gone down.
Realizing he needed to plan both jobs, he headed for the Vikram Hotel. Its 24-hour café and lounge, aptly called 1440, for the number of minutes in a day, was one of his favorite hangouts. Not something a cop could afford.
But what the fuck … what’s the point of being a cop if one has to pay?
His sardonic laugh momentarily drowned the music of the car stereo. “Is it true that you want it? Then act like you mean it.” Shakira’s FIFA World Cup song for 2014, “Dare (La La La),” filled the car.
I’m earning enough from this mission … and this is just the beginning. Once I start out on my own, money will never be a problem.
Half an hour later, seated in a cozy corner of 1440 with a Bloody Mary, a kebab platter, and roasted cashews before him, Vishal was busy doodling in his notebook.
Another half an hour and one more Bloody Mary later, he had figured it out. Deciding to attend to the Ravinder situation first, he went to work on his laptop.
Like all cops, Vishal had access to all criminal databases countrywide. As an STF man his access was virtually unlimited. Within fifteen minutes he had culled out three candidates who met his three criteria, which were straightforward: based in or near Delhi, a willingness to maim or even murder for money, and they should not know him.
Pulling out a mobile phone with a fresh, anonymously procured SIM card, he called the first man on his list.
“No women, no children. For no amount of money,” the hit man replied, surprising Vishal.
Now we have killers with a fucking moral high ground. What next?
A woman answered the second hitter’s phone, said he was laid up with a broken leg. Grimacing, Vishal cut the call without another word and dialed the last number. Kapil Choudhary, a trucker with
a penchant for peddling drugs, had been tried five times for murder but never convicted.
Third time lucky.
“I charge more for women,” Kapil pointed out when he described the assignment.
“How much more?”
“I just have to hit and run? Right? Whether she lives or dies doesn’t matter. Right?”
“Right.”
“And she is not someone famous or anything. Right?”
“Nope. Wife or daughter of a retired cop. You decide which.”
“Cop? You didn’t say anything about cops.”
“I just did.” Vishal was irritated. “And he’s a retired cop. Not the same thing.”
“Once a cop, always a cop,” the trucker retorted. “Never a good idea to mess with them.”
“What’s so special about cops? We are people, too.” Vishal bit his tongue, realizing he had slipped. The silence at the other end confirmed Kapil had picked up on that. Flustered, Vishal asked, “How much more?”
“One million. Total.” Kapil sounded cautious now, subdued. “In five-hundred-rupee notes. Nothing new, nothing in series.”
Vishal knew he could have brought down the price, but letting slip he was a cop had shaken him. And the Bloody Marys were making him magnanimous.
What should I care? It’s not my money. And it is not so much when you think in dollars. The fucking Indian rupee is heading south faster than Sherman … it will soon be like the Vietnamese dong; I’d need a carton to buy a condom.
“No problem. But it has to be done tomorrow.”
They finalized how the payment would be made—deposited in Kapil’s bank account.
“Half first thing in the morning and the balance when the job’s done.” Vishal’s tone brooked no discussion. It didn’t get any.
Vishal took his account details, then texted him Ravinder’s address, photos of his wife and daughter, and the numbers of all three cars the Gill family used.
“Make sure you are outside his house first thing tomorrow. Follow whichever woman comes out first. Hit her when you get the chance and run. Don’t fucking get caught.” Satisfied he had that in control, Vishal wrapped up the call. “And keep me posted. You can send a message to this number. I’ll call you back if we need to talk.”
Now to take care of Sikander Ali.
Using the laptop, Vishal accessed the file of Kurup’s second deputy.
In his mid-forties, Ali was also an ex-ATTF man and had been Vishal’s superior in the Anti-Terrorist Task Force; several years ago and only briefly. But Vishal remembered him: a kindly, soft-spoken man. Ali now lived with his wife in a DDA apartment in Munirka.
Vishal grimaced; middle-class colonies like Munirka were the worst. The apartments were crowded together and lacked privacy, and there was generally someone about, even late at night.
On the other hand, they have little or no security.
Vishal checked the time again; it was only nine.
Best to wait till two, maybe three in the morning. Safer. Would also give me time to catch a nap.
It had been a long day. And it was yet not over. Also, seeing how hyped-up Ravinder was, Vishal guessed tomorrow would probably be worse. Draining his glass he headed home. The taste of the Bloody Marys lingered in his mouth.
As he waited for the traffic light to turn green, Ali and his wife came to mind again. Ali had been a good boss, one of the rare decent types, always keen to develop and showcase his subordinates. Uncomfortable, Vishal tried to push away the thought, but it lingered, bothering him a lot more than it should have.
I just took care of Goel. How different or difficult could this be? Ali is also in the way.
That made him feel marginally better.
But his wife? What’s she got to with this?
Vishal had met her just once, but he could remember her face.
The taste of the Bloody Mary turned sour. Grimacing, Vishal accelerated as the light turned green, trying to leave these unwanted thoughts behind.
SEVENTEEN
Simran was frantic with worry when Jasmine told her what had transpired in the market. She was also contrite, realizing she should have been more supportive, especially over the past two months since Ruby’s death.
Perhaps that’s why he is so withdrawn.
“Sometimes just sharing a problem helps to lessen the burden,” she said to Ravinder as gently she could when they were retiring to bed.
He nodded, grateful, and she could see, wanting to lighten up. But something held him back.
“You know you are very important to me … to Jasmine and me.” Simran caressed his face. “We both worry for you.”
“Yes. I know.” He looked really tired and preoccupied. “And you two are all I have.”
“I am here if you wish to talk … about anything.”
“I know.” He cuddled closer to her, almost like a child seeking the sanctuary of a womb. “Tonight I just want to rest.”
“That’s nice. Do that. You worry too much.” She drew him closer. “Don’t forget, it doesn’t matter if we succeed or fail, as long as we try our best.”
“I am trying my best.” Ravinder looked grim.
“I know you are,” Simran whispered reassuringly. “You always have. And that’s all that counts.”
“Goel … the officer I replaced at the STF. His wife tried to commit suicide.”
“Oh!” Simran was shocked.
The silence stretched endlessly.
“Goel has a sixteen-year-old daughter.”
Simran couldn’t think of anything to say; a big slice of fear lodged in her chest.
“Just hold me, Simran,” he said after a long silence. “I want to sleep.”
She did. Almost instantly he was asleep.
Equally soon, with the sleep, came the nightmare. Simran and Jasmine referred to it as “The Ruby Nightmare.”
Ravinder moaned. Then again, louder.
Simran watched helplessly, wanting to wake him up and scare away the nightmare, but knowing he needed the sleep, too. Once again she wondered when the ghosts of his first wife, Rehana, and their daughter, Ruby, would leave him alone.
If ever.
Simran was stunned when she heard him call out in his fractured sleep. Several times. He was yelling for Leon and Farah. And she wondered which new ghosts from the past had returned to haunt him.
He yelled again, a pain-soaked cry. Unable to bear it, Simran clicked on the bedside light and shook him awake. She was shocked by the look in his eyes when he woke up. Uneasy, she gave him a glass of water. He drained it in one go. Then, a few minutes later, when he looked more settled, she asked, “Who are Leon and Farah?”
“Why?” He looked guilty.
“You were calling for them in your sleep. No other reason.”
Simran could see in his eyes that something was bothering him. Badly. She sensed Ravinder wanted to talk. He went so far as to open his mouth, but then didn’t say anything. And then the moment passed. With a tired sigh Ravinder lay back.
Unwilling to push him, Simran stayed silent. But she was worried. She sensed he was right on the edge; whatever was bothering him was big. She prayed he would find the courage to talk about it.
“You know you can talk to me about anything?”
Ravinder nodded.
“Whatever it is, we can deal with it together.”
He nodded again and then, clicking off the light, lay still.
But Simran could sense he was still awake.
EIGHTEEN
Leon jerked upright, unsure what had waked him up. It was an eerie feeling. As though someone had walked over his grave.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
The crappy feeling, which had persisted since he had taken on this mission, strengthened. Trying to will it away, he lay back again. Then he remembered.
Shit! I forgot to call Hakon and Baxter and get details of Naug.
Professor Thorbjorn Naug was the man who would be speaking at the conference before G
eneral Masharrat’s keynote. A Norwegian scientist who had been delving into cosmic dark matter, Naug was a professional terminator’s ultimate wet dream. He was till recently an unknown. The facial similarity between Naug and Leon was enough to ensure that some clever makeup would complete the illusion. Naug was a little heavier, but nothing an extra layer of clothing would not resolve. The two had matching heights and, most critically, as the speaker immediately before Masharrat, Naug provided Leon with the perfect way to get close to the target.
Picking up his mobile Leon first called Hakon, his man on ground in Oslo, whom he’d tasked to get the lowdown on Naug.
“How is Oslo?”
“Freezing,” Hakon replied cheerfully. “Like always.”
“Did you get the info I wanted?”
“Pretty much. Some bits and pieces left, which I’ll have tonight. You will find them in your mailbox by morning.” Hakon sounded a little high. “Everything you wanted to know about Professor Thorbjorn Naug, but didn’t know whom to ask.”
“Yeah, right.” Leon laughed as he ended the call. Hakon was a good man; bit of a drunk, but solid when sober and hadn’t let him down.
Yet.
Satisfied that was under control, he then dialed Baxter in London, where Naug was right now, attending another nerdie conference before coming to Delhi.
I hope Baxter has gotten the details of Naug’s hotel and flight to Delhi.
The phone rang for a long time, not going to a machine or voice mail.
Where the hell are you, Baxter?
Leon knew it was only around nine in London; Baxter couldn’t be asleep.
I hope he has not done something stupid.
He tried a couple more times. Same result. Fretting, he lay down to sleep, but luck was not favoring him today; his stomach started spasming again. Also, despite the crepe bandage, the pain in his elbow was back with a vengeance. Though not overly fond of medicines, Leon popped another painkiller, hoping it would help him sleep.
NINETEEN
Vishal had just fallen asleep when his mobile tugged him awake. Irritated, he reached for it. His irritation escalated when he saw the caller’s identity glowing on the screen.
