Agency Rules - Never an Easy Day at the Office

by Khalid Muhammad

  “Hello Dave!” she exclaimed as she slid by him into her seat, leaving the aroma of her perfume lingering in the air.

  “Hello Ahdad,” he said. “I didn’t know you would be sitting next to me. What a pleasure!”

  “At least I’ll enjoy the flight there,” she laughed, rocking her head to the side, and smiled. “Not so sure about how much I’ll enjoy Islamabad,” she said, taking her phone from her purse to check messages.

  “Is this your first time to Pakistan?” Dave asked, surprised that an Emirati journalist had never been there before.

  “Yes, I just completed my internship and my new boss said this would be a good experience,” she replied.

  “You just completed your internship and you’re interviewing the Prime Minister?” Dave asked, a bit stunned that such an opportunity was being given someone so new.

  “No,” she laughed. “I am just there to arrange the meeting and get background for the interviewer. They don’t waste their time with these small things,” she said with a wink.

  The air hostess came around and asked them both, “Please buckle your seat belts. We are getting ready for takeoff.”

  “Excuse me,” Dave called. “When we get airborne, could you bring my friend and I something to drink?”

  “Yes sir,” the air hostess said over her shoulder as she walked down the aisle.

  Within minutes, the flight was in the air and the air hostess returned with a pleasant smile on her face. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “I’ll have a scotch on the rocks please,” Dave said. “Ahdad, what about you?”

  “I really shouldn’t,” Ahdad said with a smile, “but what the heck, I’ll sleep better tonight. I’ll have a whiskey and coke please.”

  The air hostess smiled, “I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

  “So, where are you coming from, Dave?” Ahdad asked.

  “Canada via London,” said Dave.

  “Oh, I love Canada!” Ahdad said smiling. “I’ve been to Toronto, Montreal and Whistler Mountain to ski.”

  “Not Niagara?” Dave asked with a smile. “Everyone finds their way there when they visit Canada.”

  “No,” she replied sheepishly. “I don’t want to go there until I have someone to enjoy it with. But hey, that’s me. Why are you traveling to Pakistan?”

  “I work for a mineral exploration company and we are looking at working with a Pakistani company to mine marble from the NWFP,” Dave said.

  “Wow! Really?” Ahdad replied. “Wouldn’t it be expensive to transport marble from Pakistan to Canada?”

  “We’re not going to transport to Canada,” Dave said laughing. “We are looking to source it for builders in the Middle East and Europe.”

  The rest of the flight was filled with small talk and flirtation from both sides. She was obviously someone who knew how to use her femininity to get what she wanted and put someone at ease. As they approached Islamabad, the captain’s voice came across the intercom.

  “Ladies and gentleman, we are just about to land at Islamabad International Airport, where the temperature is a balmy thirty-two degrees Celsius. Local time is 1:45 am. We should be at the terminal in the next fifteen minutes,” he said. “If you could all please fasten your seat belts and return your seats to an upright position, we should be all clear to land. On behalf of myself and the cabin crew, we’d like to thank you for flying Emirates Airlines and look forward to seeing you onboard again soon. Cabin crew, please take your seats for landing.”

  The cabin crew made a quick check of the passengers, made the final preparations for landing and took their seats as the plane leaned hard to its right adjusting its position for the runaway. The plane touched the ground minutes later, the wheels passing the impact of the touchdown into the cabin of the plane as it landed. True to his word, the Captain had the plane at the terminal in fifteen minutes and passengers were stepping into the aisles to collect their things from the overhead baggage compartments.

  Dave rose from his seat and pulled his briefcase from the overhead compartment. With a quick smile and goodbye, he left Ahdad and made his way to the exit. She was interesting company, but not someone that I really want to know beyond this flight, he thought exiting the plane onto the airport tarmac and onto the waiting bus. Islamabad International wasn’t like other airports. The size of the airport was not much larger than the bus stations back home and there were no walkways into the terminals. Here, passengers exited the plane into the humid air to board buses that would take them to the terminal and immigration and passport control.

  As he stepped out of the bus into Immigration, he was confronted with the passengers of two other international flights that had landed in the past twenty minutes. True to its bus station form, there were only two passport control officers to deal with over four hundred passengers, while three others stood to the side watching the lines backup with the influx of more international passengers. He stood in line, wiping the sweat from his forehead with one hand and travel documents in the other. It seemed that one of the three officers realized it would be early morning before the backlog was cleared, and there were five more international flights incoming within the next ninety minutes.

  “All passengers with foreign passports, please step over to counter five,” he called. “All passengers with business visas, please step to counter four.” Another man came over and whispered something in his ear, causing him to laugh. “All those passengers with first class boarding passes, please step to counter three,” he said, as the two long lines disbursed into five much more manageable lines. Dave had found his place three people back in the first class line, waiting for the passport control officer to clear the two before him.

  “Next,” he finally called.

  “Good morning,” Dave said stepping up to the counter, only to be met with a stoic face and an even grimmer attitude.

  “Travel documents please,” the man said without showing any interest. I bet he’ll show interest when Ahdad got up here. “Where you are coming from?”

  “Canada,” said Dave, watching him flip through the pages of his passport looking for his business visa to Pakistan. He stopped a few times on visas of other countries, glancing up to look at the man before him. “Is this your first visit to Pakistan?”

  “No, third,” Dave replied, as the passport officer found his visa and searched for proof of the other entries into the country.

  “What business brings you to Pakistan, Mr… Andrews?” he asked seeing a couple of stamps from Pakistani immigration. He reached over and took his stamp in hand, waiting for the answer to his question.

  “Mineral exploration in the NWFP,” Dave replied. “We are working with a Pakistani company to export marble to the Middle East and Europe.”

  The passport control officer’s blank eyes looked at him, seemingly not understanding what he had just said, and stamped the passport, handing it back to him.

  “Thank you,” Dave said collecting his documents, only to be answered with a loud, “Next!”

  He quickly passed through the baggage claim area, having nothing to collect and moved through customs with a cursory check of his laptop and briefcase. Emerging into the humidity of the midnight air, he glanced around the crowd of people gathered to collect friends and family for a sign with his name on it. He spotted a dingy man standing in a freshly ironed shalwar kameez holding a sign reading “Andrews” on it. He pointed at the man and motioned for him to take his briefcase.

  “Welcome sir, the car is waiting here. Please come,” the little man said in his best English, obviously not something he spoke or heard very often. He took the briefcase and rushed ahead, clearing a path for his guest to the waiting vehicle. Dave casually followed behind, doing his best to keep the little man in his sight as he moved through the crowd of people. He finally found his way out of the crowd to the drop lane outside the terminal and the waiting Mercedes with the little, dingy man standing next to the door.

  “Please take se
at,” he said opening the door. He felt the cool air hit his skin as he neared the vehicle. Air-conditioned, he thought to himself, as he slid into the back seat and the door closed behind him.

  “Welcome to Pakistan, Mr. Andrews,” a voice said from within the car.

  He turned his head to see his old friend sitting comfortably next to him, cigar in hand.

  “Or should I say General el-Yahad?” he said with a smile.

  “Abbas is fine,” he replied laughing. “I’m just glad that my contact in Switzerland was able to get such convincing travel documents for me on short notice.”

  “I don’t think that anyone would say no to you, Abbas,” the other man said laughing. “You carry a bit too much power with you.”

  They both laughed at the statement.

  “You’ll be staying with me tonight in Islamabad and we will travel tomorrow morning,” the man said. “Don’t worry, we have all the comforts of home ready for you there.”

  * * *

  “Do you see the problem that we are facing, Captain?” Lt. General Junejo asked. “The Brigadier provides a narrative that says you killed, with cold-blooded devastation, six of his men and put a gun to his head. Both punishable under a court martial and death sentence,” he paused to pull a second file from the stack of folders in front of him. Opening the file, he continued, “Your narrative paints a picture of an officer blinded by ambition, who authorized a subordinate to kidnap your asset luring you out for capture. Knowing full well that they were interfering in an active long-term ISI operation,” he closed the file and looked up at Kamal. “Why should we believe you over the Brigadier?”

  Kamal had spent the past four hours listening to and answering questions about the Peshawar warehouse. With several mugs of tea and biscuits in his stomach, and a quick, discreet painkiller, he had relaxed considerably and managed to organize his thoughts. As a result, the one thing that Kamal had not done throughout the debriefing was refer to anything in the files. He recounted all the details of the events from his own memory. Now, with the General posing this question, Kamal wondered if attacking the Brigadier would be a feasible strategy. His entire testimony had been factual, matching everything that he had said in the hospital when Major Umer had questioned him. The Brigadier, on the other hand, had to refer to his files on numerous occasions during the questioning to ‘recollect’ his story. He’s lying through his teeth.

  “General, you’ve encapsulated my thoughts perfectly,” Kamal started. “If I was on the outside looking at both narratives, I would have my doubts as well. Why believe a captain who has just joined the intelligence services over a Brigadier who heads a paramilitary division?” He paused to allow the question to settle in the minds of the officers around the table. “I could remind you of my unblemished service record of ten years in the Army, the SSG and now the ISI, compared to a Brigadier that was once given the choice of retirement or demotion after seizing the wrong vehicle, again on faulty intelligence, in a drug sting. But that would prove nothing as mistakes are inevitable when based on bad decisions or flawed intelligence. No, that’s not why you should believe me over the Brigadier, sir,” he said calmly. He had reminded the entire room that the Brigadier had a history of faulty judgments based on questionable intelligence, and his voice gained strength as he continued.

  “How can I prove my innocence against the Brigadier’s charges?” Kamal asked. “I cannot.” The committee members sat forward in their chairs, a little stunned that Kamal might be admitting that the Brigadier’s statements carried weight. “But you can, with the files of testimony and evidence that you have before you,” Kamal continued. “Other members of the intelligence services have raised questions about the effectiveness of the Frontier Constabulary under the Brigadier’s command in the Bajaur and Dir districts. You have proof of a jihadi training camp in full operation just a few kilometers from an FC command post. You have both my asset’s and my own medical reports detailing the injuries inflicted by FC soldiers under the Brigadier’s command. You have the reports of both MI & the ISI stating that the Brigadier was informed and categorically told to desist from any attempts to capture and interrogate either of us, as it would compromise an ongoing ISI investigation. And you have the Brigadier, who disregarded all these warnings, risking the life of an ISI operative and the outcome of the greater mission to neutralize that jihadi camp,” Kamal continued in a calm, even tone, never losing the General’s gaze as he emphatically made each point.

  “You already have all the evidence you need to separate fact from fiction, sir,” Kamal said, turning his eyes to the Brigadier. “This is not my word against the Brigadier’s. This is the entire intelligence community’s word against the Brigadier’s word. I can only put my trust in Allah Almighty that this committee will take the right decision.”

  “Captain,” interjected Brigadier Ahmed Saeed. “Do you believe that the FC is working with the leaders of the jihadi camp?”

  “Sir, it’s not what I believe that matters,” Kamal said quietly. He knew where this was going, but he was fairly certain he’d already convinced the people who mattered. He could see the change of attitude in the general body language of the members, with one or two exceptions. “It’s what the evidence shows.”

  “Is that a yes, Captain?” the Brigadier asked again.

  “Sir, that is a yes.”

  “Do you understand the implications of the charges that you’re making, Captain?” asked Lt. General Junejo.

  “I would expect that they are no less severe than the implications of the charges being made against me, sir.” Kamal replied. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Brigadier’s face flush with anger. Here it comes, he thought.

  “This is absolute bullshit!” the Brigadier barked, slamming his fist down on the table. “He has no proof of what he’s saying. Not a shred of proof.”

  “The Brigadier is right. Captain Kamal does not have any proof,” said Lt. General Misbah Qadir, breaking his long silence, having grown tired of the charade that was being played out before him. “I have the proof, as does every member of this committee, and Brigadier,” he said, turning his harsh, battle-worn eyes to him, “it is damning.” The Brigadier tried to object, but Misbah stopped him cold. “Before you continue, I have a few questions… for my own clarity.

  “The name, rank and posting of the person that provided your intelligence about Kamal and Kaleem,” the General asked, his voice unwavering.

  “It wasn’t Kamal that I was told about,” the Brigadier said. “I was told Dawood.”

  “Name, rank and posting, Brigadier,” the General asked again, more forcefully.

  He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t like the General’s tone. “Commander Faheem, Bajaur Command.”

  “What intelligence did he give you?”

  “Dawood and Kaleem were behind the assassination of Prime Minister Azam Shah.”

  A sudden hush fell across the room and all eyes turned toward him. The General stopped writing and looked up, visibly shocked. “Repeat that again. I want to make sure that everyone hears you clearly.”

  “Sir… Commander Faheem approached me in Peshawar stating that he had… credible… information that Dawood and Kaleem were part of the… the assassination of the Prime Minister,” the Brigadier stammered. Under the spotlight in a way that hadn’t happened throughout the meeting, he could feel heat rising up his collar, and beads of sweat forming under his receding hairline.

  “And you felt the FC alone was able to handle this information, as well as capture the two people identified, without bringing military intelligence or the ISI on board?” Brigadier Ahmed Saeed asked, slowly enunciating each word, but before Brigadier Imtiaz could continue, Saeed asked a follow-up question. “Did you pass this information up the chain of command for confirmation or investigation?”

  “Brigadier sahib, I visited both the MI and ISI station chiefs in Peshawar,” the Colonel said. His voice had become slightly pitchy. “They tried to convince me to stay out of the
matter due to an on-going ISI investigation, which made me believe that I had credible intelligence.”

  “And what did you do, Imtiaz?” Lt. General Junejo asked.

  “Er… nothing sir, I had already given approval to take both men down based on the previous intelligence,” he replied, fidgeting in his seat.

  “Did you ever take Faheem or his source to the MI or ISI station chiefs?” asked Lt. General Misbah.

  “No sir.”

  “Did you meet his source or verify the intelligence independently? You have an entire command post in Bajaur to work with, not to mention the Army post on the border.”

  “No sir. I accepted Faheem’s intelligence to be correct, as it has been in the past.”

  “Where is Faheem now, Imtiaz?”

  “Bajaur Command post, sir.”

  The General looked around the room, taking in the expressions of the men seated with him. He had just admitted to violating the basic protocols of military investigations, and it was clear to everyone in the room.

  “The FC was not an investigative force, they are specifically for policing,” the Lt. General said. “If you had intelligence, it should have been passed to the MI or ISI for further investigation prior to any action being taken. You didn’t do that and I am having a hard time understanding why right now, but this can all be clarified easily.”

  “Umer,” the General said, looking to his trusted investigator. “I want Faheem here before the sun breaks over Margalla Hills day after tomorrow. But I don’t want anyone to know why.”

  “Sir?” the Major asked, confused as to how he could bring someone in without telling anyone why.

  “Contact the base commander at our checkpost on the border,” the General said. “Let him know that I want this Commander Faheem escorted to Nowshera by our forces. Make sure that he takes away any communications devices he may have. You will take my chopper and meet them there.”