LASHKAR (25 page)
‘I think those two guys stole the boat to make a getaway. My gut tells me they are the Clifton killers,’ said the Inspector who had spoken to the doctor from Gullamullah.
The Duty Officer mulled over this; the whole thing was a bit bizarre. ‘Where the fuck do you think they’re going to go in a rowboat?’
‘Maybe there is someone waiting for them out there?’
‘Well, let me run this by the navy, the coastguard, port security and sigint. Let’s see what they have to say.’
A few minutes later the big picture began to fall into place.
Cops the world over have the same pathological hatred for cop-killers. The Karachi police were no different. A flurry of phone calls disturbed the sleep of many other people in the police, the Navy, the coastguard and a host of other departments. Even so, it took almost half an hour for someone to connect the whole thing to the signal that had been caught just off the shore.
‘You did
what
?’ The Sigint Commanding Officer asked.
‘I filed it, sir,’ the poetry-loving Duty Officer sheepishly replied. ‘I didn’t think it was that critical, sir.’
‘You didn’t think it was critical?’ The Commanding Officer’s tone was cold and caustic. ‘You have Indian Navy ships chattering around in your frontyard and you don’t think it is critical?’ Pause. ‘Just wait for me to come in tomorrow morning. Make sure you meet me before you go off duty. And tell the coastguard, the Fleet Duty Officer and Post security to move their butts
now!
’
A little while later the first naval and coastguard boats left the harbour or were diverted from their patrol routes and began to scour the sea ahead of the fishing village for the missing boat and the two men. One of the smaller coastguard boats got lucky and actually spotted the rowboat. Immediately three of the search vessels altered course and started bearing down on it.
The Pakistani coastguard boat was barely minutes away when the speedboat with Jaggi on it rendezvoused with the fishing boat stolen by Dhankar, who was by now absolutely at the end of his tether. The GPS locators had helped Jaggi to swiftly home in on Dhankar.
Dhankar helped the medic shift Deopa into the speedboat as Jaggi held the boats together. Then they were off. Jaggi handled the small craft as the medic went to work on Deopa. The speedboat raced away into the night.
‘Golf for Tiger. We have Dolphin. Two is in urgent need of evacuation.’
‘Cas evac is standing by Golf. Get back to Golf Base now.’
The Pakistani Navy now took serious note of the Indian warship and missile boats that were patrolling sedately just outside their maritime limit. They were still trying to figure out what they could or should do when their coastguard took possession of the stolen rowboat and reported in.
‘It’s empty now but there is some blood in it.’
‘So they’ve moved out in another boat?’
‘I guess.’
‘Shit!’ There was long pause. ‘Do you think that’s why those Indian Naval ships are hanging around?’
‘How would I know?’
‘There is whole load of chatter out there. Any idea what’s up?’
‘Negative PortSec. They are out of our waters.’
‘What do you want us to do?’
‘Stand by till I check back from HQ. Nobody get trigger-happy.’
‘Roger Control. We are standing by.’
A few minutes later he was back on the line:
‘This is control. No one is to do anything as long as they are outside our waters. HQ does not want an incident in international waters. Is that clear?’
The Pakistani crafts moved into a holding pattern as they kept watch on the three Indian Naval crafts hanging around just outside Pakistani maritime limits.
The helicopter was landing on the Indian warship as the speedboat zoomed in out of the darkness and pulled up alongside. Eager hands helped to get the men on board. Soon the helicopter took off again. Deopa was on board. The naval medic positioned on the warship accompanied the wounded man. So did Dhankar. The minute the chopper landed near the Air Force hospital at Bhuj they rushed him straight into the operation theatre. The operation lasted four-and-a-half hours.
‘Another hour or so and you could have taken him straight to the morgue,’ the stocky Air Force surgeon told Dhankar when he came out.
Dhankar gave him a relieved smile. ‘He is a hard man to kill, doc.’
Omar started when the cell-phone jangled to life. He was huddled in an armchair watching the news-anchor taking viewers through the death of the Maulavi once again. The television camera took in the large crowd gathered in front of the Savita Nagar mosque. The crowd was angry and chanting slogans. Omar jerked up and stared at the phone. Then he noticed the number the call was originating from and his mind went numb.
Omar had been sitting in the living room sipping his tea when he first switched on the television. By this time the news teams had reached the scene of the Savita Nagar blast and details of the horror were being telecast on every channel. Omar watched in horror as the cameras focused on the headless corpse of the Maulavi again and again. His mind whirled. He knew beyond doubt that Iqbal had killed the Maulavi. Somehow he knew this as clearly as he knew that he was going to be the next to die. He picked up the phone which was still ringing persistently.
‘Omar?
A frisson of fear tingled his spine. ‘Iqbal?
Why?
’ he asked in a whisper throwing a quick look around the room to ensure he was still alone. ‘He was a man of God. How could you…?’
‘No one who preaches death can ever be a man of God. He was a plain and simple terrorist. In fact he was the shaitan himself.’
‘What the hell is wrong with you, Iqbal? I understand how you feel about the loss of your mother and sister, but it was not intended like that. No one targetted them…’
‘That is the point, Omar,’ Iqbal broke in harshly. ‘Can’t you see that, you stupid bastard? It could have been anybody. No one knew who would be maimed and who would die when the bombs went off. Or what, if anything at all, any of them had to do with the jihad. That is why it is wrong.’
He paused briefly; his anger making him unable to speak. Then he continued: ‘I believe, Omar. I believe. I believe in our God. I am ready to go to battle for him. Kill for him. But not women and definitely not children. If we are the true God’s Lashkar then we should meet the enemy head on. We should fight them to death. Kill them, but not like this. Not women and children…’
‘You…it is because of wimps like you that that the jihad will fail.’
‘Jihad!’ The vehemence in Iqbal’s voice shocked Omar. ‘Do you even know what jihad means? You are always busy spouting the Koran, do you even understand the meaning of the word?’
‘Of course I do!’ Omar recited authoritatively: ‘”It is the right and duty of every true believer to defend ourselves, our religion and our community from those who seek to destroy us.”’
Iqbal gave a harsh, disdainful laugh. ‘I am sure that even a fool like you knows that jihad means to strive…to strive for purity within oneself and goodness in society.’ His tone hardened suddenly. ‘But stupid shits like you…’
‘You are mad!’ By now Omar was literally shaking with anger. ‘Don’t you try to teach me religion, you crazy fool…’
‘It is stupid bastards like you who ensure that the real beauty of Islam is never seen by the others! The antics of fanatics like you give Muslims the world over a bad name. We are the true believers, but because of lunatics like you where ever we go today all we arouse is suspicion, hatred and violence…’ Iqbal’s voice trailed off. As though the fight had gone out of him. Or as though he did not care to explain himself any more.
‘Tell me, Iqbal, what makes you any different? You have killed also. What makes you think what you have done is right?’
‘The man I killed was responsible for many deaths. He deserved to die.’
‘Really? Our brethren are being killed in the thousands in Palestine, Chechnya, Kashmir, Afghanistan, Iraq and all these other places. What of them and the people who are killing them? Who has to decide who will live and who will die? What gives you the right to decide who deserves to die? At least we are fighting for a cause. You have just killed in cold blood for totally personal reasons.’
‘Omar, you bloody fool, are you blind? Can’t you see that you are fighting only because you have been conned into it? Those scheming Pakistani bastards, whose only aim is to destroy our country and the fabric of our society because their own has failed, are taking you for a ride. In the end, that is all there is to it.’
There was a very long pause. Omar could hear Iqbal breathing heavily into the phone. Then he heard the sound of a train hooting in the distance. Omar’s mind registered the sound.
He is at the railway station. I wonder which…?
‘I am going to kill you, you know that, don’t you, Omar?’ Iqbal spoke again breaking his chain of thought. ‘Just as I am going to kill all the others who had anything to do with these blasts. I want you to know, Omar. I am going back to the training camp…to where it all began. I am going to find the man who started it all and I am going to kill him.’
For a long time after Iqbal had hung up Omar sat holding the phone. He had to find a way to get word to Maulana Fazlur Rehman. He had to warn them and get them to stop Iqbal before he did any more damage. Omar knew that Iqbal was heading straight for the training camp at Muzaffarabad. And that he couldn’t go there without going to Hari first. Omar got up and headed for his room. It took just ten minutes for him to throw some things together in a rucksack. Talking to his parents and getting them to understand that he had to leave immediately took much longer. Despite all this, at 1605 hours when the Jammu Tawi Shalimar Express pulled out from the Delhi railway station Omar was on it.
The flight from Delhi was almost an hour late, but it got Iqbal to Srinagar just twenty minutes after Omar’s train left Delhi for Jammu. Omar did not know this of course. Just as Omar did not know that Iqbal had wanted him to hear the train in the background when he had spoken to him on the phone earlier that day.
Bluff and counter-bluff. The deadly endgame had begun.
0435 hours, 31 October 2005, Bahawalpur, Pakistan.
Except for the occasional stray, the streets of Bahawalpur were deserted when Mohammed Sami and Tony Ahlawat entered the town. An early winter fog shrouded them in semi-darkness as the two commandos swiftly made their way towards the target area. Despite the poor light it did not take much time for the two men to correlate the layout of the town with the satellite pictures and the map they had used to prepare for the mission. Moving at a steady pace it took them about twenty minutes to reach the target. Casing out the area and confirming the suitability of the operational base took another ten. ‘That looks like a decent spot.’ Sami pointed to a flat-roofed house with an old, uninhabited look.
‘You check out the left flank,’ Tony said moving swiftly to the right part of the building. The two men met back at the same spot a few minutes later. ‘Let’s do it.’
Sami pointed at a pile of debris and rusted junk lying on the roof. ‘Couldn’t be better for us.’ The two men moved to the side of the roof and peered out. The target was perfectly laid out in front of them.
‘Field of fire is good. Let’s set up.’
By the time the call of the muezzin rang out for the Fajr prayer the two commandos were comfortably ensconced in suitable fire positions.
‘Get ready. The prayers are over,’ Sami hissed as people started emerging from the mosque. Most of them came out and started to leave. However a few diehard fanatics still hung about listening to the man who stood outside the entrance waving his hands and talking non-stop. ‘That guy haranguing the crowd, isn’t that him?’
The man Sami was referring to was one of the three terrorists released by the Indian Government after the hijacking of the Indian Airlines flight from Kathmandu to Delhi. He had been handed over to the hijackers at Kandahar.
‘Definitely him,’ Tony Ahlawat agreed looking at him through his binoculars.
‘I think so too.’ Sami followed the target through the sniper scope of his rifle. The man was standing in the midst of a crowd as he gestured and postured grandly. The Maulana needed only the slightest opportunity and a one-man audience to start dispensing his pearls of wisdom. ‘The guy really loves the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?’
The Maulana’s penchant for discourse was a well-known habit. It had been duly noted by a host of intelligence agencies the world over, who made it their job to monitor such personalities. Accordingly, this fact had found due mention in the RAW file maintained on him. The file was always kept up to date. The RAW had been more than happy to pass it on to the Crisis Management Committee when they got the orders from the PM’s office. Today they were banking on this particular personality trait of the Maulana to cut short his stay on earth.
Neither man wished to kill any more than was essentially required, but that morning they had a mixed bag of luck. The target was present and out in the open. That was the good part. But as their weapons zeroed in on the target there were almost fourteen people around the Maulana. It was unrealistic to hope for a clear shot with all those people clustered about him in such close proximity. That was the bad part. The good part was that one of the fourteen men present in the crowd around the Maulana was Maqbool Zargar. He was among the terrorists who had been released along with the Maulana by the Indian Government after the hijacking. Of course, that morning when the two Force 22 officers pulled the triggers of their weapons almost simultaneously they did not know they were going to get two for the price of one.
Sami used the same model of sniper rifle used in Karachi by Dhankar. It was a standard American make, found in abundance in this neck of the woods; a legacy of the American support extended to the mujahideen in the fight against the Russians and of the ISI support for the jihadis in their fights in numerous battlefields the world over.
Sami sighted carefully as he pulled the trigger of the rifle. He was hoping he would get lucky despite the crowd. Tony, the back-up, just in case his luck did not hold true that morning, held the GP-25 Grenade Launcher.
