Constantine’s body stiffened. There was no way out of this one. “Sir, as a police officer I am bound to obey the orders of my superiors and the government. Any operation I took part in was ordered by the government of the day. I have never discriminated on a personal basis between your party people and any others. The treatment they received at the police station was no different to any other arrested person. Although,” and he turned his steely gaze towards Tension, “many of those arrested were proven to be hardened criminals, and were convicted by the courts. I was just doing my job as a police officer.”
His answer made Tension scowl. Constantine’s boss fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. The minister stared at him malevolently. The only one who seemed completely unmoved was Hanuman.
The minister turned to Constantine’s boss. “Are you seeing this? Are you witnessing this? Such insolence! Ateeq Bhai was absolutely right about this fellow. He is actually taking pride in having tortured our poor workers! I think we need to take serious action against this man.”
“Yes, sir. Very serious. Very serious matter. Very serious action. There should be a case registered against him.”
Tension and the minister both nodded gravely. Fear crept up Constantine’s back. In his mind he tried to remember how many police guards had been sitting outside the office, and whether they were indolent enough for him to be able to get past them if the need arose to make a break for it. It was then that Hanuman spoke up in his lazy, nasal drawl.
“Well sir, we could register cases, but that could become tricky for us. If we do it that way, then there would be a case against every single officer who was in the Karachi Police at the time. Technically, even I was serving here back then. It would set a dangerous precedent. The opposition would then insist on the same treatment for those officers who had arrested their workers to help you out. They may not be able to do anything about it now, but they could implement such sanctions if they came to power. If this kind of tit-for-tat process started happening, it would hamper our ability to provide your party with favorable treatment. I think you should give the matter some more consideration.”
“Hmm, yes perhaps. I think, Ateeq Bhai, you personally enquire into the matter of this officer in some detail, and liaise with the inspector general of Prisons as to what we should do with him.”
Tension had the look of a predator whose prey had managed to run away at the last instant. He frowned but bowed his head in agreement.
Constantine, still standing stiffly at attention, imperceptibly breathed a sigh of relief. He was debating whether to go or stay when Pakora piped up again.
“One more matter. You have that police terrorist, Akbar Khan, in your custody. That man’s hands are stained with our party workers’ blood. I have heard he has had some irregular visits in the jail from outside authorities and that he is spinning some false story to them about being able to help in tracing the kidnapping of this American. He is just telling them lies! Lies, I tell you! Our party people have confirmed that whatever information he may have given out is completely false. He is just trying to get out of jail. You are to ensure that he does not meet with the representatives of the outside Agencies anymore. If they come to you, you are to discredit his information as being totally false, and you are to refuse them access to him. In fact, he is to be isolated completely. No one is allowed to meet him. Am I making myself very clear on this point? Your future prospects could depend on how well you carry out this task.”
“Yes, sir.” Constantine just wanted to get out of there at this moment, and he was in enough trouble as it was, so he did not contradict the minister.
The minister dismissed him, but Hanuman signalled him to wait outside. As he stepped out of the office into the courtyard, his mind was in a quandary.
Two things were clear. Ateeq Tension, formerly one of the chief militants of the UF, murderer of policemen, and convicted criminal, was now apparently the chief advisor to the minister directly responsible for the police. And he obviously had a bone to pick with Constantine. Such were the vagaries of politics in this city. The second thing was that, as Constantine had predicted, the UF knew about Akbar’s contacts, and they were clearly not happy about them. They were not going to give Akbar any chance to avail of this opportunity. It didn’t matter to them that his information could save the American’s life.
He was about to phone Tarkeen when Hanuman walked out. Still on his phone, which seemed to be surgically attached to his ear, he motioned to Constantine to ride with him in his official vehicle, a gleaming black Toyota Prado jeep. They set out from the minister’s office in the government barracks next to the high court, towards the police head office. They drove past the Provincial Assembly building and the Hindu Gymkhana, and then onto Chundrigar Road with its concrete skyscrapers and plazas. The police head office, a building constructed in the boom of the early 1970s, stood out for its ugliness, even on a road renowned for ugly buildings. A mass of cables and wires spewed out from each office window and were draped across the front of the building. The sentry snapped to attention and saluted the vehicle as it pulled in to the porch. Hanuman and Constantine got out and took the lift to the fourth-floor office of the Karachi Police chief.
Hanuman had been talking incessantly on his phone, getting information from all parts of the city, giving orders to his officers, and talking to members of the public. His accessibility had always been his greatest virtue. In a culture where senior officers built a bubble of officialdom around themselves and took pride in being as inaccessible as possible, both to the public and to their subordinates, Hanuman had always bucked this trend. He always kept his channels of communication open with all rungs of society.
Hanuman took off his beret and collapsed in his chair, rubbing his tired eyes. Being the police chief of this city was a twenty-four-hours-a-day, seven-days-a-week job. Even if he were not in his office or in one of numerous meetings, he would be on the road, going to the scene of an incident or dealing with one of the dozen or more mini-crises that erupted every couple of hours in the city. It was an exhausting job, and Constantine wondered how Hanuman had managed to do it for four straight years.
He sipped from a mug of green tea that had been lying on his side table. “Why did you leave Nazimabad? You were doing well there. You had been there less than a year, but the crime in the area was down, and both the Shi’a and Sunni leaders there liked you. They praised you all the time.”
“They were not the issue, sir. It was Minister sahib’s people. They expected me to turn a blind eye to everything. It was getting very uncomfortable for me. I couldn’t be one of their loyalist officers. So I decided to get myself posted out. I was offered a post in CID, but their business is hunting jihadis. I didn’t want to get involved in that game. I would have ended up on some group’s hit list. As it is, I would have been a prime target because I’m a Christian. That’s why I decided to go to the Prisons, sir.”
Feigning ignorance, Hanuman asked in his usual drawl, “Who was that man in the minister’s office?”
“Sir, you know everything about what happened back then. You were also posted here at that time. That was Ateeq Tension, the ward boss who I arrested when I was station in-charge in north Karachi.”
“Hmm. And now he wants to get his revenge on you.”
“It appears that way, sir. What do these people want, sir? We were government officials doing our jobs. And that man was hardly some innocent party activist. He was a murderer. Sir, it is unfair to penalize me for doing my job.”
“Hmm. You know what these people are like. Anyone who did anything against their party is a sinner in their eyes. They are in power, so we can’t do anything about it. What’s the other issue with Akbar?”
“That’s the other problem, sir. Now Colonel Tarkeen and his people want to meet Akbar for help in that American’s case. How am I supposed to stop them, sir? It’s a high-profile case, and they are the Agencies, sir. What am I supposed to do?”
“Hmm. And Akbar
has obviously been of some help, otherwise they wouldn’t have come back to see him today. You think he can help find the American?”
Constantine debated whether to tell Hanuman the truth, but then he figured he would find it out anyway, and besides, unlike Maqsood Mahr, Hanuman didn’t have a vested interest in keeping Akbar locked up. “Yes, sir. I believe he can.”
“Good. What does he want?”
“Obviously sir, he has been locked up for so long, he wants to drive a hard bargain with Colonel Tarkeen.”
“Hmm. Obviously.”
Constantine waited for a more in-depth answer, but none was forthcoming. “Uh, sir, so what should I do? About the minister’s directive regarding Akbar?”
Hanuman sighed. “What can you do? We are always stuck in the middle between more powerful masters, having to do their bidding. You can’t say no to the Agencies because the case is an important one; besides, they would never understand your reasons and would always hold it against you. You can’t really say no to the UF because they are out for your blood anyway and, if it was discovered that you were assisting in securing the release of their mortal enemy, Akbar, they would never forgive you. I can’t really advise you on what to do. You have been around long enough. Figure something out. But whatever you do, handle it tactfully.” This was Hanuman’s catchphrase for any and all situations. “Talk to Tarkeen. Tell him they are pressurizing you. I would think that in a case of this magnitude, the Agencies may prevail over the UF high command.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Maqsood is worried as well. He keeps calling me and asking me to intervene with Colonel Tarkeen. But I think it’s good that they are talking to Akbar. There should be some competition in the market after all.” A thin smile broke out across Hanuman’s face.
“Yes, sir.” For the first time that day, Constantine smiled too.
15
Day 2, 11:41 p.m.
Constantine’s home
He woke with a start. His wife had been trying to rouse him for a couple of minutes. He could vaguely hear the phone ringing. Constantine was so used to communicating on his mobile that he hardly bothered about answering the landline anymore. It was usually Mary’s relatives calling anyway. But now she was on top of him, telling him it was from work, and it was urgent. He stared at his mobile lying at his bedside. He had switched it off when he came home because he was exhausted and Maqsood Mahr had been trying to get in touch with him frantically. He cursed his office staff. One of Mahr’s informers among them must have leaked his home number.
“Hello?”
“Superintendent D’Souza?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Please hold for the Home Minister.” Constantine could hear a faint buzzing on the other end as the operator connected the call. A second later Pakora came on the line.
“D’Souza, are you in the jail?”
“No sir, I had come home to sleep. Is something wrong, sir?”
“Never mind that. Come over to my house. Immediately. But do not come in uniform and don’t tell anyone where you are going. And come alone. Don’t use your official vehicle. Come quickly. I’m waiting.”
The line went dead.
The last remnants of drowsiness were swept out of Constantine’s brain. Why was Pakora calling him to his residence in the dead of the night? And asking him to come alone? As he splashed some water onto his face, a feeling of dread crept over him. Perhaps it was no coincidence that he had received this summons on the same day that he saw Ateeq Tension again after so many years. It was evident from the morning’s meeting that Constantine’s sins of omission or commission had not been forgiven or forgotten. Pakora had made it clear that Tension and Constantine’s boss would determine his final punishment. Hardly the two people who would ever be kindly disposed towards him. That afternoon, when Constantine had returned to the prison, his boss had made it very clear to him that the sanctions against him would be severe. But he had assumed that they would take the form of the normal, bureaucratic remedies—removal from his post, suspension, departmental enquiries. This summons was something else altogether. Did the sanctions against him include a higher punishment?
Was he being summoned to his own death? Tension certainly hated him enough. He had thought himself untouchable, until Constantine had gone after him. When no witnesses would come forward against him, it was Constantine who had gone to his old neighborhood and cajoled and convinced people to give statements against him. Tension would never forget his humiliation that night on Napier Road, when Constantine had beaten him like a dog. During his trial Constantine had planted evidence, conjured up false witnesses, done whatever he could to ensure that Tension wouldn’t get off. He didn’t. His first couple of years in jail had been difficult ones. For all his posturing, at heart Tension was a bully, capable of dishing out pain and hardship, but not quite so tough at receiving it. In the world of the prison it wasn’t so easy being a tough guy, especially when your party was in opposition. In a way, Constantine could see why Tension hated him with such passion.
It wouldn’t be the first time something like this had happened. The UF had murdered many cops. Constantine had heard that their hit squads were hunting down lower-level police officers who had been involved in the operation against them. Off-duty officers were killed in mafia-style hits by unidentified gunmen. No one even bothered investigating these cases properly. After a couple of days, the case file was flagged as unsolved. Everyone knew that the UF was behind the murders, but no one was brave enough to state that publicly. It would be very easy, in these circumstances, for Ateeq Tension to arrange an ambush for him. After all, who knew where he was going? Pakora had expressly told him not to tell anyone of the meeting. Even if he had informed someone, Pakora could just deny it. He was going to his house, after all, in a private vehicle, without his uniform or his bodyguards. The minister’s residence was located in an area that was an absolute UF stronghold. Their activists roamed the streets openly brandishing automatic weapons. Anything could happen to him on the way. His body would be found lying in a jute sack on the side of some road in the morning, and his name would be added to the long list of the city’s unsolved cases. Another statistic.
For a moment, just a brief moment, Constantine thought about not going. But he decided that it would not be possible to get out of a direct summons from the minister, especially as he had answered the phone himself. Besides, they could just as easily walk into his home and murder him in front of his wife and children. At least this way, his family would be spared. No, he would go, but he would take precautions. He took out his service pistol from the side table and stuck it in his pants. He went outside and called out to Ashraf. Two of Constantine’s most trusted bodyguards remained with him at all times, even sleeping at his house. He told Ashraf and the other guard, Saeedullah, to arm themselves and follow him on a motorbike.
He looked in on his daughters in their room. Malia was busy studying for her exams, oblivious to the happenings around her, as children often are at exam time. Choti was already asleep. Mary was in the kitchen warming some milk for Malia. He walked up behind her and took the saucepan from her hand.
“Mary, quickly pack some things. And get the girls ready. We have to go right now.”
In over ten years of marriage, she had grown accustomed to his irregular work hours and his having to rush off in the middle of the night. In all their time together, she had never asked him about his work. Constantine had always found that strange. He was, of course, glad not to have to rehash his professional life at home every day, but her complete and utter lack of interest in the subject also irked him at times. She had never asked him about his past, about the naika or the occasional whore over the years. He had stopped all of that years ago, but for all she knew, he could have continued his activities. A few years ago he had touched upon the subject, lightly suggesting that he could have been using work as an excuse for having a woman on the side. She had countered by saying that if the stink on his cl
othes when he came home from the police station was a woman’s scent then she felt sorry for her, and for him.
But today was different. It was the first time he had ever told her to come with him. Though he tried to keep his tone even, she could sense the fear and anxiety in his voice, as only a wife could.
“What’s wrong?”
He was in the girls’ room, helping them get ready. He stared at her for a minute, not sure what to tell her. What could he tell her? That he was trying to figure out a safe place to move them to, while he himself was on his way to an appointment with death? And what was he basing these fears on? He had always tried to keep his family as far away from his professional life as possible, to protect them from the world he inhabited. There was no need to change that now. Even if this was the last time he ever saw them.
She sensed his hesitation and, not knowing what else to do, idiotically offered him the glass of milk that was in her hand. He smiled in spite of himself and took the milk.
“It’s nothing that serious. There’s just a rumor of a jailbreak at the prison. A couple of inmates might have gotten out, and they might want to come after the jail superintendent. Since everyone there knows where I live, I think it’s a good idea to move you somewhere safer for a couple of days. You know, just until the prisoners are caught. Nothing to worry about. They’re just normal prisoners, not jihadis or wardias.”
“But where are you taking us? Should I just go to my parents’ house?”
That was a good question, and Constantine had not given it much thought before this instant. He didn’t want to send them to any of their relatives, because, if the UF were determined to come after them, they would already know where all of his relatives lived. A million thoughts kept shooting through his mind, until it hit him like a lightning bolt. There was only one place where he could guarantee their safety.
“I’ll tell you about it on the way. Hurry up and get your things together.”
He packed Mary and the girls into his battered old Toyota Corolla and, with Ashraf and Saeedullah following close behind on a motorcycle, started driving through Saddar, the city center. There were still plenty of signs of activity despite the late hour. Though most of the shops were closed, many roadside tea stalls and restaurants were open. The scent of chicken tikka and kebab grilling on skewers wafted through the car windows. Hermaphrodites in colorful outfits accosted pedestrians for a few rupees. As they approached Napier Road, Constantine could see the young girls on the balconies, their faces painted in garish makeup, waving at passersby, looking for potential customers for the night. Mary’s eyes widened in shock and horror as she realized where they were, but she held her silence. The girls, happy for the midnight drive but also understanding, at some level, that all was not as it should be, kept unusually quiet and stared out the car windows.
The Prisoner Page 19