Brutal (16 page)

S
ultan was not
a man who would become tensed easily. He had been trained to keep his composure in tough situations. However, he was anything but calm as he walked around the garden in the farmhouse. There were too many things happening at once, but none going well. He wasn’t happy with the way his men had handled the situations.
Give me a Marine Commando. I’ll show these buggers how to be efficient.

He had led numerous daring missions in his past life as a member of MARCOS. But the chain of events he was going to unleash threatened to make his past look like a walk in the park. He knew he would have to use every ounce of experience to pull this off.

He was only 23 years old when he was handpicked from the 340th Army Independent Brigade to be a part of India’s version of the US Navy SEALs. The 1987 Sri Lankan civil war and the worsening insurgency in Jammu and Kashmir in the later years forged his reputation as an exceptional commando and a ruthless killer. From Jatin Solanki, he had become ‘Sultan’, his call sign in strategic missions.

But little did he know that the year 1998 was going to throw his life and possibly a distinguished career in the military into a downward spiral.

In February 1998, a fleet of two speedboats and two fishing trawlers, on their way to Burma, took an unauthorized halt at Andaman and Nicobar. The visitors were led by some key leaders of the Arakan Army, a rebel group fighting the military regime in Burma. They were shipping a huge consignment of weapons planned for use in their domestic war against their authoritarian government. Normally, the Indian authorities never refused any temporary halts to these rebels.

But, what happened on that day still haunts India. Indian forces were ordered to take down the leaders of the Arakan Army in Andaman and Nicobar. The mission was called ‘Operation Leech’. The man leading the mission was Sultan. He picked up a crack team of commandos for the job. Without wasting any time, his team reached the island and killed six top leaders of the rebels. They captured all the weapons.

The Indian military top brass justified their action by terming these rebels as ‘weapon smugglers’ who used to supply arms to the North-East separatists in India. But later investigations by the CBI and the media pointed to the contrary. Among the many conspiracy theories propounded, one claimed that the Indian government had connived with the military junta of Burma to help crush their rebellion in return for their help in containing the insurgency in the North-East. Another one said that it was a case of gross misinterpretation of intelligence.

Hounded by the media and human rights activists, the big daddies of Indian politics became furious. They wanted heads to roll. Sultan was the easiest scapegoat, the lowest hanging fruit. He was thrown out of the Navy.

In the angst-ridden days, which followed his exit, he began wasting his life on booze and women. He also had a nasty fight with a nightclub bouncer in which he almost killed the burly man. He would have gone to jail for certain, had he not been saved by Bastion Corp. The company took care of his case and also offered him the job of a security officer. He quickly became one of the top leaders of the private security company. Quick enough to be spotted by Vinod Kushwaha. Vinod recognised the cold blooded killer hiding within Sultan and initiated him into the world of black ops.

Over the years, he executed a lot of black operations with clinical efficiency. In one of the assignments he strategized, his team helped RAW in supplying arms to the Baluchistan rebels in Pakistan. In another assignment on the behest of China, he oversaw the assassination of a Tibetan insurgency leader hiding in Bihar.

His rise coincided with the change of command in the Kushwaha family. Tejeshwar Kushwaha, the old king, was retiring and handing over the reins of power to his son. Vinod, obsessed with his desire to run the organization his way, began rubbing the old warhorses the wrong way. Some of them left, some vanished. The biggest departure was of Pramod Bhandari, Tejeshwar’s right-hand man, who joined Academi. It came as a blessing for Sultan, as Vinod wasted no time in giving him the command for all black operations. Though this decision hadn’t gone down well with the old man, he knew he did not have to worry about it as long as the prodigal son was happy with him. One way to do that was keeping as much distance as possible between the Kushwahas and the ground operations.

Nowadays, he led all missions from his plush office cum home at Vasant Kunj in New Delhi, never having to venture out ever, thereby limiting his exposure to the law enforcement authorities. He was just an authoritative voice on the phone that nobody dared disobey. Very few below his chain of command knew who he really was.

But today, the situation was different. As he walked across the lawn, a realization began to creep up on his mind. This mission was too critical to be handed over to the foot soldiers.
Its high time Sultan enters the game.
He had worked behind the scenes long enough for his men to make a mess of things. To accomplish Vinod’s Iran gambit and rectify the mistakes in the NB-67 trials, a different mind was needed. A mind that can strategize and execute on the field.
Sultan.

He dialled the number of one of his most trusted operatives.

“How is it going, Raman?”

“I’m in the train. Keeping a watch over them,” Raman said. “A team is ready outside New Delhi railway station. We are going to get them soon.”

“No. Do not engage till I order. Just keep following them and let me know the status every fifteen minutes.”

“I didn’t get you. You want me to stay away from them?”

“Yes. Just observe and report. I don’t want to kill them. Not yet. But be ready to move in with full force when I command.”

“May I know why?”

“Yes you will. But, in time. As of now, do as I say,” Sultan hissed. “And one more thing…”

“What?”

“Carry a long range sniper rifle.”

“Roger that,” Raman said, ending the call.

Sultan thought for a moment and dialled another number. This time it was an international call to a number in Iran through a secure channel. There on the other side was an Iranian underground operator known as
Qasab,
which meant ‘The Butcher’ in Persian. Qasab was in the same business as the Kushwahas. But he operated on a smaller scale and only inside his country. In the past, Qasab had been used many times by Sultan for intelligence gathering purposes. A couple of times, he had even helped make a few targets disappear.

This call was going to set in motion a series of events that could potentially bring two arch-enemies on the brink of a war. Sultan knew this and doubted if the Kushwaha family could emerge from this unscathed. But the decision had been taken. It was his duty to implement it.

Qasab picked up the phone and they exchanged pleasantries. Sultan came to the point quickly.

“We want detailed info on the movements of a few countrymen of yours. A list containing their names will be shared with you through an encrypted mail,” he said.

“You want info on Iranians? Wow, that’s a surprise!” the Butcher said, sounding intrigued. “Till now, you’ve only asked for info on Indians moving around in this part of the world.”

“It’s different this time. And before you find out about it, let me tell you that the list will contain the names of some top nuclear scientists of your country.”

“You aren’t spying for Israel, are you? Because that’ll put both of us in deep shit.”

“No. I’m not playing from your enemy’s side. I just need this info for some other assignment.”

“Look, I’m not bothered about what you’re going do with these Iranians. You want to kill them or kidnap them, that’s your choice. But I don’t want any shit on my shirt.”

“Your name won’t crop up anywhere. I can assure you of that.”

“OK. You’ll get your info. Is that all?”

“No. Once we have the details, we need you to do something.”

“That’s like a real Kushwaha,” the Butcher said with a grin. “You want blood. Don’t you? Why keep it till the end?”

I
mmersed in her thoughts
, Seema kept looking at the distant horizon from the car window. A plethora of questions were flooding through her mind. She posed her first question to Divakar.

“Who’s your handler at the IB?”

Divakar turned his head in surprise, as if he wasn’t expecting any conversation with Seema, much less a pointed question.

“You really think I’ll answer that question?” he replied bluntly. “It’s confidential… and none of your business.”

“It is my business,” she fought back. “I’m blindly following a guy whom I know nothing about. Don’t you think I should get out of this car and walk on my own? ...You say you work for the Investigation Bureau. Why don’t you blurt out some names? You have already been burned. So disclosing a few names won’t make much of a difference.”

“A reporter is the last person on earth whom I would reveal my secrets to, Miss. You want some names? See if you can catch hold of a man named A. K. Rastogi. He used to be the Joint Director of IB’s Punjab Operations Cell during the early nineties. Now, he’s retired, but still works as a consultant on a few strategic assignments for the IB. He is a very reclusive man and can be hard to reach,” Divakar said. “Does this make you feel happier?”

“Not fully. But, will do.” Seema didn’t push further. She had a name now.
A. K. Rastogi. Will have to check him out.

Her eyes fell on an STD-ISD-PCO shop on the road. She told Divakar to stop and borrowed a few ten-rupee notes from him. When she was about to get down from the car, he said, “Don’t get me wrong. But be careful not to reveal our whereabouts.” Seema pondered over his instruction for a few seconds and then nodded.

She ran over to the booth, with only one man’s number in mind.
Prakash
. In this time of need, his name had popped up in her mind first. She punched in his number.

Prakash picked up the phone after just one ring.

“Prakash? This is Seema.”

“Where are you Seema?” Prakash asked in an anxious voice. “Are you safe?”

“Is my disappearance public news now?” Seema asked in a tongue-in-cheek manner.

“No kidding, girl. I’ve been so worried about you. Where are you?”

“As of now, I can only tell you that I am safe and somewhere in Delhi. Can you do me a big favour?”

“Tell me.”

“Can you please take Vidisha to a safe place?”

“Yes. I will. Don’t worry,” Prakash said. “But, first tell me what’s going on? I know you were investigating the Nitin Tomar murder. So, what happened in Bandhavgarh?”

Seema hesitated for a moment and then replied, “You came to know about this from my office?”

“A missing reporter is not an easy thing to hide. Now listen to me carefully. Just like you, I’ve also been working on the same case. And I have come across some earth shattering disclosures. Some very powerful people are involved in this. People who can make us vanish overnight. We need to put an end to this conspiracy before we too disappear. And for that, we have to meet.”

“You mean you have unravelled the Nitin Tomar murder conspiracy?”

“Not fully. But I have come across some really good sources.”

“Name your source!”

“You know I can’t…”

Seema interjected at the top of her voice, “For God’s sake tell me Prakash. Who is your source?”

“Kunal Chaubey.”

“He’s alive?” She said slowly, lost in her thoughts

“What happened?”

“You’re right! We need to meet,” she muttered. “We certainly need to meet. Wait for my call. I’m in a hurry now, but will get back to you soon. Just one final request…””

“What?”

“Tell Vidisha that I love her more than anything else in the world. And I’m safe.”

“I will. But, you take care.”

“Yes…. And you too,” Seema said, her hand twitching as she placed the receiver. Her heart was beating unusually fast. She wondered whether it was because of excitement or fear.

As soon as she entered the car, she found Divakar looking at her with interest.

“What happened?” Seema asked.

“Your getup seems to have alarmed the shopkeeper,” he said, pointing at the booth owner. “The man is still eyeing us with suspicion.”

Seema looked at her dishevelled clothes and replied, “So what do you suggest we do?”

“We run.”

T
he first thing
Prakash had done after receiving the call from Seema was to call up Dilip More. He instructed his friend to pick up Vidisha from Seema’s home and take her to a safe house. They had many contacts in city where the little girl could easily ‘go dark.’

That takes care of one major task.

Prakash now began contemplating his next step. The fact that New Delhi was only two stations away didn’t offer him any consolation. They couldn’t afford to come out in the open.
We need a safe house.
He recalled one of his contacts in the underbelly of New Delhi.
Salim.
The man was a small time document forger living in a small rented flat in the bylanes of Paharganj. He had been the source of many stories for Prakash. In return, on many occasions Prakash had used his connections in the police department to help him escape with minor charges.

He walked over to his seat and said to Mrinal and Kunal, “I think we should get down before the New Delhi station. How about at the Subzi Mandi station?”

“Why?” Mrinal asked.

“What if someone is following us? They would expect us to get down at New Delhi, where they’d be ready with the cavalry.”

“You are scaring me,” Mrinal said. “But you might’ve a point.”

“
D
ump New Delhi
and drive to Subzi Mandi station immediately! The packages are landing there,” Raman whispered into his phone.

He was flummoxed with the change in plan of his targets who were now huddled up at the compartment door to get down. Subzi Mandi was about to come in five minutes. He realized that that the team from New Delhi could never reach this station in less than thirty minutes
. That means I’ll have to follow these bastards on my own. Goddamnit, I don’t even have a weapon.

“Were you able to identify the person in the image?” he asked his henchman. He had stealthily clicked a photo of Prakash while he was talking on the phone and then forwarded it to his team.

“Not yet. We’re still trying. He looks vaguely familiar, though.”

“Find out. I want this chapter closed once and for all.”