‘You know what, Adonis,’ Sadiq said confidently, ‘go ahead with it. If something happens, I’ll take the blame. But don’t forget to get the Afghani defector to the Americans.’
Kabir remained silent on the other end of the phone. He knew it could be disastrous for Sadiq’s career if the mission went awry. Initially, the plan was simple. All they had planned to do was take an Afghani defector Asghar Malek to the Americans located in Shamsi without getting caught. Malek was willing to help the Americans if they ensured the safety of his wife and two daughters. He had been forced into the Taliban at a young age, but killing was not for him. The brutish and barbaric murders that he knew the Taliban was responsible for made him want to escape and start life afresh.
‘I will get him to the Americans only after we are done,’ Kabir said. ‘Is that all right?’
‘Yes. I haven’t planted you all there to sit like spectators and watch shit go down anyway. I’ll talk to you later.’
Sadiq put the phone down abruptly. Kabir still held it to his ear, wondering what would happen if a mission that wasn’t even sanctioned went wrong. Suddenly the door of the safe house opened. A man in a white kurta and pyjama walked in. He was taller than Kabir by a couple of inches, had a strong jawline and a long beard. He was stocky as opposed to Kabir’s lithe but muscular figure. He clutched a copy of the Holy Quran, which he lay down respectfully on the table.
‘Salaam, Maulana Ares.’ Kabir smiled. ‘Ares’ was the code name Vikramjit Singh was assigned. Kabir and Vikramjit both found their respective code-names rather funny, and pulled each other’s legs about it.
Vikramjit Singh had been working undercover as a teacher at the Madrasa Ashraf-ul-Madaris. Over the years, Vikramjit had grown so well versed with the nuances of Islamic teaching that he felt he was as Muslim as anyone else in Balochistan. He had always wanted to be a field agent, despite not being very physically capable of combat. But his big break came when he managed to get a Lashkar operative, Haneef Sayyed, arrested, after tailing him fearlessly for over a month. Sadiq was impressed by Vikramjit’s guile, and decided to post him to the conflict-ridden area of Balochistan. After the necessary training, Sadiq deemed him fit enough to be assigned the job. He had been posted in Quetta way before Major Kabir Anand. Kabir was sent later on for his corporeal strength and mental dexterity.
‘Did you speak to Sheikh about the mission?’
‘Yes,’ Kabir said. He paused. He knew Vikramjit wasn’t too keen on infiltrating the madrasa because of the high risk involved.
‘What did he say? Do we have the necessary clearance?’
Kabir scratched his head and fiddled with his short-cropped hair.
‘Yes,’ Kabir said matter-of-factly. ‘He told us to go ahead with it.’
‘And what about Asghar and his family?’
‘We take him to the Americans at Shamsi tomorrow,’ Kabir replied.
If we live to see another day, Vikramjit thought.
25 August 2006
Shamsi, Balochistan
‘This is all I can give you guys,’ Michael Porter said over the phone. ‘I’m way ahead of myself already, so I guess you all can thank me now.’
Michael Porter, a man in his early fifties, was an American working for the CIA, in charge of the agency’s operations in Shamsi. The Shamsi airfield was located around 300 kilometres southwest of Quetta. It was nestled in a barren desert valley between two ridges of the rugged Central Makran Range. In 2001, Pakistan under Pervez Musharraf had leased the airstrip to the United States to use as a base. The CIA ran their operations jointly with the US Air Force in order to carry out their surveillance and drone operations against militants in the FATA at the time.
‘Thanks, Mike,’ Kabir replied. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘Cheers,’ Porter replied. ‘Don’t get into trouble. And remember, Asghar has to be here tomorrow morning.’
‘Yes, we’ll bring him.’
Kabir had picked up an armoured jeep laden with munitions that Porter had organized for him at short notice. The United States and India had worked in tandem in Balochistan, mainly to fund the rebel groups. But Porter knew something larger was at play this time. Sadiq Sheikh had personally called him up earlier that day and requested that he help a couple of agents out with a few amenities. Porter was reluctant and wanted to know why. That is when Sadiq reminded him, via videoconference.
‘You had told me about the information the CIA had intercepted about the ISI planning a possible attack on India.’ Sadiq adjusted his glasses. ‘I have an agent placed as a teacher in the very madrasa that you suspect to be a front for ISI’s activities.’
‘Go on,’ Porter said, rubbing his bare sunburnt head. ‘It was all conjecture at that point of time, but if what you have is helpful, I’m all ears.’
‘Yes and no,’ Sadiq said. ‘Apparently, within the madrasa there is a large chamber that the ISI operates out of. They lock that room up securely. My men think that they can get their hands on their data if they infiltrate the madrasa.’
‘That’s ballsy,’ Porter said. ‘I’m sure there’s a lot in those files that could help us, too.’
Sadiq raised an eyebrow. Porter understood that expression even over the grainy footage. He regretted thinking out aloud.
‘It’s a win-win situation for you, Porter. We get our hands on that information, we share it with you. But you must give them what they need.’
Porter scratched his chin. It wasn’t a hard call to make. He didn’t have to send in anyone of his own and, having laid hands on the intel, he would have scored a great deal with the CIA. Plus, of course, he would have the Afghani defector at his behest as well.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Porter replied. ‘I’ll get in touch with your guys. What are they called, once again?’
‘Adonis and Ares,’ Sadiq said wryly. ‘Don’t laugh, it’s not like you give your guys better code-names.’
Sadiq disconnected the line and got up from his seat. He looked through his spectacles at his accomplice.
‘Narayan,’ he said. ‘Nobody should know about this conversation. We are going to need the control room tomorrow for the entire day. Just organize some smart techies to be in there. And more importantly, Rao cannot have an inkling about this op.’
26 August 2006
Quetta, Balochistan
It was early morning and the children had Saturday off at the Ashraf-ul-Madaris madrasa. Vikramjit and Kabir kept watch through the windshield of the armed jeep at the locked and abandoned gates. The madrasa, built over a vast expanse of land, looked deserted. It seemed a perfect time to sneak in and out with the information. Vikramjit and Kabir had initially chalked out a plan to get in there covertly: scaling the high wall and getting out the same way. Stealth, they had decided, was the way to approach this operation. But then Sadiq seemed to think differently. He wanted them to have a solid getaway vehicle and at least a rifle each, just in case.
‘There’s no need to be subtle about it,’ Sadiq said, stubbing his cigarette as he spoke on the phone. ‘In case there is security in there, you’ll need to engage them in a gunfight as you escape.’
Kabir had agreed. Vikramjit didn’t quite feel the same way.
‘I’ve been teaching at that madrasa, sir. The chamber below has only three guards waiting outside. There’s no elaborate backup. We can take them out without attracting any attention.’
But Sadiq was adamant. So now here they were, parked a few hundred feet away from the gates.
‘Are you ready?’ Kabir narrowed his eyes at Vikramjit, the adrenalin pumping through his body. They call it the fight-or-flight syndrome. When there is an excessive flow of adrenalin in one’s body, you either fight or run away. And Kabir wasn’t the kind who ran away.
‘Let’s do this quickly,’ Vikramjit said, slightly nervous as he tightened his Kevlar vest.
Kabir took a deep breath and kicked the accelerator hard. The jeep roared and jerked ahead and then picked up speed as it approache
d the gates of the madrasa. A few onlookers stared, wide-eyed, at the jeep when it rammed into the gates, taking one half down as it continued into the interiors of the seemingly harmless school. Kabir dropped the speed a few notches before approaching the main building of the madrasa. He parked the car and leapt out with his rifle. Vikramjit followed suit.
Kabir noticed a large guard staring at them incredulously. The guard reached for the rifle slung around his shoulder. Before he could get a hold of it, there was a bullet hole in his head. Kabir ran ahead of Vikramjit and kicked the main door open.
Five men were already waiting with their guns, which they fired the moment they caught a glimpse of the intruders. Kabir pushed Vikramjit to the ground swiftly and somersaulted aside. Bullets flew through the half-open door. Kabir looked up and saw a small glass window. He shot at it and then raised his rifle through the gap, firing blindly. He was certain he got at least one of the five. He dared to look up and saw he had been luckier than that. He had got two. The other three began shooting at him. Vikramjit lay prone and moved to get a better sight of the guards. He managed to shoot one in his leg. Kabir pushed the door open and ran in bravely, shooting all three guards dead in one quick, fluid motion.
‘They were expecting us,’ Vikramjit gasped. Kabir nodded and put a finger to his lips.
‘Lead the way,’ he whispered. Vikramjit staggered ahead of him. Kabir followed him, scanning all directions for any other incumbents that might shoot at them.
‘The staircase to the chamber below is on the other side of the building,’ Vikramjit whispered back. ‘What if there are more of them?’
‘We take them all out,’ Kabir replied, gesturing to Vikramjit to continue. They held their rifles up, ready to fire, as they walked into the next room. It was clear. There was a dreadful silence.
‘Go on,’ Kabir said. ‘Let’s make this quick.’
Vikramjit started walking hurriedly and opened the door of the next room. He looked through the crack and saw nothing. He was about to push it open, when Kabir held him back. Kabir pointed at the ground. The small distance between the door and the floor betrayed a shadow. Someone was waiting behind the door to shoot them.
‘Looks like this room is clear, too,’ spoke Kabir clearly, in Urdu, as he walked ahead. He saw the shadow flicker a bit on hearing this. ‘Let’s go in.’
In one swift motion, Kabir kicked the door open and stuck his rifle through it, shooting behind the door. He heard a body slump to the ground and the metal thud of a gun falling. He stepped in and saw a large bearded man, covered in blood.
‘Just one more door,’ Vikramjit said. ‘Then we go down the staircase.’
Kabir reloaded his weapon with a fresh round of bullets. Vikramjit checked his gun, too. His face twitched as he saw the man’s disfigured face and his flesh splattered all over the wall. A rust-like smell of blood diffused the room.
‘Let me go first.’ Kabir narrowed his eyes. ‘If you’d walked in without looking, you’d have been in his place.’
Suddenly they heard footsteps. Someone was walking in through the door ahead of them. Kabir moved to the side and got down to his knees, his gun propped. The door opened and an elderly man stepped out. Kabir shot at him without demur.
‘Oh no!’ Vikramjit cried in anguish. ‘That’s the headmaster! He is an old man!’
Kabir didn’t feel any regret. ‘So what?’ he hissed. ‘He’s in on it, too.’
Vikramjit quivered. He respected the elderly maulana a great deal. He seemed locked in his position as he watched the old man’s lifeless body on the ground.
Kabir coaxed him ahead and walked on. He gave a cursory glance through the door and saw three men, their guns cocked, running towards him. They began to fire, and Kabir ran backwards trying to take cover behind a desk. He took a grenade out of Vikramjit’s belt, pulled the pin and hurled it into the other room, precisely through the narrow gap in the door. He closed his ears and Vikramjit followed suit. There was a loud bang. Their ears still rang as they stood up and walked warily into the room full of smoke. All three men lay dismembered, various parts of their body scattered across the room. Blood splattered all over the wall. Bits of bone crunched under Kabir’s feet as he saw the staircase below. Vikramjit covered his nose with a scarf as he tried to walk around the pools of blood. The stench of the sour, coppery blood was getting to him.
‘Stay close,’ Kabir said as he walked ahead. ‘Remember, you wanted to be posted to this part of the world, when you could’ve sat behind a desk in Delhi and let blokes like me do the job.’
Vikramjit let out an expletive and motioned Kabir to continue. Kabir led the way downstairs. The area seemed empty. Vikramjit followed him and pointed at a locked door on the right. Kabir walked towards it. He turned around with his gun and pointed it into the shadows.
‘We’re clear!’ Kabir shouted.
Vikramjit was exhausted. He sat on his haunches, trying to catch his breath.
‘Come on, Vikramjit. We have to do this now.’ Kabir helped him up. Vikramjit wiped the sweat pouring down his forehead, and then moved ahead with new zeal. Kabir heard another set of footsteps rushing down the stairs.
‘Breach the lock and get into the room!’ Kabir bellowed. ‘Get the hard drives! I’ll cover you!’
Kabir held up his rifle and ran towards the stairs. As soon as the three large bearded men approached, a sudden volley of bullets welcomed them. All fell to the ground, lifeless, in an instant. Kabir was now shaking with nervous energy. He took the butt of his rifle and smashed it ferociously into the head of one of the dead men. A feral madness seemed to have overpowered him. The man’s blood splattered all over Kabir’s trousers. He turned around, having vented his anger, and walked back down to see Vikramjit still at the door, clutching the knob.
‘What the fuck are you trying?’ Kabir roared. ‘I thought I told you to get inside and get the hard disks!’
Vikramjit swallowed, and stood still like a statue. He clutched the knob without moving, the door open just a crack.
‘Cla-Claymore!’ he stuttered.
Kabir’s eyes opened wide in horror. He understood why Vikramjit was frozen in his position. Behind the door was an M18 Claymore mine. It was an anti-personnel mine with a directional charge. It had been rigged to detonate when the door was opened. Had Vikramjit opened the door even a fraction of an inch more, there would have been a colossal explosion. Kabir felt numb for the first time.
‘If I leave the door, we die. It could probably take the entire building down, if several blocks of C4 are rigged to it.’
Kabir walked cautiously towards the door and looked through the slight crack. The mine was far away, but directed towards them. Had Vikramjit opened the door, the trigger attached to the mine would have fallen face forward and sent a bunch of explosive projectiles at them, killing them instantly and detonating the C4. Behind the mine was a large bag of C4 primed to explode. Kabir didn’t know what to do. He dug his chin into his shoulder, trying to think around the dilemma. They had not considered such a situation. It was supposed to be a clean getaway. For the first time in his life, Kabir Anand did not have a solution.
Vikramjit said in a hoarse voice, ‘There’s no way I live, Kabir.’
‘What do you mean by “I”?’ Kabir asked shakily.
‘You can get out,’ Vikramjit said. ‘I’ll hold this for another few minutes, till you escape.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Kabir said through gritted teeth. ‘We’re in this together. We die together.’
Vikramjit nodded frantically, still clutching the door.
‘Please, Kabir Anand!’ Vikramjit said, his voice quivering. ‘I want you to live. I want you to find the person who sold us out and tear him apart, piece by piece.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Kabir said stubbornly.
‘He sold out our operation, Kabir. There’s a traitor in our midst. Nobody was supposed to be expecting us. And if there’s anyone who can find him, it’s you and Sadiq. He
needs to know about this. Please, Kabir. Please get out of here.’
‘But . . .’
‘No! Besides, you have to get Asghar and his family from his house now and rush them to the Americans! You must rescue them! If the ISI knew about us, they definitely know about him!’
A lump formed in Kabir’s throat. His eyes welled up, despite him trying to hold back. There was little he could do. Vikramjit was right, though. Sadiq needed to know. And Asghar and his family needed to be saved. They also needed to find the person responsible for giving the Pakistanis a heads-up. If both of them died here, there would be more questions than answers. There was simply no choice, though Kabir had no qualms about sacrificing his life. Absolutely none. He pondered the possibilities for a few seconds, then stood upright and saluted Vikramjit.
‘Jai Hind, Vikramjit Singh! You shall not die in vain.’
‘Jai Hind, Major Anand! Jai Hind!’
Kabir shot one last look at Vikramjit, who had squeezed his eyes shut by then, swerved around and scrambled upstairs, his rifle at the ready.
13
4 September 2014
Kalat, Balochistan
There was a heavy silence as the sun peeped over the horizon. Kabir looked at the floor, his uneasy toes tapping away. Isha felt a great rush of sympathy towards him. Veer nurtured a deep admiration for his team leader. Nihar felt unsettled after listening intently to Kabir’s narration, by the disturbing death of a brave comrade. He could not even imagine what he would have done had he been in Kabir’s shoes.
‘What happened then?’ Nihar probed.
‘I got to Asghar’s house as fast as I could,’ Kabir said. ‘I found the door ajar. I feared the worst. As soon as I limped in, I saw Asghar and his family lying dead. The bastards had come to know of his intention to defect. Their bodies were peppered with bullets. It’s the worst thing I’ve seen.’
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