RIP

by Deva,Mukul

  However, it seemed to satisfy Sheru Yadav, the pot-belly, who, ever cognizant of the fact that he was the brother-in-law of Lalit Yadav, the chief minister of Bihar, demanded subservience. And more often than not he got it. Almost everybody who was anybody in Bihar knew that Sheru sahib was the conduit, if one needed anything cleared from the CM’s office. There was a price, naturally. Sheru Yadav too had a family to feed; and a large one at that, with one wife, two mistresses and several children from all three of them. Not to mention the ever-increasing tribe of relatives and hangers-on, that grew in direct proportion to his rising power.

  Krishna saw Sheru Yadav run a podgy hand over his belly as he surveyed the people crowding the wedding dinner. It was a large crowd, even by Indian standards. Not surprising, since it was the wedding of the daughter of one of Bihar’s most successful entrepreneurs, to the son of one of its most powerful politicians. That was why Yadav was here, representing the CM.

  Krishna noticed one of the hangers-on in Sheru Yadav’s audience summon a passing waiter with an urgent flourish. It was most probably the host; he must have seen that Yadav’s whisky glass was almost empty.

  ‘Blue Label.’ Krishna heard him hiss. He was deliberately speaking louder than he needed to, as though he wanted Yadav to hear. ‘Sheru sahib only has Blue Label.’

  The barely literate Sheru Yadav, who just a few years ago, had been herding cattle when not swilling cheap country liquor, rewarded him with a smug smile.

  This was the opportunity they were waiting for. Krishna accelerated. Kashif also must have heard the exchange, because Krishna saw him increase his pace too.

  As the waiter hurried forward, both Kashif and Krishna blended into the cluster of men surrounding Sheru Yadav. Now Kashif was almost in touching reach.

  Neither one of Sheru’s bodyguards paid any heed to them.

  Krishna had carefully jockeyed his approach, till he was in line with the approaching waiter. Allowing the man to cross ahead, Krishna pretended to jolt forward as though he had been pushed from behind. He slammed into the waiter’s back. Not hard enough to make him fall, yet hard enough to send the tray of drinks spraying forward, splattering Yadav and the knot of men close around him.

  Glass shattered. People yelled. Most of them alarmed. Some angry. Some amused, though unwilling to show it openly.

  Both bodyguards stepped forward, but neither was showing any alarm as yet. Their hands were still nowhere near the pistols Krishna knew they were packing. Krishna kept an eye on them, ready to react the minute they made any hostile move; that was his primary task as Kashif’s backup.

  The man who had summoned the waiter slapped the hapless man. Confusion held sway. Everyone’s attention was on the unfortunate waiter, who was blubbering profuse apologies. Krishna saw one of the bodyguards move forward and pull him away, scolding him.

  Perfect!

  Kashif had already withdrawn his right hand from his coat pocket when he saw Krishna push the waiter. He slid forward smoothly. No sudden movement that would draw untoward attention. The tiny syringe in his hand not noticeable. Only the microscopic needle tip protruded. Manufactured by Becton Dickinson, it was only 4 millimetres long with 32-gauge thickness. Used by diabetics the world over, it was referred to as the painless needle.

  As the stumbling waiter sprayed whisky and soda all around, Kashif paused briefly behind Yadav. The needle jabbed forward, slid through the layers of cloth and entered the tyre of fat around Yadav’s waist. Simultaneously Kashif depressed the plunger, shooting the contents of the vial into Yadav.

  Still engrossed with wiping off the whisky from his kurta, Yadav barely felt the needle prick. Assuming it to be an errant mosquito he swatted at it. But by then Kashif had withdrawn the needle and moved away.

  Watching Kashif break away from the group, which was still in turmoil, Krishna too retreated, withdrawing his left hand from his coat pocket as he fell back. The C-18 Thundershock palm-sized, non-fragmentation, flash and bang grenade in it lay unused. He would have used it if required, as a diversion, either for the strike, or for them to get away. Little more than a sophisticated toy, and patterned on the American M-84 stun grenade, the C-18 emitted a bright flash of approximately half a million candela and a 130-decibel bang; strong enough to cause immediate but temporary flash blindness, deafness, tinnitus and inner ear disturbance, and disorient those caught unprepared. It was also virtually undetectable by commercial grade metal detectors and easy to slip past most security barriers, barring airports of course.

  It would have blown the element of surprise, but the confusion would have enabled them to strike and exit. However things had gone better than planned. The C-18 would live to fight another day.

  Exiting the hotel, the two men headed for the parking lot.

  Inside. Sheru Yadav, now mollified by the host, took a sip from his freshly refilled glass of Blue Label.

  Krishna stopped the rental car a couple of miles away, on an empty stretch of road. It was a brief stop. The needle and its now empty vial were tossed into an overflowing gutter running along the road. The skin-coloured latex gloves worn by both and the SIM cards used by them also went into the gutter; part of a newly acquired set of prepaid cards, to be used only for Mission RIP.

  Krishna had insisted on that. He wanted nothing traced back to the K-Team.

  The vial, syringe, SIM cards and gloves were not likely to ever be found. And even if they were, they were not likely to be connected to the death of Sheru Yadav.

  And even if that happened, they were definitely not likely to be connected with K-Team. No amount of forensics would help by time the sewer waters were done with them.

  Of course the death of Sheru Yadav would take a while. Still another fifteen minutes before the deadly chemical injected into him began to take effect.

  But the end was nigh.

  *

  Chennai.

  Simultaneously.

  A cluster of bejewelled, perfumed women mingled with the equally immaculately coiffed, metro-sexual males at the Timeless Art Gallery, in Chennai’s fashionable T-Nagar area. It was the typical, pretentiously genteel, socialite crowd, which throngs high profile charity art exhibitions anywhere in the world. It was obvious from their dress and the spate of languages and accents that they had come from all over the country, and some from others. It was, after all, the sort of event that was high on the social scale used as a barometer of prestige by such people.

  Champagne, cheese and canapés were doing the rounds in abundance. Though, here and there, the odd uncouth or uninitiated could be spotted with a glass of red wine. Two of the artists held centre stage, beers in their hands, surrounded by a gushing crowd, most of whom would not have known an M.F. Husain if they had been hit on the head with one.

  Standing towards one corner, to the right of the entrance, Muthuvel Rajappan watched the air kisses with amusement. He had seen them so often, yet they never failed to amuse him. Every once in a while he threw a watchful glance at his elder brother, Anduvetti Rajappan, the chief guest that evening.

  Clad in a dapper Hugo Boss suit, the fifty-year-old Anduvetti Rajappan, India’s telecommunications minister, moved from one part of the room to the other, stopping every so often as he networked with the who’s who of society. Of medium height, he was well maintained though a slight bulge around the waist was visible, despite the well-cut suit. The practised smile on his face, like that of an air hostess, never faltered.

  Politicians. Business tycoons. Media moguls . . . the newsmakers and the newspapers . . . they were all there. Flashbulbs exploded at intervals. Keeping a watchful eye on the minister was the usual quartet of gun-toting, black-clad SPG (Special Protection Group) commandos.

  None noticed the dark whiplash-thin Major Kevin David (Retd), also ex-19th Para Commando, casually stroll up towards Muthuvel Rajappan. Kevin neither felt nor showed any stress. The target was unguarded. After all Muthuvel was only the minister’s brother, not noteworthy in his own right. Certainly not releva
nt enough to warrant any personal security.

  Coming up from the opposite side was the taller, but equally skinny Kamlesh Saikia, also a retired major from the 19th. Like Kevin, Kamlesh was also attired in a smart pinstriped evening suit, complete with a snow-white shirt and silk tie. They both blended in well. The suits were expensive, well above the pay grade of an army officer. But, considering the strike setting, both had been deemed important accessories.

  Both arrived within touching reach of Muthuvel simultaneously.

  When he was directly in front of Muthuvel, Kamlesh stumbled, as though he had caught his heel in the carpet. Falling forward, Kamlesh grabbed frantically at him. Muthuvel reacted instinctively, reaching out to support the falling man with his free hand, as he tried to get the champagne flute in his other hand out of the way.

  With skilled synchronization Kevin struck from the rear. A slight, smooth gesture. Barely noticeable, even if someone had been watching. Not that anybody was.

  The needle in his hand was about to impact when Muthuvel suddenly turned, probably to put down his glass on the high table beside him. Knowing it would be senseless to blow their cover with a frontal strike, Kevin caught his hand in time, allowing the needle to slip back into his palm.

  Realizing that Kevin had stayed the strike, Kamlesh acted instantly. He allowed his body to slump, as though still out of balance. Muthuvel, feeling the weight on him suddenly enhance, turned again and braced himself, stepping back as he did so. Straight into Kevin.

  Seeing Muthuvel reel back, Kevin allowed the needle to erupt out of his palm again.

  Muthuvel started as the tiny, painless needle attached to the insulin syringe entered his fleshy buttock. But it was a minor, fleeting prick. By the time he had steadied Kamlesh, Kevin had already moved past.

  Speeding up slightly as soon as he was away from his target, Kevin headed for the exit.

  A few feet behind him, Kamlesh, having apologized to Muthuvel, followed suit. He had noticed the expression on Kevin’s face and knew the strike had been executed. Though clammy from his sweaty palm, the grenade in his pocket lay unused.

  Out the door and across the bustling traffic was the taxi stand they headed for.

  The syringe, gloves and their SIM cards too would soon find their way into a nameless gutter en route to the airport at Tirusulam.

  Muthuvel too would stumble, fall and die in about fifteen minutes. Just a little while before their flight took off from the Kamaraj Terminal of Chennai airport.

  *

  Pune.

  Simultaneously.

  Sanjive Kamble was one of those hapless men who are doomed to a life of mediocrity. Both in terms of looks and of the faith he had in his limited capabilities. Medium height. Medium build. Middling, forgettable looks. And an equally uninspiring career, as the personal aide to his cousin Sharad Kamble, who was a Member of Parliament and a prominent Maharashtra politician. Sanjive knew he was doomed to die in his cousin’s shadow, unseen, unheard and unsung.

  Sanjive propped himself against the long wooden bar in Pune’s Hotel Blue Diamond as he surveyed the dimly lit room. The crowd was thin. But it was still early. Sanjive hoped the crowd would pick up. He was dying to have a good time today, a few cold beers, and maybe the company of a willing woman. It was the first time in months that cousin Sharad had left him alone; Sanjive’s life was mostly spent in coordinating the minister’s life and hustling people to cough up whatever caught his cousin’s fantasy, mostly money. And he had no idea when it would happen again.

  Sanjive was not surprised by this sudden grace granted him today. The call demanding Sharad’s presence in Delhi had come from the highest possible quarters. Sheila Kaul, the National Democratic Congress (NDC) party president herself had called.

  Sheila Kaul, more popularly referred to as Madam by partymen and press alike, was the widow of India’s previous PM, who had died of a sudden heart attack a few years ago. She had proven to be a surprise package. The resultant sympathy wave coupled with the fact that the Bharatiya Peoples’ Party, then in power, had been unable to overcome the incumbency factor had brought the NDC back at the next general elections, albeit not with a clear majority and thus requiring external support of a couple of regional parties. In a masterstroke Madam had steered clear of the PM’s chair, preferring to hand it over to Nirmal Khanna, a somewhat inept historian, better known for having a spine as infirm as his name, than for any special political acumen. Madam opted to become the NDC party president, from where she could yield total power, without any accountability. It was no state secret that the PM did not even take a crap without her permission.

  Sheila Kaul was aware that the sympathy wave post her husband’s death had helped to submerge the corruption allegations that had plagued her husband’s final months. However, she was also smart enough to know that this sympathy would not last forever. And also pretty sure that when it faded, the curtain would go up on some of the scams that had flourished during her husband’s leadership. More than a bit naive—an ingenue in the game of politics—he had himself not been involved in the scams: but they had happened on his watch, and been perpetrated by politicians from his party. Madam knew that when the sympathy subsided, many illustrious NDC party leaders might find themselves behind bars. Determined to prevent this Sheila kept the puppet strings firmly in her hands. She was keen to ensure that when things were ready, her son, Ranvijay, being groomed for his debut on the national stage, would take over as prime minister.

  My name is Sheila

  Sheila ki jawani (Sheila’s youthful body)

  I’m just too sexy for you

  Main tere haath na aani (You’ll never get your hands on me)

  As though on cue, the popular Bollywood number currently topping the charts, burst out from the nightclub’s music system. Despite himself Sanjive laughed; a brittle, ironic laugh. Then he remembered her phone call the previous evening and how shaken cousin Sharad had been by it. Gloom cast a shadow over him again.

  Madam had sounded agitated and angry. Sanjive knew that Sharad was riding in the eye of the storm whirling around the recently concluded Commonwealth Games, which he had been in charge of organizing. Corruption allegations were rampant. Public anger was unusually high. Especially since Sharad had flouted procurement norms and regulations with blatant impunity, not even bothering to leave room for plausible deniability.

  Sanjive guessed Madam’s anxiety was also fuelled by the hunger strike which activist Arvind Hazarika had begun a few weeks ago to protest against the institutionalized corruption and spate of scams that rocked India every so often. Bofors, fodder, stamps, coffins, land, 2G Spectrum, the Commonwealth Games . . . the nation had barely absorbed the shock and shame of one before the next one struck. Hazarika had managed to inflame the beleaguered masses. Happening concurrently with the civil rights agitations sweeping through Egypt, Syria and Libya, the public outcry had shaken the NDC’s complacency and for the first time the leadership realized that they could not allow it to spiral out of control.

  Arsehole! Sanjive permitted himself another sarcastic smile. Did that fool Hazarika really think anything would come out of his hunger strike? Did he have any idea how deep these scams ran? How many billions of dollars were involved? If the truth ever came out the people would lynch the politicians . . . not one of them had his or her hands clean.

  Sanjive pondered Hazarika’s hunger strike momentarily; it was in its third day now and public support for it was increasing dramatically; dozens had joined him in his fast unto death, and thousands more across the country were flocking to show their support for him. But Sanjive knew the people in power would let Hazarika die rather than give in to his demands. No matter what the cost, the politicians would never allow the Lokpal Bill to be passed by Parliament, especially the way these social activists wanted it framed—with sweeping powers granted to the ombudsman over the political leadership. They even wanted the PM to be held accountable. Used to running unchecked the country’s politicians could
not even contemplate such a catastrophic scenario. It had been in a sombre mood that Sharad had left for Delhi that afternoon. Though Madam had promised to protect him . . . as long as he kept his mouth shut and stood by the party. But they all sensed he might be seeing the inside of a jail soon . . . for a few weeks at least.

  Sanjive sighed as he took another sip of the chilled Budweiser from the thin, tall glass sweating in front of him. He knew he too would be accompanying his cousin to jail soon; it was just a matter of time. One of the prices of the reflected glory, and the riches, that came with being Sharad Kamble’s chief aide and Mr Fixit.

  Taking a long swig he was setting down the Budweiser on the bar counter when the fifth K-Team member, the bulky, bearded Major Kulwant Singh Bajwa, staggering past, collided into him. Dressed in baggy jeans and a rumpled, half-tucked in shirt he looked a fright. Seeing him in this state it would have been hard for anyone to believe that he had once worn the elite red beret, as a major in the 19th.

  The beer toppled. Perched on the high bar stool Sanjive almost did too, grabbing frantically at the bar top to stop himself from falling.

  Apologizing profusely the half-drunk Kulwant pulled out a grubby handkerchief and began to swab Sanjive’s shirt-front with it. The stench of whisky from Kulwant made Sanjive wrinkle his nose and pull back instinctively.

  Sanjive did not notice Major Karan Singh, the final K-Team man, dressed in dark blue cords and a smart, full-sleeved checked shirt, come up behind. The tiny pinprick sliding into Sanjive’s arm was lost in the confusion of his almost being unseated from the high barstool.

  Karan barely broke his stride before continuing on his way out.

  Pushed away by Sanjive, Kulwant also finally staggered off, mumbling slurred apologies as he too headed for the exit.

  Grimacing in disgust Sanjive brushed the beer off his shirtfront. Then realizing the damage was too extreme to be dealt with easily, he mouthed a curse at the retreating drunk and headed for the washroom. So he did not see the drunk stagger out of the bar, leave the hotel and then gradually straighten up as he headed across the hotel parking lot.