1 July 2013 Istanbul, 2 p.m.
Ordinarily, a raan is supposed to nourish the person who eats it. But the raan that was to be the highlight of this evening was different. It was designed to bring death.
“That was a fruitful meeting,” thought Sabahuddin Umavi, one of the masterminds behind the 26 November terror attack in Mumbai nearly five years ago. Umavi was a Ghazi, a stalwart of Islam, one who had despatched hundreds of Indian infidels to hell. The 26/11 carnage was the jewel in his jihadi crown.
And at that moment, Umavi was over the moon. Now was the time to celebrate!
Only a few minutes earlier, he had struck a deal with a Saudi Arabian organisation that had enabled him to pocket half a million dollars. He could use the money to spread the spectre of mayhem and bloodshed across India: his lifelong goal. “I’m on my way to eternal glory,” he thought, imagining life in a huge castle in Paradise, with thousands of nubile virgins at his disposal.
Umavi rubbed his hands in excitement as he paced the room, restless despite his victory and impatient to kickstart the celebrations. It had been a long time since he’d had raan, and this seemed like the perfect occasion to relish it. It was also fitting that he had struck the deal here in Istanbul, the home of that dish.
The hotel he had checked into, the Marmara Taksim, was one of the biggest and the best, and their food and hospitality were world-famous. He had ordered several other delicacies as well, but his mouth watered in anticipation of the Royal Marmara Raan, even as his mind salivated at the havoc he would soon wreak.
In a room a couple of floors above his, two men sat listening very hard.
They could easily get into Umavi’s room through the air- conditioning vent, but that would defeat the entire purpose of their being there. They knew his room’s layout, how many men he had, and where they were stationed in the neighbouring room, how fit they were, their curriculum vitae of violence. That was why they had bugged the room just before Umavi had checked in.
Now, as Umavi made the call to room service, the two men heaved a collective sigh of relief. Things were going according to plan. They knew what they had to do.
One of them, a towering hulk of a man with an intimidating scowl and an even more intimidating moustache, clicked open his briefcase. He took out a small box, smaller than his palm, and looked at it suspiciously. “You really think this will work?”
The other man was busy changing into a garish yellow suit with a pink tie and alligator green shoes.
He glanced over and said, “Yes, it’ll work. Ray said it would.”
The first man opened the box and sniffed at the white powder inside. “Smells fine,” he grunted. He gingerly touched a finger to the stuff and tasted it. “Tastes fine too, just like dry fruit.”
“It is dry fruit. That’s the idea.” The second man had finished dressing. He took a South-East Asian karambit knife from his suitcase, and tucked the curved edge of its claw into his belt, at the back. He then surveyed himself in the mirror and nodded, satisfied with his look. “I’m ready.”
“All right, let’s go.”
The two of them walked out of their suite, avoiding the lift and climbing down two flights of stairs. They were now on Umavi’s floor.
“You go to the other end. I’ll keep watch here,” said the bigger man, who was clearly the leader.
His colleague nodded and strolled away to position himself just outside one of the floor’s lifts.
Their mission was clear. They had to wait for the room service trolley to arrive, spike the raan while distracting the waiter, and return to their room without attracting attention. They had to do it all without making the waiter suspicious, and without being spotted by the guards in the room next to Umavi’s, who had kept their door wide open. “Shit, I hope this works,” the man in the yellow suit muttered under his breath as he walked on.
There were two lifts on the floor, one at either end, and he had to take his post at the other one; this was till they figured out which way the waiter would come. They had their cell phones ready in their hands. When one of them spotted room service, he would signal to the other.
They didn’t have to wait long.
In just under half an hour, the smaller man’s phone vibrated. His colleague had spotted the target.
He pocketed his phone and walked towards the other lift. As he turned the corner, he saw the waiter pushing his trolley forward, a bored expression on his face. There were several dishes on the trolley, draped with a white cloth, all of them covered with large dome plate covers; the one in the centre was the biggest and therefore the one with the raan, he knew immediately.
A few paces behind the waiter, he saw his leader walking quietly, his shoes silent on the carpeted corridor. It was now or never.
The waiter saw the man in the yellow suit approaching him and quickly assumed a more pleasant expression. He manoeuvred the trolley to one side, to let the guest pass. But the man in the yellow suit had other things in mind.
He stopped directly in front of the trolley, looking at the waiter, and slowly smiled. The waiter knew that smile, and knew what was coming. He slowed to a stop too. “Good afternoon, sir.”
The man strolled to the waiter’s side and stopped a few inches away. “Good afternoon. Where are you going?”
“Delivering an order, sir.”
“Ah.” The man touched the waiter’s elbow gently, then slid his hand down his side and behind.
“Maybe you could delay that order for a few minutes?”
The waiter knew he couldn’t offend a guest, not without losing his job. “That’s very kind of you, sir. But I’m afraid I can’t delay. The gentleman who ordered this is a very important—“
“Yes, yes,” said the man smoothly. “I understand. But let me take a quick look at you. I haven’t seen such a fine specimen in a long time.”
He gently prised the waiter’s hands off the trolley, and grasped one of his hands. With the other, he gently turned him around, his hand still caressing the waiter’s behind.
“You seem quite stiff. But that’s a spectacular arse you have, my friend. Why cover it clothes.”
The waiter grew flustered, and tried to gently discourage the man. In the process, he completely missed what was happening behind him.
The first man had stayed directly behind the waiter during the exchange, out of his line of sight. The moment the waiter’s back was turned, he lifted the biggest lid without a sound, opened the small box in his hand, and sprinkled the powder it contained all over the raan, over and around the meat, as well as the gravy. Then he replaced the lid, pocketed the box, and moved back behind the waiter.
The instant the man in the yellow suit saw that his colleague’s work was done, he smiled again, as if giving in to the waiter’s protests. “All right, my friend. But do visit me when you can. I’d like to get to know you a little better. Room 512.”
“I shall certainly see to it that you get what you want, sir,” said the waiter, straightening his coat and turning back to the trolley, not seeing the first man at all. “Goodbye, sir.”
The smaller man winked and strolled away. The waiter trotted off. He’d grown used to this by now. Most of the Saudi Arabians who stayed at the hotel seemed to like his physique and lusted after him.
~~~
In the room two floors above, the two men got up. Their highly sensitive bugs had just informed them that Umavi had collapsed. Earlier they had planted a listening device outside the window, hanging by a thin thread not visible to the naked eye. The bug was supposed to relay the slightest of sounds in the room, including a shuffling of papers.
The taller man knelt beneath the AC duct and the shorter man climbed on his shoulders to reach it.
He clung to the ceiling for a moment, then forced himself up through the opening. The taller man followed, though it was slightly more difficult for him. Especially since he could hear footsteps approaching. By the time they had dropped silently onto the floor of Umavi’s room from the AC duct above, Umavi was stone dead, the veins in his throat standing out, his hands clawing at his chest, eyes bulging from a red face.
As the smaller man watched, his colleague silently went to the centre table in the living-room area, picked up a bowl of hazelnuts, and emptied more than half of them into his pocket. Then he brought it down on the dining table.
Within a few minutes, they were ready to get out. “Quick! His guards will be here any moment!”
The smaller man held out a muscular arm, and the tall man held it firmly. He mustered up all his strength and pulled his colleague up until his free hand could reach the ceiling. The tall man heard the footsteps right outside the door, and in one swift motion got into the duct. The door opened and the plastic covering of the air duct closed simultaneously. The two of them left the same way they had come, as silently as before.
“That was a close shave,’ the tall man whispered. ‘Now let’s get the hell out of here!”
Excerpted with permission from Mumbai Avengers, S. Hussain Zaidi with Gabriel Khan, HarperCollins India.
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Ordinarily, a raan is supposed to nourish the person who eats it. But the raan that was to be the highlight of this evening was different. It was designed to bring death.
“That was a fruitful meeting,” thought Sabahuddin Umavi, one of the masterminds behind the 26 November terror attack in Mumbai nearly five years ago. Umavi was a Ghazi, a stalwart of Islam, one who had despatched hundreds of Indian infidels to hell. The 26/11 carnage was the jewel in his jihadi crown.
And at that moment, Umavi was over the moon. Now was the time to celebrate!
Only a few minutes earlier, he had struck a deal with a Saudi Arabian organisation that had enabled him to pocket half a million dollars. He could use the money to spread the spectre of mayhem and bloodshed across India: his lifelong goal. “I’m on my way to eternal glory,” he thought, imagining life in a huge castle in Paradise, with thousands of nubile virgins at his disposal.
Umavi rubbed his hands in excitement as he paced the room, restless despite his victory and impatient to kickstart the celebrations. It had been a long time since he’d had raan, and this seemed like the perfect occasion to relish it. It was also fitting that he had struck the deal here in Istanbul, the home of that dish.
The hotel he had checked into, the Marmara Taksim, was one of the biggest and the best, and their food and hospitality were world-famous. He had ordered several other delicacies as well, but his mouth watered in anticipation of the Royal Marmara Raan, even as his mind salivated at the havoc he would soon wreak.
In a room a couple of floors above his, two men sat listening very hard.
They could easily get into Umavi’s room through the air- conditioning vent, but that would defeat the entire purpose of their being there. They knew his room’s layout, how many men he had, and where they were stationed in the neighbouring room, how fit they were, their curriculum vitae of violence. That was why they had bugged the room just before Umavi had checked in.
Now, as Umavi made the call to room service, the two men heaved a collective sigh of relief. Things were going according to plan. They knew what they had to do.
One of them, a towering hulk of a man with an intimidating scowl and an even more intimidating moustache, clicked open his briefcase. He took out a small box, smaller than his palm, and looked at it suspiciously. “You really think this will work?”
The other man was busy changing into a garish yellow suit with a pink tie and alligator green shoes.
He glanced over and said, “Yes, it’ll work. Ray said it would.”
The first man opened the box and sniffed at the white powder inside. “Smells fine,” he grunted. He gingerly touched a finger to the stuff and tasted it. “Tastes fine too, just like dry fruit.”
“It is dry fruit. That’s the idea.” The second man had finished dressing. He took a South-East Asian karambit knife from his suitcase, and tucked the curved edge of its claw into his belt, at the back. He then surveyed himself in the mirror and nodded, satisfied with his look. “I’m ready.”
“All right, let’s go.”
The two of them walked out of their suite, avoiding the lift and climbing down two flights of stairs. They were now on Umavi’s floor.
“You go to the other end. I’ll keep watch here,” said the bigger man, who was clearly the leader.
His colleague nodded and strolled away to position himself just outside one of the floor’s lifts.
Their mission was clear. They had to wait for the room service trolley to arrive, spike the raan while distracting the waiter, and return to their room without attracting attention. They had to do it all without making the waiter suspicious, and without being spotted by the guards in the room next to Umavi’s, who had kept their door wide open. “Shit, I hope this works,” the man in the yellow suit muttered under his breath as he walked on.
There were two lifts on the floor, one at either end, and he had to take his post at the other one; this was till they figured out which way the waiter would come. They had their cell phones ready in their hands. When one of them spotted room service, he would signal to the other.
They didn’t have to wait long.
In just under half an hour, the smaller man’s phone vibrated. His colleague had spotted the target.
He pocketed his phone and walked towards the other lift. As he turned the corner, he saw the waiter pushing his trolley forward, a bored expression on his face. There were several dishes on the trolley, draped with a white cloth, all of them covered with large dome plate covers; the one in the centre was the biggest and therefore the one with the raan, he knew immediately.
A few paces behind the waiter, he saw his leader walking quietly, his shoes silent on the carpeted corridor. It was now or never.
The waiter saw the man in the yellow suit approaching him and quickly assumed a more pleasant expression. He manoeuvred the trolley to one side, to let the guest pass. But the man in the yellow suit had other things in mind.
He stopped directly in front of the trolley, looking at the waiter, and slowly smiled. The waiter knew that smile, and knew what was coming. He slowed to a stop too. “Good afternoon, sir.”
The man strolled to the waiter’s side and stopped a few inches away. “Good afternoon. Where are you going?”
“Delivering an order, sir.”
“Ah.” The man touched the waiter’s elbow gently, then slid his hand down his side and behind.
“Maybe you could delay that order for a few minutes?”
The waiter knew he couldn’t offend a guest, not without losing his job. “That’s very kind of you, sir. But I’m afraid I can’t delay. The gentleman who ordered this is a very important—“
“Yes, yes,” said the man smoothly. “I understand. But let me take a quick look at you. I haven’t seen such a fine specimen in a long time.”
He gently prised the waiter’s hands off the trolley, and grasped one of his hands. With the other, he gently turned him around, his hand still caressing the waiter’s behind.
“You seem quite stiff. But that’s a spectacular arse you have, my friend. Why cover it clothes.”
The waiter grew flustered, and tried to gently discourage the man. In the process, he completely missed what was happening behind him.
The first man had stayed directly behind the waiter during the exchange, out of his line of sight. The moment the waiter’s back was turned, he lifted the biggest lid without a sound, opened the small box in his hand, and sprinkled the powder it contained all over the raan, over and around the meat, as well as the gravy. Then he replaced the lid, pocketed the box, and moved back behind the waiter.
The instant the man in the yellow suit saw that his colleague’s work was done, he smiled again, as if giving in to the waiter’s protests. “All right, my friend. But do visit me when you can. I’d like to get to know you a little better. Room 512.”
“I shall certainly see to it that you get what you want, sir,” said the waiter, straightening his coat and turning back to the trolley, not seeing the first man at all. “Goodbye, sir.”
The smaller man winked and strolled away. The waiter trotted off. He’d grown used to this by now. Most of the Saudi Arabians who stayed at the hotel seemed to like his physique and lusted after him.
~~~
In the room two floors above, the two men got up. Their highly sensitive bugs had just informed them that Umavi had collapsed. Earlier they had planted a listening device outside the window, hanging by a thin thread not visible to the naked eye. The bug was supposed to relay the slightest of sounds in the room, including a shuffling of papers.
The taller man knelt beneath the AC duct and the shorter man climbed on his shoulders to reach it.
He clung to the ceiling for a moment, then forced himself up through the opening. The taller man followed, though it was slightly more difficult for him. Especially since he could hear footsteps approaching. By the time they had dropped silently onto the floor of Umavi’s room from the AC duct above, Umavi was stone dead, the veins in his throat standing out, his hands clawing at his chest, eyes bulging from a red face.
As the smaller man watched, his colleague silently went to the centre table in the living-room area, picked up a bowl of hazelnuts, and emptied more than half of them into his pocket. Then he brought it down on the dining table.
Within a few minutes, they were ready to get out. “Quick! His guards will be here any moment!”
The smaller man held out a muscular arm, and the tall man held it firmly. He mustered up all his strength and pulled his colleague up until his free hand could reach the ceiling. The tall man heard the footsteps right outside the door, and in one swift motion got into the duct. The door opened and the plastic covering of the air duct closed simultaneously. The two of them left the same way they had come, as silently as before.
“That was a close shave,’ the tall man whispered. ‘Now let’s get the hell out of here!”
Excerpted with permission from Mumbai Avengers, S. Hussain Zaidi with Gabriel Khan, HarperCollins India.
