He sank deep, opened his eyes and forced himself to focus on the last bit of information he had taken in just before entering the water: Asiya had a small knife tucked in her boot. He had seen it when the leg of her jeans hiked up as she fell.

  He swam towards her dim form. Already, he could see her regain her bearings and look around for him. He didn’t stand a chance against her in fair hand-to-hand combat, much less underwater.

  He dived low and went for her leg. The only thing that worked in his favour was that she didn’t realize what he was doing. Before she could understand, he slipped the knife out of her boot. Then he kicked several times and swam upwards and away from her.

  Both came up to the surface almost at the same time. For a moment, they bobbed up and down, treading water, before starting to swim towards each other.

  ‘Hang on, Ajay!’ he heard Pratap call out from a distance. ‘I’m coming!’

  Ajay didn’t have time to hang on. Asiya lunged and planted both her hands firmly on his shoulders. With all her might, she pushed him down just as he drew another long breath.

  Ajay went down without a fight, but as he dipped he buried the knife in her abdomen. Even from under the water, he could hear her scream. Asiya let go of his shoulders and as he came up, she swung her fist, catching him in the side of his head.

  Ajay took the blow. His priority was only to keep holding on to the knife. Gritting his teeth, he pulled the knife out and rammed it in again, making a fresh wound in her stomach.

  Asiya kept staring at him, eyes full of vicious hatred, even as he twisted the knife in her belly. She raised both hands and gripped his throat. She was no longer trying to drown him. Instead, she was using all the strength she had left to strangle him.

  And it was working. Ajay could feel his oxygen supply being cut off. He was choking and getting dizzy.

  He struggled hard to focus. His free hand clutched Asiya’s shoulder. Her eyes kept boring into his as she kept squeezing, not letting up at all.

  With one supreme effort, he tightened his loosening grip around the knife’s smooth, cold handle, removed it from her stomach and drove it up.

  The last thing he saw before he passed out was the blade getting buried in the soft flesh just under her chin. His fingers opened and released his grip around the knife’s handle.

  The world started closing in around Ajay as his eyes rolled up in their sockets and he started sinking to the bottom.

  His last thought was, is she dead?

  Then everything went black.

  32

  Juanita Martinez walked quickly and with purpose, her boots making a dull thud on the tiled floor as she advanced towards the conference room at the NIA office in Mumbai.

  Her official title was senior analyst with the Central Intelligence Agency. It was, however, just a title. Over the last fifteen years, the fifty-something veteran spy had been responsible for some of the deadliest and dirtiest missions in countries across the globe. Her most recent assignment had been in India, where she was directly handling the day-to-day activities of one Jonathan Hoffman, recently killed in action on Indian soil.

  Unlike most of her peers, Martinez didn’t dress in crisp suits and heels. She preferred cargos, T-shirts and jackets, with heavy leather boots. It was what she would wear as a young operative on the field and what she felt comfortable in. Just because she had traded battlefields in war zones for ones in office buildings, it was no reason to hang up her battle fatigues.

  Martinez pushed open the door to the conference room. DIG Ajay, Joint Commissioner of Police Pratap, Mumbai Police Commissioner Kumar and National Security Advisor Nishikant Dobriyal were sitting around a large table. Martinez took the chair closest to Ajay and leaned back, her fingers lightly drumming the table.

  ‘Good to see you back in action, Mr Rajvardhan,’ she said.

  ‘Ajay, please. It’s good to be back. All thanks to Pratap sir.’

  Pratap only smiled. He had managed to swim up to Ajay just as he was about to go under and dragged him to the shore. It took another couple of hours for divers to reach the scene and pull Asiya’s body out. Ajay, despite his injuries, had not moved from the edge of the water till he saw the body and heard the doctor officially pronounce her dead. Only then did he allow the paramedics to lead him away. He still had a bandage on his nose and a whole range of bruises from Asiya’s merciless blows.

  ‘And this Asiya Khan, she is confirmed dead?’ Martinez asked.

  ‘I’ve seen the body. She is dead beyond doubt,’ Ajay replied.

  ‘I want to see the body.’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ NSA Dobriyal said, standing up. ‘May I offer you coffee?’

  ‘I’d rather come straight to the point, please,’ Martinez replied. ‘One of our men was killed in your country. That kind of thing has repercussions.’

  Before Dobriyal could respond, Ajay spoke up.

  ‘If I may, Ms Martinez, Hoffman died in action on a mission of supreme importance not just to India but also to USA and any other country that is currently fighting the bane of terrorism. He went beyond the call of duty and laid down his life trying to apprehend a dreaded terrorist.’

  ‘I’m aware of all of that. And I can also read the subtext in your words, Ajay. You’re subtly telling me that he became part of your operation when he had no need to do so and that, in a way, his death was his own fault.’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ Ajay said.

  ‘And I’m not stupid,’ Martinez shot back. ‘We’d like access to Asiya’s ISI contact that you’ve arrested.’

  The trace programme that Ajay had put on his substitute laptop, which Asiya had accessed in the seven-star hotel that night, had led the NIA to an ISI sleeper agent based in south Mumbai, who had been feeding intelligence to Pakistan for a decade. He was currently in NIA custody, picked up shortly after Asiya’s death. And he was singing like a canary.

  ‘By all means,’ Dobriyal said. ‘We’d be happy to share whatever we get from him.’

  ‘Not good enough,’ Martinez said. ‘I need to interrogate him personally.’

  For a minute, there was silence in the room. Then, Ajay spoke up again.

  ‘Suppose,’ he said, ‘you start with a little gesture of good faith?’

  ‘I’m not sure any more good faith is required on my part, but what is it that you were hoping to get from me?’ Martinez said curtly.

  ‘How about Operation Dark Ages?’ Ajay said.

  For the first time, Martinez looked thrown. Her face, which had till then been set in a slight scowl, went stony.

  Ajay picked up a water bottle and finished it in one gulp.

  ‘You’ve heard of Moshe Frischman, I presume? The Israeli national who was found murdered in Colaba?’ he asked as he set the empty bottle down.

  Martinez nodded.

  ‘He was a Mossad agent, but then I’m sure you knew that already. He was also my friend. And the last person he met on the day that he died was Jonathan Hoffman.’

  Martinez said nothing. It was impossible to gauge how much she already knew.

  ‘Moshe left a message for me on his computer, which I discovered the morning after his murder. It simply said, “Operation Dark Ages”. I searched high and low, tapping my sources in Pakistan and the Middle East, to find out what it meant, and no one seemed to have heard anything. Finally, I retraced his steps on the day of his murder. The usual methods – CCTV and cellular location tracking. Which is how I found out about his meeting with Hoffman.’

  Martinez was still silent.

  ‘So I looked in the one place I hadn’t so far. I had simply assumed that it was connected to India and Israel’s common enemies, but I never thought it might be connected to India’s friends. And we both know we have more sources in each other’s agencies than we care to let on. That’s how I found out that Dark Ages was a CIA operation.’

  Martinez spoke for the first time.

  ‘I have no idea what …’

  ‘You will kindly do me the favour of not sitting in my own house and lying to my face, Ms Martinez,’ NSA Dobriyal spoke up for the first time.

  ‘We have found out,’ Dobriyal continued, ‘and confirmed through various sources, including Asiya’s ISI contact, that a large amount of money had been committed to the ISI for the development of nuclear weapons, which were to be created with the help of the data stolen from our research facility. This money was coming from outside Pakistan through a whole network of shell companies and dummy corporations. But it all comes down to five organizations based in the Middle East. And all five are controlled by the CIA.’

  Martinez’s olive skin turned a shade darker. Her hands were curled into loose fists. She wasn’t a woman who liked to be caught napping.

  ‘Classic false flag approach,’ Ajay said. ‘You approached the ISI through those five front companies and offered to finance their nuclear programme if they could steal our research. Even the ISI didn’t know that they were dealing with the CIA.’

  ‘It was never supposed to …’ Martinez started speaking but stopped. Then she spoke again. ‘They were … the ISI was never supposed to actually make any weapons. We had plans in place to ensure that.’

  ‘Of course you did,’ Dobriyal snapped. ‘The plan was to deal a blow to India’s nuclear progress as well as keep Pakistan out of the race at the same time. To keep both countries in the dark ages.’

  ‘And for good reason,’ Martinez snapped back. ‘Every time one of you makes a nuclear weapon, the other countries are thrown into a panic. The race intensifies. The demand for radioactive materials goes up. The demand for black market nukes goes up. The whole fucking ecosystem is thrown off-balance.’

  ‘So, only the great US of A is allowed to be a nuclear god, is it? The rest of us have to meekly stay in line and respect the status quo?’ Dobriyal asked acerbically.

  ‘It’s not like that and you know it,’ Martinez said, scowling.

  ‘What we know,’ Ajay said, cutting in, ‘is that your own agent, Hoffman, was not comfortable with your plans. Which was why he talked about them to Moshe, knowing fully well he would come to me.’

  ‘And you know that how?’ Martinez asked.

  ‘Because Hoffman told me as much. The day he came to my house. The day he was killed. And Moshe, minutes before he was shot dead, entered that message into his computer for me to find. That’s two good agents lost, Ms Martinez. And their blood is on your hands.’

  ‘So excuse me for not granting you any access to the ISI contact we have arrested,’ Dobriyal added. ‘But I really don’t feel very cooperative right now.’

  ‘Gentleman, you’re missing the point. The operation was never meant to take any lives …’

  ‘But it did. And I don’t know why you’re missing that point. People have died. You got into bed with the K-e-M to achieve your objective and the K-e-M shed the blood of so many innocents in my country. Just like you people got into bed with the Taliban all those years ago, something that the world is still paying the price for,’ Dobriyal said angrily.

  Martinez looked away.

  ‘I’d like to take Hoffman back to his family.’

  ‘Hoffman’s body is embalmed and in a coffin, waiting at a military installation in Mumbai. It will be driven to the international airport with a military escort and put on a plane without any red tape. Instructions have already been issued to that effect. The people in charge of the coffin see him as a fellow soldier and will treat him that way till he is in their hands,’ Dobriyal replied.

  Martinez stood up and walked out of the room.

  EPILOGUE

  The air was chilly, but the kahwa provided some warmth.

  The woman on the tiny hillock stretched her legs and leaned back.

  Around 200 metres away, twenty-five young women were crawling on the ground on their elbows and knees. At one end of the row, six bearded and turbanned men were kneeling with their AK-47 assault rifles, raised at eye level. They kept squeezing off shots straight ahead at irregular intervals. Any woman who straightened up without permission was at full risk of being shot dead, and the women on the ground were fully aware of this.

  The sound of gunfire wasn’t new to anyone living in that region. They had lived with that sound for decades and would probably continue to do so. Peace was something that the people here had long since given up on.

  The public execution of Asiya Khan, whose real name was still not known to anyone, had spurred a new batch of recruits to join the K-e-M. It had been a month since the bloodbath at the Worli Sea Face in Mumbai. Thanks to the internet, hundreds of women had found the K-e-M’s discussion forum on the dark web and expressed interest in laying down their lives for the cause. After careful and repeated screening, twenty-five of them had been selected and welcomed into the fold with the most glowing of words. Money was sent to them, tickets were booked and they were made to feel important and special in every possible way. That is till they reached the training camp in Afghanistan.

  There they were given coarse uniforms to wear and thrown together in a tent. Their training, which was unforgiving and relentless, began the same day.

  Sitting at her vantage point atop the hillock, Hafsa watched with satisfaction as the first batch of Sipahane Ayesha (Soldiers of Ayesha) were trained.

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  It’s love at first sight for DIG Ajay Rajvardhan of the National Investigation Agency when he sees attractive lawyer Asiya Khan in court, representing a young woman the NIA has arrested on charges of terrorism. Despite being on opposite sides – he specializes in taking down terrorists while she defends those wrongfully arrested by the authorities – he is unable to get her out of his head.

  Meanwhile, a serial killer is on the loose, murdering India’s most famous nuclear scientists one by one. Time is running out for Ajay and his associates, Deputy Commissioner Sagar Pratap and Commissioner Neeraj Kumar, to find the mastermind behind these incidents. And something far worse is brewing in the bylanes of Mumbai. Even as Ajay and Asiya are drawn closer, a web of crime, deception and intrigue weaves itself around them and threatens to take them down.

  Inspired by true events, this riveting tale of love, terror and revenge is Hussain Zaidi at his best.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Before becoming a writer, publisher, producer, scriptwriter and mentor to new talent, S. Hussain Zaidi was a journalist for over twenty years. He started his career with The Asian Age and The Indian Express before moving on to Mid-Day and Mumbai Mirror as editor (investigations). He bid adieu to journalism in 2016.

  His first book, Black Friday, was made into a critically acclaimed film by director Anurag Kashyap. His documentation of the Mumbai mafia in books such as Dongri to Dubai, Mafia Queens of Mumbai, My Name Is Abu Salem and Byculla to Bangkok is considered to be among some of the finest pieces of investigative journalism. His mastery over terrorism-related research is reflected in Black Friday, Headley and I and Mumbai Avengers. Mumbai Avengers was the first fiction title that Zaidi experimented with. The book was adapted into the Hindi film Phantom, starring Saif Ali Khan and Katrina Kaif and directed by Kabir Khan.

  Zaidi was also associate producer, along with Dan Reed, of the documentary Terror in Mumbai, based on the 26/11 Mumbai attacks, for HBO. The movie was widely acclaimed and won a number of awards. While Class of ’83, based on his book by the same name and produced by Shah Rukh Khan, is already streaming on Netflix, a web series based on Dongri to Dubai, being produced by Farhan Akhtar, will soon be released on Amazon Prime Video.

  Also by S. Hussain Zaidi

  Byculla to Bangkok

  Headley and I

  Mumbai Avengers

  Eleventh Hour

  The Endgame

  Zero Day

  At HarperCollins India, we believe in telling the best stories and finding the widest readership for our books in every format possible. We started publishing in 1992; a great deal has changed since then, but what has remained constant is the passion with which our authors write their books, the love with which readers receive them, and the sheer joy and excitement that we as publishers feel in being a part of the publishing process.

  Over the years, we’ve had the pleasure of publishing some of the finest writing from the subcontinent and around the world, including several award-winning titles and some of the biggest bestsellers in India’s publishing history. But nothing has meant more to us than the fact that millions of people have read the books we published, and that somewhere, a book of ours might have made a difference.

  As we look to the future, we go back to that one word—a word which has been a driving force for us all these years.

  Read.

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  First published in India by HarperCollins Publishers 2024

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  Copyright © S. Hussain Zaidi 2024

  P-ISBN: 978-93-5489-997-3

  Epub Edition © April 2024 978-93-5489-940-9

  This is a work of fiction and all characters and incidents described in this book are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  S. Hussain Zaidi asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.