The Bard of Blood (23 page)

The memories were as vivid as ever. The man looked down at the clear waterbody. A tear rolled down his cheek and fell off his pronounced jaw and on to the red steps below. He had risked his life every single day ever since, waiting for this day to come. He picked up his phone, opened an application that used the Internet instead of cellular networks. He dialled a number and called his mentor, whom he fondly called Chacha.

‘Chacha . . . Kankaria Lake in fifteen minutes,’ he said and closed the call. He looked at his phone and started to watch the al-Zawahiri video. In the fifteenth minute after the call, he felt a hand rest on his shoulder.

‘How are you, Shiv?’

‘Did I ever tell you why I picked that name for a cover ID on this mission?’ The tall man’s concentrated gaze was still directed at the water in the lake.

The mentor was slim, short and in his early sixties. He had a thin, wavy beard, no moustache, and an amiable look. Nobody would suspect him of even swatting a fly.

‘No,’ Chacha replied.

‘He was the man who murdered my father. The man who raped my mother to death. Colonel Shiv Singh and his two cronies.’

‘It’s strange that you chose his name, then. Why would you do that?’

‘It gives me purpose. The hatred gives me strength to do what I am about to.’

‘So today’s the day we have been working towards,’ Chacha said. ‘We have immense faith in you, beta.’

The tall man looked down at his shoes. His fingers were intertwined with each other.

‘Is everything in place?’ Chacha asked.

The tall man pointed to the lake. His mentor’s eyes followed his forefinger. He saw a faint white streak coming towards him.

‘And what about Tayyab Sahab? Any contact with him?’

‘He’s given the go-ahead,’ Chacha replied. ‘No complications there.’

The tall man stood up and walked down to the lake. He pulled his trouser-legs up to above his knees, removed his slippers and took a few steps into the lake. He stood in the same line as the trail of white light. He heard a slight buzz. In a few moments, the trail had completely died away and the buzzing had stopped. The man put his hand underwater and felt a large, smooth, streamlined metal object. He smiled to himself.

‘Is it working?’ the mentor asked him from behind.

‘Like a charm.’ The tall man smiled.

19 September 2014

Ahmedabad, Gujarat

‘President Bocheng has just left the Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel Airport. He should be here within half an hour.’

It was two-thirty in the afternoon. The Chinese President, Zhou Bocheng, had arrived right on schedule. The Indian prime minister, Shailendra Patel, had already checked into the Grand Hyatt Hotel to welcome him. The security detail organized for both the leaders was impenetrable. The meeting was absolutely necessary and had been planned weeks in advance.

The primary agenda was serious. A face-off had ensued between the Chinese and Indian troops in the Chumar sector of Ladakh. More than 200 troops of China’s People’s Liberation Army had entered the region and begun to build a 2-kilometre road within the Indian territory. India and China have had long-standing differences over the demarcation of the boundaries along the Himalayan region, dating back to the late 1950s. After the initial conflict in 1962, a demarcation then known informally as the Line of Actual Control—the LAC—was chalked out to prevent any confusion. In 1993 its existence was formally accepted in a bilateral agreement. However, the problems never stopped. India accused China of repeated violations of the LAC in certain sections of Ladakh. Chumar itself had witnessed several situations in the last three years. The two leaders had decided to talk it over amicably, before taking any radical step. The enterprising Indian prime minister also decided to talk business and development, amongst many other things.

Kabir, Isha and Nihar waited in an OB van, the size of an ambulance, outside the main entrance. On paying it more thought, they had begun to realize that the ISI certainly did have a trick up its sleeve. The timing of the al-Zawahiri video . . . the movie links . . . the metro station incident . . . Everything was a way of messing with India. And they weren’t done yet.

The team had been holed up in the van since eight in the morning, poring over every minute detail. Nothing seemed out of place. Nihar kept a strict watch on the email ID. It had been inactive since the al-Zawahiri video. The timing of the video, the content, all pointed at a possible attack on the PM. The metro attack had already shaken them up, and they knew they couldn’t afford to have another such incident on their hands—let alone one involving two of the most powerful men in the world. And God forbid, if something happened to the Chinese President on Indian soil—the aftermath would be calamitous.
The dragon would crush them.

‘It’s a funny thing,’ Isha said. ‘You spend a few days away from this country and you miss a lot.’

Kabir shrugged. He tightened the knot of his tie and put on his blazer. His hair was smoothed down to the left. He was categorically told by Joshi not to turn up in a pair of ‘trashy’ jeans and an ‘apology for a T-shirt’ like a ‘vagabond’. He looked at his watch.

‘Well, that’s the reason we love our country, don’t we?’

Isha smiled. ‘Looking smart. You should wear such clothes more often.’

‘Get a room, the two of you,’ Nihar scoffed, as he watched the CCTV footage. ‘Wait . . . What the hell?’

Kabir stood up and looked at the screen.

‘Why is the PM coming out of the conference room? Isn’t he supposed to wait there until Bocheng arrives?’

Kabir eased on his earpiece and pressed a button. He asked his point of contact the same question, and sighed and disconnected the call.

‘He wants to greet Bocheng at the entrance.’

‘It’s things like this that make it dangerous,’ Isha spat. ‘Why does he have to do such stuff?’

Kabir tucked his gun under his belt and buttoned up his blazer to hide it.

‘This is politics, my friend,’ Nihar said. ‘Every minute move has a detailed agenda.’

‘Personally, I prefer a PM who is less of a showman and more someone who puts his money where his mouth is. But, well, clearly the others don’t.’

‘We haven’t given the man enough time to show what he’s capable of, though,’ Nihar argued.

Kabir got ready to leave the van as he saw Bocheng’s convoy of identical Mercedes limousines enter the gate. Simultaneously, he saw that the doors of the main entrance to the hotel open and watched the PM stride out confidently. He turned around at Isha and Nihar and raised an eyebrow.

‘We live in a country where politicians divide us and terrorists unite us,’ he said, slamming the door of the van behind him.

Zhou Bocheng, turned out in a sharp suit, stepped out of his Mercedes with his rather glamorous wife, who was known to be on
Vanity Fair
’s best-dressed list. Prime Minister Patel, who wore his trademark
bandhgala
suit, stretched out his right hand, which Bocheng grasped firmly. It was as perfect as any political reception could be. Both men smiled at each other. The photographers clicked away, capturing this picture-perfect moment. Kabir’s eyes shifted from one photographer to another.
The same guys.
Just as a precaution, he had earlier checked each camera and tripod personally. He knew of instances where a disassembled gun had been stored in the hollow legs of a tripod and the remaining bits had been strategically placed within the camera itself. But he was glad that he had found nothing. After exactly a minute the Chinese power couple was led into the Hyatt hallway by the gracious prime minister. Bocheng’s wife was led into an extremely lavish suite, while the PM took him into the conference room for a session of diplomatic discussion.

It was going to take a while. Kabir summoned Isha and Nihar to the lobby, from where they went into a conference room adjacent to the one where the PM and the Chinese President were. If they had to wait, it was better they waited in the comfortable confines of a five-star hotel. Kabir had a look at the official itinerary again. A photo-op session had been scheduled after the meeting, followed by a banquet spread at the Sabarmati Riverfront. After this, the two leaders would fly back to Delhi. Kabir was to accompany them, staying close to the PM throughout. But the fact that the terror video was traced back to Ahmedabad still worried him. He wasn’t going to relax until the PM was back in Delhi.

So far, so good. Everything was going according to plan. But he had to wait and see for how long things would stay that way.
That’s the worst part of being a man in the intelligence game. The wait. Minutes turn into hours, which turn into days, which turn into months and, sometimes, even years. But then, all of it boils down to those few seconds. The seconds that justify the wait. The seconds that make or break. The seconds that determine life and death.

At exactly ten minutes to five, Kabir got a text message that told him the meeting was over. The prime minister stepped out of the conference room first, leading Bocheng on his way out. They continued to smile as they made some small talk. The PM told Bocheng of his plans to treat him to a lavish dinner by the picturesque Sabarmati Riverfront Park. Bocheng nodded and thanked him appropriately. His bodyguard, who was probably a Chinese intelligence agent of the Ministry of State Security, or MSS, whispered something in his ear. Bocheng frowned and nodded.

‘Is everything all right?’ the PM addressed a slightly perturbed Bocheng.

‘Yes,’ Bocheng replied. ‘I’m afraid I will be slightly delayed for dinner. I shall see you at the venue. You please carry on. Sorry for the inconvenience.’

The PM nodded and said that it shouldn’t matter. He walked away to the lobby. He looked at Kabir’s stern face and acknowledged it with a nod and a polite smile.

‘Good evening, sir. Please come this way.’

Kabir led the PM to his armoured navy-blue BMW. He let the PM’s security open the door and let him in. He turned around and informed Nihar and Isha about Bocheng and his slight delay. They decided to move to the venue and scan it for any discrepancies one more time. He informed the representatives of the local police, the Intelligence Bureau and state intelligence before leaving the hotel for the waterfront. On the way to the venue they learnt about the three memoranda of understanding that had been signed. Bocheng and the PM had struck deals that envisaged promoting bilateral trade, setting up of industrial parks and developing cultural ties. They had also nominated Guangzhou and Ahmedabad as ‘sister cities’. Another detail, which hadn’t quite made it out into the open yet, was a probable nuclear deal. They decided to discuss it in more detail once they were in New Delhi, before announcing it formally.

‘What about the problem in Ladakh?’ Isha asked as Kabir drove the van to the venue.

‘Oh, they spoke about that right up front. Bocheng has agreed to pull back all his troops.’

‘And just the day before yesterday he asked the People’s Liberation Army not to back down in their fight! Well, our PM is certainly a charming man.’

Kabir looked at her and smiled.

‘Not as charming as you, of course, Kabir,’ Nihar chimed in from behind. Isha threw him a questioning look. ‘What? I’m just telling Kabir what you might’ve told him anyway,’ quipped Nihar.

They took a smooth turn and passed through a few barricades, Kabir flashing his credentials. They were allowed to park in the designated area, being an official security vehicle. Kabir parked and got off. The prime minister’s BMW was parked neatly in place, with many policemen surrounding it. An empty space was reserved for Bocheng’s Mercedes. A nice breeze blew across the space. Kabir took a step and leaned over a ledge, looking down at the calm Sabarmati river. He wished he had the time to admire the beautiful sunset.

‘Mr Anand, the prime minister is in the tent already. Let us know when to activate the signal jammers,’ a senior official of state intelligence whispered to Kabir. ‘The Chinese are breathing down my neck, too.’

‘Has Mr Bocheng left the hotel?’

‘Yes. He just got into his vehicle.’

‘Good. As soon as he’s here, activate the jammers. Run me through all the security arrangements again.’

Kabir turned away from the river and began to walk alongside the official, who recounted all the arrangements that had been implemented. Kabir looked around to see if he could spot their two snipers holding position. He couldn’t.
Perfect
. The official then directed him to a spot at the opposite end of the park that lay ahead. He asked him to set up his equipment there, because that would be just beyond the jammers’ range. Kabir thanked him and walked back to Nihar and Isha.

‘Take your equipment to that platform there,’ Kabir said, pointing to an amphitheatre in the park. ‘We have to stay right behind the jammers. Bocheng will be here any moment and we might not have any network.’

Nihar picked up his laptop and locked the van. Kabir called Joshi and updated him about the proceedings. They passed by a dance troupe which was rehearsing a traditional Gujarati folk dance to entertain Bocheng and his wife. An array of Gujarati dishes, prepared by the best chefs in the state and the prime minister’s personal cooks, were being trolleyed into the luxurious tent where the dinner banquet was being hosted.

‘Bocheng is about to get here,’ Kabir told Nihar. ‘Security is tight. Difficult to reach the PM. Just keep an eye out for anything untoward.’

‘Isn’t that what we have been doing all day?’ Isha replied tiredly.

Kabir pulled a chair and sat down. He tugged at his tie and loosened his collar.
Fuck this. I’m not here for a magazine shoot.
He thought about his classroom back in Mumbai. He couldn’t wait to get back.

Zhou Bocheng’s convoy was fifteen minutes away. Kabir got the jammers activated. Nihar had his laptop right inside the jammers’ radius. The sole purpose of the jammer was not to stop phone calls, but to stop something far more serious, like a remote-controlled detonation. The Chinese security personnel were busy on their phones, communicating with the personnel that accompanied Bocheng and his wife. The others were busy supervising the meals that had been laid out. The dinner, right from its preparation stage, had been under immense scrutiny, lest someone attempt to poison the fare. Nothing of that sort had happened so far. The cooks were even made to taste each dish in advance, to be doubly sure.

Kabir began to walk back towards the designated parking area, where Bocheng’s car was about to arrive. He reached the river and leaned against the railing. Nihar and Isha stayed by the amphitheatre. Isha was speaking to Joshi, keeping him in the loop. Nihar typed away at his computer. He clicked open the signal radar, just to see if the jammers were doing their job properly. Bocheng was going to be there in ten minutes, and they could not afford any slip-up.
That’s good. All the signals are being emitted and received outside the radius. Most of them are security guys making calls.
He minimized the program window.