The Place of Shining Light

by Nazneen Sheikh

  “My father was a curator at the Victoria and Albert Museum; I have grown up surrounded by art.”

  “In that case, you must visit me at my home in Barako,” replied Khalid.

  The woman bounced on the sofa as she talked, while her companion looked at Khalid with skepticism. Khalid noticed the man’s expression and wondered briefly what was behind it. The man was here tonight with his friend, who, like most diplomats, seemed to enjoy meeting wealthy Pakistanis such as Karamat. They entertained lavishly, offering the privileges of their opulent estates in an unmistakeably fawning manner. What could possibly be wrong?

  “Is there any further news from Barako?” Karamat asked him softly, pulling Khalid’s thoughts away from the man on the sofa.

  “I am going to call their bluff,” replied Khalid.

  “What bluff? Oh, do tell! This sounds interesting,” chirped the blonde.

  “It appears that my son has been kidnapped,” said Khalid.

  “Oh! Good heavens! How terrible!” Her little-girl voice was filled with concern.

  “You don’t seem overly concerned,” said the woman’s companion. The earlier look of skepticism had been replaced with outright curiosity.

  “No,” replied Khalid, refusing to elaborate.

  “People are working on it,” added Karamat. “The boy will be found.”

  Khalid simply lifted the palms of his hands upward in a gesture of prayer. With each minute that flew by, he was more and more certain that Hassan was behind the delivery of the envelope to the house. What infuriated him was that the boy had given no thought to his mother’s response to the situation. This was especially upsetting to Khalid, since his own resolve so often faltered in the face of concern for his wife. He should have locked the gates of his home to Hassan a year ago, but he had no defence against Safia’s reproaches. Wounding his wife was beyond his imagining.

  During dinner, a server whispered something in Karamat’s ear. He smiled broadly at Khalid, then leaned toward him and whispered in his ear.

  “I think your missing sculpture has been found. I have asked for it to be delivered here.”

  After dinner, as the green tea was being served, news came that the sculpture had arrived and had been placed on the front terrace for viewing. Khalid allowed the others to walk ahead of him. He had known Karamat to pull many tricks out of his fez, but this, thought Khalid, would be the most magnificent. As Khalid approached the terrace, he saw the blonde kneeling in front of a marble statue, her head turned in his direction. Karamat, Faisal, and the man stood beside her. When Khalid reached the sculpture, his heart sank. He examined the fake sculpture with a still face. The marble-aging technique was the work of a craftsman whom Khalid employed. His work had deceived many serious gallery owners in Japan. He looked at Karamat and shook his head. Karamat shrugged in return just as the telephone in Faisal’s breast pocket began to vibrate.

  Faisal examined the phone with a puzzled expression, then silently handed it over to Khalid. He stared down at the message indicating a blocked number.

  “Hello,” said Khalid.

  Sher Khan’s voice came through the speaker. “I have news,’” he said. “Keep your phone with you. I will call back.

  “Wait!” Khalid spoke quickly, before Sher Khan could disconnect. “I am in Peshawar. Give it to me in person.”

  A rendezvous was arranged and Khalid bid farewell to Karamat, explaining that he intended to return to Islamabad that night. The female diplomat said goodbye wistfully, as though he was carrying all the excitement of the evening away with him. Khalid took her card and promised to invite her to Barako.

  SHER KHAN HAD agreed to meet Khalid in an outdoor location. This was out of character, as was the direct call Khalid had received. Khalid hoped this uncharacteristic behaviour was a sign of good news. He tried his son’s telephone number again, but no one answered. He chuckled, realizing that the kidnappers did not seem to be in a hurry for the ransom. He planned to string them along for a while longer.

  SHER KHAN WAITED alone at a closed gas station, his fingers tight around the butt of his revolver. He watched Khalid’s grey sedan move toward his Jeep and relaxed his grip when Khalid stepped out of the car.

  “There is word from Chilas that a man has arrived.” Sher Khan spoke only when Khalid reached the Jeep’s open window.

  “Driving a brown truck?” Khalid asked.

  “No. It is a local painted truck. But he fits the description of your man,” replied Sher Khan.

  “Where has the news come from?”

  “A local source involved with the Taliban. He will keep him there.”

  “So he went north,” Khalid said, amazed.

  “There is something else. He has a woman with him.”

  “Then you have the wrong man!” Khalid shouted in frustration.

  “Don’t worry, I have sent my best person. He is a sword and will cut through any lie,” Sher Khan reassured him.

  “I should tell the man at isi then,” said Khalid.

  “Don’t even think of it. You will lead him to my people,” Sher Khan replied.

  “Yes, of course. You’re right,” Khalid said quickly, realizing his mistake. “Perhaps I should go there myself. I am curious about this man who stole my sculpture. He is either a common thief or very clever.”

  “You can’t go there. The army is there. Shias and Sunnis are killing each other again.”

  “Then bring him back alive, please. I want to talk to him. I am returning to Islamabad tonight.” As Khalid pulled a wad of currency from his pocket, Sher Khan quickly grabbed his wrist.

  “What is this? You hurt my pride!”

  “There are always expenses, Sher Khan. Men have to eat. Petrol is needed for cars. Bribes are needed for the police. Let us not forget that sometimes good hashish is needed before the trigger on the gun is pulled,” Khalid said, smiling.

  Khan released his grip and the money fell on the seat beside him.

  Khalid walked quickly to his car without looking back. It was a negligible sum of money, ten lakhs for incidentals. Sher Khan’s pride would hardly be dented. In a society where people who dispensed favours out of respect for each other were never deterred from biding time until they could pull in their markers, Khalid was an exception. He was a staunch believer in paying up front for services performed. He would often even pay in advance, simply to guarantee his faith.

  The night journey back to Islamabad on the deserted motorway was uneventful. Khalid thought about his son. Where had he failed as a father? Was Hassan’s visible hostility real, or just the protracted tantrum of a spoiled young man? Even as a toddler, Hassan had wriggled fretfully from Khalid’s embrace. There was a trend in Pakistan of people discreetly seeking psychiatric help. Khalid wondered if this was what he required, but he knew he would never go through with it. He tried Hassan’s number again, hoping that someone would answer. No one did.

  WHEN THEY REACHED the Islamabad bypass, Khalid asked Faisal to drive to an address in the city. He wanted to visit the home of his son’s second wife. Khalid was following a hunch. They parked outside the two-storey home and waited. A staircase led to a separate entrance on the second floor, where the young woman lived. Her mother lived downstairs. Khalid climbed the stairs alone. A light was coming from the flat. The door leading inside was not bolted. He pushed it open slowly and entered. In front of him was another door, this one to the bedroom. Khalid stood in front of the door for a moment, listening to the music coming from inside. He entered the room silently and stared at his son.

  The young woman lying next to Hassan quickly pulled the bedsheet over her head. Hassan stood up slowly. He was naked. Khalid studied his son’s physique as though he was examining a piece of sculpture. Then he moved his gaze upward, glaring at his son’s stonelike countenance, which revealed neither fear nor embarrassment.

  “Where is yo
ur car?” Khalid asked.

  “I lent it to a friend.” Hassan turned his back as he stepped into his jeans.

  “Let’s go and pick it up.”

  Hassan swung around, anger contorting his face. “Why are you following me?” he shouted. “You have frightened her! I will pick my car up when I want to!”

  “I will be waiting downstairs,” Khalid said, trying to remain composed.

  Khalid waited outside by the car. He was smoking, and trying to suppress his rage. His shoulder pain had started again. He had resisted the impulse to smash the palm of his hand into his son’s handsome face. Now, he realized he felt completely detached from Hassan. How could this twisted young man be his flesh and blood? A profound sadness descended upon him. Was God punishing him? The faces of Hassan’s toddlers flashed before his eyes. Would one carry the seed of Hassan’s spirit? He longed at that moment to head toward Ghalib’s Sufi shrine to search for answers. He wanted relief, as well as a permanent escape from Hassan’s antics. As Hassan’s shadow appeared near the gate, he wondered if his entire life was a house of cards.

  For a time, they drove in silence, each contemplating his own thoughts. It was Khalid who spoke first. “What did you need the money for this time?”

  “I wanted to buy her furniture.” Khalid was gratified to hear the nervous tone in his son’s voice.

  “And who will pay for your mother’s tears,” Khalid replied.

  “She doesn’t know anything,” Hassan said quickly.

  “You are wrong! I was in Peshawar! She opened the envelope!”

  Hassan’s friend was not at home, and there was no trace of the car, so Khalid asked Faisal to take them home. Not a word was exchanged for the rest of the trip. The gates of the estate swung open to let them in, and Khalid told the guard they should not be opened again for anyone. He got out of the car and headed toward the house. Mounting the stairs, he paused halfway up and checked his watch. It was precisely 4:41 a.m. He had travelled for seven hours by car to two cities, and had accomplished only half of what he had set out to do. He’d had worse days, he thought.

  Safia was curled up in her day clothes, fast asleep. The bedside lamps were still on. Khalid drew close, noticing that her eyes were smudged with kohl after weeping for her unworthy son. He leaned down and whispered her name. She awoke instantly.

  “Your precious son is home safe and sound,” he said.

  She sat up and embraced him, sobbing on his shoulder with relief. He dried her face with the edge of his sleeve and said he needed some tea.

  A short while later, Khalid sat alone on his terrace cradling a mug of tea. He had ordered Faisal to catch up on his sleep and had taken his telephone away from him. The night had flown by, and dawn was breaking in the east. Khalid loved to watch the sun rise over the hills. He sat quietly, taking in the sight and waiting for the call from Sher Khan. It was just after 8 a.m. when his telephone rang. He answered it, but it wasn’t the voice he was expecting that greeted him.

  “Khalid, my dear, we are working overtime to find Adeel and the truck,” said the brigadier.

  “Any luck?”

  “Well, we have brought his mother to the office. She will be interrogated.”

  “Adeel’s mother? Why?” This was an unusual tactic, even for the isi.

  “We have traced a call made to her telephone. The conversation was brief but the call was made by Adeel just after he entered Peshawar.”

  “Do you really think she will reveal his whereabouts? She is his mother, for God’s sake.” Khalid knew he could share his own information with the brigadier.

  “His sister-in-law found a large sum of money in the mother’s room. We think Adeel gave it to her sometime in the past forty-eight hours,” the man replied.

  “He is not with his mother,” said Khalid.

  “How do you know?”

  “I just have a feeling,” Khalid replied. “Make sure you are not harsh with the woman.”

  “We don’t mistreat mothers. But she will assist us in finding him. I can guarantee that. I will be in touch again.”

  Khalid sighed as he placed the phone on the table in front of him. A Taliban team had made more progress than the country’s shadowy intelligence organization, with its deep coffers and complete autonomy. He trusted Sher Khan’s innate sense of honour more than the brigadier’s empty assurances. After all, it was the brigadier who had sent the wrong man; now he would have to save face. Sher Khan’s people must have reached Chilas by now, Khalid thought. He was certain he would be called within the next few hours.

  Faisal walked up to the terrace with the two morning papers he had picked up in the village. News of the massacre at Chilas covered the entire front page. Khalid wondered if anyone could accurately pinpoint the moment when sectarian violence had crept into the country. Regardless of when it started, it had become all too apparent that the people who indulged in this heinous crime were affiliated with the Taliban and other local warlords. Hordes of unemployed men from the provinces found their way into these shadowy terror clubs. Murder was synonymous with power, and the government looked the other way.

  Sher Khan called earlier than expected, just as the heads of Khalid’s two grandchildren appeared over the top of the staircase. He smiled at the sight of them — followed by Safia, racing to catch up with them across the length — as he answered. He tried to savour this image of familial love, but Sher Khan’s emphatic voice, hammering in his eardrum, made it impossible to concentrate on anything else.

  “He has disappeared,” Sher Khan said.

  “Disappeared?” echoed Khalid, swallowing the bile that had instantly risen at the back of his throat.

  “He can’t be far away, Khalid. My man, Nadir, will find him. I give you my word. A few days more and we will bring him to you in chains!”

  NINE

  THE CLUB IN LAHORE hailed from the colonial period and had a tainted history. The days of the British Raj had ended sixty-six years ago, but the club had insisted on preserving some of the more outdated touches of its bygone era, including one polished-teak door with a sign that specifically barred women from entry. These days, membership included businessmen, retired civil servants, and the offspring of feudal families. The lush-hipped matrons of Lahore — the wives of the club’s members — had never mounted any objections to the sign, aware that alcohol was stored beyond the door and the men enjoyed the privilege of drinking themselves into oblivion.

  Ghalib, wearing well-pressed khaki trousers and a crisp, long-sleeved shirt, entered the club. He nodded at some of the familiar faces as he marched toward a pair of armchairs, one of which was occupied by a strikingly good-looking man. His leonine grey hair and sparkling dark eyes seemed to create a magnetic field around him, drawing people in. Soody — or Sulieman, if one was being particularly formal — shared both spiritual links and distant blood ties with Ghalib. He sprang up to embrace his friend warmly.

  The gentlemen of the club who consumed alcohol had their bottles stored at the bar, and the bartender made it his business to know who drank what. Soon after Ghalib arrived, a double whisky and a lime juice diluted with mineral water appeared instantly on a small tray, carried by a formally clad waiter sporting a ceremonial pleated, fan-like turban. The club afforded its members great privacy. The injunctions of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan may have been observed everywhere else in the country, but they tended to stop outside these gates. A few years ago, the club’s alcohol-laden New Year Eve’s fete had drawn the ire of the mullahs, who gathered outside and threatened to storm the building. After that, the fetes became tamer affairs. Soody, who had held several cabinet portfolios, never consumed alcohol in public, even at the club. He sipped his lime juice diluted in mineral water chastely, and allowed Ghalib to take a few sips from his drink.

  “AK, the chairman of the party is holding a rally in Sahiwal tomorrow,” Soody said. “I expect you to
attend. The time has come to harness all the voters of Punjab.”

  “I shall be there. I have ordered posters to be made,” replied Ghalib. “Your great leader was still a teenager when he used to trail behind us on our shoots.”

  “Well, now he has formed a political party that could easily win this election,” Soody replied.

  Ghalib knew that Soody had recently been replaced as a cabinet minister by a beautiful young woman who was partial to expensive handbags. The portfolio he had been offered instead was lacklustre, and Soody, outraged, had promptly tendered his resignation. Being a man of burning ambition, he then switched his allegiance, and AK had welcomed him with great respect. Ghalib had joined the party at Soody’s behest, after he had promised to deliver the votes from his constituency.

  “Yes, but is he an intelligent man?” Ghalib asked.

  “He does not have to be. He draws people, and that is what counts.”

  “He’s very popular with the ladies, I am told,” Ghalib added.

  “Women are voting as well, Ghalib. He is quite a visual relief from the average politician in this country. He’ll be very popular at tomorrow’s women’s rally in Sahiwal.”

  “Well, this is revolutionary. So our presence is to back the ladies?”

  “You will be part of the reception committee and then attend a lunch afterwards. He draws a great deal of media attention,” replied Soody sharply.

  Ghalib concealed his ire. There were no ladies in Sahiwal, only a handful of women who were the wives of civic administrators. Rural women would be brought in by the busload, along with female party volunteers. Men would not be allowed to witness the rally or the speeches. He wondered why Soody was even requesting his participation. Yet Ghalib knew that a prosperous landlord with a car emblazoned with posters would be an asset to any public display of strength. How would Soody, who had commanded centre stage for most of his professional life, feel about playing second fiddle to the party leader?

  “I am happy to host a lunch for the party leader,” Ghalib offered.