The Bard of Blood Read online

  Isha closed her eyes, a pained expression on her face, visualizing the scene. Nihar and Veer were surprised. They hadn’t known of the Afghani-defector angle before.

  ‘How did the Americans react?’ Veer asked.

  ‘I got out of the house, tied a tourniquet around my bleeding leg, and drove to Shamsi. It took me a couple of hours. Upon my arrival, the Americans raised their weapons at me,’ Kabir said. ‘Luckily, Porter took me in. They provided all the aid I required. He was pissed off about the defector’s death. He got me through to Sadiq, who asked me to sit tight while he made arrangements to bring me back. It took three days before I was sent for.’

  ‘What did the Americans think about the entire situation?’

  ‘They suspected foul play, naturally. And since I was the one who got out alive, they thought I might have had something to do with it. But they waited till Sadiq sent for me.’

  ‘Is the base in Shamsi still there?’ Nihar inquired.

  ‘No,’ Veer said. ‘The Americans were made to leave after they killed bin Laden in Abbottabad. Rumour has it that they had strategized that mission while in Shamsi.’

  ‘Yes,’ Kabir agreed, and then continued. ‘So when I got back to Delhi, I described to Sadiq in great detail everything that transpired in Balochistan. He was appalled to know that someone was expecting us at the madrasa. Worse still, Asghar’s death added to his woes. The suspects, as he saw it, could’ve been the Americans, who were known to play a double game with Pakistan, or someone within RAW itself. But the Americans were ruled out because they stood to gain a lot from the op and Asghar’s defection.’

  ‘Someone within RAW?’ Isha gasped, recoiling. ‘How many people knew about it within RAW?’

  ‘Sadiq and his squad of three in the control room,’ Kabir said. ‘But he was adamant that they didn’t know enough before the operation, or about Asghar, to have forewarned the Pakistanis. Nevertheless, that bastard Rao summoned us to his office.’

  Kabir’s voice trailed away as he recalled the moment. He poured some water into a steel tumbler and quaffed it down.

  ‘Before getting into the meeting,’ Kabir said, ‘Sadiq asked me to blame the fiasco on him, and to tell Rao that I didn’t know the mission was not sanctioned. But when I went in I could tell Rao was elated by the fact that he could now kick Sadiq out, and with perfect reason. And I couldn’t bear that.’

  ‘What did you do?’ Isha asked, wide-eyed.

  ‘I told Rao that Sadiq had told me the mission wasn’t to be carried out, but that I chose to go through with it anyway. I could see Rao’s face fall as I took the blame upon myself.’

  ‘And Sadiq didn’t deny this?’

  ‘I was half hoping he would,’ Kabir stroked his beard. ‘I always considered Sadiq Sheikh to be a father—someone more than just a superior. And I’m sure he felt the same way about me. But that day, his silence meant something else. It meant he valued his reputation more.’

  There was another long silence. And then Kabir spoke with an air of finality.

  ‘Rao lost his temper at me. Branded me a traitor. Said I was the one who set Vikramjit up. Besides, the Americans had already called him and cribbed about Asghar. He wasn’t willing to reason at all,’ Kabir said. ‘And then he asked Sadiq to throw me out right then—in front of him.’

  A pregnant pause ensued.

  ‘Which he did,’ Kabir continued. ‘He asked me to leave. I had chosen to dedicate my life to the country, and it enraged me to be termed a traitor! I kicked the chair over and stormed out. But later on I realized something: I may have stopped talking to Sadiq, but my respect for him hadn’t lessened at all. I realized that he may have had his reasons not to take the axe for me.’

  Kabir swallowed, his throat went dry. He had lived those few days over and over again since he had left the service.

  ‘What about the talks doing the rounds of you being a traitor?’ Isha asked.

  ‘That was the story Rao circulated,’ Kabir said. ‘He projected it as though Sadiq’s beloved protégé was, in real life, the Judas in his ranks. The fact that RAW didn’t know about the op left only Vikramjit and me in the know. And guess who made it out alive.’

  ‘Good thing he’s retired now,’ Veer said. ‘Even though my interactions with him were brief, I never liked the chap.’

  The others muttered words of agreement.

  ‘We never knew anything about Asghar before,’ Isha added.

  ‘Asghar was never a part of our problem—until he died,’ Kabir said. ‘The fact that he was killed only made it easier for people to believe that I was responsible for everything that happened that day. Too many deaths with plausible motives, and I was a convenient culprit. Suddenly I had a lot of blood on my hands.’

  It all added up now. After all, Kabir’s survival could not have been the only indication that he was a traitor. There were instances in the past where the survivor had been hailed as a hero. But the person who sold this operation out had managed to set Kabir up perfectly.

  ‘I hope I’ve cleared every doubt in your minds,’ Kabir said, addressing Nihar in particular.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Nihar mustered an apology. He held out his hand feebly towards Kabir, who shook it firmly. Both realized the unspoken importance of unity in the ranks.

  ‘I hope we can work together as a team after this,’ Veer said. ‘If not for ourselves, then for our country.’

  Later, the team recapitulated the incident the way Kabir had narrated it. There were loose ends that neither Kabir nor Sadiq could tie up. Who was the mole? How did he communicate across enemy lines from right under their noses? How did he manage to outsmart Sadiq and Kabir? Blowing up the madrasa, and arranging to eliminate the Afghani defector?

  They mulled over the injustice meted out to Kabir. They wondered why Sadiq did not try to save Kabir’s career. They thought about the chain of events that followed that had brought Kabir back into the game he was unceremoniously forced out of. They thought about Sadiq’s last message. They figured that in his last moments Sadiq wanted Kabir to be the one to avenge him. That was how Sadiq brought Kabir honourably back into the fold, they realized.

  It is a wise father that knows his own child.

  —Act 2, Scene 2, The Merchant of Venice

  4 September 2014

  Miranshah, North Waziristan

  It took a while for the large clouds of dust to settle before the Alouette III was finally discernible. The French-made helicopter, deployed by Pakistani forces, had just landed a few minutes ago on a barren tract of land a few kilometres from the town of Miranshah. Miranshah was the administrative headquarters of the North Waziristan Agency in the FATA. A small group of three looked on as their two guests alighted from the chopper. The men greeted each other cordially before getting into the SUVs waiting for them. It was a fifteen-minute drive towards the foothills of the Hindu Kush mountains, and there was not much by way of conversation in the car.

  ‘Salaam aleikum,’ a man of about forty said as he welcomed his two guests into his small, makeshift household. He wore a large black turban with a black kurta and an ankle-length salwar. His eyes were lined with kohl, and his thick beard was dyed almost maroon. He wore a thick sweater, as the temperature was just a few degrees above zero. He stretched his hand out to one of his guests, who he felt was more important, and embraced him warmly. ‘Mullah Baradar, it’s been a while.’

  He turned to his other guest: ‘As for you, Brigadier Shehzad, it’s always a pleasure.’

  ‘The pleasure is mine, Khalifa.’

  Khalifa, the deputy of God. The Caliph, as his people believed him to be, was none other than Sirajuddin Haqqani—the ruler of the notorious Haqqani Network, established by his now aged father, Jalaluddin Haqqani. Jalaluddin had realized it was time to hand over the reins of the network to his son, whose ruthless zeal pumped his chest with pride.

  The Haqqanis’ relationship with the ISI had always been steady since the Afghan–Soviet war. Back then, Jalaluddin had been
a favourite of not only the ISI and the Saudis but also the CIA. They funded him, and backed him during the movement against the Soviets. Some even say Haqqani had been invited by, and perhaps even visited, Ronald Reagan at the White House. This was also the time when Haqqani was supporting one of his brothers-in-arms in building their own militia, the al-Qaeda. This comrade was none other than Osama bin Laden.

  Until 1995, Jalaluddin Haqqani hadn’t been a part of the Afghan Taliban. However, once he joined, the Americans and other factions in Afghanistan shuddered at the implications of having both Mullah Omar and Jalaluddin Haqqani at the helm. The US tried to woo Haqqani over with offers of astronomical sums of money to go against Omar. But Haqqani wouldn’t budge. They had Karzai offer him a post in the cabinet, but even that didn’t seem to be enough. They kidnapped members of his family and tribe and tortured them brazenly, but this didn’t do the trick either. If it did anything, it added to his growing resentment for those against Omar’s Taliban. Moreover, Haqqani had the ISI’s unwavering support. This was something Pakistan denied vehemently, but every shred of evidence—both concrete and circumstantial—suggested this was the case.

  The Americans realized there was no point pursuing Haqqani any further. They counted him in with the rest of their enemies, especially after 9/11. In 2010, when Sirajuddin agreed to merge formally with Mullah Omar’s Quetta Shura, the Americans began to target the Haqqanis to eliminate Jalaluddin and Sirajuddin in particular. They mostly failed, until 2012, when they managed to get the other son, Badruddin, in a drone attack. The following year, unidentified assailants killed another of Jalaluddin’s sons, Nasiruddin, from his Arab wife, in Islamabad. Jalaluddin suspected it to be a joint operation between the Indians and the Afghans. That was when his thirst for vendetta deepened and he made his son promise he would make every kafir pay.

  Ever since, along with bin Laden’s al-Qaeda, the Haqqani Network has reared numerous other terror outfits such as the Jaish-e-Mohammad, the Lashkar-e-Taiba, the Lashkar-e-Jhangvi—even the Indian Mujahideen. Some of these units were created especially to target India. They attacked Indians and their embassies on a regular basis.

  After seating his guests down comfortably and dismissing everyone else from the room, Sirajuddin spoke in a low, raspy voice: ‘I believe we are going ahead with our plan, Mullah Baradar.’

  ‘Inshallah.’ Baradar smiled. ‘Mullah Omar has consented wholeheartedly.’

  ‘How many people are needed?’ Sirajuddin turned to Shehzad.

  ‘As many as were sent the last time around. Maybe fewer,’ Shehzad replied. He picked up his bag and pulled out a hard disk. He placed it carefully in front of Sirajuddin.

  ‘Is this what I think it is?’ Sirajuddin asked, his eyes lighting up with a devilish smile.

  ‘Yes.’ Shehzad smiled back. ‘The layout, in detail, pictures from inside the compound, everything you need is in that little chunk of metal. All this information has been very hard to gather. I’m sure you’re aware of that.’

  Sirajuddin nodded thoughtfully, stretched forward and picked up the hard disk. He raised it and smiled at Baradar. ‘If only we had had access to technology this advanced when Abbu was fighting his war,’ he said.

  ‘Speaking of whom, how is Jalaluddin Sahab?’ Baradar asked. ‘It’s been a while since I heard from him.’

  ‘Mashallah, he’s doing well. Old age may have weakened his bones, but his spirit is unflagging. He will be elated when he realizes our plans for Mumbai. The last time Abbu laughed was when we pulled off 26/11.’

  Shehzad smiled, feeling an inexplicable conviction that this time it was going to be much better. And it was his brainchild, entirely. Sirajuddin picked up a wooden box and opened it. It had five fat Cuban cigars. He offered them to his guests, who picked them up gladly. He got up and went to the stove in the adjacent room and lit his. Shehzad and Baradar fiddled with theirs without speaking. Sirajuddin came back, puffing smoke in quick bursts, and with the lit end of his cigar, he lit Baradar’s and then Shehzad’s.

  ‘Nothing like a Cuban,’ he said, smiling. ‘Yes, so where were we?’

  ‘Manpower,’ Shehzad said as he blew out a puff of smoke. ‘I think we’ll need to activate a sleeper cell. Gunmen. They will serve as a distraction—before the main deed is done.’

  ‘Where do you plan to send them?’

  ‘New Delhi first. They will blow themselves up in the most densely crowded area. The country will be in a frenzy. After that, we leave the best for the last.’

  ‘Sounds good, so far.’ Sirajuddin shrugged. ‘Suicide bombers and gunmen are not the problem, Shehzad. You know I’m more worried about the subsequent attack. It has to be flawless. Are you sure we can still trust your guy?’

  ‘He has been waiting for this for years, Khalifa. There is nobody more driven than him to do this.’ Shehzad clenched his fist, knocking the table as he said the words.

  ‘And are you sure he’s ready? Have you spoken to him about green-lighting the plan?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Shehzad said. ‘But I will, as soon as you are absolutely certain that we can finalize this.’

  ‘I don’t know why you think I wouldn’t want this to happen,’ Sirajuddin said, taking in a lungful of his cigar. ‘You have my blessings. And I’m certain you have my Abbu’s duas, too. Besides, if Amir al-Mu’minin and Mullah Baradar have agreed, then what weight does my decision hold?’

  Baradar shook his head with a disappointed smile. ‘Siraj, so far, all our decisions have always been taken with mutual consent. It is because of the high regard in which we hold you and Jalaluddin Sahab.’

  ‘We have many more victories before Allah welcomes us to heaven, then, Mullah Baradar. Let this be one of the smaller ones.’ Sirajuddin smiled. ‘As far as we are concerned, we are ready to go ahead with this, Shehzad. You tell us when and what you expect of us, and we’ll do our best to deliver. Inshallah, Allah will guide us through.’

  Sirajuddin stood up and embraced his guests again. He walked them out, escorting them to their cars that were to drive them back to their helipad.

  ‘Khuda hafiz,’ he said, and turned back and walked into the house.

  I must go and tell Abbu this right away. He picked up the hard disk and jumped into his own vehicle. His father lived in the town of Miranshah, whereas Sirajuddin kept shuffling between the foothills of the mountains and the town itself. He was never sure when the next drone would drop on his head and take his father’s entire life’s work out of play.

  Later that evening, the wizened Jalaluddin and his son crouched over a laptop, maniacal grins plastered across their faces. They opened each of the myriad documents and photographs that Shehzad had passed on to them.

  ‘The Indians will never be able to recover from this attack, Abbu. 26/11 would be a petty case of murder compared to this. This is much more. This means the total annihilation of the country itself. The Chinese will wipe them off the map! There will be mass destruction. A crashed economy. Crippled newborn babies. Diseased future generations. And above all, a large step towards jannat for all of us.’

  Jalaluddin Haqqani nodded in agreement. In pure rapture, he went over the layout of the Delhi Metro and the draft itinerary of an important meeting.

  14

  5 September 2014

  Mastung, Balochistan

  The three stumps stood erect, more or less, as the barefoot batsman took guard. He wrapped a scarf around his face so that no dust could enter his nose and mouth. He lightly tapped the bat on the ground, and waited for the bowler to hurl the ball at him. The bowler, a young boy of fifteen, tossed the ball from one hand to the other, and looked around, surveying his field placement. He took himself rather seriously as he motioned the bearded fielders to move around. They humoured him. He ran a hand through his hair, jogged a few paces and delivered the rubber ball to the burly batsman. The batsman took a wild swing at the ball and missed, resulting in two of the stumps being uprooted. The bowler stretched his arms out like an albatross and jubilantly
ran around the rocky ground.

  As if on cue, there were a series of large explosions in the air. The boy didn’t pay heed to them; he stood theatrically, in pose, after getting the prize wicket. The other men on the field, however, ran in the direction of the explosions and then stood upright. Cocking their rifles, they fired in the air. Another set of rocket-propelled grenades went up and blasted in the air. This was the tradition among Balochi rebels, when welcoming their leader. The leader of their tribe and militia, Nawab Nabil Bugti, had arrived.

  A large frame, bursting at its seams, got out of a sedan and walked up to the boy. His skin was pink, a dense stubble covered his jaw, and his hair was cropped close. He raised his hand to the men looking on from atop a low hill, and waved to them to carry on with their work. Then he tapped the young boy on his head, and lowered his sunglasses.

  ‘Salaam, Chachu,’ the boy said, looking at Nabil Bugti’s sombre eyes. ‘I got Faraz Miyaan out!’

  ‘Salaam, Azaan,’ Bugti addressed his fifteen-year-old nephew with a smile. ‘I saw it. You shattered his stumps just like Shoaib Akhtar used to.’

  The kid looked elated at being compared to his favourite pacer. And then his uncle’s face grew serious. He put his arm on the boy’s shoulder and walked up towards the stumps on the ground.

  ‘I have decided it is time for you to play a new sport, Azaan.’

  He lifted his kurta and pulled out a pistol that he had tucked under the cummerbund of his salwar. He handed the firearm over to the confused boy. He called out to one of his men and instructed him to set up a target.

  ‘What is this, Chachu?’ The boy felt a sudden surge of excitement mingled with nervousness, now that he had a gun at his disposal.

  ‘Your grandfather, Akbar Bugti, first took a life at the tender age of twelve. In many ways, after your father and grandfather died, I have shielded you from their way of life, Azaan. But now I’m afraid I can’t keep you away from it any more.’