by Duane Evans
Recovering from the shock, Ali opened his eyes. Thick gray smoke was choking him. He found himself pushed face down against the passenger’s side of the car. Patches of grass stuck up through the car’s open windows.
Ali slowly turned himself over. A foot above him, the front leg of a horse dangled down from the driver’s side of the car. The blast had severed it whole from the animal and sent it as a projectile penetrating halfway through the side of the car. Warm red blood dripped from the leg onto Ali’s face, the sticky liquid running into his eyes.
Ali began to hear shouting. He could see shadows as people moved about outside the car. He felt himself being lifted through the space where the windshield had been. Several men carried him to a shady spot and laid him down in the grass. Someone poured water over his face and washed the blood from his eyes.
“Sir . . . Sir, are you alright?” one of the men asked.
“I’m not sure,” Ali managed to say.
He slowly moved his arms and legs. Other than some pain in his left shoulder, everything seemed in working order.
“Please, prop me up against the tree so I can see what happened,” Ali asked the men standing over him. They carefully lifted him up and set his back against the smooth trunk of a jackfruit tree, its bark having been blown away by the blast.
Ali surveyed the still smoky scene. The carnage shocked him. A smoldering crater marked the spot where the parked car had been. The truck and horse trailer were an indistinguishable tangle of twisted metal, the proud horses Ali had only moments before admired were now ripped and shredded clumps of entrails, muscle, and tissue. Ragged pieces of horsehide were scattered about, some on fire. The stench of burning hair filled the air.
Cars with flashing red lights raced down the road from the Equestrian Center. One man, holding a cane fishing pole in his hand, knelt down beside Ali and asked, “What happened, Sahib?”
Ali looked up at the man, his eyes filled with anger. “A bomb,” he said. “A bloody car bomb.”
19
It was early afternoon of the day following Tarek’s visit to the Advani residence. Tarek stood staring out of the front window of the hotel lobby waiting for Sahar to pick him up. Since his arrival in India, on two occasions he had gone to an internet café to check his email account for any message from Ali. The most recent check made that morning showed no message had been sent. Tarek was puzzled by Ali’s silence.
As he waited for Sahar, he was angry with himself for having accepted her invitation to tour the National Library. It meant his departure from New Delhi would be delayed by a day. If there had been no flights available he could have rationalized the delay, telling himself that no harm was done, no violation of operational principle committed. But there had been a flight available that morning, had he chosen to take it. Clearly, his decision to stay another day could not be justified by operational reasons. Tarek had to confront the fact that for the first time in his career, he had let something personal unduly influence his work.
It wasn’t that he was concerned his delay actually would jeopardize his mission; it was that he had violated a basic operational principle—when in a hostile operational environment, you do not expose yourself to potential discovery any longer than necessary. It was obvious that no operational benefit could come from spending the afternoon with Sahar. Tarek had gotten what he came for. That morning he had gone to a shop where he had made a copy of the Farakka Barrage material. He had mailed the original and the copy in separate packages by overnight express to two different commercial addresses in the United Arab Emirates provided for him by Habibi. So, his work was done; his only operational purpose for being in India finished.
While he silently chastised himself for his decision to stay, a baby-blue Mercedes 500 pulled up to the hotel. The driver exited the car and came around to open the rear passenger door, but the door opened before he got to it, and Sahar stepped out unaided. She was dressed in a form-fitting white and black business suit, her hair pulled straight back and tied in a neat ponytail. She looked stunning; the sight of her took Tarek’s breath away.
He started toward the hotel entrance, but Sahar had already come inside. When she saw him, a bright smile spread across her face. In Tarek’s mind, it lit up the entire lobby.
“Good Morning, Mr. Durrani. How are you today?” she greeted him.
When Tarek’s eyes met Sahar’s, he felt as if an electric current was surging through his body, a reaction that required all his discipline to conceal.
“I am very well, thank you, Ms. Advani,” he answered, sounding much more composed than he felt. “And you?”
“I am feeling great, as a matter of fact. I woke up this morning very well rested and ready for a new week. I don’t always feel this way on a Monday morning,” Sahar laughed. “Have you had your lunch?”
“Well, I don’t normally eat lunch,” Tarek responded. “I’m an early riser, and I typically take a big breakfast after my morning workout.”
“Oh, you make me feel guilty. I have been trying to get on a schedule of exercising in the morning, but this morning, I must confess, I slept in.”
Tarek smiled. “Don’t feel too guilty. We all sleep in from time to time.”
“I suppose you are right. I hope I will do better tomorrow,” Sahar said, although from the look of his trim physique, she doubted that Tarek missed many workouts.
“Well then, shall we?”
Demonstrating her self-assuredness, it was Sahar who first asked Tarek to call her by her first name. When Tarek agreed, she immediately asked if he minded if she called him by his first name as well—a request Tarek was happy to grant.
As they came to the conclusion of their tour of the library and renovations, Sahar asked, “Would you be interested in touring an art gallery that’s near here? The curator is a friend, and he has offered to open up the gallery for us even though it is normally closed to the public on Mondays. I took the liberty of giving him a call last night on a hunch you would enjoy it.”
Tarek smiled. “Your instinct was a good one. I’d love to see it.”
The gallery featured a collection of 17th century European oil paintings, but Tarek was far more interested in a special showing of exquisitely detailed antique Persian miniature paintings. Tarek appreciated the delicate paintings not only for their beauty and the history they conveyed, but for the artists’ technical expertise in rendering them, often using individual horsehairs for brushes.
While Tarek and Sahar waited for the curator to return from fetching a set of keys to the second floor, Sahar turned from one of the miniature paintings, her eyes shining with delight, and asked, “Have you ever seen such beauty?”
“No. Never,” Tarek answered, his gaze fixed on Sahar.
For a moment Sahar hesitated, continuing to look at Tarek. For the first time that day, she seemed unsure of herself.
The curator broke the moment, beckoning to them from the far end of the room. Sensing her awkwardness, Tarek took the initiative. “Come, let’s not keep our host waiting,” he said, and taking Sahar by the arm, walked her across the broad tiled floor to the stairway where the curator waited.
To be in the company of a beautiful woman was always a treat for Tarek, but he found being with Sahar so much more than that. This woman has me engaged at all levels, Tarek thought to himself.
Despite the challenges Sahar posed for him, Tarek felt at ease with her. His only discomfort came from his awareness of how absolutely taken he was with her, and he feared that would all be too evident. Certainly a woman like Sahar must know the effect and power she had over men. Tarek felt sure he was only the most recent of many men who had been captivated by her. Yet for all her charms, she seemed completely genuine, which made her all the more remarkable in Tarek’s eyes.
Throughout the rest of the afternoon, both Tarek and Sahar felt a subtle change had taken place in their relationship. For Sahar, Tarek was a puzzle, so different from most men, who were, in her experience, all too obvious. Ta
rek revealed little about himself. She knew almost nothing about him. He had told her he was originally from Pakistan, and after university study in London he had spent most of his time working for engineering firms around the Middle East.
Despite how little he had revealed of his background, Tarek seemed open and genuine, and there was an air of gentleness about him that Sahar found attractive. Tarek’s reticence to talk about himself was a trait she had not found in other men, who always appeared so eager to impress her, so busy telling her the stories of their accomplishments, leaving her little opportunity to speak. With Tarek, the opposite was true.
On the drive back to his hotel Tarek asked her, “May I take you to an early dinner? It is the least I can do to repay you for the time you have spent with me.”
“If you insist,” Sahar teased him, “but not at your hotel. Let me suggest instead a restaurant where we will enjoy more authentic Indian cuisine.”
Tarek agreed readily. He really did not care where they dined. He only wanted to prolong his time with Sahar.
The restaurant she suggested was the kind of out-of-the-way establishment only a local would know about. The food was delicious, while the intimate, comfortable ambiance only added to his pleasure in being with Sahar.
They left the restaurant after a long and enjoyable dinner, and Sahar directed her chauffeur to take them to Tarek’s hotel. Upon arriving, Sahar exited the car with Tarek to say goodbye. As they stood together on the sidewalk, neither knew what to say. She asked if he had plans to return to India, but a vague, “Perhaps,” was all Tarek could answer.
“Well, then,” Sahar said with a confident smile, “perhaps I might visit Dubai for some shopping, and we could see each other there.”
“Yes, that would be wonderful,” Tarek said, without the slightest idea how he could handle a visit by her to Dubai, given his life in the UAE was entirely fictional. “You’ve got my e-mail address. Let me know how your shopping plans develop.”
He took Sahar’s hand in his. “I really have enjoyed getting to know you, Sahar. I do hope to see you again.”
To his delight, Sahar smiled and placed her other hand on his, “I am glad you feel this way, Tarek. It is the same way I feel. We will be in touch.” Then with a warm squeeze of his hand she said, “Until we meet again, Tarek.”
Before he could respond she quickly turned from him and got back into the car, pausing to wave as the car began to move. Tarek watched as the car pulled away from the hotel. When it was out of sight, he turned and walked into the hotel, elated and more confused than he had ever felt in his life.
20
Dressed in loose Punjabi pants and a banded-collar shirt, Abdul Salim sat comfortably on a prayer rug atop the flat roof of his home in Islamabad. A Qur’an lay open in his lap as he read his favorite verses aloud. It was late in the afternoon on Monday, and the heat of the day had ebbed. The streets of the affluent residential area below were quiet, with only an occasional sound of a bird or distant passing car making an intrusion into Salim’s solemn reverie.
Beside him sat a battery powered International Maritime Satellite Telephone. His was a compact portable model, the size of a small laptop computer, known as the “Mini-M.” It had a detachable flat panel antenna that could be used remotely to gain better line of sight to the corresponding satellite. Salim had positioned the antenna a few feet from where he sat, on an azimuth of 240 degrees.
The INMARSAT was a near perfect communications system for Salim. Reliable and simple to operate, he could call any telephone number in the world without requiring the assistance of an aide or operator.
He closed the Qur’an and gently set it aside. Looking at his watch, he noted it was time to call General Huq who was inspecting troops near the Line of Control between Pakistan and India. Salim was looking forward to talking to Huq; he had good news for him. Salim punched in the number and slowly paced around the roof as Huq’s own satellite phone rang. On the fifth ring, Huq answered.
“Yes, Esfahani,” Huq said, employing the alias Salim used when speaking over the Mini-M. “How is the view today?” Huq asked, knowing that Salim was probably sitting atop his roof.
“The view is wonderful, praise be to Allah, and so is the news!” Salim responded, his voice filled with enthusiasm. “We are well positioned to work with the Kashmiri firm.”
“So the counter-proposal we learned about failed to change any minds?” Huq asked.
“The proposal was never delivered. The representative was delayed by an unfortunate accident,” Salim said.
“How fortunate for us. So how did the second meeting with the Kashmiri firm come out?” Huq asked, knowing that the “Kashmiri firm” mentioned by Salim referred to the representatives of the Lashkar-e-Taiba.
“Oh, very well. All is according to plan, and I believe they are beginning to trust us. And on your side? How are your sons?” Salim asked.
“They are in good spirits—fit and ready,” Huq answered, referring to the troops he had spent the last week inspecting. “I am indeed proud to be their father,” he added with a laugh.
“Other than the love of Allah, a man can have no greater love than for his sons,” Salim said, and then quickly added in a rare attempt at humor, “And you have so many of them.”
Huq again laughed. “Yes, my seeds all appear to have landed on fertile ground.”
“Well, my friend, I await your return. Our enterprise is taking shape, and we and our partners have much to discuss. Call me upon your arrival. May Allah guide your steps, Khoda hafez.”
As the sun dipped behind the western horizon, the call for prayer from the local minaret blared out across the darkening sky. Salim returned to his prayer rug. Turning toward Mecca, he knelt, touched his forehead to the rug and began to pray.
21
Tarek learned of the attack against General Ali within half an hour of his return to Islamabad. The news shocked him and made him feel even guiltier about staying an extra day in Delhi to spend time with Sahar.
Upon learning the news, Tarek went to see Ali at his home, where he was still recovering. His most serious injury was a severely bruised shoulder. The driver of the truck pulling the horse trailer had not fared as well; he had died at the scene along with the six horses he had been transporting.
Ali quickly brought Tarek up to speed on developments since the bombing. A major investigation was underway, but few clues had been found. The car used in the bombing had been stolen the night before the attack. Based on the size of the crater it left, the car had been packed with up to 150 kilograms of dynamite, which was determined to have been stolen from a demolitions supply warehouse the year before. The explosion had been activated by command-detonation from a radio signal. It was not a particularly sophisticated device, considering the state of the art in car bombs, except for one thing: a tracking beacon had been found on Ali’s car.
As far as Tarek knew, this was the first time a beacon had been used in an attack within Pakistan. Ali confirmed this was the case and elaborated further. “It was a commercial system that can be purchased by anyone for around $500 dollars, and it works anywhere cell phones work, since it communicates using the same cell-tower grid system.”
“Interesting,” Tarek said. “So whoever was behind this did not have to be on site to know you were in the kill zone. They only had to know where you were going and the route you were taking.”
Ali nodded. “That’s correct. They did not have to be at the kill zone ahead of me or to even follow me there. They could simply monitor my movements from a remote location through the beacon, which reports geocoords every 5 seconds. And when my geocoords matched those of the parked car—boom. No more General Ali to worry about.”
Tarek thought for a moment. “You know, Sir, it is probably a good thing they used a beacon.”
“How so?” Ali asked.
“Well, if they hadn’t, you may well be dead right now.”
Ali looked quizzically at Tarek.
“Sir, th
ey did not have eyes on target. That’s why they went ahead and detonated the bomb, even though there was a truck and trailer loaded with horses between you and the car. The bomber did not know they were in the way because he could not see them. Had he known about the truck and trailer, he would have either let the truck and trailer pass, or waited until your return trip.”
“It is doubtful I would have been so fortunate as to have another truck get in the way the second time around,” Ali said, a sober look on his face.
“Allah was looking out for you on that day, protecting you from someone intent on doing you harm. The question is who?”
“A dozen theories are being bantered about. The one with the most currency right now is that the Indians did it. No surprise there, I suppose, although you and I both know that is nonsense.”
“No, I can’t imagine RAW being behind this. They have done some stupid things, but this—no way. What about al-Qa’ida? They managed to kill our president. What’s to stop them from going after you? After all, under your orders, ISI has been putting them under tremendous pressure and has killed more of them and their allies than anyone, even the Americans.”
“They certainly can’t be ruled out, but I don’t think their intel is that good. Whoever is behind this has to be inside the government and is probably very senior. They had to know I was going to the Equestrian Center that day to meet the prime minister. There were only a handful of people who knew that, and they all have been interviewed and have denied any involvement in the attack.”
“So, who do you think is behind it? The IRE?” Tarek said.
“Yes, almost certainly someone within the IRE. Or one of its fellow travelers. They are the only ones I can think of that would not want me to make the meeting with the PM. General Huq in particular comes to mind, or someone close to him. The trouble is, we will never be able to pin this on them. Whoever did this has covered his tracks well, and besides, there is such divisiveness in the government right now, the PM has no stomach for finding out the truth.”