Assassins (19 page)

His smile matched the darkness of the room, which was complete, barring the flickering light from the Meat Locker's sign across the street, which intruded, but intermittently.

 

SIXTEEN

Vishal was not sure which was stronger, his anger at Leon's cool response to the possible threat he was facing if Verma talked, or his relief that he now had a free hand to address that threat
and
also put Ravinder out of action.

I'm going to do such a spectacular job that Leon will … But why the hell am I so keen to impress him? In a couple of years no one will even remember him.

Vishal promised himself yet again.
I'll show the world. And by God, my operations will be gloriously spectacular. Not quiet pussy affairs like Leon's, where people did not even come to know a hit had gone down.

Realizing he needed to plan both jobs, he headed for the Vikram Hotel. Its 24-hour caf
é
and lounge, aptly called 1440, for the number of minutes in a day, was one of his favorite hangouts. Not something a cop could afford.

But what the fuck … what's the point of being a cop if one has to pay?

His sardonic laugh momentarily drowned the music of the car stereo. “Is it true that you want it? Then act like you mean it.” Shakira's FIFA World Cup song for 2014, “Dare (La La La),” filled the car.

I'm earning enough from this mission … and this is just the beginning. Once I start out on my own, money will never be a problem.

Half an hour later, seated in a cozy corner of 1440 with a Bloody Mary, a kebab platter, and roasted cashews before him, Vishal was busy doodling in his notebook.

Another half an hour and one more Bloody Mary later, he had figured it out. Deciding to attend to the Ravinder situation first, he went to work on his laptop.

Like all cops, Vishal had access to all criminal databases countrywide. As an STF man his access was virtually unlimited. Within fifteen minutes he had culled out three candidates who met his three criteria, which were straightforward: based in or near Delhi, a willingness to maim or even murder for money,
and
they should not know him.

Pulling out a mobile phone with a fresh, anonymously procured SIM card, he called the first man on his list.

“No women, no children. For no amount of money,” the hit man replied, surprising Vishal.

Now we have killers with a fucking moral high ground. What next?

A woman answered the second hitter's phone, said he was laid up with a broken leg. Grimacing, Vishal cut the call without another word and dialed the last number. Kapil Choudhary, a trucker with a penchant for peddling drugs, had been tried five times for murder but never convicted.

Third time lucky.

“I charge more for women,” Kapil pointed out when he described the assignment.

“How much more?”

“I just have to hit and run? Right? Whether she lives or dies doesn't matter. Right?”

“Right.”

“And she is not someone famous or anything. Right?”

“Nope. Wife or daughter of a retired cop. You decide which.”

“Cop? You didn't say anything about cops.”

“I just did.” Vishal was irritated. “And he's a
retired
cop. Not the same thing.”

“Once a cop, always a cop,” the trucker retorted. “Never a good idea to mess with them.”

“What's so special about cops? We are people, too.” Vishal bit his tongue, realizing he had slipped. The silence at the other end confirmed Kapil had picked up on that. Flustered, Vishal asked, “How much more?”

“One million. Total.” Kapil sounded cautious now, subdued. “In five-hundred-rupee notes. Nothing new, nothing in series.”

Vishal knew he could have brought down the price, but letting slip he was a cop had shaken him. And the Bloody Marys were making him magnanimous.

What should I care? It's not my money. And it is not so much when you think in dollars. The fucking Indian rupee is heading south faster than Sherman … it will soon be like the Vietnamese dong; I'd need a carton to buy a condom.

“No problem. But it has to be done tomorrow.”

They finalized how the payment would be made—deposited in Kapil's bank account.

“Half first thing in the morning and the balance when the job's done.” Vishal's tone brooked no discussion. It didn't get any.

Vishal took his account details, then texted him Ravinder's address, photos of his wife and daughter, and the numbers of all three cars the Gill family used.

“Make sure you are outside his house first thing tomorrow. Follow whichever woman comes out first. Hit her when you get the chance and run.
Don't
fucking get caught.” Satisfied he had that in control, Vishal wrapped up the call. “And keep me posted. You can send a message to this number. I'll call you back if we need to talk.”

Now to take care of Sikander Ali.

Using the laptop, Vishal accessed the file of Kurup's second deputy.

In his mid-forties, Ali was also an ex-ATTF man and had been Vishal's superior in the Anti-Terrorist Task Force; several years ago and only briefly. But Vishal remembered him: a kindly, soft-spoken man. Ali now lived with his wife in a DDA apartment in Munirka.

Vishal grimaced; middle-class colonies like Munirka were the worst. The apartments were crowded together and lacked privacy, and there was generally someone about, even late at night.

On the other hand, they have little or no security.

Vishal checked the time again; it was only nine.

Best to wait till two, maybe three in the morning. Safer. Would also give me time to catch a nap.

It had been a long day. And it was yet not over. Also, seeing how hyped-up Ravinder was, Vishal guessed tomorrow would probably be worse. Draining his glass he headed home. The taste of the Bloody Marys lingered in his mouth.

As he waited for the traffic light to turn green, Ali and his wife came to mind again. Ali had been a good boss, one of the rare decent types, always keen to develop and showcase his subordinates. Uncomfortable, Vishal tried to push away the thought, but it lingered, bothering him a lot more than it should have.

I just took care of Goel. How different or difficult could this be? Ali is also in the way.

That made him feel marginally better.

But his wife? What's she got to with this?

Vishal had met her just once, but he could remember her face.

The taste of the Bloody Mary turned sour. Grimacing, Vishal accelerated as the light turned green, trying to leave these unwanted thoughts behind.

 

SEVENTEEN

Simran was frantic with worry when Jasmine told her what had transpired in the market. She was also contrite, realizing she should have been more supportive, especially over the past two months since Ruby's death.

Perhaps that's why he is so withdrawn.

“Sometimes just sharing a problem helps to lessen the burden,” she said to Ravinder as gently she could when they were retiring to bed.

He nodded, grateful, and she could see, wanting to lighten up. But something held him back.

“You know you are very important to me … to Jasmine
and
me.” Simran caressed his face. “We both worry for you.”

“Yes. I know.” He looked really tired and preoccupied. “And you two are all I have.”

“I am here if you wish to talk … about anything.”

“I know.” He cuddled closer to her, almost like a child seeking the sanctuary of a womb. “Tonight I just want to rest.”

“That's nice. Do that. You worry too much.” She drew him closer. “Don't forget, it doesn't matter if we succeed or fail, as long as we try our best.”

“I
am
trying my best.” Ravinder looked grim.

“I know you are,” Simran whispered reassuringly. “You always have. And that's all that counts.”

“Goel … the officer I replaced at the STF. His wife tried to commit suicide.”

“Oh!” Simran was shocked.

The silence stretched endlessly.

“Goel has a sixteen-year-old daughter.”

Simran couldn't think of anything to say; a big slice of fear lodged in her chest.

“Just hold me, Simran,” he said after a long silence. “I want to sleep.”

She did. Almost instantly he was asleep.

Equally soon, with the sleep, came the nightmare. Simran and Jasmine referred to it as “The Ruby Nightmare.”

Ravinder moaned. Then again, louder.

Simran watched helplessly, wanting to wake him up and scare away the nightmare, but knowing he needed the sleep, too. Once again she wondered when the ghosts of his first wife, Rehana, and their daughter, Ruby, would leave him alone.

If ever.

Simran was stunned when she heard him call out in his fractured sleep. Several times. He was yelling for Leon and Farah. And she wondered which new ghosts from the past had returned to haunt him.

He yelled again, a pain-soaked cry. Unable to bear it, Simran clicked on the bedside light and shook him awake. She was shocked by the look in his eyes when he woke up. Uneasy, she gave him a glass of water. He drained it in one go. Then, a few minutes later, when he looked more settled, she asked, “Who are Leon and Farah?”

“Why?” He looked guilty.

“You were calling for them in your sleep. No other reason.”

Simran could see in his eyes that something was bothering him. Badly. She sensed Ravinder wanted to talk. He went so far as to open his mouth, but then didn't say anything. And then the moment passed. With a tired sigh Ravinder lay back.

Unwilling to push him, Simran stayed silent. But she was worried. She sensed he was right on the edge; whatever was bothering him was big. She prayed he would find the courage to talk about it.

“You know you can talk to me about anything?”

Ravinder nodded.

“Whatever it is, we can deal with it together.”

He nodded again and then, clicking off the light, lay still.

But Simran could sense he was still awake.

 

EIGHTEEN

Leon jerked upright, unsure what had waked him up. It was an eerie feeling. As though someone had walked over his grave.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

The crappy feeling, which had persisted since he had taken on this mission, strengthened. Trying to will it away, he lay back again. Then he remembered.

Shit! I forgot to call Hakon and Baxter and get details of Naug.

Professor Thorbjorn Naug was the man who would be speaking at the conference before General Masharrat's keynote. A Norwegian scientist who had been delving into cosmic dark matter, Naug was a professional terminator's ultimate wet dream. He was till recently an unknown. The facial similarity between Naug and Leon was enough to ensure that some clever makeup would complete the illusion. Naug was a little heavier, but nothing an extra layer of clothing would not resolve. The two had matching heights
and,
most critically, as the speaker immediately before Masharrat, Naug provided Leon with the perfect way to get close to the target.

Picking up his mobile Leon first called Hakon, his man on ground in Oslo, whom he'd tasked to get the lowdown on Naug.

“How is Oslo?”

“Freezing,” Hakon replied cheerfully. “Like always.”

“Did you get the info I wanted?”

“Pretty much. Some bits and pieces left, which I'll have tonight. You will find them in your mailbox by morning.” Hakon sounded a little high. “Everything you wanted to know about Professor Thorbjorn Naug, but didn't know whom to ask.”

“Yeah, right.” Leon laughed as he ended the call. Hakon was a good man; bit of a drunk, but solid when sober and hadn't let him down.

Yet.

Satisfied that was under control, he then dialed Baxter in London, where Naug was right now, attending another nerdie conference before coming to Delhi.

I hope Baxter has gotten the details of Naug's hotel and flight to Delhi.

The phone rang for a long time, not going to a machine or voice mail.

Where the hell are you, Baxter?

Leon knew it was only around nine in London; Baxter couldn't be asleep.

I hope he has not done something stupid.

He tried a couple more times. Same result. Fretting, he lay down to sleep, but luck was not favoring him today; his stomach started spasming again. Also, despite the crepe bandage, the pain in his elbow was back with a vengeance. Though not overly fond of medicines, Leon popped another painkiller, hoping it would help him sleep.

 

NINETEEN

Vishal had just fallen asleep when his mobile tugged him awake. Irritated, he reached for it. His irritation escalated when he saw the caller's identity glowing on the screen.

What the hell does that bitch want now?

“I specifically told you to brief me every day,” Fatima fired into the phone without preamble. “Didn't I? What happened today?” Still perturbed by his crude pass, she was a lot more aggressive.

Vishal resented her tone; it added to his anger at her earlier rebuff. Wanting to lash back, but aware the shoe was on the other foot and if he messed with her any more, he could end up without another dime, other than the measly advance.

“I've been busy,” he muttered.

“With what?” Fatima shot back rudely. “
That
is precisely what I want to know.”

Now even more irritated, Vishal gave her a watered-down version of the day's proceedings. Out of spite, he mentioned neither the plan to get Ravinder out of the game nor Sikander.

The call ended as it had begun, badly.

Hating her for banging the phone down on him, Vishal rechecked that his alarm was set for two a.m. and lay down again. He carried his irritation as he went back to sleep.