by Dan Fox
The vehicles had arrived and Steve and Marcel loaded them up with the appropriate equipment. Their satellite phones were charged, they had their own weapons and a number of additional ones secured about the vehicles out of the way of a routine Police check.
Naturally Jean and Marcel had their camera gear as well. Attwood had told Jean that the analysts were getting close to pinpointing the brothers location, maybe they’d need another hour or so. Plans were in motion to bring Malik in, and Massood Malhi’s surveillance had revealed nothing. No calls in or out of the location and no e-mails either, no visitors, it was as if he’d disappeared which they were cast iron sure he hadn’t.
The NSA or its intelligence gathering arm, sift through and filter millions of phone calls, texts and e-mails every day. Their supercomputers are looking for specific names, keywords, or phrases that might point to some kind of plot. The brothers had picked up a new ‘pay as you go’ mobile phone after leaving Islamabad airport. They should have known better than to use it to get in touch with their helpers. Of course no-one knew their number, how could they? But, the numbers they were calling and texting were on the Hot List. Some of those numbers belonged to people who were either dead or had been apprehended so there would be no answer, but the calls still registered. After the supercomputers had sifted their data, a list was produced of all the common calls to those dormant numbers. One caller number stood out like a sore thumb. All the calls had been made in an area between Islamabad and Peshawar, moving from Islamabad towards Peshawar where they were obviously travelling to. It was not difficult to isolate the tower from which each of the phone signals was sent. Steve was informed that the net was closing in as he and Jackson headed for Peshawar. There was one minor problem, if the brothers realised that using the phone was dangerous they might not use it again, or for at least a while.
Chapter 40
Peshawar is a city with a population of a little under two million and is the capital of the region that used to be known as the North West Frontier. It sits in a large valley towards the eastern end of the Khyber Pass not much more than fifty miles from the Pakistani border with Afghanistan. It is ethnically and linguistically very diverse. Due to the ongoing problems in Afghanistan it had seen significant immigration from there in recent times. This meant that several languages would be spoken and understood but not necessarily by everyone. As races and creeds had intermingled over the years there was no specific visual identity. Whilst the vast majority of the population was Muslim, many other religions were present, particularly Hindu and Christian although in obviously smaller numbers.
Steve saw this eclectic mix as a good sign. It meant he and Jackson would be less likely to be singled out as foreigners and might also mean that Jackson’s elementary Arabic might still be of some use. They would still need to dress appropriately although they at least had a wider choice of wardrobe.
The CIA communications team hatched a plot to fool the brothers and within a few minutes Malik’s rendition party were being contacted.
Meanwhile Jean and Marcel were checking out the vicinity of Massood Malhi’s house. For the area it was quite large and imposing and was built inside a high white walled compound. No easy way in without an invitation. There had still been no visitors and they knew that his phone and e-mails were being constantly monitored. There had been nothing of any interest for at least the last twelve hours. Something was not quite right. Marcel studied the power cables entering the house. They started at a junction box at the foot of a telegraph pole which was right against the outer wall of the house and ran through a conduit to another box fastened to the property. He’d first thought of the telegraph pole as a way in, but now had another idea. He spoke to Jean who nodded and made a call to Tom Attwood.
Shiqtar Malik had never flown on a Gulfstream before and would probably have been most impressed if the searing pain in his scrotum would leave him for even a few seconds. The Rendition team had been told not to give him any painkillers. Constant pain would leave him more amenable for the next stage of his interrogation. The one hour flight from New Delhi would drop them near to Peshawar on a small airfield with no discernible security. From there he would be taken to the underground facility.
As they approached Peshawar Malik was asked to record a message in Hindi. It said, ‘I’m sorry you have not been able to reach me. I have had signal problems with my own phone. Please try every fifteen minutes on this new number and I’m sure we can talk soon.’ Of course Malik was reluctant at first but relented when offered some painkillers which he wasn’t given. After he’d recorded the message it was sent to the CIA team and sent on to the brother’s new phone number. There had to be some risk. Maybe the brothers would answer the phone as soon as it rang, but the call would be from a new and unknown number. The gamble was that they would let the call go to voicemail to see who it was. If they did answer the call it would be ended immediately. Otherwise they would have to wait for Malik’s arrival and get him to make the call direct. The call was made and as luck would have it the voicemail kicked in.
About ten minutes later a call was intercepted for this fictitious new number which immediately went to voicemail. The voice in Hindi said the equivalent of ‘Hi, it’s us. You had us worried. We’ve been trying to contact you, please call us back as soon as you can. We need some help.’ Within a few seconds the call had been traced to a tower on the eastern side of Peshawar which was not too far from where they had lived as young children. That in itself was not enough. The CIA needed to triangulate the call to get an accurate GPS fix which would be difficult if the brothers were moving around.
The fix they eventually got was confirmed as the Bilal Business Centre just off the Grand Trunk Road that ran west to east from Peshawar to Nowshera and on to Islamabad.
The Business Centre was just out of the main town and this information was fed to Steve and Jackson as they approached the town from the east. If the brothers followed their instructions they should call again in the next ten minutes. If they had not moved they would be sitting ducks.
The Pakistan Electricity Board van pulled outside Massood Malhi’s house next to the telegraph pole. The two men who got out of the van were not bona fide employees but were dressed in the appropriate uniform and had the correct identification papers. One of them knocked at the entrance gate to the compound a few feet away. After a few moments the gate was opened by a middle-aged woman in traditional dress. She was asked if the owner of the property was available as there was a problem with the electricity supply and they needed to speak to him. She asked them to wait, leaving the gate slightly ajar. She came back perhaps a minute later and asked them to wait a little longer and the owner would be with them shortly. They knew what Massood Malhi looked like from photographs but were a little surprised to see a seemingly older more wizened man, with a deeply lined face and almost white hair, who appeared to be carrying all the troubles of the world on his shoulders.
They explained the fictitious problem and asked for his permission to turn the electricity off for an hour or two. He nodded and waved them away. With that the workers went back to their van and started their pointless job. Jean had angled her position so that she could get a clear image of Massood Malhi through her 900 mm camera lens. There was no obvious security. There were no bodyguards.
Malik and the Rendition team had landed at the small airstrip closer to Nowshera and he was soon on his way to the disused factory for interrogation. Asif Iqbal and Sharif Mohammed would be there already. They would be locked in their cells with only their imagination working overtime trying to predict what would happen next.
Jean and Marcel now knew how they could pick up Massood Malhi. The electricity problem was a terrific ruse and didn’t seem to arouse any suspicion. As long as the surveillance was kept up and he didn’t leave his house in the meantime it would be fine. Fingers crossed time. They needed perhaps another twelve to fourteen hours before they would be ready for him.
Steve pulled their builders supplies van wi
th its tinted windows into the substantial car park at the rear of the Bilal Business Centre and into a spare slot about fifty yards away from the main concourse which was a large open area with a number of tents erected. Some kind of exhibition was taking place and there were many people milling around on this warm and calm April day.
There was a sizeable open air café on the right hand side which was doing a roaring trade. Steve used his binoculars to get a better view of the area but was somewhat hampered by the other parked cars. Jackson got into the back of the van and rummaged around to find some local robes he could change into. Having done that and covered his head, he made for the concourse. He picked up a brochure from one of the tents and wandered around half looking at it whilst he scanned for any sign of the brothers.
After several minutes he’d not seen them and was becoming concerned that he would be noticed. Just as he was about to go back to the car he saw two men who had exited the main building and were walking towards the café. They stood out like a sore thumb. They were wearing western clothes. Maybe they hadn’t even realised. Jackson moved across the concourse so he was in Steve’s direct line of sight and made a discreet signal.
Their next moves would be difficult. He walked back to the van, opened the rear doors and using a part of the small and virtually useless tool kit, made a few adjustments, closed the rear doors and got back in the van.
Steve reversed out of their spot and brought the van closer to the café. He stopped and left the engine running. Jackson got out and opened the rear doors wide. Someone making a delivery or collecting something. Not immediately suspicious. It would work for maybe ten minutes, no more. As luck would have it the brothers were seated at a small table which was closest to the car park maybe only thirty feet from the van.
Jackson prayed that the next part of their hastily made up plan would work. He approached the café and the brothers’ table carrying a wheel brace, waving it around and gesticulating. He made straight for the brothers who were closest to him. In Arabic with his dreadful accent hidden by the Shakespearian quality of his speech impediment, he told them he had a puncture but couldn’t remove the spare wheel and could they help him. Between them they just about understood puncture and spare wheel and problem. They had been brought up to be helpful, it was ingrained in their nature, so without thinking about it they left their table to help.
They were not alert. They should have been. Their long and stressful journey had tired them beyond belief. They had lost their concentration and would pay for that naïve lapse.
Jackson steered them around the van away from Steve’s side and gestured to the spare wheel tray underneath the rear doors. As they both pulled and twisted, shielded from sight by the open rear doors, Steve carefully got out of the van and crept around to the rear. On Jackson’s signal he shot round behind one of the brothers and before either of them could react Steve and Jackson had spiked the brother’s respective necks. They were instantly bundled inside the van. Jackson locked the rear doors and Steve jumped back into the driver’s seat and took off with Jackson having to dive in as the van accelerated away. People in the café and on the concourse would probably not have noticed.
In a couple of minutes they were back on the main trunk road east. They had around seventy miles to travel, about an hour and a half. Jackson made a couple of calls to both receive and pass information on. He then confirmed to Steve that the three prisoners had arrived, and Massood Malhi’s whereabouts had been confirmed. Steve smiled back at him and concentrated on getting them back to the factory before the brothers came round.
They had chosen to use the trunk road rather than the newer motorway because they would be less conspicuous. The trunk road carried every possible form of vehicle from bicycle to behemoth and they wouldn’t stand out from the crowd.
Chapter 41
Just outside Massood Malhi’s house in its white walled compound the electricity engineers had opened the junction box at the foot of the telegraph pole and were prodding about at the contents. They turned the power off, split the cable and inserted a timer fuse into it. Whilst one completed the repair the other called in to confirm how long the timer should be set for. The response was twenty-four hours. The timer was set and they tidied up around them. When they had finished the job they went back to the entrance gate to Massood Malhi’s property and knocked on the door. The old woman answered again and beckoned them to follow. She made them wait in the hallway whilst she fetched Massood Malhi.
The men explained that they had found the fault and repaired it. One of them offered Massood Malhi a job card to sign. Massood Malhi went back into what appeared to be a sitting room to fetch a pen. He didn’t close the door behind him and the men noticed that someone else was in the room. A man, but they could only see his lower legs. He must have made a gesture to Massood Malhi because he closed the door before returning with a pen. He signed the job card and gestured for them to go. As they turned to leave, Massood Malhi opened the sitting room door and was greeted by an angry voice. The someone else in the room was definitely higher up the food chain than Massood Malhi.
The engineers reported in from their job and mentioned that someone else was there with Massood Malhi, someone who could be a higher link in the chain. The information was disseminated. When Steve was told about it he began to wonder.
Steve and the team now had less than twenty-four hours before the electricity men would be called out again and their opportunity to abduct Massood Malhi would begin. They had to push on with their interrogations and get a result. With enough information to stun Massood Malhi they might just have the leverage to find out who he was working for. Who Mr Big was.
Meanwhile Steve and Jackson had arrived at the factory with the brothers still out cold but starting to show signs of recovery. There were taken to the cellar and placed in the dentist’s chairs and firmly strapped in. Jean would have the first go at them whilst the rest of the team had some rest, Steve having warned her about going too far and reminded her that the key task was to find out how they made contact with others in the chain. That was all. What happened to them afterwards was no concern of his. The president or the CIA could decide their fate and that of the others.
She knew that Rani was the older brother. Not by more than a few minutes but older brothers nevertheless look after their younger ones. It’s instinct. As they came round from the drug they’d been injected with she turned the chairs to face each other. There was a look of shock and horror in their eyes. She walked behind Dado’s chair, looked at Rani and said, ‘We need some information from you. We know what you have done. We know how you did it. We know most of the links in the chain but we need some points confirmed. You are intelligent men and you know that however long you hold out, eventually you will tell us what we need to know. That may be after one of you is dead or horribly mutilated. I don’t care. I would love to kill you both for what you have done. I would love to kill you both now.
So, Rani or whatever your real name is, if you do not want to see Dado in terrible pain and mutilated for the rest of his days, you will answer a simple question which is what is the name of your dead drop and where is it?’
She tapped the razor sharp stainless steel scalpel against her teeth as she waited for an answer. Rani said nothing. ‘I will ask you the same question again and if you don’t answer me I will cut off the top of Dado’s right ear. Okay?’
Again Rani said nothing and just stared at his brother. Jean took hold of Dado’s ear and moved the scalpel towards it.
Rani shouted ‘No. I will tell you. It’s called the Drop Out café in DC.’
Jean slid the scalpel across the top of Dado’s ear removing the top half inch, being careful to make sure she severed a big vein near the top. Dado screamed. Ear injuries are very painful. It was surprising how much blood splashed down Dado’s neck and onto his shoulder. He writhed in torment.
Jean looked at the stunned Rani and said ‘We know the name of the place and where it is. It has a
lready been raided by the FBI and you would not believe what they found. All those people are now being held indefinitely under terrorism charges all because you left a receipt from there in your apartment. That was a silly mistake wasn’t it? I wonder how many more we’ll find before we are through. Now tell me the name of the dead drop or the whole ear comes off this time and then I’ll start with the more intimate parts. Your brother will hate you for the rest of your miserable days.’
Rani gave her the correct name and address this time, without hesitation.
‘Okay, now who was the main contact there?’ Rani hesitated long enough for Jean to bring the scalpel up to Dado’s ear again.
Rani shouted ‘Ahmed Pock, he is the owner’s son.’
‘Good’ said Jean, ‘we knew that as well.’ They didn’t and it would help the FBI whose interrogation methods did not have Jean’s creativity.
‘Okay, let’s move onto more serious stuff. We have your ‘father’ here and we know all about his role with you two. This is the ‘father’ you know and the one who sent you a voicemail earlier today asking you to call him every fifteen minutes. With his cooperation in recording that message we were able to pinpoint exactly where you were in Peshawar. Our team had to be a little creative in picking you up but that was all down to the help of your ‘father.’ Wasn’t it good of him to help us like that? That he is still alive and kicking shows how much we appreciated his help.’
She moved so that both could see her and each other. They were stunned. They were speechless. They could not believe that their father had cooperated with these people. Why had he told them? What had he told them? He would not have given them away. He was their father and the man who had organised all their education and training. Gradually it dawned on them. In their rage the only logical answer was that they had been exchanged for their father’s life. In short they’d been sold out, they’d been set-up. Set-up by their father. Set-up by Shiqtar Malik.