Assassins

by Mukul Deva

  “Why? Why not publicize the hunt and keep Leon under pressure?” Ravinder challenged.

  “Politics mostly.” Suresh looked exasperated. “The PM wants it kept quiet.” He gave a defeatist shrug. “We have no idea who the mole is, but it has to be someone in either the National Intelligence Agency or the Special Task Force. No one else is in the loop.”

  Taking the cue, Kingsley arrowed in on Ravinder. “You have to do this, Ravinder. Please. You’re our best bet.”

  “Ravinder.” Kurup added to the pressure. “I know it is going to be tough, but you know how it is when it’s anything to do with Pakistan, especially after the Mumbai attack. PMO doesn’t want a word of this Binder assassination attempt to leak because the Pakis will use it to raise a hue and cry, and divert international attention from their own involvement in funding terror activities across the globe.”

  Ravinder felt claustrophobic. He wanted to back off, tell them to go away, but couldn’t. Not now. Not with a fellow cop down. Even the thought felt disloyal. Though riddled with conflict, he reluctantly nodded. “But I need to speak with my family first.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Suresh jumped to his feet. He looked as though he’d spotted light at the end of a long, gloomy tunnel.

  “Thank you, old chap,” Kingsley added, with an understated half smile. But Ravinder sensed his relief.

  “We shall give you every possible support.” Kurup again reached for his mobile. “Let me instruct my deputy, Ashok Verma, to get the STF officers together. When would you like to meet your team?”

  “Tomorrow morning. First I need to talk with my wife and daughter,” Ravinder repeated. “They’re not going to be…”

  “But why waste the whole—” Kurup began.

  “Tomorrow morning would be fine.” Kingsley cut him off. Kurup’s agitation was evident. He was about to speak, but Kingsley again preempted him. “And if you want, I can make Chance available to you for this assignment.”

  “Chance?” Ravinder was surprised. “Chance Spillman? He’s still in India? I thought he’d be back in London, convalescing.”

  “He’s okay now. I brought him back.” Kingsley shrugged. “He could be a useful liaison between our agencies.”

  “I see.” Ravinder eyed him narrowly. “You were sure I’d agree?”

  “You’re not the kind to back off, Ravinder. Not when the cause is right.” Kingsley murmured, again with that half smile. “You never were.”

  Isn’t that what you said when I was feeling bad about testifying against Leon?

  Ravinder was unable to block that thought. Unsure how he felt about that, Ravinder changed the topic. “Having Chance on the team would be great.” And he was surprised how light that made him feel. He had developed a good rapport with Chance during the peace summit and respected the MI6 man’s professionalism. They had come within a whisker of stopping Ruby’s attack on the Israeli-Palestinian summit.

  This time we will succeed. We will stop Binder. Ravinder made a silent promise. No cop killer could go unpunished. “When do the targets reach Delhi?”

  “The cricket match and the summit, both are on the twenty-seventh of December.” Kurup replied. “Both Zardosi and Masharrat arrive early that morning.”

  Damn! Dismay swept through Ravinder. “But that gives me only five days.”

  “Six.” Suresh gave what he believed was an encouraging smile. “If you count today.”

  “Yeah, right.” Ravinder’s sarcasm was pungent enough to strip paint. Then another thought struck him. “Since both events are on the same day, can you at least ensure both targets are onstage at the same time?”

  It took only a second for Suresh’s brow to unfurrow. “Ah! I see. That will halve our problems, since Leon can only go for one target at a time.” Then he frowned again. “Unless he uses someone else for one of them.”

  “That’s not Leon.” Edward and Ravinder spoke simultaneously.

  “That’s not how Leon operates. He’s a loner,” Kingsley elaborated. “He never uses an accomplice for a hit. For support tasks, yes, but never for the hit. Hasn’t ever done it.”

  “Good thinking, then,” Suresh acknowledged, but grudgingly, as though wishing he’d thought of that. “Of course an exact overlap is not going to be possible. Much as Masharrat mian loves the sound of his voice, the cricket match will obviously last longer.”

  “Place his speech in the middle of the match, then,” Ravinder suggested.

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.” Kurup nodded. “I will do my best.”

  “That’s all anyone can do.” Ravinder gave him a penetrating look, as though to say, I also tried my best to stop Ruby. Remember that. Remember that when you judge me.

  If that registered with Kurup he showed no sign of it, or perhaps he was too caught up in the worrisome situation. “This time we have to succeed. Benazir’s vendetta could rip the already fragile Indo-Pak peace to pieces. Let’s not forget, hell hath no fury like…”

  “Women squabbling.” Edward completed with a chuckle, trying to lighten up the tense atmosphere.

  All three laughed. However, the laughter was forced and the lightness fleeting. Doubt and conflict were already swirling through Ravinder as he saw the spymasters to their car and watched them depart.

  The wind picked up suddenly. A shiver traced its way up Ravinder’s spine as the chill sliced through the reluctant recruit’s blazer. Apprehension flailed him, about what he had allowed himself to be talked into, as well as the disastrous consequences, if he failed … again.

  The sour taste of his failure to stop the attack on the Israeli-Palestinian Peace Summit still lingered in his mouth.

  “I cannot … will not.…. fail this time,” Ravinder vowed. Then louder. And then a third time, louder still. “And you will not escape this time, Leon Binder.”

  He was still lost in thought when the gates swung open again and a gleaming BMW 750Li drove in. Ravinder could see the white-liveried Jagjit Singh at the wheel. In the rear was Simran, returning from the gurudwara sahib. Always a deeply religious lady, Simran had dived deeper into religion ever since the Ruby incident.

  I hope she is feeling calm, full of peace and divine love.

  Another wry smile fleetingly creased his lips. Ravinder knew his wife would blow a gasket when he told her what he had agreed to do. Totally fed up with his police life, she had compelled him to resign after Ruby’s attack on the Israeli-Palestinian Peace Summit. Not that Ravinder blamed her. He knew his job and his past had brought far too much grief to the two people he cared for the most, Simran and their daughter Jasmine. The thought that he was going to cause them more worry tore at him.

  But I have to do this.

  Ravinder girded himself for the coming battle.

  The Bimmer halted and Simran, clad in a light pink sari, alighted. She was a few pounds overweight, but very feminine and elegant. Her black waist-length hair was braided in a thick plait. A well-maintained, wrinkle-free skin hid her years well. She looked at least five years younger than her age.

  Ravinder did not need to do the math; with Jasmine planning a surprise party for the past few weeks, it was impossible to forget that Simran’s fiftieth birthday was three days away, on the twenty-fifth of December.

  Despite his apprehensions, he was unable to bottle up the smile that the sight of her brought. That elicited an equally fond smile from Simran.

  Ravinder sighed. He sensed he would not be at the receiving end of such smiles for much longer.

  SEVEN

  Leon was finding it tough to reconcile the fact that he had decided to expose himself to a client; and that too, so close to ground zero. It was a big first, and it was weirding him out.

  Nothing about this mission makes sense. Why the heck did I take it on?

  The thought troubled him again.

  The money, of course. Twenty million pounds is enough to retire in style.

  Five was already collecting interest in his bank.

  Well, not really.
When do the damn Swiss ever pay interest?

  And Fatima was to hand over another five today.

  His mind idled, wondering what she was like. So far his contact with her, or anyone from SOB, had been in his usual ultra-cautious manner; first through a cutout, then electronic, and eventually telephonic. Seldom had he met a client face-to-face.

  But never has a client exposed me like this.

  Leon needed to know if he’d been betrayed or SOB had simply fucked up. Just the thought he could have been set up enraged him.

  “Sir, would you like me to show you around?” A tap on his arm brought Leon back to earth. “Authorized guide, sir.” The man who had accosted him held up a metallic badge, simultaneously exposing a set of tobacco-brown teeth. He was swathed in a bulky blue jacket, ideal to conceal several weapons.

  “No, thank you. I’m good.” Leon waved him off, instinctively checking if his wallet was still there. It was.

  Not for long if you keep daydreaming, Leon admonished himself. But he was glad he’d chosen the Qutb Minar for this meeting. There were plenty of tourists around, mostly Asians, common enough these days, but a fair number of Caucasians, too. Leon was confident he blended in.

  Using his camera for surveillance, Leon sectored and scanned the area. The Qutb Minar, the main monument, a 72.5-meter-high red sandstone and marble minar, was to his right. To his left the Ashoka Pillar: a massive iron pillar. Around both were lush green gardens: immaculately tended grass, ringed by flowerbeds and neatly trimmed thigh-high hedges. To the right of the main gate, stretching away in the distance, were a row of low sandstone buildings, possibly as old as the minar. A few score people, mostly foreigners, thronged the area. Cameras, Cokes, chips, and water bottles were visible in abundance.

  But nothing else. Leon could detect no cause for alarm.

  Yet. He reminded himself.

  Ever cautious, he retraced his steps and rechecked. Finally, crossing over to the other side of the Ashoka Pillar he settled down in the grass, making sure he had a clear view of the entrance. Though it was only half past three, the weak winter sun had already begun to wane. Waves of people moved in and out, the last-minute rush before closing time.

  His mobile chirruped, an incoming text. Fatima confirming she was outside. Leon asked her to describe what she was wearing and told her to come toward the minar. He read her reply and then settled his attention on the entrance.

  A moment later, Leon made her out immediately. It was not only the attire she had described, but also the way she was gawking around, obviously trying to spot him. Fatima was dressed very Indian: bright red kameez, black salwar, contrasted with a black thigh-long cardigan, and bandhani dupatta.

  Leon brought the Canon EOS 5D Mark III camera up to his eye. It was a professional model. The 22.3 megapixel full-frame sensor with a 61-point autofocus instantly brought the woman at the gate to life in vivid Technicolor glory.

  Leon felt he had been body-slammed. He could have sworn he was looking at Farah.

  Farah. Freaking. Fairfowler.

  Quirky as her Brit dad and sexy as her Paki mother. Edward Kingsley’s fiancée, but apparently always willing to get some on the side. Isn’t that why she …

  Stunned, Leon double-checked.

  But Farah is dead.

  Her blood-smeared face, with that shocked expression etched on it, swam before his eyes.

  What the hell?

  The coincidence shocked him. Realizing he was holding his breath only when his mind began to scream for oxygen, Leon forced himself to relax.

  “There are always six other people in the world who look exactly like you and a nine percent chance you will meet one of them.” He remembered his mother telling him. Apparently there was something to that old wives’ tale after all.

  Why the hell does another Farah have to land up in my life?

  Leon grimaced.

  Hadn’t one screwed up my life already?

  The woman in the camera drew closer. Leon sharpened his scrutiny; now on the people around Fatima.

  Minutes passed.

  Nothing.

  Fatima appeared to be alone.

  But he kept watching.

  Niks. Leon lapsed into Afrikaans subconsciously.

  She seems to be alone.

  He allowed a few more minutes to reconfirm that. Finally, satisfied, he rose and began to close in, from her left. His pace measured, but his mind still whirling with a potpourri of thoughts.

  He was looking forward to this conversation, as eager to collect his payment as he was to find out if she was the one who’d betrayed him.

  If she had, she would die.

  Betrayal was not something Leon could allow to go unpunished; he wouldn’t last long in this trade if people did not fear the consequences of betrayal.

  And now this … this uncanny resemblance to Edward Kingsley’s fiancée, the long-dead Farah.

  His head fuzzy with these thoughts, Leon was halfway to her when he spotted her pursuers. They were fifty feet away, which is why he’d missed them earlier, but closing fast now. There were two of them, both in their mid-thirties. The shorter one was bulkier, but both were swarthy, with slicked-back hair.

  Like Puerto Rican pimps.

  Or cops playing undercover?

  Leon could make out they were either trailing Fatima or tracking her.

  Amateurs. Should know better than to stare at their mark.

  Without breaking stride Leon continued past Fatima. Once past the two men he circled back.

  By now the duo had split up and were moving to outflank Fatima. Leon kept a steady pace behind them, mingling with passing groups of people to ensure he did not stand out. He realized both men had eyes for no one other than Fatima.

  Has she brought them with her or led them here?

  Leon pondered that.

  Is she the bait or the target?

  Either way he knew he had to get rid of them.

  And her. If she is the bait.

  The thought that she could be setting him up angered Leon further.

  Betrayal could not go unpunished.

  If Leon determined she had shafted him, he planned to make her an example people would remember.

  Besides, she owes me money.

  The gun in his jacket pocket felt reassuring.

  And if she is the target, then I need to find out who else is in the game. More important, why?

  By now Fatima had halted in the middle of the lawn to the right of the Ashoka Pillar. She looked bewildered, gawking at people passing by.

  The taller man closed in and accosted her, pulling out a badge and showing it to her.

  Tourist guides. Leon realized it was like the badge the other tourist guide had flashed at him earlier. Or at least pretending to be.

  He almost laughed with relief, realizing they were likely setting her up. Leon was now certain she was the target, not the bait to unearth him. It was a timeless drill: approach solitary women as tourist guides, get them in a lonely corner, rob them, and, if the opportunity arose, rape them. Fatima would not even see the second guy till it was too late; first the taller one would lull her with sweet talk and tourist-guide stuff. From the ruins of Rome to the pyramids of Cairo and the monuments of Delhi, the same deadly game was played out a dozen times daily.

  Making up his mind with a snap, Leon accelerated. He needed to talk to her, and was confident that Laurel and Hardy would evaporate when they realized their mark was not alone.

  “There you are.” Leon pitched his voice higher, again emphasizing the American accent. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  A frisson of frustration crossed the taller crook’s face before his guileless smile slid back in place. For a minute Leon thought he would continue his tourist-guide spiel; then without another word he backed off. Leon noticed the other one falter in midstride and also change direction.

  In quick succession Fatima looked startled, confused, and then relieved.

  Continuing with the small t
alk, Leon casually took her elbow and led her away, toward the base of the monument where the crowd was thickest; there is always safety in numbers.

  EIGHT

  Fatima could not decide whether she was relieved Leon had made contact or more stressed at the difficult conversation that lay ahead.

  Before she could settle that question Leon arrowed in. “Care to explain what your people are playing at? Didn’t I make it clear I’d abort if your lot could not keep their mouths shut?” Mindful of the crowd, Leon kept his voice low; however, Fatima did not need to tap into her female intuition to feel his anger.

  “You did. But it wasn’t my fault. I swear,” she pleaded. “We had no idea Cherry Rehmat would turn traitor … and I’m sure Ashok Verma explained it to you. We have already taken care of her.”

  “Too bad. That’s not my problem.” Still that same bland undertone. Fatima hated it. “Doesn’t change a thing. I’m pulling out. All I need from you is the five million due to me on reaching Delhi.”

  Fatima now sensed steel in his tone, as though warning her not to renege. Her heart plummeted; she didn’t care about the money, she just wanted him back on track.

  I cannot fail. Not when the end is so near.

  “Please,” she appealed, “please don’t stop now. You have to do this.”

  “Have to? I don’t have to do any such thing.”

  “But you do.” Fatima was almost begging now. “This is not just about money, power, or any such thing. These two men snatched away from me everything that anyone could hold dear.” Fatima saw she wasn’t making any impression; her desperation mounted. “Just hear my side of the story and then decide.” She tugged at his arm. “Please.”

  Something in her tone caught Leon’s attention. Also, perhaps her uncanny likeness to Farah, which drew him and repelled him in equal measure. He’d always found Farah attractive; that she’d been another man’s fiancée, forbidden fruit as it were, had added to the attraction. Yet the sight of her bloodied face scorched his memories even now. Her death had altered the course of his life. It was the only reason he was here today.