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  “If you want to blend in, stop gawking,” hissed Himesh, scanning the crowd as they pushed their way through.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this except on the TV,” Mirza said. Despite the early hour, Chandni Chowk was an ants’ nest of life. People were everywhere: old women selling cheap pots and rolls of cloth, street urchins begging for change, old men smoking hashish, and even the odd western tourist.

  “It can be a little overwhelming.”

  Mirza inhaled deeply as they passed a stall selling curry. The rich odors made him hungry. He inhaled again and nearly choked at the stench of raw human feces.

  A few minutes later, they turned down a side alley. Within twenty yards, the rich tapestry of the markets had been peeled back to reveal a slum of unrelenting squalor. The conditions shocked Mirza. Naked, filthy children played in the street alongside flea-ridden dogs. He met the gaze of a middle-aged woman stirring a battered pot. Her eyes told the story of a lifetime of struggle. “Not everyone lives well here,” he murmured.

  “Most just survive day to day.”

  As they left the slum, Mirza focused on the job at hand and approached the local police post. “With all these people, I’m surprised it’s so small.”

  “There are big stations outside Chandni Chowk. Come on, let’s go.”

  Dodging traffic, they crossed a four-laned road to get to the station. A small barred window separated the police from the public.

  Himesh slid his identification through the bars and waved it under the nose of the on-duty policeman. “Good morning. Do you mind if we come in for a chat?”

  The khaki-uniformed officer checked the identification and spoke to two others sitting inside. He turned back to Himesh. “Come around to the door.”

  A lock rattled. The heavy side door swung open. A senior constable invited them in. “It is a great honor to have you and your friend in our station, Captain. How can we help you?”

  “We’re looking for some people,” said Himesh.

  Mirza wiped his brow. He hated stuffy, smelly rooms. This one was both. The ceiling fan wobbled as it rotated slowly, doing nothing but move the odor of dirty, sweaty bodies. The small post barely fit the three policemen, let alone guests. A desk beneath the service window and a table with four chairs in the middle of the room were the only furniture. Tucked under the desk was an old safe.

  The constable directed them to take a seat at the table. “Are these people in Chandni Chowk?”

  One of the officers took a tray off the table and walked outside.

  “We believe so. Yesterday, our organization tracked a group of five Pakistanis from the border to here.”

  The constable shook his head. “There are a lot of Pakis here, Captain. Many of them stay in the slums so they can send more money back to their families.”

  “These five are dressed as workers but will look a little different,” said Mirza. “They will hold themselves in a more military fashion. They’ve trained together so they’ll move as a unit of sorts.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I haven’t seen or heard of any men like that.” He glanced at his colleague manning the window.

  The duty officer shook his head.

  The third policeman walked back in and placed a tray of cold soft drinks on the table. The constable passed them each a beverage.

  Mirza held an ice cold can of soda, hoping its coolness would counter the heat and humidity. If it was this hot this early, Allah save them. Popping open the can, he guzzled the soda.

  “What about you, Ranbir?” the constable asked the man who had fetched the drinks. “Have you heard anything?”

  One glance told Mirza the policeman was a Sikh. Tall and bearded, he wore a khaki turban wrapped around his head.

  “No, nothing… actually, one of the street urchins was babbling something about Pakis yesterday. Atal, his face was all bruised.”

  “Atal, is that his name?” Mirza asked.

  “Yes, he’s a street brat. Usually hangs out over by the markets. Bit of a troublemaker, always getting into mischief.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Same as all the others. Skinny. Filthy rags for clothes, no shoes and light fingers. I’d say he’s about twelve. Likes the sound of his own voice.”

  Himesh finished his soda and set the empty can on the table. “So we can find him at the markets?”

  “Yes. Head further down this street and then left. I can show you if you like.”

  “Appreciated, but we don’t want to impose. Thanks for all your help, we’ll try to drop by later today to let you know how we went.” Himesh gave a nod and disappeared out the door.

  “Let us know if you need anything else,” the constable said to Mirza.

  “Thanks.” He shook each man’s hand, then headed for the exit and returned to the maelstrom of humanity and humidity that was Chandni Chowk.

  CHAPTER 13

  Mirza checked his watch. An hour and they were still searching for Atal. They had worked their way through nearly half the sprawling market and questioned a dozen shopkeepers. When they paused in the shade of one of the stalls, he said, “I think we’ll have better luck if we split up.”

  A merchant approached with an armful of plastic sheeting. Himesh waved him away. “You’re right, you head that way. Stay in touch over the radio. I’ll go to the northern end.”

  Mirza strode between the rows of stalls. He caught the odd glimpse of street urchins to no avail. Every time he got near them, they melted into the crowd. He had to give them credit. They were a cagey bunch and recognized the difference between a cop and a free handout. This required a different approach.

  He spotted a gaggle of kids hanging around what looked to be a street kitchen. As he got closer, he noticed an old woman handing out bread. He smiled. Even in suffocating poverty, a glimmer of humanity existed. Once the woman finished giving out the stale loaves, he approached. She smiled from under her orange headscarf. Her face was creased like old leather; her eyes dark brown and warm. “Hello, handsome.”

  “Hello.”

  She reached into a battered, ice-filled cooler and pulled out a cold can of Pocari Sweat. “Could I interest you in a cold drink?”

  Mirza dropped a handful of coins into her hand and accepted the soda. “Thank you.” He rolled the can across his forehead. “I’m not used to the heat.”

  “I didn’t think you were a local.”

  Mirza cracked the can and took a swig. “Not a local. But I could sure do with some local knowledge.”

  The old woman returned to her cooking pots. “What can I help you with?”

  “I’m looking for a street kid called Atal.”

  The woman squinted. “What has that little ruffian done?”

  “No, don’t worry. It’s nothing like that. I just want to talk to him about something he saw.”

  “Are you a policeman?”

  “Sort of, I work for the government.”

  “You promise he isn’t in trouble?”

  “I promise.”

  The old lady studied Mirza’s face. “You can find him at the station.” She motioned to the tracks that bordered the western side of the markets. “He won’t be far from where the tuk-tuks park,” she said, referring to the distinctive three-wheeled taxis. “You can’t miss him, he never shuts up.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Mirza said with a chuckle as he handed her a wad of Rupee notes.

  She shook her head. “I can’t take your money.”

  “Use it to feed the children,” he said over his shoulder. He jogged in the direction she had indicated, updating Himesh over the radio.

  Mirza found the tuk-tuks easily. All ten of them parked in a row and painted in yellow and green. The three-wheeled motorcycles were the most popular form of public transport in New Delhi. Not only were they cheap, they were agile enough to maneuver through the densely packed roads.

  When he stopped in front of the first taxi, he was accosted by five youths all yelling the same words. “Tuk-tu
k, mister? Tuk-tuk?”

  “No, no. I’m looking for my friend, Atal.”

  The boys stared blankly until he pulled out a ten-Rupee note.

  “Other men came for him, bad men,” said one of the boys.

  He retained his grasp on the note. “How long ago?”

  “Just now, he ran that way.” The boy pointed down a street that led back into the slum.

  ***

  As he sprinted down a side alley, Atal’s heart felt like it was going to explode. Desperate to escape, he searched for a gap in the ramshackle housing. He ducked between two sheets of corrugated iron, then darted into a laneway and paused, sucking in the humid air. A shout echoed from behind and he glanced back. Someone ripped the metal sheets apart.

  An angry, bearded face stared down at him. “Little fucker’s over here!” The man squeezed through the opening.

  A second pursuer came crashing through the back wall of one of the makeshift houses. A woman’s scream filled the air.

  Atal dashed down the rubbish-filled lane. His legs ached and lungs burned. A third man appeared to the front, blocking his escape. He skidded and fell on the slimy surface.

  The man in front grinned, revealing a mouth filled with crooked, yellow teeth.

  Atal recognized him as one of Neeraj’s thugs. He spun around. The other two were moving in like hyenas looking for the kill.

  Rotten-teeth pulled out a wicked, curved blade. “You’re fucked now, aren’t you?”

  Atal scrambled to his feet, searching frantically for a way out. Sheet iron bound both sides, a canyon with cliffs of wood and metal.

  As the men closed in, he scrambled up some trash piled to one side and leaped at the tin wall. Grunting, he got his chest over as his feet scrabbled at the metal.

  “Quick, the little rat’s trying to get away!”

  Atal’s toe found a dent in the wall and he managed to get himself up. A hand closed around his ankle. He kicked out.

  “Arrgh!” One of the thugs fell backward.

  Atal jumped up and took off. He ran along the rooftops, dodging holes and leaping over gaps. The hot iron burnt his feet. It spurred him on.

  The men followed from down in the alley. “Get him.”

  Reaching the edge of the line of shanties, he skidded to a halt inches from a three-yard gap. “Oh, no.” He backed up and took a deep breath. With a burst of speed, he jumped.

  One of his assailants seemed to appear out of nowhere. He grabbed Atal’s bare leg and brought him crashing down.

  The street urchin lay on the ground, gasping. He tried to crawl. Someone pinned his legs.

  “We got you now, you little punk.”

  They flipped him onto his back. Two men held him down. The one with the yellow teeth knelt over with a knife.

  “I’m gonna cut out your eyes.” His rancid breath hit like a cloud of poison gas. “Then your liver and heart.”

  Atal snarled and snapped as his head was held still.

  “Bit of a fighter, hey.” He poked the bruise on Atal’s face with his finger.

  Tears welled in the youth’s eyes.

  “Just give up, boy. It’s all over,” hissed rotten-teeth as he edged his curved blade toward Atal’s eye. The tip almost touched before he was thrown sideways and slammed into a wall with a crash.

  “You always beat up on little kids?” asked a stern voice with a hint of a northern accent.

  The other two criminals released Atal. He took comfort from their wary gazes until they pulled long-bladed knives from beneath their shirts.

  Rotten-teeth retrieved his knife. “This isn’t your business, mister.”

  Atal stared at the stranger. He had lean Asiatic features and a fierce beard. The man’s stance reassured him. It suggested he could handle himself.

  “Three men picking on a street kid. You just made it my business.”

  “Your death wish then.” Rotten-teeth nodded to his partners. The two thugs advanced with their knives.

  Mirza cocked his head, a nervous smile playing at the corners of his lips. He considered drawing his pistol and ending this before it started. But he wasn’t supposed to be carrying the weapon, let alone using it to gun down civilians in broad daylight. Damn. He hoped Himesh would arrive soon.

  The two men he faced had clearly been in a street fight before. They circled him like sharks, knives held at arm’s length. The taller one lunged, thrusting with his blade. Mirza side-stepped and chopped at the man’s arm with the bridge of his hand. The knife clattered to the ground. Mirza shoved him sideways snapping around to face the other adversary.

  The next man was faster. His knife flashed as he advanced. Mirza was forced back as the blade sliced through his sleeve and nicked his flesh.

  He kicked the thug in the chest, knocking him back. He felt a warm trickle of blood but didn’t have time to check the wound. The tall thug had picked up a length of wood and was swinging it wildly. Mirza blocked the blow. Pain shot up his arm.

  Rotten-teeth had found his feet and strode forward, his curved blade held ready.

  Mirza backpedaled. He reached to his hip for the Glock hidden under his shirt as the Indian gangsters came in for the kill.

  “No need for that.”

  Hearing Himesh’s confident voice, Mirza pulled his hand back and dropped it by his side.

  Himesh moved with unbelievable speed. He kicked rotten-teeth in the side of the knee and smashed him with an elbow to the temple.

  The knife fighter was next. He lunged, slashing the blade in an arc. Himesh caught his arm and twisted the wrist. A crack echoed in the small alley. Knife fighter screamed and dropped to his knees.

  The third man attacked with his makeshift club. Himesh ducked, stabbing the criminal in the chest with the knife still held in his partner’s hand. Without a wasted motion, he snapped knife fighter’s neck. Both corpses flopped to the ground. “Check the kid.”

  Mirza shook the boy gently. He appeared stunned but otherwise OK.

  “You’re like Superman,” the dazed youth mumbled.

  Mirza helped him up. “Not exactly, but you’re safe now. What’s your name?”

  “Atal.”

  Rotten-teeth moaned, drawing their attention. He had got to his feet and staggered down the alley. He glanced over his shoulder and disappeared around a corner.

  Himesh checked the other men for signs of life. “We need to get out of here before he returns with friends. Bring the boy with us. We can question him back at the hostel.”

  CHAPTER 14

  FEROZ SHAH KOTLA STADIUM

  Al-Jahiz studied his map. He looked up and shook his head. It didn’t take a genius to work out that the construction site in front of him wasn’t the colonel’s target. He turned back to the damp map and wiped his hands on his pants. By all that was holy, he missed the cool dry air of the mountains.

  “What’re you looking for?”

  He jumped. The middle-aged man had snuck up on him. Al-Jahiz took in the sun-darkened complexion, wrinkles, and frail build. A walking stick suggested an injury of some kind. “Ah nothing, I am fine.”

  The man patted the canvas satchel that hung around his neck. “I could sell you a better map. Or perhaps you want tickets?”

  “Tickets?”

  “For the game. India verse Zimbabwe. It starts this afternoon at Feroz Shah Stadium. It’s a sellout. But I might have tickets… for the right price.”

  “I already have a ticket. I just don’t know where the stadium is.”

  The scalper chuckled. “I can show you for a small fee.”

  He sighed and handed over a few coins. Everyone in this cesspit of infidels was trying to take his money.

  The change disappeared into the canvas satchel and the scalper hobbled off along the side of the road. “This way.”

  He followed closely. “You said it’s a sellout. How many people will be at the stadium this afternoon?”

  “At least forty thousand.”

  He was almost light-headed with exciteme
nt. His men were going to be attacking forty thousand infidels jammed into one location, shoulder to shoulder. “Is it a family event or mainly men?”

  “You don’t know much about this do you?” The man led him across a park and gestured to a large stadium. “That’s the Feroz Shah. This afternoon it will be packed with everyone: men, women, children, and the elderly. They will come from miles around to worship at the temple of cricket.”

  Al-Jahiz couldn’t hide the grin on his face.

  “I can see you are a big fan. Perhaps I could interest you in extra tickets for family or friends.”

  “I think I will try my luck with the rest.” He nodded at the long line of people at the ticket booths under the stadium. “Thank you for your help.”

  Ignoring the scalpers, he walked slowly along the line and studied the stadium. Apart from an elderly guard manning the gates, there wasn’t any sign of security, much less police. In their uniforms, his men would walk straight into the densely packed stadium unnoticed. He’d instruct them to avoid the open grassed areas. Their bullets and explosives would claim thousands more lives in the congested stadium.

  Hands shaking with anticipation, Al-Jahiz reached into his pocket, took out a camera, and snapped pictures.

  ***

  CHANDNI CHOWK

  Mirza tried to wind a scarf around the cut on his arm as they rushed back to the hostel. The bastard had got the drop on him and he was not happy about it.

  “Stop beating yourself up. You held your own,” Himesh said.

  “Who are you guys?” Atal asked as they raced through the streets. “Cops? Because I’ve never seen cops like you before. Most are fat and stupid. But you messed those guys up good. Did you kill them all? It sure looked like you did, mister. I’ve never seen anyone move as fast as you.”

  “You don’t ever stop talking, do you?” Seeing the kid open his mouth, Mirza shook his head. “That wasn’t a question.”

  Himesh stopped at a street corner and glanced around. “I’m sure we came this way.”

  “I thought it was the next street.”