Authors: Mukul Deva
Isolating Leon was critical; it would put him under pressure.
Men under pressure are more prone to making mistakes.
That reminded him, he again needed to go through everything they had on Leon: earlier targets, hits, misses, and similarities in the MO; the whole nine yards. He had been through them once, but he felt the need to do so again. More thoroughly.
Third, and most important, find Leon.
That made him pause.
How? He wouldn't exactly be advertising his presence. On the contrary, if his history and basic tradecraft were any yardstick, Leon would use several operational identities and muddy the trail at every step.
Ravinder knew guesswork was pointless; the possibilities were endless.
There
has
to be another way.
More thought.
The mole. Find the mole and he ⦠or she ⦠would lead us to Leon.
So how do I find the mole?
Ravinder realized his thoughts were spiraling into a loop.
Counterproductive.
He hauled them back, deciding it was best to know his team first. Then evaluate the options available. Only then, act.
Realizing he was too keyed up to sleep, Ravinder went down to the study and spent the next hour going through the dossiers of the STF officers. Then he began to study Leon's previous hits again.
Even the smartest criminal has a pattern. The trick is to find it. That is the only way I can stay one step ahead and bring him down.
It was a thick file, but more conjecture than hard evidence. As he turned the pages, the last three decades of Leon's life came alive. Ravinder jotted down the key points.
⢠1983. Istanbul. Target diamond merchant named Namik Kemal. Weapon used, poison.
⢠1983. Cairo. Target Salah Abdel Sabour. Chemically induced heart attack.
⢠1984. Ottawa. Atilla Altikat, Turkish diplomat. Drive-by shooting.
⢠1986. Bangladesh. Sheikh Usman, prime minister designate. Sniper rifle.
⢠1987. Colombia. Jaime Pardo Leal, leader of the Patriotic Union Party. Poison.
⢠1989. Germany. Alfred Herrhausen, chairman of Deutsche Bank. Knifed.
⢠1990. Kenya. Seth Sendashonga, former interior minister of Rwanda. Poison.
⢠1991. Enrique Bermudez, founder of Nicaraguan Contras. Sniper rifle.
⢠1993. Algeria. Kasdi Merbah, former prime minister of Algeria. Bomb.
⢠1994. Azerbaijan. Shamsi Rahimov, intelligence and security chief. Bomb.
⢠1999. Paraguay. Luis MarÃa Argana, vice president of Paraguay. Knife.
⢠2000. Ofra, Israel. Binyamin Ze'ev Kahane, leader of Kahane Chai. Poison.
⢠2001. Seattle. Thomas Wales, federal prosecutor and gun control activist. Poison.
⢠2001. São Paulo, Brazil. Antonio da Costa Santos, mayor of Campinas. Bullet.
⢠2004. Iraq. Ezzedine Salim, acting chairman of Iraqi Governing Council. Poison.
⢠2007. Japan. Iccho Itoh, mayor of Nagasaki. Bullet.
⢠2008. Syria. General Muhammad Suleiman, security adviser to president. Poison.
⢠2010. Bangkok, Thailand. General Khattiya Sawasdipol. Sniper rifle.
⢠2010. Mexico. Robert Torre Cantu, politician. Bomb.
⢠2011. Libya. Abdul Fatah Younis, commander in chief of the Libyan armed forces. Bomb.
⢠2013. Guatemala. Carlos Castillo Medrano, mayor of Jutiapa. Sniper rifle.
By the time he turned the last page Ravinder was feeling overwhelmed. Leon had cut a broad and bloody swath across the globe. The sheer ingenuity of his hits amazed Ravinder. Putting aside the file, he turned to the notes he had made. Soon some points became obvious.
⢠Leon innovates constantly and rarely repeats an MO.
⢠No known accomplices. Even operationally, none used for any major task.
⢠Negligible collateral damage; even when a bomb had been used, barring the target, few people had been killed.
⢠In most cases it was hard to attribute the hit to Leon; he was seldom present by the time it was discovered the victim had been murdered. Most cases remained unsolved, attributed to him more on the basis of hearsay and rumors than on any concrete evidence.
⢠No photos, barring the thirty-year-old mug shot taken by the London Police at the time of his incarceration.
⢠No identified permanent place of residence.
He stared at his notes, trying to see if he'd missed something ⦠to spot a new clue or pattern.
Nothing.
The feeling of being overwhelmed was stronger now. Ravinder took a deep breath and stilled his thoughts, seeking coherence.
The man is a ghost ⦠a whisper in the wind. So much paper, yet so little to go on. But that's not possible ⦠there have to be some traces ⦠there always are ⦠especially these days ⦠digital footprints always remain. I'm missing something.
Clearing his head, Ravinder reexamined his notes, trying to match the emerging picture with the man he'd once known so well ⦠had shared an apartment with ⦠laughter, tears, and beers ⦠so much.
Who are you, Leon Binder? What on earth have you become?
An arrow of guilt pricked him. Unwilling to get distracted he pushed it away.
What are you planning this time?
Where are you right now?
How do I find you?
Ravinder knew
those
were the questions he needed to focus on. He was lost in thought when the grandfather clock boomed out again, five ponderous strokes.
Â
Leon had set the alarm for five. Bursting with energy when it triggered, he sprang out of bed. Even at this early hour, despite the bone-chilling cold, Delhi was alive. Milkmen, newspaper boys, and a host of other morning merchants could be heard going about their business: ghostly figures shrouded in the dense early-morning winter fog.
Wanting to ensure his battle plan was bug-free, Leon decided to go through it again, first on paper and then on ground.
Using the Hotspot Shield Elite VPN he was subscribed to, which secured his data traffic and made it virtually impossible for his location to be tracked, Leon logged into the Google account he created at the start of every mission and accessed the Google drive. All operational notes and data for this mission had been stored on this drive, ensuring he would never be caught with any incriminating evidence on his person. As an added precaution, in case the account got hacked, Leon had set up alerts to let him know whenever any of the files were accessed.
Immersed in a virtual walk-through of the operation, he began to factor in the diversionary attack Vishal had suggested.
Leon was lost in data and details when the first pain struck. A few minutes later, the second. It was only when the third, even bigger, wave of pain hit that Leon realized it was not something he could wish away or ignore.
Another hour and four visits to the washroom later Leon realized Delhi Belly would stop him dead even if the cops did not.
Damn! I need to recon both venues, collect the sarin ⦠Ri Yong Ho had promised delivery today.
And
hand it over to Nitin so he can fabricate the weapon.
But the pain was now too strong to ignore. Unwilling to draw attention to himself by going to a doctor, Leon tried Jorbagh market. The sole pharmacy provided the required Norflox-TZ tablets and hydrating salts. From the general store adjacent to it, Leon procured the curds, bananas, and honey that the pharmacist advised would be good for him.
By now in acute discomfort, Leon returned to the serviced apartment, dosed himself, and waited impatiently for the medicine to take effect. He had lost several valuable hours. There was much to be done and already half the day had been wasted. His anxiety ratcheted up.
Â
Vishal was in a foul mood when he drove his Ford Fiesta into the STF office parking, still seething at Fatima's rebuff and apprehensive about their new chief.
The STF office was an ugly single-story block with a dozen rooms surrounded by a ten-foot-high unpainted brick wall topped by four strands of rusting barbed wire. On the other hand, it was conveniently located opposite Nehru Place, accessible by public transport, with an abundance of shops and eateries around.
His immediate concern was not the investigation of Goel's kidnapping and murder; common sense told him the hunt for Binder and stopping the assassinations would be everyone's first priority. However, though it was not the first time he'd killed a man, it was definitely the first time he'd tortured anyone and killed in cold blood, and his anxiety level was high.
Vishal was parking when he noticed an unfamiliar black BMW 750Li at the end of the lot and guessed it was Ravinder's.
Our new chief travels in style.
His lips pursed enviously. The high-end Bimmer was the kind of car he coveted.
Soon.
He promised himself.
No more shitty hatchbacks.
That made him feel better. Then he spotted Philip Cherian's silver Fiat Linea, parked on the other side of the Bimmer. His smile vanished.
That ass-licker must be trying to weasel his way into Ravinder's good books right from the get-go.
Dismissing Philip, he turned his thoughts back to Ravinder.
Is Gill really that good?
Though loath to admit it, Vishal
was
apprehensive about Ravinder. Their new commander had been the topic of discussion at the STF since they had been informed Ravinder was taking charge. Like the others, Vishal, too, had read up on Ravinder; and there was no denying he had one heck of a record, barring the disastrous Israeli-Palestinian Peace Summit during his final stint as chief of the Indian Anti-Terrorist Task Force.
“Don't make the mistake of underestimating Ravinder Gill.” He remembered Leon's warning of the previous night. “He's very quick on the uptake and doesn't miss a thing.”
“Sounds as though you know him well.” Vishal had not missed the familiarity with which Leon had spoken.
Ignoring that, as he did most of Vishal's questions, Leon had countered, “You'd better know him, too. The faster the better.”
Despite this, or perhaps
because
of this, a thrill shot through Vishal. Living on the edge, where he could smell the danger, taste it, almost touch it, made him feel alive. Riding high on that, he pushed open the office door.
Â
Ravinder turned as Philip Cherian, the task force second-in-command, tapped his arm. “And this, sir, is Vishal Bhardwaj.”
Ravinder took in the tall, dark, and lean man who had entered; Vishal carried himself well and was sharply dressed, in navy trousers and a sky-blue shirt, topped with a deep blue corduroy blazer.
He doesn't much look like the photo in his file.
Perhaps because that had been in uniform.
Ravinder noticed Vishal's scrutiny as they shook.
Wary. The usual apprehension of meeting a new boss? Or something else?
Ravinder realized Kurup's warning about a mole was making him inordinately suspicious.
Not good. I'll never get them all on the same page with such an attitude.
Reminding himself to relax, he smiled. “Good to meet you, Vishal.”
“Good to have you on board, sir.” Vishal's grip was firm and his return smile formal. “Welcome to the Special Task Force.”
“I believe you were also with the Anti-Terrorist Task Force.” Ravinder wanted to let them know he'd done his homework.
“That's right, sir.” He seemed jovial enough to Ravinder, though he could sense some strain between Philip and Vishal. “Almost seven years, but I was based in Hyderabad till the NIA director mobilized me for this task force.”
“Ah, that's possibly why we never met.”
The door opened again, short-circuiting their conversation. A woman entered: mid-thirties, about five and a half feet, sparse frame. Her startlingly fair complexion contrasted with her staid gray kameez, black salwar, dupatta, and thigh-high sweater. The indifferently tailored dress was worn like a military uniform. Her solemn, humorless demeanor gave impetus to that impression.
“Sir, this is Saina Khan.” Cherian beckoned her forward. “She's from Delhi Police. Very experienced investigator and our primary liaison with the local police.”
Ravinder sensed Cherian respected her ability but did not much like her; the enthusiasm in his tone was not mirrored by his noncommittal expression.
“Good morning, sir.” Saina stiffened to attention a few feet away. Polite but unsmiling. Making it clear she respected her space. Barring a cursory nod, she acknowledged neither Philip nor Vishal.
Ravinder had no idea how effective she was at networking with and influencing the local police, but it seemed obvious Saina made no effort to do so with the rest of the team.
“All well with her, Philip?” he asked in an undertone when Saina had movedâmore like marchedâoff to her cubicle at the far end.
“Yes, why?”
“Just wondering ⦠she seems very quiet.”
“She's always quiet.” Philip gave a brief smile. “Keeps to herself, but she's very competent. Don't worry about her, sir.”
“Saina is Saina.” Vishal chipped in from behind; Ravinder had not realized he'd been listening in. He noticed the look Vishal was giving Saina; it wasn't pleasant.
Why the bad blood between them?
Ravinder made a mental note to find out.