by Anil John
‘My God, Jordan thought. What will she be like when she gets out?’
‘What can we do about it?’
‘You can try your charm on the Police Commissioner.’ Dev said lazily with a smile, ‘The girl say she was framed and she may have a point. She was stupid enough to have an affair with a Pakistani policeman. After he took her to bed, he turned her in.’
Jordan was horrified, ‘How could he?’
Dev said drily, ‘Ambassador Sir, here we are the enemy – not them. Pakistan is playing patty cake with us, and we are all buddies, and it’s smiles and handshakes across the sea on foreign tours. We let them sell to us and buy from us at bargain basement discounts, because we try to woo them away from China, but when it comes right down to it, they are still extremists.’
Jordan made another note and then he turned towards the Public Affairs Consular, ‘What are your problems?’
‘My department is having trouble getting approvals for repairs on the apartments our embassy staffs lives in. Their quarters are in a disgraceful condition.’
‘Can’t they just go ahead and have their own repairs made?’
‘Unfortunately, No. The Pakistan government has to approve all repairs. Some of our people are without electricity and in several of the apartments, the toilets do not work and there is no running water.’
‘Have you complained about this?’
‘Yes sir, every day for the last three months.’
‘Then why…?’
‘It’s called harassment,’ Dev explained, ‘it is a war of nerves they like to play with us.’
Jordan made another note.
‘Sir, I have an extremely urgent problem,’ The Head of the Indian Library said, ‘only yesterday, some of the very important reference books were stolen from…’
Indian Ambassador Sunny Jordan was beginning to get a headache.
The following day was also spent in the Indian Embassy listening to a series of complaints. Everyone seemed unhappy.
Then there was the reading, on his desk was a blizzard of white paper. They were the English translations of news and articles that had appeared the day before in leading Pakistan news dailies and magazines.
There is enough reading material in one day, Jordan thought, to keep me busy for years, and I am going to get this every morning.
The problem that disturbed Sunny Jordan was the feeling of antagonism from her staff. He knew that had to be handled immediately. He sent for Ruth Goodwin, his secretary.
‘How long have you worked here at the Embassy?’ Jordan asked.
‘Four Year before our break with Pakistan and now three glorious years.’ There was a tone of irony in her voice.
‘Don’t you like it here?’
‘Like the song says, “Show Me the Way to Go Home”.’
‘Ruth, May we have an off-the-record conversation?’
‘No, Sir.’
Jordan had forgotten. He suggested, ‘Why don’t we adjourn to the Bubble Room?
When Jordan and Ruth were seated at the table in the Bubble Room, with the heavy door safely closed behind them., Jordan said, ‘Something just occurred to me. Our meeting was held in the conference room, isn’t that bugged?’
‘Probably,’ Ruth said cheerfully, ‘but it doesn’t matter. Dev would not let anything be discussed that the Pakistanis aren’t already aware of.’
‘What do you think of Dev?’
‘He is the best.’
Jordan did not express his opinion.
‘The reason I wanted to talk to you is because I got the feeling today that the morale around here isn’t very good. Everyone is complaining. No one seems happy. I would like to know whether it is because of me, or whether it is always that way.’
Ruth Goodwin studied him for a moment. ‘You want an honest answer?’
‘Please.’
‘It’s a combination of both. The Indians working here are in a pressure cooker. We break the rules and we are in big trouble. We are afraid to make friends with Pakistanis because they will probably turn out to belong to ISI, so we stick with Indians. We are a small group here, so pretty soon that gets boring and incestuous.’ She shrugged, ‘The pay is small, the food is lousy, and the weather is bad. None of them is your fault sir, you have two problems, the first is that you are a political appointee, and you are in charge of an embassy manned by career diplomats.’ She stopped.
‘I see…’ Jordan smiled.
Ruth smiled and said, ‘You sure have a great publicity agent. I have never seen so many magazine cover stories about any diplomat in my life. How do you do it?’
Sunny Jordan had no answer to that so he smiled and shrugged it away.
Ruth Goodwin glanced at her watch, ‘Oops! You are going to be late, sir. Javed is waiting to take you home so you can change.’
‘Change for what?’ Jordan snapped back.
‘Haven’t you looked at the schedule I put on your desk?’
‘I am afraid I haven’t had the time. Don’t tell me I am supposed to go to some party!’
‘Parties, Three of them tonight, you have twenty parties altogether this week.’
Jordan started staring at her. ‘That is impossible; I have too much on my plate already.’
‘It goes with the territory. There are seventy five embassies in Islamabad, and on any given night, some them are celebrating something.’
‘Can’t I say “No”?’
‘That would be the Republic of India saying “No” to them. They would be offended.’
Jordan sighed. ‘I guess, I better go home and change.’
Chapter 15
To get a head start on the crowded days that faced Sunny Jordan,
He had Javed to pick him up at 6:30. During the ride to the Indian Embassy, he read the reports and the communications from other embassies that had been delivered to the Residence during the night.
As Jordan walked down the corridor of the Embassy, past Dev’s office,
Jordan stopped in surprise. He was unshaven.
He wondered if he had been out all night.
‘You are in early.’ Jordan said.
Dev looked up. ‘Morning, I’d like to have a word with you.’
‘All right,’ Jordan started to walk in.
‘Not here, Sir, your office.’
He followed Jordan through the connecting door at his office and he watched as he walked over to an instrument in the corner of the room.
‘This is a paper shredder,’ Dev informed him.
‘I know that.’
‘Really? When you went out last night, you left some papers on the top of your desk. By now they have been photographed and sent to ISI or may be even to the Confidential Panel of Eight Deadly Sins.’
‘Oh my God, I must have forgotten. Which papers were they?’
‘A list of things you wanted to shop but that’s beside the point. The cleaning women work for the Pakistan’s ISI. Lesson number one: At night everything on your table must be locked in your safe, or shredded.’
‘What’s lesson number two?’ Jordan asked.
Dev grinned, ‘The Ambassador always starts the day by having coffee with his Deputy Chief of Mission. How do you take yours, Sir?’
‘Black,’ Jordan snapped back followed by a smile.
He returned with two steaming mugs of coffee and set them down on his desk.
Dev took a sip of coffee. ‘I understand that you had a nice chat with the Pakistani Prime Minister last night.’
‘Yeah, just discussed a few issues, He seemed very pleasant.’
‘Oh, he is. He is a pleasant fellow, until he gets annoyed with somebody. Then he chops your head off.’
‘Shouldn’t we talk about this in the Bubble Room?’ Jordan questioned.
‘Not necessary, I had your office swept for bugs in the morning. It’s clean. After the cleaning people come in, and then better watch out. By the way, don’t trust Khan, He is a dyed-in-the-wool hypocrite. His own people despise him, but
there is nothing they can do about it. The secret police are everywhere. It’s the ISI and the police force wrapped into one. The general thumb rule is that one out of every three persons here works for ISI. Pakistanis have orders not to have any contact with foreigners. If a foreigner wants to have dinner at a Pakistani’s apartment, it has to be approved first. A Pakistani can be arrested for signing a petition, criticizing the government, writing graffiti, et-cetra and et-cetra.’
‘They do have trials here?’ Jordan questioned.
‘Oh, occasionally they will have to show trial, where reporters from the west are allowed to watch, but most of the people arrested manage to have fatal accidents while they are in police custody. The prisons and the police custodies are prohibited areas for foreigners but I have talked to people who have seen them. The conditions there are horrifying.’
A week later, at District Jail, Islamabad, Pakistan.
The interiors of the District Jail were even more forbidding than its exterior. The corridors were narrow, painted a dull grey. The was a jungle of crowded, black - barred cells downstairs and on an upper tier, patrolled by uniformed guards armed with machine guns.
The stench in the crowded cell area was overpowering.
A guard led Sunny Jordan to a small visitor’s room at the rear of the prison. ‘She is in there, you have ten minutes.’
‘Thank you.’ Jordan stepped inside the room and the door closed behind her.
Susan Thomas was seated at a small, battle-scarred table. She was handcuffed, and wearing a prison garb. She looked ten years older to her real age. Her face was pale and gaunt, and her eyes were red and swollen. Her hair was uncombed.
‘Hi,’ Jordan said, ‘I am the Indian Ambassador.’
Susan looked at him and began to sob uncontrollably. Jordan put his arms around her and said, soothingly, ‘Shh! It’s going to be all right.’
‘N-no it’s not,’ the girl moaned, ‘I am going to be sentenced next week. I will die if I have to stay in this place five years, I will die!’
Jordan held her for a moment, ‘All right, tell me what happened.’
Susan took a deep breath, and after a few moments, she said, ‘I met this man-he was a Pakistani-and I was lonely. He was nice to me and we- we made love. A friend had given me a couple of sticks of marijuana, I shared one with him. We made love again and I went to sleep. When I woke up in the morning, he was gone, but the police was there. I was naked, they stood around watching me get dressed and they brought me to this hell-hole.’ She shook her head helplessly. ‘They told me five years.’
‘Not if I can help it.’
Jordan thought of what his Political Consular had said to him as he was leaving for the prison. ‘There is nothing you can do for her, Sir. We have tried before. A five year sentence for a foreigner is standard. If she were a Pakistani, they did probably give her life.’
Now Jordan looked at Susan Thomas and said, ‘I will do everything in my power to help you.’
Sunny Jordan had examined the official police report on Susan’s arrest.
It was signed by Police Commissioner of Police. It was brief and unhelpful, but there was no doubt of the girl’s guilt.
I will have to find another way, Jordan thought. He thought back to the confidential dossier Debrato Roy had showed him in New Delhi. There was something in there about the Police Commissioner. Something about-He remembered.
He arranged for a meeting with the Police Commissioner the following morning.
‘You are wasting your time.’ Dev told him bluntly, ‘The Police Commissioner is like a mountain. He can’t be moved a bit.’
The Police Commissioner was a short, swarthy man with a scarred face, a shiny bald head and stained teeth. Earlier in his career, someone had broken his nose, and it failed to heal properly. He had come to the Indian Embassy for the meeting. He was curious about the new Indian Ambassador.
‘You wished to talk to me, Mr. Jordan?’
‘Yes, Thank you for coming, I want to discuss the case of Susan Thomas.’
‘Ah, yes. The drug peddler. In Pakistan, we have strict laws about people who sell drugs. They go to jail.’
‘Excellent,’ Jordan said, ‘I am pleased to hear that. I wish we had stricter drug laws in India.’
The Police Commissioner was watching him, puzzled. ‘Then you agree with me?’
‘Absolutely, anyone who sells drugs deserves jail. Susan Thomas, however, did not sell drugs. She offered to give some marijuana to her lover.’
‘It is the same thing. If...’
‘Not quite, Commissioner. Her lover was a Sub Inspector in your Police force. He smoked marijuana, too. Has he been punished?’
‘Why should he be?’ He was merely gathering evidence of a criminal act.’
‘Your Sub Inspector has a wife and three children?’
The Police Commissioner frowned. ‘Yes, the Indian girl tricked him to bed.’
‘Mr. Commissioner, Susan Thomas is a twenty one year old nurse and your Sub Inspector is forty five. What do you think, who tricked whom?’
‘Age has nothing to do with this, Ambassador Sir.’ The Police Commissioner said stubbornly.
‘Does the Sub Inspector’s wife know about her husband’s affair?’
‘Why should she?’
‘Because it sounds to me like a clear case of entrapment. I think we better make this whole thing public. The International Press will be fascinated.’
‘There would be no point to that,’ He said.
Jordan gave a whimsical smile and sprang his ace, ‘Because the Sub Inspector happens to be your son-in-law?’
‘Certainly not!’ the Police Commissioner said angrily. ‘I just want to see justice done.’
‘So do I,’ Jordan assured him.
According to the dossier he had seen in New Delhi, the son-in-law specialized in making the acquaintance of young tourists-male or female, sleeping with them, suggesting places where they could trade in the black market or buy dope, and then turning them in.
Jordan said in a conciliatory tone, ‘I see no need for your daughter to know how her husband conducts himself. I think it would be much better for all concerned if you quietly release Susan Thomas from jail, and I ship her back to India, what do you say, Commissioner?’
He sat there, fuming, thinking it over, ‘You are a very cunning man, Mr. Jordan.’ He said finally.
‘Thank you, Mr. Commissioner, You are an intelligent man. I will expect Susan Thomas in my office by tomorrow afternoon. I will see that she is put on the first plane and deported to India.’
He shrugged, ‘I will use what little influence I have.’
‘I am sure you will, Thank you Mr. Commissioner.’
The next day, a grateful Susan Thomas was on her way home.
‘How did you do it?’ Dev asked unbelievingly.
‘I followed your advice, I charmed him.’
Chapter 16
Rio de Janeiro
Saturday morning, Carlos was in a bad mood. The flight from Rio de Janeiro to Islamabad had been cancelled because of a telephoned bomb threat. The world isn’t safe anymore, Carlos thought angrily with a whimsical smile.
In the evening, Carlos picked her up at Vila Mimosa, where she was standing with other prostitutes, dressed in a tight fitting blouse and jeans mini skirt. She looked no older than eighteen. She was not pretty, but that did not bother Carlos.
‘Let’s go honey, we will entertain each other.’
The girl lived in a cheap, walk-up apartment nearby, consisting of one dirty room with a bed, two chairs, a lamp and a sink.
‘Get undressed, Senorita, I want to see you naked.’
The girl hesitated. There was something about Carlos that frightened her, but it had been a slow day, and she had to bring money to her owner, or she knew she would be beaten mercilessly. Slowly, she began to undress.
Carlos stood watching. Off came the blouse and then the jean skirt. The girl was wearing nothing underneath. Her body wa
s pale and thin.
‘Keep your shoes on. Come over here and kneel down.’
The girl obeyed.
‘Now this is what I want you to do.’
She listened, and looked up with frightened eyes. ‘I have never done...’
Carlos kicked her in the head. She lay on the floor, moaning.
He picked her up by the hair and threw her on the bed. As the girl started to scream, He punched her hard across the face. She moaned.
‘Good,’ Carlos quipped, ‘I want to hear you moan.’
A huge fist slammed into her nose and broke it. When Carlos was finished with his thirty minutes time, the girl lay on the bed, unconscious.
He smiled down at the battered figure of the girl and threw a few dollars on the bed, ‘Gracias.’
It took Yakov a month to follow the circuitous trail that led to Rio de Janeiro.
Interpol, Mossad and half a dozen other security agencies around the world had helped identify Carlos as the assassin of Morad Amir. Mossad had given him the name of Padre Pio, the only one point contact and friend of Carlos.
The security agencies across the globe wanted to eliminate Carlos.
To Yakov, Carlos had become an obsession, because of Yakov’s failure, Morad Amir had died, and he could never forgive himself for that. He could, however, make atonement, and he intended to.
He did not get in touch with Padre Pio directly. He located the apartment building where he lived and kept a watch on it, waiting for Carlos to appear someday.