‘Sir, if Al-Cheema’s terrorists are here, we have to be there in Pakistan as well. Inside his lair, inside his group, invading his body and soul, to destroy both,’ Shekhar erupted. He seemed confident about the proactive, aggressive stance he was proposing.

‘We will create a cadre of men, of converts, if required, to get inside ISI’s terror factories to learn what is happening there. Our boys will earn their confidence by staging a few minor operations for them, but will trip them up when it comes to big operations. These moles will help us in busting other LeT cells, seizing weapons and explosives, and foiling their next attack,’ Shekhar continued, the excitement in his voice palpable.

The chief smiled. ‘That is exactly what I have in mind as well. Let’s put a Trojan Horse at the heart of Lashkar and Pakistan’s terror-sponsoring infrastructure. Our men will have to infiltrate into the LeT to learn all about its terror operations in India to neutralize them.

‘The 1993 Bombay blasts orchestrated by Dawood Ibrahim and ISI exposed our limitations in knowing what goes on in the coastal and international waters off India and Pakistan. Petty landing agents like Rehmat Kanse were able to smuggle in thousands of kilos of RDX, hundreds of AK-47s and AK-56s, hand grenades and magazines while we remained clueless, twiddling our thumbs.’ The chief’s tone was rising in anger as he drummed two fingers of his right hand on the table.

‘There are a few social organizations that are in touch with our contacts and officers. I will tap them for recruits whom we can get inside the LeT,’ Shekhar said.

‘Tap your contacts among leaders of the fishermen’s cooperatives. Maybe they can suggest candidates who can become part of the LeT’s marine wing,’ the chief suggested.

‘Gentlemen, it’s decided then here. Operation Trojan Horse begins with immediate effect. Information is to be shared on a need-to-know basis, and I must be kept in the loop. At the end of each day, I won’t mind if I am sent an update on the mission’s progress via encrypted channels. It could even be a single line,’ he said.

‘We will meet again in a fortnight,’ the chief added before dismissing the gathering and turning to a small black landline phone that was ringing.

15. OPERATION TROJAN HORSE

15

OPERATION TROJAN HORSE

The air was crisp and nippy. At 4.45 a.m., it was still dark outside. Somaiya Prakash, his face hidden under a grey monkey cap and clad in a white T-shirt, a black sleeveless sweater, khaki shorts and black sneakers, emerged from the staircase of the B wing of the Sahyadri Enclave residential society in south Delhi. There was nobody else in sight.