Assassins (3 page)

However, the peace did not last long.

“We have a problem, Mr. Gill,” Suresh said without preamble; both spies sat on one side and Ravinder across, facing Kingsley.

Kurup's tone again reminded Ravinder that these two men wanted something from him. Badly.

And that something would probably not be good for me.

“Don't we all have problems?” Ravinder quipped, swiveling his chair to keep an eye on both opponents.

Opponents?
The word stuck in his head.

Why had he chosen it?

It
felt
appropriate.

Wonder which of the two I need to watch out for? Kurup? Aggressive and demanding. Or Kingsley? The friend and hence harder to refuse.

Unsure, Ravinder perched on the edge of his chair, eying both warily. “I certainly have enough, so I'm not sure if I even want to listen to your problems.”

“Ravinder, we need your help,” Edward chipped in, trying to keep his tone collegial. “Have you heard of the SOB … the Sisters of Benazir?”

“Sounds like a corny soap opera,” Ravinder quipped. “Has it something to do with Benazir Basheer, the Pakistani politician who was assassinated at Rawalpindi some years ago?”

“That's right. The SOB is a group of her supporters. Based in London … a rabid bunch.
Very
fanatic lot and loaded to boot. Hence capable of tremendous damage.”

“Aren't they all?” Ravinder tried to show he didn't care. But he was intrigued. “And what about this SOB is disturbing your sleep, Edward?”

“Not his alone,” Suresh interjected, “they are about to disturb everyone's.”

Ravinder's eyebrows hiked one notch up. “How so?”

Suresh elaborated. “Benazir's people believe three men were behind her murder. Pervaiz Masharrat, then the military dictator, Abid Zardosi, the current Pakistani prime minister, and Beitullah Mehsud, then the commander of the Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan.”

“Masharrat and Mehsud I can understand; they definitely had it in for her. But Zardosi?” Ravinder's eyebrow hiked higher. “Her
husband
? Seriously?”

“That's what they
believe
,” Suresh stressed.

“I guess we're all entitled to our beliefs.” Ravinder shrugged.

However, his curiosity had been aroused and Edward picked that up. “The problem is the SOB have decided to act on this belief.” Ravinder noticed his worried tone. “They've already taken out Beitullah Mehsud and have now decided to assassinate the other two.”

Ravinder tutted. “I thought it was the Americans that got Mehsud.”

“The missile that took out Mehsud was certainly American, as was the drone it was fired from, but it was an SOB operative who guided it there,” Kurup responded.

“Right.” Ravinder's snort communicated his disbelief.

“It is no laughing matter, Mr. Gill.”

Ignoring Kurup's irritated frown, Ravinder grilled Kingsley. “Let's get real, Edward. This is assassination we are talking about. Of two people who take their security obsessively. Not a public rally in Hyde Park. Also, I must confess that, considering the two gentlemen you say they are targeting, the lethal little sisters have my best wishes. Someone should have done this a
long
time ago. By actively aiding and abetting the jihadis these two gentlemen have done more damage to global security than a dozen Osamas.”

“That's what many in London believe, too”—Kingsley gave a rueful smile—“but the problem is the SOB are planning to hit one or both of them in Delhi.
That
would create a grave problem, Ravinder.”

The NIA director again made to speak, but Ravinder cut him off. “Let me get this straight, Edward. We have a bunch of political activists … people who have never wielded anything deadlier than a fork and knife … planning to assassinate an ex-dictator who has survived a dozen such attempts
and
the prime minister of Pakistan … a banana republic, I grant you … or should I say a
mango
republic”—Ravinder could not help the sarcastic reference to the exploding mangoes that had allegedly been used to murder an earlier dictator of Pakistan—“but a country nonetheless.”

Conversation stalled as a maid emerged with a laden tea service, an assortment of biscuits, and some savory sandwiches.

“Our intelligence confirms they are doing just that,” Suresh said after the maid had gone inside. “Either Masharrat when he speaks at the New India Times Summit, or Zardosi when he comes to Delhi for the Indo-Pak T20 cricket match.”

“Your
intelligence
?” Ravinder threw him a withering look.

The gibe made Kurup go red.

“We infiltrated the SOB a long time ago.” Kingsley preempted Kurup's angry outburst. “The intel is positive, Ravinder. They have already launched the operation.”

“Either way I see no problem.” Ravinder was still not sure what they wanted from him, but was determined to steer clear. “Just tell both those buggers to stay the hell out of India. Cricket diplomacy has never achieved a damn thing. Besides, given the state of affairs in Pakistan, who the hell listens to Zardosi, anyway? He cannot even buy toilet paper without an approval from his army chief.” Suresh made to speak, but Ravinder headed him off. “And Masharrat! Why should we even allow him in India? That fork-tongued bastard was planning the attack on Kargil even when he was sitting here in Agra, allegedly talking peace with our prime minister.”

“Come on, Ravinder. You know things don't work like that,” Suresh responded. “Diplomacy must go on.”

“Not from where I am looking at things. Pakistan never has and never will stop attacking India, and since they don't have the balls to do so openly, they will continue using terrorist groups to fight their proxy war. Nothing has changed in the last sixty years, so why should we kid ourselves that it will be any different this time?” Ravinder countered. “And in any case, I'm sure MI6 and NIA are more than a match for a ragtag bunch of political activists. At least, I hope to God they are.”

“They are not the problem.” Kingsley sounded grimmer now. “The big worry is that the SOB leader Fatima Basheer has hired one of the world's deadliest assassins for this job.”

Claustrophobia clutched Ravinder. He sensed something sinister straining to be unleashed, and desperately hoped the Englishman would stop.

But Kingsley leaned in closer, intruding on his air space, denying that hope. “They have hired Binder. Leon Binder.”

His words struck like hammer blows. Ravinder started violently. “Leon Binder?
Our
Leon?”

“Yes.
Our
Leon.” Edward spat out the name as though it were an epithet. “And once again, he brings nothing but death and ugliness into our lives.”

Ravinder was blown away. This unexpected blast from the past had taken the wind out of his sails.

Kingsley saw he had scored and drove home the advantage. “Please help us stop him, Ravinder. You're the only one who can.”

“Why me, Edward?” A strangled croak. Ravinder was struggling to cope with this sudden ghost from a long-dead past. Never had he imagined life would again deliver all three of them to the same crossroads at the same time.

“Who knows him better?” Kingsley countered. “And Ravinder…”

“This could be the ideal opportunity to prove your loyalty and redeem yourself,” Kurup arrowed in.

Ravinder blanched as the words jabbed him, barbs of cancerous pain.

How dare he? After three decades in uniform and everything that I have done, do I still need to prove my loyalty?

Suppressing the urge to slap Kurup, Ravinder focused on Kingsley, searching for words to explain why he could not take on this assignment … to share the self-doubt threatening to submerge him … of not knowing whether he could successfully complete this mission. And,
even worse
, of knowing that
when
he failed, he would not survive the failure.

Ravinder thought the MI6 man sensed it too, Kurup's insensitivity and his self-doubts. He felt Edward's hand on his shoulder. “Don't sell yourself short, my friend. I can think of no one better to watch my six.”

That unexpected touch felt like balm to Ravinder. It unleashed memories of the camaraderie they'd once shared. With that also came thoughts of Leon and the accompanying guilt those memories invoked. Right from the day Farah had died.

How can I explain my guilt about Leon? Especially to Edward … he will never understand. But I need to know if …

“That's your
only
reason for wanting to go after Binder?” Ravinder pinned Edward with a questioning look, aware how badly the MI6 man had taken his fianc
é
e's, Farah's, death.

Has he gotten over it even now?
Ravinder reflected.

Perhaps not.
Ravinder knew Edward was still a bachelor.

Silence gripped the patio. The sun had strengthened and it was a beautiful day. However, this was lost on the three men. Like the tea service lying untouched on the center table.

“Are you sure what happened back then…”—Ravinder did not take his gaze off the Britisher—“between Leon and Farah has nothing to do with it?”

Taken aback by his directness, Edward blinked. Finally shook his head. “No. You know that's not true, Ravinder.”

“Do I?” Neither man broke eye contact.

Edward pulled his hand back from Ravinder's shoulder. Hurt. Perhaps also angry. Ravinder felt the chasm between them widen. It saddened him, but he
needed
to know.

Kurup was watching both, riveted. Head swiveling like a Wimbledon fanatic.

“Come on, man. That was…” Kingsley faltered, broke eye contact. Ravinder noticed he was trying hard to stay calm.

Kingsley sought eye contact again. “That's not fair, Ravinder.”

And Ravinder knew it wasn't. The Edward he had known was a fair man. He
wanted
to give Kingsley the benefit of the doubt. Simultaneously, his instincts were screaming at him to walk away.

Intellect clashed with emotion as Ravinder tried to rationalize. He was aware Edward was right; there was no one who knew Leon better. And Ravinder could easily visualize the consequences if Leon succeeded in killing either Zardosi or Masharrat on Indian soil; the severity was an undisputed nine on the Richter scale. Indo-Pak relations were always precariously teetering on the edge of a deadly cliff; the slightest push could unleash the dogs of war. The thought of a war between the two nuclear-armed neighbors was terrifying. However, Ravinder's emotional flux and insecurity maxed even that.

“No, Edward. Perhaps it is not. I'm sorry.” Ravinder stood up and moved away, suddenly eager to distance himself from the spymasters. Though unable to suppress a twinge of guilt, Ravinder was firm, hardened as much by his mistrust of Kurup as by his desire to steer clear of anything to do with Binder. “I
do
understand the magnitude of the problem, but I want nothing to do with it.”

Kingsley opened his mouth to protest. And Kurup looked as though he were about to explode. That's when Kurup's mobile began to ring.

 

FOUR

Fatima Basheer could appreciate neither the luxurious fourth-floor suite of Delhi's Maurya Sheraton hotel she'd checked into on arrival from London fifteen minutes ago, nor the beautifully landscaped garden outside her window. She was hyperventilating; her worst fear, that Binder would refuse to proceed with the mission, was coming alive. She'd been dreading that since she had discovered Cherry Rehmat, the SOB financial controller, had leaked information to MI6 about their hiring Binder.

“If there is a leak at your end I will call it off
and
keep the retainer.” She remembered Leon's warning when he had taken on the assignment.

“What exactly did he say, Mr. Verma?” She tiredly rubbed her well-sculpted face, for once unmindful of the makeup. “Tell me again.” Worry lines creased her peachy skin. Even her lush black waist-length and usually immaculately coiffured hair were disheveled. Right now she was showing every one of her forty-four years.

Mindful of the huge sum of money Fatima had promised him, and aware he was already in too deep, Ashok Verma, deputy director NIA and one of Kurup's principal aides, stifled his exasperation and repeated, “Very little actually … once I told him you were reaching Delhi today.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. He was livid about the security leak at your end.”

“Did you tell him that we have…” Fatima floundered, searching for palatable words. She hesitated to say it out loud, though she had felt great satisfaction in having Cherry killed. “… ensured there would be no further leaks?”

“I tried. I did everything you asked me to, but he did not seem inclined to listen.” Uncomfortable with such a dangerous conversation on his office phone, Ashok was in a hurry to end the call. “He said the damage had already been done.”

Fatima sensed his reluctance to talk. Exhausted by the long flight from London and already freaking out at this latest setback, she snapped out of control. “Tell me
exactly
what he said,” she hissed coldly, wanting to remind Ashok she was in charge.

It did.

Now regretting that he had allowed himself to be talked into this thankless task of being the conduit between Binder and Basheer, Ashok elaborated.
“
He said that since MI6
and
the NIA have been alerted, it would be too risky to even make an attempt. Not to mention the Special Task Force hunting for him.”

“But did you remind him that there are only five days left and now that we have eliminated Goel, the task force chief, they are completely disorganized … hardly in a position to stop him?” But Fatima realized the futility of this conversation; it was Leon, not Ashok Verma, she needed to convince.