Assassins

by Mukul Deva

  Ravinder was at the office gate when, across the road, he saw Jasmine drive up and slow down. He started, horrified, when he saw her car suddenly jump back on to the road and race madly into the traffic.

  Stunned he watched her speed away. He was worriedly dialing her mobile when he saw her car’s tail lamps light up brightly in the distance. Then the reverse lights came on. A moment later she was driving up to him.

  “What happened, Jasmine?” Ravinder saw her face was covered with sweat and she was shivering, as though running a high fever.

  “I…” Jasmine gave up trying to speak, fighting to get a grip on herself, suddenly ashamed.

  Ravinder noticed she was sitting stiffly, as though trying to avoid looking anywhere but straight ahead. Suddenly he understood and felt like kicking himself for making her come back to the accident site. “I’m sorry, Princess. I did not realize … I shouldn’t have asked you to come back here.”

  Contrite and feeling horrible he’d been so insensitive Ravinder took the wheel from her and they headed home. Neither brought up Simran, but she was with them in the car all the way back to the farmhouse. Like the treacly silence.

  Barring the security lights and those in the kitchen, the farmhouse was in darkness when they drove in, as though mourning for Simran.

  They were getting out of the car when Ravinder saw Jasmine suddenly sway and then double up over the flowerbed. With an awful retching sound she threw up. Again. And again. Till there was nothing left to throw up.

  He rushed around the car to her side as the emotions she had bottled up over the past two days surged up. He saw her fighting off tears when she finally stopped retching and straightened up.

  “Must have been something I ate,” Jasmine mumbled. She was working her mouth, as though trying to get rid of the foul taste.

  Ravinder knew it wasn’t that. “You’re sure you are okay?”

  But she didn’t reply. Nodding wordlessly, she hurried up to her room. Ravinder watched her go, helpless. He didn’t know what he wanted to do: run after her and console her, or bend over the flowerbeds and puke.

  His mobile chirruped to life. Desperate for the distraction, Ravinder hurriedly took the call. “Yes, Saina.”

  “Sir, I have managed to get ten men from Delhi Police. They will be at the stadium within the hour.”

  “Only ten? They will take forever to sweep the stadium.”

  “Even ten took a lot of effort.” Ravinder sensed her tiredness and frustration. “With two major events happening simultaneously and the festive season in full swing, manpower is stretched thin.”

  “Thanks, Saina. I know. You’ve done a great job.” Ravinder realized nothing was going to be easy, not for this operation.

  So be it.

  “Please keep me posted.” Ravinder wished she would keep talking, but Saina hung up.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Leon hated making himself so visible. Though he had already switched to his third, getaway identity, he had been forced to stay with the photograph on the passport he had presented while checking in at the hotel. This photo was, unfortunately, not remarkably different from one of those generated by Archana and picked by Ravinder; they had gotten very lucky with the APB.

  The Leela Palace has a broad, sweeping lobby, high ceilings, marble floors, and exquisite cornices. The reception desk lies to the left as one enters; almost directly opposite is a bank of elevators. Between the two is an open seating area, and to the left a 24-hour coffee shop.

  Probably because of its central location, the hotel was usually full. Today it was packed because it was hosting most of the New India Times Summit speakers and conference delegates.

  When Leon came down from his room the lobby was flush with people. Avoiding the crowded seating area between the reception desk and the elevators, Leon headed for the coffee shop. Selecting a corner table where he could keep an eye on the entrance and the reception desk, he ordered tea. A moment later, a young waitress was offering him a selection of teas. Leon picked a Korean organic green tea with brown rice. It was mild, with almost no aroma but with a soothing, earthy flavor. Relishing it, he pulled out an iPad, and mindful of possible watchers, launched the Kindle app and pretended to read a book; aware the human mind tends to gloss over people engaged in such mundane activities as reading and surfing the net. But all the while Leon’s attention was on the main entrance, huge glass doors manned by a ceremoniously dressed doorman.

  Twenty minutes later Professor Naug entered and went up to the reception desk. Leon used the photograph on his iPad screen to double-check.

  Tall, about the same height as Leon, equally fair, with brown hair worn just over the ears, and rectangular, rimless spectacles. Going by the surveillance photos sent to him by Hakon, the professor was wearing what he usually did: a turtleneck pullover, slightly faded cords, a heavy tweed-ish coat, and dark brown slip-ons. He was wheeling along a well-worn, brown leather bag. It was also a Hidesign, like the one Leon had checked in with earlier. Unlike most academics, or rather, unlike the public perception of academics, Naug looked fit and moved with an easy gait, someone who worked out regularly.

  Leon felt a huge weight lift off; Naug’s arrival in Delhi was another key factor in this already messy mission over which he’d had absolutely no control. And Naug’s presence was critical for Leon to get within striking range of the target.

  Watching Naug check in, Leon felt his spirits lift; he was now confident he would succeed.

  Charging the tea to his room, Leon was already in the elevator whilst Naug was still checking in. Returning to his room, Leon left his door slightly ajar and kept a close eye on the corridor. After a few minutes, he saw Naug emerge from the elevator and walk down the hall to his room. Another two minutes later the bellhop arrived with Naug’s luggage—one big suitcase.

  Allowing another twenty minutes to elapse, for the professor to settle down and hopefully call his wife, Leon donned surgical gloves, crossed over, and knocked. It was a while before he heard a rustle at the other end. When the door opened, Leon led with the stiletto. He drove the eight-inch-long blade straight into the scientist’s jugular.

  The attack was so sudden and swift that Naug did not even have time to be surprised. As the stiletto punctured the windpipe, his scream of pain ended in a gurgling, soapy whimper, which died away even before it could properly get started.

  Pushing Naug back with the palm of his hand, Leon entered swiftly and heeled the door shut behind him. Now safe from prying eyes Leon aimed carefully and delivered a second blow to the heart. The stiletto slid between the ribs and punched a hole in Naug’s heart. Soon it stopped fluttering and Naug lay still.

  Moving swiftly, Leon first stanched the blood to ensure nothing spilled on the carpet; even if any housekeeping staff came in, they should find nothing to alarm them.

  Not unless they go to the bathroom.

  Leon then hauled the body to the bathtub, washed off the blood that had gotten onto his hands, placed a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, and then lowered the room temperature to eighteen degrees, the lowest it would go. The colder the room, the slower the rate of decomposition; Leon knew he needed to contain the smell as best and as long as he could.

  Mindful of security cameras, he checked the corridor was empty of housekeeping staff and then went across to his room. He returned a minute later with his bag.

  Back in Naug’s room he transferred the clickers, microphones, and adaptors to the professor’s capacious brown bag.

  Already present in Naug’s bag was a nifty 11-inch MacBook Air, a power cord, an assortment of pens, and a sheaf of papers on a variety of incomprehensible scientific topics—the kinds of things one would expect to find in an academic’s bag.

  Peering out from behind the plastic business-card holder was the photograph of a smiling blond woman in her mid-thirties, with two equally blond and cheerful eight-year-old girls. From the dossier complied by Hakon, Leon recognized them as Naug’s family. The picture made Leon pause;
he wondered what they were doing.

  Hopefully not expecting Naug to call any time soon.

  Leon needed to ensure Naug’s body was not discovered till four p.m. the next day. By then he would have cleared Indian airspace. But he knew several factors were beyond his control. The operation had now entered the terminal stage and he would have to act and react as the situation evolved. Much as one would want it otherwise, as in every battle, chance would now play a significant and increasing role in the proceedings. Now even an overzealous housekeeper who ignored the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door could tilt the balance against him. Leon knew he needed to be extra alert now; the smallest slip could cost his life.

  Without meaning to, Leon glanced at his watch: a little past ten. He did not need to calculate; in a few hours both his targets would be in town. In sixteen hours Masharrat would be down and Leon would be clear of this mess.

  Or dead.

  No way. No damn way.

  This time I will not fail. I cannot.

  But the words rang hollow. A strange sense of foreboding swamped him. Leon tried hard, but was unable to get rid of it.

  Those bastards, Ravinder and Edward, must pay for everything they did to me.

  A cold smile fled across his face.

  Whether Benazir’s vendetta brought satisfaction to Fatima’s crowd or not, it would certainly appease mine. They’d look like fools when I cut down the target from right under their nose.

  The long pent-up hate was still simmering in his head as he threw himself on the bed and tried to catch a nap. But sleep refused to oblige. Whether he looked forward or backward, it was riddled with restlessness. Conflicted and filled with doubt, Leon tossed and turned.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Ravinder was unable to sleep, though emotionally drained and physically exhausted. This was the first time he had been alone since morning and he welcomed the solitude. For the first time he was able to put away the mask, not worry about being strong for anyone and allow himself to feel. His grief and pain begged for release, yet lay trapped inside, like a piece of meat trapped in the windpipe, choking him. Ravinder wanted to cry but could not.

  Perhaps later … after all this is over. Right now I need to focus and ensure Leon doesn’t succeed … or get away. He needs to pay for Simran and Goel.

  For the umpteenth time he wondered where Leon was and what he was up to. Also if they were right about the target he would strike at.

  Is it really Zardosi?

  Ravinder weighed the evidence again and again.

  I can’t afford to be wrong.

  He was worrying about that when he heard Jasmine come out of her bedroom and head down, her slippered feet making a soft slapping sound on the stairs. Then he heard her moving around in the living room, the sound echoing dully through the huge empty bungalow.

  She has held herself together so well.

  He again felt a surge of pride at the way she had taken charge.

  Then Simran’s caution tugged at him. “Don’t get fooled by that tough act she puts on. Jasmine is a softie at heart. Watch out for her, Ravinder.”

  Worry returned. So did the thought that he was not living up to his promise.

  He got up to go downstairs and check on her, but sensing she, too, needed to be alone, he lay down again, paralyzed by an admixture of grief, worry, and the need to give her space.

  Some time later he heard her come up the stairs and return to her room.

  Then silence returned to the house.

  Sleep followed a while later. With it came the nightmares.

  Yet again Ravinder heard the truck engine revving loudly and saw it bearing down on Jasmine’s car. He felt the shock as it struck and saw Jasmine’s car being thrown forward. And Simran smash through the windscreen, fly over the hood, and hit the road. He saw her rise shakily and then with gathering strength walk back toward the shattered car. Midway she crumpled.

  As she fell, she turned her bloodied face toward Ravinder and looked at him beseechingly. And Ravinder realized with horror that it was not Simran at all. It was Farah Fairfowler. And she was glaring at him.

  Angry?

  Pleading for help?

  Accusingly?

  Then, engine revving madly, the truck sped past. But now Leon was at the wheel, sneering and shaking a fist at Ravinder as he drove past.

  And the ICU monitor flat-lined; its irritating but comforting beep mutating into a horrible whine of protest.

  Ravinder’s heart was pounding when he jerked awake. Thereafter he could not fall asleep again. Not properly. He lay there spent, dropping in and out of an uneasy sleep, watching the sky outside darken till the darkness was complete. Then slowly, uneasily, it began to lighten up again.

  DECEMBER

  27

  ONE

  Leon was not sure what woke him—probably the icy room temperature and that he had kicked off the comforter while sleeping. He was shivering with cold and bursting to pee.

  The bedside clock showed 3:43 a.m.

  Groggy with sleep, he stumbled into the bathroom and was unzipping when he spotted Naug’s body in the bathtub. The dead man’s face had collapsed and he looked deflated. And he seemed to be staring at Leon. Plaintively.

  Reality returned with the abruptness of a 440-volt jolt to his nervous system. Unable to relieve himself Leon rushed out of the bathroom. But his bladder was killing him. And the surgical gloves he had fallen asleep wearing were itching. Resisting the urge to remove them he threw on Naug’s coat, which he had readied for the next day, and hurried across to his room at the end of the corridor.

  Still half asleep, Leon forgot he was wearing the disguise he’d used whilst renting the Sarita Vihar apartment: photograph number two on the APB. He’d meant to change out of it last night, into the Naug persona, but had drifted off.

  The bigger mistake was to forget about the security cameras that monitor every nook and cranny of most hotels.

  Pramod Jha, the supervisor manning the security control room, could not have failed to spot Leon; he was the only guest moving about at that unearthly hour. Not only did he see him, but Pramod also noticed his resemblance to the APB, which had been circulated by the Delhi Police to all security personnel of all hotels, and was now taped to the wall above the bank of CCTV monitors.

  But luck was still riding pillion with Leon. At that late hour, watching over a slumbering hotel, Pramod was sluggish with sleep and the camera image was fleeting enough to preclude certain identification. Perhaps, like most human beings, Pramod was also not expecting trouble, not in his hotel and certainly not on his watch. Even when he saw Leon make his way back a few minutes later Pramod failed to make the connection between the man on the monitor and the APB stuck above it.

  Blissfully ignorant of his mistake and the lucky break he had caught, Leon made his way back to Naug’s bed and tumbled into it. Aware that he had a long day ahead of him and needed to be on top of his game, he fell asleep again.

  TWO

  Ravinder could not stay in bed any longer, even though he knew he needed the rest. Feeling sluggish and unrested, but simmering with anticipation, he got out of bed when the grandfather clock struck six.

  It was a typical Delhi winter morning: still dark outside; a leaden gray fog shrouding everything, reducing visibility to a few feet.

  A stinging hot shower coaxed life back into his tired limbs. Forcing himself not to think of Simran as he got dressed, Ravinder headed down to the living room. The haunting fragrance of incense greeted him. He was about to ring for the maid to get him breakfast when his eye fell upon Simran’s portrait mounted in the center of the family vanity wall.

  So that’s what Jasmine was doing last night.

  Done a few months ago, during their last trip to Punjab, it was a good painting; the artist had captured her mood. Simran looked content and at peace.

  Ravinder realized he was crying when he felt a tear trickle down his jawline.

  “Isn’t Mom looking lovely?”

&
nbsp; Ravinder started; he had not heard Jasmine enter. “Yes. Yes, she is.” He did not turn to face Jasmine, unwilling to let her see his tears.

  But she came up and gave him a hug. “We are so busy being strong for each other … both of us need to let go.” Jasmine began sobbing. “I miss Mom.”

  Ravinder felt the dam within burst. All the pain he had been damming up came hurtling out. They clung to each other and were still crying when the maid entered several minutes later. She stumbled to an embarrassed halt and hurried out, but both had sensed her presence and their moment of shared pain and release evaporated.

  By the time they reached the breakfast table, both were back in control. Ravinder wasn’t hungry, but he was aware that he had a long day ahead and would be plagued by headaches if he didn’t eat, so he forced down an orange juice, some scrambled egg, bacon, and toast. Jasmine picked at her food, but she was at the door when he was leaving. And she seemed resolute again.

  “You planning to step out anywhere today?” Jasmine’s headshake brought him relief. “Excellent. Get some rest.”

  “I will.” She forced a smile. “And you make sure you get back … as soon as you can.”

  “That’s a promise, Princess.”

  “I’ll hold you to that. And Dad, make them pay.” Her request, almost a command, followed him out to the Bimmer.

  Resolve reinforced, Ravinder told the driver, “Ferozeshah Kotla stadium. Go via the office. We have to pick up Archana and Chance.”

  Without meaning to, he touched the pistol in his coat pocket. He carried it because he’d promised Jasmine, but he was not sure he wanted it to see action.

  THREE

  Leon reached for the phone out of habit. He had already picked up the call when he realized he was in Naug’s room, not his own. A robotic voice informed him it was time to wake up. He did. And this time, despite his distaste, he used the bathroom to get ready. But it was eerie; even after closing the shower curtain to hide away Naug, Leon felt the dead man’s stare. It compounded his unease.