by Mukul Deva
What the hell does that bitch want now?
“I specifically told you to brief me every day,” Fatima fired into the phone without preamble. “Didn’t I? What happened today?” Still perturbed by his crude pass, she was a lot more aggressive.
Vishal resented her tone; it added to his anger at her earlier rebuff. Wanting to lash back, but aware the shoe was on the other foot and if he messed with her any more, he could end up without another dime, other than the measly advance.
“I’ve been busy,” he muttered.
“With what?” Fatima shot back rudely. “That is precisely what I want to know.”
Now even more irritated, Vishal gave her a watered-down version of the day’s proceedings. Out of spite, he mentioned neither the plan to get Ravinder out of the game nor Sikander.
The call ended as it had begun, badly.
Hating her for banging the phone down on him, Vishal rechecked that his alarm was set for two a.m. and lay down again. He carried his irritation as he went back to sleep.
TWENTY
Fatima was as incensed by Vishal’s attitude as she was by the lack of any tangible news. And she could not push away the feeling that Vishal was not giving her the full story. For a long moment she contemplated calling Leon and asking him for an update, but realized she didn’t want to aggravate him. And the lousy aftertaste of their last meeting, especially the abrupt parting, still lingered.
Tomorrow! she promised herself. Tomorrow I will touch base with him in person and find out what’s happening.
But her uneasiness stayed with her late into the night. It was only after she had demolished all four of the miniature bottles of whiskey in the minibar that sleep finally found her.
TWENTY-ONE
Ravinder thought he was dreaming when he heard Kingsley’s voice. Only when Edward called out his name for the third time did Ravinder realize it was the phone; he’d picked up the call half asleep.
“Ravinder? That you?”
Ravinder was surprised; Edward was slurring.
Is he drunk?
Edward?
No!
The idea seemed ludicrous. “Are you all right, Edward?” Ravinder was wide-awake.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
He’s definitely slurring.
“You realize what time it is, Edward?” The clock on his bedside table glowed in the dark: almost midnight.
“I have to leave for the airport now.” Edward seemed oblivious Ravinder had spoken. “I wanted to say bye.” A long bout of crackling followed; Ravinder sensed Edward had switched the phone to his other hand. “Promise me you will get him.” Only now Ravinder noticed the sogginess in the MI6 man’s voice; he was stunned when he realized Edward was not drunk, he was either crying or had been recently. “Don’t let that bastard get away this time, Ravinder.” There was a distinct sniff. “I have waited a long, long time for this … to avenge Farah’s murder.”
“I will, Edward,” Ravinder reassured him, unprepared for this situation and struggling for the best way to deal with it. “I will give it my best shot.”
“You do that, old chap. I’m banking on you.” The silence that followed was so long Ravinder thought Edward had hung up. But he suddenly spoke again, a broken whisper. “It wasn’t the first time.”
Ravinder felt a dark foreboding surround him. “What wasn’t the first time?”
“Farah was Farah.”
“What wasn’t the first time?” Ravinder repeated, his bewilderment mounting.
But Edward didn’t seem to be listening. “Farah was Farah,” he continued hollowly.
“Why are you telling me all this now?” Ravinder could barely croak; the feeling he might have wronged Leon scalded him. “Are you trying to say Leon and Farah…”
“But Leon?” Another horribly long pause, but now Ravinder was afraid to speak; he was desperate to understand what Edward meant, yet not sure he wanted to know. “I trusted Leon … we both did … we were best friends, weren’t we? Anyone else would not have hurt so much … but Leon? He had no business breaking my trust … he blindsided me.”
“Edward, why didn’t you tell me all this then?”
“He murdered her, Ravinder. You were there … he took my Farah away from me.” Suddenly Edward’s voice hardened; Ravinder felt his resurgent rage. “Watch out for him, Ravinder. He will come at you from your blind side … from where you least expect him. You know Leon does that…”—and then Edward was suddenly tired and weepy again—“Leon always does that … be careful, Ravinder.”
This time Edward did hang up. But it was only when the irritating drone had blasted his ear for a long time Ravinder realized he’d still not cradled the phone.
Ravinder lay in bed, deeply troubled; from the start he’d been unsure of Edward’s motives and …
Now this … what did Edward mean? Had Leon and Farah … naah … but Ravinder was no longer sure … of anything. Had he been wrong in testifying against Leon? Ravinder remembered his unease even at that time. Had Edward lulled him by appealing to his sense of honor?
Now more than ever he regretted having accepted this assignment.
K.G.B.
Kingsley. Gill. Binder.
The brotherhood had not fared well the last time around. It had brought nothing but death, destruction, and pain … for all three of them.
And the people around them.
Ravinder was seized by a bottomless sense of foreboding. Then, he realized he could not deal with this also, on top of everything else that was happening.
Not if I want to retain my sanity!
Employing all his willpower, Ravinder pushed away all doubts.
I need to focus on the task … there is so little time.
But Edward’s last remark kept returning to haunt him.
What was his blind side? What would Leon be planning?
Ravinder floundered in the dark, worried he would disturb Simran’s sleep and struggling to again find some of his own.
TWENTY-TWO
Simran sensed Ravinder’s unease: it lay between them like a rotting corpse. But unsure how to deal with it and unwilling to trouble him further, Simran lay still, pretending to be asleep.
I should not have listened to Jasmine. Or allowed Ravinder to take on this mission.
She could not push away the feeling that they had all gone wrong: Ravinder in taking on this assignment, and Jasmine and she in supporting him.
As the night grew darker, the feeling of doom grew deeper. And down in the hall the grandfather clock began bonging. It did what it had done every day, every hour on the hour, since it had rolled out from the factory some three hundred years ago; with twelve resonant gongs it ushered in yet another day.
Simran, unaware of the operational details, did not know that now only four days were left for Benazir’s vendetta. For one of her killers to pay the price. Perhaps both, if Vishal had his way and Leon his wish.
DECEMBER
24
ONE
Vishal was not feeling even slightly rested when the alarm roused him. His tiredness, coupled with his irritation at Fatima and the tension of the long drive down fog-laden roads, ballooned into a cold rage. Stopping at a cash deposit machine at the SDA complex market he deposited fifty thousand rupees, from the advance he’d received from Fatima, into Kapil Choudhary’s Union Bank of India account. After being closeted in the heated car for so long, he was shocked by the cold outside.
His mood was killingly foul by time he jogged into the Munirka DDA residential complex. An ugly cluster of yellow-colored four-story blocks packed tighter than sardines in a can. Cars were lined bumper to bumper on both sides of the road, leaving barely enough space in between for traffic to squeeze through.
At three in the morning the complex was deserted. Enveloped in a thick, wet fog and an eerie silence, barring the guard, whom he could hear patrolling between the adjacent blocks. The periodic thump of the wooden stick all such guards carried, striking the road, marked his
passage around the apartment blocks.
Dressed in a dark brown jogging suit, hood pulled up against the brisk winter breeze, Vishal had entered the colony across the rear boundary wall, a badly cemented eight-foot-high brick affair, with three strands of barbed wire on top. He had chosen a section where the wall had partly crumbled and vagrants had stolen the barbed wire.
Once inside, Vishal was confident he would pass muster even if someone spotted him; there were not too many people crazy enough to be out at this unearthly hour, in this bone-chilling cold, but it was not an implausible sight. Even if someone thought it bizarre, the couldn’t-care-less detachment bred into big-city dwellers would keep him safe.
Slowing down to check the house numbers, Vishal identified the block in which Sikander Ali’s apartment was located and jogged around it. Each block had two wings, separated by a flight of stairs going all the way to the top. Sikander’s apartment was on top, on the fourth floor of the wing to his right.
Barring the solitary security light atop the apartment’s iron grill door, the house was asleep. Even that light failed to make much of an impression on the notorious Delhi fog.
Vishal light-footed up the four flights of stairs, his Puma sneakers making no sound. Taking pride in staying fit, he was delighted his breathing had scarcely escalated.
The iron grill door barely resisted his picklock for a minute. The wooden door behind it, not even that long. Easing both doors shut soundlessly Vishal came to a halt in the Ali living room. The faint scent of a room freshener greeted him, probably aloe and green tea. But Vishal couldn’t be sure. He stood stock-still, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. It took all of three minutes. But Vishal knew that patience, like physical fitness, was essential for his deadly aspirations. He used the time to slip on long surgical gloves, elbow length. Soon the room began to take shape in front of him.
The sofas—one two-seater and two single-seaters.
Side table on both ends of all three sofas.
A rocking chair to the extreme right.
Carpet.
An oval coffee table in the middle of the carpet.
Like a soldier, using the corner of his eyes, Vishal absorbed the placement of each item as his night vision sharpened. The tables, with the ever-present knickknacks on them, were the most dangerous. If displaced they would generate sound. And right now sound was his worst enemy.
The corridor leading away from the living room now caught his attention. Three doors opened out on this corridor. The first was immediately at the mouth of the corridor, to his right. The second was a little ahead, to the left. Vishal knew both of these would lead to bedrooms; the typical layout of DDA apartments. The third door, straight ahead, led to the bathroom for the second bedroom.
Confirming the silencer was screwed on tight, Vishal hefted the 10mm N99 pistol in his right hand, allowing it to settle in. A prewar weapon, it had been liberated by Vishal from a police evidence room. Though the gun was famous for its ruggedness, Vishal was aware that even fully restored it would not be good for use beyond a few rounds.
As long as it holds together for two shots, I’m good.
Now confident about his night vision, Vishal ghost-stepped forward.
The bedroom door had been left ajar; Vishal guessed this was to trap the warmth of the heating and allow in fresh air. The Alis were asleep, both facing to the right, away from the bedroom door. And now the scent of room freshener was stronger. But Vishal still couldn’t place it. For some reason that bothered him.
Vishal halted by their bed. Barring the loss of most of his hair, Sikander looked just as Vishal remembered him. Even in sleep, gentle and fatherly. A flicker of emotion stalled Vishal. For a long moment, he paused, wondering if there was any other way. Realized there wasn’t. Then the moment passed. His finger took in the trigger slack as he positioned the pistol.
Sikander Ali must have felt the press of cold metal against his temple because he stirred. Vishal completed the trigger squeeze and the 10mm slug slammed into Ali’s brains, mushing them. It is certain Ali did not know when and how he died.
Though silenced, the sound of the shot seemed surprisingly loud to Vishal. He had already shifted his focus to Ali’s wife. She stirred. Her eyes flickered open. Befuddled. Then they spotted Vishal and shot open. As did her mouth, to scream.
That was as far as she got. Vishal’s second round, again fired at point-blank range, bludgeoned the life out of her. Now moving faster, Vishal removed the silencer and pocketed it.
Placing the pistol in Sikander’s right hand he ensured his prints were on the N99 at all the right places, including the trigger.
One final check.
Murder and then suicide.
That is how Vishal wanted the script to read.
If that doesn’t muddy the waters, I have no idea what will.
Five minutes later, both front doors were locked behind him. Vishal took another minute to ensure neither door showed signs of forced entry; that would blow the suicide theory out the window.
Satisfied, he headed down the stairs.
Nineteen minutes had expired since the time he’d come over the boundary wall. And two lives.
Forty-five minutes later Vishal was back in his apartment. He took a stingingly hot shower, but it did not make him feel clean. Then he went to bed, but with the adrenaline hangover yet to die down, he was unable to sleep.
The clock was showing half past four by the time he dozed off. But Vishal realized his anger with Fatima had still not abated. Neither had his fear of being exposed; traces lingered, like artillery shell splinters lodged against a vein, making their painful presence felt every now and then.
TWO
Ravinder was feeling rested when he awoke. Despite everything, after a long time he felt almost at peace. He was about to get up when he caught sight of Simran sleeping beside him. She looked tranquil. A sense of guilt and longing seized him: guilt at having upset her and an overpowering longing to ensure nothing disturbed her tranquility again.
When push comes to shove, she has always stood by me.
His eyes moistened. He succumbed to the longing.
“What?” Simran murmured, half opening her eyes as she felt his lips on hers.
“Nothing.” He kissed her again, tenderly. “Go back to sleep.”
It was only moments later, while brushing his teeth, that he regretted not telling her how much he loved her. He wished he’d woken her up and made love to her. Then, like the hot water screaming out of the shower, reality returned as he remembered Goel’s wife had attempted suicide.
I have to ensure his death is not in vain.
Thoughts of Leon swamped him again.
Where could he be? And what’s he planning?
Edward’s ominous phone call and warning reverberated in his head. “Watch out for him, Ravinder. He will come at you from your blind side … from where you least expect him.”
What is Leon planning? And what had Edward been trying to tell me?
Ravinder’s confusion escalated. And his emotional turmoil. He wanted to pick up the phone and call Edward. But he didn’t … couldn’t … something held him back … Perhaps not knowing or even wanting to know the truth was safer.
What truth?
Does it matter?
I’ve taken this on and now I have to finish it. There is too much at stake.
Unwilling to get bogged down, Ravinder pushed away those troubling thoughts. But he could not push away the feeling he’d missed something in Leon’s file. Some pattern or something in his MO that he could use to second-guess Leon and find him before Leon found his targets.
Keen to put that worry to bed, Ravinder got ready and went down to his study. Soon he was again lost in the three-decade long bloody trail Leon had left across the world.
June 1983. Cairo. Salah Abdel Sabour. If ever a man had lived below the radar, Salah had, despite the critical role he had played in Anwar Sadat’s administration. But he had been protected. Heavil
y protected. However, not enough to stop Leon Binder.
Considering this was only Binder’s second professional assignment, Ravinder marveled at the ingenuity of Leon’s attack plan and his meticulous implementation.
They had not even come to know Salah had been murdered till the autopsy several hours later. By then Leon was long gone.
The hit would never have been traced back to Leon if it had not been for the inadvertent capture of one of the men who had hired him, and his spilling the beans. The snitch, willing or unwilling, had paid the price; and his death had been swift and spectacular. The bomb that took him out not just ended his life; it also rendered his body into bloody shreds. An unambiguous statement from the assassin; any breach of faith would not be tolerated.
Nineteen eighty-three. Over three decades ago. Two deadly strikes within the space of a few weeks. Wonder how much more sophisticated and efficient Leon has become since?
Anxiety that he would fail tugged at Ravinder. Again.
Steeling himself, he returned to the laptop and forced himself to concentrate.
June 1983. Just months after Leon’s escape from prison.
This time it was not fear that tugged at Ravinder, but guilt. About Farah. A large dose of it. Multiplied by Edward’s recent phone call. It gnawed at his peace of mind. Sapping the restful energy he had woken up with.
He was delighted when Jasmine sailed in, balancing a tray with steaming hot tea and the digestive biscuits he loved.
“It’s Christmas, Dad,” she complained jokingly. “Don’t tell me you are working today.”
“Unfortunately Santa stuffed Masharrat and Zardosi in my stocking.” Ravinder laughed. “I’d chill, too, if only those two morons would stay away from India.” But shutting the laptop, he joined her on the sofa overlooking the garden. “Are you now going to tell me what you have planned for Simran’s birthday?”
“No, Dad. No way.” Jasmine grinned. “That is going to be a complete surprise.”