The Bard of Blood (4 page)

‘Hard for the head of an intelligence
agency to be a “good guy at heart”,’ Kabir said sardonically.

‘
Former
head of an intelligence
agency,’ Joshi corrected him with a wry smile. ‘After that, you meet a team of three
that I will send down. And then you leave for Balochistan.’

Kabir looked up, surprised.

‘And then I leave for Balochistan,’
he repeated and laughed softly. ‘Are there any good end-of-season sales in Quetta, Mr Joshi?
Should I pick up a few RPGs for you?’

‘No.’ Joshi forced a slight laugh.
‘Bring back my agents to me.’

‘Ridiculous.’ Kabir sighed.
‘I’m not fit, mentally or physically, to get back in the field. And that is only if I
consider it in the first place.’

‘That is why you’ll be leading a team
of those who are physically fit,’ Joshi said. ‘I don’t believe that you
aren’t mentally fit, though. Secretly, I know you’re enjoying the prospect of getting
back.’

Kabir couldn’t place a finger on the
emotion he felt. The news of Sadiq’s death had shaken him. And then he was flooded with a
sudden surge of information that made him feel he could do something about it. And now that Joshi
had asked him too, he was confused.

‘Do you have clearance for the rescue
mission from our government? After all, we’re no Mossad.’

‘Leave that to me,’ Joshi replied
with a reassuring smile. ‘Besides, the new prime minister is a little more open to these kinds
of ideas.’

Kabir laughed and shook his head uncertainly, and
was about to say something when Joshi interrupted him.

‘Stop playing hard to get. Do it for Sadiq,
Kabir. Do it for Vikramjit. Do it for your country,’ he said as he dropped a large folder in
front of Kabir. ‘Dossiers with everything you need.’

Kabir lifted his glass of water and took a big
gulp.

‘More importantly, do it for
yourself,’ continued Joshi. ‘In my opinion, I don’t think anyone else knows as
much about that part of Pakistan than you do. If you believe you were wronged, this is your way to
prove it.’

Kabir stared at the folder with the dossiers for
a moment. This was his chance to avenge his friend and mentor. It was also his only shot at
redemption.

‘It’s your choice at the end of the
day. You can walk out. I have a Plan B in place.’

Kabir shot one final look at Joshi’s face,
as he got up from his chair. He picked up the folder from the table casually and strode out of the
office. Joshi smiled to himself. He didn’t actually have a Plan B.

30 August 2014

Quetta, Balochistan

Akhtar Mohammad Road was crowded with chirpy adolescent boys who cared little about the oncoming traffic and walked like carefree sheep in front of the vehicles. The incessant honking didn’t seem to bother them at all. It was four in the afternoon. They had just got out of the Dar-ul-Islam madrasa, which on the face of it was supposed to teach them the principles of Islam and make them learn the Quran and the Hadees by rote. What they did end up learning eventually was another story altogether. These young children wore tight skullcaps and clutched copies of the
pa’ara
(chapter of the Quran) they were being taught at the time, while being brainwashed and trained, simultaneously, to be the future faces of terror. And most of their parents were willing accomplices.

Behind the steering wheel of one such honking off-white Mercedes car was an anxious brigadier, Tanveer Shehzad. The forty-year-old Shehzad, a typical military beefcake, was the Pakistani Army’s ace weapon against India. He was given the volatile area of Balochistan to take care of by the ISI chief. He was also the only ISI operative who had direct access to Mullah Omar, after the latter went entirely off the radar four years ago. He had the intelligence to match up to the task and physical prowess to boot. He was the architect of terror organizations like the Indian Mujahideen, a group based in India that was a front for the Lashkar-e-Taiba. A fact that he took great pride in was that he had trained Mohammed Ahmad Siddibaapa—or Yasin Bhatkal as India knows him.

In 2006 Bhatkal was asked by Shehzad to enter Pakistan from Dubai. Bhatkal didn’t have the necessary papers, or even a visa. Shehzad had sniggered over the phone when Bhatkal voiced this concern to him. His reply was terse:
‘Aa jao, bhaijaan. Dekh lenge.’

As Bhatkal’s plane touched down in Karachi, he was taken aside and greeted by a large man with a welcoming smile. The other passengers began to walk towards the airport to collect their baggage. Bhatkal was spared the trouble, and was whisked away past the immigration desk. His bags were already loaded into a large SUV, which stood a few metres from the Boeing that had just landed, with two others waiting in it. They greeted him warmly.

‘Khairiyat?’

‘Shukrana,’
replied Bhatkal.

The next day itself, after a ten-hour journey, he found himself in a hilly province of Balochistan. He was in Quetta, being trained by Omar’s Shura. Over the next fifty days, along with a few other recruits, he was taught how to handle weapons and explosives by Brigadier Shehzad and six other instructors from the Pakistani Army. Amongst the many attacks he was to carry out, the most dangerous was a plan to detonate a nuclear bomb in Ahmedabad.

After his training, Bhatkal was dropped back to the airport with a passport to return to Dubai. There were fake immigration stamps indicating he had entered and exited India. It was as if he had never been to Pakistan at all. All a part of Shehzad’s master plan.

Yasin Bhatkal was also one of the reasons Bollywood superstar Shah Rukh Khan was detained at the Newark airport. Bhatkal had used the alias Shah Rukh, for reasons best known to him. He had created havoc in India, discreetly leading the Indian Mujahideen. However, his rather conspicuous alias was one of the reasons he was arrested on the India–Nepal border near Motihari, Bihar, on 28 August 2013. Superstar Shah Rukh Khan, among others, must have been immensely relieved.

Shehzad had now hurriedly entered the Dar-ul-Islam madrasa. He had someone to meet rather urgently. Shehzad was known to be fiercely loyal to his people. He saw the abduction of the four Indian agents as a chance to get Bhatkal back to him. Hell, he could even get the notorious Lashkar-e-Taiba militants Fayaz Mir and Umar Madni back. Asking for another lower-level IM operative, Assadullah Akhtar, would be like rubbing salt into the Indians’ wounds.

He parked his car neatly into a corner and walked out quickly. The guards noticed the familiar burly figure with a swift but sturdy gait walk towards the door. They opened it and saluted him. He nodded at them and walked right in. Another guard met him inside and greeted him.

‘Where is he?’

‘In the chamber downstairs,’ the guard replied, motioning towards a staircase that led to the chamber. ‘He’ll be here in a bit.’

The guard brought a large carpet that he laid out on the cool marble floor. Shehzad looked at his watch impatiently as he sat down. Next, the guard went in again, ordered a pot of tea, and asked Shehzad if he would like a snack as well.

‘Just ask him to come here quickly,’ snapped Shehzad. ‘I’m not here for snacks.’

The guard shrugged and walked into another room. Even Shehzad knew he couldn’t ask him to come quickly. Amir al-Mu’minin came when he wanted to.

His relationship with Mullah Omar had always been volatile. While Shehzad had a lot of respect for the Mullah, it was born out of fear and awe more than anything. And Shehzad wasn’t the kind to be intimidated easily. But here was a man, he believed, who could instil fear in a nation like the United States of America. Mullah Omar, an enigma of a man, was astoundingly temperamental. There were times when one could not reason with him at all, but then all of a sudden, he would appear to become subservient. The ISI had created a Frankenstein’s monster in Mullah Omar. His second-in-command, Mullah Abdul Ghani Baradar, on the other hand, had a more even temperament and stronger negotiating skills. In Mullah Omar and Mullah Baradar, the ISI had found a duo which needed skilful manipulation, and the utmost care. Another reason it couldn’t quite rub them up the wrong way was because of their strong alliance with Jalaluddin Haqqani and his son, Sirajuddin. The Haqqanis were an integral part of the ISI’s campaign against India and its other enemies. Together, the Haqqani Network, Mullah Omar’s Shura, and of course, the ISI itself, presented an indomitable force—one that had the potential to bring the world to its knees.

Shehzad took his cellphone out and began to check something. He had a live constantly streaming video of the Indian prisoners locked up in small cells at the Shura base. He needed to ensure that they were kept alive, and that the torture meted out to them never got out of hand. He watched as one captive convulsed like a fish out of water, soon after being waterboarded.

‘Salaam aleikum,’
came an indistinguishable voice. It was the typical throaty baritone of a maulana, used to praying out aloud.

Shehzad got up and wished the Amir, in reply. The Amir did not have his eyepatch on, a sight that sent a shiver down his spine. It always did, even in a hardened man like Shehzad.

‘Waleikum as-salaam,’
he said and then continued in chaste Arabic: ‘I’m here to tell you something of importance. I want this to be confidential for now, ask your guard not to come into the room.’

‘I will do no such thing,’ replied Mullah Omar. ‘I’m an open book to my people.’

The guard entered the room with a half-smile, having eavesdropped. He left the teapot on the carpet along with one cup. Mullah Omar sat on the carpet and crossed his legs. As always, he wore a heavily embroidered black kurta over a black salwar that ended just above his ankles. It was the Taliban uniform. He looked up at his guard and nodded towards the staircase that led to the chamber. The guard nodded back obediently in response and went downstairs.

‘The Indians are asking for some time to consider your request,’ stated Shehzad.

‘Your request,’ Omar corrected him quickly.

Shehzad shook his head fervently.

‘Yes, but they don’t know that. They need more time to trade my men silently in exchange for theirs.’

Mullah Omar poured himself a cup of strong black tea and looked up at Shehzad with his one good eye. Shehzad didn’t make the mistake of looking back into it.

‘You must understand that I have other things keeping me busy, Shehzad. I have the Americans to fight. The NATO and the US are about to make a decisive move. The new Afghani presidential candidates have promised to sign pacts for the Americans to stay put! My war is about to get prolonged and tougher! And then you come along and stop me from executing those four kafirs, and get me involved in these small-time games you’re playing.’

‘Small-time games, Amir? These aren’t games! We are battling India every day and this is one of the few instances when we have some leverage over them. If we can get Bhatkal back, it will be a victory for us. He is one of the best bomb-makers we have ever produced.’

Mullah Omar sipped his tea, trying to place Bhatkal. And then he did.

‘We trained Bhatkal and those boys here, so that they die for a cause.’

‘But they aren’t dead. They’ve been arrested. And this will help me in my objective of being one step ahead of India. Bhatkal was an extremely talented bomb-maker. I will have to start from scratch and get someone to replace him and reach his calibre.’

‘The current lot is certainly more talented, Shehzad.’

Shehzad knew of Omar’s stubbornness. He needed Omar to know that despite him having his fingers in many pies, the ISI should never let go of an opportunity to arm-twist its favourite enemy. He sighed resignedly.

‘I need your help, Amir.’

The guard had emerged from the chamber below, holding two young boys by their hands, probably thirteen or fourteen years of age. They seemed red-faced and their eyes were moist. They had been crying, clearly. Shehzad had always heard of Mullah Omar’s escapades in the madrasa. He realized what Omar had been doing in the chamber below, and it was one of those rare moments in his life when Shehzad felt pity for another human being. The boys were escorted out of the room. Omar didn’t look at them, but he wore a sinister smile.

‘I’ve helped you get Akbar Bugti and his son. I’ve helped you get Balach Marri. I even allow you to train your insurgents in my area. See, these are causes that I believe in myself. But I haven’t got time for playing little political games with India. I want to wait till Mullah Baradar gets back to Quetta.’

Mullah Baradar, his deputy, was on his way back from Islamabad. He had been released on 21 September 2013 by the ISI. But he had been tied up with all sorts of clandestine meetings with high officials for almost a year.

‘You’ve also helped us because we offered you refuge when you had nowhere to go. We, the ISI, have created you, trained you, and made you a force to be reckoned with. This isn’t a small game,’ said Shehzad, continuing in the same vein. He waited for his outburst to sink in. ‘India is Pakistan’s worst enemy. In fact, I want to do this so we can go ahead with our other plan, too, with your blessings. The plan to unleash al-Qaeda on India.’

Omar looked up, his right eye wide, alive with excitement. His left eye was chillingly lifeless.

‘The other plan is on?’

‘
Jee
, now is the best time to go ahead with it. The new prime minister has instilled a strange confidence in them. But we want to prove a point. They’re a vulnerable country, way beyond their imagination! And the way things are headed, we have reason to believe that there is about to be a high-level meeting pretty soon.’

‘How many days have they asked for before they can send your people back?’ Omar asked, suddenly interested.

‘Two weeks,’ replied Shehzad. ‘They are trying to buy time. But it won’t be long before they realize that their only choice is to succumb to our demands.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I want you to compose a message approving it. Throw in a slight measure of reluctance,’ answered Shehzad. ‘They cannot know of the ISI’s direct involvement.’

‘Fine,’ Omar said, ‘I will order Zabiullah to do it. But remember, this better be for the greater good.’

‘Inshallah,’
Shehzad replied.

And despite trying to avoid it, Shehzad looked into Omar’s deathly eye that was baying for blood.