Aryaman and his mother had checked their luggage in. They were in the waiting area, sitting in silence. Neither of them knew where to start, because they had nothing to catch up on. His mother had already informed him about how wonderful Dehradun still was, how the little café offered a perfect escape from reality and how Chor filled in the emotional void that Aryaman had left behind. She also spoke fondly of her grandson, Aditya: about how he had Aryaman’s eyes, how his nostrils would redden and flare up when he was angry and how he had taken after his mother in every other way. She also told Aryaman that she suspected Aditya had a girlfriend. Once, when Aditya was visiting her in Dehradun, she found him speaking to someone on his cellphone late at night. She seemed a little concerned reporting this to Aryaman, who was just amused by the whole account.
‘It’s their age to do such things,’ he said. ‘I remember I had my first cigarette when I was fourteen.’
‘I knew. Just didn’t know how to bring the subject up. I realized it was a passing phase and better sense would prevail eventually.’
‘It did.’ Aryaman smiled. ‘Until I joined intelligence. And then the habit came back. Which reminds me, I desperately need a smoke now.’
As he stood up, his mother gave him a disapproving stare but chose not to chide him. Not the right time.
‘Just one,’ she said. ‘They sell entire packs here. So you take one and give me the rest. I will help you cut back.’
Aryaman bought himself a pack from the counter outside the smoking room of the airport. He walked in and lit his cigarette, taking a seat in the corner. The room was hazy, thick with smoke. A woman was talking on the phone animatedly while puffing away. A man was reading a newspaper. A short while later, the door opened and another man walked in.
The man seemed to be taking uncertain steps, drawing closer to Aryaman, clearly wary of approaching him. He didn’t have a cigarette. Aryaman took a deep drag. He saw a plane take off and get swallowed by the clouds. Then, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
It was Randheer.
Aryaman got up, nearly dropping his cigarette. None of them spoke. Aryaman didn’t know how to react.
‘Why are you here, Randheer?’
Randheer was silent for a long time, fighting back tears.
‘I wish I had another reason to be here, Arya. But . . .’
He sounded as though he was choking on his words.
Aryaman worriedly asked, ‘What?’
‘Your wife,’ he said, his voice trembling. ‘She was murdered last night.’
6
Islamabad, Pakistan
Ashraf Asif, a senior officer of the Pakistan Intelligence Agency, stepped out of his government-issued sedan and walked into his lavish house. His driver parked the car and left the keys with his servant. After pouring himself a stiff drink, which had no real effect on him, Ashraf changed into an outfit rather unbecoming of him: hoodie, track pants and a pollution mask usually worn by asthmatics. He checked the time and then stood up. He had to be somewhere. Picking up the keys to his private vehicle, he stepped out of the house and drove off.
After he was about a kilometre away from the house, he took a sharp left turn. He looked into the rearview mirror. Then, he took another sharp turn to the left. And then one to the right. He needed to make sure nobody was tailing him. There were times he half hoped he would see someone following him, so that he could confront them and add some zest to his life. But this mission would see to that.
He pulled up outside a drab-looking building, parked right at the gate and cast one final glance over his shoulder. Having lit himself a cigarette, he walked through the entrance, which was not high enough for a man his height. He ran a hand through his sparse, grey hair as he approached the door of a flat. It seemed like any other door, but he knew that it was made of reinforced steel. He peeped through the keyhole. Not to spy on anything, but to get security clearance. Lodged into the keyhole was a device that would scan his iris before letting him into the safe house.
The door creaked open, and Ashraf went towards a large mahogany desk which had four computer screens and a bunch of wires dangling from it. He switched the computer on and placed his right thumb over a fingerprint scanner. He logged in to the system that was designed to circumvent the watchful eyes of the law, thanks to a software that intelligence agents use to access the untraceable Dark Web. Then, he opened a website that allowed him to access another special software called Scorpion. He entered the password.
Moments later, Ashraf was automatically connected to a conference call. There were no faces; only voices of seven different people could be heard. One voice belonged to the man who was the leader of this tight-knit group that called itself the Scorpion. This man, too, went by the same name—the Scorpion—and on these calls he always spoke through a voice modulator.
‘Status?’ his voice boomed, breaking the silence that had followed after all the members had joined the call.
‘Sir,’ Ashraf said. ‘Biological warfare is something nobody is ever prepared for. Both the World Wars saw it. A bioweapon attack would not only cause sickness and death . . .’
‘So I take it that you are confident we choose a biological attack over a straightforward explosion?’
Ashraf cleared his throat and answered, ‘It causes paralysing uncertainty in a country. We will impair India in a way few have managed to.’
‘And is everyone else on the same page?’
There were brief noises of approval from the rest of the committee. None of the members knew the others in this shadow organization, except for the leader, the Scorpion. Nobody knew the Scorpion, but he knew all of his agents.
‘This mission is sanctioned by the Scorpion,’ the leader said. ‘By when will this be underway?’
‘My team is in Turkey right now.’ Ashraf smiled to himself. ‘I have found the right people for the job. Everything’s running smoothly as of now, and we should be ready to attack on the twenty-sixth.’
‘Good,’ the Scorpion replied. ‘We’ll speak soon.’
They were logged out of the system immediately after the Scorpion cut the call. Ashraf leaned back in his chair, relieved and anxious in equal measure.
Grand Bazaar, Istanbul, Turkey
The atmosphere of the Grand Bazaar, one of the world’s most popular tourist attractions, was electric. As any covert operative knew, this was an ideal setting for meetings and exchanges, which were best carried out in plain sight, unless secrecy was absolutely required.
A couple negotiated their way through the labyrinthine lanes of the market, walking past rows of shops that sold furniture, carpets, jewellery and leather goods. Finally, they stopped before a shopfront that displayed an array of spices, all stocked in glass jars. The husband, bald and stocky but solid, was dressed in a Turkish kaftan and wore a tight skull cap. The wife, dressed in a simple burqa, lifted her veil to momentarily reveal her face to the shopkeeper. He noticed her hazel eyes and wheatish skin.
The husband examined the various jars on display and pointed at one that contained ground Indian saffron. The stout shopkeeper dutifully handed it out to him. After the husband was done unscrewing the jar’s lid, the wife took from it a fistful of saffron, looked around to check if anyone was noticing her and slowly spilled the powdery stuff to the ground.
The shopkeeper gave her a nod and quickly got off his throne-like seat. He stepped out of the shop and walked down the street. The couple followed him through the swarm of people. They stopped outside a small store with its shutters down. The shopkeeper pulled a key out of his pocket, bent down, opened the shutters and led the couple into what seemed to be a dungeon. The husband put his hand around the wife’s waist, and they both went in.
They walked through a musty, narrow space. It smelled of rotten meat and garbage. The shopkeeper approached a wooden door and knocked on it once. It opened a few seconds later, and a man—balding, bespectacled, dressed in black, built like the side of a house—stood before them with a courteous smile. A
big, tough man nobody would like to mess with.
‘Come in,’ this man said.
Once the couple was inside, the shopkeeper went out. It was now the three of them in the stuffy room.
‘Asra,’ the bespectacled man said. ‘Salaam.’
There was a hint of sarcasm in his tone as he continued, ‘How are the husband and wife doing?’
He led them towards an upturned garbage bin with two cups of coffee placed on it.
‘You can stop calling us that when it’s just the three of us,’ Asra Khan, a Pakistani intelligence agent working for Ashraf Asif, finally said. ‘What is the update, Lior?’
Lior Meirs, of Israeli origin, was one of the world’s most sought-after arms dealers. He started his career with the Mossad, but his greed had got the better of him. With years of Israeli training behind him, Lior had decided to branch out and start a business of his own. A business of war and terror nonetheless. His notoriety, as an illegal seller of weapons of mass destruction, had led to his name figuring at the top of all the intelligence watch lists around the globe.
‘Using the formula you sent me,’ Lior directly addressed Asra. ‘I have managed to create the weapon.’
‘Project Vishaanu,’ scoffed the man who was playing the husband’s role. ‘Isn’t that what the Indians called it?’
‘Yeah.’ Asra shrugged. ‘They were up to no good as usual. But we have beaten them at their own game. They wouldn’t have imagined us getting our hands on their top-secret formula.’
Lior lifted a briefcase and opened it to reveal numerous neatly placed vials filled with a viscous green liquid. The husband walked up to it and lifted a vial, examining it closely.
‘Sorry, Eymen, but don’t pick them up like that. If it slips and cracks, we’re all in trouble,’ Lior said.
Eymen, the husband, grimaced at Lior but did as he was told. Of Kurdish origin, Eymen Arsalan was an integral part of this mission against the Indian state. He was identified by Ashraf, and when his case was presented to the Scorpion, he immediately wanted to bring Eymen on board. Eymen’s hatred for Indians was unusually intense, but it was a great tool at their disposal. Lior, of course, knew nothing about the Scorpion’s involvement. Or even of its existence.
‘Attach it to a vest with a detonator,’ Lior continued, as he packed the vials and zipped up the briefcase. ‘The more the vials, the more the gas. And so, the more potent the weapon.’
‘On paper it’s very effective, Eymen,’ Asra said, adopting a pacifying tone. ‘A modified, stronger version of the Ebola virus. Anyone exposed to it will be affected within hours. And it’s highly contagious. So it will spread without anyone being able to control it in time.’
Asra realized that Eymen seemed irritated. He had a lot at stake with this mission, although he never told her what his intentions were. Her boss, Ashraf Asif, and the Scorpion were the only two people who knew why Eymen had agreed to be a part of this high-risk plan.
‘On paper,’ Eymen said, ‘I am paying a lot of money for something that has not been tested yet.’ He was addressing Asra, but his aggression was directed at Lior.
‘Are you questioning my work?’ Lior asked with a blank expression on his face.
‘I don’t trust you Jews,’ Eymen said, flatly.
Lior took a step towards Eymen, his fists clenched. And Eymen didn’t seem intimidated at all. The tension in the room was so tangible it could be cut with a knife. Asra had to intervene; she reminded them why they were there in the first place.
She turned to Eymen first. ‘Remember, we stand to lose a lot too,’ she said. ‘If my bosses in Islamabad deemed it worth the trouble, it has to be the real deal. They trust Lior, and we should too.’
Then she shifted her attention to Lior. ‘We will wire half the money now,’ she said with an air of authority. ‘The remaining half after the thing has been tested.’
Lior grinned at her. When Eymen saw Lior’s perfect teeth, he felt the urge to knock them in. But he needed to calm himself down. Now was not the time. Asra was his handler, and he needed to abide by her instructions.
Lior led the way till they reached a wall on which a carpet was hung. Lior pushed the carpet aside to reveal a wooden door behind it. He threw open the door and guided Eymen and Asra through a narrow passage towards an adjoining small room. When they were inside, Lior switched on the lights.
There were three dead men on the floor. The skin and flesh had melted off their bodies like wax. The ghastly sight would have made most people squirm, if not throw up. But not these people . . .
Eymen, for the first time in the last couple of hours, allowed himself a smile. Asra was impressed too.
‘So Vishaanu is pretty effective.’
‘The truth is before you.’ Lior shrugged. ‘Are you impressed yet, Eymen?’
Eymen’s face straightened, but he extended his arm for a handshake and left the room feeling satisfied.
Once Eymen was out, Lior said to Asra, ‘What’s his deal?’
‘It’s personal, Lior. Leave it at that. He hasn’t told me either. Just my boss at the PIA knows.’
Lior clucked his tongue. ‘Well, none of my business then.’
‘By the way,’ Asra continued, ‘two of the three have been dealt with.’
‘What about the antidote?’ Lior asked.
Asra shook her head.
‘We’ll kill her soon, though,’ she said. ‘Once we get what we need from her.’
On her phone, Asra showed Lior a photo of an earnest-looking woman wearing a lab coat.
‘We need to do what we need to do,’ Lior said with a sad smile. ‘Though it’s a pity. She’s a pretty woman, this Dr Avantika Advani.’
7
Their wedding was an intimate event. Just the people who mattered to Aryaman and Jyoti had been invited to a rather upscale hotel in one of New Delhi’s posher localities.
Since socializing didn’t come naturally to Aryaman, he struggled to smile throughout the evening as he thanked his few guests. None of Aryaman’s colleagues attended the wedding, even though they wanted to. In his line of work, one avoided social gatherings. Everyone had to keep their professional life secret and their private lives separate. Mixing the two messed up the equation.
At one point in the evening, Jyoti excused herself to freshen up.
‘I need to talk to you,’ Aryaman said, following her into the ladies’ room.
‘Can’t it wait?’ she said, a little taken aback upon seeing him walk in like this.
She noticed that he looked strikingly handsome.
‘Aren’t you having second thoughts?’ he asked.
The colour began to drain from Jyoti’s face as she said, ‘Don’t do this to me, Aryaman. Not today.’
‘No,’ he said, taking a step towards her. ‘Marrying a person like me is not going to be easy. I will always love you before everything else. But just the way I’m wired, sometimes, I’ll have to make a decision when the country will come first.’
His voice had dimmed. She could sense the struggle it had cost him to say all this.
‘Aryaman.’ She smiled gently. ‘It’s what I have chosen.’
‘And if I die in the line of duty?’
Tears welled up in her eyes. ‘That won’t happen.’
‘There’s a strong possibility it will,’ he said matter-of-factly, as he wiped a tear that trickled down her face.
The door to the washroom opened. An elderly lady was about to step in when she saw the two of them and froze awkwardly.
‘Aunty.’ Aryaman smiled at her. ‘Two minutes, please. Some life decisions being made here.’
The lady entered anyway and hobbled towards one of the booths.
‘Don’t let me disturb you,’ she smiled and said, locking the door from inside the booth.
Aryaman turned towards Jyoti and looked into her eyes.
‘You’re not going anywhere, Aryaman. Death will probably take me first,’ she said half-jokingly, to ease the tension.
&
nbsp; ‘Bullshit,’ he said as he held her in a tight embrace. ‘That’s never going to happen.’ He kissed her on the forehead. ‘We’re going to die natural deaths.’ He smiled. ‘That’s the best thing that can happen to us.’
‘That’s the most romantic thing you’ve said all evening.’ She chuckled.
Aryaman turned around to leave, but Jyoti tugged at his arm. He regarded her confusedly. She pointed at one of the unoccupied booths and winked.
‘Really? These damn clothes will take an hour to get out of,’ he whispered, so the elderly lady wouldn’t hear.
Jyoti pulled him into the booth and locked the door. The lady stepped out of her booth and looked at the door that had just been shut. She sighed and mumbled something about kids these days having no decency.
Aryaman felt his insides tighten as he saw, one last time for the night, Jyoti’s naked, mangled body on a cold, stone slab at the morgue. His mother, his son and Randheer were waiting for him outside. He had been alone with her for over an hour before his mother entered the room to take him away. She avoided looking at Jyoti’s body; she knew she wouldn’t have the strength to survive that blow. Seeing Aryaman had shaken her up enough.
Tears streamed down Aryaman’s face as the attendant led him to Jyoti’s body and lifted the pristine white sheets. The man left soon after. Aryaman pressed his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. Her face was wet with his tears.
He saw her brutally destroyed body. Her skin was pale, dappled with patches of purple and red. He felt her crushed bones under his fingers. He turned around, let out a yell and punched the wall. Then he dropped to the ground.
‘I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry.’
He walked out of the morgue emptier than when he had entered. Fate, clearly, wasn’t done with him.
Aditya hadn’t seen his mother’s body in the gruesome state that his father had, but the trauma wasn’t any easier for him to bear. He watched the woman who had given him life burn away on the pyre. The sight of his father’s shaky hands lighting the logs of wood had hit him in the gut.
The Phoenix Page 5