Documenti di Didattica
Documenti di Professioni
Documenti di Cultura
Naeem Baig
To my Grand Children
Wania Khan
Emaan
Umar
Salaar
Ahmad
Fatima
Hamza
Abdullah
& Usman
Acknowledgements
At the outset, before I acknowledge and pay my respect to
whom Im indebted, I must admit, this book could have not been
written without the inspiration I had acquired in my thoughts and
spirit from the great Urdu fiction-writer Ibne Safi, author of
hundreds of espionage books read in my early age. Besides I extend
my thanks to a close friend of mine Major Nadeem, later became Lt.
Col, in the early eighties. While he was posted in Baluchistan, I used
to learn a lot about the working of Army and intelligence agencies,
behind the iron curtains veiled from the naked eye of the general
public and that informal experience contributed a lot in my netting
the story of Kogon Plan. I regret that I lost contact with him since
then.
Moreover, I would like to express my gratitude to the University
of Baluchistan where from I graduated in Law and learned more on
research work from many of my friends there. I want to make a
special mention of two learned Professors, especially Late Dr Farooq
Ahmad Dean of Arts and Mohammad Zafar Professor and English
language Consultant, AKU Karachi who literally taught me how to
carry out manifold and assorted research work.
Furthermore, I also want to thank Saleem Shahab, a friend indeed
and professional editor and Ahmad Safi son of Ibne Safe a sincere
friend, whose dedicated efforts spending their valuable time to study
the most parts of the this research work and corrected many
mistakes. I still do not forget Anees Yaqoob a marvellous Artist,
Calligrapher and Painter having country-wide repute who had been a
source of constant encouragement all the way through beginning to
end in the Kogon Plan.
Author's Note.
Kogon Plan is fundamentally a work of fiction on war against terror
particularly in the background of terrorist activities in Pakistan.
However this is my humble endeavor toward my contentment to
bring such a book which could attract a large number of readers
across the globe and in Pakistan as well. Long ago at my childhood
Urdu espionage and thrill writer Ibne Safi was my ideal, then
Fredrick Forsyth set new horizon on espionage, thrill and suspense
among fiction writers of 1980s and afterwards. Both the
contemporary legends left great impact upon me which ultimately
sparked my pensive fervor to conceive the idea to write something
behind pretty heavy curtains against terrorism. This is a story of a
brave young undercover soldier Sahel Farhaj, who in relentless hot
pursuit confronts a notorious terrorist Razmak Bilal. I have tried to
draw a structure where I can put colors of patriotism with
professional ethics and bravery of a soldier.
Besides, how great sense of loyalty among the professional officers,
fetch far beyond intrinsic ultimate goals in espionage work, is the
subject described in detail. How does an undercover soldier fight
against terrorist organization? That's the exactly theme of this novel.
This is very much fictional novel and the characters I built may get
the semblance as genuine as I portrayed but anyway created through
imaginary workshop. However, I have tried to set the situations on
real locations or with similar background just to make this book
more dramatic and thrilling.
Author
April, 2014
Kabul
Chapter 1
March 2003
It was cold in Kabul that morning, raining but without snow. It
was still early, yet the light would remain the same all day like Siberia
or Finland in the north.
Sher Ali sat at a small table in a safe house in City Centre area
near Masjid Shah Do Shamshera. The table was ugly, a stained round
Formica top and peeling brown metal legs, but it was good enough
for a student. At the moment Sher Ali wished that he were a student.
He looked through the small lead glass window, yet he could
not see nothing of City Centre, for the kitchen faced the stone facade
of other half of the building. The flat has been carefully selected.
Second floor--- you could jump off the kitchen window if you had to.
Wooden stairs you could hear anyone on the landing. There was only
one set of scenic windows and that was at the front of the flat
facing street along the Kabul River. If you set up camp across from a
Mosque, anyone who wanted to observe you would first have to get
past a Pesh Imam.
These things were always well thought-out.
Sher Ali sipped at a cup of tea, but he could not eat.
Baba Feroz on the other hand seemed to be having no trouble at
all. His side of the table looked like a ravaged platter. He had
Page 9
Chapter 1
finished half a litre of orange juice and was on his third cup of rich
dark tea with sugar. Before him sat a large dish with two half-boiled
eggs to be taken care of in the belly and he was violently jabbing
buttered slice of a bread roll. Adding to Ali's gastronomic disbelief,
Baba punctured his light breakfast with gnashing bites from the
greasy roll.
What an appetite Ali's tone was veined with disgust, though
he knew, he was simply jealous. He wished he could eat too.
Feroz looked up. He swept his shaggy dark brown hair back over
his forehead and stared out innocently from his bright brown eyes.
His mouth was full. Don't you feel hungry?
Ali smiled and shook his head. I'm not an animal.
Feroz shrugged, taking no offence. Ok...I am an animal.
He returned to his plate. Then he reached across the table,
picked up his packet of Marlboro and begins rolling a cigarette. That
was another thing that Ali could not understand. Food that could
sink a battleship and tobacco that could burn asbestos, what an Iron
stomach and Iron lungs?
Then as if to dispel Ali's envy, Baba glanced up again, grinned
sheepishly and said I guess I am nervous.
Yes Ali nodded. Pleased to be once more in the company of a
human.
You see, everyone has his own way of dealing with pre-combat
jitters. Ali pushed his cup away, got up and walked through the
lounge to the front window. He looked at his watch perhaps
twentieth time. It was still only 7.30 AM.
He put his hands on the hips and stared through the freckled
glass at the Masjid Shah Do Shamshera, whose Red dome wavered
like a dream behind the smoky sheets of water that coursed over the
window. He blew out a sigh and turned to gaze at the small flat.
Everything was Afghani. The furniture, the books, the piles of
daily Outlook and weekly Kabul and the fat volume of Omer
Khayyam along with the Holy Quran wrapped in Red linen cloth on
the upper part of the only wardrobe cabinet. His cloths were Afghani
and Baba's as well, right down to the underwear.
The only foreign items were their American .45 calibre Colt, yet
these two were accompanied by forged licensing documentation
associating both men with Afghan anti-terrorist team. Even the
Page 10
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
and wait; and fortunately for him he would not be required to do so.
Barat's triple duties as Transportation Officer, Primary tail and backup would keep him moving all day long.
Already at dawn, Barat would have commenced his check of the
motor pool. There were to the dismay of the Department's Logistic
Head, ten rental vehicle involved in the operation as well as a
purchased Van and an ambulance. Each vehicle has to be inspected
for fuel, oil and water and then started and warmed to its health.
The entire rental vehicle had been hired from different firms
with one of three with Master-Cards which were linked to relatively
with small cash accounts in Egyptian Banks. Throughout the early
morning, Barat would have gone systematically from one
compartment to other compartment, inserting type written notes
into each rental agreement. Long after the cars were abandoned, and
hope fully recovered by their irate owners, the message in Persian
would intentionally appease;
Terribly sorry for inconvenience, please forgive and charge our
account
Ali had developed a consummate respect for Barat and he
trusted his technical judgements implicitly.
He could picture the diminutive, muscled ex-motorcycle racer
gleefully flying through the rainy streets of Kabul, flitting from one
machine to other, fretting like a Pit Manager.
Then there was Shabana Mir, as secondary tail and emergency
decoy, Shabana was going to have an extremely unpleasant day. She
would spend all morning outdoors within five hundred meters of
the City Centre North-west Street facing River Kabul wearing her
Walkman waiting for her cue. If she had ever harboured fantasies
about the romantic life of an espionage agent, today she would sure
be cured of such notions.
Shabana's task was somewhat more difficult than Bano's
inasmuch she was the Team's character actress. Inherently she
possessed all of Bano's dynamics qualities, yet she could play her
own type and was therefore called upon to do so with regularity. Her
speciality was going completely unnoticed, and she had practiced
donning this cloak of invisibility until details of her physical and
personality traits were obscured and encounters with her quickly forgotten.
Page 13
Chapter 1
Her form was slightly athletic, so she wore over-sized shirts and
fatigue like trousers. Her hair was dark brown and of naturally
groomed textured so she refrained from washing it much while in
the field. She would pull it back into a tight bun and thick glasses to
dull the liveliness of her hazel eyes. Everything suggested a total lack
of sexuality that man can look at her with fairly grimace.
Today Shabana would fairly disappear within her operational
area. Wearing a dull raincoat, a scarf covered his head and earphone
of Walkman. She would be forced to listen and she would move from
cafe to cafe, never lingering more than half an hour, yet constantly
forced to order food for which she has no appetite.
She would wait and by mid-afternoon she would be sick to death
of eating...
Ali moved forward with his mental checklist, arriving at the
image of one of his favourite comrade
Faizi Jaffar was the elder of the primary field team, and thought
of him always sure to improve Ali's mood.
Karachi born, Faizi frequently amused the younger members of
Special Operations with his tortured dialect in twisted Punjabi. He
was close to forty, tall, bony, stooped and mostly bald. His sharp eyes
were creased with smile lines, his side burn going grey. His hawkish
sly nose with quick smile completed the character of some sort of
comic master, constantly on the verge of tossing off one-liners which
served to force someone to smile even in the gravest situation.
On 'Darkroom' Faizi would be serving as the team janitor, with a
secondary function as Emergency Decoy.
As with all complex intelligence missions, operation Darkroom
had a window within which it would have to be executed. After a
certain amount of elapsed time, the operation could no longer be
considered secure and it would have to be abandoned until some
future date and place. Today was Darkroom's final day.
Ali still lost in half-thoughts of pre-mission review, did not
realise that he was smiling stupidly.
Kis ki yaad Aa rehi hey Baba had finished his dish washing. He
had removed his waste coat and his pistol was down on the table.
Thinking of Faizi Ali said.
He is getting too old for his work Baba wilfully teased Ali.
Oh, No... He's at his peak, relaxed and unlike us. And don't do
Page 14
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
swung around the Mosque, headed north and stopped forty meters
up the block.
Feroz waited by the apartment house-door, as he reluctant to
brave the downpour. He counted to a full twenty seconds and
satisfied that no other vehicle had followed, Ali went out into the
street. Baba walked casually towards the corner and then jumped into
the passenger seat, welcoming the growing warmth of the engine.
Aik aur Musibat, Baba spat, complaining about the weather.
He stuffed his bag into the rear seat, while Ali pulled away taking
slow right onto service road and heading west towards Kabul River
Bridge and then to City Centre.
It's going to stay this way. Said Ali, tried to concentrate keeping
his speed slow. Nothing above third gear, he told himself. Better get
used to it.
Baba blew out a breath and looked at the little cloud, Can I at
least take an umbrella?
As long as you don't use it Ali smiled on him.
They were already on the main road alongside on the Kabul
River.
The Radio Ali ordered.
Baba sarcastically obeyed.
The Corolla's cheap Panasonic had been extracted from the Dash
Board, and in its place as with the entire primary's team vehicles,
another Cassette player had been placed which was a creation of the
department's magician.
On the outside it was black high-tech AM/FM and on the inside
it was all connected with special UHF technology wireless
transmission. The receiver contained some unusual features
uncommon to simple car stereos.
Below the tuning were six pre-set buttons. The three on the right
functioned normally and could be pre-set to choice commercial
stations. The three on the left were set to engage only the operational
frequencies of Darkroom. While the hole for cassette contained no
apparent tape rather it was fixed with a sixty minutes continuousloop microcassette.
Pushing the radio's power knob, rather than turning it activated
only the cassette and the operational frequencies. The tape played a
pre-recorded local pop station, from which all references to time, day
Page 18
Chapter 1
and date had been edited. The disc jockey was a female. From her
chilly veranda of Bazaar Street of City Centre, Bano Abagull would
control all broadcasts to the primary team. Though her modified
Walkman, she would monitor Kabul police traffic. Her telephone
seemingly one of those push-buttons clock-radio extravaganzas,
served a dual function. It received incoming call, yet through it Bano
could also broadcast to the car radios. She could switch operational
frequencies with numbered combination on the push-button
handset.
Bano's coded message would be brief. When necessary she would
override the sultry taped disc jockey with a weather report or a
birthday greetings, offering team updates, instructions or
frequency change. Excepting a special alteration to Ali's Radio, there
was no provision for two-way transmission.
Bano liked it that way. No one could talk back to her.
Feroz reached over and pushed the power knob on the radio.
Immediately the tape engaged in the middle of a recording of Radio
Kabul on Indian old songs. Baba laughed but Ali was concentrating
on the traffic. He was following a Blue-ended serene police car, and
his knuckles tightened under his leather gloves.
Baba pushed the far left pre-set button, engaging the first
operational frequency. It added nothing to the tape broadcasts as
only Bano's voice could actually open the wave.
Ali stared past the droning wipers of the Corolla. He blew out a
breath when he turned onto Jaime Street as the police car continued
on main road. The traffic was still light and he wondered if weekend
late night activities had kept most of Kabul in bed today. It was not
good. No traffic means less police work and he wanted the police to
be very busy today.
The National Museum appeared ahead, the grey stones of the
building pressed under a white curtain of thin steamy fog. Ali turned
onto the sideway and stopped the car near the cemetery.
Go and see your friends he said.
Baba groaned and walked off into the sideway entrance and went
inside on lawns area.
Ali moved on and quickly found a space and parked the car. He
left the engine running, the radio on. He turned off the wipers and
opened the window half way and lit a cigarette.
Page 19
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
stool near to the foundation. He began to play with the dog, who
happily responded to cuff on the ears and short woofs from his
master.
The casual was no amateur. In his youth he has worked for the
British intelligence as deep cover agent in Kabul. Though long
retired over the ten past years, Babul has performed many brief but
essential tasks for Sardar. He had a vast wealth of street experience
and would watch a target almost without looking at him.
Razmak emerged from the parking lot, crossing the path using
his black umbrella as walking stick. Babul was confident that
Razmak was heading to the mall. In a moment his role would be
over, another clean entry would be weathered old intelligence diary
he kept in his head.
But Razmak made a sharp left and headed straight for the arches.
Babul continued playing with the shepherd, yet he blinked in the
rain as he watched Razmak receding back. The quarry was passing
below the large Billboard on the east side of the square, heading for
the endless expanses of the pedestrian way on the Street, where he
could disappear in a half minute.
Babul walked quickly to the south end of the square. He stepped
into a telephone booth, threw coins in to the slot and dialled a
number. The shepherd whined sensing his master's discomfort. It
was 9.46.
Sardar answered before the first ring stopped.
Morning
Sardar... this is Babul. Listen, I know we were supposed to meet
Razi for the luncheon, but he had to go east for the day.
Really? Sardar voice barely betrayed his concern. Are you
sure?
O, yes I am sure. Sorry for the inconvenience.
Not at all, Perhaps some other time. I guess you will have the
day off then.
Yes... thank you.
Both men terminated. Sardar now had a difficult decision to
make. Razmak has deviated, had not entered the Mall. He was
moving east to a new place. Babul has used the word go, so Razmak
was on foot. He might do something unexpected. If he has already
sensed a tail, then Darkroom was blown anyway.
Page 23
Chapter 1
He called Bano. When she hung up with him, she made her first
broadcast on the frequency A. Her voice was as casual as that of
female disc. Jockey now chattering over the weather etc, cut in with a
brief commercial announcement.
Now, all you lovely Kabul girls, I know it's raining a bit today,
but there is big sale on at Mall in Pamir Cinema shopping centre.
You really should not miss it, Hat, business cases, umbrellas and
coats 30 percent off.
The message was intended for Shabana Mir, as Pamir cinema area
was her operational area. But every one of primary team knew what
the relay meant.
Still parked next to the cemetery garden, Ali recoiled from the
redhead and lit up a cigarette. She did not immediately realize what
had happened and took it quite personally.
In an open parking lot of the Kabul bazaar street, Barat Khan sat
in silver Audi. It was the only power car in the primary fleet, and as
Barat heard Bano's first report, he realized that all of his motor pool
work was going down the toilet. He slammed the steering wheel with
his fist.
In Wazir Akbar Khan area, Faizi was inside a large, leased private
garage. The cab of his long grey Corolla delivery Van was open, and
he sat of the running board, listening to the radio munching on a
sandwich. Hearing Bano's report, he did not miss a bite. He had been
on too many missions. It was still early in the game.
Shabana stopped short when she heard Bano's announcement.
Her Walkman used the same three frequencies as the mobile wireless,
but it played no decoy tapes.
She was two hundred meters away from the National Museum
area, walking north to the pedestrian mall on City Centre. She
cursed herself for having lost concentration, wandered too far from
the first-stage area. She quickly spun from the distant vision and
hurried back towards the spoke of her assigned compass. She cut west
into the side way nearly running.
If she reached quickly, she might beat Razmak, if he had not yet
turned into the side street. Her stomach was bloated, the Diana's
lifestyle & short Biography heavy in her bag. She was sweating,
panting and she struggled to remember what Bano has just said.
Hat, brown leather business case, umbrella and coat. Alright she
Page 24
Chapter 1
has seen over twenty recent photos of Razmak and now she had a
good description of Target as well. She had to try and pick him up.
Perhaps only two minutes passed and Babul was still standing in
Booth miming a conversation into the dormant instrument. He
squinted through the fogged glass and began to smile. Yes, Razmak
was now strolling casually back carrying a newspaper.
Razmak Bilal was no amateur either. He has simply engaged in a
brief detour before he descended to visit Boris Yaakov. If he were
being classically tracked, he would feel the resultant shake up, sensed
the panic moves in the environment.
Babul called Toy House, hoping that his relaxed appearance was a
sufficient mask to his hammering heart. He began to laugh,
gesturing grandly and making his presence in the booth completely
innocent. My God, I am such a fool Sardar. He said. I was looking
on the wrong date, of course, we'll have lunch with Razi today.
Are you sure Babul? Sardar asked. You can make me crazy
sometime.
I'm sure my friend.
Within seconds Bano was excusing herself to her radio audience,
announcing a correction. The sale at Pamir Cinema Mall was for
tomorrow.
Shabana suddenly snapped her head to the gorgeous sound of
Bano's voice. She sat down on wooden bench, leaned back, closed
her eyes and then let the rain poured her face.
For the next two hours Razmak Bilal stayed beneath the Pamir
Cinema, and despite the continuous rain, the Kabul people did not
forget their lunch break, excepting a professional's team who had
immediately replaced Babul and his dog and all the Casuals had
been called off. Now the only operatives remaining on the Darkroom
were the primary team and a few emergency backups and a mother
and daughter in down town area. The local people who had briefly
participated would only learn of the mission's nature if it succeeded
and news reached the morning papers.
The two remaining non-primaries sat in the Kabul down Town
Street 13 taking an extremely long waiting. The mother was not really
Page 25
Chapter 1
casual, but an analyst from the department. The daughter was a clerk
from the embassy. They were happily engaged in addressing
invitations to the daughter's upcoming wedding, and no one
bothered them.
On a signal from Bano, a reference to a possible improvement in
the weather confirmed Razmak's return. Everyone else had gone to
Stage Two position.
Ali reluctantly dismissed his parking companion, who had
belatedly come to realize that she was attractive and used an
erotically disturbing eau de cologne. He pushed the car horn twice,
and Baba came out of the cemetery, looking not too much wet. He
had found a tomb under which he had properly engaged his grief.
They drove to the down town area, moved the car every thirty
minutes and took turn grabbing something to eat and relieving
themselves in public areas.
Barat Khan happily put his Audi into gear, left the open lot and
drove west to the downtown area. He moved, then to the north along
the river and parked by the sloping bank, fifty meters short River
Kabul's Bridge. He sat in the car studying the enormous steel ropes
hanging on the bridge, watching a single elderly woman as she
leaned on the metal fence on the bridge.
He did not dare to leave the radio unattended, so he munched on
various nuts from a paper pack and drank coffee from a thermos. On
occasion, he slipped over to the passenger side, opened the door and
peed onto the grass from a sitting position.
Faizi left the garage in Wazir Akbar Khan area, drove across the
river and parked delivery truck in a side street near a small children
park. The neighbourhood was dead quiet, and he went through the
copy of Kabul Weekly.
Shabana Mir having no transportation, had to rush for a taxi.
Just a hundred meter away from her next station Taimoor Shah
Tomb, she left the taxi and found a small cafe. For the first time all
day, she was happy to be inside a cafe. She went to the washroom,
took off her sobbing scarf and dried her hair as best she could with a
paper towel. Then she took a table near the front, readjusted her
Walkman over her ears and actually manager to read a newspaper as
Page 26
Chapter 1
she sipped coffee from a porcelain cup. She had already eaten
enough for a week.
Sardar remained hovering over his desk at his Marhaba
Complex. He did not eat or drink, but he finished another pack of
Wills.
Bano made contact once, to change frequencies, and every one
switched to channel B. The waited, it could happen in next five
minutes or not for five hours.
At 12.25 Razmak Bilal appeared at the top of Pamir Cinema
stairs. He walked around the fountain and headed for the parking
lot.
The woman timed it perfectly. They collected their invitations,
exited the Mall entrance and strolled arm in arm across the causeway.
They walked slowly further reducing the pace as they crossed under a
big Neon Sign, chatting and giggling like school girls. The nose of
the Razmak's SEL-500 poked from the parking garage, offering a
momentary side view of his face through the smoked glass of
Mercedes as he eased out into traffic and headed south at Kabul
Bazaar Street.
The two women quickly turned towards a telephone booth.
Sardar JS snatched at the phone like a cat after a bird.
Sardar, it's Ezra, the elder woman said, not even bothering to
conceal her pleasure. Don't forget to pick up Uncle Khan at the
Station.
Has he left yet?
Yes.
Did you see him off?
Yes, yes.
It was critical moment. Sardar has to be absolutely sure that the
target was positively identified. If 'Ezra' was really convinced, then he
could be as well.
Ok, just tell me again what he looks like.
Brown raincoat, pea cap, umbrella and a brief case, Ezra added a
touch of drama. I told you dear. You are so forgetful.
Sardar ignored her playacting. What was it you said about his
skin? He asked.
Light fair, dear. A Circassia had given Razmak a somewhat
Page 27
Chapter 1
non-Semitic complexion.
Earlobes?
Detached.
Yes. Now he tried to trick her, just to make sure that she was
not being overly enthusiastic.
Did he limp?
Ezra hesitated for a split second. Then, she said. No, silly, of
course not
You are a good girl. Sardar voice was smiling.
I know. Shararti Bachey.
Acha Aunty Jee He hung up and made his decision in micro
second, and called Bano.
Chapter 1
digits 7742.
Barat was right. Razmak was following the pattern. Shabana
would make no report. Now it was up to her Jawans to take care of
him.
She had one more assignment, and she walked happily after
Razmak car watching it blend into traffic towards the river. Her steps
were lighter now, her enormous tension fading as her chilled neck
muscles begun to relax.
She reached the German Consulate at the corner. The German
had great respect for their flag, and it had been pulled in from the
rainy weather. A pair of guards stood outside at the main entrance to
the old stone structure. Shabana felt sorry for them.
There was a trash receptacle at the corner. She reached into her
bag, came up with an apparently empty can of Coca-Cola and
dropped into the trash container. Then she walked across the street
to the King Mosque down to the large pond and stayed there,
watching the ducks, keeping her eye on a pair of public phones not
twenty meters away.
Barat picked up Razmak as the SEL-500 cruised onto the Shah
Bridge. He allowed three other cars to follow the Blue Mercedes, and
then he cut into traffic and crossed the river. He smiled tightly as he
drove. He has read the bastard's mind.
Faizi had already left the Children Park and driven down to the
west side of the Kabul Street Bazaar. He swung the truck along a large
High School and parked 30 meters south side of Kabul Street Bazaar.
Traffic from the west side of Kabul Street flowed naturally to the east
through this narrow funnel. Faizi was smoking now; he used a plastic
cigarette holder, something he could bite down on. To the west he
could see the low red-brick facade of a Church hospital. Further to
the west, but not far enough he knew was the Kabul Street Police
Station.
On the icy veranda at number 1 Kabul Bazaar Street City Centre,
Bano's body began to go rigid with tension. She had heard nothing
since two hours when she had issued her last operational order.
While she knew that no contact meant that Razmak was following
the plan, the waiting was torturous.
She turned her rocker more to the west, reached over and wiped
the porch window with a soiled rag. Below her the red roofs of City
Page 29
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
After a few more seconds, the blue Mercedes turned the corner
the Mosque. Bano dropped the opera-glass spectacles down over her
eyes. A single driver. Last four plate digits, 7742.
Her breath was coming faster; she tried to calm it, the heat would
fog the window. She worked the telephone handset and said, Here's
birthday greeting from Jolly Komal in Ghazni to her Uncle Shah in
Bazaar Street.
In their stage three positions in all over Kabul, the backs of the
primary team members went stiff. A room becoming 'darkroom.'
Razmak parked his car on the north side of the Kabul Bazaar
Street just twenty meters ahead from Ali's Corolla. Baba mouthed
silent nonsense to Ali, and Ali watched only Razmak.
Razmak Bilal's paramour lived in a small apartment house on
the North-west corner Bazaar Street. Next to that was small cafe and
grocery shop with a green awning. On all of his visits, Razmak never
went directly into the apartment. Sometime he would just in the car
for a moment, but usually he would enter the grocery shop, take a
table, and watch the street for a while and then exit with a freshly
baked gift.
Razmak got out the Mercedes.
Nikal aya hey Baba whispered inside the Corolla. Both men
eased back on their door latches.
Razmak went into the Grocery shop.
Could be a few minutes now said Baba, but now Ali was also
watching the shop, his muscles would like steel suspension springs.
His heart was hammering against his leather coat and his breathing
was ragged. Inside his tight leather driving gloves, his hands were
soaked. He quickly pulled the gloves off, threw them on the dash and
smeared his palms on his slacks.
In less than sixty seconds, Razmak came out of the shop carrying
two long paper bags, but he did not turn left towards the apartment.
He turned right and his keys were dangling from one hand.
He is going for the car Baba hissed.
Keep the machine slow and get close, said Ali
They watched and cruised slow on the line along the pathway.
They registered a small blond child as the scarf figure darted out of
his way. He knew Baba was keeping his right hand flicked upon his
coat emerging with the glistering Colt with silencer ready to catch
Page 31
Chapter 1
him from the other side, the moment they would step out to reach
him.
Fifteen meters, now ten, now five.
Get out, said Ali and he was out of the Corolla, spinning
quickly as he left the door ajar.
They mounted the sidewalk and closed on Razmak's back. They
cocked the slides. It was then Razmak turned and Ali was expected to
see snout of the Makarov pistol that he knew Razmak carried. But
instead, what faced him was an expression of initial greeting that
quickly turned to surprised horror and would haunt Sher Ali for the
rest of his unnatural life. As he reached close the target to grab his
both wrists in one stretch, a burst of .45 magnums automatic
suddenly sprayed on the chest and belly of the target blowing off
him in the air backward. Ali knelt down and shouted over to Baba to
get back in the car. A semi-automatic medium range fire, Ali was
sure.
A shot sounded shekel dropped in front of him after hitting wall.
Another rubbed his left shoulder. Ali squeezed it for a moment,
turned his face left and then shot three rounds from the Colt taking
shelter of Corolla over to the window on his left side building from
where he could see a mild smoke of gunfire. He quickly got up and
emptied his pistol aimed on the invisible shooters and jumped in the
car. No sign of shooters in window. They might by now have left the
window.
It was all over in ten seconds, and then Ali found himself on the
front passenger seat. His hands entirely their own masters, worked
the mechanism of his Colt, reloading. He heard Baba breathing
behind the wheel already; they looked each other quizzically.
Outside their footsteps stamped the light dusting of new snow.
Fast... Ali said to Baba though he, too, was staring at the
growing form of the Corolla, longing for its comforts, its shelter, its
speed.
At the moment, he certainly felt the onset of insanity, for he was
convinced that his target, now lying in a pool of blood on the
sidewalk, was victim of tragic misidentification. Yet in the eternity of
that moment, he had no choice but to behave as if the operation had
been executed to perfection in a sense. He was responsible for the
follow through, the safety and escape of his people, and any
Page 32
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
eyes were squeezed shut, but he made no sound. Feroz was looking
for the prearranged exit, only a kilometre from the Airport. He
snatched a glance at the partner. For the first time since leaving
Islamabad many months before Baba suddenly burst into Urdu.
Oye... Ullo ke pathey...Sahel, kia howa hey.
Sher Ali despite his pain, admonished his partner in Persian.
My name is Sher Ali, Baba. He groaned. And I don't know
what the hell happened. But you will speak Persian until we are dead,
or at home. Understood.
Ok, Ali. Feroz spat the name, But don't worry, in the next ten
minutes we will be either dead or on our way home.
They pulled off the High way and drove straight down an
industrial road for half a kilometre. It was growing dark. The
ambulance was waiting, its rear door yawning. The beacon was unlit.
It took the doctor and his assistant less than twenty seconds to
lift Ali into the rear of ambulance. They were not gentle and he tried
not to yell.
In the meantime, Feroz stripped the Corolla. He took the bag,
pulled the cassette played from dash board, the microphone, Ali's
gloves, but there was nothing to do about the blood. He hoped that it
would snow hard for days and no one would bother about the
abandoned car.
Then they were all in the ambulance and it began to move slowly
towards the airport. The doctor was combat surgeon and ex
paratrooper and he worked quickly, snapping at his male assistant.
Morphine.
No morphine, Ali grunted.
Shut up, the surgeon barked. Then he turned to Baba. It's
bad, but he'll live. Strip him.
Sher Ali lay on the folded stretcher. The blood had stopped
flowing, mostly due to the cold. Feroz began to gently remove his
clothes.
Get them off him! We have got ten minutes.
They worked quickly, injecting Ali with a double dose of
morphine extract and changing his clothes to hospital attire from a
small wardrobe. The doctor dressed his wounds, covered the leg with
a plastic sleeve, and then quickly wrapped his both limbs in elastic
bandage as if the patient suffered from circulatory problems. He
Page 41
Chapter 1
attached an infusion bag to one arm and hung it from a steel keg on
the ambulance inside wall.
Shave his head, the doctor ordered
The assistant hesitated.
Shave it, he has to look like as it's his last cancerous week, not
liked some fucked up commando.
A disposable razor came out and in two minutes Ali's hair was
wiped down from the scalp.
And clean it up every hair.
The assistant bent to his task. From a black satchel, the surgeon
removed a pair of ugly steel rimmed spectacles. He roughly placed
on Ali's face. Then he snapped a plastic bracelet on one wrist.
There is a uniform in the closet. The doctor said to Baba.
Feroz stripped out of his clothes and destroyed his airline tickets,
keeping the British Passport, one for himself and one for Ali. He
donned a white lab coat white trouser and a stethoscope.
Ali's pain was now becoming tolerable, but he hated the helpless
drowsiness that was engulfing him. He felt the rolling of ambulance,
but he didn't register the crucial dangerous juncture as they arrived
at Kabul International cargo gate.
He heard the driver say, Galaxy Air, we have got one has to go to
London.
When the security personnel, with their hard faces, grey uniform
and dangling Americans submachine guns, opened the rear doors,
Ali closed his eyes.
Ssssshhh, he is not long for this world.
A custom official checked their passport in silence.
Ali dosed off for a short time, and then he awoke inside a hazy
grey tube as the DC-9 taxied down the runway. He was strapped to a
mobile stretcher. There were regular airline seats to his right.
A door opened up forward. He managed to lift his head. Sardar
Khan appeared from the cabin, stone-faced, dressed as flight
engineer. He lumbered down the aisle.
Sardar fell into a seat next to Sher Ali. He drew off his hat and
tore open his tie, as if it might kill him.
How are you? He asked in Urdu.
Okay, Ali slurred. But I might be gone again in a moment.
Page 42
Chapter 1
_______
Page 43
Page 44
Chapter 1
Islamabad
Chapter 2
June, 2004
A city master-planned by Greek Architect and Designer in the
late fifties with its face towards Margalla Hills on the north-eastern
fringe of the Potohar Plateau with plenty of rains and lush green
landscape by rows of flame trees, jacaranda and hibiscus. Roses,
Jasmine & bougainvillea fill the parks and scenic viewpoints which
symbolises the aspirations of young and dynamic nation. It is an
ideal city to culminate a career in government.
In fact, as Captain Sahel Farhaj was realizing on a morning
scented with the beginning of autumn, this large parcel of
subsidised, nonprime hardly historical real estate might well have
been serving as an unkindly hint from the Idols of employments.
This looked a place for termination rather than auspicious
beginning.
For the rest of the Islamabad was nothing, if not majestic. Any
human who had ever been there, for a single day or for a quarter
century was forever captured by its beauty.
Connoisseurs of the architecture say that you could see the
character of a city by the shadows it threw. So you could see the line
of tanned legs and short skirts, suit coats with ties round the neck, as
well as Shalwar Qameez outfit with leather sole sandals by most of
the women and children in the shopping centres and super markets.
Page 45
Chapter 2
There are very few places in the city of Late Field Martial Ayub
Khan former President of Islamic Republic of Pakistan who was the
mastermind behind erecting of this capital which breach the code of
aesthetic pleasure, but certainly meeting the demands of the new era
a few Industrial estates are among them, and that is why Sahel Farhaj
hated it so.
Islamabad had an abundance of Holy men, Ministers, Civil and
Military bureaucratic networks, Governmental and Corporate highrise buildings, with acute shortage of popular residential lodgings,
That's why it failed to attract Educationists, Scholars, Philosophers'
and Artists which by any mean compromised city's face among most
cultured and civilised cities around the globe.
However a few commercial areas do cater to all the basic
necessities of the surrounding inhabitants. Such as Blue area located
on the main street approaching to the Parliament House between the
Sector F-6 and G-6. Islamabad has been designed and segregated in
square parts called sectors and each sector does possess its own
commercial area. So while you lead someone needing to reach the
destination just tell him the requisite sector. Among these one of the
commercial areas is well known as Aabpara. This area has significant
designer brand shops, banks, and store outlets on its south-eastern
side including some good restaurants, traditional local food stalls
and foreign fast food outlets like McDonalds and KFC etc. A few
commercial plazas have also having commercials shops on the
ground floor like photo studios, small antiques shops and on the
upper floors are meant for hotels and residential studios including
some of the private offices.
Inexpensive was the descriptive element which had attracted the
Department's eye and certainly the Ministry of Defence could not be
blamed for doing his duty. Anonymity was an equal important
requisite; for when interviewing prospective Special Operations
agents, you allowed them see nothing insignificant until they have
been thoroughly vetted.
Intellectually Sahel Farhaj accepted all of this, yet emotionally he
felt somehow excommunicated. But then he had been feeling that
way for a very long time.
The leg was almost healed, a fair miracle considering that the
doctors had done their job fairly well. Nearly fifteen months have
Page 46
Chapter 2
passed since that rainy March night, when he had arrived at the
Combined Military Hospital in Rawalpindi. Re-costumed in
standard Military fatigues, one trouser leg dramatically ripped away,
he had been admitted as a casualty of a cross-fire exercise somewhere
around Murree Hills. The nerve, bone, cartilage and muscle damage
was extensive oxygen starved tissues having resulted from clotting
despite the attention of an aggressive field surgeon.
For a while it was touch and go with the leg; surgeons from the
Orthopaedic and Micro Departments performed two five hours
operations in quick succession. To their discretionary credit, the
hard pressed doctors did not acknowledge or discuss the patient's
delirious ramblings in the pre-op or post-op medicated state. He has
been admitted as Capt. Sahel Farhaj 245th GG Regiment, a company
commander who has suffered his wounds near Murree Hills firing
range. Yet he muttered on about Kabul and someone named Razmak
who apparently frightened him.
One of the surgeons had a son serving in 245th GG Regiment, so
he knew that they were presently on manoeuvres' in the Northern
Heights, nowhere near Murree Hills. Perhaps the presence of burly
bald major, dark black eyes observing the progress from the one
corner of the operation theatre prevented the doctor from
mentioning this discrepancy.
Farhaj had spent over a half of a painful year at CMH. At first
and a long time, he was bedridden bored near to madness during the
days, haunting by thundering, sweat-provoking nightmares after
dark. He watched his plaster-encased for a near eternity as an
ingenious brace pumped it, slowly, to and fro bending the knee,
stretching the calf like some medieval torture device.
To the staff it was strange that no family appeared to visit the
handsome GG Captain, and perhaps that accounted for his lonely
brooding moods. For how could they know that his parents were still
receiving postcards from him once a month?
The other wounded soldiers were fairly exhausted by the influx
of visitors, dust riffle bearing friends in from the field, girl friends
under family cover, food laden mothers and fathers. Sahel's few
visitors, though apparently young companions were usually out of
uniform. Inside the wards their small talk was hallow. Some time
they whispered to the patient briefly.
Page 47
Chapter 2
When Farhaj achieved his first breakthrough wheelchair status--Others began to appear. Older men with the postures of officers in
casual street clothing, briefcases in roughened hands normally
showed up occasionally. The patient would disappear with them
some time for hours having been wheeled outside into one of the
hospital's remote lush green lawns under the big trees.
For Sahel, the debriefings were much more painful than the
mending wounds left by the bullets and scalpels. However, out of
these sessions evolved clarity.
As a result of discussion with Sahel, the post mission
investigations had cleared most of the team of responsibility for the
City Centre Fiasco. Sahel himself could not be fully exonerated for
he was Team Leader and had accused in alleged shooting and killed
an innocent Afghan called Mohammad Zahir as someone had
posted a picture of Sahel aiming his pistol on corpse near grocery
shop, though it was side pose of Sahel and face unrecognizable even
by those who have seen him. However, at NSB much of the blame
was placed at the feet of the photo recognition specialist. In public
there was no record of real killers. Major Dilshad Hussain, as overall
commander had asked for and received most of the lashings.
Of course, the long stay at CMH had had its benefits. Sahel
Farhaj had imposed upon him a much needed rest. So long an
animal of field instincts, he slowly acquired some of his humanity, as
well as his identity. He began to respond naturally to the sound of
his own name and the tight springs of conditioned reflex began to
unwind. He knew that he would never be again a field agent in
Special Operations and at long lost he began to accept this.
Finally, and certainly best of all, he had met Amber. She had
never probed, never pushed, a young dedicated nurse, who had
clearly been borne to give. It took Sahel some time, but eventually he
became aware of her brown hair, her piercing brown eyes and wide
quick smile. Their romance developed slowly, traditionally and over
the course of half a year it was forged into a bonded love. They had
been married soon after Sahel's release.
And so he was back, though never again to be a real participant
in the Great Game. Perhaps only a fringe player, a tired contestant
forever an observer of the chess masters at work. He tried often to
count his blessings, suppress his memory; in fact today was the day
Page 48
Chapter 2
when he had decided to put away his cane. The doctors said he would
always walk with a strange gait.
Unfortunately, as Sahel secretly knew, he would also forever limp
in his mind.
The office was located in the Multi-storey Commercial Complex
in the Aabpara. It was up on the second floor all the way at the end of
the North-eastern prong having its long tinted glass windows open
on the two-way roadsides along the corner of the complex. To get
there, you have to walk up the marble-stone stairs which ends up in
the lobby of the complex. Then you enter into a commercial office
dealing in scientific equipment. Once you enter this office you can
deal with them at ease as usually happens in the commercial offices
if you are a traditional customer. Personnel belonging to the SpecOp
enter from one side of the office, cross the first security which leads
them into another special security checks, and after verifying their
identity, they would enter another small lobby which takes them to
the relevant floor of the Department. Initial two security checks are
invisible unless you are stranger and trying to enter into first security
check, you would be halted there for the purpose to go inside. In you
are an ordinary customer then you would be ushered respectfully to
the other side of the office where too many commercial liaison
officers are sitting to deal with you. Scientific Equipment Corporation
(Pvt) Ltd was a deliberate cover for the Special Operations.
There were no further set dressings in SEC Ltd, as it was purport
to be a start-up business. The company, if asked, was looking for a
few enterprising young men and women to work in its overseas
office. The appearance of healthy youths would raise no eyebrows,
for it was common in Pakistan as soldiers neared the end of their
release began to job-hunt hoping for adventure and some travel
abroad. The ads were normally appeared in local papers classified
section throughout the weeks to attract young soldiers'
commissioned and non-commissioned officers for SEC Ltd.
Sahel set behind the large wooden desk looking every bit the
young prospective executive. His office was on the second floor at
SEC Ltd after crossing main hall, a steel door lead to Sahel's office.
He wore blue jeans and a white long sleeved shirt rolled back to arms.
His only visible extravagance might have been the black digital dive
watch he had once purchased in Switzerland, yet only the initiated
Page 49
Chapter 2
would realize its value. The tools of Sahel's present trade were few, a
pile of yellow legal pads, a cup full of pencils and a sharpener.
Naturally there was an overflowing ashtray and ever-present pack of
Golf Leaf. He had had to give up the Rothmans. They were no longer
part of a cover and he would not be reimbursed for their expense.
Sahel was not really an interviewer. That task had already been
accomplished at Ministry Headquarters. Having passed that initial
stage, agent candidates have to go through an intensive vetting phase.
Their minds and bodies would be poked and probed for months on
by doctors and psychologists.
In the meantime, Sahel assignment was to record by hand every
detail of the candidate's life from birth to present day. Subsequently
with Sahel's report in hand, team of Vetters would roam the country,
often travelling abroad to confirm the veracity of the candidate's
claims.
Although it was certainly a crucial task, on the tall chain of
Special Intelligence assignment this job was at the bottom of the
pole. Though officially forgiven for his part in the Kabul City
Centre fiasco, Sahel would probably never come in front of the
heat meaning in Department's eyes an agent who remains in
professional limbo.
Sahel was ruminating over his career options when the steel door
clangs with the rap of knocks.
Come in, he called above the table.
The door swung back to reveal the tanned face of a young soldier.
He poked his head inside.
Is this Scientific Equipment Corporation?
Sahel starred at him expressionless, Isn't the sign showed up.
The soldier blushed and swung the door wide and entered the
office.
The soldier closed the door and turned to Farhaj. He squinted
trying to adjust from the harsh sunlight to the gloomy shadows of
the room.
Sit down Sahel pointed to the chair.
The young soldier sat. He was a Naik in mid-twenties, wearing
the Khaki dress uniform of some Infantry Regiment. His short black
hair was sun streaked at the edges. His clear eyes still painted with
certain innocence. A year with us and that look will be gone forever,
Page 50
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
operation. Now they arrived whenever Sahel was about to head down
to the Headquarters.
He stood up and felt the rough click in the right knee, ignored it
and began to sweep. The legal pads were full of his scratching. He
placed all of them in his briefcase. Then he checked all of his desk
drawers and floor for every bit of paper. He pulled the plastic bag
from the waste basket and tied it shut.
It might have seemed paranoid, but Sahel suspected that
certainly one of these nights Col. A.K. Zawri would send over a pair
of Department's Burglars who can open anything from a child
piggy bank to Prime Minister's private safe. The would break-in
quietly, scour SEC Ltd, and if they found even the smallest scrap of
incriminating evidence there would be hell to pay. The Colonel did
not like Sahel. The brooding Captain's presence was a constant
reminder of Kabul, and Zawri did not appreciate this limping
personification of Failure stalking around the Department.
Colonel Abdul Karim Zawri was Sahel's butterfly-maker. And
the hostile feeling was mutual. Farhaj hoped that he could complete
his business at HQ without even seeing the commander.
The scuffed wooden cane was leaning against the wall, waiting
for its master. Sahel debated throwing it out with the garbage, but
that seemed a crude demise for a loyal friend. He picked it up and
gripped it horizontally along with the handle of his briefcase and
walked out with the trash onto the sunlit catwalk.
His first few unaided steps were painful. His right hip seemed to
be grinding at the ball and socket, but the strong afternoon sun
helped and soon his muscles warmed and he was satisfied with his
progress. The two flights of the stairs were most difficult. He used
the handrail, and when he reached the bottom he was sweating and
was quite pleased with himself. A photographer who used the office
next door passed him in a hurry.
Kaisey hain The man asked Sahel.
Fine, Thanks. Sahel smiled.
His shiny black Suzuki Margalla 1300 was baking in a lot on the
back side of building. He was always pleased by the sight of this car,
mostly because he had used this one in his college days as well. He
had affixed a small Sticker in the rear windshield boldly written as
Don't follow me, if you can't catch me. For so long he has been
Page 54
Chapter 2
forbidden to display such signs. But he was never going back into the
field, so he had said to hell with it and slapped on the bright sticker.
What would Zawri do? Send him to the Ministry?
As he approached the Margalla, Sahel was barely aware of the fact
that he was a creature of strange habits, and would probably be
always so. When he was out on the street, he ears pricked up, bat-like,
scanning for the incongruous sound, the click of weapon bolt, patter
of a pursuing footstep. His eyes automatically swept the lot,
recording faces and matching them to his memory for noncoincidental repetitions. He glanced instinctively at the under
carriage of the Margalla, quickly running a checklist natural
automotive protrusions verses any freshly affixed shapes. When he
finally reached the door handle, his fingers briefly hesitated as his
eyes swept the lock for scratch marks, the space beneath the dash for
inconsistent wiring.
Had he realized he was doing it, he would have felt quite foolish.
He was no longer in foreign country or on enemy territory. This
was his hometown and the danger virtually non-existent. Yet it was
not a conscious indulgence, no more so than a pilot's instinctive preflight checks.
Still, on occasion, Sahel was made painfully aware of the
insidiousness of his training. Since leaving the hospital, he had on
three separate occasions, identified himself by a cover name while
trying to cash checks. Naturally his Computerised National Identity
Card had contradicted him, causing the suspicious bank tellers to
angrily refuse his business. Blushing Sahel had been forced to excuse
himself and quickly withdraw, whereupon he would find himself
outside in the hot sun, breathing hard and crawling with chills. He
had never, ever, made such a blunder while in the field. It was the
cruel price of recovery.
It was not yet summer, but the inside of the Margalla was as hot
as hell. Sahel folded up the cardboard windshield guard which didn't
do much except keep the steering wheel from melting. He rolled
down the passenger window as well as his own, strapped in, lit a
cigarette and put the car in gear.
It was almost four o'clock when he neared the Zero point. He
could have taken Constitution Avenue, the most direct route, but at
this hour Avenue would have been the busiest one, so instead of
Page 55
Chapter 2
turning left, he swung through the cut and turned right. He made
straight for the intersection and turned right again to the Main
Faisal Avenue, sweeping breath of beautiful villas as they flowed past
the Margalla windows. He checked the rear view mirror, somewhat
more than was necessary. He didn't bother to deny to himself that
the detour also delayed his arrival, albeit for only a few minutes.
Too soon he found himself on the intersection of Khiaban-eIqbal passing Special Children School on his left side. He then
turned to the right to Khiaban-e-Iqbal and soon reached the F-6
Markaz. He crossed it and took sharp uphill left onto Jacob House,
feeling the tension, hoping that Col. Zawri would be out of the
office.
The Jacob Compound, with its myriad of religious archives and
some Government offices was like a small city in and of itself. It sat
on a large flat hill, just to the north of Islamabad, but seemingly on
another planet altogether. While on a few meters away Islamabad
engaged in social activities at outdoor cafes and spends their
overtaxed earnings on Afghan BBQ, ice creams and other shopping.
An unknown to all, but those who worked there, National
Security Bureau, commonly known as NSB's Special Operations had
also taken up temporary residence.
Up until two months previously, all of the major Intelligence
branches had operated somewhere else. Special Operations had had
its own building, too small really for the Department's rapid
expansion. Col. Abdul Karim Zawri kept pushing for a larger space,
but the Ministry kept protesting lack of funds. It was during a
routine check of the building, and coincidently in the midst of
heated budget debate, that the sweepers found a bug in the Cipher
room. Zawri threw a fit, grabbing his second-in-command and
rushed over to Ministry, where he storms into the office of DC-2
NSB and pounded on his desk for half an hour. In Pakistan, the man
who screams in loudest is often the one who gets what he wants and
Zawri did his melodramatic best, ragging about the two foreign
electronic intercepts trawlers just outside of Islamabad, how he
couldn't even take a shit without someone's counting the splashes
and it was no fucking wonder that his people couldn't carry out a
simple elimination when his own Cipher Room was as penetrable as
lusty whore.
Page 56
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
attempts to read the internal sound waves off the glass, either by
laser or parabolic devices. Granted the entire building hummed like
a muffled bees nest but one soon would feel it more disturb when the
air-conditioners which were run only to keep cool the computers
around inside.
Sahel got out of the car, a bit stiff in the knee, but he left the cane
inside and took his briefcase and the small bag of garbage. He
inhaled a breath of the cooler late afternoon breeze, straightened his
shoulders and walked.
Security at the main entrance seemed casual. Almost all public
building in Pakistan now use private security firms to guard their
entrances, old man in rumpled uniform check Sahel and his
briefcase with metal detector for weapons or explosives.
There was a beep when crossed the detector by his hip. Uniform
man smiled and asked for today's code.
Dhoop taiz hey
Guard again smiled and let him go.
The man at the SpecOp desk inside the cool halfway seemed no
different. He was in his mid-fifties and wore a blue uniform.
Actually he was an ex-agent named Sahib Dad, once chief of security
in three different embassies abroad. He was heavy with oncoming
years and too much foreign food, but still there was lot of power
hidden beneath the seemingly neglected uniform. He was an expert
shooter.
Sahib Dad glanced up as Sahel approached the desk.
Salam, Farhaj. Big man smiled. What's going on?
Every day, an adventure, Sahel produced an ID pass. It was the
NSB's top security clearance, allowing its bearer entry any Military
or Civilian facility in the country by the order of President of
Pakistan. No questions asked.
Sahib Dad continued to smile. He didn't even look at Sahel's ID
pass. He glanced up at a small television camera, pressed an intercom
button and said, It's Sahel, to an invisible employee. A buzzer
vibrated and the lock of the steel entrance door clicked and Sahel
had to grab it quickly before it's closed again.
Sahel was somewhat offended. Sahib Dad should have examined
his pass, no matter the familiarity. For a moment, he instinctively
became the field commander again.
Page 58
Chapter 2
I know you know me, Sahib Dad, he said as he held the door.
But really should look at this thing. He still held the pass in his
fingers.
Sahib Dad looked up with the expression of impatient parent.
He extended his hand, grabbed the card, exaggerated his perusal of it,
matching the picture twice with Farhaj's face and handed it back.
After all, I could have been fired in the last night, Sahel
continued. Had my clearance taken away? Hell, I could be coming
in here just to kill Zawri.
Smartest career move, you would ever make. Said Sahib Dad
and moved to his desk.
Sahel flushed speechless. Ya Allah, He called silently to God.
Does everyone know my goddamn business?
He entered a submarine chamber, pulling the door closed
behind him. It was a steel closet with a large two-way mirror inside. A
hollow voice spoke to him.
Salam, Sahel, what have you got?
Today's interview and trash for the burn bag.
Armed?
Yes.
There was a snort from the speaker and the secondary door lock
buzzed.
The headquarters of NSB's Special Operations Department
looked surprisingly like any other suite of Pakistani Government
offices. All the walls of plaster-covered cement, painted a dull light
off-white. The floors were typically cheap marble-tiled. God helped
the extravagant officers who dared to order carpeting. The lights was
either industrial fluorescent or day tube-lights on the walls over the
desks, so even the most fresh faced employees looked sallow at their
workplace.
Because the occupation of the premises was fairly new, the
Department was undergoing a period of disarray if not chaos. The
halls were narrow leaving no room for reception desk or comfortable
waiting chairs. Rickety wooden tables covered with green surge fibre
piled with unclassified daily reports and periodicals, made passage
difficult. Cipher cables, telephone and computer lines snaked from
room to room, giving the halfway floor the look of a frigate deck
under repair. The inevitable glass, teacups and saucers found their
Page 59
Chapter 2
resting placed wherever employees had decided that they were over
caffeinated. Nervous Sweepers went about their fussy business
virtually ignored, so in addition to the flurry of intelligence officers
bouncing from room to room, there was a strange presence of
spectacled man crawling on hands and knees, inspecting the cables,
wall joints and every electronic fitting as if the place also harboured
a nursery for retarded kinder.
Sahel took the marble stairway to the second floor, one at a time,
left foot first, and then resting on the right as he carried the briefcase
and trash bag in his left hand and pushed off from the steel rail with
his right. A young man was sitting at a steel desk on the second floor
landing; He was muscular armed with a pistol, a telephone and small
cup of steaming tea. He looked like a receptionist at a security prison.
Hello Bravo. He was extremely serious and called everyone by
their Departmental code names, even though that was only required
for the field operatives.
Hi, Sajid, said Sahel. He pointed out an object which looked
like a net less basketball hoop, a grey steel frame standing next to the
desk. Where is the burn bag?
New rules, Sajid raised a dark eyebrow. Zawri wants
everything cleared twice a day now. They are bringing fresh bags up.
He extended his hand towards Sahel's bag, I'll take it.
Sahel hugged his plastic bag to his chest, mocking Sajid's
solemnity. That's a break in regulations.
Break this. Sajid laughed.
Sahel laughed too and dropped his bag on the desk. Don't
worry, he said. You get out in the field you won't have to put up
with this shit.
It was Sajid's dream to work as National Commando, which was
the coded title for the Special Operations teams. But he was never
considered.
Sahel moved on down the hallway. He passed the News Room,
where telex machines generate unclassified reports from the world's
major news agencies and the encoded machines of Pakistani
Embassies in major capitals.
Next was the Cover Room, where a trio of bright attractive young
women chose titles for missions and operatives. They were hard press
to keep the humour out of their work, the only witness to their
Page 60
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Though fallen from grace, he was still viewed as a field agent, a figure
from that other world of daring and danger which they would never
experience. He was usually regarded with a degree of awe, yet today
the computer troops were fairly ignoring him.
What's going on? asked Sahel.
Dilshad raised a playful eyebrow at Sahel. Farhaj was out of his
department and was expected to respect the rules of
compartmentalization which restricted access of information to a
need-to-know basis. With a few selected individuals such a Sahel,
Dilshad occasionally broke the rules.
Is he cleared for this, Dilshad? The small figure asked him
from the far corner without looking up from his notebook.
I'm cleared for the rumours, Khaki, Sahel said above the
chatters of the computers.
Someone laughed. Dilshad lit a cigarette, kept if between his
teeth, and put his hands to his hips.
Rumour is, Dilshad said, ISI has broken a big chunk of
Hyperion Codes.
ISI? Sahel's eyed bugged.
That's the rumour.
There was a historical, healthy competitive spirit between ISI and
NSB, but cooperation on most matter was high. Many officers made
career moves from one organisation to the other, so the level of
jealousies rarely got out of hand.
Do you have it? Sahel asked excitedly.
By messenger an hour ago, in black and white. Dilshad
grinned. He was clearly pleased, triumphant. He did not care what
outfit made the gains, as long as the war was going well.
Isn't this a cipher jurisdiction? Farhaj asked.
Jurisdiction is just an excuse to do less work. Dilshad growled.
Take a chair, Dilshad had noticed the missing cane. Shouldn't
go too far the first day.
That's okay, I will stand.
What I told you, Khaki? Dilshad growled again.
Sonia, the anticipation is killing me, he continued.
Everyone in the room waited Khaki would not be rushed. He
rubbed his chinless jaw and stared into space, finally he turned
towards the terminal where Sonia sat.
Page 68
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
the thundering voice still echoed down the hall from Research.
From the doorway to cover, Seema's concerned face suddenly
emerged. Bravo?
Good day, as he hurried on, nearly staggering as he marched
painfully down the cold dark stairwell.
-------When by seven o' clock Sahel had still not arrived at home, Amber
began to worry.
She of course had now known her husband during his tenure as a
field agent, when he would be often be gone from his apartment for
day or would disappear from the country altogether without a word
to friends or family. His present job one he fairly dragged himself to
each morning had very regular hours. He rarely came home after
five, still during her regular military service Amber knew
intelligence people often lost track of the time. She hoped that Sahel
was simply engaged in some important assignment. That would be
good for him, for both of them. Naturally, all of the other darker
reasons for his delay also coursed through her brain and she was
tempted to call the office. But she would not do that. In Pakistan
military wives did not call the office, unless they were in the
advanced stage of labour or the house was ablaze. Everyone in the
country knew that the real heroes of the Pakistan defence forces were
the wives who waited silently and Amber was not about to shatter
that image.
Amber had had a difficult day herself. She now worked in the
children wing at CMH, and her face muscles had ached from her
constant attempts to smile, her feet burned from the endless walk up
and down the hallways on hard tile floor of the wards.
Yet she always looked forward to coming home, even climbing
the two flights to their apartment if lift was out of order in G-11.
Although it was only a rental, the flat was far beyond anything either
Amber or Sahel had ever hoped for. By Islamabad standard it was
huge with three bed rooms with attached bath rooms fully tiled with
fancy sanitary fittings. A teak wood-worked lounge with a small
portion for dinning and moderate kitchen and in addition, there
was a fireplace which Amber liked very much.
Page 71
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
brown eyed showed concern. Taking too much coffee, is bad for
health. Amber smelled fragrance of espresso.
Who bothers health, thanks to my bloody career?
Amber sat down on the couch, holding her glass over her knees.
Even in his cold dark mood, Sahel could not block the incursion of
his wife's warmth, her beauty, lines of her breasts beneath her shirt
and the elegance of her long slim fingers.
What happened today, Sahel?
God, I need a cigarette, Ambi. He liked calling her that and she
loved hearing it. It somehow looked her sexy and very close to a
generic name of a young mango still on the tree.
Amber took the cigarette from the pocket of Sahel's shirt, lit one
for her husband and put it in his lips. Her thought went briefly to
the cancer ward and she dispelled them.
I am still listening. She said.
Colonel A.K. Zawri. That's what happened. That's what always
happens.
Oh, Amber sat back on the couch. She looked out through the
windows to the dark night and the brightening buildings across the
street. This was a recurring problem, and it would not go away. Sahel
had been a combat officer and now he was 'flying a desk', as they
said. She had seen the syndrome before. In addition, this idiot
colonel would not let Sahel forget something that had wounded her
husband physically and crippled him mentally, something that had
turned him into a vulnerable man she loved. But at this rate, he was
not going to make it, would not last at least until his partial pension.
They were trying to get pregnant, they needed the housing subsidy,
their parents were not wealthy, and they would have to buy many
new baby items at their own. If Sahel could not preserve, their fairytail nest would fall down.
I am going to quit. Sahel said suddenly. He listed slightly for a
moment and then he went out to the terrace and leaned on the steel
guardrail.
Amber followed her husband, yet she stood back a bit and just
listening.
There is no reason to take it. Sahel said. Be this punching bag.
I am young. I'll get something else. We'll manage. He suddenly
dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his heel.
Page 73
Chapter 2
They both knew what manage would mean, Amber let the idea
hang for a while. Then she spoke.
My husband always tells me, don't shop grocery, when you are
hungry and don't make decisions, when you are mad.
He is an idiot. Sahel snorted.
May be he's just hungry. Amber offered. I was going to BBQ
tonight, may be Shashlik.
It sounds just nothing, said Sahel. But I am not hungry. He
turned around and Amber saw the depth of the hurt in his eyes. I
am just exhausted Ambi, just tired.
She took his arms and put it over her shoulders and led him back
inside as she squeezed his waist. A nap then. She said as she led him
down the bedroom, and then we'll see.
In the bedroom, Amber lowered the windows curtains, putting
most of the space into dark shadow. She lowered Sahel's backward on
to the bed, took off his sneakers, socks and jeans while he stared up at
the ceiling.
She stood up and began to unbutton her blouse. Sahel was about
to protest, but then he remembered the baby. Amber had warned
him about four days in her cycle were always crucial with no matters
the moods and problems around them. Sahel was also anxious to
begin adding to the family. Yet he also knew, as he watched her, that
he was captured, so he did not resist her. He suddenly sat up
surprising Amber and kissed on her neck and switched off the lights.
He dreamed of many things fitfully. He dreamed of the army, of
parachuting into darkened forests, climbing the mountain peaks,
careening in brakeless cars through rain-slickened streets of
anonymous cities, but most of all he dream of Razmak Bilal.
_______
Page 74
Kogon
Chapter 3
A small town near Bukhara
Hayat Gul awoke as he did always, with the sun in his eyes. It was
calculated reception of the disturbing morning light with Hayat's
lifelong practice of selecting bedrooms which would foil his poor
night-time habits. All his life Hayat battled his urge to sleep late, to
linger in bed a bit long past an acceptable hour. Forced to outwit his
own metabolism, he would remove the curtains from the windows
and arrange angle of his bed just so. Neither the banging of alarm
clocks nor the persistent music of radio could penetrate his sleep.
The only effective weapon was blinding message from God.
Hayat's wife Shirin was not terribly disturbed of her husband's
morning tattoo, but she had managed to adjust. After a year of
marriage, the dawn's emerging light and bird whistles careening off
the bedroom walls no longer affected her. While her husband
struggled with his eyelids, she went right on sleeping, unless of
course baby's cry called her off to wake up.
However on this particular morning, Hayat hardly required
nature's assistance. He had barely slept, yet he got up in bed as if he
had had a full eight hours sleep. At long last he would be breaking
the pleasant monotony of his existence, leaving for an extended
business trip. He felt some pains of guilt leaving Shirin and the baby
Page 75
Chapter 3
behind, but he had not set foot outside of Kogon since their wedding
day. It was welcome change and he was suffered with anticipation.
The air in the room was cold, unusually so far late spring in
Uzbekistan. Shirin had kicked the brown woollen blanket drown
around her waist and Hayat gently pulled it back up over her
shoulders, where it covered her long brown hair. She did not stir but
her eyes were shut fiercely tight, as if she were already wake yet
unprepared to face the day.
The bedroom door was halfway opened with a rubber stopper so
that they could hear the baby. Hayat slipped through half naked
hugging himself as he walked across the cold tile floor of the saloon
towards the kitchen. The far end of the long living room had floor to
ceiling window. The sun streamed in through the collapsible fibre
blinds and threw wavy shadows on the floor as he passed the large
plant vase inside lounge.
Hayat opened the kitchen tap, poured some water in the kettle
and ignited the stove with a matchstick. His hand shook a bit, but he
set the water to boil and went back to the bathroom.
He turned on the small transistor next to the sink keeping the
volume low. The Uzbek music channel was running its early
morning wakeup programme. It was pleasant old classical song. He
rinsed leaving swatches of leather on his face and he begun to mutter
along the song as he stepped into the shower.
He dressed unusually for him in a charcoal-grey suit. The new
white shirt came fresh from its package and it was stiff against his
damp skin. He had some trouble with the dark blue stripped tie; for
it has been so long time to wear one. He briefly combed his hair and
stood to look in the mirror. Satisfied, if not completely comfortable,
he reached into the breast pocket for his glasses and set on his face.
He squinted and then he smiled. He looked like a business
professional or a stockbroker.
At the end of the hallway, the door to the baby's room was closed.
Hayat was about to enter, then he hesitated, turned and made
straight for the kitchen fairly tiptoeing on the floor. From the
refrigerator he extracted a bottle of orange juice. He took out a stick
of margarine and a jar of apple jam and picked up a fresh cucumber
sized roll of bread from a basket on the kitchen table.
He made himself a dark cup of instant coffee, added some milk
Page 76
Chapter 3
Chapter 3
By the time Hayat reached onto the ground floor, he had managed
his emotional gears, recovering optimism of the morning. The shock
of the cold air, fresh and damped with the night rain, felt like a
breath of pure oxygen after an evening in smoky cafe. He pulled his
raincoat closed and buttoned it, briefly wishing that he had
something heavier that his light suit. He turned and looked at his
Page 78
Chapter 3
shabby white Renault, park in the open, hoping that Shirin would
finally learn to master the strange dashboard gear lever. He smiled at
the little car and began to walk.
With a few long steps, he reached to the street. Baite Ameer was
not much more than alleyway, a one way road barely wide enough for
the passage of a single car. It was quiet place lined with small
apartment's buildings and Hayat had always felt affection for its
name dedicated to the bravery of Ameer Tamour.
Although it was very early, even by Uzbek's standards, this part
of Baite Ameer was already coming awake. Hayat could hear the dewchoked carburettors of small cars out on the roads, the voices of
children on their way schools. Hayat turned left and began to walk
west on Baite Ameer.
He was tempted to look back at Number-24, thinking that Shirin
would be watching him from the small terrace window, but he
ignored the idea and kept on pace. An old man driving a vegetable
cart has passed him coming from the other way, the shaggy driver
and his donkey returned Hayat's nod with their own.
Halfway down the block on the left was a low single storey
cement building. The house had wide front window, its green slatblinds just rolling up into the casing as Mrs. Abranov appeared on
the window like a ghostly sailor. Mrs. Abranov owned this cafe and
was running a small children nursery too. Seemingly it was a strange
combination, though her endeavours brought convenience and
relief to neighbourhood mothers.
Mrs. Abranov bugged her eyes and smoothed her thinning white
hair as she saw Hayat approaching in his suit.
Subohen Bakhairish, Hayat Gul Her cheered voice filled with
year's estimation. You look great.
Hayat bowed accepting the compliments.
Thank you and good morning to you, Mrs Abranov.
As she did every morning, the old woman handed over him first
edition of morning Daily Bukhara and two packs of Rothman.
Hayat opened his briefcase and dropped the cigarette inside. Then he
took up the paper and scanned the headlines. As Always the edition
was one day behind, but he was used to that by now. Events always
reached Kogon after the rest of the world has consumed it, as if the
small town opinion was unimportant vis--vis its impact of the
Page 79
Chapter 3
international scene.
Anything else, Mrs. Abranov asked, although Hayat's response
was always negative.
Just a smile, please.
And of course the old woman complied, adding a slight blush as
she smoothed her hair again.
Salam as Hayat moved.
Salam, he called over his shoulders.
Going away, She could not help asking the receding figure, and
then she quickly put up her fingertips to her naughty lips.
He just waved in the air.
Hayat reached Shah Street near to Kogon Palace Children Park,
and turned left again, walking more briskly, hoping to warm him
with the exercise. He passed some people on the road and arrived at
the intersection, where on chilly days such as this, he would
normally have boarded Number 11 bus for the short ride down to
Mokhal to his branch of Bank de Finance.
Hayat crossed the road and waited at a far corner. He lit up a
cigarette and looked at his watch. It was not a designated stop, but
soon a Black Mercedes van showed up. Hayat Boarded, the driver
greeting him with a nod. He took a seat in the front. There was only
one other passenger, who appeared to be sleeping on the rear seat.
The van quickly moved north from the centre of town making
no stops. It took hardly ten minutes, as the clusters of the apartments
grew sparser and the traffic on the roads receded to the occasional
car or jeep. The van stopped at a junction, north-eastern intersection
of the town line.
Good luck. The driver wished him success as he opened the
door and stepped out.
You too, said Hayat as he carried his cases in his hands.
He began to walk again towards east along the narrow highway
towards the countryside. Hence the grassy fields quickly fell off to
unformed plots of flat mud. The trees were bare excepting the
occasional clusters of pines and the spotty distant scabs of melting
snow made the warmer memories of Kogon.
After half a kilometre, Hayat reached a large mesh fence that
blocked the highway. It has covered lengths and drifted away from
both sides of the road, disappearing over the distant hills. At its
Page 80
Chapter 3
Chapter 3
another ten hours, including four and half flying hours from the
city of Balkan, he could almost smell Moscow.
The glass partition suddenly slid down into its leather case, and
the large man seemed to awaken to the presence of his charge. He
turned quickly throwing his beefy arm over the glass partition
smiling through a gap-toothed mouth.
Good morning, Hashim, said the man.
Hayat was momentarily shocked. It was the sound of Russian,
which he had not heard in over a year. It would take more than
moment to make the adjustment, and his eyes must have registered
surprise, making Major Boris Yaakov think that he was admonishing
the open use of his code name.
Oh, don't worry about him, said the officer, pointing a gloved
finger at the motionless driver. He's deaf. The External Services
man laughed loudly, a sound strangely accompanied by the gravelly
singing of Boris Yaakov as it boomed from a tape player. Many
Russians had been imprisoned for listening to the dissident poet, but
the RES enjoyed whatever music it pleased. It does not make for the
safest driving, said the officer, still referring to his driver's
handicap. But it's perfect for security.
He was still laughing, but then it faded quickly, receding to a
warm and sympathetic smile. He did not realize that his passenger's
expression resulted from insecurity, a fear that his first utterance
would gush forth in Persian.
The Russian External Services man jutted his jaw towards rear
window.
I hope you will not be too homesick, he said empathetically.
Real Uzbekistan waits you, he smiled once more. She is longing
for you.
Razmak Bilal smiled in return.
________
Page 82
Jacob Compound
Chapter 4
After couple of weeks
On Wednesday morning Colonel A.K.Zawri was in a fine mood.
Unfortunate for the Special Operations personnel, the colonel's
frame of mind was always directly connected to the degree of his
successes or failures. When operations proceeded with only a small
amount of results, the commander was fuming, sombre somewhat
like a burbling volcanic pit. However on days such as this when his
success was no less than smashing. Zawri's arrogance rushed to the
surface like summer seas and he was profoundly happy. And when
Abdul Karim Zawri is happy, he was also supremely foul.
Sahel knew that it was coming, like a hunter smells rain on the
wind, like a race driver know that on this day there will be smack of
steel against steel, yet his insight was not exactly telepathic.
He had taken Tuesday off calling sick leave and spent much of
his morning time resting and relaxing in bed. He had accepted
Amber's advice most of the day to cool off. He sat most of the time
out in terrace at their white round umbrella table, sipping iced coffee
and catching up the papers and magazines. In the afternoon he met
Amber at G-7 Markaz, where hand in hand they shopped meat,
vegetables and fruits at the huge bins tended by the friendly stall
keepers.
Page 83
Chapter 4
Chapter 4
The morning reports were already quite full of details. An AlQaeda operative later identified as Abdullah a Libyan in his midthirties. The hideout was located somewhere close to Hayatabad
locality in Peshawar. He was one of the surviving architects of several
terrorist activities in Pakistan and Afghanistan. Security agencies and
police had launched hunt for another operative named Abu Saleh
accomplice of Abdullah who slipped away in smoke towards the
tribal areas. A senior police officer was saying that Abu Saleh, an
Egyptian national, was wanted by the CIA and was carrying reward
money of $ 500,000.
The operation was almost lauded for its surgical professionalism.
Abdullah was killed with his bodyguards, but his wife remained
unharmed. The professional team had arrived at the scene to assist
the security agencies and police and departed within ten minutes
leaving no causalities of forces and security agencies.
Almost without exception, foreign sources pointed to a NSB's
operation. As Sahel removed the earphone, he needed no further
proof of this assessment. He looked up at the ceiling, where the
vibration of moving feet caused the light bulbs to shiver on their
hanging wires. The top floor had been up all night long, and it was
certainly not because they were playing cards game. There was going
to be a lot of unsubtle merrymaking on the floors today, and he
really did not want to hear it.
Good morning.
He was snapped from his brooding by Anita's greeting as she
entered the room and closed the door. She was cheerful this
morning, fairly bouncing on the balls of her feet and Sahel could not
help smiling at her.
Morning, he said and extended his hand to return his
Walkman. I borrowed it, hope you won't mind.
Anita tossed her black purse onto her desk and retrieved the
radio. And if I did?
Then you wouldn't be Anita, said Sahel.
The girl almost blushed, but she managed to suppress it. She
worked hard not to reveal the crush on her elder co-worker, but she
was not fooling anyone. She examined the cassette-radio without
really seeing it.
So you have heard, then.
Page 85
Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Sure, Sahel watched her. The uniform was thick green cloth
trousers with a same light coloured blouse of Lenin fabric with grey
lining inside veiling almost all smart curves of a woman. The supply
corps has recently replaced the uniforms, which had been light grey
cotton previously smartly fitted on curves.
I liked the old uniform. Sahel smiled.
Yes, that's what all the men say. She smiled too.
Morning, Major Shahzad came bouncing in, his empty pipe
clutched between his teeth. Ah, coffee is what I need.
Coming up, said Anita.
Morning, said Sahel.
Shahzad dropped his briefcase on the rack by window. Feeling
better, Sahel.
Walking wounded.
I don't see the cane.
And you won't again.
Good man.
Did you hear Shazi? Anita asked Shahzad as she handed him
small glass of steaming black coffee. He took it by the top edges with
thumb and forefingers, but it burned him anyway and he hurried to
set it down.
Yea, damn it. He cursed the Slavic tradition of agencies, where
placing hot liquids in small glasses instead of cups or mugs.
Suddenly the door was pushed open and Captain Qadri
appeared. The captain's hair was wild, unwashed and hardly fingercombed giving him more than usual crazed look. Qadri was often
referred to as Zawri's stiletto, for he carried out the Colonel's most
morale-depleting directives, such as transfers, reprimands and rank
busting, with cruel delight. He had been up all night and was
functioning on caffeine.
Department heads upstairs in exactly fifteen minutes, Qadri
snapped, and he looked at his watch like a platoon commander who
wishes to frighten his green troops into punctuality. Then he glanced
over at Sahel and returned his gaze to Shahzad. Just you, Major, he
said pointedly. And bring a clean glass. He closed the door and left.
There was a moment of discomfit silence in the room, and then
Sahel took a pencil cup from the desk and threw it at the door where
it made a resounding crack and bounced onto the floor. To hell,
Page 87
Chapter 4
you asshole, Sahel shouted. He looked over to Anita, who sat stiffly
in her chair like a frightened cat. Sorry, he said. He hated Qadri
primarily because the man had no mind of his own. He was an
empty vessel, a pure reflection of his boss's moods and desires.
If Zawri has liked Sahel, then Qadri would have spent plenty of
time kissing Sahel's shoes. And bring a clean glass, Sahel muttered
imitating Qadri's self-important tone. He picked up a pencil and
tried to resume his work. Things have been changed too much in the
department, and he prayed that it was a merely passing influence of
an ambitious commander rather than an indication growing
national coldness. He remembered with melancholy clarity how,
long ago after a successful mission in north Waziristan during which
a pair of terrorists had been blown up in their car, his team split up
and reassembled a week later in Islamabad. There after a lengthy
debriefing they had immediately gone down together to the Bari
Imam to pray together. Now in contrast, when Zawri's people got
some victory, the cold commander gathered his department heads
together and poured coffee and drinks like a winning corporate
business head.
Frustrated, Sahel dropped his pencil and sat back rubbing his
forehead. Anita retreated behind her computer. Sahel pushed his
chair back and stood up. I am going to canteen, anybody wants
something to eat?
Anita shook her head.
Sahel, Shahzad look up from beneath his bushy eyebrows. Be
relaxed, okay.
You know something, Shahzad? He began to raise his voice, and
then realized that Shahzad was no target for his anger. He smoothed
his tone low. I don't mind being out of action. I really don't, but I
am sick to death of having my nose rubbed in it.
He went out into the hallway and turned towards the cafeteria.
Zawri was coming briskly along the hallway, followed by a young
man carrying a large wooden crate. Zawri nearly tripped over a telex
cable that snake across the floor like a black asp waiting in ambush.
He immediately stopped short and slapped his palm on the first
nearby door. It happened to be Cover, whose personnel certainly had
nothing to do with the communication. But that did not matter to
the Colonel. Victims were plentiful where his anger would find them
Page 88
Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Chapter 4
______
The conference room on the top floor of the Headquarters was not
comparable to that of a major banking institution, but it was
luxurious by Pakistani governmental standards. The windows were
curtained with long grey silk with a fancy net hanging inside and
dark blue border over it. There were two small crystal chandeliers, as
opposed to weary tube lights, hanging over the either side of long
table. The floor was carpeted wall to wall and the long teak table at
which twenty officers could be seated comfortably was shiny and
freshly oiled. There were expensive office meeting chairs with
adequately cushioned. There was a TV monitor at one end and pulldown white screen for slide show or film projection. There was huge
an art-easel-board stood with some coloured markers in its attached
small basket. There were numbers of mini-speakers fixed over the
chairs on the walls and one microphone each was stood at the front
of the each chair.
The room was filled with smoke--- pipes, cigarettes and cigars and
most of the table top was covered by copies of the morning papers,
empty coffee glasses and reams of telex, decodes and computer
printouts. Someone's pistol had apparently been laid next to the
half-empty glass of coffee. This single shiny black object was altering
Page 91
Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Chapter 4
snarled.
Good Sahel thought. He is now trapped.
I need some activity. The desk is choking me. I have to get my
mind and body moving again.
The rest of the room had fallen dead silent. Sahel past reputation
was well known to everyone in the department and despite Kabul
fiasco all who knew him still harboured a good deal of respect for the
wonderful field agent.
The head of the Training Department spoke courageously from
the other end of the table. We could use him in the indoctrination
course.
The recruits don't need advice from a failure, Sheri, Zawri
snapped.
Now wait for one minute, sir, Dilshad's colour was rising
rapidly.
Excuse me, General Qasim interrupted speaking decently to
Sahel. Are not you Sahel Farhaj?
Yes sir, I am.
The Afghanistan problem, correct?
Yes sir.
Qasim turned to Zawri. This man was talented commander,
Zawri. Dilshad here has a point for generosity, and it is certainly the
day for it.
Colonel AK Zawri was concerned and furious, but he had no
choice other than to take a softer line.
Okay, Sahel, there was no assignment presently available, and I
need you in Personnel. But you can begin some physical training.
He snapped his finger at Qadri, who still stood glaring at Sahel and
Dilshad. Qadri, Call Shimla House. Send Sahel over there. He can
start this afternoon.
It was not precisely what Sahel had in mind, but it was a small
victory.
Thank you, sir, he said and then he pointedly looked at up
General Qasim. And thank you General. That's now sealed.
Witnesses, the C.O's backing. Zawri now could not easily retreat the
order. Sahel turned to leave and Dilshad patted him on his shoulder.
The door opened and a communications officer entered. He was
one of General Qasim's personal staff and he spoke to the general.
Page 94
Chapter 4
Sir, the phones are ringing off the wall. Journalists, Radio, TV,
what the hell do I say?
Well, Kiyani. The general lifted his head and looked at the
ceiling. We want everyone to know, that it was us, correct?
So what's the official NSB response?
No comments.
________
Chapter 4
Don't insult me; I am entitled to one good mood per full moon.
The hallway had emptied. The morning excitement had
dissolved into a normal day's work, and personnel were back in their
seats. A couple of electrical men were down on the floor rerouting
cables to avoid further Zawri's displeasure over the obstructions.
As Sahel and Dilshad approached Personnel, they saw Major
Shahzad waiting in open doorway. His usual optimistic expression
has been replaced by a serious look.
Sahel, Dilshad. Come in for a moment.
He went into the office and held door open for them. Dilshad
and Sahel exchanged a puzzled look and followed him. Anita was on
her feet, gathering her purse. She glanced up at Sahel and touched
him on his shoulder and she went out.
Take your time, Anita, Shahzad called after her. At least half
an hour.
What's going on? Sahel asked curiously.
Shahzad went to his desk. He turned and sat back on the edge of
it. He studied his pipe for a moment. When he looked up, he saw
Dilshad and Sahel were looking on him expectantly. Their victorious
smiles from the morning briefing were quickly fading.
Abb bollo bi Dilshad barked. I have got work to do, Shahzad.
Shahzad sighed.
Traffic just received a coded cable from the consulate in Dubai.
No one knows but me. Shaista told me so I could tell both of you
first.
Sahel and Dilshad both were staring Shahzad blankly. Shahzad
went on with the hard part.
John Victor is dead.
Sahel expelled a sharp sound, as if he had been punched at his
kidneys. He turned away and started to move towards a chair. Then
he stopped. A rod of fire was coursing up in his leg and he could not
bend it. He twisted it back like a roast on a grill and faced Shahzad
once more. What did you say?
John Victor. He was killed in Dubai.
Dilshad still stood shocked, expressing nothing. He slowly
reached into his pocket and got two cigarettes, lit them both and
handed one to Sahel without looking at him. Then he folded his
hands together, as if in a prayer and placed them over his belly.
Page 96
Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Faizi Jaffar, said Sahel. Allah Bless him and he limped out of
the room.
_______
Page 99
Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Chapter 4
invited operational strain, even dangerous vulnerability to hostagetaking and the like.
Sahel and Roshna knew the rules and worked very hard to keep
their distance. They only had one option to get retire from NSB and
free to marry but at the time neither of them was prepared for that
leap. Not long ago, during one of Roshna's routine polygraph
exams, her needle had jumped at the questioner's mention of Sahel
Farhaj. However Roshna told Dilshad, if they pressed it, they might
have to fire her. So the question was reworked and the test
administered again without mention of her team leader.
While Sahel lay in hospital, more than once Roshna tempted to
quit her current mission, return to Pakistan and join him forever, no
matter the professionalism repercussions. But she stalled and by the
time she made preliminary inquiries Amber was firmly wellestablished and it was too late.
The sharp doorbell awoke her from her thoughts, she listened it
again. It must be Sahel. She corrected her shirt and remained in her
chair and said, Come in, it is open.
Sahel opened the door slightly and entered the apartment. He
looked much unlike. Sher Ali without his long leather jacket and
baggy trouser in Afghan style and pale winter skin, he was dressed in
casual local style, light mustered T-shirt with dark blue jeans, his face
tanned and his hair already going silkier with the springtime sun.
More than that his eyes had lost some of the hardened look which
field agents usually would have acquire after so many months of
constant strategic calculations.
He closed the door with his back and looked at her.
Hello Bano.
There it was, his voice, her cover name, just as she had expected.
Hello Ali. The name seemed strange to her as it left her lips
here in Lahore. But those were the two people who had worked
together, shared secrets, had a private world that even their superiors
were unaware of. Ali and Bano.
Sahel had decided that he would never touch her again, no kisses
on the cheeks and perhaps no handshakes. But John's death made
the degree of that extreme seem disrespectful for the man's memory.
If nothing else the death of the comrade should be observed by the
coming together of his survivors.
Page 102
Chapter 4
Sahel started forward. Bano immediately saw the limp; she could
not help but notice. She drove her to her feet and she walked to him
and they embraced for a long time, rocking slowly together without
speaking like a pair of climbing stems together in the wind.
Finally they sat down at the opposite ends of the sofa. Bano
wiped an eye with a tissue paper and pointed at the Juice-tray. Sahel
said, Yes anything, but not too much chilled, and she rose to get
him a glass.
So was it an accident? Bano asked the correct question as she
rejoined Sahel in the lounge.
Yes, he took the glass and gulped. The Taxi-ride from
Islamabad had seemed endless; the stretch through the valley of
Kalar Kahar was quite hot.
What does Zawri say? asked Bano.
I don't know I left immediately after Shahzad told me and
Dilshad.
Which Shahzad?
Major Shahzad Ahmad. But you know Zawri. If he likes you
and you die of cancer within ten years after retirement, he will still
swear the Indians did it. But if he doesn't like you, he would say you
smoke too much and you deserve to die.
Bano showed a small smile, but she could not laugh. Sahel's tone
revealed deeper bitterness and pain that she had ever seen him
express.
How are you?
I am as you see me. He smiled. Rushing to retirement, yet
somehow unretirable. He pointed to his head, indicating an
adjustment problem. But forget about me. How are you? You look
wonderful.
Thank you.
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Bano got up and
turned on the TV not bothering to select a desired channel. It was
just a field agents habit, which somehow pleased Sahel to witness and
he smiled at her.
Faizi was one of my most favourite people on this earth. Bano
sighed as she poured a bit more orange juice.
Lots of us will say in the next couple of days.
And mean it.
Page 103
Chapter 4
_______
Page 104
Shimla House
Chapter 5
Same day
The Islamabad Centre for Physical Training (ICPT) was a civilian
physical training centre run under the Education Ministry, but one
part of it was segregated within that premises and was allocated to
Ministry of Defence for their own cover activities which later
become famous as Shimla House. It was located on the eastern lake
view side of the Rawal Dam not far from Bani Gala. It was an easy
drive along the Rawal Dam lake view road from Islamabad and Sahel
made it with time to spare. Quite unconsciously, he had exceeded the
speed limit during the entire half hour drive. His eyes, hands and
feet motor-visually piloted the hills, but his mind raced along a
hundred paths to other places.
He thought too much about Bano Abagull, each bit of her, the
physical and spiritual, the professional soldier and woman. Alone in
the car he felt safe to explore his feelings could admit that he loved
her, even muttered the confession aloud. For so long he had
managed to deny her a place in his emotional memory, and the
sudden view of the depths of his feelings shocked him, brought a
surge of confusion and a great deal of guilt, which caused image of
Amber to rise as well. Exploring his love for his wife, he realized an
equal passion, although different. He adored Amber, But Bano was
Page 105
Chapter 5
his closest comrade in arms, and even without the sex it was an unbreachable bond that carried a rope of betrayal with regard to his
marriage.
The day had already been too long, filled with tension and
slashing crises. Faizi's death and the visit to Bano filled Sahel brain
with images and fantasies and packed the empty car with ghost
passengers. Sahel pushed the accelerator to the floor, racing to a
destination where he could escape the car and its unwelcomed
ghosts.
He reached the main gate of the Centre with a sigh of relief. He
drove into the civilian compound, structure of high cedars, three
storey building lecture halls and expensive sport courts. The civilian
section was a large facility, used for training, athletes, team coaches,
and high school/college gym teachers. It was easy to get lost in path
ways and curving small roads. Sahel passed that all driving down a
long circular road that eventually lead him to the barbed-wire fences
of the military section of the institute.
Sahel parked his car outside the main gate of the base. He got out
and immediately slapped with a blast of humid-warmed wind. He
pulled out his stiff leg, shrugged his shoulders and did not bother to
lock the car and walked towards the base.
The guard post was manned by a tough looking soldier from
some infantry unit without his batches. He was wearing khaki
uniform without any mark of the unit and carried a loaded
automatic hung from his neck. He looked carefully Sahel's ID card,
grunted and swung the gate aside.
Sahel knew the facility well. He had trained here as a paratrooper
and later again as NSB recruit. He smiled as limped along the
walkways. His youth returned with the distant pops of gunfire from
the pistol ranges, small groups of elite troops who jogged after their
instructors wearing T-shirts and soldier caps bearing that dumb
happy muscle look on their faces as yet spotless idealism.
He reached a long cement building and entered one of several
wooden doors. The first thing he noticed was a large white sign
posted on the rare wall bearing No Smoking Anywhere on this
Facility by order of Colonel Abrar. The next thing he noticed was
young second lieutenant who sat at his desk directly beneath the
sign. He was reading something from a file and smoking.
Page 106
Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Chapter 5
______
Page 110
Tehran
Chapter 6
Three Weeks Later
Razmak Bilal's sleep had not been disturbed by the blare of the
wind or the pounding of the rain. While certainly at other time and
place the insistent drumming would have roused him from the
deepest sleep. Nor was it the vibration of the trains as they pulled
into Fatemi Station, the honk of taxi horns or the click of walkingcane tips on cement outside his room at the Bagh-e-Feyz. It was only
7.00 AM Tuesday morning. Razmak has already been awake for two
hours.
It was alike when he was mission-oriented. He had been like this
for two days. Suddenly his worst professional obstacle--- the desire to
lay in the bed until late morning would disappear.
It was as if Razmak, when not actually in any real physical
danger. And then motivated by duty, he released his fuel to feed his
body and mind for the duration of the action. All at once he need no
more than five hours of sleep and even could function on three. He
was totally alert and even while sleeping his body prepared to wake
and act at any opportunity.
In Russia, Lina had often teased him about his laziness,
wondering aloud how such a sleepy dog could possibly be of use to
the state. He wished that she could see him now. And then he was
Page 111
Chapter 6
Chapter 6
Chapter 6
scarf away from his head. His nose was still bleeding slightly from
the fistfight he had just endured in the school courtyard. He wiped it
with his finger.
Shh, Bilal. Elderly man rose from his bench, he moved slowly
to pour some tea for his favourite apprentice. What happened?
What always happens, Baba?
Bilal shouted but he slowed his breathing.
Razmak called Fatah father, for he had long felt closer to the old
man then he did to his own flesh and blood. Fatah and Razmak's
father had once been the greatest of friends, but now they would no
longer exchange a simple greeting. Fatah had been a militant Afghan
since British Raj.
They won't accept me into the Lions of Allah, said Razmak.
You tried again? Fatah offered Razmak a glass of black tea, but
the boy shook his head fiercely.
I try it every day.
Perhaps you should wait. The war is just over but fresh, the
young patriots will angry.
How long can I wait, Baba? How long must I wait while they call
my father a traitor and me a son of a traitor?
You are only thirteen, Razmak.
Razmak began to pace in the small shop. The fresh smell of
lathed olive wood usually calmed him, but he was marching to the
rhythm of a decision.
Baba, I must have rest of my pay, I am leaving this place.
Bilal, my son, let's talk.
I am going Baba, no one can stop me. I cannot live here. You
know it too.
Fatah sighed and put down his cup. Razmak was right. As long as
his father lived, and perhaps long afterward, the boy would be an
outsider among his own people. With a feeling of sorrow he got up
and removed a small iron strongbox from the base of a Lion statue
and gave Razmak the pay that he had kept for him as a saving
account.
What will you do? Fatah asked, afraid to hear the answer.
Whatever it takes to change my life, I've to prove that I am not
my father's son.
Fatah knew that only an extreme act could provide Razmak with
Page 114
Chapter 6
Chapter 6
twice in the chest. The officer flew backward onto the stones.
Someone began to scream, a man yelled to Razmak to stop in the
name of Allah.
I am Razmak Bilal, the son of the Traitor Basher Abu-Razmak
Bilal, he shouted as he still held the pistol extended. Tell the Lions of
Allah that they are the children of whores.
He walked away, shouts echoing from behind and then he turned
a corner and began to run. He was at his house within ten minutes,
where he found his little brother Gulo playing on the stone floor
with a small toy truck. His sisters were nowhere to be seen and he
knew his father would be in the city, meeting with the new afghan
government officials.
Razmak breath was getting smooth. He could barely speak. He
looked down at his younger brother. Despite their father's overt
favouritism, Razmak loved Zahir Bilal as much as Basher did. He
was so cute that Razmak often called him as Gulo. He extended his
hand.
Come Gulo.
Where are we going? The little boy looked up with his pale
eyes. Both Bilal brothers had the unusual green eyes of remote
Caucasian race. In fact had they not been three years apart they
would have looked like twins.
For a long walk, said Razmak.
Zahir Bilal sprang to his feet, excited by the adventure. Will I
need anything?
Nothing, said Razmak. Quickly now.
They took no food, only a camel bag of water. Hand in hand
they walked north from the city, then into the mountain area to
reach on the adjoining Highway for Termiz a border city of
Uzbekistan. When Gulo could walk no further, Razmak carried him
on his back--- down towards the Highway. They reached on the
Highway before dawn. Then they took some food from the highway
small hotel and waited for the transport for the Termiz border city of
Uzbekistan.
Razmak's wandering had begun.
Uzbekistan. The stinking refugee camps, the hatred of Northern
Alliance group. There were bitter humiliations. Razmak Bilal, like so
many of the intelligent Afghan youths, followed one idol of
Page 116
Chapter 6
liberation after another, only to watch his hero's words unfold into
lies, to see the Warlords of the liberation of Afghanistan retreat from
every field of battle proclaiming ridiculous victories.
He had hoped that Afghanistan would prove to be different, and
it was in a sense. There the Ahmad Shah Massoud had numbers,
power yet once again he wasted it in unnecessary quarrels. They
fought brutally against their brother Afghans while in the south, a
new faction went on holding power, building their confidence over
people and giving battle when necessary. Most of the southern
warlords were politicians besides holding their power through
militancy in the name of Allah. And as the years dragged on,
Razmak Bilal came to realize that if he subscribed to the tactics and
language of his brothers, he would be doomed to wander on the
fringe of his homeland forever, like Moses, allowed to look and long,
but never to enter.
The November War had been Razmak's revelation Day. He has
served as a captain in the Ahmad Shah Massoud's Northern Alliance
alongside the Afghans and Uzbeks. But even with the element of
total surprise on their side after a few days glory they had been
routed along with everyone else. It was then and there, in the cold
and bitter winter in Sheberghan province, that Razmak Bilal became
his own man.
No more words, no more promises.
Action and silence, it became Bilal's watchwords, his codes. For
nearly ten years his small group of dedicated soldiers became the
most feared group of guerrillas in the Afghanistan, Pakistan and the
western world.
To his credit Razmak Bilal never fell into the stereotyped
category of the Master Terrorists. He was a brave man, clever,
intelligent, yet he did not dilute his cause or his professionalism with
the self-appointed, overly romantic image so often assumed by many
of his compatriots.
He had no particular affinity for fast cars or beautiful women,
and he had not acquired luxurious taste as a result of having Afghans
opened at his bidding.
To Razmak, abusing the wealth that was available to him would
have been strength of the mandate. Many of the other terror chiefs of
South Western Asia had come to be addicted to their high life styles.
Page 117
Chapter 6
Something stirred from across the room. Razmak had finished his
exercises and assembled the pistol. Only his head moved, slowly
scanning. With the help of grey morning light, his eyes selected
details of the room's decor.
The room was tasteful and intimate. The wallpaper was cream
with a thin blue stripe, the small desk, side table and chairs were not
new, but they were dustless and oiled. The large brass bed had greatest
features. The small lamps on the side table had soft rose shades. The
black telephone looked as though it had been since 1950.
Page 118
Chapter 6
Chapter 6
Chapter 6
naturally becoming more near to the true land of his own country.
He did not know how he reached at the bus stop and when
boarded.
A quick sudden brake by the bus abruptly snapped him from his
daydream. He looked up and saw the passing trees and flowers of
Vali-Asr-Abbas Cross-Garden. The bus was still on Shahrah Dr.
Fatemi moving west and either Rafi had not been daydreaming for
very long or the traffic was already heavy. The atmosphere was little
humid, but still the pedestrians outside were bundled up on the
footpaths.
Maybe it was the weather. Late autumn and the Tehran skies
spewed water like July in Lahore.
Work was getting to him. That was part of it. The embassy staff
inevitably commiserated, comparing notes, briefings and everything
Islamabad needed without any delay, and chattering about their
hometowns, friends and families.
Yet Rafi was grateful for the job. After Kabul Fiasco, he had
wondered if he would ever work again, except as an IT instructor
somewhere in a private school. Zawri had nearly had his ass, but he
was smart enough to resign the army quickly. The National Security
Services had been pleased to have him and posted him as security
detail in-charge at Tehran Embassy. They were tough, somewhat
more primitive outfit than the other security agencies. The fact that
he and Sahel had failed to arrest Razmak Bilal and death of an
innocent Afghan did not seem to disturb his new bosses to a great
degree.
Sahel, he wondered, what kind of shit Sahel was enduring? He
missed him. He missed all of them--- Sahel, Tanveer, Roshna, and
Dilshad.
John Victor.
Maybe that was part of it too.
When an army buddy died, your life suddenly is brought into
close focus. Rafi was satisfied with the NSS conclusion that John
death was an accident, but that did not obviate the fact that he had
met his end far from home, in a city full of strangers, squashed
between a taxi bumper and his own car. The will of Allah thoughts
had sobered him for the last two weeks and resulted in some serious
re-examination.
Page 121
Chapter 6
Where was he going with his own wife? He was past thirty, time
for some considered assessment. He was about to start a settled life.
He had been moving so hard and so fast for so long and what did he
have to show for it? An unwritten book of adventures, a few
languages, and a permanent scar on his waist from a bullet were his
total achievements so far.
He rubbed his itching eyes.
He had had a nightful and a bellyful of the Iranians. The Foreign
Office had summoned the Pakistani Ambassador for the extraordinary consultation over new developments in the region. Rafi's
security detail was out all night, checking the routes of travel,
arranging decoys and escorts for the ambassador and finally
appearing at Foreign Office only to have their members forced to
wait outside in the rain while the Pasdaran and VEVAK took over the
detail with thinly disguised disdain for the Pakistani Gorillas.
The work with ---The NSS --- was important, but it did not
compare to those exciting years with Special Operations at NSB. Rafi
knew that he would never again experience comparable adventures,
tensions, and danger of fellowship. He liked his present co-workers,
but no one would ever be a partner or a friend the way Sahel Farhaj
was. Baba Feroz and Sher Ali had been a perfect match, a dangerous
pair of field operatives. Maybe their failure at Kabul had been a
signal that the relationship should dissolve. They cared too much for
each other, and that would probably have proved fatal in the long
run.
Yet Rafi truly missed the friendship, and had found no
substitute. Perhaps, if he did decide to chuck it all, he would talk
Sahel into joining him in the private sector. The idea of working
again with his old partner brought a smile on his lips and another
pang to his heart.
He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket for a pack of
Rothmans. He felt the butt of his holstered pistol as he searched for
his lighter. The Iranians did not like the idea of foreign security
personnel walking around Tehran with firearms, but no sane NSS
would leave the embassy unarmed. It was the same with the other
countries as well.
Ay, now, you can't smoke in public places.
Just about to light up, Rafi turned his seat. An old woman with
Page 122
Chapter 6
Chapter 6
the floor. His face was hidden as he bent to his task. He was wearing
dark blue jeans and maroon shirt rolled at the cuff and sleeveless
Chinese commando jacket, a usual trade mark for Pakistanis while
on travelling in winter and it made them readily identifiable to their
own countrymen, if to no one else.
Rafi felt a flash of pleasure as he grinned from ear to ear.
Main khuch madad karoon, he offered his help in Urdu almost
as a reflex.
The man raised his head, somewhat shocked to hear his own
tongue. He was probably unaware that he had uttered his words
aloud. He was handsome with bright eyes and curly black hair. He
smiled in return.
Shukria, he thanked him.
Rafi gladly bent to his task and in a minute both men were
sitting together somewhat breathless in their exertion.
Thanks for the help, the other Pakistani continued in Urdu as
he stuffed his change back into his pocket of his jacket. Did I yell?
Loud enough, Rafi laughed. But I am sure only I
understood.
Don't be so certain, the man said as he looked around at the
other passengers. Half the city seems to be Pakistani or Indians over
here.
You know, said the man as he wiped some rain from his face
with a sleeve of the shirt. I think it's a racial defect. I get sick to death
of our messed and untidy country until I think I'll go crazy. Then I
explode and got to travel. I get outside and after one week I'm
homesick.
Homesick, hum, Rafi revealed nothing of his own feeling on
the subject.
Like a kid.
Rafi nodded.
Hayat Gul. Razmak Bilal extended a damp hand.
Rafi Ahmad. Rafi responded in kind. He looked him for a
long moment. Something about him was familiar, the face, the
curved scar beneath the left eye, but he could not place him.
You just a tourist? Razmak asked. Or can you help me get
where I want to go?
I might be able to help, said Rafi. He stopped himself from
Page 124
Chapter 6
staring.
Razmak removed a slip of paper from his pocket. He showed it
Rafi. In Urdu the script were the words Aunt Shehzadi, 29 Arman
Tower, Bagh-e-Feyz.
You're in right direction. Rafi said. I'll guide you.
Thanks, Razmak took back the paper.
Relatives? Rafi asked.
Like all of us. They are everywhere. What do you do here?
Razmak asked.
I'm a Clerk in one company here. Rafi had to lie to a stranger.
It was his basic training in the intelligence to keep under cover until
it's essential otherwise to disclose his identity.
It would be hard to live on a small payroll here. Razmak
empathetically said.
Yes, indeed, but you know this is how life goes on outside
country. Rafi shrugged his shoulders.
The conversation went on for a quarter of an hour. Razmak was
so well prepared that he never faltered. After all he had taken a whole
year in preparations for every detail to perfection. His Urdu was
flawless, save for trace of an accent which was common for an Uzbek
to imitate Pakhtoon of Northern Area. He was aggressive in asking
Rafi Ahmad for details of his life in Pakistan, and at one point even
he invented a certain cafe at Blue Area in Islamabad and exhibited
some suspicion when Rafi embarrassingly admitted that he had
never heard of it. But at the same time he was registering all lies on
Rafi's profile as he had known he was working in Pakistan Embassy
at Tehran as security detail In-charge and belonged to operation
Kabul for his arrest as it get wind of later in the terrorist community.
Well I am away quite a long, said Rafi.
Yes I think so, said Razmak.
They rode in silence for a while, finally reaching at the end of
Fatemi Square.
Well, it was good to talk someone from home. Razmak Bilal
said after a bit.
For me too, said Rafi.
What do I do now?
We will get off here, and you will catch another bus for Shahrahe-Almahdi, which will drop you at Arman Tower bus stop in Bagh-ePage 125
Chapter 6
Feyz.
Good, Razmak paused for a while allowing next thoughts to
seem spontaneous. You live near here.
West a bit, but first I am going to Shinglla Market.
What is that?
Kind of like Melody in Islamabad. I'll pick up some cooked
Pakistani Food from there.
Aha! Razmak pointed a finger at Rafi as if he'd caught him in
deception, Maybe a little homesick yourself?
Rafi laughed. He had enjoyed the encounter fully, a taste of
home to dull his ache, if God has sent a temporary relief messenger.
Maybe little, he admitted.
Hey, Razmak turned to him, how about a coffee? Can we get
some around here, if you are not in hurry?
Hayat Gul's expression was so childishly hopeful that Rafi could
hardly resist. He looked at his watch.
Okay, yes I know a place.
Razmak clapped his hands together and rubbed them happily.
Ab Maza aye ga, he said excitedly.
They left bus together. The rain was fairly heavy again and Razmak put
up hood of his jacket pulling the upper edge forward with his finger to
keep the water off his head. Rafi pulled a much-bettered pea cap from
his rear pocket. It had the bright golden star embroidered on the front.
Rafi was never fan of cricket but it had the style of being Pakistan
Cricket Control Board official. Razmak also liked the cap. It had made
the tracking of target as easy task.
Razmak followed Rafi as both moved quickly along the Fatemi
Square.
Yar barish tu teez ho gai hey, Razmak commented on the rain as
they walked more quickly towards a building.
Yes, it's really coming down, Rafi called over his shoulder. He
had to raise his voice considerably due to the pounding of water on
the sidewalks and the sound of skidding of the wheels of the taxis
and cars. Maybe a walk was not the best idea.
Oh, come on, one hot cup of coffee and you will feel different.
Yeah, Rafi pointed ahead.
They were almost running parallel to the market and the
surrounding area was congested with tall bricks apartment
Page 126
Chapter 6
buildings, delivery vans in the road and the battered used cars of
Iranians, yet the surge of weather was already holding pedestrians
indoor to wait it out. Rafi suddenly turned left on a street. The bustle
died almost instantly. There were lower buildings, a quiet street with
some shops and cafes.
Razmak had to act now; he did not know how soon they might
arrive at a crowded eatery. He spotted a tiny store a few steps ahead.
The glass door had a large cigarette ad on display and window was
stacked high with the grocery cartoons. He stopped.
Hey, Razmak called out.
Rafi halted his jog and turned.
Cigarette! Razmak jerked a thumb at the store and moved up
on cement steps of the store.
A bell jingled on the door as he entered the gloomy space. The
shop was very small, the piles of goods making it more a warehouse
rather than a grocery shop. The boxes of diapers, laundry soap and
toilet paper formed a single narrow aisle straight to cashier. There
was a slab of scuffed wood on a peeling Formica bar served as the
cash counter. On the top was an ancient register next to a wire basket
of candies. The proprietor was a South Indian. Behind him the wall
was lined with shelves with cigarettes, tobacco, cheap pipes and
condoms.
The proprietor looked up at Razmak, watching his customer
shake the droplets off his jacket on the cement floor. Bufermine
Agha, isn't it very bad?
Razmak only managed half smile. Bad enough, he said as he
opened up his zipper of his jacket halfway and shook his hood back
over his shoulders. His heart was pounding against his shirt, his
breath coming very fast now. His hands were slick and he wiped
them on his jeans at the back of his thighs where the water has not
reached the denim.
Rafi popped in through the entrance. He closed the door and
said, Gul, shaking himself off and pulling the pea cap from his
head. He snapped it against his leg a few times smooth back his hair
with the hand and replaced the cap.
Razmak looked up at him and smiled. Rafi smiled too and
walked towards the counter, passing Razmak as he perused the
cigarette pack.
Page 127
Chapter 6
Chapter 6
quickly and for some reasons the proprietor begun so sort them in
order of value which he probably did out for the courtesy of bank
cashiers.
Razmak extended his hand and snatched the currency notes and
packed them in his pocket. He did not want to shoot the store owner,
but his mission has only just begun and he knew well if he did not
act, a perfect description of him would be faxing its way across the
world in a matter of hours. Then all his training, his work and his
new face would be wrecked for nothing. He had once trained with
an Egyptian terrorist whose favourite expression was now ringing in
his ear: 'leave one witness... and make sure it's you.'
The Indian still remained statue behind the countertop.
Everything was so quick that he could not fathom it. Pardon me
please, he managed.
I respect a man of God.
The Indian immediately closed his eyes, folded his fingers and
began to beg his divinity.
Razmak extended his Makarov, shot the man in his chest and
was out of the store before the body hit the floor.
_______
Page 129
Page 130
Chapter 6
Shore-Eye
Chapter 7
Ten days later
Sahel's black Margalla climbed a long stretch of highway towards
Islamabad through Rawal Dam Lake road bypassing Bani Gala,
its carburettor taking deep breaths of the chilled morning air, its
engine seeming to buzz with pleasure for the proper atmosphere of
Lake. As it inclined steepened, Sahel clutched and jammed the
gearshift from forth to third, pushing the accelerator pedal hard to
the floor as if a lapse of speed might threaten his joyful mood.
He reached over and rolled down the passenger window to fill
the car with the fresh flower's fragrance spread over both sides of the
highway. Then he lit a cigarette, turned up the radio and tuned some
FM channel for the morning music. A pop song of Hadiqa Kiyani
fairly deafened him and he pounded on the steering wheel with his
open palms. A blazing jolt shot through his hands and he quickly
jerked them away from the wheel. He laughed and quickly recovered
this time using only his fingertips to keep away his palms wounds
from the wheel. His hands were bloody, his back ached and his leg
throbbed but it did not matter. For after four exhausting and
humiliating Krav-Maga lessons, this morning at Shimla House,
Sahel had finally beaten Jami.
It was a perfect day to begin his twenty-ninth birthday.
Page 131
Chapter 7
For over two weeks now Jami had been teaching Sahel a single
technique---unarmed defence against an armed opponent. Successful
execution of exercise required blinding speed and total psychological
commitment. In most other martial art disciplines it would not even
have been introduced to a student before his basic defensive moves
were perfected. However, as with all Pakistani military techniques
practicality overruled patience, formality and aesthetics. More
important Jami was sure that if Sahel could successfully disarm him
it would be a terrific confidence building.
The basic concept of Krav-Maga was simple---no two brains could
act and react simultaneously. There was always a lapse in
milliseconds between the offensive move and defensive
countermove. Therefore if you were being threatened with a loaded
weapon, you could disarm your aggressor before his brain
commanded an accurate pull of the trigger.
However, success demanded days of painful drill.
Sahel assignment was simply to strike Jami's hands with one of
his own before the instructor jerked the target out of range. At first
Jami allowed his student to make contact a few times with the
momentum of his failed attempts. Then Sahel started to learn the
technique but still needed lot of perfection which Jami taught him
with the painful exercises and repeated drills to smash him onto the
sand floor. It took almost a week for Sahel to make him defeated by
grabbing Jami's dummy pistol and overcome by smashing him back
on the floor. Today he bested him twice and then the exercise was
over.
Then they both went for swim and had a huge breakfast in the
Shimla House mess.
An angry car horn woke Sahel from his victorious thoughts
realising that he was smiling like an idiot and had driven the last ten
kilometres without really seeing the road. He swung quickly to the
left lane and allowed white corolla to overtake. Then he shifted again
in the right lane downshifted and floored the gas pedal. He had his
reflexes back.
Things were going to be different now. Sahel could feel it, knew it
in his heart. Nothing had really changed for him in NSB---he was still
only an interviewer and might well be until the end of his tenure. But
Page 132
Chapter 7
he was changing now. For two weeks he had been working with
Jamshaid and returning to HQ bettered, bruised and demoralised,
yet saying only that it was going fine. He would rather die than
admit defeat to Zawri and he had summoned reserves of stubborn
determination that he had not needed since he was a paratrooper.
Today when he reached HQ he would not declare his victory. But he
knew Jami would file a bright report.
Things would be better now with Amber as well. Sahel's black
moods had begun to wear on even his wife's patient and resilient
personality. He would not wonder if their failure to conceive had
been directly connected to his frayed nerves and depressive state.
Now all that would change. He felt energy and shade of power that
would extend into every corner of his world and whatsoever he
imagined for himself would be within his reach. He burst forth into
the zero point intersection. The sun made the buildings glow bone
white behinds the roadside flowers plant in front of the buildings
and houses. The birds in the trees were ecstatic with morning breeze
and even the most impatient horn stabbing drivers could not break
Sahel's mood.
He was tempted to speed to Islamabad Hospital, find his wife,
spin her around and crush a bouquet of roses between them. It was
lovely fantasy, yet he was already running late and had to pick up his
files and get over to the SEC, Aabpara. His celebration with Amber
would have to wait till evening. It would be doubly joyous. He would
have his birthday dinner and she would have a new husband. She
had told him that she was panning something extra special and that
he should not be late.
He drove straight down Khiaban-e-Iqbal, for once not giving
damn about the traffic, singing along with the radio as proud as king
returning from conquests abroad.
He nearly bounded into the entrance hall of SpecOp. Sahib Dad
looked up from the paper work on his desk and fixed Sahel a serious
stare.
ID please, this time Sahib Dad was showing real security guts.
Sahel happily produced his card. Apparently his recent lecture
about access regulations had had an effect.
Thank you, said Sahib Dad. Password
What, Sahel leaned forward thinking he had misheard.
Page 133
Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Chapter 7
his mouth.
Qadri groaned in disgust and Dilshad shot him a look. The
young captain turned away folding his arms and muttering to
himself.
Ok, Sahel, said Dilshad squeezing Sahel's arm.We are not
ready for conclusions yet.
Sahel, Zawri tone warmed him. I called you in here because of
your relationship with Captain Rafi Ahmad. The investigation will
be conducted by Farhat and his NSS people, with our records for
support and that's all now.
It's a mule, Sahel yelled it so loudly that everyone in the room
shocked. He rose to his feet with a jerk of his body and clapped his
hands together and shook them towards ceiling, raising his eyes and
praying to God in a trembling voice. Allah Help them all. It's a
mule! Can't they see that it's a mule? Everyone starred at him as if
he had gone mad. Farhat took a step forward in case he might have
to restrain Sahel. It's big and it's brown, it has four legs and long
tail. Sahel said wildly. God help them see it's a mule. He smacked
his forehead and laughed in an ugly voice. He, then, looked around
more calmly, put his hands on his hips and dropped his voice to a
controlled, yet still fiery tone.
Friends, I am not crazy, but you are, if you can't see this. Two of
my men have been killed within one month of each other....
They are not your men, said Zawri.
Two of my former men, Sahel contained without pause, have
died violently within short span, with the same histories, same
enemies. God a poor policeman could figure it out.
You are not here to draw conclusions, Sahel, said Zawri.
Someone has to, Sahel snapped and Zawri rose from his desk
like a gathering hurricane.
Let the man talk, Farhat said holding out a hand like a traffic
constable.
Are you working with me or against me on this issue, Farhat,
Colonel Zawri demanded.
I am working for my government, the NSS man said, implying
that Colonel's self-serving reputation was well known even outside
the NSB. Let him talk.
Zawri said nothing. Sahel got a cigarette from his pocket. His
Page 138
Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Chapter 7
______
Sahel stop, Dilshad was amazed to find himself, chasing Sahel
down the stairwell from three to two. The crippled Captain was
gripping the steel handrail, down with his bad leg and hurling
himself along three steps at a time.
We can't get anywhere this way. Dilshad almost begged.
We, Sahel spat without turning.
I think you are reacting. You have to stop this. Think and plan.
He stopped short from Cover and looked at Seema. She was
waiting for him and she block his way, gripped both of his shoulders
looked into his twisted angry face with her brown eyes.
I am so sorry, she said. I am sorry about Baba Feroz. Seema
always used agents cover names.
Sahel calmed a bit. He could be furious at Zawri, Dilshad and
Page 143
Chapter 7
everyone and everything but not Seema. She meant what she said.
Thank you, He put a hand to her scarfed head.
Okay, Sahel, that's enough, Dilshad grabbed Sahel's bicep.
We are going to talk. He dragged him toward his office and
pounded the door open. Dilshad's staff members sat at their
terminals. They looked up as the door banged against the wall.
Everybody out, Dilshad voice boomed. Break time.
The young researchers pushed to their feet and moved toward the
door. I am swimming in Coffee already. One of the girls muttered.
We just had a break, Tariq protested.
Have another, Dilshad ordered.
As Khaki passed Sahel, he looked over the top of his spectacles
and shook his head with sympathetic sadness.
Look, Sahel, I agree something happening here very strange,
said Dilshad when were alone.
Congratulations, Sahel tone was still taunting.
I don't care how mad you are.
Sahel stopped himself from retorting further. Sorry.
I am not saying I agree with you, Dilshad continued. Yes, this
may be Razmak, or one of his old aides. Also it may not be. Do you
agree?
Sahel said nothing.
Sahel, do you agree it may not be?
Yes, all right, Sahel sighed and looked outside the window.
It may not be. I probably wouldn't be so inflexible about it, if
that ... upstairs would give just a millimetre on this.
Zawri has his reasons.
Sahel turned, hearing something in Dilshad's voice. What
reasons?
Trust me. Zawri has a history in these kinds of things, layers
upon layers that you are not even aware of. You have to lead him into
this, not push him. He has to be manipulated. Every time you say
Darkroom, it will be like a red flag to a bull.
Sahel took a deep breath and lit another cigarette. He was almost
out.
It's Razmak, Dilshad, Sahel said quietly. I know it.
How, what makes you so sure?
Dilshad, you know me, I am so sceptic, not one for astrology.
Page 144
Chapter 7
But I know this like a twin knows when his brother's in trouble. Like
a mother knows when his son's been killed in a war, I know this.
I want to see Falkshair Khan, said Sahel.
Ya Khudaya. Dilshad smacked his forehead. Falkshair khan was
the only member of Razmak Bilal's cell ever to have been captured
alive by the forces in Pakistan. He had been tried and convicted of
terrorism and murder and had been sitting in a maximum security
prison waiting for his black warrant since over a year. Falkshair was
convicted a death penalty. He had been questioned by every
intelligence expert in the country, offered plea bargains, threatened,
subjected to psychological tricks and third degree methods. Yet he
had never uttered a single helpful bit of information.
You are crazy, said Dilshad. Everyone's had their hands on
him. He will never talk. You think he will like your face so he'll passon any information to you? You are going to bring him flowers?
Sahel would not be discouraged. He knows the truth. He knows
what really happened to Razmak after Kabul. He's the only one who
can support my theory.
It's ridiculous.
You sound like your boss.
Dilshad actually blushed. He would not have Sahel think that he
was afraid for his job. On the other hand plotting against C.O.'s
order was not a healthy way to run an intelligence branch.
Dilshad, I will make a deal with you, said Sahel, a calm and
rational agreement.
Dilshad examined his former team leader. Show me your
cards.
We are going to call Bano Abagull. We are going to tell her what
happened. Do you respect her opinion?
Dilshad suspiciously nodded.
If Bano agrees with my 'gut feeling' as you put it, you are going
to contact Shore-Eye jail and arrange for me to see the prisoner. If she
says I am way off the mark. I'll drop the whole thing and sit down
and write this stupid obituary.
What about your interviews today? Dilshad asked.
You will tell Shahzad, I went home sick. He'll understand.
Dilshad waited thinking. Then he said, Ok, let's call her. And
he moved toward one of his telephones.
Page 145
Chapter 7
Chapter 7
______
For a maximum security reasons the facility at Shore-Eye was not very
impressive. It could not be compared at least physically to an
institution like other common jails around the country, with its
stone-block tall walls, four guard towers on the corners and machine
gun posts. Shore-eye was not a civilian prison so its name never
appeared in the media. It was rather small and its around two
hundred prisoners never rioted or demanded better conditions as it
had become a practice in other civilian's prisons. They did not bang
their cups on the door-bars and clatter their chains or perform
hunger strikes. Or if they did engage in any of these stereotypical
methods, no one heard about it.
The facility was fairly new having been constructed just after the
'war on terror' broke over in the country. All the prisoners were high
ranking terrorists. In fact the word maximum security is concerning
to Shore-eye than to any other prison in Pakistan.
It consisted of a single square building with meter thick wall of
stone-blocks over a steel skeleton and concealed steel floors. There
were no windows. Surrounding of the walls on all sides were fifty
meters of flat earth fully covered with antipersonnel mines.
Surrounding the mine fields was a ten meters high electrified fence
topped with razor concertina. You access the single entrance through
a steel bridge over mine fields.
As a final touch, in case a prisoner dreamed too enthusiastically
of freedom the location of the facility was in most discouraging area.
For the ancient coastal port of Shore-eye, it has breath taking view of
the Arabian Gulf, was also home to the secret training base of the
Navel Commandos. They had a reputation as the toughest troops in
the Pakistani order of battle. They had absolutely no connection
with the facility but if by some miracle you managed to escape from
Page 147
Chapter 7
Chapter 7
benches. Sahel did not sit. He stared at a smoky glass pane the size of
an art poster. He could hear the giant's breathing heavily beside him.
From the other side of the pane, Falkshair stared back at them.
Sahel had, of course, seen Falkshair many times before, but
always under surveillance, but he was not prepared for this
diminished version of him. Sahel had liked Falkshair, as his tone in
intercepted conversation, his simple and elegant manner of dress;
Falkshair evidenced an idealistic sense of purpose, certain
professionalism tempered with irony.
Immediately after Kabul disaster, Razmak's cell has scattered.
Falkshair trail was quickly picked up. He was pressured with carefully
planned exposed surveillance until he began to run. And when he
finally reached in their cell's safe house near D.I. Khan in almost
panic, an informant was sent in, who persuaded him aboard a safe
convey destined for Karachi, and there he was caught.
He looked so much smaller now, sitting on a hard wooden bench
against the wall of the interrogation room wearing a light grey
Shalwar Kameez. His beard scattered on the face, his moustaches
thinned and his tan had faded. His black hairs gone much grey
around the ears. There was no light left in the sharp eyes.
Let me in, said Sahel.
The sergeant led him out in the corridor again. Then he pulled a
button from his belt, unlocked the interrogation room and waved
Sahel inside.
Falkshair was looking down at the floor.
Do you have to be here? Sahel asked the sergeant.
Yes,
How about watching through there? Sahel pointed at the two
way glass.
The sergeant looked at Falkshair as if he is taking measures of the
prisoner. He had already beaten him twice.
Okay, he left the two men alone.
Sahel stood in the centre of the room feeling awkward. After all a
man's dignity was a precious thing. It was hard to see it taken away
from anyone. He had to remind himself of his purpose.
Need a cigarette? Sahel offered.
Falkshair did not respond. He did not even look up.
Sahel lit one for himself.
Page 149
Chapter 7
All at once, his heart felt so heavy, his hopes worthless. He knew
exactly what he was going to get from this man. What could he offer
him? Freedom? Some kind of deal? What had not been done that he,
The Great Sahel could bring for him? He had driven all this way for
nothing, fuelled by the rage.
He sat next to the Falkshair on the bench.
Listen, Falkshair, he tried to sound almost apologetic. My
name is Sahel Farhaj. I am no more important. I just want to ask a
couple of questions. One question really. Okay?
Falkshair said nothing, he looked on his knees.
I'm just a low level staffer. Practically just a clerk, a Historian for
the Ministry of Defence. It sounded as ridiculous as it came out of
his mouth that Sahel wanted to laugh at himself. He was grateful that
Falkshair did not laugh too. He suddenly wondered if Falkshair
understood him at all. Then he remembered that this man was from
South Waziristan, he might know Urdu well.
Maybe I can help you, Sahel lied. Maybe if you help me with
this one thing, your cooperation would be something good for.
Falkshair said nothing.
Okay, Sahel rose from his seat. He moved in front of Falkshair
with his back to the two-way mirror in order to offer some privacy.
It's like this, I will tell you straight. You knew Razmak Bilal
better than anyone else, everything about him. No one knows what
really happened to him, no one but maybe you. Some of the people
who worked on the Razmak arrest in Kabul have been killed recently.
Just tell me this one thing, Falkshair, and we will leave you alone. Is
Razmak dead or alive?
For the first time Falkshair raised his head and looked at Sahel.
His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the deep lines at the corners, yet he
did not smile. It was almost an empathetic expression, the look of a
doctor regarding a terminally ill patient. And he did not speak.
Sahel allowed full minute to pass. Then he surrendered. He
turned to walk from the room, but what he heard stopped him dead
cold in his tracks and a shocking chill coursed up the length of his
spine.
Ina lillah ey wa inna ellahi rajaoon.
Falkshair was quietly reciting Quran verses, the prayer for the
dead.
Page 150
Chapter 7
Sahel sped the whole way back to Karachi to catch his flight back to
Islamabad. He smoked one cigarette after another. He stopped only
once to gas up and he did not play the radio. He kept all the windows
open for he felt that he might not fall asleep at the wheel. He knew
that he should stop and call Amber, but something told him that he
would be able to get a piece of the day and it would not be too late as
long as she was still awake when he got home. He would tell
everything and she would understand. She always did.
The night was black as a moonless sky can be witnessed by
hundreds of flickering tinny stars and the highway was deserted too
to his astonishment. Sahel had emptied himself for memories.
Everything that had ever done with or shared with or seen of
Captain Rafi Ahmad had been played over and over until the film
finally burned out and nothing was left but a void that left his face
still and expressionless.
Around after midnight he climbed the long stairs to the
apartment, his leg burning, the aches and sores of his body coming
back full force. He let himself in quietly for a surprise but the house
was dead still.
A single light lit in the saloon. The coffee table was covered with
plates spread with chocolate residue and the ashtray was filled with
cold butts. The TV power light was still on glowing like a tired red
eye. One of the wooden small tables was piled with the soft-looking
multi-coloured wrapped gifts. In the corner of the table he could see,
was a dark hulk shinning in the dim light. His birthday cake!
There was a white piece of paper on the Sahel's seat. He picked it
up. It was Amber's script.
Happy birthday, we had your party without you. The surprise was that
you never showed up.
Sahel sat back on his couch with his fingers in his hair and
elbows on his knees. He did not know when his wet eyes dropped
pearls on his cheeks and then he laughed dreadfully.
_______
Page 151
Page 152
Chapter 7
Bukhara
Chapter 8
Next Day
The black locomotive was steaming beneath its wheels at
Bukhara's Rostov Station at the northern end under deep dark part
of the platform. It was thundering like an angry bull waiting for the
whistle to run. The Uzbeks workmen and vendors were moving their
stuff in the luggage compartment. Rostov a small railway station had
only this last train after midnight bound to the border of
Turkmenistan for its onward journey to Ashgabat.
Razmak Bilal had much time to board. He stood on the damp
concrete platform and watched other passengers hurling and did not
desire to board early. He went to a vendor and bought a roll and
Pepsi for his appetite. A big clock hanging with the iron chain on his
head banged for 00.30. It's time to go he thought and moved toward
an entrance of the compartment. A white uniformed staff extended
his hand for the ticket. He tossed him up a card already in his left
hand and looked back around. The platform was almost emptied.
Only vendors and staff were winding up their work. Nothing
suspicious he noted and climbed up the compartment.
He kept his pace to the next compartment in the corridor. He
was heading toward tail. He knew his destination. He slowly made
his way along the entire length of the train and glanced over the
Page 153
Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Chapter 8
the paper and put it into his inside pocket. Yes, carry on.
Yes, Hashim, said Yaakov. Somehow he was disappointed that
Razmak had not had a more emotional reaction to his surprise. So
yours Target. The Major once again reached into his inside pocket
of the coat reminding Razmak of a comic circus magician. He took
out a small note book wrote something on the leaf, tore it off and
handed it to Razmak.
Razmak took the paper and looked at it. He blinked. He held it
closer and looked at it again. The name of the President of Pakistan
jumped up at him from the white scrap. He held it out for Yaakov to
take back. It trembled into his fingers.
Are you mad? Razmak switched to Russian. His voice was harsh.
Images of hateful Pakistani politicians popped up into his brain, but
the idea that they wanted to kill him had to be a joke, a ruse, and a
test of Razmak's sincerity.
No, I am not a madman, Yaakov calmly replied in Russian as he
recovered the paper. He went to the washbasin, lifted the cover, took
out his cigarette lighter and incinerated the evidence.
He walked back to Razmak and stood beside him barely
whispering now. First, I will describe how it will go. Then we will
discuss politics of it.
Razmak stared up at the mad Russian.
On the 6th of September, this man will address a group of senior
military and civilian elites on the Defence Day of Pakistan ceremony
at some place; I would let you know later.
Razmak listened, yet he felt as his brain was splitting into many
distinct parts. One belonged to Razmak Bilal, a hero of Afghan cause
who could bring salvation to his people through Muslim
philosophy. The other belonged to Hayat Gul, the intellectual, the
planner who always escaped the labyrinth and the third one Hashim
Badin who in ravage of his personal belonging murdering a series in
vengeance. Yet it would be like entering a bee's nest in an attempt to
crush the queen.
Now, Major Khalidi sees this man every single day, the security
people are so used to his presence that he has a free access to the
President. He can even approach your target and freely speak
without schedule. So he is most suitable person. Are you following
Hashim?
Page 158
Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Chapter 8
The plan, of course, was much simpler than ever. There was no
pending agreement between Pakistan and India, no South Asian
Strategic Peace Conference for covert disintegration of Afghanistan.
This was a just a story to enhance Razmak's rage and distorted sense
of afghan nationalism.
Razmak would kill the President and Razmak himself would die
immediately. The dead Razmak would be revealed as an foreign
agent penetrated by the Americans and Pakistan would withdraw the
support for NATO and Americans instantly which would result
Americans to cross Pakistani borders in hot pursuit of Taliban from
the Western borders tipping Indians to enter into Pakistan from the
eastern borders. Russians might also come from other side and will
manoeuvre to take Baluchistan, her old dream to reach to the hot
waters. How warm she would be welcomed when they stepped into
save Baluchistan. Wild Iran and Syrians are already watching her
interest in the Middle East. The Politburo was becoming increasingly
pathetic, but at least the External Services understood them and had
to get back into the South Asia after losing Afghanistan to
strengthen their scope both in Middle East and South Asia.
Even if Razmak's attempt failed, ES would still blow him for the
NSB as an American operative. Hopefully, with the same results,
conspirator really would not lose anything with this plan, no matter
what happened to Razmak.
And yet seeing Razmak's eyes ablaze, Yaakov was not sure that he
would survive this briefing at all. He was getting old for a field
officer, nearly fifty. After this, he swore that he would retire for a
modest work and spend the rest of his life fishing on the Black Sea.
Hashim, Yaakov resumed in a careful and soothing tone.
Shut up please, Major. Razmak exploded. I have to think.
Yaakov sat dead still as Razmak rose and began to pace. Razmak
knew a trap when he saw one. Yaakov and his masters manipulated
him. They with their chess mind always playing chess! It surpassed in
their national psyche, and they layered their political moves with
plots and counterplots so you never saw the true objective until your
king lay bleeding on its side. Razmak was smart too, yet in an
instinctive animal way. He could not beat Yaakov at great game. Yet
he could refuse to play the ES rules.
With this involving and detestable face of his, there was nowhere
Page 162
Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Chapter 8
almost run behind Razmak who had already opened the exit door
and standing there letting chilled scream of wind inside corridor
with the whistle of the train merging into the rain clatter. Razmak
was standing at the footrest grabbing the sill and pushed his head
outside train and looked back at the Yaakov. And before Yaakov
could say a word, Razmak threw his case into the air and like some
horrible ghost launched himself from the train and floated for a
while in the mid-air, his feet together, and his arms clamped against
his head, he disappeared below the embankment like an end of a
nightmare.
________
Page 166
Kabul
Chapter 9
Couple of Days Later
The wheels of the Boeing 737 banged down onto the runway with
a screeching sound and unlike of Pakistani pilots, the former Brit
Royal Air force pilot apologised generously on the intercom. He
joked that there must have been an earthquake occurring in Kabul,
for the ground had suddenly jumped up and struck his airplane.
Some of the passengers laughed and applauded. They were the ones
who had been frightened the most.
Sahel arrived on the early morning Ariana Airlines flight from
Abu Dhabi. The airplane crawled towards the terminal building and
in typical native fashion the passengers did not follow the
instructions and while the aircraft was taxing everyone stood up at
their seats. A quick announcement in Persian and English came over
the intercom for the passengers to be seated until taxing is finished
and engines are switched off. In the last hour, Sahel had gone to the
restroom, refreshed himself, looked on his face, and combed his
small beard which he had intentionally let it grow in the last week
before he planned to reach Kabul. He changed into a sky blue casual
shirt with a khaki tone trouser and a slim black tweed coat to beat the
Kabul weather. However, the clothes were already sticking to his skin
as he sat in the aisle seat near the forward exit, gripping the metal
armrests and hoping that he would not bolt like a rabbit when the
Page 167
Chapter 9
Chapter 9
Chapter 9
Your purpose?
Business meeting.
For how long please?
A week maybe.
And where will you stay?
I think my host must be holding a good room in a hotel, yet I
don't know exactly.
Anything to declare? The girl just continued her litany.
Nothing, just myself.
She smacked his passport with a metal stamp and grinned
broadly.
Thank you.
He was in. He took his bag and walked. He played the tune again
in his head and tried very hard not to think about the last time he
had been at Kabul International Airport. He was ready to bet his life
that Galaxy Air had lost its operating license for Kabul Airspace.
There was a small window for rapid currency exchanges just next
to a row of rental car desk waiting for customers. Sahel changes two
hundred US dollars for Afghanis and went straight to Kabul Cars,
and rented a blue Toyota GLI on cash payment.
The car was delivered to him outside of the terminal. He threw
his bag into the rear seat and drove almost to the last parking sign at
the airport outskirts. Then he cut back and parked it in a long-term
lot. He took the bag, locked the car and dropped the keys to the
pavement toeing them behind a wheel. He had no intention of using
this Corolla again. He had created his first dead lead. He took the
bus into town.
_______
Kabul was not then same city, although only a year and half
passed. The images frozen in Sahel's memory were of snow slickened
streets under a purple-grey sky, the sidewalk cafes not yet empty of
tourists and Kabulis were still using summer clothing, although it
was beginning of the autumn, still the city was bright flowery and
festive. However the incoming winter has started to display on the
shops where new arrivals are hung with its new prices.
Page 170
Chapter 9
Chapter 9
Chapter 9
Chapter 9
hotel had not earned its repute for nothing. Kabul businessmen
frequently rented this hotel for one purpose only and as their
liaisons with their secretaries or girlfriends only lasted for an hour or
so at lunchtime, yet a room could be had anyway.
Sahel strolled in with his bag through the front door into a cool
darkened lobby. The reception desk was to the right; a few padded
chairs sat out on the dark maroon carpet around low glass table.
There was a small newsstand across the lobby, two stairs leading up to
a coffee shop, elevators further on and finally another exit at the far
end.
A couple of Asian and European businessmen sat close their
heads at one another around one of the tables. Behind the main desk
a very large, bald Afghan looked uncomfortable in a light blue
uniform coat that had not fit him for years. That was good. Sahel
could be bold with this man. He walked up to the desk and grinned.
One single room, please.
One single room, the clerk expression was almost apologetic.
Sorry, sir, there is no room at all, no single, no double.
You please, check it, said Sahel without a hint of annoyance. He
opened his wallet, looked around conspiratorially, and stuffed a 100
Afghani note into the clerk's hand. You know I just need it for a
night, he whispered. I'll be out by morning. He pointed to an
empty chair in the lobby. I will just be over there. Let me know if
someone vacates it.
He winked and walked away, leaving the fat man to manage
starring after him. He carried his bag to the newsstand, bought a
pack of Rothmans and a copy of Kabul Times took up his position.
Within a quarter of an hour he had a room on the third floor.
He stayed in the room for less than ten minutes, hardly noticing
the decor as he showered, washed his hair and scrubbed off the travel
sweat. He realised that he had to get some fuel soon, for he had been
too edgy to eat on the flight. He dressed again in the same cloths, left
his suitcase on the bed and went shopping.
He walked back to the City Centre bazaar area. The pedestrian
way was packed with the visitors laughing, some arm into arm and
most just keeping pace in hurry to catch their targets. Sahel was not
in hurry so he walked slowly looking into the shops. He already had
a list of shopping in his mind. He first bought a sewing kit. In a
Page 174
Chapter 9
Page 175
Chapter 9
He walked back into the Western Inn with his hat pulled low over
his head and he went straight into the elevator and up to his room.
He locked and bolted the door, checked the closets and bathroom
out of his habit. Then he stripped out of his clothes and emptied all
of his pockets, arranging his documents on the blue coverlet of the
bed.
He opened the contents of his shopping bag and pulled new
Alpine jacket, laying it on the other side of the bed like freshly
hunted body for the skinning. With the short steel knife, he slit open
the green inside lining near the zip at the bottom left flap of the
jacket. He took his Pakistani passport, identity card, driving license
and his own rupee notes, sealed them in a hotel envelop and slipped
them into the lining. He double stitched wound with green thread
from the sewing kit. He pulled a grey T-shirt from his suitcase and
cut three gashes in it across the chest. He put on a pair of Adidas
black sneakers and a metal frame zero number photo-sun glasses.
Five minutes later he stood before the tall mirror on the bathroom
inside wall.
His reflection was gloomy, black from sneaker to jeans to jacket.
With his semi-spiked black hair by the courtesy of wig, the photosun glasses on, he remained himself of a character from some
Hollywood movies. His Afghanis and Afghan passport and papers
found homes in the various pockets of the new costume.
Finally he tore open the packet from his locker deposit box. The
paper was stained as he pulled out his pistol wrapped in sock
dampened with gun oil, then stuffed into a black waistband holster.
One full magazine was in the pistol and another was nestled
alongside the holster.
Sahel checked the action, stripped the weapon, wiped everything
down with a dry washcloth and clipped the full holster inside his
jean on the right hip. Now he felt fully dressed.
Sahel emptied his suitcase with his casual wardrobe and bagged
in the shopper alongside rest of the junk he had just discarded to
throw it out. He placed the empty suitcase in the lonely corner of the
cupboard. He had created his second dead lead.
He lit up a Rothman and sat down on the bed. He dialled an
outside number that had never left his head. A woman answered.
Subhu Bukharin
Page 176
Chapter 9
Chapter 9
Chapter 9
Chapter 9
Khanzada was never trusted but he was often used in certain areas.
Sahel parked the Scion on a side street off Pamir Cinema. He did
not bother to obscure himself, as his costume would make him
unrecognisable to anyone who had known him previously. He
watched the sidewalk movements in front of the shops and road
cafes. The scene was like a giant gala, with literally hundreds of locals
occupied cafe tables, the benches across street, shopping and
hustling soaking up the late sun. Khanzada arrived in a taxi. He was
wearing his ever present short waist jacket, but it looked silly over the
stripped green shirt and dark clip on tie that were apparently the
uniform of a postal official. As Sahel watched, Khanzada put the tie
off and stuffed into his pocket. He had not changed much. He still
had that heavy brown hair and moustache duet with his posture and
the tired blue eyes darted nervously over the tables in front of the
cafes.
Khanzada did not recognise anyone, so he took an empty seat
and turned it to face the street, drumming his fingers on the plastic
table top and craning his head for the waiter.
Sahel took a minute and scanned for Khanzada's watchers. He
vectored his eyes from the Afghan's position across the boulevard
into the compartments of the parked cars along the side cafes and
storefronts. There was no obvious tail; at least no one invited to
attend by Khanzada himself. Sahel pushed through the crowd
approaching from the rear. He pulled out a chair and sat down at the
small round table as Khanzada turned to stare at him. The Afghan
squinted showing no sign of recognition.
Kia hal hey mairy dost. Sahel grinned and lifted the photo-sun
glasses from his eyes for a brief moment. Then he dropped them
down again.
Khanzada's cheeks turned pale, the ever present complexion
suddenly turning into a Siberian grey. His mouth opened and his
eyes widened and he started to stand.
Sahel's right hand shot out and grabbed his leather sleeve.
Bakhair, he said soothingly, though his grip implied a warning. I
just got here.
Khanzada slowly sat back into his chair. His mouth was still
agape and his eyes discontented. Sahel quickly extracted his
Rothmans and offered him. He himself pulled one to light. The
Page 180
Chapter 9
Afghan looked at the pack, rolled his eyes at the sky and took one of
the filters with trembling hand. Sahel lit up for both of them.
Khanzada chewed his filter and continued to stare.
You told me about Sardar Jagat Singh? Khanzada inquired
hesitantly.
Yes, he is okay, Sahel smiled and shrugged. It was okay to have
the opposition think you were fool. Insanity suggested danger, and
danger demanded caution.
You know, Sher Ali, you are still a wanted man in this country.
Khanzada said if Sahel might have forgotten.
Please, Sahel smiled. Let's not announce it.
A man wearing white apron appeared into view. He smiled and
asked for their orders.
Coffee please, Sahel ordered without asking Khanzada. He
knew Cappuccino was his favourite. Two hot cappuccino.
The waiter left.
Khanzada's eyes looked around, scanning the other tables.
I have given up Coffee; this is not healthy for me now.
Khanzada said in the leaned voice. I have been sick since last year. I
got bad ulcer.
Oh, Sahel felt some sympathy for him.
You can order whatever you like, Sahel insisted.
No, no it's okay for now. Khanzada smiled as he felt relaxed
somehow.
Sahel reached into his jacket inside pocket and took out a
prepared wad of one thousand US dollars. Allow me to contribute
to your health and well-being. He slid the cash wrapped in a small
white paper over to the edge of the table and then held it down near
Khanzada's leg. Khanzada had taken so many payoffs that just by
glancing at the roll; he could guess its value. He took it and then he
groaned realising that if Sher Ali had a photographer working he had
just opened himself to another ten years of blackmail.
The coffee arrived. Sahel picked up his mug and took a long
swallow. He wiped his mouth and smiled again.
So what is this Ali? Khanzada asked.
What do you mean?
Oh, please, Khanzada seemed annoyed. No games okay? Let's
just do it and I'll go. You are not here for the weather. What do you
Page 181
Chapter 9
want to know?
Whatever you know, said Sahel carefully.
Okay, said Khanzada with resigned annoyance. He leaned in
closer and smoked hard, already a little more relaxed with coffee.
He's here or he was, yesterday.
He is? Sahel felt his blood quicken. This could not be the he
that he wanted it to be, so he tried to remain smooth and calm.
Yes. He is. He contacted Obaidullah straight away, just like he
used to. He said he was active again, but he refused a meet. He's never
done before.
What did Obaidullah do?
He assumed your old friend didn't want to show his face a
reason. But CTI owes the man some favours, and he called them in.
What favours?
Foreign passport and airline tickets. Khanzada detailed with
some disdain. Obaidullah and some his associates had a party last
night, without guest of honour. They celebrated as if Dostam
himself had risen from the grave.
Um, Sahel did not speak for a while. His heart was racing and
blood pounding in his ears. He could not believe that he might be so
lucky, yet there was absolutely no way that Khanzada could have
improvised all of this. He just was not that tactically brilliant. Tell
me, Khanzada, Sahel said matter-of-factly Just for record, to whom
we are referring?
Oh for God's sake, Khanzada reacted liked a spoil child, then
he assumed an expression of supreme impatience. Okay, we are
speaking of Tiger-3, all right? Is that clear enough?
Quite clear, said Sahel as his foot began to tap the pavement.
Tiger-3 was the code name for Razmak Bilal.
CTI, phrased as Central Tehreeke Islami, was in fact a new group
formed a couple of years ago by the like-minded dissidents turned
into terrorists across both sides of the border in Pakistan and
Afghanistan fighting against the aliens, what they reportedly
considered, NATO and Americans and all their allies including
Pakistan. In the recent past, they had gained much strength and
wealth to run their show on the both side against forces and civilians.
And NSB is one of the most bigly their targets in Pakistan besides
civilian installations and people at mosques and they claimed Islamic
Page 182
Chapter 9
themselves.
And I suppose, you are in town for the second round.
Khanzada grinned.
All of us, Sahel lied.
Sardar too?
Sardar too.
Wonderful, I did miss him so. Khanzada sarcasm oozed as he
finished his coffee. He put the cup down and looked at Sahel. I
heard you were all shot up, Sher Ali.
I got better.
Hum, Khanzada began to worry. He stubbed out his cigarette
and held his hand out for another. Sahel lit one for him. What else
do you want?
Is there more? Sahel raised a brow.
Yes 'Wallah,' but you know how this is for me! I could be
finished by this. Tears actually welled up in the Afghan's eyes. He
looked up at the sun as if taking one last gaze at the heaven.
Sahel slipped him an additional five hundred dollars. Khanzada
pocketed the money and then began to speak quickly. It was a low,
mournful tone like the confession of a doomed man. I was at the
party last night. Obaidullah was almost bragging. He has a contact at
Kabul Police Headquarters. They got a copy of the latest files on the
Zahir's case. You do remember Zahir, don't you?
I remember Zahir. Sahel suppressed his anger and listened.
They dropped the file to Tiger-3. I don't know where. It had
updates on the whereabouts of all the murder suspects, including
you. Tiger-3 re-contacted Obaidullah and asked for some more
details. He refers to all of your comrades by code names. Orange is
someone named Barat, Queen is someone named Bano. I think you
might be Bravo.
Sahel felt an icy stickiness under his arms. Hearing Bano's and
Barat's cover names on a hit list made his spine stiffen. Is that all?
he managed.
That's all I heard.
Are you sure?
I am sure, Wallah, Khanzada rapidly draining of courage.
Talking in a public restaurant with a wanted murderer was clearly
making him tensed.
Page 183
Chapter 9
Okay, okay, Sahel tried to sooth the nervous Afghan. Just one
more question. Tell me about the plane ticket.
Tickets, Sher Ali, said Khanzada. One for London and other
one to Colombo, and I don't think he's picked them up.
Then he still here.
Or not.
Sahel took out some cash and paid the bill leaving it under the
coffee cup. While he pretended himself that all he is unworried, he
posed his final question. So tell me, Khanzada, he asked. Why the
revenge?
For the first time Khanzada Syad seemed to forget his own
predicament and he actually looked at Sahel with some pity.
I don't know, Sher Ali. I don't know. But I suggest, you just go
home and pay up your insurance.
Sahel took off his glasses and starred at Khanzada, who finally
broke eye contact and began to examine his fingernails. Sahel took
out a pen and wrote something on piece of cigarette pack he picked it
from the floor. He pushed it to Khanzada.
That's where, I'll be. You contact me with anything further. He
rose from the table and waited for an answer.
Khanzada looked up with a weak smile. As you wish.
Sahel returned the smile, for he did not want to leave Khanzada
with sour taste from their encounter. Then he walked away.
Sahel did not go far. He walked through the crowd and stepped
behind a van shelter. He looked back through the smoked glass and
watch Khanzada drain his last sip of the coffee and get up. The
Afghan walked along the sidewalk, then he performed as expected,
entering the first available telephone booth and Sahel knowing he
could never get close enough to overhear, went back to his Scion.
Khanzada really did not want to turn Sher Ali over to Razmak,
but he valued his own life more than a clear conscience. No matter
what he did, Sher Ali would not kill him. You had to have committed
serious acts of murder to get yourself on a Pakistani execution list.
Razmak, however, would have no such moral hesitation. That was
why the Afghans probably win this war in the end, and Khanzada
preferred to side with the winners.
He called a contact number in Shahr-e-Nau and the deep flat
Page 184
Chapter 9
voice that answered set his knees to quaking. He gave the location of
Bravo's flat and hung up. Then he threw the paper making into a
small wad. He caught a cab back to the Central Post Office, claimed
he was feeling quite ill and walked to the car park for his Lancer. He
started driving immediately to Ghazni. With the wad of cash from
Sher Ali and twice as much from Razmak, he would be able to take a
long, quiet and prudent vacation.
______
Sahel drove the Scion for half an hour. The skies began to darken,
but he did not really care that it might rain. He headed for his flat
and chose quiet streets and small alleyways. He did not want to focus
on traffic. He had to concentrate. His strategic thinking was coming
back, yet too slowly. His head pounded with the variations. It
certainly was likely that Khanzada was tripling on him, working on
him and reporting back to Razmak. On the other hand, Khanzada
must not be relaying all of it Razmak, just enough to save his own
neck. Or he might be too frightened to counter the terrorist at all,
but that was unlikely. Such fear would work in reverse.
Then there was the possibility that Khanzada had bluffed the
entire Tiger-3 story, knowing what 'Sahel' would want to hear and
giving it to him. Yet he has never demonstrated a talent for
tradecraft, and the facts themselves, especially the parts about Barat
Khan Bano Abagull were too accurate. That led Sahel to the option
that Khanzada had been turned by CTI or the Kabul Police. He
could well be setting Sahel up for the authorities. But then why had
they waited and not grabbed Sahel at the Pamir Cinema Cafe?
Sahel turned into a small street and abruptly stopped the car. He
got off and watched the entrance of the street. No vehicle slowed at
the turn, and in fact no car entered into little alley for a good five
minutes. And then it was a just a very old lady squeezed down behind
the wheel of a blue small Suzuki.
He smoked another cigarette and gathered his mental reflexes
once more. He decided that he was trying to evade the obvious. He
had to follow his instincts and pursue the simplistic. To the best of
his knowledge, Khanzada had, through Obaidullah or otherwise
Page 185
Chapter 9
Chapter 9
Sahel kept quiet for a while and before he spoke, the girl said.
Okay, let me check them.
She pushed four digit numbers quickly on the intercom and
waited for response. Someone picked up the call. She listened,
nodded and hung up. She turned to Sahel and smiled. You are lucky
enough, office is still open.
I appreciate your efforts, Sahel applauded her. Would you
guide me where office is located?
You go straight in the lobby and then turn right and you would
see the sign board of the company.
Many thanks. Sahel left the reception and walked toward the
direction.
He would certainly have a chance if Shah Wali set him with his
security men, as things were going smooth so far as he planned.
Maybe this time he was not going back with a failed mission?
He crossed the corridor and turned right. A small blue Flexi
board was hanging up on the door with Afghan Securities Ltd
gleaming on it. Sahel knocked the door and waited for a moment.
Nobody showed up. He slightly slid it open and poked his head
inside. On the far side of the corner in a glass room a man was
standing holding a cellular phone. He looked tired yet his bright
eyes caught Sahel's entrance quickly and waved him to come in. He
was alone. Sahel crossed the crush area and reached into the cabin.
By the time the man had finished his conversation and put the
phone on the table. He saw Sahel quizzically for a while unable to
recognise him as perhaps he had not seen him with this get-up.
What can I do for you? he asked in a pleasant tone.
You can't do me a favour unless you recognise me, so try it
first, Sahel smiled leaving the man with enigma and slid up his
photo-sun glasses on his forehead.
Ah, I am sorry I don't recognise you. Shah Wali accepted
defeat. That's what Sahel wanted. He was badly in need of assistance
yet with a dead lead of him. He introduced himself with his fake
Afghani name and as his brain would suggest him, he didn't take
much time to explain him a false story that how he had become
victim of life threat by someone unknown and he was in need of two
or three professional guards for his security for the upcoming night
at his place.
Page 187
Chapter 9
Shah Wali although looked loath but agreed once he saw a wad of
eight hundred dollars in Sahel's hand. He collected the money and
said smilingly. Friend, I am doing this all for your safety, not for the
money.
Do me another favour, Sahel said. I don't want your men in
uniforms and if you deem fit, the deal may not be registered. I need
this assistance in personal capacity from you that might not
jeopardise your own company's image.
Good suggestion.
He called someone instantly, chatted in Persian for a while and
settled back in a relief. Within half an hour, a back-up team showed
up in the office with their heavy muscles. They had their
instructions from Shah Wali. They looked Sahel critically, shook
hands with firm grip showing their enthusiasm towards his security
and he had no doubt that they would perform for he had guaranteed
them a bonus too from his own pocket.
Sahel thanked Shah Wali with this pledge to see him tomorrow
and waved all the three guards to follow him.
They reached Shah Do Shamshera. Sahel stopped the car short of
the apartments. They had let themselves up with Sahel's keys,
hauling a shopping bag full of food and drinks supplied by their
'client.' Their orders: Disarm and disable anyone who knocks at the
door to the flat.
At 9.30, a dark charcoal Ford came cruising down the street. It
passed Sahel and stop just in front of the apartments building. Sahel
watched, holding his breath, as two men got off of the car. He slid
open the door silently, got off the car and inched his way up the wall
behind the car like a cat as he unzipped his jacket.
His instinct kept him from moving further. The two men were
tall, wore long, black coloured jackets and they were bare headed.
Something in their determined gaits began to register in Sahel's
subconscious as they pushed open the front door of the building
and went inside. Then the grill of a green-and red flickering lights on
a Lexus appeared at the far end of the street, slowly nosing its way like
a hound sniffing for game.
Police. And the two men were Kabul CID.
As Sahel's conclusion registered a series of loud crashes echoed
from inside the second storey flat. Shadows jumped across the
Page 188
Chapter 9
Page 189
Page 190
Chapter 9
Colombo
Chapter 10
Next Day
Tanveer Ahmad was a happiest man on earth when he was placed
in Colombo.
In fact, Tanveer was not one who surrendered quickly to
melancholy, but it had taken him months to emerge from the
psychological stress of more than four months in Kabul Prison cell.
Not that those hard Afghan Intelligence officers had tortured him,
or had treated him with anything in less than professional respect.
For despite his tight-lipped silence, they certainly knew who his
employers were. It was just that a man who is accustomed to racing
around Kabul in all sort of high-powered machines does not take
well to lengthy confinement, whether it is a five star hotel room or a
five square meter cell.
On the road to Kabul airport, 'Barat Khan' had given the
Kabulis a good thrashing with his silver Audi. Fortunately for him,
the men had survived their rather serious injuries. The Kabul Police
unable to conclusively tie Barat to Zahir's murder had instead
convicted him of reckless driving, resisting arrest and carrying an
unlicensed firearm. He had given a two years sentence, yet it was
quickly commuted to six months when a faceless Pakistani police
liaison suggested to his counterpart at the headquarter that a
confirmed story about a Kabul based firm owned by one of the
Page 191
Chapter 10
Chapter 10
Chapter 10
Chapter 10
socialise, be a 'party animal,' and keep his ears open and as he obeyed
these orders his water and taxi business flourished. He could not, of
course, keep the profit, but he was allowed to turn them around and
expense them. Yes, it was the stuff of an agent's dream. If he had not
paid for it with four months in prison, he might have actually felt
guilty about it.
This morning, although it was not yet eight o' clock Tanveer
Ahmad was running late. He had to ride for Kalutara along the
coastal highway, conduct a full day of business and be back in time
for a dinner date with an Italian girl named Lisa, whose striking
flexes hair, blue eyes with tennis player's body promised more than a
summit. He had been up half the night developing and watching
long shots of film. With a suspected cargo, it would be up to the
analysts in Islamabad to decipher the meaning of the images.
Tanveer shaved and showered quickly, pulled on a T-shirt and jeans
and pair of Nikes as he gulped a cup of Nescafe instant. He donned a
leather jacket and swung the strap of a leather bag over his shoulder.
His desk was covered with forms and papers and having no time to
sort it out, he stuffed most of it into his bag and one of his Canon
5D-mark-II. He grabbed four rolls of Kodak and then he hurried
outside and locked his door. His Mailbox at SEC was nearly
overflowing, but rather than scanning through it, he simply stuffed
that pile into his small bag as well. The evening telegram from Sahel
at Kabul International Airport went along for the ride unnoticed.
Tanveer chose his trusted Honda 250 for the long drive, which
might have surprised his friends of the past. For Tanveer, riding was a
sort of meditation, the only time when he was completely at rest. It
was as if the act of employing his reflexes allowed the intellect to
engage, in fact he had discovered himself a sixteen years old. Surely, it
was this sole manner to attain peace that had moved him to love,
motorbikes, cars and fast boats and even airplanes. The faster he
went, the more challenging the course, the better he felt. He was out
on the open road and completely out of the city when he attained his
state of grace. The sun from the east was blinding even behind his
Persol and the smell of sea salt in the air was slightly irritating into
his nostrils.
Honda's booming voice and speed brought on sense memories
of other engines, cars and places and these brought images of the
Page 195
Chapter 10
past, the faces of Sahel Farhaj, Rafi Ahmad, John Victor, Roshna
Saleem. This was not unusual, for hardly a day passed that he did not
think of them. He missed them all for even though his sole
assignment was a choice piece of fruit, there would never again be the
blood bond attachment of working deadly missions with a team. In a
way, it was better now, for he knew that love was a dangerous thing in
this business. It was love of his friends that had driven his impulsive
deeds in Kabul, not duty, honour or country.
Captain Rafi Ahmad was dead. He had read about him in
Tehran Times and he had mourned in silence and alone. No one
would come to hug him for the loss of his friend. Surprisingly, he
actually felt worse for Sahel, for he knew that the crippled captain
and Rafi had been like twins.
Captain Roshna would also have taken it badly, wherever she
was. He wondered if she was still out there somewhere playing Bano
Abagull, the wandering painter. He had seen Major Dilshad Hussain
at NSB Headquarters in Islamabad. Dilshad seemed unstoppable, yet
Tanveer knew that the old man was an 'emotional' picture of Faqia's.
His outward appearance never changed, but somewhere in his close
heart, he wept with each soldier's death. Shabana Mir in Kabul was
another character he would not forget. Tanveer knew one of her
uncle in a senior position had managed to post Lieutenant Rati
Asma Farooqui to a civilian assignment. Asma would also have taken
Rafi's death very hard. Everyone knew that she had had a serious
crush on him. His passing would not end that emotion, only turn
into an empty longing. Tanveer, however, wondered about Rafi's
death in professional terms, but he assumed that the mystery would
be well investigated. A connection to Razmak Bilal never crossed his
mind, as he had gladly accepted the conclusion that the terrorist was
dead. He didn't know even about Major John Victor's accidental
death, which had attracted a small part of the Gulf News and never
heard anything further.
He was passing through the centre of small village. On the both
sides of the highway with its neatly ordered pine trees planted with
small hedge of different flowers to make tourists pleased with the
smell. He turned left along the old road and then swung left again to
climb up to the mountain area as the road began to curve around
deep cuts in the range. Far below to the southeast a bowl of Lanka
Page 196
Chapter 10
bay was shimmering. Soon the wind curves turned fast and Tanveer
corrected his helmet and fixed his Persol more closed to the eyes. He
forced himself to drive on the left over a crumbling track. There was
no guardrail and he could not hug the mountainside. The memories
of his old team and 'Darkroom' had dampened his mood, so Tanveer
turned his thoughts to Lisa. He had approached her on the beach,
quite sure that she was 'secure' for his selection was random. He
never visited girls who made the first move, standard professional
policy. They had since then only once for lunch, yet now Tanveer
sensed tonight might be the evening.
He tried to image her and to bring her face into view as he shifted
over on the seat of the Honda. Something to his instinct, the sound
of another louder engine made him jerk his head around as the blunt
nose of a Hilux hit down at his bumper. He swerved hard to the right
across the narrow road and into the shoulder, yelling 'Bastard' in his
Pakistani fashion, but sure that he could recover if he hugged the
mountainside and let the idiot rush by. But instantly the panic
deepened as he felt the monster come again, its green bumper guard
crawling onto him, careening his left leg smashing it into the
machine as the roar engulfed him and he flipped his head over heels.
The scream of metal against stone rending against the tearing claws
of Hilux as his head banged and the world went black.
He opened his eyes. He was on his back and the sky above was
white-blue, painful to look at as a dark, salty curtain ran across his
vision and he blinked it away. He could not move his legs.
But he was alive. He would survive.
He looked down. He could only see one of his feet, the white
Nike pointing at the sky. He did know where his left leg was, but he
felt that he might be lying on it, curled or broken beneath him. His
left elbow lay on something hard, but the hand seemed to dangle in
midair. He was at the very edge of unconsciousness.
He twisted his head to the right and blinked the liquid away
again. The Honda was nowhere in sight, only a wheel lay on the
roadbed slowly spinning on its metal hub. He looked down toward
his foot again. An engine was still snoring and shadow coming from
a green Hilux parked some distance away. It was very hard to focus
but he could see a figure walking slowly toward him, shimmering
with the sun and the blood in his own eyes. The figure stopped above
Page 197
Chapter 10
him. He could not bring the face into focus, but he felt some relief as
the man bent and hands reached out surely to help him. Then the
pain passed flashing over his body as the man took Tanveer's leather
bag and tore it from his body and his head banged back on the
pavement.
Tanveer opened his eyes again, blinking blood from his eyelashes
to see a row of envelopes flying from a pair of hands onto him. The
shuffling stopped. Something tore. A moment of silence passed,
while the man flicked his eyes over a flimsy telegram paper. And
then, of all things, a voice hissed at it in Persian.
I'll make you crazy in your cage, Mr Sher Ali. How does it feel to
be hunted?
Sher Ali, Persian? Then Tanveer knew for sure that he was
dreaming. Oh, yes, a horror of a nightmare. Your past is coming
back to haunt you. And besides, he was not Sher Ali, had never been
Sher Ali. But no, the voice was not talking with him at all. It was
talking to that small piece of paper, the paper that now went into a
ball and sailed into the wind.
Now the face was bending; it was coming into focus. Now the
voice was speaking to him in English.
This is for Gulo, it whispered.
Who the hell is Gulo? Tanveer tried to say, but no sound would
come. And then he heard the sharp scrape of leather on stone and the
kick slammed into his chest which flown him to another feet away.
The wind was rushing over his body as he squeezed his eyes with pain
and vomited mouthful of blood and began to pray something in
Arabic verses....
______
Although the midday heat was growing and yet the man who walked
into the police headquarters at Chatham Street looked as relaxed and
refreshed as a diplomat with an umbrella of immunity and an airconditioned limousine. He was tall and trim, his heavy brown hair
freshly cut, golden rimmed sun glasses fixed above a straight nose
and relaxed pensive mouth. He wore a two-buttoned, light blue linen
suit over a white cotton shirt and slim dark grey pinstriped tie. The
man's skin was pretty fair and body was athletic.
Page 198
Chapter 10
His left hand rested easily in his trousers' pocket while the other
hand lay open in front of his body holding a cigarette between his
fingers. Razmak Bilal walked gracefully up the wide stone stabs of
entranceway, while a pair of Colombo policemen in navy blue kit
and caps was just passed looking at him, a bit impressed giving space
for him to enter. He resumed his serenity and levelled off before the
main desk, a wooden top filled with papers and a small silver hotel
bell. The desk was high and oversized and the corporal behind
attentively waited for him to speak.
Good morning, said Razmak as he approached the desk. The
accent seemed British, but he was certainly not Sri Lankan.
Morning, sir, the corporal replied in English.
I would like to speak with the officer in charge, please. Razmak
got right to the business.
The officer in charge?
Yes, your captain.
I am... He is at tea-break.
I would join him, said Razmak as he reached into his breast
pocket and produced a small Red booklet. He held it out over the
desktop close to the corporal's face and flipped it open with his
finger showing him the first page. Then he snapped it shut and put it
back inside his pocket.
The corporal starred him for a moment, weighing the
'diplomatic passport' which he ever had seen. He raised his finger
begging patience, picked up a phone from the cradle. A chatter of
Sinhalese, an apologetic nod into the handset, an embarrassed smile
at Razmak, and the corporal said, He is coming.
A full minute passed while Razmak stood and smoked, then the
wooden door to the reception foyer banged open and then a man
appeared through. He seemed as wide as he was short, with a bald
pellet head with steel-wool moustaches on his almost black face, but
the man retained formality by keeping his navy short jacket closed
over his belly in place.
Franco, Captain Franco Naike, The man boomed his own
name as he stomped up onto some kind wooden platform behind
the desk and slammed his palms onto the countertop making the
papers flutter, the corporal shy away and the bell sat on the top clang.
Razmak did not move. Then slowly, he reached up and carefully
Page 199
Chapter 10
removed his sunglasses, folding them with one hand and gave the
captain both barrels of his ice-brown stare.
The captain's posture weakened a bit, some of winds out of his
sails.
Hayat Gul, said Razmak. Major Hayat Gul.
Razmak produced the passport again, holding it close to the
Franco's eyes. Franco took the passport, perused the document and
returned it back.
How may I help you?
May we speak privately?
I am at break. Have a seat for....
It can't wait, Captain. Perhaps your superior officer is
available.
Franco raised its palms in surrender. He swiped his moustache.
Come.
The captain marched through the doorway again and Razmak
walked around the desk, following slowly enough so that the
policeman would have to wait for him.
He emerged into a large open floor with the features common to
urban police stations worldwide. Rows of scattered wooden desks
lined the walls and facing each other with at small chest height
wooden partition like work place. Two large metal standing fans kept
hundreds of flimsy papers dancing on the desk tops and ancient
peeled desktop computer monitors with their mingled cables falling
on the floor. The hall had two water coolers, a pathetic jungle of
neglected plants and collection of notice boards hanging on the wall
holding some of the notices yellowed by age and weather. The police
officers in uniform and plainclothes were all male. They wore navy
blue kits with white belts. A few busy on the keyboard as their pistol
holsters hanging on the back of their chairs.
Razmak stopped just inside the doorway, where he perused the
room slowly. He made certain that Franco had also stopped and had
turned to look at him.
This way please, the captain called out through the clatters of
telephones and printers as he held open a peeling grey door at the
left side of the hall and gestured for Razmak to enter.
The captain's office was a large enough, with a cream colour tiles
partially covered by a synthetic blue carpet. Franco moved quickly
Page 200
Chapter 10
Chapter 10
Chapter 10
Chapter 10
Chapter 10
________
Page 205
Page 206
Chapter 10
Zanzibar
Chapter 11
Next Morning
Sahel Farhaj had not had much strength to move forward. He was
about to faint.
He stood in the arrival lounge of the Zanzibar's Kisauni
International Airport, looking down at the peeled dusty marble
floor. He lifted his hand and saw his fingers trembled. He had not
eaten anything since last night, and low glucose in his blood made
his body swing above his knees and aching feet.
He had continuously been flying right from Colombo airport to
Nairobi throughout the night and had caught connected Precision
Airline's flight of seven o clocks in the morning for Zanzibar.
He raised his head slowly and looked for a support and took
couple of careful steps to the exit until he could reach out of the
airport building.
He crossed the exit slowly and exposed himself to bright sun
shine. He blinked his eyes to adjust and looked around and turned
left in search of some place to sit. For a moment he was engulfed by a
group of tourists as they flowed around him like trout passing a rock
in midstream, chattering and trotting after someone who yelled,
Thees way, thees way please.
Sahel found a wooden bench under a green fibre shelter fixed
near the small parking lot for the drivers to pick the passengers and
Page 207
Chapter 11
Chapter 11
carefully. He had a small round face with distant glasses on his nose.
He passed a wide toothy smile and asked, Are you meester Farhaaj?
as if he had already approached a hundred others with disappointing
results.
I might be. Sahel astonished thinking who knew him here?
The man stopped and frowned. Are you not shoor? The last
word he spoke in his African Swahili accent.
I would give you thousand Shilling to see the leather of your
belt, said Sahel.
Without thinking the African opened his jacket with both hands
and examined his own waist, wondering why this crazy foreigner
would be interested in his belt.
Sahel, satisfied that the man was unarmed, handed him the
notes.
Asante, the man thanked him. I have a letter for you.
Of course, said Sahel, his tone exhibiting tired surrender,
feeling like a pathetic old man dancing to the whims of young and
beautiful fashion model. He reached out and took the small
envelope. Inside was a folded piece of paper. He opened it to see one
sentence neatly scripted in English.
Would you care to join me at the Kempinski for my hospitality? It was
signed by Abu Faraz.
Sahel almost laughed. Abu Faraz had been one of the most
ruthless of Afghans, a hero to Afghan Muslims for his war against
the Russians. He had once invited all of his Afghan enemies to his
Hirat palace for peace talks. Once inside the gates he had those all
slaughtered. He immediately rolled the note into a ball out of habit
and put it into his jeans pocket.
I have been waiting many hours for you, said the African
hinting openly at his expected tip.
I hope you were well paid.
I was paid.
I don't suppose, you actually saw the man, did you?
The letter and the instructions and the money were all paid by
one of the counter boy here, meester Farhaj.
Naturally. Do you have any further instructions?
Only to take you wherever you wish.
To the Kempinski perhaps, said Sahel.
Page 209
Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Chapter 11
your cell while you allowed a terrorist and murderer to escape your
grasp.
Franco pulled at his moustache for a while as Sahel held his
breath. Then the captain decided that he had had enough for one
day.
You will have to post substantial bail attested by your Embassy
said the captain.
Alright.
And you will have to return here for... How it is said?
Depositions perhaps.
Yes sure. I'll give you in writing.
Jay! Franco yelled. The keys.
They held Sahel, saying the passport have to be examined in
laboratory. And the bail posting was painful. Sahel asked full
description of 'Hayat Gul' and a follow up on his movement, but
Franco declined on all counts. He had to release Pakistani official
but he did not have to help him.
Still fuming with the rage of humiliation and impotence, Sahel
went to Colombo airport. He examined the flights left this
international terminal since Razmak's expected departure until this
time and noted that only three flights had departed in that spell of
time--- to London, Dubai and Zanzibar via Nairobi. He washed up,
calmed himself, pasted a smile and concerned look on his face, and
every counter inquired as to whether his 'cousin' Mr Hayat Gul had
boarded the particular flight. He had to find him, he maintained.
The man's mother has suffered a severe heart attack.
He was almost certain that the answer would come at Kenya
Airways, and so it did. For Lieutenant Rati Asma Farooqui, after her
best role played as 'Shabana Mir' in Kabul, was posted as Liaison
officer in Pakistan Consulate office at Zanzibar and she was
probably the next 'prey' on Razmak's list. He had to wait for two
hours to make many connected flights into one to reach at Zanzibar,
unable to eat, drink or think....
Sahel opened his eyes. The taxi had stopped, but by the looks of
the buildings and the angle of the disappearing sun, they were only
in Kwebona at the southern end of the Jozani National park. The
driver was out of the taxi and was poking his grimy face into the
Page 214
Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Chapter 11
They led Sahel to the main building, and waited for a while in
front of the entrance. A quick click produced a tray into the wall
beside entrance and Sahel dropped his passport into it. It slammed
back and shut, and after another minute the secondary door buzzed
and the two men escorted him into the consulate.
He found himself in a large, arched reception hall. The building
had probably once been someone's palace. Although reception
hours were over, many of the government workers were still at their
tasks. As they passed through the area, someone stopped to stare at
him.
Khan, the Chief of Security, came into the expensive room. He
put his hands on his hips and looked Sahel over without removing
his sunglasses. He wore them to frustrate recognition, for he was
thinkable target at any time especially once facing the stranger.
Al right, the conversation recommenced in Urdu. What's the
problem?
I have to see Asma Farooqui.
We have no such person here.
Of course not, but I have to see her anyway.
I am afraid, we can't help you. Are you lost?
I am not an ex-husband or jealous lover. Get yourself a second
secretary, a note pad and let us talk.
The chief looked Sahel over. The costume was weird, dried punk
hair, face full of tiredness, and nerves stricken. However, the man was
clearly not a simple tourist in distress. He seemed to know the drill.
Johny, he gestured to one of the guards. Take him upstairs to
room 105 and wait for me.
The two NSS men escorted up Sahel a long stone stairway. He
looked at the face of every by-passer female worker hoping to spot
Asma, but the strangers returned his frank gaze with disdainful
expression. Room 105 was simply an empty room with a desk, four
chairs and fan hanging up in the roof. The chief returned with
another young man. By his age, modest suit and expression of
enthusiasm, Sahel could see that he was not of the rank assigned to
tasks of any important.
Sahel sat down in a chair, wanting very badly to appear
composed and rational. He looked up at the four men.
How about a cigarette?
Page 218
Chapter 11
Khan produced a pack of Golf Leaf. Sahel looked at the pack and
took one surprisingly, how he is managing this brand over here, and
lit it.
Okay, let's hear it, said the officer as he looked at his own
cigarette lighting.
Fine, but can we keep the guests to a minimum? Sahel asked.
The Officer looked at Sahel then he nodded to Khan and two of
the guards left the room. They knew their boss can handle this alone.
Sahel smoked for a moment, considering how much he should
say...
Al right, first of all Asma Farooqui is in danger of being killed.
He put up a hand. And No, don't say it that you have never heard of
her. But if you have heard of her, and she is in the consulate, don't let
her leave.
The second secretary began to write furiously on the notepad.
And if she is not in the consulate, find her and put a team on her
round the clock. No better than that ship her home tomorrow on the
first available flight.
The chief kept on smoking and listening quietly to Sahel. He put
one foot on the empty chair.
Okay, Boss we understand this, but who are you?
You have my passport.
All right, Mr Sahel, one again who are you?
Sahel knew what the question meant. It does not matter, he
said. Just do it as I said for God's sake, and we will play policeman
later.
Khan watched his for another thirty seconds, while Sahel
returned his stare without blinking.
Johny! the chief called out and one of his officers appeared
almost immediately. Khan took the second secretary's note book,
scribbled something on it, tore off the sheet and handed it to his
man. Johny left quickly.
Sahel looked on them and headed off the interrogation.
Look, I can't give you the details, I want to but I can't, he felt
stupid playing the game, but old habits die hard. He knew it really
didn't matter now while telling them the truth about him and all as
his career was over now.
I served in the 45th GG regiment. My Unit Commandant was
Page 219
Chapter 11
Colonel Niaz.
And then...? the chief asked.
And then, I was transferred to some other assignment, you want
to land us both in Adiala prison.
Khan was fairly sure that he was dealing with a professional now,
but his own code of conduct demanded some more caution.
You want to play some more geography; we will probably wind
up related. Sahel continued.
Khan actually smiled and second secretary laughed.
So that's all, the chief asked. You are worried about this Asma
Farooqui.
Sahel considered his next move. If Asma was still alive, then
would probably be safe very soon. The NSS people had to act on the
tip. And that was his job. Sahel knew that his own run was now over.
They might hold him for more questioning, delay his departure for
home. And in the meantime Razmak Bilal was out there, and who
knew where he would go next?
There is one more thing, said Sahel.
What's it? Khan asked.
It's big thing. Sahel took a deep breath. It's information about
Razmak Bilal.
The chief put his foot back on the floor and placed his hands on
his hips. Sahel could see his face squeezed a bit and in disbelief as it
crossed the man's eyes.
Razmak Bilal, the terrorist?
Yes, said Sahel.
Razmak is dead from all the reports.
No, he is not dead.
Khan and second secretary exchanged looks.
Razmak is not dead?
From the new tone that had arisen into the chief's voice. Sahel
knew that he had lost his credibility. Both men were now observing
him like some scientific experiment gone away.
He is very much alive. Sahel pressed on.
And I suppose you know where he is?
Yes, he is here at the Kempinski.
Even as Sahel said it, Razmak's brilliance washed over him like a
shock wave from a nuclear blast. Yes, he knew for certain that the
Page 220
Chapter 11
Kempinski was exactly where Razmak would be, why? Because it was
too simple to believe by any sane professional that he would be there.
Razmak knew that Sahel would be found mad by anyone whose aid
he attempted to procure. That's why the terrorist had left note,
inviting him to dinner.
So, the chief was growing angry now, Razmak Bilal staying at
the Kempinski, is he?
And Abu Faraz at the Matoni Marina, I hear. The second
secretary spoke his first words of the encounter. And Baitullah
Masood is signing in at the Dunga Kwibini Resort Club tonight.
Al right, I am not arguing you. Just let me see Asma. See her face,
see that she's alive. Then you can put me in a straitjacket and ship me
to Islamabad.
The chief shrugged his shoulders. You are behaving like a
madman. I don't know who the hell you are, and you are not going
to see Asma Farooqui or anyone else. You calm down and I have to
check you out. He turned and called out into the hallway again.
Johny.
The young guard came back to the room. Entertain this
gentleman, while we go over to communications. Khan ordered.
The Chief motioned to second secretary to accompany him.
They left the room and closed the door while Johny stood over Sahel
and looked at him.
Sahel knew exactly what was now going to happen with him. He
envisioned the telexes and flash messages, the orders that would
soon have him immobilised. But he could no longer be sure that
Asma would be protected, and he was damn sure that Razmak had
not done his work.
He looked at the young Johny and he smiled.
Where you from, Johny?
The guard did not answer immediately.
I am from Jhelum, myself, said Sahel.
Me too. The ice cracked a bit.
Really, I am from Wadepore near Dena. Sahel grinned.
My folks lived near to Wadepore, village Hushman. Johny
retuned a smiled.
Johny, Sahel said as he rubbed his right knee. I have to stand
up. I have got a bad leg in last Exercise 'Zarab e Karar' in Murree.
Page 221
Chapter 11
Chapter 11
his voice for hospitality was the greatest feature of the Africans.
Yaqub, you must do two things for me now. Maybe three.
What should I do meester Farhaaj?
You will take me to someone you know, perhaps someone in
Stone Town, not too far inside, as we have to go north again after
that.
Who will it be meester Farhaaj?
Someone who may give me a change of clothes, a shirt and a
trouser.
There was silence from the front seat. It was clear what Yaqub was
thinking.
Meester Farhaaj, the African said after a long pause, I do not
want a trouble with the police.
I am not a criminal, Yaqub. I swear by Allah, but I am in danger
and I must change these cloths.
Silence again. Then, I know someone in Stone Town.
Good, now one more thing, Yaqub.
Yes?
I want you to get me a dagger.
The image of the dagger made Yaqub gasp, please meester, it's
too much.
Don't worry, Yaqub. I will not harm anyone.
Then why do you want a dagger. Yaqub was not a fool. You
don't need such a dagger for cutting carrots.
I promised it to someone.
To be shoor, Yaqub wanted to be sure.
Look, Yaqub, Sahel began to bargain as they came across
Kitogani and were about to cross Jozani National park. I'll give you
all the money, I have left.
Sahel could see Yaqub's face with indifferent smile. Forgive me;
boss, but perhaps you only have a few dollars left.
I have two hundred dollars, when you are done with me, it's
yours.
Two hundred dollars were more than Yaqub could fetch in two
months.
Mungu awabariki, Yaqub wished the foreigner 'God bless you'
as he turned the car towards Stone Town.
Page 223
Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Page 227
Page 228
Chapter 11
No Amity
Chapter 12
Who are you, a soldier or a damn civi?
Colonel AK Zawri voice banged off the walls of his office like a
bombshell.
A soldier!
Zawri pounded on his desk top and the pencils and the papers
bounced as he marched around it like an attacking soldier, put his
legs up to the knees, his chest full packed with air.
You are not some goddamn corporate executive in an Italian cut
suit, running around Asia and Africa whenever you damn well
please. You are a soldier, and you will follow orders, and if you can't
follow orders then you will be subject to the same disciplines of any
pathetic person in the army. Is that clear?
Sahel sat in a wooden chair in the middle of the room like a
murder suspect at a police interrogation. They had been at it for over
an hour, or rather, Zawri had been at it, for most of the hearing
consisted Colonel's wild bullshit with Sahel's attempts to explain
himself.
Sahel was long past exhausted. His body felt like burning in hell
and perhaps he had not yet felt the severe fever which had been
dwelling in his bones, his stomach agitate and his legs made him
wish they have opted for elimination.
Yet Abdul Karim Zawri dressing down, replete with
Page 229
Chapter 12
exaggeration, insults and threats was far more painful than Sahel's
physical condition. And even more the frustrating fact that the
major Dilshad stood there the entire time, saying absolutely nothing.
I asked you a question, Sahel. Zawri was leaning over him now,
arms folded across his chest and sticking his nose in Sahel's face.
What was the question? Sahel asked quietly.
Do you correctly understand your position in this unit?
Yes.
Do you understand your duties and obligations as an army
officer?
Yes.
Do you realise that I could send you down to prison Zero for
half a year for being AWOL?
Yes.
Good. The Colonel backed away and stood against the desk. It
was well past 8.00 AM and outside, Islamabadian had commenced
their day with great passion as usual. However the SpecOp NSB
building was in repose except for the remote clacking of the telex
machines from Communication on Floor Two.
Then, I assume you also understand my displeasure.
Not exactly, Sahel said simply. Actually it seemed out of
proportion.
This is too much! Zawri stamped up onto his foot and began
to pace again, but this time he turned to Major Dilshad, who sat
passively on another chair along the wall.
Dilshad, this is all your fault.
Mine? Dilshad placed a hand over his chest.
Yes, yours Zawri stared at Dilshad as he pointed a finger in
Sahel's direction. This man is insubordinate, devious and
unapologetic.
Dilshad almost suppressed his laugh. I was his field
commander, sir, not his father.
I'll take the blame. Major Shahzad stood over near the
windows, one foot up on a chair's lower part, clicking his teeth on his
cold pipe stem. If that's what you are looking for.
Don't get smart with me, Shahzad. Zawri warned him. You
are all close to transfers. He put a thumb and finger together to
show how close they were.
Page 230
Chapter 12
You can't transfer me, Zawri, Farhat said. The NSS Major was
leaning against a corner wall, smoking. I don't work for you.
The Colonel looked over at the NSS man as if he is seeing him at
the first time.
Remind me Farhat. What are you doing here?
You asked for NSS team to pick him up at the airport, said
Farhat and he shrugged. If you don't want to secure eggs, then don't
keep a live hen. It had double meaning yet Zawri ignored it.
He is going to penetrate now. Sahel voice was soft, quite
drained of.
Don't start this again, Sahel. The Colonel snapped.
Al right, said Sahel, but he is.
Uh, Qadri moaned from where he sat near Zawri's desk. He
was so pleased to be wearing a uniform.
Rabia, Zawri turned to his secretary. She was a plain looking
girl with dry black hair, and she looked like as she had woken from a
pleasant post-coital sleep.
You can type up the report and go home.
The girl nodded and rose from her chair. She had been almost
spent whole of the night in office, since they have got news of Sahel
Farhaj. Sahel had repeated his story three times and she had enough
notes for a novella. He left the room.
Come on, sir, Sahel sighed. It's only logical.
Logic? Zawri fumed again. Logic? You go running off like a
schoolboy and you are selling me logic.
Forget about me for a minute and look at the facts.
Believe me; I'd love to forget about you. However, the fact is,
that Razmak, if this is Razmak, may be a fanatic, but he is certainly
not suicidal.
For a moment Sahel allowed himself the luxury of a small
success. Al right, he had failed miserably in his attempts to ambush
the terrorist. But at least Zawri was no longer putting down the claim
that Razmak had resurfaced. If nothing else, Sahel's venture had
brought the truth to light and perhaps Zawri would finally take
some action.
In fact Abdul Karim Zawri was much more firmly convinced
now of enemy activity than he let on. He had listened to Sahel's story,
and then made him repeat it twice. The Colonel was an ambitious
Page 231
Chapter 12
Chapter 12
Chapter 12
Chapter 12
You are telling me, Sahel? What are you telling me? Colonel
advanced on his shabby captain, critically.
Dilshad, this man is now unbearable. Zawri shouted.
He is trying to express himself, Sir Zawri, Said Dilshad.
He is coming straight for Islamabad, Sir, Sahel groaned. He
shot a finger at the commander. Straight on your face and you are
playing right into his hands again, just like a fool.
A what?
I know this man, better than you and better than anyone in this
room. Sahel's bloodshot eyes were burning. And if you'd listened
to me last week, Captain Tanveer would still be alive.
As he had said it, an icy silence engulfed the office. No one
moved. Finally Zawri walked behind his desk and sit down. He
folded his hands together and placed them on the green leather top
of the desk.
Rabia, he shouted. No one spoke while Zawri and Sahel stared
at each other like two cats. The secretary came back into the room
clutching a notepad in her hand, as she always did.
Sit, Colonel ordered.
She sat.
Take this for the record. Zawri gestured to her note pad.
Qadri hearing the shouting match, had reappeared in the room.
Captain Sahel Farhaj, Zawri tone altogether had changed to
one of imposed calm, though his anger had not left his face. The
word 'fool' was invented for officers such as yourself. As of this
moment, you face summery Court-Martial for unauthorised leave.
Verdict?
Guilty.
Sentence?
Two months suspension at half pay, forfeiture of all casual
leaves until further notice and disallowance of all related expenses.
The Colonel knew his man's personal record. He knew how to
hit them and where. He knew Sahel's financial problems, his
apartment and his wife's longing for a holiday with her husband. He
knew too much of him.
To be as a stony, he slammed his palm onto his desk top.
Dismissed.
Sahel could not move. He was stunned. His hands opened and
Page 235
Chapter 12
Chapter 12
haunted Zawri and he hadn't been managed to slip through the net
at ministry.
Even as junior officer, Zawri had been damn sure of him and
dislike admitting even the remote possibility of an error, unless it
could be proved to him. He had not made a mistake. He had
correctly identified Razmak Bilal, but then his team has allegedly
been set to kill the wrong man. His professional judgement was
sound, his instinct correct. There had been no error, only clever
enemy action which caused it and he knew it there was no fault even
at the team's action.
There was only one question still deep in his heart though never
surfaced officially, how and hadn't Zawri warned his men time and
again to be careful, to be absolute certain before action. Hadn't he
ordered them to withdraw, if there was even the slightest doubt?
Perhaps, if Sahel had also been self-righteous, bull headed refusing to
take the blame for the Kabul, but the Captain's pathetic acceptance
of the responsibility left the Colonel's heart cold and pitiless. As
commander of SpecOp, Zawri was ultimately responsible for Sahel's
screw-up, and the captain's admission that the murder of Zahir was
anything but an act of God. They could not help it and inquiry is
still kept unresolved at ministry.
A burning smell suddenly made Zawri jump to his seat. He
looked down realising that his cigar had slipped from his fingers
over a pile of papers on his desk that had taken sparked, no flame but
smoke and smell. He lifted the papers quickly shudder them over the
bin besides his legs. He saw the specks of grey ash floating in the air
like his own career set afloat in NSB. He felt threatened.
______
The National Security Service's team were already out in at
Islamabad International Airport, when the late morning EK 444
arrived from Dubai. Despite Zawri's apparent disdain for Sahel's
fantasies' the Colonel had reminded Farhat before dismissing him
from his office, that internal security was really the responsibility of
the NSS. Farhat did not need to be instructed. With three Pakistan
army officers now dead, and the theories of NSB captain, who
seemed perfectly sane to him, ringing in his ears, Farhat had already
Page 237
Chapter 12
Page 238
Dhok-Mahi
Chapter 13
Next week
Zoor Khan had never heard a word like 'terrorist.'
He knew nothing of sabotage and had never fired a weapon. He
had never fought with a commando knife. He was unable to
differentiate F-16 from a MIG-23 and had never attended a seminar
at Shah Madrissa in the village.
For a point of fact, even as a boy Zoor had not participated in
any anti-communist demonstrations. He had never thrown so much
as a glass marble at video shops, never climbed a telephone pole to
hoist Islamic flag under the mob uproar. Even on the walls of distant
well house, he had never dared to scribble wall chalking.
Zoor Khan was first, last and eternally a musician. As far as acts
of terror, his only crimes along those lines would have been the
occasional alarming of his neighbour's sheep when he would forget
himself and practice his flute past the midnight hours.
Zoor lived alone in a small mud house on far northern corner at
the edge of the huge orchard of apple trees. He was short, slim,
slightly hunched at shoulders fellow contrasting his name whose
love for music had superseded all attractions to materialism, politics
or money. Or perhaps Zoor's own recognition of his physical
detriments, he had found his beloved instrument an excuse for his
social indolence.
Page 239
Chapter 13
Zoor, for the most part, played his flute in a local classical
quarter. Given that the indigenous inhabitants of Dhok-Mahi, a
village on the GT Road from Islamabad to Peshawar, had little
appreciation for this kind of music, the audience were usually from
the civil service or military personnel or often Europeans relaxed at
the evening cafe, which soothed their minds by working in the
refugee camps under the auspices of UN flag. He was not paid for
these concerts, though he did manage to gather a few rupees teaching
a couple of students from the adjoining villages. He taught the boys
the harmonium and piccolo as well.
Apart from his flute, Zoor's only apparent obsession was his
radio. Had been fortunate enough to have friends or family, they
might have noticed that his incongruous portable Panasonic radiotape only received attention from the hours of seven to eight each
morning. No matter what Zoor Khan never failed to hear the
breakfast from Radio Kogon in Uzbekistan. The morning broadcast
in Persian was one of the popular shows in Afghanistan and some
part of Pakistan. On the very few occasions when he had known that
he might miss the program, he had laboriously taped down the
Panasonic record button and carefully fixed a light timer.
In those rare days Zoor was as nervous as a camel in snowstorm.
Like an obsessive-compulsive worrying over a range on short-length
wave, he would recheck his tape over and over before leaving his
house. However, his fear was justified, as if he missed the program
just once on the wrong day, his stipend, his livelihood and his music
would be gone forever. Not to mention his life.
Zoor was a classic sleeper, although he would have not
recognised the term. He did not know who paid him, nor the full
scope of his mission, and for his Master he existed only to perform a
single act.
He sat at a small table in the kitchen corner of his room. Unlike
most of his neighbours' homes, his modest two room mud house
had better furniture, although the chairs, table and a shabby wooden
bed were leftovers donated by his UN admirers. He rejected the
notion that to be a true Pathan, you had to consume your meals
while seated cross-legged on a carpet or some nylon-mat like a
prisoner of war.
He sipped his tea and reread a program from a recent
Page 240
Chapter 13
Chapter 13
green telephone, which had once been gifted by some of his Pakistani
friend who used to work in Telecommunication Department
installing telephone cables at UN office.
He looked somehow mesmerised, fallen into his thoughts,
shocked by the wash of relief and the rising heat of fear that clashed
in his brain. His hands appeared before his face like disembodied
limbs as they reached for the telephone, and the number popped up
from his brain as clearly as if it were blinking on there.
He dialled the number thinking that it would not work. After so
many years, it was impossible. The line would be dead, or the
number changed, or if it did actually ring through, the party would
have long since departed.
Hello, a deep voice answered almost immediately.
Zoor Khan could barely get it out. He felt that he should chat
first, maybe establish that he had the right person on the other end.
But his instructions were very much clear, the phrases burned into
him.
This is Zoor Khan, he croaked. Then he cleared his throat. He
did not want to have to repeat himself. I just want to wish you a
Merry Christmas, In case I'll be out of town.
There was no response, just silence coursing down the wire. Zoor
hung up.
He began to move more quickly now. He could almost taste his
freedom and he started to fantasize as he hurried through the house.
No longer would he be chained to his small breakfast table, no
longer would he be afraid of fatigue, cold with dread, he might have
overslept. Tonight when he returned, he would smash the hateful
Panasonic. So he would miss a few evening FM Islamabad music
concerts but he would buy another radio-tape, a clean, new,
innocent, virgin one.
He walked toward the wash basin installed in one corner of the
kitchen, and found a hammer and a stone chisel wrapped in shabby
cloth. He took them to his bedroom and with his meagre muscles he
hauled on his wooden closet until it came away from the wall. He
pushed it aside with his shoulders then remembered the front door,
ran to lock it and returned.
His hands were shaking as he bent to the task, chipping at the
loose cement that held the jagged stone in place. It seemed like an
Page 242
Chapter 13
hour until he was finally able to dislodge the stone in the wall and
though the morning was cool; the sweat ran through his eyes and
dripped at the end of the nose. His glasses were fogged into
uselessness and he folded them into the front pocket of his shirt.
He lifted the long cloth package from the moist hole in the wall
and he jumped back as a huge spider ran between his legs. The
package fell clanging dully on the stone floor. He lifted it again and
un-wrapped the dusty cloth.
Inside was a short, wide steel tube. One end was widened like the
bell. The middle was encircled with polished wood like some musical
instrument. However the other end was threaded two short turns, he
had even seen. He did not know what it was and he did not care.
He replaced the stone and the closet and he brushed up the floor
and the dust around, then from inside the closet he reached for his
old big flute case and laid it on the bed.
There were many times that he wanted a new case for his old
fashioned flute lay loosely inside the maroon velvet cover. But the
case had been gift from someone long ago with a note that he should
not divest himself of it.
Then he reached for another velvet cloth into his closet. He
pulled it out and spread it on the bed as if something is being rolled
into it. He politely laid the iron tube onto the spread velvet sheet and
rolled its corners to fix in it. The extra cloth he cut with the scissor
and stitched it like a case of the pipe. Now apparently it becomes
something like a musical instrument wrapped in velvet cloth.
He picked his all items and put in a shoulder's bag and left the
home quickly, hurrying to catch the bus for Camp Tober Khan. He
felt he was carrying a cobra and he wanted to get rid of it before it bit
him.
_______
Unlike Zoor Khan, Aminullah Jansher was not a stranger to iron
hardware.
His tiny workshop at Murree Road outside Islamabad looked
like an aftermath of an explosion in a toilet factory. Everywhere you
looked, there were piles of jagged steel and cement drain pipes,
ceramic sink parts, broken bath tiles and sanitary wares. The smoke
Page 243
Chapter 13
Chapter 13
Chapter 13
Chapter 13
Chapter 13
attention. He said; tell the man of the house that I send him good
wishes for an early Christmas.
Haji stared the boy not quite believing him.
Christmas, Jamal, the man said really Christmas?
Yes, Father.
Did he say anything else?
No, Father.
Are you sure?
Yes, Father.
Then Haji did something he had not done since Jamal was a
toddler. He reached up and kissed him on the cheek. Then he patted
the soft skin.
You are a good boy, Jamal.
His son was shocked. Tears came to his eyes, almost as he has
been slapped. The blinding smile overcame his lips.
Thank you, Father.
Good boy, Haji smiled too. Now, run and bring me my
trowel.
Your trowel?
Yes quickly.
Jamal turned and ran toward the house. In a moment he
returned with a short tool in one hand, his brother Jalal and sister
Amina were following close behind.
Haji took the tool. He looked at his three children. Both his sons
were handsome, but his daughter was too petite to be imagined in
her age and also had a bit limb in her right leg and she was the
youngest.
Look children, Haji said as kindly as he could manage. There
was no telephone call. Do you understand?
The boys looked at him blankly, yet his daughter was not even
listening. In fact she looked more interested in the small
watermelons drooping on the vines placed on the mud hedges.
You must pretend that there was no telephone call. Do you
understand that?
There was a bit more light in their eyes. Both the boys nodded.
Now go back in the house, and don't come out until I call for
you.
The boys just stood there.
Page 248
Chapter 13
Go now.
The boys spun around and called Amina to join them and ran
away.
Haji turned back toward the eastern grove. There were only three
four trees on his property. He walked to the first. The other three
trees were almost fifty meters away, ten meters apart on a line to the
first. He counted twenty steps and quickly knelt to the earth, this
time ignoring his knees and feeling no pain in his spine.
He started digging and kept on for a long time, perhaps an hour,
and when he was done the top of the long meter crate lay exposed at
the bottom of a hole half a meter deep. The surface of the grey
strongbox had long been encrusted with mineral deposits and rust
from years of exposure to the grove's watery roots, but the integrity
of the steel appeared intact.
Haji did not expect to be able to lift from the hole; instead he
preferred to open it. He used the blade of the tool and pried it open.
There were two long packages in the box. Each one was a many
layered wrapping of the kind of thick clear plastic that is used in
packing of the electronic goods for sale. Inside each wrapping there
were two dull-green tubes. Of each pair, one of the tubes was simple,
half an arm in length. The other tube was more meaningful, as at one
end was an ugly steel head. Each head looked like two green cones
joined at the mouths with one point melting with the tube, while the
other exposed tip was covered with a protective cap.
Haji rose painfully from the whole. He began to search through
his grove selecting two of the largest watermelons. With his curved
tool, he freed them from their vines and rolled them over to the open
crater.
He reached to his Shalwar's inside pocket and came up with a
sharp knife. He opened the knife. He cut a square piece around ten
centimetres of each side in the watermelon and pulled out a red piece
like normally customers in Pakistan used to cut before they buy it to
check whether it was red and sweet. Then he pushed one of his hands
inside watermelon and scooped with his fingers to pull out all fruit
outside until the ground was littered with pulpy red entails and his
arms were covered with black seeds.
A few more scooping, and some careful pushing and
manoeuvring and both the plastic cocoons were hidden inside the
Page 249
Chapter 13
melons. He put the cut pieces again on the mouth of the melons.
Finally, Haji pushed all the littering into the metal box, closed it and
refilled the hole with the fresh pile of earth. He stamped it all down
and pulled on some vines until the scar was covered.
He sat down, his was almost sweating and soaked through and he
took some time to catch his breath. At last he managed to cry out.
Jamal, bring some water for me.
The boy must have watching from somewhere as he came
sprinting from the house holding a copious jug of water in his one
hand and a steel glass in other hand. He handed over the Jug and
glass to his father. Haji took both and filled the glass and gulped it
one swallow.
Help me up. Haji said to his waiting son.
He pulled him to his feet, and like a king's tailor he brushed him
off and smoothed his shirt, cleaned his soiled arms and washed his
hands with the remaining water in the jug.
Today, we will begin to sell in Islamabad. Haji announced as he
straightened his back and lifted his head high.
But Father, we always start it in the village.
Islamabad, I told you, said Haji. And he begin to stride towards
their Suzuki pickup, he turned and pointed at the hewed melons.
Place those two melons at the bottom of the pile on the
pickup.
Jamal sprang to the melons, heavier now than any such prizes
they had ever grown. He lifted up and stunned after his father, who
was striding as he had not done in twenty years, he set turban on his
head.
He lifted his finger of caution.
And if you sell them, he warned. I'll sell you.
_______
Page 250
Sunroom
Chapter 14
An Evening of Late August.
Sahel was running in a deep trench clouded by the fire ablaze on
his head.
Everything was going wrong. Sound of the mortar and heavy
artillery deafening his ears. He had no strength even to hold his gun.
He was shouting over to his soldiers who had already opened counter
fire from their CP- Howitzer and Mortars. They had a sudden attack
by the enemy on the last hour of the night. He wondered how he had
been awaking all the night thinking about his limp, perhaps his sixth
sense ignited which took him to his soldiers in the bunker.
Suddenly one of his best soldier caught by a mortar shell and he
fell down on the ground squeezing his legs to his belly without any
scream. Sahel grabbed his face up and turned his legs straight and
made lay him on his back. He had a big cut in his left rib. Sahel tried
to pull out the piece of the shell but it had already penetrated deep
inside and the fainted soldier with heavy bleeding muttered
something, which he could not hear in thunderous noise. He pushed
his left arm beneath soldier's neck and pulled it upward and lowered
his own ear to his mouth tried to listen what the man wanted to say
Guns noise was slamming into his ears as his eyes widened with
the horror when the soldier took his last breath as his neck once
stiffened and suddenly softened and face turned to one side. He
Page 251
Chapter 14
abruptly forcefully pushed his chest with his right palm and without
waiting further he hit him on his chest, but in vain. There was no
sound of anymore breath. He was shocked and horrified. Amid
gunfire and howitzer's blowing noise, he pulled him to his chest as
some father grabbed his son dying helplessly on the bed in front of
so many doctors and attendants.
Dying of a soldier in his arms made him feeble inside and he
screamed dreadfully.
______
Amber was sobbing in her sleep. In the soft blue light of the
night bulb that slanted on them from the sidewall. Sahel could see
her curled up at the edge of the bed, her arms covering her neck. He
looked down. He was sitting upright on the soaked sheet, the only
sound his wife's sobbing breath. On his lap was a crumpled pillow. A
piece of its cloth case was torn away. He looked at his left hand. A
ball of the right cotton was clutched in his fist.
He put his hand to his clammy forehead and he squeezed the
temples trying to emerge from the horrid tunnel of his
subconscious. What day was this? He tried to remember. Yet it was
not day it was night-time.
Fragments of his combat with the enemies still jabbed at him
from that other world, so he accepted with some relief that his cold
fear was merely the product of a dream. Then he began to wonder if,
to hope even, that all of his discomfort might be unreal. Had he
really been in war? Were his senses transmitting some warning
signals? May be his confrontation with Col. Zawri and his courtmartial and suspension were also merely lucid dream production?
He lay back on the sheet, cold with his own evaporating seat. He
reached out to the bedside table and brought the luminous face of
the watch close to his eyes, six o' clock. It was almost dark outside. It
was six o' clock at evening.
Then he remembered and groaned.
His soldier's death was a dream. The rest of it was as real as the
white ceiling above him. He realized with a degree of disgust that he
had been sleeping since noon. He had arrived at home in the
morning, cursing Zawri, cursing the service and cursing Dilshad for
Page 252
Chapter 14
Chapter 14
Chapter 14
locked and stiff. Dilshad removed the files under his armpit and
reached out slowly to the pistol and slipped the cocked hammer and
the firing pin back to its place.
Did you really think that I would leave you in the field?
Dilshad asked with some hurt in his tone.
Sahel stared at the Major, feeling suddenly ashamed. Beyond
Dilshad's shoulder, up on the next door, he saw the alarmed face of a
white haired lady peering from her door. Sahel forced a weak smile
and found his voice.
It's all right, Mrs Bashir, he said. I thought it was some
burglar.
The old lady returned a sceptical nod, yet she retreated and
closed the door.
Sahel backed into his apartment and Dilshad followed. His hand
still kept the pistol as he closed the door with his foot.
It's okay, said Sahel. And Dilshad released the magazine into
his left hand and gave the back the pistol and magazine to Sahel.
Dilshad found the light switch. He could see how frightened
Sahel had been, as the captain's skin was slick with sweat. He did not
bother to apologise.
I almost killed you.
Dilshad shrugged. Unintentionally, I would hope.
Sahel did not respond to the humour. So, said Dilshad.
What's the answer?
To what? Sahel looked puzzled.
Are you ready for battle?
Am I ready? His tone was somewhat different.
I would think, after all these years, said Dilshad, that you
realised that my silence in that fool's office was not the result of
some newly acquired shyness.
Then what was it?
Strategy of course.
I see, said Sahel. He rose from the table. Dilshad I am now
tired.
So am I, you just slept too much.
I have other consideration, now.
Ah, Bhai Dilshad, we are expecting baby. Amber's voice
surprised Dilshad. She was standing in the bedroom door. She must
Page 255
Chapter 14
have been quite frightened by the episode, but she could not help
smiling as she released the news.
What a pleasant surprise, Dilshad slapped his palms together
and danced a little with his shoulders twist and fingers up in a
Pakistani fashion.
Sahel too could not help smiling. Pretty presumptuous of you
Dilshad.
I am an arrogant Bastard, Dilshad said. It's wonderful news,
Bhabi, Kuch ho jaye.
Amber obeyed gladly, bounding for the kitchen. Dilshad looked
at Sahel. It's all the more reason, he said.
You can't quit now.
I am pretty much been fired.
Not by me.
Amber appeared with a jug of orange and carrot juice with three
empty glasses.
Bahena! As he took the tray from her, Sahel is involved in a
crucial case. With your permission, he must carry it through. It
cannot succeed without him.
Dilshad did not wait for a response. He began to fill the glasses.
You don't need me.
That's a lie. Dilshad said to Amber, not even looking at Sahel.
This is so important, so vital that I need your approval to work here
with Sahel, outside the office, in absolute security.
Sahel did not know what Dilshad had in his mind, but he found
himself unable to resist his own obsession. And Amber, knowing
that Sahel need to serve was the essence of this being, found herself
compelled to give her assent.
The two men while she looked from one to another. She sighed.
Well, as usual, I have no idea what it's about. But if it is
important, I have to say yes, Sahel. She turned to Dilshad. The rest is
up to my husband, Dilshad Bhai.
More than half way home now, Dilshad turned to his captain.
If you can say no to this, then let's see you do it. He was actually
poking at Sahel, like a devil making a pitch for a soul. Sahel smiled
weakly in return.
Okay, major, for the last time I volunteer.
Good. Dilshad boomed. But wait, he put out a hand to stop
Page 256
Chapter 14
Sahel from raising the glass to his lips. We'll need more glasses.
He strode to the apartment door, pulled it open, put two fingers
into his mouth and made a single shriek as loud as police whistle.
While Amber and Sahel watched, Dilshad held the door like a butler
at a big restaurant.
After a moment, footsteps began to quicken up in the staircase.
First into the apartment was Khaki from Research Wing. He was
dressed up in blue T-shirt and white trousers and he carried a hard
black plastic case in one hand and a heavy gym bag hanging on other
shoulder. He looked at Amber and shyly returned his gaze away,
saying, Hello to Sahel as he sat the equipment on the floor.
The windows, Dilshad said to Khaki, and the young man
moved quickly to lower the blinds throughout the large lounge. As
he did so, he kept stealing glances on the mused haircut on Sahel's
head that had replaced his normal style.
Tariq appeared next breathing heavily as he grabbed two file
cases holding with his chest that looked too weigh as much as he did.
He sat down on one of the cases and wiped his semi bald head with a
handkerchief not bothering to greet anyone in the room.
Shaista with a leather bag on her shoulder, from the Cipher
Department, corrected her dupata, had to stop in the doorway and
steady herself. She was holding a Pepsi can in her one hand and
croaked. We can build a nuclear bomb, but we can't make a
goddamn decent elevator.
Major Shahzad pushed past her, grinning over his pipe stem. He
was carrying only a light briefcase and he winked at Sahel as he
stepped inside.
Sahel thought that his eyes could not open wider, yet they
expanded at the appearance of Farhat the NSS man. The convening
of NSB operation was risky enough, but involving other agencies
seemed like borderline dangerous. Farhat saw Sahel's look and just
shrugged, jerking his thumb toward Dilshad, as if the major had
somehow pushed him into participating.
A man whom Sahel did not know appeared in the doorway. He
was tall and broad shouldered, somehow firm, yet powerful looking.
He wore a white striped shirt and jeans. He was around forty with a
curly brown hair, needed an instant haircut, that crawled over his
collar. Despite the hour, he was wearing sunglasses, though they
Page 257
Chapter 14
Chapter 14
hand raising his eyes, until full minute of silence has elapsed.
Good. He clapped his hands together. Now speaking of
fathers, I have just discovered that Sahel here will be joining us again
after recovering from his deadly injuries and another ex-officio
member to this project would be Amber, who has graciously granted
full support to this mission in the name of her motherland, for
which I personally owe her lot of gratitude. He patted on the naked
shoulder of Sahel. After lot of congratulatory whoops and shouts,
Dilshad asked Anita to help Amber round up a sufficient number of
glasses from the kitchen.
When the juice was poured and as mismatched glasses
converged to clink together, Dilshad made his toast, To the 'new'
Sahel and to the success of operation Sunroom.
_______
By the time Sahel emerged from bathroom after taking his shower,
his home has already been transformed into a bustling outpost of
NSB's SpecOp. Wearing black jeans and a white T-shirt, he walked
bare footed along the lounge as he towelled off his hair. The
bedroom telephone had been pulled into the lounge, its white wire
taped down to the old carpet and its handset also secured to the
cradle with metallic cyber Wi-Fi link. A second black wire continued
from the telephone and along the floor to the Sahel's study at the far
corner of the flat. He followed it and poked his head into the office.
Khaki and Shaista did not bother to look up. The small man had
cleared Sahel's desk and set up a portable HP printer all-in-one on it,
he was busy connecting different devices to the machine. A laptop's
screen alongside the HP was now flickering progress in green
horizontal line as the computer letting the programs installed on it.
Shaista has pulled a chair up to another small makeshift table where
she was laying up the intercept files that came from Khaki's
'professional' briefcase. The intercepts were all decodes and
translations on thick stacks of folded computer paper. They were
having different colours each according to its source such as foreign
embassy, overseas intercept, emails, and landline telephone and
satellite transmission.
Sahel wondered how Dilshad had managed to get all this of topPage 259
Chapter 14
Chapter 14
morning in America. We will have to work fast and we'll work all
night.
What do you expect to get?
Just enough to prove our case, before Razmak strikes us again,
not a miracle, just a little hassle and one break-through, that's all we
need, then this time he can't escape.
Now go and dry off your head and come down back.
In the middle of the lounge, Shahzad and Jahangir were working
over a powerful satellite cellular phone and a machine of
interception. Shahzad as usual chewed enthusiastically his pipe stem
while Jahangir screwed a large antenna into the base unit. They
appeared to have hit it off, having discovered some mutual
discovery. They were conversing in many common things about
espionage.
Across the television set on the far wall unit, Farhat, the NSS
man was busy unhooking the roof aerial and affecting a connection
to a powerful field radio, a modified unit which he usually use in his
car to contact security units around the country.
Sahel dropped the towel on the railing and joined back Dilshad
at the round table and poured himself a cup of coffee. Already the
room beginning to go blue with cigarette smoke.
Are you clean? Dilshad abruptly asked him as Sahel sat down
before him.
As a virgin bride.
Now I have already taken the liberty of handing out
assignments.
Brief me.
Basically we are putting out requests to personal contacts in
different international intelligence agencies.
Asking what?
Updated information on all recent Razmak sightings or even
speculations.
The sighting will come up negative.
Probably.
Why do we need speculation?
To cover to our bare assess. We will keep the ones that match
our theories and throw the rest out.
Page 261
Chapter 14
Chapter 14
Chapter 14
And not too far from the truth, Amber looked at Sahel and
smiled.
She pulled a chair over to the dining room pass-through, picked
up the phone and began to dial.
Shhh, Dilshad hushed everyone in the room as he gestured
toward Amber.
Sahel leaned toward Dilshad and whispered. What's on in
office?
Shaista is connecting embassy in Zanzibar and Nairobi.
Farhat walked over from his radio and sat down at the table. He
poured a cup of coffee and lit a cigarette. Well, we can't do much
more. Every border unit and team has been ordered to report to me
with details of all male admittance in the country matching with the
description of Razmak Bilal, I mean age, height, eyes, hair and
everything.
Thanks Farhat, said Dilshad.
Anything to check with your commander?
We don't need to check him, said Dilshad. We just want to go
around him.
Then leave it to us, my dear, said Farhat with a wicked grin.
Amber finished her last call and came slowly over to the table.
She was holding her forehead.
I didn't have to do much acting, she said. I think I'll go up to
bed.
Sahel began to rise but Anita came out of the dining room and
took Amber's elbow. I'll help her, she said.
You are a sweetheart, Dilshad said. When you are done, Anita,
canvass everyone and update your files.
Amber kissed Sahel on his head and the two women went into
the bedroom.
The cellular phone rang with an electronic burbling; Jahangir
answered, said a few superficial thanks and hung up.
Most people in Dubai say's John's death was hundred-percent
accident, Jahangir said with some apology. And my office had
checked out the driver as well. He still in custody but had not opened
his mouth yet. He claimed it was purely an accident and did happen
with brake failure.
Okay, Sahel gave Jahangir a thump-up. Razmak may have had
Page 264
Chapter 14
Chapter 14
Chapter 14
ups.
Sahel snatched the sketch from the table and stared at it. Years'
back, when he was an officer candidate, Khalidi had been a staffer at
training base Five. Yes, now I got it, he looks like Khalidi.
Dilshad took the sketch. I would say you are all out of your
minds, if I did not also have a memory for faces. But what is
Khalidi's face doing on this transmission.
Shall I cite precedents? Khaki has taken a seat and was eating a
piece of Amber's coffee cake. He sipped the tea from the cup.
What did you say, Khaki? asked Dilshad.
Do you want me to quote historical precedents for doubleagents posing as other individuals? Plastic surgery is no longer just a
science, you know it. In west, it's an art.
Then so what? said Dilshad.
Well, said Khaki as he picked some crumbs from his shirt. If I
were inserting a man into your military environment, I'd double
him as one of your officer. Of course I'd have to eliminate the
original one.
Anita, Dilshad yelled. The girl came hurriedly out of the
dining room. Drop what you are doing. I need a photograph. Take
my car and go to the office.
Wait, said Sahel. Change that, Anita. Stay away from HQ. Go
to PID, the Press Information Department. Tell them, he is being
promoted or something. Don't use your ID unless you have to, and
get it back here in half an hour.
Major Azeem Khalidi, said Anita.
Yes. Go.
She quickly stepped out of the door.
I'll get a team to Khalidi, said Farhat and he made for his radio.
Yes, said Dilshad.
No, wait. Sahel gripped Dilshad's arm and shot him a look.
Farhat we can't risk that yet. We might blow it. Let's wait till we
transmit Tehran our own picture for confirmation.
I can't wait on this, Sahel, said Farhat.
Please just for a while. But in the meantime you can have your
office check Khalidi's recent movements, If he's been anywhere
outside the country, just in case.
Okay, Farhat relented.
Page 267
Chapter 14
Dilshad gave Sahel a quizzical look. Sahel just put his right
hand's first finger on the mouth, a Pakistani gesture that demands
patience.
During the next half hour, over a packet of cigarettes died and a
litre of coffee was consumed, but nothing of significance transpired.
Before Anita returned, Shaista made her first appearance since
her linking with the intercept transcripts. She limped slowly for her
arthritis was flaring and her lungs were as black as a coal miner's. She
was holding a single sheet of computer print.
Well, she croaked. There is only piece of any interest. Then
she looked at the round table, the cups and saucers. What's the
matter? You can't bring an old lady something to eat?
Yes, darling you can have anything you need to fill your tummy,
but what do you have in your hand. Dilshad said smilingly.
It's one item of some interest, a pickup from the Central Asia
station. It was an intercept of a telephonic request to Radio Kogon,
in Russian.
What? Sahel tried to be patient.
A Mr Dimitrov requested that station to broadcast a Christmas
song on three morning running. The song was 'Baby, please come
home, merry Christmas.'
So what's so strange about that? Farhat asked.
It's not even September yet, you policeman. Shaista added as if
she had spotted a cockroach.
On hearing the song title in English, Jahangir rose from his seat
and came over to the table. May I ask something? he said.
It's a wild card, as you might call it, Dilshad told him.
Possibly a coded message, a song called 'Baby, please come home,
merry Christmas.'
I could send someone to the American Cultural Centre to get a
copy of song, said Shahzad.
No need, Khaki overheard and said. I can just bring the whole
song for you in five minutes. I've heard it on YouTube.
Put it on the CD and play, said Sahel. And Jahangir, you please
listen the whole song and put it in writing. See what you can do with
it? You may take help of Khaki.
Yes, I do it, Jahangir responded.
There was a soft knock on the door. Dilshad rose and
Page 268
Chapter 14
extinguished the lights while everyone else froze. Sahel checked the
peep-hole and admitted Anita, then flipped the lights back on. She
proudly handed over a coloured glossy of Major Azeem Dilshad.
Dilshad glanced for a while and yelled at Khaki.
Khaki just ran it to Tehran before it was too late.
Just the face, Dilshad continued, cover the uniform.
Jahangir appeared with a hand written paper of lyrics 'Baby,
please come home, merry Christmas.' I got this and now try to
break the possible cipher.
Jahangir's telephone rang. He answered it, listened for a while
then covered the mouthpiece and spoke to Dilshad.
It's my man in Washington, we duped the Frogs, but they really
don't have anything. However, our Satellite station does have one
item of possible interest, but they can't give it to us on an open line.
Dilshad thought for a moment. Can he telex?
Hold on, Jahangir turned back to the phone. Can you telex it?
Come on Danny, just give it to me in a simple One-Time. I don't
know; use your imagination for God's sake.
Dilshad waved his fingers and Tariq wrote his GRID modem
number on a pad and handed it over to Jahangir.
Yeah, now you're cooking'! Jahangir said into his phone; then
he recited the number for his co-worker in Washington. Encode it
and send.
Tariq switched back to his telex software and after fifteen long
minutes a paragraph of garbage appeared on the screen. Jahangir was
pacing next to Tariq's computer.
All right, said the American. It's like this. My boy says, 'Back
up the value of the last digit of Twin Tower year'. That was 2001, so
take each letter and back through the alphabet by a value of five.
Tariq saved the strange phrase on the computer and loaded a
word processing program. Then he pulled the enciphered message
and began its processing as told by Jahangir.
After a few minutes, he came out with a printout. Jahangir
smiled as he read the decoded transmission aloud.
HI NICK, THIS IS FUCKING RECENT INTERCEPT OUR
STATION A PHONE CALL TO MOTHER. Call Initiator, Major
Boris Yaakov, Recipient Colonel I. Mikhail of ES. QUOTE 'HE
CAN'T LAST LONG WITH THAT FACE THEY WILL EITHER
Page 269
Chapter 14
Chapter 14
drained. They produced a lot of phrases out of its lyrics but nothing
operational value.
Finally Dilshad gathered them all together in the lounge.
Well, he said. Good work. Wrap it up and sweep it. Don't
leave a scrap. Go home, get some sleep and keep your mouths shut,
ear open and mind working.
One by one the analysts and agents left the apartment. Jahangir
shook hands all around. He was promised a discreet post-operation
debriefing by Dilshad.
Shahzad was the last to leave. In the doorway he turned and
Dilshad and Sahel.
What you guys are up to now?
A few hours rest, we hope, Sahel answered.
Sure, Shahzad smiled over his pipe and left.
Alone now in the apartment, except for Amber, who had slept
peacefully through the entire rumpus, Dilshad and Sahel put up a
fresh pot of coffee.
Sleep was a luxury they would have to abandon.
______
It was just another late summer morning in Islamabad; the air was
still cool and moisture with the early morning brief rain shower. The
sun was peeping behind the small clouds on the violet sky paling to
blue. The branches of the trees were heavy with the dew-dampened
leaves and dancing starlings. However beginning of autumn can
easily be witnessed with the fallen yellow leaves on the streets.
In the eastern hilltop suburb of Rawal dam, Major Azeem
Khalidi stepped out from his small old-fashioned stone house, he
was wearing a crisply iron dress uniform, his black combat boots
highly polished and his Carrera perched on his nose to his straight
brownish black hair. The Islamabad summer had brought out the
freckles on both sides of his jaws and the stretched tissue of the
curved scar below his left eye was a souvenir of near fatal jeep
accident.
Khalidi carried the usual pile of rolled-up maps under his left
arm and with his right hand he cheerily swung the leather brief case
that never left his side. He stopped as he often did to take in the fresh
Page 271
Chapter 14
scent of Askari Villa's red roses. Then once more thanking his lucky
stars for his career growth opened his small wooden alleyway gate
and strode toward his parked Suzuki Liana.
Khalidi stopped short as two men emerged from another parked
car and blocked his way. They were both in civilian clothes. He could
not see their eyes for their sunglasses, but they were polite as they
showed him their ID cards designating them as NSS Field Security
officers.
One of them asked him to confirm that he was Major Azeem
Khalidi from Planning and Logistics. Khalidi produced his own ID
and the two men asked him that they had been instructed to escort
him immediately to NSS HQ. When Khalidi asked the reasons for
the summons, the men replied in a typically fashion, This is a
matter of national security, and they produced a typewritten order
from the Commandant.
Khalidi wanted to take his own car. The officers politely declined
his request and he reluctantly joined them in their vehicle which
promptly sped off of parking lot of the Askari Villas. Yet the car
made left turn on the main Highway instead of right, which should
have been evidence enough
The men were not simple Field Security officers and Azeem
Khalidi was certainly not headed for Islamabad.
______
Page 272
Chapter 15
Chapter 15
Chapter 15
Chapter 15
Chapter 15
or wholesale dealer.
Asalamualiakum, Jawar Khan's voice was as harsh as he could
make it. What can I help you?
Can I come inside Khan Baba? Razmak spoke in Pashto.
Jawar Khan pulled the door and let him inside.
Once inside, Razmak closed the door and leaned back against it.
Saa haal de Khan Baba? Razmak spoke again in Pashto.
The old man froze in his tracks. He did not move slightly, even
his breathing stopped. No one greeted him in that way nearly fifteen
years. Certainly no one had called him father using that particular
endearment.
Slowly the old man turned to face the stranger. He squinted
through his one good eye.
How are you, Baba? Razmak asked again. He reached up and
removed his sunglasses.
The old man had never seen this man before, but there was
something about his voice, and the words he choose. It was more
than likely that this might be trick, an agent of the secret agency sent
to entrap him. However, he would give nothing away. He edged a bit
closer and stared up into the stranger's eyes. The eyes were windows
to the soul. You could peel a man from his face, but you could not
change the truth in his eyes.
Ta souk ey? Jawar asked furiously.
If I say my name you will not believe me, said Razmak. But I
will tell you this that on the loop of your belt, you kept a silver watch.
The watch stopped working many years before but inside the cover
you had a picture of your daughter, Zara. Had I not left Camp Tober
Khan, perhaps I might have married her.
Razmak watched as the old man's eyes widened slightly. In the
drawer of your lathe table you kept a simple key. He pointed to a
small standing lamp in the corner of the shop. In the back of the
frame hung on the wall behind lamp there is a hole and inside the
hole you kept a box. In the box you saved wages for me.
The old man breath began to quicken and he fought the blood
that was draining from his cheeks. These things can be learned,
Jawar Khan spoke in quivering voice.
Yes, Razmak agreed. They are only facts, secrets between father
and son however can't be learned.
Page 278
Chapter 15
Chapter 15
Chapter 15
should not let the Ancient man live, yet he also knew that he could
harm his godfather. He decided that he still needs the old man
though he wanted to be gone before Jawar reappeared. He hauled the
strap of his heavy bag on his shoulder. He realized that he could not
return to his rental car, for the police at the square might choose to
search him. Well, that was alright. The car made for the perfect dead
lead.
He examined his watch, the time squinting at the date. He had
less than 50 hours before the President would appear at the Parade
for the ceremony. And he still had much unfinished business to
conclude before that.
Sher Ali was still out there and Sardar Jagat Singh as well and the
Abagull.
Gulo's vengeance would be waiting for them.
______
Page 281
Page 282
Chapter 15
Caf Almena
Chapter 16
Three days before
Sahel was now sure that he was going to military prison.
Sajid the young security guard from the office sombrely led the
way down the stairs from Sahel's apartment. Zawri had been smart to
send a familiar face; otherwise Sahel might have blown his head off
right through the door. Two 'gorillas 'from internal security
department covered the rear. The giants did not say anything and
they did not have to. Sahel could feel their imminent power.
Yesterday he had been suspended almost a de facto dismissal
from the service. Today he has been summoned to Headquarters and
the appearance of an armed escort did not promise well. Given his
participation in a renegade counterintelligence operation, he hardly
expected to receive a commendation. The Pakistani intelligence
system encouraged bold thoughts but implementation demanded
blessing of the superiors, but if you were bucking your superiors you
have to prove your action pure and brilliant and face the
misconduct.
Colonel Zawri compromised on everything short of blind
obedience.
Sahel was not shocked by the latest turn of events. He had half
expected it and he told Amber not to worry too much about him. He
then said goodbye, handed her his Browning and two full magazines
Page 283
Chapter 16
and instructed her to shoot anyone who tried to enter the apartment.
But Sahel you know I have to go back to work, she had
protested waving the pistol with carelessness that made Sahel wince.
You are pregnant and you're not feeling well, he coached.
Your boss is a doctor, he'll understand it.
Half the damn country is pregnant, she continued to argue.
Please, Ambi please. Sahel voice somehow had a tone that
caused her sadly acceptance.
The silent plainclothes guards walked out into the bright
sunlight of Complex's parking lot as they headed toward a row of
cars, Sahel tried to break the mood.
So he is giving you something interesting, Sajid?
This is more like a punishment Sahel, said the young security
man. Believe me.
Sahel gave up the short discussion.
Colonel's private car was waiting with the engine running. It was
a long black old accord, driven by a war crony which was a sceptical
selection. All of men easily fit into the car though Dilshad was
taking up much of the backseat.
Ah! Dilshad clapped his hands as Sahel fell in beside him.
Prisoner Number Two.
You too Dilshad, Sahel smiled surprisingly as he tried to adjust
his stiff knee, So you're Number One, I suppose?
We are in the same leaky boat, Dilshad slapped him on the leg.
Save the Shakespeare for Zawri.
The car pulled out of the lot and headed up to the Headquarters.
You're in a bright mood today, Sahel grinned.
Well, it's a beautiful day, Dilshad replied and then he squeezed
Sahel's thigh, signalling his captain to keep quiet.
They rode rest of the way in silence. Dilshad smoked a cigarette,
the snuffed it out in a rear door ashtray. However, he then picked the
butt again and crushed it in his fingers and dropped the debris on
the floor of the car. One of the gorillas shot him a look. Dilshad just
smiled at him.
They arrived at the door of the Zawri office. Qadri pulled it over
wearing the expression of a firing squad commander. Two gorillas
took up the posts in the hallway, while Sajid excused himself after
Page 284
Chapter 16
Chapter 16
Chapter 16
names army exercises and fellow soldiers from their mutual badges
served as proof to Khalidi that his escorts were bonafide in the
interest of his life and State.
What was that name? Dilshad asked with blatant innocence.
Azeem Khalidi. Zawri stared at the paid suspiciously, but they
have been trained to lie and he really did not expect to read anything
in their faces.
Does he have a girlfriend, Sahel asked.
Zawri waved the question off. So you know nothing about it,
he stated.
Sahel and Dilshad looked each other and shrugged. They wanted
Zawri to order all out search for Khalidi, but the idea had to be his
own. Dilshad did want him to ask for search.
Theirs is a standard intelligence drill for these things, Sir, he
said.
Sahel took his cue. He sounds like a sensitive asset. It could be
CTT snatch operation or even foreign element.
Zawri seemed not to hear. He walked back to his desk, sat down
and picked up an internal phone.
Get me liaison, he said. Then on hearing someone, This is
Zawri. That Azeem search I told you to set up? Now you have my go.
Contact all the necessary quarters and police and NSS people. Make
it country wide and get it moving quickly. He hung up.
Sahel let out his breath. He was tired of standing. He had not
slept much this morning and his knee ached. He limped over to the
couch, sat down and lit a cigarette.
I'll make an arrangement with you two, Zawri suddenly said.
As you well know, this is not the first time that I may have ordered
an operation to be conducted 'off premises.'
Zawri was hinting that he might allow Sahel and Dilshad to
continue their work. They listened, waiting for the other shoe to
drop.
It will also not to be the first time in the history of intelligence
work that an agent has been 'suspended.' He angled his head at
Sahel. Only to be asked to continue his task as a freelance.
Sahel smoked in silence.
I have the authority to bless your operation, Zawri said in low
voice. Or stop it, if I wish. If you can show me now, that you are
Page 287
Chapter 16
Chapter 16
Chapter 16
Chapter 16
approvingly and Sahel smiled in return. She grabbed her bag close
and pulled a pack of Rothman and showed it to Sahel. Sahel
wondered when she had started smoking and looked on her
quizzically.
It's for you Sahel, she smiled while She opened it and pulled
one and placed in her mouth. Sahel was watching her surprisingly
while she lit and gave it to Sahel.
Thank you very much, madam, Sahel took the cigarette and
smiled. Aren't you becoming somehow emotional?
She reached out to touch his hand, then hesitated and put her
fingers on the table. She looked at the white tap around two of his
knuckles.
What's that? she asked.
I'm still visiting Shimla House.
So getting prepared again, She laughed.
It was going dark. She pulled her chair facing the door more
close to Sahel. They both watched people passing on the sidewalk,
old grey fringed men, young mothers with prams. Some kids
running for just nothing. Natural exercise reserved in them.
This nostalgic return is very sentimental, Sahel. Isn't it? She
said like a wife suddenly discovering a bouquet of flowers.
I didn't know after how long you have been here? Sahel said
gazing in her eyes. I thought I owned the place. Me alone.
That's what we all thought about this place. Sahel smiled but he
was thinking about Karachi. Her skin in the moonlight, her cheeks
against his and her breath, all was another world now.
Let's walk, he said. He put some money on the table, and they
went out into the cool breezed evening, the fluffy breeze from the
Rawal Lake was like music in the back ground. They began to walk
toward southward on the sidewalk. The atmosphere was quiet and
highway was almost deserted by this time. Lake's cool breeze was
politely touching the nose and ears tips and whispering passed
movements. Both Sahel and Roshna hands into hands were striding
silently.
I'm leaving soon. Roshna's voice came from distant.
Good, he said. He knew it must be a mission. Hopefully it
would take her very far away for a long time, safely into a lesser
danger.
Page 291
Chapter 16
Chapter 16
Chapter 16
Page 294
Back to Capital
Chapter 17
Next Day afternoon
He left the Jawar's house and looked for a caf. It was a careful
selection; he finally settled in the corner on the carpet lay for the
customers, pulled a big red pillow behind his back and settled
leaning on the pillow. He rested his bag alongside and looked
around for someone to attend. A man was watching him standing
behind the kettle stand. Lot of kettles with boiling water sat on the
red burned embers containing black tea ready to serve to the
customers. A big portrait of King Zahir Shah of Afghanistan was
hanging on the wall. Razmak smiled. Owner seemed to have imperial
mind. Razmak waved his hand to him and he hurriedly approached
Razmak.
Razmak being the only customer at this hour spoke with the
owner in Pashto. When he was reasonably sure about the man, he
suddenly offered him five hundred rupees note to go and fetch the
taxi for him. However he did not forget to order him black tea in the
meantime.
The proprietor served him with the black tea, a kettle in the small
round tray with some crystalloid small pieces of sugar and glass of
water and left the hotel waving him to wait until he comes back.
Within fifteen minutes, the man returned along with the car. It
was white Corolla, a bit old model yet seemed maintained.
Page 295
Chapter 17
With the RPG in the bag Razmak settle in the front seat and
slowly scanned the driver's appearance. He wanted to be sure that he
would not make some stupidity while going back to Islamabad. He
was satisfied and asked him to move. Rozi Khan, as the driver told
his name, was a young man and wearing shabby shirt over a loosely
fitted trouser. He was the perfect choice for him.
Have you been Islamabad ever? Razmak just started gossip to
weigh Rozi Khan.
Almost daily, sometime twice, Rozi replied quizzically.
Good, then you might know some good guest house around.
Razmak asked.
Yes, many, Rozi Khan was typically shrewd young man like
Pakistani taxi drivers. It depends how much you can afford to pay.
He was smiling.
That's great. Razmak showed his interest. So you also might
know someone for rent a car for two days without driver. I want to
fetch documents from embassy and you know they don't allow
drivers unless a good identity. Razmak now came to the point. I'll
pay enough.
You got it; I know one guest house here. His manager is my
friend and very cooperative person. Rozi excitedly revealed his
friendship.
And what about the car?
You can always keep this one, mine. Rozi Khan in a sense was
looking forward to a good customer with plenty of money out of
this deal.
Do you have its documents? Razmak wanted to be sure to avoid
any trouble.
Yes, it's in my uncle's name, said Rozi. But you don't worry;
he is a dead man now. I'm his only heir.
That was a dead lead. Razmak thought and pulled out a few
thousand rupee bills and handed over to Rozi Khan. Keep this for
an advance. He knew that he is not going to stay anywhere, yet he
wanted the car desperately and now he got it.
Rozi Khan took the bills and put them into his shirt's pocket
quickly. Both were satisfied.
They had already left Camp Tober Khan behind and now
crossing the intersection of GT Road on their way back to Islamabad.
Page 296
Chapter 17
Chapter 17
Page 298
Satgari
Chapter 18
Four Hours Later
The warm dark brown painted steel guardrail on the pathway of
the Jacob compound has turned cold with the chill of the
evening. The yellow and red bougainvillea flowers had aesthetically
climbed around the old pillars was reflecting drops of the dew like
pearls under the compound's white spotlight. The compound was
almost deserted and the NSB security guards in dim light beneath
the shed were moving like some ghosts in front of the flames and
smoke of the firewood they had lit to warm their bodies. The
rhythmic sound of the Squad's steps broke the silence of the
compound.
They walked across the compound, heading southwest from the
SpecOp building. They crossed the education department toward
the Police Station prison in the far corner of the compound. The big
parking lot was nearly empty except a few cars probably for long
parking held in this hour and lamps installed threw yellow light on
them.
Sahel shivered as he walked. The stiff breeze that rustled cedar
leaves bringing hints of an early autumn chill. Dilshad stripped off
his leather jacket and draped it over Sahel's shoulders. Sahel did not
resist, concentrating on the pile of papers in his hands, squinting to
see them as Dilshad briefed him while giving to him.
Page 299
Chapter 18
Chapter 18
Well, finally they have come to our century. Sahel said. Shaista
had been doing this work since years but it has been a primitive
operation.
We had asked for last week's files, Shaista continued, and put
in a search for our own code names related for Razmak by our
domestic and international agencies.
Then? said Sahel.
Shaista wiped her jaws and then continued on. Only one thing
came up. Four days back a local Pashtu speaking person got an early
Christmas greeting on his phone. There was no conversation, just
one side spoke and hung up. She reached into her pocket and
pulled out a paper slip. Here is the name and he is not Christian.
Sahel put the slip into his shirt's pocket without reading it.
One of our teams is on the way to watch this house, said
Dilshad.
But why NSS, can't we do it ourselves? Tariq somehow had
some professional jealousy.
Because they are legally authorised, said Dilshad. But they
can't move further beyond their authorisation.
So you want them to do half the work, but not to take any credit
afterwards. Sahel felt sorry about them.
And one more thing, Sahel, said Dilshad. The team was
nearing the police station prison now, so they slowed their pace and
lowered their voices even further.
Now I want you to bargain with Falkshair, said Dilshad.
If only, I could.
You can, you can make him an offer.
Can I?
You can deal.
Sahel thought for a moment. For the first time, someone had
something to offer Falkshair, something that could persuade him to
talk. Yet Sahel did not want to make false promises. In order to make
him believe he had to believe his own words. Falkshair was too smart
to buy his false commitments.
Anything within reasonable part, I'll back you. Dilshad was
confident.
Thanks.
I know, you have left your pistol with Amber.
Page 301
Chapter 18
Sahel lifted his shirt and the leather jacket. A HK P30 glittered in
the pole's light, A donation.
So it's true what they say. Dilshad patted his shoulder. You are
a charity case.
Sahel smiled as he began to pace again. He realized that he was
proceeding alone, when Dilshad stopped him with a hiss.
Just one more thing.
Sahel turned. His team stood in the darkness, watching him and
measuring him. They seemed a sad family with no choice but to pin
their hopes on Sahel.
Farhat has set Falkshair up for you pretty well, Dilshad
whispered, making him all clear that now the Sahel is the only
person who can help you. Farhat had two men with him while he was
brought down from Shore-Eye.
Sahel nodded assessing his own psychological tactics.
Good Bye and best of luck, Dilshad said.
Good luck, said Tariq.
Shaista coughed and waved her hand.
Sahel turned and headed for the police station.
_______
The motorway was well lit, but once they left motorway from Chakri
interchange towards Talagang road there were only the yellow lamps
of Sahel's Margalla. Sahel's did not want Falkshair to know their
destination. He had something else in his mind until they reach
more close to Chakwal.
It was cold inside the car and both men were crouched down
inside their leather jackets. For a long time, neither men spoke. Sahel
had informed Falkshair quite simply that he would shoot him if he
tried to escape. The warning was somewhat unnecessary as the
Falkshair wrists were cuffed by short connecting chain. He could not
grab the steering wheel nor could do much damage with his feet.
Falkshair was sure that the man would stop somewhere and torture
him. He assumed that Sahel was a NSS man who had a reputation for
creative interrogation.
They had been driving since Islamabad more than an hour and
Sahel had worked hard to keep his peace. He wanted Falkshair to
Page 302
Chapter 18
think and to feel the open road, a small amount of liberty to see his
own cities and people. He wanted Falkshair to sense the warm
proximity of his own. Sahel kept the radio off, the heater silent and
windows slightly opened as not to dilute the discomfort and to let
the dreams of his village fill the car.
I know what you are thinking, Sahel finally spoke in Urdu.
Falkshair said nothing. He continued watching the darkened
shapes of unbending mountains. I know you speak Urdu, but if you
prefer I can talk in Pashtu. Sahel said in Pashtu.
Falkshair still said nothing though he turned his head away to
watch a by passer small tractor trolley with a load of villagers
probably coming back from the evening wedding ceremony as both
bride and groom were sitting together with young girls around them
singing and drumming.
I know what you are thinking, Sahel repeated patiently.
What I'm thinking? Falkshair almost murmured.
You are thinking just what I would be thinking in your place,
A moment of silence, And what is that? said Falkshair.
That I am taking you to some safe house where we'll torture you
and that I might shoot you and then throw you somewhere in the
hills before dawn.
Silence was still prevailing. Sahel glanced sideways and surprised
to see the patience of Falkshair. Then he looked Falkshair as was he
anticipating some answer.
Safe house is funny word for this part of country. He finally
spoke.
Yes, it's the wrong word. Sahel said. But still none of those
things will happen.
Then what will happen? Falkshair had been dealing with these
people for a long time. He had no reason to believe.
I am taking you home, Falkshair. Sahel disclosed finally.
As he said it, he felt a sudden change in the atmosphere. He saw
Falkshair's body more stiffened, his head reaching back just slightly.
For him it was a joke of the century as Sahel could read his face.
To Satgari, your village, your home and to your people, Sahel
was reading his face. Falkshair's eyes first became dark and then
slightly glistened with longing. This time, it's just a visit. Sahel
leaned back on the seat and then he fired the best shot. But I can
Page 303
Chapter 18
make it permanent.
Their eyes met and locked. Falkshair shifted in his seat. He
looked at his hands cuffed and said. I am listening.
First of all, I'm not NSS man, Sahel said. Yet I am also not a
simple analyst as I had said to you earlier in Shore-Eye. Sahel did
not want to rush it. He reached to his jacket's pocket and pulled out
pack of Rothman which reminded him of Roshna. Keeping the pack
on his lap he pulled a cigarette and lit with the car lighter and offered
to Falkshair who politely denied the offer.
How can you get me off? Falkshair whispered.
We have just received a piece of vital information. It pertains to
Ambassador's killing. Sahel did not disclose the case as they all
knew it by code name ISD 3355.
As it was customary with major government prosecution
agencies especially Pakistani police when they go for registering a
case they probably include every name they think might be involved
and then under the course of investigations they start dropping one
by one even a few on their own behest. So in ISD 3355 Razmak Bilal
was not only held accused, as a matter of fact most of his aides were
taken into account including Falkshair. However, the conviction
that had sent him up for life was one of the mass murders at a bomb
blast in Rawalpindi.
We have convicted you in mass murders but actually you are
still waiting conviction in Ambassador killing case which now
through that piece of vital information which we have received only
Razmak Bilal is involved in it and not you. I know you were not
involved in Ambassador Case but you delivered the bomb in
Rawalpindi case. Am I correct?
Falkshair Froze. He imagined the tape recorders in the car, the
microphones, and the gadgets might be recording all of his
confessions before he reaches Satgari.
Falkshair kept silent.
Well, said Sahel. Our two top most agencies are convinced
that you could not have done it. Sahel waited for a moment then
continued. As you couldn't have been in Islamabad for at least two
weeks before the incident, they confirmed that you were in Kabul
managing your family members return back home whom you had
sent them there.
Page 304
Chapter 18
Chapter 18
others.
To kill your men? Falkshair was not buying it. So this is only to
save your people?
And others too. Sahel replied.
But why?
I don't know exactly.
I don't believe it, my friend. Falkshair said. Unless you give
me something how could I be able to give you back?
Once I had tried to arrest him, but we had a set back and
returned home failed. Sahel tried to give him small piece of the
information.
In Kabul back in 2003, I suppose? Falkshair picked up the
cigarette pack with cuffed hands and pulled one and placed in the
mouth. Sahel pushed the cigarette lighter for him and when it was
ejected, he lit it. He took a drag and leaned back on the seat,
Hum...now I understand.
Now it was Sahel's turn to be silent. He was torn inside. He knew
it that to gain something he had to give him some of the
information. Yet every bone of him was aching at the idea of
exposing an operation to the enemy.
Was it Kabul City Centre in March 2003? Falkshair asked
again.
Yes. Sahel said.
Sahel turned the car sharply to the right on the side road leading
to Satgari village. In a while they would come to another highway
which would be taking them directly to Satgari almost a few
kilometres away now, a house of his aged parents, sisters and brothers
and relatives.
Do you really know why Razmak wants you and your men?
Falkshair whispered.
No, said Sahel.
Then listen carefully, Falkshair Khan straightened up in the
seat. He took a long drag of cigarette and paused for a moment. I'm
going to assume that you are an intelligence Officer, not just a man
of agency as you pretend. If you will do the same for me, then we can
dispense with flimsy denials for the sake of the play.
Sahel remained silent just nodding his head once. He was
gripping the wheel hard, waiting. He thought he could be facing a
Page 306
Chapter 18
Chapter 18
somewhere in Afghanistan.
Gulo was his name, Falkshair continued. In 1989, Razmak
took his brother with him to Uzbekistan when he left his father after
killing afghan soldier to prove himself against his father Basher Abu
Razmak Bilal, who at that time was elevated as minister in
Najibullah's Government. A last Russians backed President of
Democratic Republic of Afghanistan. But he was afraid that his
father's men might find him someday and harm his beloved brother
Gulo. He was enough clever even then. He made 'Gulo' died. There
is a false grave near Kogon.
Sahel was a bit lost now, though temporarily relieved that
Falkshair was anyway making a background for last sentence.
So a brother, said murmured.
Yes, a Gulo was alive of course. Razmak had sent him to
London. In the nineties after Razmak's first successful blast in
Rawalpindi, he began to gain a reputation in the community.
Democratic Northern Alliance had started funding money to him.
DNA also gave him security covers when asked. He gained power and
fed Gulo for all his necessities. Falkshair said. Are you following
me?
Sahel nodded silently.
We were all amazed, all of us. Gulo was four years younger than
Razmak, but it did not show at all. They could have been twins. He
was not a fighter, Gulo. He was just a sweet, handsome rather simple
young man, a bit even literary mind. Book reading was his passion
like his father. Falkshair's voice changed. He had fallen in the
nostalgic memories with sorrow. At first Razmak resisted the idea of
this trick, but we convinced him for that. We set up a system of
guarding Gulo that seemed foolproof. Razmak kept him happy. He
gave him everything he needed. Gulo was living like a prince. All he
had to do to show his face on occasion, on the right place and the
right time.
Sahel's throat was dry now and he felt thirsty. He was trying to
concentrate on the driving, yet his palms were now slick with sweat,
the wheel slipping. He rubbed his right palm with the seat cover and
pulled a small bottle of water from beneath the seat and gulped it in
one go.
But Gulo was hard to control. Razmak really loved him, let him
Page 308
Chapter 18
get away with such facilities, and spoiled him. We were all careless.
Falkshair's voice suddenly weakened. The confession of a guilty
guard, rather than a convicted terrorist, was made. It got away from
us in Kabul City Centre. He bent his head to his cuffed hand and
rubbed his eyes by his thumbs. Muhammad Zahir was just a cover
name. Falkshair said as he leaned back on the seat.
Whosoever, you are my friend. May Allah help you? It was Gulo
who was killed in Kabul City Centre by you people.
Sahel suddenly slammed the brakes and car skidded, the rear
wheels slipped in the dusty shoulder. He straightened it up, hard grip
on the wheel and stopped the car. He sat there for a while, frozen,
trying to catch his breath. Yes, of course, why he hadn't thought this all. It
had to be something like that. Razmak was a professional, a stone
killer. Only something so personal has driven him to such hostility.
What a fool he had been. Sahel understood it now clearly that Gulo's
death though in a result of Uzbek's firing, has driven Razmak's
vengeance against NSB and its team members. It was a conspiracy
succeeded by ES.
Sahel's remorse at Zahir's killing was always there, yet he never
knew that the victim was his enemy's brother. Sahel also understood
now that why the identification was misread by them. He felt a
strange pain in his heart that he loved his brother, a sorrow that
joined with Razmak Bilal. For together they have been responsible
for his brother's death. Razmak Bilal was himself driven by guilt, a
truth that he could probably never flush from his soul no matter the
rivers of Pakistani's blood he flooded on their soil.
After a while, Sahel began to drive again slowly now as he did
not trust himself. He drove the car amid shadows of deadly silence.
Then he broke it and asked Falkshair in his shaky voice.
Then what happened after that?
Well I know that you people had some difficulties, said
Falkshair. One of you was captured by Afghan Police.
Yes.
Were you wounded there? Falkshair looked down at Sahel's leg.
He had noted the limp.
A chase team shot on us.
Uzbeks. We used them sometimes, courtesy of ES. But I'm sure
that you know that.
Page 309
Chapter 18
Yes, if they were your men, then who shot up on Gulo from the
building.
From the building? We never knew that, said Falkshair. What
we had investigated later revealed that your people killed Zahir
Bilal.
You know us well, said Sahel. Razmak knows our limitation.
We are not authorised to kill someone under Law of our country while
carrying out our operations unless a fire against us. We were
following Razmak since many weeks from Middle East and we
wanted him to arrest live so that we could assert and prove our claims
in the western and local media. Dead Razmak was of no use for us.
They were never our men and you know it very well too. We never use
these types of weapons. In that accident a few other by-passers were
also wounded I suppose. We are trained and professional combat
soldiers and we do surgical operations without hurting anybody else
if we wish to. And in this case we were operating silently since long.
How could we turn this arrest into a fiasco? And if we had succeeded,
you people might have witnessed Razmak's disappearance for years,
until we disclose it publically. Sahel paused for a moment.
This time it was Falkshair's turn to be shocked. His face turned
pale. Like Razmak and his cell, he too was convinced that NSB's
cover team has shot Gulo from the building. Falkshair was a close
aide to Razmak and he knew Razmak's vengeance after this killing
although he had lost contact with Razmak but he knew Razmak
since many years. They were all convinced that they wanted to kill
Razmak so they had another team in the building to avoid their own
direct indulgence in killing. Now the picture was clearer for
Falkshair himself. He suddenly realized and felt regrets for their
wrong judgement.
What happened to Razmak after that? Sahel asked Falkshair.
The Russians picked him up.
For what?
Training. Falkshair narration had now changed, a man with
complete sorrow.
What kind of training?
I don't know, said Falkshair. I was not there after that and had
no contact with him. They probably wanted him for something, a
mission, I don't know. The Russians planted all kind of stories about
Page 310
Chapter 18
him. He's dead, he is in Africa, and he's in Libya. But they had him.
So, they have been using you, said Sahel. All of you in the
name of Islam.
Unh! Falkshair moaned; his handcuffs rattled. And I suppose,
you are not used? The Americans admire you, just because you are
their alley? They give you billions because you are pretty? Every
single American weapon tested by them in Afghanistan since 2001 in
battle and not a drop of blood other than Pashtoons they spilled. Do
you think they love you? Falkshair would have spat, but he
remembered where he was and swallowed the bile.
Now it was turn for both of them to maintain the silence yet
Falkshair didn't stop. So we are, all of us fools, said Falkshair. His
voice protested.
Perhaps.
They drove on in silence for a while. Up ahead, the mud walls of
low village houses began to appear falling away from both sides of
the road. The village of Satgari had too many orchards around.
Go straight, said Falkshair. I'm at the end of the village. The
joy that should have been in his voice was simply not there.
Why Razmak did not take you to Moscow? Sahel asked. Were
not you his close aide, his second in command.
I was his second, his first, his best, said Falkshair. I was loyal
to him like his dog. I don't know why he left me. Maybe it was
because of Gulo. Maybe the Russians didn't like me.
Now the Falkshair was evading. Maybe it was his honour or
pride. Yet Sahel knew the truth, a source of great pain that Razmak
had refused to allow the Russians to import Falkshair to Moscow. As a
chief of Razmak's security team, Falkshair had been responsible for
Gulo's security as well. But he had failed, choosing instead to focus
on that fateful day on ensuring Razmak's escape from Kabul to
Uzbekistan. However, instead of expressing gratitude for that
Razmak vented a rage that he usually reserved for enemies. And for
the sake of 'Cause' he chose and accepted a life sentence in Pakistan
where his family had already come back for the future of their
children.
You could have insisted him? said Sahel.
I did.
Then?
Page 311
Chapter 18
Chapter 18
leg in hesitation. They might have heard of their father yet it seemed
they didn't recognise him. They might be shying to embrace their
father. His grown up cousins have come from the next house
instantly while hearing some voices chatter in happiness from the
Veranda of the Falkshair's house. Sahel watched all them
transformed, laughing and pushing away each other to sit beside the
Falkshair. He was the only son of this family.
The word spread quickly and when too many strangers and
neighbours began to knock at front door. Sahel rose and went to
Falkshair and whispered something in his ear. Falkshair nodded and
gave a command in Pashto and everybody withdrew. The Sahel
waved to Falkshair. He rose and said good bye to everybody. When
they both moved along, Sahel kept his right hand in his trouser, his
fingers on the trigger of the pistol. He did not think that Falkshair
would break and run but he knew some of the other inhabitant
might be watching with their enigmatic intentions.
Sahel drove around two kilometres well out of sight of the
village, before he stopped the car and cuffed Falkshair again. They
were out on the highway driving fast when he spoke again.
Whatever Razmak's mission, Sahel asked, it can't be good for
the country.
How could it be worse? Falkshair laughed.
We are all fighting against the enemies of our country after all.
Sahel provoked Falkshair.
But he wants to do something in its own way, Falkshair seemed
optimistic.
Do you think your Razmak Bilal is going to do something for
the sake of the country, Sahel said.
He is no longer my Razmak Bilal, said Falkshair. It was clearly
a decision he had made in solitary, though perhaps his mother's tears
had allowed him to voice it.
Sahel told Falkshair nearly everything without revealing
operational details. Falkshair listened, his eyes glittering, for some of
the details were familiar. He had helped plant many of Razmak's
sleepers in various parts of the country. And although he was not
privy to all the details or the final objective of any of Razmak's
future missions, he could join together parts of the puzzle.
I can help you, but what assurance do I have? Falkshair asked.
Page 313
Chapter 18
Page 314
Pak Complex
Chapter 19
Late night at 5th of September
The hammering of the brass lion's-head knocker was violent and
nonstop, yet it didn't cause Major Dilshad Hussain to go crouching
through the darkened rooms of his house in Askari Villas. He was
not ready to play commando in his own house. But he has to answer
the door with a pistol.
He threw on the lights and came swinging drowsily through the
TV lounge, his leather slippers crashing on the cold tiles, one hand
holding his cotton pyjama's strings over his hairy belly, the other
hand holding a Colt .45 automatic in a flimsy manner. He called
Nazir his batman through the Kitchen's window but got no
response. Dilshad knew he had been so bad in his sleep so he gave up
calling him. He cursed as he reached the big wooden door. He was
not worried about disturbing the neighbours. Dilshad had owned
this big villa and it stood distinguished in a row of Askari Villas
because of birds and animals his wife used to pet. Since they had no
child, Sughra having a background of village life had developed her
interest in birds and animals and the added benefit was that Dilshad
enjoyed fresh eggs and milk from his home dairy.
Sughra had already been awakened by the noise. The banging
had stopped. Who the hell is it? Dilshad growled and yelled again
for Nazir.
Page 315
Chapter 19
Chapter 19
I took him all the way home, Sahel said. He was already
talking, he started before we got there, but I think his mother was the
last straw.
Good, said Dilshad.
Dilshad, Sahel looked at him carefully. He did not want to
miss his reaction to compare it with his own. The man killed at City
Centre was his brother.
Dilshad's eyebrows mounted. Falkshair's brother?
Razmak's brother. The Uzbeks killed Razmak Bilal's brother.
It took a moment and then Dilshad's expression changed, the
realization turned his face white. He lifted his face and leaned back
into the chair yet he did not shout just whispered, Oh, my God.
Sahel kept quiet. He just waited and watched Dilshad's brain
working.
Muhammad Zahir? Dilshad was barely audible as he looked
Sahel.
Yes, but not Muhammad Zahir. It was Zahir Bilal with a nick
name of Gulo.
Dilshad stood out of the chair. He paced holding his Pyjama
with one hand, his face with the other. Is that true? he asked
himself, scoring records in his memory, trying to put it together.
Was there as Zahir Bilal or Gulo in his file.
Just a dead one, said Sahel. But he was not dead until Uzbeks
killed him. And unfortunately Razmak and his cell think we did it.
What?
Yes, Dilshad, said Sahel. In fact this is the point where from
the antagonism turns against us. They think we killed Gulo, whereas
Uzbeks played double edge sword. They killed Gulo at that point
when we tried to arrest him mistakenly instead of Razmak and on
the other hand they made believe Razmak by supporting him in that
fiasco that we had killed Gulo and achieved their objective.
Dilshad paced some more still reviewing history, comparing
events and reaching for conclusions. Finally he faced Sahel from
across the table.
Yes, he said. It makes sense. It explains everything.
Yes, said Sahel.
But it could be a bluff?
No.
Page 317
Chapter 19
Chapter 19
Chapter 19
trouser and shirt and pair of shoes and socks. All perfectly ironed,
Dilshad smiled at her briefly and then began to dress. As he spoke,
his wife stood there with a flat expression on her face. He is pretty
sure that he can get the man to postpone all his activities for next full
week except for one, tomorrow morning.
Why not this one? Sahel demanded. He felt an overwhelming
surge of panic with anger. They have done everything they could,
solved the puzzle, broken the codes proved their points and got every
bit of information he could from Falkshair personally. What else
they want from us? It was as if he was tied to the responsibility for
Razmak Bilal's actions and no one would allow him to rest. He
wanted desperately to sit back now and watch while the big boys took
over. Yet even the president did not allow it. The crazy might
doesn't have to be there, he exploded. He can send anybody there,
Chairman JSC or his wife or someone other. For God's sake, He can
just stay at home for once.
Dilshad forcefully tightened the belt of his trouser on his waist
and then bent to tie the laces of his shoes and straightened up with a
sigh. He smiled at Sughra and said to Sahel No he can't. This time
he has invited several top diplomats to witness the Defense Day.
Oh my God, Sahel slapped himself on the forehead.
The secure line banged. Dilshad picked it up. Yes speak.
He listened for a while. It's Tariq, he looked at Sahel. Ok I'll
be there in fifteen minutes and hung up.
What now? Sahel asked.
I don't know, said Dilshad. But he was very excited and when
Tariq gets excited, you never know what comes out. He smiled and
lifted his pistol from the glass table and stuffed the holster into his
hip. Let's go.
No wait, I can't go. Sahel suddenly had on a look of indecision.
Amber, she must be going crazy.
Dilshad stopped at the door. Call her, he said.
Call her? Sahel snapped. There is total maniac outburst over
here in the town and I call her.
Dilshad thought for a moment. Then he went back to the secure
line and called in to Headquarter. He got into security details and
ordered two armed gunner over to Sahel's residence immediately.
She has my gun. Sahel said.
Page 320
Chapter 19
And make sure that someone she knows tell her about security
guards. Ask Anita to call her about guards. He issued the
instructions on the phone and hung up. He made to leave, but Sahel
seemed frozen to the floor. His face was drawn and suddenly sad.
Now what? Dilshad asked.
I have to talk to her.
Dilshad looked at him and then he turned to Sughra and said
I'll wait in the car.
Sughra touched Sahel on his arm and took him into her bed
room to private phone while Dilshad went out from the front door.
Sahel looked at the phone. He reached for it hesitated for a
moment and then picked it up and dialled the number.
Honey, it me, he whispered in the phone as she picked up the
line. She was crying and worried about him. He tried his best to
soothe her with guilt as he was feeling. He promised her soon this
would be over and they would together take their vacations and rest.
She said nothing.
He told her about the two security men and she would be safe
there and they would watch and take care of you.
And who would be taking care of you? she asked.
There was no answer to this question, at least none that would
share her fears.
________
The midnight security shift was on duty at SpecOp Jacob
compound. Dilshad parked the car carefully in a corner. The day
time guards had been replaced by some new stiff backed recruits who
examined every detail of their ID cards and checked in a swap
machine and it took Sahel and Dilshad too long to get through the
main entrance. As they reached the second floor Sahel was surprised
to see Sajid manning the post. The young man was sullen, hands
folded on the desktop, eyes dark with fatigue.
What happened? Sahel asked as he flushed his ID. I thought
you were promoted?
I was, said Sajid with disgust, until you lost those two idiots
last time.
But you were even there.
Page 321
Chapter 19
Chapter 19
and Sahel pounding their footfalls down the hallway. Tariq backed
up and throw himself in a chair. I've got to find another job now.
He sighed.
_______
Pak Complex was never dark. It was Central Headquarters of the NSB
yet among forces and agencies it was called as PC. It had several
offices including NSB and NSS central offices. There were always
vehicles and personnel passing through the main concrete entrance
with huge Iron Gate. It had always reminded Sahel lot of a big Film
Studio of decades earlier as the atmosphere changed radically from
block to block. There were buildings of every size shape and period,
stone, concrete, mosque tombs, British style barracks, wooden huts
and towering steel and glass communication towers. Military
vehicles from every service clotted the narrow streets inside and
civilian cars with the green plates nestled up on the sidewalks. Men
and women hurried to and fro, wearing army, air force and navel
uniforms. There were bustling canteens on every other corner. All
the high officials had their camp-offices here, including the Prime
Minister, Defence Minister, Chairman JSCs and COAS. All the
major intelligence agencies had acquired various buildings for their
committee meetings, action planning, and security screening and
high profile investigations in the various basements.
It took Dilshad and Sahel less than twenty minutes to speed
down from Jacob Compound. Once through PC, they drove directly
down the hill taking a right at the end that held the NSB facility.
They parked the car next to a small mosque and a low building that
NSB usually used for interviewing and polygraph tests of new
recruits and the occasional suspect spies.
Major Dilshad Hussain, Dilshad said and flashed his ID at an
armed sergeant blocking entrance to a pair of double doors.
Captain Sahel Farhaj, Sahel flashed his own ID across
Dilshad's shoulder. The sergeant swapped the IDs one after one in a
small machine held at the table that buzzed a beep sound and
opened one of the doors. He nodded his head in a salute manner and
pulled himself back and allowed them to enter. They entered a big
briefing room. It was lit like an evening in clouds as a small bulb was
Page 323
Chapter 19
hanging over in the middle. No one sat in the chairs, as all of those
present were crowded together near the two-way panel erected
through the interrogation chamber.
Colonel AK Zawri stood in the middle of the group towering
above the rest of the men. He had one foot above a chair, but his
excitement was obvious from his gestures of the body. The other men
about six in all were field rank officers from his department. They
were all wearing civilian clothes except for one who was a short
muscular general who was DCS of NSB. Qadri was also there pacing
back and forth coming to tiptoes to see over everyone's head and
then back at his boots smiling to himself in utter self confidence.
As Sahel and Dilshad walked forward, Sahel griped Dilshad's
arm. He squeezed hard to steady him. Sahel felt his heart rising into
his throat. He did not care who had captured Razmak and his fury
over the Roshna Saleem's safety was all but gone now for none of it
would matter if what he was about to see were real. At last it would be
over. Over forever.
The small interrogation chamber was lit like a bright day. At its
centre a steel chair was welded to the floor. Two young men stood
well back from the chair, with their arms folded on the chests. In the
chair sat a man cuffed his arms with the armrests and his ankles
shackled with the steel legs, the T-shirt was torn open from his chest.
The prisoner was silent. He was tall thought even he sat. His posture
was erect. He was well dressed in a jean and shirt with an overall
which was torn at his shoulder. Sahel squinted. Yes, there was a scar a
curved red beneath his left eye. Yet the actual eye colour it was hard
to make out.
There was a small speaker on the wall of the briefing room and
suddenly Zawri's voice came into it.
I ask you finally, what's your name? But the prisoner remained
silent. He did not even move. Then something clicked in Sahel's
mind. Yes the prisoner had all the obvious physical marks, the
correct colour and face and his hair, but he had a single glaring
expression on his face that Razmak would never ever had displayed.
This man looked frightened. And those eyes.
No, he is not. He started out of the room knocking over a chair.
Sahel, Dilshad called out behind him.
He is not. He turned left and found the recessed door to the
Page 324
Chapter 19
Chapter 19
Chapter 19
each other.
_______
Roshna Saleem was dead.
By the time Sahel reached her place where HQ was keeping her in
Islamabad, Zawri had already radioed his orders to National Security
Services to investigate. The NSS men were waiting in a small bunch
on the landing in front of the open door and he could tell by their
faces.
Dilshad stopped tried to stop Sahel from going in, but he could
not obstruct him looking his red face.
The apartment was a mess. Turned centre table legs up, broken
glasses. The cushions were thrown from the sofas. One of door to the
bedroom was off at its hinges; a mirror was broken through by face
or fist. She had not been an easy kill. A corpse was covered on the bed
leaving her only naked small feet pointed at the ceiling. He felt two
hands on his shoulders. He felt weakness halted him.
Let me do it, Dilshad whispered. He walked past him into the
bedroom. Sahel struggled to hold him together, his body quivering
from head to foot as he watched Dilshad to see her face.
Among the gathered mourners, only Sahel knew that she always
kept a short commando blade tucked between her mattresses. At least
she had wounded her murderer.
They were almost in the hallway when Sahel suddenly stopped.
He rushed back in the apartment. Dilshad followed, concerned
about him. But Sahel did not go the bedroom. He looked around
and found the telephone set fallen in a corner with its cradle apart.
He picked up the cradle and tried to hear, yet it was silent.
He rested the cradle onto the set and then again picked it up,
there came a dial tone. With his shaking hands he hardly tried to
remember his own number.
It rang and rang again. He waited for Amber to pick up. He
dialled again and waited for complete eight ringing tone to come.
There was no answer.
________
Page 327
Page 328
Chapter 19
At Scion
Chapter 20
Defence Day 6th September
Jinnah Avenue was certainly a grand Avenue of Islamabad. It
started from F-10 southern part as per Islamabad's city plan and
ended at National Assembly building another grand house of
representatives from across the country. Plenty of governmental
buildings were scattered at around its end. From a view vision of a
photographer it might have an excellent scene once someone stops
ahead of its last intersection at Blue Area. Many high rise buildings
signify corporate sector and banking and commercial shopping
plazas.
The 6th September. The day has its own significance when a
ceremony of Defence day is celebrated and exhibited to boost the
morale of the forces and citizens at Jinnah Avenue. There were
representations from all over the country, forces arms display,
provincial cultural floats, and student's activities and so on. Music
and Milli Naghme from the top most pop singers and March past of
forces always had an eye catching phenomenon. Thousands of
people used to witness the celebrations in person and millions on TV
relay while President and other top most military officials take salute
from the forces. A stage has been set on the north-eastern part at the
tail of the road where hundreds of chairs set for the foreign delegates
and diplomats as well.
Page 329
Chapter 20
Chapter 20
Chapter 20
Chapter 20
Police, then the Farhat and senior ISI officer known only as
'Paragon.' Many of the men and women also looked familiar within
the agencies.
So this is where we are now, Sahel was relieved to be able to escape
from the horrors of history, to lose himself once more in the game at
hand.
Dilshad waved to Sahel for the short briefing to the agency men.
Sahel stopped at a small group of fellow agencies men standing
around the stage and who were chatting carelessly yet their hawked
eyes were never ignorant of visitor's even small gesture and were
waiting for Sahel's short briefing.
Hey, Sahel, one of the group thumbed up on him as Sahel
reached to them. Do you really think, Razmak is really going to go
for the President?
Sahel looked at him, smiled and waited for a moment. He
probably wants me and Dilshad as well, but we think that's
secondary now.
And what type of weapon Razmak carrying? Another asked.
I don't know yet this unidentified weapon we guess may be
larger than a small arm and smaller than a tank. Sahel thoughtfully
said.
How do you sure that he is specifically going to come over here
for the President? Another asked in a frantic manner.
Because we have come to the conclusion that Razmak will have
only one opportunity left during the next two weeks to reach to the
President. Farhat replied who had just entered the circle.
And that's today.
Yes, said Sahel gesturing at the bug-eyes Airborne Colonel.
That's why we are here. The President will arrive by helicopter
directly from his residence. He has agreed to wear a ballistic vest.
Good, that'll help, someone commented.
Get him to cancel for God's sake! someone yelled.
You get him cancel, Farhat retorted loudly. Now listen all of
you. Our job is to provide security for whoever needs it, not to send
the government into bunkers.
All right, Sahel continued. Let me tell you one thing more.
Before we go on for search, let's have a look at Razmak's face. He
nodded at Farhat who picked up a small walkie-talkie from someone
Page 333
Chapter 20
Chapter 20
Chapter 20
Chapter 20
Chapter 20
He took out the launcher from the trunk and looked around for
a suitable place to set it on the stand he was carrying in another bag
at his shoulder. He pulled the iron stand and fixed it. Finally he
removed the two halves of the RPG, screwed them together and laid
the weapon back inside the bag. Inserting and arming the rocket
would take now only a few minutes.
He poked his head above from the parapet of the roof. To his left
down across the road the stage was magnificent. Ahead the wide
brick parking was almost filled with official cars. At the far side on
the six lane road marching band was ready to proceed the moment
the President would be seated at the stage. Behind the marching band
the glittering long floats of all the provinces were ready to follow the
march past.
_______
Sahel tried to think, his brain aching with the strain. All around him
there was chaos. Engines at parking hammed, people applauded,
rifle butts slammed the salutes and boots hammered off the floor.
Yet nothing was happening.
He spun around, his eyes searching the high parapets of the
surrounding buildings, straining to see beyond the shapes and
shadows. It could not be that he was wrong that it would happen here
at all. If his concept was deadly stupidity and Razmak surprised him
again accomplished his mission, Sahel could not live with it. He
began to squeeze his fingers in his hair praying for glimpse of
anything suspected and he then suddenly a thought flashed across
his mind and he jerked on his feet.
He had to think, at every turn he had been one step behind
Razmak Bilal. Now he had to think like Razmak. If ever he had to
become Razmak. He had to out-think himself.
And then he got it. He was wrong. The idea that the president was
safe as long as he lived was wrong. No, Razmak wanted Sahel to
witness to this final coup, just as he had suffered through the deaths
of his comrades. This would be Razmak's most vengeful blow. The
simple killing of his brother's murderer could wait, maybe until
tomorrow, maybe for five more years.
He waved Tariq standing idol at the far corner of the stage. Tariq
Page 338
Chapter 20
Chapter 20
finger to his walkie- talkie and pushed the top floor button.
At the top, the slim door to the roof was open. He poked his head
outside. There was nothing at the roof. He looked for Dilshad,
hiding his body inside. No sign. He whistled the coded tune that
only knew Dilshad. He heard the sharp cough to his left and came
out of the elevator corridor. He was standing on the roof. He looked
at his left. Dilshad sat there breathing slowly his head back against
the wall one hand over his belly. A river of blood ran over his fingers
and into his crotch. It was already seeping out from under his trouser
across the floor. His suntanned face was as white as a white rose.
He lifted his left hand from beside the leg, slowly as Sahel neared.
Dilshad gripped his captain's arm with his last vestige of power. He
opened his mouth and Sahel bent his face to him.
He is much faster than you Sahel, Dilshad whispered. He is
here up on the garret roof but you must beat him. You must.
Sahel tried to speak. He could not. There was no time for it. He
pulled his arm away and looked around. He looked down at Dilshad
again and dragged him across the wall of garret and made him sat
alongside two corpses of the policemen. Sahel then lifted his right
foot and placed it on the Dilshad's shoulder. Dilshad quickly raised
his hand and wrapped his fingers around Sahel's ankle to steady him.
In one swift moment, Sahel launched himself upward slamming
his stomach down onto the top of the garret roof. He held on to his
pistol, scrabbling with his free hand as he swung his legs rolled over
and came to his feet.
Razmak Bilal was waiting. He stood only two meters away; his
back to the low edge of the roof at far end of it, the sun crafted his
shadow on the floor. He was wearing the dress uniform of
paratrooper. The triple bronze bars and silver parachute wing
shimmered on his breast. A Khaki cap cocked over his head as if he
had been borne to wear it.
Next to Razmak feet lay the wrinkled form of any an empty gym
bag. Next to that resting on the edge of the parapet a small steel target
view adjustable stand with silent black tube of a rocket-propelled
launcher gleamed. The ugly warhead was loaded, the cap of the
charge removed, the hammer pulled down, ready for the strike down
directly at the stage.
Even so it was hard for Sahel to make the mental leap. Razmak
Page 340
Chapter 20
looked so much like Pakistani, his costume perfect, his black army
boots placed easily apart so hard to imagine that this was the man
who had starred in all of Sahel's nightmares, so calm, so relaxed.
Except that he pointing that snatched automatic gun from the
policeman directly at Sahel's chest.
Sahel was frozen in his half bow, his mouth suddenly dry as
sand, his breath like waves of sea, and the pulse pounding in his
throat. He stared at the shadowed face, immobile, his eyes blazing
like a furnace. Sahel moved slowly up. His eyes on the Razmak's face,
he lowered his pistol toward the roof, wanting to try it anyway,
knowing that he'd be blown off the lower roof into Dilshad's lap if
his hand even trembled.
He straightened up now without the weapon turning a bit, facing
full to the front, his limbs shivering cursing with blood. From
somewhere far below he heard the band playing its favourite tune.
He visualized the arrival of the President on the stage. They would
never make it. He heard another sound the drone of a distant voice,
slightly metallic the speech echoing in the great show.
Unbelievingly, he felt his body moving forward, rebelling against
a mind that tried to compel him to stop. Yet Razmak's watched him
quietly.
Do not worry, Captain Sahel Farhaj, the voice said in perfect
controlled Urdu. You will only have to witness the assassination of
your President. And then I will end it for you, as you ended it for my
brother. Now you drop your gun on the floor.
Sahel had no way except to comply the orders. He lowered his
hand and sat his pistol slowly on the floor.
The automatic gun begun to move slowly, its line changing just
slightly, he was going to shoot Sahel, not kill him yet, just enough to
immobilize him. While then he would step to the stand and use the
RPG, blowing them all back into a terrible pledge of tribal revenge.
He was going to shoot Sahel in the legs. Yes, in the legs.
You killed Gulo, Sahel was amazed that he could find his own
voice, harsh and hoarse as it was with terror. You killed your own
brother. He moved his right foot forward almost dragging it. You
used him like a tethered goat and I was merely an instrument to
bring you at the law and you know it very well, Mr Hayat Gul.
He hit the mark. Razmak lifted his head, his eyes narrowing and
Page 341
Chapter 20
the rage crawling over his face. For that crucial millisecond, he raised
the gun to fire at Sahel's chest, and the Sahel made the only move he
could, the only technique he had ever managed to do half-well in
Krav-Maga.
He lunged with his left foot, snapped his right hand forward up
over catching the gun and side stepping as it exploded next to his
face. He yelled as he struck out with his right fist, but Razmak
snapped his head over and the punch went wild. He felt a sharp blow
to his knee but still he held on to the gun, yet in that split second he
knew that he would never complete the move, could never turn the
weapon on Razmak and use it. An open hand chopped down into
his face as he twisted to the left with all his might, swinging his right
hand over toward the automatic, slamming into it, wrenching it
from Razmak's grip as he followed through and hurled it high and
away into the air.
For the friction of second pause, they stood empty handed eyes
into eyes. But it was no match. Sahel did the unthinkable.
As Razmak's eyes blinked in disbelief, Sahel yelled Amber's
name, launched himself forward in the air, and gripped his
archenemy in an embrace of hatred that took them both over the
edge of the parapet to fall the length of a long hollow scream down
the seventeen storeys onto the Scion Hotel forecourt far below...
_______
Page 342