‘Salaam aleikum, Sadiq Sahab.’ A lump formed in his throat as he dropped his crutch and sat down beside the mound. He looked at it for a few more seconds.
Nothing can we call our own but death
And that small model of the barren earth
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
‘You were a brave man, sir. You inspired me. At my best, I couldn’t be half as good as you were.’
Kabir picked up a yellow leaf and looked at it. He closed his eyes as he remembered the first time he had met Sadiq. He was a hard man to impress on the training ground. And while the others were trying to work hard to show Sadiq how good they were, Kabir worked to prove it to himself. Sadiq liked that about him. Kabir found the corners of his eyes moistening.
‘I apologize if I ever did something you didn’t approve of. You were like a father to me.’ His voice trailed away. ‘And you still are.’
He sat there for another five minutes, enjoying the calm of the graveyard. He pulled out a handful of rose petals from the plastic bag and dropped them evenly all over the mud under which Sadiq’s body decomposed peacefully.
‘They were right in front of us, and the two of us couldn’t recognize the two of them. They did their jobs well, sir. And Vikramjit is dead now, for real.’
He rubbed the bridge of his nose.
‘I promise you one thing. The other bastard won’t live for long either. He is going to pay for what he has done, in the worst possible way.’
He clutched a handful of soil and let it slip through his hands, back on to the mound. He pushed himself off the ground and picked up his crutch.
‘Until we meet again, sir. Khuda hafiz.’
He trudged out with a heavy heart. But he was more determined than ever to kill the bastard who did this. He opened the door of the parked sedan and got in.
3 October 2014
Mumbai
Kabir had waited another day at New Delhi before he flew back to Mumbai with Isha. They went straight to his apartment. They had a quick lunch and spent some time together, after which she left for Pune to meet her mother. Kabir, on the other hand, hoped to go back to the college to have a word with the Principal. After that Isha and Kabir planned to meet again in the evening and spend the night until they had to travel.
Kabir went to the college. He was able to walk better than before, but still felt he needed the crutch. The watchman wished him a good afternoon. Kabir acknowledged him with a curt nod. He walked up the dusty wooden staircase and through the stony corridor before stopping outside the Principal’s cabin. He knocked sharply. There was no response. A peon passing by informed him that the Principal was on his rounds since the examinations were on, and he was taking a round of the classrooms to check if everything was in order. Kabir thanked him and walked towards the classes. He passed by the examination halls. The students, distracted at the drop of a hat, looked at him and then at each other.
One mumbled to another, ‘Ha, one game of football and he’s got a crutch.’
Kabir continued walking till he saw the tall Principal in a classroom. The Principal turned around and his eyes widened in surprise. He walked out with his characteristic stoop.
‘Hello, sir,’ Kabir said. ‘It’s been a while.’
‘Kabir, the way you left baffled all of us! And what has happened to your leg?’
‘I wish I could tell you, sir.’
‘What was it with the PMO? Why did they call you?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say, sir.’
‘Why are you here, Kabir?’
Kabir arched his eyebrows.
‘I would like to continue teaching the kids, starting next semester.’
The Principal looked thoughtfully at him.
‘Will there be any more phone calls?’
‘Only if you don’t take me back,’ Kabir quipped.
‘I’ve got a very good teacher to step in,’ the Principal said. He turned around and gestured to a lady dressed in a crisp shirt and long skirt to join them. She walked towards them quickly.
‘This is Professor Pallavi Pawar,’ said the Principal, introducing them. ‘And this is Professor Kabir Anand. He taught the kids literature before you were asked to fill in.’
There was an awkward silence. Professor Pawar broke the silence.
‘Does that mean my services aren’t needed any more?’
‘No.’ The Principal smiled. ‘Since the both of you are so good at what you do, you get to divide the workload and teach the kids.’
Kabir’s face relaxed into a dimpled smile. He didn’t want the poor lady to lose her job because of him. But he wasn’t feeling generous enough to let her have it at his expense.
‘Is that okay, Kabir?’
‘As long as I teach Shakespeare, I have no problem.’
The Principal smoothed his wavy grey hair and smiled. He began to walk away to check the other classes.
‘See you next semester, then.’
Kabir and Professor Pawar stood looking at each other.
‘Well,’ Kabir said, smiling, ‘you can take over the poetry bit of the subject.’
She shrugged.
‘I quite enjoy teaching Shakespeare myself, Professor Anand.’
Kabir smiled at her. She found him quite charming. The ponytail, the black T-shirt. The casual jeans. He looked nothing like a professor.
‘Well, you might just have to do that again. If I’m not available. When I’m not available.’
‘And when would that be?’
‘If only I knew.’
Epilogue
One week later
Dubai
Not a day had passed that he hadn’t looked over his shoulder. He knew he was relatively safe. The ISI had taken care of that. They had completely wiped him off the map, set him up in a good apartment, the perfect cover. He was given enough capital to start his own restaurant in the area of Al Shindagha, a beautiful neighbourhood in the traditional centre in the city. His restaurant was doing extremely well. He offered authentic South Indian fare in the middle of a marketplace not too far away from the Gold Souk. People poured into the little stylized restaurant to eat some vegetarian food on a banana leaf, in a city known for its meat preparations. Ashwin Narayan was not just a defector, or a traitor, as his country saw it, but a successful restaurateur as well.
It was midnight. Ashwin was cleaning up after the last customer had left. He looked at the time on his Rolex and decided it was time to go back home. He lived in a posh apartment in the Al Karama area, that he had bought with the money he had made selling secrets over the years. He pulled the shutters down, stepped into his Chevrolet sedan and turned on the ignition. He put on the radio to listen to the latest Bollywood tracks. He dialled a number on his phone and smiled to himself.
‘Can you come over within the hour? I’m in the mood for a little fun.’
‘Sure, darling.’
Money. Women. A great house. Ashwin had it all. He parked the car and went into the low-rise building. It wasn’t too flashy from the outside. It was just the way he liked it. The ISI had put some thought into it before transferring him there. He had been of great help over the years. He unlocked the door and stepped in. He began humming to himself as he switched on the dim light near the shoe rack. He took off his shirt hurriedly and decided to have a shower, before the call girl came knocking at his door. He began to sing a love song loudly as he undressed. He felt a coin drop out of his pocket and switched the light on to pick it up. His eyes fell on a ponytailed man with a beard, sitting comfortably on the couch with his arms crossed. Ashwin’s bare legs began to shiver.
‘Good thing you’ve got your undies on,’ Kabir said. ‘I wasn’t quite prepared to see you soil your carpet.’
‘W-who are you?’
‘Kabir Anand. Does the name ring a bell?’
Ashwin’s eyeballs bulged out of their sockets.
‘Of course it does, doesn’t it? You were the man Sadiq trusted that day in the c
ontrol room when he spoke to the Americans, when I was in Quetta with Vikramjit Singh. And by the way, this time he’s dead for real.’
Kabir stood up. Ashwin noticed he was wearing surgical gloves.
‘You were the man who killed Sadiq in cold blood after luring him into a trap.’
Ashwin trembled as Kabir walked up to him. He stumbled backwards and then rushed to a drawer nearby, searching frantically for his gun. Kabir stood with his hands in his pockets. He shrugged. The drawer was empty.
‘Just stop,’ Kabir said. ‘There’s no way you’re getting out of this alive.’
Narayan looked at Kabir and opened his mouth to say something. Words failed him.
‘No point begging for your life either.’ Kabir took a step closer. Ashwin looked at Kabir’s unforgiving eyes under his perfectly arched eyebrows.
‘You’ve sold your country out,’ Kabir continued. ‘You’ve killed a man like Sadiq Sheikh, who made the mistake of trusting you. And why did you do all this? For the money?’
Ashwin nodded feebly.
‘Good you accepted that,’ Kabir said. ‘I’m really sick of dealing with terrorists motivated by their religious ideals. Nice little apartment you’ve got here. Al Karama. Here’s an interesting fact. Al Karama literally means dignity. Want to know another interesting fact? Your death will be nothing close to dignified.’
Ashwin hung his head, feigning shame. He sneaked a quick look at his watch. Maybe if that girl gets here in time, there might be a way out.
‘Oh, I’m sure the delightful lady who is supposed to come tonight won’t quite make it upstairs. Thing is, I’ve asked a lady friend of mine to send her away.’
‘You’ll never get away with this, Anand!’ Ashwin spluttered uncontrollably.
‘That’s for me to worry about,’ Kabir said nonchalantly. ‘Within a few hours your bloated dead body will be floating in the waters of the Persian Gulf, never to be found again. If at all your carcass is found, it would be classified as a case of suicide. Which isn’t too far from the truth. The moment you killed Sadiq, you were a dead man yourself.’
‘You’re making a terrible mistake! They’ll hunt you down and tear you apart, piece by piece!’
‘Well, I wish them nothing but the best in their endeavours.’
Kabir took another step and leaned towards Ashwin. His voice lowered to a chilling whisper.
‘Do you remember Sadiq’s last words before you pulled the trigger?’
Ashwin’s jaw trembled. Kabir grasped his neck.
‘No? Well, I’m here to repeat them. I’m here to complete the lines he had left unfinished.’
‘Please,’ Ashwin gasped, ‘I have secrets! I can tell you things about Pakistan that you’d never know otherwise! About China as well!’
Kabir clucked his tongue.
‘Unfortunately, such negotiations can’t bail you out. Especially if you’re hoping for help from me. You’ve made a grave mistake. Luckily, you won’t live long enough to regret it. So now I’m going to ask you one final question. Any famous last words?’
Ashwin tried to wriggle himself free. He tried to scratch at Kabir and loosen his grip. Kabir clenched his fist and rammed it into Ashwin’s temple with one solid blow. Ashwin dropped to the ground. He began to lose consciousness. Kabir bent down over him and, like a lullaby, softly recited.
Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,
It seems to me most strange that men should fear;
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come when it will come.
Acknowledgements
The Bard of Blood is a work of fiction interspersed with facts, which draws from actual incidents and characters to give it a realistic backdrop. Creative liberties have been taken, and in no way does the book look to educate more than entertain. And in that endeavour I hope I have succeeded.
I have always been intrigued by the secret world of espionage and its role in the contemporary world. The Bard of Blood, though entirely a work of fiction, is my way of thanking the silent forces at work for ensuring that our country remains safe. These are men and women who place our interests above theirs, so that we can have a good night’s sleep.
This book wouldn’t have been in your hands had it not been for S. Hussain Zaidi. My mentor, teacher, a father figure and truly one of India’s best crime-writers, Hussain sir is a treasure trove of knowledge. He has guided me and entertained my questions at the unearthliest hours. Hussain sir, Velly ma’am and their two children, Ammar and Zain, are my second family. Thank you for being there!
I am also indebted to the immensely knowledgeable Brijesh Singh, Inspector General of Maharashtra Police, who bailed me out of the helpless position a writer often finds himself in. Thank you, sir, for your invaluable inputs!
I would also like to thank Glenn Carle, who was a career field operations officer of the Central Intelligence Agency. He helped me get my basic facts about terrorism in place before I set out writing this book.
Thank you, Chiki Sarkar, for reposing your faith in this project. It is an honour to be published by Penguin Random House, and I thank the entire team who worked on the book for making this possible. Thank you, Rachita Raj, my editor, who has ensured that the book reads well. Thank you, Shruti Katoch, for working on the publicity. Thank you, Gavin Morris and Saurav Das, for the great cover design!
Thank you, Pallavi Pawar, my English teacher from school. She is my friend and confidante, and words cannot express my gratitude. Love you, Miss P!
Mamatha Shetty, one of my other school teachers, had always told me that I have what it takes to be a writer. I didn’t quite believe it until now. Thank you, ma’am!
Vibha Singh ma’am, thank you for your helpful feedback on the story and its various smaller elements.
And then, of course, I would like to thank all my friends who didn’t quite contribute to the book directly, but have placed their confidence in me and have been there through thick and thin—Nabeel, Veer, Abdul, Siddhesh, Maria, Sonia, Nikita, Ketaki and many others who know who they are! I’m grateful to have friends like you! I would also like to thank all my colleagues at Red Chillies Entertainment who have taught me a lot in the past year!
And finally, I would like to thank my family—my parents, Mansoor and Farhat, my sister, Zayna, and my Nani, Hamida, for simply being the best in the world! I love y’all beyond measure.
I had told myself at the tender age of thirteen that I would write at least one book before I die. Well, seven years later, here we are. Now, on to the next one!
THE BEGINNING
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ISBN: 978-0-143-42396-6
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e-ISBN: 978-8-184-75032-4
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser and without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above-mentioned publisher of this book.
Blue Salt is an imprint dedicated to noir and crime, established by the bestselling writer S. Hussain Zaidi and co-published by Penguin.
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