BLOWBACK (30 page)

They had stripped her of every shred of clothing, just as they had stripped her chest of almost every inch of skin. Her face was a bloody mess, the puffed up, bruised eyes glazed with pain. She lay on the floor, huddled against the bed, moaning in agony. There were ugly, ever increasing pools of blood all around her.

No! Allah have mercy! Tanaz... Tanaz... What have I brought upon you?

A cloth had been stuffed into her mouth to smother the screams of pain as they worked on her with a pair of knives that now lay in the blood on the floor beside her. Iqbal ran across to her and then she was in his embrace. He held her gently, propping her up in his arms, trying to will away the pain as he wiped the blood from her face and smoothed down her hair. He knew neither would make any difference to her pain, but his fingers moved of their own accord.

‘Tanaz, what have they done to you? What have I allowed them to do to you?’ He was crying silently, helplessly, gripped by the knowledge that this was worse, far worse than anything he could have imagined. He fought to control himself and comfort her. ‘Don’t worry, it will be all right soon. I’m here now.’

‘Yes, it will be all right soon,’ said Mujib from the doorway, where he stood flanked by Asif and the other man. ‘You’ll soon be in hell, where all traitors deserve to go.’

Iqbal turned to face him, still cradling Tanaz in his arms. He could feel her begin to stir as the pain of wakefulness returned.

He had to buy time, he thought fiercely. He had to think of a way out of this.

‘You’re right,’ Iqbal said desperately. ‘I have betrayed you. But this woman has nothing to do with it. She had no choice, she just did what I told her to. Spare her. Please spare her… she is due to have a baby any day now. Please allow me to take her to a doctor. I’ll come back to you for whatever…’

‘There’s no need for a doctor where she’s going,’ Mujib sneered.

‘No!’ Iqbal shuddered with fear. ‘Please let me…’

‘Shut up, you bastard!’ Asif said harshly. ‘She is as guilty as you are and must pay the same penalty.’

While Asif was talking, Iqbal felt Tanaz’s hand slowly creep up, over his back. She was reaching for the pistol that was kept inside the shoe under the bed. The movement was not visible to any of the three men standing in the doorway because Iqbal’s body was in their line of sight.

‘Kill me if you want, but please,’ Iqbal pleaded again, ‘please spare her.’

‘Of course I’ll kill you, but first you’ll suffer seeing your woman die and then go to hell yourself.’ Mujib’s voice was a flat monotone.

Iqbal could feel Tanaz’s body straining with the exertion of reaching out for the weapon behind him. He knew he had to give her a little more time
.
‘Why? At least tell me why you’re doing this? Don’t you realize that they’re just using you, the Pakistanis and their ISI?’

‘The ISI?’ Mujib repeated, his voice rising. ‘They think they are in control, but it’s they who are being used. I owe my loyalty only to the Ameer.’

‘The Ameer? The Ameer ul Momineem?’

Shock registered on Mujib’s face. ‘How do you know that name?’ he asked in disbelief.

‘I’ve met him.’ Iqbal felt Tanaz’s hand stiffen slightly as it grasped the pistol.

A moment more...

‘You lie!’

‘No, I swear I have.’

‘You lying, treacherous bastard. And even if you have, what difference does it make; nothing on earth can stop the tidal wave the Ameer will soon unleash. In just a few months, the world will see a holocaust the likes of which it cannot even imagine.’ Mujib was almost shouting now, his eyes glazed with fanatical excitement. ‘Soon! Very soon, the crescent will rule the world. It’s not going to be long now before India fragments and the two Pakistans are reunited. Not just that…’

Iqbal felt Tanaz’s hand ease the pistol out of the shoe. He had to keep them talking. ‘What are you saying? How can Pakistan and Bangladesh ever be reunited?’

‘Oh yes, they can.’ A smile lit up Mujib’s face. ‘They certainly can... once Mughalstan becomes a reality, which it will, soon.’

‘Mughalstan? What is...’

Iqbal felt Tanaz use his back to steady her hand and aim the pistol.

At the same time, Mujib’s gun hand came up. ‘Enough talking,’ he said. ‘I don’t have any more time to waste.’ He was training the weapon on Tanaz when she fired.

If you flick your finger and point at the target, you’ll almost always be aiming at the point you’ve selected. If either you or the target is moving, it’s always better to aim for the body rather than try for the head, which is a much smaller target. The head shot will mean almost certain death whereas a body shot may still leave the wounded opponent capable of shooting back. It’s a choice you have to make depending on the situation and, of course, how confident you are of your shot…

Tanaz sought certain death and she was confident. Knowing that both their lives depended on it lent her an unshakeable confidence. She knew she couldn’t afford to give Mujib the chance to get a shot off. He was too close to miss either Iqbal or her, and that was a risk she couldn’t afford to take. With one final superhuman effort, she freed her mind of the agonizing pain and fired, aiming straight for the hateful head that filled her vision.

T
he muted spit of a .22 weapon firing is confusing, especially when your opponent has no idea there is a weapon in your hand and does not believe you are in any state, mental or physical, for offensive action.

For a moment none of the three terrorists realized that a weapon had been fired. By the time realization dawned, a dark red star had blossomed on Mujib’s face, where his mouth had been a moment earlier. Tanaz’s aim was perfect. Mujib dropped as though he had been poleaxed. The pistol in his right hand and the mobile phone in his left fell to the ground like two discordant notes.

As the sound of the shot echoed through the room and Mujib’s lifeless body crumpled slowly to the floor, the two surviving merchants of death were galvanized into action. Asif reached into his jacket pocket while the other man tried to duck out of the room. Barely alive though she was, Tanaz saw the movement and identified the threat it posed to Iqbal and her.

Her next shot thumped into Asif’s chest, throwing him backwards. He slammed into the door and slumped to the floor, desperate hands clutching at the hole in his chest, trying to stem the blood that was seeping out.

By now Iqbal had snatched up the bloodstained knife lying near his feet and hurled it at the third terrorist. Arrowing across the room with a steely glint, it caught him plumb in the neck, just between the cleft in his collarbones. He fell to the floor, his hands clawing at the knife stuck in his neck, a weird gagging sound his only defence.

By now the second knife that had been lying on the floor was in Iqbal’s hand. He kited across the room, landing with a soft thud next to the newcomer who was still alive. Taking hold of his shoulder, Iqbal spun him around as his knife hand sliced through the air. The man’s throat yawned open with a ghastly popping sound as the sharp steel blade mowed through it. Life went out of him instantly. Without pause or wasted motion, Iqbal dropped him and moved on towards his final quarry. Asif, who was struggling to reach for the pistol that Mujib had dropped, died as the knife slammed through his ribcage and pierced his heart.

Just as suddenly as it had begun, the killing heat was over and the race for survival began. Iqbal pushed down his heaving emotions and forced his training to take over.

Grabbing the mobile phone that Mujib had dropped, Iqbal quickly dialled a number.

‘Sir, we’ve been blown,’ he said tersely. ‘Tanaz is badly hurt. I need an ambulance fast.
Really
fast!’

‘Where are you two? At the apartment?’ Anbu reacted with all the speed and mental mobility expected of a man who perpetually operated in special conditions.

‘Yes!’

‘The military hospital at Khadki is just minutes away. I’ll have an ambulance there immediately and will see that the hospital is ready to receive her.’

‘Sir, please hurry.’ Iqbal could feel his control giving way. ‘Tanaz is all I have. I don’t want to lose her.’

‘You won’t, Iqbal. Trust me.’

F
or once, Anbu was wrong. The doctors did their best, but it wasn’t enough to compensate for the damage the terrorists had inflicted as they extracted information from her.

As the hours bled away, so did her life. She died minutes before Anbu reached the hospital; minutes after she delivered a three-kilogram baby boy, whom god in all his mercy had saved from the pain that the woman who bore him had suffered.

Tanaz died fighting, her eyes constantly seeking the man whom life had gifted her, the man who in the few months they spent together had given her a lifetime of love. And there were tears in her eyes as life left her.

The tears were not for herself. They were for the man she loved and the baby she would have loved. They were for the man who had had only hate in his heart when life had delivered them to the same crossroads; she had helped lance out the hate and filled it with love, instead. Her tears were for the man who would be bereft without her. She knew her passage from his life would once again leave behind a huge void that would allow the hate to return. She knew it would send him hurtling down the futile, violent path of death and destruction yet again.

Her tears were for the baby who would never feel the comfort of his mother’s arms. She cried for the little child she had carried safely all these months and was now leaving behind in a world so full of horror.

She cried because she didn’t want any of this for either of them. But even as she cried, she knew her tears were in vain, for that was the way it had been written and that was the way it would unfold.

TWENTY-THREE

Iqbal was shaking when Anbu walked into the hospital room. He sat crouched forward on the bed next to Tanaz, clutching her lifeless hand, as though by doing so he could pull her back from the afterlife she had gone to. Neither the anger nor the hate that pulsed through him was visible on his face. Nor were there any tears in his eyes. In fact, he seemed to have receded into another reality. Only the uncontrollable tremors that sporadically wracked his body betrayed his anguish.

‘Iqbal!’ Anbu’s hand landed gently on his shoulder, his soft, compassionate voice dragging Iqbal back to the present.

Iqbal looked up at him, his eyes numb. ‘I should have listened to you and never allowed her to become a part of this…’

‘No one could have known it would end like this. We all take decisions that we feel are the best at the time we take them,’ Anbu said quietly. ‘Sometimes they go well, and sometimes...’ He stopped as he realized the sheer inadequacy of his words.

Iqbal collapsed in his arms and began to cry. He cried like a baby – the tall, broad-shouldered, hardened young man who had seen so many facets of life and death so close. He cried like there was no tomorrow. And Anbu let him.

I
t was a long time before Iqbal broke free from Anbu’s clasp. He turned and gazed silently at the broken body of the woman he loved. To Anbu it seemed as though Iqbal was branding every single scar and cut on her body onto his mind, as though he was bidding her a last farewell.

Iqbal was thinking of his mother and sister. He had not been able to see their bodies and mourn over them. This time, he would have at least this final memory to strengthen his mind for what lay ahead. From somewhere deep within, a chill began to creep through him; it spread slowly, bit by bit, driving every emotion from his heart.

‘I know what has to be done next.’ His tone was flat, devoid of all but cold certainty as he looked at Anbu. ‘I need you to help me.’

‘What do you want, son?’ Anbu asked gently.

‘They have to pay for this.’ Iqbal gestured at Tanaz’s body without looking at it. It was as though he could no longer bring himself to set eyes on her.

‘That they will. The men who did this are already dead. The others we now know about and are hunting down. None of them will get away... I promise you that,’ Anbu said. ‘None of us will rest till we have them behind bars.’

‘Iqbal.’ It was Tiwathia who spoke up. He and Sami had come into the room quietly sometime earlier. ‘You have done enough and given enough to this fight. You must know what a huge blow you’ve dealt to the terrorists. This group is totally decimated.’

‘Yes, Iqbal, Vikram is right,’ Sami said, ‘you’ve done much more than could be expected from one person. You must pull back now, at least for some time.’

‘No, this battle is far from over. It will not be over till we go in and hit the source where this monster came from. Tanaz would not want me to give up now, or ever. Then...’ Iqbal’s voice broke for a moment, before he snatched control over it again, ‘her death would be futile. I cannot accept that… I
will
not accept it.’ By now his voice was a hoarse whisper.

‘But what do you want to do?’ Anbu asked him. ‘Your task is over; the Indian Mujahideen is finished.’

‘I know that, sir, but before Mujib died, he mentioned a few things that...’

‘Do you want to talk about all this right now?’ Anbu interrupted him.

‘Yes, I do.’ Iqbal was adamant.

‘Okay.’ Anbu understood that at this moment Iqbal needed the release more than anything else. As long as he was talking, his mind could resist the pain. ‘Go ahead then.’

‘Do you remember that man we told you about when we returned from Pakistan – the Ameer ul Momineem?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s the one behind men like Mujib and Asif. They are working towards reuniting Pakistan and Bangladesh by creating what Mujib refered to as Mughalstan.’

‘What the hell is that?’ Tiwathia asked.

‘Mughalstan is the name of an independent homeland proposed for the Muslims of India,’ Anbu answered.

‘Proposed by whom?’ Sami was incredulous.

‘Well, the comprehensive plan for a second partition of India was first developed by the Mughalstan Research Institute of Bangladesh’s Jahangir Nagar University under the patronage of the ISI and the DGFI. This Mughalstan, or Greater Pakistan, is supposed to be the grand culmination of General Zia’s Op TOPAC.’