“As I told Mr. Shinde, my mission is very clear, no matter what means or methods I must use. A group of us in the ISI have decided to destroy Guldaar and those who support him. More than likely it will be impossible for me to go back to Pakistan, even if we succeed. Right now, nobody suspects what we are trying to do, but as you saw yesterday, Guldaar has people everywhere.”
Afridi finally lowered the pistol, though he kept his finger on the trigger.
“Either you’re very brave or very foolish,” Afridi said. “So, you want to work for us?”
“No, sir. I’m not a double agent. My loyalty is to Pakistan, not India. But I will work with you,” said Yaqub. “I believe in my country as strongly as you do in yours. Guldaar has helped turn Pakistan into a corrupt and violent state where nobody feels safe. Only a few of us believe that we can destroy this evil, the cynicism and fear that rots our nation to the core.”
Afridi recited in Urdu: “Once I had a two-edged sword. It turned into the chains that shackle me now.”
The line was from Mohammad Iqbal’s famous “Mu’tamid’s Lament in Prison.”
Yaqub replied with the concluding verse: “How whimsical and indifferent is the author of our fates.”
Afridi nodded in appreciation.
“Major Yaqub,” he said, “you weren’t by any chance at the Royal Bombay Yacht Club a week ago?”
The man in front of him no longer had the demeanor of a management specialist and now seemed capable of violence.
“Why do you ask?”
“A Bosnian arms broker was found dead in the lift.”
Major Yaqub showed no reaction but spoke in a quiet, controlled voice, “I was the one who cut his throat. He was too clever for his own good.”
Afridi nodded. “I thought as much.”
Thirty-Five
According to the GPS unit, the distance from Eggleston to JFK Airport was 548 miles. Approximate travel time worked out to eight hours and forty-five minutes. The route was relatively simple, 71 North toward Cleveland, then across to Akron on 76, joining up with Route 80 as soon as they crossed the state line, after which it was a straight shot across Pennsylvania to New York City. On the map display it looked straightforward.
Before packing her suitcase and leaving the guestroom, which took less than fifteen minutes, Anna sent Afridi a brief message through an encrypted email, explaining that she was helping Daphne leave the US. She also checked on the Air India flight they hoped to catch, nonstop from New York to Delhi. According to the airline’s website, plenty of seats were available. They would purchase their tickets immediately before check-in to avoid raising alarms. Anna had also switched on an emergency tracking device concealed in her backpack. Though she had her cell phone, she would use it only in an extreme emergency, for fear the Americans might be listening in. As an audio surveillance expert, Anna knew that the sole certain means of avoiding eavesdropping was not to have any conversations at all. She didn’t inform Shinde about what was going on because he would certainly disapprove. More important, if he was aware that Anna was assisting Daphne to escape, it would be difficult for him to deny any knowledge later on, should it become a diplomatic or political issue. In any case, Anna realized that her job was on the line.
As they drove away from the college campus, Daphne seemed more anxious than before, convinced that they were being followed. When they stopped to fill up gas at a Sunoco station, Anna offered to drive.
“Thank you,” said Daphne. “I’d feel a lot better if you did.”
The car was a 2006 Ford Taurus sedan with only 25,000 miles on it. Anna adjusted the seat and started off slowly, getting a feel for the car. She wasn’t used to driving an automatic or being on the right-hand side of the road. The Ford felt sluggish, though it had plenty of power. Two blocks from the gas station, she caught sight of a red pickup behind her. Guided by the GPS and Daphne’s instructions, they made their way out of town, along a two-lane road over rolling farmland. The interstate was eight miles on ahead.
Behind them, the red truck followed close enough for Anna to see two men in the cabin. She slowed down to five miles below the speed limit, but the distance between the two vehicles didn’t change. Nobody else was behind them, and only a couple of cars were coming from the opposite direction. As she crested a low hill, the road flattened out, and the double yellow lines down the middle gave way to a passing zone. Anna was relieved when she saw the truck move over into the left lane. As they went by, the men didn’t look at her, and she told herself it was all Daphne’s imagination. The truck continued to pick up speed until it was almost fifty yards ahead, when it suddenly braked. Anna could see the rear end of the pickup skidding sideways. She had just enough time to stamp on the brakes. The Taurus began to fishtail.
“Hold on,” Anna said.
The next thirty seconds went by in a blur, as if time had stretched like a rubber band and then snapped back upon itself. Both vehicles appeared to be out of control, but the driver of the truck knew what he was doing, spinning 360 degrees and then coming to a stop broadside, blocking the road. Anna wished she had a gearshift, which would have made things easier. Calculating the distance, she let the Taurus swing around, as if it were going to crash into the pickup. At the last moment, she accelerated out of the skid and was able to gain traction on the unpaved shoulder of the road, just missing the tailgate of the truck. Once she was past them, her right foot pressed the accelerator to the floor, and she could hear the tires screaming.
The men in the pickup hadn’t expected a trained driver, especially not one who had received a commendation for topping her class at the Israeli Defense Forces Training School in Haifa. They took another thirty seconds to get turned around. By then, Anna was almost a mile ahead. As soon as they passed over the next hill, she spotted a crossing in front of them.
“Do you know where that road goes?” Anna asked.
“No idea,” said Daphne.
The choice was to try to reach the interstate, where it would be harder for the pickup to stop them because there would be more traffic, or attempt to escape along country roads.
“Did you recognize either of those men?” Anna asked.
Daphne shook her head. “I hardly saw them.”
“Who do you think they work for?” said Anna. “Peregrine?”
“Probably,” said Daphne. “They have a whole security operation, with undercover agents guarding the plant.”
Letting her instincts guide her, Anna took a right turn at the intersection, ignoring the GPS. Ahead lay a patch of forest, which might have hidden them from view, but before they reached it, she saw the truck appear again and she knew they would spot the Taurus.
Less than a minute later, the road took a gradual turn to the left toward a bridge across a small river. Up ahead was a state park, with a sign for canoe rides and tubing. A dozen cars stood in the main parking lot. Farther on was a second lot with a picnic area. Anna pulled in behind a lilac hedge that was just coming into bloom. If they were lucky, the men in the pickup wouldn’t see them and drive on.
A few seconds later, she heard the roar of the pickup as it crossed the bridge. The vehicle seemed to slow down, but Anna didn’t have a clear view of the road. A minute went by and then another. Anna kept looking at her watch. If the pickup didn’t appear in three more minutes, they would get back on the road, reverse direction, and head for the interstate. She waited four minutes, just to be safe. Before starting the engine, Anna reached into her backpack and took out the Beretta, checking to make sure it was loaded.
Slowly, she pulled forward. A family was getting into a canoe on the river, the children wearing life vests. Another group was splashing about in the shallow water as they got ready to float downstream on inner tubes. There was no sign of the truck as Anna headed for the exit.
“Where are they?” Daphne asked.
“I think we’ve lost them,” Anna replied.
Seconds later, she heard an engine start, and the pickup pulled out f
rom behind a line of vending machines. It edged forward, parallel to them and fifty feet away. Anna stopped. For several moments, nothing seemed to move, except her right hand as she raised the pistol. Rolling down her window, she took aim and fired twice.
The sound of tires exploding was louder than the gunshots.
“Stay down,” Anna shouted, as she accelerated past the truck and headed out onto the road. The driver of the pickup tried to follow, but his vehicle lurched forward on flat tires.
“They’re tracking us. It could be this,” Anna said, reaching for the GPS unit and tossing it out of her window, as they hurtled along the country road, heading back the way they’d come, toward the interstate.
For a couple of miles nothing happened, and it seemed as if they were clear. The country roads and barns had a picturesque simplicity. Ahead of them, Anna saw an Amish horse and buggy, rolling along the road, as if it were a century ago. Without slowing down, she swung wide to pass the black carriage, which was driven by an elderly man with a white beard and in a black hat. He looked up at them with an indifferent expression, as if he had no interest in going faster than ten miles an hour. There was nothing for him to escape.
As soon as Anna moved back into her lane after passing the buggy, she was aware of a shadow on the fields to her left, keeping pace with the car. At first she didn’t know what it was, but then she understood. Lowering her window, she put her head out in the rush of air and glanced overhead. Silhouetted against the blue sky was a small surveillance drone, about the size of a skateboard with wings, flying directly above them.
Thirty-Six
The Urs of Kanra Pir drew pilgrims from across North India, most of whom prayed at his tomb for the restoration of injured limbs. Some had suffered strokes that paralyzed an arm or a leg, and others were victims of accidents, war wounds, or birth defects. Each of them harbored the fervent hope of becoming whole again. Islamic charities organized free kitchens, feeding the destitute in a park near the tomb, which attracted a number of street dwellers as well as the poorer pilgrims. A detachment of Delhi Police stood by as the line of supplicants queued up at the tomb to pray and light incense at the dargah, invoking the saint’s name and receiving his posthumous blessings. These celebrations went off peacefully, and the police blotter for the day recorded, “no untoward incidents.” Only a few local “mischief makers” were rounded up ahead of time to ensure that nothing got out of hand.
In the newspapers, however, there was a story about a narcotics raid at a guesthouse in Lajpat Nagar, where some of the pilgrims from Afghanistan were staying. Thirty-five kilos of high-grade heroin was seized from a gang of drug smugglers, three of whom were arrested. Street value of the heroin was estimated at 200 Crore rupees, approximately 50 million dollars. Photographs appeared in some of the papers, showing the narcotics team posing with plastic bags full of heroin and the artificial limbs in which they were hidden. Though it was the largest heroin haul in years, the story was pushed back to the inner pages of most of the papers, on account of the engagement of an industrialist’s daughter to an up-and-coming Bollywood hero, which captured front page headlines.
Afridi was relieved that the narcotics raid had gone smoothly and didn’t draw too much media attention. The gang members who had been arrested were minor figures, but the investors financing the smuggling would certainly feel the loss. Most important, from Afridi’s perspective, Guldaar’s key contacts were likely to react, and that would provide confirmation on his network in the capital. According to information he had gleaned from Jehangir Daruwalla, there were three key individuals who worked for Guldaar, and Afridi had them each put under surveillance. One was a retired brigadier who worked as a consultant for foreign arms companies. He was already under investigation by the CBI in a disproportionate assets case. The second was a real estate baron who had made a fortune buying agricultural land in Haryana, which was then converted to commercial use and sold at fifty times its original value. The third person was a well-known socialite in Delhi, cousin of a former chief minister from Rajasthan, who was often seen at polo matches and celebrity book launches. Afridi was curious to see how each of them reacted to the raid.
He didn’t have to wait long. By ten o’clock that morning, the supervisor of the surveillance team gave him a call. The brigadier and the socialite had arrived at the India International Centre within five minutes of each other. They were now having coffee in the main dining room on the first floor. Both appeared agitated, and their conversation seemed heated, though it was impossible to monitor what they said because of the noise level from surrounding tables.
Afridi could easily imagine the situation. Though a life member of the IIC, he found the place pretentious, full of garrulous intellectuals who seemed to have nothing better to do than sit around and discuss the collective woes of their country. He avoided the dining hall as much as possible because of the decibel level, though he occasionally attended talks at the center, most recently a lecture on the political situation in Arunachal Pradesh.
Ordering the team to maintain discreet surveillance, he told the supervisor to report back at 19:00 hours with an update. In the meantime, Afridi instructed his analysts at HRI to screen any cell-phone calls or SMS transmissions using discreet software that identified encrypted messages. The program ignored ordinary phone calls and text messages but would identify anything unusual that might contain a coded reference to the heroin seizure. On top of this, a high priority watch list was sent to every airport in the country with instructions to keep an eye out for specific individuals who might be trying to leave the country. The list had been compiled in consultation with two of Shinde’s analysts and Interpol’s narcotics specialists in Delhi. Though Afridi didn’t hold out much hope of catching anyone significant, it was necessary to cast the net as wide as possible.
Meanwhile, a handler had relayed a message from Major Yaqub that Guldaar was at his home in the Khyber Agency after arriving on a private flight from the Gulf. Yaqub probably realized that he needed to establish his credibility. Afridi remained distrustful of him, and he had put one of his analysts on the job of researching his career and compiling a dossier on his past. It turned out that he had passed out of the military academy in Abbottabad at the top of his batch and had been presented with a ceremonial saber. His father had been a paratrooper and rose to the rank of lieutenant colonel. The son had been expected to join the same regiment, but according to a classified report, there was a note in his file that indicated he was “too bright to jump out of airplanes” and had been picked as an ISI prospect. Yaqub impressed his superiors but exhibited an independent streak and had written a report that was critical of the Kargil debacle. This had not gone down well with the top brass, and he had been passed over for promotion, though he seemed to remain a loyal officer with a fierce commitment to his country.
According to his handler, Yaqub had rented a barsati apartment in Nizamuddin and continued to maintain his cover as a security analyst. As a further test of his integrity, Afridi had sent word to Yaqub that he wanted to confirm the identity of Guldaar’s associates in Delhi. Within six hours, he sent the names, which tallied with Jehangir Daruwalla’s information. After a phone call from Afridi to Shinde, the three of them were taken into custody. The brigadier was picked up from his office in Hauz Khaz, and the developer was arrested as he was trying to board a plane for Singapore. It took a little longer to locate the socialite, but she was eventually traced to a hotel suite in the Taj Mansingh, which she was sharing with a young polo player from the royal family of Jaisalmere. All three were placed under arrest at the safe house on Aurangzeb Lane, which served as a lockup whenever discreet detainments were required. It would take a few days for their lawyers to intervene. By then, Afridi suspected that they would agree to betray Guldaar in exchange for some level of immunity.
Thirty-Seven
Luke held the shotgun in his hands, admiring the ornate engraving and the blue luster of the steel barrels side by side, as well as
the subtle grain of the walnut stock. The trigger guard and safety catch were made with functional precision yet also reflected aesthetic design. The gun seemed more like a work of art than a lethal weapon.
The man who had handed him the shotgun held another, identical, weapon in his hands.
“Can you tell me which one is genuine?” Guldaar inquired, exchanging weapons with Luke, who weighed the second gun in his hands and pressed the lever to open the breach. The mechanism was smooth, and the catch released with a decisive click. Holding the barrels up to the sky, Luke could see two parallel tunnels of polished steel tapering toward the muzzle.
“One of these was made by James Purdey and Sons in 1912. The other is a copy produced last year, fifteen miles from here in Dara, by a local gunsmith named Abdul Haq. You’ve been to Dara, I’m sure?”
Luke nodded. He had passed through the village dozens of times on his way to Kohat and other tribal agencies to the south. In the mud huts nearby were crude workshops, where village gunsmiths produced everything from Uzis to RPGs. These homemade weapons were on sale at a roadside bazaar. Most customers lived in the tribal areas where the guns were legal. But the quality of the workmanship was far less refined than this shotgun, cheap knockoffs of AK-47s or Smith & Wesson .32s. The gun in his hands, and its perfectly matched pair, were clearly the handiwork of master artisans.
“I don’t know much about shotguns,” said Luke, “but they look identical.”
“Watch this,” said Guldaar, gesturing to one of his guards who had accompanied them to a low hill beyond the house, outside the limits of the garden. The guard loaded the gun and handed it to Guldaar who took his stance, then called out, “Khol!”
Where the hill fell away into a shallow depression stood a concrete structure, barely visible and well camouflaged in the dusty soil. From out of this bunker, a pair of chukar partridges erupted in a flurry of wings. With the shotgun wedged comfortably against his right shoulder, Guldaar fired twice, no more than a couple of seconds between each shot. Both birds fell to the ground in a spindrift of feathers.
The Dalliance of Leopards Page 18