The Bard of Blood

by Bilal Siddiqi

  Inside the Restricted Area was a rather large lounge. The four walls of this lounge had been witness to matters of high importance. This sector of the airport was reserved by the government for its intelligence activities. This is where the families of many agents had spoken to them for the last time. Or the first time after a successful mission or assignment. This is where embassy members or attachés waited before they were whisked into a small private jet. This is where the prime minister waited when he had to fly out of the country. But today, the guard who manned the post outside the lounge had been provided three names. Two were here already. They were waiting for the third. Their flight was scheduled to take off at three in the morning.

  ‘How much do you know about the mission?’ Isha Khan inquired of Nihar Shah, in an attempt to break the ice.

  ‘As much as you do,’ Nihar replied, avoiding looking at her for more than a split second. Once he saw her, he knew he couldn’t take his eyes off her. ‘There are three of us. You, me, and a certain Veer Singh, who’s crossing over from Helmand. Our team is led by a former major by the name of Kabir Anand. All I know about him is that he teaches some kids Shakespeare at a college in Mumbai.’

  Isha nodded slowly. That’s all Joshi had told her, too.

  ‘When I pulled out the files on Balochistan, I read about an incident concerning a certain agent code-named Adonis. Who is he?’

  Nihar scratched his shaved chin and allowed himself to look into her inquisitive brown eyes.

  ‘Adonis was the code name for an ex-Military Intelligence agent who was posted in Balochistan until 2006. He had a colleague in RAW who died in an explosion when they had covertly infiltrated a madrasa in Quetta. Some say Adonis blew it up, or indirectly set Ares up, because he was close to unravelling something serious, but Lieutenant General Sadiq Sheikh believed otherwise.’

  ‘From what I have heard, Adonis was Sadiq’s protégé. The RAW chief at the time felt that Adonis disregarded his authority and recklessly blew up the op. Some even branded him a traitor. But Sheikh came to his rescue and asked him to leave the job, pushing away the case for good.’

  Nihar shrugged. Sheikh was dead now.

  Isha echoed his thoughts and said with a gentle laugh: ‘What kind of a code name is Adonis?’

  ‘I’m sorry about the delay.’ Kabir entered, closing the door behind him. ‘I was figuring out some last-minute stuff with Joshi. I am Kabir Anand.’

  Isha and Nihar both looked at Kabir. He wore a blazer and a white T-shirt on a pair of faded jeans. He hadn’t combed his wild hair nor had he trimmed his unruly beard. Kabir wasn’t conventionally good-looking, thought Isha, but there was a magnetic aura about him. He acknowledged both of them with a nod of his head, shook hands as they stood up to greet him, and then sat beside them, pulling out an iPad from its case.

  ‘We fly to the Konarak airport in Chabahar first,’ he said, pointing to a port in the Iranian part of Balochistan. ‘Once we’re there, we can assume our fake identities and drive to Gwadar.’

  ‘I thought we’d fly to Gwadar directly,’ Isha said.

  ‘It’s a decision Joshi and I took,’ said Kabir. ‘If we were to be questioned upon landing by the authorities in Gwadar, our cover would most likely be blown. I met Arifullah Saleh yesterday. He has asked an Al Jazeera journalist to receive us outside the airport.’

  They nodded their heads in understanding.

  ‘And if we go by ship to Gwadar,’ Nihar added unnecessarily, ‘we risk being gunned down almost immediately by the tight security forces manning the port. That, and it would take a day or two by sea.’

  ‘Since India has investments in the port of Chabahar in Iran, that would provide us a valid reason, if we are questioned in Iran. We can simply state that we are part of an Indian committee creating a report on the development of the port. That is the same story Joshi has sent the Iranians. They have no qualms about it.’

  Kabir looked at both of them with the gaze of a professor. They nodded understandingly, the way students do.

  ‘The real challenge is getting to Quetta,’ Kabir said. ‘But we’ll cross that bridge once we get to it.’

  Kabir ran his fingers through his hair, and looked at Isha. He noticed her properly for the first time. A few women managed to catch his fancy, but there was something about her eyes. He looked at them, a delicate hazel-brown. Her hair tied up in a bun. Her fair skin glistening with sweat, even though the room was air-conditioned.

  ‘You have ample reason to be worried,’ Kabir addressed her. ‘It’s not going to be easy. And that is an understatement.’

  He got up from the couch and then leaned against the door.

  ‘If you want out, now is the time. Developing cold feet at the last moment is not an option.’

  He looked at Nihar, who loosened his tie. He was nervous. Isha and Nihar shot a glance at each other. Neither of them wanted out.

  ‘I want to clear up one thing. This is a rescue mission. We attack only if attacked.’

  He opened the door. He knew what he said at the end wasn’t true. There was going to be blood. Kabir never waited to be attacked first. And then he turned and looked back at Isha and Nihar.

  ‘Make your calls to your family now,’ he told them bluntly. ‘You never know when you’ll speak to them next.’

  He stepped out of the room with his luggage and walked towards the runway towards the small plane waiting for them. He took his place next to a window. It was a good ten minutes before he saw Isha and Nihar begin their walk towards the plane. He shut his eyes, trying to put himself to sleep. A long journey lay ahead. Unlike his young colleagues, Kabir did not make any calls.

  As Shakespeare put it in King Henry VI: Having nothing, nothing can he lose.

  2 September 2014

  Chabahar, Iran

  The flight landed at the Konarak airport in the wee hours of the morning, at ten past five. It had been a three-hour flight. The weather was pleasantly cool and the wind was soothing. The salty smell of the sea lingered over Chabahar. Kabir met the pilot briefly, asking him to rest for an hour before leaving for India again. He asked him not to hang around too long and not to talk to too many people. If asked, he should stick to the brief: I have flown in some Indians who are here to inspect the infrastructure of the Chabahar port.

  Chabahar is a city situated on the Makran coast of the Sistan and Balochistan provinces of Iran. On being declared a free trade zone by the Iranian government, this city, facing the Gulf of Oman, immediately gained significance in international trade. India is in the process of helping with the development of the Chabahar port, with a view to gaining direct access to the oil and gas exported out of Iran. This is India’s counter-bid to China’s pre-emptive access to the port of Gwadar in Pakistani Balochistan.

  Nihar and Isha collected their luggage along with Kabir’s and found their way out to the lobby. They were checked briefly and, after a momentary glance at their passports, allowed to exit the airport. Kabir strode out soon after. He had taken a brief nap and so had Isha. Only Nihar seemed a little ruffled.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Kabir asked him as they walked out of the airport. ‘It’s still not too late. You can get back on the flight.’

  ‘It’s not that.’ Nihar shook his head.

  ‘Then?’

  ‘My wife,’ Nihar said simply, unwilling to elaborate further.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Isha told him. ‘We women have the habit of blowing things out of proportion. Once you’re back home, just be there for her.’

  ‘And your son,’ Kabir reminded him. ‘Yes, Joshi told me about him. What’s his name?’

  Nihar was slightly uncomfortable discussing his family with people he had met only a few hours ago. ‘Haven’t named him yet.’

  ‘Then that’s the first thing you ought to do, once you’re back,’ Isha said, and motioned towards the only car waiting outside the airport. Kabir lifted his bags.

  ‘Be careful of your luggage,’ Nihar added, shifting the attention fro
m himself. ‘Don’t let anybody else touch it. All our dossiers are in there.’

  The dossiers, if found by anyone else, could never be explained away. So they held them close to their person and walked towards a red Peugeot sedan. As they came closer they realized that the driver was asleep in his seat. Kabir knocked lightly at his car window. The driver woke up with a start and stared out of his daze at Kabir. Then he nodded with familiarity and stepped out of the car.

  ‘Zain Hussain?’ Kabir checked.

  Zain was a little rotund, and as tall as Kabir. He had a bushy moustache and his hair was greying and smoothed to one side. He looked like a tough guy. He wore a checked shirt on a pair of well-pressed trousers. He was Al Jazeera’s top correspondent in Iran. A thorough journalist, with a hunger for knowledge, Zain had grown to become one of the most influential names in his profession in this part of the world. He had fearlessly documented the Northern Alliance’s war under Ahmad Shah Massoud. Despite being a Shia himself, Hussain never missed an opportunity to write scathing articles on the religious–political leadership in Iran.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, and shook Kabir’s extended hand. ‘Mr Saleh told me about you, Mr Anand. Let’s put your luggage in the boot. We will drive to a cafe nearby and talk.’

  Kabir took his seat next to Hussain. Isha and Nihar sat behind, after putting their bags in the boot. They rolled down their windows and Hussain drove them to a cafe ten minutes away.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re getting into, Mr Anand, but I’m sure Mr Saleh wouldn’t come into the picture unless it was extremely dangerous.’

  He handed Kabir a sealed brown-paper envelope. Kabir looked in and saw fake documents and ID cards that showed his team as representatives of Al Jazeera, with false names. Hussain ordered some local Iranian tea with omelettes for his guests. Kabir passed the bag on to Isha, who slipped it into her handbag. Hussain noticed that a gentle breeze blew her curls across her face.

  ‘The Taliban don’t take too well to women,’ Hussain said. ‘You need to make sure she’s always in hijab. In fact, some of the local Balochis may not like it either.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Hussain. I’ve brought my hijab along.’

  ‘I don’t need to tell you guys this,’ continued Hussain, ‘but to blend in, you must look like them. You need to grow their kind of beard and wear their kind of clothes.’ Nihar knew this was meant for him. He had shaved out of habit the previous night.

  ‘Chabahar is a beautiful city,’ Isha chimed in as she sipped her tea.

  ‘It is, indeed. But then the geography is always beautiful. I agree that Chabahar is now much less turbulent, but there is always the chance of some conflict between the Shias and the Sunnis that could lead to instances of violence. The majority of the Muslims here are the local Balochis.’

  ‘Does Khamenei crack down hard on them?’ Kabir asked.

  ‘Khamenei is an archetypal hypocrite,’ Hussain scoffed. ‘He claims to be supportive of them, but since they’re mostly Sunnis he encourages violence against them. Similarly, on the global stage, he condemns terrorism, but there is something contrary to his messiah-like image that not everyone knows of.’ He lowered his voice before continuing, ‘I have reason to believe he funds al-Qaeda.’

  Nihar and Isha gasped collectively.

  ‘His true wealth is estimated to be in tens of billions of dollars,’ Hussain continued. ‘The old crook has even managed to finagle his way into being the only representative of the German automobile giant BMW in Iran. He got a charity organization of his affiliated with the company’s dealers, pretending to be promoters of a noble cause. Gradually, he took over the reins. I haven’t seen anyone as corrupt as this man. It disturbs me to see people placing their faith blindly in this mere mortal!’

  Kabir’s face remained sphinx-like.

  ‘What about Iran’s alliance with India?’ he asked. ‘I guess that is beneficial to both parties.’

  ‘Yes, it is an important alliance, politically. Currently, the governments are planning a collaboration to build a gas pipeline between the two countries along the bed of the Arabian Sea. Strategically, it would be on much firmer ground than the proposed Iran–Pakistan–India pipeline. We all know why.’ Kabir smiled as he wolfed down his omelette with a loaf of buttered bread.

  ‘How far is Gwadar from here?’

  ‘A couple of hours,’ Hussain replied. ‘I suggest you get moving as soon as possible. You are less likely to be seen by the security forces now than during the middle of the day.’

  Kabir and his team thanked him. They offered to pay for the breakfast, but Hussain refused to let them, appearing somewhat offended at the suggestion. They walked towards the Peugeot, and Hussain handed Kabir the keys. Kabir shot him a questioning look.

  ‘Saleh asked me to hand a car over to you.’ He shrugged. ‘It is much safer that you drive than have someone else drive for you. In the trunk are the cameras and tripods.’ He smiled sheepishly as he said this. The content in the trunk was essential to their cover.

  ‘This car is a little too conspicuous to be driving around in,’ Kabir said.

  ‘I agree with you,’ Hussain replied. ‘But it’s all I could manage at such short notice.’

  ‘I can’t thank you and Mr Saleh enough,’ Kabir said as his team settled into the car.

  Hussain leaned into Kabir’s window. ‘Remember, if anyone needs a reference, just ask them to call me. I will say you’re from Al Jazeera. Let’s hope you succeed in your quest, no matter how dangerous.’

  ‘Inshallah,’ said Kabir.

  The rest of the team thanked him, and Kabir put his foot to the pedal and eased the car out on to the highway.

  2 September 2014

  Gwadar, Balochistan

  A rush of memories flashed through Kabir’s mind as he sat behind the wheel. He had never imagined returning to the land that had changed everything for him. The roads, the people he passed by, all of it felt so familiar, as if he had been there just the previous week. He tried hard to forget everything that had happened in his past, especially in Balochistan. He had managed to turn over a new leaf. He had repressed all his memories of the province. But destiny has its own way with people.

  They reached Zaveri Hotel in Koh-e-Batil at eight in the morning and checked into the best suites the hotel had to offer. It was a two-hour drive, but Kabir drove the Peugeot hard, so they reached a little earlier. He liked the feel of the car. Isha had offered to drive, but Kabir had declined. He asked them to rest. There was still a long way to travel. They needed to be in Quetta the following day itself, according to the plan. A healthy recce was needed before any covert operation could be undertaken. Especially an operation where you’re messing with the Taliban!

  Gwadar was in many ways a mirror image of Chabahar. The Pakistanis had planned the city well, recognizing the value of the port. In 2013, port operations were officially handed over to the Chinese. With an initial investment of 750 million dollars, the Pakistani contract with China envisioned the port to be developed into a full-scale commercial port. India, not surprisingly, was not allowed anywhere near Gwadar, given its rivalry with both Pakistan and China.

  The port is a key strategic resource for the Chinese, enabling it to import oil and gas without much ado. Currently, 60 per cent of China’s oil needs to be transported by sea from the Persian Gulf to the commercial port of Shanghai, a distance of more than 16,000 kilometres. The journey is rather risky, and takes a couple of months, making it vulnerable to pirates off the coast of East Africa as well as inclement weather. The Gwadar port facility will reduce the distance these ships travel as well as enable oil transfers to be made all year round.

  ‘Get all the rest you can. We need to leave for Quetta first thing tomorrow,’ Kabir said, looking out of the window at the scenic view Gwadar had to offer. He looked on as the gentle waves kissed the shore, reminding him of Mumbai’s Juhu Beach.

  Isha went in straight for a bath. Kabir and Nihar unpacked their communication equipmen
t in the hall, so that they could send a quick message to HQ.

  ‘The secure line,’ Kabir reminded Nihar. ‘Remember, only a select few in India know of our mission. Joshi wants to keep it that way.’

  Nihar sent a coded message through the secure iPad to Delhi. They had to be doubly sure that none of their messages were intercepted. The ISI always kept a lookout for messages exchanged between Indians and Pakistanis, even if they were frequent phone calls between family members who lived across the border.

  ‘I want you to check the equipment again,’ Kabir said. ‘We are bound to be stopped at a few checkpoints before Quetta.’

  Nihar agreed and opened the bag with the equipment. The tripods of the camera, when unscrewed, had little pieces of metal and a smaller barrel. Kabir had insisted that they wouldn’t need a gun until they reached their destination. He had got the little pieces put in the bags as random pieces of metal, so he could assemble them when the need arose. There was no place for carrying a weapon larger than a semi-automatic Glock.

  Isha stepped out of the bathroom, her hair wet. She was dressed in a black tank top and a pair of jeans. Nihar looked at her from the corner of his eye as she entered the hall. Kabir got up to go shower.

  ‘I suggest you put on your hijab now,’ said Nihar as she walked in.

  There was a soft knock at the door. Nihar quickly zipped the suitcases and looked through the peephole.

  He saw a tall, bearded, turbaned man standing in a Pathani suit.

  He turned to Isha. ‘Are we expecting the Taliban already?’