Weapon of Vengeance (36 page)

Then Chance was at the door. Without checking his stride, he shouldered it in and ran inside.

Ravinder burst in hard on his heels.

*   *   *

Chance ground to a halt, the pistol in his hand still half-raised. He froze; the slightest move and Ruby would put a bullet in his head; her weapons were up and smoking. Ravinder again blundered into him.

Ruby's left-hand pistol was pointed straight at Chance's head. Her face was alabaster. Frozen. Immobile. Bereft of emotion. Only her eyes hinted at the turmoil inside her. Tiny seething dots, tense with concentration.

She was about eight feet away, her chest heaving, but the Brownings in her hands were rock steady. The weapon in her right was placed against Senator George Polk's head. And now no charm or smile on his face, just sheer panic. A low, almost inaudible keening sound crooned out of him.

Raj Thakur, Ghazi Baraguti, and Prince Ghanim Abdul Rahman al-Saud lay in grotesque poses around the conference table; they had been the closest when Ruby stormed in and opened fire. It did not matter to her. Every delegate was fair game. And she had gone for the headshot with all three.

Thakur's body had slipped to the floor. The top half of his pristine white kurta now bright red with blood. Baraguti was half in his chair and half across the table, rising when he stopped a bullet. Thick treacly blood was seeping out from his head and onto the teak tabletop. With his face blown away, there was nothing regal about the Saudi prince now. Bits of blood, brains, and bone were sprayed across the other delegates—all frozen in horror. Gun smoke furled in the stark room.

For one tiny but endless second, everything came to a standstill.

“Ruby, don't do it. Please.” Ravinder's voice broke the frozen tableau. He was having trouble speaking; he could have sworn it was Rehana standing in front of him. “Don't! It's over. No one else needs to die.”

“No, Father, it's not.” Ruby's voice was pitched high, as though drawn from a tightly strung wire. Her face a grim mask. “It will never be over till our people are allowed to live in peace and with dignity. The killing has to stop.”

“That is why they are here. To stop the killing.” Despite her fiery posture, he could sense an uncertainty inside her. Somehow he had to keep her talking.
As long as she is talking, her guns will stay silent.
His mind lanced out, seeking the right words.

“No,” she intoned, “they are not here for justice. They will sell us out, the way they have always done. This summit cannot go on.” Still that same high-pitched Rehana-like tone, flush with emotion. “Our people cannot be sold out any longer.”

“But no need now for more killing, Ruby.” Ravinder's voice had taken on a softer, neutral but firm negotiator's tone. As he spoke, he inched slowly to his right, trying to ensure Chance was no longer in his line of fire.

“Stop that, Father.” Ruby gestured with her weapon. A sharp flick. “Don't move.”

“Fine, I won't.” Ravinder slowly raised his left hand, palm forward, in a placating gesture. His right was at his side, still holding his revolver. “Don't you see how pointless all this is? The dust will never settle … neither for the Palestinians nor the Jews … not until they sit down and talk.” Ravinder pleaded, “Drop your weapons. I promise I will do everything possible to defend you in court.”

“No, Father, I will not be taken alive.” He heard the sorrow in her voice, but her tone was steady, though he also sensed flecks of indecision.

Ravinder now
knew
he would be able to talk her down.

“Ruby—”

Without warning, the door flew open and Mohite burst in with a gun in his hand. His eyes widened as he took in the scene. His gun hand began to rise.

Ruby's eyes narrowed into sharp slits.

“No!” Ravinder yelled.

But too late.

BOOM! POP! BOOM! BOOM! POP!

Ravinder's cries were drowned out by gunfire.

Both Ruby's weapons had blazed into action, the soft pop of the silenced one submerged by the booming roar of the other.

The gun in her right hand had remained planted right against the senator's head. It disintegrated, spraying the table with chunks of bone and blood. Some of it sprayed onto the faces of Yossi Gerstmann and Ghafar al-Issa, the Jordanian, across the table. Both recoiled. Someone else screamed. But the continuing roar of gunfire drowned it out.

The gun in Ruby's left hand missed its mark. Instead of shooting out Chance's throat, it caught him high on the collarbone, just above the upper lip of his body armor, and spun him to the left. Ruby's gun had meanwhile moved on to Mohite. The bullet slammed into his face and made the back of his head into a bloody fresco all over the door he had just raced through.

*   *   *

Simultaneously, Chance jerked up his gun hand and fired. He got one shot off before he too was hit. But as his body took the hit and spun to the left, he fired again. Both bullets took Ruby in the middle of her body. And once again, the body armor shielded her. But the double blows delivered at this close range threw her backward. And Chance kept firing till his clip ran out.

*   *   *

As Chance spun to his left, Ravinder's field of fire cleared. His hand came up like a flash, and the gun in it thudded to life. Once. Twice. Thrice.

In the confines of the conference room, the boom of gunshots was endless thunder.

The terrorist was down. And still.

*   *   *

Ravinder watched Ruby being thrown back as bullets pounded into her. She hit the wall behind. Then slowly slid to the ground. For a moment she lay still, and then slowly curled up in a fetal ball.

Now the Rehana-like harpy who had terrified them vanished. Ravinder saw only the little girl who had once loved pink frocks and lollipops.

The pistol in Ravinder's hand felt like a block of ice, but heavier … much heavier. He did not know when his hand let go, and it hit the carpeted floor with a thud.

Then someone moaned, and reality struck like a sledgehammer.

Ravinder the cop then stepped forward and kicked the guns away from Ruby. And Ravinder the father knelt beside her.

The door blew open, and a horde of security people rushed inside.

*   *   *

Kneeling beside Ruby, Ravinder was oblivious of the hullabaloo around him. He had zoned out. The cop had done his duty. He had been made to walk the hardest path that his karma could have called for, and he had not flinched.

But the cop was no longer there. Only the father.

Ravinder wished he were dead. He wished he had not fired. He wished
he
had been the target for Ruby's guns. Not the delegates, not Chance, not Mohite—just him. He would have paid the price eagerly.

Ravinder cradled Ruby in his arms. As he did, her eyes flickered open. She was alive, but barely. Ravinder sensed time was abysmally short, and he wanted to be with his little girl. For one last time.

Ruby opened her mouth. She seemed to be trying to say something, but only frothy bubbles of blood emerged.

With her eyes, Ruby beckoned him closer. He went. Now his ear was against her mouth. The low whisper, when it emerged finally, was drawn out, barely audible.

“Jasmine told me … that whenever … she was sick … or hurt … you would always … hold her … and put her to sleep.”

He nodded. Even if he had tried to reply, he knew he couldn't. Everything in him had choked up.

“I am … hurting … Daddy.” The words emerged in broken gasps. “Will you … put … me to sleep … Daddy … please?”

Ravinder managed to speak, a bare whisper. “Yes, princess.” He knew his Ruby needed him to … for this one last time. “Of course I will.”

Ravinder could feel her slipping away. Never had he felt so helpless. He held her close. Really close. And he could feel her breath mingle with his; it felt cold, like her blood, which soaked his shirt. Her lips closed in on his cheek. For a moment they were one again. Father and daughter.

The pressure on his cheek tightened. Then lightened. And Ruby lay still in his arms. Cold. Lifeless. Heavy. Empty. As empty and cold as the void inside him.

But he could not let go of her.

By time they managed to get Ravinder to release her, the light had faded from Ruby's eyes.

His precious princess was gone. Again. And this time she would never be back.

 

THE DAYS AFTER

With five delegates dead, there was no hope that the peace summit would proceed. The surviving, shell-shocked men departed within hours.

People—those in the know and those who would make decisions and could influence change—knew that the dust would never settle … at least not anytime in the near future.

Till sense and compassion took hold.
If
it ever did.

*   *   *

Safely ensconced in Muridke, Pasha was thrilled to hear of the carnage. And the fact that the British had trained Ruby made his victory all the more sweet. How gratifying, after all, to kill an enemy with his own sword. And it was also poetic justice, since Pasha believed that it was the British who had destroyed the Ottoman Caliphate and were primarily responsible for the plight of the Palestinians. After all, it was on their watch that Israel had crushed the Palestinians.

Pasha was jubilant when he shared the news with Saeed Ahmed, the LeT supremo.

“We must extract maximum mileage from this,” Ahmed asserted.

“True,” Pasha agreed. “Operations with such massive propaganda value rarely happen.”

“Also use this opportunity to strengthen our ties with Hamas. There is much we can do for the jihad if we work together.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Why not go down to Damascus and see what they have in mind?”

Pasha agreed it was worth pursuing.

*   *   *

Miles away, in Tel Aviv, a Mossad duty operator put down her headset and reached for the phone.

Two days later, when Pasha left Muridke, a select group of men and women from various cities in Europe moved. Several had traveled to Dubai a few weeks ago.

The Kidon team was in place when Pasha's flight landed at Damascus. The deadly ring closed around him as he exited the airport and headed for the safe house his hosts had arranged.

“This one is for you, Ean Gellner,” the lean, hard-faced Kidon, who had once painted
BORN TO KILL
on his army helmet, muttered as he cleaned the blade of his knife on Pasha's headless body.

*   *   *

As Pasha's body slumped to the floor, a few thousand miles away, in the holy North Indian city of Haridwar, a gleaming, black BMW 750Li came to a halt.

Retired Inspector General of Police Ravinder Singh Gill emerged, draped in white. He had lost weight, acquired a decade of wrinkles, and had a gaunt look. It was as though everything he had ever had, had been lost.

Jasmine, also in a pristine white salwar kameez, alighted and followed as they made their way to the edge of the water. She was sticking close, keeping a sharp eye on him; she knew he needed her.

Simran did not leave the car. She could not bring herself to. She could not forgive Ruby. But she had traveled this distance with Ravinder, because him she
did
care for.

There were thousands of people clustered on both sides of the holy river. An endless sound rumbled on both banks. However none of this impacted on Ravinder and Jasmine. They felt alone.

They strode into the water, stopping when it was ankle high. It was icy cold. But neither seemed to notice; their cold within was icier.

Ravinder's hands shook as he tried to untie the string holding the red cloth to the mouth of the small earthen urn, which he carried. Jasmine came to his aid. In the past week, he had retreated into a cold, silent zone, and his silence scared her. She could feel his pain as their hands met at the urn.

The red cloth finally came free.

Together the two of them tipped over the urn. A swirl of gray ashes tumbled out. Most fell into the water. Some were blown away by the wind.

Soon no traces remained. Neither in the air, nor in the water.

Yet neither looked away from where the ashes had first hit the water. They just kept looking, as if trying to clutch on to them. Both believed that in this release lay salvation for the soul that the ashes had once represented.

The chill from the water rushing around their ankles began to seep into their bodies, merging with the chill in their hearts.

After a long time, both bade a silent farewell to the lovely young woman who had entered their lives … so recently … so briefly … so sadly.

As one, Ravinder and his second-born turned and slowly made their way back to the waiting vehicle.

Just before he got into the car, Ravinder turned and looked back at the gray waters of the swiftly flowing Ganges.

But all he saw was a pretty three-year-old girl in a pretty pink frock.

She seemed to be waving at him.

That brought a small smile to his lips.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MUKUL DEVA served as an infantry officer in the Indian Army for sixteen years, and for over a decade, was involved in active combat and counterterrorism operations in India and abroad. He is a recognized expert on terrorism, especially the menace of Islamic fundamentalism. After retiring from the army, Deva established a security company that helps protect private organizations and individuals in sixty Indian cities.

 

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

 

WEAPON OF VENGEANCE

 

Copyright © 2011 by Mukul Deva

 

All rights reserved.

 

Cover design by Daniel Cullen

 

A Forge Book