Brutal (3 page)

But that was not to be.

Something terrible happened the very next moment. Nitin’s head burst like a water balloon, his body collapsing on the floor and disappearing from Prakash’s view.
Holy shit!
Just half a second later, a loud boom, like the sound of a firecracker, reached the reporter’s ears.

His heart started thumping furiously. In a second, he realized what had just happened. Nitin had been shot by someone. A sniper, was it a sniper?
Oh my God!

He ducked instinctively. It was Banka, all over again. Around him, people were crouching and kneeling all over the ground, gripping their heads in their hands.

Dilip, also on all fours, whispered with a shaky voice, “It… it came from that building.” He was pointing at an eleven-storied apartment about a kilometre away. There was no other building in the vicinity.

After a few of minutes of standing dazed, the policemen started rushing towards the apartment building. Journalists followed suit, to cover what was going to be one hell of a breaking story.

Prakash first hesitated. But his reporter’s instincts got the better of him. He too ran towards the apartment. He reached it in ten minutes and found all the reporters standing outside the gate. None of them had been allowed entry into the building premises. A police sub-inspector and two constables had taken guard at the gate.

He stood near the gate and looked at the large signage at the top of the building.
Destiny Towers. Couldn’t have been named better.

A
s planned
, it took only thirty seconds for him to dis-assemble the rifle, run towards the lift shaft and climb on top of the lift. It was a dark cramped space surrounded by metal wires and pulleys. There was an unsettling smell of grease and petroleum in the damp air. But, he could live with it for a few hours. He took off his microphone and earpiece and kept it in his pockets. He had already placed his gun beside himself. He pulled out his mobile phone and typed a message – One loose end tied. One more to go.

P
rakash’s mobile
started ringing as soon as he entered his hotel room. It was Ritesh Pandey, his boss.

“You have come out with all guns blazing, Prakash,” Ritesh said with excitement. “This is a sensational video you guys have made. DK is ecstatic. He has asked for a broadcast at 3.30 today.”

DK was the nickname for Dinesh Kamat, the Chief Editor at Globe News. He was a hard-ass bastard who never failed to split hairs over anything Prakash ever churned out.

“3.30! That’s just an hour away. Didn’t marketing ask for some more lead time?” Prakash said.

“You know DK, right? When he says 3.30, it means 3.30. Our competitors will be caught napping.”

“Why? Don’t they have footage similar to ours?”

“No way!” his boss said with delight. “Just turn on your TV and see. None of the news channels have captured what you guys have. Only the Times is showing a video of Nitin Tomar being shot. But their footage is shaky, grainy and taken from an odd angle. I think they got it from an onlooker who got lucky and recorded it on his phone camera. In comparison, your footage is like the Mona Lisa.”

“Thanks. But to be honest, I am a bit shaken,” Prakash said. “I mean, just look at the audacity of this assassin. He… if we think it’s a ‘he’… killed Nitin Tomar in front of at least a hundred people, which consisted of the police, the RAF, the media and the Judiciary.”

“Hmmm. I heard he took the shot from an apartment building. How did he manage to flee?”

“Through the sewer lines, I guess,” he replied. “The police found an open manhole in the basement parking area of the building. It leads to many places in the vicinity, including a park.”

“That’s a well-planned killing, then.”

“Hmmm. Must have got balls of steel to pull off an attack like that.”

Ritesh deliberated for a moment and then said, “So, what do you want to do now? Pursue this story further?”

“Yeah. I want to work on this story.”

“OK, then. Carry on. You have always found your own story to work on.”

A few seconds of uncomfortable silence followed.

“Prakash?”

“Yes?”

“I can understand that today must have been tough for you. You come after a break and run into this shooting thing. Hope you are coping well… Just ignore whatever happened in the past.”

“I’m trying.”

“Let me know if you need any help at any point of time. If you even need further time off, I can arrange paid leaves for you.”

“That won’t be necessary. Thanks,” Prakash said and hung up. Now that he was back into his world, there was no point in sulking.

Coming from the hot sun and the mayhem, he felt tired. His eyelids felt a bit heavy, but he warded off the sleepiness by shaking his head. He took out a Red Bull from the mini-bar, finished it off in a few gulps and began to rewind the whole incident in his mind.

He didn’t feel sad for Nitin. The ruthless murderer had got his share of justice. What worried him was the way he was killed. It was scary how an assassin could gun down a moving target in broad daylight with such ease, that too from a distance of more than a kilometre. The shot was taken within seconds of Nitin’s appearance on the corridor. There was the usual hot summer breeze blowing outside, making things difficult. Even from an amateur’s judgment, it was an exceptional kill. The sniper was an ace predator, a virtuoso, who did his job in a fraction of a second, then wrapped up his things and vanished. It was way too fast.
Who was this guy? Who had sent him?

What puzzled him more was why would they kill a guy who was anyway on his way to the gallows? Nitin would have got a death sentence nine out of ten times. Life imprisonment was only a remote possibility. So, why take a chance and kill him amid high security?
To make a political statement?

Dilip had told him about a few death threats issued to Nitin Tomar. The man’s act had earned him the wrath of a couple of extremist organizations. One of them was Hind Shakti Sangh, a group of hardliner Hindus, who were in the news quite often for small time activities such as ransacking offices of public institutions, stopping trains and burning buses. They had been known to issue threats, but were never involved in any casualties.

The second one was Mujahid-e-Bashariyat, an outfit Prakash had never heard of. “Warriors for Humanity” – its name meant. They had sent a threat video to a national daily, in which a masked man carrying an AK-47 was reading out a death sentence for Nitin. They declared Nitin a Hindu terrorist who deserved death as punishment. Not through this Hindu nation’s courts, but from God’s court.

None of these threats looked serious to Prakash. He knew of many outfits who issued frivolous threats as a part of their propaganda. But this case was different. Someone had actually gone out of their way to deliver justice to Nitin.
Was it for justice or was there some hidden agenda?

He sat on his bed and turned on the TV.

‘… Iran’s threat to Israel comes at a time when the relations between the two countries are at a historical low. Despite denials by the Israeli Prime Minister, it is widely believed that the Stuxnet computer virus was engineered by Israel and the US to sabotage Iran’s nuclear programs. Iran has also blamed Israel for the assassinations of its nuclear scientists over the years. The official word…’

Typical Middle-eastern mudslinging.
He flipped through the channels. Something struck him and he went back to a previous news channel.

‘… first major attack by this extremist Islamic outfit. No information is available on the origin and the leadership of Mujahid-e-Bashariyat…’

What the hell?
His eyes moved onto the red ticker moving at the bottom of the TV screen. One of the news pieces read – ‘Breaking News: Mujahid-e-Bashariyat claims responsibility for Nitin’s murder.’

So, Mujahid-e-Bashariyat has taken responsibility for Nitin’s murder. That’s pretty fast. Who are these people?

He felt a gradual surge of excitement in his body. The Nitin Tomar case was no longer a run-of-the-mill murder trial story. It had turned an interesting corner and it needed to be investigated. He knew whom to reach out to.

Mrinal Dutta.

T
he man looked not
one bit different from the other people traveling in the bus. His sleepy eyes and unshaven face suggested of a man who had been traveling for a couple of days. He would often doze off when the bus glided over plain roads. He no longer thought himself as the same professional he was a decade back.
I am ageing. So it actually happens!

His name was Raman. At least that’s what his bosses called him. His actual name was lost somewhere in the numerous aliases he had used in a life spent doing black ops. His Allahabad job was one of his last ones, he hoped. He was touching fifty and it was time to use his savings to buy a house in some unknown corner of the world and vanish. He wanted to marry, and maybe have children.

But, a lifetime of murders had sullied his dreams. In his sleep, he would often see himself running scared, trying to evade a masked pursuer carrying an HK417, a beast of a rifle stolen from his secret cabinet. No matter how fast he ran, the assailant always managed to corner him. Like a soldier rendered immobile in the battlefield and bereft of any hope, he would lie back on the ground looking into eyes of the enemy. Scary, emotionless eyes with no trace of any hesitation or remorse, with a soul long dead.
Who are you? I have seen your eyes. I… I know you.
As a burst of light emanates from the muzzle of the gun, he would wake up, finding himself drenched in sweat.

No, this had to change. He wanted to dream of women. Of lush green meadows and horses. Of beaches.

He sighed.

This might be possible to achieve, but only if he completed his final assignment successfully. He wished it would be as easy as his Allahabad hit, which had been a routine job for him. His source had already placed his weapons kit on the roof of the apartment building. Hidden inside a torn cardboard carton. All he had to do was assemble the rifle, fire and take it apart.

There was no rush of adrenaline. No feeling of pride in his achievement. The range was not the most challenging for him. His best to date had been a 1.7 kilometre hit in North Waziristan in Pakistan. But still, hitting a target from more than a kilometre away was not a usual occurrence in the sniper fraternity. How many? Maybe a few dozen in the whole country had that capability.

His escape was also a simple affair. As per the plan, the hatch door inside the elevator was kept open by his source. After climbing on top of the elevator car, he had remained hidden there for about half a day. The decoy of moving the manhole cover while entering the building, had worked perfectly as planned.
Policemen are so predictable.
When the panic had subsided, he came out of the building wearing a “Press” tag and ID supplied by his accomplice. He had left the Barrett M107 long range rifle and ammo above the lift, to be picked up by his accomplice.

He looked out the window and caught an eyeful of lush greenery in the valleys below.
Ambala is only a few hours away.

He felt surprised at how things from the past begin to surface in the mind once we have so much time at hand and nothing to do.

Memories from his training days in the army came into his mind, making his lips curl into a smile. He had begun his career as a naïve wannabe soldier from Laporiya, a small Rajasthani village. A drill sergeant had once meted out severe punishments to him for refusing to charge like a zombie on his command. You will be the first one to get killed in a war, the man had said. But he couldn’t help it. He wanted to think and plan carefully before going for the kill. That was not a desirable trait for a foot soldier.

Many years later, he had felt sad to hear that the sergeant had been killed in the Kargil war.
But I did outlive you, sergeant.

Over time, his amazing marksmanship skills earned him a reputation in his regiment. He was happy there. He got time to strategize and plan before hitting a target hundreds of meters away. Just when he was dreaming of a long career in the army, a minor felony earned him a court martial.
Bloody sons-of-bitches.
He had sold off a couple of 9 mm pistols bought from the Central Ordnance Depot at Jabalpur to some shady civilians. A lot of army guys did it – buying non-service pattern weapons at dirt cheap rates from the ordnance factories and then selling them in the black market at higher rates. The punishment, if caught red-handed, was reasonable compared to the profits people like him made. Unfortunately, in his case, the bosses decided to create an example of him. He got a rigorous jail term and lost all claims to his pension corpus. He had suspected it all along, but the feeling came to surface only on the day of his sentencing. That the army was not the place for him. There was no respect for real talent.
Bunch of losers.

He looked out again. The bus had entered Ambala city.
So, the next phase begins.

P
rakash wrung
his shirt collar and watched his sweat drip down to the stairs he was climbing.
Hmmph!
The lift of the apartment building was not working due to a power cut in the area. It was only 10 o’clock in the morning and the temperature outside was touching 43 degrees. He looked up. He had only crossed the 2
^nd
floor.
Holy shit! 3 more floors to go.
The tingling pain in his right knee was not helping matters. On top of that, the sniper incident had taken away another night’s sleep. He wondered when his problems would end.
I will implode with pain someday.

He was in the building to personally investigate. And he was free to do so because he had outsourced the research on
Mujahid-e-Bashariyat
yesterday to Mrinal Dutta, a brilliant researcher and investigator hired by Globe News from time to time. This guy used to be an overachieving equity analyst at a stock-trading firm. His analyses were sought after by numerous news channels and business newspapers. His downfall was quite unexpected and unexplained. He never told anybody what happened, but one fine day he said goodbye to the industry forever. He went dark for a few years, until he was found by Ritesh Pandey.

Ritesh knew what a talent Mrinal exactly was. His research and investigation skills were unparalleled. He just needed to apply them in a new area – journalism. Mrinal soon resurfaced in the world as a freelance researcher. And he was awesome in his new avatar.

It didn’t take Prakash long to learn that once, Mrinal was given any task , he could relax and wait for the genius to come back and surprise him with some shocking disclosures.

Prakash was panting with thirst and exhaustion when he reached the fifth floor. He speculated whether taking this mortal risk of climbing the stairs would lead to any positive results. He had come to visit Vidya Tomar, Nitin’s ex-wife. It was an unplanned visit. He located Flat No. 508 and studied the nameplate.
Ms. Vidya Narayan. No ‘Tomar’ in her surname. Interesting.

He pressed the calling bell and looked around. Her building had a clear view of the traffic on Vivekananda Marg.

The door was opened by a stern looking lady in a nightie. She was shorter than him and had a face that might have been beautiful once. Today, it looked like a deserted garden, as if all life had gone out of it. He placed her in her early thirties.

“Are you from the media?” she asked in a strict tone.

Prakash was ready with a well-rehearsed answer. “No madam. I am a psychologist.”

She frowned; looking undecided whether to shut the door on his face or not.

This was the moment he was looking to pounce on. “After the unfortunate event related to your husband… sorry ex-husband, the government is exploring options to set-up a counselling wing for teachers,” he said, trying to sound compassionate. “You know, quite a substantial amount of children’s lives are impacted by their teachers. So, there is a need for such an institution to ensure that teachers impart only quality education to the children. They should not use the classrooms to vent out their personal anger”.

Will she be able to catch my bluff, he wondered. Reporters would have hounded her since the day her husband committed those murders. He ran the risk of being thrown off the 5
^th
floor if he said he was from the media. That’s why he had decided to use this ‘innovative’ hook of a psychologist.

She remained silent. Pondering over this new intervention in her life.

Please. Please. Please. Please.
These were the only words running in Prakash’s mind.

“What do you want?” she replied after the hiatus, opening her door a bit wider to let him in.

She did not ask for any identity card.
Thank God.

“Just a few questions,” Prakash said as he got in. “I can understand what you must be going through. I am sorry for that.”

He sat on the sofa. The living room looked ornate for a teacher’s wife.
She must have a good job.

He looked at her, expecting her to ask if he needed some water. But her blank face showed no such intention.
Ask your questions and fuck off! That’s what she wants.

“Was your ex-husband suffering from any mental or psychological disorder?” Prakash began.

“He was pretty depressed with his life. His bigger ambitions had come to naught, in his opinion. The fact that I had a better paying job had hurt his male ego. He wanted to be the sole bread winner in our house.”

“Was that the reason for your divorce?” Prakash asked, and then added a few words of caution, “I am sorry if I am being personal.”

“No. That’s OK. I am used to these questions now,” she replied. “Actually, we had a lot of fights over the same issues for the last one and half years. Six months ago, I decided enough was enough.”

“Did he ever harm you or your daughter physically in any manner?”

“No. Rinku was his life. He would never hit her.”

“What about you? Did he ever raise a hand on you?”

“No,” she replied with a faint irritation in her voice.

Tread carefully boy!

“From whatever happened in your house in these one and a half years, did you ever get any hint that Nitin was about to be so violent?”

“Never.” She had tears in her eyes. “In fact, he had started to cope up with his life after our divorce. He had even taken Rinku for a ride on his scooty once. Both of them looked so happy.”

“This was how many days before the Geetanjali school massacre?”

“A week ago.”

Prakash was surprised. If Nitin was happy and positive just one week before the murders, how did he turn into a monster on that fateful day?

“You did not find anything unnatural about his behaviour when he took your daughter out, did you?”

“No. He looked like the old Nitin I had married.” Tears started flowing from her eyes.

“Was he seeing a doctor? Any psychiatrist?”

“No. I had advised him once and that had led to a big argument between us.”

“So, Vidya
ji
, how did Nitin become such a cold-blooded murderer?”

“I have no idea.” She started sobbing. “I never knew I had married such a monster.”

“I am so sorry,” Prakash said, consoling her. This meeting was going nowhere. He had expected to find some negative traits like violent anger and rage in Nitin’s history. To his surprise, there was no such thing. It was as if Nitin had suddenly become a wild animal on the 3
^rd
of March.
What the hell happened to Nitin on that day?

He tried to think of any other question to ask, but none came to his mind.

“OK, madam. Thanks a lot for your help. Our intention is only to find out patterns in behaviour through which we can identify in advance, teachers who need our help and counselling. Before it goes too far.”

“I can understand.”

“If there is anything else which you think can help us in our research, it would be of great help,” Prakash said, while standing up and walking towards the door.

“I cannot think of anything as of now.”

He shrugged. “Thank you then, Vidya
ji
.”

He took a few steps towards the staircase and then stopped mid stride.
Did I hear an ‘excuse me’?
He turned around. She was calling him. He rushed again to the door like an excited puppy.

“Well, there might be something which may help you. A couple of days before 3
^rd
of March, I had received a call from some clinic. The person on the other side was asking for Nitin. He said that Nitin had given them two numbers and the first one was switched off.”

“So, did you ask who this person was?”

“He gave me the name of some clinic on Chaddha Road. I don’t remember the exact name. Nitin must have given my number by mistake.”

“Can I have the phone number of that person please?”

“Yes. Give me 10 minutes.”

P
rakash tried
the mobile number for the second time. Same result. The mobile was switched off.

Vidya had fished out three possible numbers from her calls list in the post-paid bill for that month. She had saved and organized all the bills in her laptop, just in case the police ask. The whole process of sifting had taken more than half an hour.
All waste now.

Of the three numbers, one belonged to a garment shop and another belonged to a bank’s telemarketing department. The third one was switched off.

He checked his watch. It was 11:55 AM.
Too early to hit a dead end. Mrinal, come to my help again.

He called up Mrinal. He knew he would have to dial a couple of times before anyone picked up the phone.

“Wake up buddy. It’s afternoon already!” Prakash said, in response to the sleepy “hello” from Mrinal.

“I am still looking for the dog which bit me and I became a freelancer,” he mumbled. “A man who sleeps at 4 AM doing your job deserves some sympathy. Doesn’t he?”

“My condolences,” Prakash said with a giggle. “So, you have any good news for me?”

“Yeah…” Mrinal said, yawning. “Good news is that I have sent you everything in a mail. Now can I request you to allow this man some sleep?” He was just about to hang up and doze off again, when his eyes opened in response to the loud voice coming from the mobile.

“WAIT, WAIT, WAIT! I need your help with something else!”

“Now what?”

“I have a phone number which is switched off at the moment. I want all the details of its subscriber.”

“Fuck off man. Why don’t you try your own intel team at Globe?”

“Nobody can give me a faster response than you. You are the best.”

“No buttering please. I have high cholesterol. Tell me the number.”

Prakash told him.
I know you have written it on your bed sheet.

“Besides this, I am giving you another number. This is Nitin Tomar’s number,” Prakash said.

“The fucker who got fucked back?” Mrinal asked.

“Yup. You nailed it,” Prakash replied. “I want you to find out if any communication happened between these two numbers, especially around 3
^rd
March. Get me the timings and location coordinates for those calls also.”

“I am going to charge you overtime.”

“I thought people usually charge overtime for working late nights,” Prakash said with a grin.

“Why do you care?” he said. “It’s your channel that will pay.”

“Someday I am going to do a story on a swindler researchers like you.”

“And I will repay the debt by posting your sexcapades online.”

Prakash laughed. “OK. OK. Let’s be serious now. When am I getting my results?”

“I’ll sleep for an hour. Then I’ll do your job. And then, I’ll sleep some more,” Mrinal replied and hung up.

Prakash knew his friend would do the job in an hour. The guy worked superfast., God knows how. It was a secret how he managed to dig out so much confidential information about almost everything. Either the bugger had influential friends in telecom companies or he was a genius hacker.