The Eye of Shiva

CHAPTER 9

Jagadev Muhkerjee walked the grounds perimeter of the Indian Embassy in Manila and looked again at his watch. It was a very nice watch, with a little button he could push to light the dial. It was 3:30 in the morning, a half hour from the end of his shift and exactly 2 1/2 minutes since the last time he'd looked.

Jagadev was bored and tired. He wanted nothing more than a quiet smoke and hours of sleep on his bunk in the security barracks. The night sounds of Manila were muffled by the trees and landscaping that made Dasmarani Village seem more like a rural estate than an enclave of important government buildings. Only the glow in the night sky was there to remind him that he was in the heart of one of the great cities of the world.

Jagadev wasn't really a soldier, even though he wore a jaunty beret and uniform and carried an Indian made 5.56 mm INSAS rifle that put out six hundred rounds a minute. Security guards for India's embassies abroad were civilians. It was a job, like any other security job. In difficult areas like Jammu and Kashmir, security fell on the shoulders of specially trained commandos. But Manila wasn't Kashmir. The main requirements were that the applicant be an Indian citizen, have had the proper security or military training and be able to deal as required with the constant stream of people visiting the Embassy.

He looked again at his watch. Another minute had passed. A three-quarter moon cast pale light on the tropical flowers and trees of the embassy grounds. A few stars glimmered in the night sky, flickering in the smoggy haze thrown off by the city.

There was a garden bench tucked away in the far corner of the grounds, under the trees. Jagadev decided not to wait until he went off duty to grab a cigarette. The bench and the overhanging branches of the trees were a perfect spot to take a minute and handle the nicotine edge that kept him looking at his watch. No one would see him there and no one would know that he'd taken a short break from his perimeter duty. He reached the spot, stepped into the shadows and took a cigarette from the pack concealed under his shirt. He lit it and took a long, satisfying drag.

There was a faint sound behind him. A gloved hand covered his mouth as he started to lift the cigarette to his lips and pulled his head backward. There was a terrible, hot pain across his throat. Blood fountained into the night, spraying over the bench where the ambassador liked to sit for his afternoon meditations. Jagadev's last thought was only a confused, unspoken question.

The man who had just slashed Jagadev's throat was dressed all in black. He had been born in the slums of Mumbai, back when the city was still called Bangalore. His name was Ijay. His ski mask concealed the discoloration of large, dark spots on his face. The spots had earned him the nickname Tendu'a, after the silent and deadly leopard that was feared throughout India. The elite unit of black op commandos he led was known as the Leopards.

Ijay had three kilos of Semtex high explosive in a backpack. He signaled the others. Four men in black with identical packs emerged from the shrubs and trees and fanned out at a run toward the back of the embassy. No one would miss the guard for several minutes. There was more than enough time to plant the charges and melt back into the trees before anyone saw them.

They worked quickly, placing enough high explosive to take out most of the building. When the Semtex detonated, the wall and the back of the embassy would cease to exist. The ambassador's quarters were on the second floor in the back, directly over one of the charges. Only a miracle would save him.

As he worked, Ijay thought about how all that Semtex was going to make one hell of an explosion. He wondered why an embassy of his own country had been chosen for the target, but it didn't matter. It wasn't his place to question orders. As long as he was creating chaos, Ijay was happy.

The others finished setting charges. Ijay gave the signal to arm the detonators. In a movement they had practiced over and over, all five men knelt and triggered the timers at the same instant. All five rose as one and headed back for the cover of the trees. In seconds they were gone from sight.

Prakash Khanna had watched the entire operation from his hiding place in the shrubbery on the side of the grounds. He waited until the quiet of the early morning was shattered by the explosion. The back of the Indian Embassy rose toward the sky in a geyser of fire and stone. A billowing cloud of smoke and dust rolled out over the green lawn as bits and pieces of the building fell back to earth. The cloud thinned and Khanna saw that more than half of the embassy was gone. The remaining floors and rooms gaped at him like an open mouth with crooked teeth.

The ambassador never could have survived that, Khanna thought. His lip curled in unconscious contempt. The man had been a pawn of the Americans, a weakling, just like the Prime Minister. Unwilling to do what needed to be done, to take the steps necessary to eliminate the Pakistani threat once and for all.

In the distance, Khanna heard the first siren. Time to go, he thought. He walked to where the crumpled body of the guard lay by the secluded bench. The stench of voided bowels filled the night. Khanna held his finger under his nose, reached in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of Pakistani cigarettes. He tossed the cigarettes into the bushes near the guard. He'd already filed false intelligence reports to New Delhi about a possible ISOK incident in Manila. Along with the Filipino report about ISOK's involvement with Abu Sayyaf, it should be enough to point the finger at them and at Pakistan.

Before the Partition of 1947, Khanna's family had lived in Lahore, now part of Pakistan. The family had lost everything, choosing to leave rather than live under Muslim rule. His grandfather had died a bitter man. His father had taught him that Muslims were evil and Khanna had seen nothing to make him change his mind. Pakistan was the enemy, a thief that had stolen his ancestral home. If what had happened here tonight pushed India into striking a first blow, Khanna would be cheering every missile.

Fire was climbing the broken wall on the side of the embassy. The sound of sirens was closer. Khanna lit a cigarette and walked away into the night.