‘Shahid Latif, our president, and Sajjad Khan, the manager of Rabeta Bank’s headquarters in Mymensingh, will be arriving from Bangladesh,’ the man told Qandahari. ‘They have instructed me to inform you that we are also prepared to aid any other organizations you name.’
When Qandahari relayed this information to Umavi, the Lashkar head immediately shook his head. ‘We should ensure that all the aid comes our way. Why should others benefit from this? Who else knows the true meaning of jihad? Who else is devoted to Allah like us? Others might even be tempted if they get such large amounts of money. No, we are the only ones who must get the aid. We will never misuse any funds earmarked for Allah’s service.’
Amjad walked into the lobby of the Marmara Taksim and looked around. It was just past noon, and there weren’t many people. He didn’t know what the two men from Ansar-ul-Ikhwan-ul-Muslimeen would look like, but he was confident that he would be able to identify them.
His faith in himself was well placed. Of the twenty-odd people in the lobby, some were chatting, alone or in groups, and others were reading magazines and newspapers, no doubt waiting for someone to arrive. Only two were not talking. Amjad noticed them on one of the sofas, wearing drab grey suits, briefcases at their feet, sitting erect, with a military air of command. He had no doubt they were Latif and Khan.
But his orders were clear. He wasn’t to engage them, or talk to them; on no account was he to let them know he was there. Not for some time, anyway. He would watch them surreptitiously from a point where they couldn’t see him, and relay what he was seeing to Umavi and Qandahari, in their room a few floors up. It was not the most exciting of assignments, but Umavi had chosen Amjad precisely because of this; he was one of the most patient men he knew. He would wait for as long as was required, which could be very long, if Umavi had his way.
Nearly an hour dragged by, but none of the three men in the lobby moved. Amjad noted that the two men were sitting in exactly the same posture as before, throughout; not moving, not talking.
When they’d been waiting for nearly two hours, Umavi called Amjad’s cell phone. ‘All right. You know what to do.’
‘Yes, Ameer.’
Amjad hung up and dialled the number of the hotel reception, and asked to speak to Mr Shahid Latif, who was waiting in the lobby. In a few seconds, the hotel speakers crackled and a sexy female voice informed Mr Shahid Latif, waiting in the lobby, that he had a call.
One of the men got up and went to the lobby phone. Amjad waited until he heard the hello from the other end and said, ‘Salaam alaikum, Mr Latif. My name is Amjad. My master Ameer Umavi would like to extend his deepest apology to you for not being able to be present. He suddenly took ill last night, a case of food poisoning, and his flight to Istanbul had to be cancelled. He shall be arriving tomorrow, and has asked me to kindly consider another meeting, same time, same place.’
There was a pause at the other end. Amjad watched the man on the phone, himself concealed by a large potted plant. Then the man spoke. ‘I understand. Please give him my best wishes. We pray he will get better soon.’
‘Thank you, Mr Latif. Once again, our deepest apologies.’
‘It’s all right. Salaam alaikum ware hmatullah.’
The line was disconnected.
The man walked back to his colleague and shook his head. Amjad heard him say, ‘He’s not coming. Let’s go back to our room.’
The two of them moved towards the elevators. As they waited, Amjad wandered up behind them, looking like any other guest. He nodded at them amicably. In the lift, he waited until they had pressed the button for the eleventh floor, and then pressed the twelfth.
At the eleventh floor, the two men got off, and just before the door closed, Amjad slipped out too. He followed them to their room, satisfied himself that nothing appeared out of the ordinary, and went back to report to Umavi.
A similar scene played out the next day, only this time it was Qandahari, and Umavi made them wait for nearly three hours. When he finally got the signal from his master, Qandahari walked towards the two men slowly. He was quite astonished at their iron discipline, the way they sat there without moving or talking.
When he reached them, Qandahari assumed his most apologetic face. ‘Salaam alaikum. My name is Qandahari.’
The shorter man looked at him and replied in perfect Urdu, ‘Alaikum salaam. I am Shahid Latif, and this is my colleague Sajjad Khan. How is Mr Umavi?’
‘I’m honoured to meet you, gentlemen. I am ashamed to be the bearer of bad news for you, but the illness that afflicted Ameer Umavi has claimed the life of another. It is due to this death in the family that Ameer will be unable to meet you today. Please accept our humblest apologies.’
For a moment, the two men were silent. Then the shorter man spoke again. ‘It is indeed unfortunate to hear this bad news. Please convey our condolences to Mr Umavi. Shall we postpone the meeting then?’
Qandahari nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Ameer is taking tonight’s flight out, and he will be here in time for our meeting tomorrow. Please do pardon the inconvenience.’
The man raised his hand. ‘It’s all right. But I hope Mr Umavi will have the … understanding to meet us tomorrow.’
‘He will, Mr Latif, he will. I promise you. Can I offer you something in the meantime? Some food or beverages?’
‘That is quite unnecessary. Fi Amanillah, Mr Qandahari.’
‘Fi Amanillah, Mr Latif. We shall meet tomorrow.’
The two men nodded and strode away.
On the eleventh floor, Amjad was waiting in disguise at a little distance from the elevator doors. He followed the two men to their room. Nothing seemed to be out of order.
Umavi was satisfied. The next day, exactly at noon, Qandahari brought the two men to his room.
After the initial pleasantries were exchanged, Umavi apologized for not meeting them earlier. ‘It was unavoidable, gentlemen. You have my gratitude for being so patient.’
Latif smiled. ‘We are patient men, Mr Umavi,’ he said smoothly. ‘And we appreciate the trouble and the risk you took. If we were in your position, we too would have taken similar precautions and made sure the man we were going to meet didn’t turn out to be something else.’
Umavi’s eyes widened, then he smiled.
That had been two hours ago. The two men had just left, and Umavi was feeling elated. It had worked! They were genuine. He had just made the biggest deal of his life, and now the Lashkar wouldn’t have to worry about funds for at least two years!
He looked at Qandahari’s shining eyes and realized they had to celebrate.
‘What should we do now, Ameer?’
‘We should thank Allah. The Quran says if we thank Allah, our bounties will be increased manifold. Then we should celebrate.’
‘Zaroor Inshallah. How would you like to celebrate, Ameer?’
‘Awwallutta’amba’ad al-kalam. First let’s have food and then we can talk.’
‘Shall I order something?’
‘Call room service. I want to know what the best dish here is. Order two, one to your room and one to mine. We can order some dessert and juice and after that, kahawa.’
Within minutes, two royal marmara raans were ordered.
The Bangladeshi duo in their eleventh-floor room listened to the order being placed. They were ready for their real mission now.
8
Brigadier Arif Jan Afridi
A booming gunshot and the ringing in the ears that followed. That’s all it had taken to turn his world upside down. That had been over forty years ago, but he still remembered his ears going numb as he ran in the direction of the shot, right into his father’s study. He had been the first to arrive at the scene, to find his father slumped on the carpet, face down, a gun in his limp hand and blood gushing out from his temple and spreading towards the door. In his haste, he failed to notice that he had stepped in the puddle. Since that day, he had seen a lot of blood, but this was one instance he would never forget or recover from.
It had haunted him for four whole decades.
Lt Gen. Yusuf Jan Afridi shot himself in the head soon after he had signed the Instrument of Surrender in the Bangladesh Liberation War. The document was signed on 16 December 1971 by Lt Gen. A.K. Niazi and Y.J. Afridi on Pakistan’s behalf, giving up the half of Pakistan known as East Pakistan until then.
Lt Gen. Afridi was at the forefront of the opposition to the separation of East Pakistan, and he was ready to fight to his last breath to keep that chunk of land under Pakistani’s control, where it belonged. But after the Indians had arrested 93,000 Pakistani soldiers, making them the largest contingent of POWs—larger than those at the end of World War II—and had strategically foiled all attempts of the Pakistani army, Lt Gen. Niazi and Afridi had no option but to sign the Instrument of Surrender with the Indian and Bangla army at Ramna Race Course, Dhaka (then Dacca).
Afridi returned home in a pensive mood, refused to eat anything, hugged his son and after one final look, kissed him gently on the forehead and quietly walked towards his study. He left behind only a note, saying, ‘My beloved Arif Jan, I could not live with this humiliation. But I love you now and shall love you forever – General Abbu’.
Arif Jan, who was only ten years old, re-read the letter again and again for years thereafter. Its frayed remains continued to inhabit his wallet, like a talisman, a statement of purpose, a cause. He had fondly called his father General Abbu. General Abbu was his biggest hero, even bigger than Quaid-e-Azam,
M.A. Jinnah.
Every morning he looked at General Abbu’s picture before he started his day and every night he looked at it before switching off the lights. He joined the army and rose steadily through the ranks. He had only one mission in life: to avenge his father’s humiliation and teach a lesson to those arrogant Indians. They had been dishonest to deny Kashmir to Pakistan, and had subsequently taken away East Pakistan too. They would pay for it, he promised himself.
Brigadier Arif Jan Afridi became the Pakistan army’s ace weapon against India. He became the mastermind behind the militant infiltration into Kashmir and caused havoc in the country. His ingenious handling of the proxy war got him a fast-track to the Inter Services Intelligence (ISI). Every army, intelligence and government organization wanted Afridi on their team. The man was known for his innovative ideas and brilliant, painstakingly drawn up schemes that unsettled his rivals.
Among the Pakistani intelligence agencies, which included the Federal Intelligence Agency (FIA), Naval Intelligence, Military Intelligence and Defence Intelligence of Pakistan, the ISI has long been considered the most influential and resourceful organization. In fact, it is widely claimed that the ISI is regarded as the largest intelligence agency in the world in terms of sheer staff strength. No one even knows the official number of people employed by the agency, though according to one account, there may be over 10,000 people on its payroll, excluding informants, moles and general assets strewn around the globe.
After successfully running assets in Kashmir and Punjab, with stints in the FIA and Military Intelligence, Afridi had been given charge of the ISI’s main division, Joint Intelligence X. The department coordinated with all other departments in the agency. Gathering, collating, structuring and processing intelligence and information from all other departments, JIX prepared the intelligence report for the director general of the ISI and subsequently, the president.
Afridi had wanted to personally run Daniel Bradley and participate in the 26/11 operations in Mumbai but departmental politics had kept him out. He had now begun working with Chinese intelligence agencies. Afridi found Chinese intelligence to be much smarter, sharper and more efficient than the much hyped CIA, though he had friends in Langley as well. The Chinese, of course, were more than matched by the Mossad of Israel or the UK’s MI6.
What Afridi liked about the Chinese was the basis of their alliance with Pakistan – thwarting India. They had been the first to refuse to recognize Bangladesh as a separate nation. It took years and a long process of diplomatic lobbying by the Indians for them to finally give in. Unsurprisingly, since the time Afridi joined the Pakistani army, he had begun working closely with them. It was with their help that the ISI had notched up consistent successes in north-east India.
Major John Hu Wang had one of the shrewdest brains in the intelligence world. Wang’s ideologies were clear: Arunachal Pradesh and Ladakh belonged to China, Pakistan was welcome to keep the rest. Both Wang and Afridi had made inroads into India.
Even if Afridi could not participate in managing 26/11, he decided to continue with his private war against India. Within a couple of years of the Mumbai attacks, Afridi and Wang worked together to plant a Chinese research vessel disguised as a fishing trawler off the coast of Little Andaman. It collected sensitive data until it was detected by Indian naval intelligence and had to be withdrawn. They began working on reclaiming the posts in Ladakh. In fact, they got their troops into Ladakh, and also blatantly violated the airspace before the Indians began making a fuss about the incursion.
Neither Pakistan nor China would relent. ‘Indians don’t have their brains and spines in the right places,’ Wang said, with a crooked smile. They were determined to persist with their Ladakhi adventure, while the Indians continued to crib about the violation of air space.
Afridi was seemingly happy with his life. His mission to hurt India was well on track. He was so dedicated to it that he refused to get married or have a normal family life, declaring them to be distractions. For days, he would be off planning a secret mission. This time though, Afridi returned to his head office in Islamabad to rather unexpected news. ‘Sabahuddin Umavi found dead in his room in Royal Marmara in Istanbul. PM report says he died due to food allergy.’
Afridi was shocked. Umavi and he had recently met at a gathering in Karachi and he had seemed hale and hearty. When they were introduced, Umavi had told him, ‘Pakistan needs men like you at the helm. Only then can we win this war against the infidels. They have everything – money, guns, manpower; all we have is our dedication and that’s all we need.’
Afridi had taken him aside and congratulated him on his success in Mumbai. ‘We are planning an equally big push in Delhi and south India. Let us sit together and plan the operation.’
Umavi had agreed immediately, but mentioned the paucity of funds. Afridi had promised to look into the finances for any campaign that they would jointly launch against India. But now, he had lost his newfound ally.
Something about Umavi’s death didn’t sit right with Afridi. Had he planned to travel to Istanbul? He had not mentioned any impending business in Turkey. What had taken him there so urgently?
Afridi picked up the intercom and called his aide de camp, Major Sarfaraz Rashid. Rashid was not an army man. He had no grounding as an intelligence officer. Hired through the Federal Public Service Commission (FPSC) of Pakistan and primarily an academician and a linguist, Rashid had never fired a weapon in his life. Unlike his boss, he had something of a soft corner for India and loved Hindi movies and songs. A big fan of Dilip Kumar and Mohammad Rafi, in his free time he could be found downloading music and audio clips of film dialogues from Indian websites.
‘Ji, farmaiyye,’ he said, stepping into the cabin. The AC was motoring away at full blast on the lowest setting – sixteen degrees – and it was almost freezing.
Afridi was smoking a cigar and looking out of his window. His face wore a dull, expressionless look and his eyes weren’t nearly as bright as usual. It was enough to worry Rashid. ‘Rashid, my friend,’ Afridi began calmly enough, before exploding, ‘how the fuck did we miss Maulana Umavi’s death? Why was I not informed about his trip to Turkey? Did he take the required permission? I thought he was well protected.’
‘Sir, I will check …’ Rashid almost stammered.
‘Don’t check, get me his man Friday, ask him to fly down now. I want to see him before the end of the day. Is that understood?’
Rashid nodded limply.
9
> Everyone’s knock is unique, a somewhat limited manifestation of one’s personality. This was something Waris believed, and so he knew it was Laila who was seeking an audience with him.
‘Come in, Ms Borges.’
Laila walked in and said ‘Sir, something’s not right.’
‘Could you be a bit more specific, Ms Borges?’
‘That’s the problem. I can’t. Call it a gut feeling, but there’s something about Bradley that doesn’t seem quite right.’
Waris indicated the chair opposite him. ‘Explain.’
He leaned back in his chair, elbows on the armrests and fingers steepled in front of him. It was his favourite position for tackling a problem.
Laila sat down.
They were in Mumbai, in a small flat a few minutes walk from Turbhe railway station. The area was peaceful, inhabited bachelors who worked for the IT companies and BPOs housed nearby, away from the thoroughfare of the metropolis. It had been easy for Vikrant to get exactly the sort of flat they needed: secluded, large and peaceful, with not too many people around. Nobody would notice their comings and goings.
Immediately after their first mission turned out to be a success, Waris had ordered them to vacate the flat in Delhi and find another command centre, preferably in another city. ‘The more mobile we are, lesser the chances of anyone pinning us down,’ he said. The others agreed unanimously.
Now, a week later, Laila sat in front of Waris and tried to put into words what was on her mind.
Mumbai Avengers Page 8