SALIM MUST DIE

by Deva, Mukul

  ‘That's an excellent idea!’ Chauhan replied after a moment's thought. These guys are good. Thank God! We need all the luck and all the men we can come up with. Who knows what that crazy bastard is carrying into Delhi and where he plans to use it?

  The man at the receiving end of Chauhan's notso-happy thoughts was at that very moment cruising along the highway towards Delhi. He did not hear the automated text message alerts his telephone company sent him as he sped along the highway since Hameed had put the phone on silent. The road was good and the traffic was light. Soon, Yakub Khan had crossed the Bawal Industrial area. By the time he reached Daruhera, the four Force 22 officers with an NSG rifle section had moved into position.

  THE TOLL BARRIER ON THE DELHI-JAIPUR HIGHWAY LIES AT the Bilaspur-Pataudi Chowk about eight kilometres ahead of Manesar, which is not only a huge industrial hub, but also home to the elite National Security Guard. The massive toll barrier straddling the highway has a total of twelve traffic lanes, six on either side. The two outermost lanes on both sides of the highway are for vehicles that are exempt from paying toll – those equipped with a monthly permit or a return ticket purchased earlier that day. The four inner lanes on both sides are for vehicles that have to stop and pay toll. All the lanes have small glass cubicles located in a row in the middle. These cubicles house the toll-collection counters. No matter which lane you use to cross the barrier, it is certain that you have to stop at the toll counter and either pay toll or show your pass or ticket.

  By the time Yakub Khan came up to the toll barrier, Squadron Leaders Rajesh Tiwari and Gautam Vashisht of the Indian Air Force, Captain Pradeep Katoch of the Indian Army and Lieutenant Commander Ranjit Dhankar of the Indian Navy, all presently seconded to Force 22, were spread out, one to cover each of the four inner lanes on the side of the highway that led to Delhi. The outermost lanes were covered by two of the NSG men. All six men were wearing gray-green dungarees, like those worn by the other security guards and toll collectors manning the barrier. The 9mm Beretta pistols they carried were carefully concealed in their clothing.

  They should be more than enough, Tiwari had reasoned. After all, we are not here to fight a war. We just need to take one arsehole down.

  The other eight NSG men had taken up position a hundred metres behind the toll barrier. These eight had no weapon concealment problems to worry about and so were loaded for bear. Of course, their weapons were in their vehicles, safely out of public view. They were the back up, in case Yakub Khan somehow managed to break out and get past the toll barrier. On Rao's insistence, two more ATTF teams were moving rapidly to take up positions at various strategic points further down the road, on the stretch between Manesar and Gurgaon.

  ‘He is coming up now,’ Tiwari cautioned the others as the tiny earpiece of his radio crackled into life. ‘That maroon Tata Safari,’ he hissed to Vashisht who was on his left. He nodded unobtrusively at the large SUV about two hundred metres away that was nosing its way towards the toll barrier. Vashisht signalled to the others on his left.

  Then their quarry was upon them.

  YAKUB KHAN SAW THE TOLL BARRIER COMING UP IN THE WAY most people see things that exist but are not germane or relevant to them at that point in time. Toll barriers are now so much a part of most metropolises that people scarcely notice them. Easing the pressure on the accelerator, Yakub reached for his wallet as his vehicle cruised up to the tollbooth. Automatically throwing a glance into the rear-view mirror, he swerved a bit and selected the centre lane, which happened to have the least number of vehicles in it. It was the lane where Pradeep Katoch was positioned.

  By the time the vehicles in front had cleared out and Yakub's turn came to pay the toll, he had a hundred rupee note in his hand. He rolled down the window and stuck out his hand. He did not notice Vashisht on the left abandon his lane and start moving towards the Safari. Nor did he notice Tiwari from the lane on the right moving towards the front of the SUV.

  As the Safari came to a halt near the toll collection window, Yakub held out the currency note towards Katoch, who was standing just outside the toll booth's cash window.

  Katoch stretched out his hand, but instead of taking the proffered note, he caught hold of Yakub Khan's hand in a steely grip.

  ‘What the….’

  ‘Switch off the engine and step out.’ Katoch's tone was curt.

  There was one brief moment of consternation and then Yakub Khan saw the gleaming pistol in the other hand of the man who had caught him. Yakub felt his heart lurch at the suddenness of the assault. He instinctively looked towards the opposite side, only to see another pistol-borne man coming up to the door.

  VASHISHT CLOSED IN ON THE CO-DRIVER'S DOOR OF THE safari and, pointing the pistol at Yakub Khan's head, tried to open the door. It was locked from inside. Shit! Meanwhile, Katoch had tightened his grip on Yakub's right hand and was ordering him to get out. Tiwari was coming up to the vehicle from the front. By now his weapon too was out and pointed straight at the man behind the wheel. The vehicles coming up behind the Safari in the lane had ensured that the quarry was thoroughly boxed in. Logically, Yakub Khan had no option but to comply. The problem is that logic seldom comes into play in the heat of battle, especially when an amateur is involved.

  Yakub Khan suddenly floored the accelerator of the Safari. The powerful SUV lunged forward like a startled antelope. It swatted Tiwari down like a mosquito, pulverizing him under its massive front tyre. The sudden shock as the vehicle leaped forward forced Katoch to release Yakub's hand as he was jerked forward without warning. The shock snapped Yakub's hand neatly at the elbow. He yelled in pain as the Safari thudded over Tiwari and snarled down the road, out of control.

  Vashisht had fired instinctively, almost in tandem with Yakub's flooring of the accelerator. As the vehicle lurched forward, the bullet passed neatly through the air behind Yakub Khan's head. Shattering the window glass, it cleaved through the computer inside the tollbooth and embedded itself in the chest of the guard in the next lane. The man began to screech, adding to the confusion.

  Vashisht's second bullet, however, made no such mistake. Coming up from the rear left, it thudded into the back of Yakub's head, propelling him forward and slightly to the right as he slumped onto the steering wheel. The horn began to blare as the Safari careened out of control towards the right. It ploughed into a small Maruti 800 that had emerged from the next lane. The tiny car toppled and both vehicles came to an ungainly halt a few metres away. The screech of metal grating on the road resounded in the air a long time after the dust settled.

  Yakub Khan was dead by the time the Force 22 commandos reached the toppled Safari. So was Tiwari, the security guard at the counter who had been unfortunate enough to take Vashisht's first bullet, and the two men in the sedan Yakub Khan had slammed into.

  ‘WE GOT HIM, SIR,’ KATOCH TOLD ANBU. ‘BUT TIWARI DIDN'T make it.’ At the other end of the phone, Anbu flinched and closed his eyes momentarily.

  So, they have finally drawn blood.

  It had to happen sometime.

  For a very brief moment, he allowed himself the luxury of grief. Then, from the back of his mind, he dredged up the words that never failed to gave him sustenance.

  You grieve over those who should not be grieved for…. Arise O son of Kunti, determined to fight. Treating alike pleasure and pain, gain and loss, victory and defeat….

  Lord Krishna's immortal advice to the warrior Arjun snapped him back to the present.

  Tiwari fell doing his duty… you must do yours…

  The soldier in him knew that he had to stay focused on the task at hand.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  Katoch told him.

  ‘Did you find the biochems?’

  ‘There weren't any, sir,’ Katoch replied. ‘The weapon was a suitcase nuke.’

  ‘What?’ Anbu could not keep the shock out of his voice. ‘How the hell did they put one together?’

  ‘This is no makeshift device, sir. It's a highly sop
histicated one.’ Katoch described the weapon in detail. ‘This whole operation reeks of a sanctioned strike, backed and supported by a government.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  The call ended on a sombre note.

  Strike Four

  BERLIN

  A DEEP SENSE OF UNEASE PLAGUED KARL WHEN HE WOKE UP that morning. A long hot shower did nothing to dissipate the feeling. Nor did the exercise of taking out all the glass vials from the jars of cream, cleaning them with tissue paper and packing them into the specially crafted prosthetic that he extracted from his suitcase.

  The prosthetic looked exactly like the one he normally wore, except that it was thicker and had been hollowed out, leaving a rather large cavity inside. Karl packed the glass vials of VX into this cavity and then carefully tried it on. It was certainly heavier and quite uncomfortable, but he was certain it would not look out of place or draw attention to him. He removed it carefully and emptied out the vials, then practiced taking off the prosthetic and bringing it into action a few times. Finally satisfied, he re-filled it and put it on.

  The sun was still a long way from breaching the horizon when he finished his preparations for the strike and began to pace the room restlessly. The deep-seated sense of unease would simply not go away. Finally, he surrendered himself to the glory of prayer.

  Bismillaah ar-Rahman ar-Raheem. Al hamdu lillaahi rabbil….

  Time and the turmoil within, both stood still as the serenity of the Fatiha, the first surah of the Holy Koran, enveloped him. When he finally rose, Karl could feel the calm coursing through him like a rising tide. Powered by it, he watched the clock inch forward till it was finally time to move. His target was waiting for him. From all over Berlin and the outlying suburbs, hundreds of people were on their way to the venue. Most of them would not be going back alive. Karl was going to make sure of that. He pulled the door shut behind him and walked towards the elevator that was waiting to take him down. Towards the people who were coming to die.

  THE INTERNATIONAL COMMEMORATION DAY FOR DEAD and injured workers is celebrated (if that word can do justice to such an event) with much gusto by a host of trade unions all over the world on 28 April every year. This being the tenth celebration, the excitement surrounding the event was greater than in the past. A series of massive rallies were being organized in capitals and major cities all over the world.

  The one in Berlin was to start from the Alexanderplatz. The rally was scheduled to proceed down Alexanderstrasse, turning left and going down the Karl-Liebknecht Strasse before. From there, it would head towards the Telespargel where it would end with the usual speeches by some local politicians and trade union leaders.

  The first batch of people who arrived at the starting point comprised mostly those who were part of the organizing committee, but the others were not far behind. They started trickling in soon after, in threes and fours. About three hundred people had already gathered when Karl exited the Park Inn Hotel and began to walk briskly towards the starting point.

  Karl saw the small, loose knot of cops watching the crowd that was slowly beginning to build up. But the crowd was quiet and orderly and there was no hint of trouble emanating from them. In fact, the cops did not even seem to be keeping an eye on them. They appeared to be scanning the people converging on the starting point.

  Who are they looking for?

  The first hint of alarm grazed Karl's mind.

  To reach the venue of the rally, he would have to cut through the cluster of cops on this side of the road.

  Damn!

  The very thought made him acutely uneasy. He looked around, trying to seek an alternate route that would allow him to bypass the cops. That was when he noticed the other cops scattered all around the venue. Almost all of them were carrying what looked like a photograph in their hands.

  Shit!

  They know!

  Without thinking, he reached for the prosthetic, releasing it from his body as he walked. By the time he was twenty feet from the nearest cop, he had almost freed it. By now a couple of the cops and some of the passersby had begun to take note of the strange sight of a man removing his prosthetic in public. However, there were still no alarms ringing in anyone's mind. Then, suddenly, one of the cops recognized him from the photograph in his hand.

  ‘That's him!’ he yelled. Reaching for his gun, he started towards Karl. ‘You! Stop! Raise your hands in the air!’

  The minute he shouted, most of the other cops around began to reach for their weapons.

  By now, Karl had finished removing the prosthetic. Seizing the fingers of the false limb firmly in his good hand, he raised it above his head and began to whirl it around, yelling like a madman.

  As the hollowed out limb arced through the air, the tiny vials of VX Gas placed in its cavity began to stream out. They sparkled in the early morning air as they whirled out and away from Karl, landing at random.

  As each deadly vial hit the road, it broke open with a faint tinkle. The sound was lost in the rising cacophony of pain and terror that erupted all around.

  Even as the bewildered cops reached for their guns and targeted the terror merchant, the fatal VX gas continued to rise in tiny spurts whenever a vial landed and broke. Each spurt of gas condemned the people in the immediate vicinity to an instant and horrible death.

  The cavity in Karl's prosthetic was empty by the time the first cop's bullets slammed into him.

  The television cameras standing by to cover the rally for dead and injured workers covered this vicious dance of death as efficiently as they would have covered the rally. Not long thereafter, images of the gory, bone-chilling strike began to beam into a million homes the world over.

  MURREE

  ‘JUST LOOK AT THAT!’ SALIM EXULTED AS HE SAW THE television footage of Karl going down amidst a welter of bodies. ‘Goddamn! Can you imagine the shock those bastards must be in?’

  ‘Yes, sir! We have whacked them right in the heart.’ Cheema was delirious with joy. ‘How many people do you think Karl managed to get?’

  ‘It doesn't matter, Cheema. What's more important is that the television cameras managed to capture the hit. They will ensure it stays starkly alive in the minds of the enemy by showing it again and again. That will automatically ensure that the morale of our fellow jihadis grows from day to day.’

  ‘I never thought of it like that.’

  ‘You should, Cheema. It is as important to applaud each strike as it is to kill the kafir. Our perennial battle is to strengthen the hearts of our jihadis and strike terror into the minds of the kafir. In fact, the key is to use the basic strength and freedom of Western society against them.’ Salim saw the bewilderment on Cheema's face and elaborated. ‘See, every time there is an attack, the so-called free press shows it again and again in complete detail. Don't you see how images of the 9/11 strike have been firmly implanted in the minds of everyone everywhere? Well, whenever that happens, they are doing the jihad a huge favour… it is free publicity for us, and each time, it spurs on yet another brother jihadi somewhere or the other.’

  ‘That makes perfect sense, sir.’

  ‘Of course.’ There was a brief lull before Salim spoke again. ‘Let's hope the others are doing equally well. I'm a little worried that we haven't heard anything about the strike on Delhi yet.’ He threw a quick glance at his wristwatch. ‘Yakub should have struck by now, yet there's nothing in the news….’

  ‘Maybe he got held up somewhere,’ Cheema said optimistically. ‘Don't worry, sir, he will do a good job.’

  ‘Inshallah!’

  ‘Ameen!’

  Both men went back to surfing cyber space and the air waves for news of their lashkar.

  Strike Five

  COPENHAGEN

  LARS HAD ALSO WOKEN UP EARLY. NOT BECAUSE HE WAS ANY more nervous than the others, but simply because he wanted to prepare the bomb at leisure. Before that, he purified his body with a bath, his soul with prayer, and his stomach with a hearty breakfast.

  I
wish I could talk to Lina. Lars yearned to hear her voice, but he knew it was not to be. He was an experienced cop and knew just how the hunters would be looking for him. If they are on to us by now, he mused. They should be. After all, in such a massive operation someone somewhere is bound to fuck up… and it takes just one loose end to unravel the whole ball. Shrugging off thoughts of Lina, he got down to the task of prepping the bomb.

  To begin with, he got rid of all the add-ons and the lead shield that had been placed by Cheema's team at Lahore to camouflage the bomb and make it immune to detection. Cleaning it up and restoring it to its original form took the most time. Now the Chote Miyan was a lot lighter and more manageable. Then, exposing the control panel, Lars carefully punched in the arming code twice. The control panel glowed to life.

  Once the control panel lights up, you have to set the timer and then key in the activation code. Cheema's instructions echoed in his memory.

  Lars carefully closed the case, so that it looked exactly the way it would when he actually carried it into the target area. Then, timing himself to the second, he began to practice opening the case, setting the timer and punching in the activation code. He did it a dozen times before he was confident he had it down pat. By now he was doing the whole thing in less than a minute. Good! Even if I set the timer on the second setting, I should be well clear of the area in time. Fifteen minutes is good enough for me to get to Central station and take the first train out…. Hopefully it will be heading north…. He played out the various possible scenarios in his mind as he shut down the suitcase nuke for the last time.

  Lars pulled a chair up to the balcony and sat down to wait. His hotel room was on the edge of the Town Hall Square that sprawled to the right. This was his ground zero.

  With the big square in the Italian town of Sienna as its inspiration, Copenhagen's Raadhuspladsen was originally built in the shape of a shell. Standing sentinel around it are the Town Hall, the house of Politiken, the Bus Terminus and a host of outdoor restaurants, radio booths, and hotdog and newspaper stands.