Assassins

by Mukul Deva

  “This is not over.” Vishal leaned over her. “You horny cougar.” Fatima suppressed the urge to scream. “Not by a long shot.” The hand he wagged in her face seemed like a chopping knife. “I will get you for this. Bitch! Just you wait!”

  Her finger, still pointing at the door, had now begun to tremble. But Fatima did not break eye contact. “Get out. And make sure you give me daily updates on everything happening in the task force and between Leon and you. Otherwise you can kiss your money good-bye.”

  Still glaring at her, but fighting the urge to smack her, Vishal headed for the door. Then he was gone.

  Fatima sat stunned as the door clicked shut behind him. When she was sure he would not be back, she ran to the door, slipped on the security chain, and rushing to the toilet, threw up. Only then did she start crying.

  How much worse will it get?

  She felt drained and awfully alone. Another bout of vomiting racked her.

  Perhaps I should leave for Dubai and let Leon handle it. That’s what I am paying him for.

  Then her need for revenge asserted itself. She knew she did not want to leave anything to chance; she’d given too many years of her life to this. She wanted to be here and keep things on track, just in case some new complications arose.

  No. She stiffened her spine. I will see this through.

  Her eyes took in the time on the wall clock. Almost midnight.

  Just four days more. On the fifth day one of the monsters would die. Zardosi or Masharrat. I want to be here to see it happen. I have earned that right.

  Her thirst for vengeance steeled her resolve.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Vishal strode angrily through the Maurya Sheraton lobby, sure everyone could see Fatima’s hand imprinted on his cheek. It fueled his rage. Face burning with humiliation he retrieved his car from the valet, furiously engaged gears, and headed home.

  That fucking cocktease; I know she wanted it.

  He rubbed his cheek angrily.

  Just four days more. The day I get my money I will nail this Paki cunt … fucking high-and-mighty Fatima Basheer.

  The decision came to him instantly. Soon as this mission was over he would let her have it, then clear out of the country and start off as an independent contractor, like Leon Binder, but bigger.

  Bigger than anything this world has seen.

  No more working for the chickenshit government. He grinned.

  This Paki bitch is going to be my first one.

  Grin widening, he floored the accelerator, hurtling through the semi-deserted Delhi roads. He again felt energized and good about himself. And the future seemed bright.

  Soon as I get my hands on this money … no more penny-pinching … no more measly Marutis and fucking Fords … I’m going to get me a Merc or a BMW … something swish.

  Vishal’s grin broadened.

  And I’m so done with this shit-kicking country. Puerto Rico. Mexico. Spain … or perhaps Greece. Or maybe check them all out … travel for a year and see which one I like the most.

  Exploring all these pent-up dreams filled him with excitement.

  And I’m going to find me a sexy Sheila … big ass, big tits … someone hot and willing to spice up my nights.

  He contemplated changing direction and heading for a pickup place. It had been a fortnight since he’d gotten laid.

  It’s not as though someone’s waiting for me at home.

  Home? Which fucking home?

  An orphan, Vishal had no recollection of his parents. He had no idea who he was or where he’d come from: rich, poor, Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jew, or …

  Vishal shrugged.

  What fucking difference does it make? Whoever they were, my parents didn’t want me. And home had been … what?

  His earliest memories were of the dingy state-run orphanage in Daryaganj. High ceilings, peeling paint, crumbling walls, the perpetual stink of decay, and food that tasted like uncured leather. And of course the lanky warden and his two fat, sweaty matrons, who ran the place. Who loved making the kids go down on them, when they were not busy humping each other.

  The Holy Trinity.

  Vishal laughed, a cold, hate-filled half laugh, half cry.

  Without realizing he was doing so, Vishal began wiping his mouth, trying to get rid of that nauseating taste, which had been a part of his life since he was five. For seven horrid years.

  Vishal’s emerging hard-on of a moment ago had vanished; now he was tearful. And filled with rage. A cold, limitless fury, which the very thought of the Holy Trinity always unleashed in him. Even today. Three decades had gone by, but that disgusting taste, the foul smell, and his burning rage were stronger than ever.

  Vishal realized he was gripping the steering wheel so hard his hands were hurting. Rolling down the window he lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

  Why bitch about it? At least I got out.

  As the consequence of a Delhi Police CSR project, a thirteen-year-old Vishal had found himself first in a Delhi Police boarding school and eventually in the Police Academy. Both had been strict, the discipline harsh, even impersonal, but that’s the only time in his life Vishal felt safe. And he blossomed, excelling both in academics and sports.

  Otherwise where would I be now? Perhaps still in a police station, but on the wrong side of the bars.

  By now Vishal’s mood had swung; all thoughts of picking up a whore had melted into the night. And the darkness within had grown deeper. He could feel the viciousness grow, stronger and wilder.

  Vishal was parking outside his apartment in K-Block Green Park when a clock in one of the houses began to chime. Twelve tinny strikes echoed out in the otherwise silent night. And just like that, the twenty-second of December mutated into the twenty-third.

  It was with a heavy, angry tread that Vishal went up the narrow flight of steps to the third-floor one-bedroom studio apartment he called home these days, ever since he’d been posted to Delhi. It was nearly identical to the ones he’d occupied in the various cities that police life had taken him.

  And same as the ones that would come … unless I follow the Binder model and build a new life.

  The idea was growing more appealing by the minute. Vishal knew he could not … would not … live out his days in such surroundings.

  Just a few days more … then a new country, swanky house, sleek car, money in the bank, and of course a hot dame.

  For the moment, everything else faded. Vishal smiled.

  DECEMBER

  23

  ONE

  Ravinder awoke to the bonging of the grandfather clock kept in the dining room. Imported by one of his ancestors, a mahogany longcase from the house of William Whipp, dating back to the 1700s, its chimes were loud enough to liven up a graveyard. Ravinder would have gladly given the damn thing away, but Simran loved it.

  He tried to go back to sleep, but his restless mind refused to cooperate. And memory lane seemed like a street he didn’t want to go down. Not right now. He was already feeling awfully muddled.

  Kurup and Kingsley suddenly landing up at his house. Leon resurfacing in his life, bringing back memories of Farah and that horrific evening when he’d walked in on Leon raping her. Then her horrible death at Leon’s hands. And what followed—that had been even worse: his being forced to choose between his two best friends. Even though Leon had broken their trust by sleeping with Edward’s fiancée, taking Edward’s side to testify against Leon had been hard; all three had been so close, Ravinder was not certain he would have done so if Leon hadn’t killed Farah.

  And now this, his agreeing to lead the manhunt for Leon. The grave implications if he failed. And of course, Simran’s surprisingly strong resistance to his decision.

  But I understand where she’s coming from.

  Ravinder was aware Simran had never fully reconciled to his past, either his first marriage to Rehana, or Ruby, his daughter from that marriage. Nor had she liked his decision to join the Indian Police Service. As a royal, albeit from a
minor Punjab principality, and a bright one at that, Ravinder had been expected to join the more glamorous Indian Foreign Service.

  Why on earth would you want to be a chowkidar? That had been Simran’s derisive comment when he’d shared his decision to join the police after their betrothal.

  His to protect and serve quip had so enraged Simran that Ravinder had been surprised she’d not broken off their engagement. He guessed only the dread of embarrassment had stayed her hand. The memory made him smile, but it was a fleeting, rueful one. Replaced soon by the troublesome thoughts besieging him.

  Damn strange! The way those years in London keep coming back to haunt me. First Ruby, and now Leon … like the bloody fog in London, never ending.

  Guilt and anger swamped him. But Ravinder pushed them aside, determined not to get bogged down. With his confidence already at low ebb Ravinder knew he needed to focus on the mission. It was tough enough to stop one of the world’s deadliest assassins, one whose career had lasted longer than the life-span of most people in this bloody profession.

  I have to ensure I get off to a good start with the task force officers. No other way. With just four days left I cannot afford to dilly-dally.

  Another twinge of apprehension.

  I wonder what they have heard about me?

  It doesn’t matter.

  I will have to earn their respect … and fast.

  Shelving his apprehension, Ravinder attacked the tasks confronting him.

  First, understand the strengths and weaknesses of the team.

  He had gone over their dossiers, but Ravinder knew documents could tell you who had done what but not why. People are people; dossiers and annual performance appraisals cannot capture their essence. To lead them effectively, Ravinder had to find out what made them tick.

  Second, go through the routes and routines of both targets, identify the most vulnerable points, and secure these against an attack by Leon or his henchmen. Not that Leon used many, and seldom for anything important, if his past hits were any indication.

  Isolating Leon was critical; it would put him under pressure.

  Men under pressure are more prone to making mistakes.

  That reminded him, he again needed to go through everything they had on Leon: earlier targets, hits, misses, and similarities in the MO; the whole nine yards. He had been through them once, but he felt the need to do so again. More thoroughly.

  Third, and most important, find Leon.

  That made him pause.

  How? He wouldn’t exactly be advertising his presence. On the contrary, if his history and basic tradecraft were any yardstick, Leon would use several operational identities and muddy the trail at every step.

  Ravinder knew guesswork was pointless; the possibilities were endless.

  There has to be another way.

  More thought.

  The mole. Find the mole and he … or she … would lead us to Leon.

  So how do I find the mole?

  Ravinder realized his thoughts were spiraling into a loop.

  Counterproductive.

  He hauled them back, deciding it was best to know his team first. Then evaluate the options available. Only then, act.

  Realizing he was too keyed up to sleep, Ravinder went down to the study and spent the next hour going through the dossiers of the STF officers. Then he began to study Leon’s previous hits again.

  Even the smartest criminal has a pattern. The trick is to find it. That is the only way I can stay one step ahead and bring him down.

  It was a thick file, but more conjecture than hard evidence. As he turned the pages, the last three decades of Leon’s life came alive. Ravinder jotted down the key points.

  • 1983. Istanbul. Target diamond merchant named Namik Kemal. Weapon used, poison.

  • 1983. Cairo. Target Salah Abdel Sabour. Chemically induced heart attack.

  • 1984. Ottawa. Atilla Altikat, Turkish diplomat. Drive-by shooting.

  • 1986. Bangladesh. Sheikh Usman, prime minister designate. Sniper rifle.

  • 1987. Colombia. Jaime Pardo Leal, leader of the Patriotic Union Party. Poison.

  • 1989. Germany. Alfred Herrhausen, chairman of Deutsche Bank. Knifed.

  • 1990. Kenya. Seth Sendashonga, former interior minister of Rwanda. Poison.

  • 1991. Enrique Bermudez, founder of Nicaraguan Contras. Sniper rifle.

  • 1993. Algeria. Kasdi Merbah, former prime minister of Algeria. Bomb.

  • 1994. Azerbaijan. Shamsi Rahimov, intelligence and security chief. Bomb.

  • 1999. Paraguay. Luis María Argana, vice president of Paraguay. Knife.

  • 2000. Ofra, Israel. Binyamin Ze’ev Kahane, leader of Kahane Chai. Poison.

  • 2001. Seattle. Thomas Wales, federal prosecutor and gun control activist. Poison.

  • 2001. São Paulo, Brazil. Antonio da Costa Santos, mayor of Campinas. Bullet.

  • 2004. Iraq. Ezzedine Salim, acting chairman of Iraqi Governing Council. Poison.

  • 2007. Japan. Iccho Itoh, mayor of Nagasaki. Bullet.

  • 2008. Syria. General Muhammad Suleiman, security adviser to president. Poison.

  • 2010. Bangkok, Thailand. General Khattiya Sawasdipol. Sniper rifle.

  • 2010. Mexico. Robert Torre Cantu, politician. Bomb.

  • 2011. Libya. Abdul Fatah Younis, commander in chief of the Libyan armed forces. Bomb.

  • 2013. Guatemala. Carlos Castillo Medrano, mayor of Jutiapa. Sniper rifle.

  By the time he turned the last page Ravinder was feeling overwhelmed. Leon had cut a broad and bloody swath across the globe. The sheer ingenuity of his hits amazed Ravinder. Putting aside the file, he turned to the notes he had made. Soon some points became obvious.

  • Leon innovates constantly and rarely repeats an MO.

  • No known accomplices. Even operationally, none used for any major task.

  • Negligible collateral damage; even when a bomb had been used, barring the target, few people had been killed.

  • In most cases it was hard to attribute the hit to Leon; he was seldom present by the time it was discovered the victim had been murdered. Most cases remained unsolved, attributed to him more on the basis of hearsay and rumors than on any concrete evidence.

  • No photos, barring the thirty-year-old mug shot taken by the London Police at the time of his incarceration.

  • No identified permanent place of residence.

  He stared at his notes, trying to see if he’d missed something … to spot a new clue or pattern.

  Nothing.

  The feeling of being overwhelmed was stronger now. Ravinder took a deep breath and stilled his thoughts, seeking coherence.

  The man is a ghost … a whisper in the wind. So much paper, yet so little to go on. But that’s not possible … there have to be some traces … there always are … especially these days … digital footprints always remain. I’m missing something.

  Clearing his head, Ravinder reexamined his notes, trying to match the emerging picture with the man he’d once known so well … had shared an apartment with … laughter, tears, and beers … so much.

  Who are you, Leon Binder? What on earth have you become?

  An arrow of guilt pricked him. Unwilling to get distracted he pushed it away.

  What are you planning this time?

  Where are you right now?

  How do I find you?

  Ravinder knew those were the questions he needed to focus on. He was lost in thought when the grandfather clock boomed out again, five ponderous strokes.

  TWO

  Leon had set the alarm for five. Bursting with energy when it triggered, he sprang out of bed. Even at this early hour, despite the bone-chilling cold, Delhi was alive. Milkmen, newspaper boys, and a host of other morning merchants could be heard going about their business: ghostly figures shrouded in the dense early-morning winter fog.

  Wanting to ensure his battle plan was bug-free, Leon decided to go through it again, first on paper and
then on ground.

  Using the Hotspot Shield Elite VPN he was subscribed to, which secured his data traffic and made it virtually impossible for his location to be tracked, Leon logged into the Google account he created at the start of every mission and accessed the Google drive. All operational notes and data for this mission had been stored on this drive, ensuring he would never be caught with any incriminating evidence on his person. As an added precaution, in case the account got hacked, Leon had set up alerts to let him know whenever any of the files were accessed.

  Immersed in a virtual walk-through of the operation, he began to factor in the diversionary attack Vishal had suggested.

  Leon was lost in data and details when the first pain struck. A few minutes later, the second. It was only when the third, even bigger, wave of pain hit that Leon realized it was not something he could wish away or ignore.

  Another hour and four visits to the washroom later Leon realized Delhi Belly would stop him dead even if the cops did not.

  Damn! I need to recon both venues, collect the sarin … Ri Yong Ho had promised delivery today. And hand it over to Nitin so he can fabricate the weapon.

  But the pain was now too strong to ignore. Unwilling to draw attention to himself by going to a doctor, Leon tried Jorbagh market. The sole pharmacy provided the required Norflox-TZ tablets and hydrating salts. From the general store adjacent to it, Leon procured the curds, bananas, and honey that the pharmacist advised would be good for him.

  By now in acute discomfort, Leon returned to the serviced apartment, dosed himself, and waited impatiently for the medicine to take effect. He had lost several valuable hours. There was much to be done and already half the day had been wasted. His anxiety ratcheted up.

  THREE

  Vishal was in a foul mood when he drove his Ford Fiesta into the STF office parking, still seething at Fatima’s rebuff and apprehensive about their new chief.

  The STF office was an ugly single-story block with a dozen rooms surrounded by a ten-foot-high unpainted brick wall topped by four strands of rusting barbed wire. On the other hand, it was conveniently located opposite Nehru Place, accessible by public transport, with an abundance of shops and eateries around.