The Bard of Blood

by Bilal Siddiqi

  In 2006 Bhatkal was asked by Shehzad to enter Pakistan from Dubai. Bhatkal didn’t have the necessary papers, or even a visa. Shehzad had sniggered over the phone when Bhatkal voiced this concern to him. His reply was terse: ‘Aa jao, bhaijaan. Dekh lenge.’

  As Bhatkal’s plane touched down in Karachi, he was taken aside and greeted by a large man with a welcoming smile. The other passengers began to walk towards the airport to collect their baggage. Bhatkal was spared the trouble, and was whisked away past the immigration desk. His bags were already loaded into a large SUV, which stood a few metres from the Boeing that had just landed, with two others waiting in it. They greeted him warmly.

  ‘Khairiyat?’

  ‘Shukrana,’ replied Bhatkal.

  The next day itself, after a ten-hour journey, he found himself in a hilly province of Balochistan. He was in Quetta, being trained by Omar’s Shura. Over the next fifty days, along with a few other recruits, he was taught how to handle weapons and explosives by Brigadier Shehzad and six other instructors from the Pakistani Army. Amongst the many attacks he was to carry out, the most dangerous was a plan to detonate a nuclear bomb in Ahmedabad.

  After his training, Bhatkal was dropped back to the airport with a passport to return to Dubai. There were fake immigration stamps indicating he had entered and exited India. It was as if he had never been to Pakistan at all. All a part of Shehzad’s master plan.

  Yasin Bhatkal was also one of the reasons Bollywood superstar Shah Rukh Khan was detained at the Newark airport. Bhatkal had used the alias Shah Rukh, for reasons best known to him. He had created havoc in India, discreetly leading the Indian Mujahideen. However, his rather conspicuous alias was one of the reasons he was arrested on the India–Nepal border near Motihari, Bihar, on 28 August 2013. Superstar Shah Rukh Khan, among others, must have been immensely relieved.

  Shehzad had now hurriedly entered the Dar-ul-Islam madrasa. He had someone to meet rather urgently. Shehzad was known to be fiercely loyal to his people. He saw the abduction of the four Indian agents as a chance to get Bhatkal back to him. Hell, he could even get the notorious Lashkar-e-Taiba militants Fayaz Mir and Umar Madni back. Asking for another lower-level IM operative, Assadullah Akhtar, would be like rubbing salt into the Indians’ wounds.

  He parked his car neatly into a corner and walked out quickly. The guards noticed the familiar burly figure with a swift but sturdy gait walk towards the door. They opened it and saluted him. He nodded at them and walked right in. Another guard met him inside and greeted him.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the chamber downstairs,’ the guard replied, motioning towards a staircase that led to the chamber. ‘He’ll be here in a bit.’

  The guard brought a large carpet that he laid out on the cool marble floor. Shehzad looked at his watch impatiently as he sat down. Next, the guard went in again, ordered a pot of tea, and asked Shehzad if he would like a snack as well.

  ‘Just ask him to come here quickly,’ snapped Shehzad. ‘I’m not here for snacks.’

  The guard shrugged and walked into another room. Even Shehzad knew he couldn’t ask him to come quickly. Amir al-Mu’minin came when he wanted to.

  His relationship with Mullah Omar had always been volatile. While Shehzad had a lot of respect for the Mullah, it was born out of fear and awe more than anything. And Shehzad wasn’t the kind to be intimidated easily. But here was a man, he believed, who could instil fear in a nation like the United States of America. Mullah Omar, an enigma of a man, was astoundingly temperamental. There were times when one could not reason with him at all, but then all of a sudden, he would appear to become subservient. The ISI had created a Frankenstein’s monster in Mullah Omar. His second-in-command, Mullah Abdul Ghani Baradar, on the other hand, had a more even temperament and stronger negotiating skills. In Mullah Omar and Mullah Baradar, the ISI had found a duo which needed skilful manipulation, and the utmost care. Another reason it couldn’t quite rub them up the wrong way was because of their strong alliance with Jalaluddin Haqqani and his son, Sirajuddin. The Haqqanis were an integral part of the ISI’s campaign against India and its other enemies. Together, the Haqqani Network, Mullah Omar’s Shura, and of course, the ISI itself, presented an indomitable force—one that had the potential to bring the world to its knees.

  Shehzad took his cellphone out and began to check something. He had a live constantly streaming video of the Indian prisoners locked up in small cells at the Shura base. He needed to ensure that they were kept alive, and that the torture meted out to them never got out of hand. He watched as one captive convulsed like a fish out of water, soon after being waterboarded.

  ‘Salaam aleikum,’ came an indistinguishable voice. It was the typical throaty baritone of a maulana, used to praying out aloud.

  Shehzad got up and wished the Amir, in reply. The Amir did not have his eyepatch on, a sight that sent a shiver down his spine. It always did, even in a hardened man like Shehzad.

  ‘Waleikum as-salaam,’ he said and then continued in chaste Arabic: ‘I’m here to tell you something of importance. I want this to be confidential for now, ask your guard not to come into the room.’

  ‘I will do no such thing,’ replied Mullah Omar. ‘I’m an open book to my people.’

  The guard entered the room with a half-smile, having eavesdropped. He left the teapot on the carpet along with one cup. Mullah Omar sat on the carpet and crossed his legs. As always, he wore a heavily embroidered black kurta over a black salwar that ended just above his ankles. It was the Taliban uniform. He looked up at his guard and nodded towards the staircase that led to the chamber. The guard nodded back obediently in response and went downstairs.

  ‘The Indians are asking for some time to consider your request,’ stated Shehzad.

  ‘Your request,’ Omar corrected him quickly.

  Shehzad shook his head fervently.

  ‘Yes, but they don’t know that. They need more time to trade my men silently in exchange for theirs.’

  Mullah Omar poured himself a cup of strong black tea and looked up at Shehzad with his one good eye. Shehzad didn’t make the mistake of looking back into it.

  ‘You must understand that I have other things keeping me busy, Shehzad. I have the Americans to fight. The NATO and the US are about to make a decisive move. The new Afghani presidential candidates have promised to sign pacts for the Americans to stay put! My war is about to get prolonged and tougher! And then you come along and stop me from executing those four kafirs, and get me involved in these small-time games you’re playing.’

  ‘Small-time games, Amir? These aren’t games! We are battling India every day and this is one of the few instances when we have some leverage over them. If we can get Bhatkal back, it will be a victory for us. He is one of the best bomb-makers we have ever produced.’

  Mullah Omar sipped his tea, trying to place Bhatkal. And then he did.

  ‘We trained Bhatkal and those boys here, so that they die for a cause.’

  ‘But they aren’t dead. They’ve been arrested. And this will help me in my objective of being one step ahead of India. Bhatkal was an extremely talented bomb-maker. I will have to start from scratch and get someone to replace him and reach his calibre.’

  ‘The current lot is certainly more talented, Shehzad.’

  Shehzad knew of Omar’s stubbornness. He needed Omar to know that despite him having his fingers in many pies, the ISI should never let go of an opportunity to arm-twist its favourite enemy. He sighed resignedly.

  ‘I need your help, Amir.’

  The guard had emerged from the chamber below, holding two young boys by their hands, probably thirteen or fourteen years of age. They seemed red-faced and their eyes were moist. They had been crying, clearly. Shehzad had always heard of Mullah Omar’s escapades in the madrasa. He realized what Omar had been doing in the chamber below, and it was one of those rare moments in his life when Shehzad felt pity for another human being. The boys were escorted out of the room. Omar d
idn’t look at them, but he wore a sinister smile.

  ‘I’ve helped you get Akbar Bugti and his son. I’ve helped you get Balach Marri. I even allow you to train your insurgents in my area. See, these are causes that I believe in myself. But I haven’t got time for playing little political games with India. I want to wait till Mullah Baradar gets back to Quetta.’

  Mullah Baradar, his deputy, was on his way back from Islamabad. He had been released on 21 September 2013 by the ISI. But he had been tied up with all sorts of clandestine meetings with high officials for almost a year.

  ‘You’ve also helped us because we offered you refuge when you had nowhere to go. We, the ISI, have created you, trained you, and made you a force to be reckoned with. This isn’t a small game,’ said Shehzad, continuing in the same vein. He waited for his outburst to sink in. ‘India is Pakistan’s worst enemy. In fact, I want to do this so we can go ahead with our other plan, too, with your blessings. The plan to unleash al-Qaeda on India.’

  Omar looked up, his right eye wide, alive with excitement. His left eye was chillingly lifeless.

  ‘The other plan is on?’

  ‘Jee, now is the best time to go ahead with it. The new prime minister has instilled a strange confidence in them. But we want to prove a point. They’re a vulnerable country, way beyond their imagination! And the way things are headed, we have reason to believe that there is about to be a high-level meeting pretty soon.’

  ‘How many days have they asked for before they can send your people back?’ Omar asked, suddenly interested.

  ‘Two weeks,’ replied Shehzad. ‘They are trying to buy time. But it won’t be long before they realize that their only choice is to succumb to our demands.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I want you to compose a message approving it. Throw in a slight measure of reluctance,’ answered Shehzad. ‘They cannot know of the ISI’s direct involvement.’

  ‘Fine,’ Omar said, ‘I will order Zabiullah to do it. But remember, this better be for the greater good.’

  ‘Inshallah,’ Shehzad replied.

  And despite trying to avoid it, Shehzad looked into Omar’s deathly eye that was baying for blood.

  5

  31 August 2014

  Pune, Maharashtra

  The area around Inorbit Mall on Nagar Road in Pune was being cordoned off. There was a constant buzz on the walkie-talkies as the police rushed around in a frenzy trying to push away the herd of media persons who had gathered at the site. One of the inspectors slapped a cameraman who was following him around. The other cameras recorded this little scuffle. They had to have something to broadcast until they could get a better picture of the bomb that was supposed to be inside. A fairly jovial mood had quickly transformed into a state of helpless panic.

  ‘The bomb squad is on its way,’ shouted a stocky ATS officer, Pradeep Shinde, into his walkie-talkie. ‘They should be here in a couple of minutes.’

  He then fired a volley of abuses and ordered his men in Marathi to go and divert the traffic away from the area. It was around 10.30 a.m. and the traffic was at its peak in anticipation of the year-end celebrations. The mall, it seemed, was the perfect target for a bomb—the perfect occasion to kill a large number of people. Fortunately, an alert young couple had spotted it when they decided to sit on the last seat of a mini roller-coaster and quickly informed the mall authorities.

  Shinde had then barked orders to shut down the entire air-conditioning system of the mall.

  ‘Even the lights of all the other floors, except the third. God forbid, it goes off, there will be a huge electrical problem in the entire city.’

  Soon enough, two fire brigades thundered in, sirens blaring. Three Mahindra combat vehicles sped up and halted right outside the mall entrance. Four heavily armed men got out of each vehicle.

  ‘Officer Pradeep Shinde of the ATS,’ Shinde introduced himself, flashing his ID as he led the twelve men towards the mall. Six of them wore bomb-suits and carried bomb-disposal kits in their hands. ‘My men have evacuated the mall. There is no threat other than the bag.’

  The man in the Kevlar bomb-suit, Devraj Sinha, asked: ‘Which floor is the bomb on?’

  ‘Third floor,’ Shinde replied. ‘There is a small roller-coaster in the amusement park. It is kept on the last seat.’

  Sinha nodded, and shouted orders to his men: ‘Two of you come with me, the rest carry on and make sure there are no hostiles in the mall.’

  They stormed into the mall, Shinde following them. Sinha turned to Shinde with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘I don’t think you need to come. Stay out and update RAW about the threat.’

  Shinde opened his mouth in protest, but Sinha had already turned around and started running up the stairs. His men followed in pairs.

  They hurried up the stairs, and began to walk cautiously towards the roller coaster in the amusement area. They passed the many gaming consoles, ready to attack anyone who might surprise them. So far, so good. The only problem at hand, then, was the bomb.

  They had just about reached the roller coaster when they saw a figure bending over the open bag on the back seat. All of them raised their guns in a swift motion.

  ‘Put your hands behind your head,’ Sinha shouted. ‘NOW!’

  The person looked up hurriedly and cursed. Devraj Sinha was taken aback. If this were a terrorist, he would’ve been shot immediately. Unfortunately, they didn’t make terrorists as pretty as this. She moved the hair from her brow, revealing a face with delicate features, and looked up at the men. She wore a grey tank-top, stained with sweat, and a pair of jeans. Beads of sweat trickled on her gently upturned nose.

  ‘There’s enough Semtex in here to blow the entire floor up, which would cause the building to collapse,’ she said urgently. ‘It’s not remote-detonated, not motion-sensitive. An Improvised Explosive Device. But a crude bomb, nonetheless.’

  The man raised his rifle threateningly. ‘Put your hands where I can see them, now, or I will shoot.’

  ‘Isha Khan,’ she said, looking through her riotous curls as they fell over her forehead. ‘Military Intelligence. Call Director-General Khanna at the Sena Bhavan in Delhi, if you need to cross-check.’

  Sinha was taken aback. He nodded to one of the men, who went aside to make the call to verify. The man dialled the number. Within a few minutes, Director-General Khanna had confirmed her identity. There was a tone of relief in his voice when he realized that Isha was at the scene.

  ‘How are you here?’

  ‘I happened to be at the mall,’ she said. ‘Now get over here and help me neutralize this thing.’

  Sinha walked up close to her and kneeled. The two members of the bomb squad followed suit. They admired her fair, slender yet muscular arms as she pointed towards the bomb. They were awed by her fearlessness.

  ‘See this thin red wire here? It’s connected to the energy supply of the roller coaster.’

  She pointed towards the red wire that continued underneath and converged with a bigger cable at a junction.

  ‘Had the roller coaster been activated even once after the bag was left here, it would have been the last ride those people would’ve ever taken. Good thing those kids noticed it in time. Unfortunately, I don’t carry a bomb-disposal kit in my handbag. I had half a mind to do it with my hairpin before you stormed in.’

  She looked at one of the men and pointed to the kit. The man handed it over. She dug inside and pulled out a pair of pliers. She climbed on to the rails of the roller coaster and sat right next to the bomb. In a swift motion she pushed her hair off her forehead and prayed under her breath—perhaps to the same god that the man who had left the bomb there had prayed to. She always prayed, out of habit. She held the wire between the serrated jaws of the pliers and, with a sharp burst of force, snapped it. There was a long beep. The red LED on the detonating device turned green. The bomb had been disarmed. The group of men gawked at her, jaws dropping in admiration.

  She pulled out her
phone from the side of her jacket, which she had left on the floor. She saw eleven missed calls. Ten from her mother and one from an unidentified number. She turned to the men as she put on her jacket.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she said as she turned to walk away. She called her mother up. Her voice was frantic. She thought her daughter worked as a doctor, attending to the injured in the military. She wasn’t entirely wrong. Isha did know how to extract a bullet from a wound, among the many other things she knew.

  ‘Beta, are you okay? They found a bomb at some mall in Pune.’

  ‘Is that right? Don’t worry, Ammi, I’m getting back home as promised. Should be there in a few hours.’

  ‘Come back soon, I’ve made your favourite mutton biryani.’

  ‘I will, Ammi. Khuda hafiz.’

  ‘Khuda hafiz,’ her mother said with a sigh of relief.

  Isha smiled to herself as she walked out of the back door of the mall. She looked at the unidentified number and dialled it.

  ‘Hello,’ the voice on the other end was curt. ‘Am I speaking to Isha Khan?’

  ‘Yes,’ Isha replied as she climbed on to her bike. ‘May I know whom I’m speaking to?’

  ‘Arun Joshi.’

  And then she had to call her mother back and tell her something urgent had come up. She had to rush to Delhi. Jee, Ammi, I’m fine. Unfortunately, her favourite biryani would have to wait.

  31 August 2014

  New Delhi

  A small section at the Prime Minister’s Office in New Delhi went on with what was just another day. The control room was dimly lit, and one of the agents, Ivan Fernandes, had begun to play some Goan music in the background to help him maintain his sanity. Some of the others stared at their screens, typing away furiously, trying to decode some message or the other. Quite unnervingly, they were being sent hoax messages ever since the new PM took office. The agents cursed at them in contempt and pushed them into an archive of other similarly received messages.

  ‘Another lame threat,’ thirty-five-year-old Nihar Shah complained, as he quickly dragged and dropped the message into the collection of bogus threats.