| Published on 08-02-2008 In General | | Viewed 1497 times | | Written by
T. S. V. Hari | 
"Farhad?"
"6.10 pm," I responded.
Anyone who may have listened to this telephone conversation would have got a name and a time.
I replaced the instrument and went about my work. I had three robberies and a bomb blast to worry about. Holding the rank of Additional Director General of Police I am serving as Chennai's Commissioner of Police.
My area of jurisdiction stretched beyond the southern metropolis, the third biggest IT hub in India as I am also in charge of the anti-terrorist Special Task Force.
Policing is always a tough job, as one has to expect the unexpected all the time.
I had been one of the mainstays in counterintelligence when I was with the Intelligence Bureau.
Before that, I had been seconded to the National Security Guards during which I had done the gruelling Spetznaz course in what had been the Soviet Union.
Now, despite being on the wrong side of fifty in my life's innings, I am lean and mean in every sense of the terms. I can outrun any raw recruit, hit the bull's eye ten times out of ten after a thirty kilometre cross country jog and the mandatory one 100 meter free style swim.
We had sixteen men in custody but yet to be produced before a magistrate though they had been with my boys for over four days because they hadn't produced enough chin music to sate my thirst for information about the felonies.
That was the easier bit.
Yesterday, a suicide bomber had been blown himself up to the War Memorial – a place less than 800 metres from the Fort St George – which is the seat of power in Chennai. It had been futile act because the explosion didn't even chip a sliver of plaster off the concrete wall along the edge of the road. But for the crazy maniac, nobody else died.
But, due to the incident's close proximity to the secretariat, it triggered the press to come after me.
I cared two hoots.
Journalists could print billions of reams of newsprint or ceaselessly yap through any number of television stations for hours and not produce any reaction from me.
My boss and Director General of Police BV Sahasranamam shared my view.
Both of us had made it a point to ignore media-hacks and scrapped the weekly press briefing. I asked a colleague – Aloysius Hridayam, an Additional Commissioner in charge of public relations to keep the pen pushers in good humour. He saw to it that they were supplied with tea and snacks twice a day, large doses of hard liquor every weekend, ensured they earned sizeable folding money through transfers requests, parted with nuggets of information about starlets' nocturnal antics and a very current press note an hour before noon to catch the evening papers and the lunch time news in television stations. A second note was released without fail at 6 p.m. for the following morning's broadsheets and the nightly bulletins.
That was that.
My private unlisted number rang. It was Vishwanathan, the special correspondent of The Hindu.
Unlike his predecessors he was blunt to the point of being irreverent. I respected and hated him at the same time.
"I heard that Palpandian – the notorious rowdy you were looking for – was picked up in Wall Tax Road. Will it be illegal custody till an eventual stage-managed encounter as usual, Mr Ramanujam?"
The tone was sarcastically polite.
"You might as well drop the mister, Visu. Every time you do that, it sounds like an obviously clear insult. You are married to my cousin, for God's sake!"
"That is proof of humans' errant ways. Since my bosses aren't divinity, I cannot afford to compound a gaffe. Now will you answer my question please?"
"At least I do not recall any make-believe encounters since I have assumed charge. As far as I know, we have no records of anyone in custody by the name referred to by you. On a more personal note, it would be my privilege to have you and your wife for dinner tomorrow. Will that suit you Visu?"
This was my way of telling him that I had something to tell him personally and that he should not release the news without my 'all clear' signal.
"I look forward to it. Kindly request your cook to prepare my favourite onion Sambar," Vishwanathan responded implying he had understood the import of what I left unsaid.
For the next five minutes, I gave the Deputy Commissioner, under whose jurisdiction Wall Tax Road fell, a piece of my mind using appropriate barrack room expletives to convey my displeasure.
While doing that, I began preparing for a meeting with the Home Secretary an hour later at the secretariat crossing the T's for the Chief Minister's statement to explain part of the real story behind the blast that evening.
I have to admit that my methods will never find favour with human rights' activists. For them, all culprits were to be treated like royalty, sumptuously fed and feted. All such busybodies were a pain the neck of police be it Chennai or Chicago.
The law and order machinery does not have the right to punish. But, ensuring peace always means being prepared for a little bit of war. Pests like cockroaches have equal rights of inhabiting the earth, but one doesn't allow them to foul up one's kitchen anyway.
An air-conditioned official SUV took me to my residence within the Government Estate situated a little over a km to the east from my office in Egmore around 6 pm.
Neither I nor my wife Subhadra, a high ranking official in the central government, has a paisa more than what is shown in our bank accounts and tax returns. We earn enough to keep us in some style. We have no children.
After a cold shower, I wriggled into my tracksuit and quietly started my small private vehicle. My subordinates are advised not to crowd me when I go out in the evening and they respect my wishes.
The time was 8 15 p.m. when I finished my unobserved six mile jog in the Marina – the second longest beach in the world after Miami in the US and quietly sat down on the grass verge just behind the sixth electric pillar from Gandhi statue. I had indicated to my caller that I would wait for ten minutes.
That was what the code meant.
Precisely six minutes later, a seller of semi-cooked lentils accosted me and uttered what would have been a routine sales pitch.
"Buy the best, warmest and tastiest Sundal available in the beach from Sunder," a teenager announced loudly.
I purchased the cold stuff, parted with a ten-rupee note, jettisoned the food and read the address in the piece of paper used for hurriedly packing it in the dim light.
'Sunder' was the code for identification. The address was 5 Adam Street, Mylapore, written with a felt pen.
To remain virtually anonymous, instead of using my car, I caught a three-wheeler, agreed to pay the outrageous fare of Rs.50 and got off at the Mylapore temple tank ten minutes later. I knew the rest of the way.
Soon, I entered an old tiled house. The door was left open. It closed behind me.
"But for the grey hair, you haven't changed at all. With a little make-up, jeans and a 't' shirt you could pass for a young call-centre executive," Savitri said.
In the dim light I looked at her. She was on the plumper side. But her forearms revealed that it was all sinew and muscle.
I was meeting her after twenty years.
"If that was a compliment, while I thank you, I also recommend that you visit an eye-specialist to get your vision checked," I said quietly in Urdu.
"Your sarcasm hasn't changed either, Nug."
She replied in the same language.
Savitri was the only one who called me that. During our college days in Osmania University in we had played the star-crossed lovers Shireen and Farhad in a play. So those became our code names after she agreed to work under deep cover.
"So why did you want this meeting, Key?"
The first four letters in her name in Tamil means key. It was her nickname.
"Now, I am not only the head of the force, but also in the Polit Bureau."
"Good God!"
"Though I am almost at the top, no one is above suspicion. You wouldn't have understood the difficulty I underwent to set up this meeting."
"Of course I am aware of the danger and you shouldn't have done this. You could have been blown! We are depending on you to destroy the violent extreme leftists in central India."
"What do you mean by 'we'? I work for you, Nug, because I still love you. I have something very important to tell you. Please listen carefully."
The next day around 9 am, I was waiting on the winding road to Tiruttani – a hill shrine north of Chennai where the state's CM and the union home minister were to offer prayers.
My commandos were hidden from view.
I pretended to regulate traffic.
The decoy car carrying the wax icons of the VIPs passed through. The 'driver' too was a dummy. The vehicle was being driven by remote control.
The improvised Claymore mine exploded on cue disintegrating the automobile. With our advanced equipment, we immediately traced the wireless signal that triggered the bomb to what looked like a deserted side of the hill.
"Now," I yelled into the walkie-talkie.
My commandos had been asked to take no prisoners. There was no point as none of the terrorists would talk and guarding them during the extended trial would be fraught with danger and a waste of resources. A pile of bodies with guns and live ammo would look good on television and send a chill up the spine of the remnant desperadoes.
Our team had fanned out in the area. We had intercepted the earlier signal that pinpointed the origin of the command. Twenty minutes of merciless gunfire ended all resistance.
Meanwhile, the politicians flew by chopper and completed their worship.
Two hours later, I inspected the bodies.
One of them was Savitri.
Newspapers and television channels sang my paeans.
I was sad.
My mole in enemy territory had done the supreme sacrifice and helped us wipe out the top southern commander and most of the mainstays of the murderous leftist group.
There would be no medal, no award no nothing for Savitri.
For the record, she was just another terrorist.
Her existence was known only to me and someone in New Delhi.
That evening in Chennai, I sat down at my residence and poured myself a stiff Laphroaig, my favourite single malt Scotch.
My mobile rang.
"Yes?"
"Shireen," a young female voice said.
My wife Subhadra who didn't know anything other than what she had seen in the idiot box was looking at me with admiration as a newscaster chattered incessantly.
I kept silent with a deadpan expression on my face and listened intently.
"The new agent is twenty-seven years younger. The information flow will continue as before since the offspring of the deceased mole and her controller has been elevated to the central committee. I do not know whether I will meet you, ever. Meanwhile, could you get a proper priest to perform the proper funeral rights for mother please?"
I just about managed to look adequately clumsy to have allowed the whiskey to enter my windpipe and coughed violently to camouflage the overflowing emotions rising in my throat due to the sudden knowledge that I had killed my daughter's mother before the line went dead.
|
|
|
|
|
| Social Web |  |
| |
|
|
| |
|
|
Processing please wait ...
Top Stories
