“This is all of it?” Qadir asked, tapping it against his hand. “Were we right?”
“Dead on! Each account was in the name of shell companies, but we were able to trace them to the actual owners. It’s all in there,” he said. “While I’d like to stay and watch what happens next, I don’t think it will serve my ongoing health interests.”
Qadir smiled and motioned to a military police officer standing near by. “I’ll get you out of here.” He gave the MP instructions on how to get his friend out of the building, commenting to Mathias that he’d be in touch. He stood for a moment, watching to make sure that his friend was able to leave the building without harassment, before returning to the hall, slipping the envelope into his jacket pocket as he entered. The two BND officers moved towards him probably looking to question him about their former intelligence colleague’s presence, but Misbah waved them off. He moved through the crowd looking for General Ali.
Misbah spotted the General surrounded by a group of military officers. He was busy discussing the dynamics of the assault. Misbah stopped momentarily catching the General’s eye. With an almost imperceptible nod, he continued moving into the crowd of people. Different diplomats and attaches stopped him on the way, offering their facilitations on the successful military campaign. He was cordial but largely uninterested in the conversations. He was focused on searching the hall for the people he needed to find before the reception was over. He knew that those same people, interested in what had transpired outside the hall with the shadowy visitor, were watching him.
When he saw him, he had to resist the urge to walk straight up to him. The evening was winding down and many of the diplomats and their attaches had left already. The remaining were minor players in the country’s national affairs, each looking for a larger stake in the game. Among them were the French, who had been trying to land defense contracts through the political governments, but had been scuttled by the military. They were also closely associated with the CIA and MI6 as a go-between for negotiations with unfriendly states.
Misbah moved slowly through the remaining diplomats, keeping the DGSE officer in sight. Luc Benoit had been stationed in Pakistan for the past year and had a number of meetings with Misbah on counter-intelligence. Their relationship was friendly and professional, regularly sharing information about groups operating in France and Europe. He knew the best way to rattle the cages of the other organizations was by sharing the same information with the French.
“Bonjour Luc. Comment alley-vous?” Misbah said as he approached.
“Bonjour Misbah,” he replied stepping forward to shake his hand. “What a tremendous achievement. Very good.”
“You know the business, Luc. Winning the small battles will win us the war,” he said with a smile.
“Oui, small battles are important, but you must win the war,” Luc replied, nodding his head. “Paris will be expecting a detailed report from me on the operation. Our war colleges will want to teach it to our up and coming officers,” he said trying to nudge Misbah for more details than had been shared already.
Misbah smiled sensing the opportunity to draw him into his game. “We… or rather, I could help you with that, but what would we get in return?”
“I am sure that we could find some way to assist Pakistani intelligence,” Luc said laughing.
“Actually Luc, there is something we would like to run through Paris,” he said reaching into his pocket to retrieve a folded piece of paper. “We found these at the terrorist camp. They look to be account numbers that seem to originate from French banks,” he paused as Luc read over the list of numbers. Over the years, Misbah had become a master of hiding any facial expressions or vocal pitch change that would give anything away. Luc could read nothing in the General’s face.
“These are not French banks, my friend,” Luc replied after a cursory review of the contents.
“Are you sure?” Misbah replied. “Odd, our techs said they were French,” he paused shaking his head. “But then, who will talk to Pakistani intelligence with all the corruption cases against our politicians? I’ll take that back then,” he said reaching to retrieve the page from Luc’s hands, only to have him pulled it away.
“Just a moment,” Luc said sensing the frustration in his voice, believing it to be an opportunity to leverage Pakistani intelligence for what Paris wanted. “But everyone talks to French intelligence,” he said laughing. “Let me have my people look into these numbers and see what we find. Maybe in return, you could give us a look behind the curtain. Yes?”
Misbah thought for a minute. He knew that the French would never pass the report back to him. They would leverage the information to get a better deal from the Americans and British. Everyone in the intelligence community knew the contempt that the DGSE had for the CIA and MI6 for their cowboy and private school attitudes, as well as their continued interference in internal French matters. They would make sure that both organizations knew where the information originated.
“You will need to keep our cooperation confidential. Some may not appreciate that we confided in the DGSE rather than the CIA or MI6,” Misbah said. Luc nodded his assent.
“Oui, oui. I’ll get back to you in a day or so,” Luc said as he slipped the paper into his pocket and went to join his diplomats who were preparing to leave.
Misbah swirled the whiskey in his hand as he watched Luc walk around the corner. Three different pieces of information to three different intelligence organizations with only one knowing the entire picture, this was going to be an interesting play. What would be interesting was what they would think after they checked the information.
The next few days may be more interesting than the days before the raid in Islamabad.
* * *
It was a great feeling to sit in the barber’s chair again. After about eighteen months of deep cover, he could finally return to being Kamal Khan, a process that started with removing the beard. Kamal had always embraced the traditional values of his Pathan culture, but he had trouble with the beard that many Pathans wore to demonstrate their adherence to Islamic values.
“Captain sahib, where have you been?” Abdul asked has Kamal settled into the chair.
“UN peacekeeping, Abdul bhai,” Kamal replied with a smile. “A soldier’s work is never done. I need a shave and haircut.”
This request didn’t sit well with Abdul, the plump forty-year-old barber that had long been the choice of everyone at the Garrison. He had taken over the shop from his father, who had originally opened it during the 1960s. The shop had seen both good and bad times, but the soldiers had been the core of his business because of the close proximity to the base housing. He kept glancing in the mirror at Kamal as he collected supplies from the shelf behind him. “You look distinguished with the beard, like a good Muslim officer. Are you sure you want a shave instead of a trim?” he asked.
Kamal had dealt with this question since he was able to grow facial hair. Occasionally, he wouldn’t shave for a few days while on break from school. When he went to the village barbers to have it shaved, they would ask the same questions. Once during Ramadan, he had decided to grow the beard and had to travel to a neighboring village, where no one knew him or his family, to get a shave.
“Ok, Abdul, give me a goatee,” Kamal said, staring back in the mirror at his old friend. “Trim it down so that I can feel the skin on my face.”
Abdul shook his head as he collected the blade and shaving cream from the shelf. The whole time he muttered in Punjabi to the other barbers, until Kamal interrupted.
“I may not be able to speak Punjabi fluently, but I do understand it completely,” he said with a bland expression. Abdul smiled as he disinfected the blade and straight razor with Dettol, and fifteen minutes later Kamal looked like Kamal again. Pleased with the job, he lifted his hand to his face, feeling the smooth skin for the first time in eighteen months. He pulled a hundred rupee note from his pocked and slipped it into Abdul’s hand before he stepped out the do
or into the cool autumn air.
Walking to his car, he took in the familiar places that he had spent time in before being posted to the ISI. He passed Haji Rauf’s mithai shop where he bought jalebis and gulab jaman, and the small tea hotel where he got his parathas on the days he was off duty. Across the street were his dry cleaner and the uniform supply depot next door. The five-minute stroll to his 1995 Suzuki Mehran reminded him of all the things he missed while deployed. It’s good to be home, he thought to himself as he climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. He drove, crossing more memories, as he returned to base.
For most soldiers, returning to duty from a mission or special posting was a bittersweet experience. Coming back after high adrenaline situations was an emotional disappointment, much like a drug user coming off a really good high. For Kamal, he would not be returning to active duty immediately. With at least six months left on his ISI posting, he would be spending his time at the detention facility with the suspects who had been swept up in the raids at The Sanctuary. The Director General felt that he would gain both interrogation experience and additional understanding into the red file dossiers that had been prepared. The top command thought that Kamal may have met, trained or interacted with some of the detainees at Imam Shahid’s madrassah or The Sanctuary.
Kamal dressed in the all black attire of the detention facility in his quarters at the Rawalpindi Garrison before sitting down to breakfast. As he drank his coffee, he perused the briefs that had been delivered to him, detailing the detainees that he would interact with. There were no details, only background on each of them so that he could better understand whom he would be interrogating. Kamal had requested these briefs personally to find better ways than torture to engage and extract information. Each was a wanted man by either the police, government or security forces for their involvement in kidnapping, arms dealing or bombings throughout Pakistan’s urban centers. Today, he would be spending time with some of the lower cadre to gather information to use against the ringleaders.
A car came and collected him from the base housing promptly at 7:30 a.m. The security protocol didn’t allow for him to drive there himself for the first few weeks, although those could be relaxed later to allow a staff car. The driver raced through Rawalpindi, past the airport and onto the Islamabad Highway, traveling for about twenty-five minutes before coming to a stop inside a disused warehouse parking area. Kamal emerged from the back seat of the car and pulled his Wayfarers from his eyes to glance around the nearly empty lot. At the entry door to the facility sat a large burly man, reading an Urdu daily, seemingly unaware of his arrival. The driver motioned to Kamal to join him as he walked toward the man, who put his newspaper down as they neared.
“Oh Baba, you better have my thousand rupees,” the man said to the driver as they approached. The driver stopped dead in his tracks and smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. He had forgotten again about the bet he had lost on the Pakistan cricket match.
“Yaar, I forgot again,” he said as he approached the security desk. “I’ll bring it tomorrow when I bring him again,” he commented motioning to Kamal.
“Good morning, Kamal,” the man said, reaching out his hand to introduce himself. “Aftab.”
“Hello, Aftab,” Kamal replied shaking his hand. “How do you know my name?”
Aftab swirled around and used the back of his pen to tap the clipboard that was hanging there. He pulled it down and quickly flipped the pages until he found Kamal, showing him the page with his photograph and name. There was no mention of his military rank, instead there was a list of numbers that he didn’t recognize.
“What are the numbers?” Kamal inquired.
“Detainee numbers and interrogation rooms,” Aftab answered. “No names for security purposes.”
“Are these kept on file somewhere?”
“No, they are burned at the end of the day. The only records we maintain are locked inside the facility, but those only stay here twenty-four hours.”
“Ok, where do I start?” Kamal asked. “Do you buzz me in?”
“Do you see a button?” Aftab asked sarcastically. “Thumb scan for entry. If it opens, down the hall, fifth door on the left. They will guide you from there.”
“Last time, I was at the seventh door,” Kamal said. “Must have changed things since.”
“Last time?” Aftab asked confused. “You’ve been here before?”
“Once, about three or four months ago for an interrogation.”
“I’m on the door, but don’t remember seeing you before.”
Kamal shrugged, indifferent to the answer. “No loss for either for us,” he said pressing his thumb to the reader until he heard the door buzz open. He went in alone, as the driver walked back to the car. He caught a glimpse of him walking away just before the security door slammed shut. Turning, he walked down the quiet corridor until he reached the fifth door. He took a deep breath before turning the knob and pulling it open to find a room full of file clerks.
“I was told to come here,” Kamal said confused. “Am I supposed to be someplace else?”
The four clerks looked over at him from their file cabinets. One of the clerks walked over to the desk nearest Kamal and sat down. The other clerks went back to filing their stacks, while the clerk behind the desk shuffled some files looking for something. Unable to find it on his desk, he spun around in his swivel chair and pulled a binder from the shelf behind him.
“Name,” he asked pulling his glasses to his face.
“Kamal Khan.”
The clerk found the tab for K and quickly started hunting for Kamal’s information. Finding it, he looked up at Kamal, pulling his glasses down again before slipping them back on to read the insert.
“Rana,” he called across the room. “Give me 8645061.” While Rana looked for the file, he picked up the wireless walkie-talkie and repeated the number to someone on the other end. “Put him in IR5.” By the time he had finished speaking, Rana had found the file and placed it on his desk. The man picked up the file, confirmed the number and handed it to Kamal. Confused, Kamal looked at him for instruction on where he was supposed to do with the file.
“Down the hall, turn right. Go through the red door, third door on your left,” he said with a sigh. “Why do they send you newbies to me first without any instruction?” Kamal opened his mouth to answer, but the man went on wearily. “I don’t really care. There will be someone outside the room when you are done with your next file. Now go,” he said with a wave of his hand.
Kamal stepped out the door. What a prick, he thought, reading the file as he moved down the hall. Shahid Aleem, alias Ahsanullah Ahsan, age 25, captured at Jamia Binoria in Karachi. He was suspected of car bombings in Peshawar and Lahore that had killed a politician and fifteen others, along with his ties to the terrorist network. The file was sparsely filled with mostly assumptions and circumstantial evidence; he had to get the confessions and details on any other acts Shahid had carried out. Kamal reached IR5 and closed the file. There were two guards stationed outside. He stopped, searching his pockets for some change before asking one of the guards to get two cups of sweet tea, a packet of naswar and a plate of samosas, before opening the door and entering. He stopped inside to do a quick assessment of the man that he would spend the next few hours with. Walking across the room, he put the file on the table and sat down.
“So what do I call you?” Kamal asked sitting down on the corner of the table.
Shahid looked like he hadn’t bathed in weeks. His face and clothing were covered with dirt. He looked younger than his age, but tried to puff himself up in front of Kamal to look older and stronger. He was diminutive in size, his torso mostly hidden behind the table where he was chained. He didn’t fit the profile of a hardened terrorist nor did his hands bear the marks of a bomb maker. He almost looked scared to be there.
“Do you have a name or should I call you Shahid?” Kamal asked again, hoping that repeating his given name would find a space
within his psyche that could be leveraged later, but no answer came. “Ok, Shahid it is,” he said opening the file.
“I prefer Ahsan,” the boy said. “No one calls me Shahid anymore.”
“Ahsan? Really? Shahid is the name your parents gave you,” Kamal said. “I think I am going to stick with the name that Allah provided, rather than this one.”
“Why did you ask then?” the boy asked. “If you were just going to call me Shahid, why ask me?”
“I thought you might have some respect for your parent’s wishes,” Kamal said. “Since you don’t, I will.”
Kamal spent the next few hours playing question and answer with Shahid, finding no new information or leads. He only succeeded in angering the boy a few times.
“You know I read your file, but it doesn’t sound at all like the boy sitting in front of me,” Kamal said, giving him a pitying look. “You’re just a scared little boy.”
“I’m not a little boy,” he said jerking at the restraints. Unable to get any movement, he slammed his open hand down. “Take these off and I will show you who is the little boy!”
“Do you want to stamp your feet on the ground as well?” Kamal asked with a smile. He had always been entertained by the displays of strength from these terrorists once they were caught. Every one of these guys had a misplaced sense of machismo, probably from the mullahs and criminals that had taught them their craft. “You sure you want to dance with me, little boy? I’m not one of the little girls that you torment with your friends.”
“Take them off,” he yelled. “You people are all so tough when we’re locked up. But on the battlefield, you cry for mercy when we put the sword to your throats,” he growled.
Kamal reached across the table and smacked Shahid hard across the face. Before he could get his senses back, he slapped him again, this time drawing blood. “If your father had done this, maybe you would be a man today instead of a coward pretending to be a man.”
“Take these off! I’ll kill you,” he screamed at Kamal. Kamal sat back and laughed.
Agency Rules - Never an Easy Day at the Office Page 29
