The Dust Will Never Settle

by Deva, Mukul

  ‘And from America we have Senator George Polk,’ Ravinder added, flipping the page.

  ‘Isn’t he prone to marching to his own drumbeat?’

  ‘The very man,’ Ravinder replied, double-checking the senator’s profile. ‘No one can be sure what his stance is, though the odds are that he’d be biased against the Israelis.’

  ‘Surprising. Very surprising.’ Mohite made a clicking sound with his tongue. ‘Right. And from Britain, it’s MP Sir Geoffrey Tang, and lastly we have the Norwegian, Sigurd Gaarder.’

  ‘Like Polk, Tang too is a wildcard, though he’s more likely to be sitting in the middle. As for Gaarder, he was one of the original Oslo negotiators and could bring invaluable expertise.’

  ‘Well, yes, but have you noticed something?’ Mohite grinned. ‘Each of the delegates has a name starting with G… first or last.’ He looked up. ‘Even the two of us.’ His smile broadened. ‘We should code name this the G-string Summit!’

  Ravinder could not help smiling. ‘Nice, Govind! Now let’s work on keeping that damn G-string intact! We’ve got a lot to protect and not much to do it with. Every damn terror group in the world must be panting to take a shot at us.’

  ‘True.’ Mohite’s face turned grave. ‘Like you said, bringing peace to the Promised Land will take away a major raison d’être for the jihad.’ He might be an ass-licking busybody, Ravinder thought, but he was no fool.

  The two-car mini-convoy slowed as it turned on to the road leading to MSO Building which housed the police headquarters. The traffic was awful and despite the siren, they were now crawling along.

  That was when a man caught Ravinder’s attention: medium height, clean-shaven, mid-twenties. Perhaps it was the purposeful manner in which he was approaching Mohite’s car. Or perhaps it was because he was wearing such a bulky overcoat. It wasn’t that cold.

  An alarm clamoured in Ravinder’s head. Tersely ordering his driver to stop, he pulled out his 9mm Browning and leapt out, even before the car had come to a full stop. Mohite and the driver stared after him, perplexed.

  The man was now fifteen feet away. He swivelled and saw Ravinder rushing towards him. He froze for a nanosecond, then threw open his overcoat and reached inside.

  Ravinder saw the coat fly open and spotted the bomb strapped around the man’s waist. Instantly his right hand rose up, the gun coming level. Mindful of the crowd, he took aim and fired once. It was enough.

  The man came to an abrupt halt, as though he’d run into a brick wall. For a second he was upright, and then fell backwards, his head covered in blood.

  Ravinder had gone for the headshot. He could not have let the man detonate the bomb; the casualties on the crowded road would have been horrendously high.

  It was over as swiftly as it had begun.

  The rest took an hour to sort out. ‘He was Mir Kasab, from the Jaish-e-Mohammed. A known terrorist… we have a thick file on him. Came in from POK last week,’ Mohite reported to Ravinder. ‘We found a map of this area in his pocket and the numbers of three cars: yours, Ashish’s and mine. Apparently he had been tasked to take out senior ATTF cops.’

  ‘Looks like the terrorists want us out of the picture at this juncture.’

  ‘I guess so.’ Mohite’s tone was grim; he was still sweating. Ravinder could see that he was shaken up.

  ‘Don’t think too much about it, Govind. It could well have been my car. Or Ashish’s… he would have gone for whoever had reached first.’ Silence. A shitty feeling. ‘The luck of the draw, my friend. Who knows when one’s time is up.’ Ravinder had to lift the mood, both Mohite’s and his own. ‘Look on the bright side. We got the bugger before he could get us.’

  But the words had little effect on either of them. Both knew that the next time the tides might well favour the other side.

  ‘There is more, sir. He was not alone,’ Mohite almost stammered. ‘He was part of a cell of three men.’

  ‘Who are the other two? Find any clues on him?’

  ‘Yes, most probably Javed Khan. We already have a file on him. And another guy, an unknown called Aslam. The three of them came from POK together. Most likely the other two are still out there…’ Mohite stared out the window, ‘somewhere in Delhi.’

  ‘We have to find them.’

  ‘I have already issued an APB and also alerted the Int agencies.’

  ‘We’d better find them… before they find us.’ Ravinder thought for a moment. ‘Have the guards doubled – at the office and all three residences. And caution Ashish.’

  Ravinder knew there was nothing more they could do. Not yet. ‘Now let’s focus. We have a Summit to secure, Govind. The PM’s office is waiting for our security plans.’

  Had it not been for the air-conditioning, the seven-hour drive to Vavuniya would have been intolerable. The dust and the pot-holed road added to her misery. But Mark seemed to be handling the heat and dust well. Ten minutes into the drive, he was sprawled against the car door, snoring gently. Ever so often, Ruby saw him smile. He was obviously having pleasant dreams.

  Oh well… at least someone is. A mirthless smile creased her face. He looked good, if a trifle uncomfortable, his head knocking against the window every time they hit a bump. Pity he is gay! All the good ones are… either gay or married. Ruby sighed; she could do with some comforting. It had been a while since she had been held… not since Chance had gone. Wondering where he was right now, Ruby felt a tug at her heart. She missed him.

  For a moment she thought about the differences between Chance and Mark. Physically they had a lot in common – both were tall, well-built and fair, with similar close-cropped hair. But that was where the similarities ended. Chance was sensitive, caring and had a great sense of humour. Mark, on the other hand, was not cerebral and liked to plunge into action without a second thought. Well, that was what she needed right now. Someone who would simply follow orders.

  Ruby couldn’t sleep; she felt restless, pumped with oxygen. She sat on the edge of her seat, watching the countryside fly past. Barring small green patches of cultivation, she saw only bleak, brown land. As they moved further north from Colombo, the stretches of green grew scarce and the presence of soldiers and army camps increased, grim reminders to the recently-ended insurgency.

  The driver stepped on the gas, going as fast as the road allowed. Ruby was finally about to try and catch some shut-eye when they hit another checkpoint. A long line of vehicles waited ahead. The soldiers were searching each vehicle thoroughly.

  Ruby sat back, exasperated, watching the vehicles inch forward. Her mind wandered back to Palestine, to a similar checkpoint.

  ‘That day the line at the Huwwara checkpoint was long.’ Rehana’s oft-told story echoed in Ruby’s memory. Her voice was clear, as though it was Rehana, and not Mark, sitting beside her in the car.

  The Israel Defence Forces checkpoint at Huwwara, one of the main inner checkpoints of the West Bank, lay deep within Palestinian territory, just south of Nablus, at the junction of Routes 57 and 557. It was located between the settlements of Bracha and Itamar, dividing Nablus from the satellite communities that depended on it.

  ‘About six thousand people pass through Huwwara every day,’ Rehana’s narration echoed in Ruby’s mind, ‘to work, to the hospital, to visit relatives or to do their shopping.’

  Like all such checkpoints, passing through Huwwara involved a meticulous process. It was not uncommon for it to take up to two hours to get through. And the rules were never predictable, adding to the confusion and delay.

  Men lined up in a closed waiting area, while women and children went through a separate pathway. The area for men was an open shed with a corrugated roof. Waist-high walls demarcated the aisles. The roof trapped the sweltering heat.

  ‘Wuakef (stop)! Jubil aweah (show me your identification papers)!’ the soldiers shouted as each person was processed.

  ‘One by one, the men trudged up to the barred window and handed over their papers. They lifted their shirts and rolled up their t
rouser legs to confirm that no weapons or bombs were concealed there. The women and children were also frisked thoroughly. Rows of scanners would be at work constantly.

  ‘The procedure for cars was more tedious, with all passengers having to get out while a search was carried out using undercarriage mirrors, detectors and sniffer dogs.’

  Bilal, Rehana’s brother, thumped the steering wheel, looking worriedly at his mother Salima lying in the back seat. Half an hour had passed and only two cars had been cleared, with three more still ahead of them. Bilal, the eldest and usually the calmest of the three siblings, was getting jumpy; perhaps his diabetes was acting up. It did not help that in their rush to take their mother to hospital, he had not eaten. Eventually, driven by his anxiety, he got out and went to speak to the IDF soldiers.

  ‘You! Wuakef! Stop right there!’ a soldier yelled at him, the Galil AR multi-purpose rifle in his hand coming up.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘Soldier, my mother is ill,’ Bilal replied.

  ‘I don’t fucking care,’ the beardless soldier yelled. ‘Get back into your car and wait your turn. NOW!’ His rifle pointed straight at Bilal, rock-steady, confirming his willingness to use it. ‘Don’t come any closer.’ He pointed at the security line painted on the road meant to keep the soldiers safe from suicide bombers. The neatly painted Born to Kill, shining whitely across the front of his helmet, and his badly accented Arabic added to the menace of the moment.

  Bilal walked back to the car, cursing under his breath. Another fifteen minutes slithered by and only one more car had been cleared. A bout of coughing shook Salima and more blood sprayed out. By now the sheet covering her was splattered with red dots.

  ‘Mother had been terribly ill when she woke up that morning. She had started coughing blood. Her condition was so bad that your uncles Bilal and Yusuf decided to rush her to hospital at once. I too went with them.’ Rehana began to cry as she told the story to Ruby. ‘By now our mother was barely conscious. The fever had skyrocketed. I could feel her body burning.’

  Sitting in the front passenger seat, Yusuf looked explosive, but also on the verge of tears.

  Bilal could not take it any more. His breath was short and his hands had begun to shake as the level of glucose in his body plummeted and hypoglycaemia began to take hold. That, coupled with his mother’s increasing distress, shattered his control. He jumped out of the car again.

  ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ Born to Kill screamed again. ‘Get back inside your car!’

  ‘Come on, soldier,’ Bilal yelled back. ‘Look! She is losing so much blood. Let us through.’

  ‘Yeah, right!’ The anger in Born to Kill’s voice matched his raised weapon. ‘Get back to your car and wait for your turn!’

  ‘Please, soldier!’ Bilal was begging.

  It had no effect on the soldier. ‘Back in line.’

  ‘She seems to be really sick,’ a younger soldier standing beside Born to Kill whispered in Hebrew. He had peered inside the car during the heated exchange. ‘Why don’t we let them through first?’

  ‘You shut your fucking mouth, wimp,’ Born to Kill hissed. ‘You don’t know these bastards. That is exactly what a pregnant woman said to my father. They were about to let her through when she blew herself up, taking my father and four others with her.’

  The recruit, Ean Gellner, subsided. This was only his fifth week in uniform and his first day on checkpoint duty.

  The other soldiers sniggered.

  Their words meant nothing to Bilal since he did not understand Hebrew, but those sniggers were more than he could take. He leapt forward shaking an angry fist.

  ‘Stay back!’ Born to Kill’s strident yell fell on deaf ears.

  ‘Stand back, you moron!’

  The second warning also went unheeded.

  ‘Do not cross the line!’

  Tension suddenly escalated.

  To Yusuf and Rehana, watching from the car, everything happened fast and slow at the same time – too fast for them to do anything, yet slow enough to feel every nuance.

  As Bilal crossed the line, the rifle in Born to Kill’s hands emitted a sharp flat report. A second later, another shot exploded out.

  The gunshots echoed bleakly in the silence, shattered seconds later by Bilal’s howl of pain. The first bullet gutted him. He was falling when the second bullet hit him. He swayed, and then slumped to the ground. A shocked Yusuf jumped out of the car and rushed to his brother’s side.

  Yusuf ’s move broke the frozen tableau. People scattered about frantically, racing to get out of the line of fire.

  Born to Kill stood still, his rifle still pointed at Bilal, a confused expression on his face.

  Ean Gellner looked as though he was about to burst into tears.

  ‘What the hell have you done?’ a soldier yelled, dismay plastered on his face.

  ‘What could I do? Didn’t you see he was rushing me?’ Born to Kill said, a sick smile on his face and fear in his eyes.

  Yusuf, who was kneeling beside his dying brother, looked up and saw the smile. He let out a howl of rage and ran towards the soldier.

  Rehana screamed, but Yusuf had already broken past the line.

  Born to Kill saw him rush forward. His finger was still on the trigger. The finger tightened and seconds later, half the 35-round magazine had emptied itself.

  Two of the bullets slammed into Yusuf ’s right shoulder, spinning him around and dropping him to the ground. One bullet shattered the windscreen of the car and found his mother’s jaw. It decimated Salima’s face, replacing the already quivering, blood-stained lips with a gaping red hole. Three bullets found two more victims in the fleeing crowd. The others slammed harmlessly in the cars and the milling dust.

  ‘There was so much blood all around me… I can feel it even now.’ Rehana shuddered as she narrated the incident to Ruby. Involuntarily her hands started rubbing against her skin, as though trying to wipe the blood clean. ‘No outsider can ever understand why our youngsters are so ready to seek martyrdom. Ruby, they don’t understand that we have no choice. We either die in a blaze of glory or slowly, inch by inch, one day at a time, but we die and continue to die…’ her voice trailed away. ‘And still nothing changes.’ Rehana’s cheeks were wet with tears, her voice barely audible. ‘Nothing changes… nothing. Ruby, we have to change this, we have to do something…’

  Harsh popping sounds shattered Ruby’s bloody march down memory lane. The heavy tyres of the Nissan van ground over loose gravel, and pebbles flew from under the tyres with sharp, flat reports as the driver brought the vehicle to a halt. Except for the puffs of dust swirling around, everything was still and silent.

  Ruby looked around, befuddled, her mind still trapped in her mother’s violent memories. It took a moment for the red and yellow faded signboard outside to register.

  ‘Diya Dahara Restaurant’, it read. ‘You must try the food here,’ the driver said, turning around. ‘This place is famous.’

  ‘Why don’t you help us with the menu?’ Mark took the reluctant driver by his arm and led him to a table below a fan.

  ‘And tell them to go easy on the spices,’ Ruby added.

  The driver seemed uncomfortable sharing the table with them, but that did not stop him from ordering a big meal.

  The service was efficient, not surprising since there was just a handful of customers. They had just cooled off with a glass of chilled King Coconut when the waiter carted in a series of steaming dishes.

  ‘Did you order food for the whole restaurant?’ Ruby said and smiled as dish after dish arrived, soon covering the entire table.

  ‘I did not want you to go hungry,’ the driver replied, eyeing the food hungrily.

  The aroma of yellow rice flavoured with spices filled the air as the waiter removed the lid from the first platter. Next, he displayed fried chicken, crab curry in coconut gravy, devilled cuttle fish, white cashew curry and coconut sambol.

  Mark cast several c
ovetous glances at the bottles of Three Coin Beer chilling in the cooler near the cash counter but made no move to order one. He knew Ruby enforced the no-drinking-on-the-job rule.

  Ruby couldn’t believe it all cost just a little more than what they would have paid for a sandwich back home in London.

  ‘So why are we here again?’ Mark asked Ruby when the driver went back to the car. ‘I thought you said this assignment was in India.’

  ‘It is, but we first need to meet a man and pick up some equipment.’

  ‘Okay…’

  ‘We also need to recon our extraction route. In case we need to leave India by less… umm… conventional means.’

  Mark nodded. That he understood. He liked that Ruby was thinking through to the end. Her recent long silences had made him uneasy.

  ‘Tell me about the team I asked you to put together, Mark… Who are the three guys you picked?’

  ‘Solid, reliable hitters – just the kind you wanted. Experienced blokes who don’t ask too many questions. They take orders and have no qualms in executing them.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘Yeah. Not the fancy, brainy, officer types.’

  Ruby laughed. ‘Any of them have criminal records?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Perfect. Can’t have any flags going up when they cross the border.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He waved airily, but Ruby could tell there was something on his mind. ‘Say, boss,’ he said after a while, ‘any chance they won’t be coming back at all?’

  Ruby shrugged. ‘Depends on them and how things pan out… and how they handle them.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Well, the first two are a couple of Aussies, Gary Boucher and Shaun Ontong, who currently operate in South Africa, and the third, Rafael Gerber, is from Germany. All three are clean and perfect for the job.’

  ‘Did they have any questions?’

  ‘Not the Aussies, but the German did. He is a bit anal, wanted to know who he’d be working with so I had to give him a brief about the Aussies. He was happy to know they’re operating in Africa. He’s been there for many years and thinks it’s the best training ground.’