Behera remained poker-faced. ‘Thank you. Tell us how it all began. How you started out with the LeT.’
Headley looked up at the ceiling, as if he was trying his best to remember all that had happened ten years ago. With a visible effort, he marshalled his thoughts and started speaking.
It was in 2001 that I landed in Lahore. I had just been released from a short stint in prison, and realized, with some dismay, that even though I was in Pakistan, my own country, I was still confused about what to do next. I had already been divorced once, and had married a second time, and I was still a misfit in American society. I knew, deep within me, that my heart was more in Pakistan than in the US, even though I looked more American than anything else.
I had handed over my video store to my cousin Farid, who was looking after it and handling the business. My mother too had her hands and her life full, managing her pub in Chicago. But I was drifting.
One evening, after spending a few days wandering aimlessly about in the city, I went to pray at Qadisiyah Jamia Masjid. It is one of the biggest mosques in Pakistan, and is best known for its Salafi thought and the radical Islamic beliefs that are routinely propagated there.
My first glimpse of the mosque took me by surprise. It was heavily guarded, much more than any others I had been to in Pakistan or elsewhere. And what was even more strange, there were men holding carbines and AK-47 assault rifles, on guard at the entrance and all along the perimeter of the mosque. I told myself that it was probably because of a perceived threat against the mosque from some quarters of liberal Muslims or other enemies.
As I was coming out of the mosque after offering namaz, I saw a huge billboard right outside the mosque. The poster exhorted devotees to donate money for the cause of jehad. I was astounded at this open declaration of jehad, and the even more direct exhortation for donations. Out of admiration for the bold declaration, I decided to donate some money.
Behera interrupted Headley, his expression one of incredulity. ‘It was all being done openly?’
Headley smiled. ‘Yes.’
‘They ask for donations and recruits openly?’
Headley nodded.
Behera was unsettled, and looked it. No wonder then, he thought, that there is such an anti-India feeling in Pakistan! Of course, not everyone would be swayed by this ideology, but there were always people who could be brainwashed and converted.
Behera shook his head, regained his composure and gestured for Headley to continue.
I called up the number that was advertised on the poster, and told the person on the phone that I wanted to donate some money. He said he would call me back. Within a minute, a fellow who introduced himself as Brother Abid called me and asked where and when he could come to collect the money. I told him to come to my house and gave him the address of the flat in which I was staying in Lahore. He thanked me and hung up.
Abid turned up at my flat an hour or so later, and I gave him Rs 50,000. He took the cash and was about to leave when he turned and gave me a quick appraising glance. He then told me that if I was interested in more than just donating money, I could come to an ijtema (gathering) led by Hafiz Saeed later in the evening, at a secluded spot near the mosque.
I was very interested.
That evening, I attended Hafiz Saeed’s lecture. I was immensely impressed by everything he said. During the course of his speech, Hafiz Saeed quoted a hadith from Saheeh Bukhari, a book in which all the current and authentic traditions of Prophet Muhammad have been collected. Saheeh Bukhari is considered a guide for common Muslims in their day-to-day life. Hafiz Saeed explained that the money spent for the cause of jehad gives much more sawab (virtue) than innumerable namaz offerings in the sacred precincts of the Holy Kaaba in Mecca, the holiest of Islamic shrines, on the auspicious night of Lailatul Qadr, or the grand night.
After the lecture, Abid, who is currently based in Spain, introduced me to Hafiz Saeed himself, and we spoke for a while. Hafiz Saeed’s words left an indelible impression on me. I spent the whole night thinking about what he had said. If money could indeed grant me so much sawab, why shouldn’t I give more? Why shouldn’t I do what he was saying, and promote the jehadi cause?
Behera interrupted Headley again. ‘Mr Headley, I want to show you some photographs. Can you identify the men for me, please? Is Hafiz Saeed among them?’
He then took out a set of blown-up photographs from a brown envelope, put them on the table and slid them over to Headley, who studied each of them silently for nearly a minute, a frown on his face.
Then Behera watched as Headley correctly identified every single person in the photographs—Sajid Majid, Abdur Rehman Hashim and Abu Alqama, all hardcore LeT leaders. But Saeed wasn’t among them.
‘Okay, Mr Headley, now can you identify these voices for me?’ Behera said, and nodded to Pani, his right-hand man.
Pani took out a small cassette player from his briefcase and pressed play. There were several voices from several recordings, all intercepted phone calls. Headley again proved supremely cooperative, and identified the voices of Abu Alqama, Sajid Majid and Abu Kahafa, as they spoke to the 26/11 Mumbai attackers.
Behera took another gamble. He loaded Google maps onto his laptop, then pushed it across the table. ‘Can you locate any of your handlers’ residences?’ he asked, his heart racing.
With practised ease, Headley’s fingers flew over the keyboard and soon, he had marked out several locations in Pakistan—the houses of Hafiz Saeed and Pasha, his own flat, and a couple of LeT safe houses.
Behera sat back. Finally, they had some hard evidence and a witness to testify that Pakistan was behind the 26/11 terror attacks. But there was still a great deal left to extract from Headley. ‘Thank you,’ Behera said. ‘Please continue. You said you had just attended a lecture by Hafiz Saeed and were thinking of promoting the jehadi cause?’
After that, I began attending the ijtemas of Hafiz Saeed regularly, never missing any if I could help it. Slowly, as I replayed his speeches and explanations delivered in his powerful oratorical style in my head, I became aware that I was definitely moving towards the Salafi ideology. I had become totally influenced by Salafi ideas and radical Islam.
I believe I have told you this before, but just to refresh your memory, Salafi Islam is a branch of Islam practised by people who are commonly known as Wahabis in India and have an affinity towards the brand of Islam practised in Saudi Arabia. They believe that they are the original followers of Islam and all other people are kafirs who have been misguided or misled.
As I became a regular at the ijtemas, my face became known amongst the crowd. Soon, through these gatherings, I was also introduced to other stalwarts among the jehadis, people who believed in the original Islam, in the righteousness of jehad for the sake of Islam, and who wanted to avenge the injustices that had been and were still being done to Muslims around the world. For that, they reminded us, they were willing to kill. As I fell in with them and went deeper into their circles, I discovered that these men were from the Lashkar-e-Taiba.
Then, one day, at one of the gatherings, Zaki-ur Rehman Lakhvi rose to speak. I was introduced to him later that day, and I asked him about furthering my learning and fighting for the cause of jehad. But Lakhvi and others at the ijtema that day told me that I was totally ignorant and had no real knowledge of Islam. They advised me to get some kind of initial training to become a true Muslim first. I was asked to attend something called Daura-e-Amma. This is the basic orientation given to all those who are interested in joining jehadi outfits and fighting for Islam.
I spent a couple of years thus, learning namaz, being taught the various intricacies of Islam, about jehad, and a million other things I had never even heard of.
Then, when I had passed the Daura-e-Amma, I was introduced to something called Daura-e-Sufa sometime in the beginning of 2003, in Muzaffarabad, in Pakistan-occupied Kashmir (PoK). This was designed to show how our religion had been distorted and mercilessly tampered with by all and sun
dry across the world, and to demonstrate that most people did not follow the original, authentic Islam.
The Daura-e-Sufa lasted for only a few weeks. By then, my heart had turned completely sympathetic to the cause of jehad and the innumerable jehadis who were laying down their lives every day, so much so that I wanted to go and fight with my brethren against the enemy in Jammu and Kashmir. My blood boiled at the atrocities the ruthless Indian forces had unleashed on the Kashmiris.
I asked Hafiz Saeed if I could go to Jammu and Kashmir and join the battle with my brothers in arms. But he only told me that Lakhvi was my commander, I should consult him.
Hafiz Saeed and Zaki-ur Rehman Lakhvi both believed in jehad, but they had very different roles to play. Hafiz was known for his fiery oratory. He would use his ijtemas to convince people that theirs was the true Islam, and that everything else was a sham. Lakhvi would take over from there. He told them that jehad was the true way of life. ‘If you have become a Muslim, now Islam wants your blood, Islam wants your sacrifice,’ Lakhvi would say.
However, what Lakhvi told me left me disappointed. ‘It isn’t advisable for you to go to Kashmir, because you are too old for that kind of mission. In the war in Kashmir, we need fighters who are in their twenties, are agile and have young blood coursing through their veins. You, my friend, have already crossed your forties. We cannot allow you to go to Kashmir,’ he told me.
My dream of fighting in Kashmir remained just that, a dream, although I kept thinking that someday, when I was fitter and better trained, I would convince my handlers to send me there. I told myself that someday I would go and fight side by side with my Kashmiri brothers, who have been fighting against the Indian forces.
EIGHT
I had spoken to Rakesh Maria of the Crime Branch and two officers from the IB, but I knew that the grilling was far from over. The police weren’t going to let me go so easily. Maria’s jurisdiction was limited to Mumbai, and this matter went a lot further. I wouldn’t have been surprised if RAW had decided to land up at my doorstep.
A couple of days after our first meeting with Maria, I received a call from an officer with the Intelligence Bureau. He told me that I would have to come in for questioning again, and this time, I would have to give my statement to the NIA.
‘We need to know the whole picture, Mr Bhatt,’ the guy said. ‘And we need to know it straight from the horse’s mouth.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘So I’ve got to go to Delhi now?’ I didn’t want to go to Delhi as I really didn’t like the city, not after growing up in a city like Mumbai.
The man chuckled. ‘No, Mr Bhatt. At least, not just yet. There’s an NIA team here in the city to talk to you.’
‘When do you want me to come in?’
‘Tomorrow, please. Shall I send a car to pick you up?’
‘No, thanks, I’ll come on my own.’
He didn’t insist. Instead he said, ‘Please bring your friend Vilas Warak. We want to question him too.’
I said we’d both be there, wrote down the address, and hung up. Then I called Vilas and informed him that we had been summoned for questioning, this time by the NIA, and told him to come to my house the next day. ‘Don’t worry. They know our story now, it won’t be too bad,’ I said, though I wasn’t feeling confident myself. Far from it.
Our destination the next day was the Police Officers’ Mess at Worli. This newly constructed state-of-the-art office is located on Pochkhanwala Road in Worli. When the CBI or NIA or any other intelligence agency sends teams across to Mumbai, the officers stay here and use these offices as makeshift investigation cells.
We reached the office on the appointed date and exactly at the appointed hour: 14 December 2009, at 4.30 p.m. After we had identified ourselves at the reception, an officer named Nair called from upstairs, asking us to wait in the reception area. In less than five minutes, he came down to greet us.
We shook hands, and I introduced both Vilas and myself. Nair told us he was with the NIA and asked us if we were bodybuilders. We began chatting about exercises and workouts, and I saw Vilas visibly relaxing. I was still on my guard and kept wondering when this honeyed small talk would end and Nair would come to the point. Finally, the man at the reception signalled to Nair, and he told me that I would have to go with him to the sixth floor. I looked at Vilas. Nair told Vilas to wait at the reception for a while, as someone would be down shortly to take him for questioning too.
On the sixth floor, the lift door opened to reveal a row of rooms, five or six in all, all quite nondescript. It was to one of these rooms that I was led by Nair. There were quite a few people in the rooms we passed, seated at tables and desks and working on what seemed like mounds and mounds of papers. The moment I stepped out of the lift, I sensed a subtle change in the atmosphere, as if the usually relaxed occupants of the floor were suddenly slightly more alert. I could sense that all of them were staring at me, assessing me from inside the rooms and behind the tables. I felt like an animal that had just been brought into a zoo or a circus. All that attention made me a little self-conscious but I shrugged it off and walked ahead confidently.
Nair escorted me to one of the rooms where three very menacing-looking officers were waiting for me. One of them went to the door and closed it very pointedly and ominously. They were trying to intimidate me, and at first, I must confess, it did work. My confidence was partly shaken by their daunting demeanour.
No one spoke for a long time, and I felt myself being assessed by the interrogators. I looked at the nameplates on the uniforms of the officers and memorized their names. There was Deputy Superintendent Rajmohan from the Kerala cadre of the Indian Police Service—he was from the NIA. There was an IB officer named Radhakrishnan. The third man in the room was an officer of the rank of inspector general, who was introduced to me only as Singh. He looked extremely fit, a rarity among our law enforcers. He had a tiger moustache and sat straight-backed and stiff. He was clearly the man in charge.
Singh started to speak. He began by telling me about himself, probably to put me at ease. He said he was an IPS officer from the 1986 batch, and that he too was a fitness freak like me. ‘Do you know, Rahul, I’m a marathon runner, and I run five kilometres every day,’ he told me conversationally, as if we were two participants in a fitness programme.
‘That’s impressive, sir,’ I replied.
The interrogation that followed was pretty much the same as the one conducted by Maria. The same questions—how I had met David, where I’d met him, how long I’d known him, where I’d taken him, what we did, and so on. By then, I had gone over everything so many times in my mind that I had no difficulty in answering any of the questions. I spoke for about thirty minutes, and they kept firing questions at me continuously about Headley and my association with him. Singh never interrupted me when I was replying, asking the next question only after I had finished answering the previous one. He was a good listener, and kept taking notes as I spoke.
Soon, though, he started asking me some very weird questions.
‘Rahul, do you speak Arabic?’ he asked.
Arabic? Me? I told him that not only did I not speak Arabic, I knew nothing about the language.
The next question was equally intriguing. ‘Have you ever been to Pakistan, Rahul?’
I was flummoxed. I was a hundred per cent sure that these guys had access to my passport and visa status. All they had to do was refer to their notes and they would know. Nevertheless, I told Singh that I had never been to Pakistan.
It dawned on me that the four men were playing some kind of mind game with me. I noticed that while Singh was doing the actual questioning, Radhakrishnan was watching my reactions like a hawk. I realized later that he was probably working out some sort of a psychological profile based on my responses. I thought of Vilas down there at the reception, awaiting the same fate as I was, facing such menacing men on his own. It was all a bit unsettling.
All of a sudden, Singh again changed the subject, and asked me fo
r some tips on fitness and on a proper diet. How should he work out? What was my specialty?
I answered all his questions patiently, giving him some tips on nutrition and some exercises and weight training that he could do.
Suddenly, while we were in the middle of fitness tips, Singh changed tracks again. ‘Mr Bhatt, are you hiding anything from me? Because if you are, we will confront you with evidence and then you will have no defence left for yourself.’
He probably thought that I would be thrown by this, but I was expecting it and was ready. ‘No, sir, I’m not hiding anything at all. Everything I’m telling you is the truth,’ I said.
He steepled his fingers and looked hard at me. Then he said, ‘Okay, I can see that you want me to believe you. Then tell me something. If you’re not hiding anything, why did you refer to him as Agent Headley?’
I had already answered all the questions about why I thought Headley was an American agent and probably from the CIA. But since I was being asked again, I decided to tell him a little bit about myself. So, for the next few minutes, I told him about my interest in crime, that I loved reading mysteries and books on crime and weapons, and that I found security networks fascinating. I told him that as I kept reading up on all this, I started looking at everyone around me a little more suspiciously than usual. When Headley began to tell me about his past life, my suspicions grew.
Headley always liked to flaunt his knowledge about spy craft and espionage, and his knowledge of different kinds of weapons. He once told me that he had spent time training with the Special Security Group (SSG) of Pakistan. He knew how to operate different kinds of weapons, like the Austrian Steyr AUG, the Chinese Star pistol, the AKM, and the Heckler & Koch German rifle. He had trained to use the M-16 rifle, as well as the Glock pistol. In fact, he said he had also been trained to use an RPG, an anti-tank grenade launcher.
‘So, Mr Singh, when someone tells you all these things, what do you make of it?’ I said. ‘He told me he was just a businessman who has an immigration office. But how does a simple businessman come by all this knowledge? And what the hell is a businessman doing getting training in so many different kinds of weapons?’
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