Missing

by Mian Mohsin Zia

  “As I said before, Dubai has become the hub of entertainment. The best of the honeybees from across the world gather there. Our supply chain extends there too. You must have wondered how come Chinese, Russians, and Filipinas are available here at massage centers, spas, and parlors. They’ve all been transported illegally without legitimate documents, some with fake documentation and some having none— ”

  “I ain’t wondering about them!” Z interjects.

  “If you’re not, then you should be,” Faisal censures him.

  “Why?” Z asks.

  “Lena was spotted at the Domodedovo International Airport, Moscow, while she was waiting for her flight to Indira Gandhi International Airport, Delhi. Human trafficking is not just about prostitution, but also for human organs, pornography, slavery, and so on, depending on the geographics, demographics, and psychographics of the targeted person’s destination. Our network is always active in public places like subways, railway stations, and airports, even when we’re on the move, which is just how it happened with Lena,” Faisal sits up straighter in his chair.

  “One of my colleagues was traveling from Moscow to Delhi on the same flight as Lena. That gave her enough time to find out about Lena and identify her as an easy target. The woman’s child-trick at the Dubai International Airport was perfect for trapping Lena. Traveling with her child, she’s tricked many others like Lena before.”

  Z recalls what Lena wrote him from the airport: I’m at Dubai Airport, Bhai. There’s a lady next to me who has a very cute baby I’m playing with. I’ll write you when I can coz int’l roaming is expensive. Please don’t worry. I’m safe. He realizes that Faisal is telling the truth and asks, “How did you get her to Pakistan? And why Pakistan?”

  “Why here? It could have been anywhere. The supplier contacts a buyer in the safest destination for the target to be transported to. Lena was already traveling to India, so seeking a buyer in India wouldn’t have been the safest place for her to go missing. We’re professionals and believe in leaving no clues behind,” Faisal replies.

  “Got it. That’s why I had to prove her presence in Pakistan to be able to begin finding her,” Z acknowledges and then returns to his over-riding concern. “But you haven’t answered my other question.”

  “I’m a man of my word. I said, I’d let you know everything before you die, and I will,” he assures Z with another smirk. “Have some patience!” he advises Z.

  Z stayed silent, waiting for Faisal to continue.

  “You must have heard about shipping containers being sent between countries by sea? Typically, they’re 10, 20, and 40 feet long. You’re wise enough to understand this. Would it be difficult to have Lena — or anyone else — transported to any place in a container? Especially when it’s all operated professionally by a network, and as you say, when money is a religion for professionals like us.” Faisal giggles, picks up the bottle, stands up, and moves to the window in front of Alisha’s body in the rocking chair.

  “Yes, I can understand that,” Z says, standing up as well. “But my main question remains unanswered. Where is Lena?”

  “Lena’s missing,” Faisal answers, with his back toward Z and taking another sip from the bottle.

  “Come on! Don’t belittle your professionalism! You sent me her picture showing that you had her,” Z retorts angrily.

  “A picture is a protocol. For every package, the supplier and the buyer each take a picture for their records. More pictures are taken to show clients for bookings when the buyer becomes the seller — just as I offered you pictures to book a honeybee of your choice. But you were so mean.”

  “You think I’m gonna believe that?!”

  “You went after us so doggedly I had no option but to get rid of you. If I’d told you this before, you wouldn’t have believed me! Now, after all of this, you still don’t believe me, even though you have no other option.” Faisal sounds so confident that Z believes him. But it also makes him frantic, as he realizes his struggle is not yet over when it had seemed it was.

  “How did she go missing from your custody?” he asks, completely at a loss.

  “Not only Lena… Samad, Sam, too. He was one of my most trusted men for transporting packages within the city,” Faisal confesses.

  “A newly inducted honeybee always takes time to settle down and is handled with care, especially when it’s imported and highly in demand. It was time to transport Lena from our Misri Shah guesthouse, where she was initially kept to our Valencia Town guesthouse. Sam was given the responsibility of transporting her there,” Faisal explains, as he glances around at Z.

  “As a protocol, we initially house our honeybees at our Misri Shah guesthouse and sort them there according to their quality. The best, including the imported ones, are kept for the posh areas and are shifted accordingly. The others go to middle-class and poorer areas based on their quality. Until we relocate them to their allotted areas, they are usually kept unconscious with the help of tranquilizers, and untouched. The honeybee is relocated and completely tamed, so we have no doubts about her being a threat to us. We offer her to clients and serve her only for in-calls for the first year after that.” Faisal finishes his bottle, puts it on the window ledge, and turns toward Z.

  “That evening after sorting at the Misri Shah guesthouse and taking more pictures of all the honeybees, Lena was the only one I allotted to the posh area, and I assigned Sam to deliver her to our Valencia Town guesthouse that night. That was the same night you reported Lena calling you to Joseph Best. Ever since that night, neither Lena nor Sam has been seen,” Faisal says and hooks his thumbs over his trouser pockets. Z steps closer to him and leans against the window ledge.

  “A man of mine has never disappeared before with a honeybee without being caught! Initially, we tried to track them down but couldn’t find a thing. Then when you arrived and told Joseph Best that Lena had called you, I was further intrigued to know what had happened that night to Sam and Lena. If we couldn’t find them, then no-one could have, but you proved me wrong when Lena’s scarf showed up from nowhere. That’s why I went with you to the Township Market to find out about the scarf,” Faisal admits, as he slowly shakes his head in bemusement.

  “Joseph played his part, Alisha played hers. Both served Madame well, and both will burn together in hell,” Faisal says, brightening again and smirking.

  “Well, that’s where the story ends… and it’s time for you to join them both and ask God where Lena has gone,” Faisal finishes and giggles, as he takes out Z’s gun.

  The moment Faisal points the gun at Z, a bullet smashes through the windowpane and hits Faisal’s hand. The gun drops to the floor. Searchlights from the surrounding buildings switch on bathing the room in brilliant light. A red laser dot appears on Faisal’s forehead. “Don’t move Faisal, or you’ll drop dead!” booms a loudspeaker.

  At the same moment, a bunch of policemen, some in uniform and some in plain clothes smash down the door, enter the room, grab Faisal and handcuff him before he realizes what’s happening.

  “You’ve got the wrong guy! It’s him! Arrest him!” he exclaims, pointing his head at Z. “He shot this woman and even a police officer! I just got hold of him and was about to call the police! Otherwise, he’d have killed me as well! That’s his gun!” he asserts confidently, indicating the gun on the floor.

  Z steps closer to Faisal, so they’re standing face-to-face and looking into each other’s eyes, while the police hold Faisal.

  “It’s not over until it’s over. Overconfidence is the anesthesia of clear thinking. Self-admiration is the burden of a foolish person,” Z tells Faisal solemnly.

  “America is the only country that will show up for its citizens when called for help… no matter when and where. Pakistan is the only country that will show up to help anyone when it’s a matter of right and wrong,” he adds with a double dose of pride.

  “I’ve been bugged, so whatever you’ve said and done has been recorded and heard by the authorities, not on
ly in Pakistan but as far away as America,” Z concludes soberly.

  “Mr. Honey, we’ll treat you well in the lock-up and make sure you burn alone in the cell. Soon we’ll have all your fellows too,” one of the policemen tells Faisal while they take him away.

  While being led away, Faisal says to himself, “Honey! How silly of you! How could you do this? Madame, Faisal, and Honey! You’ve shamed everyone!”

  Another policeman takes the spy-cams off Z — from his cufflink and shirt button — and detaches the microphone from his chest beneath his shirt, and says with a smile, “I hope you recognize me, Mr. Z. I was assigned to get these to you at Khanewal Junction along with the new shirt and gun.”

  Z nods his head, taking the cell phone out of his pocket. It was still on the active call he’d placed just before he’d entered the guesthouse, and he says into it, “I hope I didn’t let anyone down.”

  Howard replies, “No! You haven’t let us down at all, Z! The day it was reported that Z, an American national had shot a policeman in Pakistan, had run away and gone missing, I knew there was something wrong — and today you proved them wrong. By the way, an official from the American Embassy is waiting for you outside. Go with him. I’ll talk with you later. Bye.”

  “Bye,” Z says and puts the phone back into his pocket.

  He drops down onto his knees and screams in pain, “ALLAH! Where’s Lena?” Another policeman puts his hand on Z’s shoulder gently, while Z cups his forehead in his hands.

  Before he can gather himself, his cell phone beeps in his pocket. It’s another notification to clear his voicemail inbox. He puts the phone back into his pocket and remains on his knees, lost in thought.

  The phone rings, breaking his reverie. “Hello,” he says mechanically.

  “Mr. Z, this is Charles Warner from the American Embassy. I’m here to collect you, and I’m waiting outside,” a man says over the cell phone.

  “OK, I’m coming,” Z says and ends the call. Before he can put the phone back into his pocket, it rings again.

  As he stands up, Z repeats, “I said I’m coming,” But what he hears from the phone surprises him. It makes him believe that the Almighty ALLAH has answered him! He then remembers what the Almighty ALLAH stated in Surah Yaseen in the Holy Quran, But HIS command, when HE intendeth a thing, is only that HE saith unto it: Be! and it is.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Bhai!”

  “Lena?!! Lena, is that you? Where are you?”

  “Bhai, I am… I’m in Pakistan.”

  “I’m also in Pakistan, Lena!”

  “What! You’re in Pakistan!”

  “Yes, I am. Where are you exactly? I’ll come straight to you, Sestra.”

  “Bhai, I’m at the Jaguar Health Care Private Hospital, Lahore. The Doctor is here with me. Can you talk with him, please?”

  “Yes, of course, Lena. Just give him the phone.”

  *******

  Later that same night, the door of a private room in the hospital opens for Z, who’s followed by Ambassador Charles Warner, the Governor and two senior police officers, along with Dr. Asif Mushtaq Malik. They enter the room where Lena is lying on the bed wearing a protective mask. She has a bandaged head.

  The moment Z catches sight of Lena, he rushes to her bedside, saying, “Lena! Sestra! Are you OK?”

  Lena’s eyes fill with tears when she sees him. “Bhai! Thank God you’re here! I’m fine. Finally, there’s here someone I know,” and takes his hand.

  “What’s happened to you, Sestra?”

  “Bhai, remember I wrote to you from Dubai International Airport?”

  Z nods, while the other men stand behind him quietly.

  “That woman with the child was not a good woman. We were waiting together for our flight to Delhi when we found out it was delayed by three hours. She’d been on the same flight from Moscow, and at the Dubai International Airport, she engaged me in conversation. Now I can understand she did that to find out all about me, which made her target me,” Lena says as she adjusts the protective mask.

  “She asked me to hold her child so she could get coffees for us. After I drank my coffee, there was something wrong with my stomach, so I had to go to the restroom a few times. One time, when I came out of the toilet cubicle and the attendant entered to clean it — as they do — she called me from the cubicle asking, ‘Excuse me, Ma’am, is this yours? Would you come and check, please?’ When I entered the cubicle, she sprayed something at my face, and I remember collapsing onto the toilet seat and my arm being injected with something. I’ve got vague memories of a long black dress being put on me and someone pushing me in a wheelchair. It was the same black dress that Arab women commonly wear.”

  “I can understand. It’s called a burqa,” Z says sympathetically, while the others remain quiet.

  “After that, I don’t know what happened to me, because I was kept unconscious. Every time I woke up, I was re-injected, so I went to sleep again.

  “One time I woke up and found myself in a very congested room. There were other girls and even little boys there. We were all from different backgrounds. To my understanding, they used the girls for prostitution and the little boys for begging. The poor boys would be amputated or burned or even have their tongue cut out to get them into begging!” Everyone standing in the room shifts about uneasily, on hearing this.

  “Once, one of the boys — about twelve-years-old — came to give me some food. He undid my scarf, which was tied around both my hands and removed the gag from my mouth so I could eat. That was done every time someone came to feed me, and they used to re-tie my hands and re-gag me afterward. I was way too scared to ask any questions, but that day when I saw that kid, I thought I could talk to him.

  “Unfortunately, when I asked him where I was, he signaled, so I knew he couldn’t speak. I realized too that he couldn’t even understand my language, so I tried signaling back to ask him where I was. He was very clever! He took a coin out of his pocket and pointed at it, but I couldn’t read the language, or even recognize it. He’d obviously understood what I was asking and was trying to answer me by showing the currency. He gave me a different coin assuming that might help but to no avail. When I panicked because I couldn’t figure it out, he took out a handful of coins and handed them to me to see if I could get the answer from one of them. Sadly, I couldn’t.” At the memory of it, Lena looks dejected.

  “These poor beggars are mostly given coins on the street. He was probably trying to point out the name ‘Pakistan’ written on them to answer your question. But as it’s written in Urdu, you wouldn’t have been able to read it,” one of the police officers explains to Lena, and the other locals nod in understanding.

  “I got an idea from him, though, when I caught sight of my name on my scarf lying on the floor. I picked the scarf up and pointed at my name, signaling to the boy that that was me and that he should show it to the police and bring them here to help me. I wrapped the scarf around his waist underneath his t-shirt. That was the only thing I could think of for getting help. I sensed he understood what I was trying to tell him. Before I could return the coins to him, though, he ran out of the room because we could hear someone coming. I slipped the coins into my jeans pocket immediately. A woman came in to check if I’d eaten the food, waited for me to finish, and then injected me again.” Everyone is listening carefully to Lena with serious faces. One of the police officers is taking notes.

  “I believe that boy must have been scared about being caught and beaten, so he must have thrown the scarf into a trash can. Perhaps it was in one of the areas he was allocated for begging in — and that’s how come Lucy found your scarf in the trash can in Shad Bagh,” Z adds for everyone’s benefit, now that he has an explanation for where Lena’s scarf was found.

  “My scarf was found?” Lena exclaims in surprise.

  “Yes, I’ll explain that to you later, Sestra… but please, continue with your story,” Z replies with a gentle smile. Lena takes a deep breath and starts tal
king again. Everyone leans in a little closer.

  “When I next gained consciousness, I was lying on the back seat of a car. It must have been nighttime. I could see the hood was open and make out a man peering into the engine. He tried starting the car, returned to the open hood, and finally came back, muttering angrily. He checked if I was still unconscious, locked the car, double-checked the locks, and went away. I secretly watched him going and looking back at the car several times before he crossed the roads and disappeared,” Lena gasps for breath and adjusts the protective mask again.

  “Is everything OK, Miss Lena?” Dr. Asif, a fifty-year-old with a short mustache and grey hair asks in a kind voice, as he comes closer to her bedside.

  “Yes, thank you, Doctor,” Lena says, looking at him.

  “The moment the man disappeared, I started kicking the side window with all the power I had left. When it finally broke, I knelt on the seat and rubbed the cloth tied around my hands on some broken glass still attached to the side window. Once my hands were free, I removed the gag and got out of the car.”

  “Ah! Now I know why you had a couple of cuts on your legs!” Dr. Asif says. “I wondered how you’d got them.”

  Lena blinks a few times, looks at Z again, and goes on in a smaller voice, while everyone leans in a little closer. “After I got out of the car, I couldn’t see anyone on the road and didn’t know which direction to go in. The kinds of buildings around about made it look like an alien place. I felt desperate and clueless. Then I noticed the car was parked not far from a crossroad with traffic lights in the direction the man had gone, so I just started running in the opposite direction, not knowing what to do or where to go,” Lena says in a fearful voice. The room becomes deathly still.

  “When I spotted a payphone, I thought about calling you for help without even knowing if it would connect with you. All I could do was give it a try, using the coins from the boy — and it worked! But do you remember, Bhai? We were interrupted?”