PRIMAL Mirza (A PRIMAL Series Novella) (8 page)

CHAPTER
11

CHANDNI
CHOWK

“Your men are very efficient.”
Al-Jahiz studied the maps and photographs pinned to the dining room wall.
Within hours of their arrival, they’d converted the room into a makeshift
operations center. “Is this the route she uses every day?”

“She
has for two days in a row. Tomorrow will confirm it.” Karim added the last of
the photos to the board.

“Where
are the men?”

“They
are all resting.”

Al-Jahiz
pointed to one of the photos. It showed a woman in a smart business suit. “She
dresses like a whore. An abomination in the eyes of Allah. Deserves to die.”

“And
she will. I think the best place to grab her is at a restaurant. Her apartment
has extensive security. And from the looks of it, her car might have armor.”

“I
agree.” He pointed to the map of New Delhi. “I see she frequents restaurants
near the Secretariat. Strike there. We may have the chance to kill some of the
infidel leaders.”

“Good
idea. That’ll make the mission even more worthwhile…” Karim pointed to one of
the room’s remaining bare walls. “Do you want me to start preparing the
information for your team?”

“You
need sleep, Karim. There’ll be plenty of time in the morning.”

“Our
instructors always said the greatest danger when dealing with those willing to
make the ultimate sacrifice is time.”

“Patience,
my brother. I’m sure we will receive our orders soon. Tomorrow, we will gather
more intel and rehearse what we can.”

“When
are you going to conduct a reconnaissance?”

Al-Jahiz’s
pulse quickened with the thought of seeing his objective. “I’ll go after the
midday prayer.”

A
knock at the door stopped all conversation. With them finalizing their
planning, Al-Jahiz had insisted it be kept locked. He did not trust the
criminals and the suicide team wouldn’t be briefed until the mission was green
lit.

“Who
is it?” asked Karim.

“It’s
me, Neeraj.”

“What
do you want?”

“We
have a problem.”

Al-Jahiz
nodded.

Karim
cracked the door slightly. “What’s going on?”

“One
of my men overheard a street urchin telling a cop about a new bunch of Pakis in
town.”

Al-Jahiz
stuck his head through the opening. “What did he look like? Did he have a
bruise on his face?”

“I’m
not sure. But his name is Atal. A street rat who runs around begging and
stealing.”

“I
remember him. He led us to the street corner. Is he going to be trouble?”

Neeraj
shrugged. “The police won’t listen to him.”

“We
can’t have loose ends. Silence him.”

“I
know where he’ll be in the morning. He hangs around the
tuk-tuks
. It will be my
pleasure to deal with him.” Neeraj chuckled. “My men will hack out the little
monkey’s eyeballs.”

The
criminal’s laugh unnerved Al-Jahiz. As he shut the door, he glanced at his
friend. “Make sure you pay him. I don’t want to owe that snake anything.”

As
he sat, the phone in his pocket started ringing. He lifted it to his ear and
listened. A moment later, he tucked the phone away. “We have our orders. The
mission will go ahead tomorrow. The game starts in the afternoon and we will
hit them after the first couple of hours.”

“When
the most people will be there?”

Al-Jahiz
nodded. “I’ll check on the target in the morning.”

A
smile spread across Karim’s pudgy features. “Glory be to Allah.”

“Glory
be to Allah.”

CHAPTER
12

It took Mirza and
Himesh more than fifteen hours to get from the crash site to the slums of New
Delhi. They’d arrived late at night and were lucky to find a hostel open. Once
checked in, Mirza was shocked at their room’s condition. Cheap didn’t begin to
describe the two metal-framed beds pushed against the moldy walls and the rust
stained sink. The toilet was down the hall. Too exhausted to care, they ate a
late meal and collapsed on their cots.

In the morning, when the surveillance team
leader knocked on the door, Mirza jerked awake. “I’ll get it,” he mumbled,
rolling out of bed. He staggered to the door, opened it, and motioned a whippet
of a man with non-descript features into the room.

“Well?” Himesh asked.

“We tailed the Pakis from the border and lost
them just on the outskirts of the Chandni Chowk. Too many vans and not enough
eyes. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t dwell on it. This was a slap together
job. That you weren’t spotted and didn’t lose them earlier is a testament to
your team’s skill.”

“Appreciated. We did get a glimpse of the
leader. He’s about five foot five with crazy looking eyes. They kind of bulge
out of his head like a bug’s. His beard’s neatly trimmed and comes down to
about mid neck.”

“And the others?”

“Four of them. All with trimmed beards and dressed
like Paki workers.” He passed Himesh a large envelope. “Here are the
photocopies of the IDs they used at the border. I’ve also put some of our
surveillance photos in there.”

“What about NSG?” Mirza asked.

“I handed the job over to them. They got a copy
of the photos but didn’t seem too interested.”

Frowning, Himesh shook his head. “That’s
strange.”

“Not sure what’s going on over there. My team’s
been reallocated, we’re to report to HQ.” He dropped a black bag on the bed.
“Here’s the gear you requested. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

“All good, my friend. Thanks again.” Himesh
shook his hand and opened the door for him.

When he had left Mirza dropped back onto his
bed. “What do you suggest? Head over to NSG?”

“No, not yet. If we go empty handed, they won’t
take us seriously.”

“You think we can find them ourselves?”

“Yes, I do. A few hours now, could save us a
lot of heartache in the long run. I’ve worked with NSG before. They move bloody
slow.”

“OK, so where do we start?’

“We get out on the street and link up with the
local cops. Given there’s over a million people in Chandni Chowk, they could
point us in the right direction.”

Mirza’s jaw dropped. “A million?”

“That’s right. You’re not in the Himalayas any
more Sherpa boy.” He unzipped the bag on the bed, pulled out a pair of
Glock 19
pistols, and passed one to Mirza along with a holster and a small UHF radio.

Mirza stared at the weapon. “I thought we
weren’t allowed to carry domestically without police authority.”

“I know, but if the bad guys are packing heat
then so are we.”

***

“If you want to blend in, stop
gawking,” hissed Himesh, scanning the crowd as they pushed their way through.

“I’ve
never seen anything like this except on the TV,” Mirza said. Despite the early
hour, Chandni Chowk was an ants nest of life. People were everywhere: old women
selling cheap pots and rolls of cloth, street urchins begging for change, old
men smoking hashish, and even the odd western tourist.

“It
can be a little overwhelming.”

Mirza
inhaled deeply as they passed a stall selling curry. The rich odors made him
hungry. He inhaled again and nearly choked at the stench of raw human feces.

A
few minutes later, they turned down a side alley. Within twenty yards, the rich
tapestry of the markets had been peeled back to reveal a slum of unrelenting
squalor. The conditions shocked Mirza. Naked, filthy children played in the
street alongside flea-ridden dogs. He met the gaze of a middle-aged woman
stirring a battered pot. Her eyes told the story of a lifetime of struggle.
“Not everyone lives well here,” he murmured.

“Most
just survive day to day.”

As
they left the slum, Mirza focused on the job at hand and approached the local
police post. “With all these people, I’m surprised it’s so small.”

“There
are big stations outside Chandni Chowk. Come on, let’s go.”

Dodging
traffic, they crossed a four-laned road to get to the station. A small barred
window separated the police from the public.

Himesh
slid his identification through the bars and waved it under the nose of the
on-duty policeman. “Good morning. Do you mind if we come in for a chat?”

The
khaki-uniformed officer checked the identification and spoke to two others
sitting inside. He turned back to Himesh. “Come around to the door.”

A
lock rattled. The heavy side door swung open. A senior constable invited them
in. “It is a great honor to have you and your friend in our station, Captain.
How can we help you?”

“We’re
looking for some people,” said Himesh.

Mirza
wiped his brow. He hated stuffy, smelly rooms. This one was both. The ceiling
fan wobbled as it rotated slowly, doing nothing but move the odor of dirty,
sweaty bodies. The small post barely fit the three policemen let alone guests.
A desk beneath the service window and a table with four chairs in the middle of
the room were the only furniture. Tucked under the desk was an old safe.

The
constable directed them to take a seat at the table. “Are these people in
Chandni Chowk?”

One of the officers took a tray
off the table and walked outside.

“We
believe so. Yesterday, our organization tracked a group of five Pakistanis from
the border to here.”

The
constable shook his head. “There are a lot of Pakis here, Captain. Many of them
stay in the slums so they can send more money back to their families.”

“These five are dressed as
workers but will look a little different,” said Mirza. “They will hold
themselves in a more military fashion. They’ve trained together so they’ll move
as unit of sorts.”

“No,
I’m sorry. I haven’t seen or heard of any men like that.” He glanced at his
colleague manning the window.

The
duty officer shook his head.

The
third policeman walked back in placed a tray of cold soft drinks on the table. The
constable passed them each a beverage.

Mirza held an ice cold can of
soda, hoping its coolness would counter the heat and humidity. If it was this
hot this early, Allah save them. Popping open the can, he guzzled the soda.

“What
about you, Ranbir?” the constable asked the man who had fetched the drinks.
“Have you heard anything?”

One
glance told Mirza the policeman was a Sikh. Tall and bearded, he wore a khaki
turban wrapped around his head.

“No,
nothing… actually, one of the street urchins was babbling something about Pakis
yesterday. Atal, his face was all bruised.”

“Atal,
is that his name?” Mirza asked.

“Yes,
he’s a street brat. Usually hangs out over by the markets. Bit of a trouble
maker, always getting into mischief.”

“What
does he look like?”

“Same
as all the others. Skinny. Filthy rags for clothes, no shoes and light fingers.
I’d say he’s about twelve. Likes the sound of his own voice.”

Himesh
finished his soda and set the empty can on the table. “So we can find him at
the markets?”

“Yes.
Head further down this street and then left. I can show you if you like.”

“Appreciated,
but we don’t want to impose. Thanks for all your help, we’ll try to drop by
later today to let you know how we went.” Himesh gave a nod and disappeared out
the door.

“Let
us know if you need anything else,” the constable said to Mirza.

“Thanks.”
He shook each man’s hand, then headed for the exit and returned to the
maelstrom of humanity and humidity that was Chandni Chowk.

CHAPTER
13

Mirza checked his watch. An hour
and they were still searching for Atal. They had worked their way through
nearly half the sprawling market and questioned a dozen shopkeepers. When they
paused in the shade of one of the stalls, he said, “I think we’ll have better
luck if we split up.”

A
merchant approached with an armful of plastic sheeting. Himesh waved him away.
“You’re right, you head that way. Stay in touch over the radio. I’ll go to the
northern end.”

Mirza
strode between the rows of stalls. He caught the odd glimpse of street urchins
to no avail. Every time he got near them, they melted into the crowd. He had to
give them credit. They were a cagey bunch and recognized the difference between
a cop and a free handout. This required a different approach.

He
spotted a gaggle of kids hanging around what looked to be a street kitchen. As
he got closer, he noticed an old woman handing out bread. He smiled. Even in
suffocating poverty, a glimmer of humanity existed. Once the woman finished
giving out the stale loaves, he approached. She smiled from under her orange
headscarf. Her face was creased like old leather; her eyes dark brown and warm.
“Hello, handsome.”

“Hello.”

She
reached into a battered, ice-filled cooler and pulled out a cold can of Pocari
Sweat. “Could I interest you in a cold drink?”

Mirza
dropped a handful of coins into her hand and accepted the soda. “Thank you.” He
rolled the can across his forehead. “I’m not used to the heat.”

“I
didn’t think you were a local.”

Mirza
cracked the can and took a swig. “Not a local. But I could sure do with some
local knowledge.”

The
old woman returned to her cooking pots. “What can I help you with?”

“I’m
looking for a street kid called Atal.”

The
woman squinted. “What has that little ruffian done?”

“No,
don’t worry. It’s nothing like that. I just want to talk to him about something
he saw.”

“Are
you a policeman?”

“Sort
of, I work for the government.”

“You
promise he isn’t in trouble?”

“I
promise.”

The
old lady studied Mirza’s face. “You can find him at the station.” She motioned
to the tracks that bordered the western side of the markets. “He won’t be far
from where the tuk-tuks park,” she said referring to the distinctive
three-wheeled taxis. “You can’t miss him, he never shuts up.”

“So
I’ve heard,” Mirza said with chuckle as he handed her a wad of Rupee notes.

She
shook her head. “I can’t take your money.”

“Use
it to feed the children,” he said over his shoulder. He jogged in the direction
she had indicated, updating Himesh over the radio.

Mirza
found the tuk-tuks easily. All ten of them parked in a row and painted in
yellow and green. The three wheeled motorcycles were the most popular form of
public transport in New Delhi. Not only were they cheap, they were agile enough
to maneuver through the densely packed roads.

When
he stopped in front of the first taxi, he was accosted by five youths all
yelling the same words. “Tuk-tuk, mister? Tuk-tuk?”

“No,
no. I’m looking for my friend, Atal.”

The
boys stared blankly until he pulled out a ten Rupee note.

“Other
men came for him, bad men,” said one of the boys.

He
retained his grasp on the note. “How long ago?”

“Just
now, he ran that way.” The boy pointed down a street that led back into the
slum.

***

Sprinting down a side alley,
Atal’s heart felt like it was going to explode. Desperate to escape, he
searched for a gap in the ramshackle housing. He ducked between two sheets of
corrugated iron, then darted into a laneway and paused, sucking in the humid
air. A shout echoed from behind and he glanced back. Someone ripped the metal
sheets apart.

An
angry, bearded face stared down at him. “Little fucker’s over here!” The man
squeezed through the opening.

A
second pursuer came crashing through the back wall of one of the makeshift
houses. A woman’s scream filled the air.

Atal
dashed down the rubbish-filled lane. His legs ached and lungs burned. A third
man appeared to the front, blocking his escape. He skidded and fell on the
slimy surface.

The
man in front grinned revealing a mouth filled with crooked yellow teeth.

Atal
recognized him as one of Neeraj’s thugs. He spun around. The other two were
moving in like hyenas looking for the kill.

Rotten-teeth
pulled out a wicked curved blade. “You’re fucked now, aren’t you?”

Atal
scrambled to his feet, searching franticly for a way out. Sheet iron bounded
both sides, a canyon with cliffs of wood and metal.

As
the men closed in, he scrambled up some trash piled to one side and leaped at
the tin wall. Grunting, he got his chest over as his feet scrabbled at the
metal.

“Quick,
the little rat’s trying to get away!”

Atal’s
toe found a dent in the wall and he managed to get himself up. A hand closed
around his ankle. He kicked out.

“Arrgh!”
One of the thugs fell backwards.

Atal
jumped up and took off. He ran along the rooftops, dodging holes and leaping
over gaps. The hot iron burnt his feet. It spurred him on.

The
men followed from down in the alley. “Get him.”

Reaching
the edge of the line of shanties, he skidded to a halt inches from a three-yard
gap. “Oh, no.” He backed up and took a deep breath. With a burst of speed, he
jumped.

One
of his assailants seemed to appear out of nowhere. He grabbed Atal’s bare leg
and brought him crashing down.

The
street urchin lay on the ground, gasping. He tried to crawl. Someone pinned his
legs.

“We
got you now, you little punk.”

They
flipped him onto his back. Two men held him down. The one with the yellow teeth
knelt over with a knife.

“I’m
gonna cut out your eyes.” His rancid breath hit like a cloud of poison gas.
“Then your liver and heart.”

Atal
snarled and snapped as his head was held still.

“Bit
of a fighter, hey.” He poked the bruise on Atal’s face with his finger.

Tears
welled in the youth’s eyes.

“Just
give up, boy. It’s all over,” hissed rotten-teeth as he edged his curved blade
toward Atal’s eye. The tip almost touched before he was thrown sideways and
slammed into a wall with a crash.

“You
always beat up on little kids?” asked a stern voice with a hint of a northern
accent.

The
other two criminals released Atal. He took comfort from their wary gazes until
they pulled long-bladed knives from beneath their shirts.

Rotten-teeth
retrieved his knife. “This isn’t your business, mister.”

Atal
stared at the stranger. He had lean Asiatic features and a fierce beard. The
man’s stance reassured him. It suggested he could handle himself.

“Three
men picking on a street kid. I think you just made it my business.”

“Your
death wish then.” Rotten-teeth nodded to his partners. The two thugs advanced
with their knives.

Mirza
cocked his head, a nervous smile playing at the corners of his lips. He
considered drawing his pistol and ending this before it started. But he wasn’t
supposed to be carrying the weapon, let alone use it to gun down civilians in
broad daylight. Damn. He hoped Himesh arrived soon.

The
two men he faced had clearly been in a street fight before. They circled him
like sharks, knives held at arm’s length. The taller one lunged, thrusting with
his blade. Mirza side-stepped and chopped at the man’s arm with the bridge of
his hand. The knife clattered to the ground. Mirza shoved him sideways snapping
around to face the other adversary.

The
next man was faster. His knife flashed as he advanced. Mirza was forced back as
the blade sliced through his sleeve and nicked his flesh.

He
kicked the thug in the chest, knocking him back. He felt a warm trickle of
blood but didn’t have time to check the wound. The tall thug had picked up a
length of wood and was swinging it wildly. Mirza blocked the blow. Pain shot up
his arm.

Rotten-teeth
had found his feet and strode forward, his curved blade held ready.

Mirza
backpedalled. He reached to his hip for the
Glock
hidden under his shirt as the Indian gangsters came in for
the kill.

“No
need for that.”

Hearing
Himesh’s confident voice, Mirza pulled his hand back and dropped it by his
side.

Himesh
moved with unbelievable speed. He kicked rotten-teeth in the side of the knee
and smashed him with an elbow to the temple.

The
knife fighter was next. He lunged slashing the blade in an arc. Himesh caught
his arm and twisted the wrist. A crack echoed in the small alley. Knife fighter
screamed and dropped to his knees.

The
third man attacked with his makeshift club. Himesh ducked, stabbing the
criminal in the chest with the knife still held in his partner’s hand. Without
a wasted motion, he snapped knife fighter’s neck. Both corpses flopped to the
ground. “Check the kid.”

Mirza
shook the boy gently. He appeared stunned but otherwise OK.

“You’re
like Superman,” the dazed youth mumbled.

Mirza
helped him up. “Not exactly, but you’re safe now. What’s your name?”

“Atal.”

Rotten-teeth
moaned, drawing their attention. He had got to his feet and staggered down the
alley. He glanced over his shoulder and disappeared around a corner.

Himesh
checked the other men for signs of life. “We need to get out of here before he
returns with friends. Bring the boy with us. We can question him back at the hostel.”