In 1994, Gawli’s wife held a press conference at the Mumbai Marathi Patrakar Sangh and alleged that Dawood had paid the city police to murder her husband, who might soon be liquidated in an encounter. She said that Gawli was being framed in the Bukhari case.
Meanwhile, Arun Gawli and Amar Naik’s animus for each other increased, and there were more killings. While Gawli had tried to kill Ashwin Naik and ended up crippling him, Naik had virtually cut Gawli’s financial jugular by killing Sunit Khatau. Naik was ahead, at least, for the moment.
Meanwhile, the Shiv Sena, which had begun inching closer to unfurling its saffron pennant at the Vidhan Sabha, eventually managed to win the state assembly elections in and ensconced itself in Mantralaya, the seat of the government, for the next five years. In its twenty-nine-year history, the party had never before gone beyond ruling the local civic body.
Soon after the Shiv Sena came to power, the Naik gang’s fortunes changed. Amar had already escaped to England, and Ashwin, who was recuperating at J.J. Hospital (on bail, owing to medical reasons), managed to escape too, giving the gang a double lease of life. As if this was not enough, the Sena government, at its magnanimous best, gave a ticket to Ashwin’s wife, Neeta Naik, for the corporation elections.
Neeta – her late father was a hawala dealer, her husband and brother-in-law ganglords – won the elections because she was smart, spoke English and was extremely intelligent. In interviews she gave before the elections, she had said that she was contesting because she wanted the police to stop harassing her family. ‘I am tired of the midnight knocks by the Mumbai police. By being a corporator, I can shield my family from this constant harassment,’ she said.
Gawli anticipated the same magnanimity towards his wife, Asha, but the Shiv Sena honchos gave him the royal ignore. Gawli interpreted this as step-motherly treatment. On the one hand, he was one of ‘our boys’, while on the other hand, his arch-enemies, the Naiks, were the only beneficiaries of the Sena’s largesse. He felt that he was being used and manipulated by sugar-coated assurances; when it came to rewards, they would all go to his rivals.
Gawli was now fuelled by jealousy. The Naik family was gaining credibility and both Ashwin and Amar were absconding. This gave birth to a silent rebellion in the mind of the ‘adopted boy’ or ‘favoured gangster’ of Bal Thackeray.
In the underworld, like in politics, survival is everything. The family alone is sacrosanct, everyone else is expendable. And so began the next stage in the constant evolution of this parallel universe.
TWENTY-FIVE
The Demolition Squad
They looked like any other devout Pakistani Muslims waiting for the congregational prayers at the Saudi Masjid in Karachi to begin. In reality, the three men were Indian associates of Chhota Rajan – and they were there to launch an audacious attack on Dawood when he emerged from the mosque after prayers.
Farid Tanasha, Vicky Malhotra and Bunty Pandey were dressed in Pathani outfits and skull caps. It was the summer of 1998 and this was the first such plot to eliminate Dawood in his safe haven. Earlier, his rivals had attacked him only in Mumbai. He had subsequently left the city and relocated to Dubai, then to Karachi. No one had ever got this close to him before.
The hit squad had staked out the don’s movements and discovered that he was a regular at Friday prayers whenever he was in Karachi.
Earlier, the three men had been given Indian passports by their handling officers, with assumed identities. They had travelled to Karachi via Dubai as though on a business assignment, all their papers in order. They did not want their mission to fail because of careless documentation.
They had been in Pakistan for more than a fortnight now, doing a recce of Dawood’s plush bungalow, Moin Villa, near Clifton Beach. The villa was like a fortress, the lane leading to it guarded by Pakistani rangers. There were always hangers-on near the main gate and all the other entrances were heavily guarded. Attacking Dawood at the bungalow was destined to end in failure.
The chances of getting him were higher at the mosque, despite the heavy cordon of security around him. A lone assassin could possibly get close enough to kill him and then escape. It was decided that the weapon to kill Dawood would be brought to them at the last minute, once Dawood had arrived.
The moment Dawood reached the mosque for prayers, they made a call to their contact to deliver the weapon. This is how it works in the Mumbai underworld, and they used the same modus operandi in Pakistan. Unlike in the movies, where the shooter is shown carrying a gun stuffed in the back of his trousers, the weapon generally shows up after the shooter has been assigned the hit job, sometimes even mid mission.
The team did not reckon for the fact that this was an unfamiliar city. They kept waiting at the masjid, as Dawood got through his wuzoo, namaz and other rituals; they could not react because their errand boy was still on his way.
Finally, Dawood finished his prayers and left, without the customary salutations to the Holy Prophet. The don was in and out of the mosque in twenty-five minutes, and the weapon had still not reached the potential assassins. They were left twiddling their thumbs. Disappointed, they returned to India soon after.
The hit squad had been raised by Chhota Rajan especially to kill Dawood and his cronies. This was the first such major operation which, according to Mumbai crime branch officers, received the complete support of the Intelligence Bureau (IB). There were several attempts made on Dawood – one in 1995, without the IB’s support – but in 1998, the infiltration was done with the agency’s help.
Ever since he had parted ways with Dawood, Rajan had been consumed by the intense desire to take revenge. But Chhota Rajan was a one-man army against Dawood Ibrahim and his gang. His operations were modelled on a two-point agenda: surviving Dawood and other gangsters, and retaliation. He was all set to decimate those members of the gang who had been involved in the 1993 Bombay blasts and had eluded the long arm of the law by finding loopholes in the judicial system.
He carefully planned the extra-judicial killings of those who had been acquitted. Rajan’s handlers in the IB had been very clear about the terms on which his amnesty would remain alive and his safety ensured. Chief among these was that Rajan would have to eliminate members of the Dawood gang. The day he dithered on the terms, protection would be withdrawn.
Rajan had chalked out a plan and decided to raise an army of expendables, who would execute his orders without a second thought and also prove to be a useful vigilance arm. He had realized that he had to have a dedicated band of men who believed in his cause: toppling Dawood.
The squad he finally put together comprised a bunch of fearsome men. Balu Dokre, Sushil Hadkar, Sanjay Vatkar, Baba Reddy, Baba Mayekar and Vinod Matkar formed its core. Dokre was designated the leader of the group.
These were gangsters who evoked the deepest fear in people and they all belonged to Thane, a township much bigger than Mumbai, at the periphery of the metropolis. They had a reputation for being tough sharpshooters and they all owed allegiance to Chhota Rajan.
Baba Reddy, a devotee of Kali who ate raw meat and drank blood just as the goddess was believed to do, was among the most intimidating of the lot. They were so bloodthirsty that it was said they did not get a good night’s sleep until they had killed an innocent man, woman or child. This gang, later nicknamed the Demolition Squad by the Thane police, unleashed unspeakable horrors in Thane. They held their weekly baithaks at a tandoori corner in Naupada, Thane, where they planned their next targets and inspired fresh terror.
Drunk on their new-found power and filled with total disregard for the law, the gang targeted a large boutique near Thane Nagar police station. They had earlier threatened the owners of the boutique and asked them to pay up, but the shop owners had steadfastly refused. Agitated, the gangsters barged into the store one day, demanding money. They even boasted of their supremacy in the area by daring the owners to call the police. They told them that the cops would not be able to touch them. ‘Police hamara kya kar legi
,’ they said. (What will the police do to us?)
One of the owners, unwilling to believe the thug in front of him, called the police station to report the incident. Within minutes a police officer, Vipin Hasbane, along with two constables, reached the boutique. They were told that the gangsters had just left. They decided to follow and met the swaggering men at a little distance. They were on foot and did not seem worried that the police were following them; upon spotting the police team behind them, they simply opened fire.
Hasbane and his man ducked. Unfortunately, a seventeen-year-old Class 12 student was hit by a bullet. The Demolition Squad, of course, displayed no remorse as they escaped.
Another time, the gang barged into the house of a business tycoon at 11 p.m. One after another, they drew their guns and brandished them at him. What followed made the businessman nearly lose control of his senses. The barrel of one gun was shoved into his mouth, another into his nose and the third into an ear.Two more were shoved into the remaining orifices. They then demanded Rs 5 lakh from him at once. They warned him that if he was unable to accede to their demands, the guns crammed into his body would start going off , one after the other. The terrified businessman promised to give them what they wanted the next day and rushed to the crime branch office at Thane as soon as the gangsters had left.
In those days, the Thane crime branch had its office in a ramshackle chawl. One tenement was used as an arms depot and another for recreational purposes, while others were used as offices. When the businessman arrived in search of help, an operation was about to be conducted and the officers were busy preparing for it. The man was sent to the chief, Inspector Kailash Dawkhare, who wasn’t really interested in listening to him as he assumed it would be one of those regular complaints involving an extramarital affair or something similar.When the businessman at last convinced him to at least listen to what he had to say and began to tell his story, the inspector was stunned. He assembled his team so that all of them could hear the tale of horror.
As soon as the officers had assembled, they smelt the strong, repugnant stench of excreta in the room. Looking around and assuming someone must have stepped on something objectionable on the way to the office, they were shocked when the businessman confessed that he had shat himself out of fear! Dawkhare’s men then promised the businessman that they would protect him and, in fact, trap the gangsters and punish them. This opportunity could not be missed.
The Thane crime branch was not known to be as competent as the Mumbai police when it came to trapping gangsters or killing them in encounters. Nevertheless, a trap was laid the next day. Only, it was so obvious, even a rookie gangster would have been able to spot it. The Demolition Squad arrived at the businessman’s house, but immediately figured out that there was something amiss. They retraced their steps and never came back to torture the businessman, who breathed easy at last. They were, however, never caught.
The Demolition Squad may have been heartless, but they exhibited a dubious patriotism with their first major killing outside India. Nepali MP Mirza Dilshad Baig, an MP of the Prajantra Party, was Dawood’s friend and had given shelter to many of Dawood’s men in his bungalow. Rajan had known this for a long time, and now he sent his squad to the bungalow to eliminate Baig.
The masterminds used an Indian girl to bait Baig into exiting his bungalow. Baig, a profligate womanizer, walked out of his bungalow straight into the arms of the squad standing at the front door. He was shot in cold blood. The Demolition Squad had managed to execute Baig after keeping watch over him for just a week. The killing not only rattled Dawood, it wiped out his support base in Kathmandu.
Subsequently, the squad also orchestrated the killing of Majid Khan and Mohammed Jindran, both accused in the serial blasts case of 1993. Then, encouraged by the lack of any attempts at detection by the Mumbai police and cheered on by Rajan, they killed film producer Hanif Kadawala, another accused in the blasts.
Rajan’s hit squad killed at least six men who were accused in the blasts, and managed to strike terror and paranoia into the hearts of his enemies. Rajan began appearing on national television and giving interviews stating that he was a patriotic don, determined to finish off traitor Dawood and his men.
Following this, some of the blasts accused paid Rajan and brokered a truce with him, thus avoiding death for themselves.
By then Dawood had heard of Rajan’s killing spree, and the aborted attempt at Karachi’s Saudi Masjid. His security was enhanced and his movements restricted. The don had to secure his fortress before contemplating his next step.
Dawood’s Man Friday, Shakeel, was infuriated by Rajan’s increasing temerity. He knew that he had to soon launch a counterattack on Rajan, or else the D-Company’s clout and power would start to diminish in the city. He began scouting around for a hitman who could patiently trace Rajan to whichever southeast Asian city he was in, and kill him. In this lay their best hope of survival.
TWENTY-SIX
Dance of Death in Dubai
Sunil Sawant alias Sautya’s life had changed and taken a 180-degree turn. From the congested, narrow bylanes of Girgaum, he had moved to Kathmandu and then finally to Dubai. Dubai’s expansive roads blew his mind. It was his first visit to a foreign country. He had seen Dubai only in movies and heard about it from friends. It soon became the city for him.
Dubai was growing steadily at the time. The first high-rise came up in 1991. Soon after, there was a big construction boom and a mad proliferation of high-rises. The city soon boasted more than 900 high-rises in an area smaller than Mumbai city. Anyone enamoured of money and prosperity loved it there.
Sautya had also begun enjoying life in Dubai. There was no dearth of wine, wealth and women, so his philandering ways could continue unabated. Dubai was, of course, a grander city, but most importantly, he was not a fugitive there. He could move around freely, like a citizen of the world. There were no police departments or agencies trailing him. Dawood was happy with him. In the hierarchy of the D-Company, he was rated as one of the boss’s chief lieutenants.
Sautya felt on top of the world, totally invincible. In the mafia world, however, the higher the climb, the harder the fall.
Sautya, who had become Suleman after his conversion to Islam, was making plans to settle down in Dubai. He regretted having moved so late to Dubai, unlike his comrades-in-arms Sharad Shetty and Anil Parab, the two other Hindu gangsters who had remained with Dawood instead of aligning with Chhota Rajan. Both of them had managed to make a fortune in Dubai.
Shetty had established himself as a hotelier and owned a chain of hotels in the UAE. He owned two hotels in Dubai – Regent Palace Hotel and Regal Hotel – and was also head of the Rami Group of Hotels. He had business interests in many restaurants, nightclubs and hotels in Abu Dhabi too.
Parab had launched a business with an Arab national, Abdul Rehman al Raees, and opened a fancy department store. He also owned an electronics shop at Souk al Vassar in Deira. The small-time thug from Tilak Nagar had done well for himself; he now owned a fleet of Mercedes Benzes and BMWs.
Sautya envied the affluence and opulent lifestyles of his friends. He too wanted a settled life and steady business for himself, and he began working diligently towards this. He was thinking of partnering with Kafeel, a local sponsor in the Emirates, to set up a bouquet of showrooms in Dubai. An estate agent had taken him around Sharjah, which was a cheaper but very promising market. Personally, Sautya liked Deira, a plush upmarket locality in Dubai that could be compared to Bandra in Mumbai.
Sautya knew that Dawood could unlock any door for him in the Arab kingdom. Among other places, he had visited the Hyatt Regency shopping area with his Nepali broker friend, who had been showing him around. Malls were yet to make an appearance in Dubai. In the pre-mall era, Dubai had massive department stores or shopping corridors in five-star hotels.
While Indians and Pakistanis specialized in government jobs or in blue-chip companies, Bangladeshis in Dubai worked as waiters and held lower-level
jobs in multinational companies. Nepalese and Filipinos mostly worked as labourers and menial workers at shopping centres and hotels. Sautya had managed to befriend several Nepalese people during his frequent visits to Kathmandu. These loyal Nepalese men now became his Man Fridays; they doubled as his bodyguards, drivers, assistants, errand boys and also real-estate brokers. He had several around him, but his favourite was Shankar.
After the Hyatt visit, Shankar took him to Hotel Toofan. The Toyota car took a turn from the Corniche and entered Shaare’ Naif to access Hotel Toofan’s entrance. Sautya got out of the car and began walking towards the hotel. Shankar parked the car and followed him. Sautya was exhausted after an entire day of location hopping. Desperate for a drink and a meal at the hotel, he barely registered the sound of a car that came to a screeching halt nearby.
When the men got out of the car with their guns, Sautya was shocked. There was no reason for him to suspect that he was being stalked; this was Dubai, far from his home turf. He was completely unprepared for this confrontation with his own death. The man who had been touted as Dawood’s killing machine actually quaked with the fear of death – as is often the case.
Three men fired at Sautya at once. He got a bullet in his arm and shoulder and tried to duck behind his Nepalese friend. But the volley of bullets continued, with the men closing in on him for better aim. Sautya, clearly desperate by now and aware that the bullets would get him sooner or later, pushed his loyal friend towards the armed trio and ran out onto the street.
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