North from Calcutta

by Duane Evans

  In an effort to get Tarek to engage in conversation, Meena playfully asked, “Well, tell me Tarek, what are you thinking about? Is it work, or is it a woman?”

  Tarek laughed. “Meena, in the first case, I could not tell you on grounds of national security. In the second case, I would not tell you because you would hound me with questions for the rest of the afternoon.”

  “If you are thinking about work, well frankly, I don’t want to hear about it anyway. But if you are thinking about romance, now that is something worth talking about,” Meena said “And who but me would you discuss such things with?”

  Meena had a point. With the single exception of Habibi, there was no one else, and Habibi was a long way away. Although Tarek would have liked to tell Meena about Sahar, his relationship with her was too complicated to try to explain.

  “Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I was not thinking about a woman,” Tarek lied. “And I was not thinking about work. I was thinking about the great dinner you promised me. Never forget Meena, food is almost always on a man’s mind.”

  This time Meena laughed. “Tarek, do you forget that I am married to Jashem? Believe me, I know about men and food, although I think Jashem is an extreme example.”

  Of that there is no doubt, and in more ways than one, Tarek thought to himself. In his last couple of contacts with Jashem, his brother-in-law seemed even more radicalized in his politics and religion. Tarek could not even hold a conversation with Jashem if it touched on politics, international or domestic, as Jashem would become agitated and almost belligerent in tone. The last time they had talked, Jashem had all but called Tarek a Western lackey and anti-Islamic.

  Tarek had decided that in the future he would not allow himself to be drawn into any political or religious discussions with Jashem. It was obvious Jashem’s mind was closed on both subjects. Tarek found it sad and disappointing that his brother-in-law had become such an ignorant, biased man, and he could not understand how this had occurred. Tarek thought something dangerous was happening to the Muslim psyche. It bothered Tarek that Meena had to live with Jashem and that their children were subject to his influence.

  Despite his misgivings about Jashem, Tarek still managed to enjoy the afternoon leading up to the evening meal. He kicked the football with Hamid and Sarah, then went for a walk with them and Meena through the tree-lined streets, taking in the early evening air. Tarek felt less stressed when they got back, setting the stage for a relaxing dinner. Even Jashem did not seem so bad this particular evening.

  The visit to Meena’s house proved therapeutic for Tarek. For the first time since his return from London, he was able to think of something besides Sahar. As he drove back to his apartment that night, Tarek’s mind had cleared, and he was able to focus. The next day he had to be at his best-he had an agent to meet.

  33

  It was late afternoon when Tarek turned his car onto the road to Wah. Intense sunlight penetrated the windshield as he headed westward out of Islamabad toward the silhouetted hills a few kilometers in the distance.

  Tarek reached into the car console and retrieved a set of dark sunglasses and put them on. The air conditioner was on its highest setting, but the air in the car was still warm and sweat ran down the middle of Tarek’s back as he concentrated on determining if anyone was following him.

  The four-lane highway leading out of Islamabad was crowded. Canvas-covered transport trucks vied for supremacy with colorful but poorly maintained buses packed with passengers. Sprinkled among these vehicles were private cars as well as a few hired cars, many held together by little more than wire and tape.

  The vehicles sped along, their drivers seemingly unaware of the hazards posed by the chaotic mix of rolling metal. The occasional donkey-drawn cart ambled down the road as well, the donkeys appearing more alert to the dangers of the road than their human masters. For Tarek, these driving conditions were unexceptional, no worse than in Khartoum, Cairo, or Jakarta.

  The traffic was at its heaviest in Rawalpindi, but lightened noticeably after Tarek passed through the towns of Golra and Taxila. He was certain enough now that there was no surveillance behind him. Relaxing a bit, he took in the familiar scenery where he had spent so much of his youth.

  A moment of melancholy came upon him as he drove past the sign indicating the turn to Murree. It was the same sign he would anxiously watch for as a child when his father had driven the family to their summer cottage high in the cool mountains.

  The memories of those times were so precious to him that recalling them brought tears to his eyes. Tarek wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and wondered how it was that memories of events so long ago could provoke such powerful emotions. He remembered how, in anticipation of his wedding, he had imagined that he and Farida would have children and he would give them the same happy childhood experiences he had enjoyed, spending idle days in cool mountain forests. How did that dream slip away? he thought.

  He knew the answer . . . love for Farida had never taken root in his heart. Farida had known that too, and she died because of it. Of that, Tarek was certain. Her disease was only the instrument of her death. His unkindness toward her was its cause. And that was the beginning of the end, not only to that dream, but to all of Tarek’s dreams. His work became his life. And all these many years later, he was still working.

  Had he more time, he would have taken that turn off to Murree, to try and find the old cottage, if it even still existed. But to what end? he thought. Would that not be just a futile attempt to somehow recapture a lost past, as much behind him as the landscape passing in his rearview mirror?

  There was no use in trying to reclaim a pleasant past when it just brought on a present pain. Tarek knew he should look to the future, but thoughts of the future did not necessarily come without pain either, particularly when he thought of Sahar and how uncertain he was they would ever be together. Tarek knew Sahar was now the dream, but he recognized only too well that dreams did not always come true.

  The right-front wheel of the Land Cruiser dropped into a deep pothole. The sudden jolt brought Tarek back into full mental focus, forcing the thoughts of his past and future into the far recesses of his mind. Glancing at his watch, he estimated he had less than an hour left in his trip and would arrive in Wah just after sunset, his preferred M.O.

  34

  Exactly one hour later, night had fallen and Tarek was in Wah. The light traffic and poorly lit streets created the ideal operational environment for a clandestine meeting with an agent, and Tarek felt completely at home in it. This was what his profession was all about. It was one of the things that had kept him in the business. There was nothing like working in secret, robbing opponents of the information they wanted to keep hidden. And while it was true that the desire to serve his country had led Tarek to an intelligence career, at some point along the way, it was the work itself that had become the sustaining motivation. The clandestine nature of his profession was to Tarek like nicotine to a heavy smoker, and he had to have his fix.

  As he neared the pick-up point, Tarek adjusted his 9mm H&K to insure its ready access from his ankle holster. Some ISI officers preferred to slip their pistols under a thigh in a car-meeting situation, a technique that had been taught in training, but one Tarek had argued against and thought ludicrous. In the course of his career, he was aware of at least two accidental discharges that had resulted in some very nasty injuries.

  The fact of the matter was that, in case of an ambush, the best chance of survival was to use the car to get out of the kill zone, using it as a weapon if necessary, and to do so as quickly as possible.

  Many of his colleagues, most of whom had never been involved in a gunfight, disagreed with Tarek’s approach to dealing with an ambush, arguing that driving away would be cowardly.

  “Better to use the car as cover and shoot it out,” they said. According to their argument, at least this would show the attackers that Pakistani intelligence officers had courage and were not afraid to engage
with firearms, and this defiance would dissuade future attacks.

  Tarek thought these officers were imagining the excitement a gunfight would afford them, as well as the opportunity to show their courage. Tarek knew something of gun battles, and he knew something of courage. He thought the first was overrated and the second misunderstood. In any case, meetings that were supposed to be discreet but turned into shootouts did not go over well at headquarters.

  Having firmly established that he had not been followed, Tarek entered the final approach to the pick-up point. He turned left onto a two-way street, then right onto a one-way street. Ahead, he spotted a short man holding a large white plastic bag in his left hand, the signal Tarek was looking for.

  Tarek pulled the car up alongside the man, the passenger-side window already rolled down. The man stepped forward and leaned over to look into the vehicle. He was obviously surprised to see Tarek and not the young ISI captain he normally met with.

  “Could you direct me to Malik Street?” Tarek inquired, invoking the parole that had been given to HV/30 by the ISI captain.

  “Yes,” HV/30 responded. “It is the next street past Gol. If you would like, I can show you.”

  The word “Gol”, told Tarek he had the right man.

  “Get in,” Tarek said.

  HV/30 opened the passenger door and got in the car. The interior of the car remained dark as he did so, Tarek having removed the bulb from the ceiling light shortly after renting the car. By the time HV/30 shut the door, the car was half-way down the block and gaining speed.

  “Where is Mr. Chowdhury?” HV/30 asked, using Captain Awal’s operational alias.

  “Mr. Chowdhury sends his regards,” Tarek said. “But unfortunately, due to a family crisis, he cannot meet you, and he asked that I come instead. My name is Rashid. I am a colleague of Chowdhury’s.”

  “Please tell Mr. Chowdhury I will pray for his family. He is a good young man, and I am sorry to hear this bad news.”

  “I will tell him. He says you too are a good man. Someone we can trust. Is that true, Mahmoud? Can I trust you?” Tarek inquired, to see how HV/30 reacted to such a direct question.

  “My friend, I just got in the car of a complete stranger, and you just picked one up,” HV/30 said. “Whether either of us likes it or not, we have already taken a chance on each other. Now you tell me, what other choice do we have but to continue to trust one another if each of us is to get what we want.”

  Tarek turned right on onto a quiet street. “You know what we want—information on the LT,” he said “But what is it you want?”

  “I want these bastard jihadis to quit squandering the help that Pakistan has given them,” HV/30 said, his voice reflecting irritation at being aggressively questioned by a man he had just met. “We have all heard about the break in relations between the LT and ISI, and I thought your people would like to know that all the support you have given to throw India out of Kashmir is being used to finance a rich lifestyle for many in the LT leadership. Also, you should know that once the Indians withdraw from Kashmir, these jihadis will take control and try to establish an Islamic state independent of Pakistan. The last thing I want is for Kashmir to become another Afghanistan, ruled by corrupt men who want total control.”

  HV/30 paused for a moment. “I told Mr. Chowdhury this,” he added, still irritated. “I am surprised that you do not already know it, Mr. Rashid. Don’t you know anything about me?”

  “Yes,” Tarek replied in a gentler tone. “I know everything that you have told Chowdhury. I just like to hear things for myself. Please forgive my directness, but the nature of this business sometimes requires one to act in a way he would not normally act.”

  Tarek’s conciliatory words had a calming effect on HV/30. He turned so he could see Tarek’s face and said, in a less hostile voice, “Yes, I suppose it is a tough business you are in, with no room for sentimentality.”

  Tarek checked the rearview mirror for perhaps the twentieth time and reassured himself that it was only HV/30 that he had picked up. He pulled over at a quiet spot along the street and stopped, putting the car in neutral and leaving the motor running. He set the emergency brake and took his foot off the brake pedal, eliminating the red glow of the brake lights.

  “Any problems getting to Wah?” Tarek asked.

  “No, none.”

  “Does your family know you came here?”

  HV/30 nodded. “I come here every couple of weeks to pick up supplies I can’t get in the village, so my trip here is a routine occurrence.”

  Tarek already knew this from the file, but he wanted to see if HV/30 told him the same story he had told the Captain.

  “Have you seen anyone you know since you arrived in town?”

  HV/30 shook his head. “No, no one.”

  “Good,” Tarek said. “Is anyone expecting to see you tonight?”

  “No,” HV/30 again responded.

  “So we can have a couple of hours together? That is not a problem?”

  “I assure you Mr. Rashid, I am completely free of obligations this evening.”

  Satisfied with HV/30’s answers, Tarek was ready to move from security questions to the more substantive issues on Abu Shafik’s plans and activities. He hoped that in the process he would gain a firmer understanding of HV/30’s motivation as well.

  Releasing the emergency brake, Tarek put the car in gear and drove away from the curb, turning on his lights only after he had gone down the street half a block. He turned left onto a wide road that led north and out of town. As he made the turn, light from the corner street lamp dimly lit HV/30’s face and gave Tarek his first opportunity to get a good look at the man.

  “Did you have an accident?” Tarek asked. HV/30 automatically reached up and touched the bump on his head.

  “Yes, I fell and smacked my head on the door when I was bringing wood into the house. It hurt like hell,” HV/30 said.

  “It looks pretty bad. When did it happen?”

  “Two or three days ago. It doesn’t hurt anymore. Not even a headache.”

  Tarek had no reason to doubt HV/30’s story and did not pursue it any further. He drove out of town for five kilometers, slowed down, and pulled off the road into a large graded parking area at the point where the road narrowed to two lanes. There were at least 20 cars, several heavy transport trucks, and a bus parked in the area in no particular pattern. The drivers and passengers were taking a last break, getting drinks and snacks at several small food stalls prior to continuing the grueling and dangerous journey on the twisting two-lane mountain highway that led to the badlands of the Northwest Frontier Province.

  Tarek did not intend to proceed any further north. To do so risked running into Pak Army road checks manned by trigger-happy conscripts, or worse, being ambushed by bandits. But the parking area provided good cover for being stopped on the road and afforded Tarek the opportunity to have a more extended conversation with HV/30. He found an isolated spot to park in, then turned off the lights and killed the engine.

  “Would you like a Coke?” Tarek asked as he reached into the rear seat and opened a small plastic ice chest.

  “Sure. Thanks,” HV/30 replied.

  Tarek took out two ice-cold bottles of Coke, handing one to HV/30 and opening his own. He took a long drink. HV/30 opened his bottle and followed Tarek’s example. For a moment both men sat silently.

  Tarek half switched on the ignition key and lowered the windows. The air had cooled dramatically from its daytime temperatures, and it gently wafted through the car. Save for a few muffled indistinguishable voices in the distance, the night was quiet.

  Tarek reached into the Land Cruiser’s center console and took out a small metal aviator’s clipboard with a notebook already attached. Setting the clipboard in his lap, he switched on a battery powered light at the top of the clipboard that faintly illuminated the paper pad.

  “Let’s begin,” Tarek said, breaking their silence. “Have you any information concerning Abu Shafik for us?�
��

  “Yes . . . yes, I do, Mr. Rashid. There was a meeting, an important one. Abu Shafik was there, as were his subordinate commanders.”

  Tarek took out his pen and began to make notes. “When was the meeting, and where did it take place?”

  “It happened a few weeks ago near Chitral. I don’t know where exactly.”

  “So you were not at the meeting?” Tarek asked.

  “No, I wasn’t there but my friend Yasin, who I told Mr. Chowdhury about, he reported it to me.”

  “Was Yasin there at the meeting?”

  HV/30 shook his head. “No. He found out about it from Sheik Osman. Osman is one of Abu Shafik’s commanders. I only learned about it from Yasin yesterday when he stopped by.”

  Tarek knew who Sheik Osman was, but he gave no indication of it to HV/30. Tarek still wanted to nail down the source of the information, but he decided to move on with the intelligence debriefing and come back to the sourcing later.

  “What was discussed at the meeting?”

  “Well, Yasin only picked up a few odds and ends. But the main thing he learned was that Abu Shafik is in contact with some Pakistani officials who have promised equipment and weapons for his fighters.”

  “Who were the Pakistanis? Were they military officers?” Tarek asked, careful not to reveal his excitement at learning this bit of information.

  HV/30 shook his head. “Yasin does not know who they were. Sheik Osman did not say.”

  “What kind of weapons and equipment did the officials say they would give, and when did they plan to do it?”

  “Yasin said Sheik Osman mentioned getting new clothing and gear, like backpacks and grenade carriers. The officials said they would also provide 2,000 new AKs and 500 RPG launchers, as well as a lot of ammunition. I don’t know when they will give this equipment to Abu Shafik. Yasin did not find this out.”