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“I never leave this place,” replied the drunk. “Ask the neighbors or the security guards at the gate. I am always worried that the bitch may forcibly repossess the house while I’m out.”
Jack looked at Santosh and shook his head, pointing to the empty alcohol bottles scattered all over the floor. They were wasting their time with Quadri.
Santosh agreed. Quadri had unkempt shoulder-length hair. It seemed unlikely that the man would leave a murder scene without shedding some of it. Furthermore the hair samples at all three murder sites had been short strands of black hair, not the muddy brown color of Quadri’s.
While one could loathe Quadri, he was quite certainly not their man.
Chapter 32
THE MUSTACHE WAS prominent, and combined with his height and build it gave him an imposing air. He used a discreet entrance next to a private hospital. There was no sign to indicate that what lay beyond the door was a maze of barriers, soldiers, and sniffer dogs. A single plainclothes officer with a pistol tucked away under his jacket directed visitors into the complex that sported the look of a well-funded university—manicured lawns, sparkling fountains, and well-tended buildings.
The imposing man occupying the chair in the central office on the top floor was the chief of the Inter-Services Intelligence—or ISI. The Director General of Pakistan’s premier intelligence service was a veteran, having served as a lieutenant general in the Pakistan Army. It was a powerful job, being the head of an organization that employed over ten thousand officers and staff members, not including informants and assets.
The Chief of Army Staff was his mentor, but occupying the post of Director General was always a balancing act. If one was too successful, one became a target of the political establishment. On the other hand, if one was incapable of delivering results then there were enough people baying for one’s blood in the army.
Headquartered in Islamabad, the ISI had been responsible for supporting the Afghan Mujahideen against the Soviet Union in the erstwhile communist Afghanistan and later providing support to the Taliban against the Indo-Iranian-backed Northern Alliance in the civil war in Afghanistan. Most importantly, the ISI was involved in covert operations in Kashmir and other parts of India, having nurtured and supported several outfits on the ground there that gave the ISI much-needed deniability of its own role.
Inside the Director General’s office was a massive desk capable of doubling up as an impromptu conference table. The Director General was holding a meeting with the head of the CAD—the Covert Action Division of the ISI—a youthful-looking man in his early forties.
“Do we have someone inside as yet or not?” asked the Director General, his voice tinged with a Punjabi accent.
“It has taken us several months,” replied the CAD head smoothly, “but, yes, I am happy to report that we finally do have access to Private.”
A smile hovered on the Director General’s face. “It will give me the greatest pleasure to see that outfit destroyed. Three key operations in India have been botched by the interference of that lot,” he said. “The train blasts, the hotel attack and the Air India hijack … In all instances we’ve had operatives captured or killed.”
“In that case, should I proceed with the next part of my plan?” asked the CAD head.
“Yes. If you have managed to penetrate the organization, then start making arrangements for the next phase. Use the Indian Mujahideen network to handle logistics,” responded the Director General, drawing in a deep breath of nicotine and tar. “By the way, who is this man who has managed to get inside the fortress?”
“He is a Muslim from the medical fraternity. He has strong anti-American leanings and is thus the perfect candidate for the job,” replied the CAD man.
“Good,” said the Director General. “Keep me posted regarding your progress.”
Chapter 33
THE HAJI ALI Mosque was a unique structure in Mumbai’s architectural landscape. Built on an islet off the coast of Worli in the southern part of Mumbai, it was only accessible via a narrow causeway that ran for a distance of five hundred meters through the sea. During high tide the mosque was cut off from the mainland when the causeway was entirely submerged. Sensibly, Mubeen had made sure that he reached the mosque well within low-tide hours.
As he neared the whitewashed structure, he could see the eighty-five-foot-high minaret—a familiar feature on Mumbai’s sunset skyline. Upon arriving at the islet, he used the sculpted entrance to reach the marble courtyard containing the central shrine. He paused for a moment before the tomb, covered by a red-, green-, and gold-embroidered sheet and supported by a silver frame. He mouthed a silent prayer before making his way to the men’s prayer hall. Here he stood in a corner, silently reading the ninety-nine names of Allah that made up the Arabic patterns on the marble pillars.
The prayer hall of Haji Ali gave Mubeen a feeling of comfort. It allowed him to silently grieve for his son and remember happier times with his wife. It allowed him to draw sustenance from the prayers that surrounded him. He was particularly grateful for the presence of Sufi singers who filled the air with sweet melodies in honor of Allah.
“What makes man so cruel?” he asked himself. After pondering the question for a while, he realized there was no single answer that could adequately address the question. At that moment, he kneeled down on his prayer mat, faced west toward Mecca, and raised his hands to his ears, chanting, “Allahu Akbar,” and thus drowning out the pain of what he had undergone in America.
Chapter 34
THE POSH SCHOOL for girls was very quiet at this hour. Even though it was a day school and none of the students remained on the premises after hours, the principal never left. The vast grounds had ceded space to accommodate a corner cottage for the principal. Separated from the volleyball court by a thick hedge and mango orchard, the cottage was a substantial perk afforded to the person lucky enough to occupy the post. Established by a Scottish missionary many years before Indian Independence, the school was one of the most prestigious girls’ academies in Mumbai.
There was never any reason for the principal to worry about security because the entire five-acre plot in the western suburbs of Mumbai was cordoned off by a high wall and barbed-wire fences. There was only one gate to the entire complex and a team of well-trained security guards patrolled it around the clock.
Within the walls and barbed-wire fences were buildings housing the classrooms, cafeteria, library, gymnasium, auditorium, laboratories, and swimming pools. A football field, cricket pitch, volleyball court, and tennis court occupied the remaining land.
Inside the principal’s cottage there were two floors. The lower one contained the living room, dining room, and kitchen, the upper floor two en suite bedrooms. Adjacent to the principal’s cottage were staff quarters containing a bedroom and bathroom for any domestic help that the principal chose to employ.
Inside the larger bedroom facing the front garden, the principal, Mrs. Elina Xavier—a widow in her mid fifties—was fast asleep. Given that it was the third day of the school’s annual examination week, Mrs. Xavier had taken time off to visit Mahim Church. Getting inside on a Wednesday could be a test of perseverance because of the long queue of devotees waiting for admission. Mrs. Xavier had been exhausted by the visit—particularly given the fact that she was undergoing the last few chemotherapy sessions that had been prescribed by her oncologist.
The full-time maid who cooked Mrs. Xavier’s meals and did the household chores was also asleep in the adjacent staff quarters. A few hours after Mrs. Xavier had slipped into dreamland, there came a very soft creaking noise in the cottage as one of the doors of the closet in the smaller bedroom opened slowly. Someone stepped out of this and tiptoed across the room to the door. The trespasser had been inside the closet for over five hours, having entered the house earlier in the day as part of the school’s outsourced housekeeping team.
Crossing the narrow passage that separated the two bedrooms, the intruder opened the door to the master bedroom and glanced over to where the substantial body of Mrs. Xavier lay asleep, heaving and snoring. Wearing a maintenance boiler suit, shower cap, and rubber gloves, the intruder approached the bed, holding a yellow scarf in one hand, and in the other a plastic bag containing a carton of hard-boiled eggs.
