by Gary Haynes
The ISI driver hadn’t said a word for a full twenty minutes, despite Kakar’s attempts to strike up an innocent conversation with him on three occasions. The man wore shades even though it was dark, and chewed gum noisily. He had a thick, sweaty neck, and Kakar felt the urge to take off a sandal and beat him over the head with it. But he sat tight. There was nowhere to hide apart from Pakistan. The alternatives were either too risky or too dire to contemplate. Yemen. Somalia. Syria. West Africa … the list got progressively worse.
En route to the Blue Area, the wide corridor that abutted the length of Jinnah Avenue – the city’s main highway leading to the principal government buildings – the view outside the car’s windows became progressively affluent. The roads became wider, the darkness rendered less oppressive by the increasing amounts of streetlights.
A few hundred metres up from a smoked-glass skyscraper, the car pulled into a tarmac driveway edged with black metal security posts shaped like water hydrants. Initially, the house reminded Kakar of a Hollywood mansion, with its terracotta-tiled roof, smooth pillars out front, and pale-cream walls, the entrance barred by a huge electronically controlled, wrought-iron gate. But then he noticed the extra security: concertina razor-wire atop the walls, and at least twelve armed guards, two of whom walked the perimeter with Dobermans.
As the well-lit gate opened the driver nodded to a guard, his sub-machine gun on full view. He fears assassination, Kakar thought. He knew he feared spies even more. They were everywhere, like the rats that plagued his dilapidated sector.
He shuddered involuntarily. He had never been to Hasni’s home before and he’d heard rumours that the man had built torture cells beneath it.
23.
Walking through the dusty, narrow corridors, Tom felt desolate, his head hanging, his shoulders bunched. Crane was in front of him, shining the Maglite on the floor. He knew the secretary could be anywhere now. The thing about most kidnap victims was, if they weren’t found in the first twelve hours, they probably wouldn’t be found until they were released or … killed, he thought, shaking his head to help him remove the image. But he knew that the chances of finding her quickly without a Pakistani wanting to make easy money were remote.
Crane told him to watch out for a chunk of metal sticking out of the wall and shone a quick beam of light onto what looked like a rusted nail. He suggested that Tom tucked his pants inside his boots, adding that the scorpions were deadlier than the locals in these parts. Tom thought Crane sounded oddly parental, couldn’t figure it out. Ruminating on that brought other images into his head.
The house he and his mother had lived in was one up from a trailer, a tiny bungalow resting on breezeblocks, a yard no bigger than the living room. On his eight birthday, she was sitting at the kitchen table in a floral nightgown, her mascara doing an Alice Copper; her hair uncombed. Tom had come home from school, excited to see his father. But when he asked if he would be coming soon, she told him that he was never coming again. That he didn’t love them any more; that he had someone else in DC and would have other children; that he’d forget all about them.
She’d started crying herself to sleep that very night, kept it up for a full month. He cried along, too, at first, but grew tired of it and took to placing his head under his pillow instead. Tom hadn’t seen his father again until he was sixteen, several weeks after his broken promise to his mother had led to a tragedy so great that he’d felt like drowning himself in a bayou.
A minute later, Tom strolled out into the evening air, which stank of the aftermath of weapons’ discharge and burning gasoline. Ahead of him, he watched Crane scratch his blond-grey hair and light a cigarette. The Black Hawk was smouldering in the courtyard. It would be subjected to delayed explosives a short while after they’d left the site, which would destroy the communications systems and sensitive onboard data. In front of it, operators were carrying the remaining wounded on stretchers to the Chinook outside the fort to be flown back to Kabul for treatment. A worried-looking medic knelt by a Delta who lay on a poncho liner, his ballistic vest a metre or so away. He was holding two pads, part of an automatic external defibrillator, as another medic pumped the man’s chest with his palms. Those who’d fallen were already encased in black canvas body bags, positioned in a sombre row by the large hole in the clay-brick wall.
The seized weapons had been stacked in a pile. An operator was crouching down beside them, priming explosive charges with a delayed detonator. Two more Delta were snapping away at the haul with digital cameras, an activity called sensitive site exploration, or SSE. This was more a political necessity than a military one, something to counter any subsequent accusations that they’d just decimated a peaceful settlement occupied by harmless refugees.
Tom rubbed his eyes, feeling even more inept than he had onboard the Chinook. But there was another emotion, too: a deep sense of grief for those who had perished here. As he took off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his forehead he saw Crane speaking to the back-up interpreter before walking over to him.
“We leave in five minutes tops,” Crane said.
Tom reckoned the Pakistani Air Force had scrambled jet fighters.
“The Shias thought we were Pakistani Special Forces,” Crane said. “Hence the rumble. But here’s the thing. The interpreter questioned a man about that corpse in the hole. A married woman got caught with a local male twenty years ago. They stoned her to death. Some outsider paid the headman to have her dug up and put down there, together with the clothes and GPS jewellery. Guess they lodged the sensor that was under Lyric’s skin between the skeleton’s teeth, too.”
“That’s real nice. But I still think the ISI have to be involved,” Tom said.
“That’s like saying JFK had to have been killed by two shooters.”
“Excuse me?”
“Speculation based on zero proof and an obsession. Classic traits of a conspiracy theorist. I knew you were one,” Crane said, taking a pull on his cigarette. “In any event, the chances of us tackling the ISI are about the same as a Bernstein becoming the next Pope. You can’t see the risks, for Chrissakes? Pakistan is a nuclear state that refused to sign the no-first-strike treaty. And just now it ain’t exactly a stable country.”
They walked together to the hole in the wall, seeing the Chinook ahead of them. A line of Rangers with snipers on the flanks were ensuring that civilians or random insurgents didn’t get within a hundred metres of the fort.
“You still think the Iranians are behind it?” Tom asked, questioning his own reasoning.
“If they are involved, there’s alotta folks back home who’d like the opportunity to kick their ass. And the Israelis are straining at the leash, that’s for goddamn sure. The Saudis, too.”
“Do the Iranians have nukes?”
“Not yet. Still, this gets outta hand, New York will be as safe as the Swat Valley. But nowhere near as goddamned beautiful.”
They reached the Chinook, and Crane stubbed out his cigarette after getting berated by the huge crew chief.
“At least the dog’s still alive,” he said as the Belgian Malinois started barking.
“Jesus, Crane, don’t you ever let up?” Tom shook his head, exasperated.
“What you want me to say?”
“That my men died well,” Sawyer said, coming up behind them.
Tom turned first. Sawyer’s night-vision goggles were flipped up on his helmet. His face was streaked with blood, his carbine hanging limp from the belt clip.
“Yeah, they did, young man,” Crane said, turning around. “But I just happen to be an animal lover. And it ain’t nice to listen into other people’s conversations, except if you’re getting paid to do it like me.”
“You might want to keep your wisecracks for when we get back to base, sir.”
“You think I haven’t seen men die in the field before? My own men. You deal with it your way, and I’ll deal with it mine. What are you, twenty-seven? I’ve been in the field longer than you’ve been eating so
lids. And don’t forget who’s really in charge here,” Crane said, with a dismissive flick of his hand.
“That’s fine with me, sir. I’m just telling you that if you speak like that again, you and me will have a problem.”
Sawyer was standing ramrod straight now, his eyes narrowing.
“You talk to me like that again, son, I’ll stick your fucking carbine up your ass. Truth is, I think you’ll enjoy it,” Crane said, jabbing the air between them with a thick finger.
Tom saw a couple of operators getting interested in what was being said, their sleeves rolled up, as they took snapshots of the perimeter.
“Enough,” he said, putting his hand out between them. “You two wanna dance, dance back in Kabul.”
The co-pilot appeared on the Chinook’s tail ramp, called out, “You guys need to get over here. A video has appeared on YouTube.”
24.
Brigadier Hasni, Head of the ISI’s Joint Intelligence X Department, which coordinated the other seven departments, was a tall, heavy-set man with a thick moustache and greased-back hair. His face was wide but hard, as if chiselled from a slab of caramel-coloured marble. Dressed in a white pathani suit, he sat at an ornate desk, his hands folded in his lap. The room was his study, the polished wooden floor half covered with expensive hand-knotted rugs.
Another man sat opposite him on a padded armchair. He was of paler skin and flabby, his bald head speckled with liver spots. His name was Asad, and he was Hasni’s deputy. Gripping a Mont Blanc, he’d just handed Hasni a draft report on the events that had happened outside the children’s hospital.
“General Malik is being suitably apologetic by all accounts,” Asad said, referring to the new Foreign Secretary.
“The man has the manners of a monkey and the morals of a street boy.”
Asad grinned.
“But it’s not the generals we have to worry about,” Hasni said.
Although the new breed of younger high-ranking military officers were too radical for his taste, Sunni hard men, no one but the illiterate poor harboured any doubts about who wielded the real power in Pakistan, at least as far as foreign affairs were concerned.
“Indeed, sir.”
But we still need them, Hasni thought.
The generals’ predecessors had ruled Pakistan on and off for a total of over three decades, the first military era occurring for a thirteen-year period from 1958—just eleven years after independence from the British. As far as Hasni was concerned, it was as natural as night passing into day. The generals held all of the ministerial offices. There was no way that the population, riotous as they were, would allow the ISI to openly control the country’s international dealings. But it was a temporary measure, or had been sold as such. The previous civilian government just couldn’t deal with the security crisis and the army had stepped in. For now, the people saw it as an expedient measure. A strong if interim government.
After scanning the typed pages of the report, Hasni said, “Make sure it emphasizes the fact that four police officers identified known Leopards as the perpetrators.”
“Of course.”
“Underline it.”
Asad nodded.
“And you should add that they drove the cars. That the secretary was definitely abducted by them.”
“As you say, Brigadier.”
“That ought to keep the Americans off our backs for a while at least.”
There was a knock at the door and a young woman dressed in a turquoise and gold Shalwar Kameez entered. Her hair was the colour of a raven’s breast. It was tied back tightly from her make-up-free face in a ponytail, accentuating her high cheekbones and luminous eyes. Her name was Adeela; Hasni’s daughter. He allowed her to remove her hijab inside the house. His own view on the headscarf was that it was oppressive and cumbersome, especially when coupled with the face-obscuring niqab. But outside, she had to keep up appearances, at least until another less dogmatic regime took over.
“A man is here to see you, Father.”
“Did he give a name, my dear?” Hasni said, smiling.
“Only that he was The Mullah, Father.”
Hasni leaned in close to Asad. “The fool thinks he’s a holy man.” He glanced over at his daughter. “Give me five minutes, Adeela.”
“Yes, Father.”
She left, closing the door quietly.
“Have you contacted the Saudis?” Hasni asked, smoothing down the ends of his moustache with a thumb and forefinger.
“Yes, Brigadier.”
“And?”
“Our brothers there are most concerned that Iran will invade Balochistan,” he said, referring to the Pakistani province that bordered south-east Iran.
“Our Saudi brothers have their own agenda.”
Asad looked puzzled.
“Don’t worry, everything will become clear with time. As for the Iranians, with the addition of a little more evidence about their involvement in the abduction of the secretary, they will be too focused on appeasing the Americans to seriously contemplate invading Balochistan.”
“Let us hope so.”
“Later, then,” Hasni said.
Asad rose and left.
25.
A few minutes later, Kakar was ushered in by Adeela, a resigned look on his bearded face. Hasni remained seated, and gestured to the armchair left vacant by Asad.
“Some tea, Father?”
“Tea, yes. Thank you, my dear.”
Kakar sat in the chair, his hands going first to the arms before he finally placed them in his lap, mimicking Hasni’s.
“Thank you for coming to see me at short notice.”
“When the Brigadier summons, his servants respond,” Kakar said, bowing his head.
Kakar wasn’t subservient by nature. He was too well educated for that. But despite his usefulness to Hasni, he knew the man demanded respect, and he had to make out as if he knew his place. Besides, he feared him. Or rather, the power he wielded.
Hasni tapped the report lying on the desk with his forefinger. “This is evidence that the Leopards took part in the abduction of the US Secretary of State. Police evidence. This is to be expected. This is what you will say to your Taliban friends.”
“Of course, Brigadier.”
“If all goes well, the ISI will continue to support your cause. But I expect the Taliban to do their duty in return.”
“We know the whereabouts of several of their leaders in the Upper Kurram Valley. My men know who their guardians are.”
Hasni grinned.
Kakar had been on the ISI’s unofficial payroll since 2001. He resented this, but could do nothing about it. The alternative was to face almost certain death. Those Taliban leaders who’d escaped to Peshawar, but who’d refused to bend to the ISI’s will, were found bound in gutters, their throats slit. The price to be paid for sanctuary on Pakistan soil was obedience. Besides, he viewed Iran as a common enemy. In 1998, after the Taliban Sunnis massacred the inhabitants of Mazar-i Sharif, a Shia town, Iran deployed three hundred thousand troops on the border and threatened war. A nuclear Pakistan, the Taliban’s main ally, had been a major deterrent, Kakar believed.
Hasni leaned forward, arching his fingers. “I have heard that some of the Leopards responsible for this atrocity are still here in Islamabad. Your men will no doubt find them and hand them over to me tonight.”
“But, Brigadier, how can–?”
Hasni slapped Kakar hard across the face.
As his head spun Kakar had to force himself not to urinate. With his breath reduced to shallow gasps, he felt his cheek throb. Apart from making him feel humiliated, Hasni had now given him an impossible order.
The door opened and Adeela brought in a tray with china cups and a silver teapot. Kakar was relieved. He knew that if Hasni hadn’t been in his own home, well, anything could’ve happened. Then he remembered the torture-cell rumours. He resolved to provide Hasni with bodies, as long as they were Shia ones.
“Ah, tea. Excellent, my de
ar,” Hasni said, wiping a slither of spittle from his bottom lip.
“Shall I pour, Father?”
“Please,” Hasni said. “We don’t want tea spilt on my rugs.”
Kakar saw that Hasni had glanced over at his lap. His hands were shaking.
26.
The co-pilot was a lean-faced guy with a trace of teenage pimples, who spoke with a Midwest accent. He sat on one of the flimsy seats in the Chinook’s cabin, a laptop balancing on his closed thighs.
“It’s been taken down, but I guess it’s been downloaded and seen worldwide already,” he said, clicking on the saved video.
Tom, who was seated one side of him, Crane the other, as Sawyer sulked to the side, winced. The secretary was slumped in a wooden chair, bound and gagged with a bare-stone wall behind her. She wore a T-shirt and cotton pants. Next to her on a stool was a radio playing a news report.
“It’s the BBC World Service. The report was aired ten minutes ago,” the co-pilot said.
“They want us to know she’s alive,” said Tom, just glad that she was, despite her predicament.
A masked man walked behind her carrying an old-fashioned tape recorder. He switched off the radio and turned on the recorder. The crackly recording began, the sound of a thunderstorm breaking the silence.
“They like the sound of thunderstorms,” Crane said. “Taxi drivers play it all day long as an imam recites apocalyptic verses from the Qur’an. Still, I suppose it beats most of the shit we get stateside.”
“This is where the guy speaks,” the co-pilot said.
A male Pakistani’s voice spoke in English as the eerie sound of the thunderstorm drained away.
“The Leopards of Islam, the true followers of the faith and the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, will bring the Westerners to their knees and avenge the deaths of our brothers and sisters. The US Secretary of State has confessed to being a murderer of children and a desecrator of mosques. Despite her vile crimes, Allah is Most Merciful. The Westerners will release our brothers being held in the United States, the heroes of the Shia jihad. The Westerners will pay ten billion dollars for crimes against Shia Islam. If these demands are not met in full within seventy-two hours, the Secretary of State will be beheaded live on the Internet.”