LASHKAR

by Mukul Deva

  ‘Salim Sahib?’ Wasim suddenly looked uncomfortable. ‘You will come to know in good time. I am sure you will run into him sooner or later…’

  ‘He runs the camp where we are going?’ Iqbal prodded him.

  Suddenly Wasim was not in the mood to talk any longer. He got up abruptly. ‘I need to get some sleep. Why don’t you try to rest too…it is going to be a long day tomorrow.’

  Iqbal could not see the expression on Wasim’s face in the dark. Even so the turmoil within him reached out to Iqbal across the silvery moonlight. He stood there for a very long time after Wasim had gone, until the chill of the night began to add to the disquiet Wasim had stirred in him.

  The tranquillity of the night had been disturbed.

  The terrain started to change and the air grew distinctly colder as they crossed Rawalpindi and Islamabad late the next evening. They saw hills appear in the distance; small at first and then higher and more rugged. The winding road began to climb steeply. The sun had almost set when the bus finally came to a halt half-an-hour after crossing Muzaffarabad.

  A cluster of silent huts and tents greeted the young recruits as they scrambled off the bus. There was not a soul visible anywhere. A frisson of fear ran through Iqbal.

  Then the doors of one of the huts opened and two men walked out towards them. Everything about them screamed ‘army’. Iqbal felt another stirring of apprehension as the duo strode up to the recruits. ‘This is the Muzaffarabad training camp. I am…’

  The men were neither welcoming nor warm. Rather like the grumpy sergeants in the old war movies that I used to watch in school, thought Iqbal.

  SALIM

  2210 hours, 27 October 2005, ISI Office, Lahore Army Cantonment, Pakistan.

  ’Allah be praised! That Afzal guy has delivered. See, sir, I told you he would.’ Captain Azam Cheema gave a satisfied smile; Afzal had been his discovery.

  ‘I still don’t trust him,’ replied Brigadier Salim. ‘He is the only one in this mission who is here just for the money. If he can sell out his country for cash he can as easily sell us out to the Indians for more.’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir, he will continue to deliver. I have him well under control.’ In the five years that he had served as Salim’s aide, Cheema had never let him down. Somehow, deep inside, Salim knew he would rather die than let that happen.

  ‘Well, Cheema, just make sure he is out of Delhi ASAP and in position for his next task.’ Salim shelved further thought on Afzal for the moment; he had more important things to worry about. Picking up the satellite phone he dialled a number that was stored in the phone’s memory. A moment later he was talking to the old Maulavi in Delhi. ‘Are the boys ready?’

  ‘Of course.’ As usual the old man sounded supremely confident.

  The Maulavi was one of the few Indians whom Salim did trust. Over the years he had regularly delivered a stream of young motivated men to the training camps run by the ISI. Many of these men had gone on to achieve great things in the Valley and inflicted terrible losses on the Indian security forces. This time too, it was the pick of Maulavi’s recruits who had constituted the Lashkar. He had personally handpicked nine of them for this assignment. One had gotten injured during the training, but that was not a problem since only seven were needed for the actual operation. Even if they had taken one more hit the mission would not have been jeopardized. After all, reserves were the lifeblood of any operation. Wars were never won without cannon fodder.

  ‘Excellent. Then let us begin.’

  Ten minutes later, Salim’s Lashkar swung into action.

  The prelude to the dance of death had begun.

  THE STRIKE

  0520 hours, 28 October 2005, Aftab Cyber Café, Khirki Gaon, New Delhi.

  The cyber café was a deep cover implant that had been established by the ISI several months ago and was to be activated only for a priority assignment, after clearance from the very highest quarters. Brigadier Murad Salim was definitely high up enough in the ISI hierarchy to ensure it was made available to him without a fuss.

  The café, located in one of the several narrow lanes that radiated into Khirki Gaon colony opposite the small temple on the main road, was sited in a carefully reconnoitred and selected building. This particular lane was almost always deserted since it dead-ended just two houses beyond the cyber café. Both houses behind the cyber café were occupied by mid-level workers employed in the host of small factories and offices that crowded the colony. Since most of them were out-of-town migrants, residents were quite used to all kinds of people coming and going at odd hours; new faces drew no special attention here.

  The first man arrived just before daybreak. The other five men arrived separately at irregular intervals of ten to twenty minutes. With the exception of one who looked as though he was barely out of his teens, all of them were in their late twenties or early thirties. There was nothing exceptional about any of them except that they were all physically much more fit than the average man on the streets and that they seemed to have a lot more money on them. All of them were clean-shaven and wore nothing that gave any indication of the god they worshipped.

  ‘We will be working in this room. This is where I stay.’ Furkan, the cyber café owner, pointed to the inner room. ‘No one ever goes in there and the room has enough space for us to work comfortably.’

  Unlike the outer room with the gleaming Pentium 4 machines the inner room was Spartan. The only modern thing in it was the small television set in a corner. In the other corner stood a small worktable with an assortment of tools stacked neatly on it.

  ‘The packages are in the cupboard. Don’t be in a hurry. One small screw-up, and we all get blown to bits,’ Furkan cautioned needlessly.

  ‘You two unpack and clean out the weapons,’ the oldest member of the team said. He had an aura of authority and was clearly the designated mission leader. He was also the only one among them who had been in active operations before, although this was his first mission on Indian soil.

  ‘You two,’ he indicated Furkan and the youngest man in the team. ‘Stay in the outer room and keep an eye open. No one is to wander in by mistake. Try and discourage people from using the cyber café today. Just don’t get jumpy and do anything stupid.’

  The youngest member and Furkan did as they were told. The youngest member was also the most tech savvy of them all. The two of them fiddled with the computers as they kept careful watch. The few customers who walked in during the day hung around for a few minutes and then left when they showed no sign of moving. Only one persistent young fellow tarried for almost twenty minutes before Furkan told him it was futile to wait. ‘We are upgrading the machines and changing the Internet services provider,’ he said apologetically.

  For the rest of the day the three men worked without interruption, carefully assembling the bombs. There was not much by way of conversation as they all went about their carefully rehearsed tasks.

  When the muezzin called the faithful for the Asr (afternoon) prayer, the team leader who had just finished cleaning all the weapons looked up. ‘It is time for the namaz. After that I want you three,’ he pointed to the men who had handed in the vehicles for servicing, ‘to get the vehicles from the service stations. Make sure you check them out properly. Take a trial run and if you feel anything is even slightly amiss get it sorted out. We don’t want any breakdowns tomorrow.’

  As soon as they finished praying, the designated three moved out from the cyber café separately and went straight to the garages. The three stolen vehicles were collected, checked, test-driven and brought back to the cyber café. The two cars were parked at a little distance from the cyber café and dust covers were placed on them. The motorcycle was wheeled into the inner room where the men fitted used-looking metallic containers on both sides of the rear seat. As soon as the containers were fitted on, the two bomb makers moved in. The bomb itself was a simple device and took ten minutes to assemble. Wiring it up and fitting in the switch took another fifteen. When it was do
ne, they checked the circuit with the tester. It worked fine.

  After sunset the men went to work on the cars parked outside. They worked at a slow and deliberate pace and checked everything repeatedly. They worked with the precision of people who had rehearsed every action several times. The bomb that had been assembled during the day was placed in the boot of the Esteem and the wiring was connected up. A couple of old clothes were thrown over the bomb to conceal it. Next morning, by the time the muezzin called for the Fajr (morning) prayer, all the preparations were in order. Then they set to work thoroughly cleaning up the room and removing any telltale signs. All the scraps of material they had used were carefully bagged in a large garbage disposal bag.

  ‘I’ll take care of that,’ Furkan said, picking up the bag. ‘You guys go ahead and get some rest. We have a long day ahead.’

  The six men dispersed, again in ones and twos at intervals of a few minutes each. They left the café with the satisfaction of people who had completed a difficult task properly and thoroughly. Everything was in order. Now all that remained was for the Lashkar to carry out the strike.

  Death was straining to unleash.

  1025 hours, 29 October 2005, M4K Multiplex, Delhi.

  The housekeeping and maintenance staff in the multiplex were almost done with their early-morning cleaning. Shopkeepers had arrived early, bracing themselves for the weekend rush. With Diwali and Eid just around the corner there was a note of festivity in the air. In the wake of a good harvest and a booming economy, shopkeepers and business owners were expecting a huge upswing in business.

  ‘Jane kya hoga Rama re, jane kya hoga Maula re…’ The ironically apt lyrics of a Bollywood film song floated through the air, powered by the sound system of the multiplex. The multiplex had been commissioned into service fairly recently. Its newness was evident in the fresh paint and sparkling walls. It was also evident in the manner that the staff responded to situations. Their operating procedures had yet to achieve the stability of time and experience. In fact, it was one of the reasons why this multiplex had been chosen as a target for the strike.

  At ten-thirty the stolen Tata Indica turned off the main road and drove into the mall. The parking lot outside the mall was almost empty, as was the one in the basement. The man behind the wheel collected his parking token right at the entrance and started to drive in. The security guard standing just beyond the barrier gestured to him as the car approached. He tapped the window when he saw that the man driving the car was looking the other way. ‘Sir, you can park right here.’ He pointed at the empty parking lot.

  ‘That’s okay,’ the man replied. ‘I would rather park inside.’

  Suit yourself, weirdo. I was just trying to help. As the guard shrugged and walked away the man at the wheel of the Indica heaved a sigh of relief. Engaging gears, he drove into the basement and headed straight for the parking slot nearest to the huge electricity transformer installed there. ‘Allah be praised!’ The slot was empty.

  He had picked out two other suitable alternatives during the dry run earlier, but neither of them was half as effective as this one. He carefully reversed into the slot and locking up the car made his way towards the ticketing window. ‘What are the show timings?’ he asked the youngster manning the counter.

  The eager lad handed over a beautifully printed brochure. ‘These are the movies and their timings. You can check out availability on that screen there,’ he pointed at the monitor installed above the counter. Almost all the morning shows had a small green light glowing in front of them, but the afternoon and evening ones mostly had red dots, indicating a full house. Good! The more the merrier.

  ‘Thanks.’ The man spent the next few minutes casually wandering about the multiplex. The crowd had started to build up and the parking lot had a fair number of vehicles in it.

  Leaving the multiplex he made his way out to the main road and flagged down a taxi. As the cab pulled away he tossed the movie brochure out of the window. It was irrelevant now. Show-timings were about to be rudely interrupted.

  1400 hours, 29 October 2005, behind Savita Nagar Mosque, New Delhi.

  ‘Surely Allah has bought of the believers their persons and their property for this, that they shall have the garden; they fight in Allah’s way, so they slay and are slain…’

  The Maulavi had deliberately chosen verse 9: 111 of the Koran to remind them of the heroic battle against the white Satan. As the prayer drew to a close, the Maulavi looked up and studied the seven men gathered in the small room. They were no different from all the other young men he had personally recruited for the jihad and sent to Salim. I wonder how many of them are still alive? The Maulavi smiled at the men. How many of these boys will be alive today when the sun sets? He was experienced enough to know that despite the most thorough planning anything could go wrong. There were simply too many variables to be able to factor them all in. So be it. After all, men must fall in battle. Their sacrifice will not go waste.

  The youngest of the men was totally impervious to the tension that hung in the room like a naked wire. The other six men were more seasoned. They were tight-lipped and avoided looking at or talking to each other. He is too young and inexperienced to know about the fear that comes as a precursor to battle. The fear that keeps men alert and alive. For a moment the Maulavi thought he should speak to the youngster. Then he decided against it. This is not the time to raise doubts in his head. Instead the Maulavi sent up a silent, special prayer for Allah to watch over him. Then he looked at the men clustered before him and nodded. ‘It is time.’

  The men left the room in pairs at irregular intervals of five to ten minutes. Only Furkan waited for almost twenty minutes after the third pair had left. Pausing at the door he nodded to the Maulavi and said in a soft undertone, ‘I will keep you informed. Keep your phone on. Khuda Hafiz!’

  IQBAL

  Life in training camp was the typical bittersweet experience that most military type trainings are – more bitter than sweet, with the sheer buggery of relentless physical exercise ensuring a constantly aching body sweetened by the occasional thrill of weapon-handling and bomb-making that appeals to young male minds as nothing else does.

  In the first week itself Omar, Abu Khan and Iqbal got dubbed the ‘English school types’. The instructors took a special delight in what they called ‘sorting out their wrong notions’. ‘We are going to make men out of you, boys,’ the instructors told the recruits gleefully each morning till they began to dread the gruelling pre-dawn runs, the mind-numbing physical training and the forced marches with heavy weights on their backs and dummy rifles in their hands.

  The instructors were better tolerated when the recruits moved on to weapon-handling, firing and bomb-making, from the third month of their training. Iqbal loved the thrill and excitement of bomb-making. In fact, he became so adept at it that even the explosives instructor acknowledged his mastery. But this was not much solace when they lay on their cots at night with every bone aching from the rigours of the day.

  ‘These thick-headed Army clods are complete masochists. They thrive on torturing themselves and us,’ said Abu Khan.

  Omar was silent for a moment. ‘You think they are from the Pakistan Army?’

  ‘Well, they definitely don’t look like Salvation Army types to me. Of course they are Army. Can’t you tell from their haircuts, the way they walk and talk to each other?’Abu Khan answered.

  It was an open secret that the instructors were junior and non-commissioned officers from the regular Pakistan Army. Though no one spoke openly about its support, the Pakistan Army’s involvement was clearly evident in every aspect of the training camp; from the vehicles that ferried them about to the weapons and ammunition the jihadis used; but mostly in the manner in which people from the villages around avoided coming near the camp.

  ‘I want the camp spotless and shining today,’ they heard Maulana Fazlur Rehman tell the instructors during the morning parade, one day in their fourth month of training. ‘Salim Sahib
is going to be visiting us.’

  The tall, heavily-bearded Fazlur Rehman was not only the camp commander, but also the founder of the group that sponsored this particular camp. He was a mesmerizing man. His deep commanding tone and bottomless eyes signalled the fire in his belly and the passion that jihad generated in him. He was a much-respected man and his group had the honour of being responsible for the highest number of successful strikes against the Indians, not just in Kashmir Valley but all the way down to the Akshardham Temple in Gujarat and the Indian Parliament in the heart of Delhi itself.

  ‘Who is Salim Sahib?’ Iqbal heard Omar ask one of the instructors as they were being put to work on cleaning up the camp.

  ‘Shut up and do what you have been told,’ the man replied irritably as he walked away.

  ‘Don’t you know better than to ask such dumb questions?’ Abu Khan said to him after the instructor had moved out of earshot. ‘Salim Sahib is Brigadier Murad Salim of the ISI. He is the one who provides our group with the support and money we need.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘My cousin told me.’

  ‘How does he know?’

  ‘He trained here a year back. He is the one who motivated me to join.’ Abu Khan paused. ‘He was martyred in the Valley last month.’

  Brigadier Salim came to the camp often in the last five or six weeks of their training. He spent most of his time with Fazlur Rehman. A tall, hard-looking man in his early thirties accompanied the Brigadier; he was like Salim’s shadow.

  On the last three days that the Brigadier was at the training camp a group of eleven men joined him. They spent all their time closeted in the large hut where radio, tactics and explosives theory classes were taught. The newcomers aroused a lot of curiosity amongst the other trainees, especially when it became clear that Brigadier Salim himself was spending a fair amount of time with them. But despite the endless debates their presence generated, no one was any the wiser about their identity. And then, one afternoon when the trainees returned from the firing range, the men were gone. So was Brigadier Murad Salim.