The Siege: 68 Hours Inside the Taj Hotel (34 page)

What he had in mind now was an armed escort. ‘We will wait for people with guns,’ he told Remesh, fielding calls from his four worried children in London. ‘Mr L., they are planning to take foreigners,’ Remesh warned between calls. ‘You tell them you are Syrian.’ With his Cypriot complexion, Andreas could get away with it. But his mind was elsewhere. He had had an idea. He would get his story out, kicking the British government into heaping pressure on the Indians, precipitating a speedy rescue mission. Maybe the SAS would be mobilized. The best way of starting this particular fight would be to call the BBC, he judged.

Within minutes of having explained his predicament to the newsroom in London, where it had just turned midnight, he was patched through to the reporter Matt Frei, who conducted a live interview on the rolling BBC News 24. ‘I came to have a curry in the Taj Mahal hotel, which is the best restaurant here,’ Andreas explained, as the BBC showed footage of dead tourists being taken out of the Taj on luggage trollies, including the Canadian couple shot by the pool.

The besieged hotel was the top story in the world right now, and Frei was delighted to have an eyewitness inside. ‘And then what happened?’ he prompted. Andreas continued: ‘As soon as we sat down at the table we heard machine-gun fire outside in the corridors. We [got] under the table. [Waiters] switched all the lights off. The machine guns kept going. Then they took us [out] into the kitchen and from there, into a basement, to come up into a salon. There are two or three salons here and there must be more than a thousand people here.’ The number he plucked from the air was large enough to attract attention, a typically bravura performance.

Frei tried to get the facts straight: ‘Andreas, where are you?’ The interviewee paused, irritable: ‘I am in a
salon
in
the
hotel. We are locked in here. No one tells us anything. People are frightened. The last bomb exploded forty-five minutes ago. The hotel is shaking every time a bomb goes off. We are looking at each other and everyone jumps, living on their nerves.’ The bulletin coming to an end, Frei interjected: ‘We have to leave it there. Andreas, good luck.’ The BBC signed off. Had he done enough to grab Whitehall by the collar?

Moments later, they heard a rumpus, shouting and barging coming from the Chambers foyer. Liveras closed his eyes, sitting back on the chaise longue. Whatever was happening, he was having no part of it. Bhisham texted a friend: ‘People in hall.’ An evacuation was starting. He was going to take his chance. He roused his mother and her friends.

A Taj security officer walked between them, issuing instructions. ‘Turn off your phones. Take your change out of your pockets.’ The evacuation was happening right away. ‘We are going to get you all out. Please be ready.’ Bhisham and his mother moved towards the kitchen exit, along an unlit corridor. ‘Form an orderly line.’ After all the inaction he now felt eager but drained. Ahead, he heard raised voices and people jostling and pushing. ‘Can you see those foreigners jumping the queue?’ someone shouted, as a group of Europeans forced their way ahead. Bhisham spotted the school bully Gunjan again, who was now with his family.

‘Everyone hold steady. You’ll all get out,’ the Taj Black Suits urged, trying to keep things fluid and affable. But the mood was darker than in the Tower, where diners had elected leaders and scouts to escort them. ‘Everyone will make it, if you form a line. Turn your phones off. Absolute quiet.’ There were a hundred more guests here than in Souk, and they were narrating their own exits: calling, texting and Tweeting.

Down at the front, through the open door, Bhisham could just about make out Chef Hemant Oberoi, who held his hands up for silence. Next to him was Chef Banja, who had kept up everyone’s spirits. Before them stood the white-jacketed
chefs de partie
, with their grey neckerchiefs, the most senior and accomplished in the kitchens, and their sous-chefs. Also present were the blue-, grey- and brown-uniformed apprentices, the
plongeurs
or dishwashers, and the
marmitons
, the young kitchen boys who scrubbed out the deep casserole dishes.

Chef Oberoi marshalled his Kitchen Brigade, explaining that in a few minutes they would begin escorting guests through the kitchen, down the stairs by his cabin and out of the Time Office staff
exit. He needed volunteers to form a human chain around the evacuating guests in case of any unforeseen disaster.

Nitin Minocha, the Golden Dragon’s senior sous-chef, who wore a neatly clipped soldier’s moustache and had a pair of chopsticks perennially in his top pocket, stepped forward. He had already shown tonight that he could keep his head, having locked down his restaurant and concealed diners, before evacuating them to Wasabi, and then out of the firing line into Chambers. Chef Banja joked that tonight Minocha would become ‘a soldier in whites’, aided by Hemant Talim, his sous-chef, who also volunteered. Effervescent Talim, who was Amit Peshave’s friend and former room-mate, had worked at the Taj since 2002 but was still so youthful that in the kitchen he was known as ‘the Chicken’. As a result of working on the wok station he had developed a formidable forearm and was the hotel’s premier arm wrestler.

Oberoi clapped Talim on the shoulders just as Thomas Varghese, a Syrian Christian, who was head waiter in Wasabi, raised his hand. Varghese, master of the night shift, was a favourite in the kitchens as he defended the Taj staff in the employee union and he could manage his restaurant almost single-handedly: eleven teppanyaki seats, nine sushi places, and twenty free-standing tables.

Chef Oberoi called out for Boris Rego, the quick-witted sous-chef from Shamiana. Amit Peshave’s ‘Indefatigable Rego’ had escaped when the gunman had shot up the coffee shop earlier in the evening and fled through the kitchens to the first-floor service area. For the past three hours he had been helping muster guests in Chambers. Now he stepped forward, as did Kaizad Kamdin, a 6 foot 4 inch Parsi who worked in the banqueting halls and was known universally as Brother Kaiz, and Zaheen Mateen, a lithe, hot-tempered Rajasthani who worked in Zodiac Grill.

As the chefs formed a protective line, the first thirty guests were called forward into the darkened kitchens, with the Indian politicians putting themselves at the front. Everyone was asked to remain calm. ‘There are coaches waiting for you at the other end,’ Chef Banja urged. The Anti-Terrorist Squad had turned up too, but only
to escort the MPs. ‘They’ll take you to the President, where the hotel’s General Manager is waiting.’ Everyone nodded, but almost immediately the line snagged. A pantry-man came running up. Shouting could be heard from inside the Chambers. There was a tussle blocking the free flow of guests in the murky corridor and angry words could be heard floating out. Oberoi stepped up: ‘I’ll go in.’ The Executive Chef would straighten things out. ‘Keep everyone calm. Keep together. Keep moving,’ he shouted over his shoulder to Banja, Minocha, Talim, Varghese, Kamdin and Mateen.

Ack, ack, ack.
With his back to the Wasabi corridor and the service lift, Chef Minocha was standing adjacent to Oberoi’s cabin, hands linked with Kaizad Kamdin and Hemant Talim, urging guests along, when he heard what sounded like a mason knocking out tiles. ‘What?’ Exasperated he turned to see Chef Banja to his right, looking similarly perplexed, red rosettes suddenly blooming on his whites, before his knees gave way and he sagged to the floor. A fine spray of blood filled Minocha’s nostrils as he also fell, the realization finally dawning on him that the gunmen had just found their way into the kitchens and were firing into their backs.

Ack, ack, ack.
The Brigade broke apart, the human tunnel disintegrating, staff and guests bolting for their lives.

As emergency lights flickered and dipped, Minocha saw the floor around him transforming into a crimson rink. Instinctively he crawled away from the firing, ankles and shoes flashing past his sight line, as still upright guests and staff ran, screaming like gulls. ‘Head for the Time Office,’ he urged himself, as he thought he saw a crowd retreating into the Chambers, while others plunged downwards, heading for the pitch-black cellars.

To Minocha’s left, Thomas Varghese was running with his arms outstretched like a scarecrow. What was he doing? Minocha realized he was not escaping like the others, but shepherding strays away from the gunmen. Deliberately, Varghese ran into the line of fire, trying to narrow down the angle of the shooter, before staggering and falling. As he sank to the floor, Minocha watched an engineer
who worked in the hotel’s plant room come out of nowhere and rush forward to take Varghese’s place. One of the Taj’s legions of invisibles, Rajan Kamble blocked the gunman’s path for a few, vital seconds before taking a round in his back.

Minocha tried shutting his eyes. When he opened them nothing had changed. He snatched a look towards Oberoi’s cabin, and saw the Executive Chef had come out of Chambers and was standing on tiptoe, watching with a horrified expression as chefs’ pleated hats flopped down out of sight, like seals dropping into ice holes. Minocha felt himself floating away into unconsciousness, carried along in a sea of bloodstained chef’s whites. He wondered what had happened to the simple plan.

Inside the chefs’ canteen, where Oberoi was taking cover, the ceramic tile with his kitchen prayer on it was flecked with blood: ‘So bless my little kitchen, Lord,/And those who enter in,/And may they find naught but joy and peace,/And happiness therein.’ Standing beside it, Chef Oberoi wracked his brains.
How the hell did they know we are all in here?
He was terrified by the thought that the gunmen had found their way in via the secret marble door on the ground floor, with its make-do napkin fastener. He was brought out of his soul-searching by screaming rounds that smashed into stainless steel cabinets and washstands.

Edging out of the doorway, Oberoi spotted Banja, his friend and foil since 1986, lying prone and bloodied just a few metres to his right. He couldn’t reach him and felt sick. Was this how it would end? He had overheard Banja pledging to Anjali Pollack and others that he would rather die than let them suffer and he prayed that Banja was just concussed. Everything had a fix. You learned that at the Taj, where the tectonic plates of service frequently ran slightly out of kilter, overheating and colliding, only to be eased back into position with the helpful jolt of someone’s elbow.

Just then a gunman locked eyes with Oberoi and let off a furious volley. Blind panic washed over the Executive Chef and looking around for a way out he glimpsed two assistant managers heading down towards the cellars and a third figure madly waving at
him.
It was his Food and Beverage Manager: ‘RUN.’ He was pointing to the stairs. A group of staff and guests pulled the dazed Oberoi towards them, all of them descending into an unlit warren of cabins, lockers and storage rooms. He tried to drag himself away. ‘I need to get to Banja,’ he cried. Someone stopped him: ‘Sir, please don’t go back, it’s too late.’

Up above, Chef Minocha had come to his senses. Lying in a pool of blood, he knew he had to get up or die. But although he sent the command to his limbs, nothing happened. He looked down and saw one hand hung limply, the bones in his forearm shattered. With a dispassionate eye, he thought the arm was practically severed and unmendable. All he could think was that he would never work again, forced out of his metier by random firing. ‘I’m finished,’ he muttered, tears welling up in his eyes.

Ack, ack, ack.
The gunmen were back. Using his good arm and legs, Minocha propelled himself crabwise, scuttling between stainless steel workstations, his feet sliding through the sloughed blood. Ahead, he could see Chef Banja, who lay gazing upwards, his curly hair matted with blood. Lying beside him, with his legs at awkward angles, was Zaheen Mateen, the brilliant young Zodiac chef whom everyone feted for his dreamy Kahlúa mousse. He was twitching and blowing saliva bubbles through cracked lips. Mateen had just scored exceptionally in his matriculation exams, ensuring him a place at any of the best graduate schools. Just yesterday, they had all celebrated his future success – but now there was no hope for him.

Minocha glimpsed a figure dashing past, with a stocky frame and thick moustache. Was that Faustine Martis, the Sea Lounge’s head waiter? What was he doing? Martis bolted for cover in the meat store, pulling open the heavy door and drawing aside the hessian curtain. Minocha wondered, should he follow? But something pulled him away, back towards the Time Office, and the way out, where he came up against guests running in the opposite direction. They had tried to get out through the Tower fire door, they all screamed hysterically, but it was jammed. ‘Someone’s blocked the exit from the outside and we are all trapped.’

The crowd parted, one flank heading down into the dark cellars after Chef Oberoi’s party, the other carrying Minocha towards the Time Office. Ahead, he could see a bloody Chef Hemant Talim, who was being dragged out by Sunil Kudiyadi. ‘Call an ambulance,’ the security chief cried out, gently laying Talim down on the pavement. ‘Just hold on, you’ll be fine, stay with me.’ Talim, who had been shot in the stomach, answered weakly: ‘Yes, sir.’

Down in the cellars, more than a dozen people were squashed up together in a dark, humid storage space. Chef Oberoi tried to calm the crowd, noticing that in their party were some children who were terrified by the sound of gunfire and heavy boots stamping about. ‘I don’t want to die. We don’t want to die,’ two young kitchen porters grizzled, unable to contain themselves, as the footsteps drew nearer. Someone pulled the porters closer, burying their faces. Oberoi wriggled free a hand and brought his BlackBerry up to his face, eyes adjusting to the glowing screen as a cluster of messages downloaded.

Thomas Varghese: ‘I’m wounded, sir. Bleeding near the lift.’ Frustrated and terrified, feeling responsible, Oberoi passed Varghese’s text on to the Taj control at the President. A text from Chef Talim popped up: ‘Bleeding heavily, but made it outside. You OK, sir?’
How many dead?
, Oberoi wondered. Many of these chefs had been with him for fifteen years or more. He envisaged the photo on the canteen wall of them all smiling in happier times. Several texts mentioned seeing Kaizad Kamdin, his towering banquet
chef de par
tie, lying motionless by the cabin. You could not kill Kamdin! There was no news about Chef Vijay Banja, who was to the best of his knowledge still lying on the tiled floor. Maybe he was alive. What should he tell Banja’s wife, or Kamdin’s family? He could not write the two chefs off yet.