SALIM MUST DIE (30 page)

Strike Nine

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

THE PATROL CAR CARRYING REIS HAD BARELY REACHED THE
maximum security detention centre he was being taken to for interrogation when Liaquat Ali entered the Washington Convention Centre. The Experimental Biology Conference was due to start this morning. The innocuous looking Chote Miyan was in Ali's hand. It had already been primed and armed by him in the hotel room earlier that morning; now only the activation code had to be keyed in. In his other hand was the cardboard carton he had procured some time ago. The carton had the words ‘Alpan Packaging’ printed prominently on all sides. The same words were also printed in red alongside the company logo on the identity tag pinned to Ali's coat label. If somebody had bothered to look closely at the photograph on the identity tag, he would have noticed that it bore only a cursory resemblance to the man wearing it. The real owner of that particular identity tag lay dead in a toilet cubicle not far away from the conference registration desk. Ali had killed him barely five minutes ago.

Ali had then walked up to the venue layout map displayed near the registration desk and checked out the location. His destination, Booth No. 730, was a tiny box located in the inner circle of Hall B of the convention centre. Alpan Packaging, a laboratory and miscellaneous equipment manufacturer, had booked it and the adjacent booth, to display its wares. Hall B lay on the level immediately below the street level of the lovely five-storied building that housed the convention centre. Two of these five levels lay below the street level and two above it.

Hefting the Chote Miyan in one hand and the cardboard carton in the other, Liaquat Ali forced himself to look purposeful as he headed for the booth on the lower level. Between the booth and him lay the final security barrier that he had to breach.

There were four men manning the entrance to Hall B, two on either side of the gate. Squaring his shoulders, Liaquat Ali stepped off the escalator and headed towards them.

THE SECURITY GUARD AT THE ENTRANCE OF HALL B DID NOT
recognize the face of the wanted man walking up to him. He had received the APB issued for Rahim Khan and Liaquat Ali. However, the photographs used in the APB had been of two men in uniform. That proved to be a mistake.
Men in uniform always look different
.

But the guard was a diligent man and adhered strictly to the basics that had been drilled into him. The basics dictated that one must always tally the photograph on the identity card with the person wearing it. That was precisely what he did each time someone came up to him.

That was how he noticed that the man who had now halted in front of him did not match the photograph on the Alpan Packaging identity tag pinned to his lapel.

Bloody cheapskate! Why don't these companies just pay the entry fees for all their people instead of switching tags all the time? The bastards earn enough.

Raising his eyes, the guard gestured to his shift supervisor and the other security man standing across, on the other side of the entrance, behind Ali. It was a very slight gesture, a tiny, barely discernible shake of his head.

If he had not been so pumped up, Ali would not have caught the gesture. But he was and he did. He automatically assumed the worst.

They're onto me
! The soldier-terrorist reacted on highly honed reflexes.
I must get away from here. Find a place where I can be alone for a moment. That's all the time I need
.

Dropping the cardboard carton, he whirled around and started to run. The security personnel stared in disbelief at the sudden commotion. As Ali turned, he collided with the two men who were coming up just behind him. They were so close that he had no chance of avoiding them. Suddenly they were a tangle of arms and legs. The Chote Miyan fell out of his hand and away from him as his hands automatically came up to try and break his fall.

By the time Ali regained his balance, his precious suitcase had been picked up by one of the security guards, who was quite taken aback by its weight. Ali made a run for it, but they had surrounded him. Seconds later, they had him dead to rights. A short while later, they recognized him.

Another man had been taken alive.

M
URREE

TIWATHIA PARKED THE STATION WAGON ON THE NARROW
, winding road at the base of the ridge on which the bungalow was sited. The road straddled the outermost periphery of the town and there was very little traffic, barring the occasional pedestrian and the even more occasional vehicle. The red-roofed, low-slung target building was barely visible through the shroud of pine trees all around.

They waited till there was no one in sight on either side. Then, retrieving their weapons, the four of them raced through the trees and up the hill. Moving cautiously and ensuring that they made no noise, they began to close in on the man they had come to kill.

Strike Ten

S
AN
F
RANCISCO

THE INTERNATIONAL PERFORMANCE IMPROVEMENT
conference being held at the San Francisco Marriott Convention Centre was just about to kick off that morning. Rahim Khan did not anticipate any problems in reaching the venue since he was already staying at the Marriott.

Like his comrade-in-arms, Rahim Khan had woken up early and prepped the bomb and himself. Then, impatiently pacing the hotel room, he had waited for zero hour to arrive.

Timing! The timing is important. We want the maximum strikes to take place at the same time… or as close to each other as possible.

The two soldiers had coordinated their clocks before they parted ways at Washington. Rahim Khan took one final look at his watch.

Liaquat should be entering the target area about now. I wonder how he is faring
. He tuned out the random thoughts cluttering his head and forced his attention back to the task at hand.

Picking up the armed and ticking Chote Miyan, he left his room and descended to the Conference Centre level. Rahim tried to still the battle nerves beginning to clamour for attention inside him by focusing hard on what he had to do over the next few minutes. In his mind's eye, he could see himself striding in, getting into an appropriate corner, keying in the digits of the activation code, putting down the case, exiting the hall, and making his way out to the first cab that he could find. Then a little while later…
BOOM
!

Preoccupied though he was, the minute he emerged from the elevator, Rahim Khan noticed the beefed-up security arrangements at the entrance.

Shit! Either they know about me or they're being extra cautious.

The death dealer stopped and pondered for a moment.

We will assume at all times that the mission is blown and act with total caution. That way we can be sure
…. Cheema's advice came back to him. Making up his mind, he turned swiftly on his heel and headed straight back towards the hotel lobby.

There were groups of people crowding the lobby when he entered. Rahim Khan spotted an empty couch somewhere in the centre of the lobby. There was a group of people standing beside it, talking excitedly.

Good! This should do very well
.

But can I leave the bomb behind, unattended?

No
!

He paused momentarily.

So be it
!

He altered direction slightly and headed straight for the couch. He sat down, placed the Chote Miyan on his lap and opened it. Raising the lid just a bit, he put his hand into the case and set the timer for immediate detonation. Then, slowly and cautiously, he began to key in the 12-digit activation code.

…
they fight in Allah's way, so they slay and are slain; a promise which is binding on Him in the Taurat and the Injeel and the Koran
….

The glorious verse from the Holy Koran reverberated in his mind as his fingers punched in the fatal digits one by one.

Fourteen seconds later, the last digit of the activation code silently glowed into place. A nanosecond later, with a thunderous roar, the plutonium fuelled atomic bomb cradled on Rahim Khan's lap exploded. It vapourised him into nothingness, along with the others around him.

No one would ever know for certain how many people were annihilated by the bomb that day. Very little of anything or anyone was left behind. No one who had been present in or around the hotel survived the explosion. The few who survived the initial blast succumbed to the huge ball of fire that raced out and away from the epicentre of the explosion. As for the number of people whose lives would be blighted by the radiation… only time would tell.

M
URREE

AS NEWS OF THE HORRENDOUS EXPLOSION SPANNED THE
globe, several hundred miles away, the terror maestros gloated.

‘Bring out the champagne,’ Salim yelled at their elderly servant.

Standing in front of the giant plasma television screen, which was beaming scenes of bloodshed and mayhem, Salim and Cheema were hugging each other, delirious with joy, when there was a loud crash followed by a dull thump.

Before either of them realized what was happening, the XM-84 Flash-and-Bang grenade that had blown in through the glass window, landed in the centre of the room and exploded. There was a roar and a blaze of bright, blinding light filled the room.

Salim Must Die

TIWATHIA, SAMI AND IQBAL BURST INTO THE ROOM HARD
on the heels of the stun grenade. Their drawn guns sought out the befuddled figures in the room, reeling from the sudden, intense explosion of sound and light. Tiwathia was almost halfway into the room when a door to his right opened with a crash. He turned and saw an elderly man running into the room. The man had a bewildered look on his face and a pistol in his hand. He took in the chaos prevailing in the room at a glance and, automatically, his gun hand started to rise.

Tiwathia noted the gun in the man's hand and saw it coming up. Driven by adrenaline-powered nerves, the silenced weapon in Tiwathia's hand stuttered to life. Hastily aimed though they were, his bullets zipped through the air and stitched tiny holes in the neck of Salim's helper-cum-bodyguard. The man was dead even before his body crashed to the ground.

‘Watch out!’ Iqbal's sudden shout alerted Tiwathia. ‘Behind you!’

Cheema had used the momentary distraction to regain his bearings and grab the pistol from his waistband. By the time Tiwathia turned to see what Iqbal was trying to warn him about, Cheema's pistol had cleared the belt and was almost level. It was pointed straight at him. The two men were barely seven feet apart. At that distance, there was no way that Cheema would miss.

Too late
! Tiwathia's mind raged at him as he swung his own weapon around.

Too late
!

He knew he would not be able to bring his weapon into play in time.

There was a flat, sharp thump as Cheema fired. Tiwathia heard it echo through him even as he returned fire, but he knew he was too late. The bullet had already cleared the barrel of Cheema's pistol and was rushing towards him.

Neither man had seen Iqbal launch himself forward a split second after his warning shout to Tiwathia. He met Cheema's bullet in mid-air, just a foot before it was due to strike Tiwathia's head. Iqbal was hurtling through the air when he ate the bullet. It slammed into his body, spinning him around. He hit the ground hard as he fell between the two men.

By now, Tiwathia's bullet had also completed its short journey. It thudded into Cheema's chest, pushing him back a step, but the fight was not yet over. Though in pain, Cheema was aligning his weapon to fire again when, from across the room, Sami fired. All three of his bullets pin-cushioned Cheema's head and sent him toppling backwards.

Salim gave an anguished cry as he saw his trusted lieutenant fall.

Iqbal heard Salim's shrill cry through the fog of pain clamping down on him. He was trying to sit up when his eyes fell upon its source. A huge shard of anger skewered through him, driving him to his feet.

‘You!’ His voice was a harsh guttural whisper. ‘It's you… you bastard.’ He tossed a look at the Force 22 officers whose guns were trained on the man. ‘This is Salim. The harami who caused me… my….’ The intensity of Iqbal's anger choked his throat and words dried up.

Just then there was a sharp burst of gunfire from outside, interspersed with the soft, muted spit of a silenced weapon.

‘Tanaz!’ Both commandos spoke simultaneously. Tanaz literally flew into the room. Her chador and hijab were gone, revealing the black salwar-kameez she was clad in.

‘There were three more of them, two men and a woman,’ she said breathlessly. ‘They were headed this way and both were armed. I took care of them.’ She saw the look on Sami's face. ‘That's what you left me outside for… right?’ At that moment, her eyes fell upon Iqbal, who had slumped to the ground again and was trying hard to staunch the flow of blood from his arm. ‘Iqbal!’ Her cry reverberated with a touch of something that was more than just concern for an injured comrade. ‘What happened?’

‘Tanaz!’ Sami's sharp command reined her in. ‘Get a field dressing from my pack and dress that wound.’

The professional in her regained control and she raced forward to comply. Taking out the field dressing, she began to expose Iqbal's wound so that she could dress it.

Finally, Salim spoke. ‘Who are you?’ His voice was controlled again.

‘Your death!’ Sami's ice-cold voice cut him off. ‘You have killed enough people, old man. Now it's time for you to die.’

Whatever else he was, Salim was no fool. His mind had begun to tick as soon as the effects of the Flash-and-Bang grenade wore off. He had gauged the threat confronting him and was rapidly clicking through the various possibilities available to extricate himself from this situation.

‘You're Indian commandos, aren't you?’ The question in his voice was very slight, almost nonexistent.

Neither of the Force 22 officers bothered to reply. Instead, Sami threw a sharp command at Tiwathia. ‘Search the house. We need the phone, diaries, PDAs, pen drives, computers… if there's a desktop, just get the hard disk.’ He added as Tiwathia began to move, ‘Hurry up! The grenade and gunfire would certainly have attracted attention, even on this lonely stretch.’

‘Tanaz? Iqbal?’ Salim turned on them as Tiwathia strode out of the room. ‘Both of you are Muslims?’ The wily old man began to look for a way out of this conundrum. ‘Then why are you helping these kafirs? We true believers must….’

‘
You
call yourself a true believer?’ The anger in Iqbal overrode the pain pulsing through him. ‘You fucking psycho! You are a disgrace to Islam. Sub-human monsters like you….’

‘The jihad calls for us to make sacrifices,’ Salim retorted proudly.

‘Jihad? Jihad only calls for us to bring purity and peace to society… by ridding it of maniacs like you….’

‘The people of Pakistan will not rest till we wrest our dues from India.’

‘The people of Pakistan? When have you ever stopped to ask them anything? Your mad Generals and corrupt politicians have played the India card and the Islamic card at the drop of a hat to keep this madness going….’

‘Don't waste your breath, Iqbal,’ Sami cut in. ‘These bastards have no nationality and no religion. He will not understand anything you have to say. In any case, it doesn't matter, since he doesn't have much longer to live.’

‘Go ahead.’ Salim glared at him arrogantly. ‘It does not matter whether I live or die. Every time a Salim dies, a hundred more will rise to take his place. No matter what you do, the jihad will go on.’

‘So be it!’ Sami replied evenly as he raised the silenced pistol in his hand and levelled it straight at Salim's head. His finger had begun to tighten on the trigger when Iqbal cried out.

‘No! He's mine. The Colonel promised….’ Sami slackened the pressure on the trigger and lowered his weapon slightly as Iqbal broke free from Tanaz, who was trying to finish the dressing on his wound, and began to rise. He swayed slightly as he came to his feet. The high velocity impact of the bullet and the loss of blood had weakened him much more than he cared to admit. Tanaz reached out to support him but he shrugged off her hands and, stooping slightly, propped himself against the ornate centre table in front him. Decorating the table was an equally ornate, jewel-studded scimitar that had once adorned the waist of a Mughal king, its sharp blade gleaming brighter then the bevelled glass it lay upon. ‘This man,’ Iqbal pointed a finger quivering with anger and pain at Salim, ‘is responsible for the death of my mother and my sister.’

‘And both my brothers.’ Tanaz turned to Iqbal, giving him a long, questioning look. He saw the hard, flat glint in the eyes of the extraordinarily beautiful woman before him and knew that she needed this closure as much as he did… if she was ever to come to terms with the death of her brothers.

Watching them frozen in their strangely intimate tableau, Sami got the feeling that they were totally unaware of everything and everyone else in the room.

Neither of them even noticed Tiwathia return. He was about to speak when he took in the atmosphere in the room and subsided, indicating the laptop bag on his shoulder with a brief nod to Sami. Sami's attention was momentarily diverted as he acknowledged Tiwathia's gesture.

Maybe that was why none of them noticed Salim when he suddenly bent down to grab the weapon Cheema had dropped. By the time Sami and Iqbal took in the blur of motion, Salim had stooped down, snatched up the pistol, and was coming up with it. Despite his age, he was moving incredibly fast, spurred on by his instinct and the need to survive. The pistol was coming to level as he started to straighten up.

Once again, Sami was the first to react. He levelled his weapon and fired. Tanaz fired a moment later. The bullets drove into Salim's chest and belly, throwing him back again. However, his gun hand continued its relentless journey upwards. It was coming up straight at Tanaz who was standing right in front of him, a few scant feet away.

Tanaz pulled the trigger again. There was a dull click as her weapon jammed.

Damn
!

Trying to swivel out of the way of Salim's weapon, Tanaz strayed into the line of fire between Sami and Salim, forcing Sami to stay his hand.

Iqbal noted the threat immediately. He instinctively snatched up the shining scimitar from the table in front of him and lashed out with it. The gleaming blade was as sharp as it had been on the day it left the royal forge a hundred years ago. It sliced smoothly through the flesh and bone of Salim's hand. A horrible cry erupted from Salim as he watched his hand holding the pistol fall with an ugly thud onto the floor. A fountain of bright red blood sprayed out from his severed wrist.

By now all signs of sanity had fled the room. A fearsome battle cry thundered out from Iqbal as he leaped across the table and whirled the blood-soaked scimitar. It cleaved through the air in a wide, powerful arc, not even pausing momentarily when it met Salim's neck and emerged red from the other end. A fraction of a second later, Salim's neatly severed head toppled free of his torso, abruptly cutting off his cry of pain.

In the shocked silence that fell upon the room, the severed head thudded dully on to the floor and rolled away… once… twice… thrice… till it finally came to a stop.

The silence persisted as the portly terror master's headless body slumped to the ground in slow motion. There was a final twitch before the stillness of death settled upon him.

Then it was over.

THE FOUR AVENGERS WATCHED THE TERRORIST'S HEADLESS
body slowly settle down in the grimace of death. As he looked at the dead man lying before him, Iqbal felt the heavy slug of hate that he'd carried in the pit of his heart all this while dissipate. Then he noticed Tanaz watching him. An incredible warmth flooded through him as their eyes met and held.

The sensation was strange, perhaps because he had never experienced it before.

I love her
!

The realization was sudden… and acute. He felt a strange new feeling sweep through him. It rushed into the void that the cancerous hate for Salim had vacated.

Tanaz's eyes were inexplicable. Iqbal thought he saw his feelings mirrored in them, but he couldn't be sure.

SAMI MOVED FIRST AND BROKE THE TABLEAU. ‘THAT'S IT
, guys. Let's get a move on. This place is going to be mighty unhealthy very soon.’

They hurried out of the bungalow and began to move down the hill towards the station wagon waiting for them. Sami, his weapon at the ready, was in the vanguard while Tanaz brought up the rear. Moving between them, Tiwathia half carried, half supported Iqbal as they went. The first few steps were difficult as both men struggled to find a common rhythm, but soon they had synchronized their movements, the former terrorist and the Force 22 commando.

‘Thank you,’ Iqbal said as they went towards the waiting vehicle.

‘None required. That's what buddies are for,’ Tiwathia replied simply. ‘In any case, the bullet you took was meant for me. I owe you, buddy.’

His words triggered a sudden moistness in Iqbal's eyes. Even he was not sure whether it was the sudden warmth of camaraderie or the resurgent pain of the bullet wound.

‘Where will you go now?’ Tiwathia asked, more to distract his attention from the moment than anything else.

Iqbal looked at him quizzically. ‘You mean I don't have to go back to prison?’

‘No! Isn't that what the Colonel promised you?’

‘Yes, but….’

‘There are never any buts with the Colonel, Iqbal.’

By now they had reached the station wagon. Tanaz helped Tiwathia put Iqbal into the rear seat before she got in next to him and began to fuss over the wound again. Sami jumped in behind the wheel and steered the vehicle back the way they had come.

They were almost a hundred metres away when Iqbal noticed the scimitar still clutched in his hand. He looked at it, bewildered.

‘I didn't even realize I still had it,’ he said to no one in particular.

Turning back to see what he was talking about, Tiwathia gave a brief smile. ‘Looks good to me.’ He took it from Iqbal and, wiping the blade clean, gave it a closer look. ‘It's definitely an antique.’ He handed it back to Iqbal. ‘Must be priceless.’

‘It is!’ Tanaz said simply. ‘It rid you of the hate within. Just keep it. Maybe it will continue to bring you luck.’