Brutal (5 page)

P
rakash was back
in his hotel room and sitting in front of his laptop. He was working in darkness, praying to God for some sleep. The bottle of VAT 69 Scotch whisky on the table glowed in the faint light from the monitor. He’d had his third drink of the night, but was upset about not getting high.

Worsening his mood, the psychiatrist angle had reached a roadblock. The address – ‘35/2C, Shipra Enclave, Lalpur Avenue, Allahabad’ given by the old man had turned out to be a fake one. Nothing on the address matched any landmark in the city.
Who is this Varun Gupta? Why does he have so many fake addresses?

He tried searching for Dr Varun Gupta on Google. Soon, he was shaking his head in disbelief. There was no information about this man on the internet. All searches with his name threw irrelevant results.
Will Mrinal be able to dig up something about this ghost? God knows!

Dejected, he made himself another drink and gulped half of it in one shot. His brain was clouding over.
Good.

Recalling that Mrinal had sent him a few mails, he checked his Outlook mailbox. There were three mails from Mrinal with the same subject – ‘Stuff on MeB’
Mujahid-e-Bashariyat.
He downloaded all the attachments into one folder made for the Nitin Tomar case. There were a lot of web pages, a few videos and an MS Word document named ‘Synopsis.docx’

From experience, Prakash knew that ‘Synopsis’ was the most important document in the folder because it contained the summary of Mrinal’s investigation. He opened it and started reading.

Mujahid-e-Bashariyat, meaning “Warriors for Humanity” is a very new organization. Hardly 8 months old.

MeB published their first video on YouTube (video attached) on 12
^th
of September last year i.e. about 6 months before the Geetanjali school massacre. They have also made a few blog entries and posts on militant Islamic websites, all between September to December last year (web pages attached).

The posts in YouTube and other websites are made using different accounts with different names. It is difficult to get the exact details of these users.

I found one person who can be possibly linked to MeB. His name is Mohammed Afroz. He has commented on almost all the posts of MeB and often writes like a moderator. I have tracked him to his locality (see details in point 6).

Nitin Tomar’s assassination is the first major activity of MeB. Interestingly, unlike other terror groups, the ideological leader of MeB is not a public figure. No one knows who heads MeB.

Mohammed Afroz lives somewhere near Jalbera Road in Ambala City. Probably works as a Foreman in a local sugar mill. I hacked into his Facebook account and a few radical Islamic forums he is part of. Appears to be pro-Taliban, as ‘pro’ as they get. He often interacts with a bunch of orthodox Islamic friends who usually discuss and criticize the lifestyle and behaviour of ‘Kafirs’.

To summarize, MeB is a fledgling Islamic organization that has shown its teeth for the first time. Go grab this Afroz guy and you may get some more leads.

After he was finished with the synopsis, Prakash quickly went through the other attachments. The video comprised a masked man speaking in Urdu and admonishing the
kafirs
from the west.
Usual stuff. Dozens of such videos on YouTube.
Because the language was pure Urdu, he wasn’t able to gather much from it, though he heard the term Mujahid-e-Bashariyat a few times. He found similar stuff in the saved web pages too, which contained blog entries made by people from MeB.

The idea Prakash got from Mrinal’s research was that MeB was a pretty new organization and was still trying to make its name.
Some day or another, its leader would come out in public.

He was impressed with Mrinal’s work. He had not only been able to give him a new lead, but also a place where he could find his man.
Smart work buddy.
He decided to travel to Ambala at the earliest.

He took his glass into the bathroom and drained the remaining VAT 69 in the washbasin. His usual chore would begin now.
Trying to sleep.

A
n alley offsetting
the Jalbera road lay silent in the duskiness of the summer evening. The lane composed of 2-3 storied small buildings on its either side. With no streetlights and only a few houses with lights turned on, the place looked like a quarantined town afflicted with a pandemic.

It was for the third time in the day that Raman was walking through the alley. His first two visits had been just for reconnaissance purposes.
The real thing will happen now.

He was a tall man with skin the darkest shade of brown, making him look like a ghost in the night. To make it tougher for anybody to memorize and recall his features in the dark, he had not shaved since the last few days. It gave him a grizzly look. On top of that, he was wearing a cap and photochromic glasses.

He looked at his next victim’s house, which stood only a few meters away from him. It was a small flat, a 1-BHK-house maybe, with no stories, a small parking space in front and a metallic grilled gate outside. A motorcycle was parked on the veranda. Lights were on in the living room and the bathroom.

He’s in.

He looked around to check if there were any people in the alley. He could see only a couple of guys somewhere far down the lane. That was good. He wanted no eyewitnesses. His escape plan was also well thought out. Adjoining lanes, the connecting main road and the fastest route for the bus stand – all were etched clearly in his mind. He unlocked the safety of his Beretta and cocked the hammer. He was now ready for all possible impediments to his escape. If everything went well, which he hoped it would, it would be as easy as his Allahabad hit.

Ensuring that the metal gate didn’t rattle and squeak, he opened it, got in and then shut it again. He moved up the veranda and knocked on the door. The ray of light from the peephole in the door was blocked by an eye trying to figure out who was standing outside.

Open the door, kid.

A young man in his late twenties opened the door. He appeared tired and run down, a look accentuated by the stubble on his face. His forehead creased as he gave Raman a questioning glance.

“I thought we were done! Why are you here again?” the young man asked, trying hard to keep his voice to a whisper.

“Let me in first, Afroz,” Raman replied with a smirk. “You know we can’t talk outside.” He could smell the revolting concoction of smoke and drink in his breath.

Afroz let Raman in and shut the door in a hurry.

Raman noticed Afroz was staggering.
Drinking the whole night? Nice.
The TV was turned to some news channel. He saw an ashtray filled with cigarette stubs and ash beside an empty whisky glass. The living room seemed to be clouded in a thin veneer of smoke.
This guy is paranoid. Smoking and drinking too much. Good for me.

“So, how are things Afroz?” Raman asked, deliberately trying to provoke him.

“Let’s keep the pleasantries for some other day,” Afroz replied irritably. “We had decided we’d never meet after you made the final payment. So, why are you here? You know it’s dangerous.”

“I know, I know. But there is a problem,” Raman said, increasing the volume of the TV. “I think, over the past few weeks, you have left too many open trails on the Internet. A clever guy just needs to follow one trail and you are gone.”

“What the hell! I have taken sufficient care in hiding my footprints on the net,” he protested. “We wanted everybody to go after Mujahid-e-Bashariyat and that’s what we have achieved. The police and the media are now after this phoney organization, looking for some venom-spewing Jihadi clad in a pyjama.”

“I know, Afroz. You’ve done well up until now. But, there are things that aren’t sometimes in our control. The threat videos you had prepared can lead investigators to where it was recorded. The pro-Jihad communities you got into can be infiltrated. The AK-47 I had given you can be found. There are a lot of loose ends. So, you need to go.”

“Go?” Afroz frowned. “Where?”

“To Australia. At our cost.”

“And what if I say no?”

“Then you will piss off some really powerful people,” Raman said, staring into his eyes. “Besides, you don’t have an option. We don’t want someone to get to you and then connect you to us. So you will have to go.”

“When do I move?”

“Tomorrow. You go to Mumbai and then fly out.”

Afroz nodded with a sad look on his face.

“By the way, where is the AK-47 now?” Raman asked, changing the topic.

“Taken apart and hidden in the bathroom flush.”

“What if it’s found by someone?”

“Nobody comes here.”

“Just show me where you have kept it.”

“Come with me,” Afroz said with pride, as if he was an artist showing off his creation to someone.

Afroz walked ahead with Raman following him. He walked into his bedroom that had an attached bathroom and went inside.

This was the moment Raman was waiting for. He took out a syringe from his trouser and removed its cap. It contained Etorphine Hydrochloride, a tranquilizer used to control wild animals.
Knocks-off an elephant in a minute.
On humans, the effect could be devastating. He didn’t want to kill Afroz with it. So, he had kept its potency lower on purpose.

He gave the piston a gentle push to remove air from the syringe and opened the bathroom door. Afroz was bent over the commode, trying to open the flush cover.

Raman plunged the syringe into his back near the spinal cord and pushed the piston till almost half of the contents of the syringe were inside his body. Afroz turned around with a start, his eyes bulging in shock. It took only one second for him to understand what was happening.

“You bast…” he mumbled, but could not complete the sentence. He tried to shout and call for help, but somehow felt no power left in his body. His mind was going blank. Smoke and alcohol were making things worse.

Raman stood in front of Afroz, keenly observing the reaction of the drug. He took out another syringe from his pocket. It contained a white-coloured liquid.

“It is a heavy dose of cocaine,” he said. “Even while dying, you will enjoy the rush.”

Afroz was lying on the ground. His face was blank, but eyes were open and directed towards Raman.

“Accept death, my friend,” the assassin scoffed. “Poets say it’s graceful.”

He bent down and picked up Afroz’s left hand. “You are left handed, aren’t you? You will now inject yourself with some cocaine,” he whispered.

He affixed the syringe between Afroz’s index and middle fingers, and dragged it towards his right arm, inserting the needle into his vein. The young man offered no resistance, as if his bones had turned into loose rubber. Raman now pushed the piston gradually till no more cocaine was left in the syringe.
Go to sleep. Forever.

He now pulled out a handkerchief from his pants. It contained a packet of cocaine, a couple of crumpled bus tickets and a few needles dabbed in cocaine. He pierced Afroz’s vein once with each needle and then placed the needles in his breast pocket. Holding the cocaine packet using the handkerchief, he went into the kitchen and looked for a jar containing lentils.
Dal.
Taking care not to leave any fingerprints, he opened the jar and embedded the cocaine packet within the dal.

Now he took out the bus ticket and the cocaine dabbed needles and dropped them in the kitchen dustbin. He took out a manila envelope from his jacket and placed it in the bedroom cupboard. The only thing that remained now was wiping his footprints and fingerprints, if any.

Raman now relaxed, because he had covered all his bases. Two days ago, his accomplice had dropped a Barrett M107 rifle in a pond a few kilometers from here. The man had ensured that he was seen by a few people. That was also a part of the game.
Perfect closure to this episode. Can I retire now?

P
rakash lay
on the operating table, unable to move. Bathed in the disconcerting glow of the surgical lights, he felt suffocated, as if a wet towel had been wrapped around his face. He tried to shout, but couldn’t.
No. Please, don’t.
He wanted to plead to the people in masks working on him with scalpels and forceps.
Stop!

The men didn’t stop.

Prakash gave up resisting. He couldn’t do anything other than staring at the men’s faces. He concentrated on the face of one man, who appeared to be their leader. An old man, with scholarly eyes behind thick lenses, who kept talking to his colleagues in hushed tones. His hands moved with the precision of a sculptor. Crimson red fingers. Spreading open skin. Cutting into flesh.

In a second, the surgeon’s facial expression changed. He knitted his brows, as if he found something creepy lying amid the naked blood vessels and organs. A momentary shadow of disbelief crossed his narrowed eyes. In seconds, it transformed into shock and then sheer terror.

“What the hell is this?” the old man cried, his hands extricating something from Prakash’s open chest. It looked like a brick of white clay wrapped in duct tape, with a mesh of wires joining its two ends. His colleagues were aghast. They sprang away from the place like houseflies.

“Don’t go. Don’t go,” the surgeon screamed with helplessness, his hands trembling. “At least, tell me how to handle this!”

But, there was no one left to help him, other than a dying soul on his operating table.

Prakash had given up on himself. He felt a numbness sweeping over his body, his consciousness drifting away. Before his eyes shut, he heard a familiar sound.

Click!

There was a huge explosion. A ball of fire kept spreading till it engulfed him. Then there was silence. Deathly silence.

Prakash was jolted awake. With dazed eyes, he sat shell-shocked for a few moments. His ears were ringing. He touched himself to make sure he was still alive. His body was shaking, with goose bumps all over.

An announcement by the flight attendant made him realize he was sitting in an airplane. ‘Please fasten your seat belts. We are soon going to land in New Delhi.’

When are my nightmares going to end?

He took a few deep breaths and then looked at his watch.
4 PM. Another four and half hours to Ambala.
After getting down at New Delhi airport, he was going to take a cab to Ambala. He wanted to visit this city a day earlier, but there were no tickets available. He ruled out that it would be evening by the time he reached Ambala. As per the plan, the local correspondent of Globe News at Ambala was going to help him out.

He had been very uneasy throughout his flight–jiggling his legs and staring out the window into the blue infinity. It was because of a call from Ritesh just before boarding. His boss had told him about a new development in the Nitin Tomar murder mystery. In the early hours of the day, a man named Mohammed Afroz was found dead in his house at Ambala, the same fucking place he was about to visit. Cocaine overdose was a possible cause. The police had found a lot of documents in his house that connected him to Nitin’s murder and the outfit Mujahid-e-Bashariyat. They had also found an AK-47 rifle from his house.

Prakash was perplexed. He was immediately scared too. It was as if someone was spying on his thoughts.
Day before yesterday, I come to know about this Afroz guy. And in a day he’s dead. Is it a coincidence?

Ritesh was surprised to know that Prakash was already travelling to Ambala.

“Do you have some inside info, which I am not aware of?”

“It’s a bit complicated. I’ll explain it to you later.”

Prakash was unable to accept that Afroz’s death was not a murder. Ritesh had mentioned that as per the primary reports, the man was suspected to be a junkie, who had taken an overdose of cocaine in a drunken stupor. He had been smoking and drinking without restraint since the last few days. The police had also found a stash of cocaine in his kitchen. His dustbin was also littered with used needles containing traces of cocaine and his blood.

Like an invisible splinter on a shirt that keeps irritating the wearer, nagging thoughts kept troubling Prakash’s mind. Something very wrong was going on, but he wasn’t able to put his finger on ‘what exactly’. It was as if someone was trying to tie up all the loose ends in a secretive and professional matter. He would have to weed out that splinter.
Need to visit the police station.

“
I
know this man
,” Ashish Mehra, the local correspondent for Globe News, said. “Let me do the talking when he comes.”

Prakash nodded.
I won’t mind.

Both were sitting across the Station House Officer’s desk in the Sector-8 police station. It was 8:30 PM and they were waiting for the SHO to return from his dinner break. Prakash looked at the name written on the plaque kept on the desk.
Mohan Kumar Lohiya, Sub-Inspector.

There was nothing to pass time with. So Prakash decided to strike a conversation with the young chap. He was meeting Ashish for the first time. The kid looked like a bright, impressive man oozing with the same eagerness he used to have many years ago.

“You cover the whole of Haryana?” he asked Ashish.

“I and a few colleagues of mine.”

“How long have you been working at Globe News?”

“Two years.”

“That’s a pretty short period. Seems you have made quite a few friends in the police force.”

“Many!” Ashish said, his face lighting up. “I have contacts in Ambala, Kurukshetra, Karnal, Panipat…” He started counting the districts of Haryana on his fingers.

Prakash was amused to see the naivety in the eyes of this rookie.

In the excitement of having found a new friend, Ashish made a funny face and slid his chair close to Prakash’s. He whispered into his ears, “Of all the police officers I know, this Lohiya guy is the biggest moron. You would not have seen a bigger publicity hound. He’s… shit!” He stopped, turned around and then bit his tongue. His face lost its colour for a second.

What happened?
Prakash too, turned his face and found a policeman standing behind him with a cunning smirk. His eyes went towards the name badge stuck on his chest.
Mohan K. Lohiya. So, this is the gentleman Ashish was praising so much. Nice to meet you, Sir.
The sub-inspector looked middle-aged, with a thin moustache and a protruding belly. He was staring at Ashish the way a porn DVD seller stares at a school kid at his counter. The poor guy seemed to have stopped breathing for a moment.

“
Bolo
Ashish
Bhai!
What do you want to know about the Afroz case?” the sub-inspector said, patting Ashish’s back. It sounded more like a slap. “Once in a blue moon our Ambala figures in national news. And look at today. I have given four interviews since morning, you know?”

Ashish heaved a sigh of relief and winked at Prakash. He began with the usual carrot. “
Arey Sahib
, our channel has one of the largest TRPs in North India. When we mention your name in our news bulletin, the world will know.”

He introduced Prakash to the sub-inspector, who started speaking straightaway. “Let me summarize the case for you,” he began his oft-repeated speech from previous interviews during the day. “As you must be aware, that this Mujahid gang had taken the responsibility of killing Nitin Tomar.”

Prakash was amused to hear the word “gang”.

“We believe Afroz was the man who shot Nitin dead,” the man said.

The words hit Prakash like a jet of cold water. He believed that Afroz would turn out to be a small cog in the wheel called Mujahid-e-Bashariyat. But according to this man, he was the exceptional sniper who blasted Nitin’s head from a kilometer.

Mohan continued, “Although Afroz had no criminal history, he was actively supporting Islamic extremism. He seems to be a very disturbed individual, evident from the contents of his laptop. Our team gathered many videos of graphic violence and obnoxious speeches by extremist leaders from his laptop. He also used to write blogs supporting Jihad and Islamic law.”

“Just like every other brainwashed terrorist,” Ashish said.

“Yeah. He had also hidden an AK-47 in his bathroom,” Mohan said, nodding in agreement. “But the biggest clue which connects Afroz to Nitin Tomar is an envelope found in his cupboard. It contained a few printouts containing news stories related to the Geetanjali school massacre. There was an A4 size photo of Nitin along with a few close-up photographs of the Allahabad court.”

Prakash tried to speak, but was cut short by Mohan. He raised his voice to put forth his point. “Besides, we also found a bus ticket for Delhi-Allahabad in Afroz’s kitchen dustbin. The date of travel was only two days before Nitin’s murder. There was a return ticket also. Same bus. Only the date was a day after the attack,” he said, and took a deep breath of contentment.

“You got all that from his house?” Prakash asked. “Don’t you think it is just plain stupid of him to keep all that evidence at his home? That too when he was supposedly so much in panic that he was smoking and drinking like a fish.”

“You read all that in the newspapers?” Mohan asked.

“I have my own sources.”

“To hell with your source,” he spat. “What’s your point exactly? Someone planted all that evidence in his home and in his laptop? Are you kidding me?”

“I don’t know.” Prakash shrugged. “I am just wondering whether Afroz is just a side-actor or the main actor. How did you arrive at the conclusion that he is the assassin?”

Mohan looked almost offended. “You are an awful cynic Mr Prakash. We are so near in solving this case and you still look unconvinced. No wonder reporters never write anything good about the police,” he complained. The next moment he had a smirk on his face. “But, I have another piece of evidence to take care of doubters like you.”

“Is it the gun found in the pond?” Ashish interjected.

Mohan nodded in response, his smile widening. He wasn’t going to be bullied by condescending reporters.

What the…?
Prakash turned his head towards Ashish. He was hearing about this angle for the first time. “Which gun are you talking about?” he asked him.
This guy has not informed me of some other development in this case.

“Oh… I am really sorry Prakash. As we have met just an hour ago, I wasn’t able to tell you about all this,” Ashish replied in an apologetic tone. “Actually, this is a separate incident. Two nights ago…”

Like a desperate co-host in a TV show, Mohan interrupted in between, not letting Ashish take his glory away. “I’ll tell you what really happened. But you guys will have to give our police station the credit in your news. Especially the people who deserve it the most,” he said, hinting at himself.

He continued, “Actually, a couple of nights ago, some people saw a man throwing an object in the pond near the railway bridge. After hearing about the death of Afroz and all the hue and cry on the news, one man approached us with this information. He said that he wasn’t able to have a clear look at the culprit’s face in the darkness. He couldn’t gather enough courage to confront him either. Now, with so many things happening in Ambala, even such a minor incident could be suspicious. So, we didn’t waste a minute. We asked the Division for some scuba divers. Just a few hours ago, the scuba divers found an aluminium case containing a Barrett M107 long range rifle, the one used by snipers.”

Good heavens. Is this the same rifle that was used to kill Nitin?
Prakash was getting restless.

“I know what you are thinking about Prakash
babu
,” Mohan said with an all-knowing smile. “We are also thinking of the same. Not every day you find a costly sniper rifle being thrown down a bridge. That too in Ambala. So I guessed that the rifle must have been used in some big mission recently. I thought it might be the gun used in the Nitin Tomar murder.”

Prakash tried to recall the number of times Mohan began his statements with an ‘I’. Ashish’s observations about the man were turning out to be correct. He was indeed a certified moron.

“Have you done a ballistics test on the gun?” Prakash asked.

“It’s with the central forensics team right now. But I strongly believe that the bullet that killed Nitin will match this gun.”

“Does Afroz have a history of sharp-shooting? He has to be an ace sniper to carry out a hit like that,” Prakash said.

“You will not yield, will you?” Mohan said, shaking his head. “I suggest you go to your hotel room and watch the TV. An hour ago I saw a piece of breaking news on a news channel. It said that Afroz was a good shooter during his NCC days.”

“Firing 303 is different from firing an impossible shot from a long range rifle.”

“That is true. But who knows, this guy could have got picked up by a militant organization and then trained in some fucking Jihadi camp,” Mohan replied, sounding exasperated with the cross-questioning.

But, Prakash was far from convinced.
It’s raining evidence in Ambala. Too easy to believe.

There was an uncomfortable silence for a minute. It was broken by Ashish. “What about the cocaine? Do you know anyone who deals in cocaine in Ambala?”

“Well, I’d have to say I’m surprised myself. Cocaine is big news in Ambala. Death because of cocaine overdose is a bit too much to digest. But, you know, these terrorists have their own supply networks for everything. They don’t rely on the local peddlers. This guy must have in some real tension and paranoia after committing the crime. He was full of smoke, alcohol and cocaine.”

Clever. Very clever.
Prakash couldn’t help admiring the way the perpetrators had gone about their business. A terrorist on drugs was not a rarity. They often opted to get high before carrying out their attacks. It made them less scared and more ruthless. Even Ajmal Kasab and his team of murderers took Amphetamines before they caused the mayhem in Mumbai during the 26/11 attacks.

“When was the last time you came across a terrorist who died of drug overdose?” he asked, aiming the question at the sub-inspector as well as at himself.