North from Calcutta

by Duane Evans

  “I’ll see the DG tomorrow, and I expect I will have the document within a day or two. The DG will probably have his bathing trunks even before then.”

  “Fine. Let’s plan for our next meeting based on that schedule.”

  Tarek never said why he needed the document. Dear friend that he was, Habibi had no need to know.

  12

  It was mid-morning. Sahar lay reading on the living-room sofa, wearing her favorite sleeping gown, her dark hair pinned up in a thick tangle of loose curls. The gown was of the finest Thai silk, a gift from a former suitor. She hadn’t cared for the suitor, a prosperous merchant from Mumbai, but she loved the gown and wore it frequently on weekend mornings like this, when she could lounge around doing what she pleased. She loved the way the fine material lightly caressed her bare skin each time she moved. The gown’s sky-blue color, with its gold accents, happened to match well with the studied elegance of the room. The gown, the room, and Sahar’s raw beauty suggested a painting by a Renaissance master.

  Realizing the morning was quickly passing, Sahar sat up and placed a bookmark in the thick novel, setting it down on the end table. She raised her arms above her, slowly stretching her back in an arching curve. Although her body was still strong and flexible, Sahar knew she was resuming her yoga class not a moment too soon. In recent months she had begun to realize that her body was not immune to the effects of time and lack of exercise.

  She glanced at the gold clock sitting on a nearby table, and could not believe how much time had passed while she was reading. A sign of a good book, she thought to herself. She was actually surprised she liked the book. She had sworn off romance novels, finding them entirely too predictable. This one, though, did not fit the stereotype. She had become totally engrossed in the story and its cast of unusual but entirely believable characters. Ah, but if life were like this, she thought, full of interesting people, passion, and unexpected events.

  The telephone rang, giving Sahar a start. She knew that the maid was in the laundry room and would not hear the phone so she answered it herself. The man on the phone identified himself as Mister Durrani, calling for Engineer Advani.

  “Oh yes, my father was expecting your call,” Sahar said. “He is out of the house at the moment but should be back shortly. . . Yes, of course. I will have him contact you as soon as he returns. Yes, please, what is the number? . . . Very well. Yes, I have it. Thank you.”

  Sahar walked into the kitchen and sat the cordless phone down on the table and put the note she had written next to the cane rack, where her father would see it when he returned. She headed up the stairs to shower and prepare for the day.

  Ten minutes later, Advani returned from his outing. He spotted Sahar’s note as soon as he entered the kitchen. Placing his brass-handled cane in the rack, he sat at the kitchen table and read the note.

  “Mr. Durrani is right on schedule,” Advani said aloud to himself. Reaching across the table, he picked up the phone and dialed the number Sahar had written down—a cell phone number, he surmised, based on the prefix. After two short rings, Tarek answered the phone.

  “Welcome to India, Mister Durrani. I was expecting your call and I apologize for not being home earlier. . . Certainly, I am free this evening. . . Yes, the Rajastan Restaurant is excellent – but please, why don’t you be my guest and come to my home for dinner instead. It really would be no trouble. . . Well, if you are sure, then I would be honored to join you this evening at the Rajastan. If there is anything I can do for you until then, please do not hesitate to call. . . Yes, I will use this number to contact you should the need arise. . . Very good, I’ll see you at 8:00 p.m. this evening.”

  13

  Excellent, Tarek thought as he placed the cell phone down on the nightstand. His first contact with the designer of Farakka Barrage had gone well, as had his early morning arrival in New Delhi. Tarek knew his Pakistani passport would likely draw close scrutiny by Indian immigration, but the UAE residency permit had done the trick and allayed the suspicions of the immigration officer who had quickly approved Tarek’s ‘Visa Upon Arrival’ request.

  Tarek had deliberately chosen to arrive on a weekend, anticipating correctly that the airport immigration staff would be undermanned and therefore less likely to devote extra time to conduct an in-depth interview of an expatriate Pakistani. Tarek always believed in stacking the odds however he could to reduce potential operational risks.

  He had not forgotten that the operational threat level in Delhi was significantly higher than in the UAE, and he had planned accordingly. First rule: He would stay away from the Pakistani embassy and avoid contact with any Pak government personnel in India. Pakistan was enemy number one for India, and India’s Intelligence Bureau no doubt blanketed the Pak embassy and all embassy officers with continuous surveillance. Should Tarek pop up on their scope, he would automatically become a target for investigation. That could lead to the mission being compromised, something Tarek had no intention of letting happen.

  Second rule: Avoid using the hotel’s telephone system to contact Engineer Advani. Although Tarek had no reason to believe his hotel phone would be targeted for monitoring, a common practice of security services, he also had no way of knowing for sure. Instead, he had purchased a cell phone at a kiosk during his trip from the airport to the hotel. The phone would serve as his means of communication with Advani while he was in India.

  His dinner with Advani now confirmed, he stuffed some gym clothes into a small backpack and went to the hotel gym for a late-morning workout. The well-equipped gym was empty except for two Chinese businessmen whom he had seen checking into the hotel when he arrived. Dressed in white T-shirts and baggy gym shorts, the two men did not seem to know how to use the equipment. Tarek offered his assistance suggesting a few exercises they might try. The younger of the two men pointed to a scar on Tarek’s left shoulder, and asked what had happened.

  “A traffic accident,” Tarek said. Over the years, he had found he could most easily explain his scars by attributing them to a traffic accident he’d never had.

  The truth was, each scar had a story, but they were stories never told, not even to his colleagues at the ISI. For every time he had been wounded, others had lost their lives. In Tarek’s mind, to talk about such things was blasphemy. Too many people had fanciful ideas about war, ascribing noble attributes like honor, courage, and bravery to the wounds received and the men who bore them.

  Tarek himself had once thought that way, but time and experience had changed his thinking. He now saw war for what he knew it really was— killing, maiming, destruction, and suffering. There was no glory in it. Yes, there was courage and sacrifice in war, but he had come to think these most high and noble of human qualities were wasted in an enterprise whose only business was death.

  Tarek completed his own workout, finishing with 30 minutes on the treadmill. He rinsed off in the locker-room shower, wrapped a thick white towel around his trim waist, and stepped into the steam bath.

  After a good workout, sitting alone in the hot moist air, sweat coming from every pore—that was heaven for Tarek; and it was a luxury he rarely had time for. He believed that a good workout and a steam prior to going operational was great preparation, as it both cleared the mind and relaxed the body. A colleague had once suggested to him that sex could have the same salutary effects, but Tarek took the view that finding a good gym with a steam bath was far easier and much more operationally secure than seeking out the company of a willing woman in a foreign land.

  Keeping to the schedule he had planned for the day, at 12:20 in the afternoon, dressed in a set of khakis and a white polo shirt, he stepped out of the cool hotel lobby into the thick New Delhi heat and proceeded on foot to a small Thai restaurant a few blocks away. He enjoyed a light, satisfying meal of Num Tok, served by a lovely Thai hostess who flirted shyly with him and was plainly disappointed at his lack of response.

  He passed the next few hours wandering about Connaught Place, Delhi’s central
commercial and shopping district. Late in the afternoon, looking every bit the visiting businessman turned tourist, Tarek took an auto rickshaw back to his hotel. Most importantly, Tarek had spotted nothing during the outing to suggest he was being followed.

  Satisfied with his security, he returned to his room, showered again, and rested in anticipation of his meeting later that night with Engineer Advani.

  14

  It was late on a Saturday night and General Ali sat in his office preparing the papers he would use at the meeting with the Prime Minister the following Monday. After reviewing the information he planned to present to the PM, Ali felt confident that once the PM heard him out, he would understand the dangers of restricting the ISI from maintaining a line of contact with the Kashmiri resistance groups.

  His game plan for the meeting mapped out, Ali turned his attention to the most recent report from a new Lashkar-e-Taiba source, code named “Highland View/30”. Even with the prohibition against official contact with Kashmiri insurgents, Ali believed the ISI was still in the business of running agents. HV/30 would be Ali’s ace in the hole, providing at least one window into the activities of the LT. The reporting from HV/30 looked very good. This source had indirect access to the top leadership of the LT, and he knew about some of the LT’s activities at an operational level. This penetration was particularly significant since the LT was the largest group of Kashmiri fighters and also the most effective.

  HV/30’s information showed that the LT was continuing to maintain a quiescent posture. There was no indication of plans for renewed attacks in India. Ali knew a serious attack could derail the reinitiated talks between Pakistan and India. Real progress seemed to have been made in the talks, and the LT had even announced it supported the negotiations, so there was reason to be hopeful. Ali, however, was skeptical that the LT was unified in supporting a peaceful compromise with India, since to achieve peace would jeopardize the LT’s power and influence in Kashmir.

  An important dynamic at play within the LT, which complicated assessing the group’s intentions, was that the movement had changed over the years from an armed political resistance movement to an Islamic extremist movement. Its earlier purpose had been to force an Indian withdrawal from Kashmir. The goal now was to expand Islamic rule throughout the region and other areas of the world.

  Ali wished he could discuss the HV/30 case with Tarek. He had received only one communication from Tarek since his departure—an e-mail sent to an ISI front company in Karachi. The text of Tarek’s e-mail was transmitted from the Karachi ISI office via secure communications channels to ISI Headquarters for General Ali’s eyes only. Ambassador Salim knew nothing about this communications channel. The e-mail had been sent while Tarek was in the United Arab Emirates. All appeared to be going well, with Tarek preparing for travel to his final destination, which, although not stated in the e-mail, Ali knew was India.

  Considering Tarek’s tasking to collect data on Farakka Barrage, Ali could understand the IRE’s interest in the dam from a propaganda standpoint, given Bangladesh’s complaints about the diversion of water from its territory. But to tie up the skills of an experienced ISI officer on this effort seemed to be a waste of a valuable resource.

  Glancing at his watch, Ali was surprised to see how late it was. He put his work away in the corner safe and called his driver at the motor pool to take him home. Walking out of the office and down the hall lined with the portraits of past ISI directors whose eyes seemed to stare down on him, Ali felt tired, very tired.

  15

  Tarek awoke from his nap and slowly opened his eyes. The room was quiet; the only sound was the hiss of the chilled air flowing gently into the room. Soft yellow light illuminated the edges of the window curtain, signaling the day was nearly done. He needed to prepare for his dinner engagement with Advani, but he continued to lie in the still room, where nothing moved save the slow rising and falling of his chest.

  The peace and tranquility felt good. Tarek dared to let himself relax in it, putting aside all thought of doing. Such moments were rare for Tarek and were invariably spoiled by the demons that still hounded him. Unclouded and undefended, his mind was at rest, and in that moment of vulnerability, acute feelings of loneliness and sadness came forth in a forceful assault, pouring through him like soldiers through a breech.

  As in previous moments like this Tarek focused quickly, and rapidly suppressed the invaders. But the feelings of doubt and questioning they provoked would remain like smoke hanging over a battlefield for some hours to come.

  Tarek got out of bed and went into the bathroom to take a cold shower, hoping it would somehow break the melancholy that had come over him. He shaved for a second time that day, then put on a dark-blue gabardine suit with an expensive maroon silk tie he had purchased in Bangkok the year before. He picked up his briefcase containing information about the technical training firm he ostensibly represented. Before leaving, he examined himself in the dresser mirror. He certainly looked the part he was about to play. With the anticipation that he was about to go operational, his spirits began to rise. After a final time check, he headed out the door.

  Tarek politely waved off the concierge’s offer to hail a taxi as he exited the hotel lobby. He proceeded a few blocks to a small shop and purchased a local English-language newspaper before walking another two blocks in the direction of a taxi stand. Having seen no evidence that anyone was following him, Tarek approached an air-conditioned taxi with its motor running and got in the back seat.

  “Oberoi Hotel,” Tarek said.

  The taxi zigzagged through the crowded streets, alternating between rapid acceleration and sudden stops, horn honking all the while. Tarek was reminded that some of the most frightening moments of his career had been passed in the back seat of a taxi.

  In less than ten minutes, Tarek was delivered to the main entrance of the Oberoi, having once again cheated death. He entered the elegant lobby and meandered down a wide corridor of small shops. He entered a shop well stocked with piles of colorful carpets and spent 15 minutes with the shop owner, discussing the price of a Tabriz that particularly appealed to him. Tarek had no intention of consummating the deal, but the bargaining allowed him to stage the timing of the last leg of his route check.

  Leaving the carpet shop, Tarek walked to the rear exit of the hotel and headed down the street in the direction of the Rajastan restaurant. One block from the Rajastan, Tarek concluded he was clean, and he proceeded to the Restaurant.

  Tarek approached the Maitre’d and identified himself. The tuxedoed man looked down at his reservation book and studied it for several seconds, his well-oiled hair glistening in the light from the gilded chandelier.

  “Hmmm. I am sorry, Sir, but your table is not quite ready. Perhaps you would like to wait in the bar. It should only be a few minutes more.”

  Looking for alternatives to the bar, Tarek spotted an interior garden area. “No thanks. I’ll wait in the garden. Please let me know when Mr. Advani arrives.”

  Tarek followed a path through the garden’s lush foliage and sat on a bench next to a fountain that gurgled with the sound of water cascading over stones. No one else was in the garden, leaving Tarek to enjoy the green ambiance alone.

  Tarek thought many of the world’s problems resulted from so many people being out of touch with nature, their lives spent in crowded, polluted cities, their days passed in filthy workshops or tiny cubicles. As Tarek reflected on the stresses, difficulties, and dangers of the modern world, he could think of nothing encouraging; the world seemed bent on self-destruction.

  Within a few minutes, the door from the restaurant opened and a small gray-haired man stepped out. The man used a highly polished wooden cane to balance himself as he walked. Tarek stood to greet him. The newcomer’s eyes met Tarek’s and he smiled brightly, “Mr. Durrani, I presume?”

  Tarek returned the smile. “Yes, I am. And you must be Engineer Advani.” Shaking Advani’s outstretched hand, Tarek continued, “It is an hono
r to meet you, Sir. I am very appreciative of your taking the time to see me.”

  “Please, Mr. Durrani, I am just a retired old man,” Advani said, his clear eyes seeming to shine with a bright intelligence. “How could I refuse your kind offer for dinner? You are the one who has traveled some distance to see me, and for this I am grateful of your effort. I hope that after meeting me you will not find it to have been a waste of your time.”

  “I am certain that will not be the case. Please let me apologize that our table is not ready,” Tarek responded.

  “No need to apologize. By the way, when I inquired at the desk, the Maitre’d asked me to convey to you that the table should be ready in a few more minutes. Sometimes the efficiency of our business enterprises here in India is less than it should be, but I can assure that you will not be disappointed with the cuisine here at the Rajastan,” Advani said.

  “If the aromas that keep wafting through the air are any indication, I am certain it will be well worth the wait. Now, would you like to wait here in the garden or do you prefer to go inside? It is a little warm still, and perhaps you would be more comfortable in the air conditioning.”

  “Comfort comes in many forms, Mr. Durrani. I much prefer the garden, if you have no objection,” Advani answered.

  Tarek gestured at the bench. “Of course, please, let’s sit down while we wait.”

  Seated, Advani hooked his cane over the arm of the bench and glanced around at the well-tended garden, nodding approvingly.

  “This is a lovely spot, Mr. Durrani. I’ve dined at the Rajastan many times and noticed it, but I did not realize it was possible to come out and sit. I thought it was just for the patrons to enjoy by looking. It seems so many of things in life are that way now. Only for show, and no touching. I will definitely remember this spot in my future visits.”