‘Of course, because the United Kingdom would never do a thing like that,’ said Sky snarkily, adding, in a calmer and more sincere tone, ‘I just want to tail him and keep an eye on him. Give us access to him and tell your boys not to throw a spanner in the works.’
‘No funny business?’ Perry asked half-heartedly. He did not particularly care about the man’s fate.
‘Well, I can’t promise you anything, but I have heard he may be one of the people in charge of rounding up disenfranchised and disillusioned youths to take part in some brutal attacks, like the one that claimed Lee Rigby’s life this year,’ said Sky, stretching the truth but not exactly lying; he was using his famous sting-in-the-tale strategy. It was sure to get Perry’s undivided attention.
There was a long silence. Then, with a resigned sigh, Perry said, ‘Sky, you can courier the package to any destination.’
He immediately disconnected the line and smiled to himself. He had got what he wanted. He called Waris at once.
‘Vishwas teri shakti hai, sangharsh teri bhakti hai, tera karm hi teri vijay hai (Confidence is your strength, struggle is your worship, your action is your victory).’
Waris replied, ‘Aameen Summa Aameen (Amen, again Amen)’.
He called his team and gave them the go-ahead.
The wheels were in motion.
Wajid Mir was dressed in his expensive Armani suit and carried a small briefcase in his hand. He cleared the immigration formalities at Heathrow and exited the airport, looking like one of the rich Asian men who arrived there regularly on business.
The weather was pleasant by London standards. June usually provides a welcome respite from the gloomy weather but this year it was proving to be a soggy month. A spotless black Mercedes Benz S-class stopped in front of the man. The chauffeur opened the car door and Mir entered the vehicle regally, as if obliging him.
As the luxury vehicle left the airport complex and pulled onto the motorway, an ordinary looking taxi began trailing it at a safe distance. One of the lessons Sky had learnt from the CIA was that any unmarked car that follows another can be spotted after three traffic signals; cabbies, however, are less likely to be spotted.
The cab was being driven by Kang, and seated behind him was Brijesh. They knew that Mir had a booking at the Grosvenor House Hotel. Mir’s choice of hotel stemmed from the fact that he rather enjoyed the room service and the courtesy of the staff. The hotel management drew their staff from a pool of Polish girls and Turkish boys through a recruitment agency, and it seemed they were specifically trained to handle ill-mannered Asians who liked to be showered with attention.
Mir checked in with a passport that bore the name of Tabrez Alam and had been issued in Islamabad. He had twenty-four passports, including some with Christian names. Simply put, he was the most elusive operative in the world of terror. So far, none of the agencies had tracked him. He trusted no one and was always on his guard. He did not like anyone looking at him for longer than was strictly necessary. If they did, he immediately became suspicious – even if a pretty girl looked at him and smiled. Any member of the hotel staff who showed any extra bit of hospitality made him sceptical. He could never be caught off guard, which is why he had survived so long.
As Mir slid into a huge bathtub and relaxed, his thoughts wandered to his current mission.
Syria was on his mind. He was supposed to take a flight to Amman and then sneak into Damascus. Saudi Arabia had financed this project for Al Nusra, which had openly affiliated itself with ISIS. They were keen on overthrowing the Bashar Al-Assad government and establishing the caliphate. Things weren’t going well for Assad as the entire West was opposed to his regime and he was finding it difficult to face the combined and multi-dimensional onslaught of his enemies with Israel, Al Qaeda, America and Saudi Arabia lining up against him. All he had was the covert support of Iran.
Then the tide had suddenly turned in his favour. As Russia stepped in to upbraid Israel and warn America, Assad’s regime got a shot in the arm. Vladimir Putin dispatched Yakhont anti-ship cruise missiles to the region and was planning to send sophisticated S-300 anti-aircraft batteries and other ammunition.
Russia wished to play the same sort of role that France had in Algeria, which ensured that hardline radicals could not take over the government. The US on its part had plans to dismantle the Islamic state in Iraq and Syria – which involved some tacit cooperation with Assad – and for now, the Syrian president breathed a little easier.
All the top strategists, planners and commanders, including Wajid Mir, were summoned for an urgent meeting. He was supposed to enter Damascus through Jordan’s border, and then put together a contingent that would launch a cohesive push and disrupt the supplies of Russian weaponry so that they did not reach Syria.
Russia is only a twenty-four-hour drive from Aleppo, Syria’s northernmost metropolis. Having crushed a Muslim fundamentalist uprising in Chechnya and Dagestan at the turn of the century, and having stood up for a friendly Chechen state government in the aftermath, Moscow remained wary of the spread of radical Muslim movements in nearby Levant. Over fifteen per cent of Syrians are Christians, many of them belonging to the Eastern Orthodox branch that has its roots in Russia itself. These Orthodox Christians, a key constituency for Putin, had opposed the overthrow of the secular Ba’athist government, seeing it as a protector.
Mir was slowly formulaing a strategy to counter the Russians’ designs when a phone call disturbed him. It was Hamid, his man Friday in London. ‘Salam Janaab. Angrezi kutte tumhari boo soongh rahe hain.’ The British dogs are sniffing around for you. Mir froze. This was totally unexpected. He had the perfect cover: of a businessman about to set up distribution headquarters in London. His papers were in meticulous order. Nobody knew about his mission except his ISI handler, Brigadier Shamshad Khan.
He had to immediately leave the hotel and find his way to the safe house nearby, a flat in Hounslow. His only regret was that he didn’t have the change to tip the young housekeeper. As he stepped out of the hotel, Hamid called again. ‘Khan sahib had called, he wants you to avoid Hounslow and proceed to Southall instead.’
Mir got into the first cab he could find and stated his new destination. Southall, with its Pakistani and Punjabi population, would be better than Hounslow, which was a favourite with the young Indian techies. Crowded Southall, with its numerous Asian shops and groceries, would also offer more options to satiate Mir’s various desires.
Mir was at once at home amidst restaurants and takeaways named Lahore Kabaabwala and Karachi ki Kadhai. Southall was a good hideout. Besides, the money shops were open for extended hours on holidays and weekends to facilitate the easy transfer of funds.
Mir did not know that his presence in Southall had made Brijesh and Vikrant’s job much easier.
Over the next few days, women, food and wine kept Mir busy. Southall was like a homecoming for him and he indulged lavishly. This was the part of the trip where he was meant to relax and satiate his whims. He had to lie low for the next couple of days until his coordinators decided to get in touch with him. Then he would make his trip to the midlands for the cricket match at Edgbaston.
An Australia-England encounter is always exciting, especially when Australia is on tour. But Mir was going to the match to receive a crucial bit of information that would help him in his trip to Damascus. He didn’t know the identity of the person who would give him the chip, except that he would be a fellow Pakistani who had spent years in Syria.
Meanwhile, Waris was still trying to figure out the reason for Mir’s trip. If there was a terror plot brewing, the British anti-terror agencies would have some inkling of it. However, at this juncture, they thought it prudent not to interact with their British counterparts.
One option was to get Mir into a situation that would bring the police in. But the continuous vigil on Mir did not yield any unusual results. He was on a proper tourist visa, getting drunk in his flat while listening to Hindi songs, and the women visiting h
im belonged to a notorious but legal local club.
Finally, the army officers decided to maintain a watch on Mir by turns and in disguise. They knew they would have to wait patiently and bide their time until the match on 11 September.
Their temporary cover for being in the stadium had already been provided to them. They just had to look for an opportunity to strike. Kang was supposed to provide backup, Vikrant was supposed to play the part of a waiter, and Brijesh had been given a cleaner’s job.
The relatively relaxed security measures at the entrance did not surprise them. Scotland Yard was known to sanitize through various other means and at different levels. After the 7/7 bombing, they had prevented several terror attacks by close surveillance and pointed intelligence inputs, unlike anything that India had managed.
But this was not the time to reflect on the structural defects of many Indian intelligence. Mir may not be a trained agent but his physical prowess matched his sharp mind. The Indian trio was ready to strike, but the question was: were they ready for Mir?
12
Birmingham
The midland city of Birmingham is the second most populous in Britain and home to a sizeable south Asian population. Starting off as a manufacturing and engineering hub, the city soon became home to numerous British cultural movements, including two of England’s oldest football clubs, and it was this sport that took precedence over all others. If Lord’s was where visiting teams generally began their England tours, Edgbaston was traditionally where they came to be annihilated in the swinging conditions and on the seaming track. It seemed Mir’s fate was to be somewhat similar today.
The atmosphere at Edgbaston was reputed to be the most hostile in England for visiting teams. At a ground whose official capacity was 25,000, there had been instances when over 32,000 spectators had watched a match. Today was one such day.
After all, this was among the most keenly fought contests in the history of cricket. With the five-match series tilted 1-0 in Australia’s favour, this match—the third in the series—was one England needed to win, to keep alive their chances of winning the series. A loss for Australia would not be quite as disastrous, but their momentum would take a hit.
Despite the typically English weather – rainy, overcast, cold and windy – the atmosphere was electric,with smiling painted faces and flags fluttering in the stands. This was one of those days when the Aussies and the English would rediscover their rabid rivalry and let loose at each other. It was a shame that when the game finally got underway after a seemingly never-ending delay due to the rain, only fifteen overs of play were possible before the fixture had to be abandoned.
Amidst the numerous south Asian faces in the crowd, one small group in the VIP enclosure of the West Stand caught the eye of Brijesh and his cohorts. Built only a couple of years ago at the site of the previous William Ansell Stand, the West Stand had two large tiers of seating. Apart from an Edgbaston suite, it had a 750-seat banqueting and exhibition space whose bright blue presence was a distinctive feature of both the inside and the outside of the ground.
The group inside the suite was made up of slickly clad men in impeccably tailored suits, smoking cigars and drinking Coke in elegant glasses that were better suited for something more potent. Wajid Mir and his entourage could easily have been mistaken for corporate bigwigs or powerful business magnates, engrossed in their laptops and spreadsheets. They seemed to be talking very animatedly and intensely, barely bothered about the fact that the players had fled to the pavilion for the umpteenth time that day.
As they sat watching, Brijesh and his group looked far less glamorous than the ‘businessmen’. Two of the three were in waistcoats, holding trays, and the third was in a white shirt and sported a cap with a local cleaning agency’s logo. The trio were in the Wyatt Stand, which consisted of a single tier of seating beneath two rows of executive boxes. The stand also included two pitch-view restaurants: the Marston’s Suite and the Executive Suite.
‘He doesn’t seem to be talking too much,’ Vikrant said. ‘Hasn’t even had much of his Coke.’
‘How much of the xypamide did you drop in it?’ Brijesh asked, adjusting his cap.
‘Enough to make him want to rush to the loo.’
‘Should’ve put more,’ Kang butted in. This was Kang’s first outdoor assignment. Although he did not have much of a role, Waris had wanted him on the team. ‘For orientation and as a warm up for the next assignment,’ he had said.
Kang was nervous to begin with, but when he saw Brijesh and Vikrant behaving as if they were on a picnic, his anxiety dissipated and he calmed down.
Earlier, Vikrant had surreptitiously dropped xypamide into a Coke glass when he had gone into Mir’s stand as a waiter. Mir was a man of many acquired tastes and ideas, and one of these was that lemon enhanced the flavour of everything. He always had Coke with a wedge of lemon in it. This had made Vikrant’s task even simpler; he spiked the lemon wedge, saturating it with xypamide beforehand.
Xypamide is a diuretic that is used across the world by athletes and body builders who are on regular steroids; it flushes out the remnants of dope through excessive urine.
The team wanted Mir to make frequent trips to the washrooms, so that he could be cornered. Supposing the toilet was busy and they could not get access to him, they needed for there to be a second time to get him.
‘Put more?’ snorted Vikrant. ‘So that he overdoses right there and chokes on his own vomit.’
‘Okay,’ Brijesh interjected. ‘Let’s go to our designated posts. I’ll be in the hallway, you go back to the bar. As soon as you see him getting up, let me know through the earpiece.’
‘If I want you out of there, I’ll say “going down legside” and if the coast is clear, I’ll say “daylight between bat and pad”’, added Brijesh.
He picked up the metal broomstick and sanitizing liquid and walked out, away from the balcony. Vikrant and Kang moved away from each other, and Vikrant shot another look at Mir’s entourage; the man of the hour was sipping luxuriously on his Coke.
‘Hey pal,’ an English patron summoned Vikrant. ‘Get me a beer!’
‘Yes sir,’ Vikrant smiled. With the match providing very little entertainment, the ticket-buying public had to find other ways to entertain themselves. He walked to the bar and got the man a beer, then trudged out to the balcony and watched the crowd enjoying their day out, even as the players returned to the pavilion for another rain break. After a cursory look at some of the interesting faces in the crowd, his attention shifted back to the West Stand enclosure. He was taken aback by what he saw. Rather, by what he didn’t see. Wajid Mir’s single-seater sofa was vacant.
He had walked out sometime between when the Englishman had called him over and right now – a window of eight and a half minutes. The other men seemed to have stopped talking so animatedly, now that Mir was gone. They watched the attendants desperately mopping the soggy field, in vain.
Vikrant’s eyes fell on Mir’s glass. It was empty.
‘Brijesh, target approaching the toilet. I repeat, target approaching the toilet!’ Vikrant said into his watch. To an onlooker, it would appear he was muttering about being late after having seen the time on his watch.
‘Copy that,’ Brijesh said, as he swept the floor. ‘I saw him coming twenty seconds ago. He’s walking into the washroom.’
Brijesh followed Mir till the washroom door and was about to follow him in, when he felt a strong hand land on his shoulder. Mir had already gone inside. Brijesh took a second to get his story straight in his mind, before turning to face whoever had stopped him in his tracks.
‘Do you mind telling me why you’re stopping me from doing my work?’ He said belligerently to Mir’s heavily built, lightly bearded guard. ‘Unless you want to do my job of cleaning the loo, I suggest you get your hand off my shoulder.’
The guard eased his grip and gently pushed him aside to show that he was still in charge. Brijesh opened the door and walked in but the washroom was
empty. He walked hurriedly to the urinals, and saw none of them were being used. His mind began to race. Had Mir’s security guard found some way of signalling to his boss that he was being tracked and had he then made his exit? No, that was impossible. The windows of this particular loo were sealed and double-glazed. There was no way he could have climbed out.
Then it hit him. Wajid Mir was a staunch Muslim and like other staunch Muslims, he sat down to pee. He was an Orthodox jihadi who did not mind having a flute or two of champagne, but he would always urinate squatting. Brijesh heard the flush and continued with his charade of cleaning the floor.
Mir walked out, zipping up his trousers. He was startled for a moment to see Brijesh, sweeping the floor nonchalantly. Mir went to the wash basin and turned the tap on. He washed his hands and then bent slightly, cupping his hands with water to splash on his face.
Suddenly he appeared to have felt the urge to urinate again and contemplated stepping into the cubicle – then decided against it as the need was not yet urgent. In that moment, he did not pay attention to Brijesh, who had now left the broom to one side and stood behind him.
He looked up momentarily and saw the half-smiling face of Brijesh in the mirror behind him. Startled, he opened his mouth but before he could turn or scream, Brijesh forced his hand over it and in one swift motion, pushed the syringe into his neck with the precision of a surgeon and injected the entire vial of succinylcholine into him. The drug would kill him within half a minute.
‘To Allah we belong, and to Him is our return,’ Brijesh whispered. ‘Isn’t that what Muslims say when someone is dying? Unfortunately, you never belonged to Allah but to the army of Satan. You will only burn in hell.’ Brijesh’s words seemed to fall on deaf ears as a dazed Mir stumbled around, a hand on his neck, unable to fathom what had just happened. He struggled to stand straight and tried his best to focus on the face of his assailant. All he could see was a boot heading to his chest, kicking him back into a cubicle. He landed straight on the commode and slumped.
Mumbai Avengers Page 11