by Duane Evans
56
As HV/30 and the LT team were making their way from the bus depot to the White Swan, Habibi stood at the baggage carousel at Dhaka International Airport. After what seemed like an eternity, he at last spotted his two bags rounding the corner on the slow-moving conveyer. Thinking he was through the worst of it, he picked up the bags only to find himself standing in line for a second eternity, waiting to clear immigration and customs.
At last through the formalities—and the Bangladeshis were nothing if not formal in these matters—Habibi proceeded out of the customs area into the main terminal, mobbed with hundreds of people, all of whom seemed desperate to help Habibi with his two bags.
In circumstances like these, Habibi’s massive girth worked to his favor. He waded into the crowd, the people parting like tall grass in response to a rhino as it moves across the savannah. Many of the Bangladeshis were stunned at Habibi’s size, and those closest looked at him with absolute terror in their eyes, afraid he would crush them if he should step on them.
As he plowed toward the exit sign, Habibi spotted a man in coat and tie holding a placard above his head that read “Sonorgaon Hotel.” Habibi approached the man and identified himself.
“Oh yes, Sir, you are on my list,” the greeter said. “The other two guests are already in the van. Please let me take your bags.”
Outside the terminal, yet another crowd of hundreds of people stood watching as the travelers walked through the door. Moving beyond them, Habibi squeezed himself inside the minivan with two other male passengers, both of whom were British. As Habibi’s bags were loaded in the back, one of the Brits commented, “I’ve never seen any airport quite like this. What in the name of God are all these people doing?”
Habibi smiled. “They are here for the show,” he said.
“The show? What on earth do you mean?” the man asked.
“I mean they come to watch you and any other foreigner who walks out that airport door. This is the most exciting thing these people ever see. You are their entertainment, as it were. They are here every night and every day, whenever the flights come.”
The Brit stared out the window as the van pulled away, looking at the multitude and trying to imagine how different his existence was from that of the people who stared vacantly back at him.
After arriving at the Sonargaon and registering at the hotel reception desk, Habibi proceeded to his room. He had only been in Dhaka a handful of times, but he had always stayed at the Sonargaon, a cool, modern oasis amid the crowded and sultry city. He looked forward to his stay, even if it would likely be brief.
Habibi unpacked his bags, then called his shipping agent to confirm their appointment the next day. After showering, he ordered up a late-night meal of biriyani and chicken kabob, which he ate while watching a BBC news program.
Soon his eyes grew heavy. He turned off the TV, stretched out on the king size bed, and quickly fell asleep.
57
HV/30 did not comply with Sheik Osman’s order. When Osman showed up later that night at his room, HV/30 claimed that the only prostitutes he could find were old and ugly. Much to his surprise, Osman accepted his excuse without argument. Probably owing to his exhaustion from the trip, HV/30 thought. Osman returned to the White Swan to rest for the night.
Only after Osman departed did HV/30 realize that by not being with the team at the White Swan he would have much more freedom of movement in Dhaka. He decided to complete all the tasks Sheik Osman had assigned him before calling Rashid. In that way, he would have much more to report, he thought.
His first task was to find a suitable truck to rent. Then he would purchase the supplies and cell phones Osman wanted, being sure to copy the numbers as Rashid had instructed. As he saw it, the best time to contact Rashid would be immediately after picking up the supplies and cell phones. After that, he was to return to the guesthouse and pick up the team. From there they would proceed to the freight office in the Dhanmondi section of town. Once he was with the team, it was unlikely he would have a chance to slip away again before they left Dhaka.
As he prepared himself for bed, HV/30 felt strangely calm and at ease. He knew he was playing a role in events that were taking a course that could not be changed, events with momentous consequences.
The following morning, HV/30 rose early and walked down the street to the White Swan. He found Sheik Osman sitting in the small dining area of the guest house, sipping his morning tea. HV/30 walked over and sat down at his table.
“Good Morning, Mahmoud,” Osman said, his voice friendlier than HV/30 expected.
“Salaam aleikum, brother,” HV/30 replied.
“Tell me your plan for the day,” Osman said. HV/30 quickly laid out his schedule.
“That sounds good,” Osman said with an approving nod of his head. “I want to leave tonight, and I want everything in order. Make sure you get everything on the list.”
“No problem,” HV/30 answered. “I better get started.”
“Oh, Mahmoud, one more thing. Pick up two five-gallon jerry cans and a funnel. We’ll need a boat later, and I have it on good authority that most of the river boats around here have diesel engines. We’ll want to take some extra fuel along just in case. We can get the petrol for the truck and fill up the jerry cans with diesel just before we leave Dhaka. And I want a full tank of gas before we get on the road. We want to be able to get as far as Rajshahi before getting more petrol. Then we will push on to Crowe’s Bazar. Since you are the driver, you need to make sure you know the way.”
HV/30 was intrigued by this new information, but he knew better than to pursue the topic. Crowe’s Bazar was a former English trading post in India, not far across the border from Bangladesh. He could not fathom why the team would be headed there. Again he was tempted to ask questions but he restrained himself, knowing he must do nothing to raise suspicion.
“I know the way,” he said instead. “It is fairly straightforward to get there, although the road is in poor condition and can be very crowded.”
Osman nodded. “That is one of the reasons why I want to travel at night. There should be less traffic, and we can make better time.”
“Alright then. If there is nothing else, I will be on my way.”
With a flick of his wrist, Osman waved him away. “Khoda hafez, Mahmoud.”
“Khoda hafez,” HV/30 said, then walked out of the guesthouse and into the street that bustled with morning traffic.
58
While HV/30 talked with Sheik Osman in the White Swan guesthouse, Habibi was making his way in a hotel taxi to the office of his shipping agent. Joseph Bilal had been in the shipping business for over 40 years, and he knew as much as any man about the nuances of import/export in Bangladesh. Habibi had not done a lot of business using Bilal’s services, but he was always impressed with the man’s ability to get things done in a country racked by poverty, corruption, and political paralysis.
Bilal was dressed nattily in a green sport jacket and tie when Habibi arrived. He appeared happy to see Habibi, thanking him for taking the time to come see him.
“I must apologize for the short notice,” Habibi said. “There were unexpected business developments in Calcutta that required my presence, and since I was so close, I thought it made sense for me to come by and see how things are going here.”
“No matter,” Bilal said. “You are always welcome, anytime.”
They spent 20 minutes discussing a few business matters, none of great consequence, then Bilal invited Habibi to dinner. Habibi was reluctant to commit, but after a moment’s consideration, he accepted the invitation. As he saw it, if developments arose, he could call Bilal to cancel the engagement.
Their meeting concluded, Habibi returned to the Sonargaon and retired to his room to nap for a full hour.
While Habibi slept, HV/30 was completing his shopping. He had leased a closed-body Hyundai truck that was in serviceable condition and had purchased all the supplies on his list. His last purchase was the cel
l phones for the team. After copying the phone numbers, HV/30 went to the main telephone exchange in downtown Dhaka and called Tarek.
59
Tarek sat waiting in the hotel lobby for Sahar and Advani when HV/30’s call came. Tarek’s heart jumped as the phone started to ring. He knew it had to be HV/30.
“Hello,” he answered.
“Brother, I have big news,” HV/30 said in a rush. He then quickly relayed all that he had learned since their last conversation, including that the team’s destination was Crowe’s Bazar. Tarek listened without once interrupting and hastily wrote down the cell phone numbers and the information on the truck HV/30 had rented. He repeated it all back to HV/30 for accuracy.
“What about the package? Did you learn any more about that?” he asked.
“No, Rashid. I thought it safest to call you before we picked it up as it might not be possible to call you afterward.”
“Good thinking, Mahmoud. You have done well. But once you find out what is in the package you must try to call me. Try my cell first, but by tomorrow, I may not be in range of a cell tower, and you probably will have to call my satellite phone to reach me. Rajshahi will have a telephone exchange, so that may be the best place to call me from if you are able to get away from the others.”
“Okay, Rashid, I will do my best,” HV/30 said, and asked in a worried voice, “But, Rashid, how far do I go with the team?”
Tarek knew what he said next was important. “Mahmoud, you have to go all the way. Wherever they go, you need to go with them.”
“Alright, I will do as you say. You know what my goal is here. I am counting on you to help me make it happen.”
“Your goal and my goal are compatible my friend. You can count on me to do my part.” With that, Tarek said goodbye and the phone went dead.
As he slipped his cell phone into his shirt pocket, Tarek’s mind was reeling. The team was not coming to Calcutta at all. It was headed to Crowe’s Bazar! He did not need a map to know where Crowe’s Bazar was; he’d seen it on a map all too recently. The implication hit him like a fist in the face.
The team’s target was Farakka Barrage.
60
Habibi was napping soundly when the ring of his cell phone awakened him. The bed creaked loudly as he rolled onto his side and grabbed the phone.
“Hello,” he said, still not fully awake.
“Wake up, brother. I’ve got news,” Tarek said. “I spoke with Mahmoud not more than 10 minutes ago. He and his friends are not coming to Calcutta.”
“Where are they going?” Habibi asked, not sure if he really wanted to know the answer.
“The same place we will all be tomorrow night.”
Habibi thought for a moment before responding to this news. As what Tarek had just told him sank in, he slowly said, “Oh...my…God.”
“It can’t be coincidence that they are headed to the area of Farakka Barrage at the same time the commemoration ceremony is planned.” There was silence on the line for a few seconds, as Habibi considered Tarek’s words.
“But how would they know about the ceremony, and why would they care?” Habibi asked.
“It’s no secret. It has been talked about in the press in the lead-up to the UN vote. And the protocol officer here just advised us that last night the UN voted on the side of India, meaning no sanction was issued. The Bangladesh delegation walked out in protest. An attack during the ceremony, even if a small one, would be very symbolic. It also could be catastrophic, if the sponsorship of the attack is linked to Pakistan.”
“So what do we do now?” Habibi asked.
“What we set out to do. We have to stop the attack.”
“But how? We don’t have anything to work with.”
“Mahmoud passed along some details that should help. Let me lay it out for you. I know where they are staying at least for the next hour or so. I’ve got a description and tag number of the truck they are using, and I have the address of the freight office where they are going to pick up this package that they have been talking about. I have a rough timeline for their travel to Crowe’s Bazar. I also have their cell phone numbers, although that is probably not going to help us, running solo as we are. Still, the more information we have, the better.”
Habibi wrote down the information as Tarek relayed it to him. When finished, Habibi said with rising determination in his voice, “Well, they are in Dhaka right now and so am I. If we are going to stop them, Dhaka is our best bet. Let me go over and spot them out at their guest house and see what I can do to create a little disturbance, something that will bring the police on the scene. With a little luck, they will have some contraband that will get them arrested.”
“It’s a good concept,” Tarek said. “But according to Mahmoud, they have nothing incriminating with them at this point. No guns, no explosives, not even knives. I suspect that will change when they pick up the package. It has to be weapons and probably explosives. Once they have weapons, if they are stopped and searched by the police, they will definitely be compromised. I suspect they would shoot it out before submitting to arrest.”
“So, I should wait until after they get the package?”
“Yes, but they will not be returning to the guest house once they have the package. Sheik Osman’s plan now is for everyone to check out of the guesthouse just before going to the freight office. This means you need to get over to the freight office and see if you can spot them picking up their cargo.”
“Alright. I’ll get going and figure something out once I know they have the package.”
“Harun,” Tarek said his tone of voice serious. “I’ve already figured something out for you.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Habibi said.
“Listen, this is too important to fly completely by the seat of our pants. You have to have a definite means of stopping these guys in their tracks, and I mean that literally. If we depend on getting the Dhaka police involved through some diversion, we are leaning on a weak reed.”
“Alright, so what do you suggest, my commander?
“First, rent a car—a big one. Then take it down to the freight office, find the truck, and confirm that they have the package. Then, at a time of your choosing, you need to take that car and drive it right into them, preferably at a 90 degree angle, right into the middle of their vehicle. Going 45 or 50 kilometers an hour should do the trick. Coming in from the side like that, the impact for you will be less severe, but it will do maximum damage to their truck. Mahmoud should be driving it. As long as you aim for the middle section of the vehicle, he should be okay.”
“Crude, but effective,” Habibi said.
“Oh yes, very. And what’s nice is it will look like it was an accident—unlike, say, walking up to someone and putting two rounds through the head, which tends to look a bit contrived.”
After a pause Habibi said, “Well, our man Mahmoud should be okay, but what about the others?”
“I have to protect Mahmoud— that is my obligation. As to the others, Allah can protect them. But I also have to protect you. Now listen Harun, you have to remember to make sure you use your seat belt, which I know you don’t like to do. It will not be enough to rely on an air bag. I think in a contest between you and an air bag, you would win—which means you would lose, if you know what I mean. I don’t think the police will give you a hard time over the accident if you stage it so it really does look like an accident. You are a respected foreign businessman, bringing commerce to their country. The LT team? Well, once the police find their weapons, assuming they survive, they will be arrested or killed while resisting arrest, and their mission to India will be stopped cold.”
“And we win.”
“That’s right. We all win. India wins. Pakistan wins.”
“Alright, I better get going,” Habibi said. “I can rent a car right here at the hotel. I think a Land Cruiser would do nicely.”
“An excellent choice,” Tarek replied. “Just be sure that when the rental car agent offe
rs you their overpriced insurance you don’t decline.”
Habibi laughed. “You are just full of advice today aren’t you?”
“It’s my job. Call me when you have something to report. And, Harun –may Allah protect you.”
61
It was close to midnight Washington time when General Ali concluded his phone conversation with Tarek. Ali had been almost panicked that Tarek had not called sooner, imagining all the things that might have gone wrong. Even after talking to Tarek, his anxiety level was not much improved. Tarek was still on the trail of the team, but stopping them had come down to the laws of physics when applied to a car crash.
Half-way around the world from the action, Ali felt helpless. Tarek had passed to him a great deal of information about the LT team that in another time and under different circumstances would have allowed him to employ the human and technical resources of the ISI to shut the team down.
This was not possible now. None of the ISI officers he could trust were in any position to help him. Like him, they had been marginalized and replaced by other officers with fundamentalist credentials. He dared not report the information to his headquarters for fear someone who was involved in the mission would see the report. If that happened, both he and Tarek were dead men. The only hope now was that Tarek’s plan would be successful. It was simple enough, and the ISI had successfully used the car-ramming tactic on other occasions.
Ali tried to relax. Tarek had promised to call as soon as he learned anything from his man, Habibi. Ali brushed his teeth and went to bed in hopes of sleep. He had an early appointment the next morning at CIA.
Worried as he was about what was about to transpire in Dhaka, he slept fitfully. He woke up feeling vaguely ill, and not wanting to miss a call from Tarek, he called his office to tell his secretary he would not be in and to reschedule his appointment at CIA.