Authors: Mukul Deva
It surprised no one when a harsh beeping sound was heard from the monitor beside the bed. In front of their helpless eyes, the sharp green line undulating across the screen in irregular but distinct peaks and troughs flattened into a straight expressionless line. The regular beep of the monitor settled into a dreadful monotonous whine.
‘
Holy shit
!’
‘
No
!’
The most wanted man in the world was no more.
‘
THERE WAS NOTHING WE COULD HAVE DONE!’ THE DOCTOR
told the Captain hovering outside, then, seeing the befuddled look on his face, he added, ‘Accelerated hypertension as a result of chronic renal failure. The man needed that nitroglycerine drip to keep him going. Without that they might as well have left him where he was.’
‘Shit!’ The Captain looked at him despairingly. The USS Eisenhower had finished a tour of duty as part of the John C. Stennis Strike Group and had been on her way home after being relieved by the USS Nimitz when they got orders to divert for this assignment. ‘
Shit
! Let me get on the horn and check with the brass. Let
them
decide what has to be done… that's what they are paid for. Right?’ He gave the doctor a weak, almost scared grin. ‘I just hope they believe he died of natural causes.’
The Captain could hope as much as he wanted to, but no one was going to believe it. As far as the dead man's followers were concerned, the Americans had murdered him.
A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER, IN WASHINGTON, THE LARGE
hall designated for press conferences was packed to overflowing with an astonishing assortment of journalists of all shapes, sizes and hues, from all corners of the globe.
The volume of sound shot up to a crescendo when the US Secretary of State entered, and a ragged volley of questions were fired at her. It took a lot of hand waving and gesticulating before some semblance of quiet settled upon the room. The Secretary of State waited till the silence deepened. When she finally spoke, her voice was carefully controlled.
‘The administration has lived up to the promise that the President made to the people of America. The terrorist wanted for the horrendous 9/11 attacks has finally been captured. An American Special Forces team seized him in a pre-dawn raid and successfully extricated him to a US warship. The US government had every intention of bringing the man to trial for his horrible crimes. Unfortunately, he was suffering from severe medical problems at the time of capture and, despite the best medical facilities being made available to him, he succumbed to his condition a couple of hours ago. The body is….’
That was about as far as she managed to get before a fresh storm of questions erupted. This time there was no controlling the hysterical mob in its quest for information. The noise levels rose to unbelievable proportions until the Secretary of State realized it was futile to go on. She beat a hasty retreat, leaving the journalists at the mercy of the bland press handouts that her staff would soon start passing around.
A SHOCKWAVE OF CONFLICTING EMOTIONS SWEPT ACROSS THE
globe, evoking reactions of all kinds. Coupled with the news of the Israeli strike on Iran, the emotional upsurge it caused, especially in the Middle East, was huge. Security agencies all over the world went into overdrive. Everyone knew that all stops would be pulled out this time.
Almost on cue and as though orchestrated, public outrage assumed alarming proportions. Thousands of armed people stormed the streets of cities in Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iraq, Indonesia and a host of other nations. The sheer deluge of irate humanity swamped the security forces. Entire cities and countries were shocked to a standstill.
THERE WAS FURY AT THE MEDIA BRIEFING THAT WAS CARRIED
out by Adam Gadahn, the English language spokesman of the Al Qaida. There could not have been any since it was carried out through a video recording delivered to the office of the Al Jazeera news channel. At about the same time, a copy of the message appeared in the Arabian Peninsula's e-magazine, Sawt al-Jihad (Voice of the Holy War), which was posted on a website frequently used by the Al Qaida.
Full of vehement rhetoric, the message was simple and chilling.
The world, especially the Americans and those who support them, will pay for the murder of our beloved leader. And the retribution is about to begin.
THE RETRIBUTION CAME IN WAVES. IN BRUTAL EXPLOSIVE
waves that swept the globe. Most of the attacks were knee-jerk reactions by isolated terror cells that had been activated by furious leaders without due planning, or enough thought for logistics and preparation. The majority of them either failed or failed to inflict the desired damage. But those that did succeed dealt out death and destruction to innocents across the globe. In every case the reactions they evoked were unequivocal. The state of fear was beginning to take hold.
THREE ANTI-TANK RPG-7V ROCKETS HIT THE US EMBASSY AT
Islamabad precisely five hours after the US press conference. The rockets were a legacy of the Russian invasion of Afghanistan. But they were lethal enough to cause substantial damage to the building. They also decimated the two Marines who had been standing sentinel at the Embassy gates.
ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF KABUL, DUSK HAD JUST BEGUN TO
settle when an old lady shuffled up to the roadblock manned by an American platoon. She had just crossed the checkpoint when she turned and threw herself at the handful of GIs on duty. They were still bringing their weapons into play when she detonated the belt bomb strapped to her waist.
IN BAGHDAD, TOO, NIGHT HAD BEGUN TO THROW DOWN
its
shroud of darkness when waves of armed fighters attacked seven of the smaller police stations while several others set up roadblocks at strategic junctions leading up to these stations. Simultaneously, a rash of gun battles erupted in different places, literally paralysing the already decimated town. For a change, the attacks were well coordinated and timed to precision.
Though they suffered heavy casualties, five of the police stations managed to beat back the attackers. The other two were overrun despite stiff resistance. By the time security forces managed to break through the roadblocks and push reinforcements through, both stations had been destroyed. Every security man who had the misfortune to be captured alive had been brutally hacked into pieces.
AT ABOUT THE SAME TIME, A HUNDRED ARMED FIGHTERS
emerged out of the darkness and attacked the Abqaiq facility in Saudi Arabia, the world's largest oil-processing plant. Though boldly executed, the attack was badly planned and failed to do any substantial damage. But it did succeed in sending tremors of fear all over the region.
HARD IN THE WAKE OF THESE ATTACKS A NEW MESSAGE FROM
the Al Qaida spokesman was broadcast on Al Jazeera.
In order to strangle the US economy we are going to hit oil interests that serve the US in all regions, not just in the Middle East. The goal is to cut off oil supplies to the White Satan by all means.
The threat increased the pressure on America and her allies. Almost reflexively, security in Canada – the largest exporter of oil to America, followed by Mexico, Saudi Arabia and Venezuela – was raised to wartime levels.
NEWS CHANNELS THE WORLD OVER WERE TEEMING WITH
reports of horrifying violence, which seemed to escalate and spread with every passing moment. But the worst was still to come.
M
URREE
, P
AKISTAN
NONE OF THE EXPLOSIONS THAT KILLED AND MAIMED PEOPLE
were heard in the quiet little bungalow in the remote upper reaches of Murree, the lovely hill town located a mere thirty kilometres from Islamabad and sixty-four kilometres from Rawalpindi.
Situated on the edge of a steep cliff and surrounded by tall pines that partially concealed it from the narrow, winding road below, the bungalow was equipped with a dazzling array of modern devices and conveniences that seemed totally out of place in the tiny hill resort. Its only occupants were two men and their three domestic helpers who had been living there for the better part of sixteen months.
The older of the two residents was sitting in the well-stocked library, busily browsing various news sites on the internet when the Thuraya satellite phone lying on the table began to ring. The phone was uncannily similar to the one that had been recovered from the intruder named Iqbal when he had been captured at the LOC.
The phone's ring was sharp and insistent.
The old man looked up in surprise. Not many people had this number and those who did were not the kind to waste their time and energy on social calls. He reached for the phone with a growing sense of anticipation. His excitement sharpened as he saw the calling number displayed on the screen.
No sir! General Ehsan Haque, the Director of the ISI, is definitely not the type to make social calls.
He answered the phone eagerly. ‘Good morning, sir.’ General Haque was one of the few people he respected and was ready to listen to. They had served together for a very long time.
‘Have you been following what's happening?’ the General asked without any preamble.
‘Of course!’ the portly old man in Murree replied indignantly. ‘How the hell did things come to this?’ His voice tightened. ‘More importantly, how the hell did the fucking goras get to know where Sheikh sahib was….’
‘We're trying to figure that out,’ the General answered sharply. ‘I have some ideas, but right now nothing is certain. However, we do know for sure that just two days before it happened, the big man had inquired about Sheikh sahib's health.’
‘He had? Then….’
‘Then nothing! That in itself proves nothing. He has done that several times in the past also.’
‘I don't know when you will see the writing on the wall, sir,’ the man in Murree retorted. Even at the best of times he was not the kind to mince his words. Right now he was angry. ‘That bloody traitor is selling our country down the road. He has given free rein to the Americans in the Northern Frontier and even allowed those corrupt political bastards to return to Pakistan… though he knows how ruthlessly they have raped our country all these years. That
harami
!’ His anger made him breathless. ‘Has he forgotten how hard it was to kick them out?’
‘Strangely enough, that worked out rather well for us.’ There was nothing pleasant about the General's laugh. ‘It didn't take much to push those perpetually conniving politicians over the edge and have them gunning for each other. One has already been blown away and the other is well on his way to hell – the PPP diehards will ensure that. The best part is that the world is busy blaming our honourable president for it.’ He laughed again. ‘They have become so used to blaming him for everything that they don't even stop to think that he had already cut a deal with her and had nothing to gain from her death.’
‘True! That did go down rather well,’ the old man in Murree replied curtly. He was clearly reluctant to relent. ‘But the stupid fucker is showing absolutely no signs of letting up. Now he has even started talking peace with the bloody Indians. Before you know it, the shithead will hand over Kashmir to them on a platter. You should have allowed me….’
‘
By God, man
!’ The General's voice crackled with the unmistakable whiplash of command. ‘When are you going to learn to keep that tongue and temper of yours in check? There has to be a time for everything.’ The man in Murree tried to butt in, but the General cut him off. ‘
Listen to me
! I think the time has come for us to stem the rot before it gets out of control.’
‘I absolutely agree. It is high time. In fact if you had listened to me at that….’
‘
If, if, if
…. Damn it!’ Haque broke in sharply. ‘Stop living in the past and listen to me….’
‘I am sir, I am.’ His voice was tight with impatience. ‘But where is all this talking going to get us? We will keep gassing while those fucking kafirs decimate us. Just look at the Americans! First it was Afghanistan, then Iraq, and now they have gone for Iran. When will it end? We will keep sitting on our hands and they will come for us next.’
‘Will you shut up and listen?’ The General sounded tired and irritable. ‘
Please
.’
The tone must have finally gotten through since the old man actually shut up and listened carefully as General Ehsan Haque outlined his plan in detail. Gradually, the anger abated and the hard logical thought process of a trained military mind returned. Every once in a while he would butt in and offer a suggestion, but by and large it was the General who spoke. The call lasted a long time.
For an equally long time after it had ended, the old man sat lost in thought. Suddenly his face brightened. Turning to his computer he began to troll the internet, but this time there was a sharp focus to the information he sought and studied. The hours bled away as he systematically swept through the information and slowly began to put together an operational plan.
‘You have to do better than your best!’ General Haque had said. ‘The strikes must be spectacular, simultaneous, and spread out all over the globe. We must ensure everyone knows that we have the capability to strike at will, when and where we choose to… and anyone who stands in the way of the One God is going to be annihilated. Everything that has been done till date must pale in comparison. Unleash the terror and let the world quiver!’
THE RAYS OF A NEW SUN WERE STRUGGLING TO PIERCE THE
swirling fog of another bitterly cold Murree morning when the old man finally switched off his computer. Rubbing his tired eyes and stretching his stiff limbs, he called out to his younger companion in the house.
In his mid-thirties, the second man was tall and broad shouldered. He sported a distinctly military haircut and his grey eyes were alive with anticipation.
Sipping endless cups of coffee, the two of them sat talking for a long time. They spent even more time arguing about and refining the plan. In fact, three full days went by before they came to an agreement on the best line of action.
They spent the next two weeks mostly on their phones. On the fifteenth day the two men left the isolated bungalow in the hills of Murree. They were both on board Pakistan International Airlines flight PK-211 when it left Lahore Airport for Dubai at 1100 hours the following day. They were also on board the connecting Emirates flight that left Dubai a couple of hours later.
M
ALE
A
IRPORT
, M
ALDIVES
THE MAN SQUINTED AS THE CLEAR SUNLIGHT STRUCK HIM
. After the fog-laden climate of Murree, the bright sun was a shocker. Groping in the laptop bag slung on his shoulder, he pulled out a pair of dark glasses and put them on as he walked up to the edge of the ocean. The old man was watching the water lap against the low concrete wall running along the edge when his younger companion from Murree emerged from the airport building and walked up to him. He was sweating profusely.
Walking just behind him, pushing a luggage trolley, was a muscular young man with a healthy tanned complexion, in a sparkling white T-shirt with ‘Sunshine Travels’ emblazoned across it.
‘We are ready, sirs,’ the young man with the luggage trolley called out brightly. ‘Please follow me. That's our boat.’ He pushed the trolley around them and made his way to a speedboat that was bobbing gently alongside the wooden jetty. The trolley made a hollow trundling sound as it lumbered over the long wooden slats of the jetty. The duo from Murree waited till the luggage was on board and then jumped onto the speedboat. A few minutes later, it pulled away from the jetty and headed out into the vastness of the brilliant blue ocean. The nose of the speedboat lifted into the air as it gathered speed. A fine spray arced out in the wind, gently dousing the two men standing leewards of the tiny cockpit-like cabin. It felt pleasant and refreshing.
‘Our hotel, the Blue Moon Resort, is there.’ The enthusiastic young man from Sunshine Travels gestured at the distant horizon. ‘It will take us about forty minutes to get there. The Blue Moon is one of the finest resorts in Maldives. I can assure you that both of you will have a wonderful time.’ Though he was shouting, his voice was blown away in the wind that whipped past the speeding boat.
‘What is that?’ Cheema pointed at the huge gleaming golden dome sparkling in the sunlight.
‘That is the Islamic Centre. You can see it no matter which direction you approach Male from. We must come down and see it one of these days. Believe me, sirs, it is really beautiful.’
The younger of the two seemed to be listening intently, but his older colleague was clearly disinterested in his surroundings. The lad's constant drone was starting to get on his nerves. Closing his mind to it, the old man turned his thoughts inwards.
Ex-Brigadier Murad Salim of the ISI was not here on a holiday jaunt. He was a man with a mission, though officially he was just a dead man, like his younger companion and aide, ex-Captain Azam Cheema. They had both been declared dead when they had engineered their own deaths in a helicopter crash in the wake of the Delhi bomb blasts of October 2005.
Salim was impatient to reach the hotel and meet the men and women who would be gathering there from all points of the compass. They were a diverse group, from different countries and of different nationalities. But they all had one thing in common. They were gathering to plot death.
Death for a great many people….
AS THE SPEEDBOAT CLEAVED THROUGH THE SHOCKINGLY
bright blue waters, Salim's thoughts whipped away from him with the wind rocketing past. Lulled by the soothing motion of the boat and the serenity of the surrounding ocean, a medley of thoughts blew him back in time; back over the tumultuous forty years that he had spent in the service of his god and his nation… or so he thought. After all, it had been a very long time since Murad Salim had sat down to think about why he did what he did… or why he had become what he was. Somehow, somewhere in the passage of years, he had lost or suspended reasoning and allowed the hate within to grow until that was all he knew – to hate… and to kill.
Like an erratically choreographed video-clip, in his mind's eye he saw the barely twenty-one year-old Second Lieutenant Murad Salim standing in silent mortification as he watched General Niazi's ignominious surrender to the hated Indian Army at Dacca on 16 December 1971.
The headlines of the
Sunday Times
, London in December 1971, flashed through his mind like a bolt of pain.
It took only twelve days for the Indian Army to smash its way to Dacca, an achievement reminiscent of the German blitzkrieg across France in 1940. The strategy was the same: speed, ferocity and flexibility
.
Etched deep in his mind was the memory of a dejected young POW with his head hung in humiliation at the knowledge that the Indian Army had taken over 93,000 Pakistani prisoners, the majority of whom had been formidably entrenched when the Indian offensive surged up and around them. Most of them had not even fired a shot…. He remembered the anger and humiliation on the faces of the people who had gathered to watch the prisoners trudge ignobly back into Pakistan after being released by the Indians following an equally humiliating peace brokered by the hateful, gloating Americans.
Tears of angry shame mingled freely with the occasional spray of ocean water each time the boat hit a big wave. Salim pushed back the tears from his eyes with an effort, but inside he seethed, and deep within the tears continued to flow, hot and red.
With an angry sigh, he propelled his mind away from those dark, dampening days and hungrily sought better times. He saw the elation on the face of the young Captain who had been selected for transfer to the ISI not long after the 1971 war. He saw the slightly greying Major and then the hardened Colonel who had first helped the Pakistani Dictator with his coup d'etat and later with the launch of ISI's fabled Operation TOPAC against India. He saw with pleasure and clarity the now well-known Brigadier who had brought about the Talibanization of Afghanistan and consolidated Pakistan's hold over that godforsaken country. He saw the silent, powerful man, perpetually moving in the shadows, who had used the jihadis to unleash terror in India and Afghanistan. He saw the Stinger missile heading for the helicopter that was supposedly taking Captain Azam Cheema and the uber powerful Brigadier Murad Salim to Islamabad….
Then suddenly, the wind whipping past died as the boat slewed sideways and slowed down. The sudden change in motion broke Salim's reverie and returned him to the moment.
THE BLUE MOON RESORT LOCATED ON THE KAAFU ATOLL IS
one of the 1200-odd islands that comprise the Maldives. The resort lies on a strip of land approximately eleven hundred metres long, forty metres wide at its narrowest point and about ninety metres at the widest point. The island is so small that when the tsunami hit it a few years back, the gigantic waves had almost overlooked it. Its diminutive size had saved it from any major loss of life or damage.
If you approached the Blue Moon island resort by air, you would see a thin sliver of land surrounded by endless shoals of coral set in the brightest blue water imaginable. At the very tip of the narrow southern end of the island is a small jetty, overlooked by a huge glass hut. Heading away from the jetty, about midway to the other end of the island, is a large wooden hut-like structure reaching for the sky in a strangely birdlike manner. This hut is almost the exact centre of the resort. The eastern beach of the resort has been left untouched, probably for water sports.