“No man, you don’t need any additional force, man. He’s all on his own, keeping a very low profile. Don’t go for any extra men. Just come with me now. The two of you will be enough, man. Trust me, I’m not lying.”
Akbar twirled his moustache for a moment, again looking out towards the sea. Then he turned to the car, took out a brown envelope from the glove compartment, and tossed it to Rodrigues. “Okay, let’s go. I’ll trust you. But I find that you’ve fucked with us, and you’ll end up like all those ward bosses that you’ve heard about: six feet under.”
The fat man thumbed the notes inside the envelope. His eyes lit up, and a contented smile broke out across his face. The three men got into the front cabin of the pickup together, and Constantine got behind the wheel while Akbar continued to question Rodrigues.
“How many times a week do you make a drop to him?”
“Since he’s been underground, about once a week. But if there’s something special he wants, I’ll go in whenever he calls, man.”
“How many people know about this place?”
“None of his own people. He couldn’t trust that the police wouldn’t weasel it out of them. That why I say, man, you won’t have to worry. No security. When do I get the rest of my money?”
“When the job gets done. Don’t worry, you’ll get paid. Why does he trust you so much?”
“No man, it’s not about trust. I give him the thing he needs. He can’t live without his alcohol, and he needs a variety of the best stuff. Every Friday night he calls some close friends for a party, and I always get a call that day. That’s why I was going to see him tonight.”
“For a man who is in hiding, he sure leads a very public life. Who are these friends?”
“I don’t know all of them, man, but they’re all very powerful people. They would never inform on him, man. Listen man, his people can’t find out I spoke to you, or else they’ll come after my whole family. Please, Constantine, tell your friend it’ll become a big problem for me, no?”
By this time, the sights and smells of the port had been replaced with rows of whitewashed and pink-tiled villas and quiet suburban streets. In contrast to the chaotic hustle and bustle of the port, everything seemed so orderly in this part of town. At Rodrigues’ directions, they turned onto a side street and were greeted by a vast array of different architectural styles. The first house was all marble and columns, like a latter-day Greco-Roman temple. Right next to it was a Spanish hacienda and, next to that, a mock Tudor mansion.
Akbar whistled. “People in this neighborhood sure have the money to blow on styling their houses. Look at all this marble. Must be imported.”
“You’re hardly one to talk, Akbar. After all, your new place isn’t too far away from here. You’ve also joined the ranks of the respectable people.”
Rodrigues pointed to a house at the end of the street. It was a single-storey bungalow, modest in its pretensions compared to the palaces surrounding it. The structure itself took up little space on the plot, leaving plenty of land for a large garden area. But an overgrowth of untended weeds and creepers had climbed over the low walls, giving the place a dilapidated look.
“Is this it? This place looks like a dump.”
Rodrigues nodded. “This is it, man. Trust me, the outside is misleading. It’s mind-blowing from the inside, man. Look, I’ll get off here. I don’t want to be spotted by anyone. You can enter easily enough. If you ring the bell, an old chowkidar will answer the door. Normally there’s one other maid in the house who does the cooking and cleaning.”
Constantine slowed the vehicle down, and Rodrigues jumped out. He looked at Akbar, who shrugged his shoulders. They stopped the car a couple of houses away from the bungalow and got out. Akbar had two bodyguards in the back of his pickup, and he told them to circle round the back of the house on foot. He and Constantine drew their weapons and gingerly approached the gate. The gate had no house number or name fixed upon it. There was a button on one side, presumably for a bell, but it had been completely covered by creepers.
“What do you think? Should we ring it?”
“No. Let’s just go over the wall. The bushes will give us some cover as well.”
Both men tucked their pistols in their belts, and, while Constantine managed to scale the wall quite easily, it took Akbar three attempts before he could climb over. The inside of the compound was a complete contrast to the decrepit condition outside. A gleaming black Mercedes-Benz S-Class sat in the driveway, while an olive green Land Rover, equally new, was parked next to it. At the side of the house was a huge sunken swimming pool with an attached hot tub. Two marble lions poured water into the pool from spouts. The front door was solid oak, with a big brass handle.
But there was an eerie, ghostly feel to the place. No one had yet challenged their entry, which made Constantine more suspicious. How could such a prominent underworld figure be living without any kind of protection? They approached the front door. It was unlocked. As they entered, they could hear a record playing an old Bollywood film song from the 1950s. The scratchy, imperfect recording had an ethereal quality to it. Chaudhvin Ka Chand. Constantine remembered the movie. It had been one of his father’s favorites.
Rodrigues had been correct. The interior of the house was certainly mind-blowing. Wall-to-wall marble flooring and a huge cut-glass chandelier dominated the lobby. A glass door led from the lobby into a den. The den had been set up as a retro discotheque. A giant strobe light hung from the ceiling, and there were mirrors everywhere. Pornographic art was displayed on the walls and in every nook and cranny of the room. The décor may not have been particularly classy, but it did seem expensive. But the pièce de résistance of the entire house was the bar. It dominated half the room, and the top was magnificent carved mahogany. Behind it, Constantine guessed that there were probably close to a thousand bottles, in every imaginable shape, size, and color, containing virtually every brand known to man. Shashlik Khan may not have been a connoisseur of fine art, but he did take his drink seriously.
Suddenly, a naked woman emerged from a side door that led to a toilet. She was obviously on something, because it took her a second to comprehend their presence. Constantine guessed, from her looks and grooming, that she was probably a servant girl. He also figured out why they had managed to enter the house unchallenged. The big man probably didn’t want anyone else around when he was banging the maid. It was at that point that she started screaming hysterically.
Akbar moved fast. He cleared the distance between the woman and himself in half a second and struck her hard on her cheek. She buckled and fell while he moved into the toilet. Inside, a man was bent over the washbasin top, snorting white powder. An Uzi machine pistol lay next to the line of powder. Before the man had a chance to grasp the gun, Akbar was on top of him, dragging him out of the toilet and into the den. In the meantime, Constantine had managed to bind and gag the woman with her own clothes that had been lying discarded on the floor.
“Shashlik Khan.” Akbar said the name with deliberateness. The man bent over on the ground in front of him was heavyset, built like a rugby player. Remnants of the white powder were still stuck on his nose. The buttons on his silk shirt were open, revealing a milky-white complexion. But there was no fear in his eyes as he looked up expectantly at Akbar, not saying a word. The girl, however, still whimpered and shook uncontrollably. Her wide-eyed stare indicated that she was in a state of shock. Constantine stepped into the next room to find something to cover her with. The room was a bedroom, decorated in the same gaudy style, with a huge ceiling mirror hanging over a heart-shaped bed. He found a satin bed sheet and draped it over the woman.
“Akbar Khan sahib, please, let us talk.” His voice was calm, unfazed by this unexpected turn of events.
“Oh, don’t worry, Shashlik Khan. We’ll have all the time in the world to talk in the thana.”
“Akbar Khan, just hear me out. We don’t have to go to the thana. We can settle this amongst ourselves. Just forget yo
u ever saw me. I’ll give you one khokha.”
“Get up.”
“Two khokhas.”
“Bhenchod, do you think this is a fish market where I will negotiate a price for you?”
“Three.”
Akbar hit him hard with the back of his hand, drawing a trickle of blood from his forehead. “I told you, I’m not for sale. I’m not one of your pimps.”
“Khan sahib, I mean no disrespect. I have heard of your name and your reputation. We all admire what you did to those UF bastards. I would not offer you such a large amount if I did not have regard for your skills. But we are both men of the world. What is the point of arresting me? We both know that this is a game being played by others to trap Nawaz Chandio. You and I are just pawns.”
“Bhenchod, you’re building a private army of criminals in this city, and you say you’re a mere pawn?”
“Khan sahib, I can promise you, my activities will never harm your interests. We are just trying to protect ourselves from the UF and the other forces in this city. I can be very useful to you. Just do me a favor. Ask your friend to go behind the bar, there’s a secret compartment just under the top. Please ask him to open it. I swear on my mother’s life, it is not a trap.”
Akbar looked warily at Shashlik Khan and then signalled Constantine to check behind the bar. Under the bar top Constantine found a button and pressed it, to find a compartment that he could never have guessed was even there slide open. The little drawer was packed with 1,000-rupee notes. On top of the bundles lay a gold-plated World War II vintage German Mauser. Constantine had never seen so much cash before in his life.
“What is it, Consendine?”
“It’s, uh, it’s money. More than I’ve ever seen. I don’t know how much. It would probably take an hour to count it.”
“It’s 5 crore, in untraceable cash. The two of you can take it and walk out of here, and no one will ever know. I can help you in other ways as well, Khan sahib. I will ask Nawaz to speak to his brother, and we will get you another promotion. I read in the papers recently that you have become a DSP, right? How would you like to be an SP next week? Just tell the people who sent you after me the same thing that all the other police officers told them. That no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t find me. Nawaz will sort this mess out soon enough.”
Akbar walked over to the bar and stared into the compartment, lifting the Mauser and examining it closely. He nodded appreciatively at Shashlik, then put the gun back in the drawer.
“Very impressive, Shashlik. Very impressive indeed. So that’s what five khokhas look like in real life? You’re right—we can walk away with the money and pretend we never found you. After all, no one knows we’re here. I was almost tempted to accept your offer. But you said all the other cops took your money and forgot where you were. I’m not like other cops. I’m Akbar Khan, and I’m taking you in. So get up off your fat ass and start walking towards the door.”
13
November 1, 2001
Nawaz Chandio was going insane. At least that’s what his retainers thought. They were sure somebody had performed black magic on Sayeen Baba so that he would become incapacitated like this, unable to talk except for some unintelligible muttering under his breath. He had been pacing the room for three straight hours, ignoring all entreaties for food, drink, or conversation. The retainers stood around, not sure how to deal with the situation because they had never seen the master in such a state. The only thing he would do was smoke one cigarette after the other without a break, carelessly throwing the stubs on to the tiger-skin rug.
Worry did not come easily to Sayeen Baba. His elder brother had been the worrier in the family. Nawaz Chandio had always glided through life, using his immense charm and charisma to get through. While people respected his elder brother Yousaf’s capacity for hard work and his grasp of realpolitik, men gave their hearts to Nawaz. It helped that he was a strikingly handsome man. The older retainers among the family claimed he was the spitting image of the old sardar’s father, his grandfather. Even if he hadn’t been the younger scion of the oldest and most powerful tribal family in the country, his chiselled features and muscular six-foot frame would have made him stand out. But his familiar manner, which he somehow managed to intersperse with an imperious bearing, ensured that he was a natural leader.
Leadership was the Chandios’ lot in life. Many said it was their curse as well. They had been an established political force even before the British arrived in these parts, tribal sardars who ruled as absolute monarchs and depended upon banditry to feed their people. They had fought the British at first, ultimately accepting their suzerainty after a prolonged struggle. It had been the British who first made the Chandios truly rich, when, in return for laying down their weapons, they gave them large tracts of the most fertile land along the banks of the Indus. Thus, in addition to their tribal lineage, the family also became one of the largest landowners in the province. But the streak of rebellion had not totally evaporated from the family’s genes. Nawaz’s look-alike, his grandfather, had joined Gandhi’s Quit India movement during World War II, at a time when no other landowner in the region was willing to risk taking on the Imperium. He had been hung for that, but the sardar’s devotees had been so incensed that the lands of the lower Indus became aflame with revolt. Unable to deal with such a rebellion in the middle of a global war, the colonial masters did not dare confiscate any of the family’s lands. Instead, they decided to whisk away the new sardar, then barely a boy in his teens, to boarding school at Winchester, to be properly anglicized.
The young sardar had returned and grew into an even abler politician than his father, ultimately rising to become the country’s first populist prime minister, until deposed by a military junta. He too shared his father’s fate, being taken to the gallows by an illegitimate government who thought that the mystique of the Chandios could be snuffed out with the death of a single man. Once again, the powers that be were proved wrong. But this time round, there was a slight twist in the tale. The young sardar left behind him two sons—Nawaz and his elder brother Yousaf. Both men had very different ideas about keeping the flame of their father’s legacy alive.
Yousaf opted for the cut and thrust of politics, spending a dozen years alternately braving periods of house arrest and more formal incarceration, making a thousand deals to survive but never advocating a violent struggle against the State. Nawaz, on the other hand, was a firebrand. He would not abide by the injustice of his father’s execution. Like his grandfather a generation before, he raised the red flag of revolt, escaping into the tribal hinterland to wage a guerilla war. His followers did not see the point of another martyr from the family, so they eventually convinced him to flee via Afghanistan to Switzerland, where a young wife and infant daughter awaited him. Frustrated by his predicament, he bowed to the logic of his fellow rebels and left. But throughout his years in exile, he kept in touch with his tribal fighters, inquiring after them and sharing in their smallest joys, and griefs from a thousand miles away.
The rule of the junta came to an end a few years later, and Yousaf was absorbed into the political process, becoming a key figure in the politics of the province. But coming home was not so simple a task for Nawaz. His guerilla band had been responsible for several acts of terrorism during their self-styled insurgency, acts that had led to the deaths of police and paramilitary officers. These acts were not so easily forgiven by the State and, in particular, the military. It took another few years, and a second military dictator, for Yousaf to finally broker an amnesty that would allow his brother to return home.
These years in the wilderness had given Nawaz an almost mythical status among the Chandios’ followers, and especially those of his “fidayeen” who had been with him in the barren hills during the insurgency. He returned the conquering hero and quickly took his place by the side of his brother, who was by now the Chief Minister of the province. But it was rumored that Yousaf had grown jealous of his younger brother’s popularity
, of the common touch that came so naturally to Nawaz and always eluded Yousaf. On the day he was sworn in as an MP at the assembly, Nawaz had publicly slapped a United Front member who had clashed with him on the floor of the House, drawing universal cheers from the gathered throng. These populist leanings had made some quarters think of him as a potential rival to his brother. Common people, and more than common people the media, liked his plain spokenness, his willingness to speak his mind about all matters, his insistence on following an unorthodox path, and his unashamed cultivation of those who were deemed “dangerous” friends. They seemed to like the fact that he generally avoided the skullduggery and backstabbing that was the mother’s milk of politics.
But Yousaf also needed Nawaz. He had become Chief Minister for the second time as a result of a deal with the new military government, but it was evident from the beginning that neither party trusted the other. And so, despite his initial opposition to Nawaz’s contacts with the criminal underworld of the city, he had come around to thinking that one day he might need such people.
And so the uneasy arrangement had worked, in spite of Nawaz’s bluntness and Yousaf’s politicking. Until now. Two weeks ago, Shashlik Khan had been arrested by some DSP called Akbar Khan, and things started coming unscrewed for Nawaz. What few understood was that Shashlik was the linchpin of the entire deal. Nawaz was a pretty face, a brand name to attract people. He could give the occasional fire-and-brimstone speech to rally the troops but, always having been handed everything on a plate, he was not an organizer. He didn’t know how to get his hands dirty. It was Shashlik who had the underworld contacts; Shashlik who had welded them into some kind of coalition loyal to him and Nawaz; he who went and made peace between the brothers and explained to Yousaf the utility of being friends with his friends. He had even convinced Nawaz to meet with Tarkeen, despite the fact that intelligence officers were anathema to Nawaz. Tarkeen had wanted to use them as a force against the jihadis. Shashlik saw an opportunity to cement a relationship with the Agencies and a chance to undercut the UF. Nawaz just saw a man in khaki, a color he had learned to hate since his father’s death. He had lived his life railing against the military, and he wasn’t about to change his tune for some short-term political benefit. And so, just before the meeting was scheduled to happen, Nawaz changed his mind and refused to meet Tarkeen.
The Prisoner Page 16