Agency Rules - Never an Easy Day at the Office

by Khalid Muhammad

  “Come on Shahid,” Kamal leaned back casually in his chair. “You wouldn’t be able to do a qurbani. It’s all talk with you,” Kamal jeered, pushing him to admit to something.

  “Khaar bachiya! Spee bachiya!” he yelled again. “I have killed five soldiers just like you. I watched the blood pour from their neck after I cut their heads off. I’ll do the same to you,” he cried, trying to reach Kamal.

  “At least they are Shaheed now,” Kamal retorted. “Allah gives them a special place in Jannat. Do you know where you are going? Do you have any idea how many souls will attack you during your azab-e-qabar? Your father says you are a coward, unable to fight like a man. Your family says that they don’t even want your body. They told us to burn it when you die,” Kamal mocked him. “That’s why you make bombs right? Too afraid to fight like a man?”

  There were two things Kamal had learned about these people during his deep cover assignment. They gained respect by boasting about the deeds they had done. Those with the most spectacular kills had the most respect. They also had the mental strength of children when cornered. They were trained to fight, not withstand the mental abuse that good interrogators used. A young terrorist could be broken faster with mind games than torture and Shahid was proving that point.

  “My father is a weak man,” Shahid spat back at him. “I don’t care what he says about me.”

  “Weak man? You ungrateful son of a bitch,” Kamal said, patronizingly. “He works everyday to earn an honest living. He doesn’t kill people. He doesn’t kidnap them. He earns his money through hard work. You call that weak?”

  “He doesn’t stand up for Islam. He doesn’t fight against injustice. He fears the police,” Shahid yelled back.

  Kamal smiled. “Your mother said… let me find it…” Kamal said flipping the pages in the file. “Ah yes, he’s not my son anymore. I prayed for a son, but now I pray that he dies a death worse than the ones he has made others suffer. I wish he had not been born now.”

  That comment hit him harder than anything Kamal could have said. His facial expression changed from an angry boy to a hurt child. No Pathan son could accept their mother wishing they were dead. No matter how long they had spent with the terrorists, the attachments to mothers were unbreakable.

  “Tell me what you did, Shahid,” Kamal said. “Let me tell your mother that you made a mistake, but when we asked, you helped us.”

  Shahid sat quietly looking at Kamal and then away for a few minutes before turning to Kamal. “They will kill me if I tell you,” he said quietly, his voice full of fear.

  “You tell me and I’ll make sure you go back to your parents,” Kamal coaxed him. Granted, he didn’t tell him that it would be in a box. There was a knock at the door and the guard entered with the items Kamal had requested. Kamal reached across the tray and cupped the naswar in his hand while picking up a cup of tea. Placing it just out of Shahid’s reach, Kamal pulled a cigarette from his pack and placed it alongside. “Tell me about the bomb you set off in Peshawar,” Kamal asked quietly.

  “They haven’t fed me anything all day,” Shahid said, attention focused on the plate of samosas, hands shaking. “Could I have one?”

  “Answer my questions and I’ll give you one,” Kamal replied. “As a reward. Each question you answer, another samosa,” he said reaching over the table to take one himself. Personally, he wasn’t a big fan of samosas, but this was all about the show, as he pulled it apart letting the steam escape. “Best when they are hot, Shahid,” he said. “I wouldn’t wait too long.”

  Shahid’s mouth watered and he licked his lips, imagining the taste of the samosa in his mouth. His eyes glazed from the hunger of not being fed all day and sub-standard meals of previous days that had contributed to his stomach problems. Struggling with the words, Shahid stammered out, “I… got… a call… they… told me to prepare.”

  “Prepare for what?” Kamal asked taking another bite of the samosa.

  “They said I would be traveling to Peshawar,” Shahid said, eyes focused on the food. “I would get more instructions there.”

  “Guard!” Kamal called. Shahid cringed, eyes bulging out in fear, wondering why the guard had been called. “Unhook him,” Kamal said when he entered. The guard looked at him, questioning the change in interrogation protocol. “It’s ok,” Kamal said. “We have an understanding, right Shahid?” Shahid nodded in agreement. The guard hesitantly unlocked the iron restraints around Shahid’s wrists, making a point to squeeze them tighter before releasing them. Kamal didn’t appreciate the guard’s behavior, watching Shahid wince, but wouldn’t confront him in front of the detainee. They needed to command fear among them otherwise the interrogator’s jobs would be much harder.

  Shahid reached for a samosa, but abruptly stopped with his hand mid-air. He looked at Kamal for approval, a product of the behavioral conditioning program at the detention center. He waited for the approval to come before continuing towards the sustenance. Kamal hesitated, watching Shahid’s expressions and body language, before nodding his head. Shahid swept up a samosa, devouring it in seconds.

  Kamal spent the next four hours building a relationship with him. He used it to confirm information in the file and extract operational details that would be used in other interrogations. Shahid’s relatively new indoctrination to the network allowed Kamal to break the minimal loyalty he had in return for personal satisfaction. Kamal knew that others would not be as easy to break, but this one had given them a great deal of information that enhanced knowledge about others. At the end of the session, he collected all the papers that were spread around the table and added them to the file. While doing so, a photograph fell out that caught Shahid’s attention.

  Shahid reached across the table and picked up the photo, staring at it like it was jogging some latent memory. Finally, he asked, “Why do you have a photo of Adnan?”

  Kamal took the photo from Shahid and looked at it, without any expression crossing his face. “How do you know Adnan?”

  “He was an elder at Jamia Binoria,” Shahid said. “He was the one who gave lectures on jihad at the madrassah.”

  “When was he there?” Kamal inquired, flipping the photo over to add the name Adnan.

  “Maybe two or three years ago,” Shahid said. “He had many visitors from outside the masjid.”

  “Outside the masjid?” Kamal asked. “Other mullahs?”

  “No,” Shahid replied quickly before hesitating. “No, he met the people who were not like us - troublemakers, drug dealers, and criminals mostly. We told the Imam, but he could do nothing since he was a special guest.”

  Kamal leaned back in the chair, jotting information on the back of the photo. “What else can you tell me about Adnan? Where is he now?”

  “He didn’t speak to the students privately much,” Shahid said. “Most of us tried not to meet him, but he had a group of ten or fifteen that was always in his office. They were like him, ‘special guests’. I don’t know where he went after we flew to Peshawar.”

  “He flew with you?”

  “Well, he was on the same plane, but sat with another man that I didn’t know,” Shahid said. “They didn’t travel to Jinnah Airport together, but they left Peshawar that way.”

  Kamal jotted down the additional information and closed the file with the photo inside. Getting up, he told Shahid that he would see him again in a few days again before exiting the room.

  “Put him somewhere safe,” Kamal told the guard. “He has lots to tell us and feed him better food.”

  “But sir, we have orders,” the guard called to Kamal as he walked down the hall, causing him to stop and return to the door.

  “You have new orders now,” Kamal said, inches from the guards face. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll have him moved in the evening.”

  “He doesn’t leave this room until you have a secure place to put him,” Kamal growled. “He doesn’t go back into the detainee population. They will kill him before we can g
et more out of him,” he said turning back down the hall.

  Kamal quietly slipped the photograph out of the file and into his pocket before heading back to the file clerk’s room. Arriving at the clerk’s room, he found the door locked. Knocking a few times, no one answered. Could they have left, he wondered, pulling his watch from his pocket. It’s not that late. Kamal went to the entry door to the facility and scanned his thumb. Popping the door open, he looked for Aftab, but the guard had changed while he was inside.

  “Where are the clerks?” Kamal asked the new man on the desk.

  He looked up at Kamal, uninterested in the interruption of his review of the day’s newspaper. “Left almost an hour ago,” he said before returning to the newspaper.

  “So what do I do with this?” Kamal asked, holding the file out to the guard.

  The guard grunted, holding back the answer that had obviously filled his mind. “Detainee files go in the drop slot in the clerk’s door,” he said without looking up again.

  “Can’t do that. There are loose papers that will fall out.”

  The guard looked up annoyed at the repeated interruptions and questions. “That doesn’t seem to be my problem, does it? Why don’t you take it with you? You can bring it back tomorrow.”

  “No, I have issued new orders to the guards,” Kamal said. “I need to document them for the administration.”

  The guard opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a form, handing it to Kamal. “Fill this out, give the yellow one to the guard,” he said. “When you do that, orders are issued.”

  Kamal snatched the form from the guard’s hand and quickly filled it out with the new orders. He separated the yellow sheet from the other two copies. Seeing a rubber band on the table, he wrapped it around the file before re-entering the facility. Dropping the file into the slot in the clerk’s door, he walked down the hall to IR5. Opening the door to the interrogation hall, he saw the guard guiding Shahid down the hall.

  “Guard!” Kamal called. “Stop! Where are you taking him?”

  The guard stopped, turning to see who was calling him. “Back to detention,” he said before continuing down the hall.

  Kamal increased his pace to catch up with him. He reached him just as he opened the secure door to the holding area. He reached out and pulled the door closed, handing the new orders to the guard. “He doesn’t go back in there without my orders,” Kamal said angrily. “I told the other guard but he doesn’t seem to have told you.”

  The guard read through the new orders and sighed. “These don’t go into effect until the administrator signs off, that won’t happen until tomorrow,” he said.

  Kamal pulled the guard aside leaving Shahid chained at the door. “You put him in there, he’ll be dead by tomorrow,” Kamal explained. “I want him somewhere safe while we confirm what he has told us.”

  The guard looked at Kamal sensing the urgency in his voice. “I’ll put him in the secure area for now,” he said. “You have twenty-four hours to get it cleared from administration.”

  “Just keep him safe for now,” Kamal said. “I’ll speak with administration in the morning to make it permanent.”

  Kamal walked back to the security door and the annoying security guard. He emerged to find his driver waiting for him, sitting among the other drivers and security personnel. He motioned for him to join him at the car. “Let’s go,” he said when the driver arrived.

  Pulling out of the facility, Kamal looked at the driver before pulling the photo out of his pocket. He kept it face down, reading the notes on the back. The driver looked back to him in the mirror wondering where he should go from the traffic light that was fast approaching.

  “Sir, back to the base housing?” he asked stopping at the light.

  Kamal thought for a moment as he flipped the photo over to look at the face again. He signed and shook his head. “Do you think,” he started. “Do you think anyone is at headquarters?”

  “Sir, nowadays, someone is always at headquarters.”

  “Raise them on the wireless and let them know I need to speak with the Director General urgently,” he said.

  * * *

  It was just after seven in the evening when the car pulled into ISI headquarters. The drive from the detention center was fraught with indecision. Am I doing the right thing? Should I interrogate Shahid more before I go to the DG? If he was wrong and rushed the information, it would damage the investigation. But if he was right, they had caught something much bigger.

  Even though he wasn’t in uniform, he walked through the security gate without any questions. A member of the security team joined him on the other side of the gate to escort him up to the Director General’s office. Unlike his previous visits, Kamal raised no objection to the escort, instead choosing to engage in conversation. The conversation was more to settle his own nerves than be friendly, but it did calm him for the discussion he was about to have.

  When they arrived on the fourth floor, Kamal realized why he needed an escort. The elevator door opened to reveal four men dressed in suits with communications units in their ears. Kamal stepped out and the four men looked him up and down to assess who he was. Kamal immediately recognized them from the American flags on their lapels. What is the CIA doing here? The escort waved them off, identifying him as an ISI operative. Moving down the hall, Kamal noticed more of the CIA contingent walking along the corridor. He couldn’t tell if they were armed or not, but thought it would be unlikely inside an ISI facility. The escort led him into the DG’s waiting room, where Kamal found a Special Forces security detail along with some other suits.

  Kamal took a seat next to one of the suits, glancing over surreptitiously to assess the men. The suit sat stiff in the chair, holding a file in his manicured fingers. The lack of facial hair and the fashionable haircut screamed private school background. Kamal leaned back in his seat to get a better look at the file he cupped in his hand, but all he could see was the word ‘colour’ in bold print. Kamal’s mind started to connect the dots. MI6, CIA, with this much security at the ISI DG’s office? There had to be station chiefs inside, no one else would get this much security. But why are they here?

  Before Kamal could consider anything else, the DG’s door opened and two men rushed out looking very angry. The respective details moved with them out of the waiting room. A few minutes later, the MS emerged and asked Kamal to join him in the office.

  “Good evening sir,” Kamal said snapping off a salute.

  Lt. General Qadir stood behind his desk, phone to his ear. He motioned to Kamal to come in and sit down. He tried not to listen to the conversation, but it was difficult with the volume that Qadir was speaking at.

  “They are obviously upset,” Qadir said in response. “We cleaned out their war chests.”

  “No, sir, I didn’t admit to our role, but I think they suspect us,” he said a few minutes later.

  “No, sir. There is nothing that can be connected to the ISI,” he said.

  Kamal stood up thinking that he should give the DG some privacy, but the DG snapped his fingers and pointed at the chair. He silently mouthed ‘sit down’ which was enough to plant Kamal back in the chair.

  “Sir, let them do what they want,” Qadir said. “We have them dead to right running covert operations in our country with their money and operatives. Those operations cost innocent Pakistani lives. They don’t want that made public.” That statement brought Kamal out of his chair again, jamming his hand into his pocket for the photograph. Finding it, he placed it on the DG’s desk. Qadir stopped mid-sentence, looking at the photo and then at Kamal. “Sir, Captain Kamal Khan has just joined me. I think he has something to tell us,” he said into the phone. “I’m going to put you on speaker,” he pressed a button on his phone and hung up the receiver.

  “General Ali, can you hear me?” Qadir asked.

  “Loud and clear,” General Ali replied. “Good evening Captain.”

  “Good evening sir. I hope I am not interrupting.”

/>   “Tell us what you know,” the General said.

  “Sir, I am just coming from the detention center where I spoke with a Shahid Aleem, alias Ahsanullah Ahsan. He was arrested from Jamia Binoria in Karachi,” Kamal spoke confidently. “I’ve placed a photograph in front of the DG of another detainee that he identified as Adnan. Adnan was at Binoria two to three years ago as a jihad instructor.”

  “Why is this important in the current context?”

  “Sir, he says that they flew to Peshawar together. Same plane, different seats,” Kamal said. “When they arrived in Peshawar, Adnan left with some Americans he had met on the flight.”

  There was silence in the room as the two men considered the response. “Misbah, do we know the man in the photograph?” General Ali asked.

  “It’s the Sheikh,” Qadir replied. “It’s Sheikh Atif.” Silence again filled the room. Kamal could hear a lighter click and assumed that the General had lit one of his trademark cigarettes.

  “Are you saying,” the General started. “Are you seriously saying we have a CIA asset in our custody?”

  Kamal and Qadir looked at each other, trying to decide who should answer the question.

  “Gentlemen, I am going to assume that one of you has an answer to that question,” the General said. “I’d appreciate it if one of you shared.” Misbah nodded at Kamal to answer.

  “Sir, based on what the detainee told me…” Kamal started to say, but the General interrupted him.

  “That was a yes or no question, Captain,” he said impatiently. “You can explain after the simple answer.”

  Kamal looked at the DG, took a deep breath and said as calmly as he could. “No sir. I think we have a CIA operative in our custody, not an asset.”

  About the Author

  When people talk about Khalid Muhammad, they talk about an entrepreneur who has helped others build their dreams and businesses. They talk about a teacher, who is dedicated to his students, both inside and outside the classroom, and they return the dedication tenfold. Now, they talk about the author, who has written a fast-paced, action-packed spy thriller about Pakistan, the politics, the Army and terrorism.