by Mukul Deva
The puncture man and his audience looked equally tense as the ball made its way back from Dhoni, the wicket keeper, to Rohit Sharma at silly mid-off and thence to Ishant at the other end.
Again, Ishant ferociously delivered the second ball, a fuller-length delivery.
Anwar, aware he needed to assert himself or risk being cowed by the bowler, stepped forward and swung. A solid well-timed swing. There was a satisfying thud as he connected.
“Saeed Anwar has picked that one up nicely. On the up.” The commentator loved this. “And it has gone high in the air.” It was impossible to see the ball on the grainy television. “Will it clear the distance?”
The puncture man was looking sick.
“Yes! It does. And nicely, too. Into the crowd.”
“Bhenchod Paki!” The puncture man broke the silence around the television set. He looked ready to murder someone.
Miles away, in the stadium, the duel between bat and ball continued as Ishant Sharma ran in again.
There was another meaty thwack as bat and ball collided.
“Anwar does it again. Much flatter this time, but it will clear the ropes easily. More runs on the board for Pakistan. Their prime minister must be delighted with this start.”
On cue the camera cut to the VIP box, where Zardosi was beaming. The Indian PM did not look happy, but aware of the cameras he had on the smile that tired hookers and slimy politicians use with uncanny ease.
“I don’t know what the hell Dhoni is doing. Why did he have to give the new ball to Ishant Sharma?” The puncture man gave his captive audience an all-knowing look. “I would have asked Umesh Yadav to bowl.”
Pramod, who worshiped Dhoni, looked irritated, but held his peace, unwilling to rock the boat till the puncture was fixed.
On screen, Ishant Sharma was racing in again, looking as determined as before. There was again that umph sound when he released the ball.
The third one stayed low and came in much faster, at 152 kilometers per hour according to the ball speed counter on the screen. It slipped past before the bat had descended fully. This time the line was flawless.
CRACK! The outer wicket went cartwheeling into the air.
“Bowled him!” The commentator was beside himself.
The crowd in the stadium exploded.
Anwar looked stunned. Then, shouldering his bat, he began the long walk back to the pavilion.
Ishant, who had been shaken by two successive sixers, was aggressively pointing at Anwar, showing him the way out, whilst an exuberant Indian team ran up and thumped him on the back. A wicket in the first over is always a massive morale boost.
“I knew that would happen.” The puncture man-cum-cricket sage remarked. “It always does when the batsman becomes too confident.” Then, deciding he had not done justice to the event, he felt the need to insult Anwar’s sisters again. “Bhenchod Pakis.”
“Why don’t you start fixing the puncture while the new man comes out?” Pramod, who by now had had enough of his side commentary, asked sourly.
“Let me know when they start again.” The puncture man reluctantly went out to the bike.
On the screen, the cameras cut for the commercial break that happens whenever a wicket falls. However, instead of the usual soap and soda sales spiel, the APB for Leon Binder came on. Archana had played it smart; aware Indo-Pak matches attract millions of eyeballs, she had ensured the APB would be run during commercial breaks. Considering the commercial value of such prime viewing slots, it had taken a lot of arm-twisting, but it is hard for any television channel to refuse a request that has the full weight of the NIA behind it.
For twenty seconds, the four photos of Leon, generated by Archana, occupied the screen in Technicolor glory. Splashed across the photos was the reward amount, a million rupees.
“I know this guy.” Pramod stared at the screen, eyes shifting between the photos and the reward money, trying hard to jog his memory. “I have seen him … somewhere … just recently.”
The APB vanished, replaced by a slick anorexic woman sashaying across the lobby of a fancy mall, telling the world SK-II had restored her youth. However, she failed to impress Pramod, who was racking his brains. The anorexic lady was followed by a swish-looking man in an equally swish light brown coat, who strode up to a gleaming black and red motorcycle and said, “If it is a 100 cc bike you’re looking for, look no further.”
It was the coat that flicked the switch in Pramod’s head.
“It was the guy in the corridor.” He turned excitedly to Naresh. “That guy last night.” Naresh looked bewildered. “On the fifth floor of the hotel.” Now excited, aware of all he could do with a million rupees, Pramod hauled out his mobile and headed out of earshot; he had no intention of sharing the reward money with anyone.
By the time the second Pakistani batsman arrived at the crease and Ishant Sharma completed his over, giving away only one more run, Pramod was connected to the Police Control Room.
“You are certain I’ll get the reward?” Pramod inquired suspiciously when asked which hotel he had spotted the wanted man in. “Why can’t you connect me with someone senior?”
By the time the officer in charge of the Police Control Room came on and Pramod finished telling his story, Umesh Yadav had bowled the second over.
FIFTEEN
Ravinder saw Trivedi wave frantically from near the control room. He was hurrying over when he heard the commentator announce that Ishant Sharma would be bowling the third over, again from the Stadium end.
“We’ve found another bomb!” Trivedi was breathless with anxiety.
“Where?” Ravinder was shocked.
“In the West Hill stand … to the right of the previous one.”
“To the right? That means further away from the VIP box?” Ravinder was surprised.
“Yes.” Trivedi pointed. “There.”
“Defused it yet?”
“Not yet. There are so many people about. There will be a panic.”
“Even more if it goes off,” Ravinder retorted. “Get your best men there. Now!”
“I already have.” His mobile rang. Trivedi clicked on his Bluetooth headset. “What? Really? Are you sure? Oh, excellent.” He ended the call and told Ravinder excitedly, “They’ve defused it.”
“That fast?”
“I know. Great, isn’t it? My man said it was a crude device.”
“What do you mean?” Ravinder’s surprise escalated. “Ask him for details. Could you please get him to talk to me?” Trivedi got him on the line and handed Ravinder the mobile. “What kind of device is it?” Ravinder asked. Then added hastily, “In plain English, please. Spare me the technicalities.”
“Very basic device, sir.” The bomb disposal man was obviously used to briefing people who didn’t know a bomb from a blond. “Some explosive, a handful of nails and ball bearings, a detonator, and an improvised timer. No cutouts, no bypasses, no trips. Nothing.”
“When you say some explosive, what kind of damage are you talking about?”
“Oh, it would have done damage, for sure. Seeing how packed the stands are, we’re talking fifteen to twenty people at the very least.” He went on: “But it was a crudely assembled bomb. A professional would have used some more explosive, a lot more shrapnel, and ensured it wasn’t so easy to disarm. This was a poor, hastily put together job.”
“I see.” But Ravinder did not. He was lost in thought when he handed the mobile back to Trivedi. Then his mobile buzzed. Ravinder took the call with alacrity. “Yes, Chance?”
“We have found a sniper rifle.”
“What? Where?” Now the alarm bells were clanging louder in Ravinder’s head.
“Eleven o’clock from the VIP box.” Ravinder faced that way. “Do you see the rafters? Just above the top edge of the scoreboard.”
“Remove the rifle’s bolt or firing pin and leave it there. Put two men in the vicinity to keep an eye on it. Discreetly. They should nab anyone who comes for it.”
�
��Will do,” Chance said briskly.
“Then continue the search, Chance. We’re not out of the woods yet.” Ravinder ended the call and turned to Trivedi. “Did your people search that area?” He pointed. Trivedi followed his finger, then nodded. “Yes, we did. I can even tell you when and who searched it. We have logs.” He looked really worried. “Why?”
“They found a sniper rifle there.” Ravinder was so lost in his thoughts that Trivedi’s shock barely registered.
This is too weird … too easy.
The feeling that something was wrong began tightening its grip on him. Ravinder sensed he was missing a vital clue. He began to run through everything, right from the get-go, trying hard to spot the missing link.
SIXTEEN
Leon took in the trio, two men and a woman, who entered the speakers’ waiting room and headed for the buffet. He returned to his laptop, pretending he was busy. Then the door swung open again and another group of four entered. Then, a couple of minutes later, another larger group. Deepa was with the last lot.
“Time for lunch, sir.” She came up to him, smiling brightly.
“Quite so.” Leon shut the laptop. “I was about to look for you. Would it be possible for me to test my Mac connections to the projector?”
“That will not be a problem, sir. Everything has been checked and rechecked. You don’t need to worry at all.”
“But I would prefer to check for myself,” Leon said a little more insistently.
Deepa shrugged. “If that will make you feel better, certainly, sir. May I go and check if the room is free now?”
“Thank you.” Leon was relieved; this would be the only opportunity for him to plant the equipment since Masharrat’s speech was right after lunch, just before Naug’s talk.
“Meanwhile, why don’t you have some lunch?”
Leon had no desire to mingle with the other speakers clustered around the lunch table. Deepa noticed his hesitation. Mistaking it for shyness or the nervousness that many speakers suffer, she added, “Please allow me to get some for you.”
Brushing aside his protests she went off, returning a few minutes later with a loaded plate. “I got a selection of items since I was not sure what you would prefer. And mostly nonspicy things.” Then she headed out.
Leon had managed a few bites of the delicious Tunde kebabs when Deepa returned. “Sorry, sir, but they’re having a special session for some dignitaries in that room right now. That will end in only twenty minutes. However, I have checked with the technical officer and he has assured me you will have no problems connecting your Mac.”
Leon let his disappointment show. Deepa noticed, mistook it for pretalk jitters again, and added, “But you’re welcome to check if you still wish to, after that session.” She checked the time. “We will still have about ten minutes before General Masharrat’s keynote.”
“That’s fine, then.” Leon hid his relief; ten minutes was more than he needed to switch the items on the lectern with his own.
“Would you like to attend the general’s keynote, sir?”
“That would be wonderful.” If she hadn’t asked, Leon would have.
“Excellent. The first row is reserved for speakers, so you’ll have a great seat.”
Leon had studied every word of the speakers’ invitations and was aware of that. Though he had also planned for the eventuality where he’d have to trigger the weapon from a distance.
He checked his watch; only five minutes had elapsed.
Fifteen more to go.
His mind began to race ahead, planning each step of the journey: switching the microphone and adaptor, triggering the sarin, use the ensuing confusion to exit and get to the airport. There were no major roadblocks he could visualize.
Splashing some mint sauce on the Tunde kebab, he helped himself to another piece, wondering where Ravinder was.
SEVENTEEN
Ravinder was so deeply immersed in thought he realized Kurup was by his side only when he felt the tap on his shoulder.
“We have a sighting.” Kurup looked animated. “Leon was seen at the Leela Palace early this morning.”
Kurup’s enthusiasm infected Ravinder as the NIA director brought him up to speed.
“The hotel’s security supervisor does not remember the room numbers, but he is confident he can point them out. He should be back at the hotel soon. Then we will know which room Leon was spotted coming out from, the one he went to, and who they both are registered to.”
“Brilliant!” Ravinder was excited.
A roar filled the stadium. The crowd was on its feet as another Pakistani wicket fell. Again Ravinder was reminded Leon could be somewhere out there, in the seventy thousand people crammed into the stadium, biding his time, and waiting for the right moment to strike.
And we still don’t know how … those bombs and that sniper rifle don’t jell … something is wrong … what was he doing at the Leela?
His unease affected Kurup. “I know what you’re thinking, Ravinder.” The director was equally somber. “Binder could be out there right now. Moving in for the kill.”
Ravinder nodded. “And we still don’t know which of Trivedi’s men have been compromised … or how Leon plans to use them.”
“What have we here?” The excited voice of the commentator tugged at his attention. “It looks like Dhoni is keen to exploit these early wickets and is going for the kill. He has given the ball to Ashwin.”
Ashwin! Ashwin!
Bluffmaster! Bluffmaster!
Pack off the Pakis!
Send them home, Bluffmaster!
The crowd was up on its feet now. With only a hundred and eleven runs on the board and six wickets down, the Pakistani tail had been exposed. Another one or two quick wickets and the game was pretty much lost; with the Indian batsmen in form, anything below two hundred runs on the board was certain hara-kiri. Pakistan needed at least two-fifty to pose a credible challenge.
Still preoccupied, trying to pinpoint what he’d missed, Ravinder watched Ashwin run up to the wicket; it was a short, almost lazy run-up. Ashwin released the ball with a gentle flick. Ravinder watched it hit the ground just before the batsman and then spin, arcing wildly in the air. The bat missed it by a mile. There was a collective intake of breath as it snicked past the wicket, missing off-stump by a whisker.
Dhoni had a wicked smile on his face as he collected the ball behind the wicket and tossed it to Tendulkar, who in turn threw it back to Ashwin. Understandably so—Ashwin was known for his uncanny ability to outthink and outmaneuver even the most seasoned batsmen.
The Pakistani tail-ender was feeling the pressure, though he forced a smile when his compatriot at the other end, the only top-ranking batsmen who had survived thus far, said something to him.
The Indian players did not need to guess he had told the tail-ender to take a single and get to the non-striker’s end; they closed in on the batsman, adding to the pressure.
Bluffmaster. Bluffmaster. Pack off the Pakis.
The crowd egged Ashwin back to his starting point.
Ravinder saw Ashwin swivel slowly, surveying the field. Then he gave the batsman a smile, the sort a python gives to a rabbit before devouring it.
Despite the tension about Leon, Ravinder could not take his eyes off the players.
Ashwin knew the batsman was wondering where the ball would land—full or short; flighted or flat—and which way it would spin, or if it would spin at all. Both knew the better part of the game was played in the head; that’s where matches are lost and won.
And I own the head. Even yours, Ashwin’s smile seemed to be saying.
Watching him on the giant screen, gently rotating the ball in his hand whilst he smiled the batsman to death, Ravinder got a sense why Ashwin had such a deadly reputation.
Then Ashwin moved. Again that leisurely run-up and gentle flick as the ball shot out of his hand. It flew across, deceptively slow, landed well short of the batsman and then shot forward, but hugging the ground. The hap
less tail-ender had no chance; it was the sort of ball that would have left far better batsmen gasping; he watched it crash into the center wicket.
“Bowled him,” the commentator roared. “That one rattled his cage.”
The crowd was on its feet again.
Tendulkar did a victory jig.
Dhoni pumped the air.
Ashwin smiled; again that soft, barely discernible, deceptively lazy smile.
Pack off the Pakis.
Give us another one, Bluffmaster.
Head down, the Pakistani tail-ender began the long walk back to the pavilion. The batsmen at the order end banged his bat on the ground to vent his frustration.
And Ashwin kept smiling. No theatrics. No dramatics. Just that beatific smile.
It was Ashwin’s smile that turned the trick. Ravinder knew where he had seen such a smile before: it had been Leon’s trademark, whenever he bested anyone at chess.
And Ravinder knew he had been duped. Outplayed. Outmaneuvered.
EIGHTEEN
Leon checked his watch again; it seemed to be crawling. Fifteen of the twenty minutes promised by Deepa had elapsed. But it seemed much longer.
By now Leon’s nerves were stretched to the max. He craved action. Forcing himself to calm down, he fought the urge to get moving.
Across the room he could see Deepa in a cluster of other similarly clad liaison officers. He threw several mental barbs at her, willing her to turn and look at him. But Deepa was engrossed with her colleagues and the plates of food between them. Aching with impatience, but unwilling to attract attention, he decided to wait another few minutes.
NINETEEN
Ravinder was momentarily stunned by the realization that Leon might have bested him.
I’m in the wrong place.
No! It cannot be.
But, from all those years ago, the sight of Edward and Leon huddled over the chessboard, by the fireplace of their London apartment, kept rebounding to the forefront of his memory. Of Edward smacking his forehead with his palm as Leon checkmated him. And Leon smiling that inimitable smile. Just like Ashwin had been giving the Pakistani batsmen.