Inside, Dr. Death was sitting behind his large desk, a pile of paperwork on one side. He barely acknowledged Akbar’s salute and did not offer him a seat. His attention seemed glued to a small TV screen in a corner of the room. The volume was turned low, but there was a cricket match on and the Doctor seemed totally engrossed in it. After a couple of minutes, the silence became uncomfortable, so Akbar asked if he could sit. Dr. Death grunted once in response. Taking that as a yes, he sat down.
Something had changed about Dr. sahib. The past few days had aged him. The posture, usually ramrod straight, was hunched in the chair. He seemed feeble and distracted. Akbar had never seen him like this before. Normally Dr. Death would waste no time in coming to the point, but today he kept staring at the television, not even attempting to start the conversation.
Akbar finally tentatively raised the issue himself. “Sir, uh, Maqsood registered a case against the officers who were present at the incident, and he’s started to make arrests.”
On the TV, Sachin Tendulkar hit a boundary. Dr. Death’s gaze did not waver once from the six different replays of the shot.
“Uh, if he’s allowed to do that, sir, it will be very demoralizing for the men. I mean, everyone knows that none of this was deliberate. It was an unfortunate accident, and they shouldn’t be prosecuted for that.”
There was still no response from the Doctor.
“Uh, sir, what do you want me to do with Shashlik? We need to start wrapping that case up as well. I’ll start on that as soon as this matter is cleared up.”
“You will hand Shashlik over to Maqsood immediately.” The voice was cold, emotionless.
“Excuse me, sir? But you told me to take back Shashlik’s custody because you suspected that Maqsood was on Shashlik’s payroll. And you were right, sir. Maqsood is totally mixed up in this. The way he’s trying to construct the case against the police proves this.”
“What I said before is irrelevant now. You will hand Shashlik over to Maqsood because that’s what the CM wants. And you will cooperate fully with Maqsood’s investigation.”
“But sir, Maqsood is concocting a false case against us. It would be crazy to go along with his—”
“I don’t have the strength anymore to question the CM’s orders.” He said it matter-of-factly, as if this was something impersonal, detached from his self. But the impact of the statement was not lost on Akbar. Dr. Death had been the man who had refused to compromise with the UF’s ward bosses, had traded body for body with them until they had run out of bullets. But Nawaz Chandio’s death had humbled him. There was a haunted look in his eyes, and it was clear he didn’t have the stomach for a fight anymore.
Still, Akbar made one last attempt. “Sir, whatever happened, we were following your orders. Your legitimate orders. We did nothing wrong. Maqsood is making it out as if we hatched a conspiracy to kill Nawaz Chandio.”
“Not we. You.”
Akbar felt physically sick. He could not believe that Dr. sahib had uttered such a sentence. He did not respond, but his pain was evident from his expression. Even Dr. sahib seemed to notice it, because he turned away from his TV screen for the first time and addressed Akbar directly. The crisp, commanding voice had been replaced with the doddering tone of an old man.
“Look Akbar, I can’t afford to get involved in this. The CM is inconsolable at the moment. And the UF is putting a lot of pressure against you. They want you to be punished for what you did to their ward bosses. Maqsood has spoken with the CM and assured me that my name will not be associated with this case in any way. He has already secured that promise from the UF as well.”
“Sir, I have always carried out your orders without question. You always told me I was like a son to you. I went after Chandio’s guards because it had become a matter of personal prestige for you. How can you abandon me like this? Can’t you see Maqsood is playing you?”
“I am sorry, Akbar. I truly am. It is true that I have always said you were like a son to me. But I have my own son, who I have a responsibility for. He is studying in college in America. What will happen to him if I go down for this? I have a year left before my retirement. I want to go home peacefully. I don’t want my son to see me from behind iron bars.”
“Arre, sahib, that’s all well and good for you. But I have children too. What about them? What will they do? Who is responsible for their well-being? Can you give me an answer for that?”
But there was no answer. Dr. Death picked up the remote and turned up the volume to signal that this meeting was over.
Constantine had been sitting outside nervously. Though he had little hope of a positive response from the IG, Akbar’s level of trust and confidence in Dr. Death had been so great that he thought that perhaps Akbar would be able to pull another rabbit out of his hat. One look at Akbar’s face as he walked out of the IG’s office brought all these burgeoning hopes crashing down. He seemed fine on the face of it, he still walked with his head held high, but it was his eyes that gave him away. There was a forlorn, faraway look in them, the look of a man who had come face to face with the reality of his illusions.
“Akbar! What happened?”
“Heh. Things didn’t work out the way we wanted to, Constantine.”
“What did Dr. sahib say to you?”
“It doesn’t matter. I think you should go now, Constantine. You shouldn’t be around for what’s about to happen. No one has linked you to this case till now, and we need to keep it that way.”
“But what happened, Akbar?”
“Everybody needs someone to blame for this mess. I’m the most convenient option. Move along, Consendine. I’m going to become toxic pretty soon.”
“Akbar, we have to try and do something. Look, let’s go see Colonel Tarkeen and ask for his help.”
“There’s no point. He’s been angry with me since I started working with the Bleak House wallahs. He’s hardly going to help me now. Besides, I’m not going to debase myself by begging for his help. When Dr. sahib has given up, what can Tarkeen do? No Consendine, there’s no point in fighting this anymore.”
The Pizza Hut at Boat Basin was a good location for a low-profile meeting. Karachi’s middle class flocked to it in droves, wanting their own little slice of globalization. The lines often stretched around the block, giving the fast-food chain the feel of a Michelin-star restaurant. Since the Americans had invaded Afghanistan, business had actually shot up. It seemed as if the denizens of the city, insecure about what the future held and worried that this new War on Terror would curtail their supply of deep-pan stuffed crusts, had decided to grab whatever they could while the going was still good.
Constantine sat at a discreet corner booth, close to the kitchen door. The smell of freshly baked pizza wafted towards him every time the door opened. Tarkeen had chosen to meet him here rather than in his office. Since Nawaz Chandio’s death, the Agencies were keeping a low profile. The city’s rumor mills had been full of stories suggesting their involvement in Chandio’s death. The papers, which were filled with miraculously discovered new “facts” about the incident every day, all conveniently leaked by Maqsood Mahr’s team, were now pursuing what they had termed as the “magic bullet” theory. It propounded that the first shot had been fired by a hidden shooter, who had obviously been in the employ of the Agencies.
Tarkeen had only consented to a meeting after Constantine had begged and pleaded with him. Akbar had been true to his word after his meeting with Dr. Death the day before. He had retreated to his home, to wait for whatever fate had in store for him. But in spite of Akbar’s reservations about Tarkeen, Constantine had felt it was worth one last, desperate shot. After all, what was the alternative? Constantine was sure that it hadn’t sunk into Akbar yet that if things continued the way they were going, Maqsood Mahr would throw him in jail. Constantine’s pizza had just arrived when Tarkeen walked in, looking like a middle-aged bank executive in a dark suit and conservative tie.
“Constantine, my dear fellow, I’m gla
d you ordered already. I’m famished.”
“Sir, thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure you would. I know your people are getting quite a lot of flak from the Chandio thing, and I also know that you were angry with Akbar before this incident occurred.”
“Not at all, Constantine. You know I would never refuse a request from you. As for our organization, well, we get used to the criticism. The opposition politicians will rant and rave for a while about how the government is using the Agencies to intimidate its enemies, but then they will all shut up and change their tune when they realize that they are about to form the next government. That’s when everyone starts appreciating our utility. As for the rest, well, the chattering classes in this country will always chatter, but never really do anything. Deep down, they are quite happy to keep us around because the alternative is quite unpalatable for them. If we weren’t there to keep everyone in check, the masses would tear apart these so-called elites.”
“So you think the government is about to fall?”
“Oh, it’s already been decided. The UF has concluded the deal with the president. He is going to cut Yousaf off and hand them this province in its entirety. No more power sharing or supporting from the fringes. He has agreed to all their demands, including complete control over the police. In return, they will support him wholeheartedly in this new campaign against the jihadis. And they have also promised to keep their new ward bosses within acceptable limits. It’s quite a good arrangement all round, really.”
“What about Akbar, sir? Please sir, I request you to help him. Put aside your personal feelings. He has two small children. This is his life we’re talking about.”
“My dear boy, I was never angry at Akbar. Yes, I was disappointed when he spurned us to go work for our rivals. After all, I was the one who made him what he is today. A man should never forget his place in life. But it was never personal against him.”
“Then please, sir, help him in some way. He went to see the IG yesterday. I don’t know what happened in the meeting, but before going in, Akbar had been very confident that Dr. sahib would stand up for him. That obviously didn’t happen. He’s become completely fatalistic now. He’s just waiting for events to run their course. He’s given up the fight.”
Tarkeen chewed his pizza thoughtfully. “Yes, I didn’t expect the good Doctor to have helped. You see, Constantine, the biggest casualty of this incident isn’t Nawaz, or Akbar. It’s the Doctor. For all his tough talk as a man of unflinching principles, he went to pieces when things went bad. Ironically, he’s handed over all his authority to the man whom he despised. Maqsood is running the show now. He’s become the honest broker in all of this. He saved the IG’s neck, on the understanding that as soon as the government is formally dissolved, the good Doctor will be packed off to Islamabad, to serve out what little time is left in his career in some nondescript posting in a quiet corner of the federal government. But he is not to speak, or give any kind of evidence about this incident, ever. Hanuman is going to become the city police chief, because the United Front is comfortable with him, and Maqsood will become his second-in-command. Yousaf won’t make too much of a fuss about being sacked as CM, so long as we turn a blind eye to all the ill-gotten gains he acquired in his tenure and we don’t rock the boat as far as instigating his brother’s fidayeen. He’s got his hands full with them anyway, but an amnesty for their rioting after Nawaz’s death and a little spreading of the Chandio wealth will hopefully placate them.”
“But sir, the CM will give everything up as easily as that? And what about Shashlik? He’s still in police custody. In fact, Maqsood’s men took him from Akbar’s office late last night.”
“Well, there’s not much Yousaf can do. Sometimes events overtake us all. I mean, we didn’t feel this was an ideal situation, but you have to be flexible. You know, Maqsood has that quality. He really has been quite useful to us all. He brought Shashlik over to me last night and convinced him to throw in his lot with the government and the UF. Maqsood told him the alternative was that he would be indicted for planning the murder of his friend, Nawaz Chandio. Can you imagine, Shashlik and Akbar being charged for the same crime? Inventive fellow, that Maqsood. So Shashlik, predictably, agreed, and we’ll even reward him by making him a minister for transport or labor or something like that.”
“But sir, what about Akbar?”
Tarkeen sighed and took a sip from his Coke before answering. “As I said, Constantine, sometimes events overtake us. Maqsood’s price for doing all of this was Akbar’s head. Considering the circumstances, what could any of us do? I’m sorry, my boy. But you shouldn’t worry on your own account. No one wants to pursue anything against you, not even Maqsood. He has never mentioned your name in connection with this case in all his discussions with us. Just continue working as usual, Constantine.”
Constantine stared down at the cold slice of pizza on his plate. All around them, people unselfconsciously stuffed themselves, taking advantage of the latest meal deals, and piling their plates high at the salad bar. No one paid any attention to the pair of them. As far as everybody else in here was concerned, they were just two business associates. Who would have guessed that they were discussing the fate of a man’s life? A bittersweet smile broke out across his face. So this was how the great Akbar Khan would come to his end. Not through a ward boss’s bullet, but by the knife that his own officers had stuck in his back.
Tarkeen seemed to have sensed what he was thinking. “I can understand what you’re feeling, Constantine. Just remember, it was never personal with Akbar, always business.”
And with that, Colonel Tarkeen walked out of the Hut.
19
Day 3, December 23, 10:00 p.m.
The big black Land Cruiser with tinted windows was parked on the side of the main road that led into Orangi from Banares Chowk. Two police pickups were parked next to it. Inside the Land Cruiser were four men. Colonel Tarkeen had traded his usual dapper suits for a combat fatigue jacket. Constantine too wore civilian clothes and was carrying his service pistol in his hand. In the driver’s seat sat an inspector from Maqsood’s investigation branch, who was officially liaising with Tarkeen on this case. There was one other person in the car, sitting in the back, quietly working on a laptop. He was a Caucasian with blond hair, cut very short, military style. He wore dark wraparound sunglasses even at night and a thick windbreaker with a bulge on the right side. Tarkeen had not formally told anyone where he was from. He had simply been introduced as “Jim,” but it was evident that he was part of the FBI team that was helping out on this case.
Tarkeen stared at his watch for the fifth time in fifteen minutes. “Where’s your man, Constantine?”
The colonel had contacted Constantine a couple of hours after leaving the prison. They had gotten the details of the shop from where the SIM numbers had been distributed. Constantine arranged to meet up with Tarkeen’s team at Banares Chowk at about 9:00 p.m. This was the main route into Orangi. Constantine had already sent his man Ashraf ahead. He was to approach the shop in plainclothes, pretending to be a relative from Kana’s village, asking after him. As soon as he got a location, Ashraf would contact them and zero them in to where Kana was. The only problem was, Ashraf had been gone for almost an hour with no contact, and everyone was getting a little fidgety.
Constantine looked at his phone, willing it to ring. “He should be in contact soon, sir. He’s very reliable.”
“What if this guy doesn’t live in the area? What’s our plan B?” It was the American, who spoke in a thick Brooklyn accent.
The colonel and Constantine both looked at each other. The truth was, there was no plan B. The efforts of the police so far had been so utterly futile, that everyone had grasped at Akbar’s information like drowning men holding on to a lifeboat.
“Don’t worry, Jim. If this doesn’t work out, then we have five or six other leads that we are pursuing.” The colonel said this with a straight face and with as much confidence as he could muster.
The FBI man nodded dubiously, suspicious as always of all the actions of the Pakistanis.
“Anyway, the shop attendant said he lived nearby and gave Ashraf directions.”
“Excellent! Tell Ashraf to get to the address, and we will pick him up from there!” There was audible relief in Colonel Tarkeen’s voice.
“Sir, I have a better idea. It will be more covert. The attendant told Ashraf that Kana would return around 11:00 p.m. to pick up his daily wages from the shop. We will ask Ashraf to stay put and sit in a nearby chai shop. He will leave word at the shop so that they inform Kana that he is sitting there, waiting for him. Meanwhile, we will move in closer to the spot. As soon as he comes into the chai shop and asks for Ashraf, we can jump him. By that time of night this area starts winding down, so there won’t be that much activity and less chance of someone reporting Kana getting picked up immediately. If we pick him up from home, word will spread instantly. This way, we can gain a crucial couple of hours in which we can interrogate him and find out where the American is.”
“Sounds good,” said Jim. Everyone seemed to concur.
The Prisoner Page 25