The Bard of Blood (12 page)

Later that night, when the team reunited in the small hall for a little meal, there was an awkward silence. Nihar didn’t seem too interested in the dry kebabs Veer had brought from a little shop in the vicinity. Kabir noticed that Nihar was still sulking and turned to Isha. She shrugged. She was getting tired of these grown men behaving like college kids.

‘I don’t owe you or anyone here an explanation,’ Kabir said in a low voice, pushing his long hair away from his forehead.

Nihar avoided looking at him. Veer was about to light a cigarette, but Isha frowned at him. He lit it anyway.

‘Let us get done with our dinner,’ she said.

‘But if it’s going to interfere with the mission,’ Kabir continued, ‘I’m going to get this out of the way once and for all.’

Nihar looked up at him, his eyes wary. Isha and Veer set their gaze upon him, too. Kabir stroked his beard and avoided their stares.

‘I’m going to tell you what went down in Quetta that day.’

24 August 2006

Quetta, Balochistan

‘The bastard doesn’t want it to happen,’ Sadiq Sheikh spoke softly into the phone. Kabir—then ‘Adonis’—could tell he was enraged.

‘What did he say exactly?’

‘He says if the shit hits the fan, all the blame will be thrown upon him. I told him that being the Chief of RAW isn’t about keeping a clean reputation, it’s about doing what has to be done. But he’s busy licking the Americans’ asses.’

‘So we don’t have the go-ahead from Rao?’ Kabir asked again.

Viraj Rao was the Chief of RAW. Sadiq and him never got along well. As is the case with most organizations, in most professions, interdepartmental rivalry prevailed even in India’s premier spy agency. Rao was insecure about the fact that Sheikh, a soldierly man, had received more accolades than he had. Sadiq was a dynamic leader, a man willing to put his life on the line for the greater good. People in the organization respected Sadiq more than they did Rao, and this used to gnaw on Rao’s mind. As a result, he would downplay Sadiq’s contribution and try to throw a spanner in the works of operations that Sadiq had planned. The current situation was one such instance. Rao didn’t want Sadiq to go ahead with this plan because it was a highly risky one, for starters, but also because if Sadiq succeeded in achieving what he wanted, he would emerge a greater hero than he already was.

‘You know what, Adonis,’ Sadiq said confidently, ‘go ahead with it. If something happens, I’ll take the blame. But don’t forget to get the Afghani defector to the Americans.’

Kabir remained silent on the other end of the phone. He knew it could be disastrous for Sadiq’s career if the mission went awry. Initially, the plan was simple. All they had planned to do was take an Afghani defector Asghar Malek to the Americans located in Shamsi without getting caught. Malek was willing to help the Americans if they ensured the safety of his wife and two daughters. He had been forced into the Taliban at a young age, but killing was not for him. The brutish and barbaric murders that he knew the Taliban was responsible for made him want to escape and start life afresh.

‘I will get him to the Americans only after we are done,’ Kabir said. ‘Is that all right?’

‘Yes. I haven’t planted you all there to sit like spectators and watch shit go down anyway. I’ll talk to you later.’

Sadiq put the phone down abruptly. Kabir still held it to his ear, wondering what would happen if a mission that wasn’t even sanctioned went wrong. Suddenly the door of the safe house opened. A man in a white kurta and pyjama walked in. He was taller than Kabir by a couple of inches, had a strong jawline and a long beard. He was stocky as opposed to Kabir’s lithe but muscular figure. He clutched a copy of the Holy Quran, which he lay down respectfully on the table.

‘Salaam, Maulana Ares.’ Kabir smiled. ‘Ares’ was the code name Vikramjit Singh was assigned. Kabir and Vikramjit both found their respective code-names rather funny, and pulled each other’s legs about it.

Vikramjit Singh had been working undercover as a teacher at the Madrasa Ashraf-ul-Madaris. Over the years, Vikramjit had grown so well versed with the nuances of Islamic teaching that he felt he was as Muslim as anyone else in Balochistan. He had always wanted to be a field agent, despite not being very physically capable of combat. But his big break came when he managed to get a Lashkar operative, Haneef Sayyed, arrested, after tailing him fearlessly for over a month. Sadiq was impressed by Vikramjit’s guile, and decided to post him to the conflict-ridden area of Balochistan. After the necessary training, Sadiq deemed him fit enough to be assigned the job. He had been posted in Quetta way before Major Kabir Anand. Kabir was sent later on for his corporeal strength and mental dexterity.

‘Did you speak to Sheikh about the mission?’

‘Yes,’ Kabir said. He paused. He knew Vikramjit wasn’t too keen on infiltrating the madrasa because of the high risk involved.

‘What did he say? Do we have the necessary clearance?’

Kabir scratched his head and fiddled with his short-cropped hair.

‘Yes,’ Kabir said matter-of-factly. ‘He told us to go ahead with it.’

‘And what about Asghar and his family?’

‘We take him to the Americans at Shamsi tomorrow,’ Kabir replied.

If we live to see another day
, Vikramjit thought.

25 August 2006

Shamsi, Balochistan

‘This is all I can give you guys,’ Michael Porter said over the phone. ‘I’m way ahead of myself already, so I guess you all can thank me now.’

Michael Porter, a man in his early fifties, was an American working for the CIA, in charge of the agency’s operations in Shamsi. The Shamsi airfield was located around 300 kilometres southwest of Quetta. It was nestled in a barren desert valley between two ridges of the rugged Central Makran Range. In 2001, Pakistan under Pervez Musharraf had leased the airstrip to the United States to use as a base. The CIA ran their operations jointly with the US Air Force in order to carry out their surveillance and drone operations against militants in the FATA at the time.

‘Thanks, Mike,’ Kabir replied. ‘I appreciate it.’

‘Cheers,’ Porter replied. ‘Don’t get into trouble. And remember, Asghar has to be here tomorrow morning.’

‘Yes, we’ll bring him.’

Kabir had picked up an armoured jeep laden with munitions that Porter had organized for him at short notice. The United States and India had worked in tandem in Balochistan, mainly to fund the rebel groups. But Porter knew something larger was at play this time. Sadiq Sheikh had personally called him up earlier that day and requested that he help a couple of agents out with a few amenities. Porter was reluctant and wanted to know why. That is when Sadiq reminded him, via videoconference.

‘You had told me about the information the CIA had intercepted about the ISI planning a possible attack on India.’ Sadiq adjusted his glasses. ‘I have an agent placed as a teacher in the very madrasa that you suspect to be a front for ISI’s activities.’

‘Go on,’ Porter said, rubbing his bare sunburnt head. ‘It was all conjecture at that point of time, but if what you have is helpful, I’m all ears.’

‘Yes and no,’ Sadiq said. ‘Apparently, within the madrasa there is a large chamber that the ISI operates out of. They lock that room up securely. My men think that they can get their hands on their data if they infiltrate the madrasa.’

‘That’s ballsy,’ Porter said. ‘I’m sure there’s a lot in those files that could help us, too.’

Sadiq raised an eyebrow. Porter understood that expression even over the grainy footage. He regretted thinking out aloud.

‘It’s a win-win situation for you, Porter. We get our hands on that information, we share it with you. But you must give them what they need.’

Porter scratched his chin. It wasn’t a hard call to make. He didn’t have to send in anyone of his own and, having laid hands on the intel, he would have scored a great deal with the CIA. Plus, of course, he would have the Afghani defector at his behest as well.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Porter replied. ‘I’ll get in touch with your guys. What are they called, once again?’

‘Adonis and Ares,’ Sadiq said wryly. ‘Don’t laugh, it’s not like you give your guys better code-names.’

Sadiq disconnected the line and got up from his seat. He looked through his spectacles at his accomplice.

‘Narayan,’ he said. ‘Nobody should know about this conversation. We are going to need the control room tomorrow for the entire day. Just organize some smart techies to be in there. And more importantly, Rao cannot have an inkling about this op.’

26 August 2006

Quetta, Balochistan

It was early morning and the children had Saturday off at the Ashraf-ul-Madaris madrasa. Vikramjit and Kabir kept watch through the windshield of the armed jeep at the locked and abandoned gates. The madrasa, built over a vast expanse of land, looked deserted. It seemed a perfect time to sneak in and out with the information. Vikramjit and Kabir had initially chalked out a plan to get in there covertly: scaling the high wall and getting out the same way. Stealth, they had decided, was the way to approach this operation. But then Sadiq seemed to think differently. He wanted them to have a solid getaway vehicle and at least a rifle each, just in case.

‘There’s no need to be subtle about it,’ Sadiq said, stubbing his cigarette as he spoke on the phone. ‘In case there is security in there, you’ll need to engage them in a gunfight as you escape.’

Kabir had agreed. Vikramjit didn’t quite feel the same way.

‘I’ve been teaching at that madrasa, sir. The chamber below has only three guards waiting outside. There’s no elaborate backup. We can take them out without attracting any attention.’

But Sadiq was adamant. So now here they were, parked a few hundred feet away from the gates.

‘Are you ready?’ Kabir narrowed his eyes at Vikramjit, the adrenalin pumping through his body. They call it the fight-or-flight syndrome. When there is an excessive flow of adrenalin in one’s body, you either fight or run away. And Kabir wasn’t the kind who ran away.

‘Let’s do this quickly,’ Vikramjit said, slightly nervous as he tightened his Kevlar vest.

Kabir took a deep breath and kicked the accelerator hard. The jeep roared and jerked ahead and then picked up speed as it approached the gates of the madrasa. A few onlookers stared, wide-eyed, at the jeep when it rammed into the gates, taking one half down as it continued into the interiors of the seemingly harmless school. Kabir dropped the speed a few notches before approaching the main building of the madrasa. He parked the car and leapt out with his rifle. Vikramjit followed suit.

Kabir noticed a large guard staring at them incredulously. The guard reached for the rifle slung around his shoulder. Before he could get a hold of it, there was a bullet hole in his head. Kabir ran ahead of Vikramjit and kicked the main door open.

Five men were already waiting with their guns, which they fired the moment they caught a glimpse of the intruders. Kabir pushed Vikramjit to the ground swiftly and somersaulted aside. Bullets flew through the half-open door. Kabir looked up and saw a small glass window. He shot at it and then raised his rifle through the gap, firing blindly. He was certain he got at least one of the five. He dared to look up and saw he had been luckier than that. He had got two. The other three began shooting at him. Vikramjit lay prone and moved to get a better sight of the guards. He managed to shoot one in his leg. Kabir pushed the door open and ran in bravely, shooting all three guards dead in one quick, fluid motion.

‘They were expecting us,’ Vikramjit gasped. Kabir nodded and put a finger to his lips.

‘Lead the way,’ he whispered. Vikramjit staggered ahead of him. Kabir followed him, scanning all directions for any other incumbents that might shoot at them.

‘The staircase to the chamber below is on the other side of the building,’ Vikramjit whispered back. ‘What if there are more of them?’

‘We take them all out,’ Kabir replied, gesturing to Vikramjit to continue. They held their rifles up, ready to fire, as they walked into the next room. It was clear. There was a dreadful silence.

‘Go on,’ Kabir said. ‘Let’s make this quick.’

Vikramjit started walking hurriedly and opened the door of the next room. He looked through the crack and saw nothing. He was about to push it open, when Kabir held him back. Kabir pointed at the ground. The small distance between the door and the floor betrayed a shadow. Someone was waiting behind the door to shoot them.

‘Looks like this room is clear, too,’ spoke Kabir clearly, in Urdu, as he walked ahead. He saw the shadow flicker a bit on hearing this. ‘Let’s go in.’

In one swift motion, Kabir kicked the door open and stuck his rifle through it, shooting behind the door. He heard a body slump to the ground and the metal thud of a gun falling. He stepped in and saw a large bearded man, covered in blood.

‘Just one more door,’ Vikramjit said. ‘Then we go down the staircase.’

Kabir reloaded his weapon with a fresh round of bullets. Vikramjit checked his gun, too. His face twitched as he saw the man’s disfigured face and his flesh splattered all over the wall. A rust-like smell of blood diffused the room.