The Karachi Deception, page 6
Stopping to take another sip of whisky, Colonel Mohan continued. ‘You spoke of combat experience… Over the last year, Rafiq has been involved in three major counter-insurgency operations, one in the Northeast, one in Bhutan to flush out the ULFA and Bodo militants hiding in that country, and one against the Naxalites on the Jharkhand–Orissa border. If Rafiq wasn’t in Unit Kilo, by now he would have been decorated with one gallantry award or another.’
Imtiaz looked at the colonel with cautious interest.
‘I am not exaggerating when I say this guy is good. Till Rafiq joined Unit Kilo, you had the best performance scores across all the training programmes that our commandos attend. Now Rafiq has the highest scores in three of these programmes, including the one you undertook on urban warfare in Germany.’
Imtiaz turned back to gaze out of the window. The knowledge that the young lieutenant had begun outshining him in Unit Kilo was both unsettling and humbling.
The colonel joined Imtiaz by the window and stood staring into the rain. ‘Does all this make him a better commando than you? I don’t think so. You have a vast experience in real urban warfare, while much of his skill has only been tested in a controlled environment. You have proved your worth to us many times over. He is yet to demonstrate how good he really is. All I am saying is that he has the talent to make a great commando. What he needs is the experience of working under a professional like you. You can actually help him shine.’
There was a brief silence as Imtiaz mulled the colonel’s words over. Seeing the effect his persuasions were having, the colonel turned to face Imtiaz. In a rare show of familiarity that was reserved for friends, Colonel Mohan placed his hand on Imtiaz’s shoulder.
‘I trusted you because I knew you were good. I trust Rafiq for the same reason. Don’t you have faith in my judgment?’
Imtiaz looked at the colonel’s earnest face for a moment. Then, taking a deep breath, he pulled himself erect.
‘I do, sir.’
19 July. South Coast of the Persian Gulf
The Viking Motor 75 bobbed gently in the shallow blue water, its nose pointing in a northeasterly direction. A stiff breeze blew in from the east, sending strong ripples along the sea’s surface, but the air was still comfortably warm, with well over an hour to go before sundown.
Zawawi stood on the prow of the luxury yacht, the breeze tearing at his spotless white Versace suit. Behind him, on the yacht’s main deck, preparations for a party were underway. Two of his guests, a ruddy-faced German diplomat and a Shylock-like Ukrainian banker, had already started depleting a stock of fine Chilean chardonnay, and the boisterous laughter of the German suggested that inebriation wasn’t far away.
Zawawi’s mind, however, was not on the shenanigans of his guests, an eclectic mix of individuals of various nationalities, bound by a common thread of avarice and the willingness to satiate it by breaking every conceivable law in any conceivable fashion. Instead, he was occupied with the thoughts of the men on another boat which, at that moment, was somewhere to the northeast, heading towards the Strait of Hormuz and the Gulf of Oman, en route to the Iran–Pakistan frontier.
That boat, a humble fishing trawler, couldn’t compare with the classy Viking he was in, nor could the men it was transporting match the crowd he was hosting in terms of net worth and sophistication. Yet, at that particular moment, Zawawi would willingly have traded the Viking and its occupants for the safety of the trawler’s payload.
For at that particular moment, the relative usefulness of Al-Kamil and his men was far greater than anything else to Zawawi. Everything depended on their reaching Karachi and killing Irshad Dilawar, and the Algerian knew that they were up against some very stiff odds.
Yet, as he gazed at the haze on the horizon, Zawawi felt strangely at peace. There was something immensely reassuring in Al-Kamil’s cold, savage personality…
‘Monsieur Zawawi, what are you doing there by yourself?’
Zawawi turned to see the German diplomat, a near-empty flute glass in one hand, lurching towards him, undone by the undulating sea and the liquids that he had been so freely imbibing.
‘You are the host,’ the German slurred slightly. ‘How can you neglect your guests so badly?’
Zawawi smiled and walked quickly towards the drunken man. Holding him by his elbow, he first steadied him, then gently propelled him towards the safety of the main deck.
‘I am always at your service, Herr Scheigel,’ he said obligingly.
Inside, the Shylock lookalike sat on a deck chair, nursing his glass. Next to him was a Filipino, the owner of a fleet of commercial ships. Zawawi stopped to exchange a few pleasantries with them, but he had barely uttered a few words when a skinny blonde in a burgundy gown with a plunging neckline waltzed up to him, a bottle of Krug in one hand.
‘I’ve been looking for you all over the place. Where have you been?’ she twittered in a thin reedy voice richly layered with a Bostonian accent. Before Zawawi could reply, the woman stared at his empty hands and tut-tutted, ‘You haven’t had anything to drink, I see. Come, you poor dear, let’s get you something nice, shall we?’
Zawawi let the woman take his hand and lead him to the bar, his eyes going over the young East Asian girl in a short, tight skirt mixing cocktails and serving the drinks. He would permit himself a lot of pleasures that evening, he decided.
But first, there was a spot of work still to be dispensed with. Zawawi accepted his mojito, excused himself politely and made his way to his cabin below deck.
It was time to update Loya Pathan about Al-Kamil’s departure to Quetta.
19 July. Pragati Maidan, New Delhi
Haider Nazir hurried out of the main door of Hall No 2, then stood uncertainly for a moment, wondering what to do next. He glanced at the Nescafe stall on the opposite side of the open courtyard and made up his mind. He needed a coffee. And some time to think in peace.
He walked across to the stall and bought himself a cup of instant coffee, before absent-mindedly scouting for a place to sit. All the open-air tables were occupied, so he finally sat down on a flight of stairs nearby. Taking a sip of the beverage, he glanced at his watch. It was just past seven.
Nazir grimaced and cast his eyes around. He could see people flocking about the many exhibition halls that made up Pragati Maidan, Delhi’s largest exhibition centre. And to his left, a steady stream of visitors was entering Hall No 2, which was hosting the inaugural edition of the South Asian Cottage Industries Trade Expo.
Nazir cursed inwardly, wondering what drew the general public to such exhibitions and fairs like magnets. Personally, he hated trade fairs, but as a press attaché with the Pakistani mission in India, his job involved conducting public relation exercises for Pakistani business houses and industries participating in trade fairs.
Seven o’clock, and Delhi’s populace was still pouring in through the gates of Pragati Maidan.
At this rate, it would be at least an hour—if not more—before the show wound down for the day. Then the customary niceties and conventions of diplomacy would follow, which meant that he wouldn’t be back inside the premises of the Pakistani High Commission in Chanakyapuri before nine.
The problem was that he had to get on the line to Pakistan as soon as possible. The information that he had just received from his contact was explosive, and Nazir knew his bosses in Islamabad had to know of it without delay.
He drained the coffee, crushed the plastic cup and stood up. To hell with the expo! The Pakistani stalls inside Hall No 2 could do without him for the rest of the evening. He dumped the cup into a trash can and was about to make his way towards the parking lot when he saw a woman of about forty approaching him.
‘Mr Haider Nazir?’ she asked tentatively.
‘Yes. How can I help you?’
It turned out that the woman was a senior journalist with The Economic Times, and she wanted Nazir’s assistance in interviewing some Pakistani businessmen for a story she was doing on Indo–Pak trade relations.
Nazir sighed. Etiquette and protocol demanded that he agree to the journalist’s request. So he smiled and politely led the woman back into Hall No 2.
The call to Pakistan would have to wait.
19 July. Chandimandir Cantonment, Panchkula
Imtiaz carefully examined the old, dog-eared passport he was holding. It was green in colour, the words ‘Islamic Republic of Pakistan’ and ‘Passport’ printed in gold on its cover in both English and Urdu. It was in the name of Imtiaz Ahmed Khan, and had been issued in Gilgit five years ago. According to it, Imtiaz Ahmed was a resident of Skardu District in Pakistan’s Federally Administered Northern Areas.
The photograph inside, though taken less than seventy-two hours ago, was a fair reproduction of what Imtiaz must have looked like five years earlier. The lush Shenandoah beard that now covered his jowls was visibly grey, but the one in the passport was jet black. Further, the face in the photograph had a moustache to go with the beard, a cultivation that Imtiaz had carefully shaved off hours after the photo had been clicked. The picture was the clever handiwork of the touch-up artists in the basement of the Unit Kilo facility. The passport itself was the painstaking result of the efforts put in by a research and simulation team.
Imtiaz shut the slender booklet and placed it inside an old but hardy khaki haversack, which was already packed with three pairs of Pathan suits, a scruffy white-going-to-yellow taqiyah, a copy of the Qur’an, and a bundle of genuine Pakistani currency wrapped in thick polythene.
The haversack also contained a watch, a cheap Taiwan-made digital thingamabob, already set to Pakistan Standard Time. For the next fortnight or so, this would be the only means Imtiaz would have of telling time accurately. While for the tracking team at Unit Kilo, the GPS unit inside the watch would be the sole source of information pertaining to Imtiaz’s movements.
After buckling the haversack, Imtiaz folded a grey blanket made of coarse wool and stuffed it into a second bag. A large camouflage jacket and a pair of rough leather khussas, their soles worn by regular use, joined the blanket, and Imtiaz straightened.
He was all set for his journey from Skardu to Karachi.
Imtiaz went through his pockets one last time, checking to see if there was anything of value in them. They showed up empty. His watch, mobile phone, keys, wallet—even his army identity card—were all in a small box that would stay in Panchkula till he returned from Pakistan. For now, his only means of identification as an Indian Army officer was a special, all-purpose pass signed by Major-General Dixit. It would grant him entry into the brigade headquarters at Jammu, Srinagar and Baramulla.
He would burn that pass before crossing the Line of Control into Gultari in Baltistan.
In less than a minute, Imtiaz was standing in what passed off as the drawing room of the Unit Kilo facility. Outside, a jeep was waiting to transport him to Jammu, where he would join an army convoy heading for Srinagar.
Colonel Mohan, Shamsheer and Rafiq had stood up the moment Imtiaz walked into the room. The four men looked at one another in silence, realizing that the moment of truth was finally upon them. At last, Colonel Mohan walked up to Imtiaz and held out his hand.
‘All the best, major. May God be with you.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Imtiaz responded to the colonel’s grip with a warm shake.
Shamsheer stepped up to Imtiaz and proffered his hand. ‘I’ll see you in Karachi, sir,’ he said softly, the calm sincerity mirrored in his eyes. ‘Khuda hafiz.’
Imtiaz nodded and smiled, glad to have Shamsheer by his side.
Once Shamsheer withdrew, Rafiq came forward, his eyes shining eagerly.
‘I’ll see you as well, sir,’ he said, pumping Imtiaz’s hand. ‘I’m really looking forward to working with you on Project Abhimanyu. All the best till we meet next, sir.’
‘All the best,’ the major replied, his eyes scanning Rafiq’s face.
Five minutes later, the jeep nosed out of Chandimandir Cantonment and joined the concourse of evening traffic making its way into Chandigarh.
19 July. Pakistan Aeronautical Complex, Kamra, Pakistan
Second-lieutenant Gul Nawaz was reclining in his chair, his feet propped up on a second chair, hands locked over his ample midriff. His eyes were shut, but his mouth hung slightly open and his head listed to one side, a gentle snore rounding off this picture of repose.
On one table in the cramped room sat a large radio transmitter-cum-receiver, which was linked to a large dish antenna on the roof of the building. Another table was occupied by a large computer, a series of codes in machine language scrolling lazily up the monitor’s screen.
There was nothing remarkable about the room, and very few people working at the Pakistan Aeronautical Complex, the third largest aircraft assembly plant in the world, knew that it and the three adjoining rooms served as a hub for the Joint Signal Intelligence Bureau of the ISI. The JSIB specialized in intelligence collection along the India–Pakistan border, and the Kamra hub was one of its reporting centres.
Suddenly, a low but sharp beeping noise disturbed the silence of the room. The second-lieutenant snapped awake instantly. Sitting upright, he reached for the Thuraya SO-2510 satellite phone that lay next to the radio transmitter. The SO-2510, unlike other Thuraya handsets, didn’t have the dual-mode feature that allowed operation in GSM terrestrial mobile networks as well. Given the added security it offered, this satellite-only model was the preferred mode of communication between JSIB operatives.
‘Hello,’ Gul Nawaz spoke into the phone. ‘Foxtrot three zero five, receiving.’
Holding the phone between his left shoulder and ear, the second-lieutenant opened a scribbling pad. As the caller began talking, the soldier quickly began making notes in shorthand.
Suddenly he paused, pen quivering above the pad.
‘Are you sure about this?’
He listened, interjecting with brief questions now and again, his voice rising in excitement.
‘Any idea how many commandos are being sent?’
‘How are they entering Pakistan?’
‘I see. I see…’
‘You’re certain about the target?’
‘Okay. Okay. Keep us posted. Khuda hafiz.’
Gul Nawaz stared at the notes he had jotted down, his eyes widening as the implications dawned on him. He looked at his watch. Eleven-forty. His replacement wouldn’t be in before midnight.
He wondered if he should call up his superior and relay the communiqué, but he discarded the idea immediately. The nature of this message was such that it had to be conveyed in person—the Indians were sending a team of commandos into Pakistan to kill Irshad Dilawar!
He began pacing the cluttered room impatiently, waiting for his replacement to come.
PART TWO:
THE BEST-LAID PLANS
CHAPTER 4
21 July. North Coast of the Gulf of Oman
The water lapping against the hull of the fishing trawler was oily black. For that matter, everything around the boat was black as well, and the men on the deck worked silently in pitch darkness.
Two inflatable rubber dinghies had already been lowered to the sea’s surface and were nudging the trawler, buoyed by the swell of the tides and the refreshing breeze blowing inland. One of the dinghies sat low in the water, weighed down by the four men in it. The second was still in the process of being loaded, a man on the trawler’s deck transferring heavy bags down to another, who stood in the dinghy with his legs braced.
Hossam Al-Kamil leaned against the trawler’s railings and watched his men. After a while, he raised his head and looked at the silhouette of land on the northern horizon. The Iranian coast lay just over two miles away, and in a matter of hours, they would be in the Bahu Kalat district in the Sistān va Balūchestān province of Southeastern Iran. Over the next few days, they would head north through Bahu Kalat, before turning east towards Turbat in Pakistan’s Balochistan province.
It wasn’t the easiest and most obvious route to Quetta, and Musa Zawawi had pointed out as much. Zawawi’s suggestion had been that they cross into Pakistan from Kandahar, and slip back into Afghanistan once the job had been completed. Al-Kamil, however, had argued that owing to the Taliban conflict, the Afghan–Pakistan border would be under close scrutiny by both Pakistani and US forces. In his reckoning, an entry through Iran was a safer bet as that border was poorly patrolled in comparison. Once inside Pakistan, they would take a roundabout route to Quetta through the sparsely populated hinterland of Balochistan.
As the second dinghy was being loaded, a door leading to the trawler’s hold opened, emitting a faint yellow glimmer from deep within the boat’s belly. A figure emerged from the door and exchanged a few quiet words with Al-Kamil, their murmur dying quickly in the wind. Al-Kamil nodded, strode to the door and climbed down a steep iron ladder.
A lone lantern, burning low, illuminated the dank hold. The odour of fish was overpowering, but Al-Kamil could smell something over that—the scent of terror. He peered into the far recesses of the hold and made out four sack-like shapes lying on the floor. He walked slowly to the lantern and turned its nob up. As yellow light flooded the hold, the shapes came into sharper focus and four pairs of eyes stared back at Al-Kamil wildly. The trawler’s four crew members lay trussed up, hands tied behind them, their mouths gagged.
As Al-Kamil approached them, one of the men uttered a low moan, his eyes raised pleadingly. Al-Kamil stared down at the men before finally kneeling beside the vessel’s skipper, a man of around forty-five. When he spoke, the words were chillingly soft.
‘You shouldn’t have threatened to turn us over to the Omani coast guards yesterday. And the thought of extracting more money from us should never have crossed your mind. Now you will have to pay for your greed.’
The boat’s master moaned and gurgled an incoherent petition for mercy, his body jackknifing in anguish and dread, his head rocking from side to side. It was just as well, for he didn’t notice the large knife which had materialized almost magically in Al-Kamil’s right hand.
