The Place of Shining Light

by Nazneen Sheikh

  “Contact me only on the special phone, Nadir,” Sher Khan called after him.

  Nadir, who was a prized member of the Taliban, lifted his hand in a farewell gesture without turning around. The police vehicle and the uniforms had been stolen months ago to assist in specific assignments. Everything was in God’s hands, but Nadir had a particular facility in making even God bend to his will. Nadir was in exile from Afghanistan, and he believed that jihad was an avenging sword that established the place of God’s warriors. Nadir had personally killed more than eighty people using bombs, grenades, and automatic rifles. He would offer himself for a suicide mission in the blink of an eye. Sher Khan knew that the assignment to capture a common thief likely did not inspire Nadir; nevertheless, his loyalty remained unquestioned.

  IN THE GENTRIFIED village of Barako with its fake farms, Khalid rifled through the morning papers that Faisal had brought in from town. A schoolgirl who had been shot in the picturesque Swat Valley had gobbled up every line of newsprint. Pakistan continued to make the news in the far corners of the world. Khalid could smell something rotten in the shooting. It was a fix; he was sure of it. How could an assassin at such close range miss killing the girl? The nation had been targeted, he reasoned, and the schoolgirl had been carefully chosen as a vehicle to destabilize the region. Election fever had overtaken the country. Politicians roamed the countryside making false promises, and a nervous president kept increasing the size of his personal security team. The Taliban chose their targets with impunity. Khalid knew their tactics well. They had helped him bring mounds of lapis and many sculptures out of Afghanistan. Khalid had learned to arm himself whenever he walked with them, and even rested in their hiding places as a show of fake camaraderie. The money Khalid paid them went directly to arms dealers, who sold them the weaponry and materials for their bombs. These men had ended the Russian occupation of Afghanistan decades ago, and yet they had not discarded the outmoded methods of fighting, which were used when the cia and the Pakistani Army were grooming them. Khalid preferred to think of their relationship as mutually beneficial: they were helping him to smuggle, and he was redirecting their energies to more commercial enterprises.

  Khalid turned his attention again to the articles in the three papers. Perhaps the forces opposing the present government were responsible for shooting the schoolgirl — who had been flown to England for treatment. He found it hard to accept that the stunning valley of Swat still harboured the Taliban, despite the army’s presence. He fought off the wave of depression that threatened to consume him by redirecting his thoughts to the problem at hand. Khalid had decided to raise money for his Iranian debt by selling three priceless works of art — works with which he’d never intended to part. He had already made the call. When the response came earlier than expected, it did not surprise him. The buyer wanted to purchase the pieces for a state minister’s personal collection. The transaction would be made, illegally, through the national exchequer, and would be disguised to appear as an entirely different purchase.

  Khalid handled the news with detachment. He was an art dealer; all that mattered was the sale and payment. The instructions for receiving the payment were very precise. An electronic transfer would be made to the bank account of his gallery in Bangkok. As soon as Khalid received confirmation, the vehicle that would collect the three works of art would be allowed inside his main gate.

  “This is a big transfer, Abu. What have you sold?” asked his son Hamza, from the gallery in Bangkok.

  “I have sold pieces of my heart, my son. Now listen to me carefully: when the funds arrive, transfer them immediately to this account in London.”

  “Stay by the phone. I will call you back with the second confirmation,” Hamza said, knowing his father would divulge nothing on the phone.

  Like all corrupt government officials in Pakistan, Reza Mohsinzadegh had offshore accounts. Khalid maintained only one offshore account, and his son’s residency in Bangkok legitimized it. Dubai was another hub for laundering money, but a business presence had to be established there, and Khalid instinctively disliked the Arabs, even though he had done business with them. As he waited to complete the sale and transactions, his anger at Adeel resurfaced. He had intended to live with these three paintings for the rest of his life.

  Khalid rose and walked toward his Allah museum, seeking the solace of prayer. Faisal followed with his telephone, but maintained a discreet distance. Khalid walked past the rows of workmen toiling on the family burial tomb. Even if he lost everything, he thought, his burial place would never be removed or desecrated. His financial predicament had made him sombre. While walking past the gigantic Korans he kept in glass showcases, something caught his eye and he stopped. On a page of gold-painted Arabic script, a black dot had appeared. He moved closer to the case and widened his eyes. He withdrew his reading glasses from his pocket, pressed them into place, and stared at the dot again. The dot moved and his heart sank. It was a minuscule insect that had somehow found an opening in the case. He tapped the glass; to his horror, two additional black dots appeared from the corner.

  “Faisal!” he shouted.

  Faisal appeared by his side.

  “The case is not airtight. Have it opened. There could be an infestation. This Koran is priceless and the insects will destroy it. Check the air conditioning, as well. I don’t think it’s working properly.”

  Upstairs, Khalid stood in front of his miniature Ka’ba, sank heavily to his knees, and began to sob. His recited prayers emerged as cries. Eventually, exhausted by the outpouring of emotion, he lowered himself on the prayer rug and fell asleep. An hour later, he felt hands on his shoulder waking him.

  “Two calls have come. One from Bangkok — the money is deposited — and the other from Sher Khan. He wants you to call him. I’m sorry I did not wake you up,” Faisal said apologetically.

  Khalid rose immediately. He felt energized, as though he had slept for an entire night, and rapidly walked down the stairs.

  “Have the gate opened. The transport for the paintings is waiting outside. Do it quickly. I don’t want them to linger any longer than it takes to load the art.”

  He placed the call to Sher Khan, hung up, and waited for the return call.

  “We have checked right up to Mansera and down to Bannu. No one has seen the brown truck.”

  “Please continue looking. He cannot hide forever,” replied Khalid.

  “Unless he changed the vehicle,” suggested Sher Khan.

  “Peshawar is the largest city. If he changed the truck, he would have had to do it there. He would have had to sell it.”

  “I am already checking. The hunt is well on its way; he will not escape me.” Sher Khan laughed.

  “Do we need more help? I can ask the isi man to join in,” Khalid offered.

  “They are sons of jackals! No, do not involve them! I will deliver the man to you.”

  The line went dead. Khalid knew he had made a mistake. The Taliban loathed the army and the Intelligence Agency. The military penetration into the tribal areas and the resulting skirmishes had added a terrifying ferocity to the attacks on army checkpoints, personnel, and others who acted on their orders. It seemed as if the bands of unemployed and discontented men who joined the Taliban knew that a decent job and life was not their destiny. For them, pleasure only appeared at the sight of an enemy’s corpse. The Durand Line might separate Pakistan from Afghanistan, but it meant nothing to the region’s Pashtun culture. On both sides of the boundary, revenge was a time-honoured tradition. If a man did not take revenge, he was considered to be weak and without honour himself. Sher Khan — like the dons of Sicily — would hunt Adeel down because he had his own reputation to protect.

  From a second-floor window, Khalid watched as a large, shiny van entered the front gates. It stopped near Faisal, who stood with two men, leaning against the flat cartons that contained the paintings. A sigh rose inside Khalid,
but did not emerge from his lips. He seldom parted with paintings. He felt that the artist embedded a particle of his soul in every stroke of paint. With a fervour bordering on the mystical, Khalid felt he was the custodian of many spirits. Although he was familiar with his collection, the large air-conditioned vault housed works he had not seen for years.

  KHALID RETURNED TO the house, hoping to put the day’s unpleasant events behind him. As he made his way to the kitchen, he heard his wife’s voice, and the familiar tone she used when speaking to her eldest son. Quietly, he picked up a nearby phone extension just in time to hear Safia confide in Hamza; Khalid, she said, was feeling some financial tension, but she had no idea about its cause.

  Hamza reassured his mother, telling her that an enormous sale of art had just been made. Khalid heard him distracting his mother by asking when she would come to visit her grandchildren. After he heard Safia’s response of “Soon,” he quietly hung up the phone. He knew the rest of the conversation would be about the children.

  After her call, Safia returned to her cooking, dicing turnips into julienne strips. Khalid leaned on the wall outside of the kitchen, enjoying the sight of his wife in her element. He knew she was preparing his favourite vegetables for dinner, and he loved the fact that she still looked out for him, even after years of marriage. When she reached up to the shelf that held her special frying pan, he moved forward, ready to help, but before he could, another hand shot up and brought it down for her. Once again he leaned against the wall, as Safia turned to see her son Hassan’s mischievous face.

  “I didn’t hear you.” She smiled indulgently at her youngest.

  “Why are you doing this work yourself when we are so rich?”

  “Hassan!” Safia pressed her finger against his lips.

  “He will not let me do business. I need some money too. Hamza was given money.”

  “Oh, Hassan, please don’t talk about your father that way.”

  “I don’t care! I hate him! I hate all this! I want to go to America and never come back,” Hassan shouted.

  “I am going to make almond halwa just for you,” said Safia, ignoring the outburst.

  “Where does he keep the money? He made a big sale today,” Hassan said quietly.

  “Go away, Hassan. You are disturbing me.” Safia leaned heavily against the kitchen counter, bracing herself with her hands.

  Hassan left the room, unaware that his father had overheard the conversation. Khalid walked away from the kitchen and back to his office, too angry with Hassan to risk a conversation with Safia — she would realize he had eavesdropped — and smart enough to know that she, too, likely needed some time alone. Why did Hassan always have to torture his mother with his endless questions? Safia’s anguish over her son pierced his heart, but he knew that it fell on deaf ears when he told her that the son with the face of an angel had the heart of a demon. She would always defend him. He was simply testing boundaries, she said; he never did any real harm. She insisted that Khalid get him a student visa even after he had dropped out of school. There were places in Pakistan where, for the right amount of money, papers were forged, including school and university degrees. And most colleges abroad allowed married students to bring their spouses along. But Khalid had refused to allow Hassan to study overseas last year, despite Safia’s belief that he would return after a few years with some weighty professional degree. Khalid had no intention of looking after two toddlers for a few years, absolving Hassan and his wife from parental duties. Besides, Hassan still needed to deal with his secret second marriage. Unlike Safia, Khalid had a lot of experience in facing losses and accepting unfavourable outcomes.

  Khalid spent an hour telephoning Reza both at his office in Tehran and at his country home in Shiraz. Neither one of the phones had voice mail, but Khalid knew that Reza would see the long-distance number and eventually call back. As he waited, Khalid’s thoughts returned to Peshawar. Sher Khan’s comment about a changed vehicle made sense. Adeel had sufficient money for expenses like fuel, food, and the allocated payments for the Afghans who had assisted, but not enough to buy a new vehicle. It would also have to be registered somewhere. Like Sher Khan, Adeel had been selected by Khalid for his success rate. The brigadier had vouched for him. This was not a man who would make stupid mistakes. Khalid wondered if he had lost control of the situation. Was it time for him to take a more active part in the search for the statue? He decided it was.

  Having made up his mind, Khalid moved quickly. He told Safia that he was going to Peshawar for a few days and warned his son not to leave the estate — not tonight, or any other night until he returned. Then he retired to his room. He needed to pack and sleep. He would leave tomorrow.

  WHEN THE SHABBY white sedan drove out of the front gates the following morning, Faisal was driving with Khalid by his side. Despite his enormous wealth, Khalid did not drive expensive cars. He believed they attracted undue attention. His manner of dress was also simple. He wore the Pakistani outfit of trousers and knee-length shirt but he clamped a Jinnah cap on his head. It gave him the air of a cleric and an offbeat dignity. His destination in Peshawar was not Sher Khan’s hideout in Namak Mandi, but an antiquities dealer. There was a possibility that the marble sculpture, which he had yet to lay eyes upon, had been sold by Adeel. The dealer in Peshawar had his own network of people, and a discussion with him could be of value.

  The three-hour drive was relatively uneventful, but on the last leg of the journey the phone rang. It was Ghalib.

  “Mian sahib, you are the like the moon of Eid al-Fitr, hard to see,” Khalid said boisterously.

  “Politics, my dear Khalid. I am running for the National Assembly from my constituency. I am at the village. I have to be seen by my people,” replied Ghalib in a lordly fashion.

  “Yes, yes, we are all your supporters,” Khalid laughed.

  “If the party wins, I may be appointed as a minister,” said Ghalib.

  “Then you will have to behave yourself, Mian sahib.” Khalid aimed his little dart by using the honorific of “Mian” and attaching “sahib” to it.

  Ghalib did not respond. Khalid waited. Finally, Ghalib sighed.

  “Small private pleasures, Khalid. Just games. You know that. Now, where is the new addition to my collection?”

  “I am on my way to Peshawar to collect it,” replied Khalid lightly.

  “We will have to discuss the payment, Khalid. A lot of money is being spent for this political campaign. The construction of the local office has to be completed.”

  “Well, if you think you cannot afford it right now, I do have another offer.”

  “I am not in the mood for your games, Khalid. The sculpture is mine and you shall be paid on delivery,” said Ghalib sharply. “Stay in touch.”

  Nothing would ever change Ghalib’s greed, thought Khalid. The political arena was full of men just like him — aging men with insatiable appetites who refused to clear the way for new blood. And now, a path to even greater riches was nearly open to Ghalib. If Ghalib were to be elected, Khalid knew that his rapacity would know no bounds. But it didn’t matter. Not now. Khalid could not let his personal distaste for Ghalib’s new political ambitions intrude on their business deal. Selling art was his business. He unwound the carved carnelian prayer beads from his wrist and slid them one after another through his fingers. There was only one prayer in his mind: that he would find the sculpture.

  AN UNSEASONAL HIGH-PRESSURE storm gathered over the city of Peshawar. The workers at Sher Khan’s restaurant in Namak Mandi spread a canvas awning over the cooking braziers. Rain or storm, people would still come to eat. Sher Khan stood on the rooftop terrace and gazed at the dark clouds. He had sent two of his men to the area of the city where trucks in need of minor repairs often ended up. Adjoining this area was another, where craftsmen stripped old American trucks and decorated them with murals and wooden trim. Sher Khan was following a hunch. Hou
rs had gone by and there was still no word from Nadir; perhaps this assignment was going to be difficult.

  Sher Khan took great precautions to remain anonymous. His name did not appear anywhere, and in his neighbourhood he was nothing more than the benign old man who watched over his sizzling kebabs and steaming naans. He was never seen at the local mosque for Friday prayers. Now, as the sky opened up, he retreated to his room where he found his phone ringing. He glanced at the number but did not answer it. His nephew appeared at his door.

  “What is it?’ asked Sher Khan.

  “You have a visitor downstairs.”

  “How do you know the visitor is for me?” he asked.

  “He gave me your name,” the boy stammered.

  A few minutes later, Sher Khan looked at the teacup in front of him. Gazing into its centre, he searched for an answer among the green tea leaves floating there. The visitor was one of his agents, who had come to tell him that he’d checked the truck stop and had found out that a local tea vendor had seen a brown truck enter the area around 10 a.m. that morning. However, the vendor never saw the truck come out. The agent told Sher Khan that Nadir had spent hours chatting up the mechanics; one man, who ran a truck-decoration business, was unusually aggressive when questioned.

  “Bring out the motorcycle and take me to him,” said Sher Khan, rising abruptly.

  The two men blended into the snarl of traffic that had worsened because of the rain. Sher Khan was draped in an army-issue rain jacket. The man driving the motorcycle was soaked, yet he skilfully wove through the traffic. Finally, in a laneway where the road had disintegrated into puddles of water, the driver stopped the motorcycle.

  “We need to walk from here,” he said apologetically, gesturing to the overflowing gutters. “Otherwise, we will get stuck in the water.”

  “Let’s go,” said Sher Khan, striding through ankle-deep water.