The Prisoner

by Omar Shahid Hamid

  “I am beginning to learn that being a police officer in Karachi is not as straightforward a business as I thought. Constantine has been tutoring me on the subject.”

  “Haha. Yes, Consendine and I can tell you a few stories.” He nodded towards Constantine. “He’s a good man.”

  “So are you. That’s what everyone says. Colonel Tarkeen certainly holds you in very high regard.”

  “Tarkeen. Hah. He of all people should.”

  “I would like to know what happened to you. I know you were a good police officer because everyone says so. You blame Colonel Tarkeen for what happened to you, yet other than some very basic details, none of my reports explain what happened with you. Apparently it’s classified above my level. I have tried asking him, but he is evasive about it.”

  “I killed a man.”

  “From what Constantine tells me, it wasn’t the first for you. You killed many men, many criminals.”

  “It was the wrong man.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  Akbar sighed and let out a long trail of cigarette smoke from his lungs. “What can I tell you, sahib? This is the way the system works. If you’re good at the job, then everyone wants you every time there’s a crisis. When things go back to normal, you get discarded. I worked with everyone, all the Agencies, your people as well as the Kaaley Gate wallahs. I made all the enemies. I took everyone on. Ninety-eight kills. That’s my record.”

  The major nodded approvingly. “But all these people were criminals. They got what they deserved. Justice was served. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  Akbar snorted. “That’s what you say now, sahib, but when things go wrong then no one is willing to listen. That’s what happened five years ago. I did something at the behest of my bosses and the Agencies, but things didn’t go the way they were planned. Mistakes were made. Then I got double-crossed.”

  “So it must have been an operational mistake. It happens to us in the army as well. It’s understandable. What was the problem in that?”

  “Hehe. Big problem, sahib. The story doesn’t end there. You see, the Don and his UF dogs had been waiting for me to make a mistake. Up till then they had not been able to harm me, personally or professionally, even though they had been trying for years. They tried to get me killed a couple of times, but I was always protected by the Agencies because I was working for them. That and the fact that the police bosses found me useful every time they wanted a mess cleaned up. You see, every time the crime rate goes up, it’s a big issue with the press. The reporters taunt the bosses with crime statistics. IG sahib, this many kidnappings have occurred this month, IG sahib, that many cars have been snatched, and you are doing nothing about it. The bosses start panicking when this happens, because it means some politician might read the newspapers one day and decide that the IG is incompetent and needs to be replaced. Big headache for them. I was always their aspirin for this headache. That’s why I survived. But this incident presented the UF with a golden opportunity to finally get rid of me.”

  “But why didn’t the Agencies protect you this time?”

  “Ah, that’s the real rub of the matter. You see, Major sahib, at the time Colonel Tarkeen was with the Kaaley Gate wallahs. He and his boss had not been happy when I started working with your people. So the same Colonel sahib, who, as you say, has such high regard for me, decided to punish me. Kya sahib, we small people get crushed in the battles of the big shots and the barey log. Colonel sahib was unhappy with me for working with his rivals. What could I do? If I didn’t work with them, the others would have been unhappy. I was like a man with four wives. How could I possibly keep everyone happy at the same time?”

  “So they threw you in jail?”

  “No. They didn’t. That was done by that madarchod Maqsood Mahr. Ever since my stock was rising, his market had gone down. He’s only good for pimping, anyway. He’s never done a day’s professional police work in his life. A poor fellow comes into his office to make a complaint about an investigation, and he has him arrested and says he is responsible for bombing the US embassy. Those are the kinds of ‘jihadis’ he catches. Son of a whore. He concocted a false case against me. And in all the time I have been here, he has kept spinning his false stories to try and keep me in here. And the Agencies have stood by and accepted his stories because it suited them to do so, even when they knew the truth.”

  The major sat silently, staring at the floor. At length, he looked up again and looked Akbar in the eye. “Akbar, I am a soldier and have always been very proud to be one. I was almost killed in Kargil, and I would have happily given my life for my country. I remember it was a very cold night. My men and I were dug into our positions on the side of a mountain. We were caught up in a blizzard, just trying to keep warm somehow, when the attack came. The bullet grazed my cheek before I knew what had happened, and two of my men dropped dead in front of my eyes. We were in a forward post, isolated from the rest of our company, so it was not easy for them to reinforce us. There were just two of us left and, although we couldn’t see the enemy, we could hear them approaching. We both realized that they would not take us alive. I was losing a lot of blood from my wound, as was my comrade. The situation seemed hopeless, but we kept fighting. I was so tired that I didn’t really even care whether I survived or not. The only thing that kept me going was that I knew my comrade was in worse shape than me, and I knew that I could not abandon him. That’s the fundamental principle that is drilled into us. Fight for the man next to you and never abandon him. You are a warrior too. You may wear a different uniform but you put your life on the line, same as I did. Our people should have protected you. They should never have abandoned you. It’s shameful that they did. I know nothing I say can make up for what you have lost. But all I will say is this: the smartest people are those who grab the opportunities staring at them. In your case, out of nowhere, this opportunity has presented itself. All of your enemies are desperate now. Colonel Tarkeen, who left you at the mercy of Maqsood Mahr, is now initiating a corruption enquiry against the same man. None of us even had a clue where this American was until you spoke yesterday. Right now they are willing to offer you anything. If you have any knowledge of this case, use it to your advantage. Don’t do it for your country. Do it for yourself.”

  Akbar had descended into a trance-like state, and then, as if struck by a sudden epiphany, he burst out laughing. “Arre, Consendine, Major sahib is a superb fellow, but totally unsuited to intelligence work! I don’t mean that in a bad way, Major sahib, but the fellows who usually get posted here are sneaky little shits. Your posting orders must have gotten swapped or something. I’m sure there’s a little bastard stuck in Waziristan somewhere, pissing his pants trying to figure out how the fuck he ended up there instead of sitting behind a cushy desk in Karachi. You are a man of honor. Thank you for saying what you said. It may not mean much to you, but it does to me.”

  Constantine smiled and found himself liking the major more and more. An honorable man was hard to find in their world.

  “Very well, Major sahib. Let’s see what I can do to help you. Because one thing is for sure. If Maqsood Mahr keeps investigating this case, then President sahib is definitely going to have to explain to his mai-baap, the American president, how he allowed an American to get killed in Pakistan. Maqsood Mahr couldn’t find this Friedland fellow if the jihadis had hidden him up his arse! The thing is, sahib, Karachi is a huge city. You haven’t travelled around much in Karachi, have you, sahib?”

  “No, I’m afraid I haven’t.”

  “If you want to find someone in Karachi, it is important that you know where to start looking. This idiot Mahr is sending his men all over the city, checking every madrasa. They won’t find anything. Does he think these jihadis are so stupid?”

  “And you know where he is?”

  “No. Not yet. But I know where to start looking. He was picked up from outside a restaurant in Zamzama, where only he and his friends who were with him knew they were going.
Either he was being followed round the clock, or someone informed the kidnappers of his movements. Now, he was living in a big bungalow in Defence, with a rich family. It would be hard for any group to put surveillance on him there, because all the houses have private security guards who would notice a suspicious car or motorcycle standing on the street. They would call the police, and because all the people who live in Defence are barey log, the police does regular patrolling and promptly responds to emergency calls. So that option is unlikely. The second option, therefore, starts looking more plausible—that someone from within the house gave him away. Now, on the face of it, the family members are all very modern and liberal. The servants were also checked out. But there was one discrepancy—a houseboy who had been employed recently. He was from Kashmir, and my information tells me that in the past he had links with some of the jihadi organizations based there. The boy worked inside the house and could easily have overheard a conversation in which the American was discussing his dinner plans. My information is that the boy gave the jihadis the touch.”

  “But we never really considered that as a serious possibility. How did you come up with that theory?”

  “Sahib, you didn’t consider it because you are being led by whatever Maqsood says. And forgive me, but your people’s investigating skills are totally nil. It is like the blind leading the blind. And this is not my theory. This is what really happened. My sources have checked it and confirmed it to me.”

  “But that is fantastic. All we need to do is pick up the boy and he will lead us to the American!”

  “No, sahib. The last thing you want to do is pick up the boy. You go near the boy, and before you bring him from his house to the police station, they will know and the American will be dead. Besides, the boy doesn’t know where the American is. He doesn’t even know who his contact is. He just knows the number he has to call to give the information. They gave him a mobile phone recently. What we have to do is to get the call record of that mobile number for the days that Friedland was in their house. That shouldn’t be too difficult. Mahr probably already has the number written on a file somewhere. Single out those mobile numbers that have been called only once. And then triangulate them through their booster towers to see which area the person who received the calls was in. You can narrow it down to the numbers which were based in two areas: Nazimabad and Orangi. Your kidnappers are based in these two areas.”

  “Why do we look at only the mobile numbers and why these two areas?”

  “Because the jihadis find it more secure to communicate through mobile phones rather than on a landline. Harder to tap, and also they can keep changing their mobile number frequently. They wouldn’t have received a call on one number more than once. If they were to use a landline, they would have to leave their hideout to go make a call from a public call office in another area. This way, they can stay close to home and keep communicating.” It was Constantine who answered.

  “Exactly. And we only have to look in these two areas because my informers tell me that the boys who did this job are from these two localities. I should have more precise information by tomorrow.”

  Although Akbar tried to hide it, Constantine could see from his body language the exhilaration he was feeling at once again being involved in a case. It was the thrill of the chase. His voice had remained even, but his hand gestures had grown more animated as the conversation progressed.

  “How did you know that he was alive?” the major asked.

  “There are two groups involved in this kidnapping. Both are newly formed groups, which are splinters of older groups. The thing with the jihadis is that after a little while, the firebrands in any group start thinking that the others have gone soft just because they are not blowing something up every day. So they split and form their own, more violent splinter group. And so the cycle continues. In this case, there was actually a falling out between the two groups. One group wanted to kill him immediately, but the other did not because he had praised the Taliban in the tribal areas. The compromise was this date of 25 December. Their feuding will keep him alive. At least until the 25th.”

  The major was almost beside himself with joy. “Akbar, this is miraculous. How do you know so much? Who are your sources?”

  Akbar shook his head playfully. “Now, now, Major sahib. If I reveal everything to you, what will I then bargain with? I can’t tell you who my sources are.”

  “Akbar, if this information is accurate, I am confident that you won’t be here for long. I will personally ensure it.”

  “Not so fast, Major sahib. Things won’t be as simple as you think. Do what I have told you, and see where the trail leads. We may be on the right track, but we are still far away from recovering the American. As for me, if my information turns out to be correct, then come to me tomorrow. But bring Colonel Tarkeen with you. He is the one who will have to settle accounts with me. Nobody else can do it.”

  The meeting ended. Constantine and the major rushed back to Constantine’s office. As they left, Constantine noticed the group of tableeghis who were with Akbar when they entered and had been waiting outside patiently file back into the room. The major was clearly excited at the prospect of a break in the case.

  “How is he doing it, Constantine? How is he getting such precise details while sitting in here?”

  Constantine considered discussing his suspicions with Rommel but decided to stay quiet. After all, he may have started liking Rommel, but he still knew nothing about him. “I . . . I don’t know, sir.”

  “Well, however he’s doing it, I wish him well. I am personally amazed by him.”

  Both men walked past Constantine’s office, through the outer gate of the prison, to where the major’s jeep was parked.

  “Well, I must go and report what Akbar said to Colonel sahib.” He shook Constantine’s hand and climbed into the jeep. “By the way, out of curiosity, how do you know General Ibadat? You mentioned him when I made a stupid accusation yesterday. He was my commanding officer in Kargil. He was very kind and took a personal interest in my recovery when I was wounded. I owe him a great deal.”

  “It’s something like that with me as well, sir. When he was a brigadier, he was posted in Karachi and his nephew was kidnapped from near the airport. I worked on the case and was able to recover his nephew. We even managed to arrest and convict the kidnappers. Since then, his entire family has always treated me like one of their own. He became my sifarshi—whenever I needed a good word in somebody’s ear to get a posting, he would oblige. I owe my current post to his kindness as well. I am sorry if I offended you by mentioning him yesterday.”

  “Not at all. The fault was all mine. I was being crass. Take care, Constantine.”

  12

  October 2001

  The house was festooned with fairy lights. Constantine found a parking spot some distance away, but he could see a bright red tent top protruding over the high walls. The house itself was brand-new, so new that the whitewashed walls still looked damp and some of the fixtures still had their plastic covers on. Caterers and guests tiptoed over the construction debris that lay uncleared by the main gate. As Constantine walked in, he could see a motley mix of people gathered inside. Bearded and robed religious leaders sipped juice and chatted with bankers in pinstriped suits. Clean-cut young army officers looked distinctly uncomfortable standing next to street toughs with gelled-back hair and leather jackets. Constantine could not help but smile. These people would never have associated with each other in the normal course of their lives, yet here they were compelled to do so under the same roof. None of them could afford to miss out on this occasion. After all, Akbar Khan was throwing a party.

  Constantine was amazed at how Akbar always managed such a diverse group of friends. But that had always been the secret of his success. Contacts at all levels of the social spectrum enabled him to squeeze out those golden nuggets of information that no one else could get. Most of the time, it was that information which made the difference between success
and failure in this town. Constantine circulated between the various groups for a bit, but there was no sign of Akbar. He hadn’t spoken with Akbar since his return to the city, but he had heard of his exploits. A year and a half in the boonies had not dampened Akbar’s resolve or his skill. He had been brought back to deal with the growing menace of organized crime, and, within a week of his return, he had shot dead the head of the city’s biggest kidnapping gang.

  This party was a celebration of his return to the big leagues. Akbar’s personal bodyguard, Aziz, had specially called him in the afternoon and relayed Akbar’s message, that he must come because there was something urgent to be discussed. Yet, despite his having searched every room in the house, there wasn’t a trace of Akbar. At present, he heard voices coming from the roof, so he found a stairwell that led there. The roof was dark. There were no fairy lights here. The only illumination came from the starry sky and a small clay lamp that had been set on a low table, surrounded by four charpoys. A bucket of ice lay on the table, next to a half-empty bottle of Chivas Regal. Four men lounged on the charpoys, sipping their whisky and nibbling from a tray of samosa and chicken tikka. Akbar was the only one sitting on a chair, not drinking or eating, just watching the others while smoking.

  The men hushed up immediately when they saw Constantine. Like schoolboys who had been caught sipping their fathers’ hooch, they pushed their glasses as far away as possible from themselves. Akbar rose to greet him. He had grown a little chubbier since Constantine had last seen him.

  “Arre, Consendine! Where are you? I haven’t seen you since I got back into town.”

  “You get around so fast, Akbar, I can’t keep up with you! One minute you’re stuck in the wilderness, the next minute you’re back in action, nabbing the biggest kidnapper in the city. And promoted again, with this lovely new house to boot!”

  “Heh. Thanks. I reckon I deserved the promotion after two years sifting through cow shit in the boonies. And the house, well, I figured it was time to put down some roots somewhere. But I’m glad to see you. I heard you’re working with Maqsood Mahr now. Is he still the greedy bastard he was when I worked with him?”