The hunt for an international terrorist leaves devastation in its wake. For poor Mrs Patel, Mumbai street seller, it's the start of a Kafkaesque journey to make things right and get her granddaughter's wedding back on track.
If you've ever watched a James Bond movie and wondered what happens to the bystanders, this one's for you.
Prologue
“Jesus!” yelled Markham as he pulled out from behind the slow-moving, overcrowded bus. “Are you fucking shitting me?”
Right in front of him, resplendent in blue and green paint, an elephant stood majestically, all but blocking the already crowded street. Markham stamped hard on the brakes, feeling the tires losing grip as he did so. The white Tata Bolt skidded to a halt just a couple of feet from the immobile beast, scattering pedestrians, cyclists, and rickshaws left and right. A small woman hugging a baby glared at him. Eight or nine shaven-headed monks dressed in orange formed a wall between him and the elephant, and began to chant something that could have been a prayer or a curse, for all he knew. In his rear-view mirror, he could see the bus lumbering inexorably towards him, the driver frantically sounding the horn as if he could magically create a safe path. Passengers yelled in fear, as they braced for a collision.
“Get out of the bloody way!” Markham shouted. Ahead of him, the small, hunched, dark-haired figure on a swerving motorcycle was rapidly disappearing from view. After nearly two long years of dogged pursuit that had taken him through five countries, Markham wasn’t about to let his prey slip from his grasp that easily. Viktor Vertelnikov was going down today, elephant or no elephant.
“I fucking hate Bombay,” he grumbled to the smartly dressed woman in the passenger seat. “I mean, elephants, Mishti? Who the fuck rides elephants in the middle of a goddamn city?”
“Actually, Jason, we call it Mumbai these days,” the woman answered, smiling. She patted him on the knee and pointed at the gap opening up in the crowd. “Now, stop complaining, and drive!”
Markham hit the accelerator, and the car leapt forward past the elephant with a loud screech. “I’ll have you, you slippery bastard,” he muttered. “No fucking way are you getting away this time, Viktor. Not again.”
Chasing the man on the motorcycle had been Markham’s life for the best part of the last two years. Viktor Vertelnikov had started out as a small-time arms dealer selling to both pro-Russian separatists and pro-government militia in the Ukraine. When war broke out, he was no longer happy simply to supply weapons and stand on the sidelines. He wanted the taste of battle for himself. Vertelnikov formed his own group, mostly deserters and criminals, and let both sides know that he was available for hire, no matter what the mission. His men were responsible for countless massacres, rapes, and other atrocities. Vertelnikov knew it, and didn’t care. Instead, he was proud of his reputation for terror: anyone who hired him knew that the job would be done, no matter what. At first, both the Ukrainians and the Russians were content to say and do nothing. Vertelnikov was a convenient scapegoat. Whatever he did, no matter how horrific his war crimes, it could easily be blamed on the other side and used to justify whatever actions needed to be taken in reprisal. And as long as he stayed in the Ukraine, nobody else cared either.
That all changed when Vertelnikov and three of his most trusted lieutenants paid a visit to Turkey to buy Cirit laser-guided anti-tank missiles from a group of Muslim extremists. When he arrived, he was appalled to find that the group did not actually have the weapons, and were counting on his help to steal them. Against his better instincts, Vertelnikov reluctantly agreed. The heist was a complete disaster. Instead of a meticulously planned covert theft, the Muslims decided to make the attack into a political statement and turn it into a bloody firefight. Most of the attackers were killed, as were thirty Turkish soldiers, two American observers, six policemen, and nineteen civilians, including three children, a pregnant woman, and a young British couple. The massacre made headlines around the world. After years of operating in the shadows, Vertelnikov found himself billed as “the next bin Laden.”
Interpol, and the civilian and military intelligence services of over a dozen countries combined forces to hunt him down. Following his trail of mayhem, they combed the deserts and mountains of Afghanistan, the streets of Odessa, and the jungles of Cambodia. And every step of the way, Markham had been right behind him. He’d never seen the man himself until today, but too many times he’d witnessed the misery and destruction Vertelnikov left in his wake. Every day, he seemed to get more savage. It wasn’t enough simply to elude his pursuers. He had become a wild thing, killing for the fun of it. He enjoyed inflicting pain and fear.
Markham no longer cared whether Vertelnikov would ever stand trial in The Hague for his crimes. All he cared about was getting him off the streets once and for all. Whatever the CIA, MI6, the Russians, or anyone else wanted to do to the bastard was fine. If he ended up dead today, then that was absolutely fine too. Get him by any means necessary, they had said. Any means.
Day after day, month after month, Markham had hunted him relentlessly, finally tracking him to a low-rent district of Mumbai. With the help of the Indian Intelligence Bureau, he had staked out the area until he was sure exactly where Vertelnikov was hiding. As soon as they had confirmed his location, he put in the call for a Black Cat National Security Guard team to swoop in and snatch their target.
Everything should have gone smoothly. Vertelnikov should have been trussed up and in a cell before he realized what was happening. Instead, just five minutes before the operation was due to commence, Vertelnikov had bolted. With his usual lack of subtlety, he’d shot a young man on a motorcycle, stolen the bike, and sped off. Right now, Markham really didn’t give a damn whether he’d spotted the observing team, whether he’d been tipped off by someone on the inside, whether it was just bad luck, or whether Vertelnikov was a damn psychic. All that mattered was to take him down before anyone else got hurt.
In front of them, Viktor’s fleeing bike came into view. “For Christ’s sake, just fucking shoot him, Mishti!” Markham shouted.
“Too many people,” she snapped back. “I can’t start shooting in all this.” She gestured to the crowded street on both sides of the speeding car. “You have to get me closer.”
“In this piece of shit?” he retorted. “Why couldn’t you steal us a damn Porsche or something with some actual power? You chose a fucking Tata? Are you serious?”
She shrugged. “This fucking Tata, as you call it, is faster than that little bike. Now stop driving like my half-blind grandmother and catch him.”
“In this?” The road was insanely full. Nobody seemed to care whether they were supposed to be on the left or the right. Buses, trucks and taxis fought for space with rickshaws, bicycles, scooters, and even donkey carts, dodging the potholes, dead dogs and sacred cows who seemed to have absolute right of way everywhere. And through the middle of everything, pedestrians wandered, seemingly oblivious to everything around them.
“Looks like normal Friday morning Mumbai traffic to me, no big deal,” Mishti grinned. “Want me to drive?”
“Huh. I can handle it,” he grumped. He slammed his fist on the horn, hard. In front of him, a man pulling a wheelbarrow filled with water barrels took no notice and plodded on. “Jesus, why won’t these guys move?”
Mishti laughed, and checked the magazine in her pistol for the third or fourth time. “Don’t worry, Jason, you just keep driving. I’ll shoot. Now let’s catch your gangster and we can go home.” Her smile was distracting. Markham couldn’t help wondering what she’d look like naked.
“Well, I did have other plans before heading home,” he smirked. “Champagne, room service…”
“Hey, James Bond, keep your mind on the job,” she admonished. “We have to get him before he reaches South Mumbai. People don’t want to see shootings and crashings and police on Altamont Road on the television news. That’s the nice part of town. Whatever we’re going to do, we have to do it here. And now.”
Markham slammed his foot to the floor and heard the satisfying growl of the turbo kicking in. He had to admit, for an Indian car, the Tata wasn’t bad. There was no way he could even hit sixty miles an hour through these streets during this crazy morning traffic, and the Bolt was capable of more than double that. But Viktor’s 220cc Bajaj Pulsar was far more maneuverable, able to make sharp turns without warning and squeeze through gaps he could never make in a car. In streets with no concept of traffic regulations, the fleeing Russian had a big advantage.
The car powered forward, closing gradually on the bike. Mishti rolled her window down and leaned out, preparing to fire as soon as it was safe. Viktor half-turned. They could both see the gun in his hand, a 5-shot OTs-38 Stechkin revolver. It was the ideal weapon for an urban terrorist: it made almost no noise, so it could be used in public without attracting too much attention.
“Watch out, Mishti!” yelled Markham.
“He can’t hit me,” she retorted. “Not shooting backwards at this speed. Get closer!”
Without aiming or slowing, Vertelnikov snapped off several shots at the Bolt. His first bullet went nowhere near the Bolt, and instead missed an astonished traffic policeman by inches. With no care for his dignity, the policeman threw himself to the floor, landing in a pile of rotting vegetables and dog dirt. The next three shots were just as wild, miraculously hitting nobody. With Vertelnikov’s fifth and final bullet, the passenger mirror shattered, spraying Mishti’s face with tiny shards of glass. She yelped in surprise and ducked back in. Ripping the silk scarf from around her neck, she wiped off the flecks of blood.
“He’s out of bullets,” she shouted. “We have to get him now!”
Car and bike raced faster and faster, avoiding disaster by inches. On both sides, rows of street sellers offered clothes, fruit, and incense from small handcarts or rugs spread out on the ground. To their left ran the railway track, an iron dividing line between the run-down urban sprawl that characterized Mumbai’s Worli district, and the incredible opulence of the shopping districts.
“Come on,” she urged. The bike was just a few yards ahead of them.
The bike sped through the rapidly narrowing gap between a gaudily decorated truck and an oncoming bus. Markham and Mishti glanced at each other and nodded. They both knew what was in his mind. She braced herself as he floored the accelerator and aimed the car between the two vehicles. The Tata’s passenger side door clipped the side of the truck, and for an instant, it began to skid. Markham wrestled with the wheel. Frantically, he tried to regain control. Mishti could see the terrified face of the bus driver getting closer and closer. Just as she was sure they were about to smash straight into the bus, Markham somehow succeeded in straightening the vehicle. The Tata slid harshly along the entire length of the bus, leaving long white streaks of paint along the advert for Sangam tea.
Mishti let out her breath in relief. The bike was still in view, and still only a few yards ahead. Vertelnikov’s desperate maneuver hadn’t gained him anything.
“Oh, crap,” muttered Markham. “No, no, no… hold on, love.”
A long freight train was rumbling slowly towards them, approaching the upcoming rail crossing with appalling inexorability. It was immediately obvious what Vertelnikov was going to do. A hard left turn, cutting in front of the oncoming train and making his way into the expensive shopping areas. If Markham couldn’t make the turn with him, he’d be stuck at the junction, unable to go anywhere. By the time the train had moved on, the terrorist would be long gone. Their only hope was to cut the corner straight through the crowd of market sellers and make a mad dash across the tracks. Mishti pressed herself tightly back into her seat.
As the Russian flung the Pulsar left, missing the train by a split second, Markham yanked the wheel hard left, cutting between piles of clothing and stalls of goods in an insane maneuver that belonged on a rally circuit rather than a crowded city street. The car began to spin, fighting for traction in the dirt, and the Tata’s rear end clipped a fruit stall, sending watermelons flying everywhere. Clouds of flower petals and brightly coloured powders filled the air as Markham skidded right over an old rug covered with paper trays of incense. The incense seller, a big man with a loincloth and a huge beard, leapt out of the way at the last moment, shaking his fist and yelling angrily.
Markham took no notice. All he cared about was getting ahead of the train. “Fucking… come… on…!” he yelled at the car. Just as it seemed they were going to lose Vertelnikov again, the tires found their grip, and the car shot forward across the tracks. The Tata became momentarily airborne as it flew over the small embankment, less than three feet from the front of the train.
For a moment Markham had a glimpse of the shocked train driver, and then the Bolt landed, miraculously, just a few yards behind the bike. His head smashed into the top of the steering wheel, and blood filled his eyes. Beside him, Mishti slumped in her seat, dazed, her gun lost somewhere at her feet. It was obvious she wasn’t going to be doing any shooting. There was only one option left. Shaking his head to clear his vision, Markham stamped on the accelerator and aimed right at the bike.
“Got you, motherfucker,” he whispered.
Viktor Vertelnikov looked behind him in amazement just in time to see the remorseless determination on Markham’s blood-streaked face. The car, still accelerating, smashed straight into him at over sixty miles an hour. As the motorcycle crumpled beneath him, he was thrown into a parked Mercedes, feeling his ribs and limbs shatter with the impact. A moment later, the Bolt slammed into the pile of twisted wreckage and crushed the life out of him.
Chapter 1
Mrs Patel stares in disbelief at the shattered watermelons scattered all over the street. Melon juice covers her tired, worn face, her gray hair, her threadbare brown sari, and runs in little red rivers through the dust at her feet. Her blanket is soaked in sticky sweet juice and pieces of green melon rind. Numbly, she picks up one fallen melon that looks intact. For a moment, she feels a tiny flicker of hope, but when she turns it over, there is a huge crack in it. She checks the others carefully. Not one is fit for sale. Not one. All broken.
It is as if she has gone deaf. All around her, people are yelling, pointing at the wrecked car, the bike, and the dead man. Police run in every direction, blowing their whistles, shouting on their mobile phones and radios, and issuing confused orders to anyone and everyone. Car horns are screeching as traffic backs up, overcrowded buses, battered cars, putt-putting auto-rickshaws, angry cyclists and scooters all trying to get through. But Mrs Patel hears none of this. In her head, all she can hear is what awaits her at home: her half-blind son-in-law Charaka shouting at her, her granddaughter Dharni crying, and her useless daughter Fadiya mumbling endless prayers. The wedding will have to be called off. There will be no house in the village. No escape from Mumbai squalor. No future. All gone. Everything gone in just one single, impossible instant.
Through the chaos, she sees an angry face getting closer to hers. “So who’s going to pay for my broken pots?” screams Pushti, the young potter who likes to set up his stall next to hers. “It was your stupid melons that did the breaking. So it’s you who must pay, isn’t it? You should keep them secure, old woman! Not let them break an honest craftsman’s work with your carelessness!”
She cannot deny it. It is true. A single rogue watermelon had glanced off the wing of the speeding car and cannoned straight into Pushti’s rickety stall, knocking it over with a gigantic crash. Every single one of his pots is broken. Every plate. Every cup. Every jar. Shards of beautiful green and blue clay with fragments of ornate designs lie all over the road.
“I will be giving this information to the police,” shouts Pushti. He leans in closer to her, covering her face in his red-tinged spit as his furious words fly from his mouth. His breath stinks of tobacco smoke and rotting meat. “They will arrest you for criminal damage and you will have a criminal record! Everyone in the market, everyone in Mumbai, everyone in India will know how you destroyed these precious things I crafted with my own hands. Tens of thousands of rupees you have to pay me. Tens of thousands, isn’t it? Or it will be jail for you! Think of that!”
Mrs Patel says nothing. There is nothing to say. Tens of thousands of rupees is an almost unimaginable sum, more than the family makes in months. But to be a criminal, to be in jail… this is more than she can bear.
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