Chapter extract: Winter Deception
A slightly rejigged extract from the first chapter of The Winter Deception.
Mumbai, India
Finding someone can be infinitely harder than killing him. Look how long they searched for Osama Bin Laden. They say they found him in Northern Pakistan. Ten years after 9/11. They say they killed him and dumped him at sea. Maybe he walked the plank first, justice served pirate style. Then, they killed him. That’s what they say. What if he’s still alive? What if one of his videos pops up on the internet, with our bearded villain feet up at Waikiki Beach? You never know, right?
My target wasn’t quite in Osama’s notorious league, but if taking on one of his kind meant a safer world, I was game for the takedown. Three weeks ago I received an email of a contract in Mumbai. All I had to do was find someone. Easy money, right? I had to think twice though, my last visit to the subcontinent ended in a bruising episode with the local constabulary. No doubt, they weren’t looking forward to my return.
After I almost blew up the Gateway to India, who could blame them
Fact is, my funds were running low and the money they offered was good. India was hot and London was cold. There was international women’s tennis and a cricket test-match on in Mumbai. Short skirts, rackets, bats and balls. All things considered, it was a no-brainer.
One of the first things that struck me about the city was the smell. I know what many would think, but no, it wasn’t all bad. Spices, fried foods and open drains assault your senses at every turn. Then there’s this constant movement of people and cars in a symphony that played itself out ‘till three in the morning. Three hours later it all started up again. Mumbai certainly wasn’t for the faint hearted.
The target’s name was Hafiz Khan. My contact provided a picture of a male, medium height, thin, dark hair, skin and eyes. Based on the visuals, the description matched the entire male population. We also knew he prayed five times a day at a local mosque and dealt in cell phones. The last two bits of information were more useful and ultimately led to a successful search. That was two days ago. He managed to give me the slip but I picked him up again this morning as he made his way to the Friday mid-day prayer.
Faith has always been a big deal to the people of India. Almost as if needing to prove the point, many of them had miniature temples on vehicle dashboards. The way they drive, I completely understand their need for prayers on the go. Some also adorned their trucks with colourful trimmings to ward off the evil eye.
I made sure this time to keep my eye on him as he weaved his way down Sardar Vallabhai Patel Road. We passed stretches of grimy old buildings, many of them at least two storeys high. They housed the more formal traders of books, perfumes and electronics. We battled through throngs of pedestrians in an area known as Chor Bazaar, part of a large and depressing district called Donghri. Years ago the market dealt in stolen merchandise, hence the name ‘Chor’. Nowadays, it was a market for second-hand goods. Wherever you looked, pavements were lined with little stalls selling anything and everything from kitchenware to clothing and toiletries. For those wanting street food, roadside food vendors plied their trade at every corner, frying potato wadas or some other assortment of spicy delicacies.
Khan sported a kurta suit – traditional wear for the Friday congregational prayer. The garment was perfect for blending in the busy market place. We made a right turn into Mohammed Ali Road. His gait was smooth and sure, like one who knew exactly where he was going. He kept his head down much of the time, averting eye contact with those around him.
He must have had a lot on his mind
His determined step was broken when he stopped at a perfume shop, otherwise known as an attarwala. The pure oils of perfume were extracted from flowers and fruit. Based on my case file, Khan would never have applied the Western perfume with its forbidden alcohol content. For believers like him, that which was considered optional became compulsory.
Hard core stuff
Satisfied with his last grooming rite, he was on the move again. There were many mosques in the district, each packed to capacity. From a surveillance point of view, following him was easy with thousands of people about. Unfortunately, the crowds made it difficult to carry out a quick one on one of ‘how’s your mother’. Khan had picked up his pace in the last few minutes, like someone on a mission. Every few moments, he glanced back as if checking for tails. Was it nerves, or a measure of awareness as someone trained would do?
In Mumbai, hot and steamy was par for the course on any given day. Every so often I popped into an air-conditioned store just for a blast of cool air. A white linen shirt and cotton khaki trousers with leather sandals was as much covering as I could manage in the oppressive heat. Not the best footwear for sudden pursuit, but staying in character was critical. I tanned easily and, after a few days in Mumbai, my skin had acquired a healthy olive complexion. Over the last while, I had cultivated a thin beard that wasn’t out of place with the crowd making its way to the mosque.
Khan was probably no amateur, but I was pretty certain he wouldn’t spot me, but you never knew, right? Some guys had a natural feel for this stuff and could smell a tail a mile away. Why was I following this guy again? Information from my contact said he supplied his buddies in Pakistan with intelligence on the ground in Mumbai. His other speciality was engineering cell phones as bomb detonators. As part of his cover, he operated a cell phone shop. Of course, the definition of a shop in Mumbai was a lot different to that in London. Here, it was as small as one square metre on a pavement.
The Winter Deception
Mumbai, India
Finding someone can be infinitely harder than killing him. Look how long they searched for Osama Bin Laden. They say they found him in Northern Pakistan. Ten years after 9/11. They say they killed him and dumped him at sea. Maybe he walked the plank first, justice served pirate style. Then, they killed him. That’s what they say. What if he’s still alive? What if one of his videos pops up on the internet, with our bearded villain feet up at Waikiki Beach? You never know, right?
My target wasn’t quite in Osama’s notorious league, but if taking on one of his kind meant a safer world, I was game for the takedown. Three weeks ago I received an email of a contract in Mumbai. All I had to do was find someone. Easy money, right? I had to think twice though, my last visit to the subcontinent ended in a bruising episode with the local constabulary. No doubt, they weren’t looking forward to my return.
After I almost blew up the Gateway to India, who could blame them
Fact is, my funds were running low and the money they offered was good. India was hot and London was cold. There was international women’s tennis and a cricket test-match on in Mumbai. Short skirts, rackets, bats and balls. All things considered, it was a no-brainer.
One of the first things that struck me about the city was the smell. I know what many would think, but no, it wasn’t all bad. Spices, fried foods and open drains assault your senses at every turn. Then there’s this constant movement of people and cars in a symphony that played itself out ‘till three in the morning. Three hours later it all started up again. Mumbai certainly wasn’t for the faint hearted.
The target’s name was Hafiz Khan. My contact provided a picture of a male, medium height, thin, dark hair, skin and eyes. Based on the visuals, the description matched the entire male population. We also knew he prayed five times a day at a local mosque and dealt in cell phones. The last two bits of information were more useful and ultimately led to a successful search. That was two days ago. He managed to give me the slip but I picked him up again this morning as he made his way to the Friday mid-day prayer.
Faith has always been a big deal to the people of India. Almost as if needing to prove the point, many of them had miniature temples on vehicle dashboards. The way they drive, I completely understand their need for prayers on the go. Some also adorned their trucks with colourful trimmings to ward off the evil eye.
I made sure this time to keep my eye on him as he weaved his way down Sardar Vallabhai Patel Road. We passed stretches of grimy old buildings, many of them at least two storeys high. They housed the more formal traders of books, perfumes and electronics. We battled through throngs of pedestrians in an area known as Chor Bazaar, part of a large and depressing district called Donghri. Years ago the market dealt in stolen merchandise, hence the name ‘Chor’. Nowadays, it was a market for second-hand goods. Wherever you looked, pavements were lined with little stalls selling anything and everything from kitchenware to clothing and toiletries. For those wanting street food, roadside food vendors plied their trade at every corner, frying potato wadas or some other assortment of spicy delicacies.
Khan sported a kurta suit – traditional wear for the Friday congregational prayer. The garment was perfect for blending in the busy market place. We made a right turn into Mohammed Ali Road. His gait was smooth and sure, like one who knew exactly where he was going. He kept his head down much of the time, averting eye contact with those around him.
He must have had a lot on his mind
His determined step was broken when he stopped at a perfume shop, otherwise known as an attarwala. The pure oils of perfume were extracted from flowers and fruit. Based on my case file, Khan would never have applied the Western perfume with its forbidden alcohol content. For believers like him, that which was considered optional became compulsory.
Hard core stuff
Satisfied with his last grooming rite, he was on the move again. There were many mosques in the district, each packed to capacity. From a surveillance point of view, following him was easy with thousands of people about. Unfortunately, the crowds made it difficult to carry out a quick one on one of ‘how’s your mother’. Khan had picked up his pace in the last few minutes, like someone on a mission. Every few moments, he glanced back as if checking for tails. Was it nerves, or a measure of awareness as someone trained would do?
In Mumbai, hot and steamy was par for the course on any given day. Every so often I popped into an air-conditioned store just for a blast of cool air. A white linen shirt and cotton khaki trousers with leather sandals was as much covering as I could manage in the oppressive heat. Not the best footwear for sudden pursuit, but staying in character was critical. I tanned easily and, after a few days in Mumbai, my skin had acquired a healthy olive complexion. Over the last while, I had cultivated a thin beard that wasn’t out of place with the crowd making its way to the mosque.
Khan was probably no amateur, but I was pretty certain he wouldn’t spot me, but you never knew, right? Some guys had a natural feel for this stuff and could smell a tail a mile away. Why was I following this guy again? Information from my contact said he supplied his buddies in Pakistan with intelligence on the ground in Mumbai. His other speciality was engineering cell phones as bomb detonators. As part of his cover, he operated a cell phone shop. Of course, the definition of a shop in Mumbai was a lot different to that in London. Here, it was as small as one square metre on a pavement.
The Winter Deception
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