by Fritz Galt
Alec found a table in a corner of the café, and resumed the conversation as soon as they sat down. “So if the takeover is not for religious or moral reasons, why have one?”
She studied him, her almond-shaped eyes drinking in his expression while her thick, silver-painted lips twisted in a distrusting smile.
Finally, she parted her lips and breathed the word, “Money.”
“You and your mercenaries are overturning these small governments just for profit?”
“These are not just governments,” she said. “We have conquered nations.”
“Good evening, Mademoiselle Dinad,” a waiter said with a slight bow. He looked like a Parisian college boy on holiday.
“What are your specialités tonight?” she asked.
“We have the Chickpea curry over rice, shepherd’s pie and crêpes Suzette,” he replied.
“Crêpes for me,” she said, and looked at Alec.
“Me, too.”
“And may I suggest a fine white table wine to go with that?”
“Mais oui.” Of course, she responded.
“So where’s the strict Muslim diet?” Alec asked when the waiter had gone.
“I don’t understand why you ask such questions.”
“Oh, get off it. I saw you at the Friday Mosque in Comoros doing the complete initiation ritual. You’ve become a Muslim, which means no alcohol, no display of skin or hair in public, etc.”
She looked at him carefully. “You saw me?”
“You bet I did. And you looked like a very contrite Muslim, if I might add.”
He stared into the sky and waited for her to formulate a response. He still hadn’t gotten used to the odd constellations in the Southern sky.
Across the square, a band struck up a Créole song with a complex African beat. People around them talked softly in a mixture of Indian tongues, French, a combined French-African dialect and British English.
“You shouldn’t believe everything you see,” she said at last.
“What should I think when I find cyanide in my shower or guns brandished at me?”
“Don’t take that seriously,” she said.
He scratched his scalp. “I’m not even sure what to order in a restaurant when I’m with you. Sometimes I get the feeling you want me out of the picture.”
“I like you in the picture.” She reached into a basket of Indian breads and pulled out a chapati.
“You’re a mass of contradictions,” he said. “Tell me what’s in that picture. I can only see parts of it.”
She tore the bread in two and handed half to him. Then she began to speak in a low tone. “I once belonged to an organization for social and political change that trained at a camp near that of a certain Islamist militant from India. I learned that he planned to turn India into a Muslim state and govern it by Islamic code, al-Shari’ah.”
“How will he take over India?”
She shook her head. “I won’t say. But I will say that I know the guy well enough to believe he will be successful.” She looked pointedly at him.
“So you teamed up with him.”
“Not at all. I am not a terrorist. But you should know that he will be successful. I decided to take advantage of the situation. Monsieur Malik and I expect the conflict in the region to slow sea traffic through the Suez Canal and force ships around the southern tip of Africa.”
“Putting Mauritius, the Seychelles and Comoros back on the map.”
“Just so.”
He mused over the history of the south Indian Ocean. She intended to reap vast rewards once Mauritius returned to its former glory in the middle of critical European-Asian shipping lanes. “Mauritius will become the next Singapore.”
The wine arrived and she offered him a toast.
“To the next Singapore,” she said.
He let her sip it first before taking a drink.
“Now let me guess,” he said. “As a Muslim state, your government will become a back door into the Muslim Indian Ocean area and subcontinent, much like Hong Kong serves as the entry point into the vast riches of China.”
She raised her glass again. “To the next Hong Kong.”
“Now tell me why you’re telling me this.”
“Because you want to know, and because there’s more to this than I’ll ever tell you, and because I want to make love to you tonight.”
A big man, Wassim Shaikh lumbered off the Pakistani airliner into Islamabad International Airport, south of the capital of Pakistan. He sported a long, unruly beard and wore a white cap atop his large head. The rest of his attire, a loose-fitting pajama-style salwar kurta, was also a pious white.
He was a young man, but he took his time walking, his eyes taking in the queue for immigration.
A Pakistani immigration officer in a smart, green uniform flipped through Wassim’s Indian passport and found the Pakistani visa stamped on the last page. Next to it, he stamped an entry seal and handed the passport back without looking up.
After Wassim had passed his booth, the officer turned in his seat and signaled a plainclothesman dressed in an airport maintenance uniform.
The plainclothesman picked up his ladder and followed Wassim to the Gent’s Toilet.
Twenty minutes later, a big, clean-shaven man in basketball sneakers and blue jeans stepped out of the men’s room, leaving behind a musky scent of cologne.
From his ladder, the plainclothesman signaled a ticket agent who followed the young man down the departure hall to a British Airways counter, where he requested a seat assignment.
After the young man gathered his ticket and boarding pass and took a seat at the gate, the plainclothesman slipped behind the British Airways ticket agent and inquired where the passenger was headed.
The woman turned and saw the ISI identification card. “To London, I also printed out a boarding pass for his onward leg to Atlanta in the United States.”
“And what name is on the ticket?”
She paged through several screens on her computer. “His name is Tariq Irani.”
It looked like no Wassim Shaikh would be traveling to Riyadh that evening.
The plainclothesman thanked her and entered an employee’s lounge where he pulled a cell phone from his pocket.
Fifty minutes later, the British Airways jet roared off for London with Tariq Irani on board.
Chapter 24
In the early morning, Mick stepped around an iron gate leading to Bombay’s Mahalaxmi Race Track.
On the broad, tree-lined street that morning, nobody was going to the races.
Several horses idly lifted their heads from the infield grass as he approached the turf course.
“Hello, Butler,” he called out to the empty stands.
“Yo. I’m here,” a deep voice echoed back from the far grandstand.
“Come down here,” Mick shouted.
“Just a minute.”
Mick watched a stout man walk nonchalantly down the wooden stairs to the grass. He was surprised by the swagger and easy nature of a man whose daughter had just been kidnapped.
“You look fairly unconcerned,” Mick commented. “Is that because you expect me to bring in your daughter today?”
“No. I don’t expect anybody to find her right off the bat.”
“Aren’t you worried about her?”
“Well,” the congressman said, scratching his head. “I guess you could say that.”
Mick took the large man by the shoulder and began to stroll with him across the grounds. “My name is Mick Pierce,” he said, looking the congressman in the eye. “I’ve been personally assigned to your daughter’s case.”
“Glad to meet you Mick. Fred Butler’s the name. Call me Fred.”
“I feel that your case has major international ramifications,” Mick confided.
Congressman Butler stopped in his tracks. “Sure as hell does have important international ramifications,” he snorted.
“But before alerting diplomatic sources, I would try to s
eek an alternate, possibly military solution.”
The congressman looked concerned.
“What contact, if any, have you had with the kidnappers?”
“At first we only received their note. They are called the Temple of the Highest Peace.”
“Right,” Mick said. “I’m somewhat familiar with that name.”
“You are?”
“But go on,” Mick said. “Have you had more recent contact with them?”
“I have. I heard from them this morning, as a matter of fact. My daughter is being held until the U.S. Congress coughs up enough money to increase funding to an agency again.”
“What agency?”
“Apparently it’s a malaria research department in the CDC. They say the department’s called the DPD. I never heard of it. They made me swear to secrecy over these ransom demands upon pain of death. And frankly, I don’t want to die just yet.”
“I think they were talking about your daughter.”
“Her, too.”
“Listen,” Mick said. “Nobody’ll know you told me. Do you think you can get the money appropriated in Congress?”
“Sure, that’s no problem. We can even stuff it into next year’s budget before the end of the year.”
“Are you willing to wait that long for your daughter?”
“What more can I do?”
“There’s more than your daughter at stake. That cult is also holding a key researcher that might solve this malaria plague.”
“I’ve got my mosquito repellant on.”
“Look, I’m not talking about an operation that will risk your daughter’s life. I just need to reach the doctor and obtain his release.”
Butler mopped his sweating face. “Well, there is more.”
Mick let the congressman walk further and turn back to him.
“According to this phone call, the cult is located in the state of Crayola. They call the city where they’re located something like ‘Tin Drum.’”
Mick smiled. “That’s a very good start.” He must have meant Trivandrum in Kerala. Then he asked, “Can you explain something to me? When you walked down those steps to meet me, I could swear you almost looked happy.”
“Oh that,” the congressman laughed sheepishly. “My wife left for the States this morning. She couldn’t take it.”
“I see,” Mick said. “Hope they let her through quarantine.”
“What quarantine?”
Mick explained America’s temporary ban on travelers from India.
“So that’s what the Air Force pilot meant when he told me he could fix his flight plan so that it excluded this stop in India.”
“So you’re feeling like some of the pressure’s off?”
“What, the wife or the kidnapping?” Butler said, confused.
“I meant the kidnapping.”
“Yeah, sure. I’m counting on you, buddy. Say, where can we find the nearest strip club?”
The consulate driver stood holding the car door open for him.
“Please take us to the Golden Goose,” Mick said.
The driver grinned.
“Not for me,” Mick explained. “For him.”
Congressman Butler heaved onto the seat beside Mick. “I’ve got about five hundred rupees,” he said. “Will that cover it?”
“Cover what?”
“You know. A few drinks, some companionship, maybe some tail.”
“I wouldn’t know. They might have a foreigner’s price.”
When the car reached the busy corner at Nana Chowk, Mick pointed out the girlie bar.
“I’ll drop you off,” he said.
“At least get me inside,” Congressman Butler whined.
“What do you need, an introduction?”
Mick knew he had to show the congressman a good time, but this was going too far.
After the noisy, bright city street, the inside of the Golden Goose was pitch black, with a TV set playing an extravagant Hindi music video.
The two men eased onto bar stools and watched the televised pelvises grinding against each other.
Around them, men quietly sipped alcoholic beverages in sliced open coconuts. Congressman Butler ordered two Mai Tais for them. The bartender went right to work.
After they took a few sips from their Old Fashioned glasses, Mick spotted two women in a far booth. He caught their eye and they gathered their silk saris and approached the bar.
One began swaying to the music. Mick kept his eye on the television image that depicted a couple embracing on a Swiss Alp, their hips joined and wiggling to a Western beat. When he looked back, the congressman had turned toward the dancer and was admiring the flashes of skin around her waist.
She was a youngster, under twenty years of age by Mick’s reckoning. Her light skin and good complexion indicated she was probably from a good family. Her large brown eyes looked down and away. Her mind seemed to be some distance from her stamping feet, undulating hips, precisely held arms and the disjointed rock of her upper torso.
Mick swished his rum-flavored drink around his mouth and stood to leave.
“Got work to do,” he said, and slapped the congressman on the back. “Thanks for the drink.”
The congressman focused on him for a moment in a disconcerted way. “If you’re going after those guys, you’d better be careful. I don’t want to be held responsible.”
“Responsible for what?”
“I swore an oath of secrecy. You’re not supposed to know about them.”
“Then I won’t tell ’em we’re connected,” Mick said, his aggravation surging to the fore.
“Don’t give me away. My whole family is at stake.”
“I can see how valuable they are to you.”
While Mick was leaving, the second girl cast a longing look after him, then finally eased into the empty stool beside the heavy-set congressman.
“Bait and switch,” Mick thought. “Works every time.”
Lt. General Kahlil Saleem enjoyed his role as chief of Pakistan’s ISI.
A few years back, when the U.S. nearly accused Pakistan of being a state sponsor of terrorism, Inter-Service Intelligence suddenly had had an image problem on its hands. They brought Lt. General Saleem, a former Army general and diplomat, out of retirement from a quiet London suburb to overhaul the image of the covert organization.
His first act had been to cut off any monetary links between the service and Kashmir terrorist outfits. He directed that funds be channeled discreetly from the government budgetary office to private organizations that, in turn, supported the fight against India.
Then he had ordered his agents to use greater caution in concealing their activities abroad. Their principle activities remained the same: foster contact with China and the United States and pursue their counter-offensive against India.
Using his pro-Western image, he had designated himself the ISI’s personal envoy to the U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation after the FBI had opened a branch office in Islamabad.
The FBI had begun stationing scores of field agents around the Indian Ocean since the embassy bombings in Tanzania and Kenya. The FBI was sure that the ISI had more information than it was willing to give, which, of course, always had been the case.
Perhaps he could turn some profit from Colonel Javed Sayed’s information. Lt. General Saleem picked up his phone and dialed his main FBI contact at the American Embassy.
“Scott Smith here,” a husky American voice answered.
“This is Lt. General Saleem. May I be direct?” He knew that Americans favored getting to the point immediately. “I might have a lead for you.”
“I’m listening.”
“The Indians noticed one Mr. Shaikh a.k.a. Irani leaving their country bound for Pakistan. He is one of your World Trade Center suspects as well as one of India’s most wanted.” He heard Smith’s fingers typing rapidly on a computer keyboard. “Personally, I’d rather turn the matter over to you.”
“I appreciate your altruism
and magnanimity.”
“I’m not paid to find your suspects.”
“Of course not. Naturally I appreciate all your efforts on our behalf.”
“So you see that I have no real interest in making this call.”
“And yet you did.”
“And yet I did,” Lt. General Saleem repeated. “You see, our chaps are a bit worried about your upcoming annual report out of Washington.”
“You mean the ‘Patterns of Global Terrorism’ report?” Scott’s fingers continued typing away.
“Yes. I believe that’s it. I’m glad that our two countries are cooperating on the war against terrorism, but we’ve been concerned that those who write the report might mistakenly include Pakistan in their list of seven.”
“Seven state sponsors of terrorism?” The keyboard continued to click.
“Yes, that’s right. Please assure me that this won’t be the case.”
“I’m not getting anything on a Shaikh or Irani. Let’s have your information first. Then we’ll talk about the report.”
“Of course. First things first.”
Lt. General Saleem relayed how a young man, Wassim Shaikh, had briefly transited Islamabad, changed his appearance and exited the country on a different passport for a different destination. He was now traveling as one “Tariq Irani.” At the moment, Irani was headed for London’s Heathrow Airport and scheduled to land in two hours’ time. He was booked on a British Airways flight to Atlanta.
Scott’s fingers stopped. “Bingo. Now I see who you’re talking about. Wassim Shaikh is a fugitive with possible links to the failed World Trade Center attack. We think Wassim was a conduit of information to that group.”
“So you can see, this is a very valuable discovery on our part.”
“Sure is. We’ll have British MI5 Security Service trace him once he arrives in London.”
“I’m very happy to be of help to you.”
“We have a good relationship, General.”
“Our country is on the forefront of fighting terrorism.”
The two concluded their conversation on a cordial note. Scott assured Saleem that Britain would keep an eye on “Tariq Irani” in London and the FBI would nab him the moment he stepped off the plane in Atlanta. They agreed to talk about the global terrorism report the next week.