by Mukul Deva
“Cool.” Vishal masked his disappointment. “How is it going?”
“Not as well as it should.” Philip’s sigh was audible. “I sometimes worry we might be barking up the wrong tree.” He made a humming sound, like a mental shrug. “Though everything tells me Verma is our man … perhaps because Sikander has already been ruled out and I am not sure if anyone on our team…” Philip must have realized he was sharing more than he wished to and broke off. “Anyway, thanks for the offer. I’ll call you if I need help.”
Tossing the phone on his bed, Vishal did a happy jig around it. If the first call had left him happy, this one made him ecstatic. Verma should be able to hold out another couple of days.
The bugger has as much to lose as I have.
More, actually. Verma has a wife and kids.
Also, with the decision to become a professional like Leon now clearer, Vishal did not dread being blown as much. The additional money promised by Leon had ignited many dreams; he could now see himself living in Europe or America.
Maybe not. I need to check which countries have no extradition treaty with India … and no death penalty.
But most important, knowing Leon would now have to rely on him more due to the APB, made Vishal feel more secure.
For the first night since the start of this operation, Vishal slept soundly.
DECEMBER
25
ONE
Ravinder was in two minds about leaving the safe confines of his bed. Despite his eagerness to be back by Simran’s side, trapped in a discordant patchwork of thoughts, he lay huddled there. However, eventually the deathly quiet gripping the house began to close in on him. It felt claustrophobic. As though the house was mourning Simran’s absence. The intercom buzzed, startling him. Ravinder threw off the quilt and reached for it.
“Good morning, Dad. Should we meet for breakfast in half an hour?”
Ravinder noticed Jasmine sounded deeply tired. He sensed from her soggy tone that she had been crying. “Are you okay?”
“Of course.”
But Ravinder could tell that the lightness in her voice was forced. Promising himself to support her by keeping a firm grasp on things, he got ready and headed down. The mail on the dining room sideboard caught his eye. Mingled with a stack of bills was a letter from Duke University School of Law in North Carolina, addressed to Jasmine. Ravinder knew Jasmine had been awaiting admission results from US universities and handed it to her when she entered. Suddenly animated, Jasmine ripped it open, then squealed with delight.
“I’m in, Dad. Duke has accepted me for the Master of Laws program and I have a twenty-five percent tuition waiver.”
Ravinder laughed as she punched the air and did a victory dance. “I knew they would.” He felt proud and equally delighted. “Your mother is going to be thrilled … how many people manage to win a tuition waiver?”
“I can’t wait to tell her.”
That reminded them Simran was waiting. Rushing through breakfast they headed for the hospital. They were driving out of the gate when Jasmine remembered. She smacked her forehead. “Dad! It’s Mom’s fiftieth birthday today. How on earth could I have forgotten?”
“I had forgotten, too.” Ravinder felt sheepish, but knew how tumultuous things had been. “I guess…” He left it there. And then, unwilling to let the gloom return, patted her hand. “No worries. We will have a gala celebration the day she gets back from the hospital.”
Jasmine smiled. Ravinder didn’t want to dampen her joy by telling her that, but he was aching to have Simran back home so he could focus on finding the man who’d ordered the attack on them.
TWO
Vishal realized what a shitty feeling it was, not being able to put a finger on what he was missing. And he knew something was amiss; that feeling had nagged him since morning.
Verma’s being in custody and the fear he would spill the beans was bothering him despite Philip’s admission that they were not making any headway on that front. Vishal was aching to get to the office and find out what was happening. If possible give moral support to Verma by letting him know the STF had nothing concrete on him; killing him in custody was an option he had explored and discarded.
For the moment, at least.
Other than that, the morning had gone blazingly well. He was up at the crack of dawn, fresh and raring to go. Eager to prove a point to Leon, Vishal had gotten cracking on the rifles and bombs.
Aware that finding preassembled bombs was unlikely, he concentrated his hunt on bombmakers. It took him two hours to find one who was not in jail, had access to explosives, and was willing to do a rush job. Unwilling to reveal his identity to the bombmaker he called in a favor and got a constable to do it, one he had bailed out of a messy and suspicious shootout. Vishal was confident he would have the bombs by midnight.
With the sniper rifles he had been luckier; finding a factory-sealed box of three, complete with sniperscopes, at the Kapashera police station evidence room. They had been recovered from an arms dealer who made the mistake of crossing the wrong people and consequently was now pushing up the daisies. With him gone it was unlikely the guns would be called into court, hence would not be missed. Getting them out of the evidence room had meant cashing in some more chips with another willing-to-bend cop in that police station. Vishal was sure that the guns, too, would be in his hands by nightfall. He also knew that he was calling in too many markers for this mission. Too many for his own good.
“There is no way I can remain in India once this goes down,” he told Leon when he called to update him. “I will need to get out of the country for sure.” At Leon’s noncommittal uh-huh he added, “I have given this a lot of thought. That’s why I think it’s only fair that you pay me at least a million dollars for helping you complete the project.”
The silence this time stretched so long that Vishal thought the call had been dropped. “You there?” he asked.
“Yes,” Leon responded finally. “Fine. I see your point, but a million is too much. I can do half that.”
“It’s not too much. Not if you want me to take on an active role,” Vishal countered. “I’ll be exposed to the same risk as you.”
Some haggling eventually got them to agree on seven hundred thousand.
“Half now and half later?” Vishal asked, happy at the bargain he had struck. With that kind of money he actually looked forward to getting out of the country and starting afresh.
“Give me till tomorrow,” Leon replied. “I can transfer the money to whichever account you want.”
“I will send you the account details, but I’d like some in cash.”
“Let’s meet tomorrow then. I will message you when I have the cash ready.”
But Vishal was increasingly uneasy after the call ended.
He was entering the office when the reason hit him.
“I would like to point out that not once in all his years as an assassin has Binder ever used an accomplice for anything other than support tasks.” Ravinder’s caution of two days ago echoed in his memory. “Even the few he used never saw him. The ones that laid eyes on him never lived to tell any tales.”
The recollection sliced through Vishal like a hot knife through butter.
Would Leon dare do that? When he needs me so much?
Vishal pondered that.
Nah! There is no way he can pull off the stadium job without me … He won’t even be able to get hold of the rifles and bombs at such short notice.
He felt better. But his mind seemed in no mood to relent.
What if he doesn’t really need me? What if he is stringing me along? What if I am just the fall guy?
Philip emerged from the rear room where Ashok Verma was being held. He looked smug, as though he had cracked something, and Vishal’s worry escalated even further.
THREE
Leon was uneasy. Instinct warned him something was not kosher. Parked across the road, he again surveyed the house where he was to meet Nitin. It was a large, old-st
yle bungalow, set toward the back of a large garden, which had not met the business end of a lawn mower for a while now. And the whole place had an air of disuse. It stood out like a sore thumb amidst the plush spacious houses lining both sides of Model Town, the kind of property builders acquire and convert into a garish glass-and-cement high-rise.
Nitin the Nerd is sitting on some prime real estate. So why is it in such crappy condition?
Only the twelve-foot-high boundary wall had been freshly painted. Then Leon spied the notice: large white letters painted on a black metal sheet, stuck to the top right of the metallic gate, informing the world the property was disputed in court.
That’s as good an explanation as any.
But there was not a soul in sight.
“Strange.” Leon muttered. Nitin should be expecting me. We spoke barely an hour ago. He rechecked his watch. Perhaps because I am a bit early.
But it still didn’t feel right. Perhaps it was the knowledge that an APB was out for him; Leon had been on edge ever since Vishal’s call last night. He surveyed the street again. Barring half a dozen cars parked sporadically, and the two security guards outside the house at the far end, the street was strangely devoid of life. Leon scanned the parked cars one by one.
Empty.
Still uneasy, he got out and headed for the gate. Alert. Ready to swing into action instantly. He was reaching for the doorbell when the gate clicked and began to swing open on well-oiled hinges. That’s when Leon noticed the cameras, two of them. Well concealed. Leon guessed there were more. But Leon assessed even these two would cover the house frontage.
The front door cracked open and Nitin peered out, waving him on. Leon’s grip on his pistol remained firm as he stepped up the pace.
“Any problem finding the place?”
“Not really.” Leon shivered; it was even colder inside. A layer of dust covered everything; the living room hadn’t been used in a while.
The damn place looks like the set of a Hollywood horror movie.
Nitin noticed his scrutiny. “No one comes here. Not since I put up that property in dispute notice.” He jerked his thumb downward. “Let’s go to the basement … my workplace.”
Leon followed him past the dining room into what once would have been the wine cellar. Immediately the landscape altered; starting with the wooden stairs everything had been scrubbed clean. The wine racks had been replaced by long workstation type tables along the two longer sides of a brightly lit basement. Along the third wall, facing the door, was a study table; on it were a half-open Sony laptop, a printer-cum-scanner, a couple of mobile phones, and some newspapers. On the left of the door was a water dispenser and to the right a tea/coffeemaker. Leon automatically absorbed the surroundings.
Nothing out of sync.
But his unease declined to dissipate and he kept a tight grip on the pistol in his pocket. “Is my stuff ready?”
“All done.” Nitin pointed at the workstation; neatly arranged on it were four sets of cordless microphones, Mac adaptors, and presentation clickers, all of different, popular brands. “All four sets have been paired.” He picked up one set of all three items as Leon approached the table. “For easy identification all paired sets have been marked with these stickers.” Nitin showed a circular cent-sized green sticker affixed to all three: the microphone, VGA adaptor, and presentation clicker. “All four sets have different color stickers. I’ve painted a dot with the same color on the flip side of all three items, just in case the sticker drops off.” He showed those, too.
Leon nodded, reassured he would not kill himself because some stupid sticker manufacturer had decided to skimp on the adhesive.
“The sarin is in sealed glass vials placed inside the adaptors and the microphones.”
“Safe to carry them around?”
“Very safe. The vials are thin enough to shatter when triggered, but thick enough to withstand routine handling.” Nitin held up a microphone and shook it hard. “Though I wouldn’t drop them on a hard floor if I were you.” He gave a cheeky grin.
“Right!” Leon liked his sense of humor. However, his grip on the pistol stayed fast; something did not feel right.
Or am I just being paranoid?
Leon sensed the Batra incident had shaken him, but …
Better to be paranoid and safe than sorry and six feet under.
“Do they still work? I mean, as microphones and adaptors.”
“Of course.” Nitin tutted, giving him a pained do-you-think-I’m-an-idiot? look. “They will function normally till you arm the clicker and switch it to the weapon mode.”
“Just asked.” Leon smiled. “How do I switch modes?”
“To switch to weapon mode, turn off the clicker and hold down the pointer button for five seconds. To revert back to the normal presenter mode, slide the on/off button to on position. This way there will be no chance of an accident.”
“Sounds great. How much gas in each?”
“Obviously the microphones are twice as large as the adaptors, so have bigger vials, but even the adaptors contain enough to do the job over five feet. The microphone would cover almost twice that distance.”
Leon knew that would be enough.
“How does the clicker trigger them?”
“Once armed, the button to move slides forward and triggers the paired microphone.” Nitin pointed it out. “And the slide-back button triggers the matching adaptor.”
“At what range?”
“I have used the same radio receiver the clicker uses to pair with the laptop so it will definitely work up to sixty feet. Here … this is a dummy set … try it out. You can go to that corner.” Completely engrossed in demonstrating his prowess, Nitin handed him a clicker. “This is already armed. To show you it works I have loaded a harmless green gas in both of these.” He stooped to retrieve a microphone and adaptor from a toolbox kept under the table.
As Nitin was bending down to reach into his toolbox, Leon pocketed one of the other four clickers kept on the table and headed for the other end of the basement, about twenty-five feet away. While walking across he flicked it to off position and held down the pointer button for five seconds, ensuring it was armed.
Still focused on the test, Nitin asked, “Ready?”
“Ready.” Nitin held up the trial set of adaptor and microphone, one in either hand. “Hit it.”
Arming the trial clicker now, Leon used the slide-back button to trigger the adaptor. A ball of green gas exploded out of it. The gas hung like a cloud around Nitin’s head for approximately a minute. Allowing it to dissipate Leon pressed the slide-forward button, triggering the microphone. The green cloud was bigger this time.
“You will notice this trial gas I’ve used also dissipates within a minute.” Nitin tossed both expended items back in the toolbox; he looked as pleased and proud as though he had given birth. “That’s how long sarin also takes. Enough to do the job.”
“You are sure?” Leon had decided to use Sarin-AXR after considerable research, but he was also aware the Americans had decided against using this variant on the battlefield because of its limited effective time; the cost of weaponizing, storing, transporting, and delivering it to the target did not make Sarin-AXR a cost-effective tactical weapon.
“Very sure,” Nitin replied confidently. “I tried it earlier on a dog. Even in the open air, it worked fine. Should be far more effective indoors.”
Leon was putting the trial clicker on the study table when the newspaper on it caught his eye. On the bottom right corner of the front page were four photos; the ones Vishal had WhatsApp-ed him last night. Above them, in large bold letters were the words WANTED—EXTREMELY DANGEROUS. Below them was the reward amount. There seemed to be plenty of zeros in it.
Enough to ignite greed in even the stoutest.
Knowing an APB had been issued and seeing it are two different things; Leon felt a shock wave of anxiety.
Has Nitin seen it?
The paper was neatly folded over. But it
looked like it had been opened. Leon couldn’t be sure; his paranoia was in the driver’s seat now.
Will he call the cops?
Has he already done so?
Leon paused, trying to turn a dozen contradictory factors into a decision.
Does it matter?
Leon realized it did not; it was too risky. Nitin had seen him and was the only one who could give away his target; the weapon made it obvious Masharrat had drawn the short straw. But Leon needed to know whether Nitin had already sold him out. And if the cops knew about the weaponized sarin.
Nitin sensed the change and tensed.
“I have seen that.” Nitin pointed at the newspaper and made a dismissive gesture. “I know they’re looking for you. But you should know I don’t care.”
“Have you called the cops yet?”
“Yet? No!” Nitin’s tone was shrill with fear. “And I don’t plan to either.” He placed a hand on his heart. “I swear I have not. Why should I? It has nothing to do with me.”
Leon liked the fat man and didn’t want to kill him … or anybody … unless operationally unavoidable.
But leaving him alive is too big a risk.
Leon kept staring at him.
That unnerved Nitin. “Really. I don’t care who you are or what you plan to do.” He was pleading now. “I’m a professional, boss. You need something done and I do it. You pay me and I forget I ever met you.”
Leon’s indecision and Nitin’s fear held both immobile.
“Look.” Nitin was very anxious by now and sweating profusely. “Just take your stuff and go. Please don’t pay me if you don’t want to.” Leon could hear Nitin’s nervousness brim over; the words were tumbling out of him at hyperspeed. “I will forget I ever saw you.”
“Sorry, old man.” And Leon was; he had taken a liking to the fat, jovial man.
“Please,” Nitin pleaded again, but a look of resignation had started to settle on his face. Then he sagged. “Please.” Suddenly tearful. “I have three kids.”
“I’m too close to the end. Cannot take a chance … you are the only one who…” Leon realized it did not matter; nothing he said would make it any different or easier for Nitin. Holding his breath, he hit the slide-forward button of the weaponized clicker.
