Kill Plot: The Revenge of the Hunter "The Thrill of the Kill"

By Akbar Khan

KILL PLOT – THE REVENGE OF THE HUNTER, “THE THRILL OF THE KILL” tracks the metamorphic transformation of three young kids, from three different veins' of society and geographical locales, who under circumstances beyond their control, emerge at the top echelons of a professional trade, known as a “Assassin” or “Assassino” a term etymologically derived from the Arabic word, “Hassasin” or simply put, a “Professional Killer for Hire.” The novels details the progress of each of the three as they make their way to the top, via a series of “Hit-Assignments” calumniating into a crescendo, as their individual and professional paths cross, for and against one another.

The evolution of the three kids runs parallel to the growth and development of two close friends, and a woman, who, from moderately humble beginnings, transpire to become the President, Vice-President and the First Lady of the United States of America. The rise to the highest offices of the country brings into play viciously ambitious power seeking individuals, who when unable to control the growth and rise of the three, conspire to assassinate the one, holding the highest office, the President of the United States, thereby emphasising the slogan of the novel, “THE SEEKING OF POWER IS CORRUPTION BY ITSELF”

Each “Assignment to Contract” of the three, “Assassins” is a novel by itself. From the Orientation Killing of the power seeking General in West Africa, to the accepting of the contract, from the Nazi’s hiding in Argentina, to kill a thorn in their endeavours, to the revenge killing of the individuals who had killed the parents and sisters of one of the young kids, in Pakistan, to the killing of the Mafia Don in America, to the killing of renowned Drug Smuggler and Casino owner, in the Islands of Seychelles, to the killing of the “Drug Queen” heading the Colombian Cartel, in Bogota, to the KGB sanctioned kill of one of their rouge-agents in America, to the contract to kill the “President of the United States” and the “First Lady of America,” to the killing of the Conspirators who had back-tracked on their payments, and many additional Contracts and Kills. The novel takes the reader through the US Presidential Election process, the Afghan Refuge Movement and their presence in the US, and the “The Most Exciting two minutes in sports” The run for the Roses - The Kentucky Derby, while all the time, highlighting and exposing the inner sanctums of Vicious Ambition, that propels this phenomenally, intricate and mazy, rocket adrenaline fuelled, extremely engrossing, and absolutely irresistible, smart riveting thriller, with grabbing razor-edged anticipation, building suspense, terror and intrigue.

Running parallel to the “Impossible” kill assignments of the “Assassins” is the Novel’s brilliant documentation of the saga of one of the best “Mercenary” in the world and his dramatic rise, after a being badly wounded on a Assignment, to eventually be one of the most trusted and dedicated, “Contract Facilitators” of all-times, whose brilliantly devised strategies of receiving “Assignments to Contract” from clients, researching, selecting and forwarding the “Contract” to the best “Assassin” qualified to handle the “Hit,” while himself remaining anonymous, and his finally being subdued and brought under the wings of one of the three kids, to be the kid’s exclusive, “Contract Facilitator” to whom the identity of the man who had orchestrated his submission, remains anonymous, is amazing by itself.

Having met them and following the metamorphic transformation of JOHN WEBB, The “HUNTER” – SHAUN McQUINN, The “GHOST” – WILLIAM PATRICK TILDEN, The “SAMURAI” the Author is confident that you met - The “ASSASSINS” that make - The “IMPOSSIBLE...DOABLE.”

ENJOY IT AND BE BLESSED.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Akbar Khan
• Release date: Nov 27, 2021

Akbar Khan

Born and educated in India, with a Masters in English Literature, a degree in General Law and a Diploma in Journalism. By the age of twenty-one he was the Head of the Department of English of a College Faculty. Mr. Khan immigrated to the USA in his late twenty’s and naturalized as a Citizen of the USA ,and settled in Los Angeles, California. His professional career in the USA started as a freelance journalist and he was soon employed as the Director of the West Coast operations of the then Bombay Broadcasting Network, the only Television Network in the USA catering to the Indian residents of the United States. BBN covering twenty states in the US with office in each one of them was the only Indian Network with its cameras in the White House. When the ownership of the firm changed hands, Mr. Khan started his own Business under the legend of MEHZEB – LINK GLOBAL RESOURCES, launching his first News Weekly Newspaper, “India Enquirer” catering to the Indian Community in the US and a Free Circulating Advertising Weekly in Los Angeles. As a representative of one of his news weeklies Mr. Khan became a White House Correspondent. While working at his own business, Mr. Khan also worked alongside with the “Youth Services” in California as a Counseling Supervisor working with both the Social Services and the Probation Department. With his business expanding Mr. Khan quit work and concentrated on his business, launching Global Offices in twenty-one countries, concentrating on Import and Export and the News Media. Retired, Mr. Khan began to give life to his passion of “Writing” and has since completed eight novels, that have been published and/or in the process of formatting and publishing. Married to Reshma Tabassum Khan, they have two daughters and a son. Both their daughters, Roshna Hajira Khan and Asfa Khan, having been accepted by almost all universities to include, Harvard opted to study closer to home at UCLA in Los Angeles. Their son, Amin Khan assists his Dad. With Mr. Khan’s Novels on many Publishing Platforms, Mr. Khan continues to work to bring to his reading public reading material always keeping in mind that his work should be, “Worth their Time and Dime.”

Book preview

A RECLUSE IN A CROWD

THE PLAN

SAN FRANSISCO, CALIFORNIA – USA.

JANUARY 25TH – MARCH 11TH 1971.

Marking down a KILL POINT is singularly the most important and the most time-consuming factor in the entire process, of planning a HIT. The choice of a particular specific site from which to make the play is not an easy one. To make a successful shot is easy but to walk away un-apprehended, needed intense planning, the core of which was to establish a Point of Kill that beat all odds.

Presidential security was a serious matter. The shooter knew, that besides the elite Presidential Secret Service Special Detail Agents, who were directly responsible for protecting the President, the local Law Enforcement Agency, the US Secret Services agents, assigned to field offices, in the region, and a number of other experienced and alert agencies, would be involved in the hunt for him. The measure of the competence of the law enforcement was to Protect and Apprehend and if apprehended –Interrogate. The Shooter’s competence lay in Committing and Evading. Overall, the Shooter knew that he would have to contend with the Best and he was ready for them.

An experienced professional, the Shooter was acutely aware of the security procedures and protocols that would be put into play to secure a Presidential visit. Oriented away concentrically from the President’s speaking position, roughly a radius 800 yards from the podium, would be ringed off by sniper teams, covering strategic points, sniping posts and all other possible areas of interest. As per protocol, a week and/or even earlier, to the visit, the designated and surrounding areas would be thoroughly searched and swept every day with the most sophisticated surveillance equipment available, and patrolled by K9 units. On the day of the visit and a day earlier, it would be swept multiple times and allocated security personals, would cover the area, like bees to a hive.

The shooter was completely conscious of the dynamics of his project. He knew that one slip and he would be the target, and not the other way round. This reality intensified the depth of his conviction and enhanced his focus and clarity of thought. He was realistic to know that one day he would make a mistake. This veracity brought forth in him a strengthened resolve, and a determination of purpose, which superseded the combined think-tank of his most sophisticated opponents. He topped this with his eminent maxim Capture - Not this time and with renewed energy and concentration began to work on a plan.

Knowing the intrinsic value of Information the Shooter had spread his dollar around. His dollar stretched lining deep into the realms and pockets of the improbable, providing him unattainable valuable information. Information, that helped him to be, leaps ahead. He had known the venue of the Presidents intended speech almost two weeks prior to it being made public. Once the location and the time of the President’s speech was confirmed by his sources, the Shooter had spent innumerable hours to find his Kill Point. In different disguises, he had physically visited the site a countless number of times to study, formulate and coordinate a plan of action and mark a Kill Point. After intense search and research, weighing plans and options, the Shooter, finally settled on one particular apartment complex from among a row of ten dilapidated looking four storied apartment buildings that lined a two-lane street. The opposite side of the street to the apartment complex was cordoned off by a ten-foot fence, running the length of the street for a new construction of apartment buildings. Immediately behind the apartment complex, a group of newly constructed twelve-floor buildings covered the area. Gauging by the new constructions in the surrounding vicinity, it was quite obvious that eventually the building of his choice would be torn down in preference of new modern buildings. However, for the present, it suited his purpose. The choice of his location was sealed, when surprisingly he found no cameras either on the streets, the intersections, the opposite construction site or in any of the buildings on the street. He was an expert in surveillance and in spite of his expertise, could not find a single camera anywhere in the area.

Satisfied with his choice, he began to formulate a plan. In time he analyzed, scrutinized, and revised till a definite plan took shape and a Kill Point of interest began to emerge. Focusing on the parking lots of the apartment complex, the Shooter found that each of the four floors of the complex had their own individualized parking spaces for the residents of the particular floor. The parking lots on each floor were identical. With floor to ceiling walls surrounding the entire parking area, the usual visibility in the parking lot was low. The only light that flowed in was from the high-up horizontal ventilation ducts, twelve inches by eighteen inches wide. There were approximately fourteen ventilation ducts, equally spaced at every ten feet. Alternatively from the podium, at a distance of approximately 850 yards, facing the podium were the newly constructed twelve storied buildings. A meagre eight feet of the entire building, rising four stories high, showing only one vent on each of its floors, was barely visible from in between two high-rise buildings. On each floor, the fourth vent from the right was the vent, which gave the Shooter a direct view of the podium at an approximate distance of 870 yards. What impressed the shooter was that of the twelve inches by eighteen inches ventilation duct only twelve inches by ten inches of it was visible, the remaining eight inches of the vent was again covered by the high-rise in front of it. This while helping to make the vent almost non-existent gave him enough space and an unobstructed line of fire to engage the podium. Dwarfed and obscured by the imposing elegant high-rises in front, the rear wall housing the parking lot and the vent, of the dilapidated complex chosen by the Shooter was barely discernible. The shooter, choose the second-floor parking lot of the dilapidated building, as his Kill Site. Unlike the other floors above and below, the second floor had a parking area reserved for Recreational Vehicles. The larger sized parking spaces accommodated eight RV’s in a row. With two such, devoted rows, the floor had sixteen, head-in parking spaces on the lot. Of the sixteen spaces, eleven parking spaces were occupied. In the parking space, directly under the fourth vent of the second floor, was parked an old classic high-cube, flat-roof, mid-sized recreational vehicle (RV). The high-cube was indicative of the fact that the owner of the RV had added a complete new deck to the RV, giving him two levels. The upper level was usually used as an additional sleeping space or otherwise used for storage. The four small windows on each side of the four feet high second deck was indicative that the owner used the space to add additional sleeping quarters. On the left of the high-cube RV was parked, a similar high-cube RV, but of a different make and model. On the right was a long-bed Ford Chalet. On one of his visits, dressed as a Maintenance worker, the shooter had climbed on the roof and lying in the prone position in the exact center of the RV, had found the opening in the vent and the podium aligned in one inviting straight line. He marked the spot atop the RV, as his KILL POINT. While his Kill Point was established The Shooter did not believe in Luck. The RV bothered him. He knew that RV’s were barely moved, but he could not risk it. With this in mind, he made alternate plans that included the vents on the third and fourth floors. He would monitor the position of the RV every day. On the day before the hit-day, he would consolidate his position by ramming a nail into the rear tire of the RV rendering it momentarily immovable. He would also solidify his contingency plan by making the necessary arrangements required to strengthen his backup plan to include the two floors above him.

The KILL POINT was the CORE. All other subsequent plans and actions generated from the core. Once the Where was established, he concentrated on the How? Paramount to him was to fix a Total Time of action. After tracking and backtracking his movements both mentally and physically, he allotted himself forty-five minutes for the entire process. Twenty-five minutes before taking the shot and fifteen minutes after. Once the Total-Time was established, he started to coordinate time with action, and to each action, he would allot a specific time. With the Place and Time fixed, he concentrated on the final Action - the How.

His KILL POINT marked, The Shooter focused on his escape plan. To do this he had to have a mental picture of the neighborhood etched in his mind. In the guise of a Security Guard, he patrolled the streets. His sharp trained eyes, automatically took an instantaneous inventory of the surroundings, as he casually strode from one area to another. As a seasoned operative, knowing his surrounding was second nature too him. Missing nothing and seeing everything, was a natural phenomenon. Two days of this and he knew more about the neighborhood than a fifty year resident of the area. On the third day of his vigil, he casually walked past the building of his choice towards the closest major intersection. At the intersection, he crossed the road to the other side of the street and turned left to the fast food franchise, The Burger King, which was located roughly twenty yards away from the intersection. He ordered the Two for Three dollars special, of their Big Catch fish burger, fries and a cup of coffee. He sat at a table with a clear view of the main road. As he ate his burger and sipped his coffee he noticed that diametrically opposite to him, across the road and on the other side of the street, was a group of homeless people squatting on the pavement. He watched them with interest. As he watched them, a contemplating thought entered his searching mind. As the Hunter, continued to watch the homeless, the thought gradually stretched into a possibility. He finished his meal, cleared the table and stepped out. The Hunter turned left and headed for the intersection. When the pedestrian light turned green, he crossed the road to the side of the street of the homeless. He stood on the street corner, his back to the homeless crowd. Although roughly thirty yards from them, the stench of the homeless hit him a powerful blow, almost making him throw-up. He stood his ground and bore the smell. The stench acted as a powerful determent, which inched the Possibility up another notch. As he stood at the crossroads, he noted that he was facing South. Thirty or so yards behind him and towards the North were the homeless people. Four hundred plus yards to his left, towards the West, was the building of his choice and his Kill Point. Instinctively he turned around looking directly at the homeless people. A tilt of his head towards his right and he could see his Choice apartment complex He turned his head back towards the homeless and with sudden clarity; a plan emerged and gradually came into focus.

Armed with a novel, he returned the next day to the Burger King. Ordering a large coffee he selected a table that not only, shielded him from the workers of the restaurant but also faced the main road. From here he had a clear view of the homeless people across the road. He opened the novel and set it on the table and pretended to read it while sipping his coffee. This day, he did not watch the homeless people but studied them. He noted their appearance, their clothing, their immediate surrounding, their possessions, their every action, and their every mood. His focus did not even miss the bottles they secretly urinated into and emptied it on to the street. A police cruiser drove by but paid no attention to the homeless. The regular Beat-Cops ignored them and stayed away from them, avoiding as best as they could the terrible stench emitting from the helpless and the destitute. The Hunter’s mental eye cataloged and filed every single aspect of theirs. He researched them extensively and found them to be a transitory breed, gravitating always towards new soup kitchens and experimenting new locales. Even among themselves, they did not have social binding. They did not like to be bothered nor did they bother anyone else. They lived in their own world, A Recluse in a crowd.

With the adequate information that he had unveiled about the homeless, the Hunter finalized a plan of action that suited his purpose. His network of contacts was reliable to a certainty. His information from them, always verified, was accurate and so consistently consistent that he had his Kill Point and his plans finalized even before the official announcement of the Presidents visit. Once the visit was official confirmed, he noted with satisfaction that his dollars had worked, and as usual, the information was unfailingly dependable. The guys who loved dollars more than loyalty were useful, but needed caution and constant monitoring. He mentally noted, to send some more of the Green-Bucks their way, and began to put his plan into action.

A week later a filthy looking person with un-kept matted long hair and beard, wearing shabby torn smelly clothes, ear muffs, and mismatched shoes, pushing his loaded shopping cart joined the ranks of the homeless on the street. He was welcomed with a nod of their heads. No one asked him his name or bothered him with any questions. He selected a spot at the very end and squatted down. Later as evening dawned he pulled some small wooden boards and long folded cardboard pieces from his Store-Abandoned shopping cart and laid down his bed. Three days later and six days before the hit-day his co-squatters, gave him a name. They called him MUFFS, because of the ear-muffs he always wore. Soon MUFFS the Homeless was an integral part of them, and his disguise, an integral part of his plan.

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GROUND ZERO

D-DAY AND AFTER

1971

SAN FRANSISCO, CALIFORNIA - USA.

MARCH 17TH 1971. 10.00 AM.

At GROUND ZERO, on D-Day, to the right and 200yards from the podium, on elevated platforms, every major news network had set up shop to cover the Presidential speech. They were broadcasting live. Six minutes into the speech the tragedy unfolded and the broadcasting televisions fed the terror " live" into the homes, businesses, and minds of the American people. Although the cameras had clearly captured the passage of the bullet as it closed in on the President, the immediate reaction was one of uncertainty and bewilderment. Minutes after the President was evacuated the crowd went hysterical. The cameras covered it all. The networks were having a field day as they ate it all up. Cameramen battled each other for better positions and shots. Anchors were rounding up analyst for future relays.

Soon media-pundits were on the air, desperately trying to explain what went down, and as was usual, in most cases not knowing the full details themselves. As the story unfolded, the usual standard stock questions were discussed, debated and opinions declared. Experts focused on how and why the shot missed. Each tried to Best the others with their version. The American people watched, first in horror and then fascination as the networks aired the shot missing the POTUS over and over again. Meanwhile, live coverage continued from Ground Zero.

Exactly 876 yards away from the podium, on the second floor parking lot of a four-storied dilapidated building, a filthy homeless person with un-kept matted long hair and beard, wearing shabby torn smelly clothes, equally dirty ear muffs and mismatched shoes, in one fluid practiced motion, silently slid from the roof of a parked recreational vehicle, to the floor. His last twenty minutes were spent on the roof of the RV, his KILL POINT.

Even as his feet touched the ground his left hand reached out for his Elbow and Chest Foam-Pad on which rested his sophisticated handmade rifle, a cross between a Winchester and a Galil. He slowly pulled the foam-pad towards him with his left hand as his right hand secured the rifle. His dark face, streaked with dust, betrayed no adrenaline rush, elation, anxiety or tension. His breathing was controlled, regular and calm, as he expertly broke the rifle down to a number of small parts. He walked to the front of the truck and from the inner side of the left front tire, pulled out a faded double lined trash bag he had concealed there. He pulled out a few old dirty clothes from the bag and from it extracted a tattered duffle bag. He put the parts of the gun in it, zipped it and slid the bag back into the trash bag and on it piled back the dirty clothes, he had pulled out. Next to the trash bag, was concealed a small corked container filled with gasoline. He pulled the container out, unscrewed the cork and poured the gasoline under the front end of his own RV and the Ford Chalet and the other two RV’s parked close by. He hoped, against hope that it would mask the homeless stink. He screwed the cork back on the container and shoved it into the trash bag. He lifted the trash bag with his right hand his left going under the bag secured it to his chest. His long torn and faded trench coat almost hid the bag. His concentrated eyes took in every inch of his Kill Point, as he minutely inspected the site for any tell signs he might have left. His eyes ran the site once more. Convinced he had left none, he casually moved to the head of the stairway, totally ignoring the elevator just a few yards from him. His movements were smooth and controlled. Each phase of his operation was compartmentalized and time-barred. His movements were coordinated to meet the time. He paused at the head of the stairs to listen intently. His trained ears picking nothing of concern, he moved down the stairs at a moderate pace. On reaching the ground landing, he moved towards his concealed shopping cart. His homeless shopping cart, as all homeless shopping carts, contained homeless items. He pulled the cart out from between the two wall pillars and pushed the trash bag to the bottom of the cart and covered it with the other paraphernalia his cart carried. He edged the cart to the entrance, and cautiously peeked out. He looked at either side of the street and finding no one on it; he pushed the cart on to the pavement and tramped towards the roads major intersection a mere four hundred yards away. He gradually trudged towards the intersection, his pace, and posture, a perfect fit to that of any homeless person seen anywhere and everywhere. Step by cautious step, he got closer to the intersection. He did not encounter anyone on his way. At the intersection he turned right and there as usual, thirty yards away were parked a number of shopping carts, similar to his, and squatting on the pavement on various assorted boards and cardboards, their territories marked, where a dozen or so homeless people of varying ages and degrees of decline. He edged his cart in midst of the other carts and squatted down on his designated spot. No sooner was he seated, the person on his right puffed on a cigarette and passed it on to him. He took a puff and passed it to the lady on his left. The cigarette would circulate to its end. The smoke felt dry in his mouth and he took a sip of water from a bottle beside him. Sipping the water he casually glanced at his co-squatters, none showed interest in him. Approximately at the same time, each day he was gone for about an hour. His absence, nor was his arrival, was worthy of note or was noted. He had been with them for six days now, living, sleeping, and eating like them and with them. By extension, he was a part of them.

At a distance, they could hear the sirens of police cars and emergency vehicles, but to the homeless, this was routine and ignored. He observed no unusual activity on the streets and the neighborhood. The News of the day had not yet reached them. He mentally went over the SHOT. Aware of the distance, he had handcrafted the weapon and the bullet to meet its target. He had computed the angle, the range, the wind, and the drop of the bullet and its loss of energy, while covering the distance. He had made the nanosecond adjustment and other minute corrections as required with the movement of the target and change of glare. He had done everything necessary and mandatory to the situation. In short, he knew he had done it right. He took another sip of water from his bottle and lay down on his bare bed of cardboard and covered himself with a dirty sheet. Instantaneously, by reflex, his highly trained inner self and years of training took stock. He curled up like a foetus and in a few minutes, he was fast asleep, immune to his surrounding and its happenings. The total time of action was thirty-six minutes; he had beaten his planned-time by nine precious minutes.

With each passing hour, the chances of apprehending the shooter, depleted in a proportional ratio. Scrutiny and security at all focal points were tightened. Police cruisers with their sirens blaring scanned the streets. Known offenders and snitches were rounded up and interviewed for possible leads. Criminals in jails, with known connections in similar fields, were promised deals for information. Within the hour, press-conferences began to air on all the networks. The Police Commissioner of the City stated that their whole extent of strength and expertise was garnered at apprehending the shooter. The White House spokesman assured the American people that the President, though badly shaken, was unhurt and safe. Every channel was airing interviews, press-conferences, political views, but none was able to answer, as to why the attempt to assassinate the President was made and by whom. As hours passed the, All Out Top Priority Hunt came up empty. It flustered the authorities, it was the usual No see, No hear, No know situation all around.

Much later, Muffs was nudged awake by his neighbor, THE DENTIST, the legend earned because of ugly broken tobacco stained teeth I am going to get me something to bite. Wanna come? asked Dentist. Sure do, said Muffs. He was hungry. He looked up the time. It was ten hours after the shooting. The sky had gone dark and the streetlights were on. Together they lumbered along, two blocks away, to the soup kitchen, on the other side of the street. The Soup Kitchen was a beaten down place but had toilet facilities and a shower. After using the restrooms and a wash, they wandered into the dining area. A good number of people were in the dining area. Most of them were glued to the television watching reruns of the shooting and the aftermath. Muffs watched the television in fascination, as the shot was replayed. The picture, cleaned up and magnified, showed the bullet miss the President and the two agents, with intensified clarity, the like of which he had not seen from his scope. He turned from the television and joined Dentist in line to get their soup, bread, and drink. They did not sit at a table but carried the food outside. They knew the stench they caused and the further they were, the better. The Stink, or the stench, as it was universally called, was a common denominator that United the homeless, wherever, they may be. The chicken soup, minus the chicken, was good. The bread was plentiful. On the way back, they bummed and shared a cigarette. Dentist, who was excited by the events of the day and who had seen the scene on the television, was all talk Man that guy nearly offed the President, Man the excitement all day, I ain’t never seen anything like that. Muffs responded, Did he kill the President. The Dentist retorted forcefully, You hardly hearing anything man. I said he nearly got him all excited now, he continued, He missed man, the cops were going nuts Man, they were shaking everyone up, and you sleeping through it all like you, a big baby To this Muffs languidly responded with, Oh, He missed. You think they gonna get him No Man, said dentist He too smart Man, methinks he be a hundreds of miles by now." With this, to the relief of Muffs, the conversation came to an end. No sooner they reached their pads, Muffs stretched down on his bed and like before, in an instant, he was fast asleep.

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THE CONSPIRATORS

THE TRIUMVIRATES

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA –USA.

MARCH 17TH 1971, 7.00 PM.

As Dentist and Muffs were on their way to dinner, seven hundred miles away, in the neighboring metropolis of the City of Angeles,- Los Angeles, in a spacious well-furnished residential office on the 46 th floor, sat a middle aged, good looking man of fifty-four. Seated on an expensive, one of a kind recliner, in the decorative living room, the man’s eyes was glued to the sixty inches wall-mounted Sony screen. Dressed to perfection, in a stylish conservative blue-black Armani suit, a matching tie, expensive crocodile shoes, he watched the reruns on the television, in frustration and anger. The curses and abuses issuing forth from him filled the room. The TV, on purpose, was in its Mute-Mode with the Captions ON. The residential flat, with a spacious office, two over-sized bedrooms with attached baths, a moderately big kitchen, a living room attached with a large half bath and a good sized bar was befitting the status of the owners. It was an expensive residential office flat, filled with the latest Work-of-Art stylish furniture. The living rooms ornamental furniture consisted of a sofa, a loveseat, a beautiful center table, two over-sized single recliners and a pair of settees. On the center coffee table lay a brown small manila envelope with the man’s home address on it. Incidentally, the envelope did not contain any correspondence. It was empty. He had received it the day before, and this had initiated his immediate travel, to Los Angeles. His Gulfstream had got him here by 6.00pm. With the difference in the time zone and the travel time, he had very little rest and was tired. The broadcast of the President’s Speech had started around 10.00am Pacific Time and the broadcast of its aftermath, was still on at this hour.

The man, angry and frustrated kept glancing at his watch in obvious wait for someone. Twenty minutes later there was a knock and two men entered the room. The pair looked rich in their expensive attire. The smell of money, like an expensive perfume, reeked off them. One was past seventy, while the other seemed to be in his late sixties. They looked, and were tired, having gone through the same ordeal as the young man. Seeing the small manila envelope on the coffee table, each reached in his pocket and brought out a similar looking manila envelope and put it on the table. Similar to the envelope on the table, theirs also had their home address on it and was empty of contents. Putting the envelopes on the table, the two most prominent senior politicians of the country seated themselves in the separate recliners. Without a word, the young man got up and walked to the liquor bar and poured three drinks. He handed one to each and sat down on the loveseat. He also had coffee going and had ordered a take-out dinner, which would be there shortly.

They Downed their drinks, and together watched the TV, which was, at the moment showing the missed shot once again. Arrogant isn’t he, said the young man pointing to the TV. He had toned down his language in deference to his elder partners, his anger, however, remained. No, not really, said the Oldest, He wanted to make a specific point, to a specific group of people, and he did. But why take the risk, asked the young man. The Older replied. Men with power, money, and influence do not waste their time to no purpose. This is business and business is weighing risk and odds. He continued No, he did not waste his time; he made sure his message had an impact, as you will very well agree, it did. The old man rose and poured himself a cup of hot black coffee from the state-of-the-art, top of the line, Hamilton Beach’s latest coffee maker, with its shiny steel outer thermos technology decanter. He took a sip, savoring it. Still standing, he continued, Only We, and Only We, the three of us in this room know that he intentionally missed the President. The shot he took, was no ordinary shot. Hitting and killing the man was easy, he offered a larger target. But missing him and the other by inches was flawless. Himself, a big game hunter, he continued, The shot he took was a shot for all ages. One slight move by anyone and they would be history. The timing and accuracy of it are astounding. He paused took another sip of his coffee, and continued, The shot, is not the only thing that is astounding pointing to the manila envelopes on the table, he said, The timing of mailing each one of these, to our home addresses, is a true mark of genius. The timing of this is unbeatable. He orchestrated this beautifully. He made sure that we all got this a day before the shooting. He knew with certainty, that after the shot we would have no alternative but to meet. He paused, took a deep breath and continued, We three, are the specific people the message was intended for and the missed shot was for our benefit. The elderly man, after a pause and breather, continued, In his own ingenious way, by targeting the most protected person in the world, he let us know, that taking care of us three, would be a walk in the park to him, looking at each one of them, he continued, No, he did not waste his time. He means business, and wants us to know it. With convey his monologue, the old man seemed exhausted and sat down, put his coffee cup on the table and looked at each of his partners. They looked back at him in apt silence and respect. The sudden ringing of the phone jarred them. The other, old gentleman, who had with interest heard his colleague, stood up and received the call and confirmed that the call was from his office reminding him of his appointment early next day with the Nation’s, Attorney General. When he was done, the older man, fortified himself with a deep breath and continued, How he got to us would be an area that I don’t even intend to venture into, it would be futile. We were moves removed from direct contact with him, but yet, he not only got to us but also let us know, that he knew exactly who we were, down to our home addresses. What else he questioned Would bring three extremely busy and prominent men to a clandestine meeting at this hour, hundreds of miles away from home? There was, no answer, to that question. In rapt silence, they stared at him, as he continued, It is not like we made mistakes, he dramatically paused, and continued, It is simply just not our field. Looking intently at each of his collaborators, he continued, He is a professional, it is his arena. An arena he knows to play all too well. That Gentleman is the gist of this whole endeavor. Pausing, he effectively emphasized, No, I repeat, He did not waste his time and the risk was good business." With that, the old man was finished. It was one of the longest speeches that he had recently made. He was exhausted.

The ensuing silence after the speech was shattering. The Young man got up and returned with the coffee pot and two cups. He poured a cup for his other partner, refreshed the coffee of the older guy and poured himself a cup and sat down. They were quite, apparently each wrapped in their own thought. The sudden ringing of the phone interrupted their thoughts. The young man answered it. It was from the security desk below wanting to know if he had ordered food. He answered in the affirmative. Sending him up, said the guard. Ten minutes later there was a knock at the door and the food was delivered. He took the hot food to the dining table fished out the plates and the silverware. He refreshed the coffee with a new pot. He called the other two over and went to the liquor cabinet and returned with a bottle of rare and expensive wine and glasses. They were all hungry and made short work of the delicious food. None of them smoked and pretty soon they were back at their seats in the living room, each with a cup of fresh coffee.

They had to work this out They were wealthy and powerful men not used to being dictated, but smart enough to know, when they were routed. They had to play the shooters game at his terms, as they began cautiously evaluating every action they had contemplated with care. The facts were simple. They had got in touch with the shooter by a network of conduits in between. It was a difficult mind-boggling process professionally set up by the shooter. So expertly was the process set that at no point was his identity even remotely compromised? The terms were simple and direct. First, the shooter wanted a sum of one million to be deposited in an account, the details of which he would send them. This sum was to be the initial deposit to confirm serious intent to do business. Once this was done they were to let him know via the established pipeline, the identity of the target. Once the target was identified, the shooter would decide if he wanted to do the hit or not. If for any reason he did not want to do the job the one million would be returned and the identity of the target kept confidential. If he decided to take up the job another four million was to be deposited in his account. One week after the job was completed to the satisfaction of the client, another five million was to be deposited to the account. The total sum was U.S. Dollars Ten million. That was his Price for the job. The conditions also entailed that if for any reason the clients did not want to do business with him, they were to inform him before they took the next step, whatever the next step might be.

Questioning the competence of the shooter, considering the low price he was demanding, the trio had defaulted when they went looking for another Hitman without first informing him of their intent. The result was the present prediction they now found themselves in. They were now in the crosshairs of the shooter’s scope and he could play them at his pleasure, to what suited his fancy. To their advantage, they were practical people. Two of the three, were important and outstanding politicians and business personalities in the country and knew the ups and downs of business. They also knew all business was a compromise. Compromise meant that you could never have both your feet firmly planted on the ground, if you wanted to wear pants. You had to compromise by lifting one foot at a time, to wear them. To them, this was a new business arena and they decided to play the game, called by the shooter. They knew that he would shortly contact them with a new set of rules. Rules, by which they knew they would have to abide. That having been settled, with a few polite pleasantries and strict advice to the young man to leave for home at the earliest, as he would be expected and could not afford to be missed, the others left. The older man, Jay Curtis Barker, went to the John Wayne Airport, while, the other old gentleman, Scott Buster Batson, went to the Airport at Long Beach to take their respective Gulfstream’s back home. Although both the airports were on the 405 South, they went by different taxis to their destination. The young man, holding one of the most covetous offices in the country, sat alone. His cherubic, charismatic looks in shambles, as he pondered over the situation, to which he was an unwilling and unwitting pawn, brilliantly manipulated by the Senior Politicians Notwithstanding the fact, he was nevertheless, now, a committed Member of the Triumvirate He slowly stood-up, stretched his aching back, as he, like the others prepared to go home. He would leave by the Glendale Airport.

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THE SHOOTER

THE HUNTER

SAN FRANSISCO, CALIFORNIA. USA

MARCH 18TH TO APRIL 2ND 1971.

It took Muffs, three days to get rid of the rifle parts, a piece at a time. He trashed them in separate trash receptacles, located more than two miles away from where he was camped. Now it was time, to put, what he called his Exit-Plan into motion. He had readied three separate exit plans, in anticipation of any contingency that may occur. He had, in his own professional way, minutely researched and planned his way back. His plan entailed avoiding all flights, Amtrak and Subway trains, Greyhound buses, rental cars, and taxis. He opted instead for Metro buses, hopping from one city to another. His route back was etched into his mind as a sophisticated navigational system. He knew every stop and the number of every bus he would take, their arrival and departure times and ETA. He had planned his departure with care and had extensively studied and charted his way back in his mind. As per the plan, early one day, he left his homeless residence and embarked on his exit-plan. The first leg of this venture was the most tedious. He continued in his present disguise, pushing his cart via areas he knew were populated with the homeless and soup kitchens. He had to travel thus for a distance of five miles till he reached his selected first stop, a remote coin operated, pay-per-use shower and toilet facility located close to an unfrequented park. He had found this location after days of search. He had also visited the spot earlier to ascertain if it was workable. Having found it viable he had marked it down as his first stop. At the very bottom of the shopping cart midst clean trash liners he had stashed most of his neatly laundered and pressed regular clothes. Likewise, he had also hidden his wallet with care. A man who planned each move with care, he had made sure that he had more than enough coins, in Quarters to operate the toilet’s pay-per-use utilities. His first priority was to wash the stench away. This was not an easy task, but he had prepared for this. After an initial rigorous shower and a change into loose fitting old sweatpants and loose fitting shirt, he went to the nearby liquor store, which he knew carried toiletries and got the items he needed to wash the stench. He spent a whole day and a night at the location, showering and then sleeping on one of the benches with his homeless cart parked alongside. When he was positive that he was clean and odour-free, he cut his long hair to medium length, trimmed down his beard and moustache, covered his head with an old baseball cap, put on a zero prescription thick lenses eyeglasses, and wearing the same clothes that he had worn to the liquor store he decided to move. He thoroughly rubbed down his shopping cart and its contents. He pulled out a small concealed knapsack, from the trash liners and filled it will his regular clothes. He filled the shopping cart, with dirt and debris from the park and abandoned his shopping cart in a small dirty alley close by. Muffs, the homeless man, was now dead and buried in the dark dirty alley, along with his shopping cart, that had served him so well,

After a close minute scrutiny of the area, he had inhabited for almost two days and finding it sanitized to his satisfaction with no-tell signs, he decided to venture on the second leg of his planned journey. He took the Metro road lines, spending the nights at the larger bus stations with toilet facilities. When he finally reached Los Angeles, he took a bus close to the Santa Monica Beach. At the beach, he used the public restrooms to shower, shave and change.

Fifteen days after D-Day, a clean-shaven, moderately good-looking young man of 28, with short cropped black hair and matching black eyes, his muscular lean body hidden under a loose twirl shirt tucked into jeans pants, totting a knapsack, stepped out of the number 6 rapid metro bus at the corner of Santa Monica and Beverly Glen, and walked the mile to his home. A young girl of about six ran to meet him as soon as she laid her eyes on him. He bent down and scooped her in his arms. A few yards away at the door stood his son of eight, and the mother of his children. Placing the knapsack on the ground, and carrying his girl he climbed the few steps to the front door and lifted his son in his other arm. His wife hugged them in a tight embrace as he kissed them all. The decorated nameplate on the door behind them bore the Legend JOHN WEBB.

Two days later John Webb mailed out another set, of three manila envelopes.

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CHAPTER 1

ONCE UPON A TIME

BACK TO THE PAST

TWENTY-TWO YEARS AGO

THE YEAR IS 1949

QUTUB SHAMIR, QUETTA – PAKISTAN

EARLY 1949

J aan, Jaan, he heard his mother calling, Hurry home; it is time, for your friends Zuhar prayers Almost simultaneously calls from mothers from every house in the village urging their sons to go to the mosque was echoed around the village. As Jaan turned towards home, the kids, who were playing soccer on the street with a small tennis ball, abandoned their game and headed towards the mosque. As the kids proceeded to the washroom in the mosque, to first perform their ablutions, called WADHU obligatory ceremonial cleansing of oneself before prayers, they heard the voice of the Muzaian calling the Azan, (The Islamic call for prayers)

Allah-u-Akbar, Allah-o-Akbar (Allah is the most Great, Allah is the most Great)

Allah-u-Akbar, Allah-o-Akbar (Allah is the most Great, Allah is the most Great)

Ash-hadu an la illaha ill-lal Allah (I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship, except Allah)

Ash-hadu an la illaha ill-lal Allah (I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship, except Allah)

Ash-hadu anna Muhammad-ar-Rasoolullah. (I bear witness that Muhammad, is the Apostle of Allah.

Ash-hadu anna Muhammad-ar-Rasoolullah. (I bear witness that Muhammad, is the Apostle of Allah.

Hayya ‘alas-Salah (Come to Prayer)

Hayya ‘alas-Salah (Come to Prayer)

Hayya ‘alal-Falah (Come towards Success)

Hayya ‘alal-Falah (Come towards Success)

Allah-u-Akbar, Allah-o-Akbar (Allah is Great, Allah is Great)

La, ilaha ill-Allah (There is no deity Worthy of Worship, but Allah

In its universality, the Islamic call for prayers by the Muzains went far beyond the boundaries of countries and cities. It was called from every single mosque in the world, five times each day. Jaan saw his friends rush in the mosque to perform their WADHU and pretty soon the Muslim male population of the village drifted in. The Muslim women would observe their prayers at their homes. From among the many homes in the village, the genteel but commanding voice of Nasreen Sultana, whom the villagers loving called, Decent, Aisraeuu ‘iilaa almasjid – Hasten to the mosque. complimented the call for prayer along with the equally compelling voices of the other mothers in the village, which rang out in unison, urging their wards towards their congregational prayers, at the mosque. Jaan went home to his mother, who opened the Bible and shared a few verses with Jaan. Every day when Jaan’s Muslim friends went to the mosque, she would read from the Bible to Jaan. They were, one, of the few Christian families, in the village. Ninety-six percent of the population of the village was Islamic, the remaining 04% comprised of Christians and Hindus. In spite of their religious difference they were treated like one, and not once did they have any religious disputes or violence in the small village. Although they had adopted most of the Islamic customs and traditions they remained strict to the faith and imparted the same to their children. Jaan’s family name was Weber. Jaan was baptized and named Jonathan. The villagers, however, called him Jaan, which meant Beloved in Urdu. John knew of no other name than Jaan and answered to it.

In Many ways, the Weber’s were a unique family. Jonathan’s mother, Mary was the daughter of Wilfred Canaris from England. Wilfred was a doctor, serving in the British Army. Major Wilfred Canaris was posted in India, at the Quetta Army Station, where he was in charge of the Army hospital. Mary was married to Captain James Weber who was a field officer serving under her father and was his medical assistant. After the war and the partition, Major Wilfred opted to stay in Quetta, which was now a part of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan. He wanted to serve the people who were in dire need of qualified physicians. Captain Weber, his son-in-law, joined him in this and the family settled in the Quetta District. Mary and her husband soon moved to the neighboring district of Killa Abdullah, as the people, of the district, were in need of medical help. With the immediate and dire need of medical services in remote and distant villages, the Weber’s moved to a small village named Shamir Killi (Nicknamed Nika Killi) in the Jungle Piralizai Village area, roughly about 60-kilo meters from Killa Abdullah. Jungle Piralizai is composed of four villages Qutub Killi, Khojdad Killi, Majeryaan/Momin Killi and Khamat Killi including Shamir Killi (Nicknamed Nika Killi). Jungle Piralizai is a part of other Piralizai villages located to the North 15 km away, and comprises of three villages: Arambi, Shah Killi, and Killi Usman Achakzai (Called Shom). The Weber’s set up a small dispensary two miles away from Shamir Killi. The dispensary was equiv-distance between the villages of Qutub Killi and Shamir Killi. Pretty soon people started to move towards the dispensary and a very small village took shape with roughly 35 to 40 homes in the area. The small village was roughly two miles away from each of the bigger villages. While either of the villages could claim it to be a part of them, none did, to the utter relief and satisfaction of its current residents. They self-named the village, Qutub Shamir, by adopting the first names, of each of the two bigger villages. Qutub Shamir consisted of a speckle of buildings made of earth, bricks, and thatched roofs, with a road of dirt running through the middle. The road was also a playground for the children. The largest building of the village was in the center of the villages with smaller houses surrounding it. The largest building consisted of a big room of around twenty feet by twenty feet, with three smaller rooms, which were roughly fourteen feet by twelve feet each. The big room was the mosque. The smaller rooms doubled and tripled as Madrassaha (school), meeting room, and function/party halls and on and on. 100 yards behind the small depleted homes of the villagers, were two bigger buildings, which housed the toilet facilities of the village. One was for the Men and the other for Women. Each consisted of four stalls, three bathing rooms, and two brick made sinks. The main occupation of the villagers was farming and livestock. Their fields were located a close distance from their homes. The menfolk tended the fields and the animals, and the close distance allowed them the ease to return home for their midday meals.

Fifty yards from the largest building in the village was the relatively small first building of Qutub Shamir, the dispensary, and the home of James and Mary Weber. James and Mary had two children. Their daughter Michelle, who was born in the District of Killa Abdullah, was fourteen and their son born in their dispensary home at Qutub Shamir was eight. The Villagers called Mary, Mariam. Michelle went with the name Missy and John became Jaan. James in the tradition of the people became Abu Jaan (the father of Jaan) The Weber’s were well respected and looked after the medical needs of the people of Qutub Shamir and the neighboring villages. James frequently traveled to the larger town of Quetta to get medical supplies and much-needed rations for the villagers.

Jaan’s home, unlike all the other homes in the village had five rooms. The inner walls were made of mud. Of the five rooms, one was a small room, of nine by six feet, this was their kitchen. The other two rooms were relatively bigger, being about ten feet by ten. The two bigger rooms were the bedrooms, the living rooms, the closest, the study rooms and every other room you could think of. The remaining two rooms comprised the dispensary. Most homes in the village had only three small rooms.

In deference to the villagers, Mary and Michelle always had her head covered in hijab and adorned the purdah. James wore the traditional Shalwar and Kameez with his head covered with a cap or Amama (turban). A Patu (a shawl) covered his shoulders at all times. They adopted most of the traditions of the majority of the people in the village. The one major exception was that they always spoke in the English language, at home. Both the children Missy and Jaan were well-versed in the English language. Outside their home, they spoke with people in the native Urdu and snatches of Pashtu. Jaan attended the local Madrassah (school) along with his friends and soon learned to read and speak the Arabic language. He was knowledgeable of the Muslim prayers, to include the Wadhu and the Koran. In short, they were no different from the other people in the village in talk, action, and deed. They blended in, and the people loved them. They, in turn, returned their love; The Weber’s loved the people and the place. It was their Home.

In the hot summer, the villagers gathered, in small circles in the evenings, to drink their favourite special Green Hot Tea (Shnay chai) and in winter they drank their delicious, honey mixed, Black Tea (Suleimani Chai) while they chatted about the days’ events. Children usually played outside on the dirt road covered in thin white dust, referred to as the Moon Dust. Abu Jaan James shared their company and told them stories of England and the wars, which they relished like small children. As one day passed into another, life here was peaceful.

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**

CHAPTER 2

THE MASSACRE

OF INNOCENCE

THE BANDIT CHIEF

WALEH RAI CHAMBAL

1951

QUTUB SHAMIR, QUETTA – PAKISTAN

MAY 1951

Early, one May morning, the peace and quiet of the village was shattered by horseback riding Dacoits, who roamed the neighboring districts. Having wide-skirted Shamir Killa they were on their way to Qutub Killa when they chanced on the small village. They were unaware of the existence of Qutub Shamir and its presence came as a surprise to them. Incidentally, it was also the first time that the villagers were encountering the famous dacoits. They had heard stories of them but had always considered them to be rumours. Accosted by reality, they ran helter-sxelter, confused and scared. The well-clad, well-equipped, masked dacoits, toting guns, rode towards the village, their guns firing in the air. On seeing them, reflexively Captain James Weber ran into his house and came out holding his old long-range military rifle. He chambered a bullet and fired at the oncoming dacoits. His well-aimed shot unseated one of the dacoits who fell from his horse and was dragged on the ground by the stirrups still attached to the saddle. Galvanized and with unabated anger, at seeing their comrade fall, the overwhelmed bandits zealously started to hit and injure fleeing villagers by the butt of their rifles. Like an uncontrolled, unstoppable Tsunami the momentum took them into every single building in the village, which they pillaged and ravaged. Before James could load another bullet in the chamber of his rifle, the bandit chief had shot him in the thigh. Jaan who was standing close to his father rushed to him as James went down on his knees. Still mounted on his horse the chief approached the kneeling James and with a gun pointed at James turban pulled the trigger. The shot in the head, execution style, killed James instantaneously. James Weber’s body fell across the threshold of their home, blocking the entrance to it. Jaan rushed to his father and hugging the body of his father, the child began to weep.

The dacoit riding alongside the Chief dismounted and pushed James fallen body aside with his foot and entered the house. Seeing the bandit enter the house Jaan rushed after him. Michelle, who was clinging tightly to Mary, on seeing the bandit enter, started to scream with fear. Abandoning all care, like a trapped animal Mary, with a loud cry, rushed towards the bandit and attacked him a with a kitchen knife that she had concealed. The bandit parried the attack and with a blow to the abdomen, knocked Mary to the ground. He approached the girl and with his left hand round her waist, he carried the yelling and screaming Michelle, into the inner room. He threw her in the room and bolted the door. Mary soon recovered from the blow and rushed towards the door and tried to push it open. The door would not budge. Jaan joined his mother and together they tried pushing it open. When their efforts failed they began pounding on the door as hard as they could. The pounding synchronized with the noise of blows, the swish of the belt, and the screams of Michelle. They heard her dress being ripped. Crying, screaming, hitting out, her body scarred and bleeding, with pain and anger raging inside her, Michelle finally succumbed to a brutal rape. The pounding on the door by the weeping Mary and screaming Jaan continued nonstop. They suddenly heard the bandit scream in pain as Michelle aided by some hidden inner strength picked up an object from the floor and hit him on his head. Mary shouted at the top of her voice urging Michelle to open the door. They heard more yelling, and profanity by the bandit and then they heard a single shot, and with it, came instant quiet. Michelle was dead.

With his Shalwar (pants) in one hand and the smoking gun in the other, the bandit in his undershorts stepped out of the room. Her rage, intensified with the love of her lost child, ignoring the gun, Mary lunged at him, kicking, screaming and scratching at his face. The bandit with a practiced move whip-lashed her with the gun and sent her bleeding but alive to the floor. Jaan’s rush at the bandit met with a blow to his own face and he lay bleeding beside his mother. His mother watched powerless, as the bandit with his feet pushed Jaan towards the door. Holding the doorknob Jaan pulled himself to his feet. On trembling knees and shaky weak legs he stood and watched his mother. His mother lay on the floor bleeding and helpless, her face turned towards him. No voice came out of her but he could read her eyes. They begged him to run. Jaan watched the bandit approach his mother and with deliberate slowness tear her dress apart. With concern and humility, his mothers’ eyes pleaded with him to leave, but Jaan stood rooted to the ground, as he watched the bandit pull down his under-shorts and mount his mother. Oblivious to what was happening to her, Mary continued to look at Jaan, her eyes pleading and imploring him to at least turn his eyes away. Mary’s eyes, wet with tears, continued to beseech her son to turn away, as from bump to birth to beyond all her love for him poured forth through her anguished eyes. Jaan stood looking into the eyes of his mother and through her eyes to his, the image of her being brutalized entered his body and etched into his heart and mind. He continued to look at the pleading eyes of his mother as her eyes turned glassy to a permanent stare. Mercifully, Mary was dead.

Jaan watched, as with a groan of satisfaction, the bandit stood up from the dead body of his mother and hastily pulled on his Shalwar and secured it with the naras (also called nada) and walked out of the door. Eight-year-old Jaan stood mesmerized, rooted to the spot, with tears flowing down his face, as his heart ached. He walked towards the inner room and saw the body of his sister on the floor. In death, her open eyes showed fear and her open mouth conveyed the remnant of a scream still etched in her throat. With fond sadness, he looked at his sister, walked out of the room closing the door behind him. In the living room, his mother lay with her eyes still open, full of love and promise. He gave her one last loving painful look and walked out of the door. He was too young to know, to shut the eyes of the dead. On the street outside, he saw the body of his father. It lay in the same position exactly as he had last seen it. He looked over the village and saw bodies scattered randomly around. Many of the villagers were injured and lay groaning with pain on the ground. Jaan walked into the crowd surrounded by villagers and dacoits and in the midst of the crowd, he was alone. His blood lay scattered in and around the building, the villagers called the Dispensary and what he called Home.

The dacoits were herding the villagers who were alive into small groups of men, women, and children. The Chief walked over to the group of children and separated every male child over the age of seven and sent the remaining children back to their mothers. There were eighteen male children above the age of seven, of whom, Jaan was one. The second-in-command, with the assistance of the other bandits, cut down big size bags from their horsebacks, which were secured and attached to their saddles. The bandits collected all the bags and heaped them together in one big pile. The bags contained