Reprisal in Black

by Dan Fox

  Massood Malhi cleared his throat and began, ‘The boys lived with their uncle in Peshawar. They came from Afghanistan after they were orphaned. Originally they were called Hussein and Abdullah Babul. Their parents were killed when a Taliban gunner accidentally fired a shell from an old Russian tank.’

  At that point Jean approached Massood Malhi with a damp cloth and let him hold it to his bleeding eye.

  Massood Malhi continued, ‘Their uncle rescued them when he heard about his brother’s death. His brother Nissan Babul was a mid-ranking leader in the Taliban and was a very clever man. The boys took their father’s intelligence but it was applied in different ways. The older one, Hussein or Rani as you know him, learned at an exceptional rate. He was able to walk and talk much earlier than expected and although Abdullah, or Dado as you now know him, was a little slower he too developed much more quickly than the average child.

  After their parents were killed they went to live with their uncle. Rani mastered the local language in just a few months although he was still only seven years old. He became a bit of a phenomenon and gradually word spread around. I got a phone call from a contact in Peshawar who suggested that I should take notice of the boys. I made some more enquiries and the feedback confirmed that the boys were exceptional.

  I knew that whatever we persuaded them to do the boys would be very useful, so after a while I visited their uncle and told him what I wanted to do. He thought that they were too young and so I persuaded him with a lot of money.

  My relationship with Shiqtar Malik was already solid and we had set him up in New Delhi precisely for the purpose of training exceptional young men.’

  ‘Where does their uncle live if he’s still alive?’ demanded Jean.

  ‘He is alive as far as I know. He is only about sixty years old and lives on the eastern side of Peshawar in the Zargarabad area. His house is on the Yakkatut Road very close to the big Cemetery, but I can’t give you the precise address, it is over twenty-five years since I went there and it was dark.’

  ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes’ said Jean, ‘and then we can continue our cosy little chat.’ The venom in her voice was palpable.

  Massood Malhi thought that she was the most frightening person he had ever met.

  Jean found Steve and told him about the uncle. Steve’s response was to call Attwood and ask him to pick the uncle up and bring him to their HQ without delay. Jean then spoke to Steve about some of the details that Massood Malhi had revealed and that she was convinced that there was one piece of vital information that he was not going to tell them about, but she hadn’t got a clue what it might be. Steve thought it would be the identity of the visitor at Massood Malhi’s house and explained to her.

  Chapter 44

  ‘A couple of things happened at Massood Malhi’s place. There was a visitor who was higher up the food chain because he shouted at Massood Malhi for leaving their sitting room door ajar. We know he was very tall, quite old and bearded and in traditional dress, and we know that those incompetent shits from the CIA let him leave the house without a challenge having missed his arrival in the first place. For all we know it could have been Mr Big. I know that’s doubtful because he’s supposed to be holed up in the mountains high up on the North West Frontier but that’s not a certainty. What do you think would frighten Massood Malhi enough to reveal who it was, and by the way the name and address he gave you earlier do not exist?’

  Jean seethed and said ‘I don’t know Steve, he’s cooperating probably because he realises that we have everyone in the chain here and under this roof and we can piece it all together eventually. He’s probably keen not to die yet but I reckon he’s tough enough to take that route if it’s his only option.’

  ‘Shit’ said Steve, ‘that’s all we need, a bloody martyr.’ He thought for a moment and said, ‘I think you should take a break for a while. Get some food and some sleep if you can. You’ve done a great job for us.’

  Jean said, ‘Thanks Steve, I could do with a rest but don’t let up on Massood Malhi he might crack if we keep on to him.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I plan to do’, said Steve as he walked off to find Marcel. Perhaps he could think of some creative ways of extracting this vital information courtesy of his French Foreign Legion days.

  As he walked away Jean called to him, ‘Oh Steve, I think we need to get Marcel to follow up on how they got the devices into the USA and who made the poison gas device and the Autopilot override. We should pull them in as well.’

  ‘Okay, on it’ said Steve as he looked for Marcel.

  Marcel at that moment was in the shower savouring the feeling of being clean and refreshed. As he came out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist Steve was waiting for him in the dressing area.

  ‘Feel better now? said Steve.

  ‘Much better thanks’, said Marcel.

  ‘We have a few loose ends to tie up with Massood Malhi. Jean’s done very well and got loads out of him but I think she’ll end up killing him out of frustration. Will you have a go for a while?

  ‘Sure’ said Marcel, ‘just give me five to get dressed and I’ll be there. What should I concentrate on?

  ‘We need to know who made and supplied the two devices on Air Force One, and also the radio transmitter that was used from the ship. We need to get them here and check out the lines of communication and whatever else they’ve been involved in. Use that as a filling in of the gaps, but what we really need to know is who Massood Malhi’s visitor was at his house. I have my suspicions although I’d like it confirmed. If it’s who I think it is Massood Malhi will die before he tells us. If he does tell us it’ll be because he’s long gone and we’ve missed a fantastic opportunity.

  ‘Are you thinking it is who I think it is?’ said Marcel.

  ‘Yes’, said Steve, ’I think we’re on the same wavelength.’

  With that Steve left for something to eat and a short rest. Marcel got dressed and went off to the interrogation room.

  Massood Malhi sat strapped into one of the Dentist chairs looking very sorry for himself. Jean had taped a piece of gauze over the eye wound but the copious blood flow had dripped all the way down his face and onto his neck and shoulder. He looked a complete mess.

  ‘Okay’, said Marcel, ‘let’s start again.’ Massood Malhi groaned audibly. ‘Who made the devices that Dado fitted to Air Force Two?’

  Massood Malhi said nothing for a few seconds. He had expected a much tougher question.

  ‘I have a contact in the Science wing of Islamabad University. He did not know what the devices were for.’

  That was a particularly stupid answer, and only made to deflect the question. As soon as Massood Malhi had uttered the words he regretted it. What possible reason could anyone have for making a small cylinder and filling it with a very toxic chemical coupled with a radio receiver and an extremely powerful battery? Why would it be initially totally inactive, but switched on at some later point by the displacement of a finely balanced pin? Why would you use Curaramine if not to totally disable people and render them unconscious for twelve hours or so?

  The Autopilot override mechanism was undoubtedly a work of art. It consisted of a memory stick, a battery and a radio receiver all combined together in a tiny device to be simply clamped to the underneath of a feeder cable into Air Force Two’s navigation file server and it wouldn’t be noticed unless there was the most absolutely detailed of inspections.

  The short wave, high burst radio transmitter was also a work of art. To get that much power from a portable device was amazing.

  No, of course no-one would need to know what the devices were to be used for. Marcel’s eyes blazed and Massood Malhi now knew he had made a dreadful mistake. Perhaps it would turn out to be a fatal error of judgement. Before Massood Malhi could undo the damage Marcel delivered a straight finger jab to Malhi’s throat. The blow was carefully controlled so that Malhi would believe that he’d never breathe again. In fact the effects of this would b
e very short lived but they would engender immense panic in the victim. Like water-boarding, not many people wanted to try it twice.

  Malhi tried to scream but this was translated into a dribbling gurgle. His eyes bulged in his head, his heart raced and he thought he was going to pass out. After a couple of minutes his breathing became easier and he realised that he wasn’t going to die at that moment. What the experience had done was to teach him that being pointlessly brave and stubborn didn’t earn you any points. And without points you didn’t win any prizes.

  ‘I’m sorry’, said Malhi after a few more minutes of recovery. His voice was rasped and he continued, ‘That was a stupid thing to say. I don’t know who actually made the devices but my contact at the university is Professor Samir Sardar. He runs the whole of the Science faculty and has a particular interest in organic chemistry. I told him first about Dado’s work on the Air Conditioning and he came up with the Curaramine device. The Autopilot override device took longer to make. For quite a while I didn’t think it would be finished in time, there were a number of serious teething problems. The University has a fairly advanced computer and electronics facility and I’ve no doubt that the Professor took advantage of one his prodigious sympathisers. I know no more than that.’

  ‘How much did you pay him’ said Marcel.

  ‘I paid him ten thousand American dollars for each of the three devices and that included the short wave radio transmitter.’

  ‘Pretty cheap for the disaster you almost caused. Five people died on that plane. You and your cohorts will pay for your treachery.’

  Marcel left the Interrogation Room to look for Steve who at that moment was having a quiet nap and dreaming quite vividly of things he would not wish to discuss in polite company. Marcel shook him by the shoulder and Steve was instantly awake.

  ‘Steve’, said Marcel, ‘He’s told me the name of his contact at Islamabad University, Professor Samir Sardar.’

  ‘Okay, let me think for a minute.’ Steve rubbed his eyes for a moment and considered his options and then said ‘Marcel, please tell Attwood what you’ve discovered. I don’t think we can go barging into the university and abduct him without arousing some severe suspicions. We’ll need to be more subtle than that. See what he has to say, what he has to suggest, and wake me when you hear any more. I was having a terrific dream. I just hope I can get back into it.’

  ‘Okay’, said Marcel, ‘I’ll speak with Attwood and then carry on with Malhi. Sweet dreams.’

  Steve smirked and closed his eyes.

  Sometime later Marcel went back into the Interrogation Room where Malhi appeared to have fallen asleep. Marcel banged a metal tray on the worktop and Massood Malhi came awake startled and disoriented.

  Marcel said, ‘Your Professor friend will be here to join you shortly. Getting to be quite a party isn’t it? Right then, you told my colleague earlier that the visitor to your house was an old friend of the family didn’t you? We know that the name and address you gave for him do not exist. So we have to start again which makes me very angry. You have experienced first-hand what I can do if someone makes me angry. Do you want me to be angry or are you going to tell me the truth?’

  Massood Malhi shifted uncomfortably in his chair straining at the straps that held him there. How much longer could he hold out? Was there any point? Did the Americans know already? Was this just another one of their games? Was it worth dying to withhold something that they already knew or would find out very quickly once they’d put their mind to it? The Americans hadn’t killed anybody yet. Perhaps that was not their intention.

  Massood Malhi was doing an incredible job of convincing himself that they would not kill him and that they already knew who the visitor was. He looked at Marcel through his uninjured left eye and said, ‘The visitor was Osama bin Laden’s brother, Ishmael.’

  Marcel was staggered. He rushed out of the room and shook Steve awake. ‘Come on’, he said, ‘come and hear this now.’

  Steve registered that Marcel’s excitement meter had gone off the clock and quickly followed him.

  ‘Massood Malhi, tell my colleague what you just told me.’

  Massood Malhi said, ‘The visitor was Osama bin Laden’s brother, Ishmael.’

  Steve was simply stunned. Wait until he got face to face with Attwood. What a fucking idiot. Ishmael would know by now that Massood Malhi had been abducted and was probably clever enough to understand why. He would clear off and tell his brother. That would have been the best opportunity ever to close in on Osama. Shit.

  Steve thought for a few moments as he paced around the Interrogation Room. ‘Marcel, please unstrap him, let him use the toilets and shower, give him a change of clothes and something to eat and then put him in a cell for a while. Have we heard from Attwood about the Professor?’

  ‘Not yet’ said Marcel, ‘he did say something about coming over here to talk to you.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to his arrival’, said Steve, ‘in fact I can’t wait.’

  Chapter 45

  After Jean had rested she had listened to the tape made by the brothers. It was very interesting stuff. Yes they’d had it a bit rough to start with, but no justification for what they tried to do. Yes, their father may have influenced them in their early days, but you only became a terrorist because you wanted to be one.

  She sat in an armchair and put on headphones and started the tape again. She was going to listen very carefully. There may be some more clues.

  The tape started with Rani describing their early childhood almost like a spoken autobiography.

  ‘My mother whose name was Kamila Babul said we were born as non-identical twins in the very cold and dismal winter of early 1980, in a cottage hospital in Mehtar Lam, a small town about 100 miles east of Kabul, Afghanistan. We were not identical but we were both strong and sturdy and developed well.

  The Russians were not yet finally out of the country having had their invitation to stay overturned, and they had left horrendous amounts of discarded and mainly useless weaponry. Broken down or burnt out tanks were everywhere. Armoured cars in blown up ruins stained the potholed roads and the odd crashed Hind attack helicopter could be found in the fields. They’d not even collected all the bodies. It was an awful mess and from the earliest time I can remember we played in this junk pretending we were the world’s greatest fighters.

  The Muhajideen had been the Russians biggest enemy with a lot of support from contrasting nations, but were now the happiest new owner of some quite valuable left over weaponry even though it was and always would be high maintenance.

  For the first few years we stayed close to our mother and were steeped in a close Islamic family cell where culture and belief were ingrained into us. Apparently we both displayed remarkable powers of learning with me surging ahead in language and anything creative, and Dado having a distinct advantage with anything technical.

  Our father, Nissan Babul, was a close advisor to the local War Lord and an embryonic member of the Taliban. He was a zealous fundamentalist and an overbearing man who spent hours teaching us the history of our country, its battles and wars and our constant fight to remain independent. But he also drilled into us the great dangers that the Western World held for us.

  Russia and the Americans were the great perils for our prospects and the future of our religion.

  Their father had told them how the British, the French and the Americans had invaded most countries in the world over the last few centuries and how they had desecrated religion and culture wherever they went. ‘Infidels’ he shouted, ‘Satans’ he cried, ‘death to them all.’

  By the time we were six years old, we firmly believed in the Great Satan and were determined to seek our revenge on its imperialist policies.

  I think the event that changed everything happened when we were six years old. We were playing in an abandoned Russian truck a few hundred yards from our house when we heard an old Russian tank approaching. It was firing the occasional shell into the far dista
nce which was uninhabited. It was like a training mission.

  The tank rumbled along with the turret revolving when suddenly it fired a shell. It hit our house and blew it to smithereens. The tank might as well have had the Stars and Stripes on it because whoever’s fault it was the Great Satan was going to get the blame.

  The Muhajideen had a few of the T-62Ms left in a semblance of working order after the Russian invasion and used them to patrol our area and instil fear into the locals when needed. It was a simple but deadly mistake but it still killed both our parents. The Gunner was learning the ropes and just did the wrong thing at the wrong time. It would have killed us as well if we hadn’t been playing some distance away. We were told later that there was little left to bury after the explosion, we didn’t really understand what was happening then but they were buried with many of their friends and neighbours in attendance at the funeral. I can just recall how sad we were and I know we wailed and grieved for the only two people who had really mattered to us.

  Our local friends looked after us initially, but after a few weeks we were packed off to an uncle on our father’s side in Peshawar, western Pakistan not too far from the border with Afghanistan.

  At least our Pashto language was no barrier in Pakistan, but I soon mastered rudimentary Urdu and started to take an interest in English. All this before I was seven years old.

  I spent hours tutoring Dado in these new languages and although he was a little bit slower on the uptake than me, he became proficient in both quite quickly. This initial and forced grounding in other languages stood us in good stead later on.