by Mukul Deva
“Look at the brighter side,” Ravinder consoled, “we will have twice the security now. Hopefully it will make things harder for Leon.”
“Yeah. Maybe he will abort.” Kurup made no attempt to mask his sarcasm. “Twice the bloody risk, too. Now Binder has a hit-one-get-one-free offer going … especially if he’s planning to use a bomb.”
The prime ministerial entourage came up the stairs, turned left, and began to walk toward the VIP box two hundred feet away.
Kurup realized he was holding his breath.
Beside him Ravinder appeared equally tense.
If ever there was a sniper moment, this was it.
TEN
Leon steadied his breathing as his target hove into view. Despite his telling the driver to take it easy, they had arrived at the Siri Fort auditorium in fifteen minutes.
Half a mile now.
A sudden wave of dread swept through Leon. As though something deadly awaited him beyond the auditorium gates.
Quarter of a mile.
His heart plummeted; Leon knew he should go no further. An eerie premonition screamed at him. Warning him. He knew if he went through those gates he would not come out alive.
Five hundred feet.
Leon leaned forward to tell the driver to turn back. Before he could speak, a motorcyclist cut across the front forcing the driver to brake suddenly.
“Stupid sardar,” the driver muttered under his breath at the Sikh motorcyclist, who sped away, weaving through traffic without a care in the world.
It reminded Leon that Ravinder could be waiting for him past those gates.
Unless the decoys I got Vishal to deploy at Ferozeshah Kotla stadium have fooled him.
Leon was not sure how he felt about that; the professional within hoped Ravinder would have taken the bait, but the man did not; angry, he wanted to confront Ravinder. To force Ravinder to confess he had killed Farah Fairfowler. To make him beg for mercy. And then kill him.
Two hundred feet.
Fortified by hate, Leon leaned back; he would not avoid this tryst with destiny. If life had brought him thus far, it would see him through to the end.
Ravinder’s end.
Leon longed to see that hated face in his gunsight.
The Lexus rapidly chewed up the final hundred feet and pulled up at the Siri Fort auditorium gate.
“This is as far as I can go, sir. No cars are allowed beyond this point,” the driver said apologetically as he held the door open for Leon and handed him over to the waiting liaison officer.
“Good morning, sir. I am Deepa Pandey and will be assisting you today.”
“Good morning, Deepa.” Leon scrutinized the petite young lady as they shook—a college student, he guessed; conference organizers the world over tended to hire them by the dozen.
Good! Not security trained and eager to please. What more could one want?
Deepa Pandey was dressed in a black blouse, printed maroon sari with a matching black border, and fashionably high heels. She was giving her best smile, blissfully unaware that after today life would never again be the same for her.
“Thank you for helping me, Deepa.”
“My pleasure, sir. This way, please.” She ushered him toward the arsenal of men and machines securing the auditorium gate.
Leon took a moment to review the layout, trying to spot changes from the time he’d carried out the last recon.
There were three security lanes, cordoned off from each other by lines of flowerpots and orange traffic cones. A red runner—a twenty-feet-long strip of red carpet, about two feet wide—depicted each lane. The runner passed through a doorframe metal detector manned by two security guards, one male and one female, both armed with the usual complement of handguns and batons.
To the right of each doorframe metal detector was a baggage-screening machine, the kind used by airport security; each was manned by a guard at both ends and a third man keeping an eye on the monitor on which baggage passing through was displayed.
Rapiscan 620DV. Leon identified it immediately. He knew its dual-view multi-energy high-resolution x-ray technology and material analysis software made it virtually foolproof, capable of detecting even liquid explosives. Leon was relieved he was not carrying any obvious weapons.
Standing farther back from the gate, safe from any immediate assault and with a wider view of the gates, were another set of guards, two per lane, armed with 5.56mm INSAS semiautomatic rifles. Further away, behind sandbags, was the final line of defense, also armed with semiautomatic rifles. Leon counted four sandbagged fortifications with two men each. Everyone alert.
His mind auto-calculated: nine handguns and sixteen semiautomatic rifles, at the very least. Leon knew there would be plenty more, at the other gates and on patrol around the auditorium. Not to mention the snipers on the roof and, of course, the reserves standing by in neighborhood police stations.
Nothing short of a full-scale attack by an infantry company would even make a dent.
He had expected nothing less.
The third security lane, the one on Leon’s left, was marked “Speakers Only”; Deepa guided him toward it.
The guards were alert and knew the drill. However, the ones manning the speakers’ lane had been told to handle their guests with care. Also, they had just been told by Deepa to expect Professor Naug, and human beings tend to see what they expect to. Leon passed the identity check with barely a glance.
The items in the bag were inspected thoroughly, first by the Rapiscan and then at the other end of the security lane manually by a polite but conscientious guard. However, most speakers carry clickers, connectors, and the like, so the things in Leon’s bag excited no alarm. The guard did find the microphones a bit odd, but not to the point of making an issue. Hustled on by the liaison officer, he allowed the professor to pass.
Every operation has a point of no return. The point when critical mass is obtained and the mission takes on a life of its own.
Leon knew this point had been crossed as he stepped past the doorframe metal detector, collected his bag from the Rapiscan, and followed Deepa toward the auditorium. Exactly as had happened every time when the final security barrier had been breached, he felt his anxiety bleed away and his nerves start to settle down.
Soon he was in the zone; everything except the target and the kill faded from his mind.
ELEVEN
Ravinder felt a wave of relief as the two prime ministers vanished into the VIP box. The cocoon of bulletproof glass and triple layer of men would keep them safe, at least for the moment. He scanned the stadium again, wondering how and when Leon would strike.
Where are you hiding, Leon Binder?
The roar of the crowd escalated; Ravinder saw both team captains were out in the middle. Standing between them was another veteran cricketer, Sunil Gavaskar, a legend who had captained the Indian team for many years and was now a commentator. Facing him was a tall Caucasian man with a full head of gray hair.
“We are now ready for the toss.” Gavaskar spoke with the pumped-up enthusiasm commentators display so effortlessly. “Both the captains are here and so is Michael Hobbs, the match referee.” He turned to the gray-haired Caucasian. “Looking forward to an exciting day of cricket, are we?” He got a smile in return. “And who has the coin?”
The Indian captain, Mahender Singh Dhoni, held it above his head, showing it to the crowd, before tossing it up in the air.
“Heads is the call from the Pakistani captain.” Gavaskar’s excited voice rang out as the high-speed camera caught the spinning coin glinting in the air.
Hobbs leaned in as the coin hit the ground.
“Heads!”
“And the Pakistani captain has made the right call. Heads it is.”
“We will bat.” The Pakistani captain told his Indian counterpart as they shook.
Ravinder tuned out as Gavaskar spoke to both team captains. He switched his attention back to the crowd, trying to figure out where Leon could be. Ravinder cou
ld see the search teams making their way through the stands, but progress was excruciatingly slow; so far not even the stands around the VIP box had been cleared.
The teams would soon be emerging from the dressing rooms; a Mexican wave splashed over the stadium. Anticipation was escalating, like artillery fire softening up the target before an infantry attack.
TWELVE
Leon hit the second security barrier as they entered the stadium. But by now his nerves had iced over; he was in the eye of the hurricane.
“Sorry about all these security checks, sir.” Deepa’s smile was sheepish. “But you know how it is.”
“I understand.” Leon returned a polite smile and waited patiently as the guard rifled through the bag.
Once again it did not take long. Unwittingly, Deepa Pandey did her bit to help things along.
Then they were in.
A thrill raced through Leon as he shouldered his bag and followed Deepa. She walked briskly, turning back every now and then to confirm he was behind her. Cutting through the crowd in the auditorium lobby, she led to the left. At the end of the lobby they reached a corridor barricaded off with a long table manned by four guards, two men and two women. All four with sidearms.
CONFERENCE SPEAKERS ONLY announced the sign on the table. To the left there was an arrow indicating GREEN ROOM. And to the right was another that said RED ROOM. Deepa waited till the security man had checked both their conference tags and then led Leon toward the Green Room.
“What is that?” Leon pointed at the RED ROOM sign.
“That’s for speakers believed to be facing additional security threats.”
Leon looked back and noticed there was another cluster of guards at the end of the corridor, this lot armed with automatics.
So that is where Masharrat is likely to be.
Absorbing the layout he followed Deepa into the Green Room. It was empty, barring an elegant elderly Indian lady in a Temple silk sari; she was immersed in her laptop and looked up only briefly to give a vague smile.
It was a large room with thick maroon carpeting, deep, matching sofa chairs, and a massive glass chandelier. Several miniature paintings from the Mughal period adorned the walls. The curtains had been drawn, held back by tasseled cords at either end; a large dose of sunlight lit up the room. At the far end was a long buffet table laden with snacks, tea, coffee, and juices.
“May I get you something to drink, sir?”
“No, thank you, Deepa. Please don’t worry about me. I think I will also go through my speech.” Indicating the lady with the laptop, Leon headed for the opposite corner, as far from her and the coffee table as possible.
“Sure, sir. You will not be disturbed here. The morning speakers have already gone for their sessions and the afternoon ones will come in only around lunch. We still have half an hour before they start arriving.”
That suited Leon; the less people he was exposed to the better. Opening Naug’s laptop he began browsing through it to kill time; Leon had only one task left before he pulled the plug on his target.
THIRTEEN
Ravinder felt the energy in the stadium escalate as the Indian team jogged into the middle. The crowd roared as they fanned out to take position.
“Sachin! Sachin!” The Little Master, Sachin Tendulkar, acknowledged the accolades with a smile, which was captured by the large screens, as he moved to take position at the slip. This was his final match before he hung up his pads, and his fans were looking forward to some stellar fielding and then a blistering knock from him.
“Dhoni! Captain Cool! Pack off the Pakis!” began the second, louder chant. “Pack off the Pakis.” The chant gathered momentum.
Then the two Pakistani opening batsmen emerged from their dressing room and began to walk out into the middle, swinging their bats to free their arms. The cheer this time was muted and restricted to a smaller corner of the North stand, directly across from the VIP stand, where the Pakistani supporters were huddled. Ravinder could see some Pakistani flags being waved there. Predictably there were some boos and hisses, too, from the other stands. Understandably so, this was the first time since the Pak-sponsored terrorist attack on Mumbai that their team had been allowed to play in India, and not everyone favored this decision. The recent beheading of an Indian soldier by the Pakistani army on the Kashmir border had added much heat.
Fighting to avoid these distractions, Ravinder focused on the VIP box. He saw both prime ministers waving and smiling for the cameras, which were right now focused on them. Ravinder knew that would last only till the first ball was bowled.
Kurup’s mobile must have rung because he put it to his right ear, closing the other one with his left hand as he tried to converse about the roar of the crowd.
“The PM wants me,” Kurup muttered darkly after the call was over. “Ravinder, I’m banking on you to keep that Paki bugger alive.” He chucked his chin at Zardosi.
“I will do my best.” Ravinder wished he felt as confident as he sounded. He was more than a little overwhelmed by the sea of humanity. Leon could be anywhere and no one would be wiser.
All Leon needs is one tiny window of opportunity.
Ravinder grimaced, aware it was impossible to protect anyone all the time. Luckily, the saving grace was that Leon was a professional and not one of those suicidal jihadis.
He will want to get away, too.
That was the one major chink in Leon’s armor Ravinder knew he could exploit. But he had to do that before Leon could carry out his strike. If Leon managed to assassinate Zardosi, then capturing him would provide scant solace.
Kurup picked up on his apprehensions; Ravinder saw him frown as he peeled off and headed for the VIP box.
“What the hell are you guys doing?” Ravinder heard Trivedi, beside him, growl into his radio. “You morons are supposed to be looking out, at the audience, and not at the damn game.”
That had the desired effect; security men around the stadium stopped gawking at the players and straightened up, aware their chief was watching them. But Ravinder realized again how easily people could get distracted, even when they knew the importance of their tasks. Weaknesses such as this were what assassins like Leon exploited.
There was a bitter taste in his mouth as Ravinder scanned the stadium again; the men checking the stands around the VIP box had progressed. Barring the group working the section below the VIP box, the other two had moved on to the next sections.
Ravinder knew they needed a break. Badly.
Unbeknownst to him, the God of War had just switched sides.
FOURTEEN
Pramod snapped out of autopilot when there was a sharp bang and his motorcycle developed a life of its own. He fought the handlebars and brought it to a stop.
“It’s a puncture.” Naresh, the security guard riding pillion, peered down.
“I figured, genius.” Getting off, they examined the front tire; there was a long bent nail protruding from it.
“There is a puncture repair shop around the corner.” The guard with the high IQ pointed it out and then helped wheel the bike. “Hope it’s open, though.” An understandable fear, since Indo-Pak cricket matches were notorious for keeping people home glued to their television sets.
The shop was open, but devoid of customers. The owner was huddled in one corner with an electric stove to stave off the cold and a portable television, an ancient model, to catch the match. He did not look pleased when he saw the punctured motorcycle.
“Give me a minute.” He pointed at the television set. “The match is about to start. I don’t want to miss the first over.”
The motorcycle was forgotten as the guard and his supervisor both joined the huddle in front of the television.
“Pity your television set is so small,” Pramod commented.
That earned him a dirty look from the puncture man. “I will get a big flat-screen high-definition one too, as soon as misers like you start paying a hundred bucks for a puncture instead of a measly fifty.”
“Captain Dhoni has given the ball to Ishant Sharma, one of the spearheads of the Indian pace battery,” the commentator said excitedly.
“Pack off the Pakis.” The chant escalated to a crescendo as Ishant, rubbing the ball on his pant leg, measured off his long run up. Then Ishant turned to face the opening batsmen.
At the other end Saeed Anwar, the Pakistani opener, tightened his helmet strap, adjusted his pads, and settled down to meet the bowl.
Between the two, the Stadium end umpire slowly swung around to check everything was in order. Then, aware of the significance of the match, walked out of the bowler’s line, dropped his hand dramatically, and called out loudly, “Let’s play.”
A hush descended on the stadium as Ishant Sharma came steaming down his amazingly long run up, gathering speed with every stride.
Saeed Anwar stood stock-still; eyes unblinking, mouth slightly open and bat poised an inch above the ground.
Ishant Sharma hit the final stride with a loud umph and released the bowl at the highest end of its trajectory.
Traveling at 149 kilometers per hour, the ball slashed forward, a blur of white. It hit the pitch inches short of the crease and shot forward, staying low.
Anwar’s bat came down, right in line with the ball, but a tad too late.
“My god! What an amazing ball.” The commentator’s excited voice erupted out of the television set. “Anwar was almost done in by the lack of bounce.”
A hiss went through the crowd.
Ishant’s expression changed from excitement to frustration as he realized he had beaten the bat but missed the wicket.
Anwar looked shaken, but gathered himself and, swinging his arms to free them up, took guard again.