Mumbai Avengers

by S. Hussain Zaidi

  The PM turned towards his defence minister. ‘How feasible is the possibility of extraction?’

  ‘We cannot wage a war with our neighbours on this issue, especially when we have caused a disturbance in their country,’ he declared.

  ‘With due respect, sir, they don’t think like that when they kill our soldiers at the LoC,’ Sky replied.

  ‘Assembly elections are around the corner, we cannot afford to abandon them and have people lose faith in us,’ said Sumit Shah, the PM’s trusted adviser.

  ‘It will be impossible to mount a full-scale operation inside a hostile country,’ said the NSA.

  ‘If I know Waris well, he does not need full-scale operational support. He is a man who can remove a screw with a sledgehammer. He might just need a little support and help and he will find a way back,’ Sky said, with a sense of pride.

  The prime minister looked at Sky and said, ‘Mr Yadav, you seem to be quite proud of his achievements. Give him that small support and help. I would request all of you present here to chip in with your suggestions and ideas. Let’s bring them back.’

  The finality in his tone put an end to any room for debate or counter-suggestions. He looked at the army and navy chiefs, both of whom nodded.

  The meeting was over. Sky removed the envelope from his pocket, tore it into pieces and threw it in the dustbin. It was not personal any more. He would not quit until he got the team back.

  34

  Jinnah Hospital, Lahore

  The next few minutes seemed like a bizarre hallucination to Vikrant; he saw familiar shapes and colours fly past, outside the car window, but he was unable to connect them to known objects until a few moments after they had passed. Involuntarily swaying from side to side, he stretched his limbs and shook his head to keep the blood flowing through his body, occasionally checking on Brijesh, whose threshold of pain was being tested to the limit.

  The Corolla soon pulled into the main foyer of the Jinnah Hospital and, to Waris’s relief, the beefed-up police cordon he was expecting to see was non-existent. After pulling over in one of the waiting bays, he stepped out of the vehicle and approached a ward boy standing nearby.

  ‘Salaam alaikum, I need to get these two admitted immediately,’ he said, pointing to the men in the backseat of the vehicle.

  The ward boy seemed to prefer life at a slower pace and his speech reflected as much.

  ‘Oh. So … what happened … where did the … uhh … What happened to them?’ he asked disinterestedly.

  ‘Car accident,’ said Waris, falling back on the tried and tested formula that Brijesh had relied on in Jeddah.

  ‘Oh,’ the boy said and began wandering off.

  ‘Look,’ said Waris, a little more assertively as he held the ward boy by the wrist. ‘Will you please get a couple of wheelchairs to take these men in so they can be admitted?’

  Startled by this breach of personal space, the boy went into bureaucratic mode.

  ‘You will have to fill a form and wait for a doctor to examine them. If he decides to have them admitted, then you will have to register and provide—’

  ‘I don’t have time for all that, son. I’ll fill all the forms you need once you give them some medical attention. They are American pilgrims and if they succumb to their injuries, you will have a major international incident on your hands!’

  The boy blinked. Waris could see the cogs turning in his head, slowly but surely.

  ‘They don’t look American,’ he offered.

  ‘Do you want to see their passports? Do you know what will happen if American citizens die here?’

  A doctor passing by happened to overhear the last part of this exchange and stopped in his tracks. Hurrying over to Waris, he asked, ‘Who are the American citizens?’ Waris pointed to the backseat of his vehicle.

  ‘What happened to them?’ asked the doctor, with a sense of urgency in his voice.

  Here we go again, thought Waris.

  ‘They were in a car accident,’ he said.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ the doctor scolded the ward boy. ‘Get these men inside at once!’

  The ward boy scuttled off to find a couple of wheelchairs and the doctor sighed in disdain.

  Waris opened the car door and let the doctor have a look at his wounded cohorts. After a few preliminary checks, the doctor decided he would have to examine them in a better-lit environment. He turned to Waris. ‘American citizens?’

  ‘Yes, doctor. They were here on a pilgrimage.’

  Seeing that the doctor was unmoved, Waris dove into the Corolla to produce the fake passports that had been made for Brijesh and Vikrant. He flashed them and the doctor nodded, getting into top gear as he hustled the ward boy over and helped Vikrant and Brijesh into wheelchairs. They were promptly wheeled into the hospital.

  ‘I am Dr Suleiman Baig,’ the doctor said, pointing to his nametag. ‘You’ll need to know that when you fill the form. I’ll admit these men and let you fill out all the paperwork.’

  Waris nodded and Dr Baig went off to diagnose his new patients’ injuries. At the reception, Waris found that the forms were ready and neatly collated on a clipboard bearing the hospital’s name and logo. This Baig seems like quite a useful fellow, thought Waris to himself, as he began filling out the forms.

  ‘Well, the good news is that you don’t appear to have a concussion. Since you’re not in any major pain, I don’t think we’ll need to prescribe any painkillers,’ said Dr Baig chirpily, switching off the little flashlight that he had been shining in Vikrant’s eyes. As the doctor walked over to his table to note down his observations, there was a knock on the door of his office. Vikrant hopped off the observation table on which he had been sitting.

  ‘Come in,’ said Dr Baig, and in walked Waris with a peon who was carrying a photocopy of the forms that had just been filled.

  ‘Take a seat,’ the doctor said to Waris as he took the photocopies from the peon, who left at once.

  ‘How bad is it?’ asked Waris.

  ‘Your friend here has suffered some trauma, but there’s no concussion and there doesn’t seem to be any internal bleeding. But his companion, Mr Kartar Singh, has lost a lot of blood and I’ve sent him to the ER.’

  Waris nodded.

  ‘I’ve encountered a lot of car accident victims and their injuries usually reflect the unpredictable effects of the accident,’ said Dr Baig, ‘But these injuries seem … how should I put this? They seem inconsistent.’

  ‘They were hit by a passing vehicle,’ said Waris calmly.

  ‘Right, that’s the part I don’t get. There are no neck injuries, no whiplash, all that you’d normally see in an accident. There are no grazes or bruises.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’

  ‘Nothing. It just seems inconsistent, that’s all. Car accident victims suffer different kind of injuries,’ said Dr Baig, with a smile. ‘I should probably go and check on your companion. You are welcome to wait here.’

  Waris and Vikrant exchanged grim glances once the doctor left.

  ‘Any thoughts about an exit plan?’ asked Vikrant, as he looked at the solitary door that led into the doctor’s windowless office.

  Dr Baig returned to find Waris and Vikrant standing outside his office. Experience and intuition had taught them never to expose themselves to a situation in which they might be cornered. The doctor flashed them a gentle, disarming smile as he approached them.

  ‘Back on your feet, I see?’ he asked Vikrant.

  ‘Yes, doctor. Any updates?’

  ‘Well, your friend’s wounds have been stitched up and he’s been given medication. There wasn’t the need for a blood transfusion, since he hadn’t lost as much as I had feared.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor,’ said Waris. He quickly added, ‘When will he be ready to move?’

  ‘He should be up and about shortly, but I would recommend that both patients take it easy for a day or two. We don’t have to hospitalize them but I recommend they get accommodation near
by, perhaps in the sarai. Just in case,’ he said.

  ‘Are you saying we can’t leave for Nankana Sahib?’ frowned Vikrant.

  ‘It’s a recommendation, that’s all,’ smiled Dr Baig.

  ‘Can we see our friend now?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll have someone take you to him, while I submit my report and sort out the paperwork.’

  A trainee doctor accompanied them to the room in which Brijesh was recovering. Waris was the first to enter.

  Brijesh was flipping channels on the television and scanning the news. The Muridke attack dominated almost all the news channels. It was prime time news. The anchors were talking to panelists—experts, former army men and authors—and discussing the fallout of such a brazen attack by RAW agents.

  ‘Ready to roll?’ asked Waris, getting straight to the point.

  ‘Just say the word,’ smiled Brijesh weakly, as Vikrant took a seat next to the bed and picked up an apple from the fruit basket set on a side table. He wiped it against his shirt and was about to take a bite when he noticed two pairs of eyes on him.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked Waris and Brijesh.

  ‘No, no. Make yourself at home,’ laughed Waris, as Vikrant sunk his teeth into the apple.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ he said between bites.

  ‘The doctor said we should spend the next couple of days nearby, “just in case”,’ said Waris.

  ‘I think they’re required to say things like that,’ said Brijesh cynically, as he ran a finger over the bandages on his arm. ‘I’m sure I can get the stitches removed somewhere else.’

  ‘Regardless, lying low for a while might not be such a bad idea,’ reasoned Waris, ‘After all, Ray and Laila need to get back to us with some intel and Kang is going to take a couple of days anyway.’

  In the background, the news anchor’s voice rose and a breaking news tag started to flash.

  ‘Maulana Azhar ka khula challenge, jumma namaz ke baad Jinnah ground mein khetaab karenge.’

  ‘What the fuck?’ said Vikrant.

  ‘We should kill him in Jinnah ground. Friday is a good day to die anyway. He will be despatched to hell directly,’ Brijesh said, sipping from his glass of juice.

  ‘This could be another bait planted by the ISI. You never know, they might think that we will try and eliminate him at Jinnah ground and they can ambush us,’ Waris said.

  ‘There must be a way to verify this breaking news,’ Brijesh said, finishing his glass of juice.

  ‘I’ll have to check with Sky if he is keeping a tab on Azhar’s movements,’ Waris said, ‘and I also have to notify him about our change of exit plans – we have to get out of here fast.’

  ‘Sir, can we ask Laila to look around in Azizabad area and see if these Lashkar men have already started setting up security barricades around Jinnah ground?’ Brijesh asked Waris.

  ‘I think she is supposed to check out of the hospital tomorrow morning and take a flight to Dubai,’ Vikrant said.

  One of the news channels was showing a bearded Mulla Umar Farooq, the right-hand man of Mahmood Azhar, addressing the media outside a masjid. ‘After Jumma prayers, Maulana sahib will give a speech on the hypocrisy of India. We could have done it tomorrow or the day after tomorrow, but because of Ashoora (Moharram) on Thursday, we have postponed it to Friday, which is the most sacred day according to Islam. He has also thrown a challenge at those Indian agents who are making unsuccessful attempts to kill him. If they want, they can come to Jinnah ground, we would love to make a kheema of them.’

  Vikrant looked around for a dustbin to dispose the core of the apple he had just devoured, when a knock on the door diverted his attention. He dropped it on the floor and positioned himself on the side of the door at Waris’s signal. Once Vikrant was in place, Waris called out, ‘Come in.’

  A man in his forties stood outside the door in a brown kurta worn over a conspicuous pair of green track pants with bright yellow piping. ‘Excuse me, but you need to—’ Before he had a chance to explain himself, Vikrant had pulled him in and kicked the door shut with his heel.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

  ‘Sir, please …’ the man gasped. ‘I can’t … I can’t breathe.’

  Vikrant retracted his forearm by a few millimetres to keep the man firmly in place, while allowing him breathing room.

  ‘You are in grave danger and you need to leave now,’ said the man without beating about the bush.

  ‘What kind of danger?’

  ‘I can’t explain right now, but we have to leave immediately. If you don’t, you’ll be trapped, and you know it.’

  ‘Who is this “we”?’ asked Waris, as he rose to his feet.

  ‘Sir, I can’t explain right now, but I promise I’ll explain everything once we are safe.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Vikrant asked Waris and Brijesh.

  ‘Are you ready to move?’ Waris turned to ask Brijesh, who sat up and ripped off the intravenous saline tube that was stuck in his arm.

  ‘Follow me, please,’ said the man, as Brijesh sat up and looked around for a shirt.

  The surgeons who had stitched up Brijesh’s arm must have disposed of his shirt, they realized, so he had to make do with his hospital robe. Vikrant eased his arm off the intruder’s throat at last and opened the door an inch to take a look outside. All seemed quiet, so he turned to face the man again.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked sceptically.

  ‘Positive,’ replied the man in green trackpants. ‘We must leave now.’

  ‘Lead the way.’

  The man opened the door, looked left and right, and motioned for the trio to follow. They did so stealthily, careful to avoid attracting attention. He led them down a corridor to the fire escape. They followed him, unable to shake off the suspicion that in this exposed state, they were sitting ducks for an ambush. They soon found themselves in the basement, looking at a sign on a door that read ‘Medical Supplies’. The man pushed the door open and led them to the end of the room, where the basement window looked out at the hospital’s foyer. Peering out at the assortment of police vehicles that had assembled outside the hospital’s entrance, the man turned to Waris.

  ‘My name is Chandra Prakash and those men are here for you.’

  ‘How do you know they are here for us?’ asked Waris.

  ‘I don’t imagine there are many groups of three Indians who have been injured while escaping the authorities and come for treatment to this hospital.’

  ‘Who told you we are Indian?’

  ‘I’ll tell you everything just as soon as we get out of here.’

  ‘Why should we listen to a damn word you have to say?’ asked Vikrant, bristling, as Waris placed a hand on his shoulder to calm him down.

  ‘I don’t blame you for being suspicious, sir. Suspicion has followed me through life, either because of my religion or like today, because of my sympathies.’

  Waris pursed his lips.

  ‘But now is not the time to discuss my life. We need to move,’ he said, motioning to a door on the other side of the room.

  With his hand on the door handle, the man turned to find Waris, Vikrant and Brijesh still rooted to their spot near the window. ‘You won’t find Mahmood Azhar by just standing there,’ he said and turned to open the door carefully, without setting off the fire alarm. He didn’t need eyes in the back of his head to know that all three of them were picking their respective jaws up off the floor.

  The four men left the building through the fire exit and discreetly made their way out of the compound and into an alley nearby, where a van emblazoned with the Lahore Police emblem was parked. Vikrant froze when he saw the van, but seeing that Waris and Brijesh seemed to trust the man, he reluctantly followed. They didn’t have much of a choice, really.

  Chandra pulled the sliding door open and reached inside, rummaging for something. He’s looking for a gun, Vikrant thought to himself as he balled his fists and prepared for a counter-attack.

  ‘Here,’ said Ch
andra, as he began unzipping a green tracksuit top with bright yellow piping that ran from the neck all the way down to the sleeves. ‘Get rid of that,’ he told Brijesh, pointing to his hospital robes and handing him the top. Brijesh gingerly slipped his arms into it and zipped it halfway up his chest.

  ‘A perfect fit,’ smiled Chandra as he hopped into the driver’s seat. Brijesh and Waris climbed into the back, while Vikrant sat in the front.

  ‘Speak,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Chandra as he started the van. ‘We’re not out of the woods. Get rid of your Sikh attire, the roads are swarming with cops and army men. Three Sikhs in a van will arouse curiosity and then, even I will not be able to protect you.’

  As they made their way past a solitary police barricade, Chandra drove silently through a maze of inside lanes and alleyways. ‘That should be the last of them,’ he said as a police van passed them.

  ‘Now speak,’ said Vikrant.

  ‘It’s a long story so I won’t gloss over the details. After all, we have plenty of time now,’ said Chandra.

  ‘Why plenty of time?’ Waris asked.

  ‘I assume you want to make a trip to Karachi by Friday. I believe I am the only person who can safely transport you to Azizabad without any hurdles.’

  Vikrant looked at Waris, unsure of whether to go along with the extremely unsettling information possessed by Chandra or to snap his neck there and then. Waris nodded and gently gestured to Vikrant to calm down.

  ‘Chandra, I’m very grateful for your help so far and so are my associates, I’m sure,’ said Waris politely, lapsing into Hindi. ‘And since you seem to know so much, you probably know that I’m a man who enjoys the seaside, I enjoy brisk morning walks in the rain and I really enjoy Lebanese food.’

  Vikrant furrowed his brow, unsure of exactly where his boss was going with this.

  ‘What I don’t enjoy,’ said Waris, this time with a bit more aggression in his voice, ‘is the idea of someone fucking with me. So I’m willing to be patient with you as long as you stop the mindgames at once.’