SALIM MUST DIE

by Deva, Mukul

  On his left, he could clearly see the huge golden clock on the exquisite Town Hall building with the shining wind vane above it. Large buildings peppered with countless billboards and hoardings rose up on the other side of the square and to his extreme right.

  Carlsberg – probably the best beer in town, shouted the huge white letters painted across a red building on the other end of the square.

  Lars grinned wryly, trying to imagine what it would be like after the bomb….

  JUST AS IN BERLIN, THE RALLY FOR THE TENTH INTERNATIONAL Commemoration Day for dead and injured workers was a major feature in the day's schedule of events in Copenhagen. However, unlike in Berlin, it was not going to be a single march. Instead, small groups of people had gathered at about twenty points all over Copenhagen and were now beginning to converge at the Town Hall square. The rally would terminate with the usual round of speeches that are inevitable at such events.

  From the balcony of his carefully chosen hotel room, Lars Borge watched as people began to arrive at the square. Along with the people participating in the rally came the tourists who are an omnipresent part of the Copenhagen landscape.

  No matter how many manage to escape, this part of Copenhagen is going to be really quiet for a long, long time. The radiation will ensure that. Lars smiled to himself.

  By the time Lars got up from his vantage point, the square was teeming with people. A marked tone of excitement and gaiety, not at all in consonance with such a sombre event, pervaded the square. There were several television news crew and tourist cameras faithfully recording every nuance of the rally.

  When he was certain that the crowd had built up sufficiently, the terrorist exited his hotel room and headed for the solitary elevator to his right.

  The time to kill was nigh. Adrenaline pumped through his system and his breathing quickened as the elevator jerked to a halt on the ground floor and the doors began to slide open.

  THE HUGE, BURLY COP HAD ENTERED THROUGH THE GLASS doors and was walking across the lobby up to the solitary elevator when it opened and Lars Borge emerged from it. Lars had barely taken two steps out of the elevator when the two men saw each other. Recognition was immediate. The effect was electric.

  The two men went back a long way. The cop had been Lars's immediate supervisor at the time when Lars lost his wife and quit the force. He had retired only a week ago, and was on his way up to meet an old friend passing through town who was staying at the Palace Hotel. The retired cop had no idea of the APB that had been issued for Lars. He simply recognized the man coming out of the elevator and automatically raised his hand to greet him.

  Lars had served under the man but the two of them had never been close. He had no idea that the man was no longer in service. He saw the cop coming towards him, noted the sharp flare of recognition in his eyes and then he saw the cop raise his hand. In the excited, guilty, hyped-up-for-combat state that he was in, Lars completely missed the amiable smile that was starting to appear on his ex-colleague's face.

  Without pausing for thought, he pulled out the gun stuck in his waistband with his free right hand and fired twice in quick succession.

  At pointblank range, the round-nosed slugs went clean through the retired cop and dropped him dead instantly. The smile of recognition and welcome was still visible on his bloodied face. His body was sinking to the blue carpeted floor when the door immediately to the left of the elevator opened and a bellhop emerged. The sudden movement startled the already nervous Lars. He swivelled and fired again. The unfortunate bellhop took the bullet in his chest and collapsed with an agonized scream.

  The hollow scream echoed in the hotel lobby. It shattered all semblance of control in Lars. He broke away and raced mindlessly towards the exit, as total pandemonium seized the room.

  There were over a dozen people in the hotel lobby at the time, including three men manning the reception desk just a few feet to Lars’ right. They dived for cover as soon as the shots rang out. The others scrambled out of the way of the armed man as he ran through the lobby. Most of them instinctively made for the main entrance.

  The two cops walking up along the Vester Voldgade towards the square noticed the sudden commotion. Among other things, they saw a man with a pistol in his hand and a suitcase in the other heading straight for them.

  Lars saw the cops when he had barely taken half a dozen strides down the road. Turning rapidly, he fled in the opposite direction. The cops automatically went for their weapons as they started to give chase to the man with the gun. However, neither cop fired because there were too many people milling around in the square.

  Lars darted past Ripley's Museum and the Burger King to his right, instinctively seeking the safety of the crowd that he knew he would find on the Stroget. Then he saw another cop coming down Frederiksberggade towards him. Lars had no way of knowing that this cop had neither heard the shots nor had any idea of the drama unfolding in front of him. He again changed direction and ran towards the people crowding around the two hotdog stands in the square.

  I can do it. I know I can do it. Fifty seconds… that's all I need.

  The thought ran through him like an endless litany.

  I need a place where I can stop for just one moment and activate the bomb.

  And then he found it.

  BEYOND THE HOTDOG STAND IN FRONT OF LARS WAS A BLUE and white Radio 100 booth. Weaving through the tables and chairs in the two food stalls on his right, Lars crossed the booth and dropped to the ground. Now he was safe from the two cops chasing him. Not for long, but they would certainly take a moment to spot him in the crowd.

  That's all the time I need.

  Crouching on the ground, Lars opened the case. He selected the first setting of the timer, the one that triggered the bomb immediately, and began to punch in the 12-digit activation code.

  He was already on the third digit when the two pursuing cops spotted him.

  ‘What the fuck is he doing?’

  ‘How the hell do I know? It can't be anything good for sure….’

  The guns in their hands came up.

  Lars had keyed in the fifth digit when the cop in front skirted clear of the Radio 100 booth and settled into the shooter's classic extended arm stance. The seventh digit had been keyed in when, taking careful aim, the cop fired.

  The eighth digit of the bomb's activation code had been entered when the first bullet found Lars's chest. His fingers were keying in the ninth digit when the second bullet smashed into his head. But the brain had already passed the next command to his fingers. As the dying killer toppled over the open bomb case, his fingers depressed the tenth digit and began to reach for the eleventh. They found the correct key and pressed it just as the second cop reached him and kicked the suitcase out from under him.

  Stay with me! Lars's dying brain urged the suitcase nuke soundlessly as he extended his hand towards it. Just one more key… one more….

  Then the cop fired once more and the darkness of death settled upon Lars. His extended hand twitched once before it fell lifeless, inches from the deadly suitcase.

  A few metres away, an intrepid television cameraman watched the whole sequence. His mouth was open in horrified fascination as his silently whirring camera recorded everything diligently. The camera was a high power professional model and noted the solitary dark space on the glowing control panel of the suitcase nuke. No one watching the footage could fail to notice that the hundreds of people in and around the square had been just one digit away from a horrifying death.

  Minutes later, the camera was relaying the event to countless television screens the world over.

  MURREE

  ‘BLOODY HELL!’ CHEEMA WHISPERED, OVERWHELMED AS HE watched the scene play out on the giant plasma screen before them. ‘Just a second more. One tiny fraction of a second and….’

  ‘Look at it this way, Cheema,’ the calmer and more pragmatic Salim said, masking his own disappointment. ‘Even now the kafirs will tremble in fear. Now they know we can reach
them and strike whenever we want to… be it with nukes, or with biological or chemical weapons. They now know for sure that they're not safe anywhere, and they will live in perennial dread of when and where we are going to strike next.’

  Strike Six

  LONDON

  THEY SAY THE BRITISH ALWAYS LIKE TO DO THINGS ARSE WAYS. Maybe that was why, unlike the rallies in the other European cities, the one in London that was scheduled to start at Trafalgar Square, could only be flagged off after a series of motivating and inspiring speeches in support of dead and injured workers. The rally was to proceed from Trafalgar through the Admiralty Arch, down Whitehall Street, passing Horse Guards Parade and Downing Street. Thereafter, it would go down Parliament Street and onto Parliament Square, where the Houses of Parliament are situated. Here the rally would end after the usual submission of petitions.

  Ben joined the rally at the point at which it passed closest to the Royal Horse Guards Hotel.

  Leaving the hotel well before the rally reached it, he stood on the sidewalk for several minutes and watched the procession move past. There were several others doing the same, so he didn't stand out.

  When he found a gap in the stream of cops riding shotgun on both sides of the road, Ben merged with the thick mass of people flowing down the road. His killer cargo was safely tucked inside the large plastic water bottle slung from his shoulder. The vials of VX Gas had been thoroughly cleansed of cream and were ready to deliver death to the slogan-shouters around him. But Ben was not yet ready to kill.

  ‘The best place to strike is when the rally reaches the Houses of Parliament,’ Salim had told him. ‘Strike when they're handing over the petitions. You may get lucky and take out a couple of politicians. Also, you can be certain that the television crews are going to be around in abundance.’

  So Ben bided his time, though his breathing had begun to quicken with every passing moment, and he could feel an uneasy coil of stress knotting up in the pit of his stomach. He steeled himself. A silent prayer began to build up in his head as he flowed with the others towards the finish.

  FORTUNATELY OR UNFORTUNATELY, THERE WERE NO IMPORTANT politicians around when the rally reached the Houses of Parliament. There were a couple of minor fry, who had nothing better to do that day and needed the media exposure rather desperately.

  The chosen posse of leaders banded together as the rally trickled into Parliament Square. A few tense moments elapsed. Ben could feel the pulse in his forhead throbbing. Every fibre in his body was alert and on edge as he willed the men to finish their speeches. Time seemed to pass as slowly as the giant London Eye wheel turning against the skyline in the distance.

  Finally, the speeches were done and the rally leaders stepped forward to hand in their petitions. Simultaneously, Ben reached for his water bottle and began to unscrew the cap. He drew no attention since almost everyone there had some kind of beverage to fortify himself with.

  Everyone's attention was more or less on the small knot of people walking forward. A few shouted slogans fell unheeded on Ben's ears. Now the open water bottle was out of the sling and in his right hand. He gripped it at the base, in much the same way as Karl had held the prosthetic in Berlin. Ensuring that he had the bottle firmly in his grasp, Ben stepped away from the crowd.

  Suddenly the prayer that had been thrumming silently in his head burst out of him. He raised the open bottle and began to whirl it over his head.

  Like brilliantly coloured marbles, the vials of VX Gas sparkled through the air, catching the dull London sunlight as they sped away on their mission of death. They scattered to the ground, some simply pulled down by gravity, others after a collision with a head or a shoulder, and still others crashing into each other in mid-flight.

  No matter how they fell, when they fell or where they landed, the result was the same: the sound of breaking glass before the lethal gas sprang free with tiny, barely discernible puffs.

  Strike Seven

  BARBADOS

  BARBADOS LOOKED LIKE A CITY CELEBRATING THE DANCE OF life. Everything was lit up and psychedelically vibrant with colour. It's not every day that a nation hosts the ICC World Cup. For the cricket crazy West Indians, few things could match the fervour of this event.

  Although a series of shocking defeats and upsets had thrown the cricketing world into turmoil, with giants like India and Pakistan falling to the minnows, cricket was cricket and the excitement hadn't abated one bit. The long awaited finals were to be played today, with the mighty Australians taking on the Sri Lankan challengers. It was certain that the crowds would hit the stadium bright and early.

  Whether it was by design or just plain luck, Sahiba and Kismat timed their arrival at the Kensington Oval well. When they pulled up outside the stadium, there was a huge crowd gathered there, slowly winding its way in through the stringent three-tier security cordon that had been thrown around the stadium.

  They were about to get out of the tiny nondescript car when Sahiba tugged urgently at Kismat's arm, stopping her. ‘Wait, Kismat. Look at that.’ She pointed at the string of cops threading their way through the parking lot, carefully scanning each parked vehicle. Two of the cops were led by huge dogs, which sniffed assiduously at everything in their path. The Khan twins had spent too much time at the stadium – they had both been employed at the customer relations desk for almost two years – not to notice that something out of the ordinary was afoot.

  ‘I've never seen them do that before,’ Sahiba said, after watching them for a moment. ‘Certainly not checking the parking lot with sniffer dogs.’

  ‘We've never seen a World Cup final before, either,’ her sister commented evenly, but she too watched the cops with a growing sense of unease.

  ‘No, this is different. Look!’ Sahiba pointed out the various locations where groups of cops were clearly visible. ‘I haven't seen so many of them at any of the matches.’

  ‘You think they know?’

  ‘I don't know. Let's just wait and watch for some more time.’ The sisters sat in silence, scanning the area carefully. It did not take long for the pattern to become evident even to their untrained eyes.

  ‘They know for sure.’

  ‘I think so too.’

  ‘I wonder how they know.’

  ‘Does it make a difference?’

  A heavy silence met the question.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Now nothing,’ Sahiba replied firmly. ‘We have not come so far to be foiled by some dumb cops.’

  Another long silence.

  ‘Can you think of any other way to get in?’ Kismat finally asked. The two of them were still giving the question due thought when fate stepped in.

  THE BUSES CARRYING THE TWO TEAMS PLAYING THE FINAL match pulled up in front of the stadium at almost the same time.

  ‘Isn't that the Australian team getting down from that yellow and green bus?’ Sahiba pointed with a half raised finger. Both sisters watched closely for a moment. ‘Yes, it is,’ Sahiba answered herself.

  ‘And that's the Sri Lankan team getting down from the second one.’ Kismat gestured at the blue and white bus that was parked behind the first one.

  They watched in silence as the Australian team disembarked and began to offload their gear. In the other bus, the Sri Lankan players began to follow suit.

  The twins exchanged glances. Harmonized as they were to each other's thoughts, both came to the same conclusion almost instantly.

  We may not be able to get inside the stadium, but could we hope for a better target outside?

  Not likely!

  In fact, this is even better. Imagine the publicity!

  ‘You take the Australian team,’ Sahiba whispered. ‘I'll go for the Sri Lankans.’ Kismat acknowledged this with a nod.

  By now most of the players had gathered in two tight, talkative knots and were waiting for the stragglers to join them. Surrounding them on all four sides was a cordon of security personnel. Each man was armed to the hilt and each grim face displayed firm resol
ve to put the weapons to use should the occasion so demand.

  In tandem, the twins opened the doors of the vehicle and got off. Both reached for the huge beaded necklaces around their necks as they emerged from the car. Like ungainly prayer beads, the necklaces were in their hands as they turned and began to shuffle towards the lively young men in cricketing colours.

  IT WAS PROBABLY THEIR INFIRMITY THAT ATTRACTED THE attention of the security officers herding the teams towards the stadium. The two guards nearest to them gave them a closer and more thorough look as the sisters shuffled closer. The security detail had been on special protection duty with the Australian team since the start of the tour. Due to some Dilbertian faux pas, they had not received the APB which had been issued for the Khan sisters. However, in these days of heightened security threats, all of them functioned at optimal alert.

  ‘Hey! Excuse me, miss!’ It was a security guard in the outermost cordon of the Sri Lankan team who stepped up and placed a restraining hand on Sahiba's right shoulder. ‘Where do you think you're going?’

  The shock of being suddenly accosted just when she was preparing to throw the necklace in her right hand at the Sri Lankan team froze Sahiba.

  ‘Where do you think you're going, miss?’ the guard repeated, not so politely this time, his hand on her shoulder tightening. Sahiba snapped back to reality.

  ‘I just wanted to gift this to him,’ she blurted out without thinking, holding up the necklace in her right hand and gesturing to one of the Sri Lankan cricketers.

  ‘That?’ The security guard took note of the large, and what he thought ugly, beaded necklace she was holding. It takes all sorts, I suppose. ‘Okay!’ He shrugged. ‘I'll give it to him on your behalf, but you cannot go any closer.’ Taking the necklace from her numb fingers, he turned to see where his protectees were. By now both teams had crossed the last security barrier and were disappearing inside the stadium.