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  From memory, the man called another number. Like every experienced operative, especially one working on the dark side, he didn’t have any phone numbers stored in the memory of his sat phone – one never knew whose hands it might fall into. This time it took a while for the phone to be answered.

  ‘Yes?’ The male voice at the other end was peremptory. Like Sher Khan, the ISI director spoke fluent English, although his accent was more pronounced, an unavoidable hangover of his British education. But his years at home and the nature of the job he held had eliminated all traces of finesse from his speech. ‘What did the bugger want?’ he asked.

  ‘Exactly what we want, sir,’ the agent provocateur replied. ‘He’s talking about Project Mike, sir.’

  ‘You must be joking!’

  Sher Khan could almost visualize the shock on the director’s face. ‘No, sir. I couldn’t believe it either when he told me.’

  ‘He mentioned the… it… by name?’

  ‘No, no, but the game plan he spelled out is aiming for pretty much the same thing.’

  ‘Hmm. He thought of it on his own, or did you help him along?’

  ‘A bit of both, sir… a bit of both,’ Sher Khan said triumphantly. ‘I tweaked him as we went along, making it amply clear that our support would only be forthcoming if things went according to plan.’

  There was a moment’s silence at the other end. ‘In the circumstances, he is our best bet, isn’t he?’

  ‘That he is, sir,’ Sher Khan replied without hesitation. ‘The others are too erratic and unreliable.’ For a moment he wondered whether to mention Saifullah and the fate he had condemned him to. Sometimes these arseholes warming the chairs at Headquarters think they know it all. In any case, what the boss doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Sher Khan had no illusions about his dispensability. He knew that upsetting the director of the ISI, especially this particular man, was not a career enhancing proposition; it could well turn out to be a life threatening one.

  ‘I agree with you.’ There was another short silence. When he finally spoke, there was a sharp, decisive edge in the director’s voice. ‘Okay, then you go ahead to India and get the operation going again, but be very careful... there should be no fuckups... We can’t handle the fallout if you’re taken alive. Not after what happened in Mumbai.’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir.’

  The director rang off and Sher Khan resumed his journey in a much happier frame of mind. Nothing that lay in the future bothered him in the least. God, country, new challenges every day... and of course, money – lots of it. What more could a man want? He smiled as he tossed the phone down on the seat beside him, settled himself behind the wheel and roared into the night.

  A few weeks later, he would surface in the central Indian town of Aligarh. Here he would go by the name Mujib. Mujib, who bore an uncanny resemblance to the man named Mukesh who showed up occasionally in the northern desert town of Jaipur. And to the man named Michael in the southern coastal town of Kochi.

  Sher Khan had barely left the house when the elderly mullah who had started the applause joined the Ameer who was standing just outside the door, gazing sightlessly into the darkness, in the direction in which Sher Khan had vanished.

  ‘Did he buy it?’

  ‘Of course he did.’ The Ameer laughed. ‘People always hear what they want to hear.’

  ‘They only hear what they want to hear.’ He joined in the Ameer’s laughter. ‘You are confident they will do what we want and give us what we need?’

  ‘Do they have a choice? They have hankered after this for so long that the buggers must be salivating right now.’

  ‘So while they drool over their fabulous Project Mike, we go ahead with our plan?’

  ‘Of course we do. This time there will be no half measures. We’ll strike only when every cog is firmly in place. By the time they realize what the game is, it will be too late for anyone to do anything about it.’

  ‘True… And have you located the other Ameers?’

  ‘Not yet, but I know I will. They are out there, just waiting to be found.’ The Ameer’s eyes gazed into some distant horizon. ‘It will be the Tanzim of all Tanzims,’ he whispered. ‘And once they are in place and the nuclear arsenal is in our hands, nothing can stop us.’

  Both men stood in the darkness, silently watching the night deepen around them as they dreamt of the future… a future they hoped would arrive soon.

  The director of the ISI was not actually salivating, but he was close to it. He sat for a long time pondering over the conversation he had just had with Sher Khan. Then he picked up his phone and made another call. Considering the late hour, it was not surprising that the man who answered the phone in Dacca, the capital of Bangladesh, sounded groggy.

  ‘Wake up, my friend, this is no time to be sleeping. Project Mike has just been given a new lease of life.’

  ‘What?’ The man, who had very recently been appointed the director of the DGFI (Directorate General of Forces Intelligence) in Bangladesh, came awake at once. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Exactly what you just heard,’ the ISI director replied.

  ‘Allah be praised! Tell me about it.’

  So he told him. When they finally went back to bed, it was with great satisfaction and a marked sense of achievement. At last things had begun to move in the desired direction. Op TOPAC was finally going to succeed.

  At the same time, several hundred miles to the northwest, an MQ-9 Reaper UAV sliced through the cold, dark night, unseen and unheard, and closed in on the unsuspecting target below.

  Unlike the lightweight MQ-1B Predator, the Reaper is a weapon system and not just an individual drone. Initially called Predator B, it was finally renamed the MQ-9 Reaper, the ‘M’ to signify its ‘multi-role’ designation and the ‘Q’ to imply an unmanned aircraft system. Each Reaper system consists of four individual Reaper drones operated by different flight teams. Weighing 2223 kilograms and powered by a 900-horsepower turboprop engine, a Reaper can carry 1814 kilograms of fuel and 1701 kilograms of weaponry. Its arsenal is a mix of laser guided bombs and missiles, typically fourteen Hellfire missiles, as against the two Hellfire missiles that a Predator drone can carry. Like most standard fighter jets, the Reaper can also carry two bombs – normally the 226-kilogram GBU-12 laser guided precision bombs – but it can also be fitted with GBU-49s that are equipped to strike any target in any kind of weather without the need of a laser designator. Though still not as visible or notorious in the Af-Pak theatre of war as the more often used Predator drone, with its top speed of 482 kilometres per hour the Reaper is a hunter with the ability to destroy time-sensitive targets with persistence and precision.

  Tonight, only one of the four drones would be used, and that was more than enough to deliver the desired destruction. In fact, the massive firepower it had on board could easily have taken out several more such targets without difficulty.

  The Reaper took one final circuit of the sleeping village and then there was a sudden flare of light and two pairs of Hellfire II missiles slid off the firing rails and escaped into the night.

  Hellfire II is an optimized version of the AGM-114 Hellfire, a laser or radar guided air-to-ground missile system designed to defeat hard targets while minimizing the exposure of the launch vehicle to enemy fire. Designed in the early 1970s and first used as a multi-mission, precision attack weapon in 1985, the Hellfire missile is a miniature aircraft in itself, complete with a guidance computer, steering control and a propulsion system. Depending on the variant used, the Hellfire AGM-114K payload can be a High Explosive Anti-Tank (HEAT) warhead, powerful enough to burn through the heaviest of armour; or the AGM-114M blast fragmentation warhead used to defeat bunkers, other urban targets or light vehicles; or the AGM-114N where a metal augmented charge (MAC) is used against ships and enclosed structures such as caves and bunkers. The first three generations of this missile used a laser seeker that was highly accurate but needed the missile operator or launch platform to deliver it to
the target, thereby exposing itself to enemy fire. The fourth generation is an air launched, radar guided, inertially guided missile that utilizes millimetre wave radar technology to seek its target. This guidance is impervious to clouds or obstacles, making it truly ‘fire and forget’ and capable of engaging multiple targets simultaneously.

  With shocking speed, the four 64-inch long, 100-pound Hellfire II missiles lunged forward, and seconds later the three-room, single-storey house that they targeted disappeared in a blinding explosion of sound and light. By the time the dust settled, the mullah from Swat Valley had ceased to exist; parts of his body were scattered amidst the bloody debris.

  As were those of sixteen others who happened to be in the vicinity. Only seven had anything to do with the Taliban or Al Qaeda. The nine others were merely bystanders, neighbours, or villagers whose only fault was that they happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But such are the vagaries of war.

  TWO

  Asif Sharif’s distinguishing feature was the glint in his eyes. His eyes glowed with the cold, mesmerizing light of a zealot – or a psychopath. A barely average student with no exceptional skills, barring his extraordinary street-smartness, twenty-one-yearold Asif would have passed through life unnoticed and unremembered had it not been for a chance encounter with Mansoor Ahmed Salafi, one of the founders of Youth for Purity in Society (YPS).

  The YPS was set up in Aligarh in April 1997. It began as a students’ movement with the stated objective of liberating India from decadent, materialistic Western influences and converting it into an Islamic state where pure Islam would reign supreme, unfettered by the shackles of democracy. Its main architect was a student of journalism called Ishtiyaque Khan. It was a matter of great discomfort for YPS that, a couple of years later, Ishtiyaque Khan succumbed to the same deplorable Western influences that he had earlier attempted to eliminate, and migrated to America where he began to teach the virtues of free speech and journalism to college students.

  The nine-year-old organization was still struggling to establish an identity for itself when Salafi picked Asif as one of its office-bearers. Asif had then been trying, and not very successfully, to graduate from the University of Aligarh. For him, this sudden call to potential glory and fame was irresistable.

  Salafi was fuming when he left the weekly YPS meeting midway. ‘I don’t understand why these idiots can’t see the writing on the wall!’ The short man with his stylish goatee, prominent Adam’s apple and horn-rimmed spectacles was walking so fast that Asif had to struggle to keep up. ‘All they want to do is sit around and talk all day, or spend hours drafting stupid petitions to be submitted to the government. Bloody morons!’

  For want of anything better to say, Asif made the appropriate noises. In any case, he was still too much in awe of Salafi’s knowledge, enthusiasm and energy to express an opinion in front of him, especially when Salafi was in such a frenzy. They strode on through the corridor, their leather shoes clicking sharply on the erratic stone tiles.

  ‘While these fools are faffing around, the kafir government is screwing us all over the place.’ Salafi hawked loudly and spat out a blob of bile. It hit the corridor wall and trickled thickly down the yellowing walls, which were already streaked with betel juice. ‘Can’t they see how Muslims are driven into a corner and stepped upon all the time? Ayodhya, Gujarat, Kashmir... are they blind?’ Salafi fumed in silence for a while. ‘The more I listen to these fools, the more I begin to believe that Mujib is right.’

  ‘Who is Mujib?’ Asif asked after he had run through the list of YPS office-bearers in his head and failed to put a face to the name.

  ‘You have not met him – yet!’ Salafi threw out the last word theatrically. ‘But I think the time has come for us to sit with him and work out a more action-oriented plan that will actually allow us to achieve our goals.’ He paused for thought, his goatee tilted upward. ‘If we want to achieve something, we must be more aggressive and take action... instead of farting around with our mouths like those morons.’ This last was thrown back contemptuously at the others who were still at the YPS meeting.

  ‘If you say so, bhaijaan,’ Asif replied. Salafi’s words always stirred something deep inside him. ‘I am with you.’

  ‘I know you are, Asif!’ Salafi bestowed a keen, approving look on him. ‘You are the kind of person we need if YPS has to make a mark.’

  They met Mujib late that night, when even the confirmed insomniacs of the college had finally gone to sleep. He was waiting for them in a dirty, beaten up SUV outside the campus gates.

  ‘Salaam waleikum, Mujib bhai,’ Salafi greeted him in what struck Asif as a strangely deferential tone as they got into the rear seat of the SUV. ‘This is Asif... Asif, Mujib bhai.’

  The two men shook hands cautiously, each assessing the other in the murky darkness of the car. The cigarette smoke made Asif want to cough. He wound down the window a little.

  ‘Can we talk in front of him?’ Mujib asked Salafi, throwing an almost spent cigarette stub out of his window before rolling it up again.

  ‘Of course, bhai!’ Salafi was emphatic. ‘Would I have brought him along otherwise? He is trustworthy... one of us for sure.’

  ‘Uh huh.’ Mujib stared at Asif. ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Azampur.’

  ‘How long have you known him?’ Mujib gestured at Salafi.

  ‘For many years now, bhaijaan. We are neighbours… In fact, our parents have known each other a long time.’

  ‘What are you doing here in Aligarh?’

  ‘I’m in the final year. Eco Honours.’

  ‘You understand what loyalty and secrecy mean?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you understand that we will not take it lightly if you betray us in any way?’ There was a sudden edge in his voice as he turned and looked at Asif.

  Asif met his gaze and nodded. Mujib finally looked away, seemingly satisfied, at least for the moment. ‘Good.’ He started the vehicle and they began to crawl through the dark, narrow streets of Aligarh. ‘So what have you decided, Salafi?’

  ‘I’m beginning to believe you are right, Mujib bhai. The others are just wasting our time with all their talk, petitions and shit like that.’ Salafi thumped the seat with his fist. ‘We need to take action! We need to make those bastards sit up and take notice of us... and treat us with respect.’

  ‘How exactly are you are going to do that? And more importantly, who is going to stand by you in this battle?’

  ‘I know who is with me. Asif is, for one. Aren’t you?’ He looked at Asif.

  ‘Why else am I here, bhaijaan?’

  ‘I am pretty sure that some of the other key members are also with me… Irfan, Zaheer, Nissar and...’ He reeled off a few more names before his voice trailed away.

  After a moment, Mujib asked softly, ‘And who is against us, miyan? Knowing your friends is good, but it’s far more important to know your enemies.’

  Asif was not sure why, but he intuitively knew that something important was about to go down. Salafi’s voice was low when he replied.

  ‘I know for a fact that Omar and Shafique are going to oppose anything we try to do. Those damn do-gooders are definitely going to fight us tooth and nail. As for the others…’ He thought for a moment. ‘They are fence sitters. Bloody sheep! They’ll just flow with the tide. But Omar and Shafique – they certainly are the enemy.’

  ‘So be it!’ Mujib’s voice was cold and sent a shiver down Asif’s spine. ‘What are we going to do about them?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Salafi replied, almost petulantly.

  ‘What do you think we should do, Salafi?’ Mujib continued, his voice still chillingly low. ‘What does one do with the enemy?’

  Silence shrouded the occupants of the car. The game had changed, and each of them was acutely aware of it. They were no longer young students playing at bringing about a change in society or attempting to bring their misguided co-religionists back into the folds of pure I
slam. Suddenly there was something else riding with them, something grim and ominous.

  ‘What do you suggest, Mujib?’ Salafi’s words came out a strangled whisper, as though he was having trouble speaking. The sudden display of weakness in someone he admired so much shocked Asif more than he cared to admit and this unexpected betrayal caused a sudden rush of anger in him.

  ‘What does one do with the enemy?’ Mujib repeated softly, his tone neutral.

  He needs to know which side of the fence Salafi is on. The thought hit Asif immediately. And so do I. He found himself watching Salafi carefully.

  Talking the talk and walking the talk are two different things.

  Salafi seemed to be struggling with his thoughts, his inner turmoil evident. Both men watched him closely.

  ‘Fight those who believe not in Allah nor the Last Day, nor hold that forbidden which hath been forbidden by Allah and His Messenger, nor acknowledge the religion of Truth (even if they are) of the People of the Book, until they pay the Jizya with willing submission, and feel themselves subdued.’ Mujib chanted the sura in a low, flat tone, almost in a whisper. He was among those who had helped design the Al Qaeda recruitment and training manuals; he knew when the time was right to quote from the Scriptures.

  ‘But they are also believers, Mujib,’ Salafi protested weakly. ‘We must give them the chance to see...’

  ‘Are they? Then they will understand that the jihad takes supremacy. After all, battles are not won without martyrs.’ Mujib pulled over to the side of a deserted road; the shadow of a tree smothered what little light there had been inside the vehicle. ‘So what do we do with the enemy?’ he asked again, swivelling around in the driver’s seat to face Salafi.

  ‘We kill them.’ Salafi swallowed as he whispered the answer, his Adam’s apple bobbing comically in his throat. Asif suppressed a sudden, ridiculous urge to laugh.

  ‘And do you have it in you?’ Mujib continued in a low voice. Salafi’s goatee and his Adam’s apple did another rapid bob.