Lying For A Living

3

Ishitwa sat quietly in his apartment in Bada Bazar which he had rented in case of emergencies. ‘This definitely qualifies that criterion’, he thought. He held a pistol in his hand and gazed intently at it. He had ended countless lives with the weapon, and yet every day he had prayed that he would never had to use it again. He had sought to change himself with his name. But the recent events told him that if he intended to survive the next few days, he would need to be his real self, not Ishitwa Singh. He did not know whether he would, at all, live through this. His senses had faltered over the years and his g*n felt strangely heavy to hold. And yet the trigger was as familiar to him as a hand would be to a man. It had given him reason, and it had given him so much more.

He closed his mind and let it reel back to the night. The woman who had hurried past him could simply be troubled, or something more conspicuous. He held up one finger for one suspect. Then there was the man who he had bumped into. As he relived the moment, Ishitwa realised that the man had been carrying a g*n. That made it two. Then there could always be the man he had saved. Espionage of this kind always required spies on the inside. Three people who could be involved or three innocent people he was overthinking about.

Then there was the fact that the bullet had hit no one. As far as Ishitwa had anticipated the trajectory, it would have not hit anyone even without his interference. But it was a very old trick in the book, to ferret out a target from some place he is too safe, make a blind hit so that he starts to think that he is not. And there is always a distance between two safe places, so hit him there, where he is most vulnerable.

Ishitwa had been to Germany once and it had not been a pleasant experience. Killing the man he was sent to had not been trouble, but later the encounter with the Federal Intelligence Service had not exactly been comfy. Now, even though he wasn't afraid of what was coming, he was almost sure that it would take all his abilities to come out of this alive.

It was weird how soldiers would always be ready to die, and yet survival came more naturally and was easier on the brain to act on. Soldiers would leave home ready to lay down their lives for their country and the man fighting beside them, and yet, when you looked deep into any of their eyes, you would find an imminent fear of death. Each person had something to go back home to. And when you lost all of that, you were ready to become a spy. Infiltrate and demobilise people while during the process you had to kill the emotional part of you who constantly told you that you were sinning. Ishitwa knew that once he would pass on, he would attain Hell and yet he could not think of a nobler cause to suffer eternal torment.

The sound of a heavy car skidding to a stop followed by people shouting to clear the way shook him out of his thoughts. The communication he had received on his old transponder had been commanding, threatening even, to an extent. They would come and pick him up at his chosen location and take him to the chosen rendezvous place. But Ishitwa would bot exactly be surprised if the men would just shoot him and be done with a lot of trouble.

He smiled as he thought that the mindset of his era was taking over, assuming that they would send men for the job.

The sound of quick footsteps followed by polite knock was heard. He went and unlocked the door, his body stiffening instinctively as he braced for a shot. But nothing cam and slowly, he relaxed. He felt amused that his thoughts had been wrong, the leader of the pack was a woman, a little over five and a half feet with a very athletic looking physique. She had a Beretta M9 secured in her shoulder holster.

No unnecessary words were uttered as he was swiftly searched and ushered into the SUV. The tense muscles of the men sitting on either side of him made him suppress a smile. Yet, he made no attempt to resist. A very egotistical part of him believed that a decade ago, men many times better than these would lie dead in his wake as he walked away to fight another day. Those days, fortunately or unfortunately, were in his past.

The SUV skidded to a stop near a road block in front of a place Ishitwa had been almost killed twice. The men and woman got out of the car, ushering Ishitwa out as well. They led him to the gates of the place and told him and the woman said, "He's waiting for you."

Ishitwa started to walk inside the park, when the woman called from behind him. "You really exist then," she said, her tone amused. "I've heard stories. They can't all be true," she said, with a tone of grudging respect. Ishitwa smiled as he turned back and started to head inside the park towards the bench where the man was waiting for him.

On the bench, a man in his fifties was reading what appeared to Ishitwa was a tenth standard book. He looked up and smiled frailly.

"Trying to be a good father while managing one of the most impossible jobs in the world, sir?" Ishitwa asked.

The man nodded. He looked as if he had not slept for a couple of nights. Which was very probable, since sleeping after an assassination was attempted on you is slightly tougher than usual.

Swayam Balakrishnan, the Prime Minister of India sighed and motioned Ishitwa to sit beside him.

"We need your help, Vansh," addressing Ishitwa by his real name, he said. "Or should I say, you country does."