The Place of Shining Light

by Nazneen Sheikh

  THE IRANIAN EMBASSY’S sprawling villa was located in Islamabad’s diplomatic enclave. Barriers and checkpoints cordoned off the entire area. High concrete walls with barbed wire surrounded all the buildings. After a bomb had been detonated in a nearby five-star hotel, the security protocol had changed. The American compound was a perfect example of the new order. It was vast, with a three-storey parking structure and a cluster of solid buildings. The Americans had imported both their contractors and their building material — not a single nail or security guard had been provided by the host country. Even the passports of those simply applying for visas were scrutinized at the main barrier. These days, though Khalid, the entire diplomatic enclave was a fortress city, set apart from Islamabad’s benign hillside sprawl. Surprisingly, the atmosphere did nothing to discourage visitors. The United States, Canada, France, and Britain all had social clubs in the area, where nationals could drink alcohol in peace and eat the foods of their respective countries. Local Pakistanis avidly sought invitations to these exclusive spots, ignoring the subtle resentment their presence always seemed to engender.

  Khalid showed his invitation and national identity card at the gate to the Iranian Embassy. The main foyer gleamed with polished marble floors, covered here and there by exquisite Persian carpets. Khalid slipped inside the large reception room, which was filled with foreign diplomats and clutches of the locals who had managed to wrangle an invitation. He spied the ambassador, who immediately waved him over. Khalid walked across the room, unable to take his eyes off the plump woman who stood by the ambassador’s side. His two Safavid-period butterflies nestled against each other on the black silk of her unfashionable jacket.

  “Ah, my dear, here is the wonderful Mr. Khalid,” the ambassador declared.

  Khalid shook the limp hand extended to him and pasted a smile on his face.

  “Madame, your brooches are beautiful,” he said deliberately.

  “Yes, they are Persian antiques,” she said with a hint of pride.

  “Khalid, let us show you our little display.” The ambassador ushered Khalid to the far side of the room, where a few people had gathered around a large mahogany table covered with white felt. The collection of handblown Persian glass — fashioned into perfume bottles, goblets, and lamps — was brilliantly lit. Most of the pieces were blue, and they practically glowed under the carefully arranged spotlights. Despite the care that had gone into the display, the collection was mediocre at best, thought Khalid. There was a glut of Persian glass in the collectors’ market at the moment. The only item that caught his eye was a bird-shaped fragrance bottle. He spent another moment or two looking at the items, then moved away. Many of the other guests were doing the same, he noticed. They seemed more interested in accosting the servers carrying silver trays of Iranian hors d’oeuvres. The caviar bowls emptied faster than any other items. Khalid was planning his escape, and edging ever closer to the door, when he walked right into the ambassador, who was standing near the entrance.

  “My dear Khalid sahib, I have some news for you.” The ambassador directed him to the hall outside the reception room.

  “I am being recalled to Tehran. I could be assigned a new posting, but there is also a rumour of some pressure being exerted on my department by another ministry.”

  Khalid stood silently. He knew exactly what was coming.

  “Someone has pulled a very senior card here, Khalid,” the ambassador said, looking apologetic. “I must have the remainder of your payment in hand when I leave next week.”

  “You shall have it. Thank you for your hospitality. Unfortunately, I cannot stay longer. My wife is waiting for me.” Khalid said coolly before turning on his heel.

  The ambassador’s hand shot out and grasped his shoulder. Khalid stopped.

  “Reza Mohsinzadegh has gone over my head. Unfortunately, he is very close to the ayatollah. I’m sorry,” the man whispered.

  “You shall not return empty-handed,” Khalid said as he brushed the hand from his shoulder and headed toward the door.

  ONCE HOME, KHALID set his contingency plan into motion. He called a shipping agent in Karachi and inquired about the earliest-possible delivery of a twenty-foot container to Bangkok, then instructed Faisal to summon his packers to the house immediately, even though it was 9 p.m. Next, he personally supervised the crating of twenty-two works of two-thousand-year-old Gandharan art, most of which were manifestations of Buddha, in either frieze or statue form. The packing work continued through the night until, finally, a container rolled up to the gates of the estate on the bed of a tractor-trailer. Khalid wired payments while Faisal arranged for a security detail to escort the truck the entire 713-mile route to Karachi. By 3 a.m., the container was filled and securely padlocked. From his terrace, Khalid watched the truck snake its way down the winding country road. It was only when the lights of the vehicle disappeared that he finally sat down and lit a cigarette.

  Khalid’s thoughts were as cold as ice. His mission was to raise a large sum of cash within four days. He had discussed the shipment with a businessman in Bangkok a few days earlier. An entire photo file had been sent to the buyer months ago. Khalid knew the buyer would accept the shipment and was capable of releasing the container into Thailand without it being examined. Khalid also knew he would pay promptly. Yet this daring transaction was not without risk. In the past three years, he had successfully sent many smaller consignments. Recently, however, his network of people at the Karachi ports had changed, as had the shipping rates. Khalid had, of course, taken precautions. A specially prepared bill of lading would be attached to the container the moment it reached the outskirts of the city, using a carefully selected business alias. The bill would specify that the famed Hala ceramic tiles from Sindh were being exported to Bangkok. Khalid’s arrangements were meticulous, but the entire venture was a colossal gamble nonetheless. But Reza Mohsinzadegh had to be silenced. Khalid would conduct no further business with him.

  When he finally entered his bedroom to go to sleep, Khalid noticed his wife’s mobile phone lying next to her face, on her pillow. He switched it off and placed it in the night table drawer. If there had been word from Hassan she would have told him. And at the moment, the only call he wanted to receive was the one that told him his container had been safely loaded onto a ship.

  THE TRUCK CARRYING the artifacts followed a black suv at an even speed of sixty kilometres an hour. The security company Khalid had hired to guard the shipment was a slick operation owned by a retired army officer who trained discharged military men for this new line of work. It had branches in three of the nation’s main cities. A tractor-trailer with a twenty-foot container was not an easy vehicle to secure, so Khalid had also paid a team of men for their time and skills. The four men travelling in the suv were heavily armed.

  The driver of the truck behind the suv knew that something other than ceramic tiles was travelling in the container; there were more economical ways of transporting tiles, certainly, and the wooden crates were all different shapes and sizes. And the black vehicle in front of him — carrying four armed security guards — suggested that the cargo had value. But his job was to drive, not to ask questions. The manager of the security company had made it clear that the client was an extremely wealthy man and that the timely completion of this delivery, in exactly the way the client had specified, would result in more business.

  The driver was a veteran in his profession. He had shuttled vehicles and merchandise from one end of the country to the other for thirty years. He was also a man blessed with luck. Twice his trailer had jackknifed and the containers he was delivering had slid off onto the road. He had walked away with only minor bruises and cuts. The tangle of spiritual amulets worn around his neck and the prayer beads wrapped around his rear-view mirror were his guardians. His eyes never strayed from the road as he considered this strange assignment. He had never been summoned on half an hour’s notice before and had never
seen a trailer loaded in the dead of night with such efficiency. Even though it was not his business, his curiosity about the cargo gnawed at him for hours.

  After many hours of travelling a brief stop was made. The truck driver strolled over to the driver of the suv with his mug of tea. The man was stretching his legs.

  “We are both travelling much faster than we should,” the truck driver said companionably.

  “I know, but we have to reach Landhi on time. Someone is waiting for us,” the man replied.

  “We are going to the port in Karachi?”

  “Yes.”

  “And all those lucky Sindhi tiles are going abroad?” the truck driver said, fishing for information.

  The suv driver flashed a sharp look at him and remained silent.

  “Come on. What are we really carrying? I won’t tell anyone.”

  “They are export items. It is not our business.”

  “As you say, brother.” Masking his anger, the driver returned to his truck with his tea.

  THE SMALL CONVOY cut through the heart of the Punjab, heading toward the southern end of Sindh province, where the seaport lay. The road — a modern motorway that often separated into narrow bypasses — was crowded even at this realitively late hour. Buses, trucks, and cars fought like gladiators both for space and the ability to drive at top speed. On the outskirts of Karachi, the signpost for the town of Landhi appeared. The mobile phone sitting on the dashboard rang and the truck driver answered.

  “We are going to pull into the first filling station that will appear on your right,” said the driver of the suv. “Follow us and stop when we do, but do not get out.”

  The suburb of Landhi was a war zone for local administrators. It was filled with mud tenements and sewage-strewn lanes, and it boasted a shockingly high crime rate. The Taliban had infiltrated the area, and gang warfare erupted weekly. The gas station appeared on the main road outside the colony. The truck driver followed the suv halfway into the filling station lot and stopped. It was 1 a.m.; nearly twenty-four hours had passed since the trucks pulled away from the estate in Islamabad. Despite the time the gas station was ablaze with neon lights, which illuminated both an open-air restaurant and a small area for prayers. As the driver watched and waited, a black Mercedes appeared beside the suv. A slim man got out, walked over to the security vehicle, and had a quick exchange with the driver. Then he made his way to the tractor-trailer. He handed the driver a brown envelope encased in plastic.

  “This is what you will give them when you reach the port entrance. They will tell you which loading dock to use,” he said, then raised his hand and walked away.

  Next, it was the suv driver’s turn to approach the truck. “We will take you all the way to the port,” he said, “but will not be able to go inside. Once the container has been loaded, we will meet you outside the gates. Do you understand everything you’ve been asked to do?”

  “Yes. Let’s go,” replied the truck driver impatiently, putting his vehicle into reverse. He was tired from the long journey, tired of this job, and tired, most of all, of the security man’s condescension. As they resumed their trek toward the port, he made a decision: if an opportunity presented itself, he would try to make some extra money on the side.

  Karachi Port, when it at last came into view, looked almost like a city. Ships lined the wharves jutting out into the Arabian Ocean, piles of shipping containers loomed everywhere, and cranes swung back and forth, loading and unloading cargo. A warship idled in the distance. The truck driver thought about the long journey home and wished he were already there, nestled in bed with his wife. The sooner he completed this task, the sooner he would be on his way. He followed the signs to the entrance, extended the envelope to the officials when they approached, and watched them rifle through the paperwork.

  “You are to stay on your right and head toward the west wharf,” said one of the men, waving a large white sheet of paper at him. “You will show this paper and be given instructions about where to proceed with the container.”

  The driver took the paper and the envelope and placed them on the seat. He drove on a concrete path along the water, heading toward the cranes and ships farther ahead. At each checkpoint, he showed his papers and did what he was told. Finally, two customs officials stood with the truck driver, watching as a giant crane lifted the container and placed it on the wharf. The driver watched the younger official looking through the papers again and realized this was the moment he had been waiting for.

  “What is the system here, sir? Do you check the cargo?” he asked.

  “There’s no need. The bill of lading gives a description of the contents, along with a value,” the customs official said, his eyes glinting through his wire-rimmed glasses.

  “What if the papers lie?”

  “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  When the driver didn’t immediately respond, the customs agent walked away and spoke to his colleague, handing him the envelope that had, just a short time ago, been sitting on the tractor-trailer’s passenger seat. The driver wondered if money was changing hands. If his hunch was accurate, he had just witnessed a bribe being offered and accepted. He hoped they would come back and offer him some of the money as well. He watched as both men walked up to the container and secured the padlock. Then the shipping agent walked quickly over to him.

  “Your job is finished. You can leave now,” he said curtly.

  “I can’t stay to watch the crane lift it and put it on the ship?” he asked, hoping for an offer of money to go away.

  “No. That will take a while. The ship will not leave until noon. The containers have to be placed according to their destination. You are not allowed to stay here anymore.”

  The driver reluctantly walked back to the trailer, not realizing that his sole comment to the custom’s official would be the source of a newspaper headline the next day.

  From their vantage point on the dock, the two officials watched the driver reverse the truck, execute a perfect turn, and head toward the exit.

  “Sir, I think there is something we should check,” said the younger of the two men, the one with the wire-rimmed glasses.

  “There is nothing to check,” the older man said, throwing his arm around his colleague and directing him away from the container. “Come, I need a cup of tea.”

  “In my opinion, sir, we need to open this container. We need to do a routine check,” said the young man, shrugging off the arm draped around his shoulder.

  The older man came to a stop, irritated by his colleague’s defiance. “You have worked here for six months. Do you really think your judgement is better than mine?”

  “Part of our training is also to pay heed to our instincts, sir! As a customs officer, I am exercising that privilege.”

  “I used to train people like you! Breaking a sealed locker is an official customs act.”

  “I am certain about this,” said the young man, unable to dismiss the driver’s comment.

  “You want to orchestrate a customs seizure? A big drama so your career rises?”

  “That is what we are trained for, sir.”

  The veteran looked at his partner, wondering if this fresh young recruit had the potential to jeopardize his long career. In that moment, he made a tactical error.

  “Listen, there is a system here. A certain amount of petty smuggling goes on because the government can be unreasonable. It is more convenient to look the other way,” he explained, attempting to take the young man into his confidence.

  “But what if the items being smuggled aren’t petty? What if the act breaks the laws of our country?”

  “What is your salary? Are you married?”

  “I do not have to answer these questions!” replied the younger man, confused.

  “Sometimes we are given little gifts to facilitate things. If a container misses a ship, th
e wait can be a disaster for a businessman. I am in a generous mood today. Let me reward you for being so conscientious.” The older man pulled out a roll of currency from his pocket.

  “You keep it, sir. I am going to find my superior,” shouted the junior officer, walking away rapidly.

  “I am your superior!” the older man bellowed after him.

  Within an hour, the junior officer had dented the armadillo-like hide of the customs bureaucracy. He did it with courage and unwavering resolve and the assistance of the department’s near-retirement senior officer, who heard the young man’s impassioned tale and felt that one redemptive act might save the morale of a government office that had been steeped in corruption for decades. The seal on the container was broken, and the contents of the first three cases opened sent the entire loading dock into a frenzy. The shipment, which clearly contravened the Antiquities Act, was immediately seized — and the press instantly summoned (the seizure would do wonders to boost the custom department’s sullied image). In the end, however, the name of the shipper could not be discovered. The customs agent who had accepted the large bribe was protected by his colleagues, while the younger agent found himself transferred to another department. In their haste to open the crates, and due to their abysmal lack of expertise in handling antiquities, the customs officials managed to damage some of the statues.

  KHALID SAT BEFORE his breakfast tray as Faisal placed a bundle of newspapers on the table beside it. Safia had been quieter than usual this morning, and he knew she was worrying about Hassan. But thoughts of his son and his wife evaporated as he smoothed out the rolled-up national paper and saw his seized shipment on the front page. He examined the other papers and found the same thing. While Faisal looked at him nervously, Khalid felt laughter bubbling up inside of him. Finally, he gave in to it.

  “Faisal, Faisal,” he wheezed, trying to catch his breath. “You know only two were real.”