by Deva, Mukul
Iqbal could feel Tanaz’s body straining with the exertion of reaching out for the weapon behind him. He knew he had to give her a little more time. ‘Why? At least tell me why you’re doing this? Don’t you realize that they’re just using you, the Pakistanis and their ISI?’
‘The ISI?’ Mujib repeated, his voice rising. ‘They think they are in control, but it’s they who are being used. I owe my loyalty only to the Ameer.’
‘The Ameer? The Ameer ul Momineem?’
Shock registered on Mujib’s face. ‘How do you know that name?’ he asked in disbelief.
‘I’ve met him.’ Iqbal felt Tanaz’s hand stiffen slightly as it grasped the pistol.
A moment more...
‘You lie!’
‘No, I swear I have.’
‘You lying, treacherous bastard. And even if you have, what difference does it make; nothing on earth can stop the tidal wave the Ameer will soon unleash. In just a few months, the world will see a holocaust the likes of which it cannot even imagine.’ Mujib was almost shouting now, his eyes glazed with fanatical excitement. ‘Soon! Very soon, the crescent will rule the world. It’s not going to be long now before India fragments and the two Pakistans are reunited. Not just that…’
Iqbal felt Tanaz’s hand ease the pistol out of the shoe. He had to keep them talking. ‘What are you saying? How can Pakistan and Bangladesh ever be reunited?’
‘Oh yes, they can.’ A smile lit up Mujib’s face. ‘They certainly can... once Mughalstan becomes a reality, which it will, soon.’
‘Mughalstan? What is...’
Iqbal felt Tanaz use his back to steady her hand and aim the pistol.
At the same time, Mujib’s gun hand came up. ‘Enough talking,’ he said. ‘I don’t have any more time to waste.’ He was training the weapon on Tanaz when she fired.
If you flick your finger and point at the target, you’ll almost always be aiming at the point you’ve selected. If either you or the target is moving, it’s always better to aim for the body rather than try for the head, which is a much smaller target. The head shot will mean almost certain death whereas a body shot may still leave the wounded opponent capable of shooting back. It’s a choice you have to make depending on the situation and, of course, how confident you are of your shot…
Tanaz sought certain death and she was confident. Knowing that both their lives depended on it lent her an unshakeable confidence. She knew she couldn’t afford to give Mujib the chance to get a shot off. He was too close to miss either Iqbal or her, and that was a risk she couldn’t afford to take. With one final superhuman effort, she freed her mind of the agonizing pain and fired, aiming straight for the hateful head that filled her vision.
The muted spit of a .22 weapon firing is confusing, especially when your opponent has no idea there is a weapon in your hand and does not believe you are in any state, mental or physical, for offensive action.
For a moment none of the three terrorists realized that a weapon had been fired. By the time realization dawned, a dark red star had blossomed on Mujib’s face, where his mouth had been a moment earlier. Tanaz’s aim was perfect. Mujib dropped as though he had been poleaxed. The pistol in his right hand and the mobile phone in his left fell to the ground like two discordant notes.
As the sound of the shot echoed through the room and Mujib’s lifeless body crumpled slowly to the floor, the two surviving merchants of death were galvanized into action. Asif reached into his jacket pocket while the other man tried to duck out of the room. Barely alive though she was, Tanaz saw the movement and identified the threat it posed to Iqbal and her.
Her next shot thumped into Asif’s chest, throwing him backwards. He slammed into the door and slumped to the floor, desperate hands clutching at the hole in his chest, trying to stem the blood that was seeping out.
By now Iqbal had snatched up the bloodstained knife lying near his feet and hurled it at the third terrorist. Arrowing across the room with a steely glint, it caught him plumb in the neck, just between the cleft in his collarbones. He fell to the floor, his hands clawing at the knife stuck in his neck, a weird gagging sound his only defence.
By now the second knife that had been lying on the floor was in Iqbal’s hand. He kited across the room, landing with a soft thud next to the newcomer who was still alive. Taking hold of his shoulder, Iqbal spun him around as his knife hand sliced through the air. The man’s throat yawned open with a ghastly popping sound as the sharp steel blade mowed through it. Life went out of him instantly. Without pause or wasted motion, Iqbal dropped him and moved on towards his final quarry. Asif, who was struggling to reach for the pistol that Mujib had dropped, died as the knife slammed through his ribcage and pierced his heart.
Just as suddenly as it had begun, the killing heat was over and the race for survival began. Iqbal pushed down his heaving emotions and forced his training to take over.
Grabbing the mobile phone that Mujib had dropped, Iqbal quickly dialled a number.
‘Sir, we’ve been blown,’ he said tersely. ‘Tanaz is badly hurt. I need an ambulance fast. Really fast!’
‘Where are you two? At the apartment?’ Anbu reacted with all the speed and mental mobility expected of a man who perpetually operated in special conditions.
‘Yes!’
‘The military hospital at Khadki is just minutes away. I’ll have an ambulance there immediately and will see that the hospital is ready to receive her.’
‘Sir, please hurry.’ Iqbal could feel his control giving way. ‘Tanaz is all I have. I don’t want to lose her.’
‘You won’t, Iqbal. Trust me.’
For once, Anbu was wrong. The doctors did their best, but it wasn’t enough to compensate for the damage the terrorists had inflicted as they extracted information from her.
As the hours bled away, so did her life. She died minutes before Anbu reached the hospital; minutes after she delivered a three-kilogram baby boy, whom god in all his mercy had saved from the pain that the woman who bore him had suffered.
Tanaz died fighting, her eyes constantly seeking the man whom life had gifted her, the man who in the few months they spent together had given her a lifetime of love. And there were tears in her eyes as life left her.
The tears were not for herself. They were for the man she loved and the baby she would have loved. They were for the man who had had only hate in his heart when life had delivered them to the same crossroads; she had helped lance out the hate and filled it with love, instead. Her tears were for the man who would be bereft without her. She knew her passage from his life would once again leave behind a huge void that would allow the hate to return. She knew it would send him hurtling down the futile, violent path of death and destruction yet again.
Her tears were for the baby who would never feel the comfort of his mother’s arms. She cried for the little child she had carried safely all these months and was now leaving behind in a world so full of horror.
She cried because she didn’t want any of this for either of them. But even as she cried, she knew her tears were in vain, for that was the way it had been written and that was the way it would unfold.
TWENTY-THREE
Iqbal was shaking when Anbu walked into the hospital room. He sat crouched forward on the bed next to Tanaz, clutching her lifeless hand, as though by doing so he could pull her back from the afterlife she had gone to. Neither the anger nor the hate that pulsed through him was visible on his face. Nor were there any tears in his eyes. In fact, he seemed to have receded into another reality. Only the uncontrollable tremors that sporadically wracked his body betrayed his anguish.
‘Iqbal!’ Anbu’s hand landed gently on his shoulder, his soft, compassionate voice dragging Iqbal back to the present.
Iqbal looked up at him, his eyes numb. ‘I should have listened to you and never allowed her to become a part of this…’
‘No one could have known it would end like this. We all take decisions that we feel are the best at the time we take the
m,’ Anbu said quietly. ‘Sometimes they go well, and sometimes...’ He stopped as he realized the sheer inadequacy of his words.
Iqbal collapsed in his arms and began to cry. He cried like a baby – the tall, broad-shouldered, hardened young man who had seen so many facets of life and death so close. He cried like there was no tomorrow. And Anbu let him.
It was a long time before Iqbal broke free from Anbu’s clasp. He turned and gazed silently at the broken body of the woman he loved. To Anbu it seemed as though Iqbal was branding every single scar and cut on her body onto his mind, as though he was bidding her a last farewell.
Iqbal was thinking of his mother and sister. He had not been able to see their bodies and mourn over them. This time, he would have at least this final memory to strengthen his mind for what lay ahead. From somewhere deep within, a chill began to creep through him; it spread slowly, bit by bit, driving every emotion from his heart.
‘I know what has to be done next.’ His tone was flat, devoid of all but cold certainty as he looked at Anbu. ‘I need you to help me.’
‘What do you want, son?’ Anbu asked gently.
‘They have to pay for this.’ Iqbal gestured at Tanaz’s body without looking at it. It was as though he could no longer bring himself to set eyes on her.
‘That they will. The men who did this are already dead. The others we now know about and are hunting down. None of them will get away... I promise you that,’ Anbu said. ‘None of us will rest till we have them behind bars.’
‘Iqbal.’ It was Tiwathia who spoke up. He and Sami had come into the room quietly sometime earlier. ‘You have done enough and given enough to this fight. You must know what a huge blow you’ve dealt to the terrorists. This group is totally decimated.’
‘Yes, Iqbal, Vikram is right,’ Sami said, ‘you’ve done much more than could be expected from one person. You must pull back now, at least for some time.’
‘No, this battle is far from over. It will not be over till we go in and hit the source where this monster came from. Tanaz would not want me to give up now, or ever. Then...’ Iqbal’s voice broke for a moment, before he snatched control over it again, ‘her death would be futile. I cannot accept that… I will not accept it.’ By now his voice was a hoarse whisper.
‘But what do you want to do?’ Anbu asked him. ‘Your task is over; the Indian Mujahideen is finished.’
‘I know that, sir, but before Mujib died, he mentioned a few things that...’
‘Do you want to talk about all this right now?’ Anbu interrupted him.
‘Yes, I do.’ Iqbal was adamant.
‘Okay.’ Anbu understood that at this moment Iqbal needed the release more than anything else. As long as he was talking, his mind could resist the pain. ‘Go ahead then.’
‘Do you remember that man we told you about when we returned from Pakistan – the Ameer ul Momineem?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s the one behind men like Mujib and Asif. They are working towards reuniting Pakistan and Bangladesh by creating what Mujib refered to as Mughalstan.’
‘What the hell is that?’ Tiwathia asked.
‘Mughalstan is the name of an independent homeland proposed for the Muslims of India,’ Anbu answered.
‘Proposed by whom?’ Sami was incredulous.
‘Well, the comprehensive plan for a second partition of India was first developed by the Mughalstan Research Institute of Bangladesh’s Jahangir Nagar University under the patronage of the ISI and the DGFI. This Mughalstan, or Greater Pakistan, is supposed to be the grand culmination of General Zia’s Op TOPAC.’
‘You can’t be serious, sir?’
‘Of course I am. The MRI even released a map of Mughalstan in which a large corridor of land runs through north and east India, linking Bangladesh and Pakistan. In fact, all the jihadi groups, especially Al Qaeda, Lashkar-e-Toiba, Hizbul Mujahideen Jaish-e-Mohammed, YPS and the Indian Mujahideen support this plan for a Greater Pakistan. They’ve also managed to get the support of various criminal groups in India.’
‘But Pakistan itself is on the verge of disintegration, so how the hell can they be thinking of this?’
‘Disintegration? Really?’ Anbu asked. ‘Is it disintegrating, or is it just slipping bit by bit into Taliban hands? Isn’t that what the hardliners there want, and people like the Ameer are working towards?’
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Sami said, ‘How the hell can they hope to convince the Indian Muslims to support crap like this?’
‘They’re banking on the hardliners to bulldoze the moderates and make them toe the line.’
‘Do they actually believe that the Indian Muslim will ever accept being forced to live in Taliban-like conditions? Do they think we are not aware of the destruction the fundamentalists have wreaked on the parts they control in Pakistan?’
‘Whether you do or don’t is not the issue here,’ Anbu intervened. ‘The fact remains that this is what they want to achieve. Do you know that one of Jinnah’s private secretaries, who stayed behind in India after partition and became a minister in the Assam ministry, wrote to him promising that in thirty years he would present Assam to Pakistan on a platter?’
‘And this man was a minister in India?’ Sami was the picture of disbelief. ‘Why didn’t they shoot him for treason?’
‘Yes, he was.’ Anbu nodded, ignoring the last part of Sami’s question. ‘And since then they have been working hard to ensure that the Muslim population attains majority in the areas they have targeted for inclusion in Mughalstan. That’s why we’ve seen such an explosion in the number of Pak-funded madrassas in certain parts of India, Nepal and Bangladesh. That is...’
‘Precisely, sir,’ Iqbal interrupted. ‘Mujib clearly told me before he died that the Ameer is making sure they are not far from achieving their goal.’
‘He may have said so, Iqbal, but let me tell you that we have been monitoring events very closely for many years now; in fact, even more closely since you told us about the Ameer. But barring stray rumours and some unsubstantiated reports, we’ve come up with nothing.’
‘What did these reports say?’
‘That a group of people are trying to fill the gap after the death of the Sheikh in American custody and the one-eyed Mullah, the commander of the Afghan Taliban, had to go into hiding in Quetta. But you must understand, Iqbal, that there are many such people who will try to take advantage of this vacuum in leadership and assume bigger roles for themselves.’
‘Absolutely,’ Sami agreed. ‘With the Sheikh dead and most of the Al Qaeda leadership either in hiding or on the run, there is considerable disarray in their rank and file. Most of the terrorists have either split up into smaller groups or have just gone back to wherever they came from.’
‘So, that’s what Mujib must have meant.’ Iqbal saw the query on the faces of the Force 22 officers and added, ‘Tell me, sir, what would happen if someone came forward and took charge of the situation; someone ruthless enough to seize control and restructure the shattered jihadi setup. Someone who could make all the groups function in tandem. What then?’
‘If such a thing did happen...’
‘It would raise the pitch of the battle and take it to a totally different level. They have already wrested control over the Swat Valley and large parts of Waziristan,’ Iqbal continued, ‘and if they are working with the ISI to make Mughalstan a reality, then we certainly have a lot to worry about.’
‘But how on earth can the ISI hope to gain if Pakistan splits up?’
‘Does anyone really know what’s going on in that part of the world? Everything we see and hear is so contradictory… can we really make sense of it sitting here? Is the country really splitting up or is it just being taken over by the fundamentalists in a planned manner?’ Anbu said. ‘Or is there a larger plan, some devious hidden agenda that we are all missing?’
No one answered.
‘We need to go after the Ameer and his group. As long as he and people like him are at large
, this battle is far from over.’
‘I agree with you, Iqbal, but if that’s all you know about the Ameer, it’s hardly enough.’ Anbu’s calm voice tried to blunt the edge of Iqbal’s fury. ‘You won’t even know where to start.’
‘You may be right, sir, but I know I’ll be able to find him. Don’t ask me how, where, why... Here,’ he tapped his heart, ‘I just know I’ll find him. That’s enough for me.’ There was a chilling, almost pathological certainty in Iqbal’s tone.
‘If you say so, Iqbal. In any case, you’re a free agent and you know I can’t stop you. I don’t even want to. In fact, I’ll do everything in my power to help you, but,’ Anbu met his gaze squarely, ‘do you think this is the time for you to go away? There is much to be done. Tanaz has to be buried…’
‘No, sir,’ Iqbal was dogged. ‘Tanaz will be buried by me up here,’ he touched his forehead with the fingers of his right hand, ‘only once I have taken out the Ameer. Till then there will be no closure.’ He turned to Tiwathia. ‘Will you do this for me? Will you bury Tanaz for me, the way she should be, with honour and dignity... as befits any soldier, for she was no less.’
‘Yes, she was a true soldier and a much braver one than most,’ Tiwathia replied without hesitation. ‘I would be honoured to do this for you, Iqbal. This and anything else you want me to do.’
Just then, the door swung open and a nurse entered. Cradled in her arms was the baby that Tanaz had battled death to give birth to. He was fast asleep in the warm cocoon of the woman’s arms, with no inkling of the turmoil that had prefaced his arrival on earth.
‘Your son.’ The nurse held out the bundle to Iqbal. ‘I thought you’d like to see him.’
A warmth he had never known before flooded through Iqbal as the baby slipped into his arms. He cradled the tiny bundle of life close to his heart, so close that for a moment the heartbeats of father and son merged into a single, rhythmic medley. Iqbal felt a sharp pain clamp his heart.
‘What about your son, Iqbal?’ Anbu murmured softly, watching the glow of attachment on the young father’s face. ‘He has already lost his mother. Do you think you should also take his father away from him?’