SALIM MUST DIE Page 8

  The Pakistani General currently at the helm spared no effort to let the world know that all this had been made possible only due to the support extended by his country to the global community in the fight against terror. The General also planned to use this visit to extend some measure of legitimacy to his dictatorial regime.

  With news of the aerial assault on Iran just starting to trickle in, it was not surprising that a barrage of flash bulbs and questions greeted him. Adroitly sidestepping them, Wentworth strode rapidly to the awaiting limousine. Surrounded by a cordon of US Marines, the impressive motorcade took off towards the US Consulate located in Islamabad's Diplomatic Enclave, meeting an abundance of security personnel en route. And rightly so, since Pakistan's atmospheric conditions, even on the best of days, was not conducive to the health of Americans. These days, in the wake of the government's crackdown on the terror groups operating in Pakistan and the fact that US forces were operating against the Taliban from Pakistani soil, the climate was decidedly unhealthy. The Israeli air strike on Iran had simply ignited the already smouldering embers of anger.

  Four hours later, at an equally impressive ceremony, Richard Wentworth the Third laid the foundation stone for the new Technology City that would soon rise in the relative wilderness west of Islamabad. The press conference held in conclusion of this ceremony lasted almost as long as the inauguration and had more than enough sound bytes for the Pakistani government to exploit over the coming months.

  IT WAS ONLY NATURAL THAT A PERSON BESTOWING SUCH largesse on their economy be accorded the courtesy of breaking bread with the Pakistani Dictator. Promptly at the stroke of eight, Wentworth found himself at the General's official digs. The dinner was a sumptuous affair and a delight for Wentworth's discerning palate. Keeping in view Richard's desire, quietly communicated by his staff to the General's when they had been coordinating his schedule, the dinner was a quiet affair.

  The meeting that took place just after dinner was even quieter. It was held in the room which the General, with his literary pretensions, referred to as his library. The room had been assiduously swept and was clear of any kind of electronic surveillance device.

  Wentworth was almost halfway through his cigar when he came to the point. ‘The big man needs a very special favour from you, General.’ His tone was quiet. The atmosphere in the room altered almost immediately.

  ‘What kind of favour?’ The General inadvertently leaned forward a little.

  ‘You know that things are not going too well for him back home these days. There are too many body bags coming in from Afghanistan and Iraq and not enough to show for it all.’

  The General nodded, his face deadpan. Only the gleam in his eyes indicated his heightened interest. ‘Are you referring to the matter we spoke about last month?’

  Wentworth nodded briefly. He was a wily adversary and knew when the fish was about to bite.

  ‘Come on, Richard,’ the General protested quietly. ‘You know there is no way I can do that. Why is he so insistent on this?’

  ‘You know why. Too much has been expended… too many lives have been lost. The big man is out on a limb on this one. He does not want to go down in history as the one who screwed up.’ Wentworth gave him a long look. ‘He wants to end his tenure in a blaze of glory.’

  ‘Blaze of glory!’ The General chuckled dryly. ‘Richard, you cannot even imagine how big the blaze will be! There will be hell to pay.’ He clicked his tongue impatiently. ‘As it is we are having too many problems of our own and what you people have just started in Iran is not going to make things any easier.’

  Wentworth drew on his cigar. ‘Maybe we can help with some of those problems….’ There was a question mark at the end of his statement.

  ‘What kind of help are we talking about here?’

  ‘You tell me, General… what do you have in mind?’

  ‘What about a nuclear deal like the one you have offered India?’

  An explosive snorting laugh erupted from Wentworth. It was clear that he had been expecting something like this. ‘Get real, General. You know that's not going to happen… not with the changed equation and political climate. Ever since the election results, the present administration considers itself lucky if it can buy toilet paper without prior approval from the Democrats.’

  ‘Then what incentive is there for us? You know there will be hell to pay… the incentive has to adequately compensate for what we'll have to deal with later.’

  ‘There is still a lot we can do, General. I can give you many reasons for giving the big man what he wants.’ There was a brief pause before Wentworth spoke again. ‘I can give you a billion reasons,’ he said softly.

  A sudden silence stilled the room. It remained unbroken long after the sharp gleam of avarice had faded from the General's eyes. Wentworth carefully focused on stubbing out his cigar. Finally the General spoke again. ‘Is that what my life is worth? And that of my family?’ He seemed to be speaking more to himself than to the other man in the room.

  ‘What is anybody's life worth, General?’ the US emissary said softly. The carrot and the stick, both had been pulled out. Wentworth was now looking unblinkingly at the General.

  He's taken the bait. Now we need to go through the face saving motions.

  They did.

  An hour later, when Richard Wentworth the Third walked out of the Pakistani President's room, he had achieved what he had come for. The man he was representing was no friend of his. In fact, deep down Wentworth detested the man as much as he did his politics and policies.

  But what the hell, it's always good to have a man as powerful as the President of America indebted to you.

  THE NEXT MORNING, WENTWORTH WAS ON THE PHONE bright and early. It took him just a few phone calls to ensure that the promised billion dollars were safely lodged in the four numbered accounts specified by the General. Then he picked up the phone again and dialled.

  ‘Yes, Richard?’ the General's voice answered. He had obviously been waiting for the call.

  ‘I called to thank you for your hospitality, General, and to bid you farewell.’

  ‘The pleasure was ours, Richard. You must come again.’

  ‘But of course!’ There was a slight pause. ‘It has been a very productive visit. You can rest assured we shall deliver on all our commitments. In fact, we've already completed our part of the current transaction.’

  ‘I know you have, Richard, I already have a confirmation from my ban….’ He broke off. ‘Here, I think you'd better note this down, Richard.’ There was a slight rustling of paper at the other end. ‘Do you have a paper and pen handy?’ The General paused till there was a soft uh-huh from the other end, then he slowly read out an address.

  ‘Thank you very much, General,’ Wentworth said after he had read back the address to confirm it. ‘The chief will really appreciate this.’

  ‘Not a problem, Richard, just remind him that this stays between the three of us. It could be decidedly fata….’ The General broke off in mid-sentence, searching for a more palatable word. ‘Problematic,’ he finally concluded.

  ‘Don't worry, General. I will carry this to my grave.’

  ‘I'm sure you will,’ the General murmured. ‘Oh yes, Richard, did I mention that the man you seek is sick?’

  ‘You didn't, General.’

  ‘Didn't I? Well he is sick; very, very sick. In fact, for a very long time now he has had little to do with any real operational matters. Taking him is not going to hamper their operational or organizational capability in any way.’

  ‘That doesn't really matter, General, it's about not losing face. We cannot allow him to get away. America needs to send out a message.’

  ‘Oh well!’ the General replied. ‘Whatever you do, for God's sake, don't make a martyr out of him. That would be the last straw.’

  ‘On the contrary, General, the aim is to bring him in, make him live through the humiliation of standing trial and then punish him like the common criminal that he is.’
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  The two men spoke for a couple of minutes more. Richard did not put down the handset after the call was over. He dialled another number. The phone was answered immediately. The man who answered the phone did not speak much. He simply took down the address of the house in Hyderabad that Wentworth read out to him.

  WENTWORTH HAD A PLEASED BUT THOUGHTFUL AIR ABOUT him as he put down the phone and finished dressing. An hour later he left his room, and after a couple of inane ceremonies, Richard Wentworth the Third departed from Islamabad in his private jet.

  The sparkling jet climbed rapidly to cruising altitude. It had just cleared Pakistan's maritime limits and entered international air space when the explosion ripped through the midsection of the aircraft, slicing it in two neat halves. Both halves cartwheeled through thousands of feet before hitting the sparkling waters of the Indian Ocean below. They bobbed and lingered on the surface for a few moments before the deep claimed them.

  Richard Wentworth the Third had kept his promise to the General; he had carried their deadly secret to the grave with him.

  EARLY NEXT MORNING. HYDERABAD, PAKISTAN

  THE ADDRESS THAT RICHARD WENTWORTH THE THIRD HAD passed on to the man during his final phone call was of a house located at the end of a quiet, but extremely expensive suburb of Hyderabad. Compared to the other houses in the area, it was not very big, but it was surrounded by huge sprawling lawns on all sides. Running all around the lawns was a high boundary wall. Beyond the walls lay vacant lots on three sides. The walls were much higher than those of other houses in the area, but this in itself was not reason enough for any questions to be asked. Nor did the occupants ever do anything to draw any special attention to the house.

  At that early hour, not too many people were up and about. So nobody saw the two Toyota Hiace minibuses that drove up to the northern end of the lane. The vehicles, popularly known as the Wagon, were of a type often seen on these roads, except that these were exceptionally well-maintained and ran on smooth, almost soundless engines.

  The sixteen men who emerged from the vehicles were equally quiet. The weapons they carried and the Kevlar body armour they were wearing were not entirely out of place in this part of the world. After all, security forces are known to be up and about at strange hours in the strangest of places.

  In fact, the only thing that would have drawn attention to them was the fact that, barring one, all of them were distinctly Caucasian in appearance. That was definitely noteworthy, but there was no one around to notice it.

  At precisely the same time, the same scenario was played out on the other three sides of the house. The only difference was that on each of the other approaches to the house from the south, east and west, there was only one vehicle with eight men.

  As the vehicles approaching the house slid to a silent halt, the Kevlar-clad men within spilled out equally silently and raced towards their designated positions. The wide assortment of assault weapons carried by them would have let a discerning watcher know that a highly specialized Special Forces team was going into action.

  Turning rapidly on his heels to check that everyone was in position, the man who was obviously the leader of the sixteen-man team keyed his radio set. ‘North! We're ready to roll,’ he whispered softly into the mouthpiece.

  ‘South ready.’

  ‘East clear!’

  ‘Ditto West!’

  The staccato responses came in hard and fast. Voices were terse and betrayed the battle nerves that had begun to jangle with H-hour looming large. The North man keyed his radio set again. ‘Eagle, this is North leader. We're ready.’

  ‘Roger that, North.’ There was a very brief pause, as though the man at the other end was talking to someone else. Then: ‘It's a go. All teams go. Best of luck.’

  Tapping the transmit key of his radio set twice in acknowledgment, the North team leader turned to his group and said softly but clearly, ‘We're on.’

  Pivoting rapidly, the first two men took up position near the boundary wall and, using their hands, hoisted the next two men over it. The two dropped sound-lessly onto the other side of the wall. There was a brief, very soft rustle of clothing. Then silence returned as the other fourteen men waited. The tension was palpable.

  The assault had begun.

  ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WALL, LANDING SOFTLY, CAT-like, the two men slung their weapons across their chests so that they could bring them into action instantly when the need arose. In their hands razor sharp serrated commando knives gleamed in the early morning light. Moving like wraiths, they raced soundlessly across to the front and rear of the house. Both gates were closed. At the front gate there were two sentries, but there was only one at the rear.

  The rear gate sentry only discovered he was not alone when a hand suddenly clamped down on his mouth. By then it was too late. The knife sliced open a neat gash across his throat, from which the blood emerged initially as a thin red line but soon gushed out in a shocking downpour. The blood continued to flow long after life had ended. Lowering the man's body silently to the ground, the commando dragged it out of sight behind the bushes. Crouching behind the bushes, he hit the transmit button of his radio. ‘North two clear.’

  THE COMMANDO AT THE REAR GATE WAS LOWERING THE BODY to the ground when, on the other side of the house, there was a very soft, almost inaudible, metallic cough. The first sentry at the front gate gasped and slowly crumpled to the ground. His companion standing about ten feet away saw him go down, but the omnipresent early morning fog impeded visibility so he was unable to see clearly. Walking across with a puzzled look on his face, he knelt down and was reaching for the fallen man when he saw the small, neat hole in the man's forehead.

  The second sentry let go of the dead man as though he himself had been shot and was opening his mouth to raise the alarm when another soft cough intruded on the silence. The sentry fell wordlessly to the ground. He was dead before his body hit the ground.

  A few feet away, the commando watched impassively, waiting for any signs of life. There were none. Like his comrade at the rear gate, he too tapped the transmit button of the radio strapped to his belt. ‘North one clear.’

  MOVING RAPIDLY THROUGH THE SHADOWS, BOTH MEN OF the advance guard reached the rear of the house. The water spout was exactly where the satellite picture had indicated. The first man kept guard as the second one swarmed up the pipe silently. Emerging like a ghost, the commando peeped over the parapet and scanned the roof.

  The sentry manning the roof was pacing across the front. His rifle was slung across his shoulder, but the man was alert, stopping every so often to scan the garden below before crisscrossing to the other side of the roof and repeating the exercise. The commando waited till the sentry was at the far end of the roof before he hauled himself over the parapet. He landed lightly on the roof, his silenced pistol reappearing in his hand.

  He fired even as the sentry was turning to begin his patrol back towards him. The subdued cough of the silenced pistol was lost in the night. The tiny lead bullet met the sentry just when he was clear of the wall. It drilled a neat hole in his head, killing him almost instantly.

  The commando had launched himself forward even as the bullet left the muzzle. Racing across on soundless feet, he caught the falling sentry. Lowering him to the ground, he hissed into his transmitter.

  ‘Roof clear, North.’

  AS THE THIRD TRANSMISSION ECHOED IN HIS HEADSET, THE north team leader turned and signalled to the men crouching around him. Coming alive almost as one, the fourteen fighters swarmed across the wall and raced across the garden towards the house lying still and silent before them. The night vision gear strapped around their heads lent them an eerie, outlandish appearance.

  None of them could have known that one of the occupants on the first floor would choose to get up and head for the toilet just then. The man was crossing one of the windows overlooking the front garden when he spotted the dark, ghostly shapes rushing silently across the lawns. The man was no genius, but it did not take hi
m even a second to realize that they could mean nothing but trouble.

  The solitary shot rang out in the still morning air with extraordinary loudness. Hard in its wake followed the loud cry of alarm as the shooter alerted the other occupants of the house. But this was no ragtag bunch of soldiers. They were superbly trained and reacted with all the speed, skill and ferocity at their command.

  North team raced ahead in sharp, irregular spurts, returning the fire with short bursts, instinctively aiming at the pinpricks of light that had begun to illuminate the dark house.

  ‘Eagle, we're going in hot now,’ the team leader hissed into his headset as they ran forward.

  ‘Roger that, North. We're on our way.’ Eagle's tinny voice was almost lost in the rapidly escalating thunder of gunfire as a continuous volley of shots followed the brief lull after the first one. Every now and then, a scream punctuated the cacophony.

  The first three commandos fell almost immediately. Two of them were saved by the Kevlar jackets cocooning their torsos. They stumbled to their feet and followed their comrades who were racing towards the house. The third one was beyond caring. The two neat holes near his right eye put him beyond any help.

  Pausing briefly near the window, the first commando tossed two Flash-and-Bang stun grenades through it. The strike team counted down the mandatory four seconds before they slammed against the door, blowing it open just a fraction of a second after the grenades exploded.

  The team rushed in with weapons primed. Figures in various stages of undress greeted them. They were cut down almost instantly as the commandos swept through the house.

  The man they had come for was on the first floor of the house. He was still in bed, trying weakly to unhook the infusion pump attached to him. The man's disease-wracked face was pale and he was breathing torturously. He seemed to be in tremendous pain, but that did nothing to diminish the hate smouldering in his eyes.

  He wasn't wearing the flowing white robes that he was always photographed in, nor was his flowing beard as well-groomed as it appeared in these photographs. But there was no mistaking the sharp angular features, which for the past few years had adorned the pages of almost every newspaper and magazine in the world.