North from Calcutta

by Duane Evans

  In cases where the state paid subsidies, as in Saudi Arabia, Kuwait and other Gulf countries, the people had the basic material goods but little else. For decades, these governments had imported foreign workers for most occupations. Tarek thought it incredible that, with few exceptions, foreigners filled virtually every occupation in these oil-rich countries, from street sweeper to chemical engineer.

  “Sir, the promenade is coming up on the right,” the driver said.

  “Pull over just ahead please, beyond the street light.” The taxi stopped, and Tarek pulled the fare from his money clip.

  He exited the car, shopping bag in hand, and began walking eastward along the sidewalk for a half block, then turned right onto a narrow stone walkway. The path passed through a small grove of palm trees and connected to the wide promenade that ran parallel to the shoreline of the Gulf.

  At the promenade, Tarek again turned east and continued at a relaxed pace, stopping occasionally to take in the sight of a passing ship headed out to the calm sea. He passed a mix of people as he walked—businessmen returning home from the office, several groups of young people engaged in animated conversation, walkers and joggers taking their exercise in the early evening hours.

  Ten minutes into his stroll, Tarek spotted the site where he was to meet Habibi—a large fountain set back in a palm grove about 30 meters from the promenade. The center feature of the fountain was the sculpture of a dolphin breaking the surface of the inviting water, all of it illuminated by blue-tinted lights. The elevated fountain was encircled by five concentric rings of steps that served as benches for passersby who wished to enjoy the air cooled by the fine spray of the water.

  Tarek walked over to the fountain, set the shopping bag down and took off his blazer. Sitting down on a middle step he reclined back against the next step and looked up to the ever-darkening sky. He took a moment to make one final check that he had not been followed. Then he reached down into the shopping bag and took out the binoculars, alternately holding them in his lap or lifting them to his eyes to look beyond the promenade and out to sea.

  Your move Stallion Flyer/66, he said to himself silently.

  11

  Harun Habibi was a man of ‘epic proportions’ literally and figuratively. Though huge in girth, he wasn’t particularly tall. He had a large round head covered by a tangle of tight, unruly black curls, with a beard to match. His large ebony eyes were set wide apart and had an unnerving intensity sometimes prompting strangers to think him crazy. He hardly fit the physical stereotype of a secret agent and that, in addition to his intelligence and high energy level, had been a great advantage in his clandestine work for the ISI.

  Habibi was also generous to a fault. One of his long-time employees had once told him that when Habibi died, he would never be able to donate his heart to someone else. Habibi, in his booming voice and irreverent manner, asked, “Why? Because it’s too fat?”

  “No,” was the smiling reply. “Because the body rejects gold.”

  Many people felt the same way about Habibi. He was simply a good man—another deviation from the stereotypic agent. On the negative side of the ledger he could be stubborn and not always willing to listen to direction if he had a different view. As Habibi’s handler, Tarek had learned to put up with it, knowing that despite Habibi’s bull-headedness, his intentions were good.

  Tarek had recruited Habibi only five years earlier, but the ISI had records on him going as far back as the war against the Soviets in Afghanistan. Then Habibi, who was a UAE citizen, had operated a small non-governmental organization on the outskirts of Peshawar that provided humanitarian assistance to Afghan refugees. Many years later, Tarek was introduced to Habibi by a contact who did not know Tarek was an intelligence officer. At the time, Tarek was posted in Algiers, where he served undercover as the Pakistani defense attaché.

  Habibi had come to Algiers to manage an irrigation development program for the Algerian government. Within a few minutes of meeting him, Tarek knew the access Habibi’s company could provide to the Algerian countryside would be extremely useful to the ISI’s efforts to obtain intelligence on the country’s bloody and mindless insurgency. Pakistan’s interest in the conflict stemmed from its concern that the rise of Islamic extremism in Algeria might one day reach Pakistan, a concern that time had proved to be justified.

  The Algerian government had refused to cooperate with Pakistan on the issue, so there was no other option but to collect intelligence on the insurgency using independent means. Habibi proved to be an excellent operational lead toward this end, and Tarek immediately set about developing a relationship with him.

  Habibi hated the violence being carried out in Algeria. Islamic insurgents were routinely going into villages throughout the countryside and butchering innocent people. Village wells were often found stuffed with bodies, even those of children whose throats had been slashed. How the perpetrators of such barbarism could claim to be followers of Islam was beyond both Habibi’s and Tarek’s comprehension.

  Their mutual outrage at what was happening in Algeria in the name of Islam served as the basis for Habibi’s recruitment. It didn’t hurt that Tarek had also provided information that saved the lives of three of Habibi’s employees, one being Habibi’s brother, from a planned terrorist attack. The group was drilling a well in the countryside, and had been identified as an easy target. This helped to forge a personal relationship between Tarek and Habibi that was even closer than the strong relationship normally established between an agent and his handler. Now, after a hiatus of three years, Tarek’s and Habibi’s relationship was being renewed.

  Habibi stood watching from the railing along the promenade as Tarek passed him walking toward the blue-lit fountain. Habibi knew Tarek had seen him, though he had given no sign of recognition. Habibi smiled to himself. When it came to street work, his old friend never missed a thing.

  Habibi waited. When he saw the yellow binoculars, he moved toward the fountain. Dressed in traditional Arab garb, his massive bulk was covered by a white robe-like thawb that billowed about in the coastal breeze, giving the impression of a ship’s sail blowing along the Promenade. Even with the formless thawb and ghoutra headdress, there was no mistaking Habibi.

  “This dolphin has found the coolest spot in all of Arabia” Habibi said as he slowly lowered his heavy frame onto the fountain steps next to Tarek.

  “Thankfully the dolphin does not mind sharing what he has found,” Tarek responded.

  Each man knew it was comic that they use this tradecraft protocol to initiate their contact, since neither had any doubt of the identity of the other, but they did it anyway, in part to see who would laugh first. Neither did.

  Not wanting to prolong their public exposure, Tarek quickly told Habibi where and when to pick him up. Habibi’s nod confirmed his understanding. Tarek stood up and, without another word, continued with his stroll along the promenade.

  Halfway across town and exactly one hour later, a new desert-tan Toyota Land Cruiser pulled up alongside Tarek as he walked down the street. The power window on the passenger side descended.

  “Get in my brother. You look like you could use a meal,” Habibi said with a broad smile.

  Tarek climbed into the Land Cruiser. “My mother always said not to get into cars with strangers, particularly ugly ones,” he said grinning. “But she also told me to stay away from flirty girls, advice I also ignored.”

  “I think you confused your mother’s words, my friend,” Habibi said. “She told you not to get in cars with ugly girls, and yes, sadly, I fear you have probably ignored even this advice.” Habibi leaned across the cabin of the car and gave Tarek a near-crushing bear hug. “I have missed you! Praise Allah we are together again,” he said.

  “And I have missed you as well. I have thought of you often,” Tarek responded.

  Habibi pulled away from the curb, the V-8 engine roaring as the vehicle quickly accelerated down the mostly empty street. “And how are your sister and her children,
Tarek? I pray all is well with them.”

  “Yes, all are fine. And your wife and children are well?”

  “Yes, yes, we have all been kept safely in the palm of Allah’s hand.”

  “We have a lot to catch up on, Habibi. We need a place where we can relax and talk. A car meeting will not suffice. Do you have any apartments available?”

  “I see you still don’t like to meet in hotel rooms,” Habibi said. “I thought you might like to do things the old way, so I have come prepared with keys to one of our new apartments.”

  “That’s great. And yes, I avoid hotel room meetings, more so today even than when we worked together in the past. The security environment is much tougher now because of terrorism. There are too many ways to get wrapped up for the wrong reason.”

  “You will get no argument from me. And why use a hotel when I am a partner in a corporation that owns three residential buildings with at least two dozen empty apartments,” Habibi said. He pointed toward a red and white ice chest in the back seat.

  “I have brought a meal of lamb kabob and rice that we can carry up with us. I believe it is important that two old friends reunite over a good meal.”

  “You are a most thoughtful man, Mr. Habibi,” Tarek said. “I saw some advertisements by your corporation when I was driving around. Things seem to be going well.”

  “They are. And I will tell you all about it over kabobs.”

  Habibi pulled up to the barricaded entrance of an underground parking garage and pointed at the five-story building standing before them. “This is our newest project. We’ve just begun letting out the apartments, and there are only a few tenants in the building, so we can be assured of our privacy.”

  Habibi pressed a button on the remote attached to his windshield visor and the barricade lifted. After parking, the two men walked to the nearby elevator lugging the ice chest between them. Habibi punched in the entry code and the elevator’s stainless-steel door smoothly glided open. Inside the mirrored elevator, Habibi pressed the button for the fifth floor. The elevator ascended to its destination in a few seconds.

  Habibi led the way down the semi-lit hallway to the last apartment. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket, inserted one into the lock and opened the door.

  “My, my,” Tarek said as he walked into the apartment. “This is nice.”

  “We don’t call them ‘luxury apartments’ without cause,” Habibi said.

  Habibi carried the ice chest into the kitchen and began unloading its steaming contents. Tarek walked over to the high-definition wide-screen television, turning it on to provide some noise interference. It was unlikely anyone would be listening, but in his business it never paid to take things for granted.

  “Name your preference,” Tarek said “We’ve got a National Geographic special on the Himalayas, and oh, here is one of your favorites,” he said as he looked toward the kitchen for Habibi’s reaction.

  “Baywatch!” Habibi exclaimed as he looked up from the pan of rice he was dumping onto a large plate.

  “Well, what will it be? National Geographic or Baywatch reruns? I know it’s a tough choice. Both are programs about some of the world’s largest natural wonders.”

  Habibi laughed and Tarek could have gone on with this routine, but he refrained from any further juvenile comments. What was it about being around Habibi, he wondered, that made him want to cut up like a kid again. With Habibi, there was no pressure to be anyone but himself.

  What a freedom that was, Tarek thought. It was strange how people spent their lives not fully being themselves, ‘Stringing and unstringing their instrument but never playing their song,’ as Tagore once wrote. Why do most people never play their song? In the last few years, Tarek had begun to ask this question of himself.

  “Hey, let’s eat,” Habibi’s penetrating voice broke into Tarek’s reverie.

  For the next hour, he and Habibi shared the satisfying meal as they caught up on what had been happening in their lives for the past few years. The conversation tended to be one-sided, with Habibi describing what his family members were doing and what he had been doing in his business enterprises. Tarek could contribute only a few comments, aside from updating Habibi on how Meena and her family were doing. He had little to share of a personal nature. For Tarek, his work was his life, and work was not something he talked about.

  Such was the nature of his career. He had wanted to do something challenging—and he had done that. Yet the path he chose became narrower and steeper as the years went by. He enjoyed his work and took pride in knowing he had served his nation well for more than 20 years, but he could see that the price he had paid was high. He had no wife, no children, and no hobbies, save keeping himself in shape. Tarek knew the situation was the result of his own choices, many of which he made as a young man, driven to prove himself. Now, however, he felt he had nothing to prove to anyone. Within the ISI, his accomplishments were well-known, his abilities well-proven.

  Glancing at his watch, Tarek saw that it was getting late. He began to move the conversation to operational matters.

  “Harun, this has been a great evening. It is not often that I can mix business with pleasure, but it is time to talk some business. I’m sure you are wondering why I have contacted you after all these years. You have been very patient not to ask.”

  “Tarek, as I told you at our last meeting—when was it, over three years ago? I remain your friend and faithful servant and will always be ready to help in anything you ask. I owe you that much for my brother’s life. Besides, life as a businessman can become a bit boring as time goes on. I want my life to be about more than just making money. What we did in Algeria, that meant something that was important and, well, I rather miss the excitement that you and I shared. I think about those times a lot, and I hoped that one day you would come knocking again.”

  Tarek had to smile at his big friend. “Well, Harun, you’ve gotten your wish. I’m knocking again, but I can’t promise you much excitement this time around. I need a UAE work and residency permit of the same type you provided to us before. You remember the case? When we resettled the insurgent who defected? Are you still able to arrange this?”

  “Of course,” Habibi immediately responded. “My corporation routinely provides sponsorship for many foreign workers.”

  “That’s great,” Tarek said. “There is one complicating factor, however.”

  “And what is that,” Habibi asked, his bushy eyebrows rising in curious anticipation.

  “The document would have to be back-dated, meaning the issuance date would need to be at least five years in the past,” Tarek responded, watching closely to gauge Habibi’s reaction.

  “Umm, that does complicate things,” Habibi said. His eyebrows now descended low over his dark eyes. After a moment’s pause, his face brightened.

  “No problem. I will have to call in some favors, but this can be arranged. When can you give me the particulars?”

  “I can give you the biographic data right now, but how do you plan to get this done?” Tarek asked.

  Habibi grinned. “My construction firm has the contract to design and build the Immigration Bureau’s new headquarters building. The fact that the director general and I are classmates from our university days did not hurt in winning the contract,” Habibi said with only a touch of sarcasm in his voice. “It seems the good DG was hoping his new headquarters would come complete with an indoor pool and steam room. Unfortunately, the budget does not permit this. However, with a little redesign I believe costs could be reduced sufficiently to allow the addition of these facilities.”

  “So exactly what are you proposing?” Tarek asked.

  “I will suggest to the DG that I might be able to accommodate his desires, if he assists me with this one small favor concerning a residency permit.”

  “But Harun, this solution cannot in any way make the Director General suspicious,” Tarek said emphatically.

  “Trust me on this, Tarek. I know how to get this done. I
’m not going to waste your time and mine by explaining every detail to you.”

  Tarek could see that Habibi’s stubborn streak was emerging and that caution was in order. Once in the past, Habibi had ignored Tarek’s instructions when he did not agree with him. In that instance it had been a relatively small issue and had not caused a security problem. Obtaining fraudulent identity documents, if not handled properly, however, could very easily affect the security of the operation at hand. Tarek had to be sure Habibi handled things properly.

  “Harun, if I didn’t think you knew how to do this, I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you about it. But remember, I’m responsible for making decisions on security issues. It’s what my profession is all about, and I need to know how you plan to do this.”

  Habibi sighed. “I will cover for the request by telling the DG that by way of error, my corporation has been employing a foreign worker for several years that we failed to register with his department. I am certain at this point the DG will tell me this is a simple matter, and he will see to it the problem is addressed quietly and a permit, appropriately dated, will be issued. A small price to pay for a pool, don’t you think, Tarek? As you of all people know, this is the way things sometimes get done here. Now are you satisfied?”

  Tarek nodded, pleased with Habibi’s imagination and resourcefulness. “It’s a good plan, but keep in mind, the issuance of the permit needs to be a paper transaction. You provide the photos, date and place of birth info, and all the rest. In other words, this must be accomplished without requiring any personal appearance by the person the document is being issued to.”

  “Our corporation is well-known to Immigration, and our foreign employees have been exempted from any type of personal examination. We provide the required documents and Immigration issues the permit. As simple as that,” Habibi said, snapping his thick fingers.

  “Excellent. I need the document as soon as possible. When do you think you will have it?