Agency Rules - Never an Easy Day at the Office

by Khalid Muhammad

  “What did you wake me for, soldier?” Chaudhry asked.

  “Sir, the car will be here in fifteen minutes,” the young soldier said. “I was told by my command to awaken you.”

  “Car for what?” Chaudhry asked, sleep rushing out of his mind. “Is there a problem? Has something happened?”

  “Sir, I was only told to wake you and deliver the message.”

  The Premier looked at him thoughtfully, unsatisfied with the information provided. But he couldn’t expect anything else from the doorman. “Let me know when the car arrives,” Chaudhry said, closing the door. He stood for a moment, trying to understand why a car was coming to collect him at this hour, but nothing came to mind. With a long sigh, he turned to walk to the bathroom to clean up before getting dressed, his mind wondering the whole time, why now? He turned the tap on the facet, letting the water run to warm before splashing his face a few times. Looking up into the mirror, he checked the growth on his face considering whether he had enough time for a quick shave. No, there isn’t enough time, he thought as he grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste. His mind continued to run through the past few days of his schedule trying to recall why he had been roused at three in the morning, but still nothing came to mind. As he brushed, staring into the mirror, it suddenly hit him. Suspect zero. They must have captured him.

  Chaudhry’s pace increased as he rinsed and wiped his face. The Army had been after suspect zero for weeks, following leads to nothing and nowhere. He was still at large, as far as the Premier knew. They must have him, why else would they send a car at this hour? He stopped as he was slipping his vest over the standard issue white cotton kurta shalwar, why send a car? They could have just told my driver to take me to them. He sat down next to Ayla to wait for the car. The thought sat for a few seconds, but the excitement of finally seeing the face of the man who had assassinated Azam Shah was too great for him. Would they let me speak to him? Maybe see him face-to-face. The media would be shocked to find that we had caught him, he thought, picturing the faces of those bastard journalists who had been hounding him with questions about the investigation and lack of results. Lost in thought, he didn’t hear the knuckles rapping against the wooden door, but Ayla did.

  “Ahsan… Ahsan,” she softly said. Getting no response, she sat up and reached across the bed for his arm, squeezing when she found it. “Ahsan, someone is knocking again.”

  Chaudhry’s dream ended, interrupted by Ayla’s statement. “I think they got him finally,” Chaudhry said to his wife, without turning to look at her. “They got him, I think.”

  Ayla sat straight up in bed, “What did you say?”

  Chaudhry rose from his side of the bed, turning to look at her. “I think the security services have arrested Azam’s killer.” The words came out, but Chaudhry didn’t register what he had just said and Ayla was too surprised to comprehend. The Premier was almost halfway to the door before she spoke again.

  “Why would they come now… for you?” Ayla asked. “You’re not an interrogator.”

  “Honestly Ayla, I have no idea why they are coming to pick me up,” Chaudhry replied. “There is something off about this.”

  The Prime Minister continued to the door, pausing a second before opening it. Gone was the young soldier who had come initially. Instead, Lt. General Misbah Qadir stood outside, dressed casually.

  “Good morning, Prime Minister,” the General said. “I hope you slept well. Are you ready to go?” The Premier flashed a fake smile at him, amused by the comment. He stepped out of his private quarters, closing the door behind him and followed the General down the hall. As they exited the residence, soldiers opened the doors of the vehicle to allow both men to take their seats on either side of the vehicle.

  “Was this really necessary? At this hour?” Chaudhry asked as the doors closed.

  “Plausible deniability, sir,” Qadir answered. “We do this during the daylight hours, the media will be all over us. It will compromise you, this conversation and an ISI location that no one knows about,” he continued, pushing a button to close the partition between the driver and himself. He tapped on the partition to let the driver know they were ready to move. “We’ll be there soon, Mr. Prime Minister.”

  Pulling out of the residence, the General handed a file to the Premier saying, “Give it a read, knowing the facts will assist us.” Chaudhry took the file, but was concerned that he didn’t see any lights of his protocol or escort vehicles with the car. This was disconcerting to the new Premier knowing that his predecessor had been assassinated, even with full security protocol.

  “Where is my protocol?” Chaudhry asked.

  “Mr. Prime Minister,” Qadir said. “There are times when you must be hidden in the full view of everyone. No one can know you or I are in this vehicle.” Qadir pointed out the front windshield saying, “You notice no military protocol, no flags on the vehicle. Remember sir, plausible deniability.” Chaudhry nodded and returned his attention to the file before him. The more he read, the more shock set in. The more he understood, the angrier he got.

  “How did we get all of this?” Chaudhry asked, pointing at the contents of the file. “How long have we had him?”

  “This is a combination of intelligence gathered from suspect zero, investigations and our own on-ground assets,” the General calmly said. “We have had him for three weeks now.”

  “Three weeks?!?” Chaudhry said voice pitched with anger. “And you’re just telling me now?”

  “Mr. Prime Minister, the intelligence services play close to the vest,” the General said. “Our people have to make on the spot decisions, sometimes at the risk of their own lives. We can’t afford to have people know what we are doing. There is no play-by-play in our world. If there were, there would be no point in being a clandestine service, would there?”

  Chaudhry, still angry at not being read in sooner, understood that the intelligence services needed space to work. He had seen that during the Karachi operation, where no information was passed to the Interior Ministry while it was in ongoing. Instead, the government was told when the operation was completed and the successes could be shared with everyone. Deep down, he knew if they had come to him sooner, there would have been pressure from every section of the government to announce, prosecute and punish the assassin before any actionable information could have been attained. Getting one would have done nothing to prevent a repeat down the road. They work in the shadows for a reason, he said to himself.

  * * *

  Staring out the window as the villages passed, el-Yahad had gotten quite bored of the continuous conversation from Nabeel, his guide from Islamabad to Bajaur. He had been on long excursions in Syria, traveling for hours on end, but there no one dared to talk this much to him. Nabeel seemed to have been told by his commanders to provide a full briefing on the road rather than waiting until they arrived at the camp.

  “We have reached operational readiness in Bajaur and Jalalabad, sir,” Nabeel said. “We’ll demonstrate once we arrive at The Sanctuary.”

  “When will that be?” el-Yahad asked, turning his head from the darkened window to look at him.

  “We should arrive in about three hours,” Nabeel answered glancing at his watch.

  Three more hours? I’ll be dead by the time we get there.

  “Sir?” Nabeel asked. “Sir, is everything alright?”

  “I need cigarettes and something to drink,” el-Yahad answered, turning back to the darkened window and the villages rushing by. “Can we stop somewhere?”

  Nabeel looked around for a moment, getting his bearings on their location. He quickly gave the driver instructions. “We’re in Takht Bhai. We will stop for tea and chapli kebab in ten minutes.”

  El-Yahad shrugged his assent, unconcerned with the location. I am just a prisoner on this trek, he thought slipping his designer sunglasses back on. How do these people do this regularly, he wondered, and picked up a file, hoping to keep Nabeel’s mouth shut. Even if only for ten minutes.r />
  As the black Land Cruiser pulled into the roadside restaurant, el-Yahad stepped out into the burning sunlight without hesitating to think about where he was. Some people stopped eating, turning to look at him, but most kept their attention off him, valuing their lives over the momentary curiosity. Their curiosity further dissipated when the two escort vehicles of armed gunmen emptied behind him. Nabeel led the way up the stairs to the VIP seating area, continuously looking around as if he expected someone to be watching.

  This made el-Yahad very nervous, having been in a similar situation while visiting mid-level Hezbollah commanders in Southern Beirut. His instincts told him to leave, not willing to take the risk. The environment had been similar to this one – single-story buildings, heavy foot traffic and many people with military grade weaponry. While his vehicle sat at the traffic light a block away, the whole restaurant had been demolished by a surgical Israeli air strike. He had learned to trust his instincts more since that day. Here, he wasn’t sure. Takht Bhai sat at the edge of Pakistan’s wild west, the lawless tribal areas where affiliation was the difference between life and death.

  Nabeel must have sensed el-Yahad’s reservation from the landing above, suddenly stopping his ascent and rushing down to his side. “Sir, if you don’t want to stay,” he said concerned, “We can leave. We have a ‘friend’ down the road where you might feel more secure.” El-Yahad nodded and immediately headed back to the vehicle. Nabeel barked out orders to the drivers and security and they rushed back to the cars. As el-Yahad climbed into the Land Cruiser, he noticed Nabeel talking intensively to one of the security men. What’s going on? The man ran back to his vehicle and they rushed off before Nabeel climbed in with el-Yahad.

  El-Yahad waited for Nabeel to explain the conversation with security, but Nabeel remained silent. “What was that about?” he asked impatiently, motioning to the scene that had just played out in front of the vehicle.

  “I sent him ahead to let our friend know that we are coming with a guest,” Nabeel said. “We will rest there for a few hours and then continue to Bajaur.”

  El-Yahad was somewhat satisfied with the explanation, calming his concerns as the vehicle pulled out of the restaurant only to stop again a hundred yards down the road. Nabeel turned, looking down at the cigarette pack, memorizing it and asking, “Coke or Pepsi?”

  He was impressed that Nabeel remembered the reason for the stop, thinking he may not be as useless as he seemed. “Get whatever is cold,” he said pulling a thousand rupee note from this pocket for Nabeel.

  “Please sir,” Nabeel said, as he exited the car shaking his head. “You are our guest. There is no need for your money.” He closed the door behind him. It had been a while since el-Yahad had been in the area and he had forgotten the Pukthoonwala code of hospitality that was famous here. Nabeel wasn’t gone long, returning with a carton of his cigarette brand and cold drinks. Climbing into the vehicle, Nabeel gave instructions to the driver before handing the cold drink and carton to el-Yahad. “From the freezer, sir,” he commented. “It doesn’t get colder around here than this.”

  Nabeel was silent for the forty-five minute drive to Dargai. It was a welcome respite from the constant jabbering, el-Yahad thought to himself. More than anything else, it gave him time to think about everything that Nabeel has shared with him thus far. Operational readiness was a difficult achievement for a non-military force, especially one made up of individuals driven by a ‘higher purpose.’ As his mind considered what mayhem and destruction could be caused in both Pakistan and Afghanistan, he remembered the assassination of the Prime Minister.

  “Nabeel,” el-Yahad started. “You said that the camp had achieved operational readiness.” Nabeel nodded, affirming the conversation from hours earlier. “You know… when the military says that, we have done some missions to confirm. Has the camp done any?”

  Nabeel smiled like a proud new father. He savored the moments, as they played in his memory, before telling the General. Then it all disappeared, washed from his face. He realized that the Sheikh would be angered if he knew that Nabeel had told the General. “Sir, the Sheikh will explain that to you,” Nabeel said, almost sad that he would not be able to share the details.

  “Nabeel,” the General said, taking the role of a consoling father. “My brother, you should be honored to have achieved all that you have. Allah will bless and reward all those involved.” He had led men in battle prior to joining the intelligence services, commanded field operatives since. He knew the thing that made them stronger and better warriors was encouragement. It pushed back doubt, reservations and the painful memories of lost brothers. He held a different position than the Sheikh, who was nothing more than a battlefield commander. He was the General. His words carried more power in the young warrior’s mind, whether he was part of the mission or not. He just needed to know he had done well.

  As the vehicle pulled to a stop outside the majestic wooden gate, the driver blew the horn three times in rapid succession. The gate was pulled open by two men from the security detail that had raced ahead of them in Takht Bhai within seconds. The driver revved the engine and pulled inside, driving between two buildings into a beautifully shaded courtyard where they parked. The escort vehicle pulled to a stop just inside the gate from where the guards raced to the General’s vehicle. Nabeel stopped him before he could open the door.

  “Sir, how do we introduce you?” Nabeel asked cautiously. “Do we tell him who you are?” The General paused for a moment, considering the question. You couldn’t ask this during the drive, but could bore me with minute details about camp operations? He didn’t know this man and couldn’t risk being compromised, even by someone Nabeel called a ‘friend.’

  “I am Sheikh Abdul Hanif al-Badr, Saudi national,” the General said without thinking, giving Nabeel a fully backstopped identity used during his field operative days. The identity had not been burned by Syrian intelligence and would withstand the most rigorous checking. Nabeel nodded and pulled back his hand.

  Nabeel was out of the vehicle first, quickly climbing the three stairs to the veranda of the hujra. He gave the man a hearty embrace, as the General came around the vehicle’s rear. Nabeel was exchanging formalities when the General arrived at his side. Nabeel stepped back from the man, allowing the General his first opportunity to assess his host.

  “Maulana Sami Ullah,” Nabeel said. “It is my great honor to introduce you to another close friend of the brotherhood, Sheikh Abdul Hanif al-Badr.”

  “As-salaam-a-laikum Sheikh Hanif,” the Maulana said, kissing him on the cheek. “Keyfa halak? My apologies, that is the extent of my conversational Arabic.”

  “Wa-laikum-as-salam, Maulana sahib. Ana bakhair.” the General replied laughing. He had always hated these pretenders to Islam. Becoming a hafiz at a young age and because some unknown seminary in Pakistan had ‘educated’ them, these fools called themselves maulanas, mullahs and Imams. Their entire knowledge of Islam came from the mouths of those who also couldn’t understand Arabic beyond what was written in the Holy Quran. They make good cannon fodder for our wars, too stupid to know what jihad really means. “You are better than me. I have no conversational Pashto,” he continued causing the men to join him in laughter.

  “Please join us inside,” the Maulana said gesturing to the open door to the hujra. As they entered, the General was amazed at the number of dishes that had been prepared for them. His gaze moved around the room seeing a collection of books on a small bookshelf, a Kalashnikov propped up against it. There were numerous ayats stitched into fine fabrics adorning the walls, along with the black Saudi flag hanging next to another that he didn’t recognize. Probably another political party in Pakistan, el-Yahad thought to himself.

  “Maulana sahib,” he said. “You have gone to too much trouble.” Knowing the traditions of the area, he knew that he would be forced to sample each of them before being allowed to leave the makeshift meal area. “This is just too much.”

  “Nonsense, Sheikh s
ahib,” the Maulana said smiling. “Even this is too little for a guest of our friends in Bajaur. They told me that you had not eaten since leaving Islamabad, so we prepared for a hungry man. Please be seated.”

  The Maulana called for his servants to bring the remaining items and cold drinks for the guests, finally taking a seat next to Nabeel on the floor. As the boys, who looked like students from the madrassah, brought in the items, the Maulana shared his background as well as he could in the broken English that he spoke. He explained that he was a member of the National Assembly from one of the faction groups of the Jamaat-e-Islami party, one of Pakistan’s staunchest religious groups. He had strong ties to the community and recruited many boys for the Afghan resistance. He was in his 60s, if not older, and wore the familiar long beard and shortened shalwar that categorized the mullahs of Pakistan. Compared to el-Yahad, he was a diminutive 5’8” against his 6’1” frame.

  “What brings you to our Pakistan, Sheikh sahib?” the Maulana asked, with his mouth full of chicken korma.

  Most of the conversation was filled with small talk and general topics. The Maulana tried to breach the topic of what brought el-Yahad to Pakistan and specifically Bajaur, but el-Yahad stayed in character, holding his tongue in the presence of others. Once they got up from the meal, the General excused himself to have a cigarette outside. The Maulana followed him out shortly thereafter.

  “It is good to have brothers like you in the cause, Maulana,” the General said, fighting the urge to smirk at the accolades and adjectives the Maulana has used to describe himself. “I have come for two things. First, my brothers in the Kingdom wish to know how the previous donations have been used. Second, I wanted to see how the camp is functioning.” He paused to see if there was a reaction from the Maulana. When he got none, he continued. “It is one thing to see photos and a complete other thing to see with my own eyes.”

  “You will be impressed with what you see,” the Maulana said. “I have not seen anything like it since my days in the jihad against the Russians.”