KALYUG

by R. SREERAM

  When the push came, Llong was expecting it. But he had expected it to be gentler, more of a shove towards the gunman in front as the one behind him made a dash for the gate. Reflexes would cause the one in front to fire and hit Llong before he would recover enough to aim for the fleeing attacker, who would be ducking and weaving and creating as small a target as possible.

  As he stumbled towards the Army officer, Llong saw his finger tighten on the trigger. The thought of death – so close once again – fuelled his body as it reacted without thinking. Using the momentum he already had, Llong charged Nawaz, hoping that he was far enough ahead of the spot the man had been aiming at. He closed the distance between them faster than expected and had the air knocked out of him when they collided.

  Nawaz grunted as Llong slammed his shoulder into his abdomen and went down in a flurry of arms and legs. He felt the rifle drop from his hands and heard it clatter away before the weight moved off him. He felt a tug at his waist and looked down just in time to spot his Glock being pulled out of its holster. He reached for it too late and found himself staring into the barrel of his own weapon.

  He was worried by the fact that the gun wobbled dangerously in the other man’s hands. Hampered by the duct tape, Llong was finding it extremely difficult to hold the gun and get his finger on the trigger so that he could pose a credible threat instead of looking idiotic. Cursing, he started to move backwards.

  When his feet hit the rifle that Nawaz had dropped, he looked down, giving Nawaz the break he was looking for. Twisting quickly where he lay, Nawaz propelled himself towards Llong and slammed into him mid-thigh, knocking both of them back to the ground. As he cocked his fist back to land one on the jaw and hopefully knock him out of the contest, he noticed Llong’s face for the first time. He hesitated.

  Llong managed to get a good-enough grip on the butt of the Glock that he thought he could slam it against the head of the man on top of him. He did not intend to kill – he simply wanted to escape.

  Nawaz blocked the blow inches before it could land and pushed against Llong, forcing the hands back over his head and flat against the ground. With his hands tied, Llong did not have the leverage to power up against Nawaz and stopped struggling as he realized the futility of it. All the fight almost went out of Llong at that instant.

  Almost.

  17th September, 2012. New Delhi.

  Raghav and I did not speak much on the way over, except for him giving me a few terse instructions on being careful. The late major-general’s office was situated just off-centre inside one of the more anonymous camps that dot the capital and Raghav knew of an obscure gate – unmarked, unlit, unpaved – where the guards had apparently been told to clear our arrivals. That did not prevent a rather uncomfortably long scrutiny that I had to squirm under, with the jawan staring at me with obvious disdain. Before he finally waved us through, he put his head through the window and said, loudly enough for the guard on the other side to hear, ‘Yeh Qureshi saab ka camp hai. Yaadh rakhna.’

  He didn’t wait for my reassurance that I wouldn’t forget and stepped away as the gates swung open on noisy hinges. We drove through in silence and parked at the back of a building with a sloped-roof. Raghav led the way, pausing at corners each time before he would beckon me forward, and it took a few more minutes for us to reach our destination.

  There was a jawan posted at the entrance but Raghav produced another set of papers that seemed to have the same magic as at the gate. A key was produced and we were ushered into the major-general’s office, into utter darkness.

  My hand reached out automatically for the lights but Raghav slapped it down. ‘No lights,’ he cautioned. ‘Use your mobile.’

  What little I could see confirmed the stereotype of officers’ offices. There was nothing out of place – except for a silver tray that had the remnants of three circles on its surface and dark blotches on the wall by the side of the desk. I did not need to ask to know what those blotches were, nor did I want confirmation of their morbid tale. Even if you’ve never seen blood and brain matter splattered before, you recognize it if you’re expecting it.

  I shadowed Raghav all over the place, trying to get a better feel for the major-general, for the man whose death I seemed to be the least affected by – at least directly. And I failed. The place was pristinely sterile, a textbook office whose only personal accessories were the couple of family pictures. Happier times, or at least what must have passed for happy in the Qureshi household. The middle-aged lady beside Major-General Qureshi and the little boy on her lap were the only ones who looked truly happy. I wondered if someone had told that little boy that he’d lost both his grandparents now.

  As professional as Raghav’s approach was – systematically going through everything that could have held anything, putting each object back in its place before moving to the next one, fast but careful – mine was anything but. I did not know what to look for, and in the absence of a living being to talk to, I had no idea what question to ask. The cause of death was incontestably a self-inflicted gunshot to the temple, nor was there any evidence so far of a second party’s involvement. Coercion, perhaps . . . but what the fuck was I supposed to do? What could I find out that was eluding everyone else?

  I did not have a clue.

  17th September, 2012. Siliguri.

  Group Captain Tej Bahadur Bhat hesitated before unlocking the door. He did not like changing the plan, and the plan had called for him to secure Kuldip Razdan till Wednesday, but the media circus that was now blocking the entrance to the base left him with no other option.

  ‘Congratulations, Mr Razdan,’ he said, catching sight of his ‘guest’ sitting in a corner. ‘You’re going home.’

  Kuldip Razdan beamed at him. ‘Good,’ he said, getting to his feet with more spring in his step than anyone had seen in recent times. ‘High time someone in Delhi had enough sense to see that this would never work.’

  It was the group captain’s turn to smirk. ‘Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it a victory for common sense. It’s just that the media has somehow come to know that you are hiding out here and the jackals holed up right outside our gates are starting to disrupt our operations, not to mention increase the possibility of leaks. So it’s not for you that we are sending you back – it’s for us.’

  The smile turned upside down into a frown on the former prime minister’s face. ‘One day, Group Captain Tej Bahadur Bhat, I hope to return the favour and host you myself.’

  The smirk remained on Bahadur Bhat’s face. ‘That day is far away. In the meantime, I’d suggest that you accompany me to your aircraft right now. Take-off is in ten minutes, and it’s either that or a freight train that will take two days to reach Delhi. Either way, in fifteen minutes, you will be someone else’s problem.’

  17th September, 2012. New Delhi.

  The sound of boots caused Major Nawaz Qureshi to look up and give Llong the opening he needed. He brought his knees to his chest, under Nawaz, before straightening them, pushing Nawaz off. Even as Nawaz staggered up, trying to regain his balance, Llong lashed out with his leg and caught the other man just behind the knee, causing him to crash down on his back. Llong did not bother looking for the boots that had helped him take the upper hand – obviously, it had to be a foe. Whoever it was, he had to evade both men.

  Like the earlier gunman, Llong noticed that the one he was fighting had a knife tucked away in his belt as well. A knife would be easier to wield than a gun, and if he could manage to use it to get the tape off . . .

  He rolled over Nawaz before the soldier could react and pulled the knife out of its scabbard in one smooth motion. He landed on his feet and started to run towards the rear of the burning building, hoping that he would be able to find enough cover there for some evasive action. Leaving through the gates was an option that he had already considered and rejected – there was a very high possibility that there would be others outside.

  By the time Nawaz got to his feet, Llong was vanishing around t
he corner. The pair of boots stopped beside him.

  ‘Perimeter secured?’ Nawaz asked the man, one of the four that Jagannath had sent with him.

  ‘Yes. Do you want me to go after him?’

  Nawaz shook his head, still winded from his fight. ‘He’s an amateur who got lucky,’ he said, picking up his pistol. His partner handed over the rifle and he slung the belt back over his shoulder. ‘Ask HQ to send a sweeper squad behind the safe-house. He’s tired, hurt and unarmed – except for my knife. They should be able to pick him up soon.’

  19

  24th September, 2012.

  . . . Many sports federations have protested the move, none more so than the Board for Control of Cricket in India against whom, it is believed, the government has trained its sights. Sources within the government say that the government is uncomfortable with the huge amount of funds that the BCCI is holding in its coffers and wants to use it to improve other sports. It is also safe to assume that the BCCI will fight the move to bring it under the government’s purview tooth and nail, despite the very real possibility that if they succeed, they may no longer be allowed to field themselves as the official Indian team. It could turn out to be a googly for the BCCI after all.

  Before we head for a break, here’s a look at the top headlines once again:

  Even as the United Democratic Alliance has continued to maintain its silence on the Emergency, the senior working committee of the National Progressive Alliance will be meeting shortly. It is expected that the NPA will come out with its stand on the Emergency right after taking the top leaders into confidence. Mrs Pandit, Jojo Pandit and former prime minister Kuldip Razdan have already arrived at the venue.

  The US State Department has issued a travel advisory for its citizens in India, even as high-level talks are on to put together a meeting of the presidents of the two countries. This will probably happen at a neutral venue later this year.

  The EU has blocked the motion moved by Pakistan in the United Nations. Pakistan had asked for sanctions against India citing fears that the tension in the subcontinent would escalate under a dictatorial regime in India. China and Japan abstained from voting, while Britain and France have vetoed the motion.

  The United States has also announced a new two-billion-dollar package for Pakistan to support its war on terror. According to a late-night communiqué from Washington, the amount is expected to bolster the technical capabilities of the anti-terror forces in the border areas. The Ministry for External Affairs is expected to address this in a press conference later today.

  The unrest has picked up again after a lull over the weekend. Kerala and West Bengal continue to be shut-down for the fifth day in a row, with all the Left parties taking to the streets to demand a CBI enquiry into last Sunday’s firing; in Tamil Nadu’s Tirunelveli district, a clash between opposing communities has led to the imposition of curfew till six o’clock tomorrow morning; Orissa, Bihar, Jharkhand and Chhattisgarh have seen an increase in engagement of the Armed Forces by Naxalites, in what many analysts feel will be a decisive phase in the battle against the Red Terror.

  Andhra continues to struggle on the Telengana question in the absence of political leadership; the North-East has been cut off from the rest of the country for the fourth day in a row on account of the siege of the national highways by armed Bodo and Naga militants.

  And in Jammu and Kashmir, the separatists use the Emergency as an excuse to ask for separation from India once again.

  Industry mourns the suicide of Mr Gyandeep Sharma, head of Infinity Private Limited, one of India’s most exclusive financial-services firms. The Mumbai police have stepped up patrolling of the Sea Link, which has seen many such high-profile suicides since its inauguration in 2008.

  All the accused of the heinous gang rape in the national capital have been arrested. They will be produced before the court today and are expected to be held over in police custody at least for a week as the fate of the victim still lies in the balance.

  And a famous Bollywood superstar is rumoured to be divorcing his wife for another woman, the heroine of his latest movie that hits the theatres this Friday.

  Finally, it is a mixed bag for Indian sports. In cricket, the cricket team managed to beat Bangladesh in a closely-fought encounter in Dhaka, but the hockey team went down to Malaysia 1-7 in a one-sided contest.

  When we come back, we will be joined in the studio by eminent human rights activist Mr . . .

  I switched off the television set.

  24th September, 2012. Mumbai.

  ‘And he jumped? Just like that?’

  The operative winced, trying to avoid Jagannath’s irate glare. ‘Yes. There was no indication that he was going to jump.’ That scene kept playing back over and over again in his head, the subtle changes in the routine magnified, in retrospect ominous precursors to what had followed. Gyandeep Sharma taking a little longer to get out of his car. Banging on the roof after he had gotten out. The vehicle starting to move as he neared the railings, speeding away like a bat out of hell.

  They had spectacular pictures, though. Gyandeep climbing the railing, the wind whipping the scarf around his face. Gyandeep, that crucial second before he entrusted himself to gravity. Gyandeep, his torso passing the railing, a blur of flesh and bones. And the last shot, taken within a couple of seconds of the first one, showing the railing. Just the railing.

  Jagannath slammed his fist down on the table, the sound echoing sharply around the small interrogation room. First Leela, now Gyandeep – the two things that he had counted on to get him close enough to Powerhouse to finish it off once and for all.

  And what pissed him off the most was how easily Powerhouse had brought it about. INSAF had been in turmoil since the attack on the safe-house, trying to figure out who it was who had sold out the location; Qureshi’s eye-witness account of Llong’s escape and his insistence that Leela was nowhere to be seen; the body of a female, charred and crushed, three bullets within, discovered within the debris . . . and then the photos, sent to Gyandeep Sharma, intercepted by INSAF, that left no doubt as to what had happened to Leela. Just the right move at the right time, leaving Fate to fill in the blanks.

  The driver of the car, a long-time employee of the Sharmas, was in another interrogation room, his account of the incident being investigated in minute detail. But it was virtually certain that there would be nothing there beyond a master’s inviolable command to his subordinate. The man who sat in front of him had had enough presence of mind to rush to Gyandeep Sharma’s residence and take the driver into custody even before the engine had finished ticking.

  With Gyandeep no longer in the picture, the worst-case scenarios were becoming increasingly probable. There was no longer a point of reference for INSAF within its nemesis, a node at which Powerhouse could be pinned down, a leak through which information had to pass. The attacks had been aimed at destabilizing Powerhouse and knocking off their response mechanisms, but from the evidence at hand, the organization was taking care of itself with incredible fortitude.

  Jagannath glanced at his watch. This interrogation had been going on for almost two hours without anything to show for it. All his experience told him that the operative was not faking anything, that he had been as surprised as anyone else by Gyandeep’s extreme step. He strode to the door and wrenched it open before barking at his operative, ‘Get out.’ The relieved man was on his feet and out the door before his boss could reconsider his decision.

  Jagannath watched the back of the man recede from sight with mixed emotions. When he and Nelson had started INSAF, it had been with dreams of extraordinarily competent resources – the best any service within the country had to offer. And to be fair, most of the operatives that INSAF employed were that good . . . but the exigencies of Kalyug had forced them to expand, to recruit not only the best but also ones that were a little wanting. The man he had just interrogated was one of those compromises.

  Closing the door behind him, Jagannath walked back to the tabl
e and sat down, running through the various operations INSAF had in play. Some of them had been compromised because of tenuous links to Powerhouse – and therefore under suspicion for the leak about the safe-house – but contingency plans were being activated. For the moment, though, all those operations paled in front of the biggest gamble in his life.

  He wondered if the team in Washington was in place yet.

  24th September, 2012. Hyderabad.

  A week without anyone challenging his identity had seemed too good to be true, Nazim Qazi thought morosely as he stood up to greet his visitor. The luck that had helped him finagle a room from one of the devout at the Juma Masjid now seemed to have deserted him, for his visitor was none other than an emissary of Mullah Omar from across the border and was, from all accounts, quite familiar with The Pathan.

  Once again, the doubts that had been held at bay the past week came rushing back. Would his visitor notice that his beard was noticeably thinner and shorter than The Pathan’s? Would – at such close quarters – he fail to notice that the body was younger by almost half? Would it be his voice that betrayed him, or the lack of familiarity with common connections and incidents? Not for the first time, Qazi cursed the moment of weakness that had made him accept such a lame-brained scheme – but then again, when you are staring at death down the barrel of a gun, the only thing you can think of is postponing it.

  But it was still death, and it would still come for you. As the visitor stepped through the doorway, Qazi wondered if this was the time it would refuse to leave empty-handed.

  ‘A thousand apologies for intruding upon your studies of the Qu’ran, my friend,’ said the visitor as soon as he saw him. ‘May Allah forgive my sins and bless you for your devotion.’

  Qazi gave an imperious nod – having seen The Pathan dismiss such apologies in a similar manner – and gestured to the most ornate of the mats on the floor. ‘It is all His will,’ he said, trying to mimic The Pathan’s voice as he remembered it. ‘There is nothing that is an accident.’