The Bard of Blood (2 page)

28 August 2014

New Delhi

A silver Honda sedan drove into the garage of a rather ordinary-looking bungalow in Vasant Vihar. The driver, a tall bespectacled man with carefully combed thinning hair, parked the car and stepped out. Lieutenant General Sadiq Sheikh liked this part about his evenings the most: parking the car in the garage and relaxing until the drive back to the grind the next morning. He usually took the day off on Sundays, unless, of course, he was absolutely required to get down to the Wing, as his office was informally called. Not a rare occurrence for a man in his profession.

Sadiq was two years short of sixty, and felt it was time to hang up his boots in the coming year. He had served India for thirty-two years. Initially, he spent his time as a field agent for the Military Intelligence—MI—and then rose through the ranks to become the Lieutenant General. But soon enough, his guile and uncanny ability to strategize led to his induction into the Research and Analysis Wing—RAW—overseeing covert operations in Pakistan. Sadiq’s induction was definitely surprising. Not many Muslims had applied or gone through the rigorous preparations to be a part of RAW, solely because of their perception of a non-existent bias. But Sadiq stood as an example for those who felt this way. For a while, he was the link between RAW and the MI. And then he returned to head the MI, as the Director General from the office at Sena Bhavan. He had had a good run so far. A few downs, but more than a few ups. Sometimes, a victory in his profession was all about minimizing damage, and Sadiq had done a good job of that. The current RAW chief, Arun Joshi, had been rather vocal about how they would have a tough time looking for an appropriate replacement for the void that Sadiq was about to leave behind.

He slipped off his shoes, but kept his socks on. He pulled off his vest, ruffling his neatly combed, scanty hair, and threw it on the single bed as he entered his room. He dropped his car keys and wallet into a drawer, and unstrapped his watch and placed it inside, delicately. He then proceeded to the kitchen to make himself a strong cup of coffee. He slid his hand into his pocket and searched for his pack of Marlboro cigarettes. Smoking wasn’t a habit he liked, but he firmly believed that of all the things he had survived in the world of intelligence work, smoking would be the last thing to kill him. He lit one and took a long drag, while the coffee was brewing. It was during moments like these when he wished he had a family. Someone to welcome him back after a taxing day at work. It had never troubled him in his youth, but now he thought of it almost every other day. He wasn’t celibate, of course, but having a family would have put his loved ones directly in the line of fire. For a man like him, a family would be a weakness. A weakness he couldn’t hide. Though he didn’t regret his decision, he often found himself wondering what it might have been to have a wife and, perhaps, even a son. The coffee was ready, and he poured it into his large ceramic mug. He picked it up in the same hand that squeezed his cigarette between his fingers, and walked into the living room.

A son.
A face flashed in his mind that led him back to his MI days.
At least I have known what having a son would be like. And I screwed that up. I wish it hadn’t ended the way it did.
He switched on his reading lamp and sat on the sofa beside it. The rest of the room was entirely dark. Sadiq sipped his coffee and then grabbed the television remote. He checked which films were airing. Unlike yesterday, when he had watched Marlon Brando’s
Julius Caesar
, today had nothing interesting to offer. He enjoyed watching the news as much as some people enjoyed watching TV soaps. For him, the news was his other source of fiction on television. Only a few channels were credible, and Sadiq, in a bid to relax, often turned to the other ones to entertain himself. He liked the fact that he could segregate lies from the truth, propaganda from reality, all the while sipping his evening coffee after a long day of work. He kept his coffee aside and could almost feel himself drifting into a nap that he often took before dinner, when the phone rang.

He felt the phone vibrate against his left thigh and reached into his pocket. It was the cellphone the Wing had provided him. He put on his spectacles and squinted at the screen. There was no identifiable number on it. His secure phone seldom rang without reason, and though Sadiq wasn’t quite in the mood to answer it, he did.

‘
Salaam aleikum
, Sadiq Sahab,’ a calm voice greeted him. Sadiq was unfamiliar with the voice on the other end.

‘Waleikum as-salaam,’
Sadiq replied with an equal measure of courtesy. ‘Who’s speaking?’

‘That’s not important, Sadiq Sahab,’ the caller said. The voice had a slight metallic ring to it. A voice modulator, Sadiq realized.

‘Well, if you’ve called me to exchange sweet nothings, now is not a good time.’

‘I can assure you it is more than that,’ the voice on the other end replied.

‘What’s stopping you?’ Sadiq quipped.

‘Remember Vikramjit Singh?’

Sadiq fell silent. It had been over seven years since the RAW agent Vikramjit Singh was killed in action in Quetta. Someone had sold the operation out.

‘What about him?’ Sadiq said softly.

‘I’m going to read out an address to you,’ the voice resumed. ‘You meet me there, and you’ll get answers to the questions that are bottled up inside you. You know me, but I’m afraid I can’t let my real voice be heard over the phone.’

Sadiq scrambled hurriedly for a pen, and grabbed the first piece of paper he could find. He urged the man to go on. The man dictated the address clearly. A place in Dhaula Kuan. ‘I want you here within half an hour.’

The line went dead.

Sadiq, suddenly feeling very alert, picked up his mug of coffee and began to walk towards his room. The coffee had gone cold, he gulped it down. This case was back to haunt him. One of the few mysteries that he hadn’t been able to crack in his long and otherwise illustrious career. He tried to live with the fact that he might never get to the bottom of it, but it needled him every single day. As he poured the thick brown dregs at the bottom of the mug into the sink, he began to recap the information he had about that fateful day in the city of Quetta, in the Balochistan province of Pakistan.

Sadiq still remembered the time he had briefed Vikramjit personally, with the intention to embed him in Quetta and spy on the Shura’s elements. Vikramjit had always been a bright agent. Even though his physique and strength may not have been the best in a crunch situation, despite being well built, he more than made up for it with his well-honed ability to think on his feet. He had always dropped hints about wanting to work there, and Sadiq was impressed with his enthusiasm. So when Sadiq did eventually offer him the assignment, Vikramjit agreed without batting an eyelid. But in 2005, the year when Balochistan was at the height of turmoil, Vikramjit was killed under mysterious circumstances. His death was one of the few cases that disturbed Sadiq the most. Closure evaded him. Along with Vikramjit, Sadiq had also lost the man he considered a son. The man he had put into Balochistan himself. The man who had never spoken to him since he was forced to bow out of the game.

Just recently, Sadiq’s officers had intercepted a few messages that were directed to the Quetta Shura from a location in India.
There has to be a connect,
he thought, as he opened his drawer and picked up his car keys. He chose one of the few watches lying in his drawer and casually slipped it on. He forced his feet into his shoes and walked briskly out of his house. It was almost 9 p.m. Sadiq had half an hour to reach his destination. He cursed himself, realizing his car was now parked comfortably in the garage. He jerked the large door open and got behind the wheel. He reversed the Honda City out of the driveway and on to the road. He switched the air conditioner on. Sadiq checked the dashboard for his pistol.
Just in case,
he thought. He looked at the address on the bit of paper he held in his hand one last time and then put his foot on the gas. For a man advanced in years, Sadiq drove with the precision of a professional race-car driver. Within a half hour, Sadiq had pulled up in front of his destination.

He adjusted his spectacles and looked at the abandoned cottage. It was slightly smaller than the standard Delhi bungalow. He took his handgun out of the dashboard and concealed it under his shirt, in the small of his back. He parked his car and looked at his watch, fiddling with it as he walked up to the door. He was about to knock, when he realized the door was already ajar. He pushed it further open softly. A musty smell welcomed him. The corridor was dark, and Sadiq found his way into a small room that was dimly lit and smelled of cigarette smoke. He strained to see a figure sitting on a rocking chair, in the corner of the room. The man’s silhouette was vaguely familiar.

The man got up and walked into the lit portion of the room, leaving his rocking chair swaying smoothly. He wore an oversized black coat, and was smoking a cigarette.

‘Oh, I should’ve known it was you,’ Sadiq said with a sense of dread. ‘Tell me what you’ve got.’

The man’s reciprocated smile did not reach his eyes. He took a step towards Sadiq.

‘The insider,’ he said, holding the cigarette, ‘the man who sold the operation out in Balochistan in 2006 and has leaked many secrets ever since is still in the organization.’

Sadiq nodded. He was about to speak when the man interrupted him.

‘But you knew that already, didn’t you?’

‘Do you know his identity?’ Sadiq asked calmly.

The man took in a lungful of his cigarette and then dropped it, extinguishing it with his foot. He ignored Sadiq’s question.

‘I’ll get to that. But as we speak, know that four of your agents in Quetta have been compromised.’

Sadiq stood silently as he tried to process this latest bit of information. The man walked up to him quickly and put his hand right behind Sadiq’s back. He pulled the hidden gun out.

‘Old bastard,’ the man spat out.

And then it all fell in place. The missing piece of the Balochistan puzzle. The insider that they could never catch stood right before him. The reason Sadiq had to suspend his favourite agent. The man walked back to his initial position, pocketing Sadiq’s gun.

‘It was you,’ Sadiq muttered softly. He shook his head and squinted down at his feet. When he looked up, the barrel of a silenced 0.22 Walther PPK was pointing at him. He smiled sourly. ‘I should’ve known.’

‘There you go, Sadiq Sheikh. What started in Balochistan had never really ended. It will end now. Right here in India,’ the man smiled cruelly. ‘Not with your death alone, though. You have failed, Sadiq.’

Sadiq nervously fiddled with his watch. The man continued, ‘Soon, the people who consider you a hero will remember you as the man who met a sorry death, not the patriot who served his country well. And that thought should scare you. Balochistan has always been a grey area for you, Sadiq. You may have been able to delay the imminent attacks, but you could never have stopped them.’

Sadiq said through gritted teeth: ‘You’re killing me now because you’re afraid. Afraid that I will get in the way again.’

‘I like your sense of self-importance.’ The man grinned, his gun steadily aimed at Sadiq’s head. ‘But the country will burn. And there’s nothing you’ll be able to do about it.’

‘You underestimate the love for the country that people in our agency have,’ Sadiq said. ‘Not everyone is like you. Believe it or not, some of us will go to any extent to prove our patriotism. Rest assured, there’s no way you’ll get out of this alive.’

The man laughed throatily.

‘The same old Sadiq Sheikh. You let me do the worrying about that,’ the man said in a patronizing tone. ‘Any other famous last words?’

Sadiq stood silently, looking at the ground. And then, with a dry smile, looked the man in the eye and said clearly:

Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,

It seems to me most strange that men should fear;

Seeing that death, a necessary end,

Will come when it will come
.

The man looked confused on hearing Sadiq reciting poetry. He addressed him with a wry smile: ‘Always been one for theatrics, haven’t we? I’m glad you’re accepting your death with a smile.’

‘Your death will come, too,’ Sadiq said. ‘Sooner than you expect. But not before you realize that you’ve failed again.’

He closed his eyes and prayed silently in his mind. And then there was a muffled gunshot. Lieutenant General Sadiq Sheikh had found closure . . . in death.

29 August 2014

Mumbai

A slight drizzle had sputtered to a stop as the final schedule of the day went under way. The weather was beginning to get pleasant after one of Mumbai’s perpetual hot afternoons. It was the most enthusiastically awaited part of the day’s play for the students of Francisco’s College. For the teachers, not as much. Having earlier beaten the students at lesser games like carom, the teachers now had to face them at a more physically taxing sport at the large Azad Maidan opposite the college.

The students had the upper hand, obviously a no-brainer. Since the past few years, the students had been consistently outdoing their professors at the game of football. They were young, athletic and knew the game better than their older counterparts. The college organized a sports festival every year, and one of the events included the teachers and students playing against each other. The teachers, portly and unfit, played the game without nursing any serious hopes of winning. And so, just like every other year, they were accepting their defeat gracefully and with smiles all round. It was mutually decided that a forty-minute game would be played, since the teachers’ midriffs wouldn’t allow them to pretend to play more than that. The students laughed and agreed. It was the only time of the year they could humiliate their teachers without getting a dressing-down for it.

At half-time, the score was three goals to none. The teachers formed a huddle and spoke generally of a strategy that involved not conceding any further goals. Scoring a goal, they all agreed, was not even a remote possibility. One of them even suggested forfeiting the match and going back to the sidelines.

‘Twenty minutes, and they’ve already scored three goals,’ Mr Reddy, the maths professor, said. ‘Another twenty minutes, and another three goals are a certainty. And that’s if they’re in the mood to be nice to us.’

The other teachers nodded in agreement.

‘We’ve still got twenty minutes to win it,’ said a distinct voice, softly.

The teachers broke out of their huddle to see the literature professor, half-smiling, behind them. He looked rather different today. His eyes beneath his perfectly arched eyebrows were black and cold, like two bullet-holes. He had his greying hair tied up in a short ponytail. He hadn’t bothered shaving. He seldom did, unless it got out of hand and became itchy. He stood a little short of six feet, and wore a black form-fitting T-shirt and Adidas trackpants that complimented his well-toned physique. Both the lady teachers and girl students agreed, albeit secretly, that he was the best-looking professor in college. He was forty-one, single and stayed alone in a small flat in the suburbs of Mumbai. He never mingled much, save for the occasional greetings he returned to fellow professors and students. He was somewhat mysterious, in that sense. People just took him to be asocial. But they also agreed on another point. He was possibly the best Shakespeare teacher that had set foot in the institution. He was a changed man when he began to read out the Bard’s verses and plays. His was probably the only class in the day when the students would give a teacher their undivided attention.

‘So you finally decided to come out and play with us. To what do we the owe the pleasure?’ Reddy asked him.

The Professor smiled. ‘The fact that you get your asses kicked on a consistent basis, year after year. I’m here to change that.’

The students noticed the new player on the field and nudged each other. Was he really going to play football with the rest of the teachers? The students on the periphery of the field clapped wildly and began cheering this addition to the team. They had never, in the past six years, seen the Professor anywhere but the classroom. He used to be there on time, and would leave on time. But today, it seemed, was different.

‘We still can’t win,’ Reddy said. ‘Do the math.’

‘What is past is prologue,’ the Professor quoted Shakespeare with a smile. ‘I’m replacing you on the field. Go do the math on the sidelines.’

Reddy walked away silently, wiping the sweat off his brow. The rest of the teachers seemed amused and even slightly surprised at the treatment meted out to the math professor.

‘Now, we’re going to play to win. If we lose the match, we can take solace in the fact that we tried,’ the Professor said. ‘So here’s the plan.’

The physics professor, Mr Nimkar, and the literature professor stood opposite each other, waiting for the referee to blow the whistle to commence the second half. Nimkar, probably the fittest professor on the team, tapped the ball lightly to the Professor, who touched it and controlled it lightly under his foot. He looked up to see the openings in the field and motioned to Nimkar to position himself a few paces ahead. As soon as Nimkar did so, he tapped the ball back to him and ran in a blur, ahead of a clueless defender. Nimkar sent a clumsy pass down to the Professor, which he controlled with visible ease. He dodged another enthusiastic defender and, in a swift motion, closed in on the goalkeeper. With a neat touch, he finished the ball along the ground, into the back of the net. The students in the audience fell suddenly silent—it was probably the first time they had seen a professor score a goal as brilliant as that. And then, suddenly, they roared in delight.

The Professor just smiled to himself.
Two more to equalize, three more to win.
The teachers themselves looked shocked. The Professor raised a hand and motioned the crowd to calm down.

The ball was set rolling again, this time by the students. They passed it around, manoeuvring it nicely around the less-talented professors. Their ace striker, a young boy of twenty, was closing in on the goal and was just about to take a shot when he realized the ball wasn’t with him any more. The literature professor had it at his feet and was shooting through the empty spaces on the field. One enthusiastic, muscular defender came running towards him and rammed into his shoulder. The Professor lost his footing for a second, but not the ball. Instead, it was the defender who lost his balance, after colliding into a shoulder made of what seemed like iron. The Professor saw the goal clearly this time. He dribbled the ball to attain a suitable angle. He made enough space and then, with calculated strength, hit the ball with the arch of his foot. The ball swerved inwards into the net. There was nothing the keeper could do about it! He kicked the grass in frustration and turned to retrieve the ball dejectedly.

The crowd erupted into a louder cheer this time.
Ten minutes. One to equalize. One to win.
Could the Professor actually pull it off? He was single-handedly taking on the college’s best footballers. The odds were still stacked against his team, though. He strode over and muttered something into Nimkar’s ear. Nimkar nodded and in turn went and whispered something into the Hindi professor Mr Shukla’s ear. He nodded, but it didn’t look like he understood fully.

The students broke out of their huddle and clapped and shouted words of encouragement to each other. They looked charged and ready to take on the Professor’s team. They kicked off and passed the ball backwards to a defender. They were passing the ball around, trying to get time off their back. It was the safest way they could win, they reckoned. The Professor understood their ploy and began to judge their passing rhythm. He jogged slowly to where he knew the next pass would be and, just as soon as the student tapped it, he ran wildly towards the ball. He gained possession of it and had the ball in his command. He dribbled past the final defender faking a shot at the goal and stopped mockingly right in front of the goalkeeper. The goalkeeper ran towards him to grab the ball, just as he kicked it aside and dodged the goalie cleverly and, in a languorous sweep of his foot, landed the ball into the goal. The crowd went berserk! They couldn’t believe their eyes. Not only was the literature professor beating the students, he was doing it in style. They had equalized!

Three minutes to go. One goal to win.
The Professor loosened his ponytail and opened up his sweaty hair. He allowed himself a dimpled smile as he looked at the students yelling out his name. The students knew three minutes were not likely to be enough for the professors to win. But, given today, they had already suspended their belief so far. The opposition team came together in a huddle yet again. They discussed the situation heatedly, throwing in an abundance of cuss words for good measure. The other professors, however, were speechless. They didn’t say a word to their colleague, and he didn’t say a word to them either.

It was time, the referee said, to resume the match. The opposition started with the ball again. They decided to take a shot at the goal themselves. It was win or lose. They didn’t want to settle for a draw at this point. Their two best strikers ran furiously, dodging a few professors along the way. Nimkar stuck his leg out and got the ball. He passed it to Shukla, who, by fluke, managed to hold possession of the ball now. There were just two minutes of play left. Shukla looked completely out of place with the ball at his feet, as he moved clumsily towards the goal. Suddenly, a defender came running into him from behind and knocked him off balance. The crowd laughed and then quickly tried to contain themselves.

The referee blew the whistle. It was a free kick. There was a deafening silence as the literature professor bent down to tie his laces. He placed himself behind the ball and set his eye on the spot where he intended to send the ball. He was pretty accurate at shooting . . .
even if it was a football this time.
He skipped lightly, readying himself to take the shot. The goal was at quite a distance, and there was no margin for error. He narrowed his eyes, cut out the environment from his system and, then, with a quick run-up, shot the ball as hard as he could. The ball ricocheted off the top of the goalpost and bounced into the goal. The crowd went silent for what seemed an eternity. And then they suddenly erupted into a wild and rapturous applause. The students, the teachers, everyone regarded the literature professor with new eyes. It was possibly the most dramatic football game they had ever witnessed!

The Professor walked back, unable to contain his smile. He took a towel and wiped the sweat off his ash-grey temples and the tip of his long nose. He picked up a bottle of water and emptied it over his head. His T-shirt was drenched with sweat. They had never seen the Professor like this before. He was usually dressed in a crisp white shirt and well-ironed trousers. But today, here he was, smiling like a young boy who had just managed to pull off the impossible.

The other teachers came up to him and began to pat him on the back and shake hands with him joyously. They still couldn’t believe what had happened. It was a thoroughly enjoyable evening. The Professor smiled at them all and some even heard him laugh—a rarity. The losing team, meanwhile, faced the jeers of their classmates, which they were just not prepared for.

This is when they spotted the Principal of the college, a tall, elderly man with a slight stoop, scurrying towards them. ‘Professor Anand,’ he gasped, his mouth agape. ‘There is a call for you. It’s from the PM’s office!’

The Professor turned and narrowed his eyes at the Principal. The other teachers shot each other confused looks.

The Principal continued, almost out of breath. ‘Two men are here, at my office, waiting to take you back to Delhi.’

And then, suddenly, to all those within earshot, the football match they had just witnessed became the most believable part of the day. The confusion amongst the teachers turned to shock and bewilderment. Within minutes, a distorted version of the news spread through the campus like wildfire. Professor Kabir Anand had been summoned to Delhi by none other than the Prime Minister of India himself.

‘Hello, Professor Anand,’ a voice greeted Kabir curtly as he answered the phone in the Principal’s office. ‘I’m Arun Joshi.’

Two tall, broad men, clad in identical shirts, waited outside the door, not letting the Principal into his own office. Known to be a calm man otherwise, even he was flustered with the matter at hand. He walked away, cursing under his breath.

‘This is uncalled for,’ Kabir replied. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing so important that you had to call up the college principal. Besides, I do happen to have a cellphone. You guys at the Wing must really keep up with new technology.’