The Prisoner

by Omar Shahid Hamid

  There was what appeared to Constantine to be some sort of animated discussion on the other end of the line. The CM was obviously not used to receiving ultimatums like this. He was sure that the IG would be sacked on the spot, yet Dr. Death’s face was like smooth granite, devoid of emotion. Constantine looked around the room. His father had always said that a moment of crisis revealed a lot on men’s faces. Hanuman continued to scribble on his notepad, as if that were the most normal thing to do at a moment like this. Tarkeen stared out the window, as if resigned to the inevitable. Then he saw that two of the men in the room were smiling, but for different reasons. Akbar’s smile was guileless, a gesture of pride for his commander. But Maqsood Mahr was smiling too, and one look at the expression on his face convinced Constantine that Dr. Death had been set up. It all made sense in that instant, the seemingly selfless act of acknowledging his failure and his impassioned call for the protection of the department’s honor. Dr. Death had swallowed it up.

  The IG put the receiver down. “It’s done. I want Nawaz Chandio arrested within forty-eight hours. I want his fidayeen disarmed. And they are not to be treated as some sort of political personalities; they are to be dealt with like common criminals.”

  Maqsood spoke up gleefully. “Arre, sir, thank you, thank you. You have restored my faith as a police officer. Arre, sir, I have never heard any IG speak to the CM like that before. I wish I had always had a commander like you. And permit me to say, sir, that if you want this task accomplished correctly, there is only one officer in your entire department who has the heart to do it. You must give this task to Akbar.”

  Akbar glared at Maqsood, the realization of Maqsood’s gambit hitting him at that moment. He felt the anger rising within him, but only part of it was for Maqsood. The greater part was aimed at himself, for not having spotted his motives earlier. A thousand things rushed to the tip of his tongue—curses, taunts about Maqsood’s loss of manhood, threats to break his legs. But a reminder of his surroundings made him hold his tongue.

  “For once, I agree with this buffoon. Akbar, you are the only one I can trust to do this right. My own honor is at stake on this. You are like a son to me, and you have never disappointed me. Don’t fail me now, either. Bring me Nawaz Chandio’s head.”

  “Yes, sir! Don’t worry, sir, it will be done. Your honor is our honor.”

  Akbar rose, saluted smartly with some panache, and left the room, quickly followed by Constantine. As they waited for the elevator, Constantine saw a trickle of sweat crawl down Akbar’s cheek.

  “Akbar, what the hell did you just do? You know Maqsood was setting you up. No one wants to touch this case because of Nawaz Chandio. He is not like the UF. He is a political icon. Why didn’t you tell the IG to give the case back to that madarchod Maqsood? It’s his mess, he should sort it out himself. Look, let’s go see Dr. Death privately after this meeting. You can tell him you don’t want to get involved in cleaning up Maqsood’s problems. Look, any way you look at it, this case is a loser. If you arrest him, his followers will never forgive you. You’re already on the UF’s hit list, I don’t think you can afford to be on another group’s as well. And let’s not even talk about what the CM will do to you. Dr. Death isn’t going to be the IG forever, you know. The CM will wait till he’s gone, then he’ll fuck you. And if you don’t get Nawaz, or God forbid something else happens, all the good work you’ve done in the past will be forgotten. You heard Tarkeen in there. His tone has changed just because you did a job for the Bleak House wallahs. These people will crucify you if anything goes wrong.”

  Akbar looked contemplatively at the elevator door as they rode down. “You know, when we joined the force, I used to come to this same headquarters and stare at this lift. It seemed to me to be the most marvellous piece of technology I had ever seen. Heh, I was such a simple chutiya. I never imagined that one day I would ride in it all the way to the IG’s office. I never thought I would come face to face with the IG even once, leave alone on a daily basis. Akbar Khan has come a long way in a very short time, but he is at heart still a simple assistant sub-inspector. I know that going after Chandio is suicidal, that there is only a very slim chance that it will not all end in tears. But yaar Consendine, when Dr. Death stands in front of me wearing those crossed swords on his shoulders and all his decorations on his chest, and he calls me son and tells me that his honor is in my hands, how can I say no to him? Dr. sahib is our mai-baap, Consendine. He has done everything for me. I have to do this thing for him. As for how it turns out, I will leave that to God. If he has written some good for me in my kismet, then we will be fine, and if he has ordained something bad, then there is nothing we can do about it.”

  14

  Day 2, 12:34 p.m.

  The prison

  Just as Constantine tried to get his day into some sort of normal routine, he received a call from the Home Minister’s office, asking him to immediately present himself there for a meeting. An urgent summons from the Home Minister could not be good news. Constantine had a sinking suspicion that Maqsood Mahr wasn’t the only one who had started taking an interest in Akbar’s rehabilitation.

  The drive from the prison to the minister’s office near the Provincial Assembly building took nearly an hour in the city’s midday traffic. Constantine chuckled to himself as his pickup turned onto Shahra e Faisal, the city’s main artery that connected the downtown area with the airport. The irony of it was inescapable. As usual, the Bleak House boys had made such a production about the supposed secrecy of their talks with Akbar. Rommel had wanted to exclude Constantine on the first day because the matter was supposed to be so “sensitive.” And yet everyone in the city knew what was going on. It hadn’t taken Maqsood Mahr long at all to figure it out, and the Home Minister and the UF weren’t too far behind. At this rate, the jihadis probably knew by now about Akbar. There were no secrets in this city. It was a lesson one learned over the years here.

  Constantine was not personally enthused at the prospect of meeting the Home Minister. Pakora, as he was nicknamed because of his bulbous nose and unattractive facial features, was a much despised figure within the police department. The levels of his avarice knew no bounds, and, even in a department where corruption flourished like crabgrass, Pakora had broken new records. Constantine had gotten firsthand experience of this when he had gone to pay him through an intermediary to secure his current posting. That had been his only previous personal contact with the minister.

  Although Pakora’s scruples were well known, no one had contemplated his removal from office because he was the chosen favorite of the Don. And, as Maqsood Mahr said, the Don’s word was absolute law in this city. The party he created had evolved into much more than a simple political movement. It had an international network that mixed crime and politics and spread as far and wide as Thailand and Brazil. The Don himself sat at the apex of it, monitoring everything from his modest suburban New York town house, holding the city in a vice-like grip. Everybody had a theory about why the Don never came back to Karachi. He had gone for a medical checkup fifteen years ago and gone into self-imposed exile. Some said he stayed abroad to remain out of the clutches of the Agencies. Others claimed he was a CIA agent and that, by staying in New York yet continuing to control Karachi, he demonstrated his power to his American patrons. After all, it was far more impressive to be able to shut down a city of 16 million on the strength of a long-distance phone call. There was another story, that was only whispered in the darkest corners of the city, of a group of the Don’s surviving victims who had sworn a blood oath to avenge themselves on him. No one knew who these people were, or where they were. Some were even reputed to be former ward bosses. And there was no way to confirm whether this mythical group had ever even committed any act of violence. But the Don believed in their existence. And the idea of a secret group of assassins plotting to kill him was terrifying. He had taken elaborate security arrangements, even in New York. It was said that a man from his retinue oversaw the preparation of all
his meals, even when he ordered a pizza from the local Domino’s, to ensure he wasn’t poisoned. His party spent a fortune on the Don’s security, paid for by the princely sums that were extorted by the ward bosses from the citizens of Karachi.

  But in recent years, the Don’s paranoia had come down a little. The party’s years of fluctuating political fortune, when their ministers were as likely to go straight from their offices into jail cells, seemed to be over. The president, in dire need of the Don’s political support, had in return allowed the party a free hand to do what they pleased in the city.

  As Constantine arrived in the office of the Home Minister, a dozen minions were at work in the antechamber, thrashing away at typewriters or computers, spewing out all sorts of directives. Orders for postings, transfers, promotions. And there was a price for every single one. The minister’s secretaries scrutinized the various lists in their hands to put a value on every name, like a group of investment bankers working on an IPO. In one corner of the room, the minister’s police escort detail lounged around on the sofas that were meant for the use of public visitors. Their appearance was slovenly, with the men sporting unshaved beards, dirty uniforms, and a variety of headgear, with their weapons slung untidily around their shoulders. Indeed, they looked less like policemen and more like street thugs, which is probably what some of them were anyway. Scores of former gun-toting United Front ward boys had been recruited into the police thanks to the largesse of Pakora.

  He announced himself to one of the secretaries, who looked him up and down in a contemptuous manner, and then conferred with the telephone operator. Upon learning of the urgency of the demand for Constantine’s presence, the secretary’s attitude changed and he ushered Constantine into the minister’s presence immediately. The smell of stale smoke and mouldy damp emanated from the office. Most of these government buildings were quite old and hadn’t been renovated in a while. All the ministers wanted offices close to the Assembly building, and so were unwilling to move to newer buildings that were further away from the centers of power. New furniture had been moved into the room to please the minister, without any thought having been given to aesthetics. The pink leather couch and high-backed leather chairs clashed completely with everything else in the room. A giant plasma TV hung on a wall, framed by ugly damp stains and peeling paint. A table, far too large for the proportions of the room, had been dumped into the center of the room and covered with the standard green baize cloth. On one side of the table were stacked various awards, mementos, and a large framed picture of the Don. As if to further emphasize the point, a miniature UF party flag fluttered on the table next to a miniature national flag. On the other side was a bank of six hi-tech telephones with all sorts of flashing lights.

  Behind the table sat Pakora. His face was dominated by a huge nose of almost cartoon-like proportions. Everything about the man seemed to be drawn from a caricature, from the jet-black French beard, thick Elvis sideburns to the Three Stooges’ haircut. He wore an ill-fitting white polyester suit with an ugly pink tie. His fingers were adorned with several rings, far too many for a normal man but perhaps at par for a rap musician. He smoked his cigarette from a filter wedged between his lips in a rather effeminate manner.

  Three men sat on chairs facing Pakora. The first man was the inspector general of Prisons, Constantine’s immediate boss. He was a weak, snivelling toady of a man. For someone who had been a member of a uniformed service for so many years, his appearance was remarkably sloppy. His pants had lost their crease a long time ago, and the shirt was crumpled and hung loosely on his frame. Even his shoulder ranks had been fastened onto his shirt incorrectly, and one of the pips hung precariously, as if about to fall off. His beret was slouched towards the back of his head in a most unprofessional manner. He was a man willing to do anything to cling to his job. Constantine had found him to be panicky about the slightest of situations because he feared that any remote eventuality would bring about his ouster. Overwhelmed by that fear, he fell at the feet of everyone and anyone who had the remotest influence and offered them his services like some sort of bureaucratic whore. He had raised spinelessness into an art form. Only when it came to demanding money from his subordinates did he seem to find his courage. He and Constantine despised each other. He had perceived Constantine’s posting as superintendent of the prison as an attempt to take away a part of his little empire. But the only thing he could do was give Constantine a hard time. After a very heated initial meeting between the two men, they now barely spoke and generally avoided each other’s company. Constantine had assigned one of his wardens to deliver to the IG his share of the weekly collection, which was just fine for the IG, as he was least interested in the day-to-day working of the prison.

  The second man was Hanuman, and he was in complete contrast to Constantine’s boss. His uniform was crisply starched and immaculate, with not a thread out of place. He had also moved up in the world since Constantine had last served with him, having now become the city’s police chief. His posture was far more confident than Constantine’s boss, but that was because Hanuman was the consummate insider. All of his bosses had always perceived him unfailingly to be “their man.” His ultimate loyalty, though, was only to himself. His political malleability was not his only quality. Unlike Constantine’s boss, Hanuman had always been an extraordinarily competent officer, with an encyclopedic knowledge of the city. His evaluation of his own subordinates’ strengths and weaknesses was always on the mark. He was often found speaking softly into his mobile phone, defusing some crisis or other in some far-flung corner of the city. Even as Constantine entered he was speaking on the phone, and greeted him with a perfunctory nod.

  But it was the third man, the only one who was not in uniform, who immediately caught Constantine’s attention. He was dressed in jeans and a denim shirt, in contrast to the formal appearance of the other three people in the room. His hair was cut severely in a crew cut, or what the local barbers called a “fauji cut.” His eyes were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. The man kept flexing his knuckles and chewing on a toothpick, as if impatient to be sitting down. He had a rather sinister-looking appearance, which was heightened by a five o’clock shadow on his face and the self-evident bulge under his shirt. There was an air of malice about the man, who seemed more suited to the mean streets of the city than these hallowed ministerial chambers. Constantine recognized him instantly. The years had changed Ateeq Tension’s appearance somewhat, but he still looked like a nasty son of a bitch.

  When he had arrested him, Constantine had prepared a very solid case against Tension, despite great difficulties. It had been hard to get anyone to testify. Constantine persevered, and got Tension convicted for murder. But in the time that it took for his appeal to move through the judicial system, the UF returned to power and Tension was released from prison. Over the years, Constantine had heard fleeting rumors that Tension bore a grudge against him, but he had never given much credence to such talk. That was, until Wajahat’s warning the previous day and the incident with his daughter that morning. And now it was just too much of a coincidence that Tension was sitting in this office at this particular moment. Perhaps this meeting had nothing to do with Akbar after all.

  Constantine saluted the minister, with one eye still on Tension. He was not offered a seat. Pakora’s bullying nature was well known in the police. Clearly, this would not be a social call.

  “So this is Consendine D’Souza?” sneered the minister, turning towards Tension. “You seem to be a very troublesome chap, D’Souza.”

  “Yes sir, he’s a big troublemaker. Good for nothing. Ever since you posted him to the central prison, he’s been causing me problems.” The reply came from Constantine’s boss.

  “Arre, I’m not talking about the jail, you idiot! You also have a one-track mind. Everything comes back to your problems running the Prisons! Sometimes I think you are the problem!”

  “Of course, sir. Of course you aren’t. I’m sorry, sir, I misunderstood.” Consta
ntine felt physically sick, watching his boss’s snivelling demeanor.

  “D’Souza, weren’t you posted as DSP in charge of Nazimabad subdivision before your current posting as superintendent of the Prison?”

  “Yes, sir. I was there for nine months.”

  “I have heard a lot of complaints about you from our party workers in that area, D’Souza. Isn’t that so, Ateeq Bhai?”

  Ateeq “Bhai” nodded. By the deference Pakora showed Tension, it was clear that in the party hierarchy, the street thug outranked the minister.

  “Yes, our people complained that you had a bias against the party. You arrested some of the workers while they were on party business. Are you aware of my directive—that no party worker is to be arrested anywhere in the city without approval from this office?”

  Constantine understood that any answer he gave would be treated as the wrong one. So he decided to be bold about it. “I am aware of your directive, sir, but I had no choice, given the situation at the time. Your party workers were molesting young girls in a shopping arcade in front of hundreds of people. The girls came to a police kiosk in the bazaar and pleaded with me for help. Had I not arrested your workers there and then, it would have become very humiliating for the police. Not to mention, for your party as well. My prompt action saved your party a great deal of embarrassment.”

  “Don’t try and be smart. Okay, you may have been justified on this occasion, but this is not the first incident between you and our party. You have a history of being biased against us. Didn’t you participate in the operation that the police undertook against us? It has come to my attention that you were involved in arresting and torturing hundreds of our poor, innocent workers!”