‘But there is one man, this Ajay, who is a thorn in our flesh,’ Hafsa said. ‘He needs to die. And I will put our deadliest operative to this task.’

  Someone asked, ‘Who is this operative?’

  ‘The one who silenced the scientists,’ Hafsa said. ‘The one who can strangle a man with her bare hands. The one who leaves no shadows.’

  ‘Where is this person?’

  ‘Right here, among you,’ Hafsa said, smiling for the first time. ‘When the time is right, you will know who it is.’

  13

  Jonathan Hoffman had diligently staked out the upscale bar at the Four Seasons, Mumbai, before setting up the meeting with Moshe.

  The training he had undergone almost two decades ago at ‘The Farm’, the top-secret training facility of the CIA at Camp Peary, Langley, Virginia, had now become second nature. He had identified the hours during which the bar would be least occupied and booked a table, under an alias, of course, for two, choosing one in a corner. The table’s position was such that a pillar would block his face from most of the other patrons. A backdoor exit close by would provide him with a quick getaway in case the need arose. This was his third visit to India in seven months and he was taking due care to cover his tracks.

  Thanks to years of operating in the field, Hoffman understood that the best disguises were simple. Real espionage did not translate into wearing stylish clothes and sleeping with beautiful women. In the world of spy craft, keeping your cover meant keeping your life. Hoffman had practised these principles and survived some of the biggest landmines in the world – Afghanistan and Iraq. In Southeast Asia, foreigners attracted attention by default, so he’d carefully chosen this upscale bar at Worli which was frequented by firangs. Now he was patiently sipping his drink while waiting for his source to arrive.

  Hoffman and Moshe had collaborated earlier in Iraq, where they had conducted an operation together and built some trust on a personal level. This meeting, however, was going to be crucial. He was going to give Moshe a hint of the operation he was trying to conduct in India. And giving out this information meant playing your hand. But he realized he had to take his chances. Over the years, Moshe had cultivated many sources in the Indian defence and scientific establishments. Hoffman knew that such sources could, willingly or unwillingly, lead him to his objective sooner than expected.

  His thoughts were interrupted at the sight of Moshe entering the restaurant. The Israeli too was an old hand at this trade. He’d taken care to wear a dinner jacket and formal pants.

  The two men nodded at each other. Hoffman was all business as he handed over the menu to Moshe, who ordered a vodka without looking up at the waiter. The men spoke of mundane things as the waiter placed the drink on the table and withdrew from their surroundings. Then they got down to business.

  ‘Our organizations have been traditional allies,’ the CIA agent said. ‘And so have you and I.’

  ‘Of course,’ Moshe said. ‘We did good business in Iraq.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got more business to conduct if you’d be willing. And this one means big bucks.’

  Moshe held the glass in his hand. ‘Talk to me.’

  ‘The Indians are building a bird box, which will change the order of not only South Asia but the rest of the world.’ Hoffman paused. ‘It is in our best interest to not let that happen.’

  Moshe was taken aback at the proposition, but did not let the surprise show on his face. In the world of espionage, nobody was a permanent friend or enemy. Such was also the case of operations conducted by foreign agencies in India. On 17 December 1995, a rogue Antonov AN-26 aircraft had airdropped rocket launchers, sniper rifles, pistols and AK-47 rifles in the village of Purulia in West Bengal. The pilot of the aircraft, Kim Davy, was supposedly a Danish citizen, but a credible theory doing the rounds at that time claimed that he was a CIA man who was then protected by the agency from being brought to justice. Operations like the Purulia Arms Drop, which might appear too far-fetched to the average civilian, were quite plausible in the playbooks of powerful spy agencies like the CIA.

  Moshe weighed the offer Hoffman had placed on the table. The more he considered it, the more absurd it sounded. He ordered another round of his drink. ‘The cowboys are okay with a bird box in Pakistan,’ he said. ‘But if India does the same, you always have a problem, yes?’

  ‘We’ve witnessed the Great Indian Rope Trick twice,’ Hoffman said. ‘They are good at covering their tracks.’ The Indian government had successfully managed to keep their nuclear programme under wraps during Operation Smiling Buddha in 1974 and Operation Shakti in 1998. After the Indian experiment in 1998, Pakistan had responded by conducting six nuclear tests of their own under the codename of Chagai-I and Chagai-II in the Ras Koh Hills of Chagai district in Balochistan. ‘Having no clear leader in South Asia suits our objectives,’ he continued. ‘And yours.’

  Moshe shook his head. He understood the message. But CIA experiments had their own costs. When the erstwhile Soviet Union had invaded Afghanistan in the late 1970s, it was an open secret that the CIA had helped the Afghan mujahideen with weapons, money and training. At the time, the Americans had no idea that they were creating the proverbial Frankenstein’s monster in the form of Osama Bin Laden, who would eventually turn on them many years later. Moshe wondered if Hoffman was aware of the monster he was trying to bring to life with this new experiment.

  ‘What are you trying to do, Johnny?’ Moshe said. ‘Let me guess. Save the world?’

  ‘Oh, c’mon …’

  ‘Thanks for the drinks,’ Moshe said. ‘But I don’t think I want more.’

  ‘Listen, man—’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘I understand you don’t want in on this operation,’ Hoffman continued. ‘But I’d appreciate it if you keep my offer secret, especially from your Indian sources.’

  Moshe stood up to leave. He pulled out his wallet to pay his share of the bill, but Hoffman insisted on settling the tab. Putting on his best poker face, Moshe nodded. The meeting had left him severely disturbed, and he decided to go back to his home in Colaba and continue drinking the night away. He was already in two minds about passing this information to Ajay or keeping his word to the American.

  Ajay was preparing for another lonely night in his quarters. He’d sent his orderly on a week’s vacation. The solitude, he believed, would help him cope with the pulls and pressures of the case. He was sitting on the couch in the living room, which had sunk to a point where he realized that the seats needed to be changed without any further delay. Requisitioning seats from the government meant going through red tape and he had borne enough of it for one lifetime. He was tired and dozing off while sitting with his head resting against the distempered walls. But the doorbell rang and shook him back to life.

  He glanced at his watch. He hardly ever had visitors this late; it was close to midnight. He approached the door cautiously and looked through the peephole. Asiya was standing outside. Before she could turn and walk away, he opened the door and greeted her. She was wearing a pink salwar-kameez. Her legs were crossed and she was nervously holding the edge of her dupatta in one hand.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ Ajay asked, looking at his watch again.

  She nodded.

  ‘Come in, please,’ he said.

  He walked to the dining table and poured her a glass of water. When he turned around, Asiya was still standing at the door. He felt weakened by an emotion he had never experienced earlier. He stared at her for a moment, trying to make sense of the situation, and realized that she was in two minds about something.

  Somewhere in the give and take of these things, she strode towards him with purpose. Instinctively, he placed the glass back on the table and gained only a moment before she grabbed him and kissed him on the mouth. His lips stiffened at first, but the brush of her tongue eased his mouth open. He finally let go and kissed her back with equal passion. All of this seemed like a dream. But he could see her and feel her and she was still there, holding his lips between hers.

  An hour later, Asiya was in bed with Ajay, the bedsheets covering their naked bodies and her head resting on his shoulder. They were both enjoying the moment in silence when Ajay’s cell phone rang. He grabbed the phone from the dressing table, trying hard to ignore her protests, and cast a look at the screen. Moshe was calling.

  He dropped back onto the bed and answered the phone. Asiya leaned closer and placed her head on his chest. Moshe was drunk and he was pretty loud, such that Ajay was sure that Asiya could faintly hear him.

  ‘What are you doing, my friend?’ Moshe asked.

  ‘Practising an ancient art at midnight.’ Ajay chuckled. ‘Remember that you are in the land of Kamasutra.’

  Asiya playfully slapped Ajay on the arm. He grinned and put an arm around her.

  ‘Fuck you, man,’ Moshe said. ‘I have no luck with Indian girls.’

  ‘But you get lucky with information,’ Ajay said. ‘What do you have for me now?’

  ‘Uncle Sam’s nephews seem like they are up to some mischief.’

  ‘Really?’ Ajay said. He understood that Uncle Sam was a reference to America and the nephews were a reference to rogue CIA agents. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘Not on the phone,’ Moshe said. ‘Meet me tomorrow evening. Same spot.’

  ‘Okay,’ Ajay said. ‘Now let me get back to my art.’

  Moshe laughed as Ajay cut the call and found the phone snatched away from his hands.

  ‘I’ll show you what art is,’ Asiya whispered as she placed his phone on the dresser and raised herself up to straddle him.

  14

  Ajay was in that moment of his pre-dawn routine when he would abruptly wake up with sweat flowing freely down his neck. But this time, he could feel Asiya sleeping next to him, the warm touch of her body and the softness of her breath, and that comforted him in great measure. He realized, though, that a strong vibration was still pushing him towards consciousness. His eyes blinked open and witnessed a flashing of light in the otherwise dark room.

  His phone was vibrating on the dressing table. The light from the phone illuminated Asiya’s heavenly face. Ajay took a moment to watch her. He fumed at the idea of Moshe making another drunk call at such an hour and picked up the phone, only to see that it was Neeraj Kumar calling. He struggled out of bed and went to the living room.

  ‘Get ready in fifteen minutes,’ Kumar said. ‘A vehicle will pick you up.’

  ‘Where are we going, sir?’

  ‘We are taking a flight to New Delhi,’ Kumar said. ‘The home ministry has finally taken note of your theory regarding the deaths of the Indian scientists.’

  ‘When will we return, sir?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning.’

  Kumar provided him a few logistical details before ending the call. Ajay realized that he would have to postpone his meeting with Moshe.

  He turned to see Asiya standing in the bedroom doorway, smiling at him sleepily.

  ‘I … I’m sorry, I have to …’ he started apologetically but Asiya stepped forward and silenced him with a kiss.

  ‘Do what you need to do,’ she said softly.

  Ajay looked into her eyes and saw no anger, no annoyance, nothing but support and understanding. He felt a tug in his heart.

  He took a quick bath and readied himself while Asiya made coffee for both of them. The kick of caffeine invigorated Ajay and his pick-up vehicle arrived soon after. He kissed Asiya again and hoped that she would still be there when he returned.

  An IAF chopper had been arranged for Kumar and Ajay at short notice. They fastened their seat belts while the pilots ran through their checklists with great alacrity. The aircraft blades began to whirl and Ajay experienced a moment of weightlessness as the chopper took off into the skies. Kumar briefed Ajay about what to expect in New Delhi. It was going to be an all-agency meeting. The Research and Analysis Wing (R&AW), the Intelligence Bureau, the National Investigation Agency and the Mumbai police had been ordered to attend this emergency meeting with the National Security Advisor.

  They landed and breezed through security before hurrying into a waiting SUV with tinted windows. The glass looked like it was bulletproof and for good reason. The recent attempt on Kumar’s life had made him a VVIP in terms of protection. No chances were being taken.

  The meeting room was filled with uniformed personnel as well as black suits and red ties. Kumar and Ajay were seated not far from the NSA’s chair who was going to take the first meeting. Ajay picked up a bottle of mineral water from the oval table and poured himself a glass. He noticed the sombre faces around him. There was a sense of common purpose, but the air was also filled with the chill of inter-service cold wars.

  The Intelligence Bureau, represented by its chief, was India’s premier internal intelligence agency. It had also been responsible for external intelligence between 1951 to 1968. Later, foreign intelligence was made the primary domain of the R&AW, which was formed in 1968 when erstwhile Prime Minister Indira Gandhi felt the need for creating a full-fledged service to gather external intelligence. The synergies between the two organisations were traditionally evident from the fact that the R&AW’s foundations were laid by Rameshwar Nath Kao, who was then a deputy director with the IB. He went on to become the first R&AW chief. Kao’s status in the world of spy craft was the stuff of legends and he shaped the R&AW into a professional and efficient organization in just three years of its establishment.

  The National Investigation Agency or the NIA was formed in the aftermath of the 26/11 Mumbai terror attacks. The agency was empowered to probe terror attacks all over the country and held concurrent jurisdiction.

  Nishikant Dobriyal, who was the current National Security Advisor, was an IPS officer who had served as director of the R&AW before picking up this sensitive post in the last leg of his stellar career. He was a polyglot who had a firm grip over many foreign languages. The kind of respect he commanded in the room could have only been earned by spending an entire lifetime in the security establishment and by putting himself out in the field and behind enemy lines. Like any other officer, Ajay had closely followed the NSA’s career.

  NSA Dobriyal began with a brief of how Ajay’s theory – that the death of three Indian scientists was part of a series of planned executions – had gained weight after the R&AW had picked up similar intel from across the border. And this was also part of a larger design. A bigger game was being played, but Indian agencies hadn’t been able to pick up its threads yet. More disturbing was the fact that only a mysterious silence had prevailed since the collection of this intel. Dobriyal now turned to R&AW Chief Rajendra Verma.

  ‘Have the stations across the border reported anything suspicious beyond what we already know?’

  ‘No sir,’ Verma said. ‘No chatter at all.’

  ‘No chatter is not good,’ Dobriyal mused. ‘It means that the enemy has something to hide. Do we see any spike on NETRA?’

  NETRA (Network Traffic Analysis) was a software network developed by the DRDO (Defence Research and Development Organisation) of India for the monitoring of internet traffic.

  ‘Alert levels are in the green zone, sir.’

  Dobriyal turned towards Intelligence Bureau Chief Priyanshu Dutta. ‘Any LIM reports we should be worried about?’

  The Lawful Intercept and Monitoring (LIM) was a project through which government agencies could conduct surveillance over voice records, SMSes, GPRS data, and CDRs (call detail records) of phones in India. It was through such surveillance that security agencies often kept track of terrorist activity. However, terrorists would also keep changing their strategies to stay out of the radar of the agencies. They often developed codewords, referring to explosives as ‘mithai’ and AK-47s as ‘guitars’, and so on.

  The IB chief ruffled through the pages of a file he had carried. ‘No, sir.’

  The NSA now spoke directly to Kumar and Ajay. ‘You are both in the thick of things,’ he said. ‘DIG Ajay has done a good job with the investigation so far. But we haven’t been able to pinpoint who eliminated these scientists. All of them had a connection to Operation Trishul, so it is obvious that someone wants us to fail on that front. And then we had a bomb scare right in the heart of Mumbai.’ He paused. ‘New Delhi has reason to be worried.’

  ‘Sir,’ Kumar said. ‘We are working on some crucial leads. We’ll crack the case soon.’

  Priyanshu Dutta fired a salvo at Kumar: ‘Hopefully, you’ll do so by catching someone alive, and not in an “encounter”. We could have really used the intel from that sniper.’

  Kumar was not in the mood to hold back either. ‘Maybe if your agency had given us prior information that a sniper is going to land up in our city with an imported rifle, we would have been more alert.’

  ‘Okay,’ Dobriyal cut in. ‘OKAAYY, okay! Calm down, everyone!’

  He gave the room a minute to settle down.

  ‘Let’s touch base in forty-eight hours and see what we all can find. And, for the love of God, find something.’

  After the NSA left, Ajay and Neeraj Kumar spent the rest of the day in more meetings with the R&AW and IB chiefs over the various facets of the case.

  It was past midnight by the time they boarded the commercial flight back to Mumbai. Both men were unfastening their seatbelts upon landing when Ajay’s phone rang. He smiled, thinking that Asiya was calling. But his expression changed when he noticed Pratap’s name. He answered the call.

  ‘I may have some bad news,’ Pratap said. There was a sensitivity in his tone that Ajay had not detected earlier.

  ‘How bad?’ Ajay asked as fliers began collecting their luggage from the overhead racks.

  ‘You tell me,’ Pratap said. ‘I’m at a rented apartment in Colaba, where one Moshe Frischman was found murdered this morning. And the last person he called was you.’