Weapon of Vengeance (11 page)

The kneeling hostage looked up. Amazed. Shocked. Then he vomited. It was so revoltingly real that Ravinder felt as though he could reach out and touch it.

By now Raider Two was directly in front of the security camera overhead. Probably she was aware of it and had positioned the hostages to ensure it caught their slaughter in gory detail. Dropping the now-empty assault rifle, she unsheathed a wicked knife from her ankle holster.

The hostage was still vomiting when she reached down, grabbed his hair, and yanked his head back. The knife moved in a quick diagonal slash across the throat. He gurgled and then slumped forward. His blood rained out in droplets on Raider Two's hands. She licked her lips as she wiped it clean on her pant leg. They all could see the madness in her eyes.

On the second half of the screen, recording all this on a BlackBerry, Raider One had been moving in tandem with Raider Two. They saw an odd expression on her face; as though she wanted it all to end, yet was fascinated by what she was seeing. Her mouth was slightly, almost erotically, open and her chest heaved. And now and then, her tongue forayed out and moistened her lips.

By the time Raider Two moved to the twelfth man, her chest heaved, eyes were blazing, and splatters of blood pockmarked her.

The final hostage did not scream. There was an amazing calm in how he stared at her, perhaps a touch of pity. His lips were moving as though praying … for her.

The surge of anger on Raider Two's face at his lack of fear was palpable. Perhaps that he was a Jew fueled her anger. Shifting the knife's angle, she sliced out his right ear. The hostage screamed now. Though no sound emerged, each viewer could hear the animal-like howl of pain.

The scream goaded Raider Two on. She sliced off the second ear now. The scream this time seemed to go on forever. Raider Two reversed her hold on the knife and drove it into the hostage's right eye. The scream ended abruptly as the knife entered the brain and drove life out of him.

Raider Two stood frozen, with the knife buried in the hostage's skull. She seemed depleted. As though it were not just the hostage who had died. As though something inside her had died too.

His mouth dry, suddenly short of oxygen, Ravinder watched; unable to believe the brutality he had witnessed.

Watching it on the BlackBerry's 3.25-inch touch screen, Raider One smiled. She began tapping out something on the keypad.

Yes. She would have needed to get the recording out.

Raider One watched impatiently as the file slowly uploaded, mentally goading it on, aware that time was now desperately short.

The transmission must have completed, because she gave a satisfied nod and was putting the phone away when a stun grenade smashed through the nearby window. It exploded with a mind-numbing roar and blinding flash, so bright that it dazzled Peled's audience.

The two raiders were reeling when IDF commandos raced in and unleashed a hail of bullets into them.

Their mission complete, the two terrorists triggered their camera bombs and death claimed them.

“The BlackBerry handset was also destroyed, so we'll never know to whom she sent that video.”

Peled's comment was cut off as Raider Five raced into the central hall. She saw her teammates were down and reached for the trigger of her camera bomb.

A commando had turned when he heard her run in and got off two shots even as her hand was reaching for the camera bomb.

His first bullet missed. The second whipped past her temple. It grazed deeply enough to make her reel and clutch at the wound.

Like a flash, the commando was upon her. His rifle butt bludgeoned her down. She lay still.

The carnage was over.

The silence in the conference room was complete. However, the footage on the screen rolled on.

The task force commander now raced into the mosque. He came to a stunned stop as he surveyed the horrifying bodies.

“The last hostage killed was Ean Gellner, the son of Ziv Gellner, who is one of our delegates for this summit,” Peled said softly.

On the screen, the task force commander turned and said something to the commando who had captured Raider Five.

“Keep that fucking bitch alive. We need to find out who was behind this. Whoever it is will pay. By God they will.”

Then the screen went blank and the lights brightened. All in the room were avoiding looking at one another. Silence gripped the room.

*   *   *

“I knew we had to keep her capture from the media.” Peled stopped abruptly.

“You?”
Chance asked, wide-eyed. “You were the task force commander?”

“Yes,” Peled replied. “I also did most of the post-event investigation. That is why I was asked to come down and brief you all.”

Another long silence. They all remained stunned and revolted.

“Who were the others involved?” Jennifer's voice broke the moment.

“The mastermind was a Qassam Brigade commander.”

“Who?” Jennifer again.

“We are still not sure,” Peled replied with a straight face. No way Israel would officially admit to Yusuf Sharbati's involvement, not after he had been disposed of in Dubai by a Kidon team barely a week ago. “But we do know that the Qassam commander was funded by someone from the Lashkar-e-Taiba.”

“Not surprising,” Ravinder remarked. “They've been looking for a way to up their profile in global terror for many years now. Of late, they've become frantic because their refusal to take up arms against their sponsors, the Pakistani government, has caused them to be tagged as betrayers of Islam.”

“True.” Mohite added, “That is why they are under huge pressure to redeem themselves in the eyes of the
ummah,
the community. Not to mention that they want to exploit the gap in leadership of Terror Central, with Osama dead and other senior Al-Qaeda leaders having gone underground.”

“That could also explain the similarities of the Jerusalem strike to the November 26 Lashkar-e-Taiba
ghazwa
on Mumbai,” Chance pointed out. “Mumbai was also their doing.”

“True.” Peled nodded. “We have certain leads about this man but have yet to ascertain his identity.”

“You know we have a very extensive database on all LeT commanders,” Ravinder offered. “We have lived with these lunatics for decades now. Let us know if we can help.”

“That is very kind of you, sir.” Peled gave a grateful smile. “We shall take you up on that.”

“Just share your leads with us, and Mohite will help you to dig up possible matches.”

“Right.” Again, it was Jennifer who brought them back to the present. “So that takes care of fourteen people. You'd said there were fifteen. Who was the fifteenth?”

“There was a thirteenth woman,” Peled said quietly.

Hell! Again that bloody number.
Ravinder swore under his breath. It had become a recurring theme with this damn summit.

Peled continued. “We do not know much except that she is most probably Caucasian. The terrorist we captured caught a glimpse of her and heard her talking when she'd come to meet the Qassam commander. She says it was a British accent. As of now, that is all we know.”

The others were listening, but did not catch the unspoken. Ravinder did. He sensed that Peled knew more than he was telling. Unsure why, Ravinder did not consider it correct to pursue this in public and let it pass for now. He listened as the others let loose a barrage of questions.

It was in a somber mood that the meeting broke up an hour later.

*   *   *

At that moment, barely thirteen miles away, the thirteenth woman, dressed as a tourist, complete with camera, hat, and water bottle, approached Ashoka Hotel. Comfortable jeans, a pale pink T-shirt, and sensible walking shoes completed her attire.

Taking care to ensure she did not become noticeable, Ruby carried out two runs to and through the hotel. The minute she entered it, she knew she had no hope of going past the main lobby or the restaurants. Disappointed but not surprised, she surveyed as best she could.

On her first run, she studied the layout and identified ingress points. On the second, she confirmed the observations she had made, double-checking to ensure she was correct.

By sunset, Ruby had embedded every detail of the venue in her head. Satisfied she had done all she could, she returned to her hotel room and began to work out attack combinations.

It was not going to be easy. She'd seen cops crawling all over the place, as many in plainclothes as in uniform. Most inner areas in the hotel had already been cordoned off. Roadblocks had been set up on all approaches, and security posts at both hotel gates.

It did not take her long to realize that a frontal assault would be doomed. It would have to be a covert attack. But a frontal assault
could
be a useful diversion.

A couple of hours later, her plans tentatively complete, she called it a night. Though she was exhausted, her sleep was hampered by her anxiety about their meeting with Nanda, the arms dealer, in the morning.

I hope that bugger can come up with the Glocks.
That was her last thought as she fell asleep.

*   *   *

Dinner in the Gill home was drawing to a close when the phone began to clamor. Simran's exasperation was evident as Ravinder wiped his hands and got up to take the call.

“We have two candidates, sir.” Mohite sounded excited. “It took a while, but—”

“Candidates for what, Govind?” Ravinder cut in.

“Oh!” Mohite checked himself, realizing he needed to start at the beginning. “I was helping the Mossad guy, Peled, to sift through our database on the LeT commanders. We have two possible suspects. The first is Pasha.”

“Hmm. Give me a moment while I get my laptop out.” Ravinder retreated to his study. After booting up the device, he pulled up Pasha's profile. On top were two photos, the only two they had of him.

The first, taken by an Indian intelligence operative, showed a clean-shaven man in a neat and obviously expensive, lightweight, steel gray business suit. He carried the suit well, as though used to it. Short and diminutive; he looked like a jockey. A small but prominent pear-shaped scar was on his right temple.

The second, taken by a Taliban turncoat, showed a different man, heavily bearded with shoulder-length hair, now dressed in typical black Pathani kameez and ankle-high salwar. Almost no resemblance to the man in the first photo.

Ravinder scanned through the man's profile. Born Khalid Abbas Khawaja, he had been a wing commander in the Pakistan Air Force. No one knew if he had retired or was ordered to retire, or if it was made to look as though he had retired. Either way, one fine day, Khalid Abbas Khawaja shed his uniform and vanished.

He appeared to have little in common with the man who surfaced in Afghanistan a year later, the year the Taliban had begun to make its presence felt. The crew cut and sharp pencil-line mustache had been replaced by an unruly beard and shoulder-length hair. The slightly built man, with an AK-74 in one hand and a radio or satellite phone in the other, soon became a fixture in the entourage of the one-eyed leader of the Taliban. He now piloted people, tweaking their destinies and ensuring they served just one purpose: the jihad.

However, as he had been ordered to do, Pasha stuck to the shadows. He feared the powerful generals in Islamabad; he knew they would throw him to the wolves if he dared cross them.

It was Pasha who had planned and executed the November 26 Mumbai terror attack. This much was known … at least strongly conjectured.

“Who is the second one?” Ravinder asked when he had finished.

“Well, if it is not Pasha, then the other can only be Saeed Anwar.”

Ravinder brought up Anwar's profile. He saw a lot more photos of this portly, skullcap-wearing, bearded, bespectacled Anwar. Clad in white, he was fond of leading public rallies and was a primary fund-raiser for the LeT. He had helped Osama plan and execute the 9/11 strike and was known to have transferred one hundred thousand dollars to the 9/11 hijackers just before the attack.

Yes, he too is a strong possible. In fact, considering the others in the LeT leadership, it seems certain that one of these two must have been behind the Jerusalem attack.

“Good work, Mohite.” Ravinder knew the analysis was spot-on. For a change, Mohite had delivered. “What does the Israeli have to say?”

“He said his boss would be talking to you soon.”

“Fair enough.” Ravinder rang off.

Sure enough, an hour later his phone rang again and he was talking to Meir Dagan.

Though he had met him only once, Ravinder could easily picture Dagan, the current head of the Mossad. Known to be the antithesis of M, the James Bond spymaster, Dagan—an avid student of history, a no-frills man who clocked eighteen hours of work every day—was famous for his bullheaded doggedness, and commanded respect, both within Mossad and outside.

Though Ravinder did not know it, the reason Dagan took an hour before calling him was because he first needed to get the Israeli PM's sanction; ordering a Kidon hit was not something he had the authority to do on his own.

To have Pasha and Anwar taken out, he had to first ensure their names were added to the “execution list.”

Given the severity of the Jerusalem attack, Dagan had little doubt that the sanction to place Pasha and Anwar on this list would be accorded. However, as per protocol, such a request could be confirmed by the PM only after it had been cleared by the designated judicial investigator: a person whose identity was so secret that almost no one had heard of him. He must have been clocking serious overtime that day, since he had sent it back with his approval posthaste.

“Do you agree with the possibility of these two being the most likely candidates?” Dagan came to the point immediately.

“Well, the chances of it being one of them are high. None of the others seem to have the authority to organize something of this magnitude,” Ravinder replied. “Also, you can assume that if one is involved, so is the other. These two buggers are thick as thieves.”