Agency Rules - Never an Easy Day at the Office

by Khalid Muhammad

  A heavily armed, military-looking man opened Dawood’s door and gestured for him to descend from the vehicle. Dawood paused for a minute, looking at the man and examining his multiple weapons, before stepping on the runner and down to the ground. This guy is as heavily armed as we were during protection duty. He has to have a military background; obviously, this is no ordinary Imam.

  The sweeping glance that he was able to take identified a guard post at the gate, another above the grounds in the far left and armed men patrolling the balcony of the second floor. Dawood assumed that inside there would be more security in other quarters of the house. He wasn’t disappointed. The foyer had security cameras mounted outside the door and along the stairs leading to the second floor. The home seemed to be in a heightened state of security for his visit, which unsettled him even more. It was lavishly decorated, with marble floors and wooden banisters on the sweeping curve of the staircase. The furniture looked expensive, and intricate local crafts hung on the walls and on console tables. House? This is more like a mansion.

  “Imam sahib, I hope you haven’t gone to any special trouble on my account?” Dawood said as they climbed the circular stairway, watching the movements of the security personnel carefully. Two at the door, one at what looks like the door to the kitchen, a back door, maybe? He looked up. One at the landing.

  The Imam stopped three stairs up from him and turned to look back. “Do all the guns bother you? You know that this area isn’t safe and we can’t always trust the FC to protect us, so I make sure that my family is safe whether I am home or not,” he replied nonchalantly.

  “It’s always like this when I visit Imam sahib’s home, Dawood bhai,” Kaleem put his hand on this shoulder. “This is how life is in the tribal areas.”

  Dawood walked slowly up the stairs, falling in behind Kaleem. Surreptitiously, he scoped out his environment, trying to identify different escape routes if the need arose. Windows seemed to be the best bet. There were guards at all the entrances.

  The whole scenario unsettled Dawood.

  He stopped on the landing of the second floor, believing that was where they would be seated, assuming that the next floor up was actually the roof. Much to his surprise, Kaleem and the Imam were climbing the stairs to the roof.

  “Dawood bhai, we are up another floor,” Kaleem called back down, motioning for Dawood to join them. Dawood, slightly embarrassed, scrambled, jumping stairs to catch up to Kaleem.

  “Isn’t it too hot to sit on the roof?” Dawood asked Kaleem as they moved in stride up the staircase, “Does the house have…”

  The words choked in Dawood’s throat as he got his first look at the security door on the third floor. The Imam was awaiting their arrival by the door. From the outside of the building, the naked eye would never have been able to determine that this floor existed. The idea of sitting behind secure, locked doors worried him. Why would you serve lunch behind a security door? Dawood was concerned about the level of security that was available to a simple mullah in a region where mullahs were extremely respected.

  With all three assembled at the door, someone from inside the room triggered the electronic lock and released the door. Dawood felt like he had walked onto a floor at GHQ with the sheer state of the art security that was installed. The entire floor was air-conditioned to the point that he had to roll down his sleeves and button his cuffs. The floor and walls looked to be soundproofed with no natural light entering from anywhere. No windows. I’ve lost that bet. They walked through the hallway toward an ominous black door at the end of the hall, but with each step Dawood wondered what he had gotten himself into.

  Behind the door was an expansive, handcrafted wooden dining table with high-back leather chairs. The room had lighting above the table, but the rest of the room was completely dark and uninviting. Is this a formal meeting room for government officials or the dining room for guests? Dawood pulled a chair out and sat down. He strained to see beyond the darkness, to see if anyone was lurking there, but with the bright light above him, his eyes couldn’t adjust. He had to rely on his ears instead, and hoped for a few moments of silence before they started lunch.

  It was almost like the Imam had a silent buzzer in his hand, because as soon as they sat down, servers immediately emerged from the darkness with large glasses of juice on a silver platter. The servers all looked like Kaleem, ragged, malnourished and, honestly, envious of the lifestyle that their ‘master’ was living He couldn’t help but compare the quietly honest Imam in his village with the lavishness of Imam Shahid, starkly offended by the vast difference. His Imam would never be allowed to live like this, mostly because the village elders paid his housing and salary.

  “Imam sahib, how long have you been the Imam here?” Dawood asked.

  “I established the madrassah during the conflict to help support our brothers during the cause,” the Imam said, almost puffing his chest with pride like a cock. “My nephew was part of the Mujahideen and embraced shahadat in battle.” He paused for a moment to make sure that the words sunk into both gentlemen’s minds. “The brothers were so honored by the work that we did here that they built me this house and the masjid that we passed when we turned towards here.”

  Dawood didn’t hesitate with his reply, leaning forward in his chair. “The cause? You mean Afghanistan?” The Imam nodded proudly. Dawood feigned respect. “Masha’ Allah, Subhan Allah. Being a Shaheed is an extraordinary honor for any man’s family, as there is no higher praise of Allah than to fight for Islam.”

  “Yes, yes. Indeed. Masha’ Allah.” The Imam took a sip of his juice, and Dawood thought he saw a gleam in his eyes that he didn’t trust. Here it comes, he thought. The interview. He mentally geared himself up for it. “Do you have any brothers?”

  “No, sir. Unfortunately, I am my parent’s only son. I have two sisters though.”

  “Ah. I am sorry. Are they married, in school?”

  There it was again – that gleam. Dawood replied smoothly, unhesitatingly. “Both are married, sir. They had schooling up until grade five, but my father felt they would be better served learning to cook and sew at home after that.” He smiled, hoping it didn’t look as fake as it felt. “Learning to be good wives.”

  “Yes, that is essential. This is a big issue in our society – the decadence and lure of the West corrupts our own pure culture, and we must fight against the bastardization of our heritage.”

  “Beginning with our women…”

  “Our women are our mothers. They teach our sons and daughters values, and if the mother has the wrong values, then there is no hope for the children.”

  “Yes sir.” What could he say to this? Technically, the Imam was right. Dawood looked across at Kaleem, who had been eerily quiet through all of this. Time to change the subject. “In Punjab, though, where I have worked for many years, it’s not Western culture that we need to fight. It’s Indian. They have absorbed their music, their movies, even their customs.”

  “Our enemies are on all sides, my son. With India, our battle is in Kashmir. India is itself a victim of cultural adulteration. They are more and more clones of Western culture with each passing day.”

  “But we can fight it, can’t we, Imam sahib?”

  “That is what our brothers in Afghanistan are doing. They are implementing true Sharia, and it is a matter of time before we do the same here.”

  “How can we bring it here?” Dawood leaned forward.

  “How do you think we should?”

  “Well…we need to teach our boys our values. In the madrassahs…”

  “You lived in Lahore. How many parents in Lahore will send their children to a madrassah?”

  Dawood had to acknowledge that. He let a hint of bitterness creep into his voice. “Yes, they would rather send them to expensive private coed schools which teach them to sing and dance, and their curriculum is vetted by the West.”

  The Imam’s heavy hand slammed down on the table. The juice glasses rattled and rocked, and the Imam�
�s voice rose by several decibels. “They are not just vetted by the West – it’s their bloody education!” Dawood and Kaleem both jumped. The Imam looked down and breathed heavily for a second, before bringing himself under control. The severity of his reaction told Dawood plenty, though. He has big plans, and they’re obviously not peaceful plans.

  Dawood allowed himself to be subjected to the Imam’s questions throughout lunch. They discussed everything from Palestine to Kashmir, the ineffectiveness and corruption of the Pakistan government and the secret desire of the West to eradicate Islam. That point alone, which Dawood had brought up, took up the bulk of the meal, but Dawood noticed a slight shift in the Imam’s posture, a louder laugh, and the smooth forehead, no longer creased with lines. I’m in, he thought, turning his attention to the sumptuous feast before him. Time to eat.

  * * *

  Dawood and Kaleem both leaned back from the table in unison, looking like as satisfied as the cat who swallowed the canary. There were pieces of naan, chicken bones, leg of lamb and the skeleton of a trout strewn around the table as a reminder of the massive feast that had been prepared in their honor. The Imam sat at the head of the table, still picking meat from his second fish, with crumbs falling from the corner of his mouth.

  Dawood’s satisfaction over his successful interrogation had waned a little bit. He’d managed to tune in to the darkness and could have sworn there was someone breathing in the shadows. It took every bit of training he had not to turn and stare. Instead, he followed Kaleem’s lead and pretended to be satiated and relaxed after the sumptuous meal they had just shared.

  The Imam looked around at the two, realizing that they had stopped eating, and with a chuckle slid the plate away, “I guess I should stop as well.” Both Dawood and Kaleem protested, encouraging him to continue eating, but as the Imam’s objections grew, the two did not want to be rude, so they took a few pieces of fruit so that the Imam would not have to stop eating. It’s not like he needs the food, Dawood thought to himself, recalling the first interaction at the Timergara bus stop. When Kaleem introduced the two of them, Dawood had to lean down to embrace him, attempting to avoid the grubbiness of his unwashed hair, not being able to reach both his arms completely around him. A missed meal or two wouldn’t do him any harm, Dawood smirked inwardly, maybe coupled with some exercise.

  Reaching for another chicken leg, the Imam called for one of his servants, “Atif-a, sheen chai rawra.” As the servant turned and made his way to the kitchen, the Imam smiled, chicken meat filling the spaces between his teeth, “Green tea will help us digest the meal.” The Imam took a couple more bites before shoving the entire chicken leg into his mouth and sucking all the meat from the bone. Dropping the bone on the plate, he slid it away and leaned back rubbing his stomach. “Allah-hum-do-lillah.”

  Over lunch, the Imam had kept up a flow of stories about the people who had stayed in this house, both before and after his family moved in. From CIA and ISI officers to leaders of the Afghan resistance, the list of names was stellar. Each word increased his value, whether actual or perceived, in Dawood’s mind. Imam Shahid was a high value target not only for Pakistani intelligence, but for the world community, and more importantly, was the connecting piece to getting to the leadership of the terrorist front operating in the tribal areas and urban centers.

  Kaleem, with the weight of the meal in his stomach and the comfort of the air conditioning on his back, had closed his eyes a number of times, only to pop them open again. He sat rocking back and forth, as he fought his drowsiness, until finally giving up with a big yawn. “Imam sahib,” Kaleem stammered, fighting back another yawn, “I think we should take some rest. This evening will have many guests in the house, as usual, and we should be at our best.”

  The Imam had been fighting sleep himself and Kaleem’s suggestion could not have come at a better time. “Beta, you’re right. Evenings are always very busy here with students and guests coming for my seminars.” He explained himself to Dawood. “Sleep is an excellent idea.”

  He called to another servant, motioning him close. “Please show them to the guest rooms so that they can rest. Dawood, Kaleem, please go with the boy. He will get you settled into rooms.”

  As they moved to the door, Dawood noticed that the Imam was still standing in the hall. Turning back, Dawood asked, “Imam sahib, aren’t you going to rest also?”

  “I have a cot here in this room where I will take my rest,” the Imam said, turning on a light for another section of the room. Dawood glancing over and saw the cot that the Imam was talking about. In the corner of the room was a large queen-sized bed with a plasma TV setup on the wall across from it. Hopefully our rooms have that kind of comfort. “We will reconvene at five for afternoon tea.” Dawood felt a hand on his back guiding him out of the room, and as they stepped out, he heard the TV switch on to one of the many Islamic channels that was available via satellite in Pakistan.

  A few minutes after they left the room, two figures emerged from the shadows. These men had been watching and listening to the entire exchange over lunch, gauging the participants for inclusion. They sat down at the freshly cleaned table, speaking in hushed tones about the afternoon’s show.

  “Dawood seems like a worthy candidate.” Fazal said, reaching for a piece of fruit from the bowl in the center. As the commander of the Pakistani side of the resistance force, he had seen every type of man come into his indoctrination camps, where they were assessed to determine how they could best serve the cause. His own experience as a battle commander during the Afghan conflict had given him great insights into the inner workings and thought processes of the men who eagerly signed up to be part of the jihad. Most of them were just looking for a place to belong, not to be a force. A few, like the Imam’s nephew, become warriors for the cause. Not one was allowed to leave alive if they decided against being part of the resistance – that would be too great of a risk. “He shared many of our views. He will be easy to incorporate.”

  “Ji, Ji,” the Imam sat down across the table. “I’m quite impressed with Dawood’s knowledge. I think he may be useful to have around.”

  Fazal’s companion picked up the remote from the table and turned on a large plasma screen that was hidden in the darkness. “Before we induct him into the organization, what do we know about his background?”

  Pictures flashed across the screen. Pictures of Dawood’s first meeting with Kaleem at the construction site, at the masjid where they prayed together and the place in the old city where they would lunch two Fridays a month. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary in any of the pictures, the companion said, continuing to flip from one to another, until he reached a series of photos that caused him to stop. “The only thing about this man is that he’s too careful in his movements. It’s almost as if he’s aware he’s being watched and is doing what is expected. But there are a few people that interact with him at a tea house that are never seen at any other place,” he said with a hint of concern. “Someone that is this careful must have something to hide.”

  Fazal laughed at the comment. “Sheikh sahib, we’re all careful in everything that we do. Do we have something to hide?”

  The Sheikh shot an angry look at Fazal. “Do you think that we have nothing to hide? If the intelligence services were to find out who we are, our freedom, if not our lives, would be gone forever. My question is, what does this man have to hide that he is so careful about his movements?”

  Fazal’s anger simmered at the Sheikh’s comment. “Each one of us is hiding from someone or something. We were not the most honorable people before joining the cause, but Allah, in his grace and mercy, has given us a new mission to regain His favor and forgiveness for our past deeds.”

  “Fazal! I know you’re not that naïve. What if he is intelligence services?” the Sheikh shot back at Fazal. “Are you ready to sacrifice all the work that we have done because we were too rushed to consider all the possibilities?”

  “He came with Kaleem. Kaleem has been with
me since his madrassah days. Kaleem trusts Dawood enough to introduce us, and I trust Kaleem.” interjected the Imam, trying to defuse the situation between the two commanders. Fazal and the Sheikh exchanged a look.

  “Imam sahib, Kaleem is weak,” the Sheikh said. Although the Imam had met the Sheikh many times in the past two decades, he had never had a one-on-one conversation with him. He always travelled with Fazal, never leaving his side. He kept mostly to himself and spoke only in Fazal’s presence, sometimes overruling his commander in decisions related to new recruits and missions. When he did, there would be a heated conversation between the two but in the end, the Sheikh’s recommendations would be followed. The Imam assumed that he had been a higher ranked commander in Afghanistan, or came with the blessings of the special guests, giving him the ability to dictate how the Pakistani resistance would function. “We can only use Kaleem for one thing, not for bringing in recruits,” the Sheikh continued, with a repulsive smirk. “Of course, if you agree.”

  The Imam was never in a position to disagree with him. He wasn’t sure of the power held by the Sheikh, so he nodded his head reluctantly. “Use him as you see fit, Sheikh sahib,” the Imam said begrudgingly. “He has been groomed all his life to be a holy warrior.”

  The Sheikh’s satellite phone began to ring. Getting up from the table, he moved away from the two men before he answered. The call only took a few seconds and was filled with single word questions from the Sheikh. When he returned to the table, he was more resolute in his demeanor.

  “I will observe and interact with Dawood during his stay here. I want to know more about him before I make a decision. At the end of the weekend, we will decide.”

  * * *

  The evening was filled with speeches and fellowship from other members of the cause. Dawood melded in effortlessly. He has spent weeks learning the philosophies and ideologies of groups like these, and could appear as passionate about their views as one of their own. In the background, the Sheikh kept a careful watch on his movements and what raised the interest and passion in the young man’s demeanor. He seems too good to be true, the Sheikh caught himself thinking many times. He noted that Dawood did everything with a measured level of caution, from how he greeted people to answering questions. It could be that he is uncomfortable in the scenario, or maybe he was trying to make sure that he didn’t offend his host; either way, the Sheikh’s concern was elevated by the caution.