Agency Rules - Never an Easy Day at the Office

by Khalid Muhammad

  “When you were told that the ISI had a deep cover operative, why would you carry out this mission?” Kamal growled in his ear. “Are you really that stupid? Tell them to lower their weapons and come out of the shadows.”

  The Brigadier could feel his throat closing from the chokehold Kamal applied. Tightening it slightly, he ordered him again, “Tell them!” before slightly releasing the hold to allow the Brigadier to speak. In the cover of darkness, no one had seen him take him and not being seen would facilitate his escape without having his cover blown.

  “Men, we have a friendly here.” The Brigadier’s raspy voice quavered as he called out to his troops. “Lower your weapons and show yourselves.”

  “Wait one minute and then turn on the lights,” Kamal whispered into his ear. He released his hold on the Brigadier’s throat. He had no intention of being there when the lights came on.

  Someone pulled a lever, bringing all the lights in the warehouse on. Kaleem’s bruised body lay motionless in a corner. The two closest soldiers ran towards him to check his vital signs, tripping over another body as they ran towards him.

  “Men, fan out and search the warehouse,” the Brigadier ordered. “Make sure there are no hostiles left inside.” The Brigadier glanced around the hall for the person who had, moments earlier, had him in a chokehold, but saw no one. His hand instinctively dropped to his sidearm, finding it in his holster, creating even greater confusion in his mind. Why would he leave the gun? He didn’t know how many men I have with me. Looking around the warehouse, all he saw were bodies and blood trails, and his own soldiers, gingerly moving through the building.

  Kamal stood on the roof of the warehouse, watching the entire show below. He knew that he had escaped with his life. Kaleem had been sacrificed as the friendly in this encounter, but the bloodlust that the Sheikh had for Dawood was not going to be quenched with just one sacrifice. He would want Dawood as well. Below him was a contingent of FC personnel patrolling the street and making his escape from the building roof impossible. He would just have to wait them out. The Colonel knew that there was a friendly there and the ISI would not confirm the identity after such a brazen attack on an operative. He would have no reason to leave anyone behind for surveillance, and even if he did, Kamal was confident that he could slip away unnoticed.

  Realizing that it may be a while before he could move, Kamal relaxed against the concrete roof, finally taking stock of the various injuries that were battling for his attention. Slumping down against the short wall that surrounded the roof, he slowly slipped into unconsciousness. His last thought was a growing desire to even the score with the Sheikh.

  * * *

  A long, troublesome ten days had already passed since the Prime Minister’s assassination. President Butt had stopped speaking to the media at his official visits because he had no new information from any quarter. The law enforcement agencies had not progressed beyond the ballistics on the bullet and the shooter’s location. The investigation was moving too slow for the President, but that was secondary to the real issue — filling the seat vacated by Azam Shah.

  The Muslim League had petitioned the Supreme Court for an extension of the fourteen-day Constitutional time limit so they could elect a new member to fill the vacant seat, which would mean at least another forty-five days before a new Prime Minister was elected. The court was still deliberating the petition, while various party members were pledging their allegiance to leading names in the party. At last count, the President’s media cell had Tariq Nadeem and Aijaz Awan as the front-runners, but a new player had emerged over the past few days. Ahsan Chaudhry, the Federal Interior Minister, was gaining ground quickly and many politicians from other parties were extending their support to him as well. Chaudhry was a known player in the political scene, had already built strong relationships with all the parties and seemed to be acceptable to the party leadership, since no one was attacking him in the media. President Butt wanted clarification and to move the country forward, tired of holding the position of the spokesman for the ruling party. He planned on organizing that in the afternoon at a hurriedly arranged meeting.

  Tariq Nadeem was the first to arrive at President House, but he didn’t come alone. As the doors to President House opened, the aide waiting to receive the Speaker was overwhelmed with his entourage. Nadeem looked like he was leading a conquering army, he thought to himself, as people streamed in the door. He cordially welcomed the Speaker and led him to the conference room a few doors down from the State Room. Aijaz Awan arrived with similar pomp and circumstance, as a second aide received him at another entrance. He was seen to the same conference room where Tariq Nadeem was waiting.

  Saeed Ghani slipped in quietly with his aides from the law ministry and went straight to the President’s office.

  In the outer office, the President’s secretary greeted Ghani with a smile, “Good afternoon, minister. Are you here for the meeting?”

  Ghani nodded. “Good afternoon, Ayesha. Is he free? I’d like to speak to him before the meeting.”

  Ayesha, with a puzzled look on her face, said “Minister sahib, I don’t think that will be possible. They are already inside waiting for you.”

  Ghani’s head spun around in shock. Neither the Speaker or the Senate Chairman were known for their punctuality, yet somehow they had gotten here before him. With a shrug, he said, “Well, I guess I will join them then.”

  The secretary grabbed her pad from the desk and knocked on the door, waiting for the President’s approval to enter. A booming voice came from the other side and she pushed the door open far enough for her slim body to slip through, closing it quickly behind her. Stupid protocols from the British era — I have to be announced, Ghani thought. Seconds later, the doors opened again and Ghani was invited in, crossing paths with the secretary on her way out.

  “Mr. President,” Ghani said crossing the carpeted floor to the President’s desk. “How are you?”

  He had been here on a number of occasions during the past eighteen months of their government. He was regularly called by the President’s office for legal advice on different policy measures being pursued by the ruling party. Outside of the official visits, he had very limited interaction with President Butt. Their relationship was officially cordial, but not friendly.

  “I am very well, Saeed,” the President responded, shaking his hand. “I think you know everyone here,” motioning to the individuals occupying seats around the room.

  “Of cour…” Ghani froze mid-sentence. He had expected to find the Speaker and Senate Chairman seated with the President. Instead, he saw Ahsan Chaudhry, Jaffar Shah, General Amjad Ali and Lt. General Misbah Qadir. “Where are Tariq and Aijaz?” a dumbfounded Ghani asked.

  “Down the hall, waiting for us,” President Butt replied. “I wanted to have this private meeting first.

  “I come from the business world, where delay is considered weakness,” President Butt continued, motioning for Ghani to take a seat. “I told the politicians in the room down the hall that I wanted a name within one day. It’s been ten. Rather than following my request, they approached the superior court for more time. It’s outrageous that they think their simple majority overrides my Constitutional authority.”

  “Mr. President, what are you considering?” asked Ghani, confused by the President’s words.

  “You need to explain to the men down the hall that I have picked the new Prime Minister,” the President stated, emotionless. “Ahsan Chaudhry will be the nominee, fully supported by his party, or the government will be dismissed and new elections called.” Ghani was shocked at the President’s declaration. He had obviously been playing politics behind the scenes and, as the delay extended, made decisions without bringing the ruling party on board. Jaffar Shah’s words from ten days ago echoed in the Ghani’s ears.

  “Mr. President, the party may have selected you as President,” Ghani said, “But you carry no weight… no history with the party. Why would they accept your decision?”
>
  “Accept? Who is asking for their acceptance?” President Butt said with a slight smile. “Make it clear to them that this is not a negotiation. It’s either my way, and they stay in power, or the elections, where they risk defeat after eighteen months of bad policy-making. I have made my decision. I need you to inform them of it.”

  “Mr. President, we need to discuss this…” Ghani stammered, but President Butt wasn’t interested.

  “We have discussed it,” the President said motioning around the room. “You now have the decision of this office. The office of the President of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan.” The President paused, letting his smile deepen. “Which also happens to be the only Constitutional office with the guts to stand by this country… not some… some hedonistic, hegemony masquerading as a political party.”

  “Sir…” Ghani started to say, only to freeze when the President’s fist slammed into the desk in front of him.

  “Minister sahib, your party has tested my patience enough,” the President said leaning forward, with a hint of steel in his voice. “Now go and tell your people my decision.” Even in anger, he kept his voice even. “Let them know that I already have the votes to elect him without your party’s support. It would be nice if Mr. Chaudhry’s own party voted for him as well.”

  The doors to the outer office opened with the President’s military escorts flanking both sides. “Now get out of my office,” sneered President Butt.

  * * *

  He awoke recognizing the room. It had been days since the showdown at the warehouse and Kamal had little to no memory of how he had arrived at the safe house in Islamabad. Kamal tried to move, but the pain shot through his body with a vengeance, causing him to almost lose consciousness again. He stopped moving, breathing heavily through his mouth and gritting his teeth against the pain.

  The door to the room opened and someone entered. He couldn’t recognize the figure through the haze that filled his eyes. He felt a burn flow through his arm, overpowering the pain. They had injected him with something, but as the pain subsided, he heard a faint voice calling his name.

  “Kamal, Kamal,” the voice said. “Can you hear me?”

  Kamal tried to speak, but the days under sedation had parched his throat. He motioned to the glass of water on the table, hoping that the figure would understand that he wanted water. He coughed as he drank, and the water burned going down his raspy throat.

  “You need to rest,” the figure said. “You’ve taken a fairly bad beating. The morphine I just gave you should help with that.”

  Kamal, undaunted, tried to speak, but rasping sounds instead of words came out of his throat. The morphine took hold and the haze returned to his eyes; he fell back to sleep.

  His dreams were filled with conflicting images of his life on the battlefield, the night in the warehouse and his time with Sara. She must be my happy place, Kamal thought to himself. As he fell deeper into the drug-induced sleep, his mind wandered.

  Training at The Bird’s Nest. Dinner in Islamabad. The mountains of Siachen. The date in Daman-e-Koh. The rooftop in Karachi. Why am I remembering the rooftop? The memory persisted in Kamal’s unconscious state. He saw Aftab in the market talking to the naanwala. That bastard would talk to anyone that would listen to him. He followed Aftab as he moved to the newspaper hawker that supplied our daily connection to the world. The fruit seller who had the worst selection of fresh fruit he had ever seen. Aftab always bought falsas from him, most of which were rotten, but never got apples or even a melon that would have lasted longer. His scope followed Aftab beyond the fruit seller to the cigarette khoka, another source of sustenance for them. Kamal’s mind froze for a second and tracked back to the fruit seller, now talking to one of the guards of the munitions depot they had hit during the operation. As he focused his scope on the fruit seller, there is something very familiar about him, but where…?

  Kamal’s eyes snapped open, still semi-under the influence of the morphine. He was not in the safe house, but a hospital with machines connected to his body. How did I get from the safe house to here? Or was I here the whole time?

  Kamal tried to call out for a doctor or nurse but no one came in. He fumbled around the bed for the call button, pressing it furiously when he found it, but before anyone came in Kamal drifted back to his unconscious state. Maybe the button was for the morphine drip and not to call the hospital staff, he thought to himself.

  What seemed like hours later, he opened his eyes again, finding a nurse standing beside him taking his vitals.

  “Oh, you’re awake,” she said. “Let me get the doctor.”

  She went out the door and Kamal’s eyes closed again.

  “Nurse! Doctor!” Kamal called out, but no one came. Hadn’t the nurse said she was getting a doctor? Where is she? He fumbled around the bed for the call button, pressing it furiously when he found it. The door to his room opened and a woman in a white coat walked in.

  “Captain, nice to see you back with us,” the white coat said, taking the stethoscope from around her neck. “Let me just check your vitals. I’m sure you have questions.” Yeah, like how did I get here?!?

  She quickly checked his pulse and breathing. “Breathing is a bit labored, but that’s probably because of the cracked ribs,” she said. “Pulse seems fine.”

  “I need to speak with my boss,” Kamal croaked painfully, still unsure of where he was. “I have urgent information for him.”

  “Your boss? You do realize where you are?” she said looking into Kamal’s blank eyes. “This is CMH Rawalpindi, Captain. There are no bosses here,” she said laughing. “Do you remember how you got here?”

  Kamal searched his drugged mind for the last memories, but nothing emerged. “How long have I been here?”

  “Well, you were at CMH Peshawar for two days. Then transferred on orders from Lt. General Asim Junejo, Director Military Operations,” she explained. “You must be very important to have a Lt. General order your transfer here. And in a private room, no less.”

  Kamal’s throat hurt, but he needed to know, “How long have I been here?”

  “Total stay has been seven days so far. We expect you to be here for at least another week before you can be released,” she finally told him.

  “I need to speak with someone from the army,” Kamal said, grabbing the doctor’s hand. “I have to know what happened.”

  “There’s someone waiting outside to speak with you,” she said, heading to the door. “By the way, is Sara your wife? You kept calling her name whenever you woke.”

  Sara had been with him at the safe house, or had that been a dream? “Just a woman I dated for a while. No one special,” Kamal whispered. Every word was an effort, and his tongue felt heavy, probably a side effect from the sedation.

  The doctor opened the door and motioned to the person waiting outside. A uniformed officer filled the doorframe staring at him. “Captain Kamal Khan?” the officer asked. “Major Umer Afzal, Military Intelligence.” The officer came into the room, and waited politely for the doctor to exit. She did so with a last glance at her patient.

  Major Umer walked to Kamal’s bedside, looking at the monitors and wires extending from the bed. “How are you feeling now, Captain?”

  “I’m fine,” rasped Kamal. “Who knows I’m here?”

  “No one. That’s not something you need to worry about. I do have several questions, however, and it doesn’t look like you’re in a state to talk.”

  “I can talk!” But Kamal’s voice had already weakened in the short time he had been up. He decided to sit up, but his body felt heavy. Experimentally, he moved his leg and almost fainted again with the pain. As his face contorted with pain, Major Umer put a hand on Kamal’s shoulder, gently stilling the Captain’s attempts to move.

  “Stay still, Captain. I have orders to wait here until you can talk. You don’t need to move to do that.” As Kamal subsided back into the bed, the Major walked quickly outside the room, calling a nurse back in. She readjusted
a setting on a machine, and Kamal felt endorphins flood his body as the pain slipped away. His eyes closed as the morphine took effect.

  * * *

  “…no lasting damage. He’s young and strong and we can expect a full recovery.”

  “What about his voice, was his throat also hurt?”

  “No, that’s from being asleep for ten days without any water. It’s just dry. I’ll give him something to lubricate his throat, but I don’t want you taxing him, Major.”

  Kamal heard the voices come closer, but as he opened his eyes, he realized that the doctor and the Major were standing at the foot of his bed. They hadn’t noticed that he was awake yet, and he preferred it that way, as he listened to the doctor list his injuries. Broken ribs, bruised kidneys, and a hairline fracture on his wrist. His thigh was sore from the bullet wound, but was healing nicely. Yeah, right, thought Kamal as he flexed his leg muscles and felt the pain radiate up to his stomach. They were most concerned with the blow to his head. His eye was still swollen, a worrying sign, apparently, because while x-rays and MRI’s hadn’t shown any fractures or lasting damage, they had expected the swelling to have gone down by now.

  Kamal moved involuntarily at that, and the doctor and Major stopped talking. Kamal opened his eyes. The doctor smiled at him, coming round to the head of the bed. She called for a nurse.

  “Afternoon, Captain. Are you feeling better today?”

  Kamal nodded. “Much better.” He looked at the Major, still standing at the foot of the bed. “I need to talk, now.”

  The Major nodded. “We’re just getting you some cough syrup and water for your throat.”

  Minutes later, Kamal’s throat liberally coated with cough syrup, he was finally alone with the Major.

  “Captain, we need to understand what happened that night in Peshawar,” Major Umer said, pulling a chair from the corner. He sat down at his bedside and opened his briefcase to remove a file. “There are conflicting stories about what happened in the days leading up to the night in question. We’re just trying to assemble all the facts. What do you remember?”