“Peshawar.”
After a few seconds of massaging the area around the pain, the doctor pulled his hands back saying, “I think you might be right about the pulled muscle. I’d like to give you a muscle relaxant injection that will ease the pain for the night. I’ll also give you some medication for you to take if the pain returns.”
Motioning to the surroundings, Dawood said, “Look, no offense, but taking into account where we are, I don’t know if I am comfortable with an injection. You could be trying to kill me.”
The doctor smirked at the implication. “Yes, Allah’s plan for your life ends at my hands in a jihadi camp. With all the other ways that you could die here, it’s an injection from a doctor that’s going to kill you.”
Dawood realized how foolish he sounded. “I guess you’re right, Dr. Riaz. If they wanted me dead, they could just shoot me. Plus, the pain is pretty unbearable.”
The doctor went to the locked refrigerator and pulled out a small bottle, giving it a few shakes before pushing the needle into the rubber top and pulling the medication into the chamber. He came over to Dawood and pushed on his rib cage a few times to find the location of the pain again, before jabbing the needle into his flesh and emptying the chamber. “There. That should help with the pain.”
“So how long does it take for this to kick in?” Dawood asked.
“Take a deep breath.” Dawood inhaled the dust-riddled oxygen of the cave into his lungs.
“Wow, that was quick,” Dawood said, as he pulled his kameez back on and stood from the examination table. Moving to the door, Dawood stopped, turning around, and asked the doctor, “One question?”
The doctor looked up from the clipboard where he was writing notes, unsure of what Dawood would ask him, cautiously he said, “One question.”
“Where am I supposed to sleep?” he said with a smile, realizing that the doctor was expecting a more ominous question.
The doctor looked through the notes that he had been provided for any sign of how to answer Dawood’s question. “I only know what they tell me, and that is usually medical. There are guards that roam the tunnels who can give you that information.”
Dawood turned and started down the tunnel, looking for these guards to help him find a bed for the night. Would they have beds in the caves or would they sleep on slabs of rock? He pulled a cigarette from the pack in this pocket and slipped it into his mouth. He had already pulled the matchbox from his pocket when a guard came around the corner and yelled, “No smoking in the tunnels. You need to go outside.” He motioned towards another tunnel that Dawood could only assume would lead him outside. Before he could get the cigarette from his lips to ask about sleeping arrangements, the guard disappeared around another corner and out of sight.
Dawood followed, as best as he could, the directions that the guard gave him, but found it easier to use his own senses. He followed the stream of cool air to the tunnel exit. Stepping outside into the night air, Dawood finally pulled a match, striking it against the side of the box and paused to watch the flame engulf the sulfur tip, before bringing it to the tip of the cigarette and taking a deep, pain-free drag. It was his first in many hours and he instantly felt the high of the nicotine rush to his head. He had learned many years ago in Swat that the altitude made cigarettes more enjoyable, whether filled with tobacco or something more intoxicating. He had missed this sensation in the years spent down country.
Looking around the now barren camp, he saw dark holes in the mountain across the valley with faint lights highlighting the outlines of the different entrances. He wondered how a place like this could operate, much less exist, without raising any suspicions from the surrounding villages. The fact that there was a Frontier Constabulary post just two kilometers down the road made Dawood even uneasier with its existence and the loyalties of the paramilitary organization responsible for policing the tribal areas. These were all things that would be discussed when he returned to Peshawar to brief his handler, but the possibilities troubled him.
Tossing the cigarette to the ground, he stepped on it as he turned back to the tunnel entrance, only to find that he had been turned around when looking for his way out for his precious shot of nicotine. Was it down this tunnel and to the right or down the tunnel, to the right and then right again a few tunnels further? He decided that he would just venture in hoping to find his way, and even if he got turned around, there were guards that he was supposed to ask about sleeping arrangements. Walking down the tunnel, Dawood tried to remember the path he had originally followed to get to the medical center. Each time he thought he had the right path, he would end up turning around at a dead end. On the fifth or sixth attempt, Dawood found himself outside a door, instead of the dead ends that he had found everywhere else. Wanting to be sure that he had the right place, he opened the door expecting to find the doctor sitting there. Instead, he found a room with crates stacked from floor to ceiling.
Stepping inside, he closed the door softly behind him. He couldn’t turn on the lights or a passing guard would see and investigate. He would not be able to talk his way out of this situation. He stood quietly to make sure that no one had heard him enter the room and after a few minutes, he pulled out his matchbox to light the room for a better look.
Along one wall were crates with US Army markings and DOD codes painted on the top and sides. To his right were ready-made suicide vests without the detonation cords and detonators. On the wall behind him were more crates with flags from numerous countries unfriendly to Pakistan. This was one of their ammunition depots, Dawood thought to himself. The markings contradicted everything that the Mufti and Sheikh had said, but why were they here?
There were voices in the tunnel, coming closer to him. Starkly aware that he could not drop it on the ground so close to live explosives, not knowing what might be on the ground below him, he wet his fingers to put out the match, and ducked in behind one of the crates. The voices stopped a short distance away and hovered for a few minutes before they finally moved on, slowly softening as the distance increased. Using one of the crates to stand, he felt the lid move slightly from the weight of his body, uncovering some of the weapons inside. Looking inside, he found American made MP5s, a weapon only legally available to armies and US forces. Neither had been in the region for many years and the weapons were brand new. A chill ran down Dawood’s spine. Whose war were the Mufti and Sheikh fighting?
Chapter 10
Seven months into his deep cover assignment, his return to Islamabad was covered with a lie about a family wedding that he was required to attend in Lahore. He had returned under the cover of night in a commuter bus and travelled directly to one of the many safe houses scattered around Islamabad, where his identity could be protected. Grateful to be out of Peshawar, even for a week, he was especially thankful to be able to enjoy a proper meal and wear clean clothing, even if it was fatigues.
The past forty-eight hours had been a whirlwind of activity around the safe house, with members of the intelligence and military community arriving to speak to him. Each had their own questions, looking for holes in the reporting that had been done to command, about his reports and what actionable intelligence had been collected. His ‘visitors’ were all casually dressed and no one travelled in a vehicle with military insignias, following the specific protocols that were defined and taught to every member of the intelligence services. It just looked like another day in an Islamabad neighborhood to the random passerby.
He stood in front of the mirror, checking each crease and pin on his uniform. Something felt out of place to him, but his mind had grown accustomed to the simple shalwar kameez that he worn daily for so long, making him unable to see any inconsistencies. He heard the blaring of a car horn at the gate and the familiar sound of it being unlocked and pulled open. With the roar of the engine in the garage, he knew it was time to go. Grabbing his effects from the dressing table, he snatched his cap from the bed and slipped it into his belt, making his way through the house. At
the door to the garage, he stopped for a split second, taking a deep breath to settle himself before emerging into the protective shade of the garage.
This was his first time outside the house since his arrival in the city. He noticed that the garage had been fitted with a weather-sheet that blocked the view to outsiders; no one could tell who was entering and exiting the vehicles in the garage. As he emerged from the house, the soldier snapped to attention alongside the already opened car door, waiting for him to climb in to the black Corolla. The door closed with a thud behind him and the soldier climbed into the driver’s seat. He noticed that the windows were a deep shade of black, blocking out any prying eyes. Normal security or excessively paranoid, he wondered to himself, as the vehicle lurched into reverse and pulled out of the driveway.
The driver looked into the rearview mirror, trying to reconcile the pictures he had been shown with the man who sat in his back seat now. He didn’t know it, but the man in the back seat had worked as a detail driver for a colonel during his early days in the military and knew that the bond between a driver and the protectee was temporary, but if anything were to happen to the protectee, the career of the other would be ruined. Today, he sat in the position of the protectee, wondering what might be going through the driver’s mind as he looked into the rearview mirror.
“As-salam-a-laikum sir.”
“Wa-laikum-as-salam. What’s your name soldier?”
“Sir, I am Owais Ghani from the Rawalpindi battalion.”
“Let’s get going, Owais. There are people waiting at headquarters for me.”
He watched out his window as the houses slowly passed and they reached the corner. The car made the turn towards F-10 Markaz and picked up two escort vehicles that matched his in make, model and color. He noticed, as they crossed the others, that even the number plates were the same. Counter surveillance – he was amused at the thought that he warranted such tactics. The escort vehicles stayed close behind through the first two traffic lights, splitting in different directions at the third. The driver looked in his mirror and made a cursory check for any vehicle that might be following. Seeing none, he accelerated to a cruising speed.
“Are we clear, soldier?”
“Yes, sir. It’s smooth sailing to headquarters from here.”
“What’s our ETA?”
“Sir, we are ten minutes out.”
“Make it five soldier,” he called from the backseat, and he felt a sudden acceleration in speed as the soldier complied.
“Yes sir.”
Minutes later the car crossed into the red zone, the highly secure area in front of Parliament house, and raced down Constitution Avenue. He had only been there once before, traveling via military transport then as well, so he had no idea where the driver was going. After a series of turns, the car drove past a private hospital and pulled through an already open gate, where armed soldiers stood guard. There was no security stop for his vehicle, obviously recognized as one of their own, nor any protocol once it entered the grounds. Just another vehicle entering what looked like a private university’s grounds. The driver drove past the entrance to the building, instead making a sharp turn into the middle of the building into a secluded alleyway, screeching to a stop at a black metal door. He felt his body lurch forward with the impact of the brakes, followed quickly by a “Sorry sir,” from the driver as he exited the vehicle. He tried to open the door and exit, but the doors were locked from the passenger side and could do nothing but wait for the soldier to open them. With a rhythmic knock on the metal, the solder alerted whoever might be sitting on the other side that he had arrived with the package, and the metal doors swung open, almost clipping the side panel of the car in the process. The soldier reached down and pulled the car door open, revealing a fully encased security wall that would protect his exit from the vehicle into the tunnel that would take him back into the main building.
His foot touched the ground and for the first time since arriving, he felt fresh air flood into his lungs. He had been living like a caged animal in the safe house, unable to emerge due to potential security concerns. He stood for a moment taking in the surroundings and offending aromas that the alleyway offered up. This can’t be where command is escorted in, he thought to himself. It must be for prisoners and operatives. The soldiers who had been standing guard inside the metal door snapped a salute to the uniform, the gold bars on his collar and shoulder. They didn’t know who he was, nor did it matter in any military. Individuals were only known by soldiers under their command, rank was recognized across the military. Twenty yards forward sat a security officer that would clear his entrance into the building, who also snapped to attention as he approached.
“Welcome sir,” he said. “I need you to confirm your name and identification.”
“Daw…Captain Kamal Khan,” he quickly corrected himself, dropping his military identification on the table. Kamal. Your fucking name is Kamal. He had gotten so accustomed to introducing himself with his cover identity that he seemed to forget the name stitched on the front breast of his uniform.
The guard glanced between his identification and the man standing in front of him a few times, drawing a confused look to his face.
“Is there a problem soldier?”
“Sir, your identification picture…” the confused security officer said hesitantly, trying not to offend the officer more senior to him.
“People’s appearances change, soldier. That doesn’t mean that they’re not the same people,” Kamal quickly said, slightly offended that he had been asked. Just how does a green soldier like this get posted to security detail? “Command is expecting me for a briefing.”
The security officer pulled a clipboard from the drawer of his desk and found Kamal’s name on the list of visitors for the day. Sliding the clipboard and pen to him for signature, he returned Kamal’s identification, apologizing for his mistake. Kamal couldn’t blame him. He had changed significantly since the picture in his military identification had been taken. My own mother wouldn’t even recognize me like this, he thought to himself.
The elevator door opened on to the fourth floor and Kamal was met by two soldiers in full dress uniform. As before, they both saluted him, and ushered him forward, “Please follow us sir.”
This was the unified command of military intelligence with the Directors General of ISI, Army, Navy and Air Force Intelligence offices located on this level. Intermixed with these offices were a series of unmarked doors that Kamal assumed were either meeting rooms for the respective DGs or offices of administrative staff. On the walls between the beautiful oak doors were photographs of the various men who had held these positions in the past, all leading to the double oak doors at the end of the hall. The hallway was eerily quiet; no noise escaped from behind the closed doors and his footsteps were absorbed by the plush carpeting. His two escorts reached the doors at the end of the hall and opened them to reveal an ornate conference room. Kamal spotted the row of generals sitting on one side of the table and snapped a salute, waiting for permission to enter and take a seat. A tiny bead of sweat trickled down the back of his neck as he took in the faces of the men that he was to brief. It was a who’s who of the Pakistan Army’s top command.
The conference room held a rich history for every Director General, hosting the few Prime Ministers who had dared to venture down the halls of the Directorate of Inter-Services Intelligence. This was not a friendly place for politicians and the military men that were stationed here took pains to ensure that they understood that fact. The ISI had always come under fire from democratic governments wanting to reel them in and control their activities, but the Army command refused to allow it to happen. This room, adjacent to the Director General’s office, was his own conference room and designed to be as intimidating to the elected politicians as the Prime Minister’s office was to regular citizens. It was also the Chief of Army Staff’s office when he visited the facility, the base of operations in Islamabad. Kamal thought about the first tim
e he had visited ISI headquarters years ago, for a briefing with Colonel Akbar before being stationed in Karachi. That briefing room was a simple classroom on the second floor, miniature compared to where he was today.
“Take a seat, Captain,” Lt. General Misbah Qadir said, “I hope your welcome back to civilization has been comfortable.”
“Yes sir, very comfortable,” Kamal replied. “Thank you sir.”
“Captain, we have a great deal to cover today so I don’t want to waste time. Do you know all the people sitting around the table?” motioning to the five men that would de-brief him.
“Yes sir. I am familiar with each,” Kamal lied having only recognized three of the five.
“Then, let me get everyone up to speed,” the Lt. General said, opening a file in front of him. “Gentlemen, approximately seven months ago, Captain Kamal Khan was tasked with an intelligence gathering exercise to infiltrate a jihadi network based in Sarhad. The purpose of the exercise was to gather information on the main players, sources of funding and activities of the network to assess the potential threat to the state of Pakistan.” He turned back to Kamal. “You joined the network through a masjid in Timergara, Dir, correct?” he asked flipping pages of the file.
“Yes sir. I was recruited through Imam Shahid’s masjid in Timergara.”
The General pulled his spectacles down from his eyes, looking at Kamal. “Recruited? How did that happen?”
“Sir, I was stationed in Peshawar under the identity of Dawood Islam as a construction worker on daily wages. At the site, I met a…potential asset known as Kaleem Aslam, who engineered my introduction to Imam Shahid,” Kamal explained. “I can’t say whether I was specifically targeted for recruitment, but the group seemed to know a great deal about me when I first met the Imam. I have detailed all of my interactions with Kaleem in my reports, sir.”
Agency Rules - Never an Easy Day at the Office Page 12
