Individually, the team members had résumés that should have made them perfect for the job. Khan was far and away the least experienced. The others were hardened jihadis with multiple missions across the Line of Control into India. Jadoon alone had crossed into Indian-occupied Kashmir at least twenty times and had a dozen or so notches carved into the stock of his Kalashnikov. After a week’s training, however, the group had yet to jell into a coherent fighting force.
Khan was on the team at Masood’s insistence because the value of the letters in his name was an “auspicious number.” Jadoon was a believer and a jihadi, but he was a practical man with no time for the abstractions of Masood’s somewhat idiosyncratic theories. Jadoon was a warrior and a Kashmiri patriot. He wanted to express his love of Allah by killing Hindus and returning all of Kashmir to the ummah, the wider Islamic community.
Masood had tried to reassure Jadoon that Khan could handle himself, but the commando refused to credit the HeM spiritual leader’s report of what Khan had done to the Indian security forces at the guest house near Amritsar.
The men collected their gear. It would take time to rebuild the section of the Indian “outpost” that Khan’s explosive charge had demolished. There would be other training sessions. The HeM camp up here in the rugged Toba Kakar Mountains was well equipped. The Hand had money. The weapons were good. Whatever equipment they needed Jadoon could secure. And there was cash to buy influence and access in Islamabad and abroad. The organization had not always been this flush. No one Khan had spoken to could explain where the money came from, and few expressed much curiosity. Allah provided for the faithful.
They humped their heavy packs down the hill to the main camp.
The camp had a bunkhouse, dining hall, and classroom space as well as workshops and a fully equipped garage. There was an obstacle course as good as any that Khan had used in the American army, rifle and pistol ranges with their own armories, and an expansive area backing a cliff face set aside for practice with explosives. A sandy pit in the heart of the camp was intended for training in martial arts. There was also, of course, a mosque. The camp was built to house many more people, but now it was just the six of them. Jadoon had not explained why, but Khan knew the answer. Security.
Jadoon was waiting for them. He seemed calmer, but he had not completely lost his look of irritation and disappointment.
“Prayers first,” Jadoon said. “Then food.”
Outside the small wooden mosque was a platform with benches and faucets that the men used for wudu, the ritual ablution that was an essential component of prayer. They removed their boots and lined them up on a shelf that was there for that purpose. Khan washed his hands up to the elbows and his feet and legs almost up to his knees. The baggy shalwar kameez made this easy to do. The water from the faucet was cold and bracing as Khan washed first his face and then the back of his neck. He ran his wet fingers through his hair for a cleaning that was more symbolic than effective.
The team laid out their prayer rugs inside the small mosque, facing west toward Mecca. Khan’s rug was an antique Baluch design, abstract symbols and a representation of the Tree of Life. Some of the jihadis had Afghan-style rugs bearing images of Kalashnikovs and attack helicopters.
It was time for zuhr, the noon prayer. The men recited the prayers in unison, in this if in nothing else working in a spirit of cooperation. As it always did when he prayed, a feeling of peace descended on Khan. He felt the universe in harmony and the warm love of Allah embracing him. He knew there was nothing that he would not sacrifice in defense of the will of Allah. He knew that the others praying beside him felt the same, and for a brief moment, they were a team, united in their vision of an Islamic world. The ummah.
Then the prayers concluded and the divisions on the team returned.
After the zuhr prayers, Jadoon announced that it was time for lunch. The stove in the cookhouse was wood-fired. The sniper, Atal Mashwanis, used small lumps of Semtex to help coax a fire from a pile of damp sticks before adding enough kindling to boil the water. Khan did the cooking. It seemed that even though he had traded in his broom for a submachine gun, he was still regarded as little more than a jumped-up houseboy. The other men laughed and joked as their rice and lentils cooked. Khan was not included.
They ate with their hands, using only the right hand to touch the food as Islam prescribed. The rice was gluey and the lentils were bland. This was fuel rather than a meal. They ate quickly, conscious of how little time they had to drill before the action would be for real.
When Khan finished, he collected the plates and brought them to the sink. Doing the dishes was another of the duties that Jadoon had assigned him as punishment for his temerity in being Masood’s pet. Khan bore this minor indignity too without complaint.
After lunch, Jadoon led them on a double-time march straight up the hill wearing heavy packs and carrying weapons. It was understood by all that this was a form of punishment. The team leader was running out of patience. A forty-five-minute hike brought them to a relatively flat area at the top of the hill.
“I want you to low-crawl your way to that rock,” Jadoon announced, pointing to a distinctive white boulder pointing to the sky like a bony finger.
“Any man sticks his head up for any reason and I’m going to shoot him with this.” Jadoon held up his rifle, an Italian Beretta M501 Sniper. “Full packs,” the team leader added.
Khan estimated that it was maybe half a kilometer across scrub and stony soil. With the weight of their packs pressing on their forearms, it was going to hurt.
The five jihadis crawled on their bellies across the rough ground. Khan’s bare arms were soon scraped and bleeding, and they stung fiercely every time he pushed off to claim another half meter of ground.
Periodically, Jadoon fired rounds into the ground near their heads or in between their legs. One bullet struck a rock maybe a foot and a half from Khan’s face. Thank Allah, he’s a good shot.
With only fifty meters or so to go, Khan looked to his right and saw something that made him forget the pain in his forearms. A scorpion. It was about four inches long and black. Its chitin was smooth and gleamed in the sun like a piece of polished jet. The broad weaponized tail was distinctive. Khan recognized it immediately. The fat-tailed scorpion was the world’s deadliest. From the genus Androctonus. Greek for “man killer.” The powerful neurotoxin in its sting was nearly always fatal.
This one was inches from the outstretched hand of Atal Mashwanis. The stinger was raised, poised to strike the fingers that looked to the arthropod like either a meal or a threat.
There was a gap of some two meters between Khan and Mashwanis.
In one smooth movement, Khan pulled the five-inch knife strapped to his boot and rose to his knees. Pushing off with his legs and left hand, Khan leaped for the scorpion shouting, “Atal, roll right!”
As he brought the knife down toward the scorpion, his aim was nearly spoiled by a sudden sharp pain in his right thigh. Jadoon had shot him. Ignoring the pain, Khan drove the blade through the carapace, pinning the scorpion to the ground. Mashwanis rolled to his right and sat up before abruptly falling back to the ground. Jadoon had shot him too.
Khan looked at his leg. There was no blood and it did not hurt enough to be a real bullet wound. Jadoon must have been using rubber riot-control rounds. Mashwanis was in much worse shape. Jadoon’s second shot had hit him right in the head, and the sniper was clearly struggling to remain conscious.
Jadoon quickly closed the gap with Khan and the other jihadis. He had abandoned the Italian rifle and was marching forward with a grim determination.
Khan rose and spread his hands in an effort to placate the HeM leader.
“Listen, Jadoon,” he tried to explain. “There was a scorpion.”
Jadoon was not listening.
He stepped in close with the clear intention to slap Khan.
En
ough of this shit, Khan thought, as Jadoon started to swing his arm. Khan shifted his weight back just a little in rhythm with Jadoon’s attack. The HeM commander struck nothing but air. His hand whistled harmlessly past Khan’s face. Jadoon grunted in surprise and anger. His fingers closed into a fist and he shot a short jab at Khan’s solar plexus. It was a good punch. Khan could see that he had had some training. But Jadoon had done his killing in Kashmir with guns and bombs. It had doubtlessly been a long time since he used his fists against someone other than his subordinates, his wives, and their children. Khan bent his left knee and twisted his torso sharply to the right. Jadoon’s punch grazed the fabric of his tunic but did no damage. Khan counterpunched with his left hand, striking Jadoon with the base of his palm at the intersection of his jaw and right ear. Jadoon’s head snapped back and the HeM commando fell to one knee with a slightly dazed look on his face.
It was not a killing blow. Khan had held back. Jadoon stood and shook off the effects, snorting like a bull preparing to charge the matador. That usually ended badly for the bull.
“Do you really want to do this, Jadoon?” Khan asked.
“You don’t belong here,” Jadoon replied. “You haven’t earned it.”
“I would earn it now if you like.”
“I don’t think so, lucky number.”
Jadoon’s second attack was more cautious. He had underestimated Khan and was not about to repeat the mistake. The two men circled each other warily, hands extended. Khan was not yet sure if this was going to be a boxing match or a wrestling match, but he had trained in Brazilian jujitsu and either was acceptable to him.
The other jihadis stood to one side, watching. All but Mashwanis, who was now able to sit up but was still visibly disoriented. The others would not interfere with the fight. This was a test of both manhood and Allah’s favor.
Jadoon was considerably bigger than Khan and had maybe six inches of reach on him. Size did matter. A good big man would beat a good little man every time. Jadoon was good. Khan would have to be better than good. As Khan had expected, Jadoon went for the head. Khan saw the opening to step in and go for the takedown. Within twenty seconds, it would be over. But he didn’t. Instead, he let Jadoon’s punch through, twisting his head slightly to take the blow on his skull rather than his jaw. He did not want to humiliate the HeM commander. He wanted acceptance.
For the next thirty seconds, he stood toe-to-toe with Jadoon, trading blows like bare-knuckled boxers from another century. Khan went for the body shots, short, sharp jabs that would sap the strength from the big man’s arms. Jadoon tried to lay a knockout blow on Khan’s jaw. Khan ducked and moved his head enough to keep Jadoon’s punches soft. One left hook caught him on the cheek that was still bleeding from the splinter wound, and for a moment the pain was so intense that Khan saw white. Time to end it.
Khan stepped inside Jadoon’s next punch and stood chest-to-chest with the bigger man as though they were dance partners. Grabbing both of his opponent’s arms by the triceps and lifting with all of his strength, Khan effectively froze Jadoon in place. The next series of moves were too quick for the onlookers to follow. A leg sweep dropped the HeM leader onto his back like a sack of rice. Khan never let go, transitioning from the clinch into a control position called a kimura after the Japanese judo champion who had patented it. Jadoon’s arm was bent at an angle behind his back and there was no direction the larger man could move that would not result in a dislocated elbow. Khan gently increased the torque on the elbow until Jadoon grunted and ceased struggling.
“Tap the ground,” Khan commanded.
Jadoon tried again to wriggle out of the hold. Khan clamped down even harder on the elbow, trying not to snap it but not caring especially if he did. Jadoon seemed to sense this. His body went limp to take the pressure off the arm and he tapped the hard dirt with his free hand.
“You win,” Jadoon said loudly enough for the whole team to hear.
Khan released the hold and Jadoon stood, shaking his arm to get feeling back into it. He glared at Khan with his typical intensity, but this time without the contempt that had routinely accompanied it. Khan saw him look over at Mashwanis and at the scorpion that was pinned on Khan’s boot knife. He grinned.
“Can you teach the boys to do that?” he asked.
“I can.”
“Good. Give them a training session after dinner tonight. No broken bones. You’re our new hand-to-hand-fighting instructor.”
The HeM commander abruptly embraced Khan, wrapping his arms around him in a bear hug and kissing him violently on both cheeks.
“You may be our lucky number after all.”
MUMBAI
APRIL 6
On some days, Lena felt like a nineteenth-century Kansas schoolmarm in a one-room schoolhouse. Except for the robots. On any given day, there were a dozen or more children ranging in ages from eight to sixteen working on various engineering and technical projects or sitting at one of the low-slung tables working on math problems. Lena recycled most of her SysNet salary into material for the school, which was operating out of a converted toy factory in the center of Dharavi that Ramananda had helped her find.
The facilities in the slum were basic, and the power supply was spotty at best, albeit without cost to the end user. In Dharavi, municipal services such as electricity were largely pilfered. Running water came and went on a cycle known only to the gods, and trash pickup was more an aspiration than an expectation. A backup generator at the school that Lena had purchased herself helped with the inevitable black- and brownouts. Most important, Lena had made damn certain that her Internet connection was on a par with any in the city. Ramananda’s workers—the more legitimate kind—had run a fiber-optic cable from the school to the edge of Dharavi where she could splice it into the Mahanagar Telephone Nigam network.
Lena made sure the kids were supplied with computers, electronics labs, and even robots as part of their education. Although artistic talent had been her mother’s ticket out of the slum, Lena believed that STEM—science, technology, engineering, and math—was the surest path to a better future for the lower-caste kids of Dharavi.
The expensive equipment Lena had procured for the school would ordinarily have been a magnet for thieves except that Ramananda had put the word out that the school was sacrosanct. It would have taken an especially brave or desperate thief to ignore that instruction and cross Ramananda. Just in case, however, the unsmiling Hard Man by the front door kept the computers and electronics inside as safe as they would have been in a suburban high school in the United States.
Lena surveyed the controlled chaos that was entirely typical of the two-hour evening sessions she more or less led and was largely satisfied with what she saw. One group of young children was gathered around a laptop coding a basic video game in Python. A couple of older kids had disassembled a television and were painstakingly fitting the parts back together.
Nandi and a twelve-year-old girl named Pia were racing Roombas. With only minimal help from Lena, they had hacked the robotic vacuum cleaners and linked them to Microsoft Kinect controllers. Waving their arms up over their heads propelled the Roombas forward and wild arm motions to either side would turn the robots left or right. A few plastic cones on the wooden floor marked out the racecourse.
Pia laughed riotously as her Roomba cut in front of Nandi’s, forcing him to slow down as he sought to maneuver around one of the cones. He laughed with her. It was all in good fun, and Lena’s spirits lifted at their infectious enthusiasm.
Nandi had a knack for electronics and Pia was developing into a first-rate programmer. They both had bright futures, as long as Nandi stayed out of jail and off the streets and as long as Pia dodged the all-too-common trap of a bad marriage at a young age. Her parents did not know that she was a regular at the school. They were traditional people from the country. Lena did not know what kind of lies Pia had had to tell her parents to ke
ep coming to the school, and she had no intention of asking. In Dharavi, everyone did what they had to do to get by, get ahead, and—if at all possible—get out.
Lena spent the next half hour helping a group of the oldest children with their math problems. Two of them would soon be taking the entrance exams to a prestigious state-sponsored science high school, and they would need to ace the calculus part of the test. At eight-thirty, Lena had the kids pack all of the equipment away neatly into lockers that were padlocked and bolted to the floors.
“That’s it for tonight, kids,” she announced.
The children all stopped to thank her individually before heading off into the steamy tropical night toward the overcrowded shacks and shanties that passed for homes in the slum.
Feeling somewhat guilty as she did every night, Lena locked the doors and windows, and headed off to her considerably more comfortable apartment outside of the Dharavi district.
Maybe I should live here, she thought, as she wandered the familiar alleyways that led back to the canal. It wouldn’t be so bad, really. I could ask the older kids to help me build a solar water heater so that I could at least have a real shower now and then.
Lena knew in her heart that this was both unrealistic and unnecessary, the equivalent of wearing a hair shirt. The kids she mentored would be no better off for her discomfort. They would be considerably worse off, in fact, if she got sick. She could give more to the poor kids of Dharavi through the school than she could as a resident. Besides, she wasn’t cut out to be Mother Teresa. Lena had once met Mother Teresa at a hospice in Kolkata run by the Missionaries of Charity when her father had been involved in a project to provide care to the city’s HIV-positive poor. She had been a little girl, no more than seven, but Lena remembered Mother Teresa as a figure of almost saintly calm. The contrast with her own roiling emotional life could not have been starker.
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