Assassins (6 page)

Leon brought the Canon EOS 5D Mark III camera up to his eye. It was a professional model. The 22.3 megapixel full-frame sensor with a 61-point autofocus instantly brought the woman at the gate to life in vivid Technicolor glory.

Leon felt he had been body-slammed. He could have sworn he was looking at Farah.

Farah. Freaking. Fairfowler.

Quirky as her Brit dad and sexy as her Paki mother. Edward Kingsley's fianc
é
e, but apparently always willing to get some on the side. Isn't that why she …

Stunned, Leon double-checked.

But Farah is dead.

Her blood-smeared face, with that shocked expression etched on it, swam before his eyes.

What the hell?

The coincidence shocked him. Realizing he was holding his breath only when his mind began to scream for oxygen, Leon forced himself to relax.

“There are always six other people in the world who look exactly like you and a nine percent chance you will meet one of them.” He remembered his mother telling him. Apparently there was something to that old wives' tale after all.

Why the hell does another Farah have to land up in my life?

Leon grimaced.

Hadn't one screwed up my life already?

The woman in the camera drew closer. Leon sharpened his scrutiny; now on the people around Fatima.

Minutes passed.

Nothing.

Fatima appeared to be alone.

But he kept watching.

Niks.
Leon lapsed into Afrikaans subconsciously.

She seems to be alone.

He allowed a few more minutes to reconfirm that. Finally, satisfied, he rose and began to close in, from her left. His pace measured, but his mind still whirling with a potpourri of thoughts.

He was looking forward to this conversation, as eager to collect his payment as he was to find out if she was the one who'd betrayed him.

If she had, she would die.

Betrayal was not something Leon could allow to go unpunished; he wouldn't last long in this trade if people did not fear the consequences of betrayal.

And now this … this uncanny resemblance to Edward Kingsley's fianc
é
e, the long-dead Farah.

His head fuzzy with these thoughts, Leon was halfway to her when he spotted her pursuers. They were fifty feet away, which is why he'd missed them earlier, but closing fast now. There were two of them, both in their mid-thirties. The shorter one was bulkier, but both were swarthy, with slicked-back hair.

Like Puerto Rican pimps.

Or cops playing undercover?

Leon could make out they were either trailing Fatima or tracking her.

Amateurs. Should know better than to stare at their mark.

Without breaking stride Leon continued past Fatima. Once past the two men he circled back.

By now the duo had split up and were moving to outflank Fatima. Leon kept a steady pace behind them, mingling with passing groups of people to ensure he did not stand out. He realized both men had eyes for no one other than Fatima.

Has she brought them with her or led them here?

Leon pondered that.

Is she the bait or the target?

Either way he knew he had to get rid of them.

And her. If she is the bait.

The thought that she could be setting him up angered Leon further.

Betrayal could
not
go unpunished.

If Leon determined she had shafted him, he planned to make her an example people would remember.

Besides, she owes me money.

The gun in his jacket pocket felt reassuring.

And if she is the target, then I need to find out who else is in the game. More important, why?

By now Fatima had halted in the middle of the lawn to the right of the Ashoka Pillar. She looked bewildered, gawking at people passing by.

The taller man closed in and accosted her, pulling out a badge and showing it to her.

Tourist guides.
Leon realized it was like the badge the other tourist guide had flashed at him earlier.
Or at least pretending to be.

He almost laughed with relief, realizing they were likely setting her up. Leon was now certain she was the target, not the bait to unearth him. It was a timeless drill: approach solitary women as tourist guides, get them in a lonely corner, rob them, and, if the opportunity arose, rape them. Fatima would not even see the second guy till it was too late; first the taller one would lull her with sweet talk and tourist-guide stuff. From the ruins of Rome to the pyramids of Cairo and the monuments of Delhi, the same deadly game was played out a dozen times daily.

Making up his mind with a snap, Leon accelerated. He
needed
to talk to her, and was confident that Laurel and Hardy would evaporate when they realized their mark was not alone.

“
There
you are.” Leon pitched his voice higher, again emphasizing the American accent. “I've been looking for you everywhere.”

A frisson of frustration crossed the taller crook's face before his guileless smile slid back in place. For a minute Leon thought he would continue his tourist-guide spiel; then without another word he backed off. Leon noticed the other one falter in midstride and also change direction.

In quick succession Fatima looked startled, confused, and then relieved.

Continuing with the small talk, Leon casually took her elbow and led her away, toward the base of the monument where the crowd was thickest; there is always safety in numbers.

 

EIGHT

Fatima could not decide whether she was relieved Leon had made contact or more stressed at the difficult conversation that lay ahead.

Before she could settle that question Leon arrowed in. “Care to explain what your people are playing at? Didn't I make it clear I'd abort if your lot could not keep their mouths shut?” Mindful of the crowd, Leon kept his voice low; however, Fatima did not need to tap into her female intuition to feel his anger.

“You did. But it wasn't my fault. I swear,” she pleaded. “We had no idea Cherry Rehmat would turn traitor … and I'm sure Ashok Verma explained it to you. We have already taken care of her.”

“Too bad. That's not my problem.” Still that same bland undertone. Fatima hated it. “Doesn't change a thing. I'm pulling out. All I need from you is the five million due to me on reaching Delhi.”

Fatima now sensed steel in his tone, as though warning her not to renege. Her heart plummeted; she didn't care about the money, she just wanted him back on track.

I cannot fail. Not when the end is so near.

“Please,” she appealed, “please don't stop now. You
have
to do this.”

“
Have to?
I don't have to do any such thing.”

“But you do.” Fatima was almost begging now. “This is not just about money, power, or any such thing. These two men snatched away from me everything that anyone could hold dear.” Fatima saw she wasn't making any impression; her desperation mounted. “Just hear my side of the story and then decide.” She tugged at his arm. “Please.”

Something in her tone caught Leon's attention. Also, perhaps her uncanny likeness to Farah, which drew him and repelled him in equal measure. He'd always found Farah attractive; that she'd been another man's fianc
é
e, forbidden fruit as it were, had added to the attraction. Yet the sight of her bloodied face scorched his memories even now. Her death had altered the course of his life. It was the only reason he was here today.

Fatima felt a hiss of relief as he nodded. By now they had reached the end of the garden. A well-painted wooden bench beckoned. “Could we sit for a moment?” She felt suddenly drained.

He didn't say a word as she sat. Then, a moment later, with another quick look around, he sat beside her. “I'm waiting.” There was a curious expression on his face, inquisitive yet aloof.

Fatima sensed this was her last chance to convince Leon.
If I fail … I cannot.
She pulled herself together.
Failure is not an option.

“That day when they killed Benazir I was right there by her side. She died in my arms.” Her outspread hands held her attention. “And it wasn't just the death of my aunt … or a dream for my country; that day I lost everything I cherished.” Her voice was now merely a heartbreaking whisper.

Then everything around her dissolved. Leon. The wooden bench. The neatly trimmed garden skirted by flowerbeds. The plethora of tourists, milling around in the fading light of another chilly December evening.

Fatima felt herself being sucked into the hailstorm of bloody memories. Back to that fateful day, the twenty-seventh of December in 2007, when kismet had torn her life apart and cut her adrift.

She had traveled this road often, but it never got any better. The voices were still as loud. The screams even louder. The blood, slimier and redder than ever. And the smell, that sticky, peculiar smell of death. Like cottony wisps of cloud it clung to her. Filling up her senses. She knew these memories would leave her in peace only when the vendetta was over. When both the murderers, Zardosi and Masharrat, had paid for their crimes with their lives.

“Isn't it ironic that both these murderers are coming to Delhi on the twenty-seventh of December, the very day they killed Benazir? Is that not a sign from Allah?” Fatima watched him closely.

Leon stayed silent; signs from Allah obviously held little appeal for him. But she could see he was intrigued.

“A bunch of her supporters, including my husband, had gone from London to be with Benazir. We'd been in Pakistan about a week, and on the twenty-seventh Benazir was to preside at an election rally at Rawalpindi.”

Fatima marshaled her thoughts, evaluating what and how much she needed to share with Leon to get him back on track.

“Rawalpindi was an important constituency. It had always been so, for our party and our family. We needed to make a fabulous impression. And we knew we would. The atmosphere in the city was so … so electric … right from the moment we landed. They cheered her every inch of the way, to Liaquat National Bagh, the park where the rally was to be held.”

*   *   *

Pakistan Paindabad! Pakistan Paindabad!
(Long live Pakistan.)

Fatima could see the grounds of Liaquat National Bagh as clearly as she'd been able to that day; sweaty, heady excitement lay heavy in the air, which reverberated with coordinated, throaty cries of
Long Live Pakistan
.

The head cheerleader was a young, heavily bearded man in his late twenties, hired for his stentorian voice and theatrical vocabulary. She saw him pace the dais, dominating the crowd of five thousand strong with missionary zeal.

And there were a large number of women in the crowd; surprisingly, they were the more vocal ones. Surprising because woman moving so freely in public was no longer a common sight in Pakistan. Not since the Islamists had become the dominant voice in Pakistan. Even those who condemned their views no longer dared speak openly. Such dissent generally resulted in death.

But that day women were out in full force. Perhaps because it was a woman they had gathered to greet. And not just
any
woman. This was
Benazir Basheer
, their savior, the Hope of Democracy, returning after eight years of exile.

Fatima remembered how they had fled Pakistan, the entire Basheer clan, in the dead of the night. And those eight long years of self-imposed exile; to ensure Benazir or her husband were not imprisoned for any of the dozens of charges of corruption and embezzlement of public money that lay pending in various Pakistani courts. But Fatima knew she would not share that with Leon. Or mention that Benazir had not just allowed the Islamists to rise but had actively encouraged them.

The same Islamists who were now gunning for her.

“Benazir was returning as the messiah. The one who would set the country free from the military yoke that had held Pakistan in an iron grip for most of its sixty-year existence.” Fatima's pride was evident. “A star was being reborn.”

So enthused was Fatima and so powerful her narrative, the story came alive for Leon—part memory, part hearsay, and part reconstruction.

*   *   *

Flame-colored banners of the Sisters of Benazir rubbed shoulders with the vibrant green ones of the Pakistan Peoples Party. Adding to the merriment and the energy pulsing through the jam-packed grounds were brightly colored canopies and little boys running through the crowd, passing out the packets of biscuits, savories, and water bottles that enticed people to attend such political rallies.

The atmosphere was almost festive.

It would have been completely so had it not been for squads of heavily armed police ringing the grounds. Or the dozens of sullen, steely-eyed men mingling with the crowds. They held themselves aloof from the fervent sloganeering. Their eyes held nothing but disdain as they continually swept the crowds … watching and waiting. And wherever they moved, little bubbles of tense suspicion followed. Reaching out and touching those around. Ensuring people swayed out of their way and even avoided eye contact. Whether they were spooks of the ISI or goons of the Pak Army, no one could be sure. But both merited a wide berth. And it was given to them.

Easily mistaken for these spooky goons were four young men, two on either side of the crowds. Nothing in their clothing or demeanor distinguished them or attracted attention. Perhaps the only remarkable thing was that there were no security personnel within twenty meters of either pair. But given the turbulent atmosphere, this was unlikely to be noticed by anyone. It was not.