And so he waited impatiently for Constantine to arrive. He wanted to find out why the major had met with Akbar, and he wanted to nip any prospects of Akbar’s resurrection in the bud. Constantine was in a position to help him with this task. Constantine had served under him for a while, in his Special Investigation Cell. The Cell had some of the best officers in the Karachi Police. It was a good place to work because it gave the officers the opportunity to work independently, unhindered by the daily problems and issues of a typical police station. Here they could go after the big criminals, who were also always the most lucrative ones to catch. Not only did these criminals have large bounties affixed on them, but, when caught, they were more than willing to pay the officers handsomely for “softening” the charges against them. Naturally, with so much money to be made, the Cell presented a highly competitive environment. But even there, Constantine had stood out because of his impeccable professionalism. In fact, Constantine had been working there under Mahr’s supervision when he had traced out the case of the murdered Shi’a doctors a few years ago. That had been the most important case for the police at the time. Maqsood Mahr knew and liked Constantine. But he also knew that the Christian was always vulnerable. He had no heavyweight political connections, so he could easily be browbeaten into doing Maqsood’s bidding. Constantine had left the prison immediately after his phone call. The warden on his payroll had confirmed that. That was a good sign. It showed that Constantine didn’t want to run the risk of pissing him off.
He coughed as he lit yet another cigarette. The room smelt of stale smoke, and the ashtray on his desk was overflowing with stubs. As the minutes ticked by, Maqsood’s anxiety was getting the better of him. Just when he thought he couldn’t wait any longer, his assistant announced Constantine’s arrival. Maqsood brusquely ordered him to be sent in, and as Constantine came in, Maqsood waved away his salute and offered him a seat.
“Arre, baba Consendine, come, come sit. So now you’re conspiring with the Bleak House boys to screw me over?” Mahr’s tone was sharp.
One thing you could always say about Maqsood Mahr—he never wasted time in getting to the point. His directness was deliberate, to throw people off, and it succeeded with Constantine. “Sir? Sir, I have done no such thing. You can ask anyone at the prison. If they come and ask to see a prisoner, I can’t stop them. These are the Agencies after all, sir. But I didn’t say anything against you. Please talk to Colonel Tarkeen to verify what I am saying, sir.” A bead of sweat dripped from Constantine’s brow.
Maqsood Mahr chuckled. “I know, Consendine, I know. I know you wouldn’t dare do such a thing. Why would you, anyway? You owe me so much. After all, I got you your last promotion in the Shi’a doctors’ case. I know you won’t be that ungrateful. But what did they want with him?”
Mahr smiled inwardly while Constantine tried to compose himself. His deliberate mention of the debt Constantine owed him for his promotion had achieved its purpose of reminding the Christian of his place in the world, should he have any delusions. It was inconsequential to Mahr that the detection of the Shi’a case at the time had saved his own neck too. Or that Constantine still had to pay him an arm and a leg just to get him to sign the promotion citation.
“They asked him if he had any information about the American journalist’s kidnapping. He didn’t, sir.”
Maqsood Mahr’s beady black eyes stared intently at Constantine as if trying to look into his soul. His brow furrowed as he debated whether Constantine was lying to him. It was a police officer’s look, trying to decipher whether a suspect was guilty or not. “Do you think he may have information?”
“No, sir. He has isolated himself for the past six months, sir. He has no knowledge of the world. He doesn’t even get newspapers anymore. He has committed himself to praying for betterment in the afterlife.”
“Why did they think he might have known something?”
“They must be pretty desperate, sir, to get a breakthrough. You can just imagine, for Colonel Tarkeen to have sent the major to see Akbar. They are chasing all possible sources, even long shots.” Constantine paused before going on. “They don’t seem to be satisfied with the police investigation.”
Mahr exhaled sharply and reached for another cigarette, apparently satisfied that Constantine was telling the truth. “Bastards.” He lit the cigarette and took a puff. His earlier brash, bullying tone was replaced by an unsure whine. “What the hell do they expect me to do? I am doing all I can! What do they think—that I can just pluck him from the stars and he’ll be here tomorrow?”
“Who is out to get you, sir?”
“All of them! Everyone! The IG, whose household expenses come out of my pocket, doesn’t talk to me with a straight face anymore! My own boss, Hanuman, is increasingly sarcastic with me! All the bosses sit around in the air-conditioned conference room at the head office, sipping tea and criticizing me. And Tarkeen? I start my day by doing a round of their offices, asking if they need anything. My investigation in-charge at Preedy Station has standing orders to provide them with ten new mobile phones and SIMs from the electronics market every day! But it’s never enough. When it comes to this case, no one wants to listen to my problems. They have all made me personally responsible for whatever happens to this American! The way all of them have ganged up against me, you’d think I had fornicated with their mothers!”
In his animated state, Mahr knocked over his stuffed ashtray. He rang a bell and asked his orderly to clean up and bring them some tea. He welcomed Constantine’s presence as an opportunity to vent his own frustration.
“If you don’t mind my asking, sir, what is the problem in the case? I haven’t really been following it in the press. What exactly happened?”
“Arre, baba, this American was a journalist for some newspaper—the San Francisco Chronicle, I think. He had been up north, in Islamabad for a while, and then in the tribal areas, covering the fighting over there. He came here alone, just two days before the kidnapping. No one even knew he was in the city. He didn’t check into a hotel, but was staying with some friends who he had gone to university with. They live in a huge, posh bungalow in Defence. Big shots, industrialists, very well connected. But perfectly normal. Very modern, liberal. They drink, and the girls in the house were wearing jeans even when we went to interview them. Nothing remotely extremist about them.”
“Was he working on some kind of controversial story, sir, or had he met or interviewed some shady characters?”
“No, that’s the thing. He didn’t seem to be working on a story. He was just here on a break from his assignments. He spent all the time shopping, eating out, and going to parties. No meetings, no interviews. The Americans checked his laptop. He hadn’t filed a story since coming to Karachi.”
“How did they grab him?”
“That’s the other worry. In the evening, around 10:00 p.m., he was with some friends at the Okra restaurant in Zamzama. Three men in a brand-new Honda Civic pulled up in front of the restaurant as the American was walking out with his friends and took him at gunpoint. Nothing like this has ever happened in that area. All the restaurants and shops are buzzing at that time. In fact, usually there’s a traffic jam on that street. And you know the crowd over there—Clifton Defence wallahs, rich people looking for a good time. Now, as if we haven’t got enough to worry about, the big shots are complaining to the IG that they can’t send their sons and daughters out of the house even to Zamzama anymore. For this also he blames me and demands an official explanation, as if it’s my fault!”
“The car?”
“Stolen three days before the incident. It was brand-new. It was snatched from the owner as he drove it home from the dealership outlet near Tariq Road.”
“No ransom calls or leads of any sort?”
“Just that picture on the Internet. And leads? Not a peep. We have teams scouring every madrasa in the city, every empty farmhouse on the outskirts, but nothing so far.”
“Well sir, it appears to me that it�
�s hardly your fault. You’re doing the best you can.”
“That’s what I keep telling them, Consendine. But no one is willing to listen. I tell you, Consendine, it’s becoming too much. I can’t fulfil everyone’s wishes and keep them all happy. Our bosses, the Bleak House wallahs, the Kaaley Gate wallahs, the minister . . .” Just as he said it, his mobile phone rang. He took the call, jotting down some instructions on a notepad. When the call ended, he looked up at Constantine and rolled his eyes. “See, this is exactly what I’m talking about. That was the Home Minister. He wants two of the priciest girls and a suite at a five-star hotel tonight. I just paid 25,000 rupees for that model two days ago. But the man’s dick can’t get enough. They all think I’m a goddamn bank or something. Say, you don’t happen to have any connections to get two girls, do you?”
“Uh, no sir, sorry. I just have the jail now, sir. I don’t think Minister sahib would be content with what’s in there.”
Mahr smiled as he picked up his phone and asked his operator to put him through to the investigation in-charge at Napier Road Police Station. It had been worth a shot, trying to put the fatigue on Constantine. After all, hadn’t he been one of the naika’s favorites once upon a time? Maqsood Mahr knew that the girls would be expensive. Not that the amount was going to come out of his pocket. He would just pass the fatigue on to another subordinate. After all, he was an accomplished champion at that. “Yes, you’re right. I don’t think he’s into that. Yet. Who knows? He’s a complete degenerate. I keep fearing that one day he might ask for dogs. The man’s a moron. The only reason he’s Home Minister is because the Don trusts him. And the Don’s word is law in this city.”
As he spoke, his call came through and he relayed the necessary instructions to his subordinate while puffing away at yet another cigarette. There was some apparent protestation at the other end of the line, because Mahr’s voice once again became suddenly sharp. “Arre, baba, don’t give me your fucking sob story. I don’t care if you’re going broke. I made you the investigation in-charge for Napier. If you can’t get two girls for the night, what good are you? The whole goddamn red-light district is in your area! And mind you, don’t be cheap. The girls better be good looking. I don’t want a complaint from Minister sahib.”
As he put the phone down, Constantine got up to leave. “Sir, I must beg your leave. If you’d like, I can take a look at the case file and check with some informants inside the prison, see if they have any information. If I find something, I’ll tell you straightaway.”
“Arre, baba Consendine, do something. Find someone on the inside. Take a copy of the file from my reader on your way out.” He thought for a moment then added, “You think they’ll come back to see him again?”
“Who, sir? Akbar? I don’t think so, but even if they do, like I said, it will be a waste of their time.”
“Consendine, you have to make sure that snake Akbar doesn’t do a setting with them. Then he will be back in the game. It will ruin me. Ensure this doesn’t happen. Do this for your old boss. After all, you don’t want to be on the wrong side of me, do you?”
“No, sir. Of course not. Don’t worry, sir. It won’t happen.”
“Good. Very good.” Nevertheless, as Constantine saluted and left the room, Maqsood Mahr couldn’t shake off his feeling of uneasiness. Which was why he decided to place a call to an old acquaintance in the UF central ward office.
6
Day 1, 1:12 p.m.
The blue Toyota pickup tried to navigate through the choked traffic on I.I Chundrigar Road, the city’s business district. The vehicle looked identical to the hundreds of police patrol vehicles all over the city; the only difference was that the word PRISONS was stencilled on the side door. Despite the driver’s adroit efforts to cut from one lane to another, the traffic had come to a standstill. Workmen were digging up half the road to lay underground cables. The number of cables that were laid under Karachi’s streets seemed countless to Constantine. Every week some road or the other was dug up. The dust from the digging had forced pedestrians and drivers in non-air-conditioned cars to cover their mouths. Constantine too covered his mouth with a handkerchief, cursing himself.
He was pissed off. Pissed that he was stuck in this god-awful traffic, travelling to a place he didn’t want to go to, pissed that Maqsood Mahr had known about the visit from Major Rommel within thirty minutes of the major’s leaving the jail, and pissed overall at why he had allowed himself to do what he had done at Mahr’s office. He had just gambled his whole career by lying to Maqsood Mahr, and he wasn’t even sure why he had done it. He cursed his stupid ego that had made him resent Mahr’s condescending attitude towards him. To add to his woes, as soon as he had walked out of Mahr’s office, he had received a call from Colonel Tarkeen. Tarkeen seemed to know of his visit to Maqsood already and, in that silky-smooth tone of his, had summoned Constantine to Bleak House.
This was exactly the kind of situation that Constantine had spent years trying to avoid. He was stuck in the middle of a game in which all the other players were more powerful than him and could destroy him. If he angered any one person, they wouldn’t forget it. Mahr had certainly made his intentions perfectly clear. At the same time, he still didn’t know what game the Agencies were playing, and he certainly didn’t know what game Akbar was playing. He had been shocked to learn that Akbar knew about the kidnapping in the first place. He wondered how Akbar had that information, but what puzzled him even more was that, despite living in isolation for so long, Akbar was still interested in the game.
The fact that the case was about the kidnapping of an American by the jihadis was another aspect that made him uncomfortable. Constantine’s Christianity had always been an asset for him. Since he was considered an outsider, a member of a minority community and therefore unobtrusive, nobody had anything to fear from him. Since he was also good at his job, he was liked and trusted by all. At one point he had been posted in an area of the city where there was a history of Sunni-Shi’a violence. At a time of heightened sectarian tension, the leaders of both groups would submit to his arbitration because he was a Christian and, therefore, not partial to either sect.
But these jihadis were different. They scared him. Their faith was frightening. They came from the poorest segment of society. A man with no hope was a man with no fear. You couldn’t reason with them. This kind of people couldn’t care less if Constantine was fair or unfair. To them, he would be just another non-believer, a kafir, and a kafir police wallah on top of that. What was it that one jihadi prisoner had called him the first week he had joined? George Bush ka chamcha, Bush’s lackey. It’d all be over if someone got a whiff that he was in some way linked to the investigation of this case. They would send one of their suiciders to blow him up along with his family.
And what would happen then? You don’t even have to be pursuing them. You just needed to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, and they’d be scraping parts of your body out of the trees for weeks. Who would take care of your family then? Certainly not the department. The bosses would show up at your funeral, pat your son or brother on the head, and then forget about you. Your wife could spend the next five years running from one clerk to another in the head office, just trying to get your pension.
The pickup moved past the modern-looking glass towers, Karachi’s version of skyscrapers, that adorned Chundrigar Road. The vehicle swept onto the peculiarly named Love Lane Bridge, leaving behind the rail yards of the City Station, and the classic sandstone façade and rotunda of the PortTrust building. The bridge was peculiarly named, for there wasn’t a hint of romance in it, situated as it was at the hub of the city’s main traffic routes, leading from the port to the industrial zones. The air was thick with soot, and the stench of fish from the port and the tanneries nearby was overpowering. In spite of all this, the panoramic vista on view was quite spectacular. On one side the buildings of Chundrigar Road, especially the Stock Exchange, the MCB building, and the Habib Bank Plaza, lunged at the sky like
daggers. On the other side was the port, with ships docking at the quays and unloading their wares from around the world. The vehicle turned off the bridge in the direction of Mai Kolachi bypass, a tiny strip of reclaimed land that connected the city center to the upscale suburbs of Defence and Clifton. Driving past the Boating Basin, a popular rendezvous point with rows of restaurants, the pickup entered a swanky residential area dotted with smart whitewashed mansions. It pulled up in front of a typically official-looking bungalow with a big black gate. The only thing that distinguished this particular bungalow from the dozens of others that looked just like it was the pair of CCTV cameras perched above the gate. Constantine got out and knocked on the gate. The door opened, and a man with a clipboard came out, ticked his name off wordlessly, and escorted him into the building. The building itself, once a palatial mansion, had been converted into offices. Large rooms were partitioned into cubicles where men huddled over their desks and pored over confidential files. Constantine was led to a first-floor office with a glass door and partition, which seemed to be a little more private than the rest. A bald man with a trim silver beard, dressed in a smart suit, looked up and rose from his swivel chair to greet Constantine like a long-lost comrade.
“Constantine, how nice to see you! Now there’s no need for that sort of formality between us.” He brushed aside Constantine’s attempt to salute and grabbed him with both hands and hugged him. “Come, let’s have some of that special Bleak House coffee.” He gestured to the usher, “Tell the mess to send up two whipped coffees, and I don’t want to be disturbed for the next hour.”
The Prisoner Page 6