Assassins (23 page)

On his right, beyond a well-cordoned three-meter-wide passage, was the Old Club House stand, also divided into four sections, but these were lounges, more luxuriously appointed, and would hold another fifteen hundred people collectively.

The VIP box was right on top, in the upper section of the corporate sponsors box, dominating the stadium. It looked big enough to accommodate thirty or forty people. Leon could not see the bulletproof glass, but knew it would be there, all around and thick enough to stop even a .50-caliber heavy machine gun bullet. He wanted to take a closer look, but knew he would draw attention; there were people working in the VIP box, under the watchful eyes of a couple of uniformed cops.

Shelving that idea he began scanning the stadium, pinpointing four sniper positions and four for the bombs, though he needed only two of each.

The bomb positions were obvious—the upper midsections of the West Hill stand. Also of the East Hill stand, on the other side of the Old Club House stand. Leon saw the layout of the East Side was identical to the West Side stand.

However, Leon realized the best bomb positions would be the corporate sponsors box, directly below the VIP box. Leon surveyed it, using his camera's range finder to assess the distance. He knew a powerful bomb placed in the corporate sponsors box would be enough to damage the bulletproof glass, enough to render the VIP box vulnerable to a high-caliber sniper rifle. At the very least it would activate security protocol and drive the VIPs out of the box. Either would suffice.

Satisfied, he focused on the sniper positions. Most logical would be any suitable position in the North Stand across the stadium grounds. Next would be the West or East Stands on either side of it, though the angle implied increased range and a more oblique, thus more difficult shot.

The three stands were also divided into four sections each, packed with rows of seats. From his research, Leon already knew each stand could take in 19,500 people. All he needed was a quiet nook that offered a clear line of sight to the VIP box.

“Hey! Hullo!” Leon realized the khaki-clad cop was talking to him. “What's with the camera? Don't you know photography is not allowed?”

“Oh! Sorry, I didn't realize that.” Leon kept his cool. There were many people in the stadium, most of them working on something or the other, but only a few Caucasians.

“Let's see some ID.” The cop came closer, clicking his fingers. “What exactly are you doing here?”

“I'm with
Weekly News
. Cameraman.” Leon held out a press card. “Just checking out angles and positions.” Leon was confident his fake press card, identifying him as a cameraman, would get him through in a pinch. But he didn't want to push his luck any more than required.

“Don't bother.” The cop returned the card after a brief glance. Leon knew security was at low key right now. But in another day, two at best, soon as the preparatory work was over, they would clamp down, if not seal the stadium. That's when the scanners and sniffer dogs would be out in full force. “Media locations are fixed. Go to the control room and get the details.” He pointed out a room at the other end of the East Hill stand.

“Thanks. I didn't know that.” Leon was shaken because he hadn't even seen the cop coming.

Wake up, old man.
He admonished himself.

Moving off in the direction indicated by the cop, Leon began to short-list sniper positions. But now he was in a hurry, unwilling to get noticed again, especially by the same policeman.

Tactically, the most obvious sniper positions would be watched; hence the less obvious ones were of greater use to him. However, smart security people knew that and thus always considered the least obvious ones as the more dangerous.
Or not.
Leon knew that ultimately it was a matter of bluff and double bluff; whoever managed to achieve tactical surprise would invariably win.

The solution struck him as he crossed the stand: the giant scoreboards. Electronic, thus unmanned. Huge and colorful; thus perfect for a properly camouflaged sniper. Lastly, they dominated the stadium; line of sight would be no issue. Checking the cop wasn't looking at him, he used the laser range finder to reconfirm the range. Doable. Leon was satisfied and now keen to get out of there. After another glance to see the cop was still not looking at him, Leon headed for the exit.

Now to get hold of sniper rifles and at least two improvised explosive devices.

Then get them past security into the stadium.

That shouldn't be a problem.

Leon knew Vishal was aching to prove himself. He had every intention of giving him the opportunity. Though not the way Vishal would have hoped for.

Leon allowed himself a satisfied smile; things were falling into place.

Now if only Baxter comes through with the info and Nitin with the weapons. Then all I need is to motivate Vishal to take on the diversionary attack … of course, he will not know it is only a diversion.

Won't he?

Vishal is a smart cookie.

What if he finds out?

That stalled him; Leon had already gauged that Vishal was devious.

Not someone to take lightly or for granted.

Worry returned.

Then he spotted Fatima, sauntering up toward the stadium.

What on earth is wrong with this woman?

Worry escalated.

Does she think this is a holiday tour?

Leon had taken considerable effort to try out another disguise, the Professor Naug look: brown hair, worn relatively shorter, just over the ears, blue eyes and clean-shaven. It was unrelated to the two he was using for Sarita Vihar and Jorbagh
and
gave him the opportunity to check it out. Leon had, however, deliberately omitted the rimless spectacles. There were too many photos of Naug floating around for comfort, part of the conference publicity materials. He was confident Fatima wouldn't recognize him and eager to test that.

But he was boiling as he headed toward her. Determined to send her off with an earful. Aware the only thing worse than a smart enemy was a dumb associate … or client, in this case.

This woman needs to go back to London … or wherever the hell she wants to go. She is going to be the death of me.

“What on earth are you doing here?” Mindful of the people around, Leon kept his tone low, but there was no mistaking his anger.

To his satisfaction Fatima did a double take at his appearance, but she obviously recognized his voice.

“I thought I would find you here,” Fatima replied cheerily, trying to ignore his anger. “I was wondering if I could be of any help.”

“Did I not make it clear to you? The only help I want from you is to make yourself scarce,” Leon grated. “Do you realize that if you're caught I will abort? Why do you think I told you to order your group's leaders to lie low till this was over?”

“But…” Fatima was flustered now.

“No buts!” Leon made no effort to curb his fury. “If you want me to do this, you will have to go to ground and stay there till it's over. Right now you're the weakest link in the chain … and I have enough to worry about. Get it?”

 

NINE

Fatima was shaking with rage by the time Leon finished telling her off. Coming on top of Vishal's rude brush-off the previous night, Leon's outburst proved to be the last straw. The need to hurt both of them was so strong that only her desire to see the mission to its conclusion prevented her from slapping him.

Wait till you finish this mission, Leon Binder!

For the first time she looked forward to telling him she'd run out of money to pay him with anticipation rather than fear.

As for Vishal … I wish I had a gun.

A seething mass of emotions, Fatima spun around and headed away from the stadium for the cabstand in the distance, across the ninety-foot-wide road. It was only when she'd gotten inside the battered-looking black-and-yellow Maruti van that she realized she didn't know where to go. The mere thought of returning to her hotel room made her feel claustrophobic.

And I don't want to be alone.

But Fatima realized there was no one she could seek out. To assuage her loneliness she pulled out her mobile to call her son, but, worried she would infect Zaki with her anxiety, she dropped it back in her bag.

“Maurya Sheraton,” she told the cabbie in a resigned tone.

He was a talkative type and, realizing she was a Pakistani, left no stone unturned in explaining to Fatima why Pakistan needed to focus on her own problems, rather than worry about the plight of Muslims all over the world. Even worse, he was the type who read the editorials every day and was keen to discuss them.

“I believe that in Pakistan, unemployment and inflation, both are around 25 percent. Is that right, jee?”

“I have no idea. I live in London.” Fatima had no desire to engage with him, yet in her present mood did not mind the lack of silence.

“That's what I read in the papers, jee.” His enthusiasm was undampened by her obvious lack of interest. “And that's the point I am trying to make. Since independence Pakistan has fought so many wars with India.” He gave a
that's-ridiculous
wave. “Just imagine what Pakistan would be like today if they had focused on their own problems. Not only did they lose every single war, they also lost half their country when Bangladesh became independent. And even worse, today their economy is in such an awful mess.” He paused, waited for his passenger to respond, and when he heard nothing forthcoming, resumed. “And see what's happening in Pakistan today … all these terror attacks and bomb blasts every day … how many hundreds are dying, and all for what? Just because your army has been aiding these terrorist groups. No?”

Luckily they reached the hotel and Fatima was saved the need to answer. However, her mood was even lower now. She carried the loneliness and anger back to her room. Despite the early hour, she opened the minibar.

Thank God they've replenished the minibar. Life should be like that … all good things should be replenished daily.

Emptying a whiskey miniature into a glass, she grabbed a can of Coke and headed for the bed, flicking on the television as she threw herself down on it.

The BBC news was on. There had been another bomb blast in Pakistan, this time in a crowded marketplace in Karachi.

Fatima grimaced. It had been many years since she'd visited Karachi, but the market looked familiar. So, for that matter, did the shattered glass, demolished cars, and battered bodies lying around on the television screen. These days it seemed to have become a familiar sight whenever Pakistan was in the news.

Perhaps that cabbie was right, after all. Perhaps it's time for Pakistan to put its terror-sponsoring days behind and focus on things like education, health care, and its economy.

Feeling even more depressed, Fatima changed channels.

On the next one, a rerun of
Breaking Bad
was on. It seemed appropriate given her current Heisenberg mood. She popped the Coke can, added a dash to the whiskey, and took a long swig. It warmed her, but the crappy feeling refused to go away.

 

TEN

Ravinder leaned in for a closer look at the entry wounds. The bodies hadn't been moved. And, possibly due to the heating, decay had accelerated. The stench was horrifying. The handkerchief on his nose did little to mask it.

“The powder burns are consistent with a contact shot.” The inspector from the crime team pointed out.

Typical when the firearm is fired while in contact with the body, the powder burns were in a tiny area; confined to a bluish ring around the entry wound.

But …
Ravinder leaned in closer, unsure.
What is that?

It must have caught Philip's eye, too; he pulled out a torch and leaning in close, examined the tattooing. It was more prominent on Sikander than on his wife.

“Look at the powder burn; notice the tattooing. Seems a silencer was used, sir.”

The inspector took a closer look, and looked sheepish for having missed that. “I'll look into it.”

“If a silencer was used…” Ravinder trailed off.
There was no silencer on the weapon cradled in Ali's hands.
The implications were obvious; someone had known Ali was under suspicion and due to be hauled in for questioning. That meant …

There is another mole …
in
the Special Task Force … since we haven't yet shared our suspicions with anyone.

Ravinder examined the two men on either side.

One of these two? Archana? Or Saina?

“You'd better listen to this.” A sub-inspector burst into the room. Trailing behind, looking apprehensive and uncomfortable, was a middle-aged woman. She seemed to have been hauled out of her kitchen; traces of flour were all over her blue cotton sari. The sub-inspector noticed three strangers in the room and stopped, confused.

“It's okay,” the crime team inspector told him. “These gentlemen are from NIA. His department.” He indicated the dead man. “What do I need to listen to?”

“Sister, tell them what you told me.” The cop nudged the woman he was towing. “She lives in the apartment below.”

 

ELEVEN

Vishal felt a shock wave of panic smash at him. He was already spooked by the speed with which Ravinder had identified the powder burn and homed in on the fact that a silencer had been used.

Had this damn woman spotted me?

Instinctively he shrank back, trying to make himself invisible. And his hand inched closer to his pistol, preparing to shoot his way out if she fingered him.

“Last night we had guests over for dinner.” The woman seemed oblivious of him. “After they left … it must have been around eleven, I was out on the balcony with my husband.”