Assassins (42 page)

All Leon needs is one tiny window of opportunity.

Ravinder grimaced, aware it was impossible to protect anyone all the time. Luckily, the saving grace was that Leon was a professional and not one of those suicidal jihadis.

He will want to get away, too.

That was the one major chink in Leon's armor Ravinder knew he could exploit. But he had to do that
before
Leon could carry out his strike. If Leon managed to assassinate Zardosi, then capturing him would provide scant solace.

Kurup picked up on his apprehensions; Ravinder saw him frown as he peeled off and headed for the VIP box.

“What the hell are you guys doing?” Ravinder heard Trivedi, beside him, growl into his radio. “You morons are supposed to be looking
out
, at the audience, and not at the damn game.”

That had the desired effect; security men around the stadium stopped gawking at the players and straightened up, aware their chief was watching them. But Ravinder realized again how easily people could get distracted, even when they knew the importance of their tasks. Weaknesses such as this were what assassins like Leon exploited.

There was a bitter taste in his mouth as Ravinder scanned the stadium again; the men checking the stands around the VIP box had progressed. Barring the group working the section below the VIP box, the other two had moved on to the next sections.

Ravinder knew they needed a break. Badly.

Unbeknownst to him, the God of War had just switched sides.

 

FOURTEEN

Pramod snapped out of autopilot when there was a sharp bang and his motorcycle developed a life of its own. He fought the handlebars and brought it to a stop.

“It's a puncture.” Naresh, the security guard riding pillion, peered down.

“I figured, genius.” Getting off, they examined the front tire; there was a long bent nail protruding from it.

“There is a puncture repair shop around the corner.” The guard with the high IQ pointed it out and then helped wheel the bike. “Hope it's open, though.” An understandable fear, since Indo-Pak cricket matches were notorious for keeping people home glued to their television sets.

The shop was open, but devoid of customers. The owner was huddled in one corner with an electric stove to stave off the cold and a portable television, an ancient model, to catch the match. He did not look pleased when he saw the punctured motorcycle.

“Give me a minute.” He pointed at the television set. “The match is about to start. I don't want to miss the first over.”

The motorcycle was forgotten as the guard and his supervisor both joined the huddle in front of the television.

“Pity your television set is so small,” Pramod commented.

That earned him a dirty look from the puncture man. “I will get a big flat-screen high-definition one too, as soon as misers like you start paying a hundred bucks for a puncture instead of a measly fifty.”

An excited roar from the TV distracted the duelists.

“Captain Dhoni has given the ball to Ishant Sharma, one of the spearheads of the Indian pace battery,” the commentator said excitedly.

“Pack off the Pakis.” The chant escalated to a crescendo as Ishant, rubbing the ball on his pant leg, measured off his long run up. Then Ishant turned to face the opening batsmen.

At the other end Saeed Anwar, the Pakistani opener, tightened his helmet strap, adjusted his pads, and settled down to meet the bowl.

Between the two, the Stadium end umpire slowly swung around to check everything was in order. Then, aware of the significance of the match, walked out of the bowler's line, dropped his hand dramatically, and called out loudly, “Let's play.”

A hush descended on the stadium as Ishant Sharma came steaming down his amazingly long run up, gathering speed with every stride.

Saeed Anwar stood stock-still; eyes unblinking, mouth slightly open and bat poised an inch above the ground.

Ishant Sharma hit the final stride with a loud
umph
and released the bowl at the highest end of its trajectory.

Traveling at 149 kilometers per hour, the ball slashed forward, a blur of white. It hit the pitch inches short of the crease and shot forward, staying low.

Anwar's bat came down, right in line with the ball, but a tad too late.

“My god! What an amazing ball.”
The commentator's excited voice erupted out of the television set. “Anwar was almost done in by the lack of bounce.”

A hiss went through the crowd.

Ishant's expression changed from excitement to frustration as he realized he had beaten the bat but missed the wicket.

Anwar looked shaken, but gathered himself and, swinging his arms to free them up, took guard again.

The puncture man and his audience looked equally tense as the ball made its way back from Dhoni, the wicket keeper, to Rohit Sharma at silly mid-off and thence to Ishant at the other end.

Again, Ishant ferociously delivered the second ball, a fuller-length delivery.

Anwar, aware he needed to assert himself or risk being cowed by the bowler, stepped forward and swung. A solid well-timed swing. There was a satisfying thud as he connected.

“Saeed Anwar has picked that one up nicely. On the up.” The commentator loved this. “And it has gone high in the air.” It was impossible to see the ball on the grainy television. “Will it clear the distance?”

The puncture man was looking sick.

“
Yes! It does.
And nicely, too. Into the crowd.”

“
Bhenchod
Paki!” The puncture man broke the silence around the television set. He looked ready to murder someone.

Miles away, in the stadium, the duel between bat and ball continued as Ishant Sharma ran in again.

There was another meaty thwack as bat and ball collided.

“Anwar does it again. Much flatter this time, but it will clear the ropes easily. More runs on the board for Pakistan. Their prime minister must be delighted with this start.”

On cue the camera cut to the VIP box, where Zardosi was beaming. The Indian PM did not look happy, but aware of the cameras he had on the smile that tired hookers and slimy politicians use with uncanny ease.

“I don't know what the hell Dhoni is doing. Why did he have to give the new ball to Ishant Sharma?” The puncture man gave his captive audience an all-knowing look. “I would have asked Umesh Yadav to bowl.”

Pramod, who worshiped Dhoni, looked irritated, but held his peace, unwilling to rock the boat till the puncture was fixed.

On screen, Ishant Sharma was racing in again, looking as determined as before. There was again that
umph
sound when he released the ball.

The third one stayed low and came in much faster, at 152 kilometers per hour according to the ball speed counter on the screen. It slipped past before the bat had descended fully. This time the line was flawless.

CRACK! The outer wicket went cartwheeling into the air.

“
Bowled him!
” The commentator was beside himself.

The crowd in the stadium exploded.

Anwar looked stunned. Then, shouldering his bat, he began the long walk back to the pavilion.

Ishant, who had been shaken by two successive sixers, was aggressively pointing at Anwar, showing him the way out, whilst an exuberant Indian team ran up and thumped him on the back. A wicket in the first over is always a massive morale boost.

“I knew that would happen.” The puncture man-cum-cricket sage remarked. “It always does when the batsman becomes too confident.” Then, deciding he had not done justice to the event, he felt the need to insult Anwar's sisters again. “
Bhenchod
Pakis.”

“Why don't you start fixing the puncture while the new man comes out?” Pramod, who by now had had enough of his side commentary, asked sourly.

“Let me know when they start again.” The puncture man reluctantly went out to the bike.

On the screen, the cameras cut for the commercial break that happens whenever a wicket falls. However, instead of the usual soap and soda sales spiel, the APB for Leon Binder came on. Archana had played it smart; aware Indo-Pak matches attract millions of eyeballs, she had ensured the APB would be run during commercial breaks. Considering the commercial value of such prime viewing slots, it had taken a lot of arm-twisting, but it is hard for any television channel to refuse a request that has the full weight of the NIA behind it.

For twenty seconds, the four photos of Leon, generated by Archana, occupied the screen in Technicolor glory. Splashed across the photos was the reward amount, a million rupees.

“I know this guy.” Pramod stared at the screen, eyes shifting between the photos and the reward money, trying hard to jog his memory. “I have seen him … somewhere … just recently.”

The APB vanished, replaced by a slick anorexic woman sashaying across the lobby of a fancy mall, telling the world SK-II had restored her youth. However, she failed to impress Pramod, who was racking his brains. The anorexic lady was followed by a swish-looking man in an equally swish light brown coat, who strode up to a gleaming black and red motorcycle and said, “If it is a 100 cc bike you're looking for, look no further.”

It was the coat that flicked the switch in Pramod's head.

“It was the guy in the corridor.” He turned excitedly to Naresh. “That guy last night.” Naresh looked bewildered. “On the fifth floor of the hotel.” Now excited, aware of all he could do with a million rupees, Pramod hauled out his mobile and headed out of earshot; he had no intention of sharing the reward money with anyone.

By the time the second Pakistani batsman arrived at the crease and Ishant Sharma completed his over, giving away only one more run, Pramod was connected to the Police Control Room.

“You are certain I'll get the reward?” Pramod inquired suspiciously when asked which hotel he had spotted the wanted man in. “Why can't you connect me with someone senior?”

By the time the officer in charge of the Police Control Room came on and Pramod finished telling his story, Umesh Yadav had bowled the second over.

 

FIFTEEN

Ravinder saw Trivedi wave frantically from near the control room. He was hurrying over when he heard the commentator announce that Ishant Sharma would be bowling the third over, again from the Stadium end.

“We've found another bomb!” Trivedi was breathless with anxiety.

“Where?” Ravinder was shocked.

“In the West Hill stand … to the right of the previous one.”

“To the right? That means further away from the VIP box?” Ravinder was surprised.

“Yes.” Trivedi pointed. “There.”

“Defused it yet?”

“Not yet. There are so many people about. There will be a panic.”

“Even more if it goes off,” Ravinder retorted. “Get your best men there. Now!”

“I already have.” His mobile rang. Trivedi clicked on his Bluetooth headset. “What?
Really?
Are you sure? Oh, excellent.” He ended the call and told Ravinder excitedly, “They've defused it.”

“That fast?”

“I know. Great, isn't it? My man said it was a crude device.”

“What do you mean?” Ravinder's surprise escalated. “Ask him for details. Could you please get him to talk to me?” Trivedi got him on the line and handed Ravinder the mobile. “What kind of device is it?” Ravinder asked. Then added hastily, “In plain English, please. Spare me the technicalities.”

“Very basic device, sir.” The bomb disposal man was obviously used to briefing people who didn't know a bomb from a blond. “Some explosive, a handful of nails and ball bearings, a detonator, and an improvised timer. No cutouts, no bypasses, no trips. Nothing.”

“When you say
some explosive,
what kind of damage are you talking about?”

“Oh, it would have done damage, for sure. Seeing how packed the stands are, we're talking fifteen to twenty people at the very least.” He went on: “But it was a crudely assembled bomb. A professional would have used some more explosive, a lot more shrapnel, and ensured it wasn't so easy to disarm. This was a poor, hastily put together job.”

“I see.” But Ravinder did not. He was lost in thought when he handed the mobile back to Trivedi. Then his mobile buzzed. Ravinder took the call with alacrity. “Yes, Chance?”

“We have found a sniper rifle.”

“
What?
Where?” Now the alarm bells were clanging louder in Ravinder's head.

“Eleven o'clock from the VIP box.” Ravinder faced that way. “Do you see the rafters? Just above the top edge of the scoreboard.”

“Remove the rifle's bolt or firing pin and leave it there. Put two men in the vicinity to keep an eye on it. Discreetly. They should nab anyone who comes for it.”

“Will do,” Chance said briskly.

“Then continue the search, Chance. We're not out of the woods yet.” Ravinder ended the call and turned to Trivedi. “Did your people search that area?” He pointed. Trivedi followed his finger, then nodded. “Yes, we did. I can even tell you when and who searched it. We have logs.” He looked really worried. “Why?”

“They found a sniper rifle there.” Ravinder was so lost in his thoughts that Trivedi's shock barely registered.

This is too weird … too easy.

The feeling that something was wrong began tightening its grip on him. Ravinder sensed he was missing a vital clue. He began to run through everything, right from the get-go, trying hard to spot the missing link.

 

SIXTEEN

Leon took in the trio, two men and a woman, who entered the speakers' waiting room and headed for the buffet. He returned to his laptop, pretending he was busy. Then the door swung open again and another group of four entered. Then, a couple of minutes later, another larger group. Deepa was with the last lot.