surname meant “greengrocer”-and was a perfect description of the mild-mannered commoner who changed the history of his country though peace and passive resistance.
Devras Sikari, the hunter chosen by god, would change the world too, though far differently than Gandhi. He would make a mark in a way that befit
Balan now recalled the day he left for this mission. The dark, diminutive Sikari-his age impossible to guess- came to Balan’s safe house in Northern India. Sikari was wearing wrinkled white slacks and a loose shirt. From the chest pocket blossomed a red handkerchief. (Red was the color associated with the Kshatriya caste and Sikari always wore or carried something red.) The leader had greeted him in a soft voice and gentle smile-he never shouted or displayed anger-and then explained how vital it was that he find a particular American, a geologist who had been making inquiries about Sikari in Paris.
“I need to know what he’s learned. And why he wants to know about me.”
“Yes, Devras. Of course.” Sikari insisted that his people use his first name.
“He’s left India. But find him. Kill anyone with him, then torture him,” he said as casually as if he were ordering a cup of Kashmiri shir chai-pink salt tea.
“Of course.”
His mentor had then smiled, taken Balan’s hand and given him a present: a thick copper bracelet, an antique, it seemed. A beautiful piece, streaked with a patina of green. It was decorated with ancient writing and an etching of an elephant. He’d slipped the bracelet on Balan’s wrist and stepped back.
“Oh, thank you, Devras.”
Another smile and the man who had brought so much death to some and hope to others whispered one of his favorite expressions: “Go and do well for me.”
And with that Devras Sikari stepped out the door and vanished back into the countryside of Kashmir.
Now, remaining hidden from the victims soon to die, Balan glanced down at the bracelet. He knew it signified more than gratitude: the gift meant that he was destined for some place high in Sikari’s organization.
It was also a reminder not to fail.
Balan’s phone trilled.
“Yes?”
Without any greeting, Jana asked coolly, “Are you in position?”
“Yes.”
“I’m up the beach road, a hundred yards.” Jana had a low and sultry voice. He loved the sound. He pictured her voluptuous body. In the past few days, as they’d prepared for the attack and conducted their surveillance, she’d worn bulky clothes that had concealed her figure. Only last night, when they’d met in a cafe to survey the escape route, had she worn anything revealing: a thin t-shirt and tight skirt. She’d glanced down at the outfit and explained dismissively that it was just another costume. “I’m only playing tourist.”
Meaning I’m not sending you a message.
Though, of course, Jana knew that he came from a country where the most beautiful women often wear concealing saris, even to the beach, and that Balan
But the killer had resisted even glancing at her figure. He was a professional and had learned to stifle his lust. Sikari always came first.
Jana now said through her untraceable cell phone, “I have the hypodermic ready for him.”
The plan was that Balan would stun the American with a Taser and kill the others. Then Jana would race up in the van. They’d throw the man inside and inject him with a tranquilizer. She’d drive him to an abandoned warehouse outside of Nice for the interrogation. Balan would meet her there soon after.
“You’ll kill the family,” she said, as if this were something they’d argued about, which they had not.
“Yes.”
“All of them.”
“Of course.” He resolved to keep to his decision not to harm the child. But he couldn’t help but wonder about her: How could a woman be so casual about killing an infant?
“Get to work,” Jana said abruptly.
Because she was beautiful he didn’t give her a snide response, which was his first reaction. Instead he simply disconnected.
Balan looked around for traffic. Nobody was on the wind-swept beach road. He climbed out of the car with a canvas bag over his shoulder. Inside was an automatic weapon with a sound suppressor. It could fire 600 rounds a minute, but he had it set to fire in three-shot bursts every time the trigger was pulled. This was far more efficient than fully automatic, and more deadly than single-shot.
The bullets weren’t big-.22 caliber-but they didn’t need to be. Sikari instructed his people to look at guns as an extension of more primitive weapons, like spears or knives. “Your goal,” Sikari said, “is to open the flesh and let the life flow out. Let the body destroy itself.”
How brilliant he is, Balan thought, his heart tapping hard with love and awe as he rubbed the copper bracelet and walked closer to the people whose lives were about to change so dramatically.
He crossed the sandy road and slipped behind a faded sign advertising Gitane cigarettes. He peeked out. The family was pouring wine and beer and setting out food.
Their last meal.
Balan looked over the older husband, who was fairly fit for someone in middle age. From here-50 yards away-he was handsome in a nondescript American way; all of them looked alike to him. And his wife was even more striking up close. The younger man, Balan now decided, wasn’t their son. He wasn’t young enough. Besides he didn’t resemble either of the older couple. Perhaps he was a co-worker or neighbor or the American’s younger brother. His wife, the mother of the baby, was blond and athletic. Recalling his thoughts about sports, he decided she looked like a cheerleader.
Balan reached into the bag and extracted the gun, checked again to make sure it was ready to fire. He then put on a powder blue jacket that said
He thought of Sikari.
He thought of Jana, the cold, beautiful woman now waiting in the van.
Would she await him later that night? In her bed? Perhaps this was only a fantasy. But, as Sikari taught his followers, fantasies exist so that we might strive to make them reality.
Then standing tall, he walked toward the family with casual purpose.
One hundred yards.
Then 75.
Making slow progress over the fine white sand.
The American, smiling from something his wife had said, glanced his way, but paid Balan little attention. He’d be thinking, a beach inspector? Those crazy French. At worst I’ll have to pay five euros for permission to lunch here.
Fifty yards.
Forty.
He would shoot when he was 15 yards away. Balan was a good shot. He’d learned his skill killing Pakistanis and Muslims and other intruders in his home in Kashmir. He was accurate even standing in the open with the enemy shooting back.
The younger woman, the mother beside the baby’s bassinette, glanced his way without interest and then turned back to her music streaming into her ears through the iPod. She leaned forward on her beach chair, looked inside the carriage, smiled and whispered to the baby.
That will be her last image as she died: her child’s face.
Thirty yards.
Twenty-five.
Balan kept a restrained smile on his face. Still, none of them was suspicious. Perhaps they were thinking that with his brown skin he was from Algeria or Morocco. There were many Frenchmen around here who had roots in North Africa.
