Desi Train

Chapter One : Boredom is the Mother of all Troubles

The early morning fog still hugged the bridge. The morning traffic had still not raised its head. It was a bit early for him to be here. But then he was trained to be before time whatever the occasion be. There were still about five hours to go before the action would begin. He checked his watch and zipped up his leather jacket right upto the top. It was chilly for a typical Bombay weather. He wiped the rear view mirror to make sure the lights weren’t from the car of his target. He paused and waited.

The truck passed by spitting out a kilo of brown exhaust. Fucking polluted bastards. He hated pollution. And it drove him out of the city he had lived most of his life, out of the country to a place where very few know of his existence. Sidhu was an alien name to them and they did not know what it meant. His fair skin, Punjabi body frame and blue eyes, made them think he was one of them. And Sidhu did not correct them. His fluency in Swedish locked up the doubts anyone may have had.

He checked his watch again. Four hours to go. He wondered how stupid idiots came about becoming mafia dons. Calling an industrialist at 5am in the morning on the Thana creek bridge to deliver the extortion money was one of the most idiotic things in Sidhu’s books. He, though, had seen many worse stupid things in life.

It was obvious to everyone that Sidhu would rise high in life. A sharp photographic memory, a class topper in Physics and Mathematics, a karate black belt champion… he had it all in him… until during the second year of college he fell in love. Unfortunately for his family and fortunately for some, it didn’t work out. It left him heart broken. After a year of drinking a bottle of Old Monk Rum each day, he snapped out of his depression. He took his friend’s motorcycle and drove straight to enlisting in the army.

His sharp planning intelligence, his 99.99% sniper efficiency and top notch crisis management abilities caught the eye of the top army brass. They started planning big things for him. But there some other people who had been watching him…

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

She lay on the bed going over the script she was gonna recite when he came back. She looked at him as he stood in the bathroom with its door open. Hairy back, stomach begging to come out and it was beginning to; his cute butt cheeks were ready to hang loose. He stood there in front of the mirror brushing his teeth. How predictable could a man get?… Very Specially if the guy was a man name Aryan Arya.

Aryan Arya. She had fallen in love with the name the moment he had introduced himself. The name had handsomeness written all over it. Aryan Arya. It had a touch of Rambo in it and the sleek tinge of a James Bond. Exciting things were in store for her, when he expressed his desire to take her out for dinner.

It had been 5 years since then. Those exciting things she had imagined with Aryan Arya were still stuck in her head. They never did turn into reality. For Aryan Arya, the man, was the most boring man she had come across in the whole universe. Unfortunately it was too late before she could lift the veil of illusion. She was married. To Aryan Arya.

Aryan walked into the bedroom. He picked up the book from his bedside table, tucked himself in and started reading.

He saw that she was still awake watching the ceiling.

“Don’t you feel like sleeping tonight?”

“That’s the best you could come up with for wanting sex from your wife?”

“Huh? What are you saying? I just asked you a simple question”

“Oh sure!”

“What did I do now honey? If I talk to you, you get irritated. If I don’t talk to you, you get irritated. What am I supposed to do?”

“Get some excitement, some fucking excitement Aryan? I am bored with this shitty life”

“What do you mean honey? We have everything in this world”

“Yeah but what use is it if it’s not exciting… ”

“Honey… ” He raised his hands up in the air… he had honestly tried hard to help her out. But it was of no use. To his wife excitement meant being a spy or a Rambo, bungee jumping from a bridge or scuba diving… all which looked good in the images played by the mind, but not in reality. He had tried taking her to the book club and she ended up slapping a 70 year old member. He took her to a wine tasting club and she got drunk enough to start making out with a guy and his wife in front of everyone. He took her for a vacation in Mauritius and for the first day it felt like he had found the cure. Mrs. Arya was back to being bored from the second day of their vacation.

Aryan truly loved her, but whatever he did ended up making her feel shittier about him.

“What do you want me to do?”

“You don’t even have any exciting hobbies Aryan. No physical sports, no trekking, no hiking, no handgliding, no watersports, no nothing… You have a plain vanilla life and I can’t take this anymore”

“Let’s get some professional help”

“No I don’t need any. I got help from your boss”

“What do you mean?”

“Aryan, how stupid does one have to be to not know that Ravi and I have been fucking together for over a year now”

“YOU WHAT…”

Aryan was still reeling from her first revelation when the other set of bricks dropped right on his head.

“Shut up and listen to me… Aryan… I’ve had it with you. I want a divorce… Don’t try to even think about stopping me. I’m so done. I’m moving out tomorrow to Ravi’s Lokhandwala house”

She stretched her arm and switched out the lights, and turned her back to Aryan, who was still holding the open book. His jaw was hanging down and his eyes looked like he had just been hit by a train.

“Good Night”

Aryan was still in a shock. His throat was choked with emotion.

“… Wwwwe could talk and sort things out… dearr… ”

“Good Night”

“I’ll forgive you for what you have done… I I I never knew about you and Ravi… I…”

“Good Night”

“EEE… every couple hasss probbb…”

“Good Night”

“I I I I…. mean…”

“Good Night”

“… I could take up a sport and we could… ”

“Good Night”

“Does Frisbee catching count as a sport?”

Snore… She was asleep.

Aryan got out of the bed and slowly walked out. He sat down on the arm chair in his balcony. His body and mind felt heavy. Somewhere deep within he knew this night would come, but he had refused to accept it.

He lighted a Marlboro. His eyes were moist ready to open the flood gates anytime.

She’s right. I am the most boring person of all.

His parents could have been partly responsible to the way Aryan shaped up. He was a naughty prankster full of mischief as a kid. He was loved by his parents. He got whatever he asked for. He was their only child. Yet the down side to it all was that… he was their only child. All their hopes and ambitions were pinned on him. They wanted him to be successful. And they saw to it that he did. Aryan grew up in an all work no play environment.

And when he would protest, he was slapped and put in his place. First study and stand on your own feet. There is an entire life later where you can play as much as you want.

The playtime never came though. It never does. And Aryan lost the meaning of play. His life was filled with projects, numbers, deadlines and retirement planning. There was room for nothing else.

Sher Singh walked into the balcony to see Aryan crying in his chair. He couldn’t understand the situation. He leaped into Aryan’s lap. Aryan opened his eyes and through the curtains of tears saw Sher Singh looking at him. Sher Singh was perhaps the only thing that excited his wife when Aryan had first brought him home.

Aryan picked Sher Singh up and hugged him close to his chest. Sher Singh didn’t feel comfortable and leaped out of Aryan’s embrace. He jumped on the floor, looked up at Aryan and started walking away. The kitten let out a soft “meow” joining his wife in the bedroom.

. . . . . .

The black Land Rover reached the cornor of the bridge and parked itself at the corner. A Mahindra Armada jeep was parked in front of it. There were five people standing, leaning on the jeep. Three of them were smoking with their backs turned to the just parked Land Rover. The other two kept looking the parked vehicle, as if expecting it.

“Black Land Rover Lic. Plate MRJ 4149 has just parked about 15.5 feet away from the Tango One. Target O Nine is yet to get out of his… ”

Sidhu was recording the details through his wireless piece. The recorded report would then be transmitted from his communications pocket device, scrambled a million times over, and would hit the servers of an inconsequential office building in Jaipur. Here the voice would be descrambled and a special software would “write” the report by listening to Sidhu’s voice report. The voice report would then be deleted while the new “written” report would be transferred to the desks of a few people in that building at 700 hours precise.

Sidhu started clicking the small button he held in his left hand. It was used to click pictures he saw through his glasses. The glasses were actually a high powered camera with telescopic lens.

Target O Nine opened the door of the Land Rover and stepped out. He was in his late forties, dressed in a red striped shirt and khakis. He wore Nike’s and was carrying a large leather shoulder bag. Sidhu turned the lens on to get a closer view of Target O Nine. He could see that O Nine was nervous as he walked towards the group of five, Tango One.

Sidhu ran a last minute check on his voice recording screen to see if the antenna was able to catch the sound bytes coming from their direction. The screen flashed a green “Ok”.

“Is everything in there?” A thin 5 foot 4 guys from the group of Tango One spoke. There was an implied threat in his voice. Sidhu smiled. Another idiot dreaming of becoming a mafia don. It would take Sidhu about 3.5 seconds to kill the thin guy with his bare hands.

Sidhu clicked the button. Image of the thin guy was recorded and attached to his voice report.

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“Yes… I brought exactly what you had asked for” Target O Nine was clearly tensed.

“Drop the bag on the road and open it”

Target O Nine did as he was told.

“Murli, check the bag. See if the fucker isn’t lying.”

Murli walked towards the bag and dug his hands inside it. He pulled out a thick set of legal sized pages. Sidhu’s thumb was fast moving up and down on the camera button held in his palm.

Murli took the thick set of pages and walked back to show it to the thin 5 feet 4 guy.

The thin guy examined it, his eye brows frowned. Clearly he could not make head or tail of what he held in his hand. He looked back at the other three.

“What the fuck are we dealing in these days. Our old days were so good when it was only cash.” The Tango One guys smiled.

The thin guy turned towards Target O Nine.

“So this is it?.. Right? You asshole. You are not giving us any stupid bullshit here.”

“No this is it. Please don’t worry”

“O Fucker. We don’t worry. If you mess with us then it is you who should be worrying.”

He ran a last minute check by flipping the pages. It still didn’t make any sense. I hope Boss knows what he is doing.

“Good job. What the fuck are these? Staple Pins or ladies designer fucking pins with butterflies and all… HA!… Murli… grab the bag”

Murli picked up the bag and walked back to their jeep.

The thin guy looked at O Nine “Good job. But don’t get smart and call the cops. You should know that we will come to know about it within five minutes of you doing that… and then you know what that means”

“No no… never… you can be assured”

The guys of Tango One got into their jeep and drove off.

“Exchange recorded. No black outs. The butter has been knifed. Repeat… the butter has been knifed”

Sidhu sat there looking intensely at Target O Nine, who got into his Land Rover and started driving in the direction he came from.

“Target O Nine is flying back to his nest. No accidents. Project 23 is off to a clean start. End of Report. 23.xtr486″

Sidhu watched the Land Rover until it disappeared into the winding roads leading back to Bombay. He then quickly unzipped his jacket and pulled out a communications device. He removed his glasses and snapped its right arm out of the frame. He plugged the recorder and the right arm of the glass frame into two of the ports of the communications device. He taped the touch screen and started the transmission.

25 seconds later he pulled his car out of the shrubs off the road and got back on the highway. He was hungry and was planning to get a 4 hour power nap before he took the flight to San Francisco in the evening.

. . . . . .

It was late night and Henry Montego sat on his seat watching a rerun of Friends. He had lost count of the number of times he had seen that particular episode. But it was none the less more entertaining than listening to his wife’s ranting at home. It was cold and chilly outside the check post and he bent down to turn up temperature of the electric heater placed on the floor next to him. His huge stomach prevented him from reaching the knob of the heater, but he persisted and on the fifth attempt he reached the finish line.

Someone honked. He looked up from his window and saw a white Mercedes. He lazily pulled up his flashlight, put his Cap on and walked out of the check post.

“How are you Sirs doing today?” He didn’t bother smiling.

“Pretty good. How about you?” The accent. It was heavy. Indian or Pakistani.

“Pretty Good… ” Henry was more interested in wrapping it up so he could rush back to watching the Friends episode.

The driver and his co-passenger were dressed in dark navy blue suits. They were clean shaven and looked fresh. Henry noticed the passenger had a scar on his left temple. The driver handed the passports to Henry.

Henry took the passports back in to run a check for its authenticity. He then physically matched the driver’s passport with his driving license, before punching in the passport numbers to run a check on them. As predicted, nothing turned up.

He walked out and handed over the documents back to the driver “Have a good one Sirs… and welcome to America”

The white Mercedes crossed the border and drove into the USA from Canada.

If only Henry Montego had used a little bit of his brain cells, he should have questioned on why the passenger in the car had an “OM” pendant in his neck when his Canadian passport mentioned his name as Raj Thomas.

When Henry would be questioned about it a few weeks from now, he would blame it on the cold, the broken heater and the Friends’ episode that prevented him to think on those lines.

. . . . .

Aryan had been sitting all night on his balcony. He checked his watch. 6am. It was a Sunday. He decided to get out of the house. His wife was in no mood to talk to him. He could now see it quite clearly. He decided to go to office and spend some time there. Perhaps his boring life could distract him from the pain inflicted by his wife, his boss, and he himself.

He tip toed into the bedroom and slowly opened the closet to get some fresh clothes. She was still sleeping and Aryan wanted to get out of the house before she woke up. He had no wish or desire to talk to her anymore. He felt guilty. If I were a real man, she would have stayed with me. I’m just a pathetic, boring loser.

Aryan drove to work from his Malabar Hills apartment. The morning Marine Drive sea breeze helped wipe away the tears that were rolling off his eyes. As he parked his car and started walking towards the office complex, Aryan looked up at the building. Maker Chambers VI. Ten years ago, he had stepped into this building for the first time to work as a Creative Analyst for his boss Ravi Mahajan. Now ten years later he was a Vice President of the company. But the thought didn’t give Aryan any joy. I’m just another loser with the title of a Vice President.

Aryan walked in and stepped into the open elevator while mumbling a silent prayer, hoping his boss Ravi “the asshole who’s fucking my wife” Mahajan was not in office. I hope not, else I won’t be able to stop myself from killing the fucker. Aryan punched the elevator button marked “11″.

. . . . . .

The ring in his ear piece started playing the Level 5 tune. It was the highest level of emergency. Somebody was in trouble.

Sidhu always slept flat on his back with the hidden piece attached to his ear. Besides the emergency calls the earpiece would also trigger off sharper tunes if there was any sound within a 50 feet radius that matched any of the 32 sounds programmed in Sidhu’s laptop. The whole program acted as his watch dog while he took his power naps.

Without getting up or moving an inch, Sidhu lightly touched the talk pad.

“Yes”

“Level 5″

“Go on”

“Target O Nine is about to be compromised. Can’t go into details. Leak somewhere. Tango One is sending a few for deleting O Nine.”

“My Instructions”

“Save O Nine. If you are late, try getting the code. If not we will identify another source who may know the code. But for now Save O Nine.”

“What’s his location?”

“He is driving to his office, and does not know that he is being followed by Tango One. So get to his work place. Eliminate Tango One. Repeat. Eliminate Tango One. If O Nine has fallen, vacuum the workplace to find the codes. Eliminate anyone else who may see you at the office, but first check if they know anything about the codes. If they do, move the person to your current shelter.”

“Understood. Address?”

“Nariman Point. Maker Chambers VI. Eleventh floor”

“Noted. How much time do I have to save O Nine?”

“Roughly about 25 minutes”

“Anything else? ”

“Yes. Identity of O Nine. His real name is Ravi Mahajan. You will need to get him out and deliver him to our boys, if he is alive”

“Got it”

“Good Luck”

“10-4″

Sidhu quickly got up from his bed and was out of the door. He was carrying a briefcase which had his tools-to-kill, hidden in its different compartments.

Twenty Five minutes!!! Fucking Shit. No chance. Sidhu ran towards his car and was off to Nariman Point.

In about an hour India’s best underground assassin would come face to face with Bombay’s most boring business executive.

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This entry was posted on Monday, July 3rd, 2006 at 5:55 pm
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