North from Calcutta

by Duane Evans

  Salim smiled at Huq. “You see, my friend, diplomacy, propaganda, and a little arm twisting can make a critical difference in determining the fate of nations. It is not always the Rambos of the world who achieve great victories for their countries and their faith.”

  “I must concede this point to you. The IRE has truly done a masterful job in manipulating the UN in this regard. The IRE victory has given our effort a real opportunity to succeed.”

  Salim smiled again. “I am quite pleased to hear such an acknowledgement coming from a military man. But Huq, you know Allah will ultimately decide if we succeed or fail.

  General Huq stood up and began to collect and fold his maps. “Mohammad, one final point. We have notified Army Headquarters that we are starting our surprise exercise.”

  “So you will now have an ostensible reason for the movement of forces that will be used in the attack.” It was a statement from Salim, not a question.

  General Huq nodded. “That is correct. We are moving selected units under the commanders who are allied with us to the Line of Control. We are also moving a few battalions which we are not sure we can count on out of the area. The Indians will believe we are just reorganizing for the exercise. Still, we will keep our major forces out of the immediate area of the LOC until after we see Indian troops being shifted east. My staff estimates this should happen within 24 hours of the attack on Farakka Barrage. Once they move east, we will reinforce into the LOC and then, with elements of the SSG in the lead, launch our attacks. Abu Shafik is ready to set up blocking positions for any Indian counterattacks. We will drive east, link up with the LT fighters and continue operations until we have overrun Indian-controlled Kashmir.”

  Salim stopped the general. “Yes, Huq, I am familiar with the plan. But you must control your commanders. They are not to go into Indian territory beyond occupied Kashmir. Pakistan has no design on India, and we will make that clear to the world upon initiation of hostilities. Any violation of territory outside of Kashmir will work against Pakistan’s interest in the diplomatic arena. Our success in holding onto Kashmir will depend not only on our military capability, but also on getting the UN to pressure India to negotiate on the issue. The longer we can keep the Indians talking, the better chance we have of consolidating our defenses and keeping what is rightfully ours. We have to be smart about this.”

  “And what about the prime minister?”

  “This is a sensitive issue I have struggled with since the beginning,” Salim said. “But I have made my decision. We will place the PM under house arrest at the time the orders are given for our forces to cross the LOC. We will also declare martial law.”

  “And the defense minister?”

  “He will be made to resign, and you will take his place.”

  Huq sat expressionless, contemplating Salim’s statement.

  “Well, General, are you up to the task?” Salim asked.

  General Huq cast his gaze to the floor for an instant, then looked Salim square in the face. “Of course. I am ready.”

  “Good. You and I are about to make history together.”

  65

  Within hours of learning that Habibi was hospitalized, Tarek arrived in Dhaka at the General Hospital. Sahar and Advani understood Tarek’s decision to cancel his plans and leave Calcutta immediately to go to his injured friend. What they did not understand, and what Tarek could not tell them, was that a team of Kashmiri fighters with hostile intent was making its way to Farakka Barrage, and he had to stop them.

  Tarek did not stay long at the hospital, only long enough to check on Habibi. Convinced that his friend was receiving the best medical care possible, and entrusting Joseph Bilal to make sure the care continued, Tarek set out in a rented four-wheel-drive Mitsubishi for Rajshahi, in hot pursuit of the LT team.

  Tarek prayed he would get an update call from HV/30 when the team reached Rajshahi. To help insure the satellite signal came through, Tarek used a magnetic mount to attach the phone antennae to the roof of the Mitsubishi.

  He felt exhausted as he drove through the early morning. So much had happened within the last 24 hours. Not only were events moving much more quickly, but the complexion of his mission now had become very personal. An attack on Farakka Barrage could not only lead to a war between India and Pakistan, but it might well take the life of the woman he loved. The fact that he himself had collected information that was being used in the terrorist mission was hard to accept. He would stop at nothing to prevent the terrorist team from carrying out its plan.

  It was 4:30 in the morning, as Tarek was passing through the town of Pabna, 50 kilometers southeast of Rajshahi, when the call came through. The conversation was short. HV/30 relayed to Tarek everything he had learned since they had last spoken.

  HV/30’s news was not encouraging. The team had already arrived on the outskirts of Rajshahi, on the opposite side of town from Tarek, and would be leaving within the next 30 minutes. There was no way Tarek would be able to catch up to them there. He would have to find them at Crowe’s Bazar.

  According to HV/30’s information, that might just be possible. The team planned to stop in Crowe’s Bazar and switch their transport to a diesel powered boat. Finding a suitable boat and transferring the team’s gear would likely take some time, possibly several hours. The mention of a boat had sent chills up Tarek’s spine. He imagined a boat loaded with a fully armed team making its way down the Ganges toward Farakka Barrage as the commemoration ceremony got underway, Sahar and her father seated as guests of honor in the front row at the river’s edge overlooking the dam, guests and dignitaries seated behind them, and not one aware of the approaching danger. The images were too frightening; Tarek had to force his mind into the present.

  HV/30 had provided another piece of critical information: Sheik Osman had a satellite phone with him, his means of communicating with his controllers back in Pakistan, Tarek presumed. HV/30 had not been able to see the brand of phone, but he had gotten a look at what may have been the phone’s number, handwritten on a piece of paper taped to the phone. Although he had seen the entire number briefly, he could remember only the last four digits. He also reported that the crate contained 30 hand grenades and AK-47s, one for each team member, except himself.

  HV/30 had not been allowed to help unpack a separate smaller wooden crate contained within the larger crate. He could only speculate that the smaller crate contained explosives, as the team members seemed to be extra cautious in its handling. The unidentified items in the smaller crate had been divided up into two backpacks.

  At first, Tarek had agreed with HV/30’s assessment that the smaller crate must contain explosives, probably Semtex or some other plastic explosive. But as HV/30 provided additional details, the possibility of Semtex seemed less likely. According to HV/30, the small crate was heavy to the point that three men were needed to move it. Semtex packed in a crate the size HV/30 had described would not be so heavy. Also, the contents of the crates had been placed into special backpacks with frames made of flat brushed steel. The packs themselves were made of a heavy black ballistic material. Each pack had only one large compartment with no exterior pockets. Particularly odd were the fasteners, six in number, set two inches apart, and aligned horizontally across the lower part of the pack. After the team had packed the material into the backpacks and snapped the fasteners closed, a thin steel cable was run through pre-drilled holes in all six fasteners, and then crimped on each end.

  Hearing these puzzling details, Tarek was convinced there was something other than plastic explosives in the backpacks. He could not even speculate what the material might be but whatever it was, the team had gone to a lot of trouble to get it to Dhaka, and he knew it was lethal.

  Tarek wasn’t sure how he could stop the LT team. He considered another attempt using a vehicle, but if that was not possible, he really had few options, especially lacking a weapon. Then again, with seven armed LT members walking around, at least he knew where he could get one.

 
66

  Prior to Tarek’s departure for Dhaka, he had notified General Ali of the failed attempt by Habibi to interrupt the LT’s plan. Now, with the latest report from HV/30, it was time once again to give the general an update. Tarek didn’t bother to pull over to the side of the road but punched in Ali’s home phone number as he drove through the night toward Rajshahi.

  It was late afternoon in Washington, and Ali was home when the phone rang. He sat in silence as Tarek briefed him using double talk to mask the information as best he could. Ali interrupted only once to ask Tarek to repeat the partial number HV/30 had seen on Sheik Osman’s sat phone.

  When Tarek finished, Ali asked, “So what’s your plan?”

  Tarek managed to chuckle. “It is still a work in progress, but I might try to succeed where Habibi failed, using the same tool he used. If I can’t make that work, then I might borrow another kind of tool from our little group.”

  General Ali followed his meaning easily but hoped anyone else listening, who did not know the background of the events that were unfolding, would not be able to make sense of it.

  “The party in question may object, and it could get messy,” Ali responded.

  “Well, there is always the DFF option, but that certainly would not be any less messy,” Tarek said. Diesel fuel and fertilizer were standard field-expedient materials for making a bomb.

  “Agreed,” Ali said. “What is the backup in case you miss your friends at Crowe’s Bazar?”

  “I have the governor’s sat phone number, which he carries when traveling into remote areas, and he will be traveling with the delegation.”

  “You propose to notify him?” Ali asked.

  “If I can’t stop our friends, yes I do. I have to tell them to cancel the ceremony.”

  “I suppose,” Ali said. “You realize that you will have to convince him you are serious. To do this you will have to acknowledge who you work for, and there is a likelihood that once you tell the Indians about the team, they will simply jump to the conclusion that our government is behind their plan. Even if the Indians are successful in preventing the attack, it still could lead to the very same consequences we are trying to avoid—war with India.”

  “I know,” Tarek said. “But if I can’t stop them in Crowe’s Bazar, there are no other options.”

  Both men were silent for a few moments.

  Dispensing with the double talk, Ali, said, “Tarek, there is no choice here. You cannot fail. The team must be stopped. One way or the other, it must be completely shut down.”

  “I assure you, General, my very life depends on it,” Tarek said.

  Unaware of Sahar, the general did not grasp the full significance of Tarek’s words.

  “Call me as soon as you have any more information,” General Ali said, and added, “I wish Allah’s protection for you.”

  Hanging up the phone, Ali walked through his kitchen and out onto his wooden deck. He leaned against the railing and looked out over the trees at the late afternoon sun. He suddenly felt a tiredness born of frustration and helplessness.

  Over the course of the last year, in the wake of the assassination of General Masood, he had watched as the political landscape of his country had changed, with Islamic fundamentalists assuming key positions in the government. He and many of his ISI colleagues had become victims of a current of radicalism that was running through Pakistan. He had barely escaped a car bomb, and his influence within the ISI had been marginalized by his transfer abroad. Now, with the continuing purge of loyal ISI officers, he could not trust anyone, and he found himself unable to act to counter crucial events happening half a world away.

  For the first time in his professional life, Ali was reduced from the role of a primary actor to the status of an inconsequential observer. He did not like it, not one bit.

  67

  At the same time Tarek was approaching the Indian border-control station, the first group of dignitaries bound for Farakka Barrage were gathered at the Calcutta airport, waiting to board the plane that would take them to Malda, the first stop of their journey to the Farakka Barrage. From Malda buses would carry them to the dam, some 30 kilometers away.

  Sahar was still upset by the news of Habibi’s accident, followed immediately by Tarek’s departure to Dhaka. Both she and Advani were disappointed Tarek wouldn’t be attending the anniversary commemoration, but for Sahar it was more than disappointment. She had an odd sense of foreboding. Sahar tried to convince herself the feeling was caused by the shock of Habibi’s accident and the sudden change of Tarek’s plans. Still, she could not rid herself of the feeling that something was wrong, and her intuitions had often proved accurate.

  In an effort to lighten her mood, she approached Anil, who was checking the passenger manifest.

  “Mr. Deshmukh,” she greeted him, “I have not yet had a chance to thank you for all the work you have done in arranging for this ceremony. You have done a marvelous job. The hotel arrangements and our outings in Calcutta were perfect. My father and I have had a wonderful time, and I know that is due largely to your efforts.”

  Anil couldn’t hide his excitement on hearing Sahar’s remarks, particularly coming as they did from such an attractive woman. Mathir, who had done all the hard work in organizing the event, was out of earshot, leaving Anil free to take all the credit.

  “Please, Ms. Advani, you owe me no special recognition,” he said with unconvincing modesty. “This is my job after all, and if I may say so, I know what I am doing when it comes to these types of affairs.”

  Sahar smiled, “I should say so, if what I have seen is any indication of your ability.”

  “All you have seen is a reflection of that, Madam.”

  “I am curious. How long have you been in charge of the West Bengal protocol office?” Sahar asked.

  “Oh, only about two years. Just long enough to get things on track.” Anil paused for a moment and glanced at Mathir, who was still busy on the other side of the waiting area talking to an airline official. “When I first arrived here, I am sorry to say, the office was a disaster. And I have had to train my assistant, who was quite incompetent. Governor Ghule hand-picked me, you know.” While this was technically true, Anil chose not to mention there had been no other candidates who met the basic qualifications needed for the position.

  “Well, I am truly impressed,” Sahar responded. “Where will you go from here? To Delhi, perhaps?”

  “No, I don’t think so. In fact, Ambassador Singh, who I think you know is our deputy representative to the UN, has asked me to consider an assignment in New York.”

  Ambassador Singh was indeed among the visiting dignitaries waiting to board the plane, but Anil’s version of their conversation was a loose interpretation of what had actually transpired. However, when a man spoke of his future possibilities with a woman as beautiful as Ms. Advani, truth was often the first casualty—a phenomenon Sahar was well acquainted with, having seen it demonstrated more times than she cared to recall.

  “Oh, New York, that would be wonderful indeed.” Nodding to Anil she quickly retreated to rejoin her father.

  Advani took out a copy of the schedule and reviewed the day’s planned events. “After a quick stop in Malda for tea with the mayor, we will depart on buses at 11:30 and arrive at the Farakka Barrage Administration Building. After room assignments, we will lunch with the chief administrator and his senior staff at 12:30.”

  “And the afternoon schedule?” Sahar asked.

  “We get an hour break from 1:30 to 2:30, when I suppose we can relax a bit. Then comes the tour of Farakka Barrage, which I see includes a short cruise up the river.”

  “I hope they have scheduled time to freshen up before the ceremony,” Sahar said, imagining what she would look like after a mid-afternoon cruise on the wind-blown Ganges.

  “There should be plenty of time. The boat returns around 5:00, and the ceremony doesn’t start until 6:30 in the evening.”

  “Oh, that will be nice. It will be start
ing to cool and the sun will be setting over the river. It should be beautiful.” Sahar’s sense of depression started to lift as she imagined the picturesque scene.

  “And after the ceremony, there is a formal banquet scheduled. So, it sounds like we have a full day ahead of us.”

  Speaking from the airline gate counter, Mathir announced that the plane was ready for boarding.

  “Are you ready, Father? This is a big day for you,” Sahar said.

  Advani slowly stood up and gesturing toward the gangway with his wooden cane said, “It is indeed. It is the day I return to Farakka Barrage.”

  68

  The sun had just risen above the tree-lined horizon and a thin gray mist filled the air as Tarek approached the Indian border checkpoint. A faded sign indicated transport trucks should pull into the right lane and other vehicles should proceed straight ahead. Tarek continued forward, passing a line of parked canvas-covered trucks waiting for the Indian border authorities to process them.

  Two cars were in front of Tarek, and he imagined he would be through the border check and on his way to Crowe’s Bazar in a matter of minutes. The Indian border inspector, with a clipboard in hand, waved through the cars ahead of Tarek without so much as a single question. Tarek expected similar treatment as he pulled up next to the inspector.

  “Good Morning, Sir. May I see your passport?”

  Tarek handed over his passport with his UAE residency permit attached. After taking a moment to review the documents, the inspector said, “I note there is an exit cachet from Calcutta airport stamped only yesterday afternoon. May I asked why you are returning to India so soon, and why are you doing so by a land crossing?”

  Tarek had anticipated the question.