The Bard of Blood (14 page)

‘Where do you plan to send them?’

‘New Delhi first. They will blow themselves up in the most densely crowded area. The country will be in a frenzy. After that, we leave the best for the last.’

‘Sounds good, so far.’ Sirajuddin shrugged. ‘Suicide bombers and gunmen are not the problem, Shehzad. You know I’m more worried about the subsequent attack. It has to be flawless. Are you sure we can still trust your guy?’

‘He has been waiting for this for years, Khalifa. There is nobody more driven than him to do this.’ Shehzad clenched his fist, knocking the table as he said the words.

‘And are you sure he’s ready? Have you spoken to him about green-lighting the plan?’

‘Not yet,’ Shehzad said. ‘But I will, as soon as you are absolutely certain that we can finalize this.’

‘I don’t know why you think I wouldn’t want this to happen,’ Sirajuddin said, taking in a lungful of his cigar. ‘You have my blessings. And I’m certain you have my Abbu’s
dua
s, too. Besides, if Amir al-Mu’minin and Mullah Baradar have agreed, then what weight does my decision hold?’

Baradar shook his head with a disappointed smile. ‘Siraj, so far, all our decisions have always been taken with mutual consent. It is because of the high regard in which we hold you and Jalaluddin Sahab.’

‘We have many more victories before Allah welcomes us to heaven, then, Mullah Baradar. Let this be one of the smaller ones.’ Sirajuddin smiled. ‘As far as we are concerned, we are ready to go ahead with this, Shehzad. You tell us when and what you expect of us, and we’ll do our best to deliver. Inshallah, Allah will guide us through.’

Sirajuddin stood up and embraced his guests again. He walked them out, escorting them to their cars that were to drive them back to their helipad.

‘Khuda hafiz,’
he said, and turned back and walked into the house.

I must go and tell Abbu this right away.
He picked up the hard disk and jumped into his own vehicle. His father lived in the town of Miranshah, whereas Sirajuddin kept shuffling between the foothills of the mountains and the town itself. He was never sure when the next drone would drop on his head and take his father’s entire life’s work out of play.

Later that evening, the wizened Jalaluddin and his son crouched over a laptop, maniacal grins plastered across their faces. They opened each of the myriad documents and photographs that Shehzad had passed on to them.

‘The Indians will never be able to recover from this attack, Abbu. 26/11 would be a petty case of murder compared to this. This is much more. This means the total annihilation of the country itself. The Chinese will wipe them off the map! There will be mass destruction. A crashed economy. Crippled newborn babies. Diseased future generations. And above all, a large step towards jannat for all of us.’

Jalaluddin Haqqani nodded in agreement. In pure rapture, he went over the layout of the Delhi Metro and the draft itinerary of an important meeting.

5 September 2014

Mastung, Balochistan

The three stumps stood erect, more or less, as the barefoot batsman took guard. He wrapped a scarf around his face so that no dust could enter his nose and mouth. He lightly tapped the bat on the ground, and waited for the bowler to hurl the ball at him. The bowler, a young boy of fifteen, tossed the ball from one hand to the other, and looked around, surveying his field placement. He took himself rather seriously as he motioned the bearded fielders to move around. They humoured him. He ran a hand through his hair, jogged a few paces and delivered the rubber ball to the burly batsman. The batsman took a wild swing at the ball and missed, resulting in two of the stumps being uprooted. The bowler stretched his arms out like an albatross and jubilantly ran around the rocky ground.

As if on cue, there were a series of large explosions in the air. The boy didn’t pay heed to them; he stood theatrically, in pose, after getting the prize wicket. The other men on the field, however, ran in the direction of the explosions and then stood upright. Cocking their rifles, they fired in the air. Another set of rocket-propelled grenades went up and blasted in the air. This was the tradition among Balochi rebels, when welcoming their leader. The leader of their tribe and militia, Nawab Nabil Bugti, had arrived.

A large frame, bursting at its seams, got out of a sedan and walked up to the boy. His skin was pink, a dense stubble covered his jaw, and his hair was cropped close. He raised his hand to the men looking on from atop a low hill, and waved to them to carry on with their work. Then he tapped the young boy on his head, and lowered his sunglasses.

‘Salaam, Chachu,’ the boy said, looking at Nabil Bugti’s sombre eyes. ‘I got Faraz Miyaan out!’

‘Salaam, Azaan,’ Bugti addressed his fifteen-year-old nephew with a smile. ‘I saw it. You shattered his stumps just like Shoaib Akhtar used to.’

The kid looked elated at being compared to his favourite pacer. And then his uncle’s face grew serious. He put his arm on the boy’s shoulder and walked up towards the stumps on the ground.

‘I have decided it is time for you to play a new sport, Azaan.’

He lifted his kurta and pulled out a pistol that he had tucked under the cummerbund of his salwar. He handed the firearm over to the confused boy. He called out to one of his men and instructed him to set up a target.

‘What is this, Chachu?’ The boy felt a sudden surge of excitement mingled with nervousness, now that he had a gun at his disposal.

‘Your grandfather, Akbar Bugti, first took a life at the tender age of twelve. In many ways, after your father and grandfather died, I have shielded you from their way of life, Azaan. But now I’m afraid I can’t keep you away from it any more.’

The boy’s eyes welled up on hearing his uncle mention his late father and grandfather.

‘Don’t shed a tear, my boy. You are the grandson of the respected Tiger of Balochistan! You are destined to complete what your grandfather began. I am merely here to guide you.’

The boy looked at the gun and felt the cool metal against his fingers. He had expected it to be lighter.

‘The target is ready.’ Nabil Bugti pointed to a goat’s head at the end of a long rod. ‘Take your time. But you will not leave until you shoot it.’

Suddenly, there was the humming of an engine behind him. An SUV had pulled up near Nabil’s sedan. All of Bugti’s men collectively raised their rifles at the car. Nabil turned and looked quizzically through the dust that the car had kicked up. Irfan Baloch Khan stepped out of the car. Nabil looked up at his men, and gestured to them to lower their weapons.

‘Salaam, Nawab Bugti,’ Khan greeted him.

Bugti nodded back in acknowledgement. ‘Salaam,’ he replied, looking into the car. ‘Are they here?’

Khan nodded and turned around, looking at the four passengers in the car. He asked them to step out with a gesture of his hand. They got out.

‘These are the people I told you about,’ Khan said. Nabil scanned the three men and the solitary woman with a sharp look. Kabir walked up to him and stuck out his hand.

‘Kabir Anand,’ he said. ‘I believe we may have met fleetingly many years ago. But I’m sure you don’t recall.’

‘No, I’m sorry. Anyway, I’ve heard of your plans from Nusrat Marri, Mr Anand.’

‘Call me Kabir. And before I get to that, I should let you know whom I’m working with. These are my comrades.’

He introduced Veer, Nihar and Isha to him. Isha sensed condescension when Nabil shook her hand and smiled.

‘I’m afraid she’s far more capable than any of us,’ Veer said, sensing the patronizing look Nabil shot Isha. ‘You’d be surprised.’

Nabil shrugged and leaned against the bonnet of the SUV. Behind him, the boy had started firing the pistol at the goat’s severed head. He missed, naturally.

‘So there is a slight glitch in your plan, Kabir. We know Omar stays in northern Quetta, but there are very few instances of him being spotted by even his own men. How do you propose we go about abducting him?’

‘We have a plan.’ Kabir smiled. ‘But before that, I’d like to know how thirsty you are to avenge the deaths of your father, your brother and so many of your Baloch brethren?’

‘I can’t put that into words.’ Nabil’s face reddened.

‘Then don’t,’ Veer spoke up. ‘Show it to us in your actions. If we work together this one time, we have a fairly good chance of pulling this off.’

When turning someone into an asset, you have to get to know him. His frustrations, his aspirations, how he spends his time, how he spends his resources. You need to understand his dreams. You need to appeal to them. And that is what Kabir and his team were doing. They had managed to get Marri to agree, and now co-opting Nabil would be of game-changing import.

The boy turned and looked at his uncle dejectedly. He had finished another round of bullets, but the goat’s head stayed where it was. Kabir walked up to the boy and said something into his ear. The boy looked at him, trembling with anger. Kabir reloaded the gun with another round and handed it over to him. The boy took a deep breath and lifted the gun up. His forearm was rock-steady. He breathed in deeply. He took his time to aim and then pulled the trigger.

The goat’s head exploded as the bullet crashed through its cranium. Kabir smiled as he walked back to Nabil, who looked surprised, like everyone else.

‘What did you tell him?’

‘Imagine the goat is your father’s murderer.’

Beware the ides of March.

It was the fifteenth day of March in 44
BC
. Julius Caesar had been stabbed to death twenty-three times before his meeting at the Senate in Rome. His body lay in a bloody heap, on display for the bewildered crowd outside the Capitol. Two men spoke over his dead body. Brutus, Caesar’s trusted aide who stabbed him last, and Mark Antony, who remained faithful to his leader, despite their differences. Brutus was given a chance to explain his actions. He addressed the large crowd, who waited for him to speak. Now, Brutus was a noble man who respected Caesar, but who believed that once Caesar became a ruler he would assume dictatorial powers that would lead the country to its downfall. And he explained all of this to his countrymen, over Caesar’s lifeless form. This was the first scene that came to Kabir’s mind as he saw Nabil Bugti asking his people to gather around a large metal crate with a large lock on it.

‘This shameful metal crate is what Musharraf had sent us after killing my father, my beloved Balochis!’

Nabil’s statement made everyone look at the rusty metal crate. This was the very crate that the Pakistani Army had sent to the Bugti family after killing Akbar Bugti and thirty-two of his men in a cave in Kohlu, Dera Bugti. It was an operation headed by none other than Brigadier Tanveer Shehzad of the ISI. A note was attached to the crate. It read:
‘
The respected Nawab Akbar Bugti’s body lies in this metal coffin.
Inshallah
, he’ll find his way to heaven.’

In Islam, dead bodies are buried in the ground, but not placed in a coffin. The Pakistanis responsible for killing Bugti had deprived his family of the centuries-old tradition of burying a dear departed in accordance with the teachings of Islam. Bugti’s mangled body was thrown into the crate on Shehzad’s orders. He had then had the coffin locked securely, with a victorious smile, and thrown away the key from the top of a nearby hill.

‘I’m sure all of you remember my respected father for his efforts,’ Nabil continued to his army. ‘And I’m sure seeing this crate frustrates you. God knows if it’s his body in it or not!’

His Balochi fighters, leaning against their rifles, nodded sadly.

‘But my father was a brave man. I had asked him not to hide in those caves. And this is what he had told me: “Instead of a slow death in bed, I’d rather that death come to me while I’m fighting for our cause!” So my question to you is: If this is what my father wanted, did the Pakistanis succeed at all?’

The fighters enthusiastically replied in the negative. Their gaze then shifted to the three men who stood beside Nabil Bugti. Isha was asked by Kabir to wait in the car.

‘These men here are Indians,’ said Nabil, pointing at Kabir and his team. ‘And even if they don’t follow our religion, they have shown that they stand to be more credible than the Pakistanis!’

The Balochis looked at the Indians admiringly. Nabil looked at Kabir, and gestured to him to say a few words.

‘Friends,’ Kabir started, ‘this might sound unusual for you. But, yes, I’m an Indian who understands your plight fully.’

He pictured this slightly differently. In his mind, he was Mark Antony talking to the Roman plebeians. And just like him, he was going to appeal to their hearts and not their heads, as Brutus did. And the crate that lay before him, regardless of the fact that it may not even have carried the real Akbar Bugti’s body in it, held, in his mind, the dead body of Julius Caesar.

‘What is Pakistan?’ Kabir asked. He proceeded to answer the question himself. ‘It’s not purely ethnic like Balochistan! Its people aren’t humane to the sufferings of you Balochis, like we Indians are! Granted, you may think I’m saying this because India and Pakistan are constantly at war and I may have vested interests. But then, you know as well as I do, that the guns you are holding and the houses that you are living in, inadequate as they are, were at some point bought by money that my country provided to the Balochi cause!’

The Balochis shifted uneasily. They didn’t like being told they owed India a favour.

‘Balochistan is rich in minerals, gems, gas, petroleum and other such resources.’ Kabir raised his voice. ‘And these are enough to provide you a comfortable life. But do you like this uncertain life, this spectre of constant fear? Do you like taking the life of another human being just so that you can live? I’m certain that you don’t. But if the need arises, you must. And that is why we are here today.’

Kabir paused for breath and to see if the crowd was on the same wavelength as him. He quite enjoyed playing Mark Antony.

‘Enough with killing the odd soldier or two! Enough with wrecking small Pakistani properties that can be replaced in the blink of an eye! Enough of cutting the water supply and electricity! You, my friends, are going to hit them where it hurts. And I am going to guide you through it.’

The Balochis shot confused glances at each other.

‘Nawab Nabil Bugti has agreed to be a part of my mission,’ Kabir said. ‘And if you agree with Nabil Bugti—and I’m sure, with Nawab Akbar Bugti as well, who is here with us in spirit—then you will be under my command for the next few days. We will, together, show the Pakistanis the real might of you Balochis! And this will maim them in a way that they’ve never experienced before!’

Kabir paused dramatically.

A voice cried out. ‘How can we trust you? What are your motives?’

‘What do I stand to gain out of it, you may think. Let me clear that up for you. I have four of my fellow Indians in their clutches. And I am here to free them. Would you not do the same for your men? Together, you and the Marri tribe will fight the toughest fight you’ve ever fought to get what you want . . . Revenge!’

The fighters seemed to stir up.

Nabil Bugti stepped beside Kabir and opened his mouth to speak. ‘I agree with this man’s words,’ he said. ‘And you must understand that this mission could play a very important role in our revolution if we execute it according to the plan. What the mission is, I will tell you only if you all are willing participants! So tell me now, my friends, will you do this for your leader, who lay down his life for you? For your wives and sisters whose modesty was outraged, who were humiliated by the Pakistanis? For your integrity, and for the honour of Balochistan?’

The Balochis stood up, roaring their support for the Indian man who stood next to their leader. They lifted their rifles and began firing in the air to show their appreciation. Isha, hearing the gunshots and fearing something unforeseen had happened, got out of the car and walked a few steps. She was greeted with the sight of the Balochis firing in the air and hugging each other.