The Bard of Blood Read Online Free Page B

raised a small pistol.
    ‘You don’t have the balls to do that,’ Kabir said.
    ‘It’s a dart gun,’ said the man quietly. ‘One shot, and you will be fast asleep in seconds. The choice is yours. The three of us walk out together like respectable gentlemen, or the two of us carry you out whilst you are unconscious.’
    Kabir glared angrily at them.
    ‘After we step out of the door and fly down to Delhi,’ Kabir hissed, ‘be careful never to cross my path again—both of you!’

3
    29 August 2014
    RAW HQ, New Delhi
    It was ten minutes past ten when the chopper
touched base. Kabir was reluctant to be where he was, but the little episode at the college had left
him with no choice. He didn’t know why he was being called back and wasn’t sure if he
wanted to know. He had bittersweet memories of his past life—mostly bitter, though, because of
the unceremonious exit he was handed. He promised himself to hear out what they had to say now, but
nothing more.
    Earlier, the agents assigned with the task of
bringing Kabir to Delhi had planned to take him directly to the chopper that awaited him. Kabir had
insisted on going home first to shower and change before flying. The game had left him sweaty.
    He had left the agents waiting outside and taken
a good forty minutes to get ready. He did this more to annoy them than anything else. He combed his
long hair back neatly, wore one of his standard white Arrow shirts with a pair of grey trousers, and
put on his only black jacket. Even though he hated to admit it to himself, his muscles had begun to
ache after playing that little bit of football.
    He got into the standard-issue black Tata SUV and
the two men followed in another vehicle. He recalled the last time he had travelled to the RAW HQ.
It was a long time ago. Something he had wished to get out of his head over the past few years. His
mentor, a father figure to him, Lieutenant General Sadiq Sheikh had led him to quit the service.
    The driver got out of the car and rushed to open
Kabir’s door the moment they arrived at the Wing. Kabir had already opened it himself. He
didn’t much like ceremony. The driver then went on to flash his ID at the entrance, to a guard
who unlocked the door. Once in the Wing, the driver began to instruct Kabir as to where the Chief
sat. Kabir already knew, but listened anyway and then patted him on his back gently. He walked
towards the Chief’s cabin, and found his assistant’s desk outside. Unlike those
portrayed in popular culture, the chief of this intelligence agency didn’t have a leggy lass
with a tight shirt and skirt to welcome his guests. Instead, the assistant was a rather
ordinary-looking middle-aged man, with his hair combed severely to the right, and a pencil
moustache. He looked up at Kabir and acknowledged him.
    He pushed a little buzzer and said into the
microphone, ‘He’s here, sir.’
    ‘Send him in,’ the voice replied
immediately. Kabir was already in the process of pushing open the Chief’s door.
    He entered and looked at the Chief’s cabin
with a sense of familiarity. Not much had changed. The same old yellow light, resembling that of a
five-star hotel, illuminated the room. The wooden flooring was intact. The picture of Mahatma Gandhi
hung exactly where it had the last time Kabir had seen it. There were more books this time around
and the TV was almost as large as the wooden panel on the wall. The entire office was simple yet
grand, and the Chief’s cabin stood testimony to this. Arun Joshi, who was watching the news,
made a great show of switching the TV off. He was fifty-five, dyed his wavy hair an awkward jet
black and wore a pair of silver glasses and a sharp navy blue suit. He got up swiftly and stretched
his right hand out. Kabir shook it firmly.
    ‘Please sit, Mr Anand.’
    His voice was calm, but at the same time not one
that you’d want to disobey. Kabir sat down.
    ‘Would you like some tea or
coffee?’
    ‘Coffee,’ Kabir replied instantly.
Never