As soon as he exited from the room into the corridor, Sheikh Noman wiped his perspiring brow with a silk handkerchief. Akbar lit a cigarette and took a long drag.
“Arre, sheikh, what’s this new film? This is not what you and I had discussed. Where did this punter come from?”
“My God, Akbar, you do not know what I have had to put up with these past few days. This man is horrible. I assure you, I did not invite him to be a part of this. One of the boys from the group who kidnapped the American contacted him after they had deposited the journalist with me. He approached me a couple of days later and congratulated me. And then he came over and has been sitting on my head for the past week. He has been pushing me to kill the American. What’s worse is that he has convinced most of my other supporters that this is a good thing to do. They have all been carried away with his fiery rhetoric and his stories of fighting in the jihad.”
“Sheikh, this fool doesn’t know how things work in this city, but you and I do. I have stuck my neck out for this case. Everyone—the UF, the Agencies, the bosses—are all counting on my ability to recover this Friedland fellow. I will be going straight back to solitary if I don’t bring him back. You and I had a deal on this.”
“Yes, I know, Akbar, and I don’t want to do this, but this bastard has my people eating out of the palm of his hands. They do not understand the complexities of the situation like you and I do. They just want to follow any idiot who starts shouting ‘Death to America.’ I fear that I will lose my supporters, my madrasa students, if I do not acquiesce to his demands.”
“Sheikh, do you think the Americans will ever forgive us if this journalist does not come back alive? Forget about me, you will be finished. Your madrasas, more importantly your gambling dens, that are so profitable for you? Everything will be gone. The Agencies and the Americans know that you have a role in this kidnapping, but I have convinced them that it was a positive role and that you were trying to get Friedland back. If something happens to him, that’s it. You won’t be able to survive in the city. You won’t be able to go abroad. You think your Saudi friends will take a risk on you and keep sending you funds if they find out you are linked to this? And what about the religious learning centers that you have set up in America? I know you visit them so eagerly every summer. What’s the name of that city you like to go to, the one with the naked dance bars and twenty-four-hour brothels? Las Vegas? No more of that, sheikh. Listen, maybe Osama bin Laden and this chutiya in your office can live in a cave on the side of a mountain and be quite happy about it, but do you think you’ll be able to do that? Come on, you and I live in the real world. This bhenchod has nothing to lose, but we have everything on the line here.”
The sheikh was contemplative for a moment. Perhaps it was the thought of never going to Vegas ever again that convinced him. “Okay Akbar, but how do we solve this problem? How do we shut this bastard up?”
“I have a plan. We’ll go back inside and you just go along with whatever I say. I’ll take care of him. Does he know where you’ve kept the American?”
“Yes. He went and saw him there a couple of times. He has a couple of his own people there on guard duty. But Akbar, what will I tell my followers later on?”
“You can tell them that he was a CIA spy who helped the American to escape.”
They went back into the office, where Qari Saif now stared at them malevolently. He kept twirling his rosary, but he held it so tightly that his knuckles were white. Akbar sat down directly in front of him and looked straight into his eyes, his hands clasped together in supplication.
“Qari sahib, I apologize for my outburst. I did not mean to insult your dignity. It’s just that I have become so devoted to our cause that my blood boils every time someone tries to cast aspersions on my faith. Sheikh sahib took me outside and told me of the error of my ways. Perhaps it was because I have spent so much time in prison, I think I have forgotten how to interact with great men. You are right, and Sheikh sahib is right. The American must die. But we must do it immediately. The police will not be too far behind. And I ask of just one thing from you.”
The startled Qari looked at Sheikh Noman who, in spite of his own confusion, was nonetheless able to muster a sharp nod to confirm what Akbar was saying. Then he turned back to Akbar and, in a wary voice, asked, “What do you want?”
“I want to be the one to kill him.”
The silence in the room was broken by the gasp that emanated from Qari Saif. “You? But I don’t understand. Why?”
“No one has questioned my faith like that. I am going to prove to you that Allah’s cause means more to me than anything else. And I want you to witness the execution, so that there can be no doubts ever again in your mind.”
“There is no need for that. I am convinced of your faith and devotion—”
“No, this is the way it must be. I insist upon it. You know where the American is kept? Come, take me there, and let’s do it now.”
“No, no, but there is no need for me to . . . what I mean is that there is no need for us to do this ourselves.”
“No, it is better if we do not involve anyone else. We cannot vouch for their dedication. They may contact the police, or let the American live. You and I must do it, Qari.”
Sensing the Qari’s bewilderment and apprehension, Sheikh Noman spoke up. “Qari sahib, I think you have to go with Akbar. It is the only way of ensuring that this thing is done correctly. Besides, he has a right to impress upon you his commitment to our cause since you did so openly question it.”
“There. We are all agreed. Where have you kept the American, sheikh?”
“We kept him isolated in one of the houses near the complex. Qari sahib has been there, and will take you. We don’t keep more than two guards on him at a time, to attract minimum attention. He is quite comfortable there, though we do keep him blindfolded.”
The matter was obviously closed, so Qari Saif did not make any further protest. He got up from the cushions and gestured for Akbar to follow him. They descended into the dark corridor and made their way through the labyrinth of passages to a side door, which led out onto a very narrow street. Qari Saif led them through the street to a group of undistinguished-looking buildings. The houses looked dilapidated. The bricks and mortar had not been plastered over, and rusty old iron bars covered the window openings. Garbage lay outside the front door, creating a nasty stench around the place. A solitary man sat on a stool outside the house. Akbar could see no weapon on his person.
“Is he one of your people, Qari sahib?”
“No. He is just one of the sheikh’s normal retainers. He doesn’t even know what is kept inside the house.”
“Who else knows about the package?”
“Well, one of my men keeps watch inside, bringing food and taking the kafir to the toilet.”
“Get rid of him when we get inside.” Akbar gestured to the guard outside and told him to return to the madrasa to report to the sheikh.
“What? But why? These are trusted men and, besides, we will need them to help us in our undertaking.”
Akbar snickered. “Heh. Qari sahib, you may be a very learned man and a great orator, but it is obvious that you don’t have too much experience of such matters. The fewer witnesses there are the better. The police are closing in on us. Would you like any of these men to reveal where you are before you get a chance to get away?”
“I know my people. They are completely trustworthy and would never reveal anything, even if they were captured.”
“Your mistake, Qari sahib, if you trust any of your people. I am sure a couple of them already report your daily whereabouts to the police or the Agencies. As you said, I was a police officer, and I know how these things work. If you think any of your people can last more than five minutes when they are hung upside down by their balls in a thana, then you’re sadly mistaken. You may want your followers to know of your involvement in this case, but your followers cannot help you if you become a martyr to the cause. It’s
no fun fighting a jihad from inside a jail cell. No, we will do this ourselves, just you and I. Heh, I know you may not want to get blood on your clean clothes, but you have to get your own hands dirty if you want to further the cause.”
Qari Saif looked at Akbar apprehensively. “Do you intend to join us in the mountains?”
“But of course. Where did you think I would go after killing the American?”
Qari Saif muttered under his breath as the two of them set foot in the house. It was pitch-dark, with the only light coming through the iron bars of a high window. The half-cemented floor was littered with droppings, and the only sound was the flapping of wings. Pigeons had nested near the window, entering through the gaps in the iron bars. Akbar drew his gun from under the folds of his shalwar.
“Do you have a weapon to kill him, or should I just shoot him?”
“I had left a sword with my man over here. I had thought it would be nice to behead him on camera.”
“That’s perfect. We can tell your man to go get a camera and while he is gone, we’ll finish the job.”
Qari Saif’s retainer emerged from the shadows at the sound of their voices. He was sitting in front of a cast iron door that was bolted shut with a huge padlock. The man bowed his head to them and handed over the keys to the padlock. As he unlocked the door, Qari Saif ordered the guard to fetch a video camera.
“It is a pity that we cannot make a proper production out of the American’s death. But perhaps what you say is correct. Better to finish the job and be on our way. I’ll be glad to be rid of him. He’s been quite a handful as a prisoner. He always tries to talk to the guards, trying to discuss theology with them. The kafir even quotes from the Quran.”
As he spoke, he bent and pushed back against the heavy iron door. The door budged only slightly, letting in a sliver of light into a dark, dank room. Akbar peered over the Qari’s shoulders into the darkness, trying to accustom his eyes. The room was freezing, and their breath turned to mist. In the furthest corner, Akbar could just about make out the shape of a man sleeping on the ground. He was huddled up in a tattered old blanket, with one hand shackled to the wall. A steel jug of water and a steel glass lay by his side, while fast-food wrappers from McDonalds and KFC littered the floor. His captors obviously wanted him to feel at home.
“Heh. Looks like you are the one he seems to have unnerved, Qari sahib. What, you don’t like anyone else sermonizing in front of your men?”
“No. I don’t want my followers getting confused and corrupted by anyone else’s views, especially a kafir. I have to keep them focused on our mission. Besides, he was just telling them lies, lies created to divert people from the true faith, by the Jews and the American—”
The words hadn’t finished coming out of his mouth before his brains splattered against the iron door.
Constantine had followed Akbar all the way to the mosque complex. He could see the jeep, with Aziz and the bodyguards in it, parked at the front of the madrasa. He was looking pretty conspicuous just sitting there in his own pickup, so he decided to scout the area on foot. It was still early, and the neighborhood was quiet. Trying to look as casual as he could in a uniform and with a gun in his hand, he circled the madrasa complex.
He was scared. This was just the wrong sort of place for him to be in. If any of the locals were to spot him, their response to a police superintendent wandering around in their colony would not be a particularly welcoming one. And heaven forbid if they were to discover that he was a Christian.
Constantine swallowed hard and self-consciously raised his hand to cover the gold cross round his neck. At the back of the complex, the street narrowed so much that barely one person could walk in it at a time. As he rounded the corner, Constantine saw a man holding a Kalashnikov rifle step out of a door. The rifle was slung over his shoulder, and he was holding something shiny and metallic in his hand. The only audible sound was the cooing of the pigeons.
It was at that moment that the sharp retort of the gunshot echoed in the alley. The man with the rifle rushed towards the door, dropping the metallic object and unslinging his rifle in one efficient maneuver. Constantine looked around to see if anyone else had reacted. In the distance, he could hear men shouting. He was sure they were coming this way.
Akbar cursed himself for having shot Qari Saif at such close range. His blood and bits of his brain had splattered on Akbar’s nice white shalwar-kameez. He shook his head. Five years of inactivity really threw off your timing.
The inert figure lying on the floor had woken with a start at the sound of the gunshot. Akbar could see that a very tight blindfold had been tied over his eyes. With his unshackled hand, the prisoner tried to feel the space in front of him, trying to guess how close his assailants were.
“What, what is it? Who’s there? Please, someone answer me!”
Akbar had never had a very good grasp of English, but he could understand the gist of what the American was saying. Friedland began to shiver uncontrollably as he heard Akbar’s footsteps.
“Please, Khuda ke liye, don’t kill me!”
“No, no kill. I, uh, I police. Come to help. No worry.”
“Oh thank God. Thank you, thank you so much.” The American began to sob in relief.
Just as Akbar started undoing his shackles, he heard footsteps behind him and the voice of the guard, calling out for the Qari. He cursed his haste. The guard must still have been in earshot and must have heard the shot. He signalled to Friedland, whose blindfold was now off, to wait, and walked towards the open door, his gun cocked with his finger on the trigger. But the guard had already reached the outer chamber and his Kalashnikov was pointed straight at Akbar. Hands trembling, he pulled back the bolt, cocking the weapon on full automatic, as he stared disbelievingly at what was left of Qari Saif’s skull. Akbar knew he was outgunned and there was nowhere left to run. Any second, the guard’s twitchy finger would touch the hair trigger of the rifle ever so slightly and the Kalashnikov would spit out a burst of hot lead. He half closed his eyes and pointed his own pistol at the guard, hoping to get off a lucky shot.
The next thing he heard was a single fire. The guard fell to the floor, his head landing in the mushy mixture of blood, brains, and pigeon droppings that surrounded the Qari’s body. Akbar instinctively dropped to the ground to avoid any ricochets. He imagined a posse of bearded madrasa students bursting through the door, baying for his blood. He tried to think of how he could talk his way to safety and take the American with him. Dozens of thoughts and plans raced through Akbar Khan’s mind in that nanosecond, but the last person he expected to see walking through the door was Constantine, with his pistol still pointed at the inert body of the guard.
Akbar’s face broke into a wide grin. “Heh. That was always the great thing about you, Consendine. Your timing.”
“Shut up and move. We have to get the hell out of here. The fucking madrasa students are on their way.”
Akbar turned around to see where the American was. He had stuck his head under the blanket, bewildered by this turn of events. His body continued to shake uncontrollably, still not sure whether he had been rescued from the jaws of death only to be restored to the same jaws a moment later. “Consendine, let me introduce you to Jon Friedland. But I’m not too sure whether he’s figured out what’s going on. Speak to him in English and calm him down.”
Constantine approached the blanket gingerly. “Uh, Mr. Friedland, we are police officers. Please do not be afraid, we are here to take you from this place. Please come with us.”
At the sound of Constantine’s words and the sight of his uniform, the blanket came off. Friedland, his blond hair caked with dirt, his filthy face streaked by tears, and wearing a shalwar-kameez, was unrecognizable from his photographs in the newspapers. As he stepped out of the darkness of the inner chamber into the outer room, he inadvertently stepped into the wet slick that had been created by the blood and brains of the Qari and the guard. At first he didn’t comprehend what had happened, as hi
s eyes still adjusted to the light, but when he stared down at his feet and saw that he was standing in the Qari’s skull, he collapsed. Akbar was close enough to catch him before he dropped on top of the guard’s body.
“He’s passed out. Probably better. Easier to get him out of here. Consendine, get me his blanket. We’ll wrap him in it and I’ll carry him like a gunny sack.”
“What’s your plan to get out of here, Akbar?”
“Well, heh, I hadn’t really thought this whole thing out that far ahead.”
The two of them could hear the voices getting closer. Constantine thought for a moment. “Akbar, call Sheikh Noman, he must be close by. Tell him to call his students into one of the lecture rooms for some kind of special sermon, to distract them. Tell him he should also call the local police and inform them that there were some shots fired and for them to come in force. If the sheikh calls them, the locals won’t have a problem. You and I will carry the American out like this, wrapped in the blanket, and we’ll dump him in the back of my pickup. If anybody sees us, they’ll think we’re disposing a body or something. Which is better than them finding out about the American.”
“The prison has made you sharper, Consendine.” Akbar took his phone from his pocket and dialled Sheikh Noman, giving him instructions in a hushed tone.
The two men wordlessly covered Friedland with the blanket, and Akbar tossed him over his shoulder while Constantine led the way, peering out of the door with some trepidation. Three alleys converged at the point where the quarters were. Constantine could see a small crowd approaching them from one of the alleys. But it was still early, and a slight mist hung over the area. The men were still far enough to not be able to identify him and Akbar properly. His pickup was parked at the end of one of the other alleys. Keeping his pistol in one hand, he helped Akbar carry Friedland, and the two of them stumbled into the shadows of the second alley just as the crowd came into full view. Constantine could hear an announcement being made over a loudspeaker, and then several men turned back towards the madrasa. Evidently, Sheikh Noman’s call to prayer had worked.
The Prisoner Page 31