Assassins (2 page)

The Paki prime minister would be far less protected here in Delhi than in Pakistan.

Taking out Zardosi now would also save him a high-risk journey into Pakistan. Plus there would be more opportunities to hit Masharrat, who was based in Dubai and prone to shuttling around the world on speaking gigs.

On the other hand, the minute I take down the first target they pay me half the remaining seventy-five percent. Then I can carry out the second strike with detailed planning and preparation.

Feeling the pressure, Leon decided to focus on the tactically easier target first. That sorted, he then got down to the next item on his agenda.

 

TWO

Suresh Kurup, the recently appointed director of India's National Intelligence Agency, the NIA, gave Sir Edward Kingsley a worried look. “I don't see how you can convince Gill to take on this assignment.” Kurup's thick eyebrows, which stood out prominently on his long, thin face, were beetled up. He was in a well-tailored midnight-blue business suit. However, right now the suit looked as rumpled and worried as his expression—both evidence of a long, sleepless night. “I'm not even sure if he will meet with us, considering he declined to come to the office yesterday.”

“Perhaps because he assumed it was to do with your inquiry on the Israeli-Palestinian Peace Summit fiasco.” Kingsley rationalized, but Kurup could see the MI6 director was worried, too.

“Whatever.” Kurup felt a surge of irritation. “I have only been doing my job. The fact is Gill
did
screw up and now has to face the consequences. Bloody hell! How on earth did he fail to pick up that his daughter was going to attack the peace summit?” Kurup nearly succumbed to the need to share the intense pressure he was under, from his political masters
and
the media. That blatant attack and murder of several foreign delegates had shamed India on every possible international platform. Compounding the nation's shame was the fact that the daughter of the Indian Anti-Terrorist Task Force commander had carried out the attack. Yet to settle into his new assignment, Kurup could not forget the merciless hounding he had been subjected to; finding a scapegoat had become a national imperative. “I doubt Gill will meet us … much less agree to take on this assignment. Why should he?”

“He
will
meet us.” Scrunched up beside him in the rear seat of the cream-colored
Å 
koda Yeti, Kingsley replied doggedly. “And he
has to
take it on. Gill is our only hope.”

But Kurup knew he was not imagining the tendrils of doubt in the MI6 director's clipped British tone.

Though the
Å 
koda Yeti was a spacious SUV, both men were tall; their heads impacted the roof with every bump in the road. And bumps there were in plenty on the road from central Delhi to the outlying suburb of Chhatarpur. Since the NIA director offered a high value target to terrorists, the Yeti was sandwiched between two escort cars with four heavily armed agents in each. Courtesy of the lead car's siren they maintained a brisk pace despite the rush-hour traffic. The mini-cavalcade swept past the Chhatarpur temple complex: a beautiful collection of buildings that drew the devout and the tourist with equal fervor. But today, wrapped up in their worries, neither man noticed it.

“Let's hope he does.” Pondering the consequences if Gill refused to accept this assignment, Kurup worriedly surveyed the ruddy-faced Englishman. Even the Savile Row, steel-gray suit was unable to hide Kingsley's bulk. His tiny goatee looked incongruous on so massive a man. “Though, to be honest with you, I am still not convinced we need Gill … or that he is the best man for this.”

“Trust me. No one knows Leon Binder better.” Kingsley replied. “Like I told you, Suresh, the three of us were not only classmates at Imperial College, we also shared the same apartment in London. We were close … especially the two of them. Ravinder knows how Binder's mind works.” After a pause, he added. “If anyone can stop Leon Binder, he can.”

“If we
have
to stop Binder. I cannot imagine the consequences if Binder manages to assassinate either Zardosi or Masharrat on Indian soil.” Both men
had
already discussed that several times, but it did not stop Kurup from repeating himself. “Those morons in Pakistan will go apeshit. India has always been the favorite red rag for the Paki generals; the only reason they keep harping on the plight of Muslims in Kashmir and other parts of India is to distract the attention of their people from the sorry state of affairs in Pakistan. That's why the low literacy levels and shitty state of their economy suits the generals; it ensures people are too busy struggling to survive and so the generals get away with draining their country's resources.” Realizing he was launching into a diatribe, Suresh checked himself. “The assassination of any Pakistani on Indian soil will give them the best possible excuse to raise the India bogey, throw out democracy in Pakistan, and it could easily lead to another Indo-Pak war.”

Kingsley knew Suresh was not overstating things; in the sixty years of its existence Pakistan had left no stone unturned to ensure Indo-Pak relations remained on a precipice; that gave them the perfect reason to divert most of the Pakistani budget toward the army. “Not to mention what would happen to global peace if the fundamentalists seize power in Pakistan.” he muttered darkly.

“I just don't get it. What
are
your people doing?” Kurup was plainly bitter. “First one of your agents shoots up delegates in the Israeli-Palestinian Peace Summit right in the heart of Delhi. And now we have London-based terror groups sponsoring assassinations here.” His tone turned plaintive. “How on earth do you allow obviously criminal groups like the Sisters of Benazir to function so openly in England?” He gave the upholstery a frustrated thump. “Seriously … how the hell did you guys ever manage to colonize half the world?”

“Dumb luck, I guess, old chap.” Kingsley returned his smile. But, like Kurup's, his smile was brittle, too.

*   *   *

Edward Kingsley knew the NIA director was right. That a Palestinian terrorist like Ruby Gill had managed to penetrate
and
survive undetected in MI6 for so many years had dealt a serious blow to the agency's credibility. Her attack on the Delhi peace summit had left a lot of red faces in England.

And now this …
if the assassinations sponsored by the London-based SOB succeeded
, it would make life seriously hairy for MI6, and Kingsley in particular. Ten Downing Street had been brutally unambiguous: with elections around the corner, if MI6 got any more egg on its face, Kingsley would be put to pasture. And
that
could well be the least of his worries.

I have to stop Binder. Rather,
help
the Indians stop him … and considering how things are done here, that is going to be a bitch.

Kingsley bit back the scowl before it hit his face. His lack of direct operational control had never galled him so much. But control over operatives of another agency on foreign soil was beyond the realms of possibility.

I must convince Ravinder to take this on. He, at least, has the same motivation I do to bring that bastard Binder down
.

That made him feel better. Marginally.

But poor Ravinder. With the death of his daughter and the peace summit fiasco, he must be a total mess. Would he be able to cope? Stopping an accomplished assassin like Binder would be no mean task … Binder had successfully stayed ahead of the police in several dozen countries for well nigh three decades.

Kingsley's anxiety counterattacked with renewed vigor.

*   *   *

Suresh saw Kingsley's ruddy face turn redder still and sensed his discomfiture.

Before more talk could develop, their convoy pulled up at a black metallic gate. Inset into a twelve-foot-high boundary wall, the gate was shut. A guard peered out from a grilled window to the right. Both spymasters watched one of the agents in the lead vehicle lean out and parlay.

“Do you think he will let us in?” Kurup's fingers nervously tap-danced on the car seat as he saw the guard reach for a phone.

“He has to.” But again, there was more hope than certainty in Kingsley's reply. As if to substantiate that, he added, “Did you know, back in college the three of us were called KGB?”

“KGB?”

“Kingsley, Gill, and Binder.” The MI6 man elaborated with a vague half smile, but his attention was on the gate guard. “We were apartment mates and very good friends … really close. Inseparable. Till…” Kingsley broke off as the huge gates swung open. Soundlessly. “He
is
going to meet us. I told you he would.” He was unable to keep the triumphant note out of his voice. But his relief was far more evident.

The opened gate revealed a six-hundred-foot-long graveled drive, which led to a sparkling white farmhouse, standing in a lush, well-manicured garden.

As they drove down, to the right was a swimming pool, over which hovered the mist of a chilly December morning. To the left, a tennis court, but the missing net gave it a desolate look. Between that and the porch was a garage large enough for three, perhaps four, cars, but it was empty.

Except for the guard at the gate and a gardener puttering in the distance everything was silent. Graveyard silent.

Even Suresh, a Delhi-ite, found it hard to imagine that the nonstop cacophonous hustle-bustle of Delhi lay within reach. He felt a twinge of envy as he took in the surroundings. The place reeked of money. Old money.

No wonder this guy is so snooty.

Then, on the stairs to the porch, Suresh spied the man they had come to meet. Though on the uphill side of fifty, the tall Sikh with a black, tautly bound turban stood ramrod straight. His chin jutted forward. Unblinking eyes tracked the inbound cars. He looked agitated.

As they drew closer Kurup noticed the grief lines that had aged his face. But from his demeanor and carriage it was easy to deduce he had spent the better part of his life in uniform.

Then the cars halted. Steeling themselves, the spymaster duo got ready to alight. Kurup knew Kingsley was equally eager to get to the business at hand.

 

THREE

Ravinder Singh Gill stood on the stairs dominating the porch and watched the trio of cars come up the drive, their heavy tires crunching the gravel. He could not decide what he was feeling more, anger or curiosity.

Kurup was the last man on earth he expected to play host to.

What the heck is he doing here? Didn't the blighter get the hint when I declined his invitation yesterday?

In light of Kurup's shoddy behavior as chairperson of the inquiry investigating the disastrous Israeli-Palestinian Peace Summit and his attempt to pin the blame on Ravinder, the NIA chief was not someone Ravinder wished to see, and certainly not at his house. Shocked at the Kurup's audacity, Ravinder had been about to order the guard not to open the gate when he mentioned that Sir Edward Kingsley was accompanying Kurup.

That had taken him by surprise. Ravinder liked Edward, though he mistrusted the spymaster's motives. Above all, Ravinder could not walk away from the fact that, though it ended badly, Edward
had
been helpful during the Ruby investigation. That obligation and Ravinder's curiosity had led to the gates being opened.

But what could he possibly want? MI6 directors don't go around paying impromptu visits to old college mates … even those they were close to.

They
had
been close to
 … Ravinder corrected. They had kept in touch, but never regained that magical camaraderie they had once shared.

Farah
'
s death had extinguished that.

Ravinder pushed away the memory of Farah Fairfowler, Edward's long-dead fianc
é
e; it was ugly and unsettling, the first time he had confronted death. It had been up close and gruesome. Though the incident happened three decades ago, the recollection was painful still. Farah's bloodied face, contorted in fear, still haunted him. Those memories left him with mixed feelings concerning Kingsley; a part of him missed the friendship they had once shared, and yet another part wished they would never have to meet again.

The lead car pulled past and the
Å 
koda Yeti slid to a halt beside him. Ravinder picked up Kurup's sheepishness the minute the NIA chief alighted. Making little effort to conceal his distaste he shook Kurup's hand, but a brief, perfunctory shake. Ravinder then turned to greet Kingsley; the bulkier man was a bit slower in alighting.

What on earth could they want from me? Cannot be anything straightforward … it never is with these intelligence types … devious blighters.

“It's great to see you again, Edward.” Ravinder's curiosity was aching to burst free. “A long way from your usual beat, aren't you?”

“You haven't changed a bit, Ravinder. Well, perhaps a couple more wrinkles since we last met.” Kingsley bypassed the question as they shook. “How long has it been? And how are you, old boy?”

Ravinder examined the Englishman, keen to spot the changes the last thirty years had inflicted on him. Barring the gray hair and a dozen more kilograms, Ravinder could not spot any.

He has fared well. Good.
Ravinder smiled. “The years have been kind to you, Edward.”

“I'm not complaining, old chap.” Edward grinned, patting his girth. Ravinder sensed Kingsley, too, was happy to see him, but also uneasy. Then Edward's grip tightened and his smile faded. “Terribly sorry about what happened with Ruby,” he murmured.

With a thud Ravinder was back in the present. Suddenly he felt that awkwardness again, akin to what Farah's death had unleashed. Ravinder could sense Edward's anxiety, mirroring his own. It persisted as Ravinder led the way to a patio adjacent to the living room, overlooking the pool. Six garden chairs circling an oval center table were arranged in the patio. Despite a weak sun fighting to make its presence felt through the heavy December fog, it was a pleasant place. Peaceful.