up to the recruits. ‘This is the Muzaffarabad training camp. I am…’
The men were neither welcoming nor warm. Rather like the grumpy sergeants in the old war movies that I used to watch in school, thought Iqbal.
SALIM
2210 hours, 27 October 2005, ISI Office, Lahore Army Cantonment, Pakistan.
’Allah be praised! That Afzal guy has delivered. See, sir, I told you he would.’ Captain Azam Cheema gave a satisfied smile; Afzal had been his discovery.
‘I still don’t trust him,’ replied Brigadier Salim. ‘He is the only one in this mission who is here just for the money. If he can sell out his country for cash he can as easily sell us out to the Indians for more.’
‘Don’t worry, sir, he will continue to deliver. I have him well under control.’ In the five years that he had served as Salim’s aide, Cheema had never let him down. Somehow, deep inside, Salim knew he would rather die than let that happen.
‘Well, Cheema, just make sure he is out of Delhi ASAP and in position for his next task.’ Salim shelved further thought on Afzal for the moment; he had more important things to worry about. Picking up the satellite phone he dialled a number that was stored in the phone’s memory. A moment later he was talking to the old Maulavi in Delhi. ‘Are the boys ready?’
‘Of course.’ As usual the old man sounded supremely confident.
The Maulavi was one of the few Indians whom Salim did trust. Over the years he had regularly delivered a stream of young motivated men to the training camps run by the ISI. Many of these men had gone on to achieve great things in the Valley and inflicted terrible losses on the Indian security forces. This time too, it was the pick of Maulavi’s recruits who had constituted the Lashkar. He had personally handpicked nine of them for this assignment. One had gotten injured during the training, but that was not a problem since only seven were needed for the actual operation. Even if they had taken one more hit the mission would not have been jeopardized. After all, reserves were the lifeblood of any operation. Wars were never won without cannon fodder.
‘Excellent. Then let us begin.’
Ten minutes later, Salim’s Lashkar swung into action.
The prelude to the dance of death had begun.
THE STRIKE
0520 hours, 28 October 2005, Aftab Cyber Café, Khirki Gaon, New Delhi.
The cyber café was a deep cover implant that had been established by the ISI several months ago and was to be activated only for a priority assignment, after clearance from the very highest quarters. Brigadier Murad Salim was definitely high up enough in the ISI hierarchy to ensure it was made available to him without a fuss.
The café, located in one of the several narrow lanes that radiated into Khirki Gaon colony opposite the small temple on the main road, was sited in a carefully reconnoitred and selected building. This particular lane was almost always deserted since it dead-ended just two houses beyond the cyber café. Both houses behind the cyber café were occupied by mid-level workers employed in the host of small factories and offices that crowded the colony. Since most of them were out-of-town migrants, residents were quite used to all kinds of people coming and going at odd hours; new faces drew no special attention here.
The first man arrived just before daybreak. The other five men arrived separately at irregular intervals of ten to twenty minutes. With the exception of one who looked as though he was barely out of his teens, all of them were in their late twenties or early thirties. There was nothing exceptional about any of them except that they were all physically much more fit than the average man on the streets and that they seemed to have a lot more money on them. All of them were clean-shaven and wore nothing that gave any indication of the god they worshipped.
‘We will be working in this room. This is where I stay.’ Furkan, the cyber café owner, pointed to the inner room. ‘No
The men were neither welcoming nor warm. Rather like the grumpy sergeants in the old war movies that I used to watch in school, thought Iqbal.
SALIM
2210 hours, 27 October 2005, ISI Office, Lahore Army Cantonment, Pakistan.
’Allah be praised! That Afzal guy has delivered. See, sir, I told you he would.’ Captain Azam Cheema gave a satisfied smile; Afzal had been his discovery.
‘I still don’t trust him,’ replied Brigadier Salim. ‘He is the only one in this mission who is here just for the money. If he can sell out his country for cash he can as easily sell us out to the Indians for more.’
‘Don’t worry, sir, he will continue to deliver. I have him well under control.’ In the five years that he had served as Salim’s aide, Cheema had never let him down. Somehow, deep inside, Salim knew he would rather die than let that happen.
‘Well, Cheema, just make sure he is out of Delhi ASAP and in position for his next task.’ Salim shelved further thought on Afzal for the moment; he had more important things to worry about. Picking up the satellite phone he dialled a number that was stored in the phone’s memory. A moment later he was talking to the old Maulavi in Delhi. ‘Are the boys ready?’
‘Of course.’ As usual the old man sounded supremely confident.
The Maulavi was one of the few Indians whom Salim did trust. Over the years he had regularly delivered a stream of young motivated men to the training camps run by the ISI. Many of these men had gone on to achieve great things in the Valley and inflicted terrible losses on the Indian security forces. This time too, it was the pick of Maulavi’s recruits who had constituted the Lashkar. He had personally handpicked nine of them for this assignment. One had gotten injured during the training, but that was not a problem since only seven were needed for the actual operation. Even if they had taken one more hit the mission would not have been jeopardized. After all, reserves were the lifeblood of any operation. Wars were never won without cannon fodder.
‘Excellent. Then let us begin.’
Ten minutes later, Salim’s Lashkar swung into action.
The prelude to the dance of death had begun.
THE STRIKE
0520 hours, 28 October 2005, Aftab Cyber Café, Khirki Gaon, New Delhi.
The cyber café was a deep cover implant that had been established by the ISI several months ago and was to be activated only for a priority assignment, after clearance from the very highest quarters. Brigadier Murad Salim was definitely high up enough in the ISI hierarchy to ensure it was made available to him without a fuss.
The café, located in one of the several narrow lanes that radiated into Khirki Gaon colony opposite the small temple on the main road, was sited in a carefully reconnoitred and selected building. This particular lane was almost always deserted since it dead-ended just two houses beyond the cyber café. Both houses behind the cyber café were occupied by mid-level workers employed in the host of small factories and offices that crowded the colony. Since most of them were out-of-town migrants, residents were quite used to all kinds of people coming and going at odd hours; new faces drew no special attention here.
The first man arrived just before daybreak. The other five men arrived separately at irregular intervals of ten to twenty minutes. With the exception of one who looked as though he was barely out of his teens, all of them were in their late twenties or early thirties. There was nothing exceptional about any of them except that they were all physically much more fit than the average man on the streets and that they seemed to have a lot more money on them. All of them were clean-shaven and wore nothing that gave any indication of the god they worshipped.
‘We will be working in this room. This is where I stay.’ Furkan, the cyber café owner, pointed to the inner room. ‘No
Similar Books
