The Bard of Blood

by Bilal Siddiqi

  These series of cells had one solitary commode, to which the prisoner was given access after every nine hours. The commode wasn’t flushed through the day and the stench was unbearable. They were given a scanty meal once a day, which was just about enough to make them revive the ravenous hunger they had learned to ignore after a point. It usually consisted of a few morsels of extremely dry rice and a spare part of a goat or cow. Since these particular prisoners were Indian, and primarily Hindus, they were tauntingly given small morsels of undercooked beef or other unsavoury entrails of a cow. None of the four Indians touched these and just ate the bland, dry rice instead.

  Besides this, the torturers had learned to exhaust their prisoners mentally before carrying out a gruesome physical assault. They played with the prisoners’ natural biological cycles and sleep patterns. The prisoners had no clue as to what time of day it was. The tormentors would switch on a blinding white light for hours together—something that would make a man lose his mind if exposed to it even for twenty minutes. To add to that, they would simultaneously play a constant buzzing sound at a deafening volume, in the background. They would do this for hours at a stretch, and then suddenly switch the lights off along with the sound. Instead of this having even a remotely soothing effect on the prisoners, it would begin to play on the mind even more, leaving the prisoners fighting to maintain their sanity. They recorded all of this on a camera that was strategically placed to watch every move the prisoner made. The Taliban had learned to combine modern techniques along with their traditional brutality.

  ‘Rajveer Bharadwaj,’ Mullah Baradar read as he held up an Indian’s identification card and walked over to the sweaty man who lay on the floor. ‘Case attaché at the Indian embassy in Kabul. It is really worrying to know how negligent you Indians can be.’

  Mullah Baradar was a tall man of about six feet two, and had a wild, black beard on his long face. His eyes were unforgiving, and he had prominent cheekbones that were set above a small mouth.

  He grabbed a handful of the fifty-year-old Bharadwaj’s grey woolly hair, making him look directly at him. Bharadwaj’s eyes were bloodshot, his face gaunt. His breath smelled foul. He opened his mouth to say something, but words failed to find their way out.

  ‘You should be extremely sorry that the ISI wants to keep you and these men alive,’ Baradar continued. ‘Our Amir was more than happy to grant you kafirs an easy death. A lot easier than you deserve for trying to spy on us.’

  On 25 July 2014, a senior Taliban member had received a call from an Indian source that four Indian intelligence agents, headed by the attaché of the Indian embassy in Kabul, were on their way to Quetta. The same source informed them that they were about to set up shop in a safe house that was being managed by the Americans to spy on the Quetta Shura. However, the reality was slightly different. The Indians had arrived in Quetta to fund the local Baloch rebels in their civil war against the Pakistani government and the ISI.

  Balochistan, being a poor and neglected province, has been home to a radical insurgency orchestrated by ethnic Baloch leaders demanding separation from Pakistan. So far the Baloch tribes have rebelled at least five times since 1947. But each time their insurgency had been crushed brutally. Baloch militants have targeted the security forces with assassinations, ambushes, and landmines or ‘flowers’, but this led to large-scale collateral damage, that has also robbed non-Baloch settlers of their lives. The security forces retaliate by detaining, torturing and killing ordinary Baloch civilians and students. The assassination of Nawab Akbar Bugti and thirty of his men in 2006 by the ISI and the Pakistani Army triggered a wider spread of insurgency. The counter-insurgency in response, led by Pakistan, was and still is barbaric. However, Mullah Omar’s Taliban has been careful to maintain fairly decent relations with the Balochis, refusing to get involved in their civil war. But there have been instances, as in Bugti’s assassination, where the ISI used them as a silent force to get at the Balochis.

  Soon enough, the four Indian agents who had arrived at the safe house had been compromised. After being tailed, they were picked up at gunpoint by Mullah Omar’s men. Omar had a simple policy: Immediate death to spies. But the ISI thought otherwise, and planned to use the Indians for leverage. And that is how the four RAW agents—Rajveer Bharadwaj, Suraj Agnihotri, Karan Bhatt and Tarun Singh—wound up here. Hanging in an abyss of uncertainty between life and death, fearing that their own country, in all likelihood, was about to disown them.

  ‘I feel surprisingly generous,’ Baradar said, smiling at Bharadwaj. ‘I am going to allow you to choose the way you want to die.’

  ‘F-fuck you,’ a frail voice came from behind. It was Suraj Agnihotri’s voice. He was still half unconscious and completely disoriented. ‘We will die for our country if that is what it takes.’

  Baradar stormed up to him and punched him on the nose. Suraj’s face was already caked with blood, and the punch opened an old gash again. Blood dripped out and Suraj fell back into unconsciousness.

  ‘When the time comes, I’m not so sure we’ll be making such an offer. You’ll die a painful death.’ This time it was another agent, Karan Bhatt. He couldn’t seem to open his swollen eyes.

  Mullah Baradar turned around and fixed his gimlet eye on Bhatt. He strode across to him and kneeled down. He punched him hard. Bhatt felt his tooth loosen, over the taste of blood. Baradar was about to launch another punch into his face when the door opened.

  ‘Enough!’

  Mullah Baradar glanced slowly over his shoulder to see a tall man clad in a black salwar-kameez. He smiled.

  ‘Salaam aleikum, Amir al-Mu’minin. It has been a while.’

  They found their way back to the large hall they had usually held their discussions in: the Fayyaz-ul-Uloom madrasa. This madrasa was primarily run by Mullah Baradar, before he was arrested by the ISI in 2010. He had begun to talk covertly to Hamid Karzai’s brother in Kandahar—Ahmad Wali Karzai, who had a local corrupt government running. In fact, the Karzais and Baradar both belonged to the Popalzai tribe of Afghanistan.

  The ISI didn’t like the idea of the Taliban speaking to the Afghan President’s people, much less his brother, without notifying them. The ISI wanted to have control over all the meetings that took place between the Taliban and other groups that were willing to engage with them. The Taliban were their trump card. Therefore, when Mullah Baradar did speak to Karzai’s brother, they arrested him on accusations of being a spy for the Americans by taking five million dollars from the Central Intelligence Agency—the CIA. This, despite knowing that Abdul Ghani Baradar would never double-cross the man he loved like an elder brother, Maulana Mohammed Omar.

  Baradar’s arrest infuriated Mullah Omar. They had fought together, serving in the Afghan mujahideen against the Soviet-backed Afghan government in the 1980s. After driving the Russians out, Baradar and Omar jointly founded the Taliban in 1994.

  In November 2001, the US pounded Kandahar with drones, killing almost all of Omar’s men. While the others were escaping, trying to save their lives first, Baradar ran directly into the line of fire and seized a motorbike. He zipped past the cloud of smoke and dust, towards Mullah Omar’s hideout, risking his life. He found a weakened Omar, who was in a state of asphyxiation, helped him sit pillion on the bike, and fearlessly drove him safely into the mountains. After this, they rebuilt the infrastructure of the Afghan Taliban in Quetta, where they now hide in plain sight.

  Baradar has portrayed himself to the world as a loyal lieutenant to Omar, but the reality was slightly different. He’s almost as influential in the Taliban’s decision-making as Omar himself. Being Omar’s deputy, Baradar has a more modern and efficient way of handling matters. This doesn’t mean that he comes down softly on his enemies or avoids bloodshed, but he puts in the extra effort to figure out the alternatives. It wouldn’t be a far cry to say that Baradar, with Omar’s blessings, has made the Taliban the resurgent force that it is.

  After his arrest in 2010, Omar made it clear that he s
till had access to Baradar when he needed it. The ISI realized that they couldn’t afford to rub Omar up the wrong way if they wanted to maintain their stronghold in the covert operations. They agreed, and even gave Baradar a comfortable safe-house with all amenities. After his release in September 2013, the ISI sent Baradar to the Gulf to lie low for a while. But he could sense that Omar needed him back, as his movements were anyway limited, owing to the ten-million-dollar bounty on his head.

  ‘It is good to have you back,’ Mullah Omar said in Pashto as he embraced Baradar tightly and planted a brotherly kiss on his cheek. ‘I hope the ISI hasn’t misbehaved with you. Words cannot explain how much we have all missed your presence.’

  Mullah Baradar smiled as he embraced his Amir. Mullah Baradar was the only one who could look into Mullah Omar’s dead eye without flinching. They sat down together on the plush carpet. Omar ordered one of his men to bring in some food.

  ‘It is good to be back. I see not much has changed here, Amir.’

  ‘Quetta is safe as ever for me, Baradar. But it was rather difficult for me to operate without you. And with all that’s going on now, I need you to help me more with my cause.’

  A young Hazara boy walked in with a large dish and left it in front of Mullah Omar. Omar pushed it towards Baradar. There was a large chunk of charred beef, with sliced lemon. Another boy came in with a large glass of sherbet. Omar asked them to leave and close the door behind them, after they served his loyal deputy.

  ‘It depends on the new President, Amir. Both of them have agreed, in principle, to let the Americans keep their troops in Afghanistan. Our battle has been in vain.’

  ‘The battle has only begun, Baradar. You know that as well as I do.’

  ‘We have to be very careful about your movements this year, Amir. Just because they move out doesn’t mean that they won’t try to capture you.’

  Mullah Omar breathed in deeply. He stroked his wiry beard.

  ‘That is exactly what I have told the ISI. But these are going to be testing times for us. The ISI is nobody’s ally.’

  ‘Yes,’ Baradar consented. ‘Especially now that the Americans have stopped donating money to them, they might resort to ill means, such as handing you over to get into the good books of the Americans, and even collect the bounty.’

  ‘The Haqqanis are well aware of this, too. It is good to have them on our side.’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ Baradar said, wolfing down a piece of the meat. There was a sharp knock at the door. Omar looked over his shoulder and asked the person to come in. It was Brigadier Tanveer Shehzad.

  ‘I’m afraid we don’t have time for this now, Shehzad,’ Baradar spat out, annoyed.

  After his arrest, Mullah Baradar naturally loathed the ISI.

  ‘You need not hold a grudge against me, Mullah Baradar. We did what we had to. We were pressurized into arresting you. If you ask me, it was hardly even an arrest. You were treated rather wonderfully at our hands.’

  Baradar’s eyes widened in anger. Mullah Omar raised his hand, indicating him to calm down. He gestured Shehzad to sit down.

  ‘To what do we owe the pleasure, Shehzad?’ Omar said.

  ‘I’m here about the Indians,’ Shehzad replied.

  Baradar had finished eating, and had lit up a cigarette rolled up with afeem—opium. He was still in the process of calming down, when Shehzad said these words: ‘I cannot believe this, Amir. Since when have we begun to let go of our principles? We kill the spies who are a threat to us! We do not use them to negotiate for our purposes, let alone the purposes of the ISI! If you ask me, we ought to behead them right away, before it’s too late!’

  Omar nodded and then fixed his eye upon Shehzad.

  ‘We have had this discussion before,’ Shehzad said haughtily. ‘And Mullah Baradar, I have nothing but the deepest respect for you. But it ought to benefit us all, if you keep in mind the larger picture.’

  ‘What larger picture? You want Bhatkal and some silly nobodies back in exchange for spies who have seen where and how we operate?’

  ‘You’re being naive, Mullah Baradar. The Indians can’t touch us here. Neither can the Americans. This is Balochistan.’

  ‘Why are you here, Shehzad?’ Mullah Omar spoke up.

  ‘To discuss the other plan that we will carry out after the Indians send Bhatkal and the others back.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’

  ‘We go ahead with it anyway,’ Shehzad replied. ‘This is a mere distraction for the Indians. I’m here to tell you that Sirajuddin Haqqani has agreed to provide us logistical support, as long as you approve of it.’

  Baradar was getting confused about the conversation that was going on. Omar read the puzzled look on his face and smiled.

  ‘I was about to tell you, Baradar. This is surely going to put your mind at ease.’

  Shehzad looked at Baradar’s baffled countenance as Omar spoke to him.

  ‘I don’t understand, Amir. I hope they haven’t coaxed you into something you don’t need to do.’

  ‘They haven’t, Baradar. But I will ask Shehzad here to relay the plan to you. If you do not like it, say so. I will not give my go-ahead, and you can go down and castrate those kafirs right away.’

  Shehzad got agitated at what Mullah Omar had just said, but tried to look sanguine. He had always believed that Baradar was given a lot of leeway and authority by Omar. This was again one of those instances where he witnessed it. He didn’t like pitching the idea to Baradar for his approval. Baradar always did have a strong viewpoint and suggestions. Brigadier Tanveer Shehzad breathed in deeply, and explained the plan in brief to Mullah Abdul Ghani Baradar.

  Baradar raised one eyebrow after listening to it. His gaze, behind a curtain of opium smoke, shifted from Shehzad to Omar. Omar shrugged as if to ask: What do you think?

  Baradar spoke, his voice calculatedly low. ‘What if the meeting doesn’t happen?’

  ‘I have an insider who knows for certain that it will happen later this month. It’s on the itinerary. Besides, the conflict in Ladakh is escalating. A meeting of this kind is definitely on the cards.’

  ‘Who will take the eventual responsibility?’

  ‘The attack will be orchestrated by Ayman al-Zawahiri. This will be al-Qaeda’s first attack in India. After which, keeping in mind the situation, we will take a call on the final plan. I have a skilled operative in tow, waiting for a chance to get back at India.’

  ‘And all Mullah Omar has to do is give the nod, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Shehzad replied. ‘We will use a few of your camps to train the militants. And, of course, you will have to keep the prisoners alive until India sends back its reply to Mullah Omar’s message.’

  ‘How many days have the Indians asked for?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘And how many are left before we know for certain?’

  ‘Thirteen.’

  Baradar smiled as he took a drag of the afeem joint again.

  ‘Let’s go ahead with it, Shehzad. This ought to cripple that country for good.’

  8

  One minute to make it to the exit. One minute to jump into the car and drive the hell out of there. A figure of average height, clad in a black kurta, ran out of the madrasa frenziedly. He had an assault rifle, which he fired in the direction from which bullets were spraying at him. Around six large, bearded men, chased him. They were hot on his heels, abusing in Pashto and firing indiscriminately. The man ran in a zigzag pattern, making it difficult for them to get him. He ran like a gazelle towards his jeep. A bullet hit him in the back of his right thigh. The man lost his footing and collapsed to the ground. The men were closing in on him. He was going to die. He was certain of that. He raised his rifle and fired. He managed to hit one man.

  About thirty seconds before they got to him.

  He crawled towards the jeep. The attackers were closing in, equidistant from their prey and the beautifully constructed madrasa.

  Twenty seconds.

  The man
was almost there. He mustered all his strength and got into the jeep. A pang of pain shot through his body. He was losing blood at an alarming rate.

  Ten seconds.

  The man saw another jeep with reinforcements driving in through the entry of the madrasa. He had to make it out of there. He started the car after fumbling for the keys in his pocket. He rammed the accelerator.

  Five seconds.

  As he drove out of the madrasa, a bullet hit his tyre. The car skidded, but he managed to control it.

  Three seconds.

  He was now on the road, making his escape.

  One second.

  A large, deafening explosion shook the ground. The man turned to look. Black smoke enveloped the entire compound of the madrasa. The structure itself was ablaze. The man looked on for another few seconds. Then he turned and drove away. The smell of burnt flesh wafted distinctly from the smoke that enveloped the vicinity. Amongst those dead, the man thought, is one of ours. He closed his eyes and yelled in pain. He still had work to do.

  Later, when he recounted what had happened to the person he reported to, this was all he got back in reply: ‘I want you to come back, Adonis.’

  He knew what they thought. They thought Adonis had killed Ares and the Afghani defector. They thought Adonis had sold them out. That’s exactly how it looked.

  2 September 2014

  Indira Gandhi International Airport, New Delhi

  The terminal in the Indira Gandhi International Airport was a little less crowded than usual, considering the time. It was two in the morning, and there were many businessmen, both Indian and foreign, and a few families. They wore tired smiles, the kind you usually see at airports. Some relieved to get back home, others in anticipation to reach their destination. A few energetic children ran around chasing each other, as their parents chided them meekly. One of them ran in the direction of the ‘Restricted Area’ meant for ‘staff’, when an airport policeman stopped him gently. Even I’m not allowed there, the man thought.