Imran handed me an editorial from one of Pakistan’s English-language newspapers, headlined ‘A killer’s confession’.
Many individuals on the verge of being sent to the gallows would conceivably have the desire to unburden themselves. Not many, however, have been provided the opportunity to indulge in such a cathartic exercise on national television as did the MQM worker, convicted in 1999 for multiple murders, on late Wednesday night. Mirza’s sensational revelations, which have sent convulsions through Pakistan’s fourth largest political party, were followed by the announcement that his execution had been stayed . . .
Saulat Mirza’s ‘confession’ has brought some of MQM’s most prominent names into the dragnet. It is the latest salvo in the concerted push to tighten the noose around the party that controls much of the country’s largest city and its financial hub.
However, the latest development raises several questions: how did a camera find its way into the death cell? . . . Why now? What is the long-term objective? The situation – a condemned prisoner looking for any way to delay the inevitable – was conducive to manipulation. But in the eyes of the establishment, no stranger to Machiavellian tactics, there is perhaps considerable political mileage to be gained . . . While it is an open secret that the MQM employs heavy-handed tactics to maintain its grip on a city where politics and criminal networks often overlap, such an approach augurs ill for peace in the metropolis. As the deep state orchestrates the MQM’s ‘remaking’ to its current requirements, both the central and the Sindh governments appear to be taking a back seat. By doing so, they do themselves and the democratic project no favours.
I handed the cutting back to Imran.
‘Not the sort of thing you would come across in the UK, I suppose?’ he said. ‘But this is Pakistan. It’s impossible to untangle truth from lies. And it’s hard to know who you can trust. Shafik’s fellow, Snake Eyes, is on death row with Saulat Mirza and the two of them have a lot in common. Before he died, Chaudhry Aslam revealed that Mirza was continuing to run his network of crooks and assassins from his jail cell. No one dared to stop him. A prison official who tried to interfere was shot dead on his way home. And I suspect it is the same with Shafik and Snake Eyes. These people intimidate and murder their way to the top. They are tools of the deep state, but they use the power that confers on them for their own ends.’
CHAPTER 36
Concerned that his mother would be alarmed by the dangers we were running, Imran said little to her about the business we were engaged in. With an unexpected sense of humour he told her I was in Karachi for a conference on Freudian archetypes and the murdered father figure in Shakespeare’s Hamlet. In her presence we were cheerful. But mothers are tuned to understand their children and she did. Without saying anything, she fussed over us with food and more food, tea and sweetmeats; she brought us slippers, washed our linen, plumped our eiderdowns.
Imran was in touch with Shafik by text and email, but did not tell him where we were staying. Shafik was working on the jail visit. Snake Eyes had been convicted under the name of Mushtaq Waraich, but Shafik said that too was probably an alias.
On the third day Imran’s mother came to us with a parcel. It had been delivered by a very polite man in a shiny black car; he would not come in for tea or say who he was, but he told her that Imran-ji would understand.
Imran beckoned me into the garden. The parcel contained a wooden box and a sealed letter addressed to Sajid Gul, Superintendent, Machh Central Prison. Inside the box we found a curved, ceremonial dagger extravagantly engraved with verses that Imran said were from the Qur’an. Imran’s mobile phone pinged. The text was from Javed Shafik with instructions for our trip north.
The following day we woke early. It would take eight hours to drive to Quetta, where we would spend the night. Machh was another forty miles, but there were few hotels and none that was safe for foreigners. Quetta itself was home to senior Taliban commanders and an important staging post for Al Qaeda. I would need to wear Pakistani clothing and cover my face.
The drive was spectacular. Leaving the suburbs of Karachi we crossed the Hub River at Rais Goth and joined the N25, the RDC Highway, skirting the coast then turning north. The British engineers who traced the route had followed the valleys of the Lyari and Winder rivers, before eventually rejoining the northern section of the Hub in the Siahan and Makran mountains of Balochistan. The peaks to the left and right closed on us as we climbed from the valley towards Khuzdar, the halfway point of our journey, 4,000 feet above sea level. Alexander the Great had passed through on his march back to Babylon after conquering India in 300BC. In Kalat we took tea where in 1947 the last Khan of the Princely Kingdom had resisted incorporation into Pakistan, appealing first to India to take his people in, then maintaining a stubborn year-long independence before bowing to the inevitable. The last leg of the drive took us through Mastung and into Balochistan’s mountain capital, Quetta; night was falling as we pulled into the city.
Over breakfast we discussed the day ahead. Shafik had texted to say that we should report directly to the Prison Superintendent, without divulging to anyone the reason for our visit. The arrangements sounded fragile, most likely the product of a bribe, a threat or a favour Shafik was owed. The drive to Machh took an hour, through Pakistan’s bandit country. But the dacoits and jihadis were otherwise engaged and we saw the town’s minarets emerge from the hills that surround it. Machh was a former outpost of the Raj gone to seed. Its mountain setting was dramatic, but tourists didn’t come. The jail, located halfway up the rocky northern slope, seemed to be the main enterprise. Its walls, blanched and topped by wire, were visible for miles. Within its thirteen acres, red-roofed cell blocks radiated like spokes from a central parade ground of scrubby grass. The walls were high, but above them rose the wooden crossbeam of the gallows.
A pink gatehouse, flanked by stone watchtowers, bore the date 1929, a time when Machh was a distant holding place for opponents of British rule. Now the green and white crescent flew from the flagpole and the guards carried Heckler and Koch machine guns. They waved us out of the car into the guardroom. A Frontier Corps NCO examined our papers and asked what we wanted. Imran spoke politely, deferentially; the man pointed to a wooden bench. We sat for thirty minutes, forty minutes, an hour. A prison official in a khaki uniform came and took our letter. He returned at once to usher us in to the Superintendent.
Eyes filled with curiosity, Sajid Gul poured us tea and inquired about our journey. Imran explained that I had no Urdu; the Superintendent spoke English.
‘I see you are here to call on one of my guests.’
He was weighing us up, trying to decipher what interest a Pakistani academic and a foreigner might have in a man called Snake Eyes. Shafik’s letter and the dagger made him deferential.
‘Allow me to offer my help. The man you wish to see is in D block.’
Gul had evidently concluded that we were friends of his guest.
‘We have been taking care of him. As a man facing, I may say, the ultimate sanction, he should be in solitary confinement. But we have not applied this with undue rigour.’
‘Thank you,’ Imran said. ‘And may I ask for some further information? The person is known to us under his alias of Snake Eyes, but I wonder if you have other details.’
Sajid Gul unlocked a filing cabinet and took out a dossier.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There are several known aliases. He is charged under the name Mushtaq Waraich. Also known as Kamran Rafique. And Ahmed Rahman. Birth date stated as 23 March 1951. Birth place Karachi. Charged on multiple counts, including—’
Gul was reading out a list of offences, but I was not listening.
‘Wait, Superintendent! Could you repeat the list of aliases?’
He did.
‘And I missed some of the charges. The murder of the heroin dealer we were aware of. Then you mentioned theft and contraband. Did this involve smuggling abroad?’
Gul ran his finger down the page.
‘Yes, several counts of drug-running. Human-trafficking. Most of them unproven. In fact, had he not killed the dealer in the bazaar he would be a free man.’
I looked at Imran. We must not let Gul know about Ahmed Rahman.
‘Superintendent, did the cross-border offences involve the UK? Was Snake Eyes – Waraich – accused of smuggling offences to Britain?’
Gul nodded. ‘He was accused of them. But not convicted.’
‘Do you have details of Waraich’s connections in the UK? The places he was alleged to be smuggling to?’
Gul turned the page.
‘It is stated that the accused had a home in Burnley, Lancashire. Which is also the alleged destination of the goods.’
My heart was racing. Imran took over.
‘Thank you, Superintendent sahib. If you agree, I think Martin would like to see the fellow.’
Gul bowed, summoned the official in the khaki uniform and beckoned us to follow them. At the hub of the wheel from which the cell blocks radiated, a yellow stuccoed building was surrounded by a low wooden palisade. A sleepy-looking guard gave a leisurely salute. The unbarred windows were open and Bollywood film music was audible from inside. I was ready for what lay ahead.
CHAPTER 37
‘May I point out the quality of the accommodation?’ Gul was pursuing his own agenda. ‘This block is for A-class prisoners. Despite Waraich not being entitled to such status, I took it upon myself to grant it to him.’
The door opened into a communal area. The walls were white; white tiles on the floor. A faint smell of bleach gave it the air of a hospital waiting hall. A Nordic Track exercise machine, a rack of barbells and a ping-pong table were at the far end of the room; under the window a colour television was playing music videos from a DVD. Imran could not hide his astonishment.
‘Superintendent-ji, this is a hotel! Is your whole jail so luxurious?’
Gul laughed.
‘I told you: this is A-class. We have 845 inmates but only two such guests. Saulat Mirza is away in Islamabad spinning his tales to the President, so that leaves your colleague Mushtaq Snake Eyes. Condemned men should normally be in the black cells, but in certain cases I am able to temper justice with mercy. When you speak to Mr Shafik, please confirm to him that Snake Eyes enjoys all the A-class privileges – his own room, bathroom, TV, fridge, superior food and personal cook.’
A hacking cough came from behind a door. Gul lowered his voice.
‘That is him. I need to mention something. We cannot shield death row prisoners from the stress of their situation. They wake each morning filled with fear, not knowing if the day will bring bad news. Some collapse under the strain. Saulat Mirza has been smoking a hundred cigarettes a day trying to stave off the noose. Your Snake Eyes spends sleepless nights. It can make them unpredictable, their behaviour unstable. And there are no psychologists in our jails; just the mullahs who lead the inmates in prayer and teach them the religious texts. You need to be prepared for what you are about to see.’
There was a growl from the door.
‘Who the hell are you talking to, Gul?’ The voice was harsh. ‘You are disturbing me, you bastard!’
Gul gave a nervous smile.
‘Snake Eyes-ji, you have visitors. Friends of Shafik sahib. Do you wish to receive them?’
There was silence, then a grunt.
‘Have you searched them?’
‘They are here at the wish of Shafik himself.’
‘So send them in. Make yourself scarce. Tell the boy to fetch us coffee.’
Gul and his assistant left us at the door of Snake Eyes’ cell.
‘Show your faces! I am a busy man!’
It sounded incongruous. With what did a condemned man fill his days? Imran went first.
‘Snake Eyes-ji, we have come with Shafik’s blessing. To talk to you . . .’
A bearded figure in a white cotton robe that looked freshly laundered was stretched on a daybed. He removed the earphones of a silver iPod from his ears.
‘Talk about what?’ The figure propped itself on an elbow, pulled out a mobile phone from beneath a pillow. ‘Give me your names then wait outside.’
In the white hall we exchanged whispers.
‘How does he have a mobile? Why are there no guards? Why are the officials so afraid of him?’
Snake Eyes finished his call and summoned us back.
‘Okay. Shafik wishes me to talk to you.’
I let Imran take the lead.
‘Snake Eyes-ji,’ he began respectfully. ‘Are they treating you well? Do you have what you need?’
‘I have what I need because we keep the bastards scared. They give me all this’ – he swept the room with his hand – ‘because we know where their families live.’
Imran smiled. ‘And the mobile phone? They don’t make problems?’
‘They don’t make problems because I need the phone for business. And the guards get a cut.’ His English was fluent, his tone extravagantly boastful. ‘They know the jobs we’re doing and they turn a blind eye. We send the C-class jailbirds on awaydays and they readmit them in the evening. The whole prison knows what heists and hits we have planned, but we are in jail so they can’t pin it on us. Last week we did a job in Quetta and the guys were back inside before anyone missed them. This week a bunch of new arrivals come in and they’ve been charged with our robbery!’
‘And how about the other prisoners? They maintain respect?’
‘There were some gangsters from Kala Pul who brought a four-wheel drive and gave it to the prison boss. They used to get allowed out to go and party. We had to bring them down a peg. And there are fights over who controls the amenities. Drugs, alcohol, women; you can get them all in here. They’re profitable things; the syndicates all want a stake.’
‘So who decides?’
‘Same as on the outside: the political parties. They provide protection and discipline. The MQM, the UF and the others all have their structures; the jail bosses negotiate with them. Each party has its own territory, its own kitchens and washrooms. And they’re ruthless about checking out new recruits because they’re scared of infiltrators and spies. We need to know who everyone is and who they work for. I’m talking to you because Shafik told me to, but you haven’t told me who you are or what your business is.’
I had expected the question.
‘Well, you know our names,’ I said. ‘And I’m sure Shafik has told you that I am writing about Pakistan. I need the sort of information only you and he can provide. I have promised that anything I write will be anonymised. I will disguise your identities and background, but Shafik wants to be a character in my book and you can be, too.’
I caught the look on Snake Eyes’ face that told me he was interested. I pressed ahead.
‘So tell me, should I use your alias or a fictionalised version of your real name? Snake Eyes, or Mushtaq Waraich?’
The man on the bed stroked his chin. The beard was the product of jail, but the fastidiously waxed moustache was part of the man.
‘Snake Eyes is fine.’
He wanted to be in the book; I had him.
‘So tell me how you came to work for Javed Shafik.’
Snake Eyes swung his feet down to the floor. Stiff from lying, he walked uneasily to the window and looked out.
‘I knew him in England. A long time ago. We both worked in the cotton mills, but Shafik was smart; he understood things that other people didn’t. Even then, back in the 1970s, he knew the English would never accept us. They hated us Pakistanis. Some of us tried being nice to them, tried to integrate and become British. But Shafik said there was no point. We got sworn at and spat on; some of us got smashed up by the bovver boys.’
He ran his finger over his ribs as if resurrecting the memory of a still hurtful injury.
‘It was a hard lesson, but it was liberating. Their brutality meant we could hate them. We didn’t owe them anything. We didn’t need to defer to the whites; we could exploit their weakness
es and take them for whatever we could get. And they had plenty of weaknesses. They had no moral code, no respect and no honour. They didn’t live by the values of religion. They were consumed by greed and sensual appetites. So Shafik gave them what they wanted. In the seventies it was booze and smuggled cigarettes. Then the English started wanting drugs, so he brought them opium from Afghanistan, hashish and heroin from Khyber Pakhtunkhwa trafficked through Karachi and Islamabad. There were plenty of mules ready to swallow a few condoms for a thousand rupees, but most of the time he just parcelled it up and sent it by airmail.
‘The trade grew so big that Shafik had to find new transport methods to meet the demand. And that’s when I got involved. He and I were travelling back and forth to Pakistan, negotiating with shipping companies to hide the drugs in their containers, stuffing the tyres of cars that were being transported to London or replacing baby powder with heroin. I’m not bigging myself up, but one of my ideas was the best – we got friendly with the funeral homes in Karachi and they used to tip us off whenever a British Pakistani had died and was being flown back to the UK. The amount of heroin you can get into a coffin – under the lining, in the corpse’s clothes or rammed into his body – is huge!’
Snake Eyes paused for effect. There was a recklessness in the man’s boasting that I found intimidating. When I asked if he was worried about the consequences, he laughed.
‘You mean you’re wondering why I’m telling you this? It’s because I’m proud of it. The English hate us, we make money out of them; it’s simple. Being in jail is just a holiday for me. I can take care of business from the comfort of my bed. No one can touch me because they’re shit scared of Shafik and the UF. And once things have calmed down I’ll be out of here. Shafik has got the party to guarantee it. He’s paid the right people the right money. That’s how it works.’
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