by Abda Khan
When she stepped out of the airport building, the heat whacked Farah’s face with full force, and she could feel her make-up begin to melt right off. Farah now stood outside, and the first thing she noticed was the sun: it sat high in the sky and cast its dazzling bright light on everything.
The car park was straight ahead, on the other side of a wide pavement and service road, and beyond that there were large billboard posters advertising a well-known Western brand of fizzy drinks, instant baby formula milk, cigarettes and mobile phones. It dawned on Farah that this was the first time she had seen a billboard advert for cigarettes; she had never seen anything like it in England.
There were policemen and army officers crawling about everywhere, carrying large machine guns and keeping a watchful eye on all that surrounded them. Some were stationary in vehicles, but many were on foot, patrolling the whole area. She didn’t know whether seeing such heavily armed men, ready to shoot to kill if necessary, made her feel safe or vulnerable. Once again, it was a sight she had never witnessed before.
Farah noticed a taxi booth straight ahead of her, just before the steps that led across to the car park, and she started to walk over to it. However, before she quite made it to the booth, a small boy, six or seven years old, approached her. He was dressed in a dirty grey kurtha and he was carrying a bunch of thasbees for sale. He looked up at her, and with his right hand raised high, dangled the prayer beads, which consisted of different coloured stones threaded through the pieces of string. There were rosy pinks, aqua blues, pearly whites and bottle greens. Farah couldn’t help but reach into her bag, and she handed him some rupees. She told him she didn’t need the prayer beads, but he could have the money. Before she knew it, she was surrounded by more beggars: one old, toothless woman, an old man who seemed to be blind, and a young man with a leg missing, all declaring their tales of woe and poverty. She reached into her bag for more rupees, and did what she could. The man at the taxi booth came over. He was a tall, burly, middle-aged man. He had a side parting, and his glossy grey-speckled black hair was neatly oiled into place. He had a heavy moustache, and a large nose that was dotted with indentations that looked like moon craters. He was just finishing smoking a cigarette.
‘Excuse me, Miss, pardon the intrusion,’ the taxi man said, ‘but you need to put your money away. You keep doing this and you won’t be able to see to the end of the queue of beggars that will be lined up in front of you.’
‘Oh, I see,’ replied Farah a little nervously. She didn’t really enjoy the slight tone of chastisement in the man’s voice, although if she was honest, this was pretty much what her mother had told her about the beggars.
‘Do you need a taxi?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Where to?’
‘To the Marriott Hotel, please.’
‘OK, come on.’ The man took Farah’s suitcase, and shooed the beggars away. Farah wasn’t sure exactly what he said to them, but they disappeared quickly enough. A sense of uncertainty was beginning to creep into the back of her mind. She did her best to ignore it.
‘Where have you come from?’ asked the taxi man, brushing his large moustache with one hand.
‘From the UK.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes, well, sort of. I have travelled alone, but I will be seeing people here … I’m here for work.’
‘No offence, but you don’t seem like you know Pakistan very well.’
‘I don’t, really. My parents are both from Pakistan originally, but I was born in the UK and this is my first visit.’
The man put the suitcase in the boot of the cab, and came around and opened the back door for her.
‘Be careful, Miss,’ he said after Farah had got in. ‘This is Pakistan, and anything goes. You must be watchful. A foreign-looking woman travelling alone …’
He looked Farah up and down, and she felt uncomfortable, although she couldn’t quite say why. He wasn’t really eyeing her up; she didn’t get that feeling. He was just staring, and she didn’t much like it.
‘I see. Thank you for the advice,’ she said to him. He closed the door and went and spoke to the driver.
The advice left Farah feeling even more uneasy as the taxi drove off; was she doing the right thing, she asked herself, or was she putting herself in a place where she was way out of her depth?
*
Islamabad wasn’t at all as Farah had imagined it to be. She wasn’t exactly sure where she had gathered her preconceived ideas about Pakistan from. Perhaps it was the tales she had heard told by her parents when she was little, or the stories that the aunty jis had conveyed upon their return from their annual vacation. She had thought that the roads would be a little more archaic, and that they would be littered with creaky donkey carts, and hordes of beggars, and there would be piles of overflowing litter, and incessant noise and smog, and fumes. But Islamabad turned out to be quite the opposite. It was squeaky clean, and had a tranquil and yet welcoming vibe; there were generously proportioned wide roads and avenues, flanked neatly with tall evergreens and an abundance of native trees, and the houses ranged from basic dwellings to modern apartment blocks, to houses-cum-palaces that exuded grandeur and luxury. There were modern shopping areas, and huge, impressive-looking malls. But there was one sight that outdid all the others – the view of the magnificent Margalla Hills, a vast expanse of land that was draped in a blanket of emerald pine trees, all of which sat at the foot of the majestic Himalayas.
The five-star hotel where she had booked her room lay on the famous Aga Khan Road, and had the enviable advantage of being situated so as to overlook Margalla Hills in all its glory.
Although she was aware that this hotel was extremely well guarded, Farah had still not anticipated that there would be three strong layers of security at the hotel; she had never seen anything like it. The first checkpoint was at the very edge of the hotel complex, still by the main road, which was manned by around half a dozen men; a few were heavily armed police officers and the remainder were security guards. The taxi stopped, and the driver was questioned by an armed policeman; the back of the car and the boot were searched thoroughly, and once the officers were satisfied that all was well, the car was allowed entry. Further down the lane, there was a similar checkpoint. As the car drove on, Farah noticed that there were armed men on the roof of the hotel building, a sight which quite took her by surprise. And the final security check came just inside the hotel entrance by way of a bag check and metal detector machine. Farah couldn’t help but feel a little alarmed as they went through each checkpoint, and she considered what a faff it was going to be every time she left and returned to the hotel, although she comforted herself with the thought that given Pakistan’s recent terrorism troubles, it was probably better this way, even if this was a side to Pakistan that was going to require some major getting used to.
Farah walked over to the reception desk; it was a large, square structure which sat in the middle of the huge, marble-floored foyer. There were red velvet chairs and sofas, and large, bright fresh flower arrangements on gold-rimmed glass tables.
Farah informed the receptionist of her booking, which he checked, and then confirmed.
‘There is a message for you here, Miss Jilani,’ he told her. The receptionist was a taller than average man, dark skinned, with striking black hair, and a neatly trimmed thin black moustache and beard. He handed her the room key and the envelope containing the message, and clicked to attract the attention of the concierge to take Farah’s bag to her room.
Farah’s room was more than comfortable, having all the trappings and amenities you would expect in an international five-star hotel. The room was a combination of solid, dark wooden furniture, pale walls and neutral-toned soft furnishings. It looked and felt comforting, and familiar; if she tried really hard, she could almost imagine she was back home.
She threw herself on the large, plump bed, and opened the envelope she had been handed at reception. The note read:
I have
arranged for a lawyer to see you in connection with Razia’s incarceration.
His name is Imran Shah – contact him on 516298541.
Mention my name when you call.
All the Best, Yours, Mr Amin
Farah sank further into the softness of the bed, closed her eyes, breathed out slowly and felt an instant sense of relief. She had hastily flown to Pakistan on the crest of a wave of anger, but hadn’t really thought with any seriousness about what she would do when she got here; she was clueless about how the system worked over here, about who she would see, or where to even start. At least this Imran Shah should know where to begin.
She took a quick shower and phoned her mum to announce her safe arrival. As she had expected, she was subjected to a further list of dos and don’ts now she was in Pakistan.
Then she gave the lawyer a call. After the introductions, they went on to discuss the case. Farah didn’t hold back with the details, and her suspicions of Zaheer.
‘So, what do you think can be done at this stage for Razia? How do we get her out of prison?’
‘Miss Jilani, may I be frank with you?’
‘Please do.’
‘I think you must face the fact that there is not much hope of Razia being freed.’
‘Excuse me?’ Farah responded with clear horror in her voice to this sweeping statement.
‘The facts speak for themselves. She was caught red-handed with drugs in her bag. She can offer no explanation as to how the drugs got there if she didn’t put them in herself. And this suggestion that if was Zaheer Mansur …’
‘What about it?’
‘I would urge you to be cautious, Miss. Perhaps you are not familiar with the way things work here, but making such serious allegations against such an important man, such an important family in fact, is a dangerous thing to do, and I am not entirely comfortable with this line of attack.’
Farah was dumbfounded and didn’t hesitate in making her next move.
‘In that case, I am afraid it will be impossible for us to work together.’
‘What? Are you sacking me?’ he asked, surprised.
‘That’s exactly what I’m doing; good day to you,’ replied Farah, and ended the call.
It was a bit harsh perhaps, Farah thought to herself, but she knew she couldn’t work with a lawyer who clearly didn’t have his client’s best interests at heart; a lawyer who was more concerned about the upset he might cause the Mansur clan than about working hard to get his client out of prison and seeking justice for her. She would have to think of a plan B, but presently she had no idea what that was going to be.
25
The next morning, while Farah was having breakfast, the receptionist came and found her at her table, where she was enjoying an aloo paratha with spicy scrambled eggs, and a cup of desi cardamom tea, whilst at the same time mulling over what to do next. She thought that telephoning her contact at the British High Commission would be a good place to start; perhaps she would be able to recommend a suitable lawyer. Farah pulled up her details on WhatsApp and was about to message her when a cursory glance at the profile revealed she was ‘unavailable’, with a message underneath that read ‘enjoying the sun in Barbados’.
Farah let out a sigh; things were not panning out as she had hoped. She felt agitated at having reached yet another stumbling block so soon after her arrival.
The receptionist interrupted her breakfast to inform her that there was a lawyer called Mr Ali Omar on the telephone for her.
‘Really? I don’t know of anyone by that name,’ replied Farah.
‘I know Mr Omar; he is a regular here. He is a top lawyer; one of the best in fact. You can take the call in reception if you wish.’
Farah hadn’t been impressed by her dealings with Pakistani lawyers thus far but thought it wouldn’t do any harm to speak to him.
‘Hello,’ said Farah after she had taken the receiver.
‘This is Ali Omar,’ came the voice on the other end of the telephone. The voice was husky as opposed to deep, laced heavily with an American accent. ‘Hello, Miss Jilani, is it?’
‘Yes, this is Farah Jilani.’
‘I am contacting you about the young woman found with drugs at the airport.’
Wow, news certainly travelled fast around this place, thought Farah. She was curious.
‘How do you know about that?’
‘I am a local lawyer here, and it’s not long before word spreads; it’s a small world around these parts when it comes to these things. If I’m not mistaken, you are looking for someone to represent the young woman.’
‘Yes, I am as a matter of fact.’
‘I am willing to take the case on, if you wish.’
He sounded very sure of himself, thought Farah. She hadn’t actually asked for his help yet.
‘You are? Why?’
‘Because it is exactly the sort of challenging case that I relish. Call me a champion of the underdog, or whatever else you wish, but that is who I am.’
Farah wasn’t sure what to make of this lawyer who was so keen to take on such a problematic case.
‘I see. Well, perhaps we could sit down and talk about it and see where we go from there.’
‘Excellent. Let’s meet and discuss the case properly before we plan a course of action, lawyer-to-lawyer, so to speak.’
‘Yes, let’s do that,’ Farah agreed.
‘You are staying at the Marriott, that’s one of my favourite haunts anyway. I have a couple of appointments this morning, so I can come over at, say, around one-thirty, if you could come and meet me down by reception. Will that be OK?’
‘Perfect,’ replied Farah. She put the phone down, but as she walked away, she wasn’t entirely sure if she had just done the right thing. He sounded very assertive, but Farah was prepared to stand her ground should he not be the right lawyer for the job.
When Farah approached the reception desk, she couldn’t see anyone who looked like a lawyer. There were a few men standing in one corner. They were all suited and booted, and very official-looking. They were engrossed in conversation, and from what little Farah could gather from the chatter, they appeared to be politicians, or something of that ilk.
She walked up to the tall, dark-haired receptionist and asked if anyone by the name of Ali Omar had called for her.
‘Mr Omar is standing just there, Ma’am, right behind you.’
Farah turned around, expecting to see someone in a smart tailored suit, a crisp pale shirt and a silk tie, clutching a briefcase or perhaps some files in his hand. Ali Omar was of medium height, with long, wavy shoulder-length black hair, parted off centre. He had brownish green eyes, a scruffy moustache and a beard. The look was completed with a black T-shirt and dark brown leather jacket, frayed sky-blue denim jeans and a muddy-looking pair of grey trainers. To Farah’s eyes, he looked like a wannabe rock star. Oh God, she thought to herself, the last one was all official sounding but had no backbone at all, and this one looks like he must surely spend more time washing his hair than looking through his files.
He was just finishing a call.
The man put his mobile phone in the back pocket of his jeans and stepped forward.
‘Miss Jilani?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Ali Omar, pleased to meet you.’
The American accent seemed even stronger in person, perhaps because of the way that Ali looked. Was it real, or a bit manufactured?
On Ali’s suggestion, they went and sat in the terrace café outside. Ali took his jacket off and hung it on the back of the chair, and seemed quite at ease with the temperature. Farah thought it was much too warm and sticky, but the terrace area itself was a delight to sit in. The sofas were comfortably arranged with scatter cushions, and the large beige parasol provided plenty of shade from the scorching sun.
‘Do you like the hotel?’ he asked her.
‘Yes, very much so.’
‘It’s a great establishment, although it has had its fair share of tragedy.�
��
‘Really?’ asked Farah, waiting for him to tell the story.
‘Well, it was rebuilt after the bomb attacks during the terror-ridden post-9/11 period, as you may remember. There were countless attacks which caused countless tragic and needless deaths, not to mention the long-term damage.’
‘And now?’ asked Farah, with a little concern.
‘Don’t worry. The security situation around the country is much better now, although we Pakistanis know better than to rest on our laurels. There are still sporadic bursts of bombings and attacks, but, generally speaking, at lower levels and on a smaller scale than was the case a few years ago.’
Ali then turned his attention towards the food, and proceeded to order what seemed like half the menu for what was supposed to be a light lunch. Farah began the task of going through the case from beginning to end, with as many details as she could cram in. Ali scribbled away on his notepad, in between mouthfuls of Mughlai lamb seekh kebabs with tandoori naan and mint chutney, and he said nothing whilst Farah presented her case.
When Ali had finished jotting everything down, with meticulous precision, albeit in a handwriting style that most would struggle to read, he sat back. He twisted his pen around in his hand gently, and Farah could see that he was turning it all around in his mind; he did so for a little while. Probably a bit longer than he needed, Farah thought to herself, but nevertheless she waited patiently.