Ajay’s muscular shoulders had begun to feel the weight of the Angora goat. The warmth of the animal’s belly spread down his neck. Its fur shielded him from the chilly wind. He huffed as he climbed the hilltop, tugging the rope around the neck of the second goat. The animal bleated and followed him like a pet. Ajay shuddered at the thought of the goat deciding not to cooperate. A man from the city, he had little experience of such matters. The animal could blow his cover. And Javed’s men would shoot him dead. He had worn a bulletproof vest under the black Pathani suit, but a bullet to the head would mean certain death. ‘Good goat,’ Ajay whispered. ‘Good goat.’

  The pathway to the house was lined with tulips and lilies. Ajay’s squad was spread behind him. He had ordered them to cover him from a distance, stay behind the boulders or tree trunks, or lie low in the grass until the assault commenced. He whistled the tune of ‘Roz roz boz meyn zaar’ into the mic of his voice-operated switch – a signal that he had a visual on the enemy and the terrorists had spotted him. One of them had appeared on the balcony. Ajay sensed his suppressed suspicion from his body language. But he hadn’t opened fire yet, which meant the ruse had worked to this point. A rooster crowed from inside his basket.

  A few feet away from the entrance, Ajay hunched and lowered the goat off his shoulders. He carried the basket of hens in one hand and walked towards the door. The intricate Persian wooden door remained the only barrier between him and the enemy. Ajay knocked. Seconds later, a militant popped his head out.

  Reaching under the layers of his Pathani, Ajay pulled out a 9mm semi-automatic pistol and fired before the militant even realized what was happening. As if on cue, his squad also emerged from their positions and provided him with cover fire.

  Ajay kicked the door open. Assault rifles sounded from the floor above. His squad also returned fire. His eyes were set on the staircase to the upper floors.

  Suddenly, the door of the room to his left flew open. A terrorist jumped onto Ajay’s back. Ajay bent low and threw the terrorist to the ground. His pistol dropped. The terrorist rolled over and pulled out his weapon. While the men were locked in a momentary stare, Ajay quickly pulled a rooster out of his basket and threw it at the militant. The bird flew into the terrorist’s face. Cluck-clack-cluck. Brown and red feathers floated in the air. Ajay then pulled out a Micro Uzi submachine gun from under his kurta and fired. His attacker dropped dead.

  Holding the Uzi’s stock to his cheek, Ajay stepped forward. Another militant came sliding down the staircase railing. Ajay caught him at the turn with a burst of fire. He heard his squad closing in on the house. A terrorist fell out the window from the upper floor. His team had scored a kill.

  As Ajay rushed past the landing, Javed fired from his assault rifle. Ajay jumped behind the sofa. Javed’s last standing guard looked out of the window and was eliminated by Ajay’s squad, who had now reached the compound. Javed roared and sprayed a hail of bullets at the sofa. His indiscriminate firing emptied his magazine. As he paused to reload, Ajay jumped forward and shot three bullets into Javed’s chest. The militant’s rifle fell and his head thudded on the wooden floor. Ajay strode towards him. Javed was trying hard to breathe, but his lips moved. Ajay bent low.

  ‘Y-y-you have merely killed one mujahid.’ Javed spat out a mouthful of blood. ‘An army of our fighters is waiting at the doors of your cities.’ His eyes went blank.

  Meanwhile, the squad had reached the upper floor and begun searching the dead bodies. Ajay rifled through the pamphlets and booklets of indoctrination that the militants had carried. The enemies of the nation had managed to brainwash a section of the region into fighting a proxy war. Separatist leaders had played their roles. Local young men were lured to the gun to fight against the Indian armed forces, while the separatists’ own children lived in a secure environment in European nations and studied in top universities. Ajay shook his head in disgust. He was crumpling a pamphlet in his palm when an officer walked up to him.

  ‘Sir,’ the officer said. ‘All bodies accounted for. Control room has been notified.’

  ‘What about the old woman?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The house belonged to an old woman, yes? Where is she?’

  ‘No sign of her, sir. Perhaps these bastards …’

  Just then, a thudding sound was heard. All the officers in the room drew out their guns instinctively. Ajay held his Uzi low and stepped towards the source of the sound. The sound grew louder and by now, he was able to ascertain that it was coming from underneath the floor. On his orders, one of the troopers pulled off the Kashmiri carpet. Everyone gathered around the trapdoor that had been concealed beneath it.

  Ajay signalled with his eyes again. The trooper prepared to lift the trap door. Ajay turned the safety off his gun and aimed in the door’s direction. His men followed suit. When the door was finally opened, Ajay saw an old woman staring at him with horrified eyes, her bound legs still in the air after delivering the last thud on the door. Her cries were muffled by the tape tied over her mouth.

  The men pulled the old woman out. They removed the tape off her lips and cut open the ropes around her wrist. As soon as the woman was set free, she went about kicking the terrorists’ dead bodies. She let loose a barrage of abuses in chaste Kashmiri. ‘These are the real enemies,’ she screamed. ‘Hune! Dogs!’

  A trooper tried to restrain the woman, but she rushed towards Ajay. Her eyes were wet as she kissed his hands and continued to speak in Kashmiri, which Ajay couldn’t understand. He bemusedly looked at one of the local troopers.

  ‘Sir,’ the trooper said. ‘She is calling you a saviour sent by Allah.’

  ‘I am honoured that Allah chose me,’ he told the woman in broken Kashmiri.

  But even as he said it, Javed’s final warning was ringing in Ajay’s ears. An army of our fighters is waiting at the doors of your cities.

  2

  The Indian Atomic Research Center (IARC) was packed with journalists who had received an invite for a press conference only a few hours ago. More media personnel were jostling at the gates, trying to get inside, even as the security guards did their best to manage the crowd. IARC was India’s premier nuclear research facility that had made great achievements for the country.

  Mission director, scientist Dhana Swami Chandrashekhar, took a seat in the centre of the dais. His hair was completely grey, but there were no signs of an eccentric genius in his attire. He had cut his hair short and his clothes were crisply ironed. He placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward towards the mic.

  Deputy Director Krishnaswamy Ravindran was seated next to his boss. He appeared to be of the same age as Chandrashekhar. He was perspiring down the neck, clearly uncomfortable in the glare of the lights. He picked up a bottle of mineral water from the table and drank in slow gulps.

  There was a buzz in the air. Nobody in the media knew about the nature of the mission that the director was leading. The journalists were speculating about the purpose of this media event. The loud whispers came to an abrupt halt as Chandrashekhar began to speak.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said with a tinge of pride on his face. ‘Buddha has smiled once again.’

  A collective gasp ran through the room. Cameras began flashing. The journalists immediately understood Chandrashekhar’s reference to Buddha. On 18 May 1974, India had conducted its first nuclear test at an army base in Pokhran, Rajasthan, codenamed ‘Smiling Buddha’. This event had largely affected, if not entirely changed, the order of the world as it existed then. It was the first nuclear test by a nation other than the five permanent members of the UN Security Council. The Western powers, who had largely thought of India as a nation of snake charmers, had to stand up and take notice of the country’s scientific and military might.

  Chandrashekhar looked at the colleagues flanking him and smiled. ‘Early this morning, we conducted a successful test of an indigenously developed fusion bomb,’ he explained for those who might not have got it. ‘Many years of hard work have finally borne fruit.’

  ‘Can you give us more details on the test, sir?’ a reporter asked.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Chandrashekhar replied. ‘This is a thermonuclear weapon with which we have far exceeded previous attempts. In Pokhran-II, our yield was 45 kilotonnes, which was designed to scale for 200 KTs. This time, with a well-researched blueprint, we have achieved capabilities to deliver 600 KTs. In simple terms, we have magnified our nuclear capacity three times.’

  Another reporter raised his hand. ‘How does this affect our standing in the international community?’

  ‘Our nuclear ambitions have been fuelled by responsibility. But we are also driven by Dr A.P.J. Abdul Kalam, who believed that strength respects strength. His words stand true today more than ever.’

  ‘Did the Western nations have any idea about these tests?’

  Chandrashekhar explained that the Indian scientists had calculated the orbits of other nations’ satellites, and conducted the movement of their materials in their blind spots. A similar approach had worked during the Pokhran-II tests too. Besides, only a handful of people in India’s scientific, defence, political and external affairs establishment had prior information about these developments. This secrecy was necessary for the success of the tests.

  ‘Do you foresee a backlash against this development in the international arena?’

  ‘It would be best if you were to ask the external affairs ministry about that,’ Chandrashekhar responded.

  The foreign ministry had received a twenty-four-hour advance notice for this test. Their diplomats were already at work to let the world know that India was a responsible nuclear nation which adhered to a no-first-use policy. But like any other self-respecting country, India had the right to pursue avenues for self-defence.

  Another reporter stood up and said, ‘Sir, a fusion bomb can cause great destruction. To this day, we see that children are born with abnormalities in Japan due to nuclear bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. What is your take on this?’

  Chandrashekhar leaned back in his chair. ‘I understand your concerns, young lady. But the fact remains that we live in a less-than-ideal world. It is important that we build our strength, even if it is meant to be only a deterrent to the enemies of the nation.’ He paused. ‘And now we have some visuals to share.’

  All heads turned towards the projector screen. The Indian Atomic Research Centre logo appeared on it, with the words ‘Atoms in the Service of the Nation’ in English and Devanagari script. Then the image shifted to the deserts of Jaisalmer in Rajasthan, where the Pokhran Test Range was located. The entire media contingent looked on in awe as the desert shook under the impact of the bomb. Plumes of dust blew in the air. A helicopter surveyed the crater created by the detonation. Then a summary graph of the results was put up.

  As the conference neared to an end, every person in the room clapped. People rushed to congratulate Chandrashekhar.

  Foreign news channels had already picked up the story by the time the media filed out of the conference room, and it had created quite a ripple across the world, especially in Southeast Asia. Indian news channels were running amok with headlines like ‘Thar Thar Kapa Pakistan’ (Pakistan is shivering in fear). The Rashtrapati Bhavan and Prime Minister’s Office extended their heartiest congratulations to Chandrashekhar and his team. Within a few hours, the IARC was buzzing with talk about Chandrashekhar being in line for the Padma Shri.

  Chandrashekhar’s staff lined up and clapped as he exited the building. Media persons accosted him as he went towards his car, while his security cleared a path. Cameras flashed at the car’s tinted windows as he got in. He had become a celebrity overnight.

  All of the IARC’s staff went home that evening eagerly anticipating the detailed media coverage of their runaway success. Televisions were switched on well before the 9 p.m. bulletin. The more tech savvy ran online searches and bookmarked any web pages with news articles about the feat. Everyone eagerly waited to see the next day’s newspapers.

  Which is why it came as a rude shock to those who had missed the midnight news when the next morning, every news channel’s ticker announced, ‘Scientist D. Chandrashekhar found hung to death!’

  3

  Joint Commissioner of Police (Crime) Sagar Pratap was no stranger to dead bodies. His eyes followed the coir rope from the centre of the ceiling fan to the knot around Chandrashekhar’s neck. Pratap stroked his bushy moustache. The victim showed no signs of life. Resuscitation would not help. There was no haste to get him to a hospital. But an ambulance was waiting downstairs, and a huge crowd had already gathered around it.

  Hues of dark blue had formed over Chandrashekhar’s tongue, which was stretching out of his mouth. He was thin and short; Pratap estimated his weight to be around sixty-five kilogrammes. The spick-and-span condition of the house, the lined arrangement of the pillows on the sofa and the neatly stacked issues of the Scientific Indian magazine on the coffee table bore grave testimony to the orderliness of the man who was no more. Even in death, D. Chandrashekhar had followed the same methodical approach that had been the hallmark of his scientific expeditions.

  Staff from the forensics department were finishing their last set of photographs. Yellow tape with clear warnings had sealed off the room. The victim was wearing a crisply ironed white shirt and grey trousers. Pratap opened the cupboard and saw stacks of identical sets. Perhaps Chandrashekhar’s simplicity stemmed from his genius.

  A wooden chair was upturned near his drooping legs. He’d kicked the chair underneath with all his strength. Rigor mortis had set in and his muscles had stiffened. The doors and windows showed no signs of forced entry, and the room did not show any signs of struggle.

  ‘Who found the body?’ Pratap asked, still looking at the macabre scene.

  One of the constables behind him answered, ‘His team tried reaching him late last night, sir, because the PMO asked for some information. He would normally never ignore work calls, or if he missed one, would call back promptly. So, when the calls went unanswered for a few hours, someone from the team drove down. When no one opened the door, they broke it down and found the body.’

  Pratap turned around.

  ‘Cut the rope above the knot,’ he said. ‘Get him down.’

  Two paunchy constables and a helper brought down the body with relative ease. Pratap knew it was an important piece of evidence. He studied the frail scientist and found no external injury marks. The victim’s shirt smelled of Scotch, and it looked like he’d had one drink too many, to the point of spilling it all over his clothes.

  The man had been the toast of the media just twenty-four hours ago. But Pratap’s investigation revealed that Chandrashekhar was also seeing a therapist in Kemps Corner for clinical depression.

  Pratap sighed. Yet another brilliant mind had fallen, he thought. Snapping on a pair of latex gloves, he squatted close to Chandrashekhar’s body and began to examine it. He held the victim’s hand in his own.

  ‘No scrapings under the fingernails,’ he announced.

  A constable took notes in a red diary. Pratap studied the ligature marks around the victim’s neck. The sharp lines seemed to match the thickness of the coir rope. Fibres from the rope had stuck on to the victim’s neck. Pratap held Chandrashekhar’s chin and turned it from one side to another. He unbuttoned the shirt for a closer look.

  ‘No signs of external injuries,’ he said.

  But he had to find a motive, for a death like this demanded one. He checked the pockets of Chandrashekhar’s trousers. He found a wallet which contained a decent amount of cash and the scientist’s identification card from the IARC.

  ‘There was a note?’ he asked, directing the question at no one in particular.

  One of the forensic technicians stepped forward and the late scientist’s suicide note made its way from one gloved hand to another.

  It simply said:

  Is any cause worth bringing death upon a million lives?

  Chandrashekhar’s empirical compass seemed to have malfunctioned under ethical pressure. His body would soon begin to decompose. Pratap knew the onset of that stench.

  There was work to be done. The investigation demanded that they speak to the neighbours, the watchman, the maid, the milkman, the victim’s colleagues and whoever else they could lay their hands upon.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Send the body for a postmortem.’

  The Police Commissionerate at Crawford Market stood sturdy in the heart of the city. Commissioner Neeraj Kumar had taken over this assignment in the sunset of a distinguished career. A product of the Indian Police Service (IPS), he had been an English literature professor at a well-known university before securing an AIR (All India Rank) of thirty-seven in the Civil Service Examination of 1990. He had chosen the crispness of the khaki over the lure of babudom.

  The advent of his career coincided with his professional handling of communally charged situations in the early ’90s. Even in his initial years, he had shown a flair for words and an appetite for risk, which had strengthened his candidature for the top job after decades of service.

  The bakery blast by terrorist Javed Bukhari had caused a ‘routine transfer’ of the previous commissioner to the State Police Housing and Welfare Department. Kumar’s impeccable track record had prevailed over the other contenders to the post. And he had not failed his bosses. The backlash from the bakery blast had eased after Javed’s encounter by the NIA.

  Now, CP Kumar sat comfortably in his chair, flipping over a page from the pale blue file Pratap had just handed over. He skimmed through the pages, pausing at certain points with an expression of surprise.

  ‘What did Chandrashekhar’s therapist have to say?’ Kumar asked.

  ‘Sir.’ Pratap nodded. ‘The victim was prescribed a high dose of tricyclic antidepressants. Elavil, to be precise.’

  Kumar moved forward two pages. ‘What about his colleagues?’