The Bard of Blood (13 page)

‘Let me go first.’ Kabir narrowed his eyes. ‘If you’d walked in without looking, you’d have been in his place.’

Suddenly they heard footsteps. Someone was walking in through the door ahead of them. Kabir moved to the side and got down to his knees, his gun propped. The door opened and an elderly man stepped out. Kabir shot at him without demur.

‘Oh no!’ Vikramjit cried in anguish. ‘That’s the headmaster! He is an old man!’

Kabir didn’t feel any regret. ‘So what?’ he hissed. ‘He’s in on it, too.’

Vikramjit quivered. He respected the elderly maulana a great deal. He seemed locked in his position as he watched the old man’s lifeless body on the ground.

Kabir coaxed him ahead and walked on. He gave a cursory glance through the door and saw three men, their guns cocked, running towards him. They began to fire, and Kabir ran backwards trying to take cover behind a desk. He took a grenade out of Vikramjit’s belt, pulled the pin and hurled it into the other room, precisely through the narrow gap in the door. He closed his ears and Vikramjit followed suit. There was a loud bang. Their ears still rang as they stood up and walked warily into the room full of smoke. All three men lay dismembered, various parts of their body scattered across the room. Blood splattered all over the wall. Bits of bone crunched under Kabir’s feet as he saw the staircase below. Vikramjit covered his nose with a scarf as he tried to walk around the pools of blood. The stench of the sour, coppery blood was getting to him.

‘Stay close,’ Kabir said as he walked ahead. ‘Remember, you wanted to be posted to this part of the world, when you could’ve sat behind a desk in Delhi and let blokes like me do the job.’

Vikramjit let out an expletive and motioned Kabir to continue. Kabir led the way downstairs. The area seemed empty. Vikramjit followed him and pointed at a locked door on the right. Kabir walked towards it. He turned around with his gun and pointed it into the shadows.

‘We’re clear!’ Kabir shouted.

Vikramjit was exhausted. He sat on his haunches, trying to catch his breath.

‘Come on, Vikramjit. We have to do this now.’ Kabir helped him up. Vikramjit wiped the sweat pouring down his forehead, and then moved ahead with new zeal. Kabir heard another set of footsteps rushing down the stairs.

‘Breach the lock and get into the room!’ Kabir bellowed. ‘Get the hard drives! I’ll cover you!’

Kabir held up his rifle and ran towards the stairs. As soon as the three large bearded men approached, a sudden volley of bullets welcomed them. All fell to the ground, lifeless, in an instant. Kabir was now shaking with nervous energy. He took the butt of his rifle and smashed it ferociously into the head of one of the dead men. A feral madness seemed to have overpowered him. The man’s blood splattered all over Kabir’s trousers. He turned around, having vented his anger, and walked back down to see Vikramjit still at the door, clutching the knob.

‘What the fuck are you trying?’ Kabir roared. ‘I thought I told you to get inside and get the hard disks!’

Vikramjit swallowed, and stood still like a statue. He clutched the knob without moving, the door open just a crack.

‘Cla-Claymore!’ he stuttered.

Kabir’s eyes opened wide in horror. He understood why Vikramjit was frozen in his position. Behind the door was an M18 Claymore mine. It was an anti-personnel mine with a directional charge. It had been rigged to detonate when the door was opened. Had Vikramjit opened the door even a fraction of an inch more, there would have been a colossal explosion. Kabir felt numb for the first time.

‘If I leave the door, we die. It could probably take the entire building down, if several blocks of C4 are rigged to it.’

Kabir walked cautiously towards the door and looked through the slight crack. The mine was far away, but directed towards them. Had Vikramjit opened the door, the trigger attached to the mine would have fallen face forward and sent a bunch of explosive projectiles at them, killing them instantly and detonating the C4. Behind the mine was a large bag of C4 primed to explode. Kabir didn’t know what to do. He dug his chin into his shoulder, trying to think around the dilemma. They had not considered such a situation. It was supposed to be a clean getaway. For the first time in his life, Kabir Anand did not have a solution.

Vikramjit said in a hoarse voice, ‘There’s no way I live, Kabir.’

‘What do you mean by “I”?’ Kabir asked shakily.

‘You can get out,’ Vikramjit said. ‘I’ll hold this for another few minutes, till you escape.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Kabir said through gritted teeth. ‘We’re in this together. We die together.’

Vikramjit nodded frantically, still clutching the door.

‘Please, Kabir Anand!’ Vikramjit said, his voice quivering. ‘I want you to live. I want you to find the person who sold us out and tear him apart, piece by piece.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Kabir said stubbornly.

‘He sold out our operation, Kabir. There’s a traitor in our midst. Nobody was supposed to be expecting us. And if there’s anyone who can find him, it’s you and Sadiq. He needs to know about this. Please, Kabir. Please get out of here.’

‘But . . .’

‘No! Besides, you have to get Asghar and his family from his house now and rush them to the Americans! You must rescue them! If the ISI knew about us, they definitely know about him!’

A lump formed in Kabir’s throat. His eyes welled up, despite him trying to hold back. There was little he could do. Vikramjit was right, though. Sadiq needed to know. And Asghar and his family needed to be saved. They also needed to find the person responsible for giving the Pakistanis a heads-up. If both of them died here, there would be more questions than answers. There was simply no choice, though Kabir had no qualms about sacrificing his life. Absolutely none. He pondered the possibilities for a few seconds, then stood upright and saluted Vikramjit.

‘
Jai Hind
, Vikramjit Singh! You shall not die in vain.’

‘
Jai Hind
, Major Anand!
Jai Hind!
’

Kabir shot one last look at Vikramjit, who had squeezed his eyes shut by then, swerved around and scrambled upstairs, his rifle at the ready.

4 September 2014

Kalat, Balochistan

There was a heavy silence as the sun peeped over the horizon. Kabir looked at the floor, his uneasy toes tapping away. Isha felt a great rush of sympathy towards him. Veer nurtured a deep admiration for his team leader. Nihar felt unsettled after listening intently to Kabir’s narration, by the disturbing death of a brave comrade. He could not even imagine what he would have done had he been in Kabir’s shoes.

‘What happened then?’ Nihar probed.

‘I got to Asghar’s house as fast as I could,’ Kabir said. ‘I found the door ajar. I feared the worst. As soon as I limped in, I saw Asghar and his family lying dead. The bastards had come to know of his intention to defect. Their bodies were peppered with bullets. It’s the worst thing I’ve seen.’

Isha closed her eyes, a pained expression on her face, visualizing the scene. Nihar and Veer were surprised. They hadn’t known of the Afghani-defector angle before.

‘How did the Americans react?’ Veer asked.

‘I got out of the house, tied a tourniquet around my bleeding leg, and drove to Shamsi. It took me a couple of hours. Upon my arrival, the Americans raised their weapons at me,’ Kabir said. ‘Luckily, Porter took me in. They provided all the aid I required. He was pissed off about the defector’s death. He got me through to Sadiq, who asked me to sit tight while he made arrangements to bring me back. It took three days before I was sent for.’

‘What did the Americans think about the entire situation?’

‘They suspected foul play, naturally. And since I was the one who got out alive, they thought I might have had something to do with it. But they waited till Sadiq sent for me.’

‘Is the base in Shamsi still there?’ Nihar inquired.

‘No,’ Veer said. ‘The Americans were made to leave after they killed bin Laden in Abbottabad. Rumour has it that they had strategized that mission while in Shamsi.’

‘Yes,’ Kabir agreed, and then continued. ‘So when I got back to Delhi, I described to Sadiq in great detail everything that transpired in Balochistan. He was appalled to know that someone was expecting us at the madrasa. Worse still, Asghar’s death added to his woes. The suspects, as he saw it, could’ve been the Americans, who were known to play a double game with Pakistan, or someone within RAW itself. But the Americans were ruled out because they stood to gain a lot from the op and Asghar’s defection.’

‘Someone within RAW?’ Isha gasped, recoiling. ‘How many people knew about it within RAW?’

‘Sadiq and his squad of three in the control room,’ Kabir said. ‘But he was adamant that they didn’t know enough before the operation, or about Asghar, to have forewarned the Pakistanis. Nevertheless, that bastard Rao summoned us to his office.’

Kabir’s voice trailed away as he recalled the moment. He poured some water into a steel tumbler and quaffed it down.

‘Before getting into the meeting,’ Kabir said, ‘Sadiq asked me to blame the fiasco on him, and to tell Rao that I didn’t know the mission was not sanctioned. But when I went in I could tell Rao was elated by the fact that he could now kick Sadiq out, and with perfect reason. And I couldn’t bear that.’

‘What did you do?’ Isha asked, wide-eyed.

‘I told Rao that Sadiq had told me the mission wasn’t to be carried out, but that I chose to go through with it anyway. I could see Rao’s face fall as I took the blame upon myself.’

‘And Sadiq didn’t deny this?’

‘I was half hoping he would,’ Kabir stroked his beard. ‘I always considered Sadiq Sheikh to be a father—someone more than just a superior. And I’m sure he felt the same way about me. But that day, his silence meant something else. It meant he valued his reputation more.’

There was another long silence. And then Kabir spoke with an air of finality.

‘Rao lost his temper at me. Branded me a traitor. Said I was the one who set Vikramjit up. Besides, the Americans had already called him and cribbed about Asghar. He wasn’t willing to reason at all,’ Kabir said. ‘And then he asked Sadiq to throw me out right then—in front of him.’

A pregnant pause ensued.

‘Which he did,’ Kabir continued. ‘He asked me to leave. I had chosen to dedicate my life to the country, and it enraged me to be termed a traitor! I kicked the chair over and stormed out. But later on I realized something: I may have stopped talking to Sadiq, but my respect for him hadn’t lessened at all. I realized that he may have had his reasons not to take the axe for me.’

Kabir swallowed, his throat went dry. He had lived those few days over and over again since he had left the service.

‘What about the talks doing the rounds of you being a traitor?’ Isha asked.

‘That was the story Rao circulated,’ Kabir said. ‘He projected it as though Sadiq’s beloved protégé was, in real life, the Judas in his ranks. The fact that RAW didn’t know about the op left only Vikramjit and me in the know. And guess who made it out alive.’

‘Good thing he’s retired now,’ Veer said. ‘Even though my interactions with him were brief, I never liked the chap.’

The others muttered words of agreement.

‘We never knew anything about Asghar before,’ Isha added.

‘Asghar was never a part of our problem—until he died,’ Kabir said. ‘The fact that he was killed only made it easier for people to believe that I was responsible for everything that happened that day. Too many deaths with plausible motives, and I was a convenient culprit. Suddenly I had a lot of blood on my hands.’

It all added up now. After all, Kabir’s survival could not have been the only indication that he was a traitor. There were instances in the past where the survivor had been hailed as a hero. But the person who sold this operation out had managed to set Kabir up perfectly.

‘I hope I’ve cleared every doubt in your minds,’ Kabir said, addressing Nihar in particular.

‘I’m sorry,’ Nihar mustered an apology. He held out his hand feebly towards Kabir, who shook it firmly. Both realized the unspoken importance of unity in the ranks.

‘I hope we can work together as a team after this,’ Veer said. ‘If not for ourselves, then for our country.’

Later, the team recapitulated the incident the way Kabir had narrated it. There were loose ends that neither Kabir nor Sadiq could tie up. Who was the mole? How did he communicate across enemy lines from right under their noses? How did he manage to outsmart Sadiq and Kabir? Blowing up the madrasa, and arranging to eliminate the Afghani defector?

They mulled over the injustice meted out to Kabir. They wondered why Sadiq did not try to save Kabir’s career. They thought about the chain of events that followed that had brought Kabir back into the game he was unceremoniously forced out of. They thought about Sadiq’s last message. They figured that in his last moments Sadiq wanted Kabir to be the one to avenge him. That was how Sadiq brought Kabir honourably back into the fold, they realized.

It is a wise father that knows his own child
.

—Act 2, Scene 2,
The Merchant of Venice

4 September 2014

Miranshah, North Waziristan

It took a while for the large clouds of dust to settle before the Alouette III was finally discernible. The French-made helicopter, deployed by Pakistani forces, had just landed a few minutes ago on a barren tract of land a few kilometres from the town of Miranshah. Miranshah was the administrative headquarters of the North Waziristan Agency in the FATA. A small group of three looked on as their two guests alighted from the chopper. The men greeted each other cordially before getting into the SUVs waiting for them. It was a fifteen-minute drive towards the foothills of the Hindu Kush mountains, and there was not much by way of conversation in the car.

‘
Salaam aleikum
,’ a man of about forty said as he welcomed his two guests into his small, makeshift household. He wore a large black turban with a black kurta and an ankle-length salwar. His eyes were lined with kohl, and his thick beard was dyed almost maroon. He wore a thick sweater, as the temperature was just a few degrees above zero. He stretched his hand out to one of his guests, who he felt was more important, and embraced him warmly. ‘Mullah Baradar, it’s been a while.’

He turned to his other guest: ‘As for you, Brigadier Shehzad, it’s always a pleasure.’

‘The pleasure is mine, Khalifa.’

Khalifa, the deputy of God. The Caliph
, as his people believed him to be, was none other than Sirajuddin Haqqani—the ruler of the notorious Haqqani Network, established by his now aged father, Jalaluddin Haqqani. Jalaluddin had realized it was time to hand over the reins of the network to his son, whose ruthless zeal pumped his chest with pride.

The Haqqanis’ relationship with the ISI had always been steady since the Afghan–Soviet war. Back then, Jalaluddin had been a favourite of not only the ISI and the Saudis but also the CIA. They funded him, and backed him during the movement against the Soviets. Some even say Haqqani had been invited by, and perhaps even visited, Ronald Reagan at the White House. This was also the time when Haqqani was supporting one of his brothers-in-arms in building their own militia, the al-Qaeda. This comrade was none other than Osama bin Laden.

Until 1995, Jalaluddin Haqqani hadn’t been a part of the Afghan Taliban. However, once he joined, the Americans and other factions in Afghanistan shuddered at the implications of having both Mullah Omar and Jalaluddin Haqqani at the helm. The US tried to woo Haqqani over with offers of astronomical sums of money to go against Omar. But Haqqani wouldn’t budge. They had Karzai offer him a post in the cabinet, but even that didn’t seem to be enough. They kidnapped members of his family and tribe and tortured them brazenly, but this didn’t do the trick either. If it did anything, it added to his growing resentment for those against Omar’s Taliban. Moreover, Haqqani had the ISI’s unwavering support. This was something Pakistan denied vehemently, but every shred of evidence—both concrete and circumstantial—suggested this was the case.

The Americans realized there was no point pursuing Haqqani any further. They counted him in with the rest of their enemies, especially after 9/11. In 2010, when Sirajuddin agreed to merge formally with Mullah Omar’s Quetta Shura, the Americans began to target the Haqqanis to eliminate Jalaluddin and Sirajuddin in particular. They mostly failed, until 2012, when they managed to get the other son, Badruddin, in a drone attack. The following year, unidentified assailants killed another of Jalaluddin’s sons, Nasiruddin, from his Arab wife, in Islamabad. Jalaluddin suspected it to be a joint operation between the Indians and the Afghans. That was when his thirst for vendetta deepened and he made his son promise he would make every kafir pay.

Ever since, along with bin Laden’s al-Qaeda, the Haqqani Network has reared numerous other terror outfits such as the Jaish-e-Mohammad, the Lashkar-e-Taiba, the Lashkar-e-Jhangvi—even the Indian Mujahideen. Some of these units were created especially to target India. They attacked Indians and their embassies on a regular basis.

After seating his guests down comfortably and dismissing everyone else from the room, Sirajuddin spoke in a low, raspy voice: ‘I believe we are going ahead with our plan, Mullah Baradar.’

‘Inshallah.’ Baradar smiled. ‘Mullah Omar has consented wholeheartedly.’

‘How many people are needed?’ Sirajuddin turned to Shehzad.

‘As many as were sent the last time around. Maybe fewer,’ Shehzad replied. He picked up his bag and pulled out a hard disk. He placed it carefully in front of Sirajuddin.

‘Is this what I think it is?’ Sirajuddin asked, his eyes lighting up with a devilish smile.

‘Yes.’ Shehzad smiled back. ‘The layout, in detail, pictures from inside the compound, everything you need is in that little chunk of metal. All this information has been very hard to gather. I’m sure you’re aware of that.’

Sirajuddin nodded thoughtfully, stretched forward and picked up the hard disk. He raised it and smiled at Baradar. ‘If only we had had access to technology this advanced when Abbu was fighting his war,’ he said.

‘Speaking of whom, how is Jalaluddin Sahab?’ Baradar asked. ‘It’s been a while since I heard from him.’

‘
Mashallah
, he’s doing well. Old age may have weakened his bones, but his spirit is unflagging. He will be elated when he realizes our plans for Mumbai. The last time Abbu laughed was when we pulled off 26/11.’

Shehzad smiled, feeling an inexplicable conviction that this time it was going to be much better. And it was his brainchild, entirely. Sirajuddin picked up a wooden box and opened it. It had five fat Cuban cigars. He offered them to his guests, who picked them up gladly. He got up and went to the stove in the adjacent room and lit his. Shehzad and Baradar fiddled with theirs without speaking. Sirajuddin came back, puffing smoke in quick bursts, and with the lit end of his cigar, he lit Baradar’s and then Shehzad’s.

‘Nothing like a Cuban,’ he said, smiling. ‘Yes, so where were we?’

‘Manpower,’ Shehzad said as he blew out a puff of smoke. ‘I think we’ll need to activate a sleeper cell. Gunmen. They will serve as a distraction—before the main deed is done.’