Mumbai Avengers

by S. Hussain Zaidi

  ‘So,’ Abdul Hafeez said. ‘You are going to film them?’

  ‘Yes,’ Vikrant said softly.

  ‘Sounds interesting. How is it back in Bangladesh? From which part are you?’

  ‘Dhaka,’ Vikrant said, with an air of finality. Hafeez didn’t ask anything else, taking the hint. Vikrant realized his tone had been a little rude and tried to make amends.

  ‘Are you married, Hafeez bhai?’

  ‘Yes,’ the man replied. ‘I have four children. What about you?’

  Vikrant was thrown off guard.

  ‘No,’ he said immediately.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Haven’t fallen in love with a woman who has returned the favour,’ he half smiled.

  ‘Well, we don’t have the luxury of falling in love here. We marry who our parents get us married to.’

  ‘Well, if it’s any consolation, love is over rated.’

  Abdul Hafeez shook his head and smiled. He went on to speak about his three sons and one daughter. How the sons went to madrassas and the daughter was made to do household chores. He spoke about how he knew the system was backward, but couldn’t do anything about it. And then he touched upon the topic of terrorism, which was rampant in his beloved country.

  He interrupted himself before getting carried away, when a small shanty came into view by the roadside. ‘Do you want to stop at a dhaba for some breakfast?’

  ‘Sure,’ Vikrant replied. ‘That would be nice.’

  They parked the Toyota Innova outside the little dhaba, then walked in and sat on the low wooden plank which was meant to be a seat. Nobody was around, except two young boys and their father, who was clearly the owner of the dhaba.

  ‘Where are we exactly?’ Vikrant asked Hafeez.

  ‘Just a little ahead of Abbottabad,’ he replied. ‘You know, where Osama was killed.’

  Vikrant nodded silently. One of the young boys came up to ask what they’d like to eat.

  ‘Beta, bring us five paneer parathas and two glasses of lassi,’ Hafeez said to him, without consulting Vikrant. The boy went away. ‘I hope you don’t mind having what I ordered. It’s delicious.’

  Vikrant smiled to show his approval.

  ‘So, all this while, when Osama was here, did the locals know his identity?’, he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Hafeez replied instantly. ‘Everyone knew. In fact, we all laughed about the fact that our government denied all knowledge, considering they put him here.’

  Vikrant was silent, then he asked Hafeez in a low tone, ‘What do you think of people like Osama?’

  Hafeez looked surprised at the question. He gazed outside the dhaba, towards the Innova. ‘People treat him like a hero,’ he said finally. ‘According to them, he was the answer to the injustice the kafirs of the world meted out to us Muslims.’

  ‘But what do you think about him?’

  ‘I’m not too clear about it myself. Our religion never justified killing.’

  ‘Exactly, Hafeez bhai. Personally, I think that because of Muslims like him, Muslims like you and I don’t get a chance to lead a normal life.’

  ‘Forget Osama,’ Hafeez said. ‘He is too difficult a man to understand. Some of his actions, I would like to think, are justified. But then, there are many that aren’t.’

  At this juncture, the little boy came running with two brass glasses brimming over with lassi. He ran back and returned with a plate of parathas dripping with butter.

  ‘Well, here’s a heart attack on a plate.’

  They picked up a paratha each.

  ‘Did you hear about Umavi’s death?’

  ‘Yes,’ Vikrant replied. ‘He died of an allergy.’

  ‘Are you that naive? You think all it took to kill that devil were some hazelnuts?’

  ‘Well,’ Vikrant shrugged. ‘I don’t know much. What do you think?’

  ‘Soon after his death, Wajid Mir died of a heart attack in a cricket stadium.’

  Vikrant drank a mouthful of lassi.

  ‘I think it’s the Americans,’ Hafeez whispered. ‘They’ve killed the two of them. They think they’re preventing another Osama in the making.’

  ‘Well,’ Vikrant said. ‘They did make Osama after all.’

  There was a brief silence, while both of them dug into their parathas and polished off the lassi. The dhaba owner had a satisfied smile on his face as he came up to them.

  ‘Aur kuch, janaab?’ he asked.

  ‘Nahin, bhai,’ Vikrant replied. ‘Do you want to kill us?’

  They laughed and Vikrant left several red Pakistani hundred-rupee notes on the table. He got up, but Hafeez continued to sit.

  ‘Don’t you want your change?’

  ‘It’s okay, Hafeez bhai. He has two children.’

  ‘Shukriya,’ the delighted dhaba owner said, clasping his sweaty hands. Vikrant smiled, put his arm around Hafeez’s shoulders and walked back towards the car.

  ‘It’s interesting, isn’t it? God’s way of justice?’ Hafeez asked introspectively, as they drove on. ‘First He lets those men kill hundreds of innocent people, and then He gets them killed himself. What is He trying to prove?’

  ‘I don’t think that God should be blamed for killing these people, Hafeez bhai. Anyway, play that Salman Khan CD now. We need some frivolity to lighten us up.’

  Soon, Salman’s chartbusters rocked the car, putting an end to any serious conversation.

  Later that afternoon, Vikrant checked into Hotel Shamiana. It was an ordinary looking, pale green building with its name painted in blue in both Urdu and English. It wasn’t taller than three storeys but was said to be one of the best hotels in that part of Mansehra. The most expensive one here was Hotel Aashiana. Word had it that it was visited by the big shots of Mansehra. That’s what Hafeez said anyway.

  Vikrant unpacked his personal things and, with Hafeez’s help, deposited the two huge bags of equipment on the carpeted floor. A strong scent of rose lingered in the air.

  ‘So,’ Hafeez said. ‘When will you be needing me next?’

  ‘I’ll wait for my assistant,’ Vikrant said. ‘He’ll turn up in the evening, inshallah. We’ll take a couple of days here. What’s your plan? Will you wait around with me, or will you come back when I call you?’

  ‘It’s up to you, bhai. But it would be better if I waited around, rather then going and coming back. I could find myself lodging somewhere in the vicinity. I do it all the time. Besides, I can drive you around whenever you need me. There’s one hitch, though.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ Vikrant looked up at him as he pulled out a plain polo T-shirt from his bag.

  ‘We’ll charge you rent for the car as per the number of days you spend here. And you’ll have to pay for my lodging and food.’

  Vikrant smiled. ‘That’s not a problem, Hafeez bhai. I’ll go in for a shower now. Call me down when it’s time for namaaz. You have my number.’

  From his wallet he pulled out a 500-rupee note.

  ‘Have something to eat.’

  ‘Khuda hafiz,’ Hafeez said with a smile.

  ‘These are the specifications of the sniper,’ Brijesh said, once he had checked into his room and invited Vikrant in. He put his laptop on, then opened up a file that Ray had forwarded to him on his secure ID. It had a picture of a firearm in all its glory.

  ‘The McMillan TAC-50 Caliber sniper rifle.’ Brijesh got up from his rather shaky chair and clasped his hands. ‘This is the same rifle that Rob Furlong of the Canadian army used to execute a confirmed 2430 metre shot in Afghanistan. He set the world record for the longest successful tactical shot in combat.’

  ‘Wow.’ Vikrant was impressed. ‘That is some distance.’

  ‘Yes,’ Brijesh said. ‘Hopefully, we let Mr Furlong keep his record, and try to take the shot from a radius of anywhere between 1.5 and 2 km. Despite its power, the TAC-50 is surprisingly easy to shoot, according to Ray.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Some technical mumbo-jumbo about the sniper o
wing its proprietary design to the McMillan muzzle brake and geometry of stock. But here’s the real problem.’

  Brijesh sat on his haunches and unzipped his bag. He pulled out a large glossy map that explained the anatomy of the rifle and spread it out on the bed.

  ‘There are fifteen basic parts, which we need to get right in order to hit the mark. Remember, we can’t have more than one shot.’

  ‘True,’ Vikrant said. ‘If we miss, he has plenty of time to get away before we get another shot in. Also, we need to keep in mind the dynamics of the environment. The speed of the wind and its direction will affect the bullet’s trajectory.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Brijesh said. ‘When Azhar is addressing the rally, he will not be moving too much. We need to find a safe vantage point before that. It should not be too far away, nor too close. The closer we are, the greater our chances of getting caught. And then, there’s always the technological uncertainty. What if we miss the shot because of faulty reassembling?’

  ‘Hasn’t Ray tested it to ensure that it’s as efficient even after being broken down and reassembled?’

  ‘This is a sniper rifle, Vikrant. Not a handgun. Besides, it’s an anti-materiel sniper and can penetrate shields and brick walls. It’s not meant to be subtle.’

  ‘I still don’t get your point,’ Vikrant replied. ‘You mean to say it won’t be as effective if we reassemble it?’

  ‘I can’t say for sure,’ Brijesh said. ‘There’s always a possibility of the accuracy wavering by approximately half a metre. That’s what Ray said, anyway. But he had a solution.’

  ‘Ray always has a solution,’ Vikrant said, smiling nervously. ‘They’re usually silly.’

  ‘Not this time, though. It does involve some collateral damage.’

  ‘Innocent people?’

  ‘No,’ Brijesh said. ‘The people who might be on stage with Azhar during the rally. We have no idea who they could be.’

  ‘If they’re on stage with him,’ Vikrant replied, ‘I couldn’t care a fuck. Let’s wipe them off the face of the earth.’

  ‘Anyway, there’s an explosive bullet called the Raufoss Mk 211,’ Brijesh said. ‘It’s an anti-materiel projectile that causes a small explosion as soon as it hits the target. When Azhar is talking, he’s bound to be wearing a bulletproof vest. This will make it look like a joke. Also, since it’s a .50 calibre bullet, it has lesser chances of drifting and will give us a higher probability of getting a clean shot.’

  Vikrant ran his hand through his unkempt hair, then smoothed his unruly beard.

  ‘Where do we get these bullets?’

  ‘They’re of Norwegian make, apparently. But you can get something close to them at the hathyar mandi. For a price, of course.’

  ‘I didn’t know there was an arms bazaar in Mansehra.’

  ‘Brother,’ Brijesh laughed. ‘We are in Pakistan. An arms bazaar here is the equivalent of a Starbucks in America.’

  Vikrant laughed, then picked up the map.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘The assembling will require some practice. Even for us. And we can assemble any short-range weapon blindfolded.’

  ‘Yes,’ Brijesh said. ‘For now, I’ve made arrangements to visit the arms bazaar. It’s not too difficult to get in if we grease the right palms.’

  ‘Are you sure these backyard hacked munitions will give us what’s required?’

  ‘Not sure, but we can test them; they allow that there too.’

  ‘Works well for us,’ Vikrant chuckled. ‘I hope Waris continues to be as generous with his funds after we are done with our mission. I’ll take my wife to see the Sistine Chapel.’

  ‘Since when do you have a wife?’ Brijesh raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I don’t,’ Vikrant said, with a straight face.

  ‘Then how do you know she’ll want to see the Sistine Chapel?’

  ‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘But I want to.’

  ‘Well,’ Brijesh smiled through his thick beard, ‘for now we’ll be visiting the hathyar mandi.’

  Brijesh and Vikrant walked out of their hotel at seven-fifteen that evening, wearing plain kurtas and pajamas. They wore skullcaps and looked eerily similar. They had scarves wrapped around their necks, which they could use to hide their faces if required. They arrived at the arms bazaar a few minutes after eight. Walking was easier than having Hafeez with them. After all, what was the UNESCO doing buying expensive projectile weapons?

  ‘Have you spoken to the guy from the Pakistani museum department?’ Vikrant asked Brijesh.

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘He’s going to meet us at the foot of the edicts tomorrow. We’ll proceed with him and he will “educate” us about them. After which, we explain what we plan to do with them.’

  ‘I have no clue about the shit we’ll feed him.’

  ‘We’ll improvise,’ Brijesh replied. Suddenly, they heard a flurry of gunshots. Involuntarily, Vikrant’s hand reached for the gun at his hip while Brijesh looked amused.

  ‘We’re nearing the bazaar,’ he said with a half-smile. ‘They have an open shooting range, where they can try out the guns.’

  ‘Oh,’ Vikrant said, embarrassed. ‘Let’s make this quick, anyway. I’m hungry.’

  They walked towards the high gate, which was guarded by two pot-bellied security guards.

  ‘What do you want to buy?’ one of them asked Brijesh. The other one sized up Vikrant.

  ‘Salaam alaikum. We are here to buy bullets,’ Brijesh replied earnestly. ‘For shikaar, bhaijaan. We are travelling to Alaska next week for a hunting competition.’

  ‘Where’s Alaska? Are you locals?’

  ‘From Rawalpindi,’ Brijesh replied with a smile.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t allow you in.’

  ‘Bhaijaan, this competition means a lot to us. We will win lots of money if we manage to get through. And for that, we need bullets to practice.’

  ‘How much money will you win?’

  ‘We don’t know, but it’s in dollars. Please, bhaijaan. We’ll be indebted to you.’

  ‘No need to be indebted,’ the guard said with a grin. ‘You can give me a token now itself.’

  Brijesh looked at Vikrant, then fished out his wallet and handed the men two blue thousand-rupee notes each. Their eyes glittered. He kicked open the rickety gate without saying anything, and thy let the shikaaris enter right through.

  Vikrant sputtered sardonically, ‘Well, whether India or Pakistan, the slimy ones can always be bought!’

  ‘Greed is universal,’ said Brijesh.

  They walked into a small, dimly lit tin enclosure. Two men were leaving with a plastic bag filled with tiny bullets.

  The shopkeeper was clearly in a hurry. ‘Salaam alaikum, what do you want?’

  ‘Walaikum assalam. I want a .50 explosive bullet.’

  The shopkeeper raised his eyebrows, then nodded. He got up and walked into the back of the shop. His hands were scarred and the shop smelled of smelt iron and gunpowder. There was another man sitting in the corner. He was bent with age and his beard was grey. Not much of his face could be seen, but his mouth was scarred.

  ‘Salaam alaikum, chacha,’ Vikrant said to him.

  The old man nodded. He raised both his hands and indicated in a blessing. The shopkeeper came back inside.

  ‘That’s my Abbu,’ he said. ‘He can’t speak. He was in the same business and, one day, while testing a weapon, a projectile pierced his mouth. He lost his tongue.’

  Brijesh and Vikrant nodded silently. The shopkeeper placed a metal box on the ground in which there were three bullets.

  ‘These are similar to the Raufoss of Norway,’ he said, as he handed one to Vikrant and another to Brijesh. Similar in dimension to a Sheaffer pen. ‘I have only three left.’

  ‘We’ll take them,’ Vikrant said. ‘How much?’

  ‘Rs 5,000 per bullet,’ the man said, expecting them to bargain. Instead, Vikrant took out his wallet and counted the money. There was an extra thousand-rupee note in the wad he hande
d over. The shopkeeper looked at Vikrant and Vikrant smiled at him.

  ‘Khuda hafiz,’ he said to the older man, as Brijesh walked out of the hut with the small tin box. Vikrant was about to leave, when he turned around and stopped.

  ‘I also need three rounds for a regular Walther PPK, a tiny block of Semtex and three shotgun shells.’

  The man nodded, went inside and brought out the bullets. Vikrant handed him another thousand-rupee note and left.

  Brijesh looked questioningly at the plastic bag in Vikrant’s hand.

  ‘The C4 will be used to destroy the sniper. And the remaining bullets are to show the guards at the entrance what we’ve been shopping for. Just in case they ask. Hide the .50s in your pajamas and I’ll hide the C4 in mine. If they do get nosey, they’ll only see ordinary pistol rounds.’

  ‘Well,’ Brijesh said, as they walked towards the exit. ‘If you blow up money like this, you won’t be visiting the Sistine Chapel anytime soon.’

  They laughed and rather surprisingly, the guards at the gate smiled at them as they left.

  ‘Salaam alaikum,’ Vikrant said to the tiny, bespectacled man in a crisp white shirt. ‘I am Nasiruddin Rafique. This is my friend Mushfiq Mirza.’

  ‘Hello, I am Adnan Ghuman. The UNESCO people tell me the two of you run an NGO somewhere in Bangladesh?’

  ‘Yes,’ Vikrant said, in his affected Bangladeshi accent. ‘That’s correct.’

  The three men were sitting in the lobby of their hotel and Vikrant and Brijesh sat opposite Ghuman. It was still early in the morning. After a quick breakfast, they were to leave in the Innova along with Hafeez bhai. Ghuman had brought his own hired car and was going to lead the way.

  ‘So,’ Ghuman continued, ‘I have seen your project proposal. Why don’t you tell me the details now?’

  Vikrant looked at Brijesh, who was smoothing his Maulana-like beard. Brijesh quickly put his hand into his pocket and took his cell phone out.

  ‘I believe we’ve sent you a presentation,’ Vikrant continued. ‘Mushfiqur will show you the same.’