The Bard of Blood (18 page)

One of Khan’s Balochi members spoke: ‘You need to be rational about this. There’s no way you’re getting through to Omar. They’ll destroy you before you reach halfway.’

Veer’s body was shaking with anger. He couldn’t believe he had let Mullah Omar get away.

‘Get into the fucking jeep right now,’ Khan ordered. ‘Or I will shoot you square in the head myself.’

‘I’m doing what is right for my country,’ Veer scoffed and turned around, continuing to walk.

‘You have been warned,’ Khan said. He aimed at Veer’s right calf and pulled the trigger.

12 September 2014

Quetta, Balochistan

The ascent of the Alouette III chopper was surprisingly swift, once it had generated sufficient downwash. It had risen to a good thirty feet off the ground within seconds of Kabir having made the jump to grasp the landing-skid. The skin on his hands seemed to be tearing away, and his muscles shook violently as he tried to keep himself from falling. But that’s not all he had to do. He had to muster up enough strength to pull himself up and into the chopper. Luckily, in their scramble, Baradar and Shehzad hadn’t sealed the doors of the helicopter shut yet. But they had noticed him jump up towards the chopper.

Kabir’s body trembled violently as he pulled himself up by a fraction and rested his left arm over the landing-skid. He was still an arm’s length away from the lower edge of the door. Through his wildly flying hair, he saw an Afghani militant lean out and point a pistol at him. Kabir, who was in the process of lifting his leg on to the landing-skid, saw this and froze instantly. The man had a clean shot, point-blank. In that split second, Kabir ran through all the possibilities in his head, death topping the list. He realized he couldn’t jump for obvious reasons. And if he stayed there, the man would shoot him ten times out of ten. These were situations formal training did not prepare you for. Kabir did the only thing that he knew how to do best.
Attack.

Kabir felt a muscle in his lower back and right shoulder slowly tear as he forced himself up to reach out and grab the man by the arm. He pulled the trigger, but Kabir’s tug directed the shot away to his right. And then, using the man’s arm as support, Kabir pulled himself up just enough to dig his fingers into a groove on the metal flooring of the chopper. The man began to kick at him frantically. Kabir, mustering up all his brute strength, yanked at the hem of the Afghan’s pyjama with his other hand. The man fell forward, yelling and tugging at Kabir’s hair in a bid to maintain his balance. Kabir elbowed him sharply in the face, and the man let go and fell out of the chopper, some fifty feet to the ground.

Kabir climbed up inside quickly and rolled over—to see something he least expected. The reaction from the two others in the chopper was the same. There was a stunned moment of silence. The roar of the chopper’s engine, coupled with the sound of sliced wind, was completely zeroed out of Kabir’s head. Then it all made sense . . .
This isn’t Omar . . . It’s Baradar . . . Fuck, we got played. Veer must’ve seen Omar in the car, and that’s why he got into the other one to chase him . . .
Kabir looked to his right to see Shehzad in the cockpit, staring back at him incredulously.

‘KILL HIM!’ Shehzad yelled suddenly to Baradar, pushing some buttons. Baradar searched frantically for a gun, but found none. He picked up his machete, raised it and brought it down swiftly. Kabir rolled over instinctively and missed the blow by a whisker. He then retracted his legs and got himself up. His legs felt heavy, his shoulder unresponsive, his back numb.

Baradar lifted the machete again. There was a 2-metre gap between Kabir and him now. The chopper was a seven-seater, but it was still cramped for space behind the front row. Baradar began to stride towards him, ready to swing the machete across Kabir’s neck. Kabir had his back to the glass windshield on the side of the chopper. Baradar swiped and missed again, but managed to chop a lock of hair off the side of Kabir’s head instead, as he ducked. Kabir, who was in a low crouch, decided to use his position to his advantage. He speared Baradar on to the seat with all the strength he could gather from his right shoulder-blade. Both men grunted loudly as they threw blind punches at each other. Meanwhile, Shehzad was unstrapping his seat belt, having finally gained enough altitude to activate autopilot. He realized his firearm was in the inner pocket of his jacket, which now lay on the floor.
Not enough time for that . . .

Kabir bashed his forehead against the ridge of Baradar’s large Afghani nose, cracking it instantly. He then kneed Baradar in the pit of the stomach, sending him wheezing and gasping for breath. Kabir turned to see Shehzad surprisingly close to him, in the process of picking up Baradar’s machete. The chopper rocked slightly in the air as it moved ahead slowly on its own. Kabir steadied himself and swivelled around, sending his heel into Shehzad’s temple. Shehzad fell down, releasing the machete almost as soon as he had held it. Kabir turned his attention back to Mullah Baradar. With gritted teeth, Kabir stepped towards him and tugged at his turban.

‘You think you have saved Omar again,’ he growled. ‘And you might have. But this time, you aren’t getting away yourself.’

‘I will die for Allah and I will die for my brother, Amir Mohammed Omar.’

‘Unfortunately, Allah doesn’t quite care about you, if He sent me to hunt you down. Let’s hope, for your sake, your brother does . . . if he survives.’

‘You can say what you want.’ Baradar’s lips curled into a bloody smile. ‘You’re about to lose a whole lot of brothers yourself.’

Kabir’s eyes bulged angrily. His clenched fists crashed into Baradar’s crooked teeth. Kabir was about to launch another punch, when a sudden shock flowed through his body. Shehzad had lifted the machete and slashed at him from behind, cutting him deeply across his back. Kabir felt his shirt stick to him with the sudden gush of warm blood. His entire body began to feel numb as he dropped to one knee. Shehzad staggered behind him and got ready to launch his machete again. As he raised it and began to bring it down, Kabir pulled Baradar ahead by the nape of his neck in the way of the machete.

There was a lot of blood. The machete went deep inside Baradar’s right flank. Shehzad’s expression was one of pure horror. He was still gripping the machete as Baradar’s body went limp. Kabir was still holding Baradar’s nape, supporting himself on his knee. A surge of wind blew in from the open door. Kabir’s and Shehzad’s eyes met again. Their fierce intensity meant only one thing—one of them was going to die.

With renewed energy, Shehzad wrested the machete out of Baradar’s body. Kabir jumped back to his feet and turned around to grab something to fight with. He saw a small fire-extinguisher and kicked it loose. He lifted it as Shehzad began to wildly hack the air with the machete, sending droplets of Baradar’s blood flying through the air. Kabir moved around swiftly and swung the metal extinguisher towards Shehzad, who backed up a few steps and swiped the machete towards Kabir again. Kabir shoved the extinguisher in the way, causing a slash in the can. There was a forceful spray of white propellant that Kabir directed on to Shehzad’s face. Shehzad dropped the machete to guard his eyes. Kabir slammed the can into the side of his head, causing him to trip over Baradar’s body. Kabir flung the can aside and launched a flurry of hard kicks into Shehzad’s sides and his face. Once he overcame his feral madness, he bent over him, panting for breath.

‘Who killed Sadiq Sheikh?’ he rasped.

Shehzad looked at Kabir’s sweaty, bloody face. He began to laugh. Kabir punched him.

‘Who sold my country out?’

Shehzad’s laugh grew louder and more maniacal. Kabir smashed his head against the floor.

‘What did Baradar mean when he said that?’

Shehzad continued grinning lamely. Kabir was convulsing with anger. He shot a glance towards the door and dragged Shehzad to the edge. They looked at the distant ground below. Hillocks with weathered rocks scattered all around, dirt tracks, some run-down buildings . . .
Houses of terror
.

‘I am going to ask you this one last time,’ Kabir growled. ‘Who sold us out? Who killed Sadiq Sheikh?’

Shehzad looked around, his eyes bloodshot. His lips trembling but still smiling.

‘My dead body has a better chance of telling you.’

‘So be it.’

Shehzad closed his eyes, ready to be kicked out of the chopper. But it didn’t happen. Instead, he felt his wrists being tied together. Kabir had ripped out the seat belt and was using it as handcuffs.

‘W-what are you doing?’

Kabir pulled Shehzad back inside and closed the door.

‘Keeping a promise.’

He pushed him on to another seat and used its seat belt to tie him in place. He raised the bloody machete and slashed at the ligament below his kneecap. Shehzad yelped in pain.

‘Not like you can run away from a flying copter.’ Kabir shrugged. ‘But I’m a sadist just like you. In our profession, we learn to be one.’

He turned around and walked to the cockpit and found a cellphone. He picked it up and walked back towards Shehzad. He squinted at it and dialled a number. Shehzad looked on, shivering with pain, wondering if his body would go into shock because of the loss of blood. Kabir, however, who was bleeding profusely from the back himself, seemed composed since he was now in control.

‘Salaam, Bugti Sahab,’ Kabir said. ‘Have I told you the tale of
Macbeth
? In a nutshell, he was this guy who killed his king and a lot of other guys, just to be in power. But it didn’t quite go according to plan. His head ended up on a platter. Well, I happen to have someone else whose quest for power went awfully wrong. In fact, he’s going to be at your place, all trussed up. You can decide how you want to deal with him yourself.’

Kabir smiled and winked at Shehzad. Shehzad’s mouth was agape, lines of bloodied saliva were trickling down.

‘I think a six-foot metal casket should be just fine. What? No? It’s just five-foot long? It’s okay, I don’t think he’ll mind.’

The bewilderment overshadowed Shehzad’s pain. He writhed in agony, strapped to his seat.

‘Oh, one more thing. I’ll be landing soon in a helicopter.
Khuda hafiz
.’

12 September 2014

Mastung, Balochistan

Around a hundred Balochi militants had moved away to the periphery of the training ground as they saw the chopper approach. Along with them stood Isha and Nihar. Veer was with the Indian prisoners at Nabil Bugti’s residence, a short distance away. The prisoners were having their wounds treated by the Balochi women on Bugti’s instructions. Veer was having his leg patched up by Irfan Baloch Khan, who had calculatedly taken the shot to prevent him from walking into the Taliban stronghold. The bullet had grazed Veer’s calf muscle, after which he had been overpowered and dragged back to safety. He scowled at the smiling Baloch Khan.

The helicopter landed roughly, bouncing a couple of times before coming to a halt. Kabir unlatched the door and staggered out. There was a moment of silence as the militants looked at his bloodied state. Nabil Bugti jogged up to support him as he led him to Isha and Nihar. Kabir’s shirt was tattered and crimson. Nabil looked at his men, smiled and raised his hand as a signal. His men on the mountain responded by firing their RPGs into the air to welcome Kabir back.

‘How many men did you lose?’ Kabir asked Bugti softly, struggling to speak.

‘Ten at the most,’ Bugti replied, directing them to the car. ‘But you need not worry about them. They’re warriors who were trained to die. Your friends and you should go back to my place and get patched up quickly. After that, you can come back here.’

‘Baradar’s dead,’ Kabir told Bugti. ‘Shehzad is in the chopper.’

Bugti’s nose flared. His pink face grew red with fury at the mention of Shehzad. He helped Kabir into the car and then turned and walked away. Nihar took the wheel, and Isha sat beside Kabir, helping him lie down, resting his head in her lap.

‘You’re losing a lot of blood,’ she said.

‘No shit,’ Kabir murmured.

‘I noticed you got a new haircut.’ She smiled as Nihar pulled out of the premises.

‘Yeah,’ Kabir replied meekly. ‘Now I’ve got a crazy hairdo like the kids at my college. Maybe it’ll help me fit in. It’s funny, though. I’ve got a slash across my back, a few cuts on my cheek, and you still notice that clump of chopped hair?’

Nihar shared in their laughter as he guided the car down the hill.

Nihar asked, ‘How do we get out of here?’

‘The way we came in,’ Kabir said. ‘Ask Joshi to organize a flight for us at Chabahar, Iran.’

‘It’ll be a task to drive back into Iran.’

‘Who’s gonna drive back into Iran? That’s what we’ve got the chopper for,’ Kabir said.

Within the next ten minutes, they were at Bugti’s residence. Kabir’s back didn’t allow him to stand any more. His shoulders were throbbing with the strain they had been put through—hanging off the side of the helicopter. He crumbled to the ground. Isha and Nihar supported him back to his feet as they led him into Bugti’s house. Irfan Baloch Khan rushed to help him. They took him to the room where the rescued prisoners and Veer lay. The prisoners were asleep. Veer was sitting on the mattress, frowning and with his arms crossed.

‘Omar got away,’ was the first thing he told Kabir. He didn’t acknowledge Kabir’s state or ask him how he was.

‘I’m sure you tried your best,’ Kabir said as Khan ripped open his shirt. Isha brought disinfectant and cotton out of her toolkit, and poured it over his wound. Kabir writhed in pain as he felt the liquid burn his broken skin.

Veer went on to narrate what had happened. Kabir, though still in pain, turned to Baloch Khan and said, ‘Thank you, you did the right thing.’

Khan nodded and went out to bring Kabir a fresh change of clothes. Isha ran some water over Kabir’s grimy face, getting all the dried blood out of his hair. Kabir was breathing heavily. The cut was burning and his muscles were sore. He was having great difficulty moving his right arm in particular. Nihar sat down beside him.

‘I got my hands on a bullet-riddled laptop,’ Nihar said. ‘It might be a long shot, but maybe I could recover something useful from it.’

‘Check my pockets,’ Kabir said. ‘I have Shehzad’s phone in there. That may be useful as well.’

Kabir held off telling them one thing, though. The thing that irked him the most.
Baradar’s last words . . . it may as well be of no importance . . .

Irfan Baloch Khan tossed a fresh set of clothes to Kabir. Isha and Nihar stood up. Veer stood up swiftly as well. If there was pain in his calf, he didn’t show it.

‘Now let’s get ready to leave. We cannot afford to miss the show.’

The local Balochis had gathered around silently. The militants had brought along their families to witness what was about to happen. It was their moment of sweet redemption. For years, the Balochis had been the oppressed ones. Today, however, they might just be one up. It was understood that this wasn’t going to change anything for them drastically. But they knew that there was nothing much that they could have done other than staging their little uprisings from time to time, which would only be subsequently crushed mercilessly. Today, they were going to make a statement in a way they had not been able to do before. Today, the BLA was going to hit the ISI and the Pakistani government where it hurt.

Two men dragged a tied-up body along the rocky ground. The face was covered with a jute bag, but they knew who it was. Some knew more than the others, but they knew enough to be vindictive enough to witness what they were about to. Nabil Bugti stepped out of a car, with four others behind him. Not everyone realized who the four were, but again, they knew enough to make them feel thankful. Bugti’s nephew came running up and embraced him. Bugti rested his hand on his nephew’s shoulder and then cleared his throat to help him speak loudly to his people.

‘
Salaam aleikum
, my brothers and sisters,’ Bugti began. There was a tinge of excitement in his voice and his eyes gleamed. ‘Today we mark an important day in Balochi history.’

The crowd looked at Bugti, then at the man who lay at his feet, and then at Bugti again.

‘For years, we have been the oppressed. And the Pakistanis have been solely responsible for this. Our lands have been stolen, our minerals and resources have been snatched away, our men have been killed, our women molested and our children’s lives snuffed out. And this has gone on for years and, unfortunately, will carry on happening, as sad as that truth may be. But we have stayed silent too long. My brave father, Akbar Bugti, was killed treacherously by the same men who tried to buy his trust. Warriors of the Marri tribe and the Bugti tribe have been ruthlessly torn to shreds by the ISI and the Pakistani Army.’

Bugti stepped closer to Shehzad.

‘And the man who played a huge role in doing all this in the recent past . . . lies here at my feet. He has been responsible for the death of my father, my brother and many of my men—each and every one of whom was a true Balochi, with nothing but love for his motherland. My father, as you all know, was assassinated in the mountains, and what remained of his body was locked up in a metal crate and sent back to us, so that we could not even honour him with a dignified burial. But look at this sweet turn of events. Today, that murderer’s fate lies in my hands.’

Bugti held a key in his raised hand. He beckoned to one of his men. The man dragged a medium-sized metal crate along the ground. Bugti leaned over and whispered something in his nephew’s ear. The boy nodded promptly and took a few wary steps towards the tied-up man. He bent over and pulled the jute bag off Shehzad’s face.

Shehzad’s eyes were half open. His mouth was caked with dried blood. He looked confusedly at the young boy as if it were all a dream. He squeezed his eyes shut . . . The silence around him was unearthly. He couldn’t figure out if he was in a quiet place, or if it was all happening in his head. He opened his eyes again, slowly, and blinked them back shut. He saw the distant orange sunset . . . A whole lot of people . . . mountains . . . and a man pulling a metal crate towards him . . . A
metal
crate . . .

‘Do you think we should have another crack at him? Maybe we can get something about Sadiq’s killer?’ Nihar whispered to Kabir.

‘He’d talk if he knew there was a chance out of this. And even then, it would all be a lie. That’s what I would’ve done if I were in his place.’

Veer rested against the car, smoking and looking at the scene with a hint of interest.

‘Thanks to these men,’ Bugti said, pointing towards Kabir and his team, ‘I can finally quench my thirst for revenge. And because of them, I will do to Tanveer Shehzad what he did to my father.’

Bugti walked over the crate and opened it. It made a creaking sound.

‘But there is a small change,’ Bugti said, pinching two fingers together on his raised hand. ‘My nephew, Azaan, will elaborate.’

‘Chachu is going to lock this man alive in the crate. And then I will go with him to the top of that mountain and throw away the key.’

Shehzad shook violently. Fear was beginning to get to him. He didn’t mind death at all. But he had always pictured himself dying a quick one. A bullet to the head, perhaps. But this was going to be quite the opposite. He mustered up enough strength to turn and face Nabil’s bloodshot eyes.

‘Kill me now, Bugti.’

Bugti’s ferocious, unforgiving eyes showed that he could’ve ripped Shehzad’s heart out of his ribcage with his bare hands. But he remained silent and swallowed his anger. He caught a handful of Shehzad’s hair and lifted him up. He clenched his large, clammy hand into a fist and punched Shehzad in the face. He lifted him off his feet and thrust him into the crate. Shehzad’s entire body didn’t fit, so Bugti forcefully turned and twisted Shehzad’s legs until he was all boxed in. Shehzad rattled against the walls of the crate as Bugti slammed it shut. He took the key and locked the violently shaking box. Bugti himself was trembling with an uncontrollable rage. He held the key up to show his men, who were still uncharacteristically silent, and then dropped it into his nephew’s hand. The boy held it indecisively for a few seconds, looked at the box and then turned and began to run towards the hill.

That evening, the Director-General of the ISI, Azhar-ul-Islam Tayyab, had been busy attending several phone calls at the same time, trying to figure out what had happened in Balochistan. Omar was safe, luckily. But he hadn’t yet received a proper debrief from his main man on the spot, Tanveer Shehzad. He was about to light a cigarette as he swivelled around in his chair impatiently, staring at the portrait of Mohammad Ali Jinnah on his office wall. There was an urgent knock at the door. The man from his front desk stormed in and placed a crumpled envelope on his desk. Tayyab opened it quickly and pulled out a folded note.

Tanveer Shehzad’s body lies in this coffin. Inshallah, his soul will find its way to the pits of hell.

Tayyab dropped the letter and pulled out a fresh, glossy photograph from the envelope. He let it drop to the floor as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked at the picture of the lifeless metal crate again.

12 September 2014

Indira Gandhi International Airport, New Delhi

They should be here any moment now. By the look of things, the operation went all right. The news describes it as a little skirmish between the Pakistanis and the Balochis. There will be a lot of questions thrown at me very soon. They’ll ask me about our involvement, and I’ll have just one thing to say. If I say anything at all, it’ll be about ‘non-state actors’. Isn’t that what they had said after 26/11? He wished he could claim credit for this act of daredevilry on his team’s part, but as is the norm with all covert operations, victories are celebrated silently.

Arun Joshi had his arms crossed as he glanced at the clock. It was close to midnight. He was waiting for Kabir and his team to get back. The last he had spoken with them, they had been boarding the flight back from Chabahar.

They should be here any minute . . . Should I tell Kabir? Or has he figured out enough himself? I could have captured that snake that moment and grilled him thoroughly . . . But that would’ve definitely rubbed Kabir the wrong way. I may not know Shakespeare that well, but who’s not a fan of poetic justice? Kabir will kill him on his own. Let the son of a bitch die.