North from Calcutta

by Duane Evans

  This idea resonated with Advani. “Sure, why not? It doesn’t sound like it would take much of my time, and I do enjoy interacting with young engineers. They have so much energy and enthusiasm; it makes me feel younger when I work with them. Tomorrow I will send an e-mail to this Mr. Durrani and see what he says to my counter proposal.”

  Advani rose from the table, taking Sahar by the hand. “Now, let’s take our morning tea.”

  8

  Emirates flight 997 lifted off the runaway in Islamabad as Tarek gazed out the window, watching the broad city fall away below him. The day was sunny with deep blue skies, and a few high white clouds feathered by strong southwesterly winds.

  Shortly into the flight, a pretty dark-eyed flight attendant with a tight fitting skirt and jacket outlining a shapely figure began to distribute immigration and customs forms to the passengers. Tarek had noticed her as soon as he boarded the plane and was happy to see she would be responsible for his section of the aircraft. She wore her hair pulled straight back and gathered into a simple bun the way his wife Farida had often worn hers.

  As the attendant leaned over from the aisle to address Tarek, the light scent of a familiar perfume enveloped him. It was jasmine, faint but still powerful enough to send his memories reeling 20 years back in time to another young woman, equally attractive but doomed to a loveless marriage and a painful death. For a moment, Farida’s face, full of sadness, flashed in his mind. “Why couldn’t you love me,” she seemed to ask, but just as it had been when she was still living, Tarek had no answer to give.

  “Sir . . . Sir, are you a UAE citizen?”

  The attendant’s words brought Tarek back to the present.

  “No. I’m Pakistani,” Tarek responded.

  She handed him the forms required for foreigners and moved on down the aisle. Whatever subtle pleasure the attendant’s charms had initially evoked had disappeared with that reminder of Farida. Tarek avoided looking at the attendant for the rest of the flight, forcing himself to return his thoughts to the business at hand.

  As Tarek wrote his true name on the immigration form, he wished he had been able to persuade Admiral Nurullah that when it came to intelligence work, traveling in an alias offered many advantages. Nurullah had refused the request however, as it would have required direct support by the ISI’s documents section, an admission of dependence on another agency that the IRE was not willing to make. Nurullah’s decision had convinced Tarek that while the admiral might have been a fine naval officer, he had no understanding of the intelligence business.

  Tarek’s travel to the UAE was for the sole purpose of obtaining the services of one Harun Habibi, a former asset he had personally recruited and handled while working in Algiers years before. Habibi’s code name had been “Stallion Flyer/66”. He had been a superb agent, but ISI’s relationship with him had ended three years ago when his services were no longer needed. Tarek, however, had ensured that Habibi had a contingency plan that would allow anyone with the proper bona fides to meet with him at a pre-arranged location, should the need arise.

  Tarek had already activated this plan prior to his departure from Islamabad by faxing an ostensible business proposal to Habibi at his import firm in Abu Dhabi, with a key phrase inserted that signaled to Habibi the true identity of the fax’s sender. The time and date of the proposed meeting could be determined by inserting the date and time of the fax into a simple false subtraction formula.

  On arrival in Abu Dhabi, Tarek passed through immigration and customs without incident, the officials giving his forms only a cursory check. He continued through the terminal, following the signs to ground transportation. Though he needed a rental car, he opted not to get one at the airport in favor of getting one later somewhere in the city. The tactic did not guarantee he could not be traced to a rental car firm, but it would make it just a little harder should someone try.

  Stopping at a bank kiosk, Tarek got some local currency and proceeded toward the exit doors leading outside to a taxi stand. Stepping out of the air conditioned building into the mid-day sun, the moist super-heated gulf air enveloped him as if he had walked into a furnace. He was sweating by the time he removed his jacket. A white taxi pulled up alongside of him. Tarek tossed his travel bag into the back seat and climbed in.

  The driver looked back at Tarek and grinned, revealing large white teeth. “Destination, Sir?” He asked in the Queen’s English.

  “Take me to the Sheraton Hotel.”

  9

  For the third night in a row, General Ali had not slept well. He got out of bed feeling all of his 60 years. At least it was Friday, he thought. He would be able to spend some time at home relaxing and catching up on his rest. As was his habit, he would attend the Friday prayer service at noon at the mosque only a few blocks from his Islamabad home. The Friday service was important to Ali; he never missed it unless he was traveling or some crisis at work kept him away. Fortunately, for the moment, tensions with India were on an even keel. Whether or not they would stay that way was anyone’s guess. Ali was not optimistic. Too many things were happening. In his view, all of them were bad.

  He showered and dressed, then headed downstairs to find his wife. The kitchen help was busy preparing breakfast. General Ali was almost a stranger to his own kitchen. The staff reacted as if the prime minister himself had walked in. Ali was not one for ceremony. He had no pretensions about his senior military rank. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a friendly tone. “Please, don’t mind me. I am only looking for Madam.’’

  “Sir, Madam is on the veranda,” the senior servant said.

  “Thank you, Muktar. When can I expect breakfast?”

  “Breakfast is soon coming, Sir. In the meantime, I am serving tea to Sir and Madam on the veranda.”

  “Most excellent. Please bring the tea along as soon as it is ready.”

  Before the general could turn and start for the veranda, Muktar already had the kitchen boy preparing the tea. Muktar was nothing if not efficient.

  As Ali approached the veranda, he could see Shahida, water pitcher in hand, moving among the potted plants. The large, leafy plants with yellow and red flowers set alongside the dark stained rattan chairs and coffee table imbued the veranda with the soothing atmosphere of a quiet woodland.

  Shahida looked up as Ali arrived. “Good morning, my love,” she said. “You are up early for a Friday. Do you have to go into the office today?”

  Smiling, Ali said, “No my dear. I will spend my Friday with a very charming woman who floats among the plants and flowers like a whispery cloud, bringing water and sustenance to all that is green and growing”.

  “Anyone I know?” Shahida asked playfully.

  “Why it is none other than the lovely woman who stands before me, looking more beautiful than the flowers she tends.”

  Smiling, Shahida took Ali’s hand. “My, the compliments fall like petals from a flower. Perhaps I should see to it you always rise early on Fridays.” Looking into Ali’s deep-set eyes, Shahida told him, “You know a woman of my age is extremely vulnerable to such words.”

  “And a man, even of my age” Ali said as he pulled Shahida close, “is vulnerable to the beauty that inspires those words.”

  Ali’s bold move and teasing words caught Shahida off guard. With a worried glance, she looked over his shoulder in the direction of the kitchen, and said in a lowered but emphatic voice, “Seyed, what has gotten into you. The servants may come at any moment. What if they should see us like this?”

  Ali laughed as he slowly released Shahida from his embrace. “Well, is it wrong to suppose that after 30 years of marriage a husband would embrace his wife in his own house?”

  Shahida stepped back and straightened her clothes. “You know that your suppositions could ruin my reputation with the house servants,” She said. “They love to talk about the Madam. The juicier, the better. They are such gossip mongers!”

  “Well then, Madam, I shan’t breathe a word. However, in t
he not-too-distant future, I will require payment for my silence. And it will be on my terms. But in the meantime, please summon the ‘gossip mongers’ and ask them about our morning tea.”

  Shahida’s humor returned. She smiled and touched Ali’s hand before disappearing through the veranda doors. Ali looked out over the tops of the high shrubbery, hoping to catch a glimpse of the green parrots that often roosted in the area. Ali loved watching all types of birds; the green parrots were always a special treat. Though he would never admit it, he still harbored a superstition he had learned as a child, that green parrots brought good luck. He searched the trees and shrubs intently, but concluded there were no parrots this day— just as had been the case in the preceding weeks.

  Shahida returned, followed by Muktar carrying the tea tray. For an hour, Ali and Shahida sipped their tea while talking about the previous week and their plans for the day.

  Ali did not like to mention work during these special moments with Shahida, but she had been his confidant for 30 years. There was no one he trusted more. The objective analysis and dispassionate insights she brought to difficult situations had often been of great assistance to him.

  “Have you been following the press lately?” Ali inquired in a tone that indicated the conversation had changed from relaxed chatter to something of a serious nature.

  “Of course.”

  “Well, what do you think of the reports concerning Prime Minister Bahir’s difficulty with the new parliament?” he asked.

  “It should be no surprise to anyone that the prime minister is having his policies challenged by this fundamentalist-leaning parliament our country somehow managed to put in office. It’s obvious. They plan to take advantage of the power vacuum created by the assassination of General Masood. Let us hope the realities of politics in Islamabad will soon make pragmatists of them and that they grow weary and lose their zeal.”

  Ali’s eyes looked down, fixed but unfocused. “Yes, but the problem is that these men are not politicians. While some might argue that is a good thing, I do not think so in this instance. Their politics are driven by Islam, or I should say, their interpretation of Islam, and Allah forbid if you do not agree with them. I’ve studied the dossiers on many of them, and I can tell you that the only education most of them have received has been religious training in the Salafist madrassas—the same ones that produced the Taliban movement.”

  “So, we should not be surprised then if the new parliamentarians do not push for an enlightened foreign and domestic policy. And about those madrassas, well the government is reaping what it sowed.” Shahida said.

  General Ali looked up at his wife. “You well know it was the ISI, against my objections, that was tasked with the responsibility for nurturing the madrassas and the Taliban. I never believed in the idea that an Afghanistan under a fundamentalist regime was good for Pakistan’s security. Unfortunately, I was overruled.”

  “Overruled? Your career was nearly ruined! I have never forgiven them for the way they treated you. You were right in your prediction that once the Taliban came to power, Pakistan would lose control over them. And look at what it led to. A terrorist attack such as the world has never seen, and now a war inside our borders and car bombings right here in Islamabad. May Allah be praised that Prime Minister Bahir recognized that you knew what you were talking about.”

  Shahida was visibly angry at this point. So much for dispassionate insight, Ali thought.

  “Shahida, you know I love it when you make me out to be Pakistan’s most brilliant strategist, but just to keep the record straight, there were many others who held the same skeptical view of our involvement with the Taliban.”

  Calming down, Shahida said, “I know, I know. But within the ISI you were the most vocal in your disagreement with this policy, and for years your career suffered for it. That is what upsets me so. You have given so much to our country, risking your very life. A government should thank men like you, not punish them.”

  “That is all behind me now,” Ali said. “And I have done very well in my career if I may be so bold to say. I never thought I would attain the rank of major general. But I was hoping to finish out my career seeing Pakistan on a stable course. And now as I near retirement, I see indications that we are beginning to go down the same path as before.”

  “What are you talking about? Surely, we are not going to support the Taliban again?” Shahida asked incredulously.

  “We have learned our lesson with the Taliban and, as a matter of policy, we do not support them. However, they remain a potent force with strong support in the Pashtun belt on both sides of the border. And yes, there are still those that secretly support them. But what I’m referring to are developments within the government itself. There are many reorganizations being carried out under the name of improved efficiency and savings, but I am very skeptical about what is happening.”

  Ali paused and held out his cup for Shahida to refill and then continued. “Within the past two months, the ISI has been banned from any form of contact with the Kashmiri resistance, so we are temporarily blind as to what their plans are. This is dangerous. Their attacks against India have brought us to the brink of war on more than one occasion.

  “Is this a policy you can try to get changed?” Shahida said.

  “Maybe. I’ve managed to get a private audience with the Prime Minister on Monday. Hopefully, I can prevail upon him to let the ISI re-establish a liaison with the Kashmiri resistance. If nothing else, I will be able to reiterate my concern about what is happening in the government.”

  “Who else knows about this meeting?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve done everything I can to keep it close-hold, and we are meeting for lunch at the Equestrian Center, so the usual palace staff will not be around. But it is the prime minister after all, so at least a few will know. I just hope no one who opposes my views learns about the meeting and gets to him first.”

  Thirty years of marriage had taught Shahida a lot about her husband. She knew he would not speak to her on these topics unless he was truly concerned.

  “Seyed, surely Bahir will be able to do something?”

  “The PM knows about the changes, but the way they are being carried out limits his influence on things. Besides, right now he has his hands full trying to manage the new parliament. The political ground has shifted beneath him, and he is still trying to recover his balance. I just hope he is able to recover before things go too far and the confusion within the government becomes chaotic. Pakistan does not do chaos well.”

  “Sir, breakfast is served in the dining room,” a servant announced from the doorway.

  “Shall we, my dear?”

  “Certainly, although I think this conversation has killed my appetite,” Shahida said.

  “Well, don’t worry. For the time being I plan to play the role of observer and keep my cards close to the vest. Hopefully things will right themselves through the natural course of developments. However, should they continue the way they are going for much longer, then some sort of counter-offensive may be necessary.”

  Ali decided it best not to mention his increasing suspicion that his telephone calls were being monitored, or that just two days ago he thought a car was following him as he left the office to have lunch with an old friend. It was better to keep these suspicions to himself, he thought. After all, they could be nothing more than his imagination.

  10

  It was the day after Tarek’s arrival in Abu Dhabi, and the recontact meeting with Habibi was on track. There had been no sign of any unusual attention paid to Tarek during his time in the UAE, where he posed as a visiting businessman interested in leasing office space. If things stayed that way, before the night was over he would be sitting face to face with Habibi, recalling old times and making new plans. As Tarek began the final leg of his surveillance check-route in a rented Toyota, he noted the sun dipping below the horizon, putting the timing of his initial encounter with Habibi at dusk. The reduced visibility would pr
ovide an additional element of security.

  Having picked up no evidence of surveillance, Tarek turned right onto a major street, taking it for two blocks. He then turned off onto a narrow one-way street. A minute later he turned left into an underground parking garage.

  Tarek buried the white Toyota among dozens of similar-looking cars parked on the sub-level of the crowded garage, then took the stairs up to a busy shopping mall. Walking at a casual pace, he stopped at some of the shops, as if browsing. At a sporting goods store, he paid cash for a set of binoculars coated in heavy yellow plastic to protect them from the elements. Doubling back through the mall the same way he had come, Tarek proceeded in the direction of the stairs he had used from the parking garage. Satisfied he was free of any watchers, he changed course and quickly exited at the front of the mall onto a busy city street, where he hailed a cab from the nearby taxi stand.

  “To the promenade,” he instructed the driver. “Drop me at the mid-point, if you can.”

  Tarek remained silent during the drive, gazing out the windows at the city scenes passing by. Abu Dhabi is an impressive city, he thought as he looked up at the modern high-rise office and apartment buildings lining the street. He noted that unlike so many other cities in the Middle East, the citizens here moved about quickly, everyone seeming to have some place to go and something to do.

  Tarek knew this was a notable exception. In his travels he had discovered that too many people in the region had nowhere to go and nothing to do. In most places jobs were scarce, particularly for young people, whose access to education was limited. This was especially true for girls. Even in countries where significant numbers received university degrees, few graduates found jobs. The situation had gone on so long that people in the region had taken on a lethargic air, accepting their fate even as they watched other countries with fewer natural resources develop their economies and improve quality of life.