Veerappan: Chasing the Brigand

by K. Vijay Kumar

  The two men noted the full lottery ticket number on separate scraps of paper. Then Red drained the rest of his tea and left just as abruptly as he had arrived.

  Mr X drove out of Dharmapuri in his personal vehicle. An STF team followed him in a civilian Omni van. After he had travelled a fair distance, the van overtook him at an isolated spot and signalled him to pull over.

  Kannan emerged from the van and walked up to Mr X. ‘How did it go?’

  Mr X quickly debriefed him and handed over the torn ticket. ‘I’ve done my part. Now please leave me alone,’ he begged Kannan with folded hands.

  Kannan smiled as he saw the ticket stub with ‘007’ on it. When he observed that the last two digits on the stub were ‘07’, he asked, ‘What are the first two numbers on the other half?’

  ‘71,’ replied a puzzled Mr X, referring to his scrap of paper. ‘Why?’

  Kannan’s smile grew wider, but he didn’t say anything. Later, he told me, ‘My father’s first car had the number 0771. It served us faithfully for many years and never broke down. I have a good feeling about this.’

  32

  The Longest Day

  18 October 2004

  I’m normally a sound sleeper. At home, with my default alarm Meena around, I usually sleep like a log.

  ‘I hope it’s not the same in the jungle. Don’t let Veerappan carry you off while sleeping,’ she would often tease me.

  ‘Not an issue. My buddy in the next bivouac has sharp ears,’ was my weak riposte.

  But the previous night was different.

  I peered bleary-eyed at my bedside clock. It was 4 a.m. I shut my eyes and willed myself to go back to sleep, but realized that I was wasting time. At least the little sleep I had managed to get had been restful. I swung out of bed, trying to make as little noise as possible so that I wouldn’t disturb Meena. I needn’t have bothered. She was up a few seconds later.

  ‘Everything okay?’ she asked, displaying the kind of telepathy that most wives, but very few husbands, seem to develop with their spouses. I nodded.

  She looked at me, unconvinced, but said, ‘I’ll get you some filter coffee.’

  I began my morning routine with the rather noisy ritual of gargling with 10 ml of gingelly oil for 20 minutes. It is done first thing in the morning before brushing one’s teeth and is believed to detoxify the system. I can certainly vouch for the fact that it acts as a great mouth freshener.

  Today, though, I abandoned that process halfway. There was just too much going on in my mind.

  I sat at the dining table as Meena brought the coffee and sat with me—a quiet, reassuring presence. As I sipped the coffee, I felt an immense sense of gratitude to her. Our daughter Ashwini was in Chennai, devastated by the premature death of our Golden Retriever. But my wife had left her alone in her grief to provide me support in Sathy.

  I owed her a lot, but I couldn’t find the words.

  As I finished the filter coffee, I simply said, ‘Thank you.’

  It wasn’t just for the beverage. She smiled, ‘All the best.’

  I had not discussed Operation Cocoon with her, but she knew me well enough to understand that something big was underway.

  By 6.30 a.m., I left for Kannan’s. A series of meetings were lined up for the next two hours. First up were Saravanan and Durai, who were introduced to each other and briefed thoroughly.

  Then Nawaz, Rajarajan and Hussain came in separately and were briefed. Over the phone, I also spoke to SP-2, DSP Tiru, Sampath and Inspectors Kandaswamy and Karuppusamy.

  At this stage, my orders to the team, except Kannan, Durai and Saravanan, were clear—everyone needed to gear up for an intense training exercise. By now, they knew my endless harangue about training being a bloodless war. I knew they would excel.

  By 10 a.m., I was at my office like any other day. I browsed through the sitreps or situation reports, which mentioned details of some medical camps and unconfirmed reports of the gang’s movements. Luckily, there was nothing happening around our rendezvous point. Any kind of action there might have led to police presence, which would have impeded our mission.

  I went through the video I shot the previous day of the probable scene of action. It was a habit I had picked up while in the SPG. I viewed everything clearly—Kannan driving the Maruti and the tinted windows slightly pulled down, the one-room school, the big trees and the traffic.

  There was a horse and monkey Feng Shui charm on my desk. ‘It’s for those in the armed forces and police,’ a Chinese vendor in Kuala Lumpur had told my son Arjun, who had gifted it to me.

  ‘Let’s see if it works,’ I thought. ‘After all these years, the STF could do with some luck.’

  For operational secrecy to be maintained, it had to appear like any other day at the office. The STF had organized a huge medical camp the previous day. I met the doctors to thank them. Then I left for the firearms range.

  Just as I was leaving, Kannan came up to me and whispered sotto voce, ‘Bunker is GO. Sweet box is loaded with sugarcane.’

  I nodded and got into the jeep. At the range, three teams were engaged in firing from the sandbag redoubts they had just erected. I commended them for the phenomenal hits they managed to achieve. Later that day, I stopped at the Bannari Temple.

  In the afternoon, I tried to catnap for thirty minutes. A lifetime of police work had taught me the importance of a good siesta and I could usually fall asleep the moment I shut my eyes. But not that afternoon.

  By 5 that evening, I was out of Sathy.

  It was dark as I neared Mettur. I thought of Walter Davaram, who had launched the STF right there eleven years ago.

  I wore my favourite jeans and green tee and constantly touched an Ayyappa medallion in my wallet. There may have been times when I didn’t have any cash in it, but the medallion has been a constant since 1993, when I first wore it on a beaded chain during my pilgrimage to Sabarimala. The medallion has seen me through all ups and downs, providing solace during failures and urging me to express gratitude to God for my triumphs.

  I was in a Tata Sumo—the same one that Walter had used—with the driver, who should have rightfully been in the Formula-1 ranks. I signalled him to take it easy. I didn’t have to reach too early. The Sumo’s windshield had a sticker that said ‘Guruvayurappan Travels’ in bold black and gold letters. My AK rested on my lap, while the 9 mm was tucked into my jeans.

  Kannan had left Sathy much before me in a red Omni; part of the STF’s hidden fleet. Other vehicles packed with men and materials converged towards our rendezvous point—an inspection bungalow in Dharmapuri. The most important vehicle, however, was on its way from Coimbatore—the modified ‘ambulance’ code-named Cocoon.

  Clad in a crisp white shirt and trousers, Saravanan sighed in relief as he finally exited the congested streets of Coimbatore. Cocoon’s drive from Coimbatore to Dharmapuri was about four hours. He was at the wheel of his favourite Tempo Traveller, which belonged to the STF’s Intel wing.

  Saravanan had driven the vehicle numerous times. But over the last five days, it had been transformed beyond recognition. ‘Ultra’ Umapathy, our resident gadgets’ expert and Saravanan kept a close watch as numerous modifications were made to the vehicle.

  The vehicle was remodelled at a nondescript workshop in north Coimbatore. The only distinctive feature of the place was its name—Kannan Workshop.

  We took that as a good sign. The mechanics had ticked each box of a long checklist without asking questions. Saravanan stuck to the vehicle like a limpet, living mostly on tea and samosas and even spending his nights in the van.

  A huge revolving front seat—resembling the VIP seat of an executive jet—which had been used by several senior STF officers, was removed. The rear seat was realigned. A plywood partition was put in to separate the front from the rear, but with a peephole. A stretcher was added, as were three portraits of deities. Lord Venkateswara in the middle had a camera fixed on his forehead, to pass on real-time information to us. A revolving b
lue lamp was fixed on top of the vehicle, and extra fog lamps were installed.

  As Saravanan drove contentedly, his eyes briefly rested on his fellow passenger, sitting as still as a statue, his bulging biceps resting on the window.

  The two men had met in Kannan’s room that morning. Kannan and I had called in Saravanan first. As per the original plan, Saravanan was not supposed to drive the vehicle. His role was to end with overseeing the makeover, after which he was to hand over to another driver.

  Saravanan was smart and quick-witted, but there was a softness to him that worried me—the reason I believed he wasn’t the right man for the job.

  However, when Saravanan realized that there was a very real possibility of him being separated from his beloved van, he politely but adamantly indicated to me that the separation would happen over his dead body!

  It was a matter of honour for him. He swore he would not let his STF comrades down, no matter how dangerous the mission. I relented, though I must confess, I continued to doubt my decision during the tense hours that followed.

  Once it was settled that Saravanan would drive, Durai was called into the room and the two men were introduced. They were told about the pickup point and Cocoon’s ultimate destination. This was the most crucial part of the briefing, so we were deliberate. There was absolutely no room for any margin of error.

  Kannan and I addressed all the queries. There weren’t too many. The questions were asked and answered mostly in monosyllables.

  Durai and Saravanan only knew that some dangerous people were to be escorted in the vehicle. But the identity of those people was not revealed.

  By 8 a.m., Durai and Saravanan slipped out of Kannan’s room and were taken to the workshop. Last-minute changes were still being carried out. There was a latch on the rear door to lock it from the outside, but we decided to remove it as it could make the gangsters suspicious.

  Once the latch was removed, the two men inspected the vehicle closely, running through their respective checklists. It was time to eat—their first and, as it turned out, only meal of the day.

  They managed with curd rice from a rundown joint opposite the workshop and returned to see to the final touches of the makeover.

  Paint was being sprayed over a stencil. When cleaned up, the words stood out boldly on both sides in bright colour: SKS Hospital, Selam.

  Durai smiled, turned away and then whipped around. ‘Oh hell!’

  ‘What?’ asked Saravanan, anxious.

  ‘Salem has been misspelt,’ pointed out Durai. ‘Our target may not spot the mistake, but we don’t want to attract anyone’s attention en route.’

  The two men huddled with the mechanics. Could it be fixed? Yes, but it would take a while.

  ‘We don’t have much time. We’ll take our chances,’ Durai took the call.

  Saravanan scrubbed Cocoon clean one last time, quickly bathed and put on a fresh set of clothes. He carefully applied kumkum (vermillion) to his forehead and said a quick prayer. The two men then set off.

  It was already 5 p.m.

  Saravanan did a quick calculation. He could reach Dharmapuri well in time even if he cruised along at 60 kmph.

  Occasionally, he tried to talk to his passenger, but soon realized that despite his toughness and quiet competence, conversation was not his forte. Saravanan shrugged and shifted his focus back on the road.

  ‘I just hope we don’t get stopped by a police party,’ he thought.

  In the worst-case scenario, he could always call me or Kannan, but that would completely jeopardize our operational secrecy.

  Meanwhile, Durai went through his calming ritual. He tapped his shoulder, hip, thighs and heels again and again, obsessively, in a perpetual loop. To break the monotony, he started checking his wireless set, earpiece and stun grenades. The maximum attention was reserved for his MP-5 Heckler & Koch sub-machine gun and his 9 mm Browning. Right at the end, he tilted his head to look at a slot in the partition beneath his seat and nodded. Perfect to slip in a stun grenade that would leave the targets disoriented.

  Satisfied, Durai leaned back and settled into a meditative trance. It was disturbed only as the vehicle crossed Thoppur Ghats, when his phone buzzed. He listened intently, but only grunted a couple of times in reply.

  Saravanan waited to be told about the details of the call. No information was forthcoming. He shrugged and kept driving, without taking any break, either to pee or for tea.

  A little while later, they reached the outskirts of Dharmapuri.

  Saravanan, a native of the place, knew the road would soon fork into two—one towards Bangalore, and the other towards Chennai. Just before the vehicle reached the fork, Durai signalled Saravanan to stop.

  They parked Cocoon in the shadow of a massive tamarind tree and boarded a red Omni that had been waiting for them. The vehicle took them to the rendezvous point—Dharmapuri Traveller’s Bungalow—where all of us had already reached. This was the base camp from which we would launch the final assault.

  33

  The Longest Night

  I was at the inspection bungalow in Dharmapuri. All cell phones were switched off, as a call from home could paralyse an otherwise combat-ready operative. Later, we were informed of a call that had left Sub-Inspector Rajesh Khanna ‘tele-paralysed’. His wife had got her mangalsutra entangled in a nail on the bed and was worried about his safety.

  I looked around. It was time for the final briefing, which assumes critical importance, since every mission has a definite target. But I was faced with the onerous task of conducting the briefing without disclosing the target in an attempt to ensure ops secrecy.

  I was suddenly overcome by a sense of guilt. Was I not pitting the Cocoon team of the STF against the rest? Was I not endangering the lives of Durai and Saravanan? What if any team member made a wrong move? Things could spiral out of control with the mere twitch of a finger, a slight shuffle or even a wink.

  Even before I could unveil the op plan, Hussain and Rajarajan realized that this was anything but a routine exercise.

  Hussain had been in Chennai, on leave for the holy month of Ramadan, when he was recalled. Though he had reported back immediately, the thought of his leave being cancelled for a mere training exercise must have rankled.

  But his qualms, if any, disappeared when I revealed that some gangsters or smugglers would be travelling in that vehicle that night.

  A smile lit up his face. Clearly, he was happier being here than with guests at home, tucking into succulent Iftar dishes. ‘Hussain, ensure fire restraint, if it comes to that,’ was all I said to him. After all, if even one chap pulled the trigger too early, it would be disastrous for Durai and Saravanan. They would be facing a firing squad at point-blank range.

  Rajarajan too seemed to be bubbling with energy all of a sudden. He moved around, talking to his men, and putting some of them through the ‘jump test’—which you fail if any object on you clinks or rattles when you leap.

  SP Chinnaswamy was busy handling all logistics.

  As I observed the men, Kannan whispered into my ear, ‘Cocoon has arrived.’

  I nodded to him to go ahead. He slipped away towards the rear compound wall. Durai and Saravanan stepped out of the shadows and greeted him. They declined Kannan’s offer of a quick meal of bread and apple. Kannan passed the torn scrap of paper with the incomplete lottery number on it. Durai nodded and tucked it into his pocket. He also wore a green tee.

  I came out to have a quick chat with the two men. Their demeanour indicated that they were determined to do their best. Kannan looked at me enquiringly. The moment of truth had finally arrived.

  ‘Go ahead,’ I said.

  Kannan then finally revealed the identity of the people they would escort.

  Durai’s visage remained expressionless. But there was a burst of feverish excitement, mingled with considerable anxiety, on Saravanan’s face. He quickly composed himself and looked me in the eye. No words were exchanged, but the message he conveyed was loud and cle
ar: ‘I won’t let you down.’

  I nodded, mentally taking the driver’s seat in Cocoon.

  The duo boarded the Omni, now suffused with the fragrance of biryani packed in vessels. In addition were bottles of buttermilk and containers carrying fruits and dried fruit. All the stuff was quickly transferred to Cocoon.

  Saravanan and Durai then left for their next stop near Papparapatti Police Station. It’s unlikely that Veerappan would have read Edgar Allan Poe’s The Purloined Letter, but he followed the same principle—letting his conduit and the getaway van hide in plain sight, as that was the last place anyone would expect to find him.

  The driver wasn’t too sure about the wisdom of this strategy, and his apprehension rose as he saw four cops hurriedly cycling out of the station. Two of them headed towards Cocoon. Saravanan anxiously turned towards Durai, who remained deadpan as usual.

  ‘Relax,’ muttered Durai. ‘They will not use bicycles if they want to nab someone barely a stone’s throw away.’

  Saravanan bit his lip. The cops cycled past. He realized that he was holding his breath. He exhaled gently and said a silent prayer.

  Durai got down and stood by the van. In his peripheral vision, he detected a movement—a man emerged from the shadows to the left and advanced towards him. At first, Durai thought that it was Guide, who had escorted him on his abortive attempts to contact the gang. On closer inspection, it was somebody else, but Durai guessed that like Guide, this man too was probably a local tribal, perhaps even related to him.

  The man approached Durai and cleared his throat. He proffered the torn lottery ticket. Durai rummaged through his pockets and produced his own scrap. The two pieces were placed together to form the number ‘007710’. The stranger smiled thinly.