Operation ‘Fox-Hunt’ (12 page)

The sleeper explained to an incredulous Shezad, “It’s for an emergency, just in case. They are a part of the consignment that had come in when I had been installed here. This flat actually belonged to a gangster boss, before he left for Karachi. I have tried to oil and maintain the weapons every fortnight. In the corner is a bag with 2000 US dollars and Indian currency worth two hundred thousand. It’s for your men in case you need to abort the mission and leave the place. I have parked a Mahindra Scorpio SUV below…will show you…the keys are here and the tank is full. It’s got a custom-built extra-large fuel tank and bulletproof glass. It has VIP passes stuck on the windscreen; they are from the local legislature. Indian cops will not flag down a car having these, unless you do something really strange. We procured them this week from a contact in Vidhan Sabha, the state legislative. It cost me 30,000 rupees. But I know you will appreciate it. When you get the instructions, you will use it to drive to the target. There is a GPS device in your BlackBerry with pre-loaded directions to the target. You will reach the outskirts of Pune and call the number saved as ‘Ali’ on your cell phone. He will then meet you near the Sayaji Hotel on the highway… it’s on GPS… you can coordinate the exact meeting point on the cell and he will take you to the safe house.”

He also handed over an envelope with Indian identification cards, driving licences and college identity cards for four students and a coach. It also has five Dubai passports, duly entry-stamped with open tickets for a cruise ship berthing from Mumbai on 13 December. Shezad wondered how they had been procured. Each of his men had a complete identity kit. The passports and tickets were their bolt-hole in case the plan was aborted.

“Ask your men to memorize the details of their identities. You never know when it might help.” The agent warned as he handed the papers to Shezad.

“One question,” said Shezad. “How do I recharge the cell phone, it’s pre-paid, right?”

The sleeper replied, “Yes, it is, you can go down to the milk shop around the corner or wherever you see the Vodafone sign in the market and recharge it. I hope you are not planning to use it frequently? Take usual precautions and never, never ever call Pakistan with it…”

Shezad quickly replied, “No, no…not at all, just asking, you know…curiosity…”

“One other thing, when you are in the city, never carry weapons on you. You can bluff your way out of anything, but with a weapon on you…you are dead meat. Also, you don’t take them with you to the target. Leave them here. They have weapons for you there, okay?” With that he left the flat.

In the evening he would call his brother in the US using his Indian cell phone. It was very common for Indians to call their families in the US, especially the large Gujarati community in Mumbai. After his father’s death, his mother had gone to live with his brother in the US. In a hostile country, awaiting a difficult mission, these phone calls were the source of his strength. His brother knew nothing of his mission, except that Shezad was now
in India and he should keep quiet about it; Shezad had spoken to him in detail before he left from his vacation in Pakistan. Shezad knew he was breaking the rule. But he really didn’t care.

He had never bothered too much about rules if he didn’t like them. He was cautious, but did what he wanted if he could get away with it. Standing ramrod straight at 5’7” feet, Shezad could be nothing but a soldier. That’s all he ever wanted to be. And now he was here, leading an operation in the heart of enemy territory. One thing Shezad wanted was to be the sword arm. Finally the opportunity had presented itself in the form of ‘Operation Shamshir’. Shamshir incidentally was ‘Sword’ in Persian. The thought made him smile. A rap on the door brought him out of his thoughts. “Prayer time, sir.”

9

Khulna, Bangladesh, 5 December

T
eam Rashid, after arriving in Bangladesh using fake passports given to them by the ISI, had been driven to Khulna, an important hub near the India-Bangladesh border. Their minder was Mehboob, a young Harkat-ul-Jihad-al Islami Bangladesh (HUJI-B) member. He was also an ISI agent. They were driven in a convoy of two Honda SUVs to a farmhouse complex on the outskirts of the city. The farmhouse complex had one main house and around three outhouses. They were put up in the main house. Mehboob explained to Hamza that the outhouses were occupied by HUJI guerrillas.

“When the time comes, they will be here to protect and escort you across the border into Indian territory. They are heavily armed and trained for action. But for security, your men will not fraternise with them; these are Islamabad’s orders.”

One of the men knocked and entered. He handed Mehboob a Samsonite hard case. Mehboob opened the suitcase once the man had left. He gestured to Hamza to come closer. He handed each of them a set of three envelopes. One envelope had a set of new papers, Indian ration cards and driving licences. There were papers identifying each of them as students of a private university in Kolkata. In the second envelope was a printout of air tickets
for the morning of 16 December for the Kolkata-Pune flight and each ticket matched the fake documents for each member. The third envelope had a wad of Indian currency worth ten thousand Indian rupees for each member and fake credit cards. Also there was a wallet to keep it all in. He also handed over a carryall to each of the men. It had three sets of clothes − all with Indian tags − and care had been taken to make them specific to each person’s size. There were toiletries from Indian consumer goods companies.

Mehboob was sitting with Hamza and explaining to him the set-up when they heard the roar of a heavy vehicle outside. It was a large Ford SUV pulling into the farmhouse. A man of military bearing walked in while the driver positioned himself near the vehicle, apparently armed.

Mehboob got up and respectfully motioned Hamza to follow him to the porch outside. He greeted the newcomer.

“This is Haider Sahib, from the embassy here; he is the cultural attaché.” Hamza smiled as he shook hands with the man, trying not to smirk at the officious title of an apparent ISI station head. Haider chatted genially with Hamza after Mehboob had politely left them alone.

“Hello Hamza, long, long time… I still remember you as a young bushy-tailed lieutenant in 2004 at that SSW raising day function. I trust the arrangements are in order here.”

Hamza nodded. “You will live here until orders are received to move you to India. You will cross the border on foot. A guide and a bodyguard detachment of Bengali ‘patriots’ will take you across safely. Once you reach a road head, a hired car will take you to Kolkata airport. You will fly out by an 1100 hours flight to Pune. Mehboob has handed you tickets for it. In Pune, you will be picked up at the airport. I am sure you have been briefed properly in Pakistan about what happens then. Weapons and
equipment have already been sent there. You and your men may roam around the town only in Mehboob’s company or with Aameer, the intense-looking armed man near the SUV. He is an ex-SSG commando sergeant. He is more than a match for the Bongs here… all of them together,” he snickered.

“I am leaving him here so that you have some company and he will make sure your four musketeers stay in line. He will ensure that they don’t go soft here by keeping them busy with physical training exercises. The place is big enough for them to stay fit. He will escort you across along with Mehboob, his boys and the guide and then come back to me. That way I will be able to report back to Islamabad that Phase I of the activity at my end has safely been closed.”

Haider added, “And, oh yes! I brought you boys some weapons. Don’t want you to depend on these characters … some MP5s … Aameer will unload them and the ammo, they are in the back of my jeep,” he pointed to the diplomatic license-plated vehicle. Aameer was already unloading two large cases. Hamza already liked Aameer. They chatted for an hour or so about the details of the stay and the crossover into India. Meanwhile Aameer unloaded the contents of the SUV. Then Haider left them and drove back to Dhaka.

“Mosquito bites as big as tiger’s, Janab! And sores on my leg; I wish we could have walked over from Attari,” moaned Rehman. Rehman was a cribber. He would always find a reason to complain. An extremely cadaverous-looking fellow, being ambidextrous he could shoot with both hands. “Shut up and eat your dinner,” replied Hamza. He was a rarity in the Pakistani armed forces; an officer from the northern areas, he had lived in the mountains all his early life. His father’s government job had ensured him an admission in a military school in Karachi. Post the meeting in Cherat, he had taken twenty men with
him to Sargodha. They had trained with his SSW commandos for the specialist skills required for a successful airfield assault. The training consisted of aircraft recognition course along with a demolition capsule. The demolition capsule covered aircraft and air field specific demolition tactics. He had been joined in these sessions by his CO, Shezad Khan and chosen men from the Karnail team. The sessions with Shezad and his Air Force people had stretched to classroom sessions where they were shown satellite pictures of the base and detailed videos of different parts of the airport. Each man learnt the skill of the man next to him so that in case of casualties, the operation could go on to its conclusion. Photographs and videos were shown repeatedly to imprint them in every trainees head. Each member in the team had been assigned key tasks. The training sessions were strenuous and led to natural pruning of his team. The training sessions had closed with a live fire exercise in the presence of Colonel Khan from ISI’s SS division. It was a full dress rehearsal with the SSW commandos from his original unit and local troops playing the role of the defending force. Finally, they had been briefed that in case an order for abort came through, they were to use the bolt-hole. At the end of the entire session he had picked the best four. The others were sent to a camp in FATA; they would be held incommunicado until the end of the operation. Besides Rehman, his team had three other members. Young Atiq, a farm boy who had come from Peshawar; his parents could not feed him twice a day. The only solution was the religious seminary or the madrassa next to the mosque. At the young age of 16, Atiq ended up as a porter for the Taliban forces fighting the US in Afghanistan. His subsequent graduation from a porter to soldier didn’t surprise anyone. During a fire fight with Karzai troops in the Helmand province, young Atiq saw his entire team getting wiped out. Not one to run, the 17-year-old grabbed a
rocket launcher and roared into attack. A senior Talib manning a neighbouring position saw the action and took Atiq under his wings. Two years down, Atiq had gained experience in combat across large swathes of Helmand. Few weeks back, Atiq had been recruited by the LET for a special mission. He trained hard and was selected; the money he had sent home would last his old parents a lifetime−a million rupees was indeed a prize in his dirt-poor village. He wished that he could attend his sister’s wedding though.

Kemal was from Mirpur, at least his well-off parents were, and Kemal was born and brought up in Birmingham, U.K. A nose for adventure and, as some believed, a streak of stupidity had made him come to Afghanistan to be a jihadi. His parents owned a 24X7 store in a prosperous area of the city. Nothing in his past suggested a lust for action which he claimed to be addicted to. He had no religious agenda, but a personal one. He saw himself as a freewheeling Rambo. He had fought Milosevic’s forces in Kosovo, the Russians in Chechnya, and the Americans in Afghanistan and now he looked forward to fighting the Indians. It was that simple. It was another high. Another thing he modelled after Rambo was his body. A serious body builder, he was always looking for a place to work out. A burn mark on his nose where a Serb-phosphorus bomb had scarred him marred his handsome face; that and the coldness of his eyes. The MI5 knew about him and so did the Americans. He could never return to England. His antics worried Hamza most; he was never the one to follow orders.

Afaq was a Pathan and everything about him screamed Pathan – almost six feet tall, fair and with a cheerful disposition. His village buddies called him ‘Afridi’. He always wanted to fight. In 2001 he joined the FC and within three months of joining had brawled with every NCO in the unit. In time-honoured
military tradition, he found himself being assigned to all sorts of menial tasks. When it got too much, he walked out of the camp one day and walked to his uncle’s house across the Durand Line. The boy loved to fight and a guiding light from the village cleric guided him towards an LET training camp. He had been there ever since. He had fought along with Hekmatyar’s fighters. This was his first operation outside of the Pashtun areas.

In a way Hamza’s team was lucky; they were not boxed-in like Shezad’s unit in the middle of India, right under the noses of Indians until they were about to make a hit. Hamza liked that.

10

GHQ Rawalpindi, 30 November: 1100 hours