SALIM MUST DIE (28 page)

Tiwari fell doing his duty… you must do yours…

The soldier in him knew that he had to stay focused on the task at hand.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

Katoch told him.

‘Did you find the biochems?’

‘There weren't any, sir,’ Katoch replied. ‘The weapon was a suitcase nuke.’

‘What?’ Anbu could not keep the shock out of his voice. ‘How the hell did they put one together?’

‘This is no makeshift device, sir. It's a highly sophisticated one.’ Katoch described the weapon in detail. ‘This whole operation reeks of a sanctioned strike, backed and supported by a government.’

‘Bloody hell!’

The call ended on a sombre note.

Strike Four

B
ERLIN

A DEEP SENSE OF UNEASE PLAGUED KARL WHEN HE WOKE UP
that morning. A long hot shower did nothing to dissipate the feeling. Nor did the exercise of taking out all the glass vials from the jars of cream, cleaning them with tissue paper and packing them into the specially crafted prosthetic that he extracted from his suitcase.

The prosthetic looked exactly like the one he normally wore, except that it was thicker and had been hollowed out, leaving a rather large cavity inside. Karl packed the glass vials of VX into this cavity and then carefully tried it on. It was certainly heavier and quite uncomfortable, but he was certain it would not look out of place or draw attention to him. He removed it carefully and emptied out the vials, then practiced taking off the prosthetic and bringing it into action a few times. Finally satisfied, he re-filled it and put it on.

The sun was still a long way from breaching the horizon when he finished his preparations for the strike and began to pace the room restlessly. The deep-seated sense of unease would simply not go away. Finally, he surrendered himself to the glory of prayer.

Bismillaah ar-Rahman ar-Raheem. Al hamdu lillaahi rabbil….

Time and the turmoil within, both stood still as the serenity of the Fatiha, the first surah of the Holy Koran, enveloped him. When he finally rose, Karl could feel the calm coursing through him like a rising tide. Powered by it, he watched the clock inch forward till it was finally time to move. His target was waiting for him. From all over Berlin and the outlying suburbs, hundreds of people were on their way to the venue. Most of them would not be going back alive. Karl was going to make sure of that. He pulled the door shut behind him and walked towards the elevator that was waiting to take him down. Towards the people who were coming to die.

THE INTERNATIONAL COMMEMORATION DAY FOR DEAD
and injured workers is celebrated (if that word can do justice to such an event) with much gusto by a host of trade unions all over the world on 28 April every year. This being the tenth celebration, the excitement surrounding the event was greater than in the past. A series of massive rallies were being organized in capitals and major cities all over the world.

The one in Berlin was to start from the Alexanderplatz. The rally was scheduled to proceed down Alexanderstrasse, turning left and going down the Karl-Liebknecht Strasse before. From there, it would head towards the Telespargel where it would end with the usual speeches by some local politicians and trade union leaders.

The first batch of people who arrived at the starting point comprised mostly those who were part of the organizing committee, but the others were not far behind. They started trickling in soon after, in threes and fours. About three hundred people had already gathered when Karl exited the Park Inn Hotel and began to walk briskly towards the starting point.

Karl saw the small, loose knot of cops watching the crowd that was slowly beginning to build up. But the crowd was quiet and orderly and there was no hint of trouble emanating from them. In fact, the cops did not even seem to be keeping an eye on them. They appeared to be scanning the people converging on the starting point.

Who are they looking for?

The first hint of alarm grazed Karl's mind.

To reach the venue of the rally, he would have to cut through the cluster of cops on this side of the road.

Damn!

The very thought made him acutely uneasy. He looked around, trying to seek an alternate route that would allow him to bypass the cops. That was when he noticed the other cops scattered all around the venue. Almost all of them were carrying what looked like a photograph in their hands.

Shit!

They know!

Without thinking, he reached for the prosthetic, releasing it from his body as he walked. By the time he was twenty feet from the nearest cop, he had almost freed it. By now a couple of the cops and some of the passersby had begun to take note of the strange sight of a man removing his prosthetic in public. However, there were still no alarms ringing in anyone's mind. Then, suddenly, one of the cops recognized him from the photograph in his hand.

‘That's him!’
he yelled. Reaching for his gun, he started towards Karl.
‘You! Stop! Raise your hands in the air!’

The minute he shouted, most of the other cops around began to reach for their weapons.

By now, Karl had finished removing the prosthetic. Seizing the fingers of the false limb firmly in his good hand, he raised it above his head and began to whirl it around, yelling like a madman.

As the hollowed out limb arced through the air, the tiny vials of VX Gas placed in its cavity began to stream out. They sparkled in the early morning air as they whirled out and away from Karl, landing at random.

As each deadly vial hit the road, it broke open with a faint tinkle. The sound was lost in the rising cacophony of pain and terror that erupted all around.

Even as the bewildered cops reached for their guns and targeted the terror merchant, the fatal VX gas continued to rise in tiny spurts whenever a vial landed and broke. Each spurt of gas condemned the people in the immediate vicinity to an instant and horrible death.

The cavity in Karl's prosthetic was empty by the time the first cop's bullets slammed into him.

The television cameras standing by to cover the rally for dead and injured workers covered this vicious dance of death as efficiently as they would have covered the rally. Not long thereafter, images of the gory, bone-chilling strike began to beam into a million homes the world over.

M
URREE

‘
JUST LOOK AT THAT!’ SALIM EXULTED AS HE SAW THE
television footage of Karl going down amidst a welter of bodies. ‘Goddamn! Can you imagine the shock those bastards must be in?’

‘Yes, sir! We have whacked them right in the heart.’ Cheema was delirious with joy. ‘How many people do you think Karl managed to get?’

‘It doesn't matter, Cheema. What's more important is that the television cameras managed to capture the hit. They will ensure it stays starkly alive in the minds of the enemy by showing it again and again. That will automatically ensure that the morale of our fellow jihadis grows from day to day.’

‘I never thought of it like that.’

‘You should, Cheema. It is as important to applaud each strike as it is to kill the kafir. Our perennial battle is to strengthen the hearts of our jihadis and strike terror into the minds of the kafir. In fact, the key is to use the basic strength and freedom of Western society against them.’ Salim saw the bewilderment on Cheema's face and elaborated. ‘See, every time there is an attack, the so-called free press shows it again and again in complete detail. Don't you see how images of the 9/11 strike have been firmly implanted in the minds of everyone everywhere? Well, whenever that happens, they are doing the jihad a huge favour… it is free publicity for us, and each time, it spurs on yet another brother jihadi somewhere or the other.’

‘That makes perfect sense, sir.’

‘Of course.’ There was a brief lull before Salim spoke again. ‘Let's hope the others are doing equally well. I'm a little worried that we haven't heard anything about the strike on Delhi yet.’ He threw a quick glance at his wristwatch. ‘Yakub should have struck by now, yet there's nothing in the news….’

‘Maybe he got held up somewhere,’ Cheema said optimistically. ‘Don't worry, sir, he will do a good job.’

‘Inshallah!’

‘Ameen!’

Both men went back to surfing cyber space and the air waves for news of their lashkar.

Strike Five

C
OPENHAGEN

LARS HAD ALSO WOKEN UP EARLY. NOT BECAUSE HE WAS ANY
more nervous than the others, but simply because he wanted to prepare the bomb at leisure. Before that, he purified his body with a bath, his soul with prayer, and his stomach with a hearty breakfast.

I
wish I could talk to Lina
. Lars yearned to hear her voice, but he knew it was not to be. He was an experienced cop and knew just how the hunters would be looking for him.
If they are on to us by now, he mused. They should be. After all, in such a massive operation someone somewhere is bound to fuck up… and it takes just one loose end to unravel the whole ball
. Shrugging off thoughts of Lina, he got down to the task of prepping the bomb.

To begin with, he got rid of all the add-ons and the lead shield that had been placed by Cheema's team at Lahore to camouflage the bomb and make it immune to detection. Cleaning it up and restoring it to its original form took the most time. Now the Chote Miyan was a lot lighter and more manageable. Then, exposing the control panel, Lars carefully punched in the arming code twice. The control panel glowed to life.

Once the control panel lights up, you have to set the timer and then key in the activation code
. Cheema's instructions echoed in his memory.

Lars carefully closed the case, so that it looked exactly the way it would when he actually carried it into the target area. Then, timing himself to the second, he began to practice opening the case, setting the timer and punching in the activation code. He did it a dozen times before he was confident he had it down pat. By now he was doing the whole thing in less than a minute.
Good! Even if I set the timer on the second setting, I should be well clear of the area in time. Fifteen minutes is good enough for me to get to Central station and take the first train out…. Hopefully it will be heading north
…. He played out the various possible scenarios in his mind as he shut down the suitcase nuke for the last time.

Lars pulled a chair up to the balcony and sat down to wait. His hotel room was on the edge of the Town Hall Square that sprawled to the right. This was his ground zero.

With the big square in the Italian town of Sienna as its inspiration, Copenhagen's Raadhuspladsen was originally built in the shape of a shell. Standing sentinel around it are the Town Hall, the house of Politiken, the Bus Terminus and a host of outdoor restaurants, radio booths, and hotdog and newspaper stands.

On his left, he could clearly see the huge golden clock on the exquisite Town Hall building with the shining wind vane above it. Large buildings peppered with countless billboards and hoardings rose up on the other side of the square and to his extreme right.

Carlsberg – probably the best beer in town
, shouted the huge white letters painted across a red building on the other end of the square.

Lars grinned wryly, trying to imagine what it would be like after the bomb….

JUST AS IN BERLIN, THE RALLY FOR THE TENTH INTERNATIONAL
Commemoration Day for dead and injured workers was a major feature in the day's schedule of events in Copenhagen. However, unlike in Berlin, it was not going to be a single march. Instead, small groups of people had gathered at about twenty points all over Copenhagen and were now beginning to converge at the Town Hall square. The rally would terminate with the usual round of speeches that are inevitable at such events.

From the balcony of his carefully chosen hotel room, Lars Borge watched as people began to arrive at the square. Along with the people participating in the rally came the tourists who are an omnipresent part of the Copenhagen landscape.

No matter how many manage to escape, this part of Copenhagen is going to be really quiet for a long,
long time. The radiation will ensure that
. Lars smiled to himself.

By the time Lars got up from his vantage point, the square was teeming with people. A marked tone of excitement and gaiety, not at all in consonance with such a sombre event, pervaded the square. There were several television news crew and tourist cameras faithfully recording every nuance of the rally.

When he was certain that the crowd had built up sufficiently, the terrorist exited his hotel room and headed for the solitary elevator to his right.

The time to kill was nigh. Adrenaline pumped through his system and his breathing quickened as the elevator jerked to a halt on the ground floor and the doors began to slide open.

THE HUGE, BURLY COP HAD ENTERED THROUGH THE GLASS
doors and was walking across the lobby up to the solitary elevator when it opened and Lars Borge emerged from it. Lars had barely taken two steps out of the elevator when the two men saw each other. Recognition was immediate. The effect was electric.

The two men went back a long way. The cop had been Lars's immediate supervisor at the time when Lars lost his wife and quit the force. He had retired only a week ago, and was on his way up to meet an old friend passing through town who was staying at the Palace Hotel. The retired cop had no idea of the APB that had been issued for Lars. He simply recognized the man coming out of the elevator and automatically raised his hand to greet him.

Lars had served under the man but the two of them had never been close. He had no idea that the man was no longer in service. He saw the cop coming towards him, noted the sharp flare of recognition in his eyes and then he saw the cop raise his hand. In the excited, guilty, hyped-up-for-combat state that he was in, Lars completely missed the amiable smile that was starting to appear on his ex-colleague's face.

Without pausing for thought, he pulled out the gun stuck in his waistband with his free right hand and fired twice in quick succession.

At pointblank range, the round-nosed slugs went clean through the retired cop and dropped him dead instantly. The smile of recognition and welcome was still visible on his bloodied face. His body was sinking to the blue carpeted floor when the door immediately to the left of the elevator opened and a bellhop emerged. The sudden movement startled the already nervous Lars. He swivelled and fired again. The unfortunate bellhop took the bullet in his chest and collapsed with an agonized scream.

The hollow scream echoed in the hotel lobby. It shattered all semblance of control in Lars. He broke away and raced mindlessly towards the exit, as total pandemonium seized the room.

There were over a dozen people in the hotel lobby at the time, including three men manning the reception desk just a few feet to Lars’ right. They dived for cover as soon as the shots rang out. The others scrambled out of the way of the armed man as he ran through the lobby. Most of them instinctively made for the main entrance.

The two cops walking up along the Vester Voldgade towards the square noticed the sudden commotion. Among other things, they saw a man with a pistol in his hand and a suitcase in the other heading straight for them.

Lars saw the cops when he had barely taken half a dozen strides down the road. Turning rapidly, he fled in the opposite direction. The cops automatically went for their weapons as they started to give chase to the man with the gun. However, neither cop fired because there were too many people milling around in the square.

Lars darted past Ripley's Museum and the Burger King to his right, instinctively seeking the safety of the crowd that he knew he would find on the Stroget. Then he saw another cop coming down Frederiksberggade towards him. Lars had no way of knowing that this cop had neither heard the shots nor had any idea of the drama unfolding in front of him. He again changed direction and ran towards the people crowding around the two hotdog stands in the square.

I can do it. I know I can do it. Fifty seconds… that's all I need.

The thought ran through him like an endless litany.

I need a place where I can stop for just one moment and activate the bomb.

And then he found it.

BEYOND THE HOTDOG STAND IN FRONT OF LARS WAS A BLUE
and white Radio 100 booth. Weaving through the tables and chairs in the two food stalls on his right, Lars crossed the booth and dropped to the ground. Now he was safe from the two cops chasing him. Not for long, but they would certainly take a moment to spot him in the crowd.

That's all the time I need.

Crouching on the ground, Lars opened the case. He selected the first setting of the timer, the one that triggered the bomb immediately, and began to punch in the 12-digit activation code.

He was already on the third digit when the two pursuing cops spotted him.

‘What the fuck is he doing?’

‘How the hell do I know? It can't be anything good for sure….’

The guns in their hands came up.

Lars had keyed in the fifth digit when the cop in front skirted clear of the Radio 100 booth and settled into the shooter's classic extended arm stance. The seventh digit had been keyed in when, taking careful aim, the cop fired.

The eighth digit of the bomb's activation code had been entered when the first bullet found Lars's chest. His fingers were keying in the ninth digit when the second bullet smashed into his head. But the brain had already passed the next command to his fingers. As the dying killer toppled over the open bomb case, his fingers depressed the tenth digit and began to reach for the eleventh. They found the correct key and pressed it just as the second cop reached him and kicked the suitcase out from under him.

Stay with me
! Lars's dying brain urged the suitcase nuke soundlessly as he extended his hand towards it.
Just one more key… one more
….

Then the cop fired once more and the darkness of death settled upon Lars. His extended hand twitched once before it fell lifeless, inches from the deadly suitcase.

A few metres away, an intrepid television cameraman watched the whole sequence. His mouth was open in horrified fascination as his silently whirring camera recorded everything diligently. The camera was a high power professional model and noted the solitary dark space on the glowing control panel of the suitcase nuke. No one watching the footage could fail to notice that the hundreds of people in and around the square had been just one digit away from a horrifying death.

Minutes later, the camera was relaying the event to countless television screens the world over.

M
URREE

‘
BLOODY HELL!’ CHEEMA WHISPERED, OVERWHELMED AS HE
watched the scene play out on the giant plasma screen before them. ‘Just a second more. One tiny fraction of a second and….’

‘Look at it this way, Cheema,’ the calmer and more pragmatic Salim said, masking his own disappointment. ‘Even now the kafirs will tremble in fear. Now they know we can reach them and strike whenever we want to… be it with nukes, or with biological or chemical weapons. They now know for sure that they're not safe anywhere, and they will live in perennial dread of when and where we are going to strike next.’