Assassins

by Mukul Deva

  Fatima felt a hiss of relief as he nodded. By now they had reached the end of the garden. A well-painted wooden bench beckoned. “Could we sit for a moment?” She felt suddenly drained.

  He didn’t say a word as she sat. Then, a moment later, with another quick look around, he sat beside her. “I’m waiting.” There was a curious expression on his face, inquisitive yet aloof.

  Fatima sensed this was her last chance to convince Leon. If I fail … I cannot. She pulled herself together. Failure is not an option.

  “That day when they killed Benazir I was right there by her side. She died in my arms.” Her outspread hands held her attention. “And it wasn’t just the death of my aunt … or a dream for my country; that day I lost everything I cherished.” Her voice was now merely a heartbreaking whisper.

  Then everything around her dissolved. Leon. The wooden bench. The neatly trimmed garden skirted by flowerbeds. The plethora of tourists, milling around in the fading light of another chilly December evening.

  Fatima felt herself being sucked into the hailstorm of bloody memories. Back to that fateful day, the twenty-seventh of December in 2007, when kismet had torn her life apart and cut her adrift.

  She had traveled this road often, but it never got any better. The voices were still as loud. The screams even louder. The blood, slimier and redder than ever. And the smell, that sticky, peculiar smell of death. Like cottony wisps of cloud it clung to her. Filling up her senses. She knew these memories would leave her in peace only when the vendetta was over. When both the murderers, Zardosi and Masharrat, had paid for their crimes with their lives.

  “Isn’t it ironic that both these murderers are coming to Delhi on the twenty-seventh of December, the very day they killed Benazir? Is that not a sign from Allah?” Fatima watched him closely.

  Leon stayed silent; signs from Allah obviously held little appeal for him. But she could see he was intrigued.

  “A bunch of her supporters, including my husband, had gone from London to be with Benazir. We’d been in Pakistan about a week, and on the twenty-seventh Benazir was to preside at an election rally at Rawalpindi.”

  Fatima marshaled her thoughts, evaluating what and how much she needed to share with Leon to get him back on track.

  “Rawalpindi was an important constituency. It had always been so, for our party and our family. We needed to make a fabulous impression. And we knew we would. The atmosphere in the city was so … so electric … right from the moment we landed. They cheered her every inch of the way, to Liaquat National Bagh, the park where the rally was to be held.”

  * * *

  Pakistan Paindabad! Pakistan Paindabad! (Long live Pakistan.)

  Fatima could see the grounds of Liaquat National Bagh as clearly as she’d been able to that day; sweaty, heady excitement lay heavy in the air, which reverberated with coordinated, throaty cries of Long Live Pakistan.

  The head cheerleader was a young, heavily bearded man in his late twenties, hired for his stentorian voice and theatrical vocabulary. She saw him pace the dais, dominating the crowd of five thousand strong with missionary zeal.

  And there were a large number of women in the crowd; surprisingly, they were the more vocal ones. Surprising because woman moving so freely in public was no longer a common sight in Pakistan. Not since the Islamists had become the dominant voice in Pakistan. Even those who condemned their views no longer dared speak openly. Such dissent generally resulted in death.

  But that day women were out in full force. Perhaps because it was a woman they had gathered to greet. And not just any woman. This was Benazir Basheer, their savior, the Hope of Democracy, returning after eight years of exile.

  Fatima remembered how they had fled Pakistan, the entire Basheer clan, in the dead of the night. And those eight long years of self-imposed exile; to ensure Benazir or her husband were not imprisoned for any of the dozens of charges of corruption and embezzlement of public money that lay pending in various Pakistani courts. But Fatima knew she would not share that with Leon. Or mention that Benazir had not just allowed the Islamists to rise but had actively encouraged them.

  The same Islamists who were now gunning for her.

  “Benazir was returning as the messiah. The one who would set the country free from the military yoke that had held Pakistan in an iron grip for most of its sixty-year existence.” Fatima’s pride was evident. “A star was being reborn.”

  So enthused was Fatima and so powerful her narrative, the story came alive for Leon—part memory, part hearsay, and part reconstruction.

  * * *

  Flame-colored banners of the Sisters of Benazir rubbed shoulders with the vibrant green ones of the Pakistan Peoples Party. Adding to the merriment and the energy pulsing through the jam-packed grounds were brightly colored canopies and little boys running through the crowd, passing out the packets of biscuits, savories, and water bottles that enticed people to attend such political rallies.

  The atmosphere was almost festive.

  It would have been completely so had it not been for squads of heavily armed police ringing the grounds. Or the dozens of sullen, steely-eyed men mingling with the crowds. They held themselves aloof from the fervent sloganeering. Their eyes held nothing but disdain as they continually swept the crowds … watching and waiting. And wherever they moved, little bubbles of tense suspicion followed. Reaching out and touching those around. Ensuring people swayed out of their way and even avoided eye contact. Whether they were spooks of the ISI or goons of the Pak Army, no one could be sure. But both merited a wide berth. And it was given to them.

  Easily mistaken for these spooky goons were four young men, two on either side of the crowds. Nothing in their clothing or demeanor distinguished them or attracted attention. Perhaps the only remarkable thing was that there were no security personnel within twenty meters of either pair. But given the turbulent atmosphere, this was unlikely to be noticed by anyone. It was not.

  The four stood silently alert. Tense. In the crowd, yet not a part of it.

  The duo nicknamed Bomber 1 and Bomber 2 for this mission stood toward the left, away from the red-carpeted entrance to the park. As close to the dais as the zealous and overly protective Sisters of Benazir would allow anyone.

  The second pair, Bomber 3 and Shooter, had deployed on the fringe of the crowd, at the entrance, where the red carpet began its journey to the dais.

  All four watched. And waited. For their target. For martyrdom. And the promised allotment of seventy-two celestial virgins.

  If any of the four was afflicted by doubt or second thoughts, it did not show on their faces. They had no reason to. The man who had sent them here, the Ustad-e-Fidayeen, the Master of the Fidayeen who ran the suicide bombers school, had made that clear. If their target walked out from here alive the four of them would die a far more horrible death than they could countenance.

  This was the day they had been groomed and trained for; to deliver death to the target assigned to them. Their own lives had little consequence. Nor did the lives those who happened to be in the way, purposely or by chance. Inshallah. That would be as God willed it.

  Pity. Fear. Remorse. All these had been hammered out from them during the years they had spent with the Ustad-e-Fidayeen. Right from the day he had purchased them from their parents; and all for the princely sum of twenty dollars each. They had been impressionable five- to seven-year-old kids, their minds merely blank sheets of paper waiting to be written upon. Now all they could do was kill. That had been indelibly inked into their fate.

  So they watched and waited.

  And then the wait was over; a seven-car cavalcade swept around the corner and came to a halt near the gates. All seven were Toyota Land Cruisers; all black except for the white one in the middle.

  * * *

  “The energy was electrifying.” Fatima spoke as though she was sleepwalking. It seemed as though she was not really aware of Leon’s presence anymore. And there was a tremor in her voice; fears of that day still lin
gered. “I can never forget what it was like when the car doors opened.” She drew a long breath. “The sound, the sights, the smells … everything is embedded here.” She tapped her forehead.

  Jeay Benazir. (Long live Benazir.)

  Pakistan Paindabad.

  As the fourth Land Cruiser came to a halt at the park entrance, where the red carpet began its run, all the way to the dais, the cry of the crowds mutated from Long Live Benazir to Long Live Pakistan.

  “Everything seemed so … so … larger than life … perfect … but I was unable to shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.” Fatima didn’t realize she was clutching Leon’s arms, her nails digging in, almost breaking skin. “I knew something bad was about to happen. I tried to stop Aunt Benazir from getting out of the car, but she just laughed. Even Zunaid, my husband, who was sitting up front, told me not to be silly.” Her nails dug in even harder now. “They both laughed at me and got out of the car.”

  * * *

  The chanting of the crowds escalated. Dramatically. Hitting fever pitch as Benazir alighted from the white Land Cruiser and began to make her way toward the dais: a short, thickset woman clad in an ornate traditional regal purple-colored Sindhi ajrak and white headscarf. Benazir was smiling broadly and waving continually. Basking in the orchestrated, short-lived adoration of all such political gatherings.

  In a tight ring around Benazir were four women, each younger and bulkier than her; the body armor jackets worn by all five women contributed to their bulk. Necessitated by the threat to her life, especially since her arrival in Pakistan, their custom-designed Kevlar vests were so integral a part of their attire they now scarcely noticed it. The four women comprising the innermost security cordon, dedicated, long-standing Sisters of Benazir, were grim-faced. Their tension was visible in the way they gripped each other’s hands and in their rigidly alert postures. They edged forward slowly, like a Roman beetle pushing its way through a barbarian horde.

  A few feet ahead was yet another ring of people; this comprised eight men. They looked equally alert and harried; aware of the threat Benazir faced, incensed at the lack of cooperation from the government and the lack of support from the security forces. Appalled they were not even allowed to hire professional security contractors to combat this threat. And fearful they were inadequate to counter it. Yet ready to die trying.

  On the last two counts the dozen praetorians guarding Benazir were right.

  They were grossly inadequate to blunt the weapons that had been launched against her today. And die they would, before the sun set on another smoggy Rawalpindi afternoon. As would the woman they were trying to protect.

  * * *

  “I’m sure she was aware of it, but at an emotional level Benazir refused to acknowledge that no one wanted us … her … back. Her return was a threat to General Masharrat, whose dictatorship was encountering increasing public resistance. Despite the amnesty Masharrat had granted her, Benazir’s return signified the loss of his presidency and exile or even possible imprisonment for offenses ranging from corruption to murder to fostering global jihad.”

  Trapped in the middle distance of memories, Fatima turned to Leon, desperately eager to help him see the complete picture.

  “Neither the ISI, nor the army, which has ruled Pakistan for so many decades, wanted Benazir back. They stood to lose a substantial amount of power and a lot of money. Since 1970, they had not only enjoyed close ties with the Islamists, but also allowed themselves to be used by successive Pakistani leaders to suppress political opposition. Like the jihadis, they were opposed to her on principle. They saw her as a foreign-bred Anglicized woman … a heretic and an American stooge.” Fatima looked fiercely angry. “Mind you, this is despite the support Benazir had given them over the years. Now this same lot was baying for her blood.”

  Fatima was oozing bitterness. “And none of us realized that the real danger was from our own family. Isn’t it strange how many enemies we make when power and money are at stake?”

  Leon neither moved nor replied. Only his eyes, constantly alive, watching her and the area around, showed he was listening. Fatima felt a wave of despair. For a moment she almost gave up. Then, all those years of hate and anger came broiling back. They steeled her resolve.

  “The chanting of the crowd hit fever pitch as Benazir mounted the dais.”

  * * *

  Jeeeaaaay Benazir.

  A consummate politician, Benazir raised her hands above her head and began to clap. The crowd clapped with her, caught up in the hysteria of the moment.

  “Nara-i-Takbeer, Allah O Akbar.”

  “Nara-i-Haidri, Ya Ali.”

  “Awam Hero Hero, Baqi Sab Zero Zero.” (The people are heroes. Everyone else is zero.)

  These slogans currently popular in Pakistan erupted from her. Echoed sonorously by the cheerleader. And repeated thunderously by the crowd. The hysteria was sky high now.

  No one noticed Bombers 1 and 2 inch toward her, about eight feet apart. And they were still twenty feet from the dais.

  Finally holding up her hands for silence, Benazir began to speak. “These are the slogans that greeted me when I arrived in Rawalpindi. I know this is the city of brave and sacrificing people.”

  An appreciative roar from the crowd.

  Bombers 1 and 2 covered yet another couple of feet to the dais.

  “Rawalpindi is my second home. When my father was a minister, I used to live here. I used to go to school here. It is here I lived many moments of joy and sorrow. And always the brave people of Rawalpindi stood by me, in moments of happiness and in my hours of sorrow. You have never let me down.”

  The roar of the crowd was like a continual roll of thunder.

  The distance between the two assassins and the dais receded by another foot. But still not close enough. Not enough to penetrate the living bulletproof shield guarding the woman on the dais.

  Blissfully unaware of her death creeping closer, Benazir resumed her rhetoric. “This is the same city which thronged to Liaquat Bagh when the dictator Yahya Khan refused to leave and forced him to step down.”

  The crowd responded with another defiant roar.

  “This is the same city where the government of the Pakistan Peoples Party was established. Rawalpindi is the same city from where my father started his struggle against the dictatorship of General Ayub Khan and young Abdul Hameed sacrificed his life for democracy. This is the city which has defeated all dictators and Inshallah will once again inflict a crushing defeat on another dictator and usher in an era of democracy.”

  “Allah O Akbar.”

  Five thousand lusty throats roared out their support.

  “Awam Hero Hero, Baqi Sab Zero Zero.”

  Bomber 2 was now within fifteen feet of the dais. However, Bomber 1 was stuck a few feet farther away. So dense was the crowd that now neither could move.

  “The sun of democracy will rise again on the horizon of Rawalpindi.” Benazir ramped up the rhetoric. “The people of Rawalpindi love democracy and will never bow their heads before an autocratic regime.”

  From eight feet away Bomber 2 turned to look at his running mate. On cue, as though intuitively signaled, Bomber 1 also looked at him.

  Nods of confirmation; faces still devoid of expression.

  Lips moved in silent prayer.

  Nerves steeled themselves.

  Their hands reached inside their coats. Seeking fingers expertly found the cold plastic knobs they sought.

  “Allah O Akbar.” Bomber 1 was unable to stop the war cry that tore loose from him. It was lost in the thunder of the chanting crowd.

  Fingers depressed the knobs. Powered by tiny cells, electric sparks leaped forward and completed the circuit. The clicks, if any, were drowned in the roar reverberating around the park.

  Just a fraction of a second apart the bombs lashed to their waists exploded. Bombers 1 and 2 both vanished in a burst of bloody graffiti. As did those hapless men and women around them. Mostly women. A ghastly foul-sme
lling red mist enveloped the area.

  * * *

  “In one horrifying second we lost twenty-three members of the Sisters of Benazir. Thirty-one other citizens of Rawalpindi also died. Another eleven of those wounded succumbed later.” Fatima’s voice broke, shattered by an admixture of anger and sorrow. “But they collectively absorbed the blast, ensuring Benazir remained unscathed.”

  * * *

  However, the frail cocoon of illusionary security Benazir was living in now lay in tatters. Benazir looked pulverized. Suddenly shrunk. As though the bravado that died within her had had physical form.

  There was a long moment of stunned silence.

  Then the screams of the dying rose through the crowd, throwing it in tumultuous confusion.

  * * *

  “We knew we had to get Aunt Benazir out of there.” Fatima’s tone and expression were now frenetic, as though she was back on the stage, in the thick of the blasts again. “Two of the security guards in the inner cordon had not survived, but two others took their places, enclosed Benazir in a protective pincer, and we began rushing her toward the safety of the bulletproof Land Cruiser.”

  * * *

  But moving through the panicked crowd was tough. Everyone was headed for the gate, and the illusion of safety that lay beyond. Surprisingly, not a single policeman ventured close to Benazir. Or perhaps, given the dynamics and vagaries of Pakistani politics, not so surprising after all.

  The confidence of Benazir’s protectors increased as they drew closer to the convoy. The drivers of all seven vehicles had powered their engines; totally spooked, they were raring to go, to get away from the madness of death that now gripped the crowd.

  As the entrance loomed larger, the rising confidence of Benazir’s guards was visible on their faces. None of them were aware that this feeling of relief was very similar to the relief that hits inexperienced soldiers when their camps or defenses first become visible; the closer they get to the camp, the stronger the feeling of relief. Perhaps it is the security of knowing that the guns of their sentries could now cover them. Perhaps it is the sight of their barbed wire and defenses. Either way, like horses heading back to their stables they tend to speed up and also lower their guard. Sight, sound, smell, grips on rifles, and the tension in alert limbs—everything starts to lose that vital edge, that hair-trigger response, which keeps men alive in battle.