The Bard of Blood (16 page)

Ali had trouble dialling the number, with his teary eyes and trembling hands. Finally, he managed to get through. Kabir instructed him to activate the speakerphone.

‘
S-salaam aleikum
,’ he said, trying to sound normal. ‘Janaab, I won’t be able to make it today.’

He choked as he said the words. The headmaster began yelling on the other end of the phone.

‘Janaab, please understand. My wife is really unwell. But don’t worry, I am sending a cousin of mine. His name is Yusuf. He is very reliable.’

There was a brief silence. And then, after what seemed like an eternity, came the reply.

‘How soon can he get here?’

12 September 2014

Quetta, Balochistan

‘Please leave your bag here,’ the guard at the gate of the Fayyaz-ul-Uloom madrasa told Kabir. The last of the students had left the premises. He threw another glance at Kabir and said, ‘You’re not the usual guy.’

‘I apologize, janaab. Usually it’s my cousin, Wahab Ali, who comes here. Today, he couldn’t make it.’

The grouchy guard inspected Kabir and then tugged the bag with the electrical equipment away from him. Kabir, dressed in a tattered, checked shirt and a pair of loose trousers, a pen perched over his ear, looked every bit the electrician he was supposed to. But now his bag of tools had been confiscated.

He had expected them to search his bag thoroughly, and had that happened, they would’ve certainly not found anything suspicious. He had dismantled his gun thoroughly, so that even the most obvious parts would’ve passed off as an electrician’s tools and other paraphernalia. But now he would have to think on his feet.

‘How do you expect me to work without my equipment, janaab?’

‘There’s a bag with all the equipment you need, waiting for you inside.’

Kabir nodded, turned away from the guard and began walking towards the madrasa. He wrapped a scarf around his face, as the wind blew hard, sending dust flying into his hair and eyes. As he crossed a fairly large playground, he felt a sense of familiarity. The last time he was at a madrasa, things hadn’t gone down too well.
You can’t think about that now . . . Concentrate!
But despite cautioning himself, scenes from his past flashed in his mind. The domed structure, the playground, the door to the entrance, they were all too familiar. He looked to the side and saw two identical Toyota SUVs.
So Omar is here.

‘Yusuf?’ the headmaster of the madrasa confirmed as Kabir approached. He held a medium-sized, worn-out leather bag.

‘Yes, janaab,’ Kabir replied. ‘Wahabbhai sent me.’

The headmaster handed Kabir the bag with the equipment. He motioned to Kabir to follow him. Kabir walked behind the stout figure into a classroom on the right. There were no desks, just large carpets that had been rolled up and stacked upon each other in the corner of the room.

‘Wait here,’ the headmaster said as he walked out of the classroom, closing the door behind him. Kabir wondered what was happening. He took the pen tucked above his ear, pressed a button and muttered into it.

‘I’m in.’

Suddenly, the door opened. Kabir slid the pen into his pocket quickly. Three large guards followed the headmaster into the room. They looked Pashtun to him.
Omar’s guards.

‘Search him,’ the headmaster said, fanning himself with a rolled-up newspaper. ‘Make it quick, it’s getting really hot in here.’

Kabir immediately feigned a worried look. The kind that shows you have nothing to hide, but that you’re scared of the three huge guys who are more brawn than brain. The guards formed a triangle around Kabir, examining him. The headmaster walked out, leaving the door ajar. Kabir saw him going down the stairs, through the reflection off the glass panes on the door.
Omar must be in the basement.

Kabir felt three pairs of hands searching different parts of his body simultaneously. They checked his shoes, his scarf, his shirt and then finally his trousers. One of the guards ran his hands over Kabir’s buttocks, taking longer than he needed too. He then did the same thing with Kabir’s crotch. He looked up at his friends and cracked a joke in Pashto. Kabir did his best to keep calm and not send his heel into the man’s teeth. Kabir noticed that each of them carried a revolver, probably a .38 Webley by the look of things, tucked into the side of their pyjamas. Now that Kabir’s firearm had been confiscated at the gate itself, he needed to get his hands on one of these.

‘He’s clear,’ the guard said. He then walked to the door and stuck his head out.

‘The Amir is coming up now,’ he continued in Pashto, ‘after which we’ll take the electrician to the power source.’

Kabir looked on confusedly, as if he didn’t understand Pashto. He finally saw a tall figure coming up the stairs, in the reflection on the glass. He didn’t need to see more to know who it was. Behind the tall figure, Kabir noticed, was another man taking equally confident strides.
Baradar . . .

‘Come on,’ the guard said to Kabir. ‘Let’s go.’

Kabir picked up the bag of tools and walked behind the guard. The other two walked beside him. Kabir felt his temples throb as he followed the guard into the chamber below. A strong stench welcomed him, only growing stronger as he walked into a corridor.

‘The circuit control room is at the end of the corridor,’ the guard pointed out. Kabir noticed four rooms in the basement. It didn’t look like a place that was regularly lit up anyway, with electricity or otherwise. As Kabir walked on, he noticed an empty room, with a lit cigar lying in an ashtray. Kabir deduced that it was the room Omar and Baradar were in. The guard shoved him, urging him to walk faster.

Kabir passed another door. It was locked.
Could the prisoners be in there?
Kabir continued walking and, as he approached the third door on his right, he realized that the source of the smell originated from there. He walked up to it swiftly and, on seeing what was inside, froze momentarily. Four bodies, chained to a wall, drenched in blood, urine and sweat. He couldn’t tell if they were alive or dead.
The prisoners. The Indians.

The guard closed the door quickly on seeing Kabir’s reaction.

‘They are kafirs,’ he growled to Kabir. ‘You don’t need to look so sympathetic. Do your job and get out.’

Kabir nodded obediently as the guard opened the room for him. Kabir looked at the large board, with switches and wires all in a tangled mess. Kabir walked into the room, and the three guards followed suit.

‘It’s stuffy in here,’ Kabir said. ‘I would appreciate it if you could wait outside.’

The guards shot each other a look, shrugged and stepped out. Kabir rested on his haunches, zipped open the bag and pulled out a torch. He clicked it on and looked at the equipment inside. A screwdriver, scissors, pliers, a soldering iron with some soldering wire wrapped around it, and three rolls of duct tape.
Good enough.

Kabir stood up, and looked at the circuit thoughtfully. He scratched his chin and then looked at the guards.

‘Bloody Balochis,’ he sighed at one of them. ‘I will have to repair the generator, because there’s nothing that can be done here. They’ve cut off the cables on the pylons from the main power-grid.’

‘Do whatever you have to, man,’ the guard said rudely.

‘I will,’ Kabir said. He bent down and plugged in the soldering iron, allowing it to heat up.
Don’t you worry, I will.

The guards turned around and began speaking to each other in Pashto. Kabir looked at his watch.
Ten minutes and the Balochis will be here.
He looked down at the soldering iron, picked a bit of wire and touched it to the tip. The metal glimmered and melted.
Perfect.

Kabir then lifted the screwdriver with his other hand and held it behind his back. The guards saw him stand up and walk towards them. The three of them towered over him, as he stood about a metre away. It was dark, save for the little light the torch gave out. Kabir smiled to himself.

‘What’s the matter now?’ the guard asked. The two next to him glowered.

‘The four kafirs in that room are my countrymen,’ Kabir said. ‘And I’m here to get them.’

The guards stood bewildered for a split second—more than enough time for Kabir to act. With one swift motion, he used the soldering iron in his right hand to stab one man in the eye, and with the screwdriver in the other hand, he slashed the man on his left, across the cheek. Both of them yelped in pain. The third man reached for his gun, and Kabir rammed his boot into the man’s crotch.

‘That should teach you not to touch other people’s balls again,’ Kabir said as he kicked the man in the groin repeatedly.

Kabir bent down and picked up the gun. He saw that the guard with the soldering iron in his eye was convulsing in pain, his mouth struggling to scream. The other guard, however, had recovered from the shock and was pointing his gun at Kabir, about to pull the trigger. Kabir somersaulted and speared him into the circuit wall, causing a shower of sparks to fly. Kabir didn’t want to risk being heard by firing the gun, so he elbowed the man in his face, caught a handful of his beard and twisted his head until his neck cracked. The man slumped to the ground. Within a minute, Kabir had made a heap of the three tough guards.

Kabir picked up the other Webley revolvers as well, and emptied the rounds with the help of some light from the torch. He slipped some spare cartridges into his pocket. He examined the firearm he chose to keep, for good measure. He noticed it was a fake. It looked surprisingly authentic, but the tiny imprint that read ‘Made in USA, Birmingham’, gave it away. The original firearm was made only in the UK. Gathering himself, Kabir walked slowly towards the prisoners. He pulled out the pen with the audio transmitter and spoke into it.

‘I’m with the prisoners,’ he said as he entered the room.

‘Should we move in?’ Isha asked.

‘Hold on,’ Kabir said as he held his breath. ‘Let me unchain them. Move when you get my signal.’

‘Roger that,’ Isha’s voice crackled through the pen.

Kabir slipped the pen back into his pocket and looked at the prisoners, recalling images of them as he had seen them last, as opposed to how they looked now. One of them showed signs of moving. He walked over and bent down on his haunches near him.

‘It’s all right,’ Kabir said as the man flinched. ‘You’re going to be okay.’

‘W-who are you?’

‘Major Kabir Anand. I’m here to rescue you.’

The man’s thin lips formed a weak smile. He moved with great effort, against the resistance of the chain. He had a broken leg. Kabir felt the blood rush to his head.

‘They’ll pay for it,’ Kabir said through gritted teeth. ‘I promise you that.’

Kabir stood up, enraged. He saw a metal chair in the corner of the room. He strode over and broke away a piece. He picked up the iron leg and smashed it repeatedly against the prisoner’s chains until they gave away. The other three men stirred slightly before waking up, completely disoriented. They did not realize Kabir was here to save them.

Kabir lifted the pen and spoke into it.

‘I’ve got them. It’s time to make your move.’

Kabir waited for a reply, but the pen just crackled noisily.

‘Do you copy? Isha? Nihar?’

And then, suddenly, Kabir heard a noise grow louder. It was coming from outside the building.

‘KABIR!’ Nihar’s voice shrieked through the pen. ‘THEY KNOW YOU’RE THERE!’

Kabir had just about figured what Nihar said, when the noise grew louder. And then Kabir placed the source of the noise.
A helicopter.

Nihar’s voice screeched through the pen again. Kabir held it to his ear.

‘GET OUT OF THERE! THEY ARE COMING FOR YOU!’

‘TELL THE BALOCHIS TO ADVANCE!’ Kabir bellowed back as he readied his weapon. He knew they were coming to get him. But he had planned it out well enough. It was always going to be hard.

Suddenly, he heard Isha’s voice through the transmitter.

‘A HELICOPTER IS LANDING OUTSIDE! OMAR IS ESCAPING!’

12 September 2014

Quetta, Balochistan

Kabir looked at the prisoners. They were in no shape to move, much less escape. He closed the door and waited behind it. He switched off the torch, deciding to work in complete darkness. The element of surprise was all he had. Within a few moments, the basement would be full of militants and Kabir would have to fight his way to the top alone. He closed his eyes and reconstructed the route from the stairs up to the electrical control room.
Four rooms. One of them is locked.

He heard some hurried footsteps coming towards the chamber.
Four guards, maybe five.
He picked up the revolver and decided to wait it out. The first move would have to be his. Kabir crouched silently behind the door, waiting for the men to approach.
They’ll probably want to kill the prisoners first . . . I’d do that if I were in their place . . .

The militants reached downstairs. He heard a man speak in Pashto, ordering the men to separate and search the rooms.
That evens the odds.
He heard the footsteps getting louder as he saw little beams of light floating around. He clutched his Webley revolver closer.
It’s show time . . .

As soon as the guard opened the door, Kabir shot him. The bullet tore into the man’s skull with ferocity, and blood sprayed all over Kabir’s face. He pulled the man towards himself before he fell, intending to use him as a human shield. The guard was rather heavy, and Kabir tried hard to balance himself. There were bursts of fire aimed in his direction as the other men closed in. Kabir staggered out, with the dead man’s body shielding him. With one swift motion, he held the gun beside the guard’s torso and fired blindly. Bullets flew from both sides and Kabir managed to kill another guard
. Two down . . .
His body-shield had saved him from quite a number of bullets. Kabir was out of ammo and he needed to reload. He grabbed the dead man’s gun as well and went back into the room for cover. A few metres away, the two guards who were in Mullah Omar’s chamber did the same.

Kabir switched the torch on and looked at the gun he had borrowed. It was an Afghani
jezail.
Kabir looked at it incredulously. It was a long-barrelled handmade gun, not too accurate, and extremely slow. He pulled out the spare bullets he had pocketed for the Webley and realized that they weren’t enough. He decided to make do with the jezail
. Just my luck!

Kabir took a deep breath and decided that attacking would be his best defence. He decided to go for the jugular. He crept up with the gun pointing ahead, towards Omar’s room. He knew the two guards would be waiting on either side of the door, planning their move. He had to be swift.

He kicked open the door and pulled the trigger, killing the guard on the right. The gun recoiled jerkily, and Kabir just about managed to keep his grip on it. The man on his left raised his gun and was about to pull the trigger when Kabir slammed the butt of his jezail into his eye, and then, with a hard swerve, bashed it against his temple. The man collapsed instantly. Kabir shot him for good measure.
There will be Afghani reinforcements coming soon.
He had an idea.
Maybe I can shift the prisoners to the other room.

He shot open the lock on the closed door and held up his torch. There were large duffel bags and huge wooden crates on the floor. On top of the crates he found some jerrycans, each with perhaps 5 litres of water or so. He raised the torch to the label and read, ‘Aab-e-Zamzam—Holy Water from Mecca’. Kabir, on seeing this, felt the need to quench his thirst. He opened a bottle, gulped down some water quickly and then poured some over his head. He bent down and unzipped the duffel bags, only to find rocket launchers, rifles and a few loose grenades. He scoffed at the hypocrisy of it all: water from a holy well and weapons of serious destruction, lying next to each other. He bent down to pick up a couple of grenades, put them into a smaller bag around his shoulder, and then loaded the Carbine rifle.

Kabir quickly walked into the opposite room and handed a revolver to the one prisoner who had managed to come to. He decided against dragging the prisoners into the other room.

‘Here. In case you need it,’ Kabir said. ‘I’m sending my colleagues down to get you.’

‘Please come back soon,’ the man said faintly. Kabir nodded tersely and slammed the door shut.

He went out, stepping on dead bodies as he ran up the stairs. His finger was firmly placed on the trigger of the rifle, ready to fire in an instant. As he reached the top, he looked out of the window at the playground.

The helicopter was all set to take off. One Land Cruiser had broken through the wall and had driven off recklessly. Veer was running to get into the other one. On the ground, around sixty Balochis had swarmed in and had begun fighting Omar’s guards. It was a scene from a medieval skirmish, complete with guns, swords and impaled bodies. Everything was going according to Kabir’s plan. Except the fact that there was a huge helicopter that was trying to whisk Mullah Omar away.

Kabir ran outside and saw Nihar and Isha take cover behind their car, firing at Omar’s men. The total strength of Omar’s fighters at that moment, both Pakistani and Afghani, was around forty. He had certainly been caught unawares.

Kabir coughed as he ran outside the madrasa and pointed out to Isha and Nihar. ‘THE PRISONERS ARE IN THE BASEMENT,’ Kabir yelled, taking in lungfuls of the dusty air. ‘GIVE ME THE CAR!’

Nihar and Isha nodded and ran into the madrasa. Kabir tossed the duffel bag with the grenades and rifle to Isha, as he himself got into the driver’s seat. He revved up the engine and cast a sideways glance at Veer, who had driven out of the hole in the wall in pursuit of the other car.
What the fuck is Veer up to?

The chopper’s wings began to rotate rhythmically and the helicopter lifted itself off the ground. The Balochis opened fire at it. Kabir revved the engine of his car. He had an idea.
It could get you killed, Kabir. But if Omar and Shehzad are in that chopper, it had to be done.

‘CEASEFIRE!’ Kabir yelled at the Balochis through the window. ‘Don’t shoot the chopper!’

They didn’t seem to obey at first. Kabir could see the chopper gain height, bullets ricocheting off it as it did. It was almost six or seven feet off the ground, when Kabir slid open the sunroof of his vehicle, shifted gears quickly and rammed his foot on the accelerator to gain speed as fast as possible. He looked up at the helicopter as he closed in.
It’s all about the timing . . .

His vehicle was thankfully quick to respond, and he saw the helicopter turn midway in the air. Kabir swerved the car, and jumped up on the seat, swiftly climbing out through the sunroof. The whirlwind of dust that the chopper kicked up began to get into his eyes. Kabir closed them involuntarily as he tried to maintain his balance on the roof of his car. He looked up and mentally reckoned the distance between him and the landing-skids of the chopper.

The chopper was almost eleven feet high now. Kabir kept his eyes on the chopper’s skids, his heart thumping against his chest. His vehicle was beginning to slow down now and was about to ram into a wall. He would miss his chance if that happened.
It’s now or never . . .

Kabir leapt upwards with his arms outstretched.