The confidence that the visitor had seconds ago disappeared instantly, as Dawood’s heavily redacted file flashed in his head. He remembered the words printed on the front sheet; precision sniper, battlefield tested, close-quarter combat specialist, but the words that hit the hardest were the one hundred kills. This was not the guy to piss off, the visitor thought to himself, leaning back from the table, trying to put some distance between Dawood and himself. The color drained from his dark face. He stammered, “no,” licking his parched lips in a blatantly nervous gesture.
Dawood noted the visitor’s body language with contempt. Fucking amateur. He leaned forward across the table, cigarette dangerously close to the visitor’s hand. “Until you do, if you ever do, behave as if you have a red dot on your forehead.” Dawood unflinchingly said. “We may decide to sacrifice you to the cause one day.”
Dead silence.
A waiter placed two cups of fresh tea on the table. He chuckled as he walked away, shouting instructions to the cook for another table that had arrived. Dawood turned his attention back to the visitor. “I’ll take care of Kaleem. You find your way home and don’t ever let me see you again.” His tone was matter-of-fact and dismissive, but it sent a chill up the visitor’s spine. “I won’t be as polite the next time.”
Getting up from the table, Dawood called to the cashier. “Lala, my friend will be paying the bill. Make sure to give him the special rate.” He laughed as he walked out, tossing his half-smoked cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his stride. He looked back and grinned at the visitor, lifting his hand to touch the middle of his forehead, a promise of what would happen if they crossed paths again.
* * *
Kaleem was missing from the construction site for a few days after the meeting, which struck Dawood as very odd for someone that worked so hard. He inquired at the masjid, but all anyone knew was that he had packed his things and left days ago. No one knew where he was and very few were concerned about it. Days passed with no sign of Kaleem at either location and Dawood worried that his own agency had decided to take matters into their own hands, but he couldn’t ask too many questions without raising suspicions about himself. A week later, however, Kaleem strolled back onto the construction site, silent about his sudden disappearance. But Dawood was patient, knowing that he would get the information from him in due course. He was frankly relieved to see him alive.
Weeks passed between the two with no mention of the disappearance, until one day Dawood invited Kaleem to join him for lunch. It was a Friday and there was no work for the daily wager, so the day was free to spend however they chose. Kaleem, who struggled to make ends meet after sending money home to his family, jumped at the chance of having a proper meal. A man can only survive for so many days on daal and roti, Dawood thought to himself, and the best way to gain his cooperation was with money, which Kaleem desperately needed.
As they climbed into the taxi outside the masjid, Dawood crowed, “Yaar, the boys played outstanding yesterday. One thing our boys can do better than anyone else is play cricket!”
The comment drew the attention of the taxi driver, whose smile became visible in the rearview mirror.
“Pakistan has the best bowling attack in all of cricket!” he agreed before turning his focus back to the road to the old city of Peshawar.
“Waseem, Waqar and Shoaib bowled so clean. And Afridi! What a batsmen! Chuckas and chaukas on almost every ball.” Kaleem replied with a smile. “I wish I could play half as good. I would never need to work!” Pointing at a huge Pepsi billboard, he asked, “How much do you think they get for those?”
“Crores, Kaleem. They’re salesmen for all these companies,” Dawood answered pointing to another billboard with a cricketer’s face emblazoned on it. “It’s all haram though. What they earn from these things. The Quran says that we should only keep what we need to live, the rest should be given to the needy.” Dawood knew Kaleem was a devout in his beliefs and was going to use that devotion to build his trust.
Laughing and joking during the drive, Dawood formed a quick plan on how to approach Kaleem about his sudden disappearance from Peshawar. “Did you get married without telling anyone?” Keep it light and friendly. “I would have gotten a room in a hotel, brother, but to not invite me is unfair,” Dawood teased.
Kaleem burst out laughing at the implication and slapped Dawood on the shoulder, “No, no, yaar. The only wedding in my near future is my sister’s and I am killing myself trying to pay for that. Why would I look for another way to spend more money?”
“On a wife? You might get lucky. You might get a rich wife.”
“But I’d still have to pay for a wedding.”
They both laughed about the costs of keeping a wife and how difficult it would be on the daily wages they currently earned, but Dawood was resolute in his plan to get the information he needed.
“So where did you go, if not to get married?”
“You remember I told you about my Imam and how he had helped me?”
Dawood nodded. Kaleem took a quick glance at the rearview mirror to see if the driver was paying any attention to them. He seemed to be satisfied, because he continued. “He sent someone to ask me to return to the village because he needed something from me.”
Before he could go on, the car drew up at Namak Mandi, the old city’s most famous dining location, and home of Charsi’s, Peshawar’s most sought-after karahi restaurant. Dawood paid the driver while Kaleem went in the doors to look for a table under a fan. This would be the only opportunity he had to get the information from Kaleem and Kaleem seemed ready to share it.
Dawood had been to Charsi’s several times as Kamal during his school days, but was confident that no one at the restaurant would know his name. It was a very busy restaurant, and hundreds of people passed through every week. Entering the restaurant, he smiled, said hello and placed an order for cold Pepsi bottles immediately and two kilos of roasted ribs, a favorite of every Pathan who visited Charsi’s. As he suspected, the staff at the restaurant were courteous and pleasant, but had no idea who he was. Kaleem was waving to him from a corner table he had secured and Dawood, satisfied that he remained anonymous, headed towards him.
Dawood had planned the lunch at a time when most people would either have left or would be leaving, so the chances of running into anyone he knew were greatly decreased. Weaving in and out of the scattered charpais, he found his way to the table through the remaining crowd of diners and waiters, asking Kaleem as he sat down, “Have you ever been here before?”
“No, but I have always wanted to come here. Everyone talks about this place,” Kaleem replied. “Is the food really as good as they say?”
“Charsi is as famous for his food as he is for the all the other things that go on here,” Dawood said, laughing. “You can fly really high here in the evening, if you know who to ask.” He waited and watched carefully to see if Kaleem would take the bait. Dawood had smoked hashish during his school days in Peshawar, but had not touched it since joining the military. If Kaleem smoked, or if Dawood could get him to try it, however, there was a possibility that Kaleem would loosen up enough to open up.
Kaleem smiled sheepishly, but admitted to his guilty pleasure. “We didn’t get good chars back home, and I can’t afford more than a cigarette or two of the good stuff in Peshawar.” Dawood didn’t hesitate. He signaled to the waiter.
“Are the VIP rooms available?” Dawood asked. A block of rooms in the alleyway behind the restaurant were set aside specifically for smokers and other ‘do number’ activities. The waiter smiled and nodded. “Let’s go!” Dawood slipped a thousand rupees into the waiter’s hand. “Get one tola of the best stuff from Charsi, a pack of Gold Leaf and a box of matches. Tell Charsi, I want the best stuff for my guest. He has travelled a long way to come here. He should not leave disappointed.” He stood, gesturing to Kaleem to join him, as he followed the waiter from the main hall to the rooms in the alleyway, stopping briefly to collect the contraband.
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Having been a regular visitor to the café, Dawood knew the lavish comforts of the VIP rooms, but the fifty-yard crossing them was enough to make anyone lose their appetite. To either side of the narrow pathway were piles of dung heaps, not just from animals, but from the residents of the flats that buttressed against the café’s back wall. This was the old city of Peshawar and new buildings were rarely approved for this section, so much of the housing was without bathrooms, and running water was a luxury in the more modern ones. Across the alleyway were dilapidated and low-rent hotels specifically for travelers that ventured to Peshawar for day-trips to shop in the old city before returning to their port of call. As they walked through the alleyway and ascended the stairs, Dawood pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his mouth and nose, but Kaleem just walked through, unfazed by the pungent odor that filled the air.
The waiter unlocked the door to a VIP room, entering to turn on the lights, air conditioning and overhead fans. Dawood stopped at the door to remove his sandals and told Kaleem to do the same. “Bring your shoes in with you – they tend to get ‘lost’ if left outside.”
Kaleem froze in the doorway, astonished that such luxury existed in the same area as the dilapidated housing that surrounded it.
The room looked like the drawing room of any middle class household, from the carpeted floor to the plasma TV hanging in the corner. The foam mattresses scattered around the lounge, a staple in every Pathan household, were a finer quality than either could afford for themselves. The room was already cooling rapidly, a blessing considering the amount of load-shedding happening in the city. The waiter reached over and turned on the TV, quickly tuning it to the on-going cricket match. With his work done, he moved to the door and stopped to ask for further instructions from his patrons. Kaleem settled down on a mattress, engrossed in the match. Dawood smiled. That’s gone for a six. We’ll be coming here again, for sure. He turned to the waiter and asked him to bring their food order to the room, turning to ask Kaleem, “Beef, mutton or chicken?” before confirming. “Check back in thirty minutes to see if we need anything else and bring the ribs as soon as possible.” Dawood told the waiter before planting himself on the mattress across from Kaleem.
“Everyone should enjoy this level of comfort in their lives, even if only for a day,” he said to Kaleem, who was completely lost in the cricket match. He nodded without moving his eyes from the large plasma. Dawood smiled and removed the hashish from his pocket along with the cigarettes and placed both on the table. He emptied the tobacco from four cigarettes onto a sheet of paper, and casually brought up the topic he most wanted to know about. “So you were telling me about your Imam calling you back to the village. What did he need from you?”
Chapter 7
The sergeant pulled Dawood’s door open. “Get out of the car. We need to check your documents,” he said briskly. Dawood had stood at checkpoints early in his military career and he knew the routine, so he climbed out without a fuss, pulling his wallet from the side pocket of his kameez.
“Is there a problem, sir?” Dawood asked, handing the sergeant his Pakistani ID card. Behind him, he heard the whine of an electronic window coming down.
“This is your first time in Timergara?” the sergeant asked Dawood, examining the masterful fake ID in his hands. “Where are you coming from, Dawood sahib?”
“Yes, first time in Timergara. I’m coming from Peshawar, but belong to Swat,” Dawood answered, carefully keeping his voice even.
“From Swat, but this is your first time here?” the sergeant inquired with disbelief. “We see a lot of vehicles from Swat here.”
“Sir, many of my friends have been here, but I’ve spent most of my life in Punjab working on construction sites,” Dawood offered as an explanation for the anomaly the sergeant identified. “I only come home to Swat for holidays.”
The sergeant seemed satisfied with the explanation, as he changed his line of questioning. “What brings you to our quiet village?”
“Sir, I am a guest of my friend, Kaleem, and his host, Imam Shahid,” Dawood pointed to the two gentlemen in the back seat of the Prado. “We work together on the same construction site in Peshawar and he invited me to his village. I am hoping we will have time to visit my village in Swat for a few days as well.”
The sergeant looked over his shoulder, finding Imam Shahid seated there, listening closely to the conversation. The sergeant smiled, handing back Dawood’s ID card, and motioned to the driver that he could go. “Enjoy your stay.”
Dawood pushed the ID card in his breast pocket and climbed back into the front seat of the Prado. With a wave, he said “Thank you” to the soldier as the vehicle pulled away. Looking back through the passenger mirror at the dwindling checkpost, he saw a major approached the sergeant. Protocol, thought Dawood, our officers ask questions after any lengthy stop to make sure that there was nothing unusual. But as the double-door cleared the bridge, he watched the major pull his cell phone from his pocket and start talking. Dawood wondered for a moment if he was letting ‘someone’ in Peshawar know that ‘Dawood Islam’ had entered Dir with the Imam, but no one knew that he was coming here. The trip had been scheduled so hurriedly that he had no time to notify his handler or any of the three messengers that he was in contact with. Wait, he thought, this was the Frontier Corps, not the Pakistan Army. Their loyalty was to the notable families of the area where they were stationed, providing security to some of Pakistan’s most wanted, and not to the uniform they wore. Had his cover just been blown? Was there possibly a weak link in my legend? Would the FC be able to access his true identity? He forced the suspicions out of his mind. Just stay alert. You’ll be fine – the ISI have been doing this for years. They know how to keep secrets.
Dawood shifted uncomfortably in his seat, recalling Imam Shahid’s insistence that he sit in the front passenger seat. He literally pushed me in, Dawood recalled. The front seat was the hot seat in any vehicle, because vision of what was happening in the back seat was blocked, providing an opportunity to anyone who wanted to avail it. Dawood suddenly wasn’t sure if coming to Timergara alone was such a good idea.
A few kilometers in, the Imam started pointing out the different tourist sites on the road to his home. Dawood tuned out most of the lesson. His mind was still at the checkpost, remembering the sergeant’s nameplate, the cut of his uniform; he wondered if the major’s stripes matched his shoulder ranking (damn, how did he miss that?); he did remember the vehicles that were parked at the checkpoint. Everything is important now, Dawood thought to himself, unsure if he had been compromised. He found it interesting that of all the people in the protocol, he was the only one searched. This can’t be a good thing, he thought to himself.
“Dawood,” the Imam said from the backseat, breaking the train of conspiracy theories in his head. “Where in Swat do you come from?”
For a moment, Dawood pretended not to hear him, engrossing himself in the passing scenery. I can’t let something like the checkpost shake me. Get it together, Kamal! I mean, Dawood. The Imam touched him on the shoulder. “Dawood, is everything alright?”
“Fine, Imam sahib! I was just thinking of calling my uncle to let him know that I’ve arrived safely,” Dawood finally responded. “I belong to Mingora now, but my family is from Madyan.”
“What a beautiful place Madyan is!” The Imam commented, “I have stayed there with students from the madrassah on a tour. The scenery is just amazing there and the food is delicious.”
“Yes, sir,” Dawood answered. “I make a point of visiting Kalam whenever I come to Swat. I love to sit in the water with the fish swimming around my feet.”
“I think that you will enjoy your time with us,” the Imam said. “Kaleem has told us a great deal about your conversations with him. He doesn’t keep secrets from his family and has been talking about you ever since you both met.”
“I hope he’s been saying good things,” Dawood laughed, looking into the back seat for the first time since th
e encounter with the FC sergeant. “I’ve treated him like a younger brother since I met him,” shooting a smile at the silent Kaleem.
“Of course, good things. Why would I go to so much trouble if he had told us bad things?” The Imam was laughing heartily. Dawood pinned a smile on his face, his jaw aching from the effort.
* * *
The vehicles turned down a dusty road and significantly increased their speed, simultaneously increasing Dawood’s uneasiness. He sat quietly in the front of the vehicle, doing his best to note where they had turned off from the main road. About 70 kilometers from the checkpost. In the distance, a shadow started to emerge on the horizon, slowly growing as the vehicles moved toward it. Closing in, the Imam proudly announced from the back seat. “We are here. Dawood beta, this is my home.” From behind concrete walls lined with barbed wire, Dawood saw a tall building, rectangular, and solid; two stories and the rooftop, from what Dawood could tell.
The security vehicle rushed past the Prado in the last kilometer and began blowing its horn frantically. A large black security bar blocking the front gate was lifted and a couple of men quickly pulled open the gate to the house, with the security vehicle pulling to a hard stop to the right of the gate. Armed bodyguards descended, loading their weapons and scanning the area for any potential threats. The Prado whisked past them into the driveway and the gate was pulled shut behind them.
Agency Rules - Never an Easy Day at the Office Page 7
