As they headed towards Delhi, the pilot of a British Airways plane flying the same route informed them that New Delhi airport had been closed to traffic. Approaching the city, they saw the runway choked with trucks and fire engines. As they made a low pass over the chaos, the co-pilot radioed New Delhi flight control and informed them they were running out of fuel. ‘Give them permission to land. By now they should have run out of reserve fuel,’ said Ikram.
The co-pilot was miraculously allotted an automatic landing frequency. Within a minute he observed fire trucks, army jeeps and ambulances being cleared. Landing in New Delhi at ten pm, the aircraft was instantly surrounded by armed troops of the NSG.
‘Get me those motherfuckers in the tower!’ yelled the hijacker. He made the co-pilot radio the control tower stating that unless the NSG was withdrawn he would start shooting hostages. A standoff ensued with the threatening figure setting a ten-minute deadline and holding his gun to the trembling co-pilot's head.
‘Get the NSG out of there,’ Ikram commanded the home secretary. ‘We can't have innocent blood on our hands.’ He then explained what he wanted done. ‘Delay the refuelling—buy time!’ instructed Ikram as he discussed the alternatives with the home secretary and the NSG chief.
Fed up of Ikram's delaying tactics, the hijacker once again threatened to start shooting passengers and crew if the aircraft was not refuelled immediately. Thirty minutes later, he forced the senior pilot to kneel on the floor near the open door of the aircraft in plain view of hundreds of television cameras and shot him in the head, execution-style, allowing his lifeless body to fall to the tarmac below the aircraft. ‘That should teach you motherfuckers not to mess with us!’ he shouted into the radio.
Looking at the face of the hijacker on the television screen, Ikram knew that his moment of glory had arrived.‘Tell him the home minister would like to speak to him directly,’ Ikram ordered the control tower operator.
A few crackles later, the hijacker picked up the radio.
‘I'd like to come aboard,’ Ikram told him. ‘You have nothing to lose and everything to gain. If we strike a deal, you win. If we don't, you still have a high-profile hostage—the home minister of India.’
‘You can come, but no one should accompany you. No airs of arrogant ministers!’ replied the hijacker.
‘The Prophet has said that as the fingers of two hands are equal, so are human beings equal to one another. Wait for me at the aircraft entrance—you can pat me down. I come in peace—we are Muslim brothers!’ said Ikram.
As the hijacker gave his assent, Ikram started walking alone towards the aircraft. He was wearing a earpiece that allowed him to stay in touch with the NSG commander and the control room. The NSG sharpshooters kept the aircraft door within their telescopic vision to prevent the terrorist or his accomplices from taking a shot at the home minister.
The NSG commandos approached the aircraft from the rear—a blind spot. Five teams stealthily clambered up black aluminium ladders to access the aeroplane through the escape hatches under the fuselage. The control tower kept the hijacker's attention diverted by discussing in agonising detail the protocol by which Ikram would board the aircraft. Ten minutes later, as Ikram reached the steps leading up to the aircraft, the hijacker stood near the door waiting to pat him down.
In the meantime, NSG commandos blasted open the emergency doors and stormed the aircraft yelling for the passengers and crew to hit the floor. The three accomplices were instantly shot. The fourth—their leader —was awaiting Ikram at the entrance of the aircraft. To his surprise, he saw the home minister pull out a sniper handgun from his pocket and take aim at him from the tarmac.
The emergency chutes had already been activated and the passengers and crew were evacuated immediately for fear of the aircraft having been boobytrapped. Five minutes later, the commandos radioed ‘Grand Slam’, the codename for the successful completion of the operation. The crackling information was transmitted to Ikram's earpiece but there was no one at the other end to receive it.
A few moments later a radio signal was sent to the prime minister. Four hijackers down; hostages free; six wounded; one home minister martyred.
Menon sat in Gangasagar's living room, reading the news aloud to him. ‘There was an outpouring of grief across Uttar Pradesh on Friday with much of the state shutting down to mourn the late home minister of India—Ikram Shaikh. His body was flown in an air force plane on Friday afternoon from New Delhi to his hometown Kanpur for burial. Earlier, thousands of people in the capital paid their last respects to the hero who sacrificed his own life to save the hostages of IC-617,’ read Menon. He looked up at Gangasagar for a reaction, but there was none.
He continued, ‘Ikram Shaikh, who died at the hands of a hijacker's bullet on Wednesday, was laid to rest at Bagmari Muslim Burial Ground in Kanpur, by the side of his parents. The home minister's funeral cortège snaked its way through surging crowds from his home in Kanpur's largest slum to Green Park stadium where thousands, including his griefstricken adopted daughter —Chandini Gupta, minister for external affairs—and hundreds of state and national leaders lined up to pay homage to one of India's finest home ministers. Later, an Indian Army carriage transported the coffin of the deceased to the burial grounds as thousands of supporters paid their last tributes. Police failed to control the surging mourners, who broke barricades at several points to rush towards the coffin. Accompanied by several central ministers, the prime minister laid wreaths on the body placed in the carriage. He also met Chandini Gupta, Ikram's political heir and adopted daughter, and the late leader's political ally and mentor—ABNS chief Gangasagar Mishra. The prime minister issued an appeal asking people not to commit suicide out of grief for the departed soul.’
Gangasagar coughed. Menon stopped reading and looked up. He could see that Gangasagar's eyes were moist. Uncomfortably, Menon rambled on, ‘The roads between the stadium and the burial ground were teeming with mourners lined up along the road itself, on rooftops and packed into the stadium to bid adieu to the man who died a sudden, tragic death that they were still coming to terms with. The funeral procession slowly made its way to the stadium where leaders from across the political spectrum paid tribute. Hundreds of vehicles followed the flower-bedecked truck in which the body, draped in the national flag, was kept. Standing by the side of her adoptive father's body was Chandini Gupta, who was appealing to people to allow the vehicle to move. Holding national flags, some ran towards the truck to have a closer look at the casket and console her. In the rest of Uttar Pradesh, a silence fell, with normal life coming to a crippling halt. Schools, colleges, offices, shops and businesses closed as a mark of respect to the leader. The usual morning bustle was missing as the government declared a two-day holiday. The state government declared a seven-day mourning period and cable TV-operators took all entertainment channels off the air.’
Menon reached the end of the article. Gangasagar looked him in the eye and said, ‘I must be cruel, only to be kind. Thus bad begins and worse remains behind.’ Menon had never studied Shakespeare otherwise he would have realised that his master had quoted from Hamlet. ‘Call the director of the Intelligence Bureau. I need to speak with him,’ said Gangasagar as he walked towards his bedroom.
He was softly muttering, ‘Adi Shakti, Namo Namah; Sarab Shakti, Namo Namah; Prithum Bhagvati, Namo Namah; Kundalini Mata Shakti; Mata Shakti, Namo Namah.’
‘I cannot speak, for every word that emerges is one that causes me pain. I cannot sleep, because I have nightmares of losing him again and again. I cannot think, because memories haunt me. I cannot eat, because I feel no hunger. I cannot cry, because I seem to have no more tears left. I cannot see, because my eyes are frozen on one image alone—that of my adoptive father. I cannot mourn, because he lives on in my heart,’ said Chandini as she delivered her speech to the gathered mourners.
‘I stand before you today and beseech you to remember the sacrifice made by this noble soul—a man whom I am proud to call my fath
er. Even though he's no more with us, his political and social legacy lives on. I dedicate the rest of my life to doing what he did best—wiping away tears, filling empty bellies, and making people smile.’ Chandini omitted to mention that Ikram was also a mafia don with a trigger-happy finger.
‘The great religions of our country merged together to create this wonderful unity in the diversity that we call India. I am born Hindu but am the adopted daughter of a Muslim. This was the greatest gift that the Almighty could bestow upon me—it was His way of saying that I belong to no single group—I am the daughter of India and I belong to all of you!’ she said, tears running down her artistic face.
‘Death is so beautiful—it's a great enhancer,’ whispered Gangasagar, seated in the last row with Menon. ‘Ikram achieved more for Chandini by dying than he could ever have achieved by living.’
Hameeda—previously known as Hameed—stood outside the shop clicking her tongue. ‘Don't you want us to bless the shop?’ she shouted, swinging her false braid coyly. The shopkeeper avoided looking at her or her companions of Sachla Devi's gang. They looked positively hideous with their garish make-up and muscular bodies encased in saris. Realising that her implied threat had failed to produce the desired result, the remaining eunuchs starting clapping and shouting loudly, creating enough of a ruckus to deter customers from walking in. The shopkeeper quickly reconsidered his position and sought their blessings, for a price of course. Hameeda mentally cursed her fate and thought back to the eventful day when she had—while she was still Hameed—approached Ikram at the mosque. ‘Boy! Do you wish to meet me? Out with it!’ Ikram had beckoned. A few weeks after that initial meeting, Hameed had met Ikram once again at the mosque.
‘I met Rashid, at R&S Aviation, who gave me the job. But he wants me to do something… I'm scared,’ began Hameed.
‘Why are you scared?’ asked Ikram, curiosity piqued.
‘He wants me to fill pebbles in the fuel tank of a helicopter. It's to sabotage the machine of your adopted daughter—Chandiniji. Please sir, help!’
‘Calm down, son. Do what Rashid tells you to. I'll handle the rest of it.’
‘But—but—I don't want to get into any trouble…’ After Hameed left, Ikram picked up the phone and spoke to the director of the Intelligence Bureau.
‘He's been asked to sabotage Chandini's chopper,’ said Ikram.
‘Let's arrest this Rashid immediately,’ suggested the director.
‘That may not be his real name. Furthermore, he may have accomplices,’ said Ikram. ‘No. Let Hameed follow Rashid's instructions. Have your men ready to pick him up and make a show of it. I do not want Hameed in police custody, but in yours. Keep an eye on Rashid so that we can get not only him but also his entire network.’
‘How the fuck did you allow Hameed to be handed over to Sachla Devi?’ yelled Ikram at the director of the Intelligence Bureau.
‘What was I supposed to do? Tell Gangasagar that I wouldn't?’ asked the director.
‘You could have let him get away!’ roared Ikram.
‘Gangasagar would have come after me and it would have been my balls instead of Hameed's!’ explained the exasperated director.
‘You could have told Gangasagar the truth—that Hameed was innocent and that we were trying to get Rashid instead.’
‘That would have meant also telling him you helped get Rashid as well as Hameed those jobs at R&S Aviation in the first place.’
‘There was no need for Ikram to take aim at the hijack leader. Had he left it to the NSG he might be alive,’ said the director of the Intelligence Bureau.
‘I know, I know,’ said Gangasagar. ‘But he'd seen the hijacker's face on television. He now knew that the hijacker was Rashid. The fact that Rashid had tried to kill Chandini must have made his blood boil and he must've decided to finish off the man once and for all.’
‘The NSG ended up shooting at Rashid in a hopeless effort to protect Ikram,’ said the director.
‘Ikram was like that—shoot first, ask questions later. Ikram may have been a hotheaded thug, but he had a heart of gold. Yes, he was quick to pull a trigger—but only if he knew that it was meant to deliver justice. And yes, he may have felt cheated when Hameed told him that I had tricked him into renouncing the chief minister's post, but he would never take his revenge on Chandini,’ said Gangasagar.
‘Since when did you start getting soft, sir?’ asked the director.
‘Since the time you were unceremoniously booted out as police commissioner, and I felt sorry for you and arranged your posting at the Intelligence Bureau. You used to be Ikram's friend too, you know!’
‘Alas, in my line of work there are no permanent friends—only permanent interests.’
The Red Fort—the largest monument in Old Delhi— wasn't merely a site from which the prime minister of India addressed his countrymen on Independence Day. It was also a labyrinth of cells and tunnels. During Mughal times, more than three thousand people lived inside the fort. Located deep within its bowels were ten specially guarded cells. They were interrogation cells belonging to the Intelligence Bureau of India.
Inside one of these cells, Rashid lay on a hospital bed that had been specially brought here along with sophisticated medical equipment. The only people who knew that Rashid had survived were the director of the Intelligence Bureau and Gangasagar.
‘You'll need to release this man into my custody!’
The command was delivered authoritatively. The director swung around in his swivel chair to find out who was impudent enough to interfere. He was shocked to see that it was the chief of RAW.
‘You'll need to release him,’ said the Secretary (Research) simply.
‘Do I get a reason?’ asked the director of the Intelligence Bureau.
‘He's a RAW agent. Good enough?’
‘What the fuck are you rascals up to? Rashid was involved in an attempt to sabotage the helicopter of the minister for external affairs. He then hijacked an aircraft with a hundred and seventy-seven passengers on board. Why would a RAW agent be plotting against Indian ministers and hijacking civilian aircraft?’ asked the director of the Intelligence Bureau.
‘Rashid is an alias. His real name is Makhmud. He's a Pakistani double agent. We had used him in a Chinese operation. Unfortunately, the last part of the operation involved him being arrested by the MSS—the Chinese ministry of state security, and we omitted sharing that part of the plan with him in advance,’ explained the RAW veteran.
‘But what was the purpose of the plan?’
‘Our minister for external affairs was able to negotiate from a position of strength in China due to this successful operation in which Makhmud was used to cause a rift between the Chinese and the Pakistanis.’
‘If he was arrested by the MSS, how was he here in India?’ asked the director.
‘His Uyghur comrades launched an attack on the prison where he was being held in Xinjiang and he was able to flee. He entered India with the help of Nepalese smugglers and reached Lucknow where he sought the assistance of Ikrambhai on humanitarian grounds. Ikrambhai helped him out of his sense of duty towards a Muslim brother but unaware of his background.’
That explains Ikram's anger when he saw that the very Muslim brother he had taken pity on had not only attempted to sabotage Chandini's helicopter but also hijack a civilian aircraft, reasoned the director.
The executive boardroom on the twenty-third floor had a panoramic view of the city. Plush leather swivel chairs surrounded a shining maplewood conference table. Giant portraits of the founders hung on the walls. The room was infused with the heady aroma of Cuban cigars. Mr Rungta and Mr Somany, partners, sat at opposite ends of the table, sipping warm camomile tea.
‘The game we played with Gangasagar has boomeranged,’ said Rungta as he absentmindedly stirred his tea. ‘Your man—the previous defence minister—has been ignominiously booted out from his prime ministerial berth. My man—the finance minister—has to content himself with lecturing at un
iversities!’
‘All the deals are falling apart—telecom, oil, fodder, land. The government is too scared to let any of them move forward,’ said Somany. ‘Even the stock sales and purchases that we timed with our quarrels and reconciliations are under the regulator's scrutiny. The trade union dispute brought all business to a standstill for almost a week!’
The knock on the heavy oak door was soft. ‘Come in,’ announced Rungta. A smartly dressed secretary walked in. ‘Sorry to bother you, sirs, but there's a gentleman outside. He doesn't have an appointment but he says that if I tell you his name, both of you would definitely wish to meet him.’
‘Who is it?’ asked Somany curiously.
‘He says his name is Pandit Gangasagar Mishra.’
‘Both you gentlemen have seen what I'm capable of. Even though I have the upper hand, I'm willing to declare a truce,’ announced Gangasagar. Rungta and Somany looked at each other, wondering where the catch lay.
‘There's no catch,’ said Gangasagar, reading their minds. ‘I'm too much of a pragmatist to ignore the value of friendships with influential businessmen.’
‘And what would such a friendship get us?’ asked Rungta.
‘For starters, I shall avoid getting both of you prosecuted for sheltering a known terrorist—Rashid—in your aviation firm. The very same Rashid tried to sabotage the helicopter of the Honourable minister of external affairs. He then went on to hijack an aircraft in which the honourable home minister tragically lost his life!’ thundered Gangasagar.
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