LASHKAR (11 page)

But he didn’t.

Barring those two phone calls there was no word from Iqbal for the next five months. Hamida was starting to get worried when the second bank draft and another short letter from him arrived.

‘My training is almost over. All going well. I should be in Delhi in a month or so. I will make sure I take some time off to come to Lucknow before I join duty. We will have lots of fun. Give my love to everyone. Tell Navaz I think of her all the time. Miss you loads. I will be back soon.’

It was at Navaz’s behest that the two of them took the train to Delhi the week before Eid. ‘Come on, Ammi. It will be such fun. Iqbal bhaijaan will also be coming back soon. Won’t it be great if we are there in Delhi to surprise him?’

Nawab was unable to accompany them since school holidays had not yet begun. While Ashraf dismissed the whole idea with a disdainful, ‘All you will do is drag me from one shop to the other.’ So, in the end it was just Navaz and Hamida who found themselves on the train to Delhi with Eid and Diwali less than a week away. It was the first trip the two of them were taking on their own and both were totally excited. Navaz was a bundle of energy throughout the journey. ‘You don’t need to keep peering out of the window at every station, child. Delhi is the last halt. We will be sure to know when it arrives.’ But nothing Hamida said convinced that girl to stay away from the window. Navaz did not sleep a wink that night.

When the train pulled into the New Delhi Railway Station early next morning the two of them could not stop gawking and exclaiming at everything. Despite the early hour the station throbbed with energy.

The first few days passed in a blur as they visited the Jama Masjid, the Red Fort, Qutab Minar, some dargahs, the Lotus Temple and India Gate. Despite the crowds and the rush Hamida and Navaz could not get enough of sightseeing. When they weren’t touring the city, they ate and chatted ceaselessly with Rashid’s wife and kids. Even though Navaz had never met them before, she got on famously with all her cousins.

Time flew the way it does when one is on holiday.

That morning Hamida was quite surprised when Navaz said, ‘Ammi, do you realize Eid is just four days away? We have to go back to Lucknow the day after that. When exactly are you planning to take me shopping?’

Hamida was amazed by the speed with which time had passed. She immediately got after Rashid. ‘We need to go shopping, bhaijaan. Will you take us please?’

‘There is no way I am going shopping with you, Hamida. I have no desire to run from shop to shop looking at things I have no intention of buying.’ Rashid had the typical male lack of enthusiasm for shopping. ‘But I can drop you off and pick you up.’

‘Sarojini Nagar is the cheapest market around here; you can get just about anything,’ Rashid said as he drove them down to the market. ‘But it is always very crowded. You need to be very careful about pickpockets…and don’t buy anything without bargaining first. They will rob you blind otherwise.’

On entering the market he stopped at the first parking junction. A veritable sea of cars, scooters and motorcycles were parked every which way. The thin sliver of road that ran between the market and the parking lot teemed with people. ‘Be sure you return to this spot by 6.30.’ Rashid wagged a stern finger at them. ‘Don’t keep me waiting in this hell-hole.’

The next few hours were pure heaven. Navaz and Hamida picked happily through the marketplace full of hawkers and colourful shops crammed with the most amazing stuff. Lucknow was a big city full of markets but it had nothing to compare with the sheer size and exuberance of Sarojini Nagar.

After a couple of hours of shopping, Navaz was famished. She looked around and spotted a samosa vendor. She was pulling her mother towards the samosa-wallah when the old man selling tablecloths on the pavement opposite caught her mother’s eye. In the pile was a bright red table cover with small mirrors embroidered on it. It beckoned to her like a spark of life, shining enticingly among the other drab pieces in the heap. The vendor, a toothless old man, squatted beside the heap picking his nose and ogling the women going by.

Navaz pulled harder. ‘Those samosas look so yummy.’

‘It will only take a minute, child…now listen, we must not let him know we like it so much because then he is sure to hike the price,’ Hamida whispered conspiratorially as she dragged her reluctant daughter to the stall. That is why Hamida first picked up two or three other covers and haggled over the price of each before she even turned to acknowledge the existence of the red tablecloth that had so caught her fancy.

She was bending to pick it up when from the corner of her eye she sensed more than saw a bright yellow spark looming larger and larger.

And then there was nothing.

1815 hours, 29 October 2005, Shivaji Stadium Bus Terminus, New Delhi.

The first television camera and news-team reached the Shivaji Stadium Bus Terminus about eighteen minutes after the bus driver set off the first bomb. The television crews responded much faster to the subsequent explosions that ripped through the city with horrifying speed. By 1825 hours a shocked world watched as blood-soaked images of the Delhi blasts beamed into millions of homes across the globe.

The firestorm of metal and miscellaneous debris that was unleashed by the two bombs and the LPG cylinder scythed through the dense crowd of shoppers and shopkeepers gathered around. The official estimate was that forty-seven of them died on the spot. Another twenty-nine succumbed to their injuries in the days that were to follow. Over a hundred more were injured. Quite a few of them were handicapped for life.

The Team Three men did not hear the explosion or see the devastation. They only got confirmed news of the blasts when they arrived at the Cantonment Railway Station. By that time the television cameras and crew had reached the sites of most of the bomb blasts. The platform was abuzz with the shock of the blasts that were decimating the city. Knots of people clustered around the television sets positioned on the platform.

*

‘The blast at Sarojini Nagar seems to have caused almost as many casualties as the March 1993 blast at Century Market in Mumbai. The police are still trying to ascertain the number of dead …’ The camera cut away from the fear-stricken reporter trying to make some sense of the terrible mayhem and moved on to another grim-faced reporter at the Shivaji Nagar Bus Terminus. ‘This is where the first blast took place.’ The camera panned to the shattered bus. ‘It is still not clear how many more buses have been affected. So far we only have confirmation of one more blast onboard the bus that was operating on route No 505. No one has so far claimed responsibility for these blasts, but one of the suspects was gunned down by…’

At 2136 hours, when the 4791 Bikaner Mail left the platform of the Delhi Cantonment Railway Station both men of Team Three were safely on board. Like the men of Team Two, they also were in different compartments. Once again, the ticket-checker did not notice anything untoward or suspicious about either of them.

Team Three boarded the train and left behind a city torn apart with fear, death and destruction.

And a nation seething in anger.

1820 hours, 29 October 2005, Aftab Cyber Café, New Delhi.

Sitting in the rear room of the Aftab Cyber Café Furkan watched the coverage on television with keen interest. Like the rest of the Lashkar he too was saddened by the death of his young colleague. ‘Thank God he was martyred instantly and the operation was not compromised,’ he consoled himself. When Furkan had watched enough he muted the television. By now it was pitch dark outside. Erratic blue, yellow, red and black images from the television screen flashed through the otherwise darkened room. Squinting slightly in the darkness he stared at the screen of his mobile phone and carefully dialled a pre-stored number. When he spoke into it there was a distinct pride in his voice. And rightly so. After all, all the men of the Lashkar had been recruited and trained by him. When he finally depressed the disconnect button his phone informed him that the call had lasted ninety-seven seconds. Then he went back to the television and turned up the volume.

But, unable to contain his excitement, and despite being warned to do no such thing, an hour after his exhilarating talk with Maulana Fazlur Rehman, he picked up the mobile phone again. This time he dialled a number that had been added to his phone book fairly recently. ‘Is this the Aaj Tak news channel?’

The stunned Aaj Tak staffer who took the call was speechless with horror when she answered the phone. Luckily she did not have to do much except listen. By now it was the norm for all calls coming into any television network to be recorded automatically. The calling line identification facility on the telephone of the news channel duly noted the number of the mobile phone the call was originating from.

The young Aaj Tak staffer called up her boss as soon as the call ended. ‘What? Say that again!’ The senior editor had just parked his car outside his house when he took the call. His mind raced. A slow day had suddenly been converted into a major news exclusive. Cutting the call he jumped back into his car and gunned the engine as he reversed out. His rear fender hit his wife’s car parked by the side, but for once he didn’t care. His hands were busy dialling another number. The Deputy Commissioner of Police for South Delhi was well known to him. Consequently the police were informed within minutes of the call made by Furkan claiming responsibility for the bombings.

Furkan was a trained and highly motivated terrorist but there were obvious gaps in his knowledge of technology. He had little idea what mobile telephone companies were capable of doing. Not only did they maintain extensive records of who owned which phone, they could almost instantly track down the location of the owner by following the electronic trace left by his mobile phone. By making this phone call the seventh man had just signed his own death warrant.

It took a few minutes for the Deputy Commissioner of Police to rouse the senior operational staff of the cellular service provider that Furkan was using. In this day and age of terrorism all cellular companies have to function within strict operational and security guidelines. Most governments have mandated that all operators instal the technology required to track and monitor all their subscribers on real-time basis. Unknown to most people this technology is put to use almost every day for a host of reasons.

Each mobile phone handset has a unique ESN (Electronic Serial Number). Whenever a mobile phone is switched on the handset periodically broadcasts the ESN to let the cellular company know where it is located. This is how the cellular phone company knows where to route a call received for a particular phone. That is why they always know where each phone user is. The cellular operator can also ping any phone and then use overlapping signal monitors to triangulate and give its most likely global positioning coordinates. This tower triangulation method enables them to pin down the precise location of any mobile phone to within a few feet.

Had Furkan switched off his mobile phone after calling Aaj Tak it is possible that he may have lived a little longer. Unfortunately, he didn’t.

Within a few minutes of the request, the Vice President, Operations, of the concerned mobile phone company called up the Deputy Commissioner of Police who headed the Anti-Terrorist Cell. ‘The phone is registered to a Furkan Sheikh and the billing address is of a cyber café in Khirki Gaon.’ He read out the address. ‘In fact, that is where the phone is located right now.’

‘Keep tracking the phone and let me know immediately if it changes location.’ The cop disconnected the call and dialled again. ‘Mathur, move the strike team out immediately. What? Yes, of course I want them loaded for bear. Tell them to meet me in front of Panchsheel Rendezvous…and listen, call up the Saket people and tell them to keep a team ready…just in case.’

As his vehicle sped through the traffic the DCP called the Delhi Police Commissioner and briefed him. He had barely finished when Mathur’s name flashed on the screen of his mobile phone: ‘Our strike team is on its way and Saket’s is standing by, sir. The team should be at the Rendezvous in five minutes…max seven, sir.’

Clearly, sitting in the control room, Mathur had no clue what hell had broken loose on the streets. The strike team took much longer to reach simply because traffic was in complete chaos. The city was in turmoil over news of the horrific blasts and the news channels were doing nothing to dissipate the panic. People swamped the streets as they fled their workplaces and rushed to the apparent and elusive safety of their homes. Consequently it was almost 2200 hours by the time the anti-terrorist team finally moved into place. Fortunately, this was the only glitch.

The strike team surrounded the cyber café deftly in a slickly choreographed manoeuvre. They moved in so fast and so unobtrusively that passers-by barely noticed them.

The operation was over almost before it had begun.

2201 hours, 29 October 2005, Aftab Cyber Café, Khirki Gaon, New Delhi.

‘
Now!
’

The Bikaner Mail was still pulling out of Delhi Cantonment Railway Station with the Team Three men on board when the first police commando braced himself to kick in the door of the cyber café. The flimsy door crashed open and hit the wall. Furkan was sitting behind a computer, lost in thought, when the commandos burst in.

‘Son of a bitch!
How
…?’ Furkan’s mind was still adjusting to the stunning reality of the two helmeted figures in black bullet-proof jackets as his hand reflexively freed the small Chinese automatic pistol from his belt.

‘Police! Raise your hands in the air!’ one of the commandos shouted.

Furkan’s mind was screaming into overdrive. He heard the call but it did not really register. He sprung to his feet and was raising his pistol to take aim at the black figure racing towards him when the second commando, who stood near the door with his weapon already raised, fired. The tiny 9 mm lead slug slashed through the air. It was travelling at sub-sonic speed. Even so it spanned the scant seven feet between them almost instantly and reached Furkan as his finger groped for the trigger. The blunt, soft-nosed slug hit Furkan high on the chest and flung him backward. The first commando pounced on him and wrested the pistol away. Furkan never even managed to get off a shot.