Eleventh Hour Read online

  ‘Go back this minute! Do not lose sight of him!’

  ‘Tension nahin, boss. I have his bike number. And I know his name.’

  Vikrant made a mad scramble to grab the nearest pen and paper.

  Half an hour later, Vikrant, using Shakeel Khan’s name and licence plate number, had obtained his cellphone number and put it under surveillance. Location tracking showed the uncle reaching Bhiwandi, and Sheikh confirmed the same. Vikrant told him to turn back and not expose himself to risk any longer.

  Next, Vikrant got Shakeel Khan’s call records for the last twelve hours. This was when the second cat fell. Late in the evening, Asad’s uncle had received a call from a payphone in Nashik. The call had lasted for a little over five minutes, and Vikrant went through all his call records for the last one week and confirmed that he had not received any other calls from there, which was a strong if not irrefutable indicator that it was not someone who usually contacted him.

  Goyal was already drawing up the route from Bhopal to Mumbai online. ‘Nashik is one of the cities on the way, sir,’ he told Vikrant, who nodded.

  ‘Whom do we know in Nashik?’ he asked, still poring over the call records.

  ‘The DCP of the Crime Branch is someone we’ve worked with earlier,’ Jaiswal volunteered.

  ‘Get him on the phone,’ Mirza said.

  The DCP, an enterprising officer who understood the importance of prompt action on terror-related cases (as well as how any delay on his part could affect his career) roused a team of his best officers from their beds at 2 in the morning and sent them to the payphone from which the call was made, which was in the middle of a usually crowded market where one could easily disappear.

  The officers, motivated by the prospect of a positive record in the Annual Confidential Reports, woke up every shopkeeper with CCTV cameras over their store entrances as well as the payphone operator, and got them to open up their shops. They had already received pictures of the five IM members on their phones.

  The payphone operator, as expected, did not remember who had made the call and did not keep records. But a jewellery store across the street from the payphone had a CCTV camera, which resulted in the third cat falling from the tree. It had captured a Tata Indica stopping near the payphone, Shaukat Asad alighting from it, making the call, getting back into the car and the car driving away in the direction of the highway leading to Mumbai.

  Within the hour, the footage had been emailed to Mirza.

  ‘Should I book flight tickets to Mumbai, sir?’ Jaiswal asked.

  ‘Why haven’t you done that already?’ Mirza snapped.

  8

  Tuesday afternoon, somewhere at sea.

  The twelve Somalis were having dinner in the common galley when the man in black fatigues walked in, carrying a duffel bag. He placed it on the floor near them and walked away.

  The men stared curiously at the bag. Their leader, Marco, opened the bag and cautiously dipped his hand in, while the others huddled around. He smiled as he drew his hand out, holding a shiny Uzi sub-machine gun. There were several whistles around the room as one by one, twelve Uzis were handed out.

  Next, Marco took out ammunition clips, five for each gun. As he was handing the clips around, a shadow fell across the galley and they looked up to see the man in black fatigues enter the room again with a smaller duffel bag.

  ‘Sidearms, and more ammo for the Uzis,’ he said tonelessly.

  ‘Nice,’ Marco said, smiling. The man’s face remained expressionless.

  Over the four days that they had been on the freighter, the Somalis had quickly fallen into an easy routine. They would wake up early in the morning and go through a gruelling workout session on the deck. This was followed by breakfast in the galley, after which they were free to do pretty much what they wanted. The man in black fatigues had shown them a small hold where they could smoke, but alcohol was forbidden on the vessel. The hold quickly became their favourite place, where they would spend their days smoking and sipping soft drinks or snacking on tidbits, of which there seemed to be an abundance.

  The only communication they’d had with the man in black all these days was through a wireless, when he would give them terse instructions about mealtimes or to stay below deck when an official boat passed by.

  Now, as the Somalis distributed Glock pistols from the second bag among themselves, the man said, ‘You move out tomorrow night. I’ll have more gear for you then. Be ready.’

  ‘Move out how?’ Marco asked.

  ‘You will be told,’ the man said curtly.

  ‘Now hang on, man,’ Marco said, moving towards him, Uzi in hand.

  The man looked at him curiously.

  ‘We been here four days now and we don’t even know your name. You treat us like we’re some kinda insects, bossin’ us around this way an’ that. I gotta tell you, I don’t like being treated like that.’ Marco casually raised the Uzi, which he had loaded with a clip, and let it rest against his shoulder.

  ‘So, what I’m saying is that maybe you gotta start treatin’ us with a little more respect, seein’ as your mission depends on us and all. And that you might want to not treat us like shit an’ put guns in our hands at the same time, know what I’m sayin’?’ Marco continued with a smirk on his face.

  The man cleared his throat before speaking. ‘Well. It seems that you asked me a question. Several, actually. The most important being, what is to stop you from killing me now that you are armed with sub-machine guns and pistols. Did I get that right?’

  Marco nodded.

  ‘Can you reach into my left breast pocket, please, Marco?’ the man asked.

  Marco’s smile dimmed a little but he did as he was told, coming out with a thickly folded piece of paper.

  ‘Read it, please,’ the man said. Marco nodded to one of his soldiers, who came forward and covered the man in black with his Uzi, while Marco unfolded the paper and went through its contents. When he looked up, his face had changed.

  ‘Yes, Marco. That’s a list of every known family member of yours and the rest, with their current locations. We get updates on them every twenty-four hours. To answer your first question, if you so much as breathe out in my direction in a way that is not to my liking, they will all suffer. Now flip it over, please,’ the man said pleasantly.

  Marco did as he was told and once again read it from top to bottom.

  ‘As you may or may not have guessed, that’s a list of sixty men from your own country who, like you, are experts in the art of warfare and are available for money. So, to answer your second question, no, our mission does not depend on you,’ the man said, taking the page from Marco, folding it and casually placing it back in his pocket.

  ‘Which brings us,’ he said, ‘to your remaining question. You have been wondering what my name is, and it is my understanding that it bothers you not to know.’

  Marco said nothing.

  ‘My name is Marwan,’ the man said before turning around and walking out.

  9

  Tuesday afternoon, Mumbai.

  ‘How many more joining us?’ Vikrant asked.

  ‘Local police has got five men meeting us on the way. That makes twelve. Should be enough,’ Goyal responded.

  ‘We hope,’ Mirza said grimly.

  Mirza, Vikrant, Goyal and Jaiswal were speeding toward Palghar in an unmarked SUV. A veteran Mumbai Crime Branch constable who knew the highways like the back of his hand was driving while Jaiswal was glued to his smartphone, relaying Shakeel Khan’s movements as provided by the NIA officers tracking his cellular location. In the back seat, Mirza fished handguns out of a small duffel bag while Goyal made calls, coordinating with the various agencies involved. Vikrant, next to the window, smoked a cigarette, much to Mirza’s irritation.

  ‘Two weeks of no smoking and you feel like having one exactly when I’m sitting in a bloody vehicle next to you?’ Mirza said with a frown. Vikrant did not react.

  The four officers had landed in Mumbai early in th
e morning. By the time they entered the arrival area, Mirza had received text messages from the Mumbai police commissioner, the Crime Branch chief and various officers whom he had worked with earlier, offering every possible help. There were also updates on the surveillance he had set up on Shakeel Khan, reports of his cellular location, which showed him at home, and reports from the Nashik Crime Branch DCP.

  A DCP of the Mumbai Crime Branch had been waiting outside the airport to receive the four investigators. The group was on its way to the Crime Branch headquarters with the DCP at the wheel when Mirza’s phone beeped. Asad’s uncle was receiving a call.

  ‘Pull over,’ Mirza told the DCP, who obeyed and all the five men waited.

  Five minutes later, a surveillance technician at the NIA head office had emailed a voice clip to Mirza. It was a recording of the conversation that Shakeel Khan had just finished. Mirza downloaded it and played it at full volume.

  ‘Salaam alaikum!’ Khan said.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Bolo.’

  ‘Palghar mein Sativli gaon jaante hain?’

  ‘I’ll find it.’

  ‘Take a left after Sai Mauli hotel. Leave now.’

  The caller hung up abruptly after this instruction. Jaiswal started typing furiously on his cellphone. Half a minute later, he looked up and said, ‘Found it. Sativli, Palghar district. It’s on the Mumbai–Ahmedabad national highway.’

  Mirza turned to the DCP, Ashok Mankame.

  ‘We need weapons, men and the fastest vehicles you have, along with someone who knows the roads here and can get us to Sativli as fast as is humanly possible,’ Mirza said.

  Mankame turned on his siren, took a U-turn in the middle of the highway and sped to the nearest Crime Branch unit, phoning his officers to give them instructions. By the time he came to a halt outside the Unit VIII office, there was a duffel bag, two SUVs and six of his most experienced men waiting at the entrance. By then, Mirza’s surveillance team had relayed to him that Shakeel Khan had left from Bhiwandi and was on the move. The Crime Branch men had quickly calculated that it would take him close to one hour to get to Sativli, while it would take them more than an hour. Mirza swore.

  Now, as they all sped towards Sativli, with five men from the Palghar police also joining them, Mirza calmly gave out handguns to everyone but Vikrant.

  ‘You’re on consultant basis only, remember?’ Mirza smirked. Vikrant sighed, took one last puff of his cigarette and threw it out of the window. His mentor chuckled and handed him a gun as well. Just then Mirza’s cellphone rang.

  ‘API Rekundwar, Palghar Crime Branch, sir. I’m across the street from the Sai Mauli hotel,’ the assistant police inspector leading the local police team said.

  ‘You got the details of the man I sent you?’ Mirza asked.

  ‘Yes, sir. What do I do if he gets here before you do?’

  ‘Let him leave. Follow him but keep your distance. And only follow, nothing else. You’re armed?’

  ‘All of us, sir.’

  ‘Not in police vehicles?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Not in uniforms?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Mirza said before hanging up. ‘How much longer?’ he asked the driver testily.

  ‘Half an hour at the most, sir.’

  ‘Where’s the uncle?’ Mirza demanded.

  ‘He … he just stopped a little before Sativli, sir,’ Jaiswal said, looking up from his phone for the first time.

  Shakeel Khan fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his cellphone with a shaking hand.

  ‘Yes?’ was all he could manage.

  ‘Stay there,’ was all the caller said before hanging up.

  The same conversation was heard in the SUV a few seconds later.

  ‘Step on it,’ Mirza told the driver as he dialled API Rekundwar.

  Shakeel Khan had just lit a cigarette with trembling fingers when a van with tinted windows drew to a halt across the street. A man dressed in casuals, wearing sunglasses and a cap, got out and walked straight towards him. When he took off his cap and shades and came closer, Khan recognized his nephew.

  ‘Sab theek, beta?’ he asked.

  Asad just held out his hand. Khan opened the tail box of his bike and took out the pouch that Asad’s father had given him. Asad snatched it from his hands and began opening it when API Rekundwar came to a screeching halt behind the van, handgun drawn, followed by four other cops in plainclothes. Unaware that Asad had exited the van right in front of them, all five cops rushed across the street, guns pointed at Asad and Khan.

  ‘Don’t move!’ Rekundwar screamed.

  At that moment, the van’s sliding doors opened noiselessly and four men stepped out, armed with AK-56 assault rifles.

  Mirza’s team realized that something was amiss long before they reached the spot. The constable at the wheel had broken every rule in the Motor Vehicles Act to get to Khan’s location as fast as possible. He was five minutes away when they saw vehicles speeding in the other direction and people running away on foot. Instinctively, everyone in the SUV cocked

  their pistols.

  Next, they heard the gunshots. Some were single shots from pistols, others were bursts from assault rifles. Mankame, who was driving the second SUV, stepped on the pedal and caught up with Mirza’s vehicle. The cops had a gut feeling that something had gone wrong.

  By a stroke of good luck, a sixteen-wheel trailer speeding towards Mumbai was on the road at the exact instant the armed terrorists stepped out of the van. The driver of the trailer braked hard on seeing the men with assault rifles, but his momentum still carried him almost abreast of the van, causing the terrorists to jump out of the way.

  During these few seconds, Asad sprinted around the trailer and towards the van, while the policemen took position behind a row of cars parked on the other side of the street. Rekundwar had the presence of mind to drag Shakeel Khan along. ‘Move once and I’ll shoot you in the head,’ he told the old man, sticking his gun in his face, before turning his attention to the terrorists who had, by this time, taken position behind the sixteen-wheeler while its driver crouched under his seat, weeping for his life.

  Both groups started shooting at almost the same time. Two of Rekundwar’s constables, who were the most exposed, went down in a volley of gunshots while the officer himself was grazed by a bullet in his arm. Clenching his teeth to ignore the pain, he emptied his clip at the terrorists and crouched behind a car to reload when DCP Mankame brought his SUV to a screeching halt right in front of him, providing additional cover. The other SUV, carrying Mirza and his team, stopped in front of Rekundwar’s men. The ten cops tumbled out of their vehicles from the safe side while the other was peppered with gunfire.

  In perfect coordination, Mirza and Vikrant took up positions on either side of their SUV and began shooting well-aimed rounds at the trailer. Goyal and Jaiswal followed their lead. The rest of the policemen caught on quickly and within minutes, the terrorists couldn’t get a single shot off without exposing themselves to risk.

  ‘Stop shooting!’ Vikrant suddenly yelled. ‘Hold! Hold fire!’

  The cops stopped shooting and quickly reloaded their weapons in the silence that followed. True to his hunch, Vikrant heard the van’s doors slam shut and the ignition start. ‘Goyal, Jaiswal, go around the back! Mankame, with me!’ he yelled as he ran round the front of the massive trailer.

  As Goyal and Jaiswal rounded the back of the trailer, they almost got run over by the van reversing at full speed. It turned around in a scream of burning rubber and shot forward. Goyal, Jaiswal and Mankame emptied entire clips at it while Mirza made a mad dash for the nearest SUV. Only Vikrant saw the two delayed-action grenades that the terrorists had placed under the trailer before leaving.

  ‘DOWWWWN!!!’ he shouted as he launched himself towards Mankame, who was closest to the trailer, hurling him to the ground.

  Then there was a loud bang and everything went white.

  10


  Tuesday evening, Mumbai.

  ‘Is it true that the terrorists were armed with assault rifles?’

  ‘Were any civilians hurt?’

  ‘How did they manage to enter Palghar undetected?’

  ‘Is it true that they set off a high-tech remote-controlled IED made of RDX with a blast radius of two kilometres after they left?’

  The last question made Mirza chuckle. The stories have already started gathering meat in the telling, he thought as he watched the DGP Maharashtra, Paramjeet Kalra, try to quell the ever-increasing clamour of journalists at the press conference.

  Mirza was in a senior doctor’s office at the Kokilaben Ambani Hospital in Andheri. The two constables who were hit by several rounds in the firefight had died instantaneously. The others who had sustained minor injuries were treated at the civil hospital in Palghar. Vikrant, Goyal, Jaiswal, Mankame, Rekundwar and the trailer driver were shifted to the Ambani Hospital at Mirza’s insistence.

  Despite several lacerations to his arms and face, Mirza spent the next hour on the phone with everyone from the NIA director to the Prime Minister’s Office, shooing away doctors and nurses who tried to treat him. Finally, a doctor forcibly led him into his office and told him to use it as long as he wanted, instead of roaming through the corridors with a bleeding face.

  ‘You’re freaking out my staff and my patients,’ the doctor said sternly. Mirza fought the urge to stick his gun in the doctor’s face just for the heck of it.

  Now, his face and hands treated, Mirza watched DGP Kalra field questions with thinly veiled impatience as the questions got increasingly aggressive and, in some cases, stupid.

  ‘Is the state going to have to live with terrorists roaming free on its streets?’ a journalist asked.

  ‘I think the state is fair-minded enough to realize that two of my men laid down their lives today but did not let anyone else come to harm,’ the top cop replied without missing a beat.

  Mirza sighed. The press conference lasted for five more minutes, after which Kalra politely excused himself and left, the reporters still throwing questions at his back. As Mirza switched off the television, his cellphone buzzed. It was a text from his boss in Delhi.