Agency Rules - Never an Easy Day at the Office

by Khalid Muhammad

  Minto froze. Lost the trucks? How is that possible?

  “Motherfucker, what happened?” Minto yelled into the phone. Which son of a bitch would dare target one of my transports?

  Absar’s scrambling and somewhat incoherent explanation raised Minto’s anger by several notches, but he got the gist of it. Which fucking crime boss is making his move? Minto wanted answers and wanted them now.

  “Who the fuck would go after our transport? Don’t they know that their lives would belong to me?” Minto screamed at Absar. His ruddy face turned red which, added to his dark complexion, turned it a deep maroon color. It terrified the man in chair who had already pissed himself once that night. He pissed again at the rage in Minto’s voice. “Bring me the Pathans who were supposed to supply these weapons!”

  A simple reply came from the other side, drowned out by the sound of sirens, “I’ll get it done, Minto gee.”

  Minto slammed down the receiver, then took the phone and bashed it against his prisoner’s head, beating him unconscious only to revive him again for another beating. The police officer was running on empty and Minto was doing everything possible to bring his life to a painful end. With the expertise of a butcher, Minto picked up his knife and weaved a trail into his skin, peeling away portions of flesh. When the screaming became overwhelmingly loud, Minto stuffed a dirty rag that he had been using to wipe his hands into the policeman’s mouth.

  Looking down on the collapsed man, Minto grabbed a bowl of water to throw on him. “How much would you pay me to end your life right now?” He threw the full bowl of water on his face, watching pink rivulets stream off the man onto the filthy floor.

  The police officer awoke screaming in pain. His only thought was, please God, when will this end?

  With one quick swipe of his seven inch Ka-Bar knife, Minto severed his victim’s carotid artery, answering his prayers. He signaled to the men standing in a darkened corner of the room.

  “Dispose of this,” he said, pointing to the body. He grabbed his phone and snapped a picture for his collection. “Make sure to leave it somewhere for the public to enjoy,” he said as he left the small chamber. He lumbered into a room a few steps away – his ‘office’ – and threw himself onto a charpai to get some sleep. Torture was exhausting.

  * * *

  Kamal had not slept comfortably the night before. Sohrab Goth was abuzz with activity as fire trucks came in and out of the area throughout the night. During breakfast before daybreak, Aftab gave both Kamal and Dawood a briefing into the activities observed during his watch. At some point during the night, the police had cordoned off the area, restricting access to official personnel and vehicles only. A few military convoys had come into the area, including the Corps Commander and Military Intelligence, to survey the situation and offer their assistance, but this was a police matter and the army wanted nothing to do with it.

  As the sun peaked over the horizon, Kamal was back in his position in the perch, rifle positioned and watching the area below. The charred remains of the three trucks were starkly black along the narrow street. People stilled milled around and the makeshift restaurants and hotels were packed as curiosity drove people to find out what they could about last night’s events. They kept their distance from the crime scene, but only because of the cordon. Kamal knew that if that hadn’t been there, the public would have been picking up souvenirs from the rubble. One thing about this city, it is resilient.

  Today was hotter than ever and lying under the sun unable to move, Kamal felt the sweat sticking to his chest. I’m going to have to dissolve this shirt with a solvent to get it off. There were times that he envied the roles of Dawood and Aftab, sitting inside the flat with a fan running above them, taking some of the sting out of the heat. How the fuck did I end up with this shit assignment? With a sigh, he picked up his binoculars. Time for some good old peeking.

  Aftab was out in the market below. Dressed in a blue shalwar kameez, he blended into the scene, but Kamal picked him up easily. Aftab stopped at the fruit seller Kamal had watched the day before, picking up some seasonal fruit. Get the apples, Kamal tried to telepathically send a message to Aftab. Damn, not the falsas. Kamal shook his head in disgust; he hated the tart, tiny purple fruit. He thought about using his rifle to blow a hole into the bag of falsas, but that would give away his position. He thought about calling Aftab, but stopped when he saw Aftab moving towards the weapons warehouse. Kamal dropped the binoculars and moved into position behind his rifle, quickly adjusting for range and trajectory. What the hell is he doing? This wasn’t discussed this morning. He watched.

  Aftab slowly made his way closer to the building and struck up a conversation with the men standing outside. Aftab was from Charsadda, on the outskirts of Peshawar, and fluent in Pashto, making blending in easier. He stood for what seemed like an eternity talking to them, and then reached into his pocket to pull out a cell phone. With a wave, he moved away from the men, talking on the phone as he slowly walked back to the apartment building.

  Kamal continued to track Aftab, doing his best to read Aftab’s lips. He felt a prickle of nerves along his skin. He could make out the words ‘gangs’ and an emphatic ‘what’ from Aftab, and Kamal realized that something had happened elsewhere in the sprawling city. Had the gangs retaliated for the warehouse strike already? Almost instantly, he felt the vibration of his phone and Kamal instinctively reached up and activated the Bluetooth device in his ear. The voice said one phrase before going dark again. “Activate secure comms.”

  Chapter 3

  He hadn’t had a chance to visit the tourist spots at Seaview or enjoy a hut at Sandspit, nor had he had the chance to visit a shopping mall or eat food at Barbecue Tonight – something he had really been looking forward to. No, Kamal was like a bird sitting atop buildings, taking in sights that no one wanted to admit existed in the city of lights. His six months had been spent prostrate, binoculars pressed to his eyes, watching targets in Sohrab Goth, Malir, Lyari and Orangi Town. He had grown accustomed to the sun beating down on him, baking him to a crisp. Karachi, unlike the scenic mountainous area he grew up in, was humid and hot, reaching desert temperatures at times. In the areas he’d visited, pollution and population had even blocked out the sea breeze the city was famous for. He was sure that his color had gotten two shades darker, matching the shift in his personality, as he watched the gruesome gang war escalate.

  In six months, the team had neutralized over two hundred criminals involved in gang-related violence, snatched another hundred that had been interrogated for valuable information. These detainees had not been handed over to civilian courts, which were paralyzed by the fear of reprisals; they were in the safe hands of the military tribunal located within a secret prison guarded by fellow SSG commandos. History had taught the army that jails and prisons were not secure, but a prison that no one knew existed facilitated the army in intelligence gathering and swift justice.

  Sadly, with any escalation of violence, there were innocent casualties from Karachi as well, as law enforcement, paramilitary and citizens became the targets in the fight to control the city. This was war, Kamal thought to himself as he sat reading the latest briefing in another cramped, rented apartment, and war has never been for the faint of heart. The only plus point of the escalation was that the remaining gang bosses were settling scores in the hope to fill the void left by the neutralized, effectively reducing Kamal and his team’s workload.

  The interrogations had yielded results and volumes of intelligence were passed to the analysts sitting within the ISI command center in Karachi for verification and target selection. It had been through these renditions that many of the top gang bosses and their hideouts had been identified for surveillance, where Kamal and his team would move into action again. But today was a different. Kamal had been tapped by the command to actively participate in an interrogation.

  Six months ago, Kamal would never been able to use the force and intimidation required to get information from a detaine
e, and had proven it in his first entry to the Chamber. He was so gentle and controlled that the detainee openly mocked him, comparing him to a child asking for ice cream. He had experienced psychological torture during his SSG training where he was taught the difference between tone and force.

  “Tone is used to create fear within a subject,” his instructor taught. “Force is the realization of that fear.” A good interrogator used tone with the threat of force to gather intelligence. While effective, with tougher targets this method was questionable because the subject could pepper lies into the story. A great interrogator used force to connect a verbal demand with the real pain of non-compliance, a single trait that differentiated field interrogators gathering information from the quizmasters that were relied upon to deliver results. In simple terms, the difference between boys and men.

  Today, Kamal stood on the other side of the glass as an observer while Dawood questioned Absar. But as the interview progressed, Kamal realized that Dawood wasn’t getting anything of value from Absar.

  “Look, we know that you are Minto’s number two. There is very little that we don’t know about you,” Dawood calmly said. “The best option for you is to be cooperative and you might see the light of day again.”

  “Fuck you, motherfucker,” fired Absar. “You can’t break me. You know why? You’re a bitch! That’s all you are.”

  Dawood, visibly angered and aware that Kamal was watching, slammed his hand down on the table and grabbed Absar’s throat, squeezing until his face turned a bright shade of red.

  “You think I won’t shove a hot piece of rebar up your ass to get what I want?” Dawood was menacingly quiet. “I’ll rip you the fuck open, reach inside you and pull out the information I want.”

  Absar chuckled as he got his breath back. Looking deep into Dawood’s eyes, he smiled an evil grin and beat his chest with his free hand. “Fuck you! You bitch. A gnat is scarier than you.” Absar growled back. “I can see in your eyes that you have never killed anyone. You don’t know the taste of blood.”

  Kamal shook his head listening to the exchange, wondering how Dawood had been selected to be an interrogator. Skimming the files in his hand, Kamal thought about the devastation that these criminals had caused. They survived on maximizing terror and it was likely that any attack on them would yield a far greater retaliation with a significant body count. They had the one person that knew all of Minto’s movements, and he was toying with Dawood like a cat playing with a ball of yarn, slapping every attempt at information away with an insult and a laugh.

  Commando training taught Kamal that the element of surprise throws everyone from their game. In the past, he had been restricted by military rules of engagement, but these were not members of any military – they were criminals and criminals don’t have rules of engagement. He motioned to the soldier standing guard outside the Chamber, instructing him on a change in tactics and direction that the interrogation would now take. As the soldier moved down the hall to gather the required items, Kamal moved back to the window to continue watching the show.

  Moments later, gunfire broke out in the hallway. First, shots from a handgun, followed by intermittent automatic weapon fire. Inside the Chamber, Dawood stopped and instinctively reached for his handgun, forgetting that security protocols didn’t allow weapons inside the Chamber. As the gunfire intensified, Dawood, now visibly concerned, jolted the door, trying to open it, unsuccessfully. He pounded on the door, yelling to be let out, to unlock the door, but no response came from the other side. Absar cheered up, visibly.

  “We are going to fuck you, soldier boy! My men are coming for me and I will taste your blood for a change.” Absar, entertained by the turn in events, jeered at Dawood. “You are a bitch and I’ll show you what happens to bitches!”

  Dawood pressed the intercom, looking for someone to explain the situation outside the Chamber, but only gunfire and static returned from the other side.

  “Is there anyone there?” screamed Dawood.

  Kamal stood listening to his colleague’s yells, unconcerned and silent, even when the gunfire rushed closer and closer.

  Dawood heard voices outside the Chamber as someone shouted instructions to rig the door with explosives. There‘s nowhere to take cover from an explosion, Dawood thought frantically as he scanned the room, hastily moving to the wall farthest away from the door. Within seconds, an explosion ripped the door from its hinges, blowing it inwards and narrowly missing both Absar and Dawood. Through the dust and shrapnel billowing in the air, two hooded men, covered in blood, entered. One man moved to grab Dawood, but Dawood got the jump on him and crashed him to the ground with a chair to his head, shattering the chair. Before Dawood could recover, the other man had him in a chokehold and was squeezing the life from his body, with Absar screaming his approval from his chained position.

  “Kill the fucker!” shouted Absar, as Dawood went limp. “Well done! Minto will be proud of your fight!” The man tossed Dawood’s unconscious body to the ground.

  Absar’s face went from hope for his impending freedom to horror as the hooded man turned towards him and, with a hard slap, drew blood from Absar’s gaping mouth.

  “You fucking traitor!” the man growled at Absar. “You have dishonored Minto.”

  “Wait. No. I haven’t told them anything,” pleaded a confused Absar. This wasn’t the rescue he had been hoping for. He struggled against his chains, knowing that Minto’s retaliation would not only mean his gruesome death, but the murder of all his family members. Minto was known for his sadistic rage. Fear tripped up his tongue. “Wait… they don’t know anything…”

  “Shut up, traitor,” the man shouted, taking out his aggression with another backhand and a kidney punch for good measure. “Sir, we have him!”

  In the doorway appeared another hooded man, much larger than the other two. He too was covered in blood, with a bloody machete in one hand and petrol can in the other. Wiping the machete on his chest, the man entered the room, spilling petrol at the doorway and drawing a trail to Absar.

  “Tell us what you told them, Absar.” The hooded man casually poured petrol around Absar’s chair.

  “I didn’t tell them anything! I would never give them Minto!” The smell of petrol permeated Absar’s nostrils – he couldn’t place the man’s voice, which put him at a disadvantage. He knew that these would be his last minutes if he could not convince this man that he had not turned on his master.

  The hooded man lifted the petrol can and emptied it over Absar. “Do you think that we don’t know what you have done?” The man’s husky voice was soft and calm, a chilling counterpoint to the butt of the bloody machete that slammed into Absar’s stomach. Absar doubled over in pain, his mind ticking in overdrive. This doesn’t sound like Minto’s man – he sounds too… too educated. “Tell us now or we’ll take your head back to Minto for his trophy wall.”

  Minto’s trophy wall was unknown to anyone outside the circle. It was adorned with photographs of his victims and stuffed human appendages snatched from those that had wronged him. How did they know about the trophy wall? Doubt began to muddle Absar’s mind.

  “We have already added your wife and parents to the trophy wall for your dishonor. If you chose not to cooperate, Minto will add your children alongside your head,” the hooded man’s husky voice continued, still in that eerily calm tone. Absar looked up in time to see the fist slamming into his face. “Your lovely, young daughter – how old is she now? Sixteen?” The man’s face was close to Absar’s and he was almost whispering the words into Absar’s ear.

  Absar’s mind began to cloud with the images of his dead wife and parents, and he shivered at the thought of what they would do to his children. He began to doubt his own memories, wondering if something had slipped out during the many interrogations he had endured. Had my random taunts given them clues? Absar’s body jumped as a needle was pushed into his neck, and a blinding rush of heroin flooded his blood stream. These were Minto’s men, was his last coheren
t thought as the drug took hold, pushing him into a make-believe reality.

  The hooded man’s machete blade cut into Absar’s throat, only enough to draw blood, but demonstrated the absolute resolve that these men brought from Minto. The information would be extracted and Absar’s children would either be saved or all would perish. Absar’s mind raced as he thought of his daughters, whose lives would be at his mercy. Their beauty and innocence would be gone, he thought to himself, knowing that Minto would push them into prostitution to pay for the disloyalty of their father. There was only one way to save them; sacrifice himself.

  “I told them everything,” Absar wept as he recounted the details of each hiding place and Minto’s security protocols. The only thing that he could think of was the safety of his children, as the heroin rushed through his bloodstream and polluted his brain. He stumbled in and out of consciousness as the figures moved around the room, not giving him a fixed position to concentrate on. The questions came fast and furious, further muddling Absar’s mind, but more information bubbled forward, mixed with his tears and blood.

  The men, satisfied that they had gotten all the information they could from him, moved to the doorway. Absar’s eyes followed them as best he could.

  “My children? Will they be safe?” Absar asked from the cloud of the drug. “Will Minto spare my children?” he screamed at the figure in the doorway. He had a vague impression that he was suddenly alone in the room with his tormentor.

  With a pause, Kamal pulled the hood from his head and put a cigar in his mouth. “Minto never had your family,” he calmly said, pulling a matchbox from his pocket. He shook it to focus Absar’s mind on the next few seconds. He struck a match, letting the air fill with the smell of sulfur, before lighting his cigar, “but we will.”