Locking his house, a clean-shaven elderly man who looked refined and dignified came out of the government-subsidised dormitory without any expression on his face, but if one were to look into his eyes, panic and fear, as clear as day, could be seen.
Muhammad Rahas knew that his plan had failed, because if it had really succeeded, by this time he would have learnt of the Airavata Stadium being blown into a thousand pieces, or news about the emperor of the Bharatiya Empire being killed, but instead, the newspapers only talked about the winners of the Olympic Games and the next events.
He realised that there was either a traitor within the core circle, or the Greeks or Bharatiyas had somehow listened in on their conversations, both possibilities equally dreadful. The thought that everything he had planned might have been whispered directly into the ears of the infidel horrified him.
