The doubts and squabbles were coming to an end. Things would be resolved now. One way or another.
In the car, Imran told me what he had discovered. He had been to Orangi and to Kahin Nahi. He had sought out the landowners whose names were listed in Ibrahim’s diary. Some were gone – neighbours shrugged their shoulders when Imran asked where – and two were dead; no one would say when or how. Imran saw the fear in people’s eyes. In a café two men came to his table. They wanted to know who Imran was, where he came from and why he was asking questions. He gambled: he was investigating reports of blackmail and intimidation against local people. The men hesitated then took him to a house on the edge of the town. They levered off a padlock fixed to the door. In the dining room there were family photographs, tea cups stacked on the sideboard. But the blinds were drawn and dust covered the floor. It was the house of Jahangir Miandad, the men said. He had owned fifty acres of farmland until the dacoits, marauding thugs, came calling on him. Jahangir told them this was his home and he didn’t want to sell. His body was found in a dried-out irrigation ditch. Imran asked if the men knew who the bandits were working for, but they shook their heads. He asked if they knew another local landowner by the name of Ibrahim Rahman. They did. Were they aware that Rahman had also tangled with the dacoits? They laughed. ‘Tangled? He was the organiser, the one who got us together to fight them . . .’
I motioned Imran to stop.
‘The men confirmed that Ibrahim was standing up to Shafik? That he was leading the resistance to the land-grabbers? It’s crucial—’
‘The men were categorical, Martin. I got access to the land documents for the Orangi water project – I had to bribe the clerk – and it is one hundred per cent clear that Shafik needs Ibrahim’s land. The contract for the dam is worth millions; there are massive profits in it. It will occupy hundreds of acres. Before Ibrahim took up the fight, the locals were being intimidated, bullied and murdered. Ibrahim pulled them together. He got lawyers involved. He did everything possible to keep the dacoits at bay.’
‘So the bandits must have gone after Ibrahim? If he was the ringleader . . .’
‘They did. According to the locals, the goons came to Rahman’s house on many occasions. And their boss came with them. They threatened Ibrahim, but he wouldn’t give in. He was fearless – he didn’t care a fig for his own safety, for his own life. People kept telling him he was in danger, but he wouldn’t budge. He’d staked everything on the thing he was fighting for. He was like a man in a barroom brawl, Martin – his friends were all telling him to back off, for his own safety; but he’d invested so much pride in it that he just kept going despite knowing he could never win.’
‘God, Imran . . . If Shafik’s thugs were prepared to murder the little guys like Jahangir Miandad, they’d have had no hesitation in bumping off someone like Ibrahim! Ayesha must be right – Ibrahim died a hero.’
Imran nodded, but something was troubling him. I asked what it was.
‘I don’t know, Martin. There’s something strange I haven’t been able to figure out. It seems Ibrahim got away with it . . .’
‘How do you mean, he “got away with it”? He’s dead . . .’
‘Yes. But the thing is that he didn’t die when the row over the land was going on. Somehow he survived all that. I don’t know why, but the bandits backed off and left him alone. He wasn’t killed until much, much later, when all the fuss had faded away . . .’
We sat in silence as the car edged through the Karachi traffic. Imran was right.
‘So by the time he died’ – I was thinking aloud – ‘he had already signed his land over to Shafik. Shafik had no reason to kill him.’
Imran shrugged.
‘I think we need to tread carefully when we see Shafik. Don’t go blundering in, Martin. He is a clever man. And dangerous. I got written statements from the landowners I spoke to, confirming they were threatened to make them give up their land. But remember – these men spoke to me in confidence; we mustn’t divulge their identities to Shafik or they’ll be dead meat.’
The car pulled up at a roadside café. The place was rundown, off the beaten track. When I asked why we were stopping, Imran said, ‘I told you. We can’t drive to Shafik. He says he will know when we are here and his people will come for us. It’s about security.’
‘Security? I thought this guy was an entrepreneur. If he’s got nothing to hide, why does he hide away?’
‘It’s not so surprising. In Karachi, even the legitimate businessmen operate like that. There are too many people ready to settle business disputes with a gun. The big conglomerates have headquarters downtown, but most use shell companies. Shafik has an address in Karachi, but you won’t find him there. In fact, you won’t find him at all unless he wants . . .’
A black Mercedes swung into the car park. We got out of our car and waited awkwardly.
‘Okay, Martin. We need to stay calm. We’re journalists; we’ve been invited for an interview . . .’
Imran took a step forward; two men jumped from the car and motioned him back. I saw the tell-tale bulges under their jackets. One of them pulled out a mobile phone while the other strode in our direction.
‘Hands in the air! Legs apart!’
The man frisked us and waved to his companion. He spoke into the phone, clicked it off then beckoned us over.
‘You appreciate the need for precautions. You are required to wear these.’
He held out two balaclavas with no eye-holes. The man pulled the material over my head and pushed me into the back seat. I felt Imran tumble in next to me as the driver hit the accelerator.
CHAPTER 33
Shafik was smartly dressed, dark suit and green tie; black hair slicked down, neat moustache. Swarthy. Short. Vladimir Putin height. A smiling killer who smelled of cologne. I strove to remember the questions I had rehearsed, the aims and outcomes.
‘Whisky?’
I said I’d stick to soda. He shrugged.
‘You journalists not such good drinkers after all?’
There was a desk and two armchairs. He motioned me to one of them and sat in the other. Imran took the seat at the desk. The bodyguards stood by the door.
‘So you want to hear about pipes and dams?’ Javed Shafik sipped his whisky, weighing me up. ‘It sounds mundane. But in this country it is vital.’
I nodded encouragement.
‘We are doing everything we can, making the utmost efforts to relieve the suffering of the nation. This scheme is a vision of hope. It promises a better future for millions of people.’
‘I see that. Do you have a map of the area you will be working on? How much land will the construction affect?’
His eyes narrowed.
‘Don’t worry about that, man. Don’t worry about details. I can show you a map any time. It’s the big picture that’s important.’
Tension crackled; I was struggling to gauge its pitch.
‘Okay. Then perhaps you could give me an idea of the scale – the height of the dam; volume of water; miles of pipe . . .’
Shafik rattled off the figures.
‘After Tarbela and Mangla, which are among the largest dams in the world, this is one of the most ambitious projects Pakistan has ever seen. The last dam on the Hub River created as many problems as it solved. This one will save our city from thirst and disease. It will secure the future of our children. We are privileged to be part of it.’
He sounded sincere; I had come here convinced he was a liar.
‘I understand this is a commercial scheme. That the proposal came from entrepreneurs like yourself. In other words, it is a moneymaking venture.’
Shafik was unruffled.
‘It is a public-private partnership. We have many investors. Including the Chinese – Sinohydro are investing two hundred million. For them, it’s a question of profit; Beijing gets the revenues from the hydroelectric power the dam will generate. But for us, it is a matter of national pride. You understand? A question of doi
ng the right thing.’
‘Yes. You aren’t making a profit from the construction yourself?’
‘Don’t be naïve, man. Of course I will make a profit. Within recognised commercial parameters. Above board. I am sure you have heard about the philanthropic activities of my companies; about the grants we make to deprived communities, the youth clubs and cricket teams we sponsor . . .’
‘Yes. But just on this specific contract: could you give me a breakdown of the costs? And how much you stand to make from it?’
‘Are you an idiot? No businessman discusses these things. Have you never heard of commercial confidentiality?’
‘I have. I have also heard of the corruption that attends these contracts. About the false invoices, the bribes and the public funds disappearing into private pockets . . .’
Shafik burst into laughter.
‘You say you are a serious journalist? There is no way you could know anything about these matters. You are talking through your hat!’
‘Perhaps . . .’
‘You come here and make accusations. But you have no proof of anything.’
‘All right. If we are talking of proof, let me ask you one question: How did you acquire the land you need for the Hub River dam? I know the government was not willing to award the contract until you could guarantee you had the land. So how did you get it?’
‘I bought it.’
‘No. Not all of it. What about those landowners who refused your offer? Who asked for a proper market price? Who didn’t want to sell at all?’
‘Okay, my friend. You need to be clear. What are you accusing me of?’
‘Of using illegal means to acquire the land you need for a corruption-ridden contract that will net you massive profits from public funds. Clear enough?’
Shafik’s expression had frozen into a caliginous mask.
‘What illegal means?’
‘Intimidation, blackmail, violence . . .’
‘To make an omelette, you break eggs. The project is essential for Karachi. If we twisted a few arms, the end justifies the means.’
‘Justifies murder?’
‘What murder? Give me a name!’
‘Jahangir Miandad.’
‘Jahangir Miandad? What proof do you have?’
‘Signed statements. Written testimony from the landowners you bullied and threatened. Evidence that your thugs slit Miandad’s throat and dumped him in an irrigation ditch!’
Javed Shafik leapt to his feet. His guards pulled me out of the chair and pinned my arms behind my back. Shafik thrust his face into mine.
‘Signed statements? Written testimony? What the hell is this!’ His spittle flew. ‘If you have statements, you need to hand them over!’
I felt the fist in my face before I saw him raise his arm. Blood trickled from my left nostril.
‘Give me the damn statements!’
I remembered Imran’s warning and shook my head. Shafik hit me again. Imran jumped up.
‘Here! Here are the statements. If anything happens to the men who made them, I will know whom to hold responsible!’
Shafik took the documents. The guards drew their guns. There was silence as Shafik thumbed through the papers. When he looked up his face wore an expression of mock concern.
‘Gentlemen, you have given me a decision to make. And I am not a man who takes decisions lightly.’ He gestured to the guards. ‘Escort Martin sahib and Imran-ji to the waiting room. I will call for them when I am ready.’
At the end of a corridor the men pushed us through a door that they locked behind us. The room was in darkness but I sensed we were not alone. Imran pointed to a corner.
‘Don’t say anything, Martin. I think someone is here.’
What appeared to be a bundle of rags stirred. Imran addressed it in Urdu. A thin voice answered.
‘I think this fellow is in trouble,’ Imran said. ‘I’m going to take a look.’
My eyes had adjusted enough to see the bloodstained blanket that Imran lifted from the human form beneath it. The man looked in his mid-thirties. His once white shalwar kameez was covered in dirt; a bandage wrapped round his right hand was caked in blood. Imran sat the man upright and began to address him, but the fellow pointed towards the door and raised a finger to his lips. For several minutes they conversed in whispers. When Imran returned he was shaken.
‘Martin, this man is a prisoner. He was brought here for reasons of extortion and revenge. We must not speak too loud – he says the jailers listen at the door.’
It was less than twenty-four hours since I had been shopping at Sainsbury’s in Pimlico. The situation was surreal. Imran said the man barely knew why he had been abducted; it was to do with a land dispute or with a marriage in his family that had gone wrong. He had been held and beaten in a torture cell run by thugs attached to the UF, the party that dominated Karachi politics, after which he was passed on to Javed Shafik.
‘It proves Shafik has political connections,’ Imran said. ‘And that gives him impunity to act as he likes. Did you see the fellow’s hand? Every ten days they are cutting off one of his fingers and sending it to his father. If he collects them all and does not pay the ransom money, they are going to send him his son’s head. It’s brutal!’
‘A complete nightmare . . . for him and for us.’
‘I have less concern for ourselves. You are a known journalist. Shafik cannot treat you like an insignificant local . . .’
‘Maybe. But he could treat me like Daniel Pearl . . .’
‘Stop it, Martin. That sort of talk is not helpful!’
The man in the corner was calling for Imran to come and sit with him. They spoke for a time in Urdu and the discussion became agitated. When the man fell silent, Imran covered him with the blanket and came back to me.
‘That was a hard conversation. The fellow was pleading with us to help him. He wants us to tell the police where he is. He told me how to find his family and asked me to implore them to pay the ransom. I said we would do our best, but if the father hasn’t paid up I fear he doesn’t have the means to do so. I feel sorry for all of them.’
The door opened and a man with a grey beard motioned for us to get up. In the corridor he handed us over to the guards, who took us back to their boss. Javed Shafik flashed a smile.
‘These statements are trash. I will not dirty my fingers with such people.’
He gave the papers to one of the guards, who looked questioningly at him then nodded and put them in his pocket.
‘But you didn’t come here to ask me about scum like Jahangir Miandad. Do you think I don’t understand what your real interest is? That I don’t know about you and Ibrahim Rahman!’
There was a knock at the door. The grey-bearded jailer came in, bowed and asked permission to speak. Shafik listened to what he had to say then got up and went with him out of the door. Imran turned to me with a look of horror.
‘Ya Rasullallah! The jailer was telling Shafik about our conversation with the fellow in the cell. He told him the man was pleading for us to tell the world what they were doing to him. Shafik was really angry . . .’
‘Angry with him and angry with us, too . . . How on earth does Shafik know about us and Ibrahim? I thought we were keeping that under wraps.’
‘But Shafik isn’t stupid, Martin. I told you he’s been researching you. He has connections in Pakistan and connections in Britain. He knows much more than he lets on.’
When Shafik returned I took the initiative.
‘I should tell you, Mr Shafik, that I have left letters with both the Pakistani and the British police informing them that Imran and I were travelling to see you today. The letters specify that if I do not notify them of our safe return, they should take the necessary measures . . .’
Two shots rang out in the corridor.
‘You were saying?’ Shafik leaned back in his chair. ‘Something about the police? I can assure you there is no need for that . . .’
Unnerved by the gunshots, I wa
s struggling to take in what he was saying.
‘You will come to no harm at my hands. For two reasons. First, I had nothing to do with the death of Ibrahim Rahman . . .’
He paused momentarily with a faint smile on his lips.
‘And second, if you write anything that suggests I did, I can guarantee there will be consequences. I know, for instance, where Rahman’s family live. I would not be able to vouch for their safety.’
Shafik fixed me with unblinking eyes. I blinked.
‘Well, okay . . . Thank you for that assurance. I understand what you are saying.’
I was finding it hard to meet his gaze.
‘But may I be frank? You are correct that my interest is in Ibrahim Rahman. I am inquiring into his death on behalf of his daughter, and because I have a personal stake in the matter. And, if I am honest, I have to say that the evidence I have discovered points very strongly to your involvement—’
I broke off. I was levelling accusations at someone who had seemingly just ordered a man’s execution.
‘So do please tell me,’ he said. ‘What is this evidence you speak of?’
‘Well, there are the landowners’ statements you have just seen. They indicate pretty clearly that your men were using strong-arm tactics to make them give up their land . . .’
Shafik made a gesture of impatience.
‘We have dealt with that. I have said perhaps we used a little force to make the omelette. I don’t deny it.’
‘Okay. But the men’s statements also confirm that Ibrahim was active in resisting your attempts to get the land. In fact, he was the man who did most to rally people against you.’
‘Again, I don’t deny it. Rahman was a nuisance.’
‘Right. Thank you for confirming that. I have seen Ibrahim’s diaries and he lists all the threats you made against him. So would you also confirm that you and your men visited him on more than one occasion, that you demanded he hand over his land and that you threatened him with violence if he refused?’
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