Assassins by Mukul Deva Read Free Book Online Page B

him and repelled him in equal measure. He’d always found Farah attractive; that she’d been another man’s fianc é e, forbidden fruit as it were, had added to the attraction. Yet the sight of her bloodied face scorched his memories even now. Her death had altered the course of his life. It was the only reason he was here today.
    Fatima felt a hiss of relief as he nodded. By now they had reached the end of the garden. A well-painted wooden bench beckoned. “Could we sit for a moment?” She felt suddenly drained.
    He didn’t say a word as she sat. Then, a moment later, with another quick look around, he sat beside her. “I’m waiting.” There was a curious expression on his face, inquisitive yet aloof.
    Fatima sensed this was her last chance to convince Leon. If I fail … I cannot. She pulled herself together. Failure is not an option.
    â€œThat day when they killed Benazir I was right there by her side. She died in my arms.” Her outspread hands held her attention. “And it wasn’t just the death of my aunt … or a dream for my country; that day I lost everything I cherished.” Her voice was now merely a heartbreaking whisper.
    Then everything around her dissolved. Leon. The wooden bench. The neatly trimmed garden skirted by flowerbeds. The plethora of tourists, milling around in the fading light of another chilly December evening.
    Fatima felt herself being sucked into the hailstorm of bloody memories. Back to that fateful day, the twenty-seventh of December in 2007, when kismet had torn her life apart and cut her adrift.
    She had traveled this road often, but it never got any better. The voices were still as loud. The screams even louder. The blood, slimier and redder than ever. And the smell, that sticky, peculiar smell of death. Like cottony wisps of cloud it clung to her. Filling up her senses. She knew these memories would leave her in peace only when the vendetta was over. When both the murderers, Zardosi and Masharrat, had paid for their crimes with their lives.
    â€œIsn’t it ironic that both these murderers are coming to Delhi on the twenty-seventh of December, the very day they killed Benazir? Is that not a sign from Allah?” Fatima watched him closely.
    Leon stayed silent; signs from Allah obviously held little appeal for him. But she could see he was intrigued.
    â€œA bunch of her supporters, including my husband, had gone from London to be with Benazir. We’d been in Pakistan about a week, and on the twenty-seventh Benazir was to preside at an election rally at Rawalpindi.”
    Fatima marshaled her thoughts, evaluating what and how much she needed to share with Leon to get him back on track.
    â€œRawalpindi was an important constituency. It had always been so, for our party and our family. We needed to make a fabulous impression. And we knew we would. The atmosphere in the city was so … so electric … right from the moment we landed. They cheered her every inch of the way, to Liaquat National Bagh, the park where the rally was to be held.”
    *   *   *
    Pakistan Paindabad! Pakistan Paindabad! (Long live Pakistan.)
    Fatima could see the grounds of Liaquat National Bagh as clearly as she’d been able to that day; sweaty, heady excitement lay heavy in the air, which reverberated with coordinated, throaty cries of Long Live Pakistan .
    The head cheerleader was a young, heavily bearded man in his late twenties, hired for his stentorian voice and theatrical vocabulary. She saw him pace the dais, dominating the crowd of five thousand strong with missionary zeal.
    And there were a large number of women in the crowd; surprisingly, they were the more vocal ones. Surprising because woman moving so freely in public was no longer a common sight in Pakistan. Not since the Islamists had become the dominant voice in Pakistan. Even those who condemned their views no longer dared speak openly. Such