He smiled. “No. Let’s just walk.”
He could still feel the adrenaline in his body making his muscles tight and his breathing shallow. Seeing he was tense Aysha guided him towards the river and a place where she knew there were some wooden slatted benches overlooking the water. As they approached they could see a couple alternately swigging a bottle and kissing. Veering away from them, Jaz and Aysha disturbed a pigeon perched on the back of one of the benches. They were away from the traffic and its incessant hum and the noise of the bird’s flapping wings seemed loud as it lifted itself above them.
Aysha guided him to the bench and sat next to him putting her head on his shoulder.
“You always fighting?”
“What am I meant to do? Just let them touch you? I dunno. Here …” Shaking his head, he let the thought trail away.
They sat in silence watching the black, choppy water pass by.
“Anyway what’s it like in Palestine? Sounds pretty rough.”
Aysha turned so she was facing Jaz directly. “Not now. It’s a long story. Anyway, what I would like to know Jaz is where you got so good at goalkeeping.”
As he laughed she squeezed his hand. And later they swapped numbers. And as they parted she kissed him on the cheek. It sent a charge though his whole body. “See you next week, then.”
“OK,” she replied, “or sooner.”
Chapter Three
“I have been a Baluch for several centuries. I have been a Muslim for 1,400 years. I have been a Pakistani for just over 50.” -- Baluch tribal leader, Nawab Akbar Bugti, 1999
09:30, 1st October, Army Golf Club, Rawalpindi, Pakistan
Colonel (Rtd.) Azam Khan, even his most loyal friends had to concede, was beginning to let himself go. It was no longer unusual to see him unshaven with the bottom button of his shirt unfastened, revealing a small triangle of hairy flesh just above his belt buckle. And even if years on the parade ground had rendered him quite incapable of slouching, it was impossible to ignore his expanding girth.
In the service of Pakistan the colonel had fired weapons in anger in Kashmir, Afghanistan, East Pakistan and – although very few knew this – in India too. He had come out the other end with what he liked to think of as a sound understanding of men (he never claimed to be an expert on women), a scar on his left thigh and an apparently unquenchable thirst for Johnny Walker Black Label.
Dr Buckingham, the history teacher at his missionary school in Karachi, had taught Master Azam Khan about King Alfred’s division of the day into three segments. The colonel used the same method. One third of his waking hours he devoted to physical exercise in the form of 18 holes of golf each morning and a 30-minute constitutional, swagger stick in hand, through some residential streets of Islamabad at dusk. Another third took in lunch with his wife and gardening. Not actually planting things but supervising his servant who combined his floral duties with driving the colonel’s car. Having acquired, over the years, a number of gardening books, the colonel had formed the view that roses, tulips and the like should not be grown in straight rows like infantry men on parade ready for inspection but according to more artistic, horticultural principles which he was still trying to fully comprehend. His wife and his, mostly military, friends thought his garden was a mess. And the final third of the day the colonel spent in the company of those friends, ideally away from home and best of all in the Islamabad Club where, to keep up appearances, the whisky was served in teapots.
As usual it was half past eight in the morning as they approached the first tee. “Clinton, Bush or the field marshal?” the colonel enquired in his Sandhurst English, as he did at the start of every game with Brigadier (Rtd.) Yayha Quereshi aka the Brig. He too had been at the missionary school. The two men went on to be year mates in the army and were, in retirement, close neighbours. Although they had never discussed the issue, their divergence in rank mattered not a jot to either. In fact the colonel had always been well ahead of the Brig at school, but both had seen enough of the Pakistan army to know that the difference between a brigadier and a colonel had more to do with luck than merit. In fact the Brig was so much part of the colonel’s life that the question of whether he actually liked him or not never really came into it. The Brig was just there. Always had been; always would be.
The colonel’s enquiry related to an article he had read about the golfing etiquette of the two former US presidents. Bill Clinton, the article said, used to demand extra shots after a miss hit on the grounds that he had a right to presidential mulligans. “Some of his congressional opponents,” the journalist had written in leaden prose, “might call that cheating.” Typical bloody journalist dragging politics into it, the colonel had thought. George W Bush, the article went on, was just as averse to defeat but he tackled the problem rather differently. The scion of the Walker Cup dynasty allowed himself three, four or five shots per hole according to what the par was. If he had not holed the ball by the time he had completed his allocation of shots he picked it up and moved on to the next tee. In this way no one could accurately work out how well he was doing. “Typical bloody politician,” the colonel grumbled under his breath. The third alternative, the field marshal, was a reference to Pakistan’s own former president, Ayub Khan. Because even if Khan had repeatedly flouted the Pakistani Constitution, he had always been scrupulous about respecting The Royal and Ancient’s Laws of Golf. It was even rumoured that he asked the Pakistani High Commissioner in London to procure a copy, which he kept by his bedside so that he could brush up on the more arcane regulations before nodding off.
“Fear I rather overdid it last night,” the Brig grimaced, “could we go for Clinton?” If anything the accent was even more pucker than the colonel’s.
“Presidential mulligans it is,” the colonel replied.
The Brig and the colonel had managed to agree on mulligans every day for the last two years.
“Any word from the chief?”
The colonel knew the question was coming. The week before he had caused a rather more than minor scandal when, after his sixth or maybe seventh, he had marched up to the Chief of Army Staff at the wedding reception of a general’s daughter and accused him of being a coward. The colonel had been irked by an order to pull some Special Service Group forces out of Indian-held Kashmir. Inevitably, some of the papers had heard about it and run rather overblown accounts which failed to reflect the point that the colonel’s precise objection was not that the chief had ordered the withdrawal – that was his prerogative – but that he had not had the guts, or common decency, to meet the SSG men face to face and tell them that their gruelling 18-month long campaign behind the lines in Indian held Kashmir, in the course of which three men had been killed, had been in vain. Instead the chief had cabled a written order.
“Not a peep,” mused the colonel, squeezing his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. “Dignity of office and all that. And, anyway, he is a bloody coward.”
“Well. There is not much they can do is there?”
“Just strike me off the invitation lists. I expect. Sod them. Couldn’t care less.” Which wasn’t strictly true.
It was then that his mobile phone went off.
The Brig growled: “Dreadful bloody things.”
Ignoring his friend’s conversation, the Brig signalled to the caddy that he wanted a tee and a ball. Having set himself up for his shot he looked over his shoulder to the colonel: “Can’t that wait?”
But then he changed his tone. Because he saw his old friend’s whole body slump as if a bit of life had been sucked out of it.
“What the hell has happened?”
The colonel looked up, his cheeks and forehead grey, cold and clammy.
“It’s my nephew, Mahmud. The bloody Yanks got him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Got him. Killed him. Shot him. Blew him up. I don’t know.” A pause. “Killed him.”
“When?”
“Just a few hours ago.”
“Whe
re?”
“Up in Baluchistan. You know. He’s been looking after the house there.”
“In Dera Chamak?”
“Yes.”
“But he wasn’t a fundo. I thought you were sending him to London.”
The colonel let his club fall to the ground and turned away.
“Oh my dear fellow I am so sorry. Come on. Let’s get you back to the club house.”
The Brig, signalling to the caddies that the game was over, put his arm around the colonel’s shoulders and without a word led him back up the fairway.
Ten minutes later, sitting down, head bowed and sipping a cup of tea, the colonel tried to fall back on his military training and to take control of the situation. “I’ll have to call Jaz. Going to have to put his skates on.”
“He’s in London still?”
“Yes.”
“How old is he now?”
The colonel: “19. Been there a couple of years already. No, must be three now. Over three even.”
“And there’s nobody else,” the brigadier commented, relieved to be moving on to practical rather than emotional terrain.
“No, nobody else. Just Jaz and me.” And then after a pause: “It’s like I’ve lost a son.”
“Bloody hell.”
The Brig looked up and watched the colonel reach forward, placing his cup on a chipped saucer. Slowly he turned away from the Brig, took out his mobile phone and called London.
“Jasir, Uncle Azam here. I have some terrible news ...”
*****
Eighteen hours later Jaz Khan moved out of the baggage hall at Quetta, past customs and out into the open air. The time since his uncle called had been filled by a swirl of finding cash, buying tickets, reaching the airport and, once aboard, weeping silently as vivid memories of his boyhood with Mahmud flashed through his head. But now as he left the plane’s cocoon and walked into Pakistan, he felt a gaping, gnawing void in his stomach. What the hell was he going to do now? The only person in the world who really knew him had gone. So, who was he now? And why did his little brother have to die?
“Jasir!”
Jaz looked up at the colonel, caught his eye and then diverted his gaze to the floor. It was a reflex show of respect that surprised Jaz himself. He was already shedding his British ways. “Uncle,”
“I am so sorry, my boy, I can’t tell you,” the colonel embraced his nephew and reached for his bag.
“Am I in time?”
The colonel looked at his watch. “I have asked them to hold off until sunset. But it’s a long drive. Six hours at least. We should start straight away.”
And putting Jaz’s bag over his shoulder, he placed his right hand on the young man’s lower back guiding him through the melee of people, luggage trolleys, cars and motorbikes.
As the colonel drove from Quetta, south, towards the desert, he stayed quiet sizing up the nephew he had not seen for three years. The colonel, for the sake of his dead brother, had put Jaz on an English course. Because his father had lived in the UK, Jaz already had a British passport. “I have risked my life for Pakistan,” the colonel had said to Jaz, “on more than one occasion. But if you want my advice, do what your father tried to do: make a life for yourself over there. The bloody politicians have ruined this place.”
The boy had grown up. That was obvious. And he was good looking too. He wore tight jeans, leather jacket and rather too prominently displayed chest hair. He’d filled out and looked fit. Strong even. Bet he’s good with girls, the colonel allowed himself a chuckle. Unless he’s too shy. And more chances over there than in Islamabad. Never mind bloody Baluchistan! The stubble and sunglasses added to the impression. But beneath the surface he seemed edgy, his muscles taut. Perhaps that was just the grief.
“So what have you been doing in London?” the colonel asked as he pulled away from Quetta on the potholed tarmac that the Baluch still called London Road on the grounds that if you started on it and went through Tehran, Istanbul, Sofia, Belgrade, Paris and Calais, that is where you’d end up.
“Not much. Still minicabbing, you know.”
“Do you ever go back to the language school?”
“No.” And by way of explanation: “No point.”
“I thought you were their top student. The golden boy.”
“I was. You know what I mean. It’s just money to them. Stop paying and they stop being interested.”
“And are you managing for money?”
“Just about.” Jaz looked at his uncle. “It’s OK. Apart from the Brits.”
“How do you mean?”
Jaz looked out of the window wondering what to say and whether the colonel would understand. Maybe he was too old.
“They think everyone who’s not white is a bloody terrorist. Bloody hypocrites.” He turned to the colonel wanting to convince him. “Honestly, they are.”
“Oh I know that, Jaz. It was the same when we were fighting for independence. We were all fanatics then too.”
Hazy on the history Jaz just nodded, pleasantly surprised that the colonel seemed to agree. “It would have been better if I got the teaching thing. But it never happened.”
“Where are you living?”
“Waterloo. You know it? Big railway station there. It’s quite cheap – for London – but good for the minicabbing. Some jobs start right there. Right by home.”
“I thought you were somewhere else. With an ‘E’ wasn’t it?”
“Ealing,” Jaz laughed. “I moved when I left college.”
“Many friends?”
“It’s OK,” he said.
“Girlfriend?”
Jaz’s brain filled with an image of Aysha and he felt warmth spreading all over him.
“Not really.”
“Do you see many Pakistanis?”
“Yeah. No Baluch though. Punjabis mainly. Religious too. They call them the Mullah Boys.”
“Wahhabi?”
“Yeah. To be fair though they the only ones doing anything about the drugs. Honestly, everyone’s on them. It’s amazing. Anyway, they just find the addicts and lock ’em up in a room until they are clean. Know what I mean?”
“And then take them to the mosque, no doubt.”
“Exactly, yeah.” Jaz looked out of the window to his left. “But I steer clear of them. Not just because they are Punjabis.”
“Don’t you go to the Mosque - at least on Friday?”
“Too busy working. Anyways they’re fanatics there. Nothing like I ever saw in Pakistan. Half of them live off the state, you know.”
“How do you mean?”
“They get benefits for not working.”
“Idle and aggressive. I can believe it. You have done well to steer clear of them.”
“I agree with them about the West though. Bunch of bloody hypocrites.”
“The West has looked after you pretty well Jaz,” the colonel said.
“You reckon? Wouldn’t give me a decent job. And why not? Because I’m a bloody Paki. All they do is go round the world killing people so they can keep on getting pissed. And all they want me to do is drive them home when they are too smashed to do it themselves. I fucking hate them.”
“Did you try any other jobs? Besides the teaching?”
“Someone told me the government did not have enough Baluch speakers. You know to listen to the phone calls.”
“In London? Or the calls here?” the colonel said, surprised.
“Both I think. Anyway there was no way I was doing that. That would be like betrayal wouldn’t it.”
The colonel changed the subject “Do you ever see your step mother?”
“I got her address from the funeral directors and went there, but a white bloke answered the door and told me to piss off.”
Lonely, thought the colonel. It was natural enough, poor bugger. Starting a new life on his own at 16. Done well to hack it. “What are they like at the cab company?”
“All sorts really. Nigerians mainly. Some Ukrainians.”
> “No British?”
“A few but they can’t be bothered to do the night shift so I don’t see much of them. I play a bit of five a side football. It’s good.”
The colonel wondered how he was really coping and wondered whether he should be looking for a job for him in Pakistan.
Jaz changed the subject: “So what happened?”
The colonel took in a deep breath. “I am not sure yet. Certainly there was a drone.”
Jaz looked confused.
The colonel pursed his lips and breathed in: “A drone. A UAV. An unmanned aerial vehicle. A remote control plane with no pilot.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“And I am sorry, Jaz, but you will find out soon enough. It hit your home. Some people died there. I don’t know who, but they were in the compound. Don’t know how many. They say it’s a bloody mess. We’ll find out when we arrive.”
“And that’s where Mahmud was is it?” Jaz exhaled and tilted his head back until it touched the headrest.
“No. He died just outside the village. Shot. There were some Americans on the ground as well it seems. On Pakistani soil, the little bastards. But for all I know the bloody chief has given up altogether and is just letting the Yanks come and go as they please.”
The colonel slipped out into the fast lane to overtake a rusty Toyota pickup with no number plates and five sheep in the back, their wool straining against the wind.
“So who would have been in the compound then?”
“Things have changed since you were there Jasir. It’s wild country now. Americans, Central Asians, Chechens. All bloody sorts, not to mention the tribes up to their normal tricks. Feuding, revenge killings, honour killings, God knows what. Maybe they had the wrong house. Maybe Mahmud had let in some people the Americans wanted. Maybe he was seeing a girl and her father found out and told the Americans he was a terrorist. Anything is possible. But we’ll find out.” The colonel took his eyes off the road and looked at his nephew to reassure him: “be sure of that.”
“Are they fighting in the village?” Jaz thought back to his childhood when it seemed that nothing more exciting than a rainstorm would ever happen there.
TARGET BRITAIN: a political thriller Page 4