“Cover the basics of the op. Don’t give them too much detail.”
Haroon nodded, but his focus was on finding the foreign media in the audience. Maybe if I can spot them, it will put me more at ease.
“Good afternoon and welcome to the ISPR. I am Major General Shaukat Paracha and I’ll be providing the briefing in both Urdu and English so that everyone is able to clearly understand the information that we are presenting today. Please hold all questions until we have completed the presentation,” Paracha said, smiling at the audience, his timbering voice filling the auditorium. “The Prime Minister has already outlined the basics of what happened, but I, along with Brigadier Haroon, will be covering that and more information in detail.” He stopped to take a sip of water.
“Based on intelligence from an informant, the Pakistan Army began surveillance and intelligence-gathering of a large training camp located in the hills of Khyber Agency,” Paracha began. “Over the course of the past six months, various law enforcement agencies, civilian intelligence and our ISI operatives in the region were able to provide a clear picture of the activities of the camp and a direct connection to the assassination of former Prime Minister Azam Shah. Brigadier Haroon Ahmed will take you through the details of the operation, keeping in mind security concerns about potential retaliatory strikes.”
Haroon leaned forward and pulled the microphones closer to him. He paused, hesitant about what to say even though he had been thoroughly prepared by Paracha and his team. He cleared his throat and began.
“In the early hours of 17th November, four Cobra attack helicopters and two Huey helicopters carrying SSG commandos and supported by ground forces, launched an assault on a camp located in the foothills in Khyber Agency. We are not identifying the exact location because on-going intelligence and operations are in progress. The assault lasted approximately four hours, after which the camp was destroyed with explosive devices and aerial bombing from F-16s launched from Peshawar Air Base.” He paused to allow the journalists to note the information provided and to take a drink to moisten his parched throat. The journalists started to look up again and he quickly found his place in his notes. “Approximately two hundred terrorists were killed during the assault and close to one hundred were captured. Twenty members of the army embraced Shahadat, while another fifty-three sustained injuries of varying severity. After the assault, a great deal of material including hard drives, photographs and files were collected, which are listed in your media packets. They will be shown to you after the briefing is completed.” Haroon paused again to find the listing he had referenced, holding it up so that the journalists could find it in their packets.
“It was in this material that we found the plans and names of those involved in Prime Minister Azam Shah’s assassination. The names were matched with photographs and compared to those who were killed during the raid,” he continued as the journalists flipped through the media packets looking for the photographs and names. He could see their expressions change as they began to understand the sheer volume of information that had been collected. He fought to keep the mental smirk from appearing on his face. He handed the briefing back to Paracha. “Major General Paracha…” He leaned back in his chair, turning to Paracha. The room began to buzz with hushed discussions.
Paracha watched as the journalists showed each other snippets of information from the media packet, each scribbling notes and circling items in the provided documents. He quickly repeated the information in English for the international journalists, repeatedly referencing the numbers that Haroon had shared so that the international community would understand how big of a success this was for the Pakistan Army. He stopped, looking around the room and gauging the tension, before opening the floor. “Are there any questions?”
The room erupted as journalists’ shot their hands in the air and called out trying to get Paracha’s attention.
* * *
Islamabad’s diplomatic community was buzzing with the success of the operation. The phones in the offices of the President, Prime Minister and Chief of Army Staff had not stopped ringing since the Premier’s televised address earlier that morning. They had known something was happening in Islamabad for a few days, but no one in the corridors of power had broken the silence before the formal announcement, a great feat for a government that was typically filled with leaks. While the politicians were busy taking bows and enjoying the accolades, General Amjad Ali’s call sheet continued to grow, though he had no plans to return any of the calls. It was not in their nature to take a victory lap for doing their jobs and the top brass didn’t believe that victory was in hand yet.
Inside a hall within the General Headquarters of the army, keys clicked on keyboards, printers spat out pages and copiers hummed. A team of cryptographers, researchers and intelligence operatives were locked away with the materials recovered from The Sanctuary. They were connecting the data between financiers, sleeper cells and planned attacks, drafting dossiers under each of the operational code-names. They thought they had all the data, but that couldn’t have been further from the truth.
Prepared dossiers were moved out of the building to another more secure building on the premises, where a more advanced team was reviewing the intelligence files, linking the foreign agencies to the operational code-names. The expanded dossiers were marked with code-level clearances, some were redacted, and slotted into file boxes to be reviewed by the relevant heads of government, law enforcement, intelligence and military officials. Twice daily, the boxes were transported via an unmarked vehicle to the ISI headquarters in Islamabad for further consideration, before being distributed to the relevant offices.
Days had passed since The Sanctuary raid, when one of the advanced teams stumbled on a set of files that raised more questions than answers. The files were packed with pages of financial transactions, all coming from a series of offshore numbered accounts into Pakistan. At first glance, the cryptographers thought the accounts belonged to ranking members of leading political parties, used to move laundered money back into Pakistan, but the amounts didn’t make sense. Nor did the bank’s receiving the funds. The files and transactions became a topic of conversation among the intelligence officers in the room. As each account’s transactions were collated and tabulated, the numbers made less sense, until they started to connect the code-names with the transactions. ISI officers started to create timelines between the influx of funds, the purchase of weapons and disturbances around the country, but what they were having trouble understanding was why the funds were being delivered to three cities — Karachi, Peshawar and Quetta. A set of special red dossiers were prepared for Lt. General Misbah Qadir’s eyes only and transported by hand by one of the ISI officers. The team had two questions that had to be answered for everything to make sense — who was sending the funds and why Karachi, Peshawar and Quetta?
The courier made the forty-minute drive from GHQ to ISI headquarters in absolute silence. He normally chatted with his driver about the events of the day and cricket match scores, but this trip, he was lost in his own thoughts.
They had no smoking gun, nothing to connect a series of coincidences to the money trail they had stumbled upon. Nothing other than their own suspicions and those carried no weight with the Lt. General. Arriving at headquarters, he ascended the stairs to the foyer, flashing his security ID to the MPs. He moved to the elevator that would take him to the DG’s office. He could feel the sweat flowing down the back of his neck and his palms moistened as the elevator climbed the floors with this being his first trip to the holy sanctum of the ISI. He had been posted in the division for seven months, but had never been in the DG’s office or his vicinity. He almost pissed himself at the ‘bing’ from the doors before they opened. Taking a deep breath, he quickly recited Surat Ya-sin for Allah’s protection before stepping out of the elevator.
* * *
The Military Secretary answered the phone on the second ring.
“Office of the Chief of Army Staff,” h
e said politely.
“I have a call from the Prime Minister’s office for General Ali,” a polite feminine voice said.
“Is it the Prime Minister or one of his aides that want to speak with the General?” He didn’t like having to be the gatekeeper, but if he didn’t do it, he’d never hear the end of it from the General.
“Prime Minister Chaudhry is on the line waiting,” she said with a polite impatience.
“One moment, please,” the MS, said before placing her on hold. The hold lasted for only a few seconds, but felt much longer to the assistant waiting on the line.
“Hello,” General Ali said, as the MS connected the call. “Put the Prime Minister through.” The line clicked over within seconds.
“General Ali,” the Premier enthusiastically said. “I am getting calls from the diplomatic Corps saying that you are unavailable.”
“Mr. Prime Minister, we don’t take victory laps,” the General commented with a sigh. “I get a call sheet every hour but I have more pressing matters to concern myself with. Politics is your business, not mine.”
“General,” the Premier said. “No one is asking you to take a victory lap. These diplomats are friends of Pakistan. We can’t afford to offend them.”
General Ali sat a moment considering the Premier’s statement. He knew the government could not afford to offend them, but it wasn’t his job to appease them. These were the same diplomats who had spent months poking the ISI for not solving the heinous crime, blaming Pakistan’s Army for its policy against India, and criticizing the influence they carried over the government. He had watched chiefs prior to him meeting foreign defense secretaries, state ministers and anyone else who wanted something from the army. It was during his term that the army stopped receiving visiting diplomats. In fact, he had gone to the extent of banning their entry at any military installation, including the General Headquarters.
Getting no response from the General, the Prime Minister continued, “I know how averse you are to meeting these people, General. I have arranged a reception at Prime Minister House for the day after tomorrow. Please make sure you and the rest of the brass attend. My secretary will share the details with your aide.”
“I will make sure we make an appearance,” General Ali conceded begrudgingly, pushing a button to transfer the call back to his military secretary. He watched until the light went dark and the MS entered his office.
“Sir, should I issue a notification to the relevant Generals with the details?”
“I don’t think we have a choice, Shoaib,” the General said, lighting his cigarette. “Make sure Misbah, Asim and Haroon are notified.”
“Yes, sir,” the MS said turning and exiting the Chief’s office.
* * *
The entire area around Prime Minister House had been sealed the day before. Bomb sniffing dogs, snipers and other quick response teams had been deployed at all the entrances to the area to check anyone entering or leaving. There were two sets of personnel at each checkpost manned by the Islamabad police and the Military Police to ensure that only those with the proper credentials were allowed into the area. The diplomats had the easiest route being able to exit the Diplomatic Enclave and travel the five kilometers straight down Constitution Avenue to the Prime Minister House, which allowed them to be the first to arrive at the reception. By the time the Army leadership arrived, the party was in full swing.
“It looks like another one of those affairs,” General Ali said to his companions with a wink and a smile. “Best behavior gentlemen. This is supposed to be in our honor.”
“We’ve got some surprises for some of the guests,” Lt. General Qadir said with a slight smirk.
General Ali turned with surprise at Qadir’s comment. “You plan on approaching them here?” he asked.
“What surprises?” Lt. General Asim Junejo asked confused by the conversation between the two men.
“Just watch the show, Asim,” Qadir replied. “Can you think of a better place to deliver this kind of information? They can’t make a scene, nor can they refute what we already know,” he said smiling blandly.
“Just be careful, Misbah,” General Ali commented. “We have assets in each of these countries. Don’t put them in danger,” he said motioning to the room full of diplomats.
“I am fully aware of that fact,” Qadir said. “But would you risk having this information exposed on the front pages on every newspaper around the world?”
General Ali stood lost in his own thoughts. They had this discussion privately that morning, but had not been able to agree on the best course of action. It seemed, however, that the ISI brain trust had determined a plan and was ready to execute. Before General Ali could respond, the Prime Minister made his way over and joined them.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” the Prime Minister said. “Shall I introduce you?” General Ali glanced at his companions and nodded his agreement. The Prime Minister immediately turned to face the hall and tapped his glass.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Ladies and gentleman… may I have your attention please?” Prime Minister Chaudhry said, moving to the center of the hall. “It is with great pleasure that I present our guests of honor. General Ali, a man known to all of you from many personal interactions. Lt. General Asim Junejo, our Director General, Military Operations, and Lt. General Misbah Qadir, the most feared man in the community of intelligence services. Joining them is Brigadier Haroon Ahmed, the commander of the assault team that took down the terrorist hideout and brought the assassins of former Prime Minister Azam Shah to justice. Please join me and a grateful nation in congratulating them on this incredible success.” The room filled with applause and cheers. Many of the guests approached the men to shake their hands.
People gathered around the men to personally congratulate them. In the crowd, General Ali lost visual contact with Lt. General Misbah Qadir, although the other two men were still in his line of sight. General Ali felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning around, he saw the US Ambassador Annie Parker before him.
“Congratulations, General,” she said shaking his hand. “It’s nice to see the Army take a stand against the terrorists in their own backyard,” she quipped with a smile.
“We tried to follow the US model, but that doesn’t seem to work well here,” the General replied emotionless.
“The US model?” she asked, with a raised eyebrow. “What does that mean?”
“The US seems to allow militias, white supremacists and various forms of terrorism to operate within their own borders,” General Ali said with a derisive smile. “Isn’t that what Georgia, Mississippi, Idaho and the Dakotas are for?”
The General’s analysis of US domestic policy didn’t impress the Ambassador. Instead, it got her a hot under the collar. A country and army with known ties to terrorist organizations was daring to lecture a global superpower on domestic policy? Before she could comment, however, the General decided to move on.
“What is the adage you Americans use?” he said, waving to the Chinese Ambassador across the room. “Oh yes, do as I say, not as I do, a wonderful example from the self-proclaimed leaders of the free world, Madam Ambassador. You’ll need to excuse me, one of our long-term allies is motioning for me to join them,” he said, walking away.
The General left her standing there dumbfounded by the exchange. It wasn’t a hidden fact that the army didn’t like the US officials. US foreign policy in Pakistan had long been a carrot and stick relationship where the stick was used more often than the carrot. This was outside the constant support of politicians whose corruption was immense, but because they were friendly to the US and it’s allies, they were deemed ‘good’ for Pakistan. In the years since the end of the Afghan conflict, the US had turned its back on Pakistan, leaving it to struggle with the refugees and new security risks due to their proxy war. During the conflict, the US had flooded billions of dollars into the insurgency for weapons, training and bribes. Once it was over, the fattened calf still existed but there was no longer an
ything to feed them. The same camps created by the CIA to train the insurgents were now called ‘terrorist’ camps and their existence blamed on the Pakistani intelligence services.
Pakistan hadn’t been able to turn their backs as easily.
Lt. General Qadir was surrounded by Ambassadors from the UAE, Qatar and Bahrain on the other side of the room. The Lt. General had a long relationship with the militaries in these countries both as an officer and a soldier training and serving alongside their men. They had become better friends since his promotion to Director General of the ISI. During the conversation, he noticed an old friend signal him and move out of the hall, prompting Qadir to excuse himself and join him.
“Hello Mathias,” Qadir said, finding his friend in the hall. “How are things in Berlin?”
“They don’t seem as good as they are in Islamabad these days,” Mathias replied in a thick German accent.
Mathias Berthold was a retired intelligence officer who had first cut his teeth with the Stasi in East Germany. When the reunification happened, he moved to the BND as a senior intelligence officer until he retired five years ago. The fifty-five year old soldier had moved from military intelligence to a private security firm that supported the German intelligence services. The two had meet during Misbah’s tour of Bosnia as a UN peacekeeper. They had forged a quick friendship that had lasted through the years.
“Any trouble getting in?” Qadir asked.
“Not at all, but then if Pakistani intelligence can’t get me in, who can?” Mathias laughed again.
“I think the BND officers are wondering how you were able to get in here,” Qadir replied with a grin, tilting his head in the direction of the two men who were straining to see them. “What did you find out for me?”
Mathias craned his neck to see who was watching. “Shit, I trained one of them during my time at BND. I don’t recognize the others,” he said shaking his head. “This is for you. It’s all done as you asked,” Mathias handed him an envelope.
Agency Rules - Never an Easy Day at the Office Page 28