The Siege: 68 Hours Inside the Taj Hotel (21 page)

He took the quaking boys outside and issued them with AK-47s and rounds. ‘Load up and rip up the targets. Fire as many as you want to,’ Zaki ordered. The ten let loose, drilling shots into targets until their eyes streamed.

Then they were taken into a part of the camp they had not seen before, entering a room filled with TVs and maps of capital cities from around the world. It was Lashkar’s data centre and they were introduced to Abu Zarrar Shah, the outfit’s media chief. He had spent the last few months assembling a portable communications network, designed by a team of young, unemployed IT graduates, recruited by Lashkar in Dubai, Karachi and the Gulf States, and codenamed ‘the Owls’.

Experimenting with Internet telephony, the Owls had conceived an invisibility cloak to remotely control the gunmen after they landed in Mumbai while shielding Lashkar’s involvement. Zarrar’s men had rented Internet phone lines and phone numbers from Callphonex, a company in New Jersey. The legitimate service was popular among migrant customers who needed to make cheap calls to family and friends thousands of miles away, using a VoIP system similar to Skype. The gunmen in Mumbai would be able to use local, prepaid Indian SIM cards, to dial leased international numbers in Austria that diverted the calls via Callphonex to Pakistan. It would be difficult for Indian investigators to unravel, as everything beyond the US hub was invisible.

The transaction with Callphonex had been made online, Zarrar passing himself off as a reseller based in India, the money sent as a wire transaction that would at some point trigger suspicion, as it originated in Islamabad. But by then the operation would be under way. ‘Zarrar Shah had great knowledge of computers,’ Ajmal recalled,
dazed by the equipment that he worried was too complicated for all of them to master. Zarrar reassured him that he would have to do nothing other than press the green call button on his Nokia twice, in order to be connected to his Lashkar handlers back in Pakistan.

The Owls had had another simple idea. Zarrar showed Ajmal how he was using Google Earth to zoom into and around a city that none of them had ever visited, travelling through it at street level. Once their individual missions had been allocated, Google Earth would be their guide, companion and tour operator.

Taken back outside, Qahafa the Bull and Al-Qama ‘buddied them up’ into five teams of two, a classic
fidayeen
formation. Qahafa and Al-Qama had psychologically anatomized the men, working hard to identify types that would complement each other. Team one would be Ajmal Kasab and Ismail, where Ismail was the hard-stepping lead man, capable of carrying impressionable Ajmal, who Lashkar feared could flip or run. Team two was Umar and Akasha, who were similarly balanced. Team three: Shoaib and Umer. Team four: Abdul Rehman ‘Bada’ and Ali. And team five: Abdul Rehman ‘Chhota’ and Fahadullah, the nephew of Qahafa.

The attack was planned for the twenty-seventh day of
Roza
, 27 September 2008, which gave them only two weeks. ‘You will reach Bombay by hijacking an Indian boat.’ The boys were overwhelmed, Ajmal unable to countenance how any of this would be achieved or what his role would be. The Arabian Sea scared them all. The idea of a marine hijacking was terrifying. Hauling an anchor, navigating the undulating currents on their own, landing on a foreign shore, charging into an alien city at night, all of these things weighed on him. Even worse, the proposed date for the attack was also his twenty-first birthday.

Finally, Zaki named the targets, most of which they had never heard of: Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, Malabar Hill, the Leopold Café, the Trident–Oberoi hotel, Chabad House and the Taj hotel. Two teams of two each would focus on the last, the most important target.

They were to maim and kill as many people as possible from America, Britain, and Israel ‘because these people have severely
oppressed Muslims’. They were to keep in mind ‘that no Muslim should succumb in the attack’. To create maximum chaos, each attacker would also carry an RDX bomb and plant it at a congested location, making it appear that there were many more
fidayeen
fanning across the city than just ten. The attack was to start at 7.30 p.m., the busiest time of day. Even though it appeared daunting, the nuts and bolts of the mission were simple, said Al-Qama, calling up each team in turn to brief them quietly on their specific target.

Ajmal and Ismail would mow down commuters at CST before heading up into Malabar Hill, where they would cull the rich. Shoaib and Umer would kill tourists with assault rifles and grenades at the Leopold Café, before joining Abdul Rehman ‘Bada’ and Ali to raid the Taj hotel, which they were to set alight, seizing hostages.

Umar (real name Nasir) and Akasha would lay siege to Chabad House, capturing Jews, executing them on orders. Fahadullah and Abdul Rehman ‘Chhota’ were to storm the Trident–Oberoi hotel, killing guests and staff, before taking captives.

Each team were shown videos of their target, filmed months ago by David Headley. They studied the complex map he had helped build, overlaid with GPS waypoints, showing how the targets could be accessed from the sea, by taxis and on foot. Those going into the Taj were shown a 3D animation that Zarrar had found on Google Earth, paid for by the hotel as a marketing tool. It enabled them to travel around the south and north wings of the Palace, to spin around the Tower, as well as trotting by the entrances and exits, and along Merry Weather Road towards the Leopold Café.

Qahafa took the floor. To blend in, each
fidayeen
would be given fake ID cards with Hindu names, showing them to be students of the Arunodaya Degree College in Hyderabad. They were asked to memorize their new IDs. ‘No one will suspect you. Even the police will be misled.’

Crucially, the trainers – Qahafa the Bull, Al-Qama and Hamza, as well as Zarrar Shah – would be with the team all the way. Lashkar was preparing a control room kitted out with phones, computers,
TV screens and detailed maps of Mumbai so the trainers could advise, cajole and steer the operation, minute by minute. The control room would be located in Malir Town, an upmarket military cantonment in Karachi, one of the city’s plushest residential enclaves, close to the international airport. The area was patrolled by the security services round the clock – making it the safest place to be, if you were a proxy of the state.

On the fifteenth day of
Roza
, Qahafa the Bull and the Indian
mujahid
Hamza took the team into the hills above the House of the Holy Warriors to let off steam. They were ordered to run and fire, rolling and diving. There was a surfeit of ammunition. ‘Do as you please.’ They spent the afternoon being taught how to prepare a lunch box bomb, cramming sticky white RDX into tiffin tins layered with pink foam, attaching a fuse and timer of a kind that Al-Qama bragged had been used by the Taliban and Al-Qaeda in 2,800 attacks in Afghanistan and Pakistan. The
fidayeen
capped the evening off with shooting practice. ‘Fire until you can shoot no more,’ Al-Qama shouted through the confetti of shredded targets.

On the sixteenth day of
Roza
, the barber arrived. He took a cut-throat razor to their
Hadeethi
beards and straggly locks before they were photographed for their student ID cards.

On the seventeenth day of
Roza
, the team returned to Karachi and the Azizabad safe house. An Urdu magazine,
Tayabat
, had been left lying around. Ajmal noticed a brief item about six
fidayeen
who had been martyred in Indian-administered Kashmir. He recognized the names and his stomach flipped. They were his recently departed comrades. He was transfixed by the news, trying to suppress the feeling that they, too, were destined to die. He hid the magazine from the team. It was bad enough that he knew. Why scare them too?

On the nineteenth day of
Roza
, Qahafa distributed ten timers and explained how to prime them, asking each team member to mark
one with his name, as if telling school children to label their coats before hanging them in the cloakroom. ‘These are for the big bangs,’ he said simply. They were taken back to the creek. They sailed out to meet Hakim-saab aboard the
Al-Hussaini
, growing more confident on the water, the captain showing them how to pilot a yellow inflatable speedboat, their landing craft for Mumbai. He taught them how to sink a boat by ‘removing its valve’ and explained
tul
and
chaurai
, the lines of longitude and latitude. At night they worked on learning their ciphers: names, addresses, colleges. They lay on the deck, staring at the stars.

On the twenty-sixth day of
Roza
, each team member was given a well-packed rucksack containing enough ammunition to launch a sustained terrorist attack and enough food and water to keep them going for more than twenty-tour hours. There were a Kalashnikov, eight magazines – 240 rounds – eight hand grenades, one bayonet, one pistol, three pistol magazines, one water bottle, a one-kilo pack of raisins and almonds, headphones, three nine-volt batteries, a battery charger and a tiffin box containing eight kilos of RDX. Supply sacks for the journey were also handed over and contained blankets, rice, flour, oil, pickles, milk powder, matches, detergent, tissue paper, bottles of Mountain Dew, toothpaste, tooth brushes, razors and towels. They were issued with new Western clothes and told to cut out the labels. All of them were handed watches set thirty minutes ahead, to Indian time. Abu Hamza distributed an emergency float of 10,800 Indian rupees (£130) for each buddy pair, a GPS handset, and a black and silver pre-programmed Nokia 1200. Finally the men taped their AK-47 magazines together in combat configuration, allowing a rapid turn-around. ‘Sleep well,’ Hamza whispered, as he switched off the light.

On 27 September, they set out in two dinghies. The currents swirled around them, the wind whipping in, hauling them on to rocks, sinking the boats and leaving the inexperienced sailors treading water for hours in their life jackets, fearing they would die, until at last they were rescued, disorientated and terrified.

A few nights later, they tried again, another boat having been purchased. A growling storm from nowhere ran them down. They could not break through it. Hundreds of gallons of diesel were wasted and Hakim-saab lost control of the
Al-Hussaini
, steering too close to an Indian trawler that, fearing pirates, fired on them. The crew of seasick Punjabis beat a retreat. Back on dry land, their battle packs and new clothes were taken away and the dejected team were led back to Azizabad. They sat waiting, doing nothing, until Eid arrived on 1 October. Now the trainers tried to rebuild their confidence, throwing a lavish feast, making a biryani from a whole goat. Afterwards, two of the recruits demonstrated how to plant bombs beneath the seat of a moving taxi, without being seen by the unsuspecting driver – while all the others watched and ate sweet
jalabi
s.

Then there was nothing. For six dead weeks they sat around. Ajmal counted the days, becoming desperate. They all ate and slept, their frustration and fear mounting – the atmosphere inside the house sliding into paranoia. Finally, on 21 November, the team were woken and packed into a jeep with blacked-out windows that drove to the creek-side base. They got out to find their planners –
chacha
Zaki, Hamza, Zarrar, Qahafa and Al-Qama - waiting in a line. The battle packs, cash, mobiles, satellite phones and GPS machines were redistributed before
chacha
Zaki addressed them all. The weather was fine and a moonless night was coming. This was their window. Brother Ismail was to be made overall leader, while Umer would take charge of the two teams in the Taj. Finally, Zaki told them he was off on
haj
, from where he would pray for success.

‘
Amir
Hafiz and all of us have made huge efforts for this mission. Your training must now come to fruition. We have made you capable and skilled warriors. Do your duty and do not bring shame on yourself.’ Zaki surveyed the ten frowning faces. He solemnly held out his hands upturned, and prayed like a true
Hadeethi.

‘May Allah take care of you and protect you.’

At 5.00 a.m. on 22 November, the teams were woken for
namaz.
By 6 a.m., they started walking with their packs, reaching the creek.
Ismail was issued with the satellite phone. At 7 a.m., a dinghy drew in, and they clambered aboard. Sea-going currents tugged at them gently for ninety minutes, until they reached a bigger vessel. They boarded and sailed for many hours.

By 9 p.m. that night they glimpsed the familiar silhouette of the
Al-Hussaini.
Aboard, Hakim-saab was waiting and had his crew haul the kitbags and men on to the deck, before he and three others sailed back for Karachi. The ten attackers and a crew of seven set a course south-east across the Arabian Sea, inhaling the smell of fuel and fish that set their stomachs on edge.

The following morning, 23 November, they crossed into Indian waters. From now on, even their cover story would not save them if they came across an Indian navy patrol. Jails in Gujarat were crammed with trespassing Pakistani sailors, some of whom might have been fishermen, none of whom were spared by the courts that condemned them to squalid prisons, where they rotted.

Finally, they spotted an Indian fishing trawler with its elevated wooden prow rising like a Viking warship, its name, MV
Kuber
, painted in black, blue and yellow letters on the wheelhouse. The first test was upon them. As it drew near, a Lashkar brother produced a broken fan belt and waved it in the air as if they were adrift. The two boats came together, and the
fidayeen
leapt on to the Indian vessel, overpowering the crew, wrestling the unsuspecting fishermen on to
Al-Hussaini
, leaving only the Indian
nakhva
(captain), Amarchand Solanki, on board MV
Kuber.
After transferring their kit on to the new vessel, Solanki was dragged into the engine room and tied up.