by Duane Evans
Pretending to pay them no attention, Tarek got out of his vehicle and started pumping diesel into the Mitsubishi. The gas station owner began cleaning Tarek’s windshield of the thick scum of insects that had accumulated during his all-night drive from Dhaka.
After pumping almost 80 liters of diesel into the Mitsubishi, Tarek removed the nozzle from the tank and replaced it back at the pump. As he was replacing the gas tank cap, the two men approached him.
“Good afternoon, Sir,” the oldest and tallest of the two men said.
“Good afternoon,” Tarek answered.
“I am Detective Jumblat, of the Crowe’s Bazar Metro Police.”
Tarek nodded but said nothing.
“I see your vehicle has Bangladeshi plates. May I ask your business here?”
“I am making my way to Farakka Barrage as an invited guest for a ceremony that begins in just a few hours. I plan to catch a river launch here in Crowe’s Bazar.
“May I see your passport?”
“Certainly,” Tarek said, pulling out his passport and handing it to the detective. “You will note the entry cachet, which I obtained at the border crossing earlier this morning. Everything should be in order.”
The detective briefly looked at the passport and handed it to his partner, then returned his gaze to Tarek. “I’m afraid there are some formalities that must be handled before you continue on your journey. You will have to accompany us to our office in town.”
Tarek groaned inwardly. His position was deteriorating rapidly. A change in strategy was in order.
“Detective, I have been invited by the government of India to attend an official function, and you are interfering with that. As a municipal official, you do not, under these circumstances, have any authority to detain me. Now if you will return my passport to me, I will be on my way.”
“You are quite right, Mr. Durrani,” the younger of the two said. “Detective Jumblat has no authority in this case, but as an Intelligence Bureau official, I do.” He held out an IB credential for Tarek to see. “I am Inspector Reza. I assure you, this will only take a few minutes of your time, and then you can be on your way.”
Tarek heard an engine start in the distance. Looking past the two men, Tarek saw to his horror that the LT team had loaded into the truck and was beginning to pull out of the restaurant parking lot. For a brief instant, the thought crossed his mind that he should tell the IB inspector about the LT team, but to do so, would, at least on its surface, implicate him in the plot. If the IB were able to establish he was a Pakistani ISI officer, he would likely meet with little mercy for a long time to come.
Having run through his analysis at lightning speed, he gambled that it would take the team a while to get to the marina, load the boat, and make the final preparations before departing. With a little luck, he would be through the “formalities” quickly and be able to catch up with the team at the marina. Under the circumstances, he really had no choice—to try to neutralize two Indian officials in public sight next to a major street was simply not a good option.
Tarek watched as the Hyundai passed by in route to the marina. It was all he could do to stand still and watch. Patience, Tarek, patience, he told himself.
“Alright Inspector, let’s get this over with. I’m expected at Farakka Barrage tonight.”
71
Sahar sat silently gazing out the window of the bus as it rolled down the highway from Malda toward Farakka Barrage. Next to her, Advani dozed in his reclined seat. Many of the other delegation members were napping as well.
As she watched, wide expanses of jute fields flew past, featureless, except for the dark green color, the intensity of which seemed to glow in the late-morning sun. The scenery and the low drone of the bus had a mesmerizing effect on her, and her mind was quiet.
Up until they had arrived in Malda, Sahar’s feeling of uneasiness had continued, but now, it was gone. She felt relaxed and peaceful. She was no longer upset that Tarek was not with her. She had accepted that it was not meant to be, and she took comfort in the thought that within a few days, maybe even less, he would come to her in New Delhi. Then she would never let him go. She felt a powerful connection to Tarek and an equally powerful confidence that Tarek felt the same way about her. They would spend the rest of their lives together. It was meant to be.
Sahar had never believed she could love a man as she loved Tarek. The feeling surprised her, since in many ways Tarek was still an enigma to her. If he were any other man, she might consider his opaqueness a warning flag, but not with Tarek. She would not hesitate to go with him anywhere he wanted to go, as long as she could be with him.
Sahar looked away from the window and reached into her travel bag to take out the schedule for the day’s events. Her appetite starting to stir, she was glad to see lunch was scheduled soon after arriving at Farakka Barrage.
She thought of Tarek and wondered if he was eating properly and taking care of himself. Somehow she imagined Dhaka as the kind of place where taking care of yourself might be a difficult thing to do. But Tarek was resourceful and well-traveled.
Tarek is probably just fine, she told herself.
72
The drive from the gas station to the entrance to the Intelligence Bureau office was brief, encouraging Tarek to think he could be on his way soon, with enough time to catch up to team at the marina—if the IB inspector kept to his word.
Reza drove through the unguarded entryway of the walled compound and parked next to a small office building a couple hundred meters from a larger building. The words “Crowe’s Bazar Municipal Police” were stenciled in large block letters on the building’s stucco exterior. Tarek deduced that the smaller structure was a satellite IB office, a tenant facility on the municipal police compound.
Immediately, Reza and Detective Jumblat exited the sedan. Reza opened the rear door for Tarek, who stepped out of the car. Tarek’s Mitsubishi pulled in behind them, driven by the attendant from the gas station they had just left.
Tarek noted that except for the Mitsubishi and the sedan they had arrived in, the small parking area was empty. He also noticed bars over the few windows in the back of the smaller building, leading him to suspect it was not an administrative office for dealing with formalities, but was a detention facility.
Reza walked over to the gas station attendant and gave him a handful of rupees for his trouble, then sent him on his way.
“This way, Mr. Durrani,” Reza said, gesturing toward the building. The three men walked the short distance to the front door, which was the only door the building appeared to have. Reza took a heavy key ring with several thick brass keys from his jacket pocket. As he opened the door, a musty smell drifted out the building.
Standing a few feet outside, Tarek saw there were no lights on, and the building appeared to be empty. The sunlight coming in through the windows provided sufficient illumination for Tarek to see just inside the door to a small office with a single desk and two chairs. Beyond this, a corridor ran down the middle of the building to the back wall. On each side of the corridor were jail cells, all unoccupied, their doors standing open. Tarek’s muscles tightened as Inspector Reza’s intention became clear to him.
Reza stepped inside the office and turned on the lights. “Step inside, Mr. Durrani, and empty your pockets of their contents and place them on the table,” he said in an authoritative tone.
“Certainly,” Tarek said in a calm voice, as he stepped through the doorway. Jumblat following close behind.
As Tarek walked past Reza, he focused his mind and, in a sudden move, slammed his right elbow into the side of the inspector’s head, the blow instantly dropping him to the dusty concrete floor.
Jumblat, initially startled, reached for his service revolver under his jacket. Tarek dropped him with a straight-line punch to the chin before the pistol had cleared leather. It was over in less than three seconds.
Tarek quickly pulled Jumblat’s limp body inside the doorway and took his revolver, tuc
king it into his waistband. He searched Reza and found a small 9mm semiautomatic, which he stuffed into his pants pocket. After shutting the office door, he picked up the ring of keys from the floor and quickly checked the pulses of both men, finding they were strong.
He dragged each of the men into a separate cell. Spotting a small supply cabinet in the office, he rifled through it to find masking tape and twine, which he quickly used to bind their hands and feet. Finding a moldy towel in a latrine, he ripped it in half to make gags that he secured with tape around their heads. After matching the keys on the key ring with the locks, Tarek locked both cell doors and the door between the office and the cell corridor.
Tarek looked out the window at the parking area. Seeing no one, he stepped outside the building and walked quickly to the Mitsubishi, where he found the keys still in the ignition. After climbing into the vehicle, he pulled it around to the back of the building, making sure it was out of sight. Reaching into the back seat, he grabbed a small pack that contained his phones, maps, and binoculars. He exited the Mitsubishi and walked back to the other side of the building, where he entered the Intelligence Bureau sedan, found its keys in the ignition, started it up, and drove out of the compound in search of the marina.
73
It was now mid afternoon. HV/30 and the other team members were loading the last items of gear onto the rented boat while Sheik Osman stood watching, his arms crossed.
Where is he? HV/30 wondered as he handed the boxes of concealed weapons and rucksacks down to the men in the boat. He feared Rashid would not get to the marina before they departed. The thought of Sheik Osman succeeding in his mission did not sit well with HV/30. The man would become an even greater hero within the LT, and he did not deserve to be a hero. He deserved to be dead.
HV/30 was glad he had taken the risk to contaminate the diesel fuel as Rashid had advised. If he could convince Sheik Osman that they should top off the tank before they reached the dam, then the engine would foul, and the mission could not proceed.
Still, HV/30 decided this in itself would not be enough. It might stop the team from carrying out its mission, but it would not achieve his own driving ambition to see the death of Sheik Osman. With this thought in mind, he had pilfered a hand grenade from the cache the team had picked up in Dhaka. When the time came, he would stand next to Sheik Osman and tell him he knew that he had raped Soriya. Then he would detonate the grenade.
All that remained to be loaded on the boat were the two jerry cans of contaminated fuel. As HV/30 prepared to pass the first can down to the others on the boat, the wizened owner of the boat stopped him
“Only my fuel,” he said angrily. “There is too much bad diesel on the market. I know that my supplier can be trusted. I know nothing about yours.”
“There is nothing wrong with this fuel,” Mahmoud argued. “You are just trying to make us pay more for your fuel.”
“It is my boat,” the old man insisted. “Only my fuel can be used.”
“Mahmoud, forget it,” Sheik Osman interrupted. “Leave our fuel and take his. We need to get moving. I don’t care whose fuel we use.”
It was all HV/30 could do to set aside the contaminated fuel containers and load the ones provided by the boat owner. Now the grenade would be his only option.
The old man’s son, who appeared to be in his mid-20s, had been working on the boat’s motor. He called up to his father, “She’s ready.” The old man waved, looked at Sheik Osman, and then nodded to the boat.
“Alright, everyone on the boat,” Sheik Osman ordered.
As HV/30 started past him toward the boat, Osman put his hand on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.
“Not you, Mahmoud,” he said. “I need you to stay here and make sure nothing happens to the truck. We should be back well before midnight. Make sure it is gassed up in the meantime and ready to take us out of here.”
HV/30 could not believe what he was hearing. He had to get on the boat. “My brother, I have come all this way,” he said. “Please! I must go with you. I must do this.”
Sheik Osman smiled, “Mahmoud, I am impressed by your dedication and your courage. May Allah bless you for this. But we must maintain control of the truck.” Then lowering his voice he said, “This is not a martyrdom operation. We will need to return to our homeland. I assure you, Kashmir will need us in the coming days.”
Were the grenade in his immediate possession, HV/30 would have gone through with his plan and killed Sheik Osman right then and there. But he had hidden the grenade in his backpack, which was already on the boat.
Thinking quickly, he said, “Alright, my brother. I will do as you command. Let me get my pack off the boat.”
Sheik Osman nodded and began walking toward the boat. As he did, he called out to the men now waiting onboard, “Throw Mahmoud his pack.”
The boat engine roared to life. One of the team members grabbed HV/30’s pack and tossed it high in the air. The throw was long. The bag sailed over the narrow dock and landed at the river’s edge. By the time HV/30 managed to get down off the dock and scramble down the short, steep incline to retrieve the pack, Sheik Osman and the boat were well into the river, at far too great a distance for HV/30’s grenade to reach.
He stood in shock, watching the boat head farther and farther out into the wide river, his plan shattered beyond recovery. The only thing that lay between the team and their target was water, and even that worked in the team’s favor, as it flowed swiftly in the direction of Farakka Barrage.
74
The late-afternoon sun sat low over the Ganges as the boat tour of Farakka Barrage and the Jangipur Feeder Canal came to an end. One by one the visitors climbed the short ladder from the river launch to the dock.
Sahar was amazed at the transformation that had occurred since their departure for the tour only two hours before. The huge dock, built to handle the largest of river-going ships, had been converted to a venue for the evening’s ceremony. A massive open-sided shamiana tent had been erected to cover the entire seating area. Sahar estimated that as many as 200 chairs had been set up in neat rows facing the wide dam stretching across the Ganges. A smaller tent was set up nearby for the banquet that was to follow the ceremony.
Governor Ghule approached. “Well, Sahar, this looks very nice,” he said. “The staff here has done a great job in getting ready for tonight’s festivities.”
“Yes, it looks lovely,” Sahar said.
The governor looked intently at Sahar, a smile on his face. “I hasten to add, your presence here adds to that loveliness.”
This was not the first time Governor Ghule had let it be known how taken he was with Sahar. From the moment they had first met in Calcutta, he had waged a low-level campaign of pursuit. When Tarek had left for Dhaka, the governor had been encouraged in his designs, using every opportunity he could find to get close to her. His tactics were like arrows hitting a stone wall. Sahar was well acquainted with his type; she saw him for the womanizer he was.
Ignoring his compliment, she asked, “Do you know where my father is? The last time I saw him on the boat he was with you.”
Governor Ghule was disappointed he had not gotten a more receptive response to his comment, but the night was young, and he would be spending much of the rest of it with Sahar, having arranged for her to be seated next to him both at the commemoration ceremony and the banquet.
“Yes, I believe I saw him get off the boat,” he answered. “He was walking with Ambassador Chernikov. He is probably just up ahead.”
“Thank you, Governor. I should catch up to him so we can coordinate our plans for the evening.”
Sahar turned and headed off toward the guest lodgings in search of her father, Governor Ghule taking in her every step and move.
75
Tarek made his way toward the marina on a road that ran alongside the river. Seeing the marina ahead, he pulled the sedan into the parking lot of a vegetable market and buried the Intelligence Bureau car among dozens of par
ked vehicles.
Before getting out of the car, he put Detective Jumblat’s large six-shot service revolver into a side pocket of his pack. Taking out Reza’s 9mm semiautomatic, he removed the magazine and used his thumb to flick out the rounds onto the seat, counting each one as it popped out of the magazine. There were only seven rounds plus the one still chambered. That will have to do, he thought. Tarek quickly reloaded the magazine and snapped it back into the pistol butt.
Tarek made his way to the marina on foot, blending in as best he could with other pedestrians walking along the river-front road. Looking ahead, he could see the top of what appeared to be a van in the marina parking lot on the opposite side of the street.
Still walking with the crowd, Tarek surveyed the scene. The truck was the Hyundai he was looking for, but there was no sign of anyone around it. More disturbing to Tarek, the dock area was quiet, with only a couple of workers moving about. The team was not there. He had missed them.
Tarek’s feeling of exhilaration as he anticipated action was instantly replaced by a feeling of crushing disappointment—his life’s dream vanishing as he imagined the team making its way down the Ganges toward Sahar.
Disheartened, Tarek walked across the street, dodging rickshaws and bicycles as he approached the truck. After glancing inside it, to ensure no one was there, he walked over to the river’s edge and sat down on the grassy bank placing his pack between his legs. He took from his wallet a small slip of paper on which he had written Governor Ghule’s satellite phone number.
He had waited as long as he could to make the call, but now there was no choice but to notify Ghule of the approaching danger. Tarek removed the sat phone from his pack, punched in the numbers and waited as he listened to the phone ring.