Weapon of Vengeance

by Mukul Deva

Genres: Vigilante Thrillers

Synopsis

Ruby Gill is a rogue MI6 agent, the daughter of an Indian father and Palestinian mother. Her mission is to destroy a Palestinian-Israeli peace summit in New Delhi. Ruby's father, whom she has not seen since age three, is now head of India's antiterrorist police. When the two first meet, Ravinder Gill believes his long-lost daughter has come for a reunion . . . but as time goes by, he begins to suspect that she is the terrorist he's searching for.

Combining a fascinating mix of terrorist operational detail contrasted with the coming together of a father and daughter who once loved each other but are now on opposite sides of a deadly encounter, Mukul Deva's Weapon of Vengeance is a gripping thriller filled with explosive action and weighty characters.

At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.

Release date: June 24, 2014

Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

Print pages: 288

Sample

DAY ONE



The woman with the Mediterranean complexion blinked as she emerged from the aircraft into the bright Sri Lankan sunlight. Though early in the day, the light was already harsh. As was the medley of thoughts clashing in her head.

Lowering her wraparound shades over large, almond-shaped eyes to cut out the glare, she paused at the top of the stairs and surveyed Colombo's Bandaranaike Airport.

Stark brown fields with intermittent patches of green stretched away beyond the barbed-wire fence ringing the runways. Scattered along the fencing were security posts with tall, searchlight-mounted sentry towers. Grim reminders of the insurgency that had torn apart the island state.

Barring an odd airport vehicle and caterpillar-like luggage trolleys snaking around, the runway was devoid of life. An air of despondency hung all around. Not a good feeling. She gave a slight shiver, as though to shake it off.

As she descended toward the bus waiting to take passengers to the squat, yellow terminal in the distance, she watched a jetliner swoop down like a huge hawk, its blue and white Finnair logo sparkling in the sun. She heard a distant thud, followed by the smoky blistering of rubber as the jet's wheels made contact with the tarmac. The roar of engines faded as it vanished down the runway.

It was a short walk to the bus, but she could feel sweat in her armpits. Arriving from the London chill, she was annoyed by the heat, which caused her to hurry into the air-conditioned comfort of the bus. It did not take long for the bus to fill up. Soon they were on their way. Almost everyone was switching on mobiles, several already in animated conversations. The young girl standing beside her had tuned out the world with her iPod and was swaying to some unheard beat.

Conditioned by her training, the woman did yet another rapid scan with practiced eyes. She had done this many times during the flight, but compelled by habit, did it again. Her danger antennae remained quiet. Nothing out of sync. Yet.

Those who did not know her would have assumed she was just another thirty-something masking her femininity; though the baggy, almost masculine clothing did little to conceal her breasts and voluptuous figure. Those who knew her would have noted she was in battle gear.

The baggy black jeans and equally loose, full-sleeved, blue cotton shirt were not just to keep her cool. They would also let her swing into action should the need arise. She never wore skirts or dresses on a job; neither were practical, nor were they a good idea in the man's world she had occupied most of her working life. Also, skirts and dresses were not designed to carry the armory of an MI6 agent, which comprised a mobile, a BlackBerry, a weapon, spare magazines, and, very often, a secure digital radio. Nor could they conceal her backup, the .22 pistol in her ankle holster.

Today, of course, she was weaponless. Not good. She felt naked without them; the feeling intensified by her hyped-up state. Also missing was the protective, standard-issue Kevlar vest. Black, patent leather, rubber-soled, lace-up shoes completed her attire. The one-inch heels and rubber soles ensured she could move swiftly and soundlessly. Her black shoulder-length hair was neatly pinned back; ensuring no errant strands in her eyes. She wore virtually no makeup. On a job, she always dressed down.

As the bus swayed to a halt outside the terminal, she jumped out and headed for the immigration counters. She carried herself with the ease of a professional soldier. And she knew she looked good. Male heads turning as she passed confirmed that.

While waiting in line at the immigration counter, she ran through her operational checklist. She could not afford any mistakes. Time was short and there was a great deal to be done.

Nothing in her demeanor gave any inkling of the turmoil in her head. No one observing her could have imagined the immensity of the mission she was on. Not that she was dismayed by the obstacles that lay between her and her targets. Far from it. She wished she'd been able to run a detailed background check on her targets and her adversaries before leaving London, but there had been no time. Despite that, she felt ready and committed. She would pay any price to ensure she succeeded.

"Never forget your purpose in life." Her mother, Rehana's, words echoed in her head. "Never forget the blood your family has shed. Never forget what we have suffered … are continuing to suffer. No matter what, you must not let our sacrifice go to waste."

For a moment, the memory of her mother made her falter. The sight of her shattered, decimated body ripped at the woman's heart. But it was a fleeting lapse.

All these years, she had prayed for the day when she would finally raise her hand and strike down those who had inflicted so much misery on her people. And now the day of reckoning was almost at hand. Ten days more, and she would demolish the Israeli–Palestinian Peace Summit.

Ruby Gill strode forward. Eagerly. Completely focused. Nothing would stop her. She knew.

* * *

Ravinder Singh Gill, the tall, lean Inspector General of Police and head of the Indian Anti-Terrorist Task Force, was en route toward his third-floor office in Delhi Police HQ. Conscious he needed the exercise, Ravinder went past the elevators and took the stairs.

Though he was well past fifty, the years had been kind to him. With his neatly tied turban, flecks of gray spotting his mustache and beard, he cut a dashing figure in black pants, sky blue shirt, and patent leather shoes. A Montblanc pen peeped out from his breast pocket. Black cuff links embossed with the family's double-headed lion crest completed his attire. The lion had one paw raised, ready to strike. It resonated with his mood.

His day had begun with the never-ending mother–daughter discussion about marriage. These had been their sole agenda ever since their daughter, Jasmine, celebrated her twenty-second birthday. It took only minutes for them to degenerate into an acrimonious harangue. Today had been no exception. Not a great way to start the day. Ravinder was in a sour mood when he had left the breakfast table and headed here.

He sensed the day was not going to get better when he came out and saw the driver changing a tire on his Scorpio SUV.

"Sorry, sir," the man called out when he saw Ravinder emerge. "There must have been nails on the road near the Metro construction site. Both front tires are punctured."

"How long will it take to sort it out?" Ravinder controlled his irritation.

"About half an hour, sir."

"Damn! I am in a rush."

"Why don't you use our car?" his wife, Simran, called out from the door. "I will send the Scorpio when it is fixed."

"I guess I will," Ravinder replied, looking at the black BMW 750Li parked in the porch. Jagjit Singh, the family driver, in his bright red turban and pristine white uniform, complete with the family crest, was polishing it. Simran loved these royal-like trappings and ensured they were displayed wherever possible. Ravinder, though, preferred to downplay his wealth and royal background, not easy when being driven around in a spanking-new Bimmer. But he got into the car and they took off.

As he entered his office, Ravinder dragged his fingers back along his temples, trying to push away a budding headache. The phone rang. Ravinder reached for it, relieved to have something intrude on his dark mood.

"Mr. Gill?" The Indian Home Minister Raj Thakur's nasal, raspy tone was unmistakable. It felt jarring, which, Ravinder thought wryly, went well with the man's personality. Though new to this assignment, which had befallen him a few days back, when the previous ATTF chief's heart had suddenly given up on him, Ravinder had already had some disturbing meetings with the minister.

No! Ravinder shook his head. Raj Thakur is not an easy man to like … or an easy boss.

Though clueless about security, Raj Thakur had a know-it-all's self-confidence, which, coupled with his belligerence and eagerness to interfere in operational matters, could be dangerous. In their brief association, Thakur had already countermanded several orders given by Ravinder, generally without bothering to inform him. Consequently, Ravinder now felt he was walking around on eggshells, always peering back over his shoulders, wondering what would hit him next.

Still not fully settled in, and with his responsibility for the security of the Israeli–Palestinian Peace Summit and the Commonwealth Games that Delhi was hosting weighing on him, Ravinder so wished he had a more reasonable boss. And he was not the only one. Even the Prime Minister was said to be especially concerned. However, with Raj Thakur's negligible, Maharashtra-centric party holding some vital seats, the PM had had no option but to give him the Home portfolio to keep his majority in Parliament intact.

So be it, Ravinder consoled himself. As a professional cop, what choice did he have, but to go with whatever the dice threw up? With only ten days left before the peace summit and the Commonwealth Games, he had more concrete issues to deal with.

"Good morning, sir."

"I want you to come to my office, Gill. Immediately. I now have all the updates for the peace summit."

"Right, sir." Ravinder, with a mountain of urgent tasks to attend to, wanted to tell him to fuck off. Alas! "I will be there—" He checked his watch; it was a good one-hour drive to South Block, where the minster's office was. "—by eleven."

"Do that," Thakur commanded brusquely. "Bring Mohite with you." The minister rang off.

Ravinder was replacing the phone when, with a cursory knock, Deputy Inspector General of Police Govind Mohite walked in. Though not tall, Mohite had a well-muscled body. He was impeccably dressed in dark khaki trousers, a matching earth-colored cotton shirt, and brown suede shoes.

"You have a long life, Govind. I was about to call you. The Home Minister wants us right away."

"I know, sir. He called me half an hour ago." Mohite gave a wide grin.

"But I just got off the phone with him." The words were out before Ravinder could rein them in. He felt like kicking himself.

"Oh, you know how Thakur sahib is.…" Mohite pronounced the "sahib" with an elongated double-a sound, the way Maharashtrians tend to. "He likes to sound me out about everything. You see, we became close when he was in the Maharashtra cabinet and I was in the Mumbai Special Crimes Unit."

Ravinder heard him ramble on about what a great chap Thakur was; something Mohite was prone to doing. He wondered if Mohite knew what the meeting was about. Ravinder contemplated asking him, but shelved the thought. It would give the wrong signal. Ravinder was aware that Mohite was gunning for his job and he needed to watch his back, considering his chumminess with the minister. There had been rumors that the two had been in cahoots in several questionable killings of members of a particular crime mob. These had raised tons of media speculation, including insinuations that they had been carried out at the behest of another mob boss in Dubai and that large sums of money had exchanged hands, but nothing was proved. Ravinder shrugged. Whatever the bond, he knew it would be nasty. Since his predecessor had checked out without a formal and detailed handover, Ravinder also knew that he needed both his primary lieutenants, of which Mohite was one, till he had settled in properly.

"You are traveling in style today," Mohite commented when he saw the Bimmer. "Might as well come with you." Without waiting for a reply, he told his driver to follow and hopped into the rear seat.

"Why bring your car if you're going in mine?" Ravinder asked. "Why not save some gas and do your bit for Planet Earth?"

"Oh, just in case we need to come back separately afterward." Mohite gave an airy wave. "Thakur sahib might ask me to stay on. He likes to consult me on many things."

"Right." Ravinder kept the sarcasm out of his voice. Not that it mattered; Mohite was oblivious.

Tuning out Mohite's nonstop banter, Ravinder's thoughts returned to the meeting. The sudden summons had caught him unawares; he felt worried.

* * *

Her accomplice was waiting near the baggage carousel when Ruby emerged from immigration.

Over six feet tall, the oversized Mark Leahy occupied an unfair amount of space. Also wearing jeans and a cotton shirt, he had close-cropped, sand-colored hair and leathery skin, the hallmark of a man who spent most of his time outdoors. His Irish accent was so thick, one could cut it with a knife.

They had traveled on the same flight, but unlike Ruby, he looked rested and refreshed. Not surprising, since he was unaffected by her emotional turmoil.

Good! Ruby smiled. At least one of us is cool. She sure as hell was not.

"Feeling distraught is normal when one has been subjected to severe trauma," the agency shrink had told her when she returned to London after Rehana's funeral. Ruby's erratic behavior had prompted her boss to send her for therapy posthaste. "There is not much you can do about it. Just be aware that your mind may wander and try to control it. Everyone has a different way of processing grief. Apparently, this is your way."

Damn stupid way. Ruby frowned. But she'd had to cope. And live with it. Try to live with it. Especially since she had thrown away the medication as soon as she left the man's office. Having her mind stuck on a Prozac-shelf was not for Ruby. She now hauled herself back and concentrated on Mark.

Looking at him made her feel better. She'd thought of him the minute she decided to take on this mission, which was as soon as Uncle Yusuf had come to know about the peace summit. So much had transpired since then. She smiled as she remembered her conversation with Mark only yesterday.

"Hey! How are you?" He'd sounded so pleased.

"I am very well, thank you. How are things with you?"

"Same old, same old. There doesn't seem to be much happening. Certainly not the right kind of stuff … stuff that interests me and pays the rent. So I am catching up on life … tending to the garden and painting the fences … y'know…" He'd laughed.

Ruby knew Mark had quit the service a few months ago and was now freelancing.

"That can get kind of boring."

"Tell me about it."

"Well, I may have something for you."

"You? Naah. The government doesn't pay enough." She'd expected that. "Besides, haven't you heard, I quit working for them."

"Mark, this one is personal. Nothing to do with the agency. And the money is better than good." Ruby knew that, for the right money, Mark was the ideal man to watch her back—ruthless, resourceful, and ready to follow orders.

"Is it, now?" He'd made a humming sound. "Want to tell me more?"

Ruby knew he was on. "Not right now. You will have to trust me."

"I do. You know I do. Implicitly." Mark chuckled. "As much as you trust me. How many times have we watched each other's backs?"

"Often enough. Why else would I call you, Mark?"

"And here I was thinking you called because of my lovely smile and beautiful body!" They'd both laughed. "When and where do you want me? And how long will we be gone?"

Ruby's spirits had lightened when he said that. "We move out tomorrow. We should be back in two weeks."

"That's it, eh? Short assignment."

"Yep. Short and sweet. And lucrative."

"That's my type." A laconic laugh. "Where are we headed?"

"India, eventually." Momentarily, just the mention of India unleashed a whirlpool of raw emotions inside her; about her father … a father who abandoned me … he means nothing to me. Without realizing it, she made a dubious moue. Doesn't he? She pushed away the thought. Not now!

"India, eh? Exotic! Sounds good to me." He'd made that humming sound again. "Say, boss," Mark asked, somewhat bashfully, "we flying coach or—?"

"First class, Mark. Nothing but the best for you, mon ami. Your ticket will be in your mailbox shortly. Meet me at Heathrow a couple of hours before the flight."

She knew it was a happy Mark who'd put down the phone. He looked happy even now as they came out of the Colombo airport and headed toward the taxi stand.

* * *

Traffic in Delhi is never easy. These days, with construction taking place all over the city and the massive influx of games' tourists, it was maddening. To make things worse, Delhi had not seen such heavy rains, not in the last forty years.

As the car labored through clogged streets, Ravinder wondered what it was that the Home Minister wanted to discuss, hoping for no more unpleasant surprises; their first meeting had been one hell of a shocker. His mind fled back to that day.

"Have you heard the good news, Gill?" Thakur had greeted them with a big smile when Mohite and he reached his office that day. "India is hosting the Israeli–Palestinian Peace Summit."

"We are?" Ravinder was stunned. One glance at Mohite's face and he realized the news was not news to him. Damn the man! When will he learn to play for the team? "The Israelis and Palestinians are talking? That's a surprise, considering the recent terrorist attack on Jerusalem! When did that happen, sir?"

"That's what triggered it off. The Americans … in fact the entire international community, has put a lot of pressure on them. Everyone is fed up with the endless bloodshed."

"And India will have the honor of playing host," Mohite chimed in. "Just imagine! We may help peace return to the Middle East."

"Yes, we are going to be doing exactly that." Thakur beamed. "Isn't it great?"

"When is it?" Ravinder ignored their euphoria, preferring to focus on the practicalities.

"Exactly two weeks from now." Thakur would not stop beaming. "This is our chance to showcase India.… It is going to be the most critical and game-changing event of our times."

"Two weeks?" Ravinder was floored, but the other two were so caught up in their enthusiasm that they missed it.

"Precisely. It starts on the thirteenth of October."

Thirteenth! The number sent a shiver up Ravinder's spine. Too much had happened to him on that particular date … and none of it good.

"But that is exactly when the Commonwealth Games are due to start, sir. Such an event will require massive security, and we are already hard-pressed for resources."

"Resources are never available, Mr. Gill"—Thakur waved dismissively—"we have to find them. Don't you see what this summit will do for India's prestige?"

"I do, sir, but don't you—? I mean … one must account for the fact that so many terrorist groups will strive to disrupt it. Palestine is the one cause that all the jihadis use to pull in money and recruits. They will never allow this."

"All that is fine, Gill, but we have to make it happen. Maybe things will be simpler if we can keep it secret and low-key."

"Sir, with the recent attack on Jerusalem, the whole world has its eyes on the Middle East. There is no way we can keep such a momentous event secret."

"Well, regardless, we have to make it happen." Thakur's tone was firm. "We have no choice; the decision has been made. It is now a matter of national pride."

"The security requirements will be a huge challenge, sir. What if the summit gets attacked? The stakes are so high for the jihadis; they will definitely try to strike."

"No, Gill. Nothing must be allowed to disrupt it," Thakur retorted. "I want you to personally take charge of the security."

"But I also have the Commonwealth Games at the same time, sir," Ravinder objected.

"No, you don't." Thakur had then sprung the second, ugly surprise. "I have put Ashish Sharma in charge of the games."

DIG Ashish Sharma was Mohite's peer; they both reported to Ravinder. Now to his dismay, Thakur was directly delegating work to officers under his command. Ravinder opened his mouth to protest once more, but stopped. Pointless; the man was the Home Minister, after all. Confrontation would serve no purpose; nor would it be a career-enhancing move.

"I don't see the problem, Gill." Thakur continued, "The arrangements for the games are in place. Sharma just has to keep things going."

"Then why not put Mohite in charge of the peace summit, sir? That way I will be able to run oversight on both events."

"I thought about that, Gill. I trust Mohite totally, but I think the summit is too important for any one man. Do you have any idea of the consequences if something happens to the delegates? India's reputation would be shot to hell … not to mention the carnage that may be unleashed in Israel. No. I want you in charge. Of course, Mohite will assist you."

"Of course I will, sir. You know we will never allow anything to happen to the summit." Mohite was quick to spot an opportunity, one where he would be able to take credit if things went well, yet not be responsible if there was a screwup. He turned to Ravinder. "Am I right, sir?"

Ravinder caught his grimace in time, marveling at the man's cheek.

"True, sir," Ravinder replied with a silent sigh. "How come we got to host the summit?"

"Because the Israelis did not agree to any venue that was acceptable to the Palestinians," Thakur was eager to explain. "And the Palestinians refused to agree to any of the Western countries. That did not leave many options. India was a logical choice, since we are on a good wicket with the Israelis, the Palestinians, and the Arab world."

"They met at Oslo the last time," Ravinder mused.

"Yes, but both have a problem with it this time," Mohite jumped in again. "Apparently both sides feel that Oslo is jinxed. That is why when the PM asked Mr. Thakur if we could host it, I advised him to accept."

Ravinder resisted the impulse to give Mohite a solid kick. Instead, he gave a politic smile. "Wonderful. I am so glad you are going to help me secure the summit, Govind."

"But of course, sir." Missing the sarcasm, Mohite gave another bright smile.

"So we all agree that we must keep it a secret?" Thakur asked, failing to mention that he had already spoken about it to at least ten people in the three hours since the PM had informed him. In fact, if he had his way, he would have held a press conference and shouted it to the world. This could be his moment in the sun, and he was loath to keep it under wraps. "I figured Delhi would be ideal. With the Commonwealth Games taking place, we already have a flood of VIPs and athletes, and security is already functioning at peak level."

"That is what I explained to Mr. Thakur, sir," Mohite rejoindered. "It will make our task so much easier."

Ravinder looked at both men, doubting even they believed that. On the other hand, for Thakur this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to showcase himself on an international platform. And for Mohite, a heaven-sent chance to latch on to the minister's coattails and try to grab the limelight.

Got to watch my back, Ravinder reminded himself again. Given half a chance, Mohite would deliver him to the wolves.

"I know I can rely on you, Govind." Thakur gave Mohite a cordial smile, then realizing that Ravinder was also present, added, "and you of course, Gill." He wagged a finger in the air. "Now, remember, we simply cannot fail. If anything bad happens, it would be a shame for India and it would also put an end to all hopes of peace in the Middle East."

Ravinder was in a somber mood as he listened to the two prattle on. Obviously, neither had given any thought to the practicalities of securing such an event. The whole thing was fraught with danger.

Ravinder's memory spool ran out as their car halted in the South Block parking lot. He led the way toward the minister's office, wondering about today, what new shocks awaited him.

* * *

Watching Mark move into action, Ruby smiled again. The efficiency with which he organized a car and driver made her feel good.

She beheld a sturdy silver, almost-new Nissan van, with a solid air conditioner. The driver, whose name she couldn't get, spoke more Sinhalese than English, but seemed pleasant and presentable. They threw their bags into the rear. Both were traveling light. Moments later, they were headed north.

Ruby glanced at her watch. It was ticking fast. Reminding her that time was short. A pulse of urgency raced through her.

For the nth time, she wished she had been given the heads-up about this summit sooner. And again she cursed Pasha, the Lashkar-e-Taiba commander who had told her about this summit. And also e-mailed her the gory video of Yusuf, her dead uncle.

Its images had become a nightmare, returning every night. By now she'd become scared of switching off the lights and laying her head on the pillow.

The murderous bastards had even chopped his hands off.

Pinpricks of wetness pushed at her eyes. She kept them at bay, knowing she could not allow them to be seen by Mark. In their world, tears were weakness … and weakness was death.

Shaking off the gory images of Yusuf's dismembered body, Ruby mentally urged the driver to go faster. She needed to be in motion. Motion was important. It kept the nightmares away.

They hit the first security checkpoint on the outskirts of Colombo. Fortunately, only a few cars were ahead. It took only seven minutes to get past it. A second one, a few miles out of town, took a tad longer.

Then the road stretched out before them. Long. Narrow. Lonely.

* * *

Ravinder noted that Thakur seemed excited when they entered his office.

Large and well appointed, it was tastefully decorated, in contrast with Thakur's abrasive personality. Lemon-colored walls set off the Persian carpet in the center. To one side was a burnished teak table with a high back, deep-brown executive chair on one side and four matching leather guest chairs on the other. In the far corner, a trio of single-seater sofas was placed around a smoked-glass center table that held several coffee table books. Large paintings rode high on the walls on either side of the table. He could hear the soft hiss of air-conditioning. The aroma of room freshener reached out to Ravinder.

Lavender. One of his favorites.

"Ah, there you are, Gill." In his mid-fifties, Thakur wore the trademark white kurta pajamas that found favor with most Indian politicians. A Nehruvian cream cotton jacket completed his attire. Thakur did not bother to get up. "Come, come. How are you two?" Without waiting for an answer, he launched off. "How are the preparations for the summit and games coming along?"

"They are coming along just fine, sir," Mohite butted in before Ravinder could reply. "We have taken over the top two floors of Ashoka Hotel, and our teams have started installing top-notch equipment to secure the summit. We have also started putting checkpoints and roadblocks around the hotel."

"That's good." Thakur rewarded him with a paternal smile.

"We have also broken three terror cells and have information about two more sent in from Pak-Occupied Kashmir to attack the games. We hope to catch them before they get anywhere near Delhi."

"Hope to?" Thakur raised an eyebrow. "No hopes, Govind—just get them."

"We will, sir." Mohite again.

"Amazing." Thakur tapped his table. "These damn terrorists never give up, do they?"

"No, sir, they don't," Ravinder replied. "The ISI has given them carte blanche, sir. They will do everything possible to hurt us."

"Yes, I can see that." Thakur's smile slipped. The full implications of the threat now dawned on him.

"But don't worry about it, sir. We will not allow anything to happen," Mohite jumped in, ever eager to keep the boss happy.

"Excellent." Thakur's smile returned. "I know I can rely on you, Govind."

Ravinder held his peace, not wanting to rain on their parade and point out that it was impossible to stop every terror strike. Somewhere, somehow, someone would always manage to break through any security cordon … the law of averages made that a certainty.

"Here." Thakur pulled out two slim brown files and slid them across the table. "A list of the thirteen summit delegates, with their complete details."

Damn! Thirteen again! Ravinder frowned; his unlucky number seemed inextricably linked to this ruddy summit. I just hope it is not—

The minister's voice intruded. "Each delegate is accompanied by two personal security officers. Considering the special circumstances, we are permitting the PSOs to carry weapons."

"Foreigners running around with guns in our capital?" Mohite looked up, surprised.

"Yes, Govind. And … oh, that reminds me—to assist us, the Americans and the British both have sent across an agent each."

"Why? What do we need them for?" Mohite half rose, his agitation palpable. "We are more than capable of handling our own turf."

"Calm down, Govind." Ravinder waved him down; although having foreign agents mucking around was the last thing he wanted to worry about. "We will need all the help we can get."

"Yes, but…"

"Orders from on high, Mohite." Thakur glared, upset at being challenged by his crony. "They will be coming to your office later today, Gill. The Israelis are also sending an agent to brief us about the threats they anticipate. He should be here in a day or so."

"Don't worry, sir," Ravinder reassured him. "We will ensure things go smoothly. Anyone … and anything that helps us get the job done properly is more than welcome."

"Good attitude, Gill. Now for the most important thing: The PM will be coming on the first day of the summit. I got the call this morning; the PMO wants the security plan immediately."

"Today?"

"Why? Any problems with that?"

"None at all, sir." Ravinder kept his chin up, knowing the rest of his day was going down the shitter; PM's own security was paranoid