Constantine was totally taken aback. He realized when Colonel Tarkeen had called him last night that whatever task this was was something big, but he did not realize the enormity of it till this moment. It was true that the Agencies kept talking to various prisoners in the jail, but they had never asked for custody of a prisoner. To take him out without any court order, no paperwork? And for interrogation? He understood very well what an “interrogation” entailed. But who was responsible if something happened to the prisoner? This bloody two-bit major was ordering these things as if he was the ultimate authority in these matters. But Constantine’s biggest shock was the identity of the prisoner. It was him. After all this time, they were still after him.
It took all of Constantine’s experience and training to not register the shock on his face. “Are you aware, sir, that the prisoner you refer to is still a serving police officer?”
“Yes, DSP D’Souza, I am aware of that. So what? He is not above us. We are from the Agencies. We can interrogate whomever we like.”
Constantine looked up at the major’s aide and gestured towards the door. “Excuse us for a minute, please.” The aide scowled at Constantine and refused to leave. The major made no attempt to intervene.
Very well, if that’s the way you want to play it, you pompous son of a bitch, thought Constantine. “Well sir, I will certainly try and assist you, but I’m afraid everything that you have asked for is not possible.” Constantine’s voice took on its most dispassionate, bureaucratic tone as he started listing his objections. “First, sir, it is against the prison rules to physically remove the prisoner from the jail premises without a court order. If any questions are to be asked, they must be done on the premises. Second, the prisoner’s cooperation during any questioning while serving in prison is entirely voluntary. We cannot interrogate him like we do in a police station, nor can you force him to assist you. The fact that he is classified as an A-class prisoner and is a serving police officer makes the issue of forcing his cooperation even more difficult. And third, sir, I cannot permit you or your associate to interview the prisoner alone. The presence of a member of the jail staff is compulsory. Since I understand the sensitivity of your enquiries, I will personally be present.” The last condition was not, strictly speaking, necessary, but Constantine had decided that the major would have to deal with him if he wanted any cooperation. Besides that, his curiosity was piqued about what they wanted out of Akbar Khan.
Constantine expected that the major’s reaction would be apoplectic, seeing how he had flatly refused the major in front of his snotty assistant. The thought brought a thin smile of satisfaction to his face, as he sat back and waited for the inevitable.
The major finally dismissed his aide with an embarrassed nod of the head, before turning to address Constantine. “Look here, you bloody civilian, who do you think you’re dealing with? I’m not some village idiot off the street. I know exactly what’s going on here. All of you bloody police people are corrupt!” An accusing finger stabbed the air as his face flushed crimson. “Let me tell you, if I don’t get some cooperation from you, I will call Colonel Saleem in the Accountability Bureau to investigate you. I have heard all the stories about corruption in the jail. Taking money from people just to have their home-cooked food delivered to them, or for them to have an extra five-minute meeting with their families. I’m sure the Accountability chaps will be interested in knowing how you can afford to wear that expensive Rolex wristwatch on your government salary.”
The thin smile remained fixed on Constantine’s face. He waited for a moment before responding, noticing the major’s smug grin. “It’s not a Rolex, it’s a Tissot, and as for where it came from, why don’t you ask General Ibadat’s wife, who considers me like a son and gave it to me as a present.” That wiped the grin off the major’s face. “I’m afraid you’re missing the point here, Major. If you have an issue with my integrity, please feel free to take it up with Colonel Tarkeen.” Yes, after all the “favors” he had done for Tarkeen over the years, that would be an interesting discussion. “But the problem over here isn’t corruption. I am willing to assist you, but within reason. I cannot change the prison rules for you. If you feel you don’t have the experience to deal with this problem, please contact Colonel Tarkeen for guidance. In fact, I’ll call him myself.”
As he spoke, Constantine grabbed his mobile phone off the table and started punching in the digits. He observed with some satisfaction that the major was speechless. Snotty little shit. What did he think—that he was the first self-important young major that he had dealt with? Or was he still naïve enough to think that only cops were on the take?
He got through to Colonel Tarkeen and explained the situation to him. After a brief pause, he handed the phone to the major. “The colonel wants to have a word with you.” Constantine was now positively enjoying the major’s uncomfortable expression.
“Sir!” The major came to attention in his chair. For the next three minutes, Constantine listened in on a pretty one-sided conversation which consisted of plenty of notes of “Sir” and “Yes, sir” on the part of the major. At the end of it, he silently handed the phone back.
“He’s new and doesn’t understand how things work. Help him, Constantine. Do it your way, but I need you to help us out. It’s very important. Rommel will explain everything to you.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll try my best.”
There was an uncomfortable silence after the phone went dead. Constantine was impassive, while the major seemed to be composing himself.
“Well, Major sahib?”
The major exhaled. “As you probably know, seven days ago, an American journalist was kidnapped. His name was Jon Friedland. He was a reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle. The media have been covering nothing else.” Indeed, as Constantine glanced at the morning’s newspaper that had been lying on his desk, it was all about the kidnapping. The independent media channels had been running special broadcasts dedicated to just this event. “Two days after his abduction, a group calling itself Lashkar-e-Jihad Waziristan posted a picture of him on the Internet. They said he was a Jew. They made no demands but claimed that they would make a horrible example of him, in retribution for the government operation in the tribal areas.” He hesitated. “And they have said that they would do it on 25th December.”
“Christmas.”
“Yes. There have been no further communiqués from the group since then. So far the police have had no breakthrough in the investigation, and we, or our sister agencies, have also not been able to turn up anything. We have been looking at all the regular channels, but Colonel Tarkeen thought that we should also look at some unorthodox methods. He suggested the name of Akbar Khan. I don’t know much about his past, but apparently his information sources in the city were unrivalled, before he got himself in trouble over some murder. We have to try everything. Right now we’re not even sure if the American is still being held in Karachi or whether he’s been transported somewhere else. To be honest, other than their word, we can’t even confirm if he’s still alive or not. I’m sure you realize the international significance of this kidnapping, on top of the insurgency in the tribal areas and the proposed visit of the American president. The image of the country is at stake. And of course, the deadline of 25th December means we have very little time to work. And we have to keep it completely confidential. Do you understand now? Can you help?”
“Yes sir, I do understand. And of course I will help. We can go see Akbar immediately. But sir, to be honest, I don’t think he can be of much help.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well sir, Akbar has been here for two years now. At the time of his arrest he was heading a special task force fighting organized crime. He was arrested, along with his entire team, for killing a suspect in a fake police encounter. At first he tried very hard to secure his release, hiring the best lawyers, trying to talk to all the high-ups of the police and the Agencies. But everyone abandoned him. After one year in
jail, his fellow team members all but gave up on trying to secure a joint release. Some of them changed their statements, distanced themselves, and asked for deals. He didn’t. But he didn’t stop any of the others either. The end result was that they all got out, one by one, and he was left alone, burdened with the entire responsibility for the case. It was almost as if he didn’t care anymore. He had been a powerful and influential police officer, but when the world forgot him, he forgot the world. The last of his colleagues got out about a year ago. Since then he stopped pursuing the case, stopped meeting his lawyers, even sent his family to his village. Broke off all contact with his team members or any police officers, for that matter. The case continues in the courts but with no one really following it up, and the courts being as slow and overworked as they are, it’ll probably continue for years to come.”
“He meets with no one?”
“For the past six months, the only visitors that he has met with are the tableeghis. They are a religious social organization who keep sending their maulvis into the prison to teach some of the inmates to read the Quran. He meets with them regularly and spends the whole day praying and reciting the Quran. But he takes interest in nothing else. Usually, A-class prisoners have access to outside material such as newspapers and books, but he hasn’t asked for anything in six months. So you see, sir, that’s why I doubt whether he may be of any use. He probably doesn’t even know that an American has been kidnapped.”
The major pondered this for a moment. Then he shrugged. “Well, Colonel Tarkeen seems to think he could be helpful, so even if nothing comes out of it, I am here already and should give it a try.”
“Well, in that case, sir, let’s go meet him.”
2
Day 1, around 8:00 a.m.
They exited the office into the passageway. The major’s aide stood sulking in a corner. The major told him to go stand outside by the car. Both men left their mobile phones with the warden at the gate and turned towards the second black gate that led to the prison courtyard. In front of them was a brightly painted wall, its cheeriness in complete contrast to the general air of despondency of the place. Behind the wall, in the main jail kitchen, some prisoners were cleaning up after breakfast. The giant vats in which breakfast had been made were being washed so that they could be reused for lunch. Another group of prisoners was busy painting plant pots. The convicts worked silently and no one looked up at the two men, but Constantine could feel that everyone was watching them. There were no wardens around. The major seemed surprised and looked questioningly at Constantine.
“Not what you expected, is it, sir? No rows of cells like in Hollywood movies. No one in handcuffs or chains.”
“No wardens either. What do you do if something happens?”
“Yes, we are extremely short-staffed. But the jail has its own system of discipline, so the wardens don’t usually have to intervene. Most of these men are harmless. Just look at their eyes. There is nothing there but hopelessness.”
They turned right from the kitchen and started walking along the prison wall. In the distance they saw a solitary barrack with an air-conditioning unit protruding out of it. It had a neat walking track constructed around it, and there were fresh flower beds that had recently been planted outside it. Constantine pointed out the building to the major.
“That is Akbar’s barrack. It is the only A-class barrack, and he is the only A-class prisoner that we have. They were originally set up for the husband of the ex–prime minister. He had the walking track laid, and installed the air conditioners. The rule that we have here is that any improvements that a prisoner makes to the jail are gifted to the prison after the prisoner leaves. But after he was released, the jail never received another A-class prisoner till Akbar came.”
“Why was Akbar classified as A-class?”
“Quite frankly, that was the only thing that they could classify him as. The jail had never had a prisoner like him. They couldn’t put him with anybody else. First, since he is a senior police officer, of course, but more importantly, because he had so many enemies there would have been a serious threat to his life. He had put away hundreds of the inmates. United Front activists, kidnappers, drug lords. They had to isolate him. If the others got half a chance, they’d have tried to kill him. Anyway, he prefers to be on his own.”
“So none of the other inmates have any access to him? They can’t approach him anywhere?”
“No. The area around that barrack is off-limits to everyone. None of the other prisoners are allowed to even wander nearby. One of the regular C-class prisoners attends to him, cleans up the barrack, plants the flowers, and brings him his food. He doesn’t even come out that much. Occasionally you see him walking on the track in the evenings. The tableeghis are the only ones who go to that barrack, and with whom he meets. They are simple souls—just interested in promoting the reading of the Quran, handing out free religious texts and exhorting all the inmates to lead better lives. They do their rounds of the jail nearly every day, trying to win over some of the poor souls.”
“Do they get a lot of converts?”
“Some. They have certainly succeeded with him.”
They were now outside the door to the barrack. The prisoner who had been tending to the flower beds greeted them silently and held open the door for them. Inside, the barrack was a revelation. The room was long and rectangular in shape. The walls were bare and painted spotlessly white. The floor tiles were also a glistening white color. The room had a faint antiseptic odor, like a hospital room. Immediately to the left of the door, in a corner, lay some unused exercise equipment, treadmills and some weights, left over by the previous occupant. In the far right corner of the room was a large wardrobe. In the center of the room was a big mattress with a red blanket. It was the only item of color in the otherwise sterile room. There were three low wooden stools facing the mattress. On one of them, with his back towards the door, a man sat hunched over, reciting from a copy of the Quran. He was dressed in a crumpled white cotton shalwar-kameez. He wore a white skullcap, and long, salt-and-pepper shoulder-length locks flowed from under the cap. The man had a shaggy, unkempt beard which had turned prematurely white. He looked as if he had lost a lot of weight, but his sinewy muscles remained taut under the fabric of his clothes. Although he was only middle-aged, his gaunt appearance made him look much older than he was.
The manservant who had ushered them in approached the seated man and whispered in his ear as Constantine and the major stood by the door. The man made no sign of acknowledgement and continued his recitation. The two officers shuffled uncomfortably, not knowing what to do next. Both of the room’s split air-conditioning units were working at full blast, so the room was freezing cold. Constantine cleared his throat loudly a couple of times to catch the prisoner’s attention, but it was a full five minutes till the man finished his recitation and turned to them. He beckoned them towards the empty stools and nodded his head in recognition to Constantine.
“Aur Consendine, how are you keeping these days?” His voice was raspy, as if rusty from lack of use.
“How are you, Akbar? You’ve become very fit, eh? On some new magic diet, are you?”
“Heh heh. Jail is the magic diet. Try it, and you’ll also lose that belly of yours.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Constantine took one of the stools and beckoned the major to sit on the other. He was nervous, not sure how to begin, so he cleared his throat. “Do you have any problems in the jail that I can help you with?”
“Arre, Consendine, you and I know this isn’t a social call. The real question is, how can I help you?” Akbar turned to the major. “Kyun, Major sahib, looks like you’ve lost your American songbird?” He cackled again, revealing a set of blackened, broken teeth.
Constantine raised his brow in surprise. The major, totally stunned, sputtered. “How the hell did you know my rank?”
“Relax, Major sahib. You are too young to be a colonel, and too old to be a mere captain. From the
looks of you, you too have had some rough lovers, like me.” He pushed his hair aside from the right side of his neck to reveal a nasty scar that had been caused by a jagged piece of metal.
For the second time that day, the major had to take a moment to compose himself. He took out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to Akbar.
Akbar stared at the cigarette for a moment before taking it. “Heh. I haven’t smoked one of these in six months.” The major lit it for him, and he took a deep and appreciative puff.
“Well, uh, Akbar, I am here on behalf of Colonel Tarkeen to ask for your help in a matter of national emergency. You are correct in assuming that my query does concern the recent kidnapping of the American journalist. Any information that you may have, any way that you think you can help us, would be appreciated and the assistance that you provide will of course be looked upon favorably in any court proceeding.”
Akbar seemed to reflect on the major’s words. Then he smiled. “I’ll say this for you, Major sahib, at least you’re polite, compared to some of the other bastards in your department. No, thank you. I don’t wish to help you.”
“What do you mean you don’t wish to help us? It’s not a matter of wishing. If you have any information about this matter, you cannot withhold it. It’s a matter of supreme national importance! The nation’s honor is at stake!” The major’s voice rose as his self-righteous indignation came to the surface.
“Fuck the nation’s honor.” The words were spoken softly but with such viciousness that the major looked as if he had been physically struck. Constantine’s body tensed, preparing to step in to tackle in case either of the men became physical.
The Prisoner Page 2