LASHKAR (21 page)
Then the four men shook hands with each other.
Courtesy the Krishna’s miracle eyes, sitting far away in the Khajewala and Kasauli command centres, Tiwari, Vashisht and Anbu saw the one green dot split into two on their electronic battle boards. Fox One stayed static on the outskirts of Bahawalpur while Fox Two began to move away silently.
Katoch and Tiwathia climbed back into the jeep and drove off into the night. They headed back towards the road that ran from Bahawalpur to Multan. Just short of Lodhran was the bridge they had to use to cross the Sutlej.
‘Tango for Fox Two. The bridge is clear. Also, we are now at the end of our tether. Another few minutes and then we have to close shop for the night. Stay loose guys and God speed.’
The safety blanket of the night was retreating fast and they still had another ninety kilometres to go. Tiwathia double-checked their location on the GPS as they moved off.
Katoch and Tiwathia had the advantage of having trained together at the National Defence Academy. They had taken well to being back together again, though it did take some time for both of them to adjust their ideas of each other, from the RAW recruits they had known each other as, to the men they had grown into. They drew up the jeep and killed the engine. Working quickly they dug a small pit in the side of one of the sand dunes and concealed the tarpaulin-wrapped motorcycle in it. The tarpaulin would keep the bike safe from damage by the sand. It took them twenty minutes. Then they both sat down to wait. ‘We have a couple of hours at least.’ Tony checked the luminous dial of his wristwatch. ‘Might as well get some rest.’
‘You go ahead and take a nap. I’ll take the first watch.’
Before Tony hit the sack, both men took a little time to memorize the spot where the motorcycle was buried and fix down its relative location from the town. They knew there would not be much time for scouring the desert on their way out after the mission.
Two hours later, hefting their small packs, they moved off at a brisk pace towards the town. Reaching the outskirts they stopped again for a closer, more careful look at the town of Bahawalpur. Somewhere in the labyrinth of lanes and houses clustered ahead of them slept the man they had come this far for.
At about the time Tony and Sami set out for Bahawalpur, Katoch brought the jeep to a halt in a remote stretch of the desert about two miles southwest of Multan. Even though the chance of it being discovered was remote, they covered it with a camouflage net. Then Tiwathia and Katoch grabbed their gear and set off for the town at a brisk pace.
Tony and Sami were starting their approach to Bahawalpur and Tiwathia and Katoch were throwing the camouflage netting on the jeep outside Multan when Deopa and Dhankar emerged silently from under the ocean and slipped onto the beach.
Deopa and Dhankar had sunk the Chariot at a spot deep enough in the water to ensure it was not found in a hurry. They’d covered the remaining distance with powerful, silent strokes till they’d reached the shore. Running on light feet till they hit a grove of trees some distance from Gotismailkarachi, a fishing village about four kilometres outside Karachi, they’d slid out of their wetsuits and buried them deep in the soft ground.
Up ahead they could see the sparkle of Karachi city lighting up the horizon. Changing into more appropriate clothing for what lay ahead they hoisted their packs and started on the last leg of their journey.
Fox One comprising Mohammed Sami and Tony Ahlawat was entering Bahawalpur; Fox Two comprising Pradeep Katoch and Vikram Tiwathia was on the outskirts of Multan; and Deopa and Dhankar had entered the suburbs of Karachi. Three prongs of the Indian counter-strike had moved into place.
As he paced the floor of the control room in Kasauli, Colonel Anbu watched the tiny green dots converge on their destinations on his glowing battle board. The stress of impending combat coiled tighter in the pit of his stomach. As promised by the Indian Prime Minister, justice was about to be delivered.
The autorickshaw had a little problem getting to the house as it was located at the end of the narrow, twisting alley that broke off from the main road just after the bus stop opposite Safdarjung Enclave. Despite the late hour the door was answered almost as soon as they rang the bell. The pretty young girl who answered the door looked at Omar in surprise and delight. ‘Bhaijaan!’ she squealed as she hurled herself at Omar. They hugged hard as she shouted – ‘Ammi, Abbu! Look who is here!’ Breaking free from her brother’s embrace she caught hold of his hand and whooping with delight began to drag him inside. Omar was laughing as he allowed himself to be pulled inside. ‘Come, Iqbal,’ he waved at him with a wide grin.
Within minutes the room was full of people as Omar’s parents and siblings materialized from the rooms within. Iqbal watched the family reunion awkwardly and felt his head begin to throb. The agony of his own loss was stark as he watched Omar’s mother and sisters cluster around him. ‘This is Iqbal,’ Omar introduced him to his relatives. ‘We were together at the training institute…he is a good friend.’
‘Salaam Waleikum,’ Iqbal smiled politely. He noticed the wide-eyed look that Omar’s teenage sister was giving him. It unsettled him further. As soon as he could Iqbal pleaded a headache and tiredness. He could not wait to be alone.
Omar took him to a room as soon as dinner was over. ‘I know what you must be going through. You get some sleep.’ He paused apologetically. ‘I would like to spend some time with my family. I’m meeting them after very long.’ He gave a small smile. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
Iqbal gave him a brief tight smile and watched him leave the room with relief. Then he placed the rucksack on the bed beside him and began to construct the device he needed for his next move.
When Omar came into the room next morning to wake up his friend he found the room empty.
Iqbal knew the man he sought would not be in his room when he reached there; he would be at the mosque attending the Fajr prayers. He was right. It took Iqbal only a few seconds to pick the small lock on the door. Bolting the door from inside, he went to work swiftly. The lock on the metal box took a little longer. Iqbal quickly went through the contents. He removed the bundles of cash, the small address book and the mobile telephone that was inside and transferred them to his rucksack. The cash was in bundles of thousand-rupee notes. There were eight of them.
Then Iqbal took out the device he had constructed the previous night and placed it gently inside the box. He looped the end of the string to the inner side of the latch on the lid of the box and carefully tested the length – it had to be exact – before attaching the string to the small metallic ring. Finally he locked the box again and left the room after replacing the lock on the door.
Iqbal was standing at the bus stop at Malviya Nagar when the morning prayers finished and the Maulavi returned to his room. The old Maulavi let himself in and going straight to the metal box, opened it. As he lifted the lid, the taut string tied to it pulled the small metallic ring that was tied to the other end. The metal ring had a pin-like spike attached to it. It had been oiled. Both prongs of the pin slid soundlessly out of the two tiny holes they had been nestled in. The metallic lever holding the plunger shot free. The plunger lunged forward and hit the detonator with a tiny metallic thump. The sound of the detonator triggering off was lost in the creak of the opening lid. Precisely four seconds later the hand grenade that had been taped by Iqbal to the base of the metallic box detonated with an ear-shattering roar.
Getting off the bus, Iqbal set off for the inner circle of Connaught Place. At this hour the traffic was light and the brisk walk helped him keep the chill of the winter morning at bay. The city had started coming to life by now, but most of the shops were still closed. Iqbal came up to a congestion of eating joints along the road just outside the Super Bazar. He vaguely remembered coming here with his friends from engineering college.
The food at Kapoor’s Kitchen located just ahead of the Super Bazar was piping hot and delicious. Iqbal sat and ate slowly as he watched the traffic flow along the outer circle of Connaught Place. He enjoyed every morsel as he waited for the bank across the street to open. It was the same bank where Iqbal’s father had opened an account for him to pay his college fees. He had come here often to withdraw money during his college days. Iqbal was one of the first people who walked into the bank when it opened for business that morning. He deposited most of the cash into his account.
Leaving the bank Iqbal hailed the first passing cab and told the driver to head for the Delhi Cantt Railway Station.
‘What is your name?’ Iqbal asked the cabbie as he pulled away from the kerb. Something inside him wanted to reach out and connect with another human being, even if it was as casual and meaningless as this. Or maybe, it was because it was casual and meaningless that Iqbal felt safe talking to him.
‘Satnam Singh,’ the cab driver replied more than happy at the chance to make conversation. After a short pause he volunteered some more information about himself: ‘I am from Firozepur, but I have been in Delhi for almost twenty years now. This is my own taxi, you know.’ The pride in the cabbie’s tone was evident.
The traffic was heavy since the office rush hour was in full flow by now. They crawled along in companionable silence. It was almost noon when Satnam halted the cab outside the station. When Iqbal finally dismissed him, Satnam Singh was more than happy at the obscenely large tip that Iqbal gave him.
I have taken the life of one human being today. I have made another human being happy. Now I am about to take a life again.
Iqbal reached into his pocket and pulled out the mobile phone he had taken from the Maulavi’s metal box. Powering the phone he waited impatiently as it glowed to life and then he dialled the number he had memorized earlier that morning.
The fourth prong was awaiting a signal from Ahmed, the MQM activist who had been recruited by the Indian RAW some years back, and who was now a vital and trusted part of their intelligence gathering apparatus.
Ahmed had returned home from a dinner party the night before when his phone rang. ‘It’s been a long time, Ahmed. How have you been?’
He recognized the voice immediately. ‘Oh, hello, khalajaan, how are you?’
‘I am well, Ahmed, but there is a problem I need you to help with immediately. Two of my son’s friends came over to Pakistan yesterday. I want you to go and meet them and see if they need help. I have sent you an email with all the details. Please check on them and call me immediately…what?…yes, I am still in London… ’ There was some more idle chitchat before the lady rang off; both of them knew that the ISI was in the habit of monitoring overseas calls and they were too experienced to forget such basic precautions.
Getting off the phone, Ahmed logged on to the Net to find the details of the two terrorists who had travelled in by the Attari Express. There were no photographs, just the names, descriptions, dates and times of arrival and the fact that they were most certainly being helped by the ISI. But then Ahmed was a bright guy. It did take him almost the whole day but not only did he track them down he even managed to confirm that they were still present in the ISI safe house in Mari on the outskirts of Lahore.
He left his assistant armed with a mobile phone to keep watch on the safe house and returned to his hotel room in downtown Lahore to call his aunt with the details.
His assistant rang at about 0430 hours on 31 October 2005. ‘Ahmed Sahib,’ the man keeping watch on the ISI safe house at Mari said, ‘this is to confirm that both items are still safely stored in the same place.’
‘Good. Stay there for another twenty minutes. Just in case there is any change in status. After that go back home. You have done a good job today, my friend.’
Ahmed immediately called his aunt again. ‘Khalajaan, I am sorry for calling so early but I was about to leave for the Fajr prayer.’
‘That’s okay, Ahmed. Tell me, were you able to meet them?’
‘Yes, I was. They are both fine…both are still staying at the address I emailed you.’
‘Thank you, son, and do let me know if there is anything I can send you from London.’
The lady who had taken the call from Lahore did not even bother to put down the handset; she immediately dialled again and was soon speaking to Captain Khare who had been waiting for her call in the shadows of a small grove outside Amritsar. This call was short and to the point: ‘Both the men are present in the house,’ she said and then called out a series of numbers. The numbers were the grid reference coordinates of the ISI safe house at Mari. Khare carefully checked the digits and read them back to her slowly.
Replacing the mobile phone in his pocket Khare walked towards the waiting vehicles parked a few metres away and called out to Ankita. Within a couple of minutes the two of them were busy programming another Krishna UAV. They used the data on the location of the Pakistani radar sites that Ankita had forwarded to Khare and which he had vetted out during the drive. Since most low RCS radars exploit Doppler filters to increase the signal-to-noise ratio, knowing their precise locations and areas of coverage allowed the Force 22 officers to plot a route with zero radial speed. This would render the Krishna virtually invisible in the short time that it would overfly Pakistani airspace.
Khare dialled again. Miles away to the north, the Nokia mobile phone lying on the table before Anbu began to ring.
Anbu had been awake the whole night. In fact, barring short snatches of sleep, he had been awake ever since the choppers carrying his strike teams had taken off from base. Picking up the phone Anbu heard the caller out in silence. Then he glanced at his watch. 0501 hours. Anbu took a deep breath. It was the first major operation for Force 22.
‘A lot of eyes are going to be watching your people, Colonel.’ Anbu remembered his conversation with the Prime Minister. He had been unusually sombre when they had spoken just a few hours back. ‘India has a lot at stake here. You pull this off well and every damn terrorist in the world will think twice before they decide to meddle with us.’