Spectre (The Beginning Book 1) Read online

  SPECTRE: THE BEGINNING

  Copyright © 2016 Anil John, All rights reserved.

  Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited.

  No part of this book can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photo copying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without express written permission from the author.

  Disclaimer

  The events, characters, communities, people or places depicted in this story are purely fictional.

  Any resemblance or similarity to any actual events, characters, communities, people or places in this story, whether living or dead is absolutely coincidental.

  Because brothers don’t let each other wander in the dark alone.

  Sunil John, this is for you.

  PROLOGUE

  Moscow, Russia

  The meeting took place in a furnished weather proofed wooden cabin in a remote jungle area, some three hundred miles from Moscow.

  The members of the Confidential Panel had arrived secretly at irregular intervals. They came from eight different countries, but their visit had been quietly arranged by a senior minister in Moscow, and there was no record of entry in their passports.

  Upon their arrival, armed guards escorted them into the wooden cabin, and when the last visitor appeared, the cabin door was locked and the guards took up positions in the spine chilling winds, alert for any sign of intruders.

  The members seated around the large rectangular table were men in powerful positions, high in the councils of their respective governments worldwide. They had met before and they trusted one another because they had no choice.

  For added security, each had been assigned a code name; eight deadly sins.

  The meeting lasted almost two hours and the discussion was heated. Finally, the host decided the time had come to call for vote. He rose and turned to the man seated at his right.

  ‘Envy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wrath?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Lust?’

  ‘We are moving too hastily. If this should be exposed, our lives would... ’

  ‘Yes, or No, please?’

  “No...’

  ‘Greed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Gluttony?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sloth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Pride?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I, ‘Despond’ cast my vote as a ‘Yes.’

  The resolution is passed; I will inform our chief ‘the Pindar’.

  At our next meeting, I will give you his choice for the person best suitable to carry out the mission. We will observe the usual precautions and leave at fifteen-minute intervals. Thank you, Gentlemen.’

  Two hours later, the cabin was abandoned. A crew of experts carrying petrol moved in and set the cabin on fire, the red flames licked by hungry winds.

  When the Russian State Fire Service from Moscow, finally reached the scene, there was nothing left to see but the blazing remains of the wooden cabin against the whistling wind and the hissing snow.

  The assistant to the fire chief approached the ashes, bent down and sniffed. ‘Petrol,’ he said.

  ‘Boris.’

  The fire chief was staring at the ruins, a puzzled expression on his face.

  ‘That’s strange.’ He muttered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was hunting in this area last week. There was no wooden cabin.’

  Chapter 1

  New Delhi, India

  Debrato Roy was destined to be Prime minister of Republic of India.

  He was a charismatic politician, highly visible to an approving public and backed by powerful corporate friends. Unfortunately for Roy, his cupidity got in the way of his career.

  It was not that Roy fancied himself a Casanova. On the contrary, until that one ill-fated bedroom folly, he had been a model husband.

  He was on his way to one of the most important positions in the world, and although he had had ample opportunity to cheat his wife, he had never given another woman a thought.

  There was a second, perhaps greater irony; Roy’s wife, Rita, was social, beautiful and intelligent, and the two of them shared a common interest in almost everything, whereas Arpita, the woman Roy fell in love with and eventually married after a much captioned divorce, was five years older than Roy, pleasant-faced and seemed to have nothing in common with him.

  Abhay, Roy’s advisor, had said, ‘You must be out of your mind, you and Rita are practically in the hearts of the people of India who love you as the perfect married couple. You cannot throw that away for some quick lay.’

  Roy had replied, ‘Back off, Abhay. I am in love with Arpita. As soon as I get a divorce, we are getting married.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what this is going to do to your career?’

  ‘Half the marriages in this country end in divorce now a days. It won’t do anything.’ Roy replied.

  Roy proved to be a poor prophet.

  The news of the hatefully fought divorce was a delicious recipe for the media. The television channels played it up as loudly as possible, with pictures and stories of Roy’s secret midnight meetings.

  The media kept the story alive as long as they could, and when the fuss died down, the powerful corporate friends who backed Roy for the Prime Ministerial Office quietly disappeared.

  They found a new knight to champion: Vir Sanghvi.

  Vir Sanghvi was a right choice. While he had neither Roy’s good looks nor his charisma, but he was cunningly intelligent, preferable and had the right background. He was long in stature, with regular, common features. He had been happily married for ten years to the daughter of a telecom magnate, and he and Mayuri were known as a warm and loving couple.

  Like Roy, Vir was graduated from Harvard Law School. The two men had grown up together. Their families had adjoining homes in the posh locales of New Delhi, and the boys swam together, organised rave parties, and later, double-dated rich girls.

  They were in the same class at Harvard, Vir did well, but it was Roy who was the star student.

  As the editor of Harvard Law Review, he saw to it that his friend Vir became assistant editor. Roy’s father was a senior partner in the prestigious law firm in New Delhi and when Roy worked there summers, he arranged for Vir to be there. Once out of law school, Roy’s political star began rising meteorically and if he was the comet, Vir was the tail. The divorce changed everything.

  The trail leading to his political peak took almost twenty years.

  Vir lost an election in a state, won the following one after five years and in the next few years became a highly visible, articulate law maker. He fought against crime and corruption in the state.

  He gave his nominating speech in an election rally which was brilliant and that made every Indian sit up and take notice of him.

  Five years later, Vir Sanghvi and his political party won the prime ministerial elections and he was elected as the Prime Minister of India with majority of votes in one of the largest democracies in the world.

  His first appointment in cabinet was Debrato Roy as Foreign Affairs Minister.

  The oath taking ceremony of Vir Sanghvi as the most loved and admired Prime Minister of the people of India was broadcasted by satellite to almost 220 countries worldwide.

  In the Capital city, New Delhi, It was a dark cloudy day. Heavy downpour, storm and the dark clouds reduced the visibility on National Highway to zero.

  Sunny Jordan cautiously steered his premium sedan towards the centre of the highway. The weather was going to make him late for the conference he had to attend. He drove slowly, careful not t
o let his car go into a skid.

  From the car radio came Prime Minister’s voice;

  ‘...are many in the previous government as well as in private life who insist that India build deeper trenches instead of bridges with Pakistan. My answer to that is that we can no longer afford to condemn ourselves or our children to a future threatened by global confrontation and nuclear war.

  As you all are aware, a few years ago, after the 26/11 terrorist attacks in Mumbai, India broke off diplomatic relations with Pakistan. I want to inform you all, that we have approached the government of Pakistan and Prime Minister Khan has agreed to re-establish diplomatic relations with our country. Sending our Ambassador to Pakistan is the beginning of people to people movement.

  Let us never forget that all mankind shares the same origin, common problems, and a common ultimate destiny. Let us remember that the problems we share are greater than the problems that divide us, and that what divides us is of our own creation...’

  Over the radio came the sounds of cheers and applause.

  Sunny smiled and thought while steering the wheel: I am glad I voted for him. Vir Sanghvi is going to make a great leader and prime minister.

  His grip tightened on the wheel as the rain became a blinding white hurricane.

  Chapter 2

  Guangzhou, China

  In a heavily guarded villa on the outskirts of Guangzhou, China, the Islamic revolutionary leader Morad Amir was watching the Indian Prime Minister on television.

  ‘...I promise you now, that I will do my best, and that I will seek out the best in my cabinet and others...’

  The applause on the television lasted for a few minutes.

  Morad Amir said thoughtfully, ‘I think our time has come, Yakov. He really means it.’

  Yakov, his security chief, replied, ‘Won’t this help Khan?’

  Morad Amir shook his head. ‘Prime Minister Muhammad Ali Khan is a tyrant, so in the end, nothing will help him. I must be careful with my timing. I failed when I tried to overthrow him last time. I must not fail again.’

  Morad Amir was not drunk – not as drunk as he intended to get. He had finished almost a fifth of Scotch when Gul, the secretary he lived with, said. ‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough, Morad?’

  He smiled at her first and then slapped her hard.

  ‘The Prime Minister of India is talking, you got to show some respect.’ He turned to look at the image on the television set.

  ‘You politicians are all the same,’ he yelled at the television screen. ‘Pakistan is my country, and we are not going to let you take it away. We are going to stop you. You can bet your ass on it.’

  In the meanwhile, In the Prime Minister’s Office in New Delhi,

  Vir Sanghvi said, ‘I am going to need a lot of help from you, my dear friend.’

  ‘You will get it,’ Debrato Roy replied quietly.

  They were seated in the Office, the Prime Minister at his large table with the Indian Flag behind him.

  It was their first meeting together in this office and Prime Minister Vir Sanghvi was uncomfortable.

  If Roy hadn’t made that one mistake, Vir thought, he would be sitting at this desk instead of me.

  As though reading his mind, Roy said, ‘I have a confession to make. The day you were nominated, I was jealous as hell, Vir. It was my dream, and you were living it. But you know what? I finally came to realize that I couldn’t sit in that chair; there was no one else in this country I would want to sit there but you. That chair suits you.’

  Vir smiled at his friend and said, ‘To tell you the truth, Roy, this room scares the hell out of me. I feel the ghosts of our great leaders who are no more.’

  He pressed the button on his desk, and minutes later a white jacketed steward came into the room.

  ‘Yes, Mr. Prime Minister Sir?’

  Vir turned to Roy, ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Sure, sounds good.’

  ‘Want anything with it?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  The Prime Minister nodded to the steward and he quietly left the room.

  ‘My people to people speech seems to have caused uproar. I suppose you’ve seen the news channels and dailies.’

  Roy dismissed, ‘You know how they are. They love to build up heroes so that they can knock them down.’

  ‘Frankly, I do not give a damn to what the media say. I am interested in what people are saying.’

  ‘You are putting the fear of God into a lot of people, Vir. The armed forces are against your plan, and some powerful movers and shakers would like to see it fail.’

  ‘It’s not going to fail.’ He leaned back in his big chair.

  ‘Do you know the biggest problem with the world today? There are no more statesmen. Countries are being run by politicians. There was a time when this planet was ruled by titans. Some were good, and some were evil – but, by their stature, they were titans.

  ‘It’s pretty hard to be a titan now-a-days on a plasma screen.’ Roy quipped.

  The door opened and the steward appeared, bearing a silver tray with a pot of coffee and two cups, each imprinted with the Prime Ministerial seal. He skilfully poured the coffee.

  ‘Can I get you something else sir?’

  ‘No, that’s it, Thank you.’

  The Prime Minister waited until the steward had gone.

  ‘I want to talk to you about finding the right ambassador to our neighbourhood.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘I don’t have to tell you how important this is. I want you to move on to it as quickly as possible.’

  Roy took a sip of his coffee and rose to his feet.

  ‘I will get on it right away.’

  Chapter 3

  On the outskirts of Guangzhou in China, It was 2 a.m. Morad Amir’s heavily guarded villa lay in darkness, the moon nested in a thick layer of clouds.

  A black-clad figure moved noiselessly through the trees towards the concrete wall that surrounded the villa. He carried a nylon rope over his shoulders and in his arms was cradled F-2000 assault rifle. On his waist were bolstered a pair of Maxim 9 pistol with integrated silencers.

  When he reached the wall, he stopped and listened. He waited motionless, for ten minutes. Finally, satisfied, he uncoiled the rope and tossed up the scaling hook attached to the end of it.

  Swiftly, the figure began to climb. On reaching the top, he stopped again to listen. He reversed the hook, and slid down swiftly onto the grounds. He checked the shark knife strapped to his boots.

  The sniffer dogs would be the next. He crawled there, waiting for them to pick up his scent.

  There were three Dobermans, trained to kill. They were only the first obstacle. The ground and the villa were filled with electronic devices, and continuously monitored on CCTV cameras.

  The doors of the villa were bomb proof. The villa had its own water supply, and Morad Amir had a food taster.

  His Villa was invincible but the figure in black was here this night to prove them wrong.

  He heard the sounds of the dogs rushing at him. They leaped out of darkness, charging at his throat. There were two of them.

  He aimed his Maxim 9 and shot the nearest one on his right and then the one on his left. He spun around, alert for the third one, and when it came, he fired again, and then there was only silence.

  The intruder knew where the ultrasonic traps were buried in the ground and he evaded them. He silently moved through the areas that the CCTV cameras did not cover, and in less than five minutes after he had gone over the wall, he was at the back door of the villa.

  As he reached for the handle of the door, he was caught in the sudden flare of a dozen floodlights.

  A voice called out, ‘Stop right there, Drop your gun and raise your hands.’

  The figure in the black carefully dropped his weapons and looked up. There were a dozen men spread out on the roof and the corridor, with latest automatic guns pointed at him.

  The black clad figure growled, ‘What the hell
took you so long?’

  ‘You didn’t,’ the head guard informed him ‘We started tracking you after you got over the wall.’

  Yakov was not appeased. ‘Then you should have stopped me sooner.

  I want a meeting of the all the security personnel tomorrow morning, seven o’clock sharp. The dogs have been drugged by stun bullets so get them the medication.’

  Yakov prided himself on being one of the best commandos in the world. He had been an elite commando in the Syrian war and after the war, had become a top agent in Metsada unit of Mossad, Israel’s most dreaded secret service agency.

  He would never forget the morning, two years earlier, when his colonel had called him to his office.

  ‘Yakov, someone wants to borrow you for a week.’

  ‘I hope, it’s a blonde,’ Yakov quipped.

  ‘It’s Morad Amir.’

  Mossad had a complete file on the Islamic revolunatory leader. Morad had been the leader of a popular Islamic movement to depose the Prime Minister of Pakistan and was about to stage a coup when he had been betrayed by one of his men.

  More than three dozen underground fighters had been executed, and Morad Amir had barely escaped the country with his life. China had given him sanctuary.

  The Prime Minister denounced Morad as a traitor to his country and put a price on his head. So far half a dozen attempts to assassinate Morad have failed, but he had been wounded in the last attack.’

  ‘What does he want with me?’ Yakov asked, ‘He has the protection of Chinese Government.’

  ‘Not good enough. He needs someone to set up a fool proof security system. He came to us. I recommended you.’