by Anil John
Chapter 6
New York City, United States of America
In his hotel room in New York, Lucas was awakened in the middle of the night by the ringing of his cell phone.
He looked blearily at the bedside clock, snatched up the phone. ‘It is fucking three o’clock, who the fuck ...?’
A soft voice at the other end began speaking, and Lucas sat upright in bed, his heart beginning to pound. He listened for a long time with drops of sweat on his forehead. Finally he said, ‘Yes, sir. I understand. I will be on the first plane to Rio. Thank you.’
He kept his cell phone on the bedside table and lit a cigarette. His hands were shivering. The man he had just spoken to was one of the most powerful men in the world, and what he had asked him to do...The man just offered five hundred thousand dollars to deliver a bloody message. The day was starting out great.
At 7a.m, Lucas picked up his cell phone and dialled the number of Latam Airlines ‘What time is your first flight to Rio?’
The plane arrived at Galeao Airport in Rio by evening.
As Lucas stepped out of the plane, the blast of hot and humid air startled him for a moment.
During the taxi ride into the city, Lucas was amused to see that the graffiti and the sidewalks had not changed.
The catnap of the locals was over and the streets were crowded with people lazily walking down the lanes
Hotel Belmond Copacabana was in the heart of the fashionable lane.
He paid the driver and he registered at the reception desk in the huge, modern lobby, picked up a copy of Herald and let the assistant manager show him to his suite.
It was more than two weeks before Lucas, was able to track down Padre Pio.
His search began with the telephone directories. He started with the places in the heart of the city. None of them had a listing of Padre Pio. Nor was there any listing in the outlying areas of city.
‘How to find him?’ Lucas wondered.
He took to the streets and walked into Bar Do Gomez and the bartender cried out, Sir Lucas, I heard you were dead.’
Lucas grinned, ‘I was, but I missed you so much Jimmy boy, I came back.’
‘What are you doing here in Rio?’
Lucas let his voice grow reflective. ‘I came here to find an old friend. We were supposed to do some work for social cause but then I got busier and lost track of him, His name is Padre Pio.
The bartender scratched his head, ‘Never heard of him.’
‘Would you ask around?’
‘Sure.’
Lucas’s next stop was to see a friend in police headquarters.
‘Lucas, Nice to see you.’
Hello James, Nice to see you too.’
‘Last I heard about you, the CIA kicked you out.’
‘No way, my friend, they begged me to stay. I quit going into business for myself.’
‘What business you are in?’
‘I opened my own detective agency. As a matter of fact, that’s what brings me to Rio. A client of mine died a few weeks ago. He left his son a bundle of money, and I am trying to locate him. All the information I have on him is he left his home at an early age and came to Rio and when he grew up, he became a Padre.’
‘What is his name?’
‘Padre Pio.’
‘Wait here a moment.’
The moment stretched into half an hour.
‘Sorry dude, I cannot help you and he is not in our computer or in any of our files.’
‘Oh, well. If you should come across any information about him. I am at Hotel Copacabana.
‘Sure.’
Lucas wandered around the colourful water front area where one could see old ships rusting at anchor in the river. No one around here knew of Padre Pio. For the first time, Lucas began to feel he might be on a wild goose chase.
It was at the Cabaret Bar e Lounge at Botafogo, that his luck suddenly changed. It was a Friday night, and the bar was filled. It took him ten minutes to get the bartender’s attention.
The bartender came to him and said, ‘Looking for Padre Pio? If he wishes to talk to you, he will come here about midnight.’
The following evening, Lucas returned to the Cabaret Bar e Lounge at eleven o’clock, watching the bar gradually fills up.
As midnight approached, he found himself getting more and more nervous. What if he did not show up? What if it was the wrong Padre?
He watched a group of giggling young women came into the bar. They joined some men at the table.
The door opened at midnight and Lucas looked up expectantly.
A six feet nine tall, well built man in forties walked in. He was wearing a jean, leather coat and a leather cap. His complexion and features indicated that he inherited the blood of a German ancestor who had been bedded by an Israeli.
The man looked around the bar with vacant, listless eyes. He nodded vaguely to several people and then pushed his way through the crowd.
He walked up to the bar.
‘Want to buy me a drink?’ He had a heavy German accent and up close his scar-face, terrified Lucas for a moment.
‘They say you are looking for me?’
‘Who?’
‘Padre, you were looking for?’
‘Are you Padre Pio? “His” friend?’
The man in the leather cap gave a whimsical smile.
Lucas requested swiftly, ‘Well, Well.’ Can we go to a corner table and talk?’
He nodded indifferently, ‘Okay.’
They fought their way across the smoky bar, and when they were seated Lucas said, ‘I’d like to talk about...’
‘You buy me rum?’
Lucas nodded. ‘Sure.’
A waiter appeared, wearing a filthy apron, and Lucas ordered,
‘Rum and Scotch on the rocks.’
Padre said, ‘Make mine a double, huh?’
When the waiter left, Lucas turned to Padre.
‘I want to meet Carlos.’
The Padre studied him with his deep watery eyes. ‘What for?’
‘That is something I will have to discuss with him in person.’
‘That is not possible, he doesn’t talk to anybody.’
‘Not even for five million dollars?’
‘Yeah, another rum? A double, huh?’
Lucas did not like dealing with drunkards. They were too unreliable. On the other hand, he thought of losing his fifty thousand dollar commission. He watched Padre gulped his drink.
Lucas said reasonably, ‘Padre Pio, if I cannot meet and talk to Carlos, how I will do business with him?’
‘You tell me what you want’. I tell him, if he says yes, I tell you yes, If he says no, I will tell you no.
Lucas distrusted using him as a go-between, but he had no choice. ‘You have heard of Morad Amir?’
‘No.’
Of course he didn’t, because it wasn’t the name of rum, Lucas thought.
‘I am sure Carlos knows who Morad Amir is. You just say Morad Amir. He will understand.’
‘Yeah, then what?’
‘What the heck do you think Carlos was supposed to do for five million dollars? Kiss the guy? The people who sent me want him blown away.’
‘What’s blown away?’
‘Killed.’
‘Oh.’ The man in the leather cap nodded indifferently, ‘I will ask him.’ He groaned, ‘what did you say the man’s name?’
‘Amir, Morad Amir.’
‘Yeah, I will talk to him, if he is interested; you will get his message in your hotel suite tomorrow.’
The following day, Lucas was restless and impatient in his hotel suite. He puffed his whole pack of Cuban cigars empty and decided to stay put in his hotel suite dreaming of his five hundred thousand dollar commission.
‘Only, if Carlos sends his affirmation.’ He wished desperately.
He stayed back in his suite whole day and placing orders with the room service.
The messenger of Carlos can knock his door anytime to deliver the
message straight from the devil.
Chapter 7
In Prime Minister’s Office in New Delhi, India, Prime Minister Vir Sanghvi laid down the last security report on Sunny Jordan after his scrutiny and said ‘Not a blemish, Roy.’
‘I know, I think he is the perfect candidate. Of course, the opposition is not going to be happy.’
‘We will send them a crying towel. Now let us hope that the cabinet will back us up.’
Lucknow City, State of Uttar Pradesh, India
Sunny Jordan’s office on the twentieth floor in a commercial sky scraper ‘The Business Hub’ was located at the heart of the city. The office was a pleasant air-conditioned room with state of art interiors, lined with wall size wooden bookcases crammed with reference books on Asian countries and foreign affairs.
The furniture was consisting of a huge desk with a swivel chair, a small table at the window with two sofas around it and a reading lamp. On one corner was a mini-bar which was Jordan’s getaway to solace.
On the wall behind the desk of Sunny Jordan was the logo of his NGO, Mary Jordan Foundation. On the other wall, was an old photograph beautifully framed and hung. The figure in the photograph was a close up of his late mother. The picture was one of Jordan’s treasures.
The Telephone rang.
Jordan picked up the phone and said seductively to his receptionist, ‘Yeah dear?’
He listened for a moment and his expressions changed.
‘Oh, sure.’ He said disgustedly. He slammed down the receiver and stretched himself on his chair.
‘Any joker calls up saying I am calling from the Prime Minister’s Office in India and she can’t even verify that before putting it on my extension.’
The phone rang again. This time it was his cell phone and the screen flashed an unidentified number.
‘Hello?’ As he listened, his face grew grim.
‘I am just about to have my lunch and I don’t happen to think this is funny. You can just – What? Who? Prime Minister Vir Sanghvi?’ There was a sudden hush to his existence.
‘Wait a – I – oh, Good Afternoon, Mr. Prime Minister Sir.’
There was a dazed expression on his face, ‘Yes, Sir, I do. I recognize your voice. I – I am sorry about hanging up a moment ago, - yes sir. Thank you.’
In the meantime, Jordan’s secretary also raced into his office and stood across listening to the conversation bewildered.
‘Would I be willing to serve as what?’ Jordan’s face suddenly flushed.
‘There must be some mistake, Sir. My name is Sunny Jordan. I am just a common man, a civilian who owns a small business to earn his livelihood and also runs an NGO to make a difference to the society, and –, you read it? Thank you sir...That is very kind of you...Yes, sir, I agree, but that doesn’t mean that I..., yes sir, yes sir. I see. Well, I am certainly flattered. I am sure it is a wonderful opportunity, but I...Of course, I will. I will think it over and get back to you.’ He picked up a pen and wrote down a number. ‘Yes sir, I have it. Thank you Prime Minister Sir. Goodbye.’
He slowly kept his cell phone on the table and stood there in shock.
‘What in God’s name was that all about?’ His secretary enquired, ‘Was that call really from Prime Minister’s Office?’
Jordan sank into his chair, numb, thinking and after a while, politely asked his secretary to leave as he needs some time to be left alone.
‘No phone calls, No appointments for the rest of the day.’ He demanded.
He got up and made himself a mug of strong coffee and sank into the sofa. There was a look of total disbelief on his face.
‘The Prime Minister of India, Mr. Vir Sanghvi read my books on foreign affairs and he thought they were brilliant. He appreciated the work of my NGO and he knows more about me than my own self. He said that’s the kind of thinking he wants for his people-to-people programme and he wants to nominate me as the Ambassador to Pakistan.’ Jordan muttered to himself with a smile.
Aleppo, Syria.
The white washed house was anonymous, hidden among dozens of identical houses. It was owned by a merchant sympathetic to the cause of the organisation known as ‘The Soldiers to Freedom.’
‘A problem has arisen.’ The voice of the Pindar was on the other side of the phone. ‘The motion that was recently passed has run into difficulty.’
‘What sort of difficulty?’
‘The go-between we selected – Lucas – is dead.’
‘Dead? Dead... How?
‘For reasons known only to him, he was last seen on Hotel CCTV footage behaving strangely in an elevator, pressing multiple buttons and running in and out of the elevator’s doors. The dead body of Lucas was found inside one of the cylindrical metal water tanks on the roof. His decomposing body was discovered four days later when hotel guests began to complain of low water pressure. His cell phone is missing and is unreachable.’
‘Do the police have any idea who did it?’ I mean – can they connect this to us in any way?’
‘No, we are perfectly safe, I checked with my sources.’
‘What about our plan? Can we go ahead with it?’
‘Not at the moment. We have no idea how to reach Carlos. Lucas’s cell phone was not found in the hotel so I have a doubt that it is with Carlos. I think if he is interested in our proposition, he will get in touch with me as Lucas had my private number on his cell phone.’
The following morning Sunny Jordan dialled the telephone number that the Prime Minister had given him. When an operator answered, He said, ‘Hi, this is Sunny Jordan, I think Mr. Prime Minister’s assistant is expecting my call.’
‘One moment, please.’
A male voice on the other end said, ‘Hello, Mr. Jordan?’
‘Yes,’ Jordan said, ‘would you please give Mr. Prime Minister a message for me?’
‘Certainly’
‘Would you please tell him that I am very humbled and thrilled by his offer and I am interested to join him.’
‘That’s great; I will pass on your message, Thank you Sir.’
Chapter 8
In the recent weeks, rumours had been sweeping the diplomatic world that a coup was imminent; Morad Amir was planning to return to Pakistan; and that Prime Minister Khan was going to be deposed by his senior military officers.
Yakov knocked on the door and entered the book crammed library that served as Morad Amir’s office. Morad Amir was seated behind his desk, working. He looked up as Yakov came in.
‘Everybody wants to know when the revolution is going to happen,’ Yakov said, ‘It is the world’s worst kept secret.’
‘It will happen, in sha’ Allah, Tell them to be patient. Will you come to Islamabad with me, Yakov?’
More than anything, Yakov yearned to return to Israel.
I will take this job temporarily, he had told Morad Amir, until you are ready to make your move. Temporarily had turned into weeks and months, and finally into three years. And now it was time to make another decision.
In a world peopled with pygmies, Yakov thought, I have been given the privilege of serving a titan. Morad Amir was the most selfless and idealistic men Yakov had ever known.
When Yakov had come to work for Morad Amir, he had wondered about the man’s family. Amir would never speak of them, but then eventually with the times, Yakov found the story.
Morad Amir was betrayed. The ISI picked him up and tortured him for a week. They promised to free him if he would give them the names of the associates in the underground. He wouldn’t talk. They arrested his wife and his sixteen year old daughter and brought them to the interrogation room.
Morad Amir was given a choice. Talk or watch them die.
It was the hardest decision any man ever had to make. It was the life of his beloved wife and daughter against the lives of hundreds of people who believed in him. Morad Amir decided the way he did was that he was convinced that he and his family were going to be killed, anyway. He refused to give them the names.
&nb
sp; The guards strapped him in a chair and forced him to watch his wife and daughter being gang-raped until both of them died.
They weren’t through with Morad Amir yet. When it was over and the blood soaked bodies were lying at his feet, they cut and removed his testicles.
Morad Amir did not wanted to return to Pakistan to seek revenge. He wanted to go back to free his people. He wanted to make certain that such things can never happen again.
Yakov had been with Morad Amir from that day on, and the more time he spent with the Islamic revolutionary leader, the more he came to love him.
Now, he would have to decide whether to give up his return to Israel and go to Islamabad with Morad Amir.
Yakov was walking down the hallway that evening, and as he passed Morad Amir’s bedroom door, he heard the familiar screams of pain ring out.
‘So it is Friday’, He thought.
The day the prostitutes came. They were selected from Malaysia, Hong Kong, Bangkok, India, Bangladesh and half a dozen other countries, chosen at random. They had no idea what their destination was, or who they were going to see.
They were met at Guangzhou Baiyun International Airport, driven directly to the villa and after a few hours, taken back to the airport and put on a return flight.
Every Friday night, the halls resounded with Morad Amir’s screams. The staff assumed that kinky sex was going on. The only one who knew what was really happening behind the bedroom door was Yakov.