North from Calcutta

by Duane Evans

  “I was in Calcutta as part of an official delegation that is traveling to Farakka Barrage this very morning,” he said. “Unfortunately, yesterday morning a very good friend of mine from the UAE, who was in Dhaka on business, was involved in a serious motor accident, so I came right away to see him. He is recovering, and now I am trying to make my way to Farakka Barrage to join the delegation. I did not have time to fly back to Calcutta to make the flight from there, so my only recourse is to drive.”

  “I see,” the inspector said. “Please pull forward into the space on the left. I will be with you in a moment.”

  Tarek was not particularly concerned about being put into secondary, but he was unhappy with the delay. He had one shot to catch the team in Crowe’s Bazar. If he missed them there, nothing he could do would stop them.

  The inspector waited for Tarek to pull forward, then walked into the administration office, taking Tarek’s documentation to the commander of the station as he had been instructed to do. The commander took the documents and thumbed through Tarek’s passport.

  “You’ll note the valid multiple-entry Indian visa issued in Abu Dhabi, and that he is a long-time resident of the UAE,” the inspector pointed out.

  “Yes, I see that,” the commander responded. He picked up Tarek’s International Driver’s Permit, which showed it was issued in Abu Dhabi. He leafed through the pages and then handed the documents back to the inspector.

  “There is no doubt that Mr. Durrani is the subject of the Intelligence Bureau communiqué,” he said.

  “Why do you think the IB is interested in him?” the inspector asked.

  “In their wisdom, or should I say arrogance, the IB did not see fit to let us know that, inspector. You know they treat us like poor second cousins.”

  “I don’t know which is worse, IB or RAW.”

  “Don’t waste your time trying to figure it out,” the commander said. “They both think they are the only government organization that has an important job to do, so they ignore the rest of us and treat us like crap.” He stood up and walked over to the window that looked out on the inspection lanes. “That’s him in the Pajero?”

  “Yes, Sir. That’s him. Should I have his car searched?”

  “Not yet. Just let him sit until I get further instructions from Calcutta. But keep your eye on him. I don’t want him wandering off.”

  “Right, Sir. I need to get his vehicle registration documents. I’ll do that while you talk to Calcutta.”

  The inspector left the office while the commander picked up the phone and called the number included in the IB communiqué. On the third ring, the call was answered.

  “Intelligence Bureau, Calcutta”

  “Yes, please put me through to Inspector Thomas Singh.”

  The call was immediately transferred.

  “Inspector Singh, here. How may I help you.”

  “This is Crowe’s Bazar Border Station Commander Chowdhury. I’m calling regarding the communiqué on Subject of Interest Pakistani national Tarek Durrani.”

  “Yes, what about it.”

  “Your SOI is presently here at my station, and I wish to know if I should formally have him detained.”

  “Is he alone?”

  “Yes. He is alone.”

  “How is he traveling? By bus?

  “No. He’s driving a Mitsubishi Pajero with Bangladesh tags. It’s probably rented.”

  “What color is the Pajero?”

  “Red.”

  “How long as he been there?”

  “Only a couple of minutes, Inspector.”

  “Alright. What is your number? I will get back to you in a few minutes and, for the moment, do not let him enter the country.”

  “No problem. We have him waiting while we check his documents and vehicle registration.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll call you in a few minutes. Please stand by.”

  Inspector Singh hung up the phone. His supervisor was not in the office yet, but it did not matter. The instructions the Intelligence Bureau Headquarters had issued for this contingency were very clear. The IB knew from it’s source that Durrani was pursuing a terrorist team intending to strike India, although Singh himself had no details about the planned attack. After Durrani’s departure from Calcutta, the decision had been made to take the ISI officer into IB custody if he tried to return to India. The assumption was that if he returned, it meant he had learned more details about the terrorists’ plan, and he was back to try to foil the attack. No one in the IB chain of command was willing to rely on a lone Pakistani intelligence officer to stop an attack in India. No, if the attack was to be stopped, the Indian IB would do it.

  Singh picked up the official Intelligence Bureau telephone directory from his desk and thumbed through the pages until he found the listing for Crowe’s Bazar. According to the document, only one IB inspector was assigned there.

  Singh called the number for Inspector Reza and got through immediately. After giving him instructions, Singh called Commander Chowdhury.

  The border inspector was just returning from copying Tarek’s vehicle registration documents when the commander hung up the phone.

  “That was Calcutta,” he said. “The IB doesn’t want us to detain him any longer. They say they have the situation under control.”

  “Should I at least search his car?”

  “No. They don’t want us to do anything that might raise his suspicions. I don’t know what is going on here, probably some stupid game the IB is playing.”

  “Then my orders are to release him?”

  “Those are your orders, inspector.”

  Tarek had been sitting in the secondary inspection zone for over 30 minutes when the border inspector returned with all of his documentation. Passing the documents to him, the inspector thanked him for his patience and wished him a pleasant trip.

  Tarek pulled back out onto the road. He had made many border crossings in his career and being put into secondary was not a new experience for him, yet it did raise his suspicions. The Indian security services were as professional as they came. At this point, though, he could not let it slow him down. He had only a few short hours to find and stop the LT team.

  69

  The congested streets of Crowe’s Bazar were full of the sounds of beeping horns and engine exhaust hung thick in the unmoving air.

  HV/30 left the team at a restaurant on the edge of town under instructions to find a suitable boat that could take the team down the Ganges to Farakka Barrage. Walking, he made his way through town in search of a cut-through to the river that bordered the far side of the commercial area.

  The commercial zone consisted of dozens of small shops packed into a few short blocks. He had asked for directions to the marina but the directions provided were never clear. It was only by chance that he at last broke through the last section of shops and spotted the river. Some 500 meters from where he stood, he saw a marina of sorts, with a collection of riverboats tied up to the piers. Most appeared to be fishing boats, but there were also three or four flat-bottomed boats used for carrying sand collected from the river bottom.

  The sand boats were long and shallow, sitting well down in the water, presenting a low profile. Outfitted with slow but powerful diesel engines, the boats had ample capacity to handle the currents of the Ganges. One of the boats had a structure of bamboo and woven hyacinth covered by a yellow tarp that provided a sheltered area at the rear of the boat. This was a feature Sheik Osman had specified.

  In short order, HV/30 struck a deal with the boat’s owner, a dark-skinned old man with a wispy white beard and eyes clouded by cataracts. He looked to be 90 years old, but HV/30 suspected 65 was probably a more accurate age. Life in places like Crowe’s Bazar was hard.

  Despite his fragile appearance, the boat owner drove a hard bargain. HV/30 ended up settling on a price half again as much as he had intended. While he was doling out a third of the sum in order to ensure the boat would be made ready, HV/30 explained that he wou
ld return in an hour or so with his colleagues. The cover story that Osman and HV/30 had prepared between them was that they needed the boat to transport themselves to the entrance to the Jangipur Feeder Canal where they would meet a boat from Calcutta bringing goods they planned on trading in Crowe’s Bazar.

  The old man waved his hand as if brushing a fly away. “I don’t care what you need the boat for,” he said, “but whatever the purpose, one of my sons will accompany you to navigate the river.”

  Certain that Sheik Osman would not be happy with this stipulation, HV/30 tried instead to negotiate a security deposit. But the old man held firm.

  “Nobody on the river would risk their boat to strangers,” he insisted. “My son will accompany you, or no boat.”

  In the end, HV/30 had no choice but to accept the condition. He paid his deposit and left, but he had one last task to complete before rejoining the team.

  He had already checked his cell phone and found that there was no service. He stopped at a shopping stall full of garment-factory overruns and asked directions to the nearest telephone exchange. He was certain the crowded conditions of the town would make it impossible for Tarek to find the team without some directions from him.

  The owner of the shop stepped out of the stall and pointed down the street, “One block, that way,” he said.

  HV/30 walked for three blocks before he finally spotted the telephone exchange and went inside. He had to wait a few minutes until one of the booths came open and the exchange manager motioned to him that it was his turn. HV/30 dialed the number for Tarek’s satellite phone. After three rings he heard the voice he wanted to hear.

  “Rashid, this is Mahmoud.”

  “Mahmoud, I’m almost to Crowe’s Bazar,” Tarek said. “Are you there?”

  “Yes, yes, but only for another hour or so. My friends are at a restaurant at the edge of town. They sent me out to rent a boat, and I have to go back to get them soon. Sheik Osman wants to get out on the river in time to reach our destination soon after sunset.”

  Tarek had no doubt as to what the team’s destination was, but he had to confirm it.

  “Has he told you where you are going?”

  “Sheik Osman has said nothing to me, but I overheard some of the others say we were taking the boat to a place called Farakka Barrage.”

  Tarek’s heart sank with the confirmation of their destination, and with the further revelation that Sheik Osman wanted to be there the very night of the ceremony.

  “Do you know anything about Farakka Barrage?” HV/30 asked. “Is it an Indian army base? I did not need to come to the far side of India only to be shot by Indian soldiers.”

  “It’s not an army base. It’s a dam. That’s all,” Tarek said, only half listening to HV/30. He could not free his mind from thoughts of the danger Sahar would be in.

  “All this trouble to go to a dam in the middle of nowhere? Sheik Osman is crazy. Why come here when there are far better targets closer to home?”

  “It really doesn’t matter at this point. They have to be stopped before they get on that boat.”

  Tarek’s own words helped to refocus his attention on the challenge that lay ahead. “Where is the restaurant that the team is at?” he asked. “And also, where is the marina, in case I miss them.”

  He listened carefully as HV/30 gave him the directions. “Do what you can to slow them down without getting into too much trouble,” Tarek said, when he was sure he had the directions clear. He paused for a moment, pondering how he should phrase his next statement.

  “Mahmoud, if I cannot intercept the team before it gets on the river, then you will have to do something to stop the mission.”

  “How, Rashid? They are heavily armed. I don’t even have a knife.”

  “I can’t tell you how, Mahmoud. You will have to look for opportunities and figure something out.”

  There was silence on the line. Finally, HV/30 said, “Maybe I can do something to the boat. Or if not the boat, I can try to damage the engine.”

  That suggestion gave Tarek a thought. “What about the diesel fuel you bought for the boat. Do you think you could contaminate it with something?”

  Now it was HV/30’s time to think for a moment. “Maybe, but it will be hard to do. At least one of them is always guarding the truck, and the jerry cans are in the truck.”

  “I understand, but try to do it. Use dirt, sugar, rice, or whatever you can lay your hands on, and get as much of it into the cans as possible.”

  “Alright, but even if I can spoil the fuel, I doubt we will need to refill before we get to the dam. The extra cans are only a reserve.”

  “Then try to convince Osman to top off the tank before reaching the dam. If he knows anything about engines, he will know a diesel is hard to get restarted once it runs out of fuel. The last thing he will want is to run out of fuel right after carrying off an attack and not be able to restart the engine.”

  “Okay, I’ll do what I can,” HV/30 said.

  Tarek knew the fuel contamination option was a long shot, but he wanted to generate as many possible contingency plans as possible. If all failed, he would immediately call Governor Ghule on his satellite phone and tell him of the threat. That would at least give sufficient time to cancel the ceremony and evacuate the attendees from the area, saving many lives, including those of Sahar and Advani.

  But the bitter truth was, even if the team was captured or killed by Indian forces before carrying out an attack, it still could mean war. If he was forced to call Governor Ghule, it would be rolling the dice on the question of war on the sub-continent.

  “Rashid, my call time is almost up. Is there anything else?” HV/30’s voice brought Tarek back to the present moment.

  “No, my brother. There is nothing else to say. All we can do is try our best.”

  “It is in Allah’s hands. Khoda hafez.”

  “Khoda hafez,” Tarek replied.

  As Tarek placed the phone back in the car console, he believed there was a very good chance he’d heard HV/30’s voice for the last time.

  70

  There were now only three kilometers left before Tarek reached Crowe’s Bazar. Knowing he would likely be in action soon, he began to ready himself mentally. According to HV/30, the restaurant where the team was waiting was at the edge of town. This meant Tarek would be there within the next five minutes. He had no firearm, but he had purchased a Nepalese army-issue Gurkha knife at a roadside stand where he had stopped for water. The large, distinctively curved knife was a formidable weapon. Nevertheless, he hoped his effort to stop the terrorists would not come down to a bloody knife fight.

  Tarek prayed that the team would still be inside the restaurant when he arrived. Since they could not openly carry their AKs, they would have left them in the truck, relying on a guard to keep their weapons and gear safe. If Mahmoud was the guard, Tarek’s task would be much simpler. If not, he planned to employ the shiny Gurkha to eliminate the guard. Assuming the keys were with the truck, he could then simply drive off with all the team’s weapons and explosives. Now that would be a grand coup, he thought.

  If, however, there were two or more team members outside with the vehicle, Tarek would have to resort to using his Mitsubishi as the weapon of choice and try to accomplish what Habibi had failed to do.

  Despite these plans, anything could happen. He might still end up having to face one or more of the team members in hand-to-hand combat. Although he had worked hard to keep himself strong, he knew he was not as quick or as strong as he once had been, and he would be facing much younger and equally fit opponents. His only advantage would be surprise, and his first priority would be to get hold of one of the AKs. If he could accomplish that, he could level the field— literally.

  As he contemplated the likelihood of violent action, he realized that it was not only his physical condition that had changed over the years; his attitude about killing had changed, too.

  As a young Army commando and through much of his ISI career
, Tarek had been detached when it came to the business of killing. While he never liked it, he had accepted the notion that when killing was done to vanquish the nation’s enemies, it was justified. There was no need for further discussion or reflection.

  With age, however, had come doubts as well as nightmares.

  Up until he had learned the target of the LT team, he had told himself his objective was to stop a war between India and Pakistan. Now, with Sahar’s life in the balance, it was clear to him that his motivation was no longer driven by any noble nationalistic goal. He would kill for one reason and one reason only: to save Sahar. The lives of every man on the LT team for her life. And he had no qualms about the arrangement.

  Then he saw it—the white Hyundai truck just ahead on the left side of the road in a dirt parking area next to a cinder-block building. A sign on top of the tin roof of the building simply read, “Restaurant.”

  Several other vehicles were parked in the lot as well. Tarek drove past without pulling in, looking the scene over carefully to make sure he fully understood the situation before committing himself to a plan of action.

  There was one man seated in the cab of the Hyundai and another standing next to it. Neither was HV/30.

  Tarek continued past the restaurant for about half a block and pulled into a gas station on the opposite side of the street. The location provided good line of sight with the restaurant. He decided to go ahead and fill up the Mitsubishi, which would provide him cover while he continued to watch the truck and finalize his plan.

  As he pulled up to the diesel pump, he saw in his rear-view mirror a Toyota sedan pulling into the station behind him, coming from the same direction as he had come. He had not seen the car before, but the car’s two occupants struck him as odd. Both wore Western attire—open-collar shirts with light sport coats and sunglasses.

  It was the sport jackets that bothered Tarek the most. No one drove around wearing a sport jacket in this heat unless they were concealing something.

  The men pulled up behind Tarek and exited their car. “Damn,” Tarek said under his breath. He knew at a glance they had to be cops or criminals—or both. Something about the way they kept eyeing him convinced him they would be trouble. Whatever they intended, their timing was very bad.