Eleventh Hour

by S. Hussain Zaidi

  ‘PMO wants me to take a press briefing of my own in two hours. Bloody hell .’

  Mirza grinned. The man was two ranks and ten years his senior, but used emojis with an abundance rivalled only by teenagers. Exiting the doctor’s office after taking his permission, Mirza went over to the private ward where all the five cops were admitted.

  Jaiswal and Goyal, being farthest from the trailer when it exploded, had been thrown forward due to the impact of the blast. Goyal had ended up spraining his wrist and a ligament in his shoulder as he landed sideways, while Jaiswal had landed on his back and suffered whiplash, but miraculously did not break any bones. Both were sedated and asleep.

  Rekundwar, apart from the wound he had sustained when the bullet grazed his arm, was fine. Mankame had twisted his ankle when Vikrant had tackled him to the ground. He had been discharged after a check-up but was hanging around in the hospital room out of concern for the others. Vikrant had taken most of the damage. One side of the trailer had blown off when the two grenades went off under it, and a large piece had dug itself into the back of Vikrant’s leg. Additionally, a lot of shrapnel from the grenades had embedded itself into various parts of Vikrant’s body, and the doctors had had to operate on him for over two hours to get all of it out.

  In spite of everything, when Mirza walked in, Vikrant was awake.

  ‘The anaesthetic wore off an hour ago and he won’t let me sedate him,’ the nurse said helplessly.

  ‘He will,’ Mirza told her as he sat down on a chair next to Vikrant’s bed.

  ‘How many dead?’ Vikrant asked, sounding weak.

  ‘Two constables. The ones from Palghar,’ Mirza said, his voice equally tired.

  ‘What about the trailer driver?’

  ‘He’s in the ICU. Internal bleeding and a lot of broken bones.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Dashrath Pandey. Native of UP. Started working as a driver here around five years ago.’

  ‘Family?’

  ‘Wife. Two kids.’

  ‘What was his fault?’ Vikrant asked and Mirza winced.

  ‘His fault was that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, lad,’ he said heavily.

  ‘No, sir. His fault was that we failed.’

  Mirza was at a loss for words.

  ‘All of us. As a system. We failed to make the streets safe enough for Dashrath Pandey to be able to do his job without risking his fucking life,’ Vikrant said, staring at the ceiling.

  ‘We did,’ Mirza said sadly. ‘But now we will set that right.’

  ‘Will we, sir?’

  ‘I know I won’t rest till I have. Will you?’

  Vikrant tried to shake his head but winced. Mirza waved the nurse over.

  ‘Sedate the boy, will you?’ he told her, standing up.

  ‘Wait,’ Vikrant said.

  The nurse sighed. Mirza stared at his protégé.

  ‘They didn’t need money,’ Vikrant continued.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They had a vehicle and they had AKs. Someone was already providing them with everything they needed. Which means that Shaukat Asad didn’t seek out his uncle for money,’ Vikrant said, thinking hard.

  Mirza asked the nurse to give them a minute and sat down.

  ‘Whatever it was,’ Mirza said, ‘it was important enough for Asad and the others to risk coming out of hiding.’

  ‘And to come armed with assault rifles to get it. What’s the uncle saying?’

  ‘Asad’s father gave him a pouch, which he handed over to Asad. He didn’t open it.’

  ‘Of course,’ Vikrant said sarcastically. ‘He’s in custody?’

  Mirza nodded.

  ‘We need to gain the upper hand,’ Vikrant said, looking worried. ‘The bastards are running wild armed with assault rifles and grenades and God knows what else.’

  ‘We’re doing the usual,’ Mirza said. ‘Talking to their families, friends … trying to trace the van, listening to chatter…’

  Vikrant sighed and closed his eyes. ‘How do we smoke them out?’

  ‘Tell me something, lad,’ Mirza said. ‘Which of the five Indian Mujahideen terrorists is the most attached to his family?’

  Vikrant opened his eyes.

  ‘That would be Mustafa and Ibrahim Kadir. Their mother is the only family they have, and jihad and higher purpose aside, they’d go crazy if something happened to her.’

  ‘Something like her neighbours driving her out of her locality because they didn’t want a terrorist’s mother in their midst?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure even you can’t make that happen,’ Vikrant told Mirza.

  The older man smiled.

  ‘I don’t need to,’ he said. ‘I only need them to think that.’

  Mirza paused. ‘The chief has called for a press briefing,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘In an hour and a half.’

  The veteran stood up and took out his cellphone.

  ‘You can sedate him now,’ he told the nurse as he walked out.

  11

  Tuesday night, cruise liner.

  Hakimi wiped the sweat from his brow for the tenth time in the last minute as he walked down the aisle of the cruise liner. In spite of the cool breeze blowing off the coast of Kochi, he was feeling hot and could sense a drop of sweat threading its way from his neck down his spine, making him even more uncomfortable than he already was.

  It didn’t help that the muscular man with tattooed arms was standing by the railing, sipping a Diet Coke and watching the old man curiously. Hakimi, already uneasy and remembering his last encounter with the man, offered him no more than a courteous nod this time. The man, however, slowly eyed Hakimi from head to toe. Hakimi quickened his pace.

  ‘Allah help me,’ he said under his breath as he circled the deck, checked his wristwatch, wiped his forehead again and knocked on one of the cabin doors. It opened to reveal Vaishali, looking resplendent in a simple yet elegant black full-length dress and pearl choker.

  ‘Wow!’ she said as she looked at the old man, who was looking dapper in a well-fitted suit. His discomfort was evident, though, and Vaishali giggled.

  ‘Lighten up, uncle,’ she said. ‘It’s just a party. Look how well the suit fits you. And you didn’t want to wear it!’

  The owner of the cruise liner had, earlier in the day, become the proud father of a son and had ordered the captain to throw a lavish party. Vaishali had dragged Hakimi to the clothes-rental section of the cruise liner and made him select a suit, laughing as he struggled to pick the most conservative design.

  ‘It’s not just a party,’ Hakimi said miserably. ‘When I was growing up…’

  ‘Uncle, I swear if you use that phrase one more time, I will tell everyone on board that it’s your birthday and make you the centre of attention tonight,’ Vaishali threatened.

  ‘You wouldn’t!’ the old man said, horrified.

  ‘Watch me,’ she said as she took his hand and led him back through the deck. As they walked up the aisle towards the top deck, Hakimi couldn’t help but cast a glance behind him. The tattooed man was no longer out there.

  Determined to not let his suspicions spoil Vaishali’s evening, Hakimi decided to forget about the man for the moment as they walked into the open-air party area. Whoever had organized the party knew what they were doing. One end of the deck had a bar, a small dance area, with soft lighting and slow music, while neatly dressed waiters went around with plates of snacks and drinks.

  The other end, although equipped with a similar set-up, had faster, louder dance music and disco lights. The music on both ends did not clash with each other, a feat made possible by the vast expanse of deck in between, where some of the guests lounged in comfortable chairs.

  As Hakimi and Vaishali settled into a couple of chairs, they were greeted by some of the other passengers with whom they had started becoming familiar.

  ‘Looking dashing, uncle!’ a teenager said as he walked past. Hakimi turned red and Vaishali laughed.


  ‘I’m getting something to drink. What should I get you?’ she asked.

  ‘Get me one of your cocktail-type drinks,’ Hakimi replied, smiling.

  ‘That’s the spirit! But non-alcoholic?’ she asked. Hakimi nodded and she walked to the bar.

  Hakimi took in his surroundings. A group of youngsters was grooving to some Western number he wasn’t familiar with in the discotheque-like area. A few young couples nestled cozily in chairs on the deck, while a middle-aged husband and wife sat next to each other but kept eyeing the younger lot. The head waiter stood in the centre of the deck, looking completely in control, issuing orders in every direction. Hakimi had to marvel at the organized nature of the party. They obviously run a tight ship, he thought, chuckling at his pun.

  As he looked in front, though, he stiffened. Vaishali was returning with a drink in each hand, and the man with the tattooed arms by her side. He was dressed tastefully in black trousers, a white shirt and white blazer. The top button of his shirt was undone and the blazer was left unbuttoned too.

  ‘This is Daniel,’ she said as she handed Hakimi his drink. ‘Daniel, this is Abdul uncle.’

  Warily, Hakimi stood up and offered his hand. ‘Abdul Jabbar Hakimi,’ he said, eyeing the man.

  ‘Daniel Fernando,’ the man said, taking his hand in a firm grip.

  A hundred nautical miles away, Marco, dressed in black combat fatigues, slipped a stiletto dagger in the holster around his right ankle. His Uzi was hanging by its strap and his Glock was snug in his thigh holster as he slid down the rope ladder to the dinghy, checking his utility belt, which had spare ammo clips in its pouches.

  His fellow soldiers, similarly outfitted, were already on the dinghy. Marco turned around to take one last look at Marwan, who was standing on the deck. Marco offered a wave. Marwan responded with a thumbs-up.

  Marco lit a cigarette and nodded to his second in command, Omar, who fired up the motor.

  12

  Tuesday night, Mumbai.

  Shahwaz Ali Mirza was tired. It was 11.30 in the night and he had been in the Mumbai office of the NIA since the previous afternoon, having gone there straight from the hospital after his chat with Vikrant. On the way, he had made a series of quick calls and then called his boss, NIA chief T. Rangaswamy, fifteen minutes before the latter was to begin his press briefing.

  Rangaswamy had only listened, with the occasional ‘Hmm’ thrown in every now and then, and then said, ‘You’re sure about this?’

  ‘No, sir. But frankly, we’re doing everything we can,’ Mirza had replied. Rangaswamy replied that he understood.

  And so it was that half an hour later, during the press briefing, a reporter who had managed to raise his voice above the others’ asked, ‘Sir, our colleagues in Mumbai tell us that the mother of two of the five terrorists was driven out of her house by her neighbours. What do you know about that?’

  Rangaswamy had hesitated for just the right number of seconds before saying, ‘I think the Mumbai police will be in a better position to comment on that.’

  It was beautifully done, Mirza thought later. His boss had not confirmed it but not denied it either, and the pause had worked well to further stoke curiosity and suspicion. Mirza had called up the Mumbai cops who had quietly planted the seed among their reporter friends. Next, he had texted Rangaswamy, thanking him, who had replied with a ‘’.

  An hour earlier, a team of female constables in plainclothes had quietly picked up Mustafa and Ibrahim Kadir’s mother, Shagufta Bi, from her residence in Behrambaug and taken her to the Crime Branch headquarters, where the bewildered old woman was made comfortable in a spare office, given food and drink and told that ‘bade sahab’ would see her soon.

  In the meantime, Mirza had discreetly planted his operatives around her house, and also placed Shagufta Bi’s cellphone, as well as the phones of all her neighbours and family members, under surveillance.

  Then the waiting began. Through the evening, Mirza spoke to his family in Delhi, checked on the health of his men in the hospital, made calls to his friends in RAW and IB, touched base with his informants and paced about the NIA office in Mumbai where the surveillance was being monitored. And still there were no results.

  When results did come, it was from somewhere unexpected. Mirza was stretched out on a couch in the office lobby to rest his aching back when his cellphone buzzed. The voice was not too familiar and it took him a moment to realize that it was the superintendent of police, Palghar, who, after the shootout, had been personally supervising a search for the terrorists.

  ‘We may have found something, sir,’ the SP said.

  ‘Keep talking,’ Mirza said, picking himself up.

  ‘There’s a van on fire some distance away from the main road, in the forest area, on the outskirts of Palghar district,’ she replied.

  ‘White with sliding doors?’ Mirza asked hopefully.

  ‘Yes, and I think I see some dents in the doors. It is difficult to make out as it’s still burning, but I think they are dents made by pistol rounds, sir. The fire brigade just got here.’

  Mirza jumped off the couch.

  ‘Do not use water. Do you hear? Tell the fire brigade to not use water. Use the other damn thing but not a drop of water!’ he roared.

  It took Mirza close to two hours to get from the NIA office to the spot in Palghar where the van had been found, and by this time, the fire brigade had put out the blaze using foam and was spraying coolant on the van so that it could be examined at the earliest. Cursorily returning the SP’s salute, Mirza barged ahead and accosted the first fire officer he could see.

  ‘How much longer?’ he demanded.

  The exhausted and soot-laden officer turned to snap at the impudent man but checked himself when he saw the SP standing respectfully behind Mirza.

  ‘Not much longer, sir. Ten more minutes.’

  ‘Thanks, man. And great work,’ Mirza said, patting the fireman’s arm and earning a tired smile before turning to the team of forensic experts he had picked up on the way from the Forensic Sciences Laboratory in Kalina.

  ‘You people ready?’ he asked. They were already snapping their gloves on. ‘Move in the minute he says you can,’ he added and pulled out his cellphone, which was buzzing. It was Vikrant, calling to ask for an update, and he could hear the nurse protesting behind him.

  ‘Hang tight, lad,’ he told his protégé and hung up.

  For the next hour, Mirza examined every little piece pulled out by the forensic experts, either discarding it as rubbish or adding it to the pile of possible clues. Spent shells and a couple of empty ammunition clips went in a large plastic bag and one of the lab guys left immediately to run ballistics tests on them. Every little shred of paper was carefully put into plastic bags and filed away. A separate team of experts would go over them later.

  The team was nearing the end of its search when one of the experts picked up a small cloth pouch from under the rear passenger seat. Digging between the seat and the backrest, he came up with a piece of paper around eight inches long and five inches wide, torn in an irregular pattern and singed at the edges, but largely intact.

  Curiously, Mirza took the paper from him and examined it under the light of a torch.

  For several minutes, he stared intently at it. Then he ran the torchlight up and down the paper for another three minutes before he looked up.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, wide-eyed and breathing heavily. ‘Bloody fucking hell!’

  13

  Wednesday morning, cruise liner.

  The sunlight streaming in through the porthole of her room woke up Vaishali. She turned away from it, burying her face in Daniel’s bare chest. He put his arm around her and snuggled closer. Vaishali purred like a kitten, making him laugh softly.

  ‘Don’t laugh, rascal,’ she said sleepily, looking up and kissing his chin. ‘I’m going to be sore all over for the next week.’

  She still didn’t know exactly why she had invited him to join her and Hakimi th
e previous night, when she had seen him sitting at the bar by himself, but she was glad she did. The party went on till late into the night and throughout, she had sensed Hakimi throwing looks of disapproval towards her as she got more and more comfortable with Daniel. Even the conversation between the two men had been strained. While Daniel was reserved but polite, Hakimi was wary

  and clipped.

  As soon as Daniel had gone to get another round of drinks for them, Hakimi glared at Vaishali. ‘What are you doing!’ he asked in a hushed voice.

  ‘What?’ she asked, startled.

  ‘That man is bad news.’

  She looked puzzled.

  ‘I just … don’t have a very good feeling about him,’ Hakimi said.

  Vaishali giggled. ‘That’s the man you were telling me about, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘The one who didn’t laugh at your joke?’

  ‘That’s got nothing to do with it,’ Hakimi said, glaring.

  Before they could argue over it, Daniel returned with their drinks. Hakimi, after finishing his, excused himself.

  ‘Old men like me can’t party like you lot,’ he said with a polite smile and retired to his room.

  Daniel and Vaishali had talked till late into the night, discussing everything under the sun from politics to pasta recipes, and while she found Daniel to be guarded when it came to his personal life, he was also knowledgeable and well-travelled. On the same whim that had prompted her

  to invite him, she had asked if he would like to walk her to her room.

  ‘Wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I didn’t, would I?’ he said with a small smile.

  ‘Isn’t this the wrong era for chivalry?’ she countered.

  ‘It’s never the wrong era for chivalry,’ he assured her, offering his hand. She put hers in his, stood up and they walked hand in hand till they reached her room. That was when she’d realized she didn’t want to let go.

  Turning to face him, she’d looked into his eyes and for the first time seen a deep sadness hidden just behind the surface, similar to the one she carried within her. Without thinking, she put her other arm around his neck and felt him slip his arm around her waist. They kissed, gently at first and then, as they both grew surer of themselves, with reckless abandon. The rest of the night was a hazy memory of mad, rough lovemaking that had left them both exhausted. They went to sleep in each other’s arms at dawn.