Veerappan: Chasing the Brigand Read online

  I was a largely absentee father, often rushing off on challenging assignments and missing my children’s important milestones. Meena did her best to make up for my absences. We tried to insulate our children from my job as much as possible, though once, I breached the line.

  While serving as the Superintendent of Police (SP) of Salem district, I was taking the family to see a James Bond movie. I was driving my private car, a beat-up Ambassador that we probably pushed as much as we travelled in. My elderly driver was sitting beside me in the front; Meena and the kids were in the back.

  Just then, I noticed a local goon harassing some citizens. The sight infuriated me. I pulled over and leapt out of the car. The rowdy turned towards me menacingly. He was a big fellow, clearly looking for trouble. But he slowed down when he saw my pistol.

  I picked up a branch lying on the road, grabbed him by the collar and pushed him to the floor of the car, next to the front seat. Then, I thrashed him with the branch all the way to the nearest police station. The children, who were excited at the prospect of seeing some action on-screen, found the real-life version quite scary. They ducked, whimpered and burst into tears. Meena was livid. After the goon was handed over to the cops, she let me know, in no uncertain terms, that such behaviour in front of the children was completely unacceptable. Needless to say, I never repeated such an act before my family.

  While in the same post, I was once asked to handle the security for an election rally by the then prime minister (PM), Rajiv Gandhi. The rally went off peacefully and I heaved a sigh of relief. A few days later, I got a call from the Director General of Police (DGP), Tamil Nadu, V.R. Lakshminarayanan. ‘The “powers-that-be” were very impressed by the way you handled the PM’s security at his rally. I believe Mr Arun Singh (then a minister of state) had a brief chat with you behind the dais. A new force has been set up to protect the PM and members of his immediate family. It’s called the Special Protection Group (SPG). Would you like to apply for it?’ he asked.

  I was only too happy to do so and even more delighted when I was informed that I had cleared the SPG interview. I spent the next five years of my life—easily among the most exciting and demanding—in the SPG. Shortly after I joined the force, Rajiv Gandhi was shot at on 2 October 1986 at Rajghat, which led to the birth of the Close Protection Teams (CPT). Many heads of state and government, including Mikhail Gorbachev, offered us training and other support. I was chosen to join the CPT, which meant that I was part of the innermost ring, virtually serving as the PM’s shadow.

  For security reasons, I will not reveal details of the functioning of the CPT. Virtually every waking moment that wasn’t spent guarding the PM was utilized in training. We spent hours honing our reflexes and our shooting skills, especially in simulated combat situations. My team ended up smashing several cars at a remote airstrip during defensive driving. The CPT received the first lot of Ambassadors fitted with Isuzu engines in India; we certainly put them to good use, even if they didn’t enjoy a very long life.

  All CPT members were given training in the basics of martial arts by a bunch of black belts from diverse disciplines—karate, judo, taekwondo, etc. We didn’t specialize in any one form; instead, our instructors taught us some quick, dirty and very useful moves. For example, a mild jab with a finger at the right spot can send shockwaves, leaving the recipient shaken but not dead—an ideal tactic in a situation where someone seems suspicious, but use of lethal force may be an overreaction.

  I wouldn’t fancy my chances against Bruce Lee, but I learned enough to deal effectively with anybody who ventured too close to the PM. A gentle tap on any of the nerve centres would do the trick. ‘Ouch’ became a common word in the PM’s immediate vicinity, but he was never told about the cause.

  I had always believed that I was in pretty good shape, but a training stint in the Alps, along with some other members of the CPT, took me to a completely new level.

  The course that we attended was called ‘Deprivation & Desensitization Training’, which gives a fair idea of what it comprises. We were deprived of sleep, dignity and just about everything that humans hold dear.

  We were trained by a gentleman called Rossie, a plump, unsmiling individual. Despite his girth, he was amazingly fit and came with an impressive reputation. He had reportedly trained para-commandos, Carabinieri, Gaddafi’s famous female bodyguards and some of the most expensive personal security personnel across the world. He always had a whistle strung around his neck. When he blew that whistle, you had to drop everything and scramble to him. He also had a habit of springing nasty surprises. Though doubts were raised about us being trained by a man who did not belong to the US, UK or the erstwhile USSR security, Rossie’s choice was fully vindicated after our training was complete.

  On the first day, we were treated to a sumptuous meal with superb wine. ‘They have a strange definition of deprivation,’ I thought, as I tucked into the food. Once we were stuffed and ready to go to bed, Rossie led us out in sub-zero temperature. After that cosy dinner, it was a brutal shock to the system.

  In the moonlight, Mount Alps sparkled like cut glass washed in vinegar. There was a white car parked in the middle of a tarmac strip. ‘Right, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘The person you’re protecting is in that car. It has just been attacked. Commence drill.’

  A lot of jumping, running and rolling followed. By the end of it, many of us had either heaved up most of the food we’d eaten with such delight, or had severe cramps. The icy peaks of the Alps now seemed cheerless.

  The next day, the same fare was brought out. By now, we’d wised up, so we ate frugally. In fact, we were still hungry when we finished our meal, but given what was coming next, we didn’t mind too much. We waited smugly for Rossie to order another exercise.

  A thin smile played across his lips as he said, ‘Take a break for a couple of hours,’ and marched out of the room, as we exchanged stunned looks and our stomachs rumbled in protest.

  A couple of days later, after a long practice session of close-quarter manoeuvres, with Whitney Houston crooning in the background, he said, ‘Would you like a toilet break?’

  We nodded and raced to the loo. We had just about unzipped when we heard the whistle.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ I groaned. But the whistle was shrill and insistent. Some of us forced ourselves to halt midstream and staggered back. In a couple of cases, a telltale patch appeared on the trousers. Others ignored the whistle and completed the task at hand, but then had to go through a gruelling round of exercises as punishment. It all seems very funny now, but it certainly didn’t feel that way back then.

  Rossie was liberal in doling out both verbal and physical punishment. One of his favourite tricks was to ask a candidate to undo his shoelaces and tie them again. If he bent to tie his shoelace, he promptly got a sharp rap on his head. If he glanced down, he got a cuff on the ear. It reminded me of the scene from Enter the Dragon where the novice gets a rap for looking down. Soon, all of us mastered the art of tying our shoelaces while standing on one leg and staring straight ahead. ‘For a bullet-catcher, his eyes are his no. 1 weapon, followed by his hands and then his weapon itself,’ Rossie would harangue, even as he rained blows like a furious drummer on the poor laggard’s back.

  On one occasion during dinner, a waiter came around with a tray. After he’d finished serving us, Rossie asked, ‘How’s the food, gentlemen?’

  ‘Excellent, sir,’ replied one of us.

  ‘Really?’ asked Rossie, his voice deceptively soft. A second later, the unfortunate trainee found himself staring down the barrel of a gun that the waiter had whipped out from under the tray. ‘Bang, you’re dead,’ sneered Rossie. On closer inspection, it turned out to be a toy, but we got the message loud and clear: Stay alert at all times.

  Midway through the training, we were ordered to go on a mountain trek, carrying fully loaded backpacks, and given a short deadline to complete it. Rossie didn’t accompany us. Instead, we were led by a licensed guide. Withi
n a few minutes, it became painfully evident to me that I was holding up the group. I was prone to muscle cramps and sure enough, in the cold, my body began acting up.

  My other teammates were all sub-inspectors, a lot younger and clearly more active than I was. As I struggled to keep up, one of them took some of the stuff from my backpack and put it into his. Others began to follow suit. I tried to protest, then reasoned with myself that there was no way we would finish the trek on time if I carried the full load. So I kept my mouth shut.

  We managed to complete the trek within the stipulated time and heaved a huge sigh of relief. It had started to snow as we crossed the finish line. The cold and exhaustion combined had given me cramps in both legs. I was looking forward to a hot bath and a warm meal.

  Then I noticed the guide and Rossie in conversation. Rossie’s arms were crossed and he was looking at me. My heart sank. ‘Uh-oh, here comes trouble,’ I thought.

  Rossie strode up and glared at me. ‘Did you let your men share your load?’

  I nodded, avoiding his eyes.

  He turned to one of the men. ‘Give him your backpack,’ he ordered.

  The man hesitated.

  ‘Do what he says,’ I told him.

  I hefted the backpack on to my shoulders. It felt like a ton of bricks.

  ‘Everybody else, into the bus,’ said Rossie. Then he turned to me. ‘We’ll be somewhere along the highway. Find us. Or you can just drop down on the road.’

  Then he got into the bus and it drove off.

  The next couple of hours felt like the longest of my life. I was cold, lonely and exhausted. The light was fading. It was getting progressively darker and colder. I ached in every muscle and bone. On a bend, I saw a cupola with an icon of the Virgin Mary. Through chattering teeth, I prayed fervently to her. Not that I’m a Christian, but I had gleaned that Rossie was a devout Catholic, and right now I needed all the help I could get.

  After what seemed like eternity, I saw a little pub, barely a shack, on top of a slope. A man standing outside waved at me and went in. Rossie and the others emerged, glasses of liquor in hand. He beckoned me to come up.

  The road to the top was little more than a dirt track, at an incline of about seventy degrees. I spent the last few metres on all fours as I scrambled up. Rossie kept the verbal barbs coming. ‘Weak commander, weak commander,’ he chanted.

  I saw the faces of all my men. They were desperate to help me, but had orders not to do so. I could see the pain in their eyes. A few of them were actually in tears. It sent a wave of shame rushing through me. Never again, I vowed, would I be a weak commander.

  When I finally reached the top, Rossie hauled me to my feet. ‘You look like hell,’ he said.

  ‘That’s exactly how I feel,’ I thought, but wisely kept my mouth shut.

  Rossie slapped me on my shoulders and handed me a drink. He didn’t say anything after that. He had made his point, and I had learned a lesson that would stay with me for the rest of my life.

  The training ended, and I went back to being the PM’s shadow. Still, in the midst of my hectic schedule, I tried to stay up to date with events in my home state, Tamil Nadu. I began to hear a name with alarming regularity—Veerappan. He was a man who was turning into a scourge for the police as well as the administration.

  The years from 1990–2001 were hectic and enriched me with the experience of handling two more districts—the CM’s security, caste riots in south Tamil Nadu and militants in Jammu and Kashmir. I also served as Inspector General (IG), Anti-Dacoity and Piracy Cell, a post that was created especially for me, with just about half a dozen men. We soon realized that all the dacoits in that area were already dead. So the cell shifted its attention to anti-piracy operations and apprehended several fake music and movie tape makers. After my selection as IG, BSF, by its DG, E.N. Ram Mohan, in 1998, I turned my attention to militancy in Kashmir. By 2001, I had completed three years of my stipulated five-year tenure in the BSF.

  2

  The Call that Started It All

  Room 119, Ministry of Home Affairs, North Block, New Delhi June 2001, 11 a.m.

  It was another hot, muggy day in the capital. A discreet knock was followed by a gentle cough as the door of my office swung open. A young BSF officer walked sheepishly but purposefully towards me. As IG (Operations), BSF, I was attending an important conference of senior officers of all the paramilitary forces at the home ministry. Sixteen BSF jawans had been butchered on the Bangladesh border a few weeks before this conference, so it was a sombre meeting.

  Many heads swung around to look at me. My irritation must have been evident, because the officer half-smiled apologetically and thrust a slip of paper into my hand before beating a hasty retreat.

  I glanced down. It said, ‘Phone, most urgent.’

  ‘What could be so urgent?’ I muttered under my breath.

  I made my excuses and left the conference room. As I stepped outside the air-conditioned hall, the June heat felt like a blow on the face.

  ‘Yes?’ I said into the mobile.

  ‘Please hold the line. Amma will speak to you,’ said the familiar voice of Joint Secretary Natarajan.

  I stared at the mobile screen for a while. ‘Amma’ could mean only one person. Sure enough, within seconds, I heard the crisp voice of Selvi J. Jayalalithaa, the then newly re-elected chief minister (CM) of Tamil Nadu.

  ‘Mr Vijay Kumar, how are you?’

  ‘Good morning, ma’am. I’m very well, thank you. Please accept my heartiest congratulations on your grand return,’ I replied.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and got straight to the point. ‘I’m calling you over to head the Tamil Nadu Special Task Force, with Mr Walter Davaram as overall in-charge of both the Tamil Nadu and Karnataka forces. This sandalwood smuggler problem has gone on for too long.’

  Throughout her stint in the Opposition, Jayalalithaa had charged the Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (DMK) government with being soft on the famed brigand, Veerappan. She had vowed that if she returned to office, she would take a tough stand against him. Clearly, she was getting down to brass tacks and I couldn’t help but smile.

  By then, I had spent quite a few years away from the state, including long stints with the BSF in Kashmir and then in New Delhi. During that time, I had chafed whenever I heard about the numerous daring escapades of Veerappan. The sensational abduction of film superstar Dr Rajkumar had made headlines around the globe. The police as well as the citizens of three states—Tamil Nadu, Karnataka and Kerala—would tremble in fear, wondering about his next strike. I knew many of the officers and policemen who pitted themselves against guns, mines and treacherous terrain in an attempt to capture him. They were good men, but the media portrayed them as bumbling buffoons. Every time I read those reports, I itched to be part of the STF, working shoulder to shoulder with them. It seemed that my wish had finally been granted.

  ‘It will be an honour,’ I told the CM.

  ‘Good. You’ll get your orders soon,’ she said and hung up.

  I was over the moon. I smiled at the BSF officer, who looked puzzled as he took back the mobile. This call from the CM was one of the best moments in my life. After all, it’s not every day that you’re invited to join a mission you have wanted to be a part of for the longest time.

  When the Government of India sacks or dumps you, it happens instantly. But when your state asks for you to be sent back, it usually takes weeks. So it was with some amazement that I received my transfer orders the next day. ‘The CM certainly means business,’ I thought as I looked at the papers.

  I hurriedly took leave of my colleagues. Come to think of it, I believe the BSF still owes me a farewell party!

  A few days later, I found myself sitting in a bedroom of the newly built unoccupied constables’ quarters, which doubled up as the STF headquarters at Sathyamangalam, or Sathy as we knew it. Deputy Inspector General (DIG) Tamil Selvan welcomed me warmly. As we chatted over tea and pakoras, I couldn’t help glancing at the black leather
glove that concealed three mangled fingers on his left hand. It was the souvenir of a daring firefight with Veerappan. Tamil Selvan could easily have used the injury as an excuse to be transferred from the STF to an easier, cushier job, but he had chosen to return to this assignment the moment the doctors declared him fit enough to resume duty.

  Sensing my gaze, he glanced at me. I looked away, embarrassed. My eyes fell upon the Dhimbam Hills on the horizon. They represented the haystack. Concealed somewhere within them was the needle I had to find at all cost!

  A little later, I stepped into a hall where senior STF officers and men had assembled to meet me. I looked at them. There were many familiar faces. I had seen them join the force as fresh-faced recruits. Now, they were middle-aged men, their youth lost somewhere in the mountains and hills through which they trudged, searching for their wily target.

  ‘Let me start by saying that you all have done tremendous work in reducing a gang of 150 to single digits over the years,’ I said. ‘But I also have a question. Why haven’t we been able to catch the leader?’

  There was silence. Then, one of the men spoke up. ‘Sir, it’s not as if we haven’t had our chances. There were many occasions when we came really close to nabbing him. But he got lucky each time.’

  ‘We just have to get lucky once,’ I thought, but said, ‘We have to use his luck against him by plugging all the loopholes that have so far led to his escape. I want all of you to tell me about him. I want to read all the files on every operation ever conducted against him. I want to understand where we went wrong. Get me everything we have on him. You have forty-eight hours.’

  Part 2

  The Veerappan Files