by Deva, Mukul
The Ameer turned to Hamidi. ‘Most importantly, I know without a doubt that they are all ready to kill for the cause.’
‘Any fool can kill.’ The old man’s voice was soft, but the gaze he levelled at the Ameer wasn’t. ‘Are they ready to die as easily?’
‘Ah! Are they ready to die?’ The Ameer laughed. ‘That time alone will tell. Who can be sure how a man will respond when he comes face to face with death?’ Almost as an afterthought, he added, ‘But I am quite certain they are – at least I hope they are, though I would much rather they killed for the cause than died for it. After all, we know how hard it is to find such men. They are the best we could have found for the tanzeem. They are leaders, each one of them, and they will help us take the battle deep into the hearts and minds of kafir all over the world.’
Hamidi nodded, aware that none of the others whom they had considered over the months even came close to these six. He also knew that the Ameer’s instincts were generally sound. ‘So be it. We have formed the tanzeem. The group is in place. Now for the next step.’
‘Yes, now for the next step.’ The Ameer looked at the phone. He would have to pick it up again, and soon. He had to speak to the only man in Pakistan who could make it possible for the tanzeem to meet. The problem was in approaching him without letting him know that his help was required. The Pakistani general was smart; if he detected the slightest weakness he would extract his pound of flesh, especially now that things were not going so well for the jihad. Too many fronts had opened up simultaneously and too many forces were arrayed against them. With the Americans pumping more troops into Afghanistan and now the Pakistan Army also making threatening noises, the situation was becoming more and more dangerous. The Ameer knew he needed this man to stand by them, for some more time at least, until he got the tanzeem together and ensured that they hit the ground running… until the snowball ballooned into an avalanche that could no longer be stopped.
But the Ameer knew he had to make it appear as though he was doing what the general wanted him to. But how? The general was no fool.
The thought troubled the Ameer. He knew the mullah was preoccupied with the same question, they had discussed it often enough. No clear answer appeared to be forthcoming, yet. But it would come to them soon, when the time was right… Inshallah.
Blessed is He who, in the name of charity and goodwill, shepherds the weak to the valley of darkness.
For he is truly his brother’s keeper and the finder of lost children.
Book of Ezekiel
Iqbal entered the mud-walled house on the edge of the nondescript village near the Indo-Pak border north-west of Amritsar, accompanied by Captain Mohammed Sami and Flight Lieutenant Ankita Bhatnagar. He immediately recognized the dark-haired, stocky man waiting for them inside.
As on the two previous occasions, he was dressed in the typical attire of a farmer out to work in his fields. Anything else would make him stand out like a sore thumb. If caught during a border-crossing, the only possible way out would be to pretend he was a local farmer who had lost his way and wandered across. It would be his only chance of avoiding some hellhole of a jail in Pakistan where he would die forgotten.
It was from this village that Force 22 had begun its infiltration into Pakistan to hunt down Murad Salim. And this man had taken the strike team across the border. He had also brought Tanaz and Iqbal back to India when they had finally fled the Faisalabad terrorist compound.
‘Rehmat?’ Iqbal said. ‘Isn’t that the name?’
‘It’s as good a name as any,’ the guide replied, giving Iqbal an indifferent smile. A native of one of the many villages on the Indo-Pak border which had been split in two by the Partition, Rehmat was a veteran cross-border traveller. For many years now, he had put his unusual skill to good use on behalf of RAW, by taking people in and out of Pakistan, people without any legitimate business there. ‘You again?’
‘Yes, me again.’ Iqbal returned the smile but his eyes remained cold and watchful.
‘Has something happened? You’re different.’
‘Am I?’ Iqbal held his gaze.
‘Yes, you have changed and…’ Rehmat stopped in mid-sentence. ‘You are either very brave or very stupid,’ he said.
‘Why do you say that?’ Iqbal asked, bemused.
‘In all these years I have taken only five people across the second time.’ Rehmat paused. ‘And only one of them ever came back.’
‘He will be the second,’ Captain Mohammed Sami cut in smoothly, stepping forward.
Although still a year short of thirty, Sami was the seniormost officer after Anbu and, therefore, the second-in-command of Force 22. He was a practical, no-nonsense man like his boss and had personally led both Force 22 missions into Pakistan.
‘Come on, Rehmat, let’s go over the route once more.’ Sami led the guide out of the room so Ankita could give Iqbal the final briefing.
Ankita Bhatnagar, an attractive young flight lieutenant from the Indian Air Force, was a crack shot, adept at martial arts, and boasted a sharp, analytical mind that had made her a logical choice for the intelligence team. Along with Captain Manoj Khare, her Force 22 associate and now mutually designated life partner, Ankita had succeeded in cracking open Salim’s nefarious plot to execute a series of terror attacks all over the globe.
‘Iqbal, let’s go over the communications plan,’ she said. ‘It’s pretty basic but it’s the best we could do, considering the terms of reference I’ve been given.’ She switched on her laptop and waited for the data card to connect to the network. ‘Do you remember your mobile number?’
‘I do.’ Iqbal repeated the number of the phone he had used during the YPS penetration. ‘But I am not carrying it with me on this trip.’
‘That’s fine, you don’t need to carry it with you,’ Ankita replied. ‘For this particular website, we just need an operational Indian mobile number. So this number is going to be kept alive as long as you are out there. Whenever you wish to get in touch with us, this is what you need to do.’ She quickly tapped some keys as the browser opened up. ‘Log into this website: www.indirocker.com.’ She paused, allowing Iqbal to register the name. ‘It is a social networking website. Your profile has already been created and Manoj, Vikram and I have been added as your friends. To get in touch, all you need to do is send us a private message.’
‘What if I need to get in touch urgently or need an immediate reply?’
‘Then simply click on the “Send sms” option, add our telephone numbers to the recipients’ list, and send it.’ Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she spoke and, almost instantly, her phone beeped. ‘See, I just sent myself a text message from your profile. Whenever you do that, one of us will immediately log in and reply to your message. I am basically your designated first point of contact but if I am not around, either Manoj or Vikram will deliver the appropriate response to you.’
Iqbal nodded as he memorized the name of the website, his username and password.
‘No, that’s not good enough,’ Ankita interjected. ‘I want you to try it out and make sure you are familiar with the procedure.’ She stood up and watched as Iqbal went through the process. He certainly lacked the ease and familiarity that Ankita had displayed, but he completed the process without hesitation or error. Once again her phone beeped as the message sent by him chimed in.
‘Good.’ Ankita dug into her satchel and pulled out a mobile phone, a bundle of Pakistani currency notes and a Type 77 pistol – a fairly simple pocketsized weapon with a seven-shot capacity that fires a 7.65mm Type 64 cartridge. ‘Here is a phone with a local Pakistani SIM card, and some cash. The pistol is of Chinese make so you will be okay even if the jihadis find it on you – there are dozens of these floating about in the area.’
Iqbal stuffed the phone and money into his pocket. Expertly ejecting the magazine, he checked the load, cocked the weapon, slipped on the safety and then pushed the gun into his waistband, against the small of his back, where it would be accessible
if the need arose.
‘Avoid using that phone except in an emergency and whenever you do, please keep in mind that all overseas calls, especially those to India, are almost certainly monitored by the ISI.’
‘Where I am going, I doubt the phone will be of much use. I don’t know if I even want to carry it.’
‘Well, if it’s not, it’s not.’ Ankita shrugged. ‘We can only try and cover the options. In fact, when you decide you definitely don’t need it, destroy the phone. On the other hand, if you have to use it, then assume they are listening to you; that will ensure you always err on the side of caution.’
‘Right. Anything else?’
‘Well, if you want, I can give you a couple of GPS locator chips which will help us keep track of you, but –’
‘I don’t think that would be very smart,’ Iqbal completed the sentence with a smile.
‘That’s it then, Iqbal.’ Ankita grinned back at him gamely. ‘Sorry, but given the mandate, this is the best we –’
‘It’s enough,’ Iqbal cut her off, he was in a hurry to get moving. ‘Right then.’ His handshake was unusually formal. ‘Thanks for everything.’
‘All the best. Travel safe and get back in one piece, and soon.’ Ankita tried to sound optimistic as she shook Iqbal’s hand.
Iqbal turned and walked out of the house to where Sami and Rehmat were waiting. For a long moment Sami and Iqbal just looked at each other, then Sami reached out to embrace him. Pulling away, Iqbal extended his hand. Sami masked his hurt as they shook hands. Iqbal quickly headed for the jeep where Rehmat was already waiting in the driver’s seat.
‘Come back soon, Iqbal,’ Sami called out as Iqbal got into the jeep beside Rehmat. ‘We will be waiting for you.’
‘Inshallah,’ Iqbal muttered as the jeep pulled away. He did not want to tell Sami that at this point he did not care whether or not he came back; all he wanted was to get far away from everyone who was associated with Tanaz’s death. He just wanted to find the Ameer-ul-Momineem. And kill him.
Deep down, Iqbal knew that Sami, like the other officers at Force 22, only meant well and cared for him the way he cared for his other comrades-in-arms. But at this moment all he could feel was hatred and anger, and yet, it was all he could let himself feel if he was to retain his sanity, otherwise the grief festering within would tear him apart.
Iqbal forced himself to focus on the journey ahead. They drove without a word, the silence broken only by the purr of the engine as they threaded their way through the inky night. At least an hour’s drive lay ahead before they dumped the jeep and completed the border-crossing on foot.
Daybreak was still a few hours away when Iqbal and Rehmat left the jeep hidden between a cluster of haystacks in a field and started walking. The first hour passed without incident. Then Rehmat slowed down and began to inch forward stealthily. They had hit the border.
Except for the faint whisper of undergrowth brushing against their legs and the pounding of their hearts, the night lay silent around them. Suddenly Rehmat slipped. There was a loud crack as the torch in his hand hit the ground and shattered. The sound echoed in the darkness, bringing them to an instant halt. The two men hit the ground and lay still, waiting for a reaction; the sound could not have gone unnoticed.
It did not. Night turned to day as a para-illuminating round burst high overhead. It gained brightness as it slowly parachuted down towards them.
‘Don’t move!’ Rehmat hissed.
Iqbal did not reply. He knew that only movement could give them away right now. That, or the misfortune of a patrol stumbling right on them because this area was in the blind zone of the Pakistani battlefield surveillance radars.
Just then, he heard the rustle of men moving through the undergrowth. It sounded like a sectionsize patrol. They were close. Iqbal swallowed hard. The pounding in his heart escalated as the patrol drew closer. He drew his pistol, even though he knew it would be useless against a group of armed men. The feel of the cold metal in his hands lent him no comfort.
The flare had begun to flicker as it lazily glided earthwards. Before it died out, a second one exploded high above it, and the entire area sparkled with light again. The sound of the men grew louder. The patrol was very close now, coming directly towards them from the north-west. Moving an inch at a time, Iqbal brought the pistol closer to his head. I will not be taken alive. Dying was better than rotting in jail again, he thought to himself, especially one where he was certain to be tortured.
Rehmat saw the pistol in Iqbal’s hand. He shifted closer and clutched his shoulder hard. ‘No,’ he whispered in Iqbal’s ear. It was more a plea than a command. Iqbal heeded it.
When the patrol was barely metres away, the second flare began to splutter. Suddenly a radio set hissed; it was silenced immediately, replaced by a faint murmur. The second flare slowly spiralled down as it died away. Then a command was given; it was not loud but Iqbal felt Rehmat start. The light went out completely, returning blinding darkness to the night. Iqbal knew it would be a while before his vision returned to normal. He closed his eyes and remained still, breathing as quietly as possible.
The patrol seemed to have pulled back, and the men were meandering now. Eventually, there was quiet. But Iqbal and Rehmat stayed put. They knew this could just be a ploy on the part of the patrol leader to lull them into a sense of security and have them move again. Both knew that if anything moved, it could be seen. If it could be seen, it could be hit. Neither was in a hurry to die.
By the time Iqbal felt his heart slow to a regular beat, the chill of the night had started gnawing at his bones. Rehmat nudged him when he finally deemed it safe to move again. Standing up, they resumed their silent journey, though Iqbal was unable to shrug away the fear that suddenly a hail of bullets would rip the night apart.
Dawn had just breached the horizon when they reached a lone hut at the end of the field, on the Pakistani side of the International Border. Both men were breathing hard by now. Despite the bitter January cold swirling around them, they were drenched in sweat and their muscles were corded with tension. They were still shaken by their close escape from the patrol. This, after all, was one of the most volatile borders in the world. On either side were swarms of soldiers, fingers dangerously close to the triggers of their weapons. It was only Rehmat’s familiarity with the terrain and deployment of troops that had allowed them to navigate safely through it.
Across the embankment, Iqbal could see a tiny track snaking through the fields. It led to the main road. This was where the red and white station wagon had been parked the last time they crossed this border. Iqbal remembered Tanaz standing by it, draped in a black burqa.
‘You know the way ahead from here?’ Rehmat asked.
‘Not really…’
‘Faisalabad is that way,’ Rehmat said, gesturing. ‘You just keep going down that track till you hit a tri-junction; from there you turn right on the metalled road and then follow the signposting. Try to get hold of a bus or a truck. Avoid private cars and government vehicles. They always ask too many questions. If you stop the wrong one, you may well end up dead or, even worse, alive and left to rot in some prison.’
Rehmat’s words reminded Iqbal of the terrorist camp at Hari in Kashmir and the Lashkar sentry who had briefed Omar and him on how to reach Srinagar from the Line of Control.
Same shit, different day.
‘Seems simple enough,’ Iqbal replied.
‘It isn’t,’ Rehmat said sharply. ‘At all costs, avoid the army and Ranger patrols. And if they stop you, don’t try to run. No one hesitates to shoot these days. In fact, I suggest you stick to the fields on either side of the track till you hit the tri-junction.’
Iqbal nodded. The first strands of doubt flailed him, making him wonder what he was doing here. He pushed the doubt away firmly, it was too late to turn back now.
‘Hope to see you coming back,’ said Rehmat with a wave, unaware of the conflict raging within Iqbal. ‘When you are ready, just let them know.
’ He jerked a thumb back at the border, implying Force 22. ‘And I will be here to take you back. Inshallah.’
Returning the wave, Iqbal began to walk at an easy lope, ensuring the track was always in sight. When he turned around after a few minutes, Rehmat had vanished. He was absolutely alone.
It took Iqbal all day to reach the tri-junction and find a bus to take him to Faisalabad. He made his way through the town and headed for the compound where the Ameer’s men had taken Tanaz and him after their near-fatal encounter with the Pakistani soldiers.
Darkness had already set in by the time Iqbal spotted the lights of the terrorist compound. Deciding it would be better to enter during the day, he halted when he was about two miles away. The biting cold was not something he relished, but getting shot at in the dark by a nervous, ill-trained sentry was certainly a less desirable alternative.
The sleepless night, laden with painful memories, passed slowly. Iqbal got up and walked about every fifteen minutes to stay warm and keep his blood circulating. He was almost sick with relief when the night finally began to fade away.
Fighting the urge to move on quickly, Iqbal waited till the sun was up and had begun to dispel the night chill before he started again towards the compound. The fields had ended and he was now passing through a patch without any trees, totally devoid of undergrowth and hence offering no cover. Iqbal knew that if a sentry had been posted here, he would have spotted Iqbal by now. So he moved steadily and confidently, making no effort to conceal his approach.
Iqbal came up to the compound from the west, the same direction in which Tanaz and he had fled all those months ago. The place bore no scars of the sudden Pakistan Army raid that had driven them out.
