Agency Rules - Never an Easy Day at the Office

by Khalid Muhammad

  “Let’s get started,” Kamal said. “I don’t want to waste my time with you. I have other more pressing things to do today.” He paused for a second, watching Faheem trying to struggle with the shackles that bound him. “How many people are stationed at The Sanctuary as security?” he asked calmly.

  “I don’t know,” Faheem yelled back at him.

  Kamal was angered by the reaction and answer. He leaned in close to Faheem’s face, saying “Do you think that I’m as stupid as you are? You tried to capture me, but couldn’t. We got you,” he whispered. “I don’t want you to think that you’re anything more than a prisoner… we… no, I will do what I want with you. No one is going to save you from me,” he said, picking up a rod from the cart. “Now, let’s try this again. How many people are stationed at The Sanctuary as security?” he asked again, pushing a lever on the rod causing electricity to jump from it.

  “Twenty five,” Faheem said watching as he brought the rod closer to him, electric charges jumping as he neared.

  “Much better,” Kamal said. “Coverage? How many men where?”

  “Ten men in the house, another fifteen along the mountainside.”

  “See, when you cooperate, no one touches you,” Kamal said with a devious smirk. “How many snipers and anti-aircraft weapons?” he asked, walking towards the wall in front of Faheem.

  “None,” Faheem said without hesitation. Kamal spun around, surprised that Faheem had chosen to lie again.

  “I thought we understood each other…” Kamal said as he stepped forward, touching the electric rod to the iron shackles on Faheem’s wrists. He watched as he convulsed from the electric shock charging through his body, the room filling with the smell of burnt flesh. Kamal barely stepped out of the way as Faheem vomited all over himself.

  “Guard!” Kamal called out. “Come wash him off.” The guard entered through the slightly open door with a power hose in his hands, releasing a high-pressure stream of water at Faheem’s body. The impact spun the chair around and knocked it to the ground; the leg restraints kept it from turning completely around. “Turn it off and pick him up,” Kamal said. The guard dropped the hose and snatched him off the ground, sitting him straight again. “Now, let’s try that again… how many snipers and anti-aircraft weapons?” Kamal asked again, beating his hand with the rod. Faheem watched as Kamal picked up a piece of rubber from the cart and drop it on the concrete floor beneath him. Stepping onto the rubber mat, he watched Kamal ignite the electric rod again. He turned to Faheem, asking again, “Snipers? Anti-aircraft weapons?”

  Faheem paused, watching the electricity jump from the rod, recalling the shocks that had rushed through his body minutes before. His delay bothered Kamal, feeling that he needed some incentive to answer faster. Faheem quickly spoke before the rod could be touched to his body again, “Four,” he yelled. “Four snipers and two anti-aircraft guns.”

  Kamal smiled again, knowing that he had found the leverage point. “Guard! Bring in the board.” The guard moved a large pinboard into the room with an aerial shot of The Sanctuary, placing it in front of Faheem. Kamal ‘accidentally’ dropped the electric rod into Faheem’s lap, sending shock waves coursing through his body. He left it there for a moment, watching him jerk and shake from the electricity running through his body, before he casually walked to the cart and cut the electric supply. “That was for Kaleem, you son of a bitch!” he snarled when he returned, kicking it from his lap. “Done with that toy,” he said menacingly, turning to see what else had been brought into the room on the carts.

  Kamal stood over Faheem, whose body continued to convulse from the aftershocks. “Where is Mullah Fazal?”

  Faheem fought to regain control of his body, shaking and vomiting intermittently. He looked at Kamal, wondering what he would do if he didn’t answer, believing that the electric shock was just a taste of his sadistic side. Kamal smirked down at him, reading his thoughts. Knowing that the drug he had injected him with was making the words more vivid in Faheem’s mind, he decided to use a different approach.

  “Did you ever think about how I got past all your guards at the warehouse?” Kamal asked with a hint of arrogance in his voice. “I mean other than the far superior training of the Army compared to the Frontier Constabulary, do you think about it? One man against six armed men? They are all dead, and here I am. How do you think that happened?” He reached over, putting his hand on the cart, “I didn’t need any of these things that night… and I don’t need them now to get you to talk to me,” Kamal said, pushing the cart away. “I just need these,” he said, holding his hands up in Faheem’s face. Waving them in front of Faheem, he pulled his hand back and landed a hard slap across his face, sending his head jerking in the other direction. “Mullah Fazal… where is he?”

  “Top floor of the house,” Faheem called out, in between spitting out the blood that was now flowing freely from his mouth.

  “How many guards around him?”

  “Five, at all times,” Faheem said, cowering in the chair in fear of the reprisal.

  “Is he always at the house?”

  “Yes.”

  Kamal stopped for a moment to think about the next questions. He had instilled the fear into Faheem that the other interrogator had not been able to achieve. But there was some information that he wanted from this detainee.

  “Who ordered the assassination of the Prime Minister?” he said to Faheem, calmly.

  Faheem knew nothing about the orders. He was not taken into an operational confidence by the command of The Sanctuary or the Sheikh. These were things that were decided by people that he had never met, but if he told Kamal that, the abuse would be biblical.

  “I don’t know,” Faheem said, spitting blood from his mouth again. “The Sheikh didn’t ever tell me who ordered it.”

  Kamal paused, looking up at the camera that was watching the interrogation. The second name that no one had been able to extract in three weeks of interrogation, he had gotten within an hour of entering the room.

  “There is no Sheikh in the file,” the Premier said to the General, watching on the monitor.

  “There is no Sheikh in your file, Ahsan. We have known about him for months now,” the General said smiling at the success. “Now, you will find out what we know.”

  “Who is the Sheikh?” Kamal asked Faheem.

  “You have met him,” Faheem said. “He is the one that told me to kill you and Kaleem because you were traitors to the cause.”

  “We are traitors?” Kamal asked. “Because we won’t attack our own country?”

  “Traitors because you won’t fight for Islam,” Faheem said. “The Sheikh said that you deserved the death of a kafir.”

  Kamal restrained himself from striking Faheem again for that comment. “Who is the Sheikh?”

  “Sheikh Atif,” Faheem said. “He is an American that finances and supports all the jihadi activities in the camp.”

  “An American?” Kamal said. “And you call me an kafir when you take orders from him?”

  “He is loyal to the cause, unlike you.”

  “Where is the Sheikh?” Kamal asked, fighting every instinct in his body that wanted to cut Faheem’s throat. “Where can we find him?”

  “You won’t find him,” Faheem said. “He is protected by his friends.”

  “Why don’t you let me worry about that? Tell me where he is!” Kamal yelled at him.

  “He is at The Sanctuary during training exercises, otherwise he stays in Jalalabad.”

  “Who are his friends that protect him?” Kamal asked, searching the cart for another instrument.

  “You know his friends. They are like you.”

  “Like me?” Kamal asked, looking over at him.

  “Yes, spooks.”

  Kamal smiled, knowing he had gotten what he needed from Faheem. He picked up another syringe and squeezed the air out of the tube. “This will help relax you,” Kamal said. “It won’t hurt you at all, but you might feel some pain afterwards,”
he said, injecting the syringe into Faheem’s blood stream.

  He turned and started to walk out of the room, but Faheem called to him from behind. “You know why you hate me so much! Do you know why?” Faheem said. “I took everything that I was trained to hate and fight, and used it against those who trained me. I am what the ISI hates the most.”

  Kamal stopped at the door and looked over his shoulder. “And you have met the same fate as others like you,” he said as he walked out the door.

  The Premier and the General watched as Faheem’s body convulsed from the injection, his mouth foaming with spit and bile. For two minutes, he shook and strained trying to fight whatever he had been injected with, but lost the battle as his body went limp.

  “Kill the feed,” the General said to the operator at the controls. The screen changed to static, as the Premier struggled with his own confusion as to what had just happened.

  “What happened? Is the interrogation done?” he asked, looking to the General for direction. “Can he be produced before the courts?”

  “He has had an unfortunate accident,” the General replied cold and emotionless. “He won’t be produced anywhere.”

  “But he needs to be prosecuted for his crime,” the Premier said, getting up from his chair.

  The General turned to answer him as the door to the room opened again, “He has just been sentenced for his crime, Ahsan.”

  The Premier was shocked that he had just watched the intelligence services torture and kill a detainee. “But you can’t do this!” he yelled at the two men.

  “Did you, at anytime during the interrogation, order me to stop it?” the General asked. “Did you?”

  “No, but…”

  “There are no buts in our business. You have just committed a war crime, so it would be best that you never speak of this again,” the General smiled coldly, turning to shake Kamal’s hand for the intelligence extracted.

  The Premier stood beside himself. Why hadn’t he said anything? Why did he allow it to continue? These were questions that he would struggle with over the next days and weeks, as he knew what little sleep he was getting each night was now a fast fading memory.

  Chapter 17

  Anyone looking at the campus would find nothing inconsistent with a normal day. The exercise yards were full with candidates playing cricket, football and other activities to increase their physical strength and endurance. The classrooms and library were in session and full to capacity as the finer points of combat were being imparted to another class of commandos for the Pakistan Army. Nothing looked different to anyone who might be passing by. No one knew of the collection of commandos inside the facility’s lecture hall, other than the commandant of the facility.

  The assembly had not been a matter of happenstance, but initiated weeks ago. Days after completing Faheem’s interrogation, a secretive high-level meeting was commissioned at ISI headquarters to determine the next course of action against the jihadi camp that had planned and executed the assassination of Azam Shah. There were only three men in the meeting that day, the Director General of the ISI, Brigadier Haroon Ahmed and Captain Kamal Khan. The Brigadier, a commando himself, had gained his experience in Siachen, on the Line of Control and in skirmishes with foreign fighters in the tribal areas. His military record demonstrated that he didn’t appreciate words like capture and prisoner in his battlefield commands, preferring to execute the combatant on the battlefield. He was a favorite of the men that he commanded for this reason.

  “Gentlemen, when can I expect this to be a go?” Lt. General Misbah Qadir asked the two men, who glanced at each other before the Brigadier spoke.

  “Four weeks sir,” Haroon replied. “Two weeks for planning, two weeks for preparation. Then we are ready within ninety minutes of a go order.”

  “Good,” the General said nodding his head. “I do have a few requests that you must include in your assault calculations. Haroon, I know you will be against this, but indulge my requests.”

  “Sir, this is your op,” Haroon replied. “I am only there to execute and oversee.”

  The General had always had a great deal of respect for his colleague. They had both been at Pakistan Military Academy Kakul and Quetta Staff College around the same time, Haroon just a few years junior to him coming up the ranks. They had served together in the Punjab Regiment, where Haroon had earned his battle scars. His selection for this mission was Misbah’s preference, more than seniority for the command.

  “Haroon,” the General explained. “I’d like Kamal to be heavily involved in the planning and execution of this operation. He has spent time on ground and knows the targets personally. Their intelligence value is a top priority for this op.”

  “General, I have had a chance to review Kamal’s military record,” Haroon commented, as if Kamal was not even in the room. “I have also reviewed the intelligence that he gathered and the interrogation of the detainee, I am honored to have him on the op, sir.”

  It was one thing to have the Director General of the service recommend you for an assault op on a target, but to have the commander of the op speak with such respect for his past work… Kamal stood up a little straighter, squaring his shoulders.

  “There are three objectives that must be achieved for this op to be considered successful,” the General continued. “First, all ground and air defense must be neutralized otherwise our birds will be sitting ducks. Second, there are three – Mullah Fazal, Imam Shahid and Sheikh Afzal – that must be captured and returned for interrogation. I want them alive, Haroon,” the General explained.

  “Injured?” Haroon asked with a grin.

  “Injured, yes. Mortally wounded no,” the General replied, reinforcing his demand that these men were to be interrogated post-operation. “Lastly, I want that base leveled. The tunnels, the compound, everything…” he said with a touch of steel in his voice.

  “Sir, what about the weapons cache?” Kamal asked. The weapons found on the compound would help ascertain which countries were supporting the jihadis.

  “Yes, get as many of the weapons crates as you can,” the General said. “I know all will be impossible, but get as many as possible before leveling the place. Any questions?”

  The two men looked at each other, shaking their heads after a moment of consideration. “Then, let’s re-convene in two weeks with an operational briefing,” the General said, dismissing the men.

  Since that meeting, Haroon and Kamal had moved to the SSG training facility in Cherat, sequestering themselves to a barracks. They had taken it over, removing bunks to accommodate pin boards, white boards, video equipment and a refrigerator. Three squares were brought from the mess hall directly to them further eliminating unneeded interactions with outsiders that could raise security concerns.

  The first days inside the barracks was spent discussing all potential breach options to determine the most effective course of action. Both men had strong opinions about their approach, citing their own battlefield experience as reasons for and against specific tactics, leading to long periods of silence and quiet study, before resuming the argument.

  “With all due respect sir,” Kamal said perturbed. “That has to be the dumbest insertion plan I have ever heard.”

  “Watch yourself, Captain,” Haroon advised. “I’m still your commanding officer.”

  “Sir, that’s why I said with all due respect,” Kamal kept his face deadpan. Haroon looked at him suspiciously.

  “What, in your years of experience, tells you this won’t work?” Haroon commented sarcastically. “I know I have more battlefield experience than…”

  “Then, please use that battlefield experience, sir,” Kamal said, interrupting him.

  Haroon took a deep breath, controlling the urge to smash Kamal’s straight nose in with a stapler. “I still think that a controlled attack on a border post will give us the cover that we require to move personnel and equipment into position. We know that route is used by smugglers bringing arms and drugs into Pa
kistan,” Haroon explained, pointing to the pins he had placed in the map. “We move the current personnel out of the post and hit it hard.”

  “Sir, again, with all due respect,” Kamal said. “That would close the border to any traffic. The Sheikh wouldn’t attempt to cross knowing that the military was on alert and looking for whoever hit their base. He won’t risk it.

  “There are a number of things that work against us in this equation that we must account for,” Kamal continued. “First, we can’t trust the Frontier Constabulary. We don’t know which side they’re playing for. That means that the roads are out. Second, we have a target that is in the wind in Afghanistan. We need him to come back, which means keeping the border open no matter what. Your plan makes these things impossible.”

  Haroon shook his head at Kamal’s commentary. “Not everything is black and white, Captain. Sometimes, we have to work within the grey areas.”

  “Sir, I don’t need a lesson on the boundaries of military combat,” Kamal replied abruptly. “I live in that grey area… you’ve read my file…”

  “Look, Kamal,” Haroon began. “I know you have been involved in many covert operations in your career, but this is not covert. This is a hit and run.”

  “Again, with due respect sir, I disagree,” Kamal retorted, struggling to keep control of his anger. “There is a part of this assault that must be covert in order for this to be successful. Anyone figures out what is going on and the camp will be warned… the op is over. We can’t risk it with this many HVTs inside.”

  “You obviously have a better idea,” Haroon replied. “Why don’t you share?”

  Kamal leaned back in his chair, glancing between Haroon and the map board, before getting up.

  “May I remove your pins sir?” Kamal asked, reaching for the pushpins placed around the map.

  Haroon looked over to another map board in the corner, saying, “Why don’t you use that one instead?” Kamal looked over, pushing the current one out of the way with his foot. He heard it slam against the wall as he pulled the fresh board forward in its place.