by Mukul Deva
‘But what about the Indians? We must send out a strong message to them. The buggers shouldn’t get the feeling that they can get away with these James Bond stunts on our territory.’
‘There is nothing we can do overtly. We cannot even admit to those men having been killed on our territory. After all, the Indians have been asking for them to be extradited all these years and we have been denying they are in Pakistan.’
‘That’s true.’
The security chief was glad to have something other than matters pertaining to security being talked about. ‘The damn Indians even handed over a list and dossiers of the infamous twenty to us the day before…Interpol alerts and all.’
‘What are the other options?’ The General looked pointedly at the ISI Director.
Surprisingly, the security chief spoke before anyone else could: ‘To begin with we should lodge a protest over the intrusion of our air space by the Indian Air Force. We know for a fact that they have used a UAV at Mari. Otherwise there is no way those missiles could have taken out the house at Mari. We have recovered enough from the debris to establish that.’
‘The missiles were Indian?’
‘No.’ The security chief squirmed uncomfortably again. ‘They were American, but they had been modified. That’s for sure.’
‘American missiles! You think they are helping them?’
‘Not necessarily. You know the Americans. Those pimps will sell weapons to anyone who has money. In any case, there are a million ways to buy those things with no one being any wiser.’
‘Who cares?’ General Haque, the ISI Director, butted in. ‘It is not as if we have to prove anything in court. You go ahead and make the right diplomatic noises. I’ll give the Indians something to think about.’
The Pakistanis lodged a strong protest with the Indian Government the next morning. A press conference was called and Indian involvement in terrorist activities in Pakistan was spoken about at great length.
‘You’re being ridiculous. Please don’t make baseless allegations,’ a calm and polite Indian spokes-woman told the surprised Pakistanis as the Indians took a leaf out of the ISI’s own book. ‘We would be more than happy to bring to justice any person or persons involved in any criminal acts in Pakistan. Just let us have the proof, please. Meanwhile,’ she added, ‘would you please hand over the twenty terrorists being harboured by Pakistan so that we can try them here in India? You may also like to hand over Brigadier Murad Salim, Maulana Fazlur Rehman and the others who were involved in the Delhi bombings. They are criminals and must be tried as such.’
‘What nonsense! You Indians blame us even if bird flu strikes your country. Do you have any proof to support what you are alleging?’
‘Actually, we do. Switch on your televisions a couple of hours from now and you will get to see most of it.’
Sure enough, a few hours later, the Indian Government aired telecasts of the captured terrorists over all major television channels and invited the FBI and MI5 to be a part of the interrogation of these men. Finding no other option available, Pakistan fell back on its time-tested pattern of brazen denials and blatant lies, with the rabid General making some really asinine threats.
‘We have no recourse now,’ the Indian PM told the press conference that had been convened to address these threats. ‘The community of nations must realize that our neighbours leave us with no choice; we have to defend ourselves.’
The Pakistani dictator was a little taken aback when the Indians responded by mobilizing their army along the entire border and line of control. Both the Indian Naval battle groups along with the newly-inducted aircraft carriers set sail to take up position on the approach to Karachi. Tension in the region ratcheted up considerably.
A whole platoon of spy satellites and HUMINT sources from all over the globe watched as a storm of activity erupted in Indian Army cantonments all over the country. A dozen different types of camouflaged battle dresses replaced the staid olive green peacetime Army uniforms. Long convoys of fighting and troop-carrying vehicles began to stream out of the cantonments as they headed for their designated operational posts.
Pointing at the two thick black lines on the White House crisis room board the intelligence man briefing the US President said, ‘These photos are in real-time, sir. You are seeing things as they happen. That is the Indian strike corps moving out of their peacetime locations.’
‘How long before they get operational?’ the President asked.
‘Barring the forces based in South India the others are garrisoned almost on the borders. So I would say not more than a few hours, Mr President. They are already on high alert and all defensive formations are already in their positions.’
‘Shit!’ said the President, a man not famous for his erudition or keen intellect. ‘We need to talk to the Indians and cool them down.’
‘They are not in the mood to talk, Mr President,’ the Secretary of State intervened. ‘They want blood.’
‘Tell the Indians to cool off, we have troops in that area hunting down the terrorists.’
‘We did. They asked us to pull them out for the time being so that they could also sort out some terrorists.’
‘How the hell can we do that? Don’t they know we stand on the threshold of elections? We can’t be seen to be weak; not at this time.’A longer and more thoughtful pause invaded the room. ‘Tell them the nuke deal is at stake.’
‘We did that too.’
‘And?’
‘They listened to us politely.’
‘Paradigms are shifting, sir,’ the Secretary of State cut in again. ‘The Indians know they are sitting on one of the fastest growing economies of the world. They know we need access to their markets. Worse, neither Russia nor China want us hanging around in their parts of the world. These three countries together have more clout than we can…’ his voice trailed away. These were areas where few of them dared to tread.
The Pakistani Armed Forces responded by also mobilizing to their operational locations. The mobilization was a hugely expensive exercise for both nations. It was definitely not one that the Pakistani economy was in a position to withstand. For a nation already on the brink of a teetering economy the effects were immediate and devastating. The Indian economy was far better poised to take the hit.
‘Let us maintain the Army on the borders for a month or so, sir.’ The Indian PM was advised. ‘It is going to cost us a bomb but the economic shock will literally smother those buggers across the border. Let the bastards bleed.’
The Indian PM was an ardent economics man himself; he loved the idea. It was a simple strategy that allowed them to maintain the moral high ground while simultaneously inflicting a crippling blow on the enemy.
‘Isn’t that what Sun Tzu would have advocated? The primary aim of a war after all is to degrade the enemy’s will and ability to fight.’
What could be better than starving them to death?
‘Let us do it,’ he ordered.
The don’t-mess-with-us message was driven home when the PM again addressed the nation the next morning:
‘Brothers and Sisters, I would like to assure you that the Indian Armed Forces stand ready not just to protect, but also to take the battle deep into the enemy heartland should the need arise. India will no longer take such acts of terrorism and war lying down.’ His tone was strong and firm. ‘Let me also state unequivocally that although India will stand by its doctrine of no-first-use, there will be no hesitation on our part to retaliate with nuclear weapons in case of any nuclear threat against the motherland.’
His words sent cold shivers down the spines of the world. It was the first time that an Indian head of state had made so direct or potent a threat. Indeed, paradigms had altered.
As hours turned into days the Indian Armed Forces continued a hard offensive stance all along the borders with Pakistan. Aggressive patrols on ground and continuous sorties by the Indian Air Force and the Indian Navy became a matter of routine.
Rh
etoric mounted at a dizzying pace. So did the cost and the tension, not just on both sides of the border, but in state capitals all over the world. The horror of a nuclear holocaust was something the world was not even ready to contemplate. Trigger-happy Pakistan was not a nation known for being reasonable or mature enough to handle nukes. They inspired little confidence in other nations. A posse of politicians from all over the globe began to exert whatever pull or push they could on the Pakistani dictator. Some heads had to roll. Some did.
1000 hours, 04 November, 2005, Office of the Director, ISI, Islamabad, Pakistan.
The Director of the ISI, General Haque, put down the phone. The expression on his face was grim. He sat for a long time and mulled over what the General had told him to do. It is not fair! Salim has given most of his life to us, to the cause. Just because he made a mistake and got caught doesn’t mean we lynch him.
Abruptly, he made up his mind and leaning forward picked up the phone; but this time he chose the small satellite phone lying on the table before him and he dialled the number of another satellite phone. ‘Listen, very carefully,’ the Director said. ‘Things have gone very wrong. I just got off the phone with the big man. The writing on the wall is clear; you are going to be left holding the baby.’
There was a short angry outburst from the other side.
‘No!’ the Director cut in vehemently. ‘Not right now. This is not the time…we are not ready yet. I will be the first one to tell you when we are ready, and it will not be long now. We will strike before that man drives our country into the ground.’ The Director’s tone was harsh. ‘The man is definitely losing it. Can you imagine he is releasing his memoirs? The stupid jerk is actually going to talk about things that…’
Another angry outburst erupted from the phone. The Director winced and delicately held the phone away from his ear.
When he spoke again his tone was still soft but the steel of command was unmistakable. ‘Yes, I know. I have had the pleasure of reading the draft.’ The ISI Director’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. He forced himself to speak patiently. ‘Salim, you have to trust me. I know that in your line of work trust does not come easily, but this time you will have to trust me. I promise you, we will strike, but at the time and place of our choice. We will strike when we are ready; when they least expect us. But for now it is time for you to do an Osama – drop out of sight and lie low for some time.’
He spoke softly for another minute before he disconnected the call. Then returning the satellite phone to a drawer in the table he picked up the intercom and called in his aide.
‘Call up Brigadier Salim and tell him to come down to meet me. Tell him a chopper is on the way to Lahore. Then ask Ali to send him a bird immediately.’
Thirty minutes later, the helicopter was on its way to Lahore.
A black, unmarked car with dark film on the windows waited at the small helipad on the fringes of Lahore. As the chopper’s rotors slowed down a short stocky man got out of the car and walked briskly into the chopper. Right behind him was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his early thirties who walked with a marked military gait.
A man standing on the roof of the tall building watched the helicopter diminish in the distance through the powerful binoculars in his hands. He saw the yellow fiery trail rise up from the ground and snake its way up towards the helicopter. From a distance it looked like a firework rocket. Suddenly a ball of fire ballooned around the space that had been occupied by the chopper. It was too far away for the man to be able to hear the sound, but he could almost feel the blast of the Stinger missile as it decimated the chopper. For a very brief moment a blackish cloud of debris hung in the air then it too disappeared. A moment later the man turned and headed for the elevator that would take him down to the waiting car. He had an odd expression on his face.
Brigadier Murad Salim of the ISI had just watched himself die in the chopper that had gone down in flames. He could visualize the headlines in tomorrow’s newspapers. As far as the world was concerned Brigadier Murad Salim and his aide Captain Azam Cheema had ceased to exist.
The driver started the engine as soon as Salim emerged from the building. The car headed out for the town of Faislabad to the plush, well-appointed house on the outskirts that awaited Salim.
‘How did it go, sir?’ Without turning back or taking his attention off the road Captain Azam Cheema asked from the driver’s seat.
‘Well! It went well.’
‘Bit of a pity about Rashid though. The other man was new, but Rashid was a good chap,’ Cheema said.
‘The casualties of war, Cheema, just the casualties of war. Happens every time.’ Salim paused. ‘Their sacrifice will not go waste. Remember to send some money to their families.’ With that the Brigadier ticked off another task performed in his metal checklist and returned to his reminiscing; about the days gone by and those that lay ahead. General Haque is right. I’m going to lie low for some time and then decide what to do. He was not too worried about the future. With the kind of money and resources available to him there was no dearth of options as far as he was concerned. Brigadier Murad Salim knew that no matter what happened or where he went to live his work was not over. The kafir must be made to pay.
The supposedly dead man closed his eyes and leaned back against the soft cushions of the car.
IQBAL
Sliding inside like a wraith, Iqbal slowly pulled the door shut behind him and stood stock-still. He waited patiently as his eyes adjusted to the deeper darkness within. Except for a faint sliver of moonlight that lacerated the bed it was pitch dark. The fire in the angeethi had deadened to a dull glow. It gave a faint light.
Iqbal saw a figure asleep on the narrow wooden cot towards the rear of the hut, the image of him sharpening as Iqbal’s eyes adjusted to the dark. Fazlur Rehman lay on his side with his face towards the wall. Iqbal waited for another few moments. Till such time that the placement of the furniture inside the hut was firmly embedded in his mind. Finally, moving forward stealthily till he was crouching beside the sleeping man, he raised his rifle and brought the butt down hard on his head. The crack of the rifle striking hard bone reverberated through the silent hut. Iqbal was sure it must have been heard outside. He froze with his head cocked to one side, listening for the sound of movement. There was none. The man jerked spasmodically before his body went limp.
Leaning the rifle against the wall Iqbal pulled out the length of rope and tape he was carrying. Trussing up the unconscious man’s hands tightly behind him, Iqbal tied his legs together and secured them to the wooden cot. Then he yanked off one of the thick woollen socks the man was wearing and stuffed it into his mouth before taping it tightly shut. Iqbal wrapped the tape around Rehman’s head a couple of times to make sure he would not be able to free his mouth no matter how hard he struggled when he regained consciousness.
When he was finally satisfied with his efforts Iqbal returned to the door and opening it a crack, scoped out things carefully. He was about to pull the door shut when he heard the rustle of movement outside. He froze as the sound continued, faint but persistent. Then he threw a glance at his watch. Two o’clock. It must be the shift changing.
Iqbal stood near the slightly open door. Almost twenty minutes lapsed as he let the new sentries settle down to the tedium of the night. He would have waited a few more minutes, but just then there was a faint moan behind him. Iqbal realized the man on the bed was regaining consciousness.
Quietly pulling the door shut, Iqbal moved across the hut. The time to kill was upon him now. The man he had travelled so far for lay helplessly before him.
Maulana Fazlur Rehman was a proud man. He had walked hard and relentlessly on the path that he knew Allah had wanted him to tread.
Rehman had built up the jihadi outfit almost single-handedly. There had been substantial help from the ISI of course, but the Maulana was loath to acknowledge it. He never denigrated the ISI and was very careful in the way he responded and interacted with it, but in his heart of hea
rts he hated the slimy, drug-dealing, self-centred ISI bastards. He knew they had their own secret agenda, but Rehman did not care. ‘As long as they serve the purpose we will use them,’ he would tell his cronies. ‘The jihad must go on.’
His jihadis had been responsible for sending many a kafir to the hell that they rightly deserved. Of course, in the wake of the American interference he had been forced by the treacherous, two-faced General to change the name of his organization. He had even lost a lot of money when those white-skinned bastards froze the bank accounts of his organization. Inshahallah. So be it. The Maulana had accepted all this as the will of Allah as yet another test that he had to suffer and survive. And survive he had. So far.
The cold shock of the rifle butt that had slammed into his head had befuddled Rehman. The pain in his head made him want to scream, but he was not able to open his mouth. He wanted to press down on his throbbing temple and still the pain, but he was unable to move his hands. The shock and confusion deepened when he realized that he was unable to move his legs either. And whatever was stuck in his mouth not only prevented him from shouting it cut off his breathing too. Then a hand clamped down on his throat. A moment later, a man’s face came out of the darkness and stopped a few inches away from his. The dim light in the hut was enough for the Maulana to recognize Iqbal.
Iqbal scrutinized him carefully for a very long time. It seemed as though he wanted to absorb every fleeting expression on the Maulana’s face. Bewilderment seemed to be paramount. The fucker is not afraid. He will be though. Soon.
Then Iqbal began to talk. Speaking in a flat staccato Iqbal told the bound and gagged man his story. It took all of five minutes. It did not move the Maulana. There was a long pause as Iqbal again studied the face before him. Still no fear, no remorse. ‘Have you understood anything that I have said?’ Iqbal asked him.
Rehman inclined his head.
‘Good. Then you will have no difficulty in understanding why I am going to kill you.’ Even now there was no heat or high decibel energy in the hut. Iqbal held the knife in the air, close to the man’s face.