Weapon of Vengeance (7 page)

Score one for the home team,
Ruby thought triumphantly as she did a quick visual check and saw that her team was intact, so lucky to have come out unscathed; losing someone always hurt. Nor did it look good on the Operational Commander's scorecard. That was something that Ruby, keenly aware of her double life, was always concerned about. Like Caesar's wife, she always wanted to be above reproach.

Seconds later, the Toyota was racing away with its twin prize safely seat-belted inside. The ambassador's wife had stopped screaming and gone into the never-never land of shock. Ruby did not care a rat's ass about that. She only had to get them back alive. Cuckoo or sane, didn't count.

The Toyota raced past where the children had been playing. Ruby spotted one of them staring openmouthed from around the corner of a hut; he would have stories to tell for a long time.

Or maybe not
. This was Congo; he may have seen worse.

They had gone half a mile when the other five vehicles caught up. The convoy pelted down the narrow, potholed road.

“We have them.” Ruby heard the driver bark into the radio as she replaced the half-empty magazine of her weapon and began to reload. Beside her Mark was doing the same.

“Jolly good show. Right behind you,” Mission Control intoned, his Brit stoicism intact. “Extractors inbound.”

Minutes later, the vehicles pulled off the road and ground to a dust-churning halt in a flat, open field. The vehicles drew up in a wide circle; like wagons readying to meet an Apache attack. Kevlar-clad agents spilled out and took positions behind their vehicles, all facing outward. Not that they expected trouble, but security drills were what kept them alive.

The dust had yet to settle when three choppers swept in. Two of them headed straight into the secured clearing while the third, its guns ready, started circling overhead in a wide loop to ensure nothing on the ground interfered with the extraction. And, though the agents could not see them, high up in the sky, a sortie of RAF fighters ran a protective Combat Air Patrol, just in case air cover or heavier fire support was required.

The ambassador and his wife were hustled into the first chopper with Ruby's team. She saw Chance and his sniper team jump into the next one as hers lifted off.

Clawing upward, the birds raced away.

Mission Complete!

There were smiles all around.

Ruby leaned back and let the stress drain away. Momentarily, the faces of the downed terrorists she had shot flipped into her mind. She shrugged.

The fuckers should have realized what they'd signed up for.
She shrugged again.
They are wrong. I am right. Well … if not right, at least on the good team. Isn't that reason enough for me to pull the trigger? Isn't it!
The thought troubled her only briefly.
Of course it is. That is all there is to it … nothing to fret about.

Closing her eyes, she shut out the clamoring roar of the rotors.

*   *   *

As the Nissan van halted again, Ruby startled back to the reality of Sri Lanka.

The man whom Ruby and Mark had traveled halfway across the world to meet was waiting when they pulled to a stop outside a seedy hotel in Vavuniya. He was one of the contacts passed on to her by Pasha; she had called him before leaving London.

Barely five feet, the dark-skinned Chanderan was roly-poly, and like most men Ruby had seen on the streets, he wore a blue-and-white-checked cotton lungi and a white cotton half-sleeves shirt, with its buttons undone almost to the midriff. He led them proudly to the reception desk, a tiny wooden table adorned by a large, thumb-worn guest register and a pink flower vase with plastic flowers sticking out from it. Like the table, both the flowers and the vase had seen better days.

“It is all taken care of.” He announced grandly. Though afflicted by the typical islander accent, his English was okay. “I will wait while you freshen up.”

“No worries.” Ruby was in no mood to tarry. “Come on up to the room with us.” She threw a glance at Mark, making it clear that he was to stick with her.

The first-floor room Chanderan led them to was about the size of two prison cells. It had a queen-size bed in the center, a minuscule wooden table near the window, which overlooked the noisy street outside, and had a chair pulled up against it. The bed was covered with a flowery, cotton bedspread. A stale smell hung in the air, making it obvious that the hirers of these rooms usually took them by the hour, and it had been a while since the room had seen any housekeeping services. With the three of them in it, the room felt claustrophobic. Mark threw an amused look around. No air conditioner. Just an ancient-looking fan slowly churning overhead. Ruby thanked her stars that they were staying just the one night. She waited till Mark closed the door. “Our mutual friend said you could be relied on to get us what we need.”

“He is most kind. I will try my best.” She saw nothing about this Chanderan that convinced her he had been the primary weapons supplier to the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam, the terrorist group that had held the island captive for two decades. Of course, with the group now destroyed, Chanderan's business had nosedived. Ruby had been given these inputs by Uncle Yusuf when he called her from Dubai. The memory of what had since happened to him overwhelmed her; the ghastly manner in which he had been killed filling her with fury. She pushed it away.

This is not the time. I must focus. That will be revenge enough. His death will not go to waste.

She saw Mark watching her as she focused again on Chanderan. Yes, he would be delighted to supply them with whatever they needed.

“This is what I need.” Ruby handed over a short list to him. He scanned it, all at once mutating from bumbling hotel manager to seasoned arms supplier. Ruby could see why he had survived.

“The rocket launcher and the rockets to go with it are not a problem.” Chanderan looked up. “The Glocks will take some time.”

“How much time?”

“Two weeks at least. Maybe even more. I will need to check. New stuff stopped coming in a while ago … ever since…” He shrugged.

Damn!
“I don't have that much time.”

“Maybe I can give you something else in that category?”

“No.” Ruby shook her head; the Glock 17 was crucial. With 17 percent of it high-tech plastic polymers, it was almost undetectable. If unassembled, it required an expert manning the detectors to ascertain its presence. And its seventeen-shot magazine capacity offered a huge advantage. She'd need that for the thirteen targets to be taken down. Not to mention the security men between her and the targets.

Chanderan was about to say something when Mark spoke. “Boss, can I have a word with you?”

Chanderan took the hint. “Why don't I organize some refreshments for you … while you two discuss things.” He left.

“How badly do we need them Glocks?” Mark asked softly as soon as they were alone.

“We need them for sure.”

“I know a guy, way bigger and more organized than him”—Mark nodded toward the door through which Chanderan had exited “—who can get them for us in India.”

“You sure?”

“As sure as I can be. I have dealt with him.” Mark shrugged. “In any case, what have we got to lose? This guy doesn't have them for sure. So even if the chap in India doesn't, we go for the next best option.”

Ruby nodded. “Fair enough.”

“We can even get all the rest of the stuff in India … why cart it all the way from here?”

“No, we need him to get us out,” Ruby explained. “This guy is also our fallback escape route so this is money well spent, just in case things go badly in India.”

“Makes sense.”

When Chanderan returned, it took another twenty minutes to seal the deal. Ruby did not bother to negotiate on the price, even though she knew he was charging way too much for stuff that he'd never be able to sell for years.

“But, for that price,” Ruby said flatly, making it clear that her demand was nonnegotiable, “you will need to deliver our materials to India and also organize a boat for us.” Her guess had been right: Chanderan needed the business; he agreed without a murmur.

With everything going according to plan, Ruby should have slept well that night. But she didn't. With sleep came the recurring dream.

Once again that faceless, formless man appeared, urging her on, pleading to her. She was feeling nauseated when she jolted awake the sixth or seventh time. Gulping down a glass of tepid water, she reached inside and drew on her inner resources, the way they'd taught her during training. However, it was a while before her calm returned, bringing with it a renewed sense of purpose.

When she finally fell asleep, it was a deep, dreamless sleep.

*   *   *

By time Ravinder finished checking the games' village security and returned home, it was almost eleven. The road leading up to his house was in near darkness; the power supply had failed again.

Ravinder noted the two additional security guards, one patrolling along the boundary wall and the other backing up the gate guard. They seemed alert; Mohite had gotten this one right.

First thing tomorrow I must caution Simran and Jasmine to be extra careful till those Jaish terrorists have been captured,
Ravinder reminded himself as he let himself into the almost dark house. He'd already called Simran earlier that evening and knew she wouldn't be waiting up for him.

 

DAY TWO

Ruby awoke feeling rested. The bright Sri Lankan sun, streaming in through the thin curtains, warmed her face. Somewhere in the night her mind had scaled a plateau. She felt alive again. Her life had purpose. She felt a spring in her step when she exited the seedy hotel room.

Mark took note of her buoyancy. He did not say a word, but he was relieved. Her brooding silences were new to him; they had begun to worry him.

After a hurried breakfast, they moved on. Chanderan sat toadlike in the front passenger seat. Now upbeat and perked up, Ruby could not keep still. She kept up a barrage of questions, querying everything they drove past.

But that did little to dispel the quiet tension that rode with them.

*   *   *

Simran was in the living room when Ravinder came down. The Gill family lived in a two-level government bungalow on Satya Marg, allocated to him by virtue of his designation as ATTF chief. Though they could have stayed in their family-owned farmhouse at Chhatarpur, a huge eight-bedroom place with swimming pool, tennis court, and gym, Ravinder preferred it here; it was a much easier commute and it relieved him from having to go around explaining to everyone how he, a cop, could afford such an extravagant home.

On one wall of the rectangular living room there was a bright, cheerful painting of a young boy running with a kite; the painter had caught the boy's excitement. Contrasting with it was a somber, much darker mountainscape on the opposite wall, with small houses caught in the dying rays of the sun. Both paintings were large and added vibrancy to the room. On a third wall was an array of photographs: ancestors in their regal finery; the large family home in Patiala; men in uniform, with the family crest clearly visible. Ravinder referred to this as the family's vanity wall; a reminder of their royal legacy. A massive Persian carpet, two big, well-polished brass lamps, one on either side of the sofa, and an abundance of antique wooden furniture added to the room's rich feel. Ravinder always felt a soothing sensation when he entered this room; which was not often. In fact, barring the monthly dinner, which Simran hosted for close friends and family, he always found himself with no time to just unwind and smell the roses.

Dressed in a fawn-colored sari with an intricately embroidered border, with her waist-length hair neatly tied in a bun, Simran was a handsome woman and carried her years well despite a few extra kilograms. There was an elaborate tea service placed on the round, dark coffee table in front of her. It was also antique and went well with the camel-colored sofa set. The tea was one of the rituals she had carried over from her father's house; associating these rituals as something royalty indulged in, despite the fact that in independent India, kingdoms and fiefdoms were things of the past. Scattered across the table were also some photographs and papers. When Ravinder strode in, she was busy with one of them, her lips puckered in concentration.

“You are just in time.” Simran looked up. “Come and give me your opinion on these.”

“What are they, my dear?”

“You never listen to me.” Simran made an exasperated clucking sound. “All these days I have been telling you that we need to find a nice groom for our Jasmine.”

Ravinder's sigh was inaudible; he knew he was again going to be drawn into the running battle going on between his wife and daughter.

Simran was adamant Jasmine was now at the age where Sikh girls from her (royal) background got engaged, if not married immediately.

But Jasmine, at twenty-two, cut from the same stubborn cloth as her mother, was equally adamant. She was not going to marry till she had finished law school, completed her master's, and worked for a couple of years.

The idea that her daughter would go out into the world and work was anathema to Simran.
Girls from our family don't do that
. She had been harping on it daily for weeks.

Ravinder felt caught in the cruel cross fire between mother and daughter. Despite his efforts to stand up for Jasmine, he was not making headway; Simran had the unnerving ability to hear only what she wanted to hear and had been poring through the files of all Sikh royal families that she could lay her hands on. The papers and photographs before her, Ravinder guessed, were the results of her painstaking research.

“Simran,” he said, sitting down beside her. “Why bother? You should know your daughter by now. Jasmine is not going to agree to any marriage proposal. Let her finish her studies and—”