The Bard of Blood (8 page)

Omar nodded and then fixed his eye upon Shehzad.

‘We have had this discussion before,’ Shehzad said haughtily. ‘And Mullah Baradar, I have nothing but the deepest respect for you. But it ought to benefit us all, if you keep in mind the larger picture.’

‘What larger picture? You want Bhatkal and some silly nobodies back in exchange for spies who have seen where and how we operate?’

‘You’re being naive, Mullah Baradar. The Indians can’t touch us here. Neither can the Americans. This is Balochistan.’

‘Why are you here, Shehzad?’ Mullah Omar spoke up.

‘To discuss the other plan that we will carry out after the Indians send Bhatkal and the others back.’

‘And if they don’t?’

‘We go ahead with it anyway,’ Shehzad replied. ‘This is a mere distraction for the Indians. I’m here to tell you that Sirajuddin Haqqani has agreed to provide us logistical support, as long as you approve of it.’

Baradar was getting confused about the conversation that was going on. Omar read the puzzled look on his face and smiled.

‘I was about to tell you, Baradar. This is surely going to put your mind at ease.’

Shehzad looked at Baradar’s baffled countenance as Omar spoke to him.

‘I don’t understand, Amir. I hope they haven’t coaxed you into something you don’t need to do.’

‘They haven’t, Baradar. But I will ask Shehzad here to relay the plan to you. If you do not like it, say so. I will not give my go-ahead, and you can go down and castrate those kafirs right away.’

Shehzad got agitated at what Mullah Omar had just said, but tried to look sanguine. He had always believed that Baradar was given a lot of leeway and authority by Omar. This was again one of those instances where he witnessed it. He didn’t like pitching the idea to Baradar for his approval. Baradar always did have a strong viewpoint and suggestions. Brigadier Tanveer Shehzad breathed in deeply, and explained the plan in brief to Mullah Abdul Ghani Baradar.

Baradar raised one eyebrow after listening to it. His gaze, behind a curtain of opium smoke, shifted from Shehzad to Omar. Omar shrugged as if to ask: What do you think?

Baradar spoke, his voice calculatedly low. ‘What if the meeting doesn’t happen?’

‘I have an insider who knows for certain that it will happen later this month. It’s on the itinerary. Besides, the conflict in Ladakh is escalating. A meeting of this kind is definitely on the cards.’

‘Who will take the eventual responsibility?’

‘The attack will be orchestrated by Ayman al-Zawahiri. This will be al-Qaeda’s first attack in India. After which, keeping in mind the situation, we will take a call on the final plan. I have a skilled operative in tow, waiting for a chance to get back at India.’

‘And all Mullah Omar has to do is give the nod, right?’

‘Yes,’ Shehzad replied. ‘We will use a few of your camps to train the militants. And, of course, you will have to keep the prisoners alive until India sends back its reply to Mullah Omar’s message.’

‘How many days have the Indians asked for?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘And how many are left before we know for certain?’

‘Thirteen.’

Baradar smiled as he took a drag of the afeem joint again.

‘Let’s go ahead with it, Shehzad. This ought to cripple that country for good.’

One minute to make it to the exit. One minute to jump into the car and drive the hell out of there. A figure of average height, clad in a black kurta, ran out of the madrasa frenziedly. He had an assault rifle, which he fired in the direction from which bullets were spraying at him. Around six large, bearded men, chased him. They were hot on his heels, abusing in Pashto and firing indiscriminately. The man ran in a zigzag pattern, making it difficult for them to get him. He ran like a gazelle towards his jeep. A bullet hit him in the back of his right thigh. The man lost his footing and collapsed to the ground. The men were closing in on him. He was going to die. He was certain of that. He raised his rifle and fired. He managed to hit one man.

About thirty seconds before they got to him.

He crawled towards the jeep. The attackers were closing in, equidistant from their prey and the beautifully constructed madrasa.

Twenty seconds.

The man was almost there. He mustered all his strength and got into the jeep. A pang of pain shot through his body. He was losing blood at an alarming rate.

Ten seconds.

The man saw another jeep with reinforcements driving in through the entry of the madrasa. He had to make it out of there. He started the car after fumbling for the keys in his pocket. He rammed the accelerator.

Five seconds.

As he drove out of the madrasa, a bullet hit his tyre. The car skidded, but he managed to control it.

Three seconds.

He was now on the road, making his escape.

One second.

A large, deafening explosion shook the ground. The man turned to look. Black smoke enveloped the entire compound of the madrasa. The structure itself was ablaze. The man looked on for another few seconds. Then he turned and drove away. The smell of burnt flesh wafted distinctly from the smoke that enveloped the vicinity. Amongst those dead, the man thought, is one of ours. He closed his eyes and yelled in pain. He still had work to do.

Later, when he recounted what had happened to the person he reported to, this was all he got back in reply: ‘I want you to come back, Adonis.’

He knew what they thought. They thought Adonis had killed Ares and the Afghani defector. They thought Adonis had sold them out. That’s exactly how it looked.

2 September 2014

Indira Gandhi International Airport, New Delhi

The terminal in the Indira Gandhi International Airport was a little less crowded than usual, considering the time. It was two in the morning, and there were many businessmen, both Indian and foreign, and a few families. They wore tired smiles, the kind you usually see at airports. Some relieved to get back home, others in anticipation to reach their destination. A few energetic children ran around chasing each other, as their parents chided them meekly. One of them ran in the direction of the ‘Restricted Area’ meant for ‘staff’, when an airport policeman stopped him gently.
Even I’m not allowed there,
the man thought.

Inside the Restricted Area was a rather large lounge. The four walls of this lounge had been witness to matters of high importance. This sector of the airport was reserved by the government for its intelligence activities. This is where the families of many agents had spoken to them for the last time. Or the first time after a successful mission or assignment. This is where embassy members or attachés waited before they were whisked into a small private jet. This is where the prime minister waited when he had to fly out of the country. But today, the guard who manned the post outside the lounge had been provided three names. Two were here already. They were waiting for the third. Their flight was scheduled to take off at three in the morning.

‘How much do you know about the mission?’ Isha Khan inquired of Nihar Shah, in an attempt to break the ice.

‘As much as you do,’ Nihar replied, avoiding looking at her for more than a split second. Once he saw her, he knew he couldn’t take his eyes off her. ‘There are three of us. You, me, and a certain Veer Singh, who’s crossing over from Helmand. Our team is led by a former major by the name of Kabir Anand. All I know about him is that he teaches some kids Shakespeare at a college in Mumbai.’

Isha nodded slowly. That’s all Joshi had told her, too.

‘When I pulled out the files on Balochistan, I read about an incident concerning a certain agent code-named Adonis. Who is he?’

Nihar scratched his shaved chin and allowed himself to look into her inquisitive brown eyes.

‘Adonis was the code name for an ex-Military Intelligence agent who was posted in Balochistan until 2006. He had a colleague in RAW who died in an explosion when they had covertly infiltrated a madrasa in Quetta. Some say Adonis blew it up, or indirectly set Ares up, because he was close to unravelling something serious, but Lieutenant General Sadiq Sheikh believed otherwise.’

‘From what I have heard, Adonis was Sadiq’s protégé. The RAW chief at the time felt that Adonis disregarded his authority and recklessly blew up the op. Some even branded him a traitor. But Sheikh came to his rescue and asked him to leave the job, pushing away the case for good.’

Nihar shrugged.
Sheikh was dead now.

Isha echoed his thoughts and said with a gentle laugh: ‘What kind of a code name is Adonis?’

‘I’m sorry about the delay.’ Kabir entered, closing the door behind him. ‘I was figuring out some last-minute stuff with Joshi. I am Kabir Anand.’

Isha and Nihar both looked at Kabir. He wore a blazer and a white T-shirt on a pair of faded jeans. He hadn’t combed his wild hair nor had he trimmed his unruly beard. Kabir wasn’t conventionally good-looking, thought Isha, but there was a magnetic aura about him. He acknowledged both of them with a nod of his head, shook hands as they stood up to greet him, and then sat beside them, pulling out an iPad from its case.

‘We fly to the Konarak airport in Chabahar first,’ he said, pointing to a port in the Iranian part of Balochistan. ‘Once we’re there, we can assume our fake identities and drive to Gwadar.’

‘I thought we’d fly to Gwadar directly,’ Isha said.

‘It’s a decision Joshi and I took,’ said Kabir. ‘If we were to be questioned upon landing by the authorities in Gwadar, our cover would most likely be blown. I met Arifullah Saleh yesterday. He has asked an Al Jazeera journalist to receive us outside the airport.’

They nodded their heads in understanding.

‘And if we go by ship to Gwadar,’ Nihar added unnecessarily, ‘we risk being gunned down almost immediately by the tight security forces manning the port. That, and it would take a day or two by sea.’

‘Since India has investments in the port of Chabahar in Iran, that would provide us a valid reason, if we are questioned in Iran. We can simply state that we are part of an Indian committee creating a report on the development of the port. That is the same story Joshi has sent the Iranians. They have no qualms about it.’

Kabir looked at both of them with the gaze of a professor. They nodded understandingly, the way students do.

‘The real challenge is getting to Quetta,’ Kabir said. ‘But we’ll cross that bridge once we get to it.’

Kabir ran his fingers through his hair, and looked at Isha. He noticed her properly for the first time. A few women managed to catch his fancy, but there was something about her eyes. He looked at them, a delicate hazel-brown. Her hair tied up in a bun. Her fair skin glistening with sweat, even though the room was air-conditioned.

‘You have ample reason to be worried,’ Kabir addressed her. ‘It’s not going to be easy. And that is an understatement.’

He got up from the couch and then leaned against the door.

‘If you want out, now is the time. Developing cold feet at the last moment is not an option.’

He looked at Nihar, who loosened his tie. He was nervous. Isha and Nihar shot a glance at each other. Neither of them wanted out.

‘I want to clear up one thing. This is a rescue mission. We attack only if attacked.’

He opened the door. He knew what he said at the end wasn’t true. There
was
going to be blood. Kabir never waited to be attacked first. And then he turned and looked back at Isha and Nihar.

‘Make your calls to your family now,’ he told them bluntly. ‘You never know when you’ll speak to them next.’

He stepped out of the room with his luggage and walked towards the runway towards the small plane waiting for them. He took his place next to a window. It was a good ten minutes before he saw Isha and Nihar begin their walk towards the plane. He shut his eyes, trying to put himself to sleep. A long journey lay ahead. Unlike his young colleagues, Kabir did not make any calls.

As Shakespeare put it in
King Henry VI
:
Having nothing, nothing can he lose.

2 September 2014

Chabahar, Iran

The flight landed at the Konarak airport in the wee hours of the morning, at ten past five. It had been a three-hour flight. The weather was pleasantly cool and the wind was soothing. The salty smell of the sea lingered over Chabahar. Kabir met the pilot briefly, asking him to rest for an hour before leaving for India again. He asked him not to hang around too long and not to talk to too many people. If asked, he should stick to the brief:
I have flown in some Indians who are here to inspect the infrastructure of the Chabahar port.

Chabahar is a city situated on the Makran coast of the Sistan and Balochistan provinces of Iran. On being declared a free trade zone by the Iranian government, this city, facing the Gulf of Oman, immediately gained significance in international trade. India is in the process of helping with the development of the Chabahar port, with a view to gaining direct access to the oil and gas exported out of Iran. This is India’s counter-bid to China’s pre-emptive access to the port of Gwadar in Pakistani Balochistan.

Nihar and Isha collected their luggage along with Kabir’s and found their way out to the lobby. They were checked briefly and, after a momentary glance at their passports, allowed to exit the airport. Kabir strode out soon after. He had taken a brief nap and so had Isha. Only Nihar seemed a little ruffled.

‘What’s the matter?’ Kabir asked him as they walked out of the airport. ‘It’s still not too late. You can get back on the flight.’

‘It’s not that.’ Nihar shook his head.

‘Then?’

‘My wife,’ Nihar said simply, unwilling to elaborate further.

‘It’s okay,’ Isha told him. ‘We women have the habit of blowing things out of proportion. Once you’re back home, just be there for her.’

‘And your son,’ Kabir reminded him. ‘Yes, Joshi told me about him. What’s his name?’

Nihar was slightly uncomfortable discussing his family with people he had met only a few hours ago. ‘Haven’t named him yet.’

‘Then that’s the first thing you ought to do, once you’re back,’ Isha said, and motioned towards the only car waiting outside the airport. Kabir lifted his bags.

‘Be careful of your luggage,’ Nihar added, shifting the attention from himself. ‘Don’t let anybody else touch it. All our dossiers are in there.’

The dossiers, if found by anyone else, could never be explained away. So they held them close to their person and walked towards a red Peugeot sedan. As they came closer they realized that the driver was asleep in his seat. Kabir knocked lightly at his car window. The driver woke up with a start and stared out of his daze at Kabir. Then he nodded with familiarity and stepped out of the car.

‘Zain Hussain?’ Kabir checked.

Zain was a little rotund, and as tall as Kabir. He had a bushy moustache and his hair was greying and smoothed to one side. He looked like a tough guy. He wore a checked shirt on a pair of well-pressed trousers. He was Al Jazeera’s top correspondent in Iran. A thorough journalist, with a hunger for knowledge, Zain had grown to become one of the most influential names in his profession in this part of the world. He had fearlessly documented the Northern Alliance’s war under Ahmad Shah Massoud. Despite being a Shia himself, Hussain never missed an opportunity to write scathing articles on the religious–political leadership in Iran.