The Prisoner

by Omar Shahid Hamid

  The two men hustled and stumbled through the narrow alley, until it finally widened out and they could see Constantine’s blue Toyota pickup. By now, both men were breathing heavily and, with one final effort, they dumped Friedland into the back of the vehicle.

  “Akbar, what about Aziz?”

  “I’ll call him and tell him to drive away as casually as possible, after ten minutes.”

  Constantine revved the engine and reversed the pickup onto the main road. His heart didn’t stop thumping until they were back on the road leading to the shrine of the crocodiles. Akbar was much calmer, lighting a cigarette and staring out the passenger window at the shrine.

  “I came here in the morning and prayed, you know? I even threw some popcorn as an offering to the crocodiles. And God sent you as the answer to my prayers.”

  “Shut up, you fucking maulvi.” But Constantine couldn’t help smiling as he said it.

  Epilogue

  January 14, 10:30 a.m.

  The prison

  It was a busy morning for Constantine in his office. The paperwork was stacked high on his desk. His workload had greatly increased recently. The start of a new year was always busy, with the Home Department having a voracious appetite for annual reports. Additionally, Constantine’s inspector general had developed a new fondness for him in the past couple of weeks. He now demanded Constantine’s input on all issues and refused to make any decisions without checking with him. Perhaps the IG thought that he had intervened with Pakora to save his job, but whatever the reason, Constantine could do no wrong in his book.

  He was almost finished with his correspondence. He picked up the last piece of paper in front of him. It was an order from the sessions court, confirming that the case against Akbar Khan had been withdrawn. He was a free man now, in letter and in fact. Constantine acknowledged the receipt of the document with a flourish of his pen. He put aside the stack of files and stretched his arms. His orderly, who Constantine was convinced had some sort of telepathic ability, wordlessly entered the room and replaced his cold cup of tea with a steaming hot one.

  He finally glanced at the morning paper, which had been lying unread at his side. The American president had just concluded a successful state visit to Pakistan and had praised the country as a “bulwark in the War on Terror.” He had made special mention of the Friedland kidnapping, and had cited the professionalism and dedication of the Pakistani law enforcement agencies in bringing the case to a successful conclusion. It was just what the government had wanted: a nice, firm pat on the back by Uncle Sam. In the second story on the front page of the paper, the Don, in a special message from his New York headquarters, had also given his congratulations to all of those who were involved in recovering Jon Friedland. He had singled out Pakora and referred to him as a “brilliant, incorruptible individual,” and had vowed to maintain him as Home Minister for as long as he remained the head of the United Front. The Don’s unequivocal declaration had poured water on the hopes of all the other aspirant UF ministers who were hoping to unseat Pakora.

  The same article went on to say that Deputy Superintendent of Police Akbar Khan, the newly installed head of a special investigations unit, who had reportedly played a key role in the recovery of the American, had been recommended for promotion to the rank of superintendent. The writer did not dwell upon Akbar’s stay in prison or the UF’s enmity towards him. The past, it seemed, could be whitewashed quite easily.

  Constantine had heard that everyone connected with the case was being rewarded in one way or another. Hanuman had been nominated to receive a medal for his contributions and would be promoted to head the provincial police as its inspector general when the current IG retired in a couple of months. Constantine hadn’t spoken to Tarkeen since that night in Orangi, but Rommel had called him a couple of times just to chat. Through him, Constantine had discovered that Tarkeen too had been guaranteed a promotion and a plum new assignment on the president’s personal staff in Islamabad, also to take effect later in the year.

  Rommel had proved himself to be a singularly good friend. He was an honorable man learning to survive in a dishonorable world. Constantine had grown fond of him. Tarkeen’s departure, and Constantine and Akbar’s counsel, would allow him to grow into his role.

  The other major story in the paper was an article written by Jon Friedland for the San Francisco Chronicle, and syndicated around the world. Under the headline “My Karachi Kidnapping,” Friedland had recounted his ordeal and claimed that his captors were surprisingly good to him. From his writing, at least, it seemed as if the kidnapping had not had any permanent ill effects on Friedland. In fact, he was set to profit from it tremendously. A book deal was naturally in the offing and the entertainment pages were ablaze with rumors that both Bollywood and Hollywood were vying for the movie rights. Friedland hadn’t publicly commented on these rumors, but he had heaped praise on the courageous officer who had dramatically rescued him from his captors.

  News of Akbar seemed to dominate the papers these days. Judging by the comparative column space that crime reporters were devoting to them, it was clear that Akbar’s fortunes were on the rise, while Maqsood Mahr’s were unquestionably declining. Akbar’s new unit had been conducting raids and making arrests all over the city, while Maqsood had been handed an official censure from the inspector general for his poor investigative record.

  Constantine was about to put the paper down when he spotted a small news item hidden away inside the second-to-last page of the paper. A man named Ateeq Kapadia had been killed in an armed encounter with personnel from Akbar’s unit, when he had attempted to snatch a motorcycle the previous night. The report noted that he was found to be in possession of a handgun as well as large quantities of heroin, causing speculation that he may have been a drug dealer. The report noted that Kapadia was reputed to have had a prior criminal record and was wanted in several cases. The report did not mention him by his more familiar name, Ateeq Tension, or his connection with the UF. Constantine’s face morphed into a mask of serenity. So Akbar had finally got him.

  Constantine could not express the relief he felt. He had brought Mary and the girls back from the naika’s on Christmas Day and, though there had been no fresh threats, Tension’s presence had remained a worry for him. Other than that, normalcy had slowly returned to the D’Souza household. Constantine had expected Mary to make some reference to Salma Begum, or at least question him about his past. But she had not. A strange bond had formed between the women in those two days, a bond based on mutual concern for the man they both cared deeply about. Constantine did not know whether Salma had told Mary about the past, but he noticed that Mary showed no signs of insecurity about Salma. On New Year’s Day, Mary had sent over a cake to Salma, something that Constantine knew she only did for family and close friends. Two days after that, Salma had come over to visit Mary and the girls. It was the first time she had set foot in Constantine’s home. He had not been there himself, but he had heard that she had sat there for several hours, chatting and playing with the girls.

  Putting aside the paper, Constantine got up from his chair and strolled out of his office. He couldn’t figure out if he was happy or resentful at the rewards that everyone else was reaping. To be perfectly fair to them, they had all offered to take him along in their ride. It was he who had turned them down. So if there were no plaudits for him, it was his own doing. He could still cash in if he wanted to. It would take one call to Akbar or Hanuman and he would be back in the Karachi Police. But did he want to jump back into that life? The thrill of the chase, constantly living on the edge. Or was he now content to watch others from the shadows?

  Constantine had been a keen sportsman in his youth. As a hockey player, he had nearly made it to the national team. He remembered something an old coach once told him during practice. For a sportsman, the time he spends at the peak of his best years is the apex of his life. It can never get any better than that. The feeling of exhilaration, the intoxicating nature of you
th, the belief that nothing is beyond your grasp. Immortality. There is no feeling like it in the world and, once it is gone, you spend the rest of your life trying in vain to recapture it somehow. But it would never come back. Sometimes Constantine felt as if his years in the police had become like that as well. What you did in the few years that you had power, position, and ability could never be matched with anything you did the rest of your life. Everything that followed inevitably felt more mundane, less fulfilling. The trick, just like in sport, was knowing when to quit. Boxers kept coming back for one last fight, one more shot at greatness even though they had become punch-drunk. Cricketers continued to play even after the reflexes slowed down and the eyes lost their certainty, desperate to cling on, unwilling to bring the curtain down on themselves. Police officers were the same. One more case, one more medal, one more dramatic encounter, one more narrow brush with death. But ultimately, if you didn’t take your bow and step off the stage at the right time, either the enemies that you made in a lifetime of pissing people off caught up with you or your own colleagues stabbed you in the back. It was all about the timing.

  Constantine walked through the prison gates into the sunlight of the outer courtyard, to the same spot where he had met Rommel three weeks ago. The weather was warming up. This was welcome relief for a Karachiite like Constantine. The soft, warm sunlight felt good on his face. As he stretched again, a man approached him from the outer gate. The man walked up to him, salaamed him, and handed him an envelope. Inside it were 100,000 rupees and a note from Akbar. The note simply said, “There’s a place waiting for you. Akbar.” The messenger indicated that the amount was Constantine’s weekly share, courtesy of Akbar’s bookie friend, and that he would deliver a similar amount every week.

  Akbar had made his decision when he walked out of those same gates. What would Constantine do? He smiled as he thumbed the money. What was it Akbar had said? In the end, we are all prisoners of our own destiny. And so it was.

  Glossary

  aalim: Islamic scholar

  adab: a form of highly formal traditional greeting, used in the Moghul royal court, where the supplicant raises his or her palm to their face and bows in front of the person they are meeting. Used to portray deference.

  afsar: officer

  arre: colloquial term; the closest English term to it would be “Hey”

  aur: the English equivalent would be “and”

  ayaash: someone who likes to party, especially with regard to booze and women

  baba: colloquial term, equivalent to saying “Hey man”

  badmashes: street thugs, gangsters

  badshah log: literally, “royal people”; colloquially used to describe someone who has a casual, devil-may-care attitude, with no care for consequences, similar to royals

  barey mian: old man

  beater: official at the police station who collects all the illegal payments from the area’s vice dens, on behalf of the police station in-charge

  bhai: brother; often used by representatives of political and religious parties to address each other

  bharwa: pimp

  bhenchod: expletive meaning “sister-fucker”

  chutiya: expletive, literally translates to “cunt”

  chowkidar: night watchman

  crore: ten million rupees; approximately 100,000 USD

  Defence, Clifton Defence: Posh upscale residential neighborhoods in Karachi, known for their very liberal and Westernized outlook

  dupatta: scarf, part of traditional dress, often draped across the chest or shoulders, but can also be worn more conservatively to cover a woman’s head; less conservative than a hijab

  fatigue: colloquial term used by the police to describe an unwanted task that is dumped on to a junior subordinate by a senior

  fauji: Army personnel

  ghazal: traditional ballad

  goonda: gangsters

  gora: white person

  gully: side alley

  harami: literally means “bastard”; used colloquially to imply someone who is sneaky and conniving

  haramkhor: bastard

  hari-pagri: green turbans; colloquial term used to describe members of the Tableeghi Jamaat, who go around proselytising and inviting people to become born-again Muslims; very similar to Jehovah’s Witnesses

  hijira: hermaphrodite

  Hum Don se pyaar karna chahte hain: literally, “We want to make love to the Don,” though when said in Urdu the term “make love” isn’t meant to be sexual

  imam zamin: amulet worn or given by Shias to someone for their protection

  izzat: honor

  kana: colloquial term for a one-eyed person, someone who can only use one of their eyes

  khas-o-khas: colloquial term to describe someone who is in the inner circle or who has a special relationship

  Khuda Hafiz: Urdu term which means “good-bye”; literally, “God protect you”

  khokha: colloquial term used to describe one crore; equals 100,000 USD

  kya: what

  kya karoon: What can I do?

  kyun: why

  kyun re: colloquial term meaning “why”

  lakh: 100,000 rupees: approximately 1,000 USD

  mai-baap: mother-father; colloquially, someone to whom everything is owed, like a patron

  madarchod: motherfucker

  madrasa: religious school

  masjid: mosque

  maulvi: Islamic scholar

  meter: crazy or angry; going off the scales, or off the “meter”

  mohalla: neighborhood

  munshi: police station clerk who is responsible for all the administration of the station

  naika: chief madam, as is explained in the text. Prostitution is illegal in Pakistan, but a very established and lucrative trade has thrived for a long time in spite of this. The police often extort bribes or regular payments from brothels, and often corrupt police officers even become active partners in the business.

  Napier: the traditional red light district of Karachi

  Orangi: Karachi’s largest slum, known for its influx of criminals, ethnic political parties, and various religious extremist groups

  oye saale: mild expletive, equivalent to “Hey, idiot”

  paisa: money

  pakora: literally, a fried snack, but people with large and bulbous noses are often referred to as having a “Pakora nose”

  peti: street term for one lakh, or 100,000 rupees; approximately 1,000 USD

  phadda: a fight, used colloquially to denote something that becomes an issue

  the police lines: residential area for police officers which is usually attached at the back of or in the same compound as a police station, so that officers and men can reside close to their place of work

  Preedy: The city center, or downtown area of Karachi, known for its various markets. Preedy police station has traditionally been considered one of the city’s most lucrative police stations due to the plentiful opportunities for corruption.

  randi: prostitute

  reader: a term from the old British colonial nomenclature, a reader is basically the office assistant, or PA

  reti bajri: silt, sand and pebbles. In Karachi, police stations on the outskirts of the city often allow builders and truckers to illegally fill trucks with reti bajri to aid in construction projects in the city. This is considered an extremely lucrative source of revenue for the local police.

  saala: mild expletive, equivalent to “idiot”

  saala bharwa: idiot pimp

  saale: same as saala

  salaam[ed]: to greet somebody

  sardar: head of a tribe

  setting, do a setting: make an arrangement

  sifarish: requesting favours from politicians or other influential people

  Sohrab Goth: an area in Karachi notorious for the presence of drug dens and illegal activities

  sone ki chidiya: literally, “golden bird”; same as golden goose

  tableegh: spectacle

  tamasha: the
process of preaching conversion to Islam, done by missionaries who are similar to Jehovah’s Witnesses and who also advocate born-again Muslims.

  tandoor: a traditional oven, used to bake naan bread.

  tapori: street tough

  thoko: colloquial term meaning “to kill somebody”

  thulla: derogatory street slang for police officer

  tick off: to mildly admonish someone

  wadero: Sindhi word for rural landowner

  wardias: members of a city ward

  ward boss: head of a ward, the basic administrative unit of the United Front Party, usually organized at a neighborhood level, same as political wards in the US

  YaAllah: translates to “Oh God”

  yaar: friend

  Acknowledgements

  This book was conceived one evening when I was in the middle of one of my complaining rants to my wife, Samar. She was the one who encouraged me to put pen to paper (or fingers to laptop) and thus began a new chapter in my life. To Samar, who has stood by me through rain and shine, the good times and the bad, and without whose love and encouragement this book would never have been possible.

  To my mother, for putting up with me for thirty-six years: I am who I am because of you.

  To Chaudhry Aslam, Mushtaq Mahar, Shahid Hayat, and Irfan Bahadur, for teaching me how to be a cop.

  To Fayyaz and Nadeem, for telling me all the true stories that could only be told by converting them to fiction.

  To my mother-in-law, for poring over the edits of this book, despite crashing computers and Karachi load shedding.

  To my son, Suleyman, who is the only person in this world who can make me laugh at will.

  To my agent, Jessica, for believing in me as a writer, and to Cal Barksdale, and the rest of the team at Skyhorse Publishing for making this book possible.

  To Bina Shah who was that critical link—thank you!