The Thuraya satellite phone buzzed to life.
The man took the call and thirty seconds into it, ordered the caller to evacuate and killed the secure transmission.
Rizwan al-Zawahiri, the self-styled provisional commander of the Lashkar-e-Taiba, was a worried man. His personal bodyguard, Salim Ansari, had noticed a sudden flurry of activity in the countryside. The last few supporters of their cause had reportedly been picked up and questioned about Rizwan’s whereabouts. There had been a significant increase in air raids, many young and able-bodied men had visited the village in the recent past, and most importantly the much feared General Pervez Kiyani, Commandant of the Army Special Ops, was touring the village.
al-Zawahiri had the antennae of a moth. Months and years of hiding had cultivated his survival instincts. He was a survivor, and was determined to win this long and tiring game of hide and seek with the Army. Ansari was to meet him in half an hour with a dozen trusted men and together they would all move deeper into the hills, ready to battle it out to the last man if need be.
As he rummaged through his den, he located his preferred AK 56 assault rifle, an Army combat jacket, a Beretta pistol, two additional magazines, half a dozen grenades and two bottles of water. There was a sudden spurt of wind, and a few sheets of paper fell out of a dossier marked ‘MAXIMUM CLASSIFIED’. Cursing himself at his absent-mindedness, Rizwan bent down to pick up the fallen sheets.
Prime Minister Roy smiled back at him. How he despised that smile! Try as hard as he and his army could, Roy’s smile never ceased. Multiple assassination plots, attempts at spreading discord among Indians, fractured foreign policies, communalism, factionalism, regionalism, everything that they had tried had ended up with fluctuating degrees of failure. Increased defence expenditure, popular support, revolutionary and radical policies both at home and abroad, Roy had outwitted him every time. India was metamorphosing and Roy was the custodian of this change. Charismatic, flamboyant, intellectual, scrupulous, promising and uncompromising, Roy’s regime infused in Indian politics a sense of fresh blood and vitality, in sharp contrast to the decades of senility associated with the Prime Minister’s Office. Rizwan hated Roy’s guts and found him one hard-nosed sonofabitch and had sworn to see him dead.
Rizwan grabbed the paper and stuffed it down his haversack. His eyes glared angrily at a newspaper cutting titled “A small step for man, a great leap for mankind”. Over the past decade, their enemy India had achieved several landmark milestones in science and technology. Indian scientists had decoded the enigma called AIDS, successfully put man on the Mars, created high-yielding crops which ensured no Indian ever remained hungry and deciphered nuclear fusion such that the whole of Bombay now ran on nuclear energy. The plans to sabotage the India-Pakistan-Iran gas pipeline had been shelved after an ambitious chemist at the National Institute of Advanced Chemistry figured out how to use water as an alternative fuel. Darn! Damn him! Damn them all!
He was ready to leave. He took one last glimpse of his hideout for the past eleven years. Pinned to the walls was a picture of the Taj Colaba, taken on 27th November 2008. It invoked in him a sense of pride. The daring plans, the chilling executions, the kill ratio, the shock waves it sent across the world…those were the good old days. Mothers wailing, marine commandos baffled, bodies sprawled all over Mumbai, stock markets closed, national outrage at the police’s lethargy…his boys had done the impossible. His face regained its animation at this thought.
However, another part of his uniform mind soon put that thought to rest. There was work to do and he couldn’t let himself fantasize. His heart told him “26/11 is history. 25/12 is present.” On 25th December 2017, the unlimited reservoir called India’s patience ran out. After years of preparation, months of surveillance, days of readiness, the Indian High Command gave the go-ahead. The armed watchdogs named the National Investigation Agency, Intelligence Bureau, National Security Guard were unleashed on the terrorists. They were angry, smitten and vengeful. Within hours, over 1500 “sleeper cells” were busted, 7 out of 10 India’s Most Wanted terror operatives killed, and the borders cleansed of infiltrants. Operation Thunderbird had succeeded! India had hit back at its invaders. Words of adulation flowed from Washington to Tel Aviv. The why was understandable but the how still perplexed Rizwan!
To add fuel to fire, the Attorney-General of India Kiran Dutta ordered all pending murder, kidnapping, rape, corruption and embezzlement charges to be probed and acted upon immediately. That officious whore! By New Year 2018, India’s prisons were spilling. Corrupt bureaucrats, MLAs, ranking police officials, rapists, mercenaries, killers-on-hire, dons, drug peddlers, pimps…Dutta spared no one. New courts were instituted, the judiciary expanded to thrice its current capacity, all cases fast-tracked. Dutta had promised an India of the Mahatma’s dreams, and she had delivered. India was back with a vengeance!
As he stepped out of the cave, the words “Alwida Abba Jaan” echoed in his ears. He remembered Ahmed and Alisha, his darling kids. And Natasha, his loving wife! His had been a happy marriage. He loved and was loved. Until, until his hatred for India had blinded him to let go family. Rizwan had been radicalized and trained at Camp 101, where he was exposed to the harshest LeT indoctrination. Natasha had been stunned at his violence. The kids feared him. He was no longer the man she had loved and adored. She tried to talk him out of his fanaticism, his savagery, his abhorrence. For her, for their children, for them all. He had dismissed her. The LeT propaganda wing had been very thorough. He now found her weak, vulnerable, a nuisance. Rizwan dumped Natasha and joined the ranks of the LeT without a second thought on how his family would survive.
However, Natasha wasn’t alone. She had the people of India behind her. Natasha was ambitious, determined and sincere. Natasha toiled and rose to become the Executive Director of Media Corp, one of the biggest media corporations in South Asia. Her rags-to-riches story was a source of inspiration for every girl in the country. It highlighted the heights a woman could attain in India, when ambition combined with hard work. Women were no longer contained in the fumes of the gas stove; they flew planes, led armies, became astronauts, and held high offices in the country. As for the children, the Right to Free and Compulsory Education had ensured that they received proper education and were fully equipped to achieve their dreams. They had been educated at the IITs and IIMs on scholarships and were successfully pursuing their dream careers. Inshallah had been benevolent!
Rizwan felt a sudden pang of guilt. He had bled Mother India dry but she chose to reciprocate in the language of mercy and love.
"NO!” cried the LeT part of him. Natasha was past, Ahmed was past, Kiyani was the present. He was a product of Camp 101 trained to kill and kill he would. He was getting too sentimental, too unstable. LeT couldn’t have it; he wouldn’t have it. This way he would die, and he couldn’t let that happen. He would destroy India!
Carefully and slowly, he trudged the few hundred metres towards the rendezvous with Salim. He whispered among the trees, “Salim, Salim...”.
The sound of klaxons pierced the air.
