The mission transcended mere orders; it was Aditya’s personal crusade for justice. Each step he took was shadowed by the looming spectre of danger, yet the haunting memory of Rupin Katyal and the myriad souls tormented by Zahoor’s cruelty steeled his determination. Dawn unfurled over Karachi, revealing the city’s veiled threats and silent narratives. Amid this awakening, Aditya moved, a phantom avenger threading through the alleys, his heart set on rectifying the scars etched by history.

In London, shrouded in secrecy, Aditya had made a connection through the dark web – a Russian who provided him with something invaluable for his mission: untraceable SIM cards. These cards, now tucked away in his gear, were his lifeline, each one a beacon in the murky waters of espionage he dealt with. With the dawn of his confrontation nearing, the time had come to activate them. Alongside, he had packed spare phones, each destined for a single use before being destroyed. This was his fail-safe, a meticulous strategy to erase any digital footprints that might lead back to him. The precision of his plan left no room for error; every move was calculated to keep the shadow of suspicion from his trail.

Aditya discreetly activated one of the SIM cards and reached out to a trusted informer in Delhi, seeking a bridge to Karachi’s underbelly. The answer to his call was a name wrapped in notoriety: Colonel Ghulam Mohiuddin Cheema, a shadow in the retired ranks of the army, now the mastermind behind the city’s “Velvet Underground” events. This wasn’t just any gathering spot but a nexus for the elite and the notorious, where drugs, women and secrets changed hands under the guise of revelry. Cheema was a legend, his connections spanning the upper echelons of Pakistan’s military, intelligence and even the criminal underworld. While the parties he threw were lucrative, it was his trade in information that truly enriched him, making him a formidable player in a dangerous game of double allegiances.

Under the cover of another new dawn, Aditya carefully unwrapped a fresh SIM card, a potential key to unlocking his next move. He dialled the number of his “uncle” Altaf in London, a man whose knowledge of Karachi’s underground could prove invaluable. Altaf, familiar with the shadowy figure of Colonel Cheema and his infamous gatherings, knew the significance of Aditya’s request. With a promise as cryptic as it was reassuring, Altaf simply replied, “Consider it done.”

The wait was a test of patience and nerve. Within a tense 24 hours, the landline at Altaf’s residence in Gulshan-e-Iqbal crackled to life, a voice on the other end cutting through the silence with news that set Aditya’s heart racing. An invitation had been secured; Colonel Cheema was expecting Hassan Raza at the next Velvet Underground event. This call was not just a message; it was the opening of a door into a world where every shadow could be friend or foe, and every face masked a deeper story.

In the heart of a sprawling metropolis, home to 15 million souls and notorious for its fractious political landscape, gang skirmishes and violent territorial disputes, a luxury hotel hosted an event that stood in stark contrast to the city’s usual headlines. The clock had just swept past midnight, signalling the start of a private gathering cloaked in exclusivity and opulence.

The venue, covered in the soft, intricate light of chandeliers, buzzed with the energy of select guests shedding the limitations of their day-to-day lives. The air vibrated with the pulsating rhythms of electro-funk, courtesy of Daft Punk, masterfully curated by a young DJ whose tanned skin and bold tattoos mirrored the audacity of the night. The bar, a focal point of activity, was a flurry of motion as guests looked for the bartender’s attention, eager to sip on crafted cocktails and let the music wash over them.

Amidst a scene of decadent abandon, men in sharp suits and ties stood out, their conversations punctuated by the glow of their cigarettes, a visual sign of their attempt to blend leisure with the remnants of formality. Meanwhile, the dance floor was a swirl of movement, with women in slinky dresses moving with a grace and confidence that asked for attention, their forms silhouetted against the flickering lights, personifying the essence of the party’s unspoken promise: a night of escape, however fleeting, from the chaos that lay beyond the hotel’s fortified walls.

As the rhythm of the party ebbed and flowed around him, Aditya found himself drawn into a conversation that peeled back another layer of this hidden world. “This is a private affair,” the host, Colonel Cheema, said with a sense of pride, his hands holding a Cuban cigar and Johnny Walker Blue Label in an exquisitely cut French whiskey glass. “We steer clear of social media, Facebook … It’s all word-of-mouth among friends.”

A woman, her movements a dance to the music’s pulse, leaned closer, her voice a blend of defiance and longing. “Without pubs, this is our sanctuary,” she confessed, revealing the void that these gatherings filled in their lives. As the night wore on, she turned to Aditya with an invitation, her eyes sparkling with the promise of continued adventure. “The night doesn’t end here. We’re heading to the beach; will you join us?”

Aditya’s mind raced. The allure was tempting, but the stakes were high. The mastermind of this underground party was no ordinary host but an ex-army tactician with a mind trained in deception and strategy. Aditya couldn’t afford to forget his true identity, that of an Indian spy on foreign soil, where every friendly gesture could mask a trap. The connection with Altaf provided little reassurance; in the grand chessboard of espionage, pawns could easily be sacrificed.

Feigning concern for domestic harmony, Aditya demurred, “My wife … she wouldn’t take kindly to my late return.” It was a cautious retreat, a move to maintain his cover and handle the intricate dance of trust and suspicion. In a world where every decision could lead to discovery or disaster, Aditya chose the path of caution, aware that in the shadows of espionage, not every hand extended in friendship is free of ulterior motives.

In the dimly lit secretive ambience of the hotel bar, now a private sanctuary for the remnants of the night’s elite, Aditya found an unexpected ally in Cheema. The room they had occupied earlier was no longer available, leading them towards the seclusion of the bar, where conversations flowed as freely as the drinks. Amidst the clink of glasses and the murmur of late-night confessions, Aditya wove a delicate façade of feeling high and emotional, in a strategic display of vulnerability.

Cheema, with a tactician’s eye, watched Hassan with a mix of curiosity and calculation. There was an unspoken understanding in the air as Cheema sought to uncover the true purpose behind Hassan’s persona. The interruption by the waiter with the bill, a mundane conclusion to an evening of fun was met with Cheema’s contempt, a silent reminder of his stature in this hidden world. Nobody dared to place a bill until he had asked.

Aditya’s response to the situation, however, was anything but ordinary. In a move that blurred the lines between pretence and reality, he fumbled with a wad of US dollars, the 100-dollar notes fluttering to the floor like leaves in a sudden gust. The display was ostentatious, perhaps too much so, leaving Cheema to ponder the true nature of this man who seemed to oscillate between control and abandon. As they both stooped to gather the scattered notes, Cheema’s respect for Aditya deepened, not just for the wealth he seemingly commanded but for the enigma he presented, that of a puzzle Cheema was now eager to solve.

As the night drew to a close, the lines of their alliance were drawn, not in trust, but in the unspoken promise of mutual benefit amidst the clandestine chessboard of espionage and duplicity.

*Excerpted with permission from *The Delhi Directive: Once You’re Marked, There’s No Escape, Anirudhya Mitra, Juggernaut.

• We welcome your comments at letters@scroll.in. *

• espionage
• delhi
• pakistan
• fiction

Get the app