KALYUG (32 page)

‘And Selvam?’

‘Raghav’s accompanying him here.’

‘Keep Selvam in sight for a couple of days. Then let him meet the chief justice and sign off on Qureshi’s death. In fact, it’s almost not worth the bother – with everything that’s happened, Qureshi’s almost forgotten news.’

‘It’s better to get the formalities done and dusted. We don’t want anyone chancing on an open enquiry later. Speaking of Qureshi, Nawaz agrees with me. The Bangalore attack was most likely just a test. He thinks the big one will happen here, in Delhi, maybe more spectacular. And a bit of chatter we picked up indicates it might be a Jacob hit.’

‘Christ!’ Nelson’s exclamation surprised Jagannath – it was rare, and therefore quite strange, to hear the older man swear. For as long as he had known him, Nelson had seemed to have ice water in his veins. ‘Jacob rarely misses.’

‘Neither does Nawaz Qureshi,’ Jagannth reminded him. ‘The guy’s a freak when it comes to counter-insurgency, and if there’s one person who can probably anticipate Jacob’s every move, it’s him.’

29th September, 2012. Singapore.

‘Jacob says we’ll know when we see it on the news.’

‘He’s probably worried about leaks,’ the chief said, placating his protégé.

Every time Gyandeep saw the protégé, his heart tugged. His own protégé had been taken from him, unnecessarily. Arrogantly. The thought kept his fury burning brightly.

‘President Timothy Jackson wants to finish the job,’ the chief told him with a satisfied smile. ‘Apparently, INSAF pushed the wrong buttons. Now he’s mad and wants his revenge. Wants not only the assassination but chaos all over the country as well.’

‘And then he can ride in on his high horse to the rescue?’ Gyandeep asked bitterly. ‘Who does he think he is? The Kalki avatar?’

The chief chuckled. ‘Unless India’s got reserves of oil only he knows about, I doubt he’s going to want to ride to anybody’s rescue. It’s just his ego he wants to feed. It’s no secret within the Intelligence communities across the world that INSAF penetrated the security around him like a hot knife through butter. I think he wants to make an example to discourage other nations from trying anything similar.’

29th September, 2012. New Delhi.

Richa joined us for lunch the next day.

‘Are you his chaperone?’ she asked Raghav with a wide grin as soon as she saw both of us. ‘Or you, his?’ she asked me, her eyes sparkling. Beautiful.

‘You know Selvam,’ Raghav said, getting up to greet her with kisses on both cheeks. Jealousy flickered somewhere within me, leaving its warmth behind. ‘Somebody needs to look after him in a big, bad city like this.’

‘But then he rarely goes out anyway,’ she said. ‘Or calls you up as promised.’ She gave me a pointed look.

I winced, making it look theatrical enough to mask the emotions within. So she did expect me to call . . . and I had been about to, so many times, chickening out every time because I had no idea how to start. Or rather, because I didn’t want to risk a false start.

‘This is the twenty-first century,’ Raghav said, flagging a waiter. ‘Who said men have to call first? You had his number – you even emailed me for the landline when I was . . . away. Menu and bottled water, please.’

I enjoyed watching the blush spread across her face.

29th September, 2012. New Delhi.

For two days, the new ‘routine’ had not changed. Qazi found a room for rent at a hostel near the Red Fort and attended prayers at the Juma Masjid five times a day before engaging the students from a nearby seminary in an impromptu discussion on the religion for a few minutes. Every time he walked away from the mosque after the prayers, he worried for a few minutes if he would be able to accomplish what his handler had asked of him the moment he knew Qazi had reached the capital.

‘There is an attack planned for next month,’ the handler had told him over the phone. ‘Find a way to get into some of the radical groups in Old Delhi. Even if they aren’t involved in the actual attacks, someone might know that little bit more than what we do. Like when, where . . .’

Qazi had chosen the Juma Masjid for many reasons, but chiefly for his familiarity with the mosque, having spent two years at a nearby madrassa when he was younger, and the fact that it had one of the biggest congregations in the city. With so many Muslims attending the prayers, there was a higher likelihood of getting lucky.

And it would have to be luck, Qazi thought. Good or bad,
Inshallah,
but he was not a detective. His debt to his handler had been repaid when he had passed along the news of the impending attacks. He was doing this because he knew nothing else that could occupy his time.

It was better to be bait than to wait, he thought drolly. A devout young man in peak physical conditioning would be noticed. Qazi was not banking on being at the right place at the right time; he intended to be sought out for the honour. Someone was bound to take note of the young man who was so passionate and committed about his religion.

And then?

Inshallah
.

30th September, 2012. Thiruvananthapuram.

There was a newcomer amongst the cleaning crew at the party offices that morning, but no one noticed. This newcomer was noticeably slower than the others, constantly looking as if he were overawed by his surroundings, but no one noticed. He took a longer time cleaning the four rooms assigned to him, but no one noticed. When he left, his paunch had reduced considerably. But no one noticed.

A few minutes after eleven in the morning, just as the meeting of the local wing of the party was called into order, the bombs exploded. The explosions, strategically planted for maximum structural damage, cracked the beams and achieved the desired effect. Within seconds, the floors above collapsed into the hall below. Those who were too slow to get out were crushed.

The dead outnumbered the injured.

30th September, 2012. Kolkata.

The office of the Communist Party had just received news of the blast in Thiruvananthapuram when a powerful explosion on the street outside shattered all the windows on that side. Immediately afterward, the sound of screaming souls and honking horns filled the air.

Many of the comrades who were gathering for a meeting to discuss the tactics of the next week’s struggle against the government rushed outside, most of them eager to help in any way possible. Scores of injured greeted their eyes; the mangled remains of the tram, under which the bomb had been planted, lay on its sides, a crushed car cushioning it.

The second explosion happened in one of the cars parked along the side of the street, the blast even more powerful and deadlier than the one under the tram. The metal of the car turned to shrapnel that shredded everyone unfortunate enough to be in its path; the shockwave radiated outward, crushing the organs of those already weakened by the blast; the heat ignited the vehicles on either side within seconds.

The entire street became an incinerator within minutes.

1st October, 2012. Rashtrapati Bhavan.

‘I have to give the public an answer,’ demanded the president.

‘We don’t have one.’

‘Create one. That shouldn’t be a problem, right? We’ve done it so many times before.’

Jagannath stepped in before Nelson could answer. ‘With all due respect, sir, that’s exactly the problem. We give out so many theories about a single incident that we simply end up confusing everyone, especially – and unfortunately – the investigating agencies themselves. And the defence lawyers then use these theories to discredit our prosecution, to sow the seeds of doubt, to get acquittals because we were simply unable to disprove
every
other theory that we ourselves trotted out.’

Sensing the rise in the president’s temper, Nelson decided to play the diplomat. ‘What Jagannath is trying to say is that you do not have to give in to those political compulsions anymore. There is no purpose to anyone getting mileage out of this. You can simply issue a statement saying you have been apprised of the investigation’s progress and when the time is right, the appropriate authorities will reveal more details.’

‘And what about the rumours that the government itself is behind the blasts?’ the president asked. ‘What do I say if they ask me about it?’

1st October, 2012. New Delhi.

I hung up the phone and turned to Richa. ‘That was Raghav. Apparently, the CJI has other engagements today.’

‘And tomorrow is Gandhi Jayanti,’ she pointed out.

‘Yep. Which means my appointment has been postponed to the third.’

‘So what are you going to do now?’

‘I don’t know . . . maybe get out and roam around. Call up my friends. It’s been alleged that I don’t do either of those things.’

She grinned. I grinned back at her. ‘Unless you’re prepared to show me around the city. I’ve heard Delhi is pretty dangerous this time of the year.’

She took one last sip of her coffee before placing it back on the table between us and summoning the waiter for the bill. ‘Come on then. And on the way you can explain to me once again why you think that last appointment of Qureshi’s was the one that pushed him over the edge.’

2nd October, 2012. Mumbai.

The school bus had just turned into the parking lot when it exploded. The bomb, fixed to the underside of the chassis, ripped it into two halves, the fire frying everything in its path in the instant of its existence. The two parts toppled in opposite directions, burning masses of metal that blocked the entrance to the school.

2nd October, 2012. Rashtrapati Bhavan.

There was no denying that the president was livid. His face was flushed as deeply red as Nelson had ever seen and his jaw worked silently as he tried to keep his rage in check.

‘A school. A
school!
’ The president finally found his voice. ‘A few minutes later and all those kids would have died. That’s what everyone will remember – not that it was only the driver inside the bus when it exploded! I need answers, Nelson. And you’d better give me one or else –’

‘Or else what?’ Nelson Katara asked. He had reached his own boiling-point as well. ‘What will you do, GK? Fire me? How? As far as anybody’s concerned, I don’t exist. INSAF doesn’t exist. If you have to fire someone, you’ll have to fire the DGP or the city commissioner, or the head of RAW or IB. So stop wasting time with these threats. I’ve told you we are working on it.’

President GK stared at Nelson with undisguised contempt. ‘Do you think this is some kind of a pissing contest, Nelson? There are people dying out there, and every single time a bomb goes off, our government ends up looking weak. I look weak. Ineffective. If that’s what you wanted, you might have as well have let Kuldip serve out his term!’

Nelson held up the palm of his hand in a placating gesture. ‘I realize that. But – repeating what we said yesterday – it makes no sense to jump in and pretend we have all the answers when we have none. Give us a little more time. I’ll have an answer for you by the end of the week.’

‘No,’ the president shook his head. ‘That’s too long.’

2nd October, 2012. New Delhi.

I started the conversation with, ‘Did you hear about the blast in Mumbai?’

‘Yeah, I’m watching the news right now. Thank God the bomb blew up a few minutes too early. All those kids on their way to the Martyrs’ Memorial on Gandhi Jayanti . . . who would do such a thing?’

‘Some very sick bastards. I’ve been telling you, Richa – look at the evidence. Since GK’s taken over, things have gone from bad to worse.’

‘You can’t blame GK for this!’ she protested. ‘I’m not his fan any more than you are, but it’d be stupid to pin this on him. We’ve had blasts earlier too. It’s a failure of the system.’

I stubbornly refused to concede the point. The events of the past few days, I felt, were validating my concerns about the chaos resulting from INSAF’s cockamamie attempt to solve the country’s problems.

‘Look, forget it,’ Richa said, accurately reading my silence. ‘I was about to call you myself. I’ve been thinking about what you told me yesterday about Qureshi’s death and I still think it’s a bit thin to tie his suicide to the last meeting he had.’

‘It’s a matter of timing. Why would a guy who’s been fighting for almost six months suddenly give up?’

‘Maybe he just realized it was futile. What would he achieve even if he won? A public acknowledgment by the government that the Army was badly ill-equipped? That would be the last thing he wanted.’

‘Wasn’t it his intention to see the guilty punished?’

‘It was, but you’ve seen how these things drag on without ever reaching a conclusion. Look at Bofors. The ’92 blasts. He must have realized that except for the Army getting hurt, nothing else was going to happen in his lifetime. Maybe that’s why he cut it short.’

‘But then,’ I asked, flipping my trump card once again. ‘Why would he write “temptations”? Why not “hopelessness” or something else? Why
temptation
?’

She offered the same explanation she had the previous day, the same one I kept discounting. ‘What if Powerhouse had reached out to him for some kind of an understanding? Maybe a quid pro quo. You remember what Jagannath told you – maybe they had something on his son.’

‘That’s it,’ I said, snapping my fingers. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? ‘We need to talk to his son. He might be able to shed more light on this.’

‘Selvam,’ she said, drawing the last syllable out so that the warning in it was blindingly clear. Despite the excitement, I smiled. I liked the way my name rolled off her tongue. ‘Are you sure you want to do this? The son’s been through enough without you asking him questions about his father.’

I refused to be discouraged. ‘Let me talk to Raghav. Maybe he can set it up.’ As an afterthought, I added, ‘And maybe we can ask him to be the moderator.’
Just to be sure I don’t get beaten up by Junior Qureshi,
I thought.

A few minutes ago, President Gopi Kishan Yadav signed an ordinance to create a new national security agency that will co-ordinate and oversee the intelligence and domestic security operations of existing organizations such as the Research and Analysis Wing, the state Intelligence bureaus, Military Intelligence, even the CBI and central, state and reserve police forces. Over to Rashtrapati Bhavan, where the president is addressing the country in a nationwide telecast: