The Endgame Read online

  Twenty-four hours later, Vikrant and Mirza were sitting across the table from Prime Minister Manthan Desai, with NSA Pradeep Singh in attendance.

  ‘Why didn’t I know about this report, Pradeep?’ Desai asked.

  ‘Nobody did, sir. This was years ago and frankly it was unfit for anyone’s consumption unless absolutely necessary.’

  ‘If I may, sir,’ Mirza spoke up. ‘I prepared that report ten years ago. I had also mentioned that these sleeper cells might not get active for another ten or even twenty years. This is something that we have only heard whispers of.’

  ‘Like the ’93 cache?’ Desai asked.

  Mirza almost said, ‘Touché’.

  During the Lakshadweep operation, the ISI had let Mirza and his team believe that its foot soldiers were in possession of a cache of weapons which had been smuggled into India from Pakistan before the 1993 serial blasts. It was a hugely successful misdirection which had kept Mirza’s team, scared and apprehensive, chasing their tails till the very end of the operation. While there were some, including Mirza, who still believed that the cache existed, the ISI’s tactic had made a lot of people doubt the theory.

  Mirza was aware that all the mistakes made during the Lakshadweep operation were going to be thrown in his face at every possible opportunity. Desai was Naidu’s political rival and the two were as different as chalk and cheese. After Desai came to power, the country had been observing a very subtle, slow shift towards communal polarization. In fact, Mirza had been worried that Desai, after learning about the sleeper cell report, might order an all-out witch hunt against Muslims. But he also hoped that Singh would not allow it and, thankfully, he was right.

  ‘Where is the report now?’ Desai asked.

  ‘We’re trying to find it, sir,’ Singh said, deadpan. ‘It was ten years ago and there has been a lot of shifting and moving. Plus, I know from personal experience that the IB doesn’t always keep the political leadership, including the NSA, in the loop.’

  Desai looked daggers at Singh but there was nothing he could do.

  ‘Keep me posted. And if the animals who killed Kumar are even remotely connected to this report, I want to know.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Singh, Mirza and Vikrant said in unison.

  ‘You have my backing to take any steps you like. Just keep me posted if anything you do might blow up in my face.’

  As soon as they were safely out of the PM’s cabin, Singh dragged Mirza aside.

  ‘Please tell me you have a soft copy of the fucking report,’ he whispered urgently.

  ‘Maybe,’ Mirza said.

  ‘Good,’ Singh replied, looking around. ‘Because I have your hard copy at home. And I’m burning the bloody thing tonight.’

  5

  The sound, although faint, still managed to wake Vaishali up.

  She hadn’t slept since her father’s accident. But sheer physical exhaustion finally took its toll and she didn’t even realize when she dozed off.

  As soon as Naidu moaned, though, she immediately jolted awake and went over to his bed.

  Across the room, Daniel, Vaishali’s fiancé, was sprawled out on a sofa. His Special Forces background, however, meant that he never slept too deeply. She saw him rise slightly and gestured to him to go back to sleep.

  ‘Pain?’ she asked her father softly. Naidu made a noise that she had come to identify as an affirmative response and quickly, she went to find a nurse.

  It had been twelve days since Naidu had been admitted to the ICU after being found half-dead in his car, which, judging from its condition, had been hit head-on at high speed by a heavy vehicle. The accident had occurred in one of the many small lanes near the Bandra–Worli Sea Link. It was one of those areas where patrolling police vehicles made only a couple of rounds every night, their focus on preventing bikers from entering the Sea Link or on people attempting suicide by jumping off the massive bridge.

  The subsequent police investigation, which included an examination of CCTV cameras, established that a truck was seen speeding away from the lane roughly around the time that Naidu was believed to have sustained his injuries.

  The injuries themselves were extensive. Naidu’s spleen had ruptured, he had three fractured ribs and his backbone was damaged in several places. He had been in the driver’s seat and the truck had hit the front of his car with all the force of a speeding bullet. The truck driver must have been drunk or unusually reckless.

  Two weeks before this, Vaishali had been the happiest woman in the world. She had been born out of wedlock to a party worker from Naidu’s party when both her parents were young, conceived during a night of unchecked passion when they were travelling to campaign for Naidu, who was at the time a young and upcoming political star. Naidu’s ambitions, however, proved stronger than his feelings for Vaishali’s mother, and she had had to be content with taking his money and raising Vaishali alone.

  That changed when Vaishali, at the age of twenty, learned who her father was and shut him out of her and her mother’s life completely. It was only after the Lakshadweep operation that Naidu and Vaishali became close again. Her mother had died of cancer a year earlier and after Naidu’s term as prime minister ended, they started staying together at his bungalow in Worli. After over twenty years of estrangement, the father and daughter had finally got back together and Vaishali, who was just getting to know her father, was completely shattered after his accident.

  Daniel’s presence in Vaishali’s life was another thing that she thanked the Lakshadweep operation for. He had been on the same cruise liner that was hijacked by Munafiq and had played a major role in foiling the terrorist’s plans. The violence that followed their initial meeting on the cruise liner, as well as some common personal tragedies, brought them close and before the nightmare was over, they realized they were in love.

  No one had any reason to suspect foul play when Naidu was found injured, least of all Vaishali. She and Daniel had been away in Lonavala over the weekend, practically engaged by then, although neither of them had formally proposed yet. Naidu was known to frequently go on long drives on nights when he couldn’t sleep, which included a round of the Sea Link. He would always say that he liked to drive through the Sea Link in the relative silence of the night, when office-goers and daily commuters were home asleep and the cool breeze blew in through the car windows.

  Daniel, due to sheer force of habit, had had his doubts, but he knew that one could find a hundred reasons to be suspicious if one looked hard enough. After the first few days, he realized that his constant questioning was making things hard for Vaishali and decided to let it go.

  Vaishali found a nurse and told her that Naidu was in pain. Both women hurried back to his room so that the nurse could increase his morphine dosage. In the entire time that he had been in the hospital, Naidu had only spoken coherently twice. The first time was when Somesh Kumar had come to visit him, four days ago. The two men clearly shared some history, although Kumar had seemed too distraught to talk about it.

  The second time was two days later, when Naidu, with obvious effort, told his daughter, ‘Whatever happens, know that I love you. Always.’

  Even this had proved to be too much for him, and Daniel had led a sobbing Vaishali out of his room while the doctor sedated the old man.

  Naidu once again slipped into a somewhat peaceful slumber just as Vikrant walked in.

  Vikrant, too, had been taken hostage by Munafiq on the same hijacked cruise liner. What Munafiq did not know was that Vikrant and Daniel had worked together on a mission back when Vikrant was serving his stint with the IB. The two had teamed up once again on the liner and taken Munafiq and his entire squad down.

  Daniel, after retiring from the army three years earlier, started living in Mumbai so that he could be close to Vaishali, while Vikrant was promoted and transferred to the RAW.

  Vikrant didn’t bother to ask how Naidu was doing. He already knew
the answer to that question and had no intention of rubbing salt on Vaishali’s wounds.

  Instead, he asked the next best thing he could, under the circumstances.

  ‘Have you guys eaten anything?’

  ‘I did,’ Daniel said. Then he looked at Vaishali and shook his head.

  ‘Thought as much,’ Vikrant replied. ‘You,’ he said to her. ‘Go down to the cafeteria this minute. We’ll both wait here.’

  Vaishali opened her mouth to argue but Vikrant cut her off.

  ‘Don’t even bother,’ he said, a touch of sternness creeping into his voice. In spite of herself, Vaishali had to smile.

  ‘He moans if the pain increases,’ she said and left the room.

  Daniel waited for over five minutes and then asked Vikrant, ‘Anything new from the police?’

  Vikrant shook his head.

  ‘The truck owner seems to have disappeared without a trace. At this point, they think he himself was driving, which is not all that unusual. Neither is his disappearance. He had enough time to catch the first train out of the city. I’m willing to bet he’s taken all the cash he could with him and is now lying low in some strange city.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Exactly. He’s bound to run out of options at some point. They’ll get him.’

  ‘You still think there was no foul play?’ Daniel asked.

  Vikrant shook his head again.

  ‘It crossed my mind as well,’ he said. ‘But what’s the motive?’

  This was where Daniel had to agree. Naidu had finished his term and retired gracefully. There were no loose ends from the time when he was PM. Apart from Munafiq, who was confirmed dead because Mirza himself had put a bullet between his eyes, Naidu had no enemies either. Certainly not anyone who might want to kill him. Plus, there were no red flags. Naidu had met with an accident while following his usual routine. There was nothing out of the ordinary.

  ‘It’s the job, I guess,’ Daniel said, sighing heavily.

  Vikrant nodded. ‘Makes you question everything.’

  Daniel stood up and walked over to the window.

  ‘How’s the investigation into Kumar’s assassination coming along?’

  Vikrant shrugged. He was technically not supposed to discuss it with anyone. But he and Daniel had trusted each other with their lives in the past. The way Vikrant saw it, if he couldn’t trust Daniel to keep a secret, there was no hope for humanity.

  ‘We’re still working the sleeper cell angle,’ he said, standing close to Naidu’s bed to keep an eye on him. ‘Mirza sir has gone off to do what he does best. He hasn’t even told me who he’s meeting but it seems important enough for him to go off the grid for a couple of days.’

  ‘Some guy, that godfather of yours,’ Daniel said, chuckling.

  ‘Tell me about it. The stories I’ve heard!’ Vikrant sighed.

  ‘How’s Mankame?’ Daniel continued.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Vikrant said. ‘He’s asked me to say sorry. He’s been meaning to come down but this case isn’t letting anyone breathe. In fact, it’s only because he’s slogging his ass off that I was able to come here today.’

  ‘What, he’s on this case too?’

  Vikrant nodded.

  ‘He’s good and Mumbai is his home turf. He was the first one we thought of.’

  Daniel nodded. Even though he and Mankame had never worked together in the Lakshadweep operation, Daniel had heard all about his contribution in the subsequent debriefing.

  ‘He find anything?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘He’s building profiles of the four men. They were locals for sure. But we don’t know where exactly they’re from or who their families are. If we get some background on them, maybe we can trace their antecedents. This whole thing began somewhere; we just need to find it.’

  ‘Surreal, isn’t it? We’ve always been hearing about sleeper cells but for the first time…’

  Vikrant nodded. He knew what Daniel was saying. For the first time, their existence seemed to be proving real. And the thought was a scary one.

  For a second, Vikrant debated whether to tell Daniel about Mirza’s report.

  Ultimately he decided against it, simply because that call was Mirza’s alone.

  Vikrant looked down at Naidu, who seemed to be sleeping.

  ‘How’s Vaishali really holding up?’ he asked.

  Daniel didn’t answer. He was leaning out of the window, staring fixedly at something outside.

  ‘Daniel?’ he said. ‘Dan?’

  Daniel started. ‘Oh, sorry…’ he said, looking at Vikrant. Then he stole the quickest of glances outside the window again.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said once more, just as Vaishali came back into the room. ‘I kind of zoned out. You want to have a smoke?’

  Vikrant decided not to make a big deal about it, but made a mental note of Daniel’s sudden evasiveness nonetheless.

  ‘Sure,’ he said.

  ‘Only one,’ Vaishali called after them.

  6

  Harman Bhatia was on his way from Chennai to Pichavaram in a rented car. It was baking hot outside and the air conditioner was on full blast.

  ‘This place favourite for college boys and girls,’ the driver was telling him. ‘All day they are coming here only. But now vacations, so no crowd. You will enjoy boating.’

  Bhatia had to admire the driver for his effort. The man knew no Hindi and only passable English but was still trying to keep the conversation going.

  They drew into the parking area with the driver still chattering in his broken English.

  ‘Pick up madam from the market and take her to the hotel,’ he told the driver. ‘I’ll find my way back.’

  ‘Madam also enjoy boat ride,’ the driver said, smiling from ear to ear.

  ‘Madam only enjoys shopping with my money,’ Bhatia answered and the driver roared with laughter before driving away.

  Bhatia set off towards the ticket counter at a leisurely pace. He had the entire afternoon to himself and was in no hurry.

  ‘Motorboat for eight people, 1,500 rupiss,’ the woman at the counter said. ‘One member already waiting. You wait for more?’

  Bhatia looked around and saw a man of about his age leaning against a wall, smoking.

  ‘Motorboat?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ the man said, straightening up. ‘You have anyone else joining you?’

  Bhatia shook his head. Both looked at each other for a few seconds.

  ‘Fuck it,’ the other man finally said. ‘I say we share the 1,500 and get going.’

  Bhatia dipped into his shirt pocket, came up with the cash and slid it through the window.

  ‘We’ll go now,’ he told the woman at the counter while simultaneously accepting `750 from the other man.

  Together, they walked to the pier, donned life jackets handed out by a staffer, showed their tickets and got into a waiting motorboat.

  ‘I’m Bharat Rane. From Nagpur,’ the other man said as the boat’s engine started up.

  Bhatia introduced himself, adding that he was from Delhi.

  ‘Fucking hot here, eh?’ Rane said.

  Bhatia said nothing and they rode in silence for around five minutes till the boat reached the middle of the water.

  ‘You see mangroves? Very nice mangroves inside. But extra 500 rupiss,’ the driver said.

  Rane turned around.

  ‘300,’ he said.

  ‘450,’ the lungi-clad driver shot back.

  Rane reached into his pocket and came up with four folded currency notes.

  ‘350. Final.’

  The driver extended his hand with a smile on his face. Rane handed over the money.

  ‘You know,’ he said to Bhatia in Hindi. ‘You’re quiet. For a Delhi person, I mean. Not as loud and boisterous.’

  Turning around, he asked the driver, also in Hindi,
‘What do you say? Does our friend here look like he’s from Delhi?’

  The driver just shook his head.

  ‘No Hindi, saar,’ he said. ‘Only Tamil and English.’

  Rane turned to Bhatia.

  ‘Satisfied?’

  Bhatia turned to the driver.

  ‘I just met your handler. He cried like a girl when I killed him,’ he told the driver in Hindi.

  The driver just shook his head. Bhatia turned to Rane. ‘Satisfied,’ he said.

  ‘Would he really fall for that, if he were the enemy?’ Rane asked sceptically.

  ‘It would have shown on his face. It always does.’

  Both men pulled out their cell phones and started taking pictures of the scenery around them as they spoke.

  ‘Talk to me,’ Bhatia said.

  ‘Two weeks ago, we caught a particularly nasty man that we’d been tracking for a long time. He started his rather illustrious career in P-town and went on to tour the Middle East over a span of some fifteen years,’ Rane began in Hindi.

  Bhatia knew that the ‘we’ mentioned here was MOSSAD and P-town stood for Pakistan.

  ‘Typical brainwashed youth who eagerly volunteered for mission after mission but never got close to any real action. But he’d picked up a lot of chatter along the way, including some about our mutual friend, the State.’

  Rane, who was actually an Indian Jew, Joseph Samuel from Mumbai, didn’t need to spell it out. The ‘mutual friend’ here meant the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria. As ISIS spawned and grew to enormous proportions, every intelligence agency in the world started watching it closely. Entire task forces were formed to track its activities and there were dedicated teams working only on its recruitment activities, which had become much easier due to the Internet. Chat rooms were operating on the dark net where young men and women were being ‘welcomed’ to join the fight for the Universal Caliphate. Hordes of such recruits had already reached Syria using bogus passports and identities.