Missing

by Mian Mohsin Zia

  Both men looked at each other and smiled at Z, and the Imam responded. “This is an extract from the prayer that the Holy Prophet Mohammad (Peace be Upon Him) made in Ta’if, a city in Mecca, Saudi Arabia.”

  The Imam adjusted his headscarf. “It was one of the most testing times in the Holy Prophet’s life, and during it, the Holy Prophet Mohammad (Peace be Upon Him) made this invocation. The prayer has its power and significance because it came from the Holy Prophet Mohammad (Peace be Upon Him) at a time when he confronted the apogee of his hardship. Your mother must have known it, as you heard it whenever you woke up in the middle of the night, though you can now only recall part of it.”

  “Right! Could you please tell me the complete prayer the Holy Prophet Mohammad (Peace be Upon Him) made at Ta’if?” Z requested politely, feeling relieved because he’d get to know something he’d always wanted to know.

  “Sure!” the Imam replied as they sat down. He took out a piece of paper and pen and wrote down the complete prayer. “Here it is. I’ve written it in Arabic, English, and Urdu, so you can read it at your convenience,” as he handed Z the paper that he put into his jeans pocket.

  “Thanks! I’ll take my leave, ALLAH Hafiz,” Z said in parting, shook hands, and stood up to leave the prayer hall and both men. (ALLAH Hafiz is a common parting phrase meaning ‘GOD be with you.’)

  “ALLAH Hafiz,” they said together.

  As Z left the prayer hall, he thought to himself, as he placed his hands on the pocket where he’d put the paper, Almighty ALLAH, YOU have guided me and blessed me with this prayer. Please guide me about what I should do in this situation. Who do I trust, and who not?

  He moved on toward the mosque’s exit uttering the prayer, “I seek refuge in the light of Your face by which all darkness is dispelled. Everything is powerless without Your support.”

  As he finished, an idea popped into his head, which further cleared his thinking, and for the first time since he’d spoken with Madame, he felt composed and relaxed. He moved toward the stairs leading to the mosque’s main exit, taking out his phone to make a call. Before he dialed the number, his phone rang.

  “Hello, Mr. Best! I was about to call you, and before I could, you called me!” Z answered Inspector Joseph Best, the very person he’d just had his idea about.

  “Hello, Mr. Z, I was wondering if you’ve recuperated and when we’ll meet,” Joseph asked, sounding concerned.

  “We will, but not at the Police Station. Is there somewhere we can meet in person, just you and I?” Z asked.

  “Is everything alright?” Joseph sounded surprised.

  “I’ll let you know once we meet.” Z’s response was brief, as he wanted a private meeting with Joseph.

  “OK. Tonight at eight at the Hockey Stadium, Johar Town.”

  “Make it 8:30, because the electricity cuts at the hotel around 8:15, and that will help me get away even if someone’s keeping a watch on me.”

  “Pardon?” Joseph asked.

  “Don’t bother. How about 8:30?”

  “OK. Let’s make it 8:30.”

  “Got it. I can’t reveal much over the phone. Please make sure you come alone, and that no one knows about this.”

  “I will,” Joseph verified as the call ended.

  CHAPTER 15

  On entering the Hockey Stadium through the main gate, Z noticed the field was wet. One light facing toward the Main Stand on Z’s left was on.

  “Mr. Best, are you here?” Z asked with his hands on his hips. “Mr. Best? Is anybody here?” Somebody turned on the floodlights that lit up the Stadium, and Z could see the wet, lush, green field in detail. He stood in the floodlight with his hands on his hips in his blue jeans and black, button-down shirt.

  “Here, Mr. Z. I’m right here,” Z heard Joseph near the Main Stand and signaled to Z to come over to him.

  “So, tell me, what’s the matter? What made you want to meet me here and not at the Police Station?” Joseph queried as he looked around, ensuring that Z was all alone too.

  “Tomorrow morning at 10:30, you’ll be at the Press Club.”

  Joseph looked surprised and frowned before asking, “How do you know that?”

  “I know it because I’ve been instructed to shoot you when you come out from the Press Club.” Z folded his hands as he said this.

  “Is my death some kind of a joke, you’ve come to tell me about?” Joseph asked as he smirked.

  “Listen. I didn’t show up to file a complaint and proceed further, because I had a call from Madame— ”

  “Madame! How do you know her?” Joseph interjected.

  “It’s not how I know her. It’s how she knew about the scarf and every single movement of mine. I didn’t speak about that with anyone — except for you, your team, and those who helped me find the scarf. Still, Madame knew about all of it,” Z said as he took a couple of steps closer and continued.

  “If she knew that, there’s no point in me trusting your department. There must be someone there. Pretty obviously, such rackets work in harmony with corrupt officials. It happens worldwide, but the bottom line is that she’s dealt directly with me, and I can’t miss this opportunity to get to her. I’ve seen how your help is of no use. In the end, you can easily make an excuse, and that could be good enough for you, but it can’t be enough for me. I’ve come here for Lena, and I won’t settle without finding her.”

  Z cleared his throat and brushed his hands through his hair as a breeze blew off the field. “I’ve witnessed how well-organized and progressive Madame is, but I have another opportunity and no other option, except to do what she said. Maybe I can then get to her and then to Lena. How do you know about Madame?”

  “Everybody in this business knows about Madame, but nobody has seen her. As you said, she’s well-organized and progressive,” Joseph said.

  “By the way, you mean to say that by shooting me, you’ll get that opportunity? And that you’ve set up this meeting to farewell me before my death?” Joseph sounded confused.

  “If Madame can play safe, so can we. If she’s progressive and thinks ahead, so can we. If she can fool us with her tricks, so can we.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll shoot you, but you won’t die. Make sure you’re wearing your bulletproof vest. You’ll be shot but stay down on the ground and be declared dead until I contact you.”

  “Now I’ve got it! But what makes you trust me? Do you sincerely think I’ll do this?”

  “If I don’t shoot you, she’ll have you killed by someone else, so why not be in this to save yourself and catch her?”

  “Makes sense.”

  “And from my point of view, Madame won’t want to have someone killed without reason, which means you’re a threat to her — and that makes me trust you. After all, an enemy’s enemy is a friend. Honestly speaking, we have no choice but to trust each other and give it a go. If we succeed, we’ll get Madame and fix this. But if we fail, we won’t regret giving it a try,” Z said, placing his hand on Joseph’s shoulder.

  “Are you sure you won’t miss the target? I mean — are you confident enough you’ll shoot my bulletproof vest beneath my uniform?” Understandably, not knowing Z’s background and skillset, Joseph was skeptical about Z’s accuracy with a gun.

  “Trust me. I won’t miss. But make sure you stay down and pretend to be dead, until I contact you,” Z reiterated.

  “Madame has instructed me to shoot you and then go to the Super Express Bus Stand, where I have to board a bus. I want your most trusted officers in civvies to be at the bus stand, and even on the bus, I’m gonna board to keep watch. Whoever comes to meet me or whatever happens, your team will be in control, and we’ll get to know what she has in store for us.”

  “Now, I understand. I’ll stay down and pretend to be dead, so Madame thinks you’ve done the job, and you get to the bus stand where she wants you, and my team in plain clothes will cover you and have things under control. Well thought out! I’m in. I’ll do it.”<
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  Before they could part ways, Joseph said, as he pointed at his chest, “Make sure the bullet hits on my chest where I’ll have protection. I usually go to church on Sunday, but I think I’ll have to go to the church before I go to the Press Club tomorrow morning.”

  “Don’t worry!” Z vouched with a nod. “Visuals can be deceptive. Madame, you might have had the last laugh at the Railway Station, but you won’t at the bus stand.”

  “What Railway Station?” Joseph overheard Z and asked.

  Z outlined to him everything that had happened at the Railway Station.

  *******

  “I’m doing everything I can for you, my little Angel. I hope I’m doing it the right way and will get to you soon,” Z said as he looked at Lena’s photo in his wallet. His cell phone rang.

  “Hello!”

  “Good morning, Kiddo! All set to leave?” Madame queried.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Good, so if everything goes to plan, you’ll have your Lena. Good luck! You see, Madame wants you to win. Don’t disappoint me!” She giggled, while Z stayed silent.

  “Ah, I forgot! Turn off your phone and leave it in the room. Things will be taken care of without phones from now on. All the instructions will be delivered to you in person. Hope I’m loud and clear.”

  “Yes. Will do! I’ll leave now; otherwise, I’ll be late.”

  “That’s the spirit. I love your professionalism. Bye!”

  “Bye!” Z ended the call, turned the phone off and left it on the table — but kept with him his other cell phone with his international number, which he’d never mentioned to anyone — and left the hotel.

  Following Madame’s instructions, he spotted the white Suki parked next to the green belt, got in and opened the glove compartment where he found car keys, a gun, and an envelope marked with the numeral “1.” Z opened it and read: “Park the car on the main road outside the Press Club. After finishing the task, run toward the underpass where you’ll find a red Santiaga with further instructions.” After reading this through, Z checked the gun. It was fully loaded with six bullets. He inserted the keys into the ignition and drove to the Press Club.

  On the way, Z felt as if every person he passed was keeping a watch on him. He kept his cool by breathing slowly and deeply until he was in complete control. It’s now or never. It’s time for action, he reassured himself.

  He parked the car over the road from the Press Club with its colossal, black main door. 10:25 am, his wristwatch said. He picked up the gun and thought, I’ve never felt this nervous before. Maybe, because this time I’m off-duty and won’t shoot to kill, or maybe because this time it’s personal — Lena is at stake. He cleared the sweat from his forehead with an index finger. Come on, Z! All eyes are on you, and Lena waits for you. Hope it all goes to plan and in our favor. He checked in his pocket for the paper which the Imam had given to him so he could say the prayer, but as he was opening it, he caught sight of Joseph Best coming out of the Press Club. He hurriedly put it back into his pocket and got out of the car.

  Z crossed the road as cars moved past quickly, the gun in his right hand, and made eye contact with a tentative-looking Joseph. They acknowledged each other discretely.

  Z positioned himself right in front of Joseph to be as close as possible for a perfect shot on his chest as agreed. He opened fire, but to Z’s utmost shock, Joseph Best was hit in the middle of his forehead and felled to the ground instantly. That bullet wasn’t shot by Z! He’d fired all six bullets at Joseph’s chest. Someone else had shot Joseph! He’d been set up!

  Z looked about briefly but had no time to figure out who it was and where the bullet had come from. He had to escape before he was spotted and confronted by security.

  The Press Club Security ran out with guns pointing, and Z edged away so he couldn’t be spotted. Just as Madame had said, there was pandemonium amongst the cars and people on the main road.

  He ran toward the underpass and spotted the red Santiaga, parked on the main road, and just short of a left turn. It was well-positioned for a perfect getaway, so he moved toward it when the traffic bunched up.

  In the car, he opened the glove compartment, took out the keys, but didn’t read the next lot of instructions. He just wanted to get away from the scene fast. He drove with sweat pouring over his forehead and down his face. He rushed his left hand through his hair. What has she planned for me? If she had to kill Joseph and set me up, why would she have parked this car for me to aid my escape?

  After some distance, he stopped and opened the glove compartment to read the instructions in the envelope marked with the numeral “2.”

  “Good boy! If you’re reading this, you’re on your way to meet me and get Lena. But there’s a slight deviation. Don’t go to the Bus Stand. Go to the Railway Station and board the train from Lahore to Karachi. You already have a reservation, and the ticket is in the glove compartment. Drive fast. The train leaves at 11:20 am. If you miss it, you’ll miss me, and Lena as well. Hope you have a safe trip. One last thing: get the burqa from the back seat — it will help you escape. You see, how much your Madame takes care of you! See ya soon.”

  Z dropped the instructions on the passenger seat, found the ticket, and looked in the back seat for the burqa.

  “Masterstroke! Now it will be one-on-one. I had my plan; she had hers. Both of us had our plans, but she’s stayed ahead again. Joseph, I won’t let your death go in vain. I’ll bring Madame to justice. One thing’s for sure, Madame — you want to meet me, and I’m coming to meet you face-to-face,” Z said, tensed and soaked in sweat as he looked at his wristwatch showing 10:54 am.

  He glanced into the rearview mirror and drove toward the Railway Station as fast as he could.

  *******

  Z felt trapped — there was no way out, no other option. You do things in life for your family that you would never do otherwise. You have to do them when it’s a matter of family, he thought. Reluctantly, he put on the burqa as his reservation was in the name of a woman, Ms. Alina Merchant, and walked toward the station.

  Moments later, he was sitting in his seat, the only one next to the window, and waiting for the train to depart. There were police around. Were they were searching for him? Finally, the train pulled out from the platform, and he sighed in relief.

  What’s next? What’s she got planned? he wondered. He looked around his railcar compartment through his burqa, trying to figure out if someone was watching him. Deep inside, he knew someone was nearby, but who was it? When would he be approached?

  One thing’s for sure. If she’s let me reach this point, then she’ll definitely show up — or someone else will, Z thought.

  The tickets had already been checked by the inspector manually, and things had settled down. He stood up and went to the restroom where he took off the burqa and threw it out the window. He’d felt very uncomfortable in it. Because he had the window seat on the left side of a compartment with a single row of seats, he easily returned without someone noticing that a person in a burqa had been sitting there earlier. After several hours and several stations, Z wondered again, and a little more anxiously, It’s 3:56 am, and I’m still traveling. When will she show up? Where from? Or will she meet me at Karachi?

  The train kept moving toward its destination but stopped at yet another station, where some passengers got off, and others boarded while darkness still prevailed. Z stood up, took off his brown jacket, and tied it around his waist. He went to one of the railcar doors, opened it, and looked out. A cool breeze blew through his hair, and he got lost in his thoughts.

  All of a sudden, he was aware of someone coming from his right. It was a woman in a burqa followed by three policemen. She pointed at Z. The policemen lifted their guns. He put his hands up but realized they were about to shoot him anyway. The woman exclaimed, “He’s the shooter!” Z looked at her eyes, which seemed familiar, but the moment she said that the policemen opened fire. The first bullet struck him on his right shoulder; the second went
past his ear, the third struck his upper right chest, the fourth grazed his left pectoral muscle.

  Before the fifth could have done any more damage, Z lost balance as he put his hand to his chest and saw it was covered in blood. Lips shivering and hands quivering, he caught the woman, unveiling her face with a smirk. He stumbled toward the open doorway, but she stepped closer, grabbed his collar, bringing her lips right up to his ear, and whispered, “Goodbye, Mr. Z!” as she pushed him out of the train. With the wind outside, he disappeared in the spur of a moment — but he’d caught sight of her face. That was enough for his memory.

  In the darkness of the night, thirsty and blood-soaked, Z fell out into an unknown, sandy expanse, unaware of whether he’d ever open his eyes again as he lost consciousness. Before his eyes closed, the woman’s image struck his memory, Joseph’s death scene replayed, along with Lena’s face and her voice calling him, Bhai.

  *******

  May 2007 – Khanewal Railway Station, Punjab, Pakistan

  Z comes out from the restroom, where he’s freshened up and enters the phone booth to make a call.

  “Hello!” Howard answers.

  “Z here. All set, as discussed. I’ll be in Lahore soon. My phone’s charged. Shall I switch it on?”

  “Yes, you may. I’ve got permission, and everything’s good to go. Good luck, Z!” Howard wishes him as they end their call.

  Z steps out of the phone booth and sees a beggar asking for help. He puts his hands into his jeans pockets and finds the paper that the Imam gave him. There’s a 10-rupee bill there too that he gives to the beggar and then returns to the train.

  *******

  Back in the railcar as his hair blows in the wind, Z opens the paper and reads out the prayer, while the train moves closer to its destination, Lahore.

  To You, my Lord,

  I complain of my weakness,

  lack of support and the humiliation I am made to receive.

  Most Compassionate and Merciful!

  You are the Lord of the weak,

  and you are my Lord.