The Phoenix Read online

  BILAL SIDDIQI

  THE PHOENIX

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

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  5

  6

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  8

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  11

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  13

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  15

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  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  EBURY PRESS AND BLUE SALT

  THE PHOENIX

  Bilal Siddiqi is a novelist and screenwriter based in Mumbai. He is the author of The Stardust Affair, The Kiss of Life (co-written with actor Emraan Hashmi) and The Bard of Blood, a spy novel which he wrote when he was nineteen and which was adapted by Red Chillies Entertainment into a Netflix show. Siddiqi was also the creator of this show and worked on the screenplay. The Phoenix is his fourth book.

  To Pallavi Pawar, my English teacher in school.

  Thank you for believing in my abilities ever since I was a kid and for instilling in me the confidence to write. I owe you a lot. Love you always, Miss P!

  In order to rise

  From its own ashes

  A phoenix

  First

  Must

  Burn.

  —Octavia E. Butler, Parable of the Talents

  1

  2013: Southall, London

  Maqsood Akram looked nothing like he used to. The pictures the Indians had of him would get them nowhere. After several surgeries, his nose was sharper and his jaw more angular than what he had been born with. Of late, he had decided never to keep a beard when he was in a country he didn’t call home. The racist skinheads couldn’t tell the difference between an Indian Sikh and a Talibani warrior if their mothers’ lives depended on it. But they would, nonetheless, go after both.

  Akram stepped out of a store after having bought himself a pack of condoms. He made a few calls to his pimp, who promised to send him the best he could later that night. Akram gave him the address of a moderately priced hotel in the vicinity. He couldn’t have his followers witnessing his debauchery. Illicit sex, alcohol and even drugs: haraam of the highest order. And if they could see how easily he procured these unholy pleasures, they would have strayed from the path he had set them on with much difficulty.

  He lit a cigarette as he walked through the crowded Southall market, brushing past the several Indian men and women whom he had sworn to wipe off the face of the earth when he set up his organization in the rugged terrain of north Pakistan. He had named it Azaad Jihad Fauj, which was secretly funded by the PIA, Pakistan Intelligence Agency, through multiple shell corporations. Southall, a suburban district of west London, teemed with Indians. And he hated the irony. To kill his enemies he had to first live among them.

  The Indians were hot on his heels. A failed assassination attempt on him had led the PIA to transfer him out of the country and into one of their sleeper cells in an innocuous locality in Southall. From here, his handlers promised, he would be allowed to chart out his future activities. He could use the local radicalized youth recruited by them and their different underbosses to his advantage. And the Indians would have no clue.

  A faint shower fell from the grey London sky. Akram, irritated, began to walk more briskly towards his neighbourhood. He took a deep final drag and threw his cigarette aside. A Gujarati shopkeeper he knew waved at him and began to walk towards him with a dog on a leash. Akram reciprocated with a smile, masking his hatred for both the shopkeeper and his dog.

  ‘Funny thing,’ the shopkeeper began when he was near enough, speaking with a British twang he had developed over the years. ‘All this rain and there seems to be some issue with the plumbing in our block. No water.’

  Akram shrugged. ‘Nothing to be worried about though, is there?’

  ‘A plumber has arrived,’ he replied. ‘Said he’ll take an hour to fix it.’

  ‘Have a good day then,’ Akram said, eager to stem the conversation and reach his lodgings.

  When he entered his apartment, he saw three of his men offering namaaz. There were parcels of unopened food awaiting them, with four clean plates on a dining mat.

  The same old routine, Akram thought. The same damn gravies and naan from the local Pakistani eatery, which made sad versions of the rich delicacies he enjoyed back home in Bahawalpur, Punjab, in Pakistan. The same painful conversation about a beautiful afterlife with young idiots who were going to blow themselves up at some point. The same propagation of an Islam he knew not to be true. But terror was a lucrative business. And he was a good businessman who could sell religion to these young fools.

  Anyway, just two hours to go, he thought to himself as he checked his wristwatch. Then he would be screwing some young girl and guzzling alcohol. There were worse ways to live. He had been to Afghanistan. To Iraq. To India. Fought wars. Killed people. He spoke proudly to his recruits of the blood he had shed in the 26/11 attacks in Mumbai. A gleaming jewel in his crown, he would always say. Too much had been done, but it wasn’t over yet.

  He was in the final stages of plotting a major attack on the Indian Army barracks in Kashmir. And these three fools, who had just got done with their prayers, were about to carry it out. All this while he would be nestled up in this comfortable little flat in London. And as the PIA assured him, the Indians would have no clue . . .

  The Indians, however, did have a clue. More than a clue. They had picked up an interesting piece of intelligence through their network of spies in Pakistan. In their communications with Akram, the PIA had slipped up ever so slightly.

  Akram’s proxy network had kicked in five seconds too late when he called up his handler stationed in Islamabad. Instead of seeming to emanate from the African continent, the call transmitted its true location in west London. It was in the sixth second that London changed to Zambia, Africa. The Indian agent who was monitoring these ‘secure’ communications spotted the lapse and alerted his seniors. After six months of groundwork and fact-checking, Director General Amarjyot Bhushan sent four of his trusted field officers to London, despite his superiors strictly advising against it.

  Amarjyot had enemies within the agency as well. The Intelligence and Research Wing, or the IRW, was India’s main spy agency that operated both within the country and internationally. The bureaucratic nature of the agency never supported the maverick methods that Amarjyot stood for. Being a soldier first, Amarjyot always thought of the most effective forms of attack. Dialogue and discussions came next. But the bureaucrats did not approve of this approach. And one such officer, Bipin Sharma, was vying for Amarjyot’s position, making it a point to openly disapprove of his ways.

  To circumvent this red-tapism, Amarjyot had assembled a covert unit within his ranks. It included four people whom he trusted as much as himself, if not more. And trust didn’t come cheap in their world. He called this group, which he too was a part of, the Phoenix 5. They all knew that their activities would usually fall outside the official purview of the IRW, and that their missions would not be sanctioned by the top brass of the intelligence community for the most part. But they would do what they needed to do for the greater good. And they had the necessary skills to pull it off.

  These four were now in London, about to take Akram out, once and for all. No capture, no interrogation, no nothing. Plain and simple death.

  Three of the four waited in a Ford sedan outside the apartment block. The fourth was stationed inside the building, disguised as a plumber, monitoring Akram up close. Amarjyot, in his cabin, sipped his black coffee as he got updates from the plumber, Aryaman Khanna.

  Aryaman was a field of
ficer who was cut from the same cloth as Amarjyot. A soldier with the Indian Army, Aryaman soon got recruited by the intelligence wing for his guile and grit. Truly a no-nonsense man. Unflinching when it came to taking decisions. Skilled and perceptive. Amarjyot often thought Aryaman to be a younger and certainly better version of himself.

  Aryaman walked around with his plumbing toolkit past various people in the compound. He now had the necessary intelligence to move forward with the strike. He hit a button on his earpiece and spoke to Amarjyot.

  ‘Sir, Akram is in position. We can take him out now or later when he is leaving the hotel after his night of bonking. The problem is, that might be an uncontrolled environment.’

  There was a moment of silence at Amarjyot’s end.

  ‘I wouldn’t want him to have any fun at all, Arya. If you take him out now, will you four be able to exit the vicinity without attracting any attention?’ Amarjyot wanted to reconfirm.

  ‘We will, sir. Jennifer is at the wheel. I can call Madhav and Randheer to take out the other boys while I deal with Akram myself.’

  ‘Go for it,’ Amarjyot said with certainty.

  Inside the Ford sedan, Jennifer D’Souza smoked a cigarette nervously. Madhav Mehta, her fiancé, looked at her puffing away. He reached for the cigarette, snatched it, and dunked it into his coffee.

  ‘You really need to stop smoking like a chimney,’ Madhav said.

  ‘It’s this or a bullet.’ She smiled at him. ‘Or maybe once we get married, you’ll want me to start again so I leave you sooner.’

  ‘Hey lovebirds,’ Randheer Bhatia said. ‘Aryaman has sent his orders. We’re ready to nail the bastard.’

  ‘About time,’ Jennifer murmured. ‘We’ve been here for two weeks just watching him strut around.’

  Jennifer often found surveillance the most excruciating part of espionage. Long phases of not doing anything, punctuated by a few crucial moments of actionable intelligence. Sometimes it was easy, but on a bad day it could test one’s patience unbearably. Acting against the natural progression of events could blow your cover. And that, of course, could lead to the most dangerous of outcomes.

  ‘Do we kill Akram’s recruits too?’ Madhav asked with a tinge of concern. ‘They’re kids.’

  Randheer nodded as he screwed a silencer on to a pistol and handed it to Madhav.

  ‘I don’t like the idea either. But they should have known that walking down this path could get you killed any day. On their terms or ours.’

  Randheer finished attaching a silencer to his own pistol just as Aryaman’s voice crackled through their earpieces. Amarjyot was also on the call.

  ‘Guys,’ Aryaman said. ‘This is the plan. Madhav and Randheer break in through the front door. Akram is in his room behind. His three men are outside, watching television. They are armed. So enter and finish them off immediately.’

  ‘Copy,’ Madhav and Randheer said in unison.

  ‘On hearing the gunfire, Akram is going to escape through the window to his loo at the back, which is where I am right now, ready to take him out. Operate stealthily and we should wrap this up in three minutes flat. Jen, on my signal, bring in the car and we get the fuck out of here.’

  ‘Sounds good, Phoenix 5,’ Amarjyot concluded. ‘Get to work.’

  Aryaman restored the water flow in the block. It was as simple as turning a few levers to get things going. A few hours ago, he had sneaked in through the back and turned these off. And none of the Indian residents even wanted to try to fix things themselves when they could just call a guy to do it instead.

  He made his way into the three-storey building, whose ground floor Akram lived on. He walked through the dingy corridors, his silenced pistol safely tucked under his shirt and his plumbing equipment slung over his shoulder. He smiled politely at the three brown-skinned men who seemed to have stepped out of Akram’s apartment itself. They eyed him suspiciously as he walked past them. Aryaman realized he hadn’t seen these men before.

  ‘Hey, you! Wait up.’

  Aryaman stopped in his tracks. His earpiece was on. Jennifer, in the car, and Amarjyot, back in New Delhi, heard the unfamiliar voice. Madhav and Randheer looked at each other and knew instantly that they hadn’t factored in that the building could have other sleeper agents as well.

  The three men walked briskly towards Aryaman. One of them asked, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Aryaman turned around to look at them, observing them for a few seconds. The one on the left was pretty scrawny, but by the way his right hand was twitching against his thigh, he looked like he was packing heat and was ready to pull out his weapon any instant. The one in the middle was a beefcake, and probably enjoyed his halal steaks and rigorous weightlifting drills at the local gym. The one on the right was tall and tough, probably the leader of the pack, since he had taken the initiative of asking Aryaman the question. Aryaman’s hunch was confirmed when the tall guy took another step towards him and repeated his question: ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘Sir, there seems to be some problem with the drainage in that flat.’

  ‘Really?’

  Aryaman nodded. They looked unconvinced. Then the leader turned to his two men and pointed at Aryaman’s bag.

  ‘Check his equipment,’ he said softly.

  Aryaman opened his bag for inspection. There was just plumbing equipment, which in Aryaman’s hands was as good as a set of weapons. But he also had a gun on him. The leader told the hefty guy to frisk Aryaman. The two drew nearer to Aryaman, who had to choose between fight and flight now. As the big guy inched closer, Aryaman made up his mind. He was going to make the first move and be on top of things.

  He stepped back, crouched swiftly, pulled his gun out and shot the big guy square in the head. The scrawny man pulled out his weapon and took aim, but Aryaman dropped flat to the ground and fired at his kneecap. The man let out a yelp, and the next bullet went into his skull. The leader was swift to react. He picked up the gun from the floor and fired three quick rounds at Aryaman, who rolled to his left. One bullet scraped his shoulder, causing him to drop his weapon. Now that he had no chance of getting to his gun, he ran head first at the guy and rammed him into the wall. The man threw punches at Aryaman so he could push him back and take a shot at him, but Aryaman blocked the punches with his forearms. Before the man could try to fire at him, Aryaman twisted his arm, seized the gun out of his hand, and shot him in the head, sending blood splattering all over the wall.

  Realizing that the gunshots may have led Akram to flee, Aryaman ran towards the door, talking into his earpiece. ‘Randheer! Madhav! Get to the back! Akram will try to escape!’

  Amarjyot listened in with bated breath. He had not expected such a solid counterattack. ‘Randheer, I suggest you stay back in the building and help Aryaman. There could be reinforcements coming in from the floors above. Madhav and Jennifer, if you see Akram outside, shoot to kill! Don’t worry about witnesses!’

  ‘Copy sir,’ Jennifer said, driving the car into the compound and abandoning all attempts at subtlety now. The rain began to beat down harder on the ground and people had moved indoors, so there weren’t too many witnesses around anyway.

  Aryaman fired at the lock and kicked the door down. Randheer entered the corridor, catching up with him. The three recruits were waiting with their guns at the ready. They opened fire at Aryaman, who ran back into the corridor to take cover and saw the recruits charging forward. Randheer fired from behind the recruits, sending a bullet through one recruit’s breastbone.

  The other two hesitated at the sight of their dead friend. Aryaman saw the opportunity and exposed himself for a split second. One recruit lifted his gun to fire at him, but Aryaman dropped to his knees and took his shot. The bullet pierced the man’s neck through and through, jerking his head back. His injured friend decided to make a run for it; like his boss, he wasn’t ready for heaven just yet.

  The recruit entered the bathroom and saw the open skylight window through which Akram had hasti
ly escaped. He stepped on to the washbasin, propping himself up, so he could jump out. He attempted to launch himself out, but Aryaman grabbed his leg and dragged him back inside, making him fall face first. The man was badly injured, but there was still some life left in him. Aryaman lifted him up, smashed his head into the mirror and then on the washbasin. With a thick piece of ceramic tile, Aryaman stabbed the man in the hollow below his Adam’s apple and wrenched it hard. He watched the horror in the recruit’s eyes as life slipped out of him.

  Moments later, Aryaman and Randheer heard footsteps hurrying towards them.

  ‘They’ve got backup,’ Aryaman said. ‘Come on, Randheer, climb on my back and get out of here.’

  ‘Aren’t you coming?’

  ‘After you,’ Aryaman replied as he helped Randheer out of the bathroom. Randheer dropped a few feet to the ground outside and helped Aryaman climb out next. The bullet wound in Aryaman’s shoulder shot an electric pain through his body, but he managed anyway, lacking his usual grace though still as effective.

  Outside, Akram was adjusting his jacket, holding his gun at the ready. He saw Madhav approaching him. In the car, Jennifer sped towards Akram to run him over, but his reflexes were surprisingly good. He threw himself to the side and began firing at her. A bullet hit the windscreen, missing her by a few inches. Her vehicle swerved and hit a wall. The airbags burst open, and she was disoriented.

  Akram ran towards her car, aiming his gun at Jennifer’s head. From a distance, Madhav raised his gun to fire at Akram.

  ‘Stop or I shoot!’ Madhav said.

  Akram froze as Madhav began to approach him. The residents of the neighbourhood watched everything from behind closed windows, panic and fear writ large on their faces. They had already called the cops.

  Madhav moved cautiously towards Akram, who took a step towards Jennifer. She was still dizzy from the impact of the car crash. Randheer and Aryaman rushed to the spot.