‘Yes.’
‘What do you mean? You confirm you threatened him?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why the hell should I believe you when you say you didn’t kill him! You killed Jahangir Miandad and probably others, too. Ibrahim was the biggest obstacle to your plans and now he’s dead . . .’
‘Why should you believe me? Because I am telling the truth. Rahman and I made a deal.’
‘He made a deal with you? With a man who makes his money trafficking alcohol and drugs and people . . .’
Shafik grinned.
‘Your saintly Ibrahim doing a deal with Javed Shafik? You seem shocked. Rahman handed over his land and came to work in my businesses – the businesses you have just listed with such outrage in your voice.’
‘So you’re saying that Ibrahim was involved in—’
‘Precisely. You’ve understood. I am sorry to disappoint you, but even saints can be greedy. Rahman worked for me.’
‘Ibrahim . . . trafficking? I don’t believe you! You keep asking me for proof – so what proof do you have?’
The phone rang. Shafik spoke into it hurriedly and hung up.
‘I have to go. You are welcome to leave if you wish. My men will drive you back to Karachi.’
‘But I have more questions. I need answers.’
‘Then you are welcome to enjoy my hospitality until I
return.’
Shafik was putting on his coat. From the drawer of the desk he took out a folder and flicked through its contents. For a moment he hesitated then handed it to me.
‘You may look at this. When you have finished give it to
Abdul.’
He nodded towards one of the guards sitting behind us with his gun in his lap, told the other to follow him and left.
The folder contained photographs. There were pictures of Shafik in restaurants with groups of men in suits, Shafik signing documents, shaking hands, inspecting cargoes in a warehouse. Others showed him at a rural airstrip, talking to officers of the Pakistani army, enjoying a drink with senior policemen. They formed a pictorial record of Shafik’s activities, legal and illegal; Imran guessed they had been taken as a prospective blackmail tool, an insurance policy against betrayal by disloyal associates. And in them, to our dismay, we found Ibrahim. There was Ibrahim with Shafik in the room we were now sitting in, poring over papers on Shafik’s desk, the two of them sharing a joke. There were photos of Ibrahim counting bundles of money, using a knife to open a bag of white powder. In one shot, Shafik’s bodyguard was holding a gun to the temple of a man cowering in terror; in the background was the unmistakable figure of Ibrahim Rahman.
CHAPTER 34
Shafik was away for three hours. Three hours in which to contemplate his photographs with their damning implications. The evidence seemed incontrovertible; Ibrahim had participated in Shafik’s criminal activities and had done so willingly. When Imran showed the photos to the gunman guarding us, he nodded a grim confirmation. I dreaded having to tell Ayesha that her father was so far removed from the hero she believed him to be.
We decided to leave then thought again. We debated the dangers of staying. It would mean chancing Shafik’s volatile behaviour, risking his fragile benevolence turning to wrath. But there were more questions and I needed to know the answers.
When he returned he was in a spiteful mood. The business he had rushed off to had not gone well. He asked why we were still there and if we believed him now. I said we did.
‘I can’t argue with the evidence. You and Ibrahim worked together. But will you tell me exactly what he did for you?’
‘Import-export. There are commodities which exist in abundance here but are in short supply and great demand in England. Rahman helped us to meet that demand.’
‘What commodities? Drugs? Human traffic?’
‘Let’s say that the commodities we were transporting could be awkward to distribute. We needed a reliable network at the other end and Rahman was going to provide it. His taxi drivers had experience with the sort of things from which we make our living.’
‘What do you mean, “was going to”? He hadn’t done that work before? He was starting because of you?’
‘Yes. He was a novice, but he showed willing. He could have had a future.’
‘I don’t understand why you didn’t kill him when he refused to sell his land.’
‘I told you that my men put pressure on Rahman, just as they did with the other troublemakers. Rahman was stubborn. He said he didn’t care if he was killed. And we could not kill him.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because the bastard had protection. He was smart. He had a deal with one of the top guys in the Karachi police, a guy called Zaid Alam. And this Zaid had political protection. He was on the payroll of powerful people in the deep state, people even we can’t afford to tangle with.’
‘You mean Commander Zaid? He’s the man who helped us get this whole investigation going. Imran, you told me Zaid was an honest cop!’
Imran was about to reply, but Shafik cut in.
‘Honest? What does that mean? Honesty’s a hazy concept here. Sure, Zaid is honest. And maybe he helped you from good intentions. But no one – not even the most powerful cop or judge or councillor – can survive on honesty. Even guys like Zaid have to play the game. He needs protection and to get it he has to compromise. That’s the way this country works.’
‘So when Zaid sent us to see the people in Kahin Nahi, the party knew about it? The UF knew what we were looking for and what we suspected?’
‘In Karachi you don’t go anywhere without people knowing.’
‘We were being followed?’
‘Followed and reported on.’
‘And what about now? Have we been followed here to you?’
Shafik laughed.
‘I do the following. It is my business to see everything, to know everything.’
I thought back to Aled Parry-Jones’s horror when I told him I had approached Mohammed Asif for protection on my visit to the city. The sense of being spied on from all sides was discomfiting.
‘So if Ibrahim had protection . . . and if you couldn’t kill him or bully him into doing what you wanted, how did you do it? How did you get him to sign over his land? To do all the terrible things we’ve seen in the photos?’
Shafik looked like a magician about to unveil his best trick.
‘When one method fails you must try another. “Thinking without boxes” I think is the expression. We thought without a box. We found a softer way of persuading him.’
‘Softer? That’s the last thing I associate with you!’
‘One of my men came to me. He said he knew how to speak with Rahman, to speak to him nicely. They had a good discussion. And he came back with your Ibrahim in his pocket.’
‘Your man just talked to Ibrahim and magically he agreed to come and work for you?’
‘You’ve got it.’
‘This fellow spoke so nicely that Ibrahim was convinced, where all your bullying had failed?’
‘Exactly. My guy wouldn’t say how he did it. But I guessed there was something personal between them, something between my man and your Ibrahim that I didn’t understand.’
‘Personal? What sort of personal? Who is this man with the power to turn your fearless opponent into your ally, to make him do your bidding without a whimper?’
‘His name is Snake Eyes.’
‘Snake Eyes? What sort of name is that? I need to speak to him!’
Shafik laughed. ‘I thought you might say that. But it isn’t that simple. Snake Eyes is in jail.’
‘In jail?’
‘In the Central Prison in Machh in Balochistan. For murdering a heroin dealer he fell out with.’
I had glimpsed the prospect of a solution; talking to the man who knew Ibrahim and recruited him to the world of crime held out the hope of answers. But a brick wall had sprung up that threatened to bring my investigation to a frustrating end.
&n
bsp; ‘You can’t get me in to see him, can you?’
It was worth a try.
‘Perhaps. We support our men. Even on death row we don’t abandon them.’
‘Then you’re willing to help me? Will you help me get into the jail?’
Shafik nodded. ‘I will do what I can. I cannot guarantee miracles.’
I felt a surge of relief. I had not realised how important the quest to discover the truth had become to me. The prospect of failure had made me reckless, putting myself in the hands of a crime boss I knew I should not trust. I asked Shafik why he was willing to help me, but he told me not to look a gift horse in the mouth.
‘To be clear,’ I said, ‘for my peace of mind – you categorically assure me that you did not murder Ibrahim Rahman?’
‘Rahman was going to put his taxi network at our disposal. He was an asset, so why would I kill him? I didn’t kill him and I don’t know who did.’
Shafik’s reply sounded genuine. He escorted us to the car. The guard placed the black hoods over our heads. Shafik helped us climb in and the door slammed. Almost at once I heard a metallic rap on the window. The barrel of a gun? ‘Wind down the window!’ Could he shoot me through the glass? The driver pressed a switch; the window slid down. Would Shafik shoot me in the car? What about the blood? I flinched.
‘Martin sahib?’ Shafik’s voice was ingratiating. ‘You asked me why I am agreeing to help you . . .’
‘Yes . . .’
‘It is because I admire your work.’
The conversation was taking an odd turn.
‘Really?’
‘Your books and your films.’
‘Oh?’
‘And because I hope you might include me as a character.’
I nodded uncomprehendingly.
‘My favourite is the movie of your book Gorky Park. Lee Marvin is my sort of character – you can make me into Lee Marvin!’
Imran nudged my thigh. I could barely restrain myself. As the car sped away the two of us burst into laughter.
CHAPTER 35
Before I left London I had made a booking at the hotel where Ayesha and I had stayed on our previous visit. But Imran counselled against it. After our meeting with Javed Shafik, he said, it was inevitable that people would be watching us. The big international hotels were constantly monitored; we would be too much on view. Instead, we took a bus to Nazimabad in north-western Karachi then threaded our way through the villa-lined streets of Model Park to Chowrangi. At the crossroads beside the Pakistan air force monument Imran paused and looked around; satisfied we were alone, he beckoned me into the warren of streets beyond the Al Badar Hadi Market.
Night had come, moonless and richly dark. Imran’s mother’s house was a modest bungalow. She greeted us with smiles and plates of sai bhaji chawal with koki flat bread and pallo machi. Her son had been to London, but London rarely came to Nazimabad and I was feted. The best crockery was dusted off, the table laid with bright-patterned linen, neighbours called to view the exotic visitor. The warmth of the welcome and the animated, incomprehensible chatter calmed me. The horrors of the day receded. When the last guest left, Imran said I should take his room; he would camp on the sofa in the living room. Against my expectations I slept. When I opened the blinds, morning had come and the street was alive with bustle.
Over a breakfast of baked bakarkhani Imran and I reviewed the events of the past two days. The adrenalin had subsided now and the extent of the peril we had been in shook us. To bolster our spirits we joked about Shafik’s self-regarding naivety, but we both acknowledged the reality of the danger he posed. Imran was wary of accepting his help. I was sceptical that he could deliver. Gaining access to a prisoner on death row seemed a proposition so outlandish that I had all but dismissed it. Imran was less sure.
‘In Pakistan these things happen. The authorities are susceptible to threats and bribes. Prison governors have unchecked power in their kingdom. If they see an advantage in bending the rules, they do so.’
Imran called to his mother and they spoke briefly in Urdu. She turned to me and embarked on an animated explanation before he reminded her of the insurmountable linguistic divide. She laughed and pointed to her son, who took up the narrative.
‘I was asking my mother about a young fellow from near here who is also in that jail awaiting the hangman. His name is Saulat Mirza. He has confessed to a dozen killings, but by some means he keeps appearing on our TV screens. I asked about Saulat because his case illustrates the anomalies in our justice system. It is a prime example of the deep state at work.’
‘The deep state? It sounds malignant.’
‘It is unfamiliar in true democracies. To us the deep state means the shady forces that hold power behind the scenes – corrupt politicians, elements of the intelligence services, the military, security forces, judiciary, organised criminals. They are never in the spotlight, but they influence everything, from dealing with or promoting terrorism, to deciding public appointments and distributing state funds, to covert plots and assassinations. Saulat Mirza’s story is tangled up in the machinations of these people.’
‘And he’s in the same jail as our Snake Eyes fellow?’
‘Yes, in Balochistan. But Saulat grew up here in Nazimabad. My mother knew his parents; they were Mohajirs, Muslims who fled from India after partition. Saulat went to Shipowners’ College at Shahrah e Noojahan, the same school I went to. I remember he was active in the Mohajir Students Organisation, the youth wing of the MQM, and he evidently got recruited by the party’s less savoury elements. In the mid-1990s he was involved in a series of political killings, including two US diplomats who were gunned down at a traffic light, and four American finance officers from the Union Texas Petroleum company.’
‘Is that what he was arrested for?’
Imran laughed. ‘No chance. He was working for people who guaranteed his immunity. That’s what I meant about the deep state: the party in power uses killers like Saulat Mirza to do its dirty business and they just get away with it. In Karachi alone there are hundreds of assassinations every year.’
‘But Saulat Mirza’s in jail . . .’
‘Right. He got unlucky. In 1997 he gunned down the Managing Director of the Karachi Electricity Company, a man called Malik Hamid. Hamid had been investigating allegations of corruption against some of his officials, but it turned out they were on the payroll of the MQM. The party told Hamid to drop it, but he wouldn’t; so Saulat Mirza shot him, along with his bodyguard and his driver, as they were leaving to go to work.’
‘But if Mirza was acting on behalf of the deep state, how come the deep state didn’t protect him?’
‘It tried to. But the murdered man had a son who was determined they weren’t going to get away with it. Omar Hamid was so obsessed with getting justice for his dead father that he gave up his academic studies and joined the Karachi Police Department. He teamed up with the one cop who had a reputation for integrity amid all the dirt and corruption – Chaudhry Aslam. The two of them caught Saulat Mirza in a sting operation at Karachi airport and before the MQM could intervene they staged a press conference where they exposed all the political assassinations the guy had carried out. It was a pre-emptive strike. Saulat’s protectors were taken by surprise; they couldn’t stop the case going to court and Saulat got the death penalty. But the politicians had obviously promised to get him out because when the judge announced his verdict, Saulat just sniggered and said, “That’s only a formality. Don’t worry about it.” ’
‘Yet he’s been inside for a decade and a half.’
‘Yes. Every time the party was about to get him released, Omar Hamid and Chaudhry Aslam would kick up such a fuss that they had to back down. In the end, someone in high places got sick of being disrespected, because Chaudhry Aslam switched on the ignition of his car and got blown to pieces. Omar was so upset and so angry that he wrote a novel telling the whole story of his father’s murder using pseudonyms and invented locations, but revealing the dreadfu
l things the deep state and its killers get up to.’
‘So isn’t Omar putting himself in danger?’
Imran nodded. ‘Since his book came out, Omar Hamid has been living in London. He is safer there. And when your book comes out, I think you should do the same.’
Imran and I sat looking at each other. Then he burst out laughing.
‘But a bit of drama’s good for book sales, isn’t it? And Saulat Mirza has been helping Omar’s sales with those TV appearances I mentioned. It seems he has fallen out with his friends at the MQM – they have said publicly that they are washing their hands of him and they won’t give him any more help with his defence. The judiciary took the hint and announced that Saulat would be hanged within a week. But the prospect of the noose seems to have jogged his memory, because he somehow got a camera and a cameraman into his cell on death row and recorded a whole series of explosive revelations. Having spent more than a decade denying it was the MQM who gave him his assassination orders, he has changed his tune. In the video he says the instruction to kill Omar’s father came directly from the head of the MQM, Nasser Aziz. And he says he and other killers got protection from the Governor of Sindh, a fellow called Mohammed Asif.’
‘Mohammed Asif!’
‘Have you come across him?’
‘Yes . . . Well, tangentially shall we say.’
‘The Governor issued a statement denying he had ever protected any criminals, least of all political assassins like Saulat Mirza. Mirza’s family responded by leaking photographs of Mohammed Asif and other politicians at their family weddings and visiting Saulat in jail looking very friendly indeed. For a lot of Pakistanis it confirmed what they always suspected about the way the deep state runs the country. Mirza’s video was shown on national television the day before he was due to be executed. And he was very clever. In the video he claims he has all sorts of further revelations he can make about the plots and conspiracies of powerful people who operate in the shadows, about the crimes and corruption that go on behind the scenes. So the President was forced to step in and halt the hanging. They needed at the very least to be seen to be listening to what Saulat had to say. My mother has been following the drama in the media and she gave me this cutting.’
Ayesha's Gift Page 20