by Deva, Mukul
‘Nothing about me, I hope?’
‘Not a peep about you.’ Mark smiled reassuringly. ‘In any case he had but one primary concern.’
‘Which is?’
‘Wie was das Geld ist?’ What is the money like?
‘Das Geld is gut,’ Ruby replied firmly.
‘Yeah,’ Mark grinned. ‘That’s exactly what I told him. Half payable on reaching Delhi and the rest when the job’s done. He had no further questions.’
‘Did you set up the communication protocol with them?’
‘I did. They are packed and ready. One text message and they’ll move to Delhi.’
‘Perfect.’
Twenty minutes later they were off again. The further they moved from Colombo, the A9 highway seemed to get worse. As did the condition of the buildings they passed. It would take time for Sri Lanka to recover from the devastation of the decades-long conflict.
Ravinder and Mohite had finished hammering out the details of the security arrangements for the Summit and shot it off to Thakur when Gyan, Ravinder’s office runner, entered.
Gyan had been with Ravinder for several years. Though less than brilliant, Gyan was rock-solid and devoted to Ravinder. The bond between them had grown ever since Ravinder, learning about Gyan’s cancer-stricken seven-year-old son, had ensured that Gyan was always posted where the best medical facilities were available and received aid from police welfare funds to care for his son.
‘There is a visitor for you, sir.’ Gyan’s gentle tone was a contrast to his massive size. A moment later a tall, well-built man with close-cropped blond hair and bright blue-grey eyes walked in.
‘Mr Gill?’ Dressed in a smart grey business suit, he appeared slightly ill at ease. ‘I am Chance… Chance Spillman. I’m with the agency.’ His British accent made it abundantly clear which agency.
‘Ah! Mr Spillman.’ Ravinder extended his hand. ‘The home minister told us to expect you. How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you, sir. It is a pleasure to meet you.’ Chance held out a letter. ‘Our director asked me to convey his regards.’
Ravinder took the letter. ‘And how is my friend Edward?’ He was referring to Sir Edward Kingsley, Director of MI6.
‘He is well, sir.’
‘Did he mention that we had been at college together in London?’
‘I don’t believe he did, sir.’ Chance smiled. ‘Not that I meet him very often.’ He grinned again. ‘I am still at the lower end of the food chain.’
Ravinder felt himself warming towards the man. ‘Right.’ Ravinder laughed. Turning to Mohite, who had a frown plastered on his face, he said, ‘This is DGP Govind Mohite, my deputy.’ The two men shook hands warily.
‘When did you get in, Mr Spillman?’ Ravinder continued.
‘Just this morning, sir.’ Then he added, ‘Chance is good enough for me.’
‘Chance, it is,’ Ravinder acknowledged. ‘An unusual name, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
‘Well, that was my dad for you,’ Chance said. ‘He always believed that everything that happened was purely a matter of chance, and only that.’
‘Well, Chance, I want you to know that we really appreciate your government sending you down to help us,’ Ravinder said.
‘I would like to assure you that I will do my best to make things work in whichever way you want them to. We understand this is your turf and…’
‘I am glad you understand that, Mr Spillman.’ Mohite made no effort to keep his tone polite. ‘India has been fighting terrorism for over thirty years and we don’t need anyone to tell us how to do things around here.’
Ravinder groaned inwardly at Mohite’s rudeness. But before anyone could respond, there was another knock at the door and Gyan entered. A fair, attractive woman with auburn hair followed him in. She was of medium height, in her late twenties or early thirties, with curves in all the right places. Like Chance, she too was dressed in a grey business suit. Despite her physical attributes and chiselled facial features, everything about her screamed secret agent, only the earpiece and dark glasses were missing. Her nasal twang defined her nationality.
‘I am Special Agent Jennifer Poetzcsh.’ She shook hands with the three men, a strong handshake, the kind women adopt when working in a male-dominant field.
Ravinder noticed the appraising look she gave Chance. Her gaze lingered on his wedding finger, when they shook hands, noting the absence of a ring. Chance also seemed taken by her.
She presented her CIA credentials to Ravinder.
With that out of the way Ravinder spoke, ‘As you both know we have just started preparing for this Summit so may I suggest you two spend the next few days getting a feel of Delhi while we complete the arrangements.’
‘Very well, sir.’ Chance nodded. ‘If there is anything we can do in the interim, please call us.’
‘Of course, Chance, thank you.’ Ravinder liked the professionalism of the young MI6 man. ‘Where are you two staying?’
They named different hotels.
‘Then may I suggest you both shift to the Ashoka, since that is the venue for the Summit. Govind will have a word with the hotel. They will give you rooms on the seventh floor, where we all will be staying. We are sealing off the top two floors for the Summit, the seventh for security and admin staff and the eighth for the delegates. You two will have adjacent rooms on the seventh floor.’
‘Excellent suggestion, sir. I will shift tomorrow.’
‘So will I.’ Jennifer nodded. She shot another glance at Chance, clearly pleased to be staying closer to him.
‘Lastly, may I also request you to contact your agencies and get us whatever intelligence they have – anything that may affect the Summit.’
‘Well,’ Jennifer began, ‘we have indications that a terror strike on Delhi may well be underway.’
‘Really?’ Ravinder asked. ‘What’s the target? What else do—’
‘That’s all we know right now,’ Jennifer broke in. ‘No way of knowing if the target is the Commonwealth Games or the Peace Summit.’
‘Anything specific?’ Ravinder asked when he realized she was not going to continue. ‘What is the source?’
‘It’s classified,’ Jennifer countered. ‘Just that we have electronic intelligence to suggest that mercenaries, probably from England, have been hired by Lashkare-Toiba. I’ll let you know as soon as we have anything more.’
The manner in which she delivered her words created tension in the room. Mohite’s face displayed increased hostility. Even Chance looked uncomfortable. Ravinder masked his irritation, though he had half a mind to remind her that terror strikes were something Indians expected almost every day.
The meeting did not end on a great note.
The A9 highway from Colombo to Vavuniya was an unpleasant drive. Ruby saw little cultivation on either side of the road. Barring an odd civilian vehicle and frequent army trucks, there was little traffic.
Lounging in the rear seat, Mark dozed off again. Though tired, Ruby was wide awake, her mind boiling with thoughts and memories that would not let her sleep.
The sight of soldiers and their surroundings felt strangely familiar to Ruby. The bleakness was so similar to what she had recently encountered in Congo…
Again her mind flew back… to the last time Mark and she had operated together. That day, too, they had been in a similar vehicle.
Ruby folded the newspaper she’d been speed-reading and let it fall to the floor of the five-door, eight-seater Toyota Alphard. The engine was running so the air conditioner could beat some of the stifling Congo heat. She threw a glance at the house across the street before checking her watch again. Only an hour had passed. Tired of sitting still, Ruby shifted, trying to make herself more comfortable.
‘The wait is always a bitch,’ Mark, sitting beside her, murmured; as usual he didn’t miss a thing.
‘It’s these bloody vests,’ Ruby muttered, trying to wipe away the sweat that was making the vest stick to her skin.
Ruby was about to reply when her Motorola handheld, a frequency-hopping piece of work, crackled to life.
‘They are coming out now,’ Mission Control said in a calm, clipped voice.
The words unleashed a rush of adrenaline in Ruby. Her spine straightened and her breathing ramped up. Her fingers clutched her weapon.
Like Mark, she was carrying a 5.56x45mm NATO, 30-round Heckler & Koch G36K. She loved its heft; it was a lightweight and low-maintenance weapon, constructed almost entirely of tough carbon fibre-reinforced polymer. Its barrels had been exchanged to give it a carbine profile, making it more useful for close quarter use. The fight ahead was likely to be up, close and personal. And bloody.
‘Nitpickers?’ Mission Control again, asking and alerting them simultaneously. The code word showed MC’s kinky sense of humour.
‘Ready to nitpick.’ Chance Spillman’s voice carried the undercurrent of a man ready for action. Despite its tautness, it ignited a storm of feelings inside Ruby. Desire. Regret. Confusion. The nagging feeling of something left unfinished, unresolved.
Ruby had always worked to ensure no one ever got under her skin. She had always kept her distance. But Chance had managed to touch her heart. Being around him just reminded her of the feelings she had for him. She knew she wanted him back in her life, but…
‘He is the enemy, Ruby,’ her mother’s voice tugged at her. Rehana had been miffed when Ruby had told her she was moving in with Chance. ‘You are forgetting your purpose. He will never understand or accept what our people have suffered.’
‘But I love him, mom.’
‘More than your people? More than our cause? You are ready to throw everything away, everything that we suffered to ensure you are trained and ready when the time comes for you to act.’
Unsure, conflicted, Ruby had faltered. Love, an intense feeling of care and longing she had never experienced before, had pulled her to Chance. Love for her mother and her cause pulled her away from him. It had torn her apart.
She knew she needed to sit down and talk with Chance. So many unsaid, unfinished things hung between them.
Wandering minds get people killed, she remembered. Too many people had drilled that into her. She focused on the mission and checked the deployment again.
Chance was one of the five MI6 agents there, the one controlling the four snipers ranged around the house. She thought it was a clever deployment and congratulated herself mentally since she was the designated Operational Commander for this mission and it had been her plan.
The target house was a dilapidated bungalow on the outskirts of Kinshasa, the capital of Congo. Known until 1997 as Zaire, Congo was the third largest country in Africa by area and the fourth most populated. Torn apart by warfare since its inception, the vast land had made no progress, and was one of the poorest countries in the world. Estimates were that about 1,250 people died daily due to war and related causes like hunger and malnutrition.
In better times, the bungalow, with its red tiled roof, would have housed some high-ranking Belgian official. But most of the tiles had fallen or were broken, leaving ugly gaps in the roof, like missing teeth. Now it was occupied by a handful of Lord’s Resistance Army terrorists.
The LRA, despite its grand name, was a small ragtag group of about one hundred men, women and adolescents, who usually operated in Congo’s northeastern province of Orientale. The group had come to the attention of MI6 because it had kidnapped the British ambassador and his wife, and was now holding the couple hostage for a large ransom and for the freedom of their colleagues in Congo jails. The kidnapping had been a stroke of luck for the LRA and the result of sublime stupidity on the part of the ambassador, who had disregarded basic security procedures.
And now we’re in this hellhole to bail out the idiot and his wife.
Ruby’s fingers instinctively checked the weapons load to make sure it was set on single-shot fire mode. Her feet began to flex inside her black, rubber-soled, lace-up loafers, getting ready to run towards the target. Her fingers checked the weapon’s magazine again.
The door to the bungalow opened and two men emerged. Both were young, one barely out of his teens. Both toted AK-47 automatics. Cheap and easily available, this was the weapon of choice of Terror Central. They halted on the porch, surveying the area.
The porch ran right around the house. It was surrounded by an unkempt garden that ended in a six-feet-high wall, which, like the rest of the bungalow, was also in disrepair. Beyond it ran the road on which Ruby and her teams were deployed. The road was bereft of traffic. A short distance away, a handful of children played, their occasional shouts of laughter blowing in the wind.
‘Bloody amateurs,’ Mark said, noting that the scouts had their rifles casually slung on their shoulders and not in the half port position, so they could swing into action instantly, should the need arise.
Ruby nodded in agreement. This was no place for amateurs.
The two kidnapper scouts did not venture onto the road. Even if they had, it was unlikely that they would have spotted the two concealed cars, one on either side of the road. The vehicles on the other three sides of the bungalow were also safely tucked away.
Breathless minutes ticked away as the two scouts completed their half-hearted security scan. Then the younger one went back inside, again with that same casual swagger. It was another minute before he emerged with two more gunmen, also barely out of their teens. The new pair held their rifles in battle positions and appeared more alert.
They would die first. She was certain that Chance, controlling the snipers, would ensure that. It would be operationally expedient to do so.
A portly Caucasian man came out next. He had his arm around a short, plump Caucasian woman. From her halting gait and how the man supported her, she seemed to be sick. Or wounded, Ruby noted.
‘That’s our man,’ Ruby muttered as she recognized the ambassador. No one replied. Everyone was now readying for action. They knew the signal would be coming any second.
Eight more gunmen emerged. And a couple of gunwomen too. They arrayed themselves around the hostages and moved towards a yellow minibus parked outside the gate. A handful seemed alert, but none was very careful. Sure, no one would have known where they were had it not been for one of their lot who had turned Judas for the silver thrown at him by MI6. Ruby wondered which one of them it was.
Would he live to enjoy the loot?
‘Now!’ Ruby half-whispered as the LRA gunmen and the hostages stopped near the minibus, trying to pre-empt Mission Control. Once they got into the vehicle, the job would become much more difficult.
‘Sun down.’
The code word cracked out of the radio.
A scant second later, the sharp crackle of the team’s sniper rifles rang out and four kidnappers fell.
Four down. Eight to go.
That was the last thought in Ruby’s head as she levered open the door and flew out, holding the gun in her left hand, which was not her master hand but that did not bother her, She had trained herself long ago to marksman standards with both hands.
She had barely exited the Toyota when a battered maroon van turned the corner and began to nose its way down the pot-holed road.
At the same time, three women on foot came around the bend to the left; they hit the road metres away from the terror cluster.
Ruby cursed under her breath. Collateral damage would not go down well on her record.
She was on her third stride when the first shot left her weapon. Though almost flying, her shot did not miss. Beside her, Mark’s weapon spat lead a millisecond later. Another kidnapper fell.
The team’s sniper rifles crashed out again. More terrorists fell.
The ambassador had dropped to the ground, dragging his wife down with him.
The terrorists’ lack of training was evident. They were firing blindly before they had even registered their tar
gets.
Ruby and her team raced in.
The maroon van, seeing all hell break loose ahead, screeched to a halt and began reversing as fast as it could. The three women were huddled on one side of the road in a screaming cluster. One went silent as a passing bullet found her. The screams from the other two grew louder, but they were lost in the thunder of gunfire and screams of the dying.
By the time Ruby fired her third shot, all twelve terrorists were down. A thirty-something man and one of the younger women lay writhing on the ground. She shot both of them, putting a bullet through each head, as she weaved past them to the ambassador.
He was huddled in the dust, his arms wrapped around his wife. She was screaming, a ululating, keening sound that set Ruby’s teeth on edge. Controlling the urge to slap her, Ruby reached down to grab him. She did not notice the beardless teenager, fallen beside the ambassador, reach for the pistol in his waistband. She became aware of him only when Mark’s weapon crackled to life behind her and he died with a scream.
Ruby cursed herself, even as she gave Mark a grateful look. He gave a fleeting salute as he continued checking the others for signs of life.
Ruby hoisted up the ambassador. His wife followed in tow as he clutched her. They hustled towards the Toyota, which had raced forward as soon as the sound of the last shot faded away.
The two women on the roadside had stopped screaming. The sound of the playing children had faded away. The maroon van had vanished. Barring the thrumming of Toyota engines, the silence was complete.
Just eighty-seven seconds had elapsed and twelve kidnappers had forfeited their lives.
Score one for the home team, Ruby thought triumphantly as she did a quick visual check and saw that her team was intact. Losing someone always hurt. Nor did it look good on the Operational Commander’s scorecard.
Seconds later the Toyota was racing away with its twin prize safely seat-belted inside. The ambassador’s wife had finally stopped screaming and lapsed into the never-never land of shock but Ruby did not care. She only had to get them back alive.