The Bard of Blood (15 page)

Later that night, at Nabil Bugti’s residence, Kabir and his team, along with Irfan Baloch Khan, sat over a lush Persian
dastarkhwan
, a feast, and discussed the full plan of action, over dishes of beef nihari, yakhni pulao and eggplant on lavash.

‘One last thing,’ Kabir said to Bugti, steely-eyed, ‘I want you to find me a metal coffin like this one.’

Everyone looked at him, uncertain of the direction he was headed. But by now they were familiar with Kabir Anand’s way of doling out his message.

‘I will bring Tanveer Shehzad to you in that coffin. And then you can do to him what he did to your father.’

12 September 2014

Islamabad, Pakistan

The Director General of the ISI, Lieutenant General Azhar-ul-Islam Tayyab, was seated upright at the desk in his study. It was three in the morning. He recalled everything Brigadier Tanveer Shehzad had relayed to him. It played in his mind on a loop.
It would spell disaster for India,
he thought as he worked on his proposal for the Army chief. His job was going to get a whole lot more difficult after the plan was executed. But he was ready to take it on. It had to be done.

His chain of thought was broken by the faint buzz of his phone. He had kept the phone on silent, lest his wife, in the adjacent room, wake up. To most, that buzz wouldn’t even be audible, but for him it was the loudest sound at the time. He opened his drawer cautiously, picked up the phone and squinted at the number as it gently vibrated in his hand. He stood up with some urgency and walked over to the window before answering it.

‘It’s three in the morning,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘This better be worth it!’

‘I haven’t called to discuss the weather,
janaab
! I have something important to tell you.’

Tayyab lit his seventh cigarette of the night. ‘Well, go on, then.’

‘The Wing is up to something, and it doesn’t look good.’

Tayyab felt a sudden shot of fear rush through his veins.
Could RAW know about the planned attack? Could they know about al-Qaeda?

‘What do you mean by “something” for God’s sake?!’

‘I don’t know,’ the reply came. ‘I’m sure there’s something about to happen in Balochistan. I thought I’d give you a heads-up. Do what you can, ASAP.’

‘Are you a hundred per cent certain?’

‘Of course I am!’ the man on the other end of the line spluttered. ‘I popped Sadiq for you, I got those Indians captured for you. The least you owe me is a bit of trust, janaab.’

‘I trust nobody,’ Tayyab replied. ‘But if what you say is true, then you know I owe you the price you name.’

‘Yes, we’ll get to that later. I’m leaving the country. Will contact you once I’m out of here. Will need help. Goodnight.’

Tayyab leaned against the table and picked up his glass thoughtfully.
What could they possibly know? The plan of the attack is too high-level a secret for them to get wind of. Maybe it could be something related to the prisoners. Could they be coming to get them? Of course not. They’ve got no backbone. Even if they do, they’ll never make it out alive. But one can never be too sure.

Tayyab lifted his phone and dialled a number quickly. Precautions had to be taken. If things were about to happen in Balochistan, Shehzad needed to know.

‘Salaam aleikum,’
Shehzad said instantly. ‘Is everything okay, janaab?’

Even in the wee hours of the morning, Tanveer Shehzad sounded alert as ever.

‘Are you still with him?’

Tayyab was referring to Ayman al-Zawahiri, the successor to Osama bin Laden, who had meticulously engineered a plan, in cahoots with the ISI, to set India on fire, and to sit back and watch it burn.

‘Yes,’ Shehzad replied. ‘Fleshing out the details of the celebrations.’

‘I need you to get back to Quetta. Take the chopper and get Omar and Baradar out of there. That’s top priority. After that, move the Indians out, too, if you can. If they die, so be it.’

Shehzad remained silent for a while. The sudden developments confused him.

‘Where do I take them?’

‘Back to Swat,’ Tayyab replied. ‘Keep them in one of the Haqqani safe houses.’

‘May I ask why, janaab?’

‘The Indians are up to something in Balochistan,’ Tayyab said urgently. ‘I want to play it safe, in case this is something serious.’

‘All right. By tomorrow evening, I’ll fly them back to Waziristan.’

‘Go, get some rest,’ Tayyab ordered. ‘You have a long day ahead.’

Tayyab poured himself a glass of water, looked at the time and shook his head. He was tired, but there was no way he was going to be able to sleep. Not now, in any case. He walked back to his table and continued to type away, robotically, on his laptop.

12 September 2014

Quetta, Balochistan

It was noon, and the children were ready to offer their
zohr namaz
, before they resumed their studies at the Fayyaz-ul-Uloom madrasa. They lined up next to each other, chatting animatedly while they went about the process of wudu, a ritual ablution performed before each prayer session. Their headmaster, a stout man dressed in a white kurta
-
pyjama that fell just short of his ankles, waited for them to assemble in the prayer hall. He sported a neatly trimmed beard, but no moustache. Beads of sweat formed along his hairline as he adjusted the microphone at his collar. He checked it lightly by tapping on it. He needed the speaker to be loud enough, to lead the children through the namaz. It also needed to be audible to the Amir and Mullah Baradar in the chamber below.

The prayers started soon enough. The headmaster’s baritone boomed through the speakers. A few hundred students genuflected, pressing their foreheads to the woven-straw prayer mat. In the chamber below, Mullah Omar and Mullah Baradar performed their prayers on their strongly incensed velvet
ja’namaz
. The adjacent chamber, however, had four semi-conscious men, gagged and tied up, hoping to be put out of their misery soon. But in their minds, they prayed to their god for a miracle. They wanted the bright light that shone directly on their faces to be switched off. They wanted that excruciatingly painful buzzing noise to stop. They couldn’t take it any longer. They wished they had been executed instead. And then, all of a sudden, the light and the sound went off. Maybe their prayers had been heard?

One storey above, in the prayer hall, the speaker had abruptly gone silent, too. The children and the headmaster remained on their haunches, completing the namaz anyway. There is a strict rule in Islam that forbids distraction during prayer, no matter how extreme the circumstances. After wrapping up, the headmaster hurried to check on the speaker that had gone dead, kaput, halfway through his prayers.

‘No electricity,’ the peon said. ‘The entire area is suffering from a power failure.’

‘Use the generator, then,’ the headmaster barked.

‘The last time there was a power cut, our generator stopped working as well, due to a short circuit.’

The headmaster cursed under his breath and marched towards the chamber downstairs. He would need to inform the Amir and Mullah Baradar. He knocked at their door lightly. Baradar opened it.

‘I’m afraid we’ve lost electricity in the entire area,’ the headmaster told a sweaty Baradar. The chamber was dark and stuffy. There were no windows in their subterranean hideout.

‘Fucking Balochis.’ The Amir’s voice came from behind. ‘It must be them again.’

He was accurate in his assessment. The Balochis often cut off the power to annoy the Pakistanis.

‘Get a trusted electrician,’ Baradar instructed the headmaster. ‘Until then, send all the students back home. We will sit upstairs.’

The headmaster turned and walked away obediently.

Baradar turned to Omar. ‘What about the prisoners?’

‘Leave a door open for them,’ Omar replied. ‘They need some ventilation.’

‘Yes, janaab,’ Wahab Ali the electrician said into the phone. ‘I’ll be there in exactly twenty minutes.
Khuda hafiz.
’

He turned and looked at his wife. She knew he had to get to work, so she helped him pack his tools and handed him his bag.

‘I’ll be back soon,’ he told her. ‘I’m going to the madrasa, so I’ll bring Iqbal back home, too. They’re sending the kids home early today.’

This piece of news brought a smile to his wife’s face. Ali stepped out and walked towards his bike. A few metres away, two men and a woman watched him from their SUV.

‘Are you sure this is the guy?’ Kabir asked Irfan Baloch Khan.

‘Yes,’ Khan replied. ‘We’ve noticed him at the madrasa many times before. He’s the only guy who does their electrical work. His name is Wahab Ali.’

‘It would never have struck me that you guys are so thorough with your work,’ Isha said from the back seat.

‘We may not have fancy gadgets, but do you think you people are the only ones with a spy ring?’ Khan shot back.

So far, the Balochis had done a good job. The first step of the plan was set in motion. They had done the needful: cutting off the power lines.

‘Isha.’ Kabir turned and looked at her. ‘You know what to do.’

Isha nodded, and covered her face with a veil. She got out of the car and walked towards the electrician’s house. Khan started the car and followed the electrician as he started out on his bike. The electrician, naturally oblivious to the people on his trail, continued towards the madrasa. After a while, the bike stopped at a signal. Khan stopped the SUV right beside the bike. Kabir turned and looked to see if there were many cars around him—just a couple, the drivers of which did not look interested enough. He got out of the SUV, covered his face with a scarf and walked towards the electrician. The electrician looked at him confusedly. Kabir went ahead and sat pillion on his bike. The electrician froze.

‘Remain silent,’ Kabir whispered as he pressed the end of his pistol to the electrician’s hip. The signal turned green. ‘Take the next right and stop.’

The electrician’s hands began to tremble and his heart thumped against his ribcage. He did as he was instructed to. He brought the bike to a halt at the next turning. Kabir got off and helped Ali off the bike as well. Irfan Baloch Khan parked the SUV a short distance ahead. If everything went according to plan, he would be able to knock the electrician unconscious and then leave him back home after Kabir had achieved what he had set out to do.

‘I’m not here to hurt you, Ali.’

‘W-what do you want?’

‘Not much,’ Kabir replied. ‘Your toolkit and your bike. I want to know what it feels like to be an electrician for the next few hours.’

Ali looked flustered. He couldn’t understand what was happening.
Why did the man have a gun? Why does he want to be an electrician for the next few hours? Why me?

‘I will be going to the madrasa instead of you,’ Kabir clarified. ‘I believe you’re the most trusted electrician in that part of town. Well, let’s just say I want to share your fame for a while. I want to pay the Amir a visit too.’

Ali was petrified.
Fuck. This guy knows about the Amir.

‘There’s no way I’m letting you go there,’ Ali mustered up the words, trembling as he said them.

‘So be it,’ Kabir said casually. ‘I won’t take up too much of your time. But I’d like to show you a picture.’

He drew out his satphone and texted Isha. Within seconds, she had sent him a photo. Kabir smiled as he held out his phone to the electrician.

‘N-no way!’ Ali’s eyes bulged out of his sockets as he struggled to find his voice. ‘L-leave her alone!’

The photo showed Ali’s wife tied to a chair, her mouth taped up, tears flowing down her cheeks.

‘Rest assured,’ Kabir continued, ‘if you carry on to the madrasa now, you won’t find her like this at home. There’ll be a lot to clean up.’

Ali broke down. He tried to punch Kabir, who caught him by the fist and twisted his arm.

‘As I said, I’m not here to hurt you. Or your wife,’ Kabir repeated, and then, as an afterthought, added, ‘or your son.’

Ali went weak in the knees and collapsed to the ground, sobbing away. Kabir bent down to speak to him.

Ali looked into Kabir’s fierce eyes. He couldn’t see the rest of Kabir’s face, since it was covered with a scarf. He didn’t want to.

‘J-just leave them alone,’ Ali replied, finally. ‘Take whatever you want. But just leave them alone.’

‘That’s better,’ Kabir said. ‘Now you’re going to make a call to the headmaster saying that you won’t be able to make it because your wife is unwell, but that you’re sending a trusted cousin instead. Let’s call him Yusuf.’

‘You’ll never make it out of there.’

‘Let me worry about that. Make the damn call.’

Ali shook as he pulled out his phone.

‘One wrong move . . .’ Kabir warned him.