As he disconnected the phone, he saw two uniformed officers walk into his room. “I am Abhimanyu Rathi, this is Rajesh. We are from the Corps Intelligence Unit. We need to chat,” the Lieutenant Colonel introduced himself and the Major with him. The nurse came in and adjusted the bed so that Ankush could sit up. They debriefed Ankush again, in detail, and nodded as the story matched the report that Vijay had submitted.
“Well Ankush, will you be able to recognise this guy if you see a photograph? Or see him face to face?” Rathi asked him.
“Absolutely, I can see his face as clearly as I see you.”
“Good, we will have a team with identikit come here; they will recreate the face on their laptop,” the Colonel directed Rajesh. “In the report you mention that this fellow seemed to have a military background. What made you think so?”
“Well sir, it was his posture and the way he conducted hand-to-hand combat. The smoothness was very military. I don’t know how one can explain it. Also the way he swore had an upper middle-class tone,” answered Ankush.
The two thanked Ankush and left; within half an hour the identikit team was there and so were the two officers. For the next three hours, they grilled him until the computer screen showed a picture that was of the likeness to the face Ankush remembered.
At the door, Rathi turned around and remarked, “Oh, Ankush? Your doctors have pronounced you fit to fly.”
Ankush looked amused, “And where would I be flying to, sir?”
“Delhi, AHQ, report to Colonel Thakur at 1000 hours in the morning tomorrow. There is a communication plane leaving at 1800 hours. Your travel papers are ready and will be delivered inside an hour by a dispatch rider. So pack up your clothes and be out of here by 1700 hours, will you?”
Ankush stammered, “You coming along too, Colonel?”
Rathi looked surprised. “Why? No … I am off to the Valley, to confirm something.”
Joint Interrogation Centre (JIC), Brigade Headquarters, Trigam, J&K
The Joint Interrogation Center at Trigam was used by all anti− terrorist forces in the area. It had access to Kashmiri-, Pushto-and Punjabi-speaking officers or interpreters. Only one of the two terrorists had recovered enough to be interrogated.
Lieutenant Colonel Abhimanyu Rathi flew in especially from the Corps HQ in Chandigarh. He had flown in the same evening after saying goodbye to Ankush. He had the identikit photo Ankush had helped create. He also had two photos from the cub journalist’s camera in POK. They had been received by email earlier from the MI Unit in Delhi. They were from a special agent deep in POK.
“The man’s very scared. It was his first mission … I don’t think you will have trouble, Colonel,” briefed the young officer from the IB. “But I think our friends from J&K police have already put the fear of God in him anyway, he added.
Rathi knew exactly what he meant. In his first posting in a counter-insurgency area, he had been shocked by the ability of civil police forces to show scant regard for either the subject or the law when they interrogated. Eventually, he had realised that unlike the Army and the paramilitary forces, the civil police were the first ones to face the attacks of insurgents and therefore the most exposed. They lived in and came from the same communities as the insurgents. They suffer the most when an insurgency begins; more often than not, they are the first targets. Handicapped by lack of training, weapons and experience, they are on the frontline of a war they are not trained for or expected to fight. Once they have the upper hand, they don’t feel too kindly for the insurgent or his supporters.
Once he saw the prisoner, Rathi knew what the IB officer was hinting at. The terrorist looked tired and defeated. He sat on a tall stool with his legs hanging freely and it was apparent he was in deep pain. Rathi knew he had just had his soles whacked. The prisoner had no fight left in him.
“Name?” … “Akram”
“Full name?” … “Akram Majlis”
“Village?” … “Munpur”
“Father’s name?” … “Janab Tayib Majlis”
“What group did you cross LOC with?” … “Lashkar”
“How many of you crossed LOC?” … “Twenty”
“Do you know the names of all your comrades? Were there any mehman with you? I want their names.”
“Only my team members. We were forbidden to talk to any mehman. I don’t know their names, saheb.”
“Akram, listen, I am going to show you a few pictures, point out anyone whom you recognise. Okay? Look at these photos, do you recognise anyone?” While he had only three real pictures, seventeen others were mixed in the lot to ensure that the prisoner was being truthful. After spreading them randomly on a table brought in by the policemen, he waited patiently. After a few moments the terrorist handed him three pictures.
They were the three pictures he wanted.
“Yes, it’s the man they addressed as janab. The other two were with him. There were two others as well. Don’t know their names.”
Rathi got up, gestured to the policeman that he was leaving. Once outside, he thanked the commander of JIC and called his boss in Delhi.
The hunt begins, Colonel Thakur thought, when he got the interrogation report.
By the end of the day, they had confirmation on three pictures from the POK team. Colonel Thakur smiled to himself. His entire career was based on the belief that small clues, if analysed clearly, led to the biggest of successes. Intelligence gathering was a tough job, but even tougher was to make sense of it all. To connect the dots until a picture formed.
Before he left his office, he called Rathi, “Have different versions of the photo created. Of all the three, even those which came in this morning from across the border.”
Rathi quickly got his technical team to churn out photos with different disguises, hairstyles, facial hair and even glasses. Almost twenty sets of photos were created. The two photographs from the mail sent by the operative from POK were digitalised. The computer captured the shape of ears and the distance between eyes. Like fingerprints, ears were also a unique identification feature of a person. And while it was a common trick for secret agents and criminals to get plastic surgery, more often than not, the ears remained untouched. If any of the hundreds of closed circuit cameras in airports and other sensitive places picked up the men from the photos, they would sound an alarm in the IB and RAW control room. The RAW team had carried out same action with the photos from ATM camera.
New Delhi, Sub-Area Officers’ Mess, Dhaula Kauna: 0800 hours
As he woke up, Ankush tried to remember where he was. Oh yes! Delhi. There was a dull pain in his sides as he reached for his cigarettes. The orderly knocked and entered with a pot of coffee.
As he had his coffee and cigarettes, Ankush spoke to his parents and assured them that he was well. His next call was to his CO. He narrated everything to him since his meeting with Rathi. He then shaved and changed into his olive green uniform. It was some months since he had worn anything but battle fatigues. He had a soldier’s vanity when it came to uniforms and appreciatively glanced at the mirror as he adjusted his beret. As he awaited his breakfast, he pulled out another Kings and lit it.
“Sir, the car is here for you,” the mess Havildar informed him as a bearer cleared the plates. It was a white Gypsy from the intelligence car pool.
The drive through Delhi traffic took him an hour to reach AHQ. Colonel Thakur was waiting for him. “Good of you to come, Major; I hope your wound is not giving you too much trouble.”
“I am fine, Sir.”
He led Ankush to an underground section. The lift took them two stories down. “Ankush, we have a task for you. You are the only person to have seen the Pakistani team leader. We believe he is here for something big. From what you said and other sources, we are sure he is part of the Pakistan Army. We want you to try and identify him. We have a database of pictures of Pakistani officers taken during passing-out parades, award ceremonies, marching-out into operations, media pictures, military parties and yes,
even Facebook profiles. We will run you through them. If you see the man you think you saw, please let us know.”
At the end of a dimly lit conference room was a young lieutenant from intelligence. She was sitting at the head of the conference table with a laptop and projector. “This is Avantika. She will guide you through the process,” Colonel Thakur introduced her before leaving the room.
Avantika explained, “We have put in some filters to the database so as to reduce effort and time. The first filter is rank as we believe that the officer in question is in the ranks between a Lieutenant Colonel and Captain now, or if he has left the army, he would be of that seniority. The second filter is that he is more likely to be serving, or has served as an SSG and ISI at some point in his career. So let’s begin.”
Ankush stared at the screen; the pictures flashing past were taken during military ceremonies, marriages, foreign courses and postings, class photographs and numerous other occasions. After three hours, Ankush asked for a break. He went upstairs and lit up a cigarette. He was feeling dizzy.
They started after lunch again, meticulously going through hundreds of pictures. It was at 1800 hours in the evening when looking at a graduating photograph of a class from Staff College in the US that Ankush asked Avantika to pause the screen. An intense young Major was staring at the camera among other officers from various countries. Ankush gestured at Avantika by nodding his head. By typing a few commands on the keyboard, Avantika conjured up a collage on the screen. There were five different photographs, a photograph of the same officer being decorated for gallantry in action, another of him in a blue beret in Congo, a third one, a video still from the day of Musharraf’s coup and one of him being decorated during the Pakistan Day parade in Islamabad by Musharraf on 23 March 2001. There was also a still from a CNN news report showing a young officer and a few men moving out of the Islamabad airport after the coup had ended. Ankush was sure. He was the same guy.
Avantika called Colonel Thakur. While he came in, she noted the number under the screen and sent for the file.
Colonel Thakur was in a good mood. He had something concrete and he knew it. He looked up from the file he had been reading and saw Ankush and Avantika sitting expectantly.
“He is Major Shezad Khan. And we have a file which lists him as still serving. He is a gallant chap, decorated twice. The Tigers wiped out his squad in Kargil while he was wounded and evacuated from the battle.”
The Tigers he referred to were the pilots of No 1 Mirage 2000H squadron which operated in the theatre during the Kargil War. Thakur continued after a sip of water.
“Disappeared from the records for two years… ISI deputation with SS division… I am guessing. And there is a mention of him training an SSW PAF unit. The report from Mustaq also confirms presence of men in SSW uniforms with this guy. That is something, right? There is a clear connection to PAF in this operation. I have a report from RAW confirming that some people were also trained in the Airbase for a hush-hush operation recently. Well, let me share it with that RAW spook. Until then, Ankush, you are being attached to this unit. Colonel Rathi will take care of the matters”.
“Sir, what about my unit? We are moving into operations tomorrow. I’d rather fly back now that we have identified this chap,” Ankush said.
“Major, an operation here and there does not matter too much right now. But this man, Shezad, is here to carry out a major operation. And you will be useful to us when we close in on him. You have your orders, I suggest you follow them,” Colonel Thakur dismissed him curtly.
The Colonel sent the picture to his MI officer in the valley to cross check with the militant in their custody.
Next he requested files of the Indian officers posted in the United Nations Organisation Stabilisation Mission in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (MONUSCO) during the same period. Phone calls to the right people confirmed that there was an Indian contingent with two officers posted in the same administrative office as Major Shezad Khan during his deployment in the Congo. Both officers were still serving.
Colonel Thakur had the first one on phone in a few minutes: A Lieutenant Colonel Kartar Singh of the Poona Horse Cavalry unit in Jaisalmer, a desert town in Rajasthan.
“Sure sir, I remember him. First class chap. He was a civil military liaison officer with the International MONUSCO brigade. I knew him, so did Capt Nair from 18th Grenadiers, sir.”
Communications with the right people ensured that both men were on military aircrafts in a matter of hours and on their way to Delhi. Capt Nair who was posted in Ladakh at the time, was having a few beers in the mess and found himself being unceremoniously asked to change into uniform by his boss and put on a waiting IL76 for Delhi.
Next morning they joined Ankush in a conference room at the AHQ. Both officers were very inquisitive but Ankush parried their queries by feigning ignorance. He had no idea what he could give away. Once coffee was served, Colonel Thakur and an interrogation specialist from MI joined the trio.
“Well gentlemen, I want you to recollect everything about this Major you can remember. Everything.”
Nair started off first, “He is a first-class officer from Staff College in Leavenworth. I remember he wore a ribbon of Tamgha-i-Jurat. He was with me in the civil military liaison team in the Force headquarters. We reported to the same person, a firang, a Belgian. He frequented the Indian contingent mess very often. He used to have a drink and a few snacks and head back to his billet around 2000 hours.”
Kartar Singh nodded, “He liked the cook there and was a friendly sort. I remember him always walking down from the office at around 1800 hours. In fact, many times I used to go with him too. Usually after the phone call he used to make home. We were the only three south Asian officers in the office.”
The investigator, a young MI officer interjected, “What phone call? Every evening?”
Nair answered, “Yeah, he had something about calling his mom every evening, and since the call from office used to be free, he used to call from there itself.”
“Call Pakistan?” enquired Thakur.
“No, the U.S. His mom was staying there with his brother. I remember, on leave he took the UN flight to Europe to take a connecting flight to the US before returning to Pakistan. Both of us had gone home via Dubai.”
“What else; was there anything which you remember, some action, habit?”
Kartar Singh answered, “You know, he had a small printed poster of General Erwin Rommel on his desk.”
Nair added, “And I remember his radio call sign was funny … Fox One. He used it to sign-off his radio calls in field. I remember he was pretty pleased when he got that as his call sign. We were all inducted together, you know.”
“Hmmm…all these pictures of Pakistani officer and questions, is this something we should keep quiet about?” queried Nair seriously.
“Yes, you should,” replied Thakur matter of factly. “So we have a Fox Hunt on our plate…. Outfoxing a fox… I like the idea,” Thakur smiled as he said that.
Nair was asked to stay back with Ankush, and Kartar Singh was asked to return to his unit.
Before leaving the office, he mailed the file on Major Shezad to Sanjay.
RAW HQ Lodhi Road, New Delhi
As Major Shezad’s picture loaded on the screen, Sanjay gasped, audibly.
Rajat turned around from the screen, “Something wrong?”
“I will be a son of a bitch! I know this bastard, hell I know him…” Sanjay muttered as he bought a cigarette to his lips.
As more pictures loaded on the screen, Sanjay’s thoughts went back to a sweltering evening in Kabul. It was his second tour of duty and the Wing was still getting used to having a proper base in Afghanistan. A day before, news had come in about an attack on an Indian company setting up a power cable in southern Afghanistan. A payback was being planned. A senior officer from RAW HQ in Delhi had flown in and briefed the team. Sanjay was asked to get a squad ready. A band of Baloch fighters he had trained with and pr
epared over the last three months was to take part in a strike across the western border of Afghanistan. The target was a power substation at the Gwadar port.
“You will have to go in by sea; the Balochs will travel to Karachi and then onwards by road.”
Each of the ten Balochs was recruited from the Middle East, working in restaurants and hotels. Every one of them had been screened for months and selected on the basis of their bitterness towards the Pakistani state. More importantly, each had his immediate family in the Middle East. Sanjay and his boss had picked them out, screened them, checked them…. “Even looked down their stinking butts…” as his boss said. Post the preliminaries, they were given Indian passports and flown to Delhi. A special ARC flight flew them to Chakrata.
Sanjay and the men had trained together for three months. The men had returned to the Middle East awaiting orders, and Sanjay to Afghanistan.
Now as the plan to retaliate took form, five of the Balochs could fly in with their Pakistani passports, unmarked and unsuspected. For Sanjay it was to be a longer and harder journey.
A week later, an Indian ship transporting tea unloaded a sailor on the portside at Chabahar, Iran. As he walked down the quayside, a man got out of an old Mercedes and waved. “Samsher, come Samsher! It’s me, don’t you recognise me?” The sailor waited for a second for the man to walk into a street lamp, recognised an old friend and removed his hand from inside his jacket. The Berretta could stay in its shoulder harness for now.
The man who hailed him was a senior member of the Baloch National Force (BNF), a guerrilla army fighting the Pakistanis, exiled but unbroken, he was RAW’s ally in Chaabahar port in Iran. The port is being developed, at least a railway line to the port, by Indian assistance. Being close to Baluchistan, the port offered RAW an excellent opportunity to have its men on ground as ‘contractors’ or ‘consultants’. A strong Baloch community allowed building links.
Operation ‘Fox-Hunt’ Page 10