Mumbai Avengers

by S. Hussain Zaidi

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Sir,’ the boy replied, ‘it’s a lady from some magazine. She wants to talk to you about your cause, apparently. What should I tell her?’

  Azhar hesitated. Then he picked up the receiver on a small table an arm’s length away from him.

  ‘Salaam alaikum,’ he said, in a careful, calculated tone. ‘Maulana Azhar here.’

  ‘Alaikum salaam,’ replied the lady from the other end. ‘I would like to take a minute of your time, sir.’

  ‘Your time starts now,’ he said.

  ‘I’m Tasneem Khan, and I’ve done a journalism course from London. I’m back in Pakistan to start a new magazine. We’re still at a very nascent stage and based in Lahore. We want to write a piece on you and project the survivor that you are to the people so they know their fate lies in good hands.’ She said all this without stopping to breathe, then continued, ‘We want to track your journey right from your getting freed in Kandahar to the last attempt on your life. Besides, you are a good writer and we want you to be a guest editor for the first edition.’

  Laila was speaking in Urdu, reading off her laptop screen.

  ‘Your minute is up,’ Azhar said. ‘Will it be in English or Urdu?’

  ‘Both,’ she replied promptly. ‘We want a wide reach. Everyone should know what the message is.’

  Azhar waited for a moment. The lady seemed harmless, if over enthusiastic. This could help him, and he had a lot to say, about how a few people trying to kill him would not deter his cause. But he had to be careful.

  ‘Fine,’ Azhar said. ‘Come to the Jamaat school.’

  ‘You mean the headquarters?’

  ‘In other words.’

  ‘Fine, sir,’ she replied earnestly. ‘I’ll come with my cameraman.’

  ‘No,’ Azhar said sternly. ‘Just you.’

  ‘But sir,’ she protested. ‘We need a picture for the cover page.’

  ‘Use one from the archives,’ he said.

  ‘That won’t be an exclusive picture, sir. This is our first issue and we need a photograph. Nobody will buy a magazine if it can’t live up to the promise of exclusivity in the first issue itself. I’ll just need one camera man, sir, please. Just a few pictures.’

  She was literally begging him in her soft, silky voice. And Azhar liked women – especially when they were pleading with him.

  ‘Fine. Just the two of you,’ he said softly. ‘One camera. No equipment, no stands. Nothing. One simple camera, a pen and a notepad.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Tomorrow at 4 p.m.,’ he said.

  ‘Khuda hafiz, Maulana.’

  He did not reply.

  About an hour after the journalist had called, the telephone roused the same unassuming and half-asleep boy who had answered the previous time.

  ‘Hello, sir,’ a voice said from the other end. ‘I’m calling from cylinder engineering. We are going to be short on gas for the next few days.’

  ‘So? You decided to call me to produce gas for you?’ the young man replied rudely, scratching his beard.

  ‘No, sir,’ the man answered, his tone unchanged. ‘I suggest you stock up. We are allotting a maximum of two cylinders per card. We can drop them by tomorrow.’

  The young boy liked the fact that he was being called ‘sir’. This didn’t seem like an emergency and he was at liberty to take such calls. But he asked the man on the line to hold anyway and called the supervisor who handled technicalities such as cooking gas. He seemed to be sleeping too, and when he answered, he was gruff. He didn’t want to be disturbed by such a stupid thing. Of course we need gas, you fool. Order it. The boy told the man from the gas company that he quite obviously needed it, his tone curt again.

  ‘Sure sir, we’ll deliver it to you tomorrow.’

  Why tomorrow? He thought. Fuck it, who cares?

  ‘Fine,’ he then replied and slammed down the receiver. Within five minutes he had fallen back to sleep in his comfortable chair.

  Vikrant waited until lunchtime to enter the premises of Pak Gas, Pakistan’s leading gas supply chain. He had been waiting in a rented Toyota Corolla with Brijesh for half an hour now. Some of the workers were leaving the premises and he saw this as his chance and got out of the car. He put on a cap to conceal most of his face, then walked in through the neglected gates. A scrawny watchman appeared out of nowhere and called out at him.

  ‘I have to place an order,’ Vikrant said, and continued walking. ‘I’m from Hotel Regency.’

  The guard nodded vaguely and Vikrant strutted in confidently. He saw a number of parked mini-truck carriers that were loaded with gas cylinders. He would need to hotwire one of them and then speed off with it. The area seemed deserted.

  He was wearing a black T-shirt, and the uniform of the delivery boys was a dark green, he realized. He needed to steal a shirt if he had to exit the premises without the guard getting suspicious. He searched each vehicle, because it was common practice even back in India for people to leave their shirts in their car to eat or rest wearing their vests. He finally found one that reeked of body odour and cigarette smoke, held his breath and put it on. It took him only a minute to hotwire the ignition and in no time, the delivery truck was making its typical rickety sound. He turned around and counted the number of cylinders. More than enough, he thought. Then he sped out towards the exit. The guard looked half asleep and scanned him superficially. He saw the green shirt, nothing seemed wrong. He had seen that cap before though. He couldn’t remember where.

  Meanwhile, at the JuD headquarters, Laila and Waris had just arrived in another rented Toyota Corolla. They were stopped by two rather large guards. The guards in Pakistan all looked awfully similar, the Indians thought.

  They were verified at the gate. Female reporter: check. Cameraman: check. Camera: check. The guard motioned the car to a parking spot right outside the gate. No, he shook his head at the beautiful lady, who had her head covered with a red dupatta. They weren’t allowed to bring a vehicle in.

  Tasneem Khan, or Laila, got out of her vehicle and the elderly cameraman parked it rather shabbily in the place the guard motioned to. It was three minutes past four and the harsh afternoon sun was beating down on them. They walked hurriedly through the gates and into the confines of the fortress. Waris put his hand in his pocket and fidgeted with his phone. He pressed the ‘send’ button of a message he had previously typed out to Vikrant, Brijesh and Kang – saying that they were inside the headquarters. He couldn’t believe that they were. Never in his life had he imagined he would be walking through these corridors.

  The campus was squeaky clean. The architecture was well executed, the walkways neat and tidy; the entire place was rather pleasing to the eye. Like a college that a student would strive to get into, a college with a ninety-five per cent cut-off and associated medical facilities people vied for. Except that it wasn’t really a college. Nor a hospital. A student had never graduated from here, nor had an old man with a heart attack been rushed into it.

  Strangely, barring a few guards scattered around, there was little security. Maybe it was their time to rest? Afternoons usually were. They trained vigorously at midnight, stretching into the wee hours of the morning, according to the intelligence Ray had gathered.

  ‘Salaam alaikum,’ Waris said to a young bearded man, who wore a rather tight skullcap that barely contained his unruly hair. ‘We are here to meet Amir Azhar.’

  ‘Yes,’ the man replied. ‘He isn’t here yet, but he asked you to wait in the third room on the left.’

  Laila and Waris nodded and walked towards the room. It was rather surprising that Azhar wasn’t around. Where else could he be in Muridke? Waris fidgeted with his camera bag uneasily.

  Waris twisted the knob, opened the door and they entered. It was the size of an average classroom. There were a couple of wooden chairs, clearly meant for them. There was no window, and the room smelled musty. Why were there only two chairs? Of course. Azhar wasn’t coming here. They had b
een played.

  They rushed back to the door – only to hear the sound of it being latched from the outside.

  It had been over an hour since the door had been locked. The room was claustrophobic and the electricity had been cut off. They were roasting in there.

  Waris and Laila didn’t even bother trying to open the door. Waris had pulled his phone out immediately, but there was no network to support it so they could not call Vikrant, Brijesh or Kang. What could they do?

  Waris looked at Laila, whose expression hadn’t changed in the past hour. They knew the room was bugged, so they didn’t talk. There were no visible cameras, though. Laila looked back at him and shrugged.

  Suddenly, they heard the door click open. They sat up straight and saw a man enter. He looked less like a man, more like an animal. He had a huge, greasy beard, fierce eyes, and short cropped hair. He was clearly a mercenary – maybe one of the strongest Azhar had at hand. He was about six feet five. And there was not an ounce of fat on his body.

  ‘So, it’s quite apparent Azhar doesn’t want to look pretty for our magazine cover,’ Waris said sardonically.

  The man drew out a Smith and Wesson’s pistol and said, ‘Shut up, old man. I’m going to be doing the talking. You’ll talk when I ask you a question.’

  ‘We’re not going to say a thing,’ Laila spat out. ‘Go fuck yourself.’

  The man raised an eyebrow at her and smiled. He walked towards her and tugged at her hair, pulling her head backwards, bringing his face very close to hers.

  ‘Leave her alone,’ Waris said stoically. ‘Now.’

  ‘Otherwise what, old man?’ he said. ‘You think we don’t know who you are? The ISI has a record of all of you. What can an old fuck like you do to me, if those pretty boys of yours can’t touch me.’

  He pulled Laila’s hair harder. Waris looked at him.

  ‘Remember,’ Waris said, ‘you asked for this.’

  In one swift motion, he raised his knee into the man’s crotch. Then he punched him with all his might on the bridge of his nose. The man staggered backwards, his eyes trying to regain normal vision. Laila flew at him and dug her nails into his eyes. She tore at them until they bled and the man bellowed in pain. Waris aimed another blow to his solar plexus, which winded him and left him unable to speak. He ended it by picking up the gun from the floor and shooting him through his temple.

  ‘His backup will come rushing in at any moment,’ Laila said, as she frisked the man’s pockets for another weapon. She found nothing but his phone, which she pocketed. Apparently the man had thought he had everything in control with just a pistol.

  They heard footsteps heading towards the room and rushed to stand on either side of the door. Waris looked at Laila and nodded silently.

  The door burst open with a kick and, almost immediately, Waris fired blindly at the man who came in. He needed just one shot. The young man who had been at the reception earlier collapsed in front of them. He held an AK-47 but he didn’t have a chance to use it. Waris stuck his head out and heard the sounds of chaos in the making. He lifted the AK-47 and tossed his handgun to Laila.

  ‘Call Brijesh and Kang,’ he said. ‘I’ll buy us some time.’

  Laila nodded and dialled their number using the dead man’s phone. Waris took aim and fired at the five militants who were running towards him. He fired to scare, more than to maim or kill. He knew the show of recklessness would keep them at bay for a few more moments while Laila made the call.

  Kang raced towards the Lashkar HQ in the hijacked delivery truck as soon as he got Laila’s call.

  ‘We can’t hold out too long,’ she panted. ‘Get here ASAP, every second is crucial. It was an ambush. Azhar isn’t here.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Kang yelled into the phone. ‘Stay on the line.’

  ‘No,’ she shouted back. ‘I have to cover Waris sir.’

  The phone line went dead.

  Brijesh was in the storage compartment behind Kang, attaching generous blocks of C4 to the bottom of the gas cylinders. There were a total of eight cylinders, two of which Brijesh and Kang were going to plant within the premises. According to the plan, the other cylinders would remain in the delivery truck, parked against the foundation wall of the HQ. It would bring the entire structure to the ground.

  Kang hit the upper limit to which the mini-truck could go; 120 km per hour. It grew increasingly hard to manoeuvre it and he was at the receiving end of plenty of cuss words. Brijesh, who was unaware of the situation brewing over at the HQ, was perplexed at Kang’s sudden recklessness. He had attached the detonation cord to the explosives and checked to see if everything was in place. Then he slipped the remote into his back pocket.

  Kang brought the truck to a screeching halt outside the fortress, at the planned spot. He jumped out and the guards came running towards him, aiming their AK-47 rifles at him.

  ‘Azhar isn’t inside,’ Kang informed Brijesh calmly, as the guards approached them. He put his hands up to show he had come unarmed. ‘It was a set-up. There’s a gun battle going

  on inside.’

  ‘That means the ISI had already tipped him off,’ Brijesh said.

  ‘But where is the army? The Lahore Police? Have they got so confident that they can handle us on their own?’ Kang said.

  Brijesh fingered the Beretta 9 mm at his hip surreptitiously. The guards approached them and looked at the gas cylinders.

  ‘You can leave them here,’ one of the two said. Brijesh nodded and lifted one from the back. Kang joined him and picked up another.

  ‘That’s good enough. We’ll take them inside,’ the other man said. ‘You aren’t allowed in.’

  Brijesh and Kang nodded subserviently, turned around and hopped back into the truck. As soon as the guards turned around and started dragging the cylinders towards the gate, they collapsed on the ground. One bullet each through the head had been enough. The third guard began to turn around, looking astonished. Before he could raise his rifle, Brijesh ran towards him, peppering him with bullets. They picked up the rifles that lay next to the dead bodies and dragged the cylinders inside by themselves.

  They entered the building stealthily and found that the area was deserted. Then they heard gunshots. Plenty of them, coming from the right.

  ‘Kang,’ Brijesh said, ‘you plant the cylinders. You know where. We have five minutes at the most.’

  Kang nodded and brought his immense strength into play. He lifted both cylinders a few inches above the ground and slung the gun over his shoulder so that it was easier to move, and then walked as quickly as he could towards the innards of the building.

  Kang knew he had to unload the rest of the cylinders before somebody charged in. There was a huge iron gate which could not be climbed. It was locked and the sight of the two dead guards outside would have surely raised an alarm. Soon there would be hostile gunmen swarming all over the place.

  Brijesh walked back quickly with Kang and helped him drop the cylinders out of the truck in the pattern they thought would be most effective. Then Brijesh climbed into the driver’s seat and revved the engine.

  ‘We are going to need Vikrant here soon, Kang. Call him and ask him to come ASAP.

  Kang immediately got on the phone with Vikrant. Brijesh shifted the stubborn gear stick into reverse and, after Kang was done, he slammed his foot down on the accelerator. He shifted into first gear, then second, then third and then, just about a metre away from the wall, into fourth. The front of the truck rammed into the wall and shards of glass, metal and brick flew dangerously all over the place. Brijesh and Kang quickly dug their heads into their shoulders to avoid any debris. Half the delivery truck had gone headfirst into the wall and the other half still stuck out. Luckily, it was enough for them to get into the premises.

  Brijesh ran in the direction of the gunshots. He saw a total of fourteen armed guards rushing towards the room Waris and Laila were obviously in. He sneaked up behind them and began firing blindly in their direction. He saw at least five
falling to the ground instantly, and ran in.

  Waris and Laila, who had almost exhausted their ammunition, swiftly stepped out in the open and fired at a few more militants. Laila somersaulted forward and lifted an extra rifle off the ground, and together she and Brijesh targeted another two.

  The remaining men were firing blindly and Brijesh had to dive for cover behind a pillar. A bullet had grazed his arm. Laila kept her finger on the trigger. Within eight seconds, all the guards lay on the floor. Dead.

  ‘Follow me, quickly,’ Waris said, as he ran ahead of the other two. Brijesh held his bleeding right arm. It was stinging and burning and he couldn’t think of anything else. Waris held him by the other arm and pulled him towards the gate, outside which their Corolla was parked. As long as the signal is jammed, the police and army will not be able to hear from the men in Markaz.

  But they would get here soon enough and so would backup from the other sections of the training facility. Ray could not keep the network jammed for more than fifteen or twenty minutes; the cellular companies would notice the jamming and set it right.

  They had to make their getaway now. Brijesh handed his Thuraya to Laila, who connected with Kang.

  ‘I’ve placed the cylinders. I’m running out,’ he said. ‘There are a few guys at the entrance, prepared to fire. You’ll be outnumbered.’

  ‘We’ll scale the wall,’ Laila replied. ‘You get into the car and start it. Break the window, the key is still in the car.’

  Kang replied in the affirmative and ran towards the exit. He pulled out his rifle and fired at the men he saw, killing one and forcing the others to take cover. Laila, Brijesh and Kang ran towards a wall. It was too high to climb and the only way to get out was to gain some elevation. Brijesh sat on his haunches and Laila climbed on to his shoulders, then leapt to the top of the wall. She perched herself there while Waris climbed on to Brijesh. She pulled him up as well. But there was no way Brijesh could climb alone.

  ‘Go to the car,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll come through the main entrance.’