‘Chacha, I have no idea. Things should’ve gone smoothly.’
‘Is there a Plan B?’
‘It’s like an alarm. In half an hour it will wake you up.’
‘No,’ the man replied exasperatedly. ‘That’s not good enough. Do the honours yourself. I don’t care about the risk involved.’
The tall man disconnected the phone. He saw a police combat vehicle approach, accompanied by three policemen on their bikes. He hurried back into his van to avoid arousing any suspicion. His rifle lay in a duffel bag in the trunk. He needed to assemble it quickly. He needed to take the shot himself. Pull the trigger on Bocheng. And if possible, on his wife as well.
Should I take the shot from somewhere nearby itself? No! Can’t risk being spotted. A security sniper will take me out in no time.
He had left the engine of the van running, in order to make a quick getaway. He pushed the pedal to the metal and set off. Little did he know that the main reason why he had to improvise had already spotted him.
Kabir came rushing out of the enclosure. Isha and the two men were still with the bomb. The armoured combat vehicle screeched to a halt and two officers jumped out, followed by a bomb squad. They saw Kabir’s lithe figure rushing towards them. He was still in his vest, which was completely drenched and had several stains of blood on it.
‘Give me the keys to your bike,’ he gasped. ‘Quick! My colleague Isha is in that enclosure. She’ll explain everything to you.’ The man handed him the keys. ‘And the gun,’ he asked as he hopped on to the bike. The man handed him his pistol. Kabir revved the bike and sped off. His eyes followed the van all along. Now he had to catch up. In his head he made a mental calculation of the time left for the bomb to set off. Twenty-five minutes . . . A man to catch . . . A political assassination of insanely epic proportions to be averted . . . A bomb to be deactivated . . . A war to be prevented . . . And all I have is twenty-five minutes . . . A man I am cross’d with adversity.
27
19 September 2014
Ahmedabad, Gujarat
The van wove through the traffic effortlessly. The assassin had reached the junction where he needed to take a U-turn and cross over to the other side of the river. He made a quick turn and got on to the bridge. He picked up speed and cast a quick glance at his wristwatch. He needed to scout for a good vantage point and then assemble his sniper-rifle. There was a lot of work to do. He had a good twenty minutes in hand. After that the bomb would go off. And then they would whisk away the PM and President immediately, before cordoning off the area. This has to be quick and precise. He looked at his rear-view mirror out of sheer habit, to see if anyone was following. Nobody was.
As he crossed the bridge, he cast a glance at the riverfront promenade. He had half a mind of stopping the van there, assembling his rifle and taking the shot. But he needed to be quick about it. And stopping his vehicle midway was bound to arouse suspicion. The good part was, if he did manage to make the shot, it would’ve been a clean getaway. No security on the bridge. No CCTV. The cartridge of the bullet would fall in the vehicle itself. No trace left behind. He had slowed down as he continued to mull over his options. He decided against it. He put his foot back on the pedal and zoomed ahead. All I need is a high building.
He had crossed the bridge and was on the main road. He kept a mental track of his position vis-à-vis the position of the podium on which the PM and President were to stand for their photo-op. According to the itinerary, the folk dances would probably be on right now, followed by a quick photo session and, ultimately, the grand dinner. He scoffed to himself. A frivolous thought crossed his mind. They’re going to feed the poor Chinese President vegetarian dishes. If I don’t get a good shot, I’ll probably have to wait for him to choke over the dinner he’s served.
He moved ahead and saw that the signal at the next crossing was about to turn red. He accelerated, manoeuvred the van skilfully and took a sharp left. He passed a few local stores and a few high-rises. They looked too busy to walk into. Even if he did successfully make his way into such a building, it wouldn’t be long before some resident alerted the guards. He needed something quieter. Stealth was a priority. At least until he got his bullet into Bocheng’s gullet. After that he had no issues creating a ruckus, even if it resulted in his own death. He was prepared to die, as long as he had done what he had lived for in the first place.
He cruised along until he found the perfect building, so to speak. A construction site. It’s evening, and the workers look like they’re on a break. The guard is still at the gate. Need to find a way around. He parked the van and stepped out. He lifted his duffel bag with the rifle over his shoulder and walked along the dusty pavement. Luckily, not too many people were around. He turned again to check if he was being followed. Since he couldn’t enter through the main entrance without drawing attention, he decided to climb over the aluminium sheets and get inside the compound. He took the support of the rusty metal frame that held the corrugated sheets together and pulled himself up. He threw his bag down and jumped over to the other side.
A solitary worker with his protective headgear and jacket was walking by with a shovel. He looked at the assassin confusedly. The assassin, however, had made his decision. He punched the bewildered worker, breaking his nose. And then he choked him to death. He dragged the body into a corner and pushed it into a pit. He pulled out the worker’s jacket, strapped it on and put on his helmet. He picked up his bag and resumed his path. He walked, concealing his face from the few workers that were sitting in a group as they sipped from small glasses of tea between the shifts. He saw just what he wanted. Two elevators made especially for the workers. They weren’t the normal kind. They were merely a metal frame with a steel mesh all around, but extremely sturdy, so that heavy loads could be carried up easily.
It was a high building, twenty floors, probably. The framework had been laid out. The tall man activated the lift and it sped up quickly to the top. Within thirty seconds he was on the top floor. After climbing a short flight of stairs, he pushed open a flimsy door and walked out on to the terrace. He stepped on to the mortar and cement, leaving behind a trail of footprints. He hurried to a spot and pulled out his scope. There were small mounds of debris all around him, little tin and plastic containers, cylinders of steel and other construction material. He found a short wall of bricks, which hadn’t been set with cement yet. It was the perfect support for his rifle. He unzipped his duffel bag.
The McMillan Tac-50 Caliber Sniper Rifle. Fifteen parts when broken down. A minute and a half to assemble. The same rifle with which the world record for the longest successful tactical combat shot was fired by a Canadian soldier, who was more than 2 kilometres away. I’m definitely within one and a half. He gets to keep his record.
The man quickly looked through his scope. He could see the riverfront. It was going to be a difficult shot. But he backed himself up to make it. He needed to take the shot when Bocheng was on the stage. That would give him a good time-frame and a wider target. He had almost assembled the rifle. Just a few screws left to tighten. A bullet to be loaded. He had one shot, and he had to make it count. He looked at his watch. Seventeen minutes before the bomb goes off. He mounted the gun on the brick wall and clasped his hands. They were clammy with perspiration. He breathed in deeply. And then he heard a faint metal clank. His lift had made the same noise when it had reached the floor before the terrace. Someone’s here.
Kabir had tailed the assassin successfully. He rode his bike into the compound and asked every worker to get out immediately. They looked confused and scoffed at the shabby man in a vest, mistaking him for a drunkard. And then he showed them his gun and led them out quietly, lest the assassin get alerted. Isha had followed Kabir in a police car. She had been on a call with Joshi throughout. She relayed his instructions to Kabir. She wanted to join him.
‘No way,’ Kabir rasped. ‘Where’s the bomb?’
‘Where we left it. A bomb squad is dealing with it.’
‘Do as I say. Listen to me very carefully.’
He instructed her briefly and walked away. He used the other construction elevator and sped up to the top floor. Every muscle in his body ached. But that could be repaired. An international disaster of this scale couldn’t.
Kabir stepped out of the elevator, his gun in position. He noticed that a flimsy door to the terrace was ajar. The assassin is here. He climbed two steps at a time, stealthily. It was beginning to get dark outside. A faint light-bulb, hanging from a couple of wires, flickered. He decided to walk through the door. It was eerily silent on the terrace. He could see the Sabarmati from where he stood. He took another step ahead. And then another.
And then he fell to the ground with a dull thud. His brain shook within his skull. He could taste the mortar. He felt the warmth and wetness of blood oozing out and soaking his hair. The assassin stood behind him with a metal spade. Maybe this was it . . . This was where I fail . . .
The assassin lifted the spade again and was about to bring it down, when Kabir rolled over. The assassin missed. Kabir’s vision was blurred. Kabir launched a kick into his shin that made the assassin stumble forward. He kicked him again, dropping him to the floor, right next to him.
The mauve sky offered just enough light for him to see the assassin’s face. His body went numb as their eyes met. Both of them froze with disbelief, simultaneously. Their bodies lay on the wet cement, refusing to budge. Kabir’s bloodshot eyes widened as his vision began to come back to normal. He couldn’t quite process what he just saw. Or whom he just saw.
Vikramjit Singh.
28
19 September 2014
Ahmedabad, Gujarat
There were a few more seconds of stunned silence. Vikramjit was the first to recover. He rammed his fist into Kabir’s face. Kabir felt a sharp pain in his cheekbone. Vikramjit slid away and got back on to his feet. Kabir rolled over sluggishly, trying to get up. His body refused to comply. Vikramjit launched another kick into Kabir’s ribs. Kabir dropped back on to the ground. Vikramjit grabbed a handful of Kabir’s hair and dragged him up. He took Kabir’s pistol, dropped the magazine out and threw it aside. Kabir’s eyes burned with hatred.
‘Well, it’s been a while . . . Adonis . . .’
Vikramjit smiled and kneed Kabir brutally in his solar plexus. Kabir clutched his stomach and stumbled backwards. He spat blood out as his back hit the wall.
He let out a single blood-mingled word: ‘Why?’
Vikramjit looked at his watch. He looked down from the terrace. There were a good ten minutes. And he’s not brought backup. Some things never change.
‘No backup? Your arrogance has proved to be your undoing. Same old overconfident Kabir,’ Vikramjit said with a wry smile. ‘Always wanting to be the hero.’
‘Why?’ Kabir shivered with rage. A stream of blood flowed through his left nostril. ‘Why did you do this to your country?’
‘This is not my country. I am an orphan thanks to this country.’ Vikramjit’s words spewed bitter venom. ‘My father was an honest Kashmiri Muslim. In fact he was one of the few Kashmiri Muslims who supported the Indians. And my mother was a Hindu who converted to Islam. It was all going well, until you people came into the picture.’
He paused. His eyes glimmered with rage as he told his tale.
‘One fine day, three of your soldiers stormed in and accused my father of being a terrorist, because of his religion. They killed him and raped my mother to death. They planted evidence to suggest he was indeed what they claimed he was. I was young. I watched all of this from outside the house. Had I been in our cottage, they would’ve killed me too. Unflinchingly.’
His eyes were blood-red. His strong jaw set firmly. He swallowed to clear the lump in his throat.
‘But I lived. I lived to exact a cruel revenge—vendetta. Ever since that day I was bound by the darkness of revenge. And God knows I had to wait a long time for the day to come. But today I will get the revenge I have been seeking when I put a bullet through Bocheng’s skull. China will annihilate your country, and there will not be a thing you can do about it.’
‘Those three soldiers don’t stand for the rest of us,’ Kabir said, crawling in an attempt to push himself back on his feet. ‘There are people like that on every side. Evil isn’t bound by a country or a religion. You don’t have to do that, Vikramjit.’
‘That is not my fucking name. You never knew me, Kabir. It was all an act. I was well trained in Kashmir, in the harshest of conditions, to deal with the most unthinkable of pain. To work my way out of the trickiest of situations. I’m bound by Allah’s course. The course of jihad. And He will guide me through this.’
Vikramjit lifted his rifle and adjusted the muzzle. He walked ahead and jammed the muzzle into Kabir’s neck. Kabir coughed uncontrollably.
‘Allah doesn’t teach his children to kill innocent people. No religion, no God has ever taught anyone to kill innocents. We use this as an excuse to quench our thirst for blood,’ Kabir growled through gritted teeth, his voice trailing away. ‘The difference is that some of us accept the reality, the destructive power of human beings, the others pin it on God. A god whose words they twist to suit their fucked-up mentalities!’
Vikramjit took the butt of the rifle and rammed it on Kabir’s forehead. His head hit the cement with a dull thud.
‘Exactly, Kabir. I’m not killing anybody innocent here. None of you are innocent,’ Vikramjit roared back. ‘I have lived to avenge my innocent parents and every innocent life that has been taken by your country! Where was your quest for righteousness then, you bastard? I have been burning with a desire to see your country up in flames! And today is that day! I will kill Bocheng and then I will kill you. Spare you the pain of seeing your country torn to shreds in war!’
Vikramjit tightened the scope and kept the gun leaning against the brick wall. He walked towards Kabir. Kabir realized he had to stall him. Muster up enough strength to go and attack him. Vikramjit threw a punch at Kabir, which he evaded. Kabir, in turn, jammed his fist into Vikramjit’s ribs. And then dug his nails into the hollow between the breastbone and the Adam’s apple. This unsettled him a bit, as he gasped for air. Kabir threw another quick set of punches. Vikramjit blocked them and moved away, as Kabir staggered ahead. Kabir swung his arm, but Vikramjit was quicker. He stepped aside, bent down and pulled Kabir’s leg towards him with his right hand and pushed his chest away with his left, in a clinical takedown. Kabir rolled on the ground. Vikramjit launched his heel into Kabir’s weak lower back, sending him flying into the flimsy terrace door. The door broke and some plaster dropped on to Kabir. I can’t give up. I have to stop him. And then, if the beating of my heart stops, so be it. He pushed himself up with the support of the loose door-frame.
Kabir sprang up, clutching a rusty metal rod. He charged towards Vikramjit and clubbed it against his knee. Vikramjit fell to the ground. Kabir lifted the rod above his head and brought it down on his skull. Vikramjit groaned. Kabir lifted it again, to go for the jugular. Vikramjit got hold of a rock and flung it at Kabir’s chest. It bought him enough time to move aside and tug Kabir by the shin and drop him down.
‘Kabir, you’re not going to make it out alive this time,’ Vikramjit said. ‘This is God’s script. And this is how it ends.’
He picked up a spade and swung it at Kabir. Kabir ducked, missing it by a whisker. He picked up a handful of cement and flung it at Vikramjit’s face. It went into his eyes and mouth, and he moved away reflexively. Kabir realized it was his chance to get rid of the rifle. Probably throw it over the wall and off the terrace. He ran to grab it, when Vikramjit tripped him. He fell forward, face down. Kabir managed to get a hold of the rifle and pulled it towards him. He hit it hard against the ground. Two loose pieces separated, because they weren’t tightened well enough. Vikramjit was quick to grapple with him and push the rifle away. Kabir slithered out and got hold of a loose brick. He hit it against Vikramjit’s head. A stream of blood followed a dull noise. He
caught him in a chokehold.
‘How did you do it?’ Kabir growled.
‘You think I’m the only one?’ Vikramjit’s smile was bloody. ‘Years of training. I was planted into India. I was an orphan with no traceable background. A new name, a new identity. No records. I studied and worked to get into the Indian forces. I did the unthinkable by getting into your system. I sacrificed one of my own operatives, Haneef Sayyed, to climb up the ladder and win your trust. It was all like a one-sided game of chess, but nobody ever looked at it that way. After I had proved my mettle, I got the posting of my choice: Balochistan.’
Vikramjit broke into a wild laugh, as Kabir tried to choke him harder. His shoulder, however, had given up on him. It couldn’t produce the strength he needed. Vikramjit realized this and bashed the back of his head into Kabir’s face. Kabir coughed blood. Vikramjit turned around, picked up the spade again and slammed it into Kabir’s dead shoulder. Kabir yelled in pain. His body was momentarily paralysed. He could barely move a finger. Vikramjit lifted the spade and brought it down on Kabir’s right knee. Kabir grimaced.
‘Balochistan!’ Vikramjit laughed. ‘I was doing a fine job in Balochistan. A double agent in the midst of one of the most conflicted regions! I withheld information from India. I leaked every bit of intel that came my way to the ISI and every jihadist outfit. I pledged allegiance to the Amir himself. I was deemed one of the most skilled operatives. I was held back to destroy your country when the opportunity was right. And I could do it from the inside, without even raising a few eyebrows! In fact, I was quite at ease with myself when I taught at the madrasa. Until you came along. Sadiq Sheikh’s blue-eyed boy. The flamboyant Kabir Anand!’
The Bard of Blood Page 23