Weapon of Vengeance (3 page)

“I don't see the problem, Gill.” Thakur continued, “The arrangements for the games are in place. Sharma just has to keep things going.”

“Then why not put Mohite in charge of the peace summit, sir? That way I will be able to run oversight on both events.”

“I thought about that, Gill. I trust Mohite totally, but I think the summit is too important for any one man. Do you have any idea of the consequences if something happens to the delegates? India's reputation would be shot to hell … not to mention the carnage that may be unleashed in Israel. No. I want you in charge. Of course, Mohite will assist you.”

“Of course I will, sir. You know we will never allow anything to happen to the summit.” Mohite was quick to spot an opportunity, one where he would be able to take credit if things went well, yet not be responsible if there was a screwup. He turned to Ravinder. “Am I right, sir?”

Ravinder caught his grimace in time, marveling at the man's cheek.

“True, sir,” Ravinder replied with a silent sigh. “How come we got to host the summit?”

“Because the Israelis did not agree to any venue that was acceptable to the Palestinians,” Thakur was eager to explain. “And the Palestinians refused to agree to any of the Western countries. That did not leave many options. India was a logical choice, since we are on a good wicket with the Israelis, the Palestinians, and the Arab world.”

“They met at Oslo the last time,” Ravinder mused.

“Yes, but both have a problem with it this time,” Mohite jumped in again. “Apparently both sides feel that Oslo is jinxed. That is why when the PM asked Mr. Thakur if we could host it, I advised him to accept.”

Ravinder resisted the impulse to give Mohite a solid kick. Instead, he gave a politic smile. “Wonderful. I am so glad you are going to help me secure the summit, Govind.”

“But of course, sir.” Missing the sarcasm, Mohite gave another bright smile.

“So we all agree that we must keep it a secret?” Thakur asked, failing to mention that he had already spoken about it to at least ten people in the three hours since the PM had informed him. In fact, if he had his way, he would have held a press conference and shouted it to the world. This could be his moment in the sun, and he was loath to keep it under wraps. “I figured Delhi would be ideal. With the Commonwealth Games taking place, we already have a flood of VIPs and athletes, and security is already functioning at peak level.”

“That is what I explained to Mr. Thakur, sir,” Mohite rejoindered. “It will make our task so much easier.”

Ravinder looked at both men, doubting even they believed that. On the other hand, for Thakur this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to showcase himself on an international platform. And for Mohite, a heaven-sent chance to latch on to the minister's coattails and try to grab the limelight.

Got to watch my back,
Ravinder reminded himself again. Given half a chance, Mohite would deliver him to the wolves.

“I know I can rely on you, Govind.” Thakur gave Mohite a cordial smile, then realizing that Ravinder was also present, added, “and you of course, Gill.” He wagged a finger in the air. “Now, remember, we simply cannot fail. If anything bad happens, it would be a shame for India and it would also put an end to all hopes of peace in the Middle East.”

Ravinder was in a somber mood as he listened to the two prattle on. Obviously, neither had given any thought to the practicalities of securing such an event. The whole thing was fraught with danger.

Ravinder's memory spool ran out as their car halted in the South Block parking lot. He led the way toward the minister's office, wondering about today, what new shocks awaited him.

*   *   *

Watching Mark move into action, Ruby smiled again. The efficiency with which he organized a car and driver made her feel good.

She beheld a sturdy silver, almost-new Nissan van, with a solid air conditioner. The driver, whose name she couldn't get, spoke more Sinhalese than English, but seemed pleasant and presentable. They threw their bags into the rear. Both were traveling light. Moments later, they were headed north.

Ruby glanced at her watch. It was ticking fast. Reminding her that time was short. A pulse of urgency raced through her.

For the
n
th time, she wished she had been given the heads-up about this summit sooner. And again she cursed Pasha, the Lashkar-e-Taiba commander who had told her about this summit. And also e-mailed her the gory video of Yusuf, her dead uncle.

Its images had become a nightmare, returning every night. By now she'd become scared of switching off the lights and laying her head on the pillow.

The murderous bastards had even chopped his hands off.

Pinpricks of wetness pushed at her eyes. She kept them at bay, knowing she could not allow them to be seen by Mark. In their world, tears were weakness … and weakness was death.

Shaking off the gory images of Yusuf's dismembered body, Ruby mentally urged the driver to go faster. She
needed
to be in motion. Motion was important. It kept the nightmares away.

They hit the first security checkpoint on the outskirts of Colombo. Fortunately, only a few cars were ahead. It took only seven minutes to get past it. A second one, a few miles out of town, took a tad longer.

Then the road stretched out before them. Long. Narrow. Lonely.

*   *   *

Ravinder noted that Thakur seemed excited when they entered his office.

Large and well appointed, it was tastefully decorated, in contrast with Thakur's abrasive personality. Lemon-colored walls set off the Persian carpet in the center. To one side was a burnished teak table with a high back, deep-brown executive chair on one side and four matching leather guest chairs on the other. In the far corner, a trio of single-seater sofas was placed around a smoked-glass center table that held several coffee table books. Large paintings rode high on the walls on either side of the table. He could hear the soft hiss of air-conditioning. The aroma of room freshener reached out to Ravinder.

Lavender.
One of his favorites.

“Ah, there you are, Gill.” In his mid-fifties, Thakur wore the trademark white kurta pajamas that found favor with most Indian politicians. A Nehruvian cream cotton jacket completed his attire. Thakur did not bother to get up. “Come, come. How are you two?” Without waiting for an answer, he launched off. “How are the preparations for the summit and games coming along?”

“They are coming along just fine, sir,” Mohite butted in before Ravinder could reply. “We have taken over the top two floors of Ashoka Hotel, and our teams have started installing top-notch equipment to secure the summit. We have also started putting checkpoints and roadblocks around the hotel.”

“That's good.” Thakur rewarded him with a paternal smile.

“We have also broken three terror cells and have information about two more sent in from Pak-Occupied Kashmir to attack the games. We hope to catch them before they get anywhere near Delhi.”

“Hope to?” Thakur raised an eyebrow. “No hopes, Govind—just get them.”

“We will, sir.” Mohite again.

“Amazing.” Thakur tapped his table. “These damn terrorists never give up, do they?”

“No, sir, they don't,” Ravinder replied. “The ISI has given them carte blanche, sir. They will do everything possible to hurt us.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Thakur's smile slipped. The full implications of the threat now dawned on him.

“But don't worry about it, sir. We will not allow anything to happen,” Mohite jumped in, ever eager to keep the boss happy.

“Excellent.” Thakur's smile returned. “I know I can rely on you, Govind.”

Ravinder held his peace, not wanting to rain on their parade and point out that it was impossible to stop every terror strike. Somewhere, somehow, someone would always manage to break through any security cordon … the law of averages made that a certainty.

“Here.” Thakur pulled out two slim brown files and slid them across the table. “A list of the thirteen summit delegates, with their complete details.”

Damn! Thirteen again!
Ravinder frowned; his unlucky number seemed inextricably linked to this ruddy summit.
I just hope it is not—

The minister's voice intruded. “Each delegate is accompanied by two personal security officers. Considering the special circumstances, we are permitting the PSOs to carry weapons.”

“Foreigners running around with guns in our capital?” Mohite looked up, surprised.

“Yes, Govind. And … oh, that reminds me—to assist us, the Americans and the British both have sent across an agent each.”

“Why? What do we need them for?” Mohite half rose, his agitation palpable. “We are more than capable of handling our own turf.”

“Calm down, Govind.” Ravinder waved him down; although having foreign agents mucking around was the last thing he wanted to worry about. “We will need all the help we can get.”

“Yes, but…”

“Orders from on high, Mohite.” Thakur glared, upset at being challenged by his crony. “They will be coming to your office later today, Gill. The Israelis are also sending an agent to brief us about the threats they anticipate. He should be here in a day or so.”

“Don't worry, sir,” Ravinder reassured him. “We will ensure things go smoothly. Anyone … and anything that helps us get the job done properly is more than welcome.”

“Good attitude, Gill. Now for the most important thing: The PM will be coming on the first day of the summit. I got the call this morning; the PMO wants the security plan immediately.”

“Today?”

“Why? Any problems with that?”

“None at all, sir.” Ravinder kept his chin up, knowing the rest of his day was going down the shitter; PM's own security was paranoid and would question everything till the cows came home.
Oh well! Maybe that will keep Mohite busy and get him up to speed.

“Good, then send those plans to me as soon as possible, and I'll forward them to PMO.”

Minutes later, they left and headed back to Police HQ.

“Let us use this time to firm up the details we have to send to PMO,” Mohite muttered as he hopped into Gill's car again. “I will ask my car to lead. Too much bloody traffic. The siren will clear the way for us.” Poking his head out, he yelled instructions to his driver.

They headed out with Mohite's staff car leading; its flashing red light and madly whooping siren carving a corridor through the traffic. Ravinder detested the siren and would have liked to minimize the time he spent with Mohite, but recognized that now he had made useful suggestions.

“Did you notice this, sir?” Mohite tapped the file in his hands a few minutes later.

“What about it?”

“Look at the delegates list; the Israelis are sending Ziv Gellner, Yossi Gerstmann, and Shahar Goldstein. From the Palestinian side, we have Hisham Gheisari from Hamas; Mullah Ghassan Ahmed Hussein, the head imam of the Al-Aqsa Mosque; and Ghazi Baraguti from Fatah.”

“Interesting,” Ravinder commented as he ran through their profiles.

Thirteen delegates! Again that bloody unlucky number.
But he shrugged off the foreboding that snaked through him and nudged his mind back to the profiles.

Ziv Gellner, a former aide of Yitzhak Rabin, the Israeli premier, was now a staunch Kadima man and one of the chief proponents for a peaceful solution. Originally a hardliner, he'd lost his wife to cancer and later his firstborn son, David, in an Arab attack on the Yitzhar settlement. Mourning his son, he'd adopted Ean, a boy who survived the raid but lost both his parents during it.

When Rabin was gunned down, Ziv's feelings had converted him into a staunch pacifist. Ziv had been right there, a dozen feet from Rabin. Right in front of his eyes he had seen all hopes for peace disappear, blown away by an assasin's bullets. All the euphoria and hope that the Oslo talks had generated evaporated.

“Damn! Did you read this?” Ravinder pointed at Gellner's profile. “He also lost his adopted son, Ean, in the recent terror attack on Jerusalem?”

“Really?” Mohite perused the profile. “Hmm … I wonder how he will handle this summit.” Both men pondered that. “Strange! Another coincidence,” Mohite pointed out a moment later. “Like Gellner, Yossi Gerstmann also lost his son and wife during the same Arab raid on Yitzhar.”

Ravinder found Gerstmann's résumé fascinating. A hotshot intelligence professional, he'd been earmarked to head up the Mossad one day. But a counterterrorist operation led by him went wrong, resulting in a bloodbath; putting paid to a promising career. Now a political advisor, Gerstmann was a staunch right-winger who strongly believed that Israel should not part with an inch of land. He was obviously a logical choice for the hardliners and a counterbalancing foil for the pacifist Gellner.

The third Israeli, Shahar Goldstein, often known as the Prince, the son of a former Israeli premier, was a respected Likud man. Due to his legacy, Goldstein carried weight in most sections of Israeli society and could be expected to maintain a balance between the opposing viewpoints of Gellner and Gerstmann. His presence would ensure that whatever solution was recommended might well be acceptable to the Israeli public, which still held his late father in awe.

Of the Palestinian delegates, Hisham Gheisari, a Hamas man based in Gaza, had done a lot of community-development work and made life easier for the Palestinians. He was reputed to be above corruption, and a dozen schools and hospitals in Gaza owed their existence to him. It was men like him who had helped put an end to the corrupt Fatah regime. Though a staunch Hamas man, Gheisari was also a known dove.

Mullah Ghassan Ahmed Hussein, the Head Mufti of Jerusalem, respected in all circles Islamic, Jewish, and Christian, would also be able to play a pivotal role with the Palestinians, especially in light of the recent terror attacks on Jerusalem. In a way, he was Shahar Goldstein's equivalent, whose presence might make a solution palatable to his people.