Agency Rules - Never an Easy Day at the Office

by Khalid Muhammad

  He moved around the board, pushing pins into different locations, considering his plan based on the locations of the pins, before turning back to Haroon and taking a deep breath.

  “Sir, my proposal is targeted and resource driven,” Kamal started. “Since we know the smuggling routes into Pakistan are here and here,” Kamal explained, “we need to keep our men out of these areas. We also have FC posts and bases here, here and here that we must also avoid, otherwise the operation will be compromised.” The General nodded, agreeing with Kamal’s assumptions.

  “If we put two teams in play at the Panjkara and Babukara rivers, we would be able to provide surveillance and quick response to the assault when it begins. They would be roughly twelve hours by foot from the camp, but no one would suspect them because they are not along any of the routes that are patrolled by the FC or used by the smugglers.”

  “Quick response teams?” Haroon inquired. “What for?”

  “I would use them for a few purposes,” Kamal explained. “First, I would want to them to cripple the FC’s communications capabilities so that when we start our assault, they are not able to respond in force. Second, with a few hours advance notification, they could take out the snipers and the anti-aircraft weapons giving our birds clear access into the camp.”

  “What is your force personnel requirement?” Haroon asked.

  “Two teams of two snipers, three explosives specialists, two navigators and one signals operator. Fifteen men total.”

  Haroon was impressed with the critical thinking and strategy that Kamal had put before him. This was an excellent plan that would deliver the first objective and clear the path for the rest of the assault team. “So you would bring commandos in from the air and supporting infantry from?” Haroon asked.

  “Sir, our men are trained to attack from the air. It was a core requirement in our training,” Kamal said. “With the FC posts compromised, we can roll our infantry right down Agency Road without major resistance. Once their defenses are compromised, we can hit them hard and fast… assuming that we move the contingents to the relevant bases before the covert operation.”

  “What are you thinking in terms of equipment on ground?” Haroon asked, more intrigued with the plan as Kamal expounded on it.

  “Transport vehicles, sir,” Kamal answered without hesitation. “No tanks, no APCs, no heavy weaponry. It would draw too much attention.”

  Haroon leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the table and tapping the butt of a pen against his chin. Kamal stood motionless for a moment, then grabbed his cigarette pack from the table taking one and slipping it between his lips. His tongue shot out to moisten them before placing it there. He knew that plan he had put forward was strong and with the Brigadier’s experience, it would become an executable plan. Now, he just had to wait for the Brigadier to agree with him.

  “Listen, Kamal,” the Brigadier said, spinning the pen between his lips. “Let’s break for fifteen and we’ll come back to discuss this further,” he said dropping his feet to the floor with a thud, stretching as he stood up. “Write this up so that we have it documented.”

  Kamal watched him walk out the door. Fucker, he thought to himself. He waited a few minutes to make sure that he cleared earshot, then in his best imitation of the Brigadier, he repeated, “Write this up so that we have it documented, you little arrogant shit.” He grabbed a blank pad and pen as he pulled his chair to the table to draw out and detail the assault plan.

  Like clockwork, Haroon returned to the barracks fifteen minutes later with a few leather-bound books under his arm. Behind him entered one of the soldiers that was charged with guarding them carrying another stack of similar books. “I brought up some reading material to facilitate our discussion better,” he said, smiling.

  Haroon placed the books on the table and instructed the soldier to do the same. Kamal checked out the spines realizing that he intended to teach him battlefield tactics to prove whatever points he was going to expound before declaring his assault plan faulty. He had been a long-time instructor at the War College in Nowshera, not to mention his training at the US Army College. “Did you get the documentation done that I asked for?” he asked.

  “Ah, no sir,” Kamal answered, doing his best to hold back the response he really wanted to give. “I am still drawing out the map with troop placement.”

  “You can come back to that later,” Haroon commented. “If we’re going to make your plan work, we need to understand what equipment will be needed. That is what these books are for,” he said placing his hand on the first stack.

  He’s accepting the plan? My luck can’t be this good. Kamal stopped writing as if someone had just shot him. “Sir, I started to put together a list of the equipment needed based on the teams in the theatre,” he commented, holding up a second pad that contained equipment, weapons and munitions requirements broken down by operational teams. The Brigadier reached out, taking the pad from Kamal and reading the information listed.

  “This is a good start,” Haroon said. “But we need to get into the details. It takes the Army about a week to ten days to move the necessary equipment from other bases and theaters.”

  The discussion was nowhere near being complete, Kamal knew, but he was going to savor this victory.

  * * *

  The night had not been as restful as the General had hoped. After the long journey from Islamabad by road, he had hoped to find a few more comforts of home once he got to The Sanctuary, but was forced to settle into a creaking bed with a lopsided mattress and the ever-steady hum of a generator outside. It made him remember why he kept his base of operations at five-star hotels, but the dramatic situational shift in Pakistan forced him to make his visit more low-key. He woke to find his sat phone vibrating against the side of the nightstand floating suspended by the charger, the only thing keeping it from bouncing on the floor. He reached over, pulling it back from the edge and unplugging as he answered.

  “Good morning, General,” said the familiar voice.

  “Hello, David,” the General said. “I don’t know how good of a morning it is. How are things in the civilized world?”

  “Three thousand thread count sheets, fine scotch and beautiful women,” Northwright said, clanking the ice in his glass. “I’m guessing you have found hell to be… well, hell?”

  “It’s hotter than fuck all here,” el-Yahad joked. “The air conditioning doesn’t even provide any comfort.”

  Northwright laughed, taking a swig from his scotch. “I know, my friend. The heat in that area is like being in a special part of hell. What’s new out there? What do our friends have to say?”

  “They sent some towelhead to transport me from Islamabad. Bastard talked my ear off,” el-Yahad told him. “He gave me some cock and bull story about operational readiness and some test missions but wouldn’t give any details. Said that the Sheikh would brief me here.”

  “Test missions?” Northwright asked inquisitively. “That doesn’t sound good. What the fuck have they done? Blown up a donkey cart?” he said laughing.

  “David, I think they did the hit on Canary,” el-Yahad said hesitantly. “Did you order that?”

  “Are you crazy?” Northwright voice boomed into the receiver. “Canary was our asset. We spent twenty years grooming him for that position. Why would I order a hit?”

  “I don’t think they got that memo. I’ll know more today, but there’s some connection to the camp.” For a moment, there was silence on the other end.

  “These towelheads think they can decide something that important?” When he finally spoke, Northwright’s voice was laced with anger. “Find out and update me.”

  “I ran into one of your old friends during a stopover. He spoke highly of you.”

  “Are you sure he was a friend? They don’t tend to speak highly of me.”

  “There was a picture of you with him and two other men.”

  “Abbas, you need to be more specific. I know a number of people over th
ere from my time with The Company.”

  “He said his name was Sami Ullah,” el-Yahad said pausing to gauge Northwright’s reaction to the name. “He told me about you, Andrews and Davidson. How long were you in Pakistan with The Company?”

  Northwright was uncharacteristically quiet, remembering his days training mujahideens alongside the Pakistan Army. He recalled the days of free flowing dollars, nasty guesthouse rooms and training sessions in the mountains. His mind turned to his fallen colleagues and the memories they had shared while stationed there. “Andrews was a good man,” Northwright finally said. “The Northern Alliance took him out with a mortar shell. There weren’t enough pieces to send back to the family for the funeral.”

  “What about Davidson? Is he alive or dead?”

  “Shit man, how would I know?” Northwright retorted after a slight hesitation. “He disappeared a few weeks after Andrew’s died. We had bunks next to each other. I woke up one morning and he was gone. No one has seen him since.”

  “I think you’re wrong about that, David,” the General said, but was interrupted by a knocking at the door. “Listen, someone is knocking. I think the towelheads are up. We’ll discuss this later,” he said hanging up before Northwright could reply. Rising from the bed, el-Yahad looked into the mirror near the door checking to make sure that he didn’t have anything out of sorts before opening the door.

  “Sir, they are waiting for you in the meeting room,” the young boy said in his broken English, quickly turning and rushing down the hall.

  “Where is the meeting room?” el-Yahad yelled, hoping to get some response before he disappeared out of sight.

  “Across the hall,” he called back without turning his head.

  The General looked across at the door that was slightly ajar before turning and closing the door to his room. Before he joined them, he wanted to collect anything that could be searched while he was with them. Shoving all the files from the coffee table and bed into his briefcase, he snapped the clasp closed, turning his key to lock it before entering the bathroom to quickly get ready.

  The General emerged from his room fifteen minutes later, briefcase in hand, crossing the hall and entering the meeting room to find Sheikh Atif and Mullah Fazal waiting. On a table in the corner was a breakfast spread that matched any of the hotel buffets he had enjoyed in the past.

  “Ah, good morning General sahib,” the Sheikh said, wiping the breadcrumbs from the corner of his mouth. He stood and crossed the room to get his old friend. “It has been too long. I think the last time we met was…”

  “Jordan two years ago,” el-Yahad completed his sentence. “You look well. The Mullah must take good care of you.”

  “Allah-hum-do-lillah, the brothers take excellent care of me here and in Jalalabad,” the Sheikh commented with a smile. “Please get some breakfast and join us,” motioning to the expansive buffet that had been prepared in his honor.

  The next few hours were spent discussing activities at the facility, recruitment, training and financial status. Although he had heard most of the information from Nabeel, he wanted the Sheikh to give him a more detailed picture. The Sheikh tried very hard to avoid el-Yahad’s difficult questions, but he persisted like a Rottweiler who had cornered a cat. He wasn’t going to give up without the answers he wanted.

  “Nabeel used the term operational readiness while briefing me,” the General said. “What does that mean here and how can you make that pronouncement?”

  “Operational readiness means that we have reached a trained efficiency to be able to select targets of our choice,” the Mullah explained.

  “How are you judging that, Mullah sahib?” el-Yahad inquired. “Have you carried out any test missions?”

  Both men looked at each other wondering who would provide the answer to that and the likely follow-up questions. The Mullah leaned forward to expand on his statement, but the Sheikh stopped him, shaking his head no. “What would you consider proof, General?” he asked.

  El-Yahad stared at the Sheikh, wondering what he had stopped the Mullah from saying. In the process, he caught himself comparing the cracks and crows feet on his face with the man in the photograph he had seen earlier. There are similarities, but is this the same man? The Sheikh interrupted his thoughts, repeating the question.

  “I can tell you from a military perspective that we don’t use that term unless it has been tested,” the General qualified the earlier question. “What was the test?”

  “We kidnapped and interrogated two men from their place of employment,” the Sheikh said with a smirk. “Sadly, both men died during the interrogation, a common occurrence during high-pressure situations, as you already know from your own experience.”

  “What intelligence was gathered? How were these two men selected?”

  “Both men had recently joined the cause. The skills Dawood displayed during training were more controlled and developed than any other recruit that we have had here. We felt that he had used Kaleem, a former student at Imam Shahid’s madrassah, to infiltrate the camp,” the Sheikh explained, pulling a file from under the table and handing it to the General. “This is the intelligence gathered from Kaleem.”

  The General pulled the file close, tapping his fingers on it a few times watching the Sheikh’s movements closely. He pulled his glasses from their case, wiping them a few times before slipping them onto his face. He turned his gaze from the Sheikh to the neatly typed pages in the file, but something caught his attention on the second page of the transcript.

  “Is this correct?” the General asked scratching the back of his head. “You kidnapped an intelligence asset and killed him? Are you stupid or just blind to what you may have done?” the General said, standing to move around the table.

  “He didn’t admit to that during his interrogation…” the Mullah said before being interrupted by the General.

  “Didn’t admit? My God, you are stupid,” the General yelled. “The ISI puts every asset through extensive torture exercises to test their breaking point,” the General continued, anger boiling over remembering the interrogations that he had conducted and overseen of confirmed ISI operatives in Syria. “They don’t break!”

  “He’s dead. No one will find the body,” the Sheikh said. “We have been assured.”

  The General froze in his tracks, not able to comprehend what the Sheikh had just said. “Are you telling me that someone else did the interrogation?” the General yelled.

  “He is one of our assets,” the Mullah said confidentially. “He will never tell.”

  “Where is this asset?” the General inquired. “Can I meet him?”

  “No,” the Sheikh replied. “His family told us he crossed into Afghanistan for the time being.”

  “You are sure… this isn’t something that is going to happen, correct?” the General asked.

  “He is in Afghanistan with our brothers,” the Mullah said, more confident that previously.

  “Ok, that’s good. The farther he stays from Pakistani intelligence the better,” the General said before pausing a moment as a thought entered his mind. “Anything else?”

  “Just one other thing, General sahib,” the Sheikh said. “But I fear this will upset you again when I tell you.”

  The color ran from the General’s face. Are my worst fears coming true? Did they do it? “Did you kill the Prime Minister?” he asked fearful of the answer that was to come.

  “Only tactical support, we didn’t pull the trigger, as you would say,” the Mullah said.

  “So what is it?” the General asked impatient with the drama. “What is going to upset me?”

  The Sheikh rose from the table, crossing over to speak with el-Yahad privately. “We have killed two intelligence officers,” the Sheikh whispered in his ear, slowly moving around behind him.

  “Dawood and…”

  “You,” the Sheikh said as he slid the razor sharp blade across the General’s throat.

  The General stumbled a few steps around the r
oom, blood beginning to spurt from the cut, before collapsing on the floor. He tried to grasp his neck to stop the blood loss, but his efforts were in vain. With the blood rushing from his throat, he felt life slipping from his soul.

  “General, can you hear me? This was not my decision,” he said almost saddened by what he had just done. “Moshe made this call,” he continued pulling his cell phone. He had gotten some blood on his expensive handset forcing him to wipe his hands and handset before dialing.

  “Sir, it’s done,” he said to the party on the other side of the call. “We’ll dispose of the body and all evidence… thank you sir,” he finished, hanging up the call and turning the phone off to avoid any attempts to track the location.

  “Bashir! Hamza!” the Sheikh yelled through the door. “Bashir! Hamza!”

  The two men entered the room to find the General lying lifeless in a large pool of his own blood. Their faces showed no shock or surprise to either the scene before them or the murder of General. The scooped the General’s body between them and carried it out. Another man stepped in with cleaning supplies to mop up the blood and wipe the walls where it had spurted. He moved quickly to sanitize the area and left as quickly and quietly as he entered.

  The Sheikh returned to the table, snatching the General’s open briefcase from the chair to remove the remaining files. Placing them around the table, he looked at Fazal still shocked by the attack. “Fazal… Fazal!” he yelled at his friend, barely drawing a reaction from him. “Fazal, we have a great deal to do. Can you assist me?”

  Fazal reached forward grabbing the Sheikh’s arm. “What the hell did you just do?” he asked confused.

  “I did what needed to be done,” Atif said with steel in his eyes and iron in his voice. “My benefactors are not providing you with everything for a jihad. You are providing us the tools and network to wage a war against anyone and anything that opposes us,” he said gripping Fazal’s hand so he could not pull away. “The General was a threat and expendable… don’t put yourself in the same position.”