Now the protesters were silent.
‘This is why you won’t find any terror attacks in Israel. This is why you will never see another 9/11 happening in the US. They will do the unthinkable, the unimaginable, to bring their enemies to justice. As for us, we keep getting bombed, because we are soft. We keep giving the world the impression that if anyone wants to screw us, we’re right here, come and do what you will with us.’
He saw that he had disturbed them. Good. That was the idea. But he had anticipated less resistance. They knew him, knew he was capable, competent. Few were as skilled as he was at strategizing, and he was a genius at planning missions. They knew that he must have worked on the idea before putting it to them, and that he was perfectly capable of carrying out the mission—to either kill or kidnap the three men—successfully.
But despite knowing all this, they were against him. Except the Opposition party members. ‘Incompetent fucks,’ thought the general. ‘They’re just supporting me because they think they have to contradict the government. This isn’t about government or politics, you fools. This is about our right to protect ourselves.’
Just then, his phone beeped. Frowning, he took it out, and at just that moment the door burst open and a man rushed in. He went over to the home minister and began to whisper frantically in his ear. The home minister’s face grew pale and his eyes widened. Involuntarily, he looked over at the general, who was smiling grimly, as he pocketed his cell phone.
Everyone looked expectantly at the minister when his lackey stood back, but it was Waris who spoke.
‘So, Daniel Bradley has been given a thirty-five-year sentence. In a luxurious five-star jail. AND THERE’S NOT A DAMN THING WE CAN DO ABOUT IT.’
There was a ripple of shock all through the room. The home minister stared at Waris, unable to say anything.
‘So you see, minister, you sit here and talk about justice, but Bradley will spend the rest of his life in a nice jail, gorging himself, working out, maybe even playing golf. Thirty- five years, and the sentence may be reduced later, or he may even be out on parole sooner.’
Slowly, the army man walked over to the home minister’s table, placed his fists on it and leaned forward.
‘This man was the reason 26/11 happened. He was the one who caused so much mayhem in Mumbai, and he will still be out there. And our people, our widows and orphans, will still be weeping here.’
Straightening to his full six feet two inches, Waris looked around. ‘You call this justice?’ he snarled. ‘Headley too needs to die.’
Without another word, he turned and strode out the door.
1
1 July 2013
Istanbul, 2 p.m.
Ordinarily, a raan is supposed to nourish the person who eats it. But the raan that was to be the highlight of this evening was different. It was designed to bring death.
‘That was a fruitful meeting,’ thought Sabahuddin Umavi, one of the masterminds behind the 26 November terror attack in Mumbai nearly five years ago. Umavi was a Ghazi, a stalwart of Islam, one who had despatched hundreds of Indian infidels to hell. The 26/11 carnage was the jewel in his jihadi crown.
And at that moment, Umavi was over the moon. Now was the time to celebrate!
Only a few minutes earlier, he had struck a deal with a Saudi Arabian organization that had enabled him to pocket half a million dollars. He could use the money to spread the spectre of mayhem and bloodshed across India: his lifelong goal. ‘I’m on my way to eternal glory,’ he thought, imagining life in a huge castle in Paradise, with thousands of nubile virgins at his disposal.
Umavi rubbed his hands in excitement as he paced the room, restless despite his victory and impatient to kickstart the celebrations. It had been a long time since he’d had raan, and this seemed like the perfect occasion to relish it. It was also fitting that he had struck the deal here in Istanbul, the home of that dish. The hotel he had checked into, the Marmara Taksim, was one of the biggest and the best, and their food and hospitality were world-famous. He had ordered several other delicacies as well, but his mouth watered in anticipation of the Royal Marmara Raan, even as his mind salivated at the havoc he would soon wreak.
In a room a couple of floors above his, two men sat listening very hard.
They could easily get into Umavi’s room through the air-conditioning vent, but that would defeat the entire purpose of their being there. They knew his room’s layout, how many men he had, and where they were stationed in the neighbouring room, how fit they were, their curriculum vitae of violence. That was why they had bugged the room just before Umavi had checked in.
Now, as Umavi made the call to room service, the two men heaved a collective sigh of relief. Things were going according to plan. They knew what they had to do.
One of them, a towering hulk of a man with an intimidating scowl and an even more intimidating moustache, clicked open his briefcase. He took out a small box, smaller than his palm, and looked at it suspiciously. ‘You really think this will work?’
The other man was busy changing into a garish yellow suit with a pink tie and alligator green shoes.
He glanced over and said, ‘Yes, it’ll work. Ray said it would.’
The first man opened the box and sniffed at the white powder inside. ‘Smells fine,’ he grunted. He gingerly touched a finger to the stuff and tasted it. ‘Tastes fine too, just like dry fruit.’
‘It is dry fruit. That’s the idea.’ The second man had finished dressing. He took a South-East Asian karambit knife from his suitcase, and tucked the curved edge of its claw into his belt, at the back. He then surveyed himself in the mirror and nodded, satisfied with his look. ‘I’m ready.’
‘All right, let’s go.’
The two of them walked out of their suite, avoiding the lift and climbing down two flights of stairs. They were now on Umavi’s floor.
‘You go to the other end. I’ll keep watch here,’ said the bigger man, who was clearly the leader.
His colleague nodded and strolled away to position himself just outside one of the floor’s lifts.
Their mission was clear. They had to wait for the room service trolley to arrive, spike the raan while distracting the waiter, and return to their room without attracting attention. They had to do it all without making the waiter suspicious, and without being spotted by the guards in the room next to Umavi’s, who had kept their door wide open. ‘Shit, I hope this works,’ the man in the yellow suit muttered under his breath as he walked on.
There were two lifts on the floor, one at either end, and he had to take his post at the other one; this was till they figured out which way the waiter would come. They had their cell phones ready in their hands. When one of them spotted room service, he would signal to the other.
They didn’t have to wait long.
In just under half an hour, the smaller man’s phone vibrated. His colleague had spotted the target.
He pocketed his phone and walked towards the other lift. As he turned the corner, he saw the waiter pushing his trolley forward, a bored expression on his face. There were several dishes on the trolley, draped with a white cloth, all of them covered with large dome plate covers; the one in the centre was the biggest and therefore the one with the raan, he knew immediately.
A few paces behind the waiter, he saw his leader walking quietly, his shoes silent on the carpeted corridor. It was now or never.
The waiter saw the man in the yellow suit approaching him and quickly assumed a more pleasant expression. He manoeuvred the trolley to one side, to let the guest pass. But the man in the yellow suit had other things in mind.
He stopped directly in front of the trolley, looking at the waiter, and slowly smiled. The waiter knew that smile, and knew what was coming. He slowed to a stop too. ‘Good afternoon, sir.’
The man strolled to the waiter’s side and stopped a few inches away. ‘Good afternoon. Where are you going?’
‘Delivering an order, sir.’
‘Ah.’ The man tou
ched the waiter’s elbow gently, then slid his hand down his side and behind.
‘Maybe you could delay that order for a few minutes?’
The waiter knew he couldn’t offend a guest, not without losing his job. ‘That’s very kind of you, sir. But I’m afraid I can’t delay. The gentleman who ordered this is a very important—’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the man smoothly. ‘I understand. But let me take a quick look at you. I haven’t seen such a fine specimen in a long time.’
He gently prised the waiter’s hands off the trolley, and grasped one of his hands. With the other, he gently turned him around, his hand still caressing the waiter’s behind.
‘You seem quite stiff. But that’s a spectacular arse you have, my friend. Why cover it clothes.’
The waiter grew flustered, and tried to gently discourage the man. In the process, he completely missed what was happening behind him.
The first man had stayed directly behind the waiter during the exchange, out of his line of sight. The moment the waiter’s back was turned, he lifted the biggest lid without a sound, opened the small box in his hand, and sprinkled the powder it contained all over the raan, over and around the meat, as well as the gravy. Then he replaced the lid, pocketed the box, and moved back behind the waiter.
The instant the man in the yellow suit saw that his colleague’s work was done, he smiled again, as if giving in to the waiter’s protests. ‘All right, my friend. But do visit me when you can. I’d like to get to know you a little better. Room 512.’
‘I shall certainly see to it that you get what you want, sir,’ said the waiter, straightening his coat and turning back to the trolley, not seeing the first man at all. ‘Goodbye, sir.’
The smaller man winked and strolled away. The waiter trotted off. He’d grown used to this by now. Most of the Saudi Arabians who stayed at the hotel seemed to like his physique and lusted after him.
The two men met again in their room upstairs. ‘Well, that was a bloody convincing show you put on. Sure you’re not gay?’
His colleague grinned. ‘Definitely not. My girlfriend can testify to that,’ he said, starting to change back into the drab black suit he’d been wearing.
‘Hmph. Anyway, what happens when the fellow gets to Room 512?’
‘Someone’s going to get a shock for sure,’ said the smaller man, chuckling.
His leader grunted again. He took the box out of his pocket and fingered it, looking troubled. ‘That raan was at least a kilo. Ray gave me twenty grams. I hope this thing works.’
‘It’s concentrated. It’ll work.’
The two men then positioned themselves next to the telephone, this time more anxiously than before.
Downstairs, the waiter had just reached Umavi’s room, but before he could knock, he encountered two burly men. Through the open door, they’d seen the waiter walk up and rushed over to check for discrepancies. One of them lifted the lid of every dish, checked the seals of the water bottles and lifted the white cloth to check the trolley, while the other patted down the waiter. Finally, when they were satisfied, they nodded.
Umavi’s ears perked up when he heard the knock. ‘Yeah?’
‘Room service, sir.’
‘Come in.’
The door opened and the waiter walked in, pushing the trolley. Umavi looked at his guards over his shoulder, questioningly, and they nodded to him. He nodded back as they closed the door, and turned his attention to the waiter, who was now unloading the dishes onto the dining table and pointing them out as he did. ‘This is the raan, sir, and the biryani, and the naan, and your dessert.’
After making sure he had arranged everything properly, the waiter looked up at Umavi. ‘Enjoy your meal, sir.’
‘Wait.’
The waiter turned back and faced Umavi. ‘Is there anything else I can do, sir?’
Umavi stared at him for a full minute, during which the waiter squirmed with discomfort. At last he said, ‘Take a spoon.’
Surprised, the waiter hesitated, then picked up a spoon from the platter.
‘Now taste the curry. Not the raan, the curry.’
‘But sir, I’m not supposed to have that. It’s for you!’ protested the waiter.
‘I know. I don’t care. Taste the curry.’
‘But sir, waiters shouldn’t eat the guests’ food, and—’
‘Shut up, you fool,’ hissed Umavi. ‘Your rules are for your other guests. I’m not like them. Now taste the fucking curry or I’ll make sure you’re fired by this evening.’
The waiter had protested enough. Slowly, he dipped the spoon into the curry and savoured it. There was no telling what guests might ask for, but this was a first.
‘Now have a tomato.’
The waiter picked up a piece of tomato from the raan and stuffed it into his mouth. He chewed it quickly, wanting to get out of the room and away from its eccentric occupant as soon as he could.
Umavi watched the man like a hawk, alert for any strange movement from him. But the waiter seemed fine. He didn’t become breathless, didn’t collapse to the floor, nothing. He waited until the man had gulped down the whole mouthful and then stood watching him for another minute. Then, when nothing happened, he waved his hand. ‘All right. Now you
can go.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
Umavi watched the man hasten to the door and rush out. As the door closed, he rubbed his hands in glee. It was safe.
Being a wanted man in several countries had made Umavi deeply cautious. Even in his satisfaction at having brokered a good deal, he refused to let his guard down. But this time at least, it seemed his fears had been groundless.
Sitting down at the table, he grasped the knife and cut himself a big piece of the raan. If he could, he would finish the whole thing; otherwise his guards could eat the rest.
Like a true Muslim, he began his meal with ‘Bismillahir Rehmanir Rahim’, but he rushed through the customary pre-meal prayer and broke off a piece as soon as he could manage. He stuffed it into his mouth and started chewing, eyes half closed, savouring the juicy morsel, the pure, unadulterated taste of it, remembering the last time he had raan, and realizing that this was infinitely tastier. But a part of his mind was still on the meeting he had had that morning. As he swallowed the first morsel, a strange signal went off in his brain, but he ignored it.
He started chewing on a second mouthful, and suddenly a thought occurred to him. Why would they want to give him half a million dollars when they had never actually met him?
He’d had this thought before, and had contemplated it from every angle he could think of, finally dismissing it as a blessing from Allah. But now, something didn’t seem right.
He swallowed the second mouthful.
The men he had met were from Saudi Arabia, or so they had said. Their paperwork had proven this. They said they were very happy with the work Umavi was doing. But how had they known about him in the first place? This was another question he had thought of earlier, but this time, it seemed more urgent.
As he bit into the third piece of raan, he began to feel a bit breathless. When he swallowed, the food seemed to be stuck in his throat. Then suddenly, he started to choke.
Alarm bells were now ringing in his mind: who were these guys who had come out of the blue and wanted to give him money and, more importantly, what was their real purpose?
By now, he couldn’t breathe at all. His head was starting to hurt from the lack of oxygen, and a blanket of darkness seemed to be descending in front of his eyes.
He spied the jug of water on the table and lurched forward, trying to grab it. But his body felt heavy and he fell to the floor, clutching at the table. His hand caught the big dish of raan and it fell to the floor beside him, making no noise on the carpeted floor.
His body was failing fast and he couldn’t find the strength to move his ninety-six kilo frame – but his mind, panic-stricken as it was, was still racing. He realized that the meeting had been a sham, and that
the men he had met had done this to him. But what had they done? The waiter had been fine, so it couldn’t be poison and yet, he could feel his life ebbing. His heart was beating wildly and he felt as if someone was strangling him. He struggled to get to the water, knowing all the while that he wouldn’t make it. He couldn’t move at all now, and there was no way he could alert his guards outside.
Those men had killed him! But how? How had they done it? What was happening to him?
All at once, he saw a crowd of faces in front of him. Bleeding, crying, wailing, crippled people. These were the dead, the victims of his actions. But why were they crowding around him now? To escort him to his final destination?
Then, through the crowds of the dead, his hallucinating eyes watched as a monstrous giant appeared. His eyes were red, blazing with anger, and his contorted face was the embodiment of rage.
But a black blanket began to envelope his vision. Finally, the darkness in front of Umavi’s eyes was complete. His body stopped twitching. His final, thwarted attempt at breathing failed. In his suite on the ninth floor of the Marmara Taksim, the great warrior Umavi died, knowing who had killed him but unable to save himself.
In the room two floors above, the two men got up. Their highly sensitive bugs had just informed them that Umavi had collapsed. Earlier they had planted a listening device outside the window, hanging by a thin thread not visible to the naked eye. The bug was supposed to relay the slightest of sounds in the room, including a shuffling of papers.
The taller man knelt beneath the AC duct and the shorter man climbed on his shoulders to reach it. He clung to the ceiling for a moment, then forced himself up through the opening. The taller man followed, though it was slightly more difficult for him. Especially since he could hear footsteps approaching. By the time they had dropped silently onto the floor of Umavi’s room from the AC duct above, Umavi was stone dead, the veins in his throat standing out, his hands clawing at his chest, eyes bulging from a red face.
As the smaller man watched, his colleague silently went to the centre table in the living-room area, picked up a bowl of hazelnuts, and emptied more than half of them into his pocket. Then he brought it down on the dining table.
Mumbai Avengers Page 2