by Duane Evans
It was after the meal, as the two men sat comfortably in the living room sipping tea and listening to Arabian music, that Tarek told Habibi about Sahar.
Habibi said little but simply nodded as Tarek described the day he had spent with her and the effect she had on him. Tarek had never actually mentioned that his trip had been to India, but the fact that he identified Sahar as Indian suggested this possibility to Habibi. As Tarek concluded what had become a monologue, he looked up at Habibi, and with a slight smile on his face asked, “My friend, am I a fool or what?”
Habibi returned the smile. “Perhaps you are, and your feelings for her are purely hormone-based. She sounds absolutely lovely, so it would be expected you would be strongly attracted to such a woman. But I suspect you’ve had your fair share of experiences with attractive women; in fact, I suspect more than your fair share, you rascal,” Habibi laughed. “But Tarek, think about it. You have hardly ever mentioned any woman to me, much less spoken at such length about one. This indicates to me this woman is truly special.” Habibi made eye contact with Tarek and added, “Yes, perhaps you are a fool—or perhaps you have found the love of your life.”
Habibi was the only Muslim male Tarek knew who would ever make such a statement. Culturally it was difficult, almost impossible, for a Muslim to speak openly about a man’s relationship with a woman. Even in Western countries, Tarek had noted that, when speaking of relationships with women, men were superficial in their comments and certainly never spoke of love.
Tarek shook his head. “I suppose I just never expected this. I’ve spent most of my life alone. My God, Habibi, I’m at a stage in life where this is not supposed to happen. After all, I’m not a 25-year-old, not even close.”
Habibi studied Tarek. “What is the problem?” he asked finally. “You’ve fallen for a beautiful, educated woman, and it sounds as if she may have similar feelings for you.”
Tarek laughed. “Think about it, Habibi. Sahar, the possible love of my life’ as you so quaintly put it, doesn’t even know who or what I am. Not to mention she is an Indian, a Hindu at that, and I a Pakistani Muslim.”
Habibi raised his bushy eyebrows, “Hmm… I see what you mean,” he said. “The good news is that I doubt what Sahar sees in you has anything to do with your religion, nationality, or your occupation. I suspect she sees you as a man whom she finds intelligent, attractive, and desirable. Everything else is secondary.”
Tarek had to laugh. “Habibi, I can always count on you to be the optimist. I hope you are right, but it still does not change the facts. Sahar doesn’t know who I am and, if I am to have any future with her, she must know the truth at some point.”
Hearing Tarek speak of a future with Sahar confirmed what he had suspected: Tarek was in love.
“Tarek, my advice to you is to go home and get back to your routine, think this thing through and let your emotions settle. Every difficult situation has a solution. You just have to find it. Remember, Allah is compassionate and he wants happiness for all his children. If it is his will, he will open the way for you.”
Tarek had taken Habibi’s advice to heart and returned to Islamabad, hoping to let his feelings settle. He actually hoped that he would awake one morning not thinking of Sahar. He might as well have hoped the sun would not rise.
25
The Farakka Barrage mission was completed and behind him, but Tarek still carried the emotional residue from the time he had spent with Sahar. An intense desire to see her again drove him to send an e-mail inviting Sahar to come to Dubai as his guest. Habibi had already promised the use of an apartment, which he could present as his own residence.
As it turned out, the ruse with the apartment was unnecessary. Sahar responded to Tarek’s e-mail with a counter-invitation asking Tarek to join her in London, where she would be attending a business conference.
Tarek was ecstatic with her proposal. It made things for him much simpler, but even more thrilling, it made clear to him that Sahar was interested in seeing him again.
Still, Tarek knew that sooner or later he would have to deal with the problem of the deception through which he had met her. He didn’t want to lie any longer, but he had yet to devise a plan for telling her the truth. He feared doing so now would risk losing her forever. And who would blame her if she turned her back on him?
As he saw it, his only hope was to spend more time with Sahar, time for their relationship to deepen and reach the point where she would fully trust him and want to be with him no matter what secrets he revealed. The planned rendezvous in London provided that possibility.
Before that could happen, however, it was necessary for him to secure approval to take leave that included travel to the UK To that end, he was scheduled to see Admiral Nurullah in just a few minutes, and he was still deliberating what reason he could give for wanting to take the trip.
As he walked from his car to the office building for his meeting, he carefully avoided stepping in the puddles of rainwater that had gathered from the previous evening’s downpour. It had been the first rain Islamabad had seen for some time, and it had cleansed the air, leaving the morning sky exceptionally clear.
The fresh, cool air sparked his imagination. He pretended, if only for a moment, that he was breathing the mountain air of Nepal, and Sahar was by his side, trekking through the lower elevations of the Himalayas, the snowcapped peaks of the Annapurna towering above them. What a wonderful image, Tarek thought. Perhaps one day he would make his dream a reality.
Thoughts of Sahar and the Annapurna faded as Tarek arrived at the admiral’s office. Greeting Tarek with a smile and a warm handshake, the admiral called to his office assistant, “Tea and biscuits, please.” Returning to Tarek, he said, “Please Major Durrani, come in, come in.”
As the two men sat down on adjacent chairs, the Admiral inquired, “And how was your weekend, Major? Pleasant, I hope?”
“Indeed it was, Sir. I spent both Saturday and Sunday with my sister and her family, which was a pleasure for me. It was the first time I had been able to visit them since my return from India.”
Speaking in such favorable terms about his visit with Meena, Tarek ignored the fact that Jashem had used every opportunity he could to talk about Islam and the necessity that the government of Pakistan become purely Islamic in character and action. In Tarek’s view, Jashem’s behavior showed all the characteristics of a new convert—insistent, domineering, and uncompromising in his position—the kind of person Tarek thought of as truly dangerous. He had to wonder just how many others like Jashem there were in the Pakistani government.
Nurullah nodded, “Time with family is time well-spent. It seems these days none of us gets to spend as much time with our families and friends as we would like,” he said, going on to describe the weekend he had just spent with his wife, their children, and grandchildren. Listening to the Admiral, Tarek realized he was seeing a side of the man he had not seen before, and he liked him better for it.
After tea was served, Admiral Nurullah told Tarek how pleased he was with the results of Tarek’s mission to India, saying, “We could not have done it without you, and for that Ambassador Salim and I are most grateful.”
He offered a second sugar biscuit, which Tarek declined.
“Of course we do not expect this to result in the closure of the dam,” the Admiral went on in a more serious tone, “and frankly we do not care about that. What this campaign will do is portray India for what it is—an arrogant country that has no respect for its neighbors or international law. Through this portrayal, we will link India’s hegemonic practices to its unlawful occupation of Kashmir.”
So this is what propaganda is, Tarek thought as Admiral Nurullah laid out the campaign strategy. Nothing more than an adult version of a rumor campaign carried out between playground rivals. Tarek was glad his part in it was finished.
Admiral Nurullah continued, “Major, your efforts on the IRE’s behalf are particularly noteworthy as the IRE is not your professional home. I k
now it was a sacrifice for you to be recalled from your posting abroad, although frankly, that decision was not ours but the ISI’s. Let me assure you, however, that we are glad you were the officer selected. You have been remarkably efficient in accomplishing your assignment.”
“This is what I do for a living, Sir.”
The Admiral smiled. “And we are so fortunate to have men such as yourself that we can call on from time to time. Ambassador Salim and I understand, however, that the ISI has its own important work to do and, with the completion of your mission, it would be wrong for us to delay your return to your organization. So Major, I suspect you will be pleased to learn that as of today, your deputation to the IRE is formally ended. Late last evening, Ambassador Salim signed the order releasing you from the IRE back to ISI.”
It was all Tarek could do to keep from smiling. He had hoped that he would be released from IRE service, but he had not suspected it would occur so quickly. Best of all, there was now no reason to discuss his leave plans with the admiral, although he would still need to raise that issue with General Ali.
Tarek thanked the admiral for the news, and their business concluded, both men rose from their seats and shook hands. The admiral said, “Ambassador Salim was most impressed with you, Major. He has written a memo to this effect and is sending it to your superiors.”
“Please thank the ambassador for his kind gesture,” Tarek responded.
As Tarek made his exit, Admiral Nurullah laid his hand on his shoulder and said, “Please stop by and see us from time to time, Major. You are always welcome here.”
“Thank you, Sir. I will do so,” Tarek answered out of courtesy. Both men knew he would not be back.
Tarek picked up the few things he had in his office and left the IRE building for the last time, he hoped. Small thermals of steam rose off the black pavement as he crossed the parking lot. The rising temperatures of the morning made it hard for Tarek to again imagine himself and Sahar walking through the cool mountain air of Nepal, so he dismissed Nepal from his mind and thought only of Sahar.
26
General Ali did not know whether he should be happy or disappointed by Ambassador Salim’s decision to release Tarek from further duties. Tarek was Ali’s only reliable source of information on the IRE. Not knowing what was happening inside that organization made him feel very uneasy.
On the other hand, Tarek’s return to the ISI was something of a godsend. Two days before, the ISI captain who had recruited HV/30 had been seriously injured in a car accident. He was out of action for the foreseeable future.
Ali was not about to have the Highland View/30 case picked up by just anyone; it was simply too important. With his return to the ISI, Tarek was the ideal choice to run the case. As Ali expected, Tarek readily accepted the assignment, but to Ali’s surprise, he requested permission to first take a week’s leave so he could travel to London. Tarek had said he wanted to visit an elderly uncle, his father’s last living brother.
As the next scheduled meeting with HV/30 was three weeks away, General Ali approved Tarek’s request. And why not, he thought. The man had not taken a day of leave in over two years and who knew how much time was left for him to see his uncle?
In fact, Tarek did have an uncle in London, whom he had for some time wanted to visit, but his assignment to the IRE and his trip to India had prevented him from doing so. The delay now worked to his favor, providing him a perfect cover story, with no need to mention Sahar.
With his leave permission secured, Tarek quickly made his travel arrangements. Two days later he was on a British Air flight bound for London.
27
The man who climbed down from the top of the dust-covered bus was indistinguishable from the dozens of others around him. Dressed in simple garb with sandals on his feet and a brown skullcap on his head, he easily could have been one of the local villagers returning home from a week spent working in one of the larger towns in the region. No one would have suspected him to be Sheik Osman, the most able combat commander of the LT.
Glancing around as the bus pulled away, he quickly spotted what he was looking for. Just down the narrow street, a faded red rooster carved from wood stood out from the corrugated tin roofs of the small shops and tea houses. Sheik Osman had been riding on top of the bus for more than six hours. He was exhausted. The thought of a hot cup of tea and a good night’s rest brought a smile to his lips. Hefting a leather satchel over his shoulder, he walked down the street and entered the Red Rooster tea house. He dropped his satchel on the floor as he sat down at a corner table, his back to the wall.
“Sir, what may I bring you?” asked the young waiter.
“Chai,” he responded. “And fresh naan as well.”
When the waiter returned with his order, Sheik Osman lifted the cup to his lips and slowly sipped the steaming tea, savoring its flavor and invigorating warmth. Only after the cup was empty did he reach into the breadbasket, take out a piece of naan and down it voraciously.
Sheik Osman’s bus had broken down twice on the trip from the Northwest Frontier Province. Now he was behind schedule and worried that his contact might have given up on him. When the waiter came to pour him a second cup of tea, Osman said, “I am seeking the Little Grey One. Has he been to the shop today?”
The waiter nodded. “Yes, Sir. Mr. Mahmoud was here earlier. He left but said he would return before dark.”
Relieved, Sheik Osman began to slowly sip his second cup of tea, settling himself more comfortably into the cushioned seat of the cane chair.
The effects of his tiring journey took over, and Osman began to nod off to sleep. Seconds after his eyes closed the battered door of the shop silently opened, and a short man with white hair and white beard stepped inside. He spotted Sheik Osman sitting in the corner and walked over to him.
“Brother!” he exclaimed.
Startled, Osman sprang from his seat and grabbed the little man, throwing him to the concrete floor, his head striking it with a dull thud.
“Brother, it is me—Mahmoud,” the man cried out.
Realizing his mistake, Sheik Osman helped Mahmoud to his feet. A large blue welt had already formed above his left eye.
Staring coldly into Mahmoud’s eyes, Osman said in an icy voice, “Never surprise me again, you jackass.”
Mahmoud quickly apologized. “I am sorry. I thought you saw me come in. I did not mean to surprise you.”
His better humor returning, Osman smiled. “I am like a horse; I can sleep even when I am standing,” he said. “And as you have learned, I can kick as well. Now, let us go. I have been here too long.”
“At once, Brother. My car is outside.”
Mahmoud reached down to pick up Sheik Osman’s satchel, but Osman pushed his arm away. “I’ve got it,” he said slinging it over his shoulder. “Now let’s go.”
He followed Mahmoud out of the teahouse and down the street a short distance.
“That’s it,” Mahmoud said pointing to a white Toyota. “You can put your bag in the back if you like.”
“It’s fine here,” Osman said as he settled into the front seat and placed the satchel on the floorboard squarely between his legs.
“How far to your place?”
“It’s close, not more than an hour from here.”
Sheik Osman looked out through the cracked windshield and saw the afternoon light quickly turning to twilight as the sun sank behind the mountain that overlooked the village.
“Good,” Sheik Osman said. “It will be dark when we arrive. That is always better. Less chance of a nosy neighbor getting a look at the arrival of guests next door.”
Mahmoud nudged the Toyota into the steady stream of motor scooters, bicycles, and automobiles moving down the narrow street. “This is true, Brother, but this house has the added benefit of being secluded away from any other house. So you do not have to concern yourself that we will have unwanted visitors. It is much better than the place I had when you last stayed with us.”
; “I’m glad to hear this,” Sheik Osman said. “I wasn’t comfortable there. Too many people always walking by. Not good for security, Mahmoud.”
“Yes, yes, Brother, I know. That is why I moved.”
“And how is your family? Are they with you at your new place?”
Mahmoud unconsciously flinched at the question.
“All are with me but Soriya, my oldest,” he responded.
“Where has she gone?” Sheik Osman asked, turning his head toward Mahmoud.
Mahmoud tensed, looked out the corner of his eye at Osman, and said as evenly as possible, “She is working for a family in another village.” Then he quickly asked, “And your family, I pray they are well?”
“Yes, the news from them is good, praise Allah. I hope to arrange to see them in a few weeks. But only Allah knows if this will come to pass. They are still being watched by security, so I have to be very careful in meeting with them.”
“Yes, of course,” Mahmoud responded.
At last they were clear of the village, the car picking up speed as it moved down the gravel road and through the darkening river valley. Sheik Osman’s eyes grew heavy as the motor droned steadily on.
“Wake me when we arrive,” Osman commanded. He shut his eyes and settled down into the seat.
“Of course, my brother. Rest easy. We will be there soon.”
28
Tarek stood near the doorway where the international passengers exited the customs area at Heathrow’s Terminal Four, his dark eyes searching for any sign of Sahar. As he waited, his mind began to fill with doubts. Maybe she is not what I remember at all, he thought despondently. Maybe I have lost my mind and should never have agreed to see her.
The area filled with more and more people exiting customs as waiting relatives and friends searched for familiar faces. Tarek found himself pushed about by the milling crowd.