Chapter 18
Get Along Little Doggies
It was roundup time for Kris Amar and his gang of Thugs. His days of hustling and rustling the offspring of prominent people were quickly coming to a close. I was already planning his necktie party, something tightly befitting for the miserable bastard. There was no need to RSVP with this hangman since I had planned the event to be open to one and all. Please bring your popcorn and cameras and watch Kris squirm by my righteous hand. I promised it would be a good performance at breakneck speed with a happy, predictable ending. Richard Avery was going to throw the scaffolding’s lever and watch Kris Amar twist and dangle on the rope of American retribution and justice.
The scene and purple prose simply didn’t get any more colorful or satisfying for those who served and protected.
Ok, so much for the verbal bravado and posturing. I only hoped I wouldn’t get killed trying to rescue Zeenat. I also hoped that no one else on my team would be harmed either since I had come to like and respect each of them. They were almost friends in addition to being colleagues. I didn’t want to feel that way because it was often a serious liability in my business. It was sometimes better to keep a safe distance, emotionally speaking.
We grouped at the Holiday Inn in Agra. I would have much preferred a HoJo to score reward points, but I sacrificed my personal gain once again for my government. Not to mention there wasn’t a single HoJo in the entire country. The P-LINT indicated that Kris Amar’s jacket was inside the mosque on the Taj’s grounds. The ersatz Indians were ready to go on the warpath and it was time to vamoose. We double-checked each other’s costumes for authenticity and modesty. We then loaded and locked our weapons. That expression had always confused me since my Smith was a simple, five-shot revolver that was always locked and loaded, but hitting anything more than 15 feet away was problematic though. Regardless, I liked the manly sound of it.
We looked like a bunch of deranged circus clowns who had just escaped the asylum. That family snapshot should keep the opposition off-balance and guessing for a while, I suspected. Chester had arranged for a plainclothes, undercover team of IB agents to take up positions at the outer perimeter of the mosque. However, I insisted that each agent wear large “IB” letters on the back of their shirts and jackets so we could distinguish the good Indians from the bad ones. Of course, the only good ones were dead ones, I gravely snickered.
We piled into an electric van that drove us to the entrance to the Taj Mahal. Due to pollution concerns, gas and diesel powered vehicles were banned in the immediate vicinity of the World Heritage site. The Taj was about the only place in India with clean air and we all breathed deeply and hoped it wouldn’t be our last. We stood in line several minutes waiting to buy admission tickets. Thank God Chester had remembered to bring some money. None of our costumes had pockets, although we likely would have been shortchanged, regardless.
Chester used a small pouch sewn into the bottom of his quiver to keep his wampum safe. He was a clever Indian and straight arrow. I hoped he’d be a straight shooter too, I aimlessly mused. As I had correctly guessed, our outfits didn’t draw too many second glances. There were a lot of belly laughs and guffaws, but few second glances. We felt confident that we had chosen the perfect guises to pull off this dangerous caper and we were now dressed to kill.
The mosque was open to the public and there were already a fair number of people on the premises. Fortunately, we didn’t have to remove our shoes since they were already properly covered with our paper bootie moccasins. It wasn’t a Friday, but the place still had a surprisingly large number of worshipers and tourists mingling about. That was good since we had forgotten to bring our armored vests. We might have to use the good folk as human shields if push came to shove. Given the circumstances, we thought it was a good defensive maneuver and classic tradecraft by exploiting the weak and using them for our own ends.
We had a solid plan and strategy. We only prayed that our sly and clever tactics would work well. If not, we’d all end up as infidel martyrs for Uncle Sam. In this ruse, we planned to use our State Department issued guile and cunning to bring about a successful conclusion. Those commodities were always in short supply and were sparingly doled out. Nonetheless, we would set into motion a classic hostage-taking scenario to smoke-out the bad guys and rescue Zeenat. It was a brilliant bit of strategic thinking, but the prospect frightened me to death.
The mosque was good-sized, about five thousand square-feet by my rule-of-thumb. I could be wrong because the building was round and not square. It was also probably designed in meters, rather than feet, so guesstimating its size and volume was difficult. Not surprisingly, the ground floor was rotund and largely open from roof to floor. We could see a series of rooms on its upper floor, but the stairs leading to them were roped off to keep people away from the building’s only restroom. The mosque’s imams could be so stingy and incontinent at times.
As we moved about, we clicked and clacked instructions to each other using our frogs. Some people reacted to the sounds by mentioning the cricket problem in India since the Agra team wasn’t playing very well this season. Our plan was simple, but elegant in design. Big Bird would create a diversion by doing a war-dance in the middle of the mosque. He would mentally and silently use the beats and lyrics from Billy Idol’s song White Wedding to motivate him. He claimed he could go a full five minutes and twenty seconds without stopping before changing his head’s CD. I told him to give it his best shot. God, I really admired our team’s spirit and natural rhythm.
The plan called for the Bird to create enough commotion to draw the attention of the bad guys. We knew Indians couldn’t resist watching traditional, ancestral dances. However, he had to make sure he didn’t go too long or far in the effort. We couldn’t afford to be deluged by either too much rain or corn at a time like this. The Bird started his dance in earnest by whooping, hollering, and prancing around the temple; all to the amazement of the onlookers. He put his hand to his mouth to make the most ridiculous and disgusting grunting, hollering, and guttural sounds. Some of them could have been misconstrued as being obscene. That was the Billy Idol influence, I firmly believed. At one point, he did the YMCA song and tried to get people from the audience to participate. However, he ended up a letter short. But YMC was close though. In any case, I’d still give him an A for effort.
The ruse worked. A couple of Thugs came down the stairs to see what was going on. They were amused and confused by the Birdman’s performance. Of course, that was the whole point of the exercise. While they looked on, Kali and I made for the stairs. We quietly and carefully began searching the rooms on the upper floor. As we opened the door to the third room, we were greeted by a Thug carrying an Uzi submachine pistol.
He turned it toward our direction and the move was a big mistake on his part. Kali immediately fired two shots from her Sig pistol and brought the Thug down with big bangs to his upper chest; nine millimeter ones to be exact. I was awestruck and thoroughly impressed with her shooting skills. Princess Summer-Fall-Winter-Spring was a crack shot and a stone-cold killer. I think she actually enjoyed it, but didn’t say so.
Crying at the far end of the room was Zeenat Karzai. She was obviously alive and kicking which was a very good sign. We’d worry about her psychological scars later, but now she was in safe hands. We noticed that Zeenat was also well-dressed for a captive. She had a Giorgio Armani suit jacket draped around her shoulders, but its owner, Kris Amar, was nowhere to be found.
After Big Bird finished his impromptu dancing, we still had to keep the bad guys’ attention away from the upstairs room and that was where Chester came into play. When the Bird stopped his little shtick, Chester started his diversion. He pulled out his pistol and announced to the crowd that he was a dangerous terrorist who was going to take someone hostage until his demands for Sikh autonomy for Kashmir were met.
Chester claimed he wasn’t seeking anything more. I enjoyed his little attempt at humor. Regardless, he was desperate and ruthless and would die before giving up his cause. Chester even went so far as to threaten to cut off the world’s supply of fine sweaters and scarves. He said he hoped that he wouldn’t have to permanently pull the wool over anyone’s eyes to get his way.
The wannabe terrorist then carefully chose his first, and only, hostage. It turned out to be an Indian man who stood very close to him—Chester himself.
He placed the muzzle of his gun against his right temple as we had practiced. We had timed how long he could hold the weapon in that position before his hand tired and he had to lower it. Eight minutes and ten seconds was clocked as his personal best.
The first thing he yelled to the congregation was to stand still or he would shoot. He wanted to get their attention in order to exercise control over them. His threat seemed to work since the crowd stood their ground and watched this most bizarre scene being played out in front of them. Mothers quickly put their hands over their children’s eyes to shield them from the gruesome spectacle. Strong men openly wept with laughter. It was quite a sight to behold and a great performance by Chester.
He ordered the crowd to divide into two, roughly equal groups of men and women. That was an easy demand since Muslim men were physically separated from their wives while inside the mosques for religious reasons. Each group was then told to line up against an opposing wall. They needed to move quickly or he would make good on his promise. “Move it or lose it,” he screamed at them in both Hindi and English. They now had their collective backs against the walls which was a direct affront to their dignities.
He instructed the two lines to slowly approach each other at midpoint of the mosque’s floor. The two groups were told to stand about ten feet apart, facing each other. He then ordered everyone to put their right hand in and then to pull it out. He ordered them to put it in again and shake it all about.
“You do the hokey–pokey and you turn yourself around. That’s what it’s all about!” he sternly chided. He went through all seven verses of the ditty, but had to change butt to derriere for the sake of propriety and the French tourists in the crowd. The people were enthralled with the mysterious ritual and the chanting of its moving words. Chester’s guidance and cadence were superb and on the mark and the group’s movements and symmetries were wonderful to watch. The crowd loudly applauded his lively performance. Chester wondered if they might be up for a little square dancing afterward.
Sometimes those who served and protected liked to shake a little booty in church.
That playful dance took about ten minutes to complete and kept everyone’s attention focused on Chester. That was everyone except for the two Thugs who must have had two impatient, left feet and disdained childish music. One of the team members downstairs gave us the warning whistle of imminent danger. The two bad guys were now heading in our direction. We were expecting this move and had planned accordingly. Kali had placed a small prayer rug in the hallway and took her position on it while facing Mecca which more-or-less coincided with the direction of the bad guys approach. Well, she actually faced the opposite direction, but neither of us gave a damn, although we would do penance later for our misdirected sins. Kali kept her Sig semiautomatic beneath the rug and at the ready. Her trigger finger must have been itching like crazy.
The two goons walked down the hallway toward the room with their guns drawn. They weren’t taking any chances and neither were we. Kali dropped the second Thug just before he followed his partner into the room. One quick DS cap to the head brought him down as she couldn’t miss from 30 feet. She now had another trophy to put on the wall of her rumpus room back home. But I didn’t have it so easy. Zaneet’s safety was a concern, but guns do kill, despite the NRA’s claims to the contrary. I had to be damn careful if I fired my weapon in the small room. I stood behind the door and grabbed the Thug from behind. I would apply his own, peculiar weapon of choice to this assassin. It was a customary act under the circumstances.
I had removed Zeenat’s bra and twisted it into a makeshift garrote. As a considerate gentleman, I had averted my eyes when doing so. She had a perky set, by the way. I looped her B-cups around the Thug’s neck and held on for dear life. Choking someone to death, who didn’t want to be choked, was difficult under the best of conditions. Kali joined me and we both held the bad guy down on the floor until his last breath left him. Zeenat was screaming in the far corner of the room. We understood her anguish, but wet work was never pleasant, especially during the Indian rainy season.
We collected ourselves and headed to the airport. The embassy had chartered a small business jet to return us to Delhi. Zeenat was terribly traumatized by her experience. That was certainly to be expected and I felt sorry for her, but knew she would eventually be able to cope with her experience. She simply needed support and time to recover.
We had done well and the proof was Zeenat’s safe return home. However, we had missed nailing Kris Amar again. This was now getting personal for me. I wouldn’t rest until Kris moved onto his next life. And it would be a grudge match to the death.
Sometimes those who served and protected fundamentally detested those extremist bullies who terrorized others of this world.