Assassins by Mukul Deva Page B

main entrance, had two possible exit points, which would be invaluable in case of an emergency.
    It’s that damn landlord.
    Om Chandra gave him the creeps. Leon had learned to trust his instincts. That’s what had saved him so many times.
    Especially that day in Istanbul.
    Suddenly Leon realized why Om Chandra was making him so uneasy; he closely resembled the owner of the service apartment Leon had hired in Istanbul when he had been engaged to take out that diamond merchant.
    What was his name?
    Leon tried hard, but twenty-six years had rolled by and the names had been eradicated from his memory: of the diamond merchant he had terminated and of the landlord he’d hired the safe house from.
    Funny! Both of them almost got me killed and now I can’t even remember their names.
    An ironic laugh escaped him.
    Luckily he had been alert that day. The landlord’s shiftiness had first alerted Leon. That’s when he began to notice all the telltale signs: the landlord was sweating profusely, exhibiting a twitch on his right side, repeatedly checking his watch, and constantly peering out the window. When Leon heard cars screech to a halt outside, he’d been sure. By time the cops broke in, the snitch was dead and Leon gone. Vanished in the byways of Istanbul.
    That was the last time Leon had operated from a single safe house. Since then, having one secure base per tactical identity was an essential part of his SOP. For this mission Leon needed at least two. And, if he managed to find time, three.
    Backups are always good.
    From that day he had also ensured that every safe house he selected had at least two entries and exits, the more the merrier.
    Leon pulled out his mobile. It was a brand-new Samsung Galaxy S Duos. A dual-SIM phone and perfect for his purpose. Both lines were hooked onto Hotspot Shield, a commercial VPN service, which he used to effectively mask his current location by switching server countries randomly. Launching the Notes app, Leon tapped open the list of six serviced apartments he had culled from the Internet before coming to India. The two he had checked out before Sarita Vihar had not made the cut; both had only one way in and out; absolute deal breakers for Leon.
    The next serviced apartment on his list was in Jorbagh, which Google informed him was a posh residential colony located in central Delhi .
    This apartment listing had four photos, all of which appeared promising. However, Leon had by now realized that Kodak and reality rarely ever saw eye to eye.
    Tapping the address on Google maps, Leon instructed his phone to chart out the route and began to follow it.
    Half an hour later he drove past a quiet old but primly maintained bungalow located beside Jorbagh market. Slowing down, he surveyed the house. By now last light was almost upon him, but it was still bright enough to give him a fair idea of the layout.
    Worth exploring.
    He drove on till he found an isolated side lane to park in. Surrounded by the gloom, after twenty minutes in the backseat, the aging American hippie had been replaced by a much more staid-looking British travel writer. The well-worn tweed jacket, turtleneck pullover, fashionable horn-rimmed spectacles, and neatly tied ponytail went well with the new persona of Noel Rednib.
    Life had also taught Leon Binder the wisdom of keeping every operational identity apart and sheltered from the others. That way he would run out of options only when all his identities got blown. For that to happen the cops needed a lot of resources, even more luck, and tons of time. By then Leon would be long gone.
    Parking on the other side of the market, he walked back to the bungalow with the serviced apartment and rang the doorbell. The stocky, sixty-plus lady who came to the door had a pleasant, motherly feel. And, from the way she peered at him through thick bifocals, Leon sensed she was half blind.
    This is getting better and better.
    â€œGood evening, ma’am.” Leon