The Bard of Blood (22 page)

‘Isha, I can do it myself. I don’t need a doctor.’

‘That’s not for you to decide.’ Her voice softened. She could feel his breath against her face. Kabir’s eyes were intense.

‘I’ll quit,’ he whispered. ‘I promise.’

She closed her eyes and tilted her head. Kabir drew her closer. She could feel his beard touch her face. His free arm held her by her waist. She could feel his breath against her forehead. Her pheromones soothed him. He ran his nose down the side of her neck. She closed her eyes as their lips met. They didn’t know how long it lasted, but they drew apart because of a knock at the door. Kabir bent down and picked up the vial. Isha opened the door hastily. Nihar shot them a questioning look. He wore a harassed expression. Isha opened her mouth to explain.

‘It’s okay, I don’t want to know.’

He lifted his iPad and pointed at the screen. It just had the ‘play’ button.

‘A downloadable link just dropped into the mailbox. I traced it back to a source in Ahmedabad,’ Nihar said quickly. ‘I clicked the link and it led me to this video. They have come to know that we’ve found an entry into their email account.’

‘What’s the video about?’ Kabir asked, towelling his face dry.

‘It’s a message,’ Nihar said solemnly. ‘From the al-Qaeda leader, Ayman al-Zawahiri.’

18 September 2014

RAW HQ, New Delhi

A massacre of Muslims is being carried out these days by you, and most of the Muslim world is totally oblivious to it.

The footage was clear in terms of voice and video quality. The elderly man’s droopy eyes looked right into the camera. He wore a skullcap and a clean white kurta. On his forehead was a dark spot, probably gained from the number of times he pressed it to a rock-hard floor during namaz. His neat, steel-rimmed spectacles rested halfway down the bridge of his nose. If he wasn’t the man he was, he would probably come across as a harmless old man, popular among the children of his area for his eccentricity and storytelling. But this man was no ordinary storyteller. He was none other than Ayman al-Zawahiri, the chief of al-Qaeda. The man who had once been Osama bin Laden’s trusted aide and was now his successor.
One of the most feared men in the world.

A brown curtain behind him shimmered as he continued.

And on our part, my warriors and I have pledged to make a serious effort to bring an end to this wave of oppression on Muslims in Bangladesh, India, Myanmar and Sri Lanka, with everything in our capacity. As for our brothers and our people in Kashmir, Gujarat and Assam who are living under the dark shadow of Hindu occupation, I would like to say that the crimes that they have witnessed, and that are still taking place before their eyes, expose the extent of deception of the nationalist democratic way, which calls for their participation, side by side with the Hindus, in a system that brings together Hindus and Muslims. If they haven’t already noticed, they should realize that this so-called ‘democracy’ brings Muslims and Hindus together only to present the Muslims as an easy target for the Hindus.

He swallowed and continued with gusto.

My respected Muslim brothers, in the face of adversity, we must firmly hold on to the creed of loyalty to the believers and disassociation from the kafirs! I will make sure that every kafir pays for the injustice that has been meted out to my fellowmen.

He raised his forefinger and steadied it towards the camera as his voice boomed on.

I would like to remind the oppressive and criminal government of India that every crime has a punishment. The new prime minister is our sworn enemy, but he better remember that the one who sows thorns never reaps flowers. My Amir, Mullah Mohammed Omar, my late brother, Osama bin Laden, and myself have always believed that the oppressed will get their rights back, even if does take some time. We have made our sacrifices and, inevitably, we will make some more. But understand one thing, the time has arrived! Prepare to repent. A tempest is about to shake you soon. The little incident in Delhi was just a prelude to the chaos. A mere taste of things to come. Get ready for the beginning of the endgame.

Zawahiri breathed in deeply, his face calculatedly calm. He was about to conclude.

Allah the Glorious has stated the truth, ‘Those who do wrong will come to know by what a (great) reverse they will be overturned!’ My fighters of al-Qaeda, all of you who have worked tediously for years to set up a base in your wretched country, India, are all set to prove Him right.

It was five in the morning. Kabir’s face was morose as he sipped another cup of black coffee. He stood upright, behind Joshi, Nihar and Isha. He still smelled strongly of the muscle-relaxant balm. They had seen the entire video five times since it had been downloaded. For Kabir, watching the footage once was more than enough. Zawahiri’s words were set in his mind. There was no cryptic element in the message. The man conveyed what he wanted plainly. What angered him more was the fact that al-Zawahiri, just like every other terrorist, had quoted Allah out of context.
No god has ever told his creations to kill one another.

Isha broke the silence, directing a question to Joshi. ‘So is he accepting responsibility for the metro incident?’

‘In a roundabout way, yes,’ Joshi replied. ‘But that doesn’t matter any more. What matters is what’s about to happen. A threat like this cannot be taken lightly.’

‘He’s probably being hidden by the ISI in Pakistan itself. This statement has certainly not been issued from Iraq or Syria,’ Nihar added. ‘I won’t be surprised if al-Zawahiri is firmly ensconced in some safe house not far from an army facility in the Gilgit–Baltistan area or some such godforsaken location.’

Kabir walked up slowly and pulled up a chair.

‘He’s probably enjoying Omar’s hospitality in Balochistan, for all we know. The Quetta Shura, Haqqani Network and al-Qaeda are all, at the end of the day, headed by Omar with varying degrees of separation.’ Kabir paused and looked at the frozen frame of al-Zawahiri’s wrinkled face. ‘They may not be directly associated, but they have pledged their allegiance to each other. It’s one large mushroom of terror.’

‘Pakistan is preparing itself for the withdrawal of US troops from Afghanistan, and part of the preparations are the way and means to ensure that India does not get the upper hand in Afghanistan,’ Joshi said, adjusting his spectacles. ‘They want the army to remain in control of the situation when it comes to dealing with India and Afghanistan. They will ensure this by keeping the Haqqanis and Quetta Shura untouched. On the Indian front, Lashkar-e-Taiba is no longer potent enough in the present international environment to be seen as encouraging Pakistan-sponsored terrorist organizations in India.’

‘And by putting out this video, they have ensured that they have thrown in al-Qaeda for greater effect,’ Nihar said. ‘They are, after all, an organization feared worldwide.’

Kabir sighed. ‘Now that we’re done playing analyst, it’s time we see the video for what it really is. They are a step ahead of us. They know we have broken into their email account. Zawahiri has personally threatened us. It’s not something to be taken lightly.’

Kabir directed his gaze at Joshi. ‘Sir, we must not waste a moment now. We don’t have much time on our hands.’

Joshi nodded in understanding as he saw his phone buzzing with calls from the heads of various security agencies. He was in the midst of organizing the functions for the next three days. The President of the People’s Republic of China was scheduled to fly down to Ahmedabad to meet the Indian prime minister the following afternoon. The agenda was to discuss and peacefully sort out the Sino-Indian border conflict that had broken out in Ladakh. The buzz was that they even planned to sign a few important deals.
As if I didn’t have enough on my plate already.

Kabir stood up. His eyebrows were stitched in a frown. Something had just hit him.

‘Nihar, the video was uploaded from Ahmedabad, right?’

‘Not uploaded,’ Nihar said. ‘It was routed through a server in Ahmedabad. They wiped out all traces of the account after the video was put up, so I can’t track it back any further. It wouldn’t have been easy to get more anyway, considering they merely dropped the link in the drafts.’

‘And do you remember all the films that we had found on Shehzad’s torrent list?’

‘Yes,’ Nihar continued. ‘
Murder, Life in a Metro, Enter the Dragon
. . .’

‘Exactly,’ Kabir said. ‘I know this isn’t a strong enough connection. It might be the stupidest of hunches ever. But maybe . . . just maybe, the last film had some cryptic yet simple message to it.’

‘
Enter the Dragon
?’

‘Yes. Tomorrow our PM is meeting the Chinese President. It could be nothing, but it could be something. Every other movie on that list added up to something. Except this one.’

Kabir turned to look at Joshi. They all wore a similar, grim expression. The same thought shot through their minds.

‘Sir, I request you to keep me on this case,’ Kabir said plainly. ‘I want to be a part of tomorrow’s security detailing. It might come to nothing, but the fact that the video links back to Ahmedabad is reason enough to believe something might just happen. And if the shit hits the fan again, we’ll have only ourselves to blame.’

There was a brief pause. Joshi rubbed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. ‘Don’t make me regret it. Isha and Nihar will be with you, too.’

‘You won’t, sir. I promise I will stop this. Even if it’s the last thing I ever do.’

18 September 2014

Ahmedabad, Gujarat

A tall man sat cross-legged on the reddish stone steps, watching the tranquil Kankaria Lake. He soaked in the calm—even though all he stood for was destruction.
This is it. Today I’m going to wrap up an important chapter in my life.
He had waited for the perfect opportunity for years. He was never afraid of death. He was only afraid that he would die before he had exacted his revenge. Revenge for his father. Revenge for his mother. Revenge for his Muslim brethren. There will be death. There will be a sea of innocent blood as well. But a
qurbaani
, a sacrifice, had to be made for the greater good. He closed his eyes and relived that day again—the day that had transformed him into the merciless man he had now become.

He remembered the picturesque landscape of Kashmir, his birthplace. He remembered the humble yet beautiful cottage in Srinagar. His father was a local Kashmiri. His mother was a Hindu lady who had converted to Islam after meeting his father. There had been no compulsion as such from his father himself. But his parents wouldn’t accept a Hindu daughter-in-law. In the heart of a conflict-ridden Kashmir, this was a small problem, which was resolved soon enough.

Just like any other day his mother had helped him dress up in a woollen muffler and a monkey-cap. He wanted to go out and play. He liked collecting acorns from the oak trees nearby. Little did he know then that what was about to happen next was going to replace the acorn with a grenade—for the rest of his life.

As he stepped out through the back door, he saw three Indian soldiers hop out of their vehicle. Their cruel faces were still etched in the corridors of his memory. They pulled his father out of the house and threw him on the snow-covered gravel. His face was severely bruised. One of the soldiers dragged him through the snow, leaving behind the torturous trail of a man resisting them as they did so. They took him to the doorstep and knocked at the door. He saw his mother rush to open it. Had he been a little older, he would’ve probably warned her against it. But then, he was told by his father that the Indians were good men, that the soldiers were men of integrity. His father was one of the few pro-Indian ethnic Kashmiris—and ironically, he was the one who paid for it.

He watched through the window as they butchered his father in front of his eyes. They accused him of despicable things. His father was a simple man. He ran a grocery store. He was certainly not a terrorist. Not a bomb-maker, like they insisted. He was a simple Muslim. And that was his only fault. His mother had cried her lungs out. She was called names for being a Hindu and yet marrying this wretched Kashmiri.

They poured on her the scalding tea that simmered on the stove. They beat her as she bawled in frenzy. Ripped off her clothes. They took their time with her. One by one. Next to her dead husband. She fell unconscious. And then her life slipped out of her. He saw all of this from outside the house, shaking and trembling, but doing his best not to make a sound. And that day, seething with rage, he had made himself a promise. A promise that had led him to this juncture of life where he stood right now. He became everything his parents didn’t want him to. But he did it for them. Maybe they would understand, watching him now from the world above.