North from Calcutta

by Duane Evans

  HV/30 had not learned the timing of the team’s mission, only that the men would receive training shortly. The mission would quickly follow the training, Tarek thought. HV/30 had also not learned anything concrete on the involvement of Pakistani officials with Abu Shafik, but he did hear Sheik Osman tell the men that the “equipment package” would come from the “uniforms.”

  Tarek shook off his sleepiness as he drove through the night. He would have to get word to General Ali to keep him informed of developments. With the general now in Washington, doing so securely wouldn’t be easy.

  An even more difficult problem was how to obtain additional details about the LT operation. Once Sheik Osman and his team departed for India, HV/30 would be left behind and Tarek would have no means of keeping tabs on the group’s activities. This was the most serious operational problem Tarek faced. An attack by the LT in India would undoubtedly lead to a cancellation of the negotiations going on between India and Pakistan. If Pakistan were directly implicated in supporting the mission, the consequences would be far, far worse. It could mean war.

  After what seemed like an eternity of driving, Tarek could see the dim glow of the lights of Islamabad in the distance. Approaching the city, he had an idea on how to deal with HV/30’s impending loss of access to the team. Though the plan was relatively simple, he would have to call in some favors to pull it off. Tarek knew he had no alternative. When the LT team left for its mission, HV/30 would have to go with them.

  42

  At a remote airstrip in southeastern Pakistan, a steel aircraft hanger sat baking in the sun. Long streaks of rust ran down its sides and the once-black tarmac had long since faded to gray, its surface broken and cracked, covered in places by patches of weeds. Inside, the hanger was empty save for a coffin-sized wooden shipping crate.

  Two soldiers wearing the distinctive camouflage fatigues of the Special Security Group were positioned just inside the open hanger door, taking advantage of the protective shade it afforded. Around the airstrip, hidden in the dense vegetation, a full SSG platoon provided perimeter security and in the distance, the whop-whop sound of a helicopter grew louder by the second.

  As the helicopter came into view, the two soldiers stepped out from the hanger into the sun. One soldier carried two white flags on wooden handles, one in each hand. He walked away from the hanger, facing the helicopter fast approaching from the north, and raised his arms, crossing them in an ‘X’ pattern. The other soldier knelt down in a position off to the side, watching as the green transport chopper slowed its forward speed and began its descent to the steaming tarmac.

  Touching down, the helicopter rolled forward on its wheeled triad, stopping 50 meters from where the soldier with the flags stood leaning forward into the rotor blast. In well-practiced movements, the helicopter crew chief opened the door behind the pilot compartment, and one by one, 10 men, each carrying backpacks, exited the aircraft, heads bent low as the aircraft’s powerful rotors cut through the air above them.

  Two of the passengers wore Pak Army uniforms. The rest wore civilian clothing, but uniforms nonetheless—black tennis shoes, dark polyester slacks, and white cotton shirts. Most appeared to be in their 30s, except one who looked a decade older. All were dark-skinned and bearded.

  As soon as the men were clear of the rotors, the aircraft engines revved and the bird was once again airborne, rising slowly and turning back toward the north. None in the group bothered to look back at the helicopter as it disappeared into the cloudless sky.

  The senior Pak soldier with the group wore the rank of full colonel, but that was all his uniform said about him. He wore no unit patch, no branch of service insignia, and no name tag. The second uniformed member of the group was a young well-muscled captain. Aside from his rank, his uniform bore no other identifiers.

  The colonel led the group into the open bay of the hanger, telling them to wait as he walked over to the soldiers who had been guarding the hangar, and who were once again inside its bay. He conferred with the senior of the two. The soldier, a tough-looking sergeant, reported to the colonel that there had been no visitors since the colonel had been there the day before. Satisfied, the colonel returned to the waiting group, then led them to the back of the hanger where the crate sat on the cool concrete floor.

  “This is it. It is all here. I inspected it myself when we prepared it for transport,” the colonel said.

  The captain tapped two of the men on the shoulder and handed them a sack of tools he pulled from his rucksack. “Your first test is to see if you can get this thing opened,” he told them.

  The men glanced at each other and approached the crate warily.

  “Why are you afraid? It isn’t going to bite you,” the captain scolded.

  The men set to work opening the crate, first using cable cutters to remove the six thin steel bands, three running horizontally and three running vertically, around the crate. Using crowbars, they pried the top off, surprised to find yet another smaller but similarly bound crate inside. The man with the cable cutters stepped forward to cut its steel bands, but the colonel stopped him. He reached into a side pocket on his backpack and took out a small electronic meter with a single probe hanging from it. Setting the meter on top of the inner crate, he pulled a multi-tool knife from his belt and opened out a short Phillips-head screwdriver, which he used to remove a screw located in top center of the crate.

  The colonel closed the knife, put it back on his belt, and turned his attention to the electronic meter. He flipped its power switch, then took the metal-tipped end of the probe, pushing it deep into the hole where the screw had been. A small light on the face of the meter begin to glow green. The indicator needle of the meter moved to the positive position while a digital display registered the number 50.

  “Excellent,” the colonel said. “The electronic seal has not been disturbed.” He nodded for the man with the cable cutters to proceed.

  The team soon pried loose the top of the inner crate. A plastic-coated wire was attached to the underside of the crate’s top, at the point where the colonel had inserted the lead wire, and this was hampering the effort to completely remove the top.

  “Cut the wire,” the captain ordered. Once that was done, the top easily lifted off.

  Looking down into the crate, the men could see the top of a steel object, but the view was impeded by dense black-colored rubber packing material that encased the object on all sides.

  Although it would have been easier to remove the object by breaking up the crates, the colonel wanted to preserve them intact.

  “You are going to have to lift it out,” the colonel said. “It’s heavy. I suggest four of you position yourselves on each side of the crate and lift it out of the box in a team effort.”

  The men did as the colonel suggested and were able to lift the object out of the box, setting it gently on the hanger floor. The captain stepped forward and pulled off the rubber packing material to reveal a black steel canister a little less than a meter in height and 60 centimeters in radius. Its appearance resembled an old-fashioned milk can.

  Upon close inspection, they could see that the device was divided into two parts, an upper and lower casing. The fit between the two halves was so precise, it could have been mistaken for a solid object but for four internal locking ports that were evenly spaced around the equator of the device on slightly raised areas.

  Intrigued, one of the civilians squatted down next to the canister and ran his hands along the smooth surface.

  “It’s beautiful isn’t it?” the colonel asked.

  “Yes,” replied the man. “You can tell the steel is of extremely high quality and much time went into making this.”

  The colonel chuckled. “Believe me, Brother, you have no idea.”

  Another one of the civilians took a closer look. “I don’t see any kind of controls. How does it work?”

  “A good observation,” the colonel said. “Here, you two help me lay it on its side.”

  Tw
o men stepped forward to assist the colonel. Oblong in shape, the canister was stabilized on its side by the raised internal locking ports, two of which at any point prevented it from rolling.

  The colonel knelt down beside the canister, pointing to the end that served as the base of the device when it was standing upright.

  “If you look here, you will see there is a recessed area. This is where the control panel is plugged in and the device can be programmed. You have a choice of setting it for use with a timer, remote control, or manually; the latter option is reserved for emergency situations only.”

  “So that is all there is to it?” asked one of the men. “Just plug in the control panel, set it, and it is prepared?”

  “Not quite,” the captain answered. “The sequence is like this. First the control panel is inserted and a security code is punched in. This code opens the four locking ports. Second, the two halves are separated and a special barrier in the center of the device is removed. Then the two halves are reattached and locked using the control panel. Finally, the device is programmed for operation. When these steps occur will be dictated by the operational situation at the time.”

  “Will all of us be trained on this?” asked another member of the team.

  “Of course,” answered the captain. “Before you leave here, every one of you will know this process so well you will be able to do it in the dark, which, I suspect, will be the exact conditions you will operating under when you put this into action.”

  At that point, the older-looking civilian spoke for the first time since the group’s arrival at the airstrip.

  “Brothers, conditions on the ground can never be fully predicted. All of you must know how to activate the device. We will only have one chance. We must get it right. Your job over the next two days is to learn how to operate this device properly. And then you must remember what you learned when you return home from here and we wait for our transportation arrangements to be finalized. Do you understand?”

  The men responded in unison, their voices rising. “Yes, Sheik Osman! Allah akbar!”

  The colonel was startled by the loud response, but quickly recovered. “Alright then,” he said. “We don’t have much time. Let us begin.”

  43

  It was almost eight o’clock in the evening in Abu Dhabi, and Habibi was ready to go home. His day had started early, and he had not even had time to take lunch. Now here it was an hour past the time he had told his wife he would be home. She would be angry, but she would forgive him—he hoped.

  Just as he stood up from his desk, the office phone rang. Picking up the receiver, he noticed the call was on his personal line. He braced himself, anticipating an angry blast from his wife. To his surprise, he recognized the voice asking for Mr. Harun Habibi. It was Tarek.

  Habibi had not forgotten the rules of telephonic contacts and responded using Tarek’s operational alias. “Yes, Mr. Rashid, this is Habibi. It is so good to hear from you.”

  “I wanted to touch base with you about our next transaction.”

  “Of course, Mr. Rashid. As I told you previously, my company stands ready to assist you at any time. What can I help you with this time?” Habibi asked.

  “I would like for you to duplicate my last order as I have a similar requirement as before. Can you support this?”

  “Certainly. What is the anticipated delivery date?”

  “In about three weeks time, but I will provide a more precise date in the next few days.”

  “That should not be a problem. I will personally oversee the necessary preparations.”

  “Excellent. By the way, there is another thing too. I may need your assistance in assessing a project I am considering. Would you be available for travel in the next few weeks?” Tarek asked.

  “Mr. Rashid, I am an international businessman. Of course I can travel if the deal is right.”

  Tarek chuckled, “That’s what I assumed. I will be discussing this with you in future correspondence, as soon as I have a few more details in hand.”

  “I look forward to hearing from you.”

  “Very well. I’ll be in touch. Good night, Mr. Habibi.” Tarek hung up the phone.

  Habibi was delighted to have heard from Tarek. It was a rare event when Tarek used the phone to make contact, but Habibi knew he would not have done so if it had not been necessary, and he would have taken all the necessary precautions beforehand.

  Habibi guessed Tarek was headed back to see Sahar, for it was obvious on Tarek’s last trip through Abu Dhabi that he was in love with her. As to Tarek’s remark about Habibi possibly making a trip, he had no clue what that was about. Even so, he was ready to go anywhere Tarek needed him.

  44

  As Tarek walked away from the International Telephone Exchange office in a poor section of Rawalpindi, he imagined the thoughts that must be running through Habibi’s mind. Undoubtedly his call had raised Habibi’s curiosity.

  Things were moving quickly. Tarek was already making plans for his trip to see Sahar to attend the ceremony at Farakka Barrage. It now appeared likely that he would be in India at the same time as the LT team.

  The situation presented an opportunity to monitor the team’s activities, but Tarek needed help to do it. Habibi had helped Tarek before with such matters, particularly in Algeria. Tarek would have to rely on him once again, this time to help uncover and, if possible, stop the LT plot in India.

  In Sahar’s last e-mail, she had asked if Tarek knew any businessmen in the UAE who would consider investing in infrastructure projects in West Bengal. She had suggested he could invite them to the ceremony, which was to include a tour of the area, organized by the West Bengal government, to promote trade and investment in the region.

  The invitation to foreign businessmen provided an ideal cover for Habibi to go to India. Tarek knew he would feel more confident about his chances of success if Habibi were there to help. There was a down side, however. If Habibi traveled to India, he would be directly involved. If something went wrong, it meant Habibi would be in harm’s way, both from the Indian security services and from the LT.

  Tarek saw no alternative. Were he operating under the authority of the ISI, he could call on his colleagues to help him, but that wasn’t an option. For all intents and purposes, he was running a rogue operation, completely without official sanction.

  Even with Habibi’s help, lacking information from HV/30 on the LT team’s movements, Tarek would have no chance of learning anything of its plans, much less be able to do anything to stop an attack. He was about to implement a plan, however, to address that problem.

  45

  The weather in Washington had been pleasant and mild since General Ali’s arrival, although he had hardly noticed, busy as he was trying to settle into his new job as the senior ISI representative in the US He was charged with overseeing the ISI’s liaison relationship with the US intelligence community. While in theory, this included liaison with all US intelligence agencies, the reality was he dealt almost exclusively with the Central Intelligence Agency and, in particular, the National Clandestine Service, previously known as the Directorate of Operations.

  Dealing with the CIA had always been a complicated affair, charged with political sensitivities for both sides. Now changes brought about by the reorganization of the US intelligence community following the 9/11 attacks had only made the situation more complex. Within the already sprawling US intel community, new levels of bureaucracy had been established, along with new agencies that had overlapping and unclear areas of responsibilities.

  Ali’s view of the CIA had been shaped primarily by its role in the war against the Soviets in Afghanistan. The CIA had impressed him with its ability to make things happen quickly, and this same high standard of performance was apparent in the early aftermath of the 9/11 attacks.

  More recent experience, however, had made it harder for Ali to maintain a positive view of the agency. The once-aggressive organization appeared to have become hamstrung by internal
confusion, bureaucratic bloat, and politically driven oversight. Ali’s predecessor had warned him that morale at the NCS while on the upswing from its nadir in the months and years following the 9/11 attacks, still was not close to where it had once been, and over the last few years, the agency had seen a large exodus of experienced officers frustrated by the situation that had befallen the organization.

  Ali had reached the sobering conclusion that the CIA and ISI were both victims of Islamic extremism. The irony was the two organizations were not working as well together as they should against a common enemy. Ali didn’t know how they would be able to once again establish strong momentum against the terrorists, but he had every intention of doing his part to stop the extremist movement that had taken the life of Pakistan’s former leader and now was promoting events that could plunge his nation into war with India.

  The letter Tarek had recently sent the General, using Shahida as a courier, had not improved Ali’s outlook. It contained the disturbing news that an LT team was being prepared for a mission into India.

  The LT had previously attacked the Indian Parliament, provoking a massive military build-up on the border with Pakistan, whom India held responsible. Other major attacks against civilian targets had taken place in New Delhi and Mumbai. One more large-scale attack would almost certainly cross a red line for the recently elected Indian government that would not want to appear weak.

  Looking at his day planner, Ali noted his scheduled meeting with his primary interlocutor at the CIA, Dan Barlow, the chief of the South Asia department of the NCS. Barlow was an imposing and distinctive figure, dark skinned, six-feet tall, and solidly built. He kept his head cleanly shaven and was always well-dressed, with a penchant for wearing pastel-colored shirts and matching ties. At their first meeting, Barlow had reminded Ali of a fortyish male model that might appear in ad for menswear at Macy’s.