Chapter 21: The Mumbai Bombing

Author's Note: On July 11, 2006, seven pressure cooker bombs went off in series over 11 minutes at stations along the Suburban Railway that runs through Mumbai during the after-work rush hour. 209 people were killed, over 700 were injured. Although the entire Muslim community in India was initially suspected, it was later revealed in the investigation that the Indian Mujahideen, an Islamist fundamentalist group allegedly backed by Pakistani terrorists, were responsible. Please note here; while all Islamists practice a form of Islam (albeit a twisted misinterpretation thereof) not all Muslims are Islamists. The word 'Islamist' is a term that denotes radicals/fundamentalists and who are completely separate from the largely peaceful Muslim community.

This seemed to me to be the sort of incident that the Machine would have paid attention to and thus given the CIA's intelligence support division the numbers of 'relevant' persons. It wasn't too much of a stretch to put John and Kara in Mumbai during the attack, and for Mahesh Rao to be a relevant number.

July 11, 2006

She was going to make her move very, very soon.

He was sure of it, as he sat at the little table in their hotel room stripping and cleaning his favorite Sig. Across the table from him, Kara was doing the same, albeit to her Smith and Wesson. But she'd been rather quiet the last few days, concentrating on her own thoughts, and she must have assumed that he was doing the same, because she never asked him what he was doing.

John hadn't volunteered the information either. What was he going to say? Telling her the truth was out of the question—'I'm gathering resources to give to Rao's family to help them get their daughter away from you'—Kara would shoot him on the spot. And then kill the girl. John was determined to prevent that at all costs. He might have to live with Rao's death on his conscience, but he would not live with the death of a little girl.

"Come on," Kara said as she slipped a fully-loaded clip into her gun. "Come with me. I've been watching Rao and I think there's something you should see."

It was suppertime in India—so John had to pay very close attention to Kara, to avoid losing her in the crowd as they threaded their way through the maze of streets and alleyways until they got to the main market square where John had rescued Rao's niece barely two weeks before.

And as it was suppertime, there was Rao sauntering casually through the marketplace. Over the last couple of weeks John had watched the man for any sign of the terrorist that Kara had said he was, but still couldn't see it—most of the time, his purchases at the market consisted of children's toys and books (his niece was apparently an inveterate reader and, as John had overheard Rao proudly tell the bookseller one day, she was reading far above her grade level at school.)

He adored the little girl. It was evident to John—and even to Kara, normally inured and indifferent to such things as emotional attachments. She loved her father and mother, but Rao was her favorite. With both of her parents busy and with little time to spare for an active, inquisitive little girl, John deemed it fortunate that they had the mother's brother living in the house and capable (and willing) to help with the rearing of a child. He picked her up from school in the afternoon, took her home, and was always ready to babysit, help her with homework, take her out to eat dinner on nights when her mother's work at the clinic or her father's work at the embassy (or a combination of both) made it impossible for the family to have dinner together. When she did well in school, it was her uncle who saw the test papers first, and who would then take her out for a special treat—ice cream, or a new toy, or a new book—to reward her.

Rao was sitting at his usual meal spot; a market stall with a couple of small tables, folding chairs, and an umbrella to ward off the hot summer sun. Eating his usual supper when he ate out, a fried rice curry. Nothing different, nothing new. John turned to Kara. "Am I missing something here? What am I supposed to be looking at?"

"Hush and just watch," Kara said, clearly annoyed. So he 'hushed' and watched.

And a couple minutes later, he saw what she'd brought him here to see. A darker-skinned Middle Eastern man approached Rao's table and seated himself at the empty opposite chair, without asking or being invited. Rao made no movement, no comment.

And his face was familiar—John didn't need Kara's summary to know who the man was. "Mufti Bashir, of the fundamentalist Indian Mujahideen. They are operating in India under the auspices of the Lashkar-e-Taiba in Pakistan. They're responsible for inciting dissent and religious factional and sectarian fighting in the region, and the intelligence community believes they are plotting something, an attack on Indian soil, maybe soon. The fact that he's made contact with Mahesh Rao here indicates to Control that they were justified in their suspicions, that Mahesh Rao is going to betray the Italians, and through him gain the names of all people here in India working as Western informants. Now do you understand why we were sent here to kill the man?"

John frowned. "I can see your point," he said slowly, but as he watched Rao further, something seemed...off. Rao wasn't doing a lot of talking, instead focusing on the food in front of him. He rarely ever looked up, never made eye contact with the other man, and in fact seemed to be doing his best to look at everything and everyone but Bashir. He was also eating faster—so fast John wondered if he would choke on the food.

If John had to hazard a guess, this wasn't a man looking to make connections with a terrorist organization. This wasn't a man planning on betraying the employers of his brother-in-law and the father of his adored, spoiled, petted niece. This was a man who was listening out of politeness but no real interest, someone who was looking around for a way out of the conversation, a reason to leave. All of a sudden he looked down at his wrist, checked his watch, then said loudly, "Excuse me, I have to pick up my niece from school'...and dropped the remains of his lunch into the closest trashcan and almost ran from the man. John took a quick glance at his own watch. School had let out hours ago; the little girl should be safe at home with her parents at the moment.

"I'll follow him, see where he goes," he said to Kara swiftly, and without waiting for her assent, he followed Mahesh Rao (at a discreet distance) out of the market square. Rao was accustomed to leaving the car at the embassy and taking the Mumbai Suburban Railway to this market square for lunches and suppers, if he was working late and had to drive the Italian diplomat somewhere on a late meeting, then taking the same train line back. Kara complained about it constantly—there was a market square not that far from the row of foreign embassies, one that offered a wider variety of foods that catered to Western tastes, why couldn't Rao eat there instead of coming out here to the Khar Road market?

John had privately figured it out already—the market square closest to the embassy sold food, but didn't offer children's toys—or books, except business literature and periodicals. Mahesh took a midday stroll around the Khar market to see what would interest his niece on the way home; then when he did walk his niece home, he could point out things to show her, and maybe have her pick out a toy or two. It was exactly the thing John would have done with his own child, if he'd been lucky enough to have one. But that was just a distant dream, now...

He was following behind Rao at a discreet distance, keeping a sharp eye out for anything out of the ordinary, so it was with some surprise—and some apprehension—that he saw Mufti Bashir out the corner of his eye, fumbling with what looked like a backpack on the crowded train platform. He was trying to keep Rao in sight, and so almost—almost—missed the flash of something silvery inside the backpack.

But that flash was enough to catch his attention, and he turned his head fully to see—and adrenaline kicked in instantly. There was something in that backpack, something heavy, and there were wires attached to it.

The part of him that was 'Reese' sprang to the forefront of his consciousness, no hesitation. Rao was dismissed as unimportant. The bomb in that backpack was Reese's first and only priority at the moment. He had to warn these people, get them out of the train station; then alert the authorities and see if he could defuse it somehow...

"Bomb! Get out of the station!" he tried to yell, but the crush of people didn't let his voice carry far. He looked despairingly at the man, Mufti Bashir, now running away from the backpack he'd just dropped at the edge of the train platform, but there was nothing Reese could do but watch as the man disappeared.

And then the world vanished in a blinding flash of light.

The deafening roar hit a millisecond later, and then the world went dark as the concussive force of the blast rocked the station platform. Reese was thrown off his feet, the lights on the station platform went dark, and then another roar penetrated the high-pitched ringing in his ears—the sound of people screaming, feet trampling the floor in the darkness.

He struggled to sit up, dizzy and disoriented, but his equilibrium had gone along with his hearing and the world seemed to be listing to one side. He tried to get his feet under him, failed, tried again.

And then an arm slid under his own, and with his unknown helper's assistance, he managed to stand. And when he came face to face with his helper... "Mahesh Rao?"

"You've been watching me and my niece for a couple of weeks. I don't know why, but you haven't hurt us even though you could have. You saved Emmy from the crazy driver. And just now, I saw Bashir setting the bomb, and you ran toward it, tried to warn people. So. You're not a murderer." The words were barely distinguishable through the ringing in Reese's ears, but he got the gist of Rao's words, with the red emergency lighting now kicking in along the darkened platform.

And then another explosion rocked the floor under their feet, and Reese realized what was happening. Bombs had been planted all along the train route, in a series, each set to go off seconds or minutes after the next one. It was a concerted terror attack, engineered by Mufti Bashir and/or his organization, and if Rao was here beside John, there was a greater than average chance that he'd seen Bashir plant the bomb.

"You have to get out. Get your niece and your family and get back to the embassy. Don't go home. You're not safe there." John got the words out as quickly as he could, but barely seconds later, there was a different sound, a loud, sharp gunshot, and suddenly Rao sagged against him, face contorting.

Reese threw his arms out almost instinctively, catching the Indian man as he fell, then looked dumbfounded at the spreading red stain in the middle of Rao's back. And then looked up—to see Mufti Bashir standing there, holding a Sig that had just been used to assassinate Mahesh Rao. The same model as John's own, though John knew it wasn't his—he could still feel his own gun securely tucked in the back waistband holster on his slacks.

The gun came up, pointed at him, but John reacted quicker; his gun was out a split second later, apparently faster than Bashir had given him credit for. He must think I'm actually a foreign tourist, John thought grimly with one part of his mind as the other part, the part of his mind that was so familiar with guns that they had become a part of him, merely an extension of his own arm, his own will, brought his own Sig up to sight on Bashir. But people were rushing past and between them, not seeing the two men with guns drawn and pointed at each other; when the press of people finally eased, Bashir was gone.

Reese looked down at Rao, and his chest tightened. There was too much blood soaking the back of Rao's shirt. Rao was gasping, choking on his own blood—the bullet must have hit an artery near his trachea, and he was choking to clear his airway. "Tell...my family..."

"You're going to be fine, you'll tell them yourself," but even as he said it, Reese knew it was hopeless. Rao was going to die here. There was no way emergency services was going to get to him in time.

"My...niece. Emmy. Tell her...I love her very much. I'll miss her...here." He fumbled with his hand, and John saw a plain silver ring with a plain black onyx set in the band. "She bought this for me—saved her allowance to get it—give this back to her. Please." He pressed the little metal circle into John's hand, and that was all. His head lolled, with that peculiar limpness that John knew from long experience meant that Death had taken another soul. After a long moment, John carefully closed the man's eyes, unable to bear the blank empty stare. At least the silent accusation in them wasn't directed at him—it wasn't John's fault that Rao was dead, and neither would he have the man's death on his conscience because Kara had killed him. But it was still with a pang of regret as he laid the man down on the train platform carefully, gently; then rose, slipping the silver men's ring into the depths of his jacket pocket and mingled with the last of the stampeding crowd out of the train station, careful not to make eye contact or get too close to the municipal law enforcement now pushing through the crowd, heading into the station to try and get to the wounded. He didn't want them to know that the front of his dark jacket was soaked with blood.

His ears were still ringing, and he was still slightly in shock as he exited the station into the rain of the outside market, and when a sudden movement drew his attention and Kara suddenly joined him, he barely processed her hand reaching for his gun, taking the Sig from his nerveless grasp and hiding it, then taking his arm in hers and hugging it close—more to support his faltering steps than anything else. The streets were clogged with people making their way away from the blast, and emergency personnel were focused on going toward the blast, so Reese and Kara garnered only a brief, cursory look by one law enforcement officer—most likely the man simply making sure that no walking wounded needed attention—and then the officer continued on his way.

Kara somehow got him up to their hotel room, where she promptly dropped him on the bed, then examined the bloodstains on her blouse. "Ruined a perfectly good blouse. You owe me another shirt."

John stared at her in disbelief. Rao had just died, and that was all she could say? "What?" he asked.

"Oh, I forgot, the blast must have temporarily damaged your hearing. I said," she repeated, louder, "You owe me another shirt. I assume from the blood on your jacket, and the gun in your hand, that you took out Rao?" without waiting for his answer, she checked the Sig she'd taken from him. "Yep. One round missing. I didn't think you had it in you." She smiled at him—one of the few times he could ever remember seeing her smile, and the first time she'd smiled at him. "Congratulations. I knew Reese was in there somewhere. We just had to hide John."

And again the pang. No one wants John. They all want Reese. John was superfluous, an afterthought, a part of him in a junkyard lying forgotten. That was what Kara demanded of him. That was what his career demanded of him.

That was what life demanded of him. No John. Just Reese.

He buried it deep, refusing to think about how much that hurt. If this was what his partner, his career, his life, his universe wanted, then so be it. He would become what he needed to be; as Kara had said, what he wanted, what he desired, wasn't relevant. A permanent home, a normal job...a wife, and a child...those weren't meant for him. Not in this life. He would just have to accept that.

"So now that you've gotten rid of Rao, next you have to get rid of the girl. You might have beaten me to killing Rao, but you still have to get the girl. She was your assignment. Not today—I don't expect you're going to get to her today, security is going to be tight everywhere and any attempt to get close to her will be sheer suicide—but it'll be several days before the authorities open the transportation system, and maybe even a week before they open the airport, so you have a couple of days to figure out how you're going to get the girl. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to change my shirt. Then you should get changed too. Don't leave bloodstains on the hotel furniture." With that, Kara disappeared into the hotel bathroom.

Reese stood, absently started to strip off the jacket and, underneath, the bloodstained shirt. As he did so, something small and hard fell out of the pocket of the jacket, and he caught it before it rolled under a nearby chair.

Rao's onyx ring.

John stared at it for a long moment. He shouldn't have taken it. There was no way he'd ever be able to give it to Rao's niece. But something—some impulse—made him curl his fist around it, made him cross the hotel room quickly and pull his suitcase out from under the bed, and deposit it into the small pouch that held some of his most valued possessions—his Purple Heart, his other decorations and bars. He traveled with them, kept them with him. He never knew where he would end up next, never knew where Control would send them next, and he kept these close because he didn't want to lose them. They went wherever he did. And now so would Rao's ring. Maybe someday, if he was very, very lucky, maybe someday he'd be able to fulfill the dying man's last wish and get this back to his niece? It seemed unlikely, but John couldn't bring himself to simply throw it away.

And then he stuffed his jacket, and the ruined, bloodstained shirt, into a plastic bag to throw out in the hotel's garbage later, and then sat down to figure out what to do about the little girl.