by Adrian Levy
ELEVEN
Winning the War, Call by Call
The price of being in the negotiator’s chair was that IG Tikoo knew little about how the police criminal inquiry into the kidnappings was progressing. Since 14 July he had been relieved of his normal duties, and only caught glimpses of what his officers were up to if he bumped into a colleague on the golf course or in the clubhouse.
These days he gleaned most about the case from television. He learned from the morning news that John Childs had been flown out of Kashmir on 10 July. Five days after that he was back in the United States, sweeping up his two daughters at Bradley International Airport in Connecticut, the string on the money pouch he had kept around his neck throughout his ordeal visible inside his shirt in the television footage. Tikoo was astonished: ‘Letting go of your main witness went against every rule in the book.’ Childs too had been perplexed by the speed with which he was hustled out of India, and told his family as much.
Tikoo began to dwell on the other potential obstacles that might impede the progress of this inquiry. The longer things ran on, the more chance there was of ‘a Kashmiri screw-up’, as he called it, a situation where internal conflicts led to an external crisis. Such things were normally triggered by the proliferation of army, paramilitary, intelligence and policing outfits in the valley, one of the most heavily militarised areas in the world. Despite Saklani’s Unified Command, which brought the heads of all of these security outfits together daily, the vicious competition between them continued, something that could potentially undermine the case.
From the start, Saklani had made it clear that the Indian Army was to be in charge of all efforts in the mountains to resolve the crisis. But the yatra pilgrimage was in full flow, with 150,000 Hindus heading for the Amarnath ice cave. Tikoo worried that protecting their security would distract the army from the plight of the five Westerners, forcing it to slow down or even stop its investigation until the pilgrimage was completed in early August, losing valuable weeks. The army, he believed, also had a problem with its temperament and methods. Although it was adept at eliminating militants and disrupting their networks, it was less comfortable with operations that demanded subtlety, or at taking a back seat while a peaceful solution was negotiated.
If the army was headstrong and unwilling to play second fiddle, India’s primary domestic and foreign intelligence agencies, IB and RAW, were slippery and opaque. Their intelligence was largely withheld from the local police, shared mostly in high government circles in Srinagar and New Delhi, and revealed only when it served the spooks’ (and India’s) agenda, which at the moment was to highlight Pakistan’s meddling in the valley and its involvement in acts of terrorism. Tikoo had watched as IB and RAW agents jumped on the kidnappings, making sure they became global news, with Pakistan portrayed as a state sponsor of terrorism. Tikoo went back to his paradigm about Governor’s Rule, in which intelligence both fed government with secrets and devised policy based on those secrets, making him worry that agents would feel they had little to gain by wrapping the case up quickly.
Was he being too cynical? He hoped so. He was wishing he had never begun this exercise, which was making him spiral into depression. He had to finish what he had started, and he mulled over how beneath the carnivorous army and the foot-dragging spies were the paramilitaries of the Indian CRPF and the BSF, both of which were bull-headed and also distracted by the yatra effort. These men’s primary skills involved raw firepower and indiscriminate brutal encounters, regardless of collateral damage (or evidence of guilt), which could lead to the five Westerners becoming victims of an ill-thought-out mountain assault. At the very bottom of the pile was the Kashmiri police, which, unable to rely on the help of any of the groups above it, would have to create its own streams of intelligence, battering down doors and knocking heads together, playing to its strength, that of being the only truly grassroots agency that understood how Kashmiris thought and acted.
Meanwhile, as the various agencies ‘stovepiped’ information, bickering and sniping, the kidnappers’ clock continued to tick. And it would fall to Tikoo to explain to al Faran’s frontman on the line, whoever he was, why no decision on its demands was forthcoming. For this reason, Tikoo had decided to keep a transcript of all their conversations. He had a feeling that later on, he might need to defend himself.
Finally, he contemplated the potential repercussions of his necessary prevarication. Tikoo feared that it might lead to a slaughter in the mountains. He had been deliberating about the likelihood of a so-called ‘show kill’, the execution of one of the hostages early on in proceedings, an act calculated to demonstrate that al Faran had the guts to follow through, and would not tolerate being messed around. Death was a powerful tool, and many times Pakistan-backed militant groups had shown that they were willing to kill hostages, such as the shooting in cold blood of the Vice Chancellor of Kashmir University and his assistant in 1990 together with the general manager of Hindustan Machine Tools, and the execution of Major Bhupinder Singh in 1994. Both of those murders had involved the Kashmiri militant known as Sikander, who Tikoo strongly suspected was behind these latest kidnappings. ‘I tried to put all these phantoms to one side,’ he recalled. ‘I had to keep my mind clear for the job at hand.’ The next deadline was fast approaching, and he needed to reassure al Faran’s intermediary that he remained open to all suggestions. Even if that was untrue.
If Tikoo was burdened by too much knowledge, it was very different for the wives and girlfriends of the hostages, still in the dark about these top-secret back channels, and oblivious to everything else that was going on behind the scenes. Even his role as government negotiator had been kept from them, as had the method of communication and the investigations of the police and the intelligence agencies into al Faran. In the meantime the women clung together, buffeted by rumour, and hustled frenetically from place to place by obsequious diplomats and dissembling Indian officials, their anguish rising by the hour. The one finding it most difficult to cope, he had heard from Saklani’s bagman Altaf Ahmed, was Julie Mangan, who over the last thirteen nights had frequently woken sweating and panicked, grateful to have escaped from another nightmare about Keith being shot, maimed, tortured or killed. Like Tikoo, all of them searched for news of John Childs, back home in Connecticut, but he was keeping a low profile, refusing all requests for television interviews, saying he was worried that too much talking would put the remaining hostages’ lives at extra risk. Outwardly he seemed cold, as if all he cared about was getting his normal life back: his nine-to-five job at Ensign Bickford, his daily five-mile run around the school athletics track, and spending time with his daughters. But inwardly he was in turmoil. ‘I could not forget a minute of my ordeal,’ he said years later. ‘Every single second of those four days in captivity was etched onto my memory forever, along with the faces of my comrades. I did not go a minute of the day without thinking of them, what they must be going through, how I had failed to go back and rescue them as I had promised myself. But what could I do? The answer was nothing.’
In Washington DC, Tikoo read in the papers, the US State Department was also, publicly at least, taking a back seat. He found this difficult to believe, given its previous determination to hustle John Childs out of Kashmir. ‘Who’s in charge on the ground in Kashmir?’ State Department spokesman Nicholas Burns was asked at a press conference a few hours before the second deadline expired. ‘The Indian government,’ Burns replied. ‘It most definitely is, and we are working with them.’ Tikoo put the newspaper down and closed his eyes. ‘Who’s in charge?’ he asked himself.
Fifty minutes before the latest deadline expired at midnight on 17 July, an envelope arrived at the Srinagar offices of the Associated Press. Given the sensitivity of the timing, it was passed straight to General Saklani. IG Tikoo, who had not spoken to al Faran’s intermediary since the previous day, jumped into his Ambassador. Arriving in the Church Lane zone, he found Saklani’s Police Liaison Officer tightening the spools of an au
dio cassette, and took a seat in one of the many straight-backed chairs lined up before the Security Advisor’s glass-topped desk. Tikoo could see that al Faran was adopting a tricky twin-track approach: when the secret telephonic negotiations looked as if they were faltering, it would present its case to the world at large on tape.
A dozen police, army and intelligence officials milled about, shaking hands and exchanging meaningless pleasantries before everyone was enveloped in cigarette smoke. When Western diplomats had described the situation as ‘a war of nerves’ several days back, Tikoo had scoffed. Now, as Saklani took his seat, Tikoo felt it in his gums. The Security Advisor nodded at Ahmed, who flicked a switch. As the brittle fuzz of the tape filled the room, Tikoo closed his eyes and felt the heat drain from his hands.
‘I am Don Hutchings,’ said a slow, deliberate American voice. It was the first time Tikoo had heard one of the hostages speak, and he was surprised how affected he was by it. ‘We have walked many days and nights, crossing rivers and mountains, and I am tired.’ Tikoo’s mind wandered out of Saklani’s office and up to Pahalgam, following the right fork in the road towards Chandanwari, where the track ran out and the mountains rose up. Amarnath, Sheshnag, Kolahoi … how far had the kidnappers dragged these poor men, he wondered.
‘The mujahideen have been OK with me. Jane …’ All those present were listening intently, wondering how this would play when the women heard it. ‘Jane, I want to let you know I am OK. I do not know [if] today I will die or tomorrow I will die. I do not know what will happen. I appeal to the American government and the Indian government for help.’
That was not what IG Tikoo wanted Jane Schelly and the others to hear right now, but the tape would have to be shared with them. If he got the chance to see her beforehand, he would say that Don’s speech sounded awkward, and had the ring of having been scripted. It was possible to find some reasons for hope in the American’s words, Tikoo thought. Hutchings had sounded strong. He might have been exhausted by the pace of the forced trek, but he seemed calm, making the threat to the hostages’ lives seem a little more distant. Tikoo had a more profound insight too: ‘Just as we had put the families on show at the press conferences to try and elicit a change of heart from al Faran, the kidnappers were putting the hostages up to the world, reminding us what was at stake.’ He closed his eyes again, listening to the hum of a break in the recording.
Another voice, also speaking English, but with a different accent: ‘My name is Hans Christian Ostrø.’
Tikoo’s first thought: Ostrø was one of two hostages who should not have been there. If the army and police had been doing their jobs properly, all backpackers would have been evacuated from the mountains as soon as the first kidnappings had been reported. After nine days in captivity, this was, incredibly, the first confirmation that al Faran was holding Ostrø. ‘I am from Norway,’ he said. ‘I was taken a week ago and ever since then I’ve walked over many mountains, high mountains and pastures. I saw lots of nice nature. I appeal to the Norwegian and Indian governments to do anything they can to release us because we don’t know when we will be killed. I appeal especially to the tourist office because everybody there told me that this place was safe. An officer there gave me his card and said I could call him if there was a problem. Well, I am calling now.’
That was Kashmir all over, the punch-drunk valley that misspoke the truth. Tikoo knew Nasser Ahmed Jan, the smooth-talking tourist police official to whom Ostrø was almost certainly referring. He had become an inveterate salesman, wishing the war away in a myriad of languages. Tikoo reflected that Kashmiris, desperate for a change in their fortunes, had become untrustworthy friends and guides.
He looked up to see that everyone in the room had bowed their heads, trying to extract meaning from every syllable. The messages, if a little stripped of emotion, were identical in structure, and succinctly got al Faran’s perspective across. The hostages were, as yet, unharmed, but that could change at any time. How long did they have, Tikoo wondered. He knew that in part the answer would be dictated by, of all things, the weather. In the mountain passes the summer still blazed, and the kidnap party could stay high and hidden for several weeks to come. But having worked in the Pir Panjal, he knew a thing or two about the impact on the body and mind of the first deep frost of the year.
Another reedy voice issued from the cassette player. ‘We are very tired, but the mujahideen are treating us very well.’ It was Paul Wells. ‘But if the Indian government doesn’t sort out this situation we will be killed. Catherine, I hope to see you soon.’ Wells sounded desperate, and Tikoo grimaced in the knowledge that all of the women’s hearts would be squeezed when the tape was shared with them.
Straight after Paul Wells came another British voice, this one stronger and more forceful. ‘I’m from England,’ Keith Mangan said defiantly. ‘For the moment I’m a little poisoned in my stomach …’ The same clunky sentence construction, as if he was reading from a script.
Tikoo imagined the hostages sitting in a smoky gujjar dhoka rehearsing what the kidnappers wanted them to say, talking among themselves in rapid English about whether they would be able to slip in a few clues as to their location or their real condition. But there appeared to be none, only five disconnected voices that helped fill in some of the gaps in Tikoo’s mental chart of their characters. It was a little game he had been playing in the small hours, constructing a matrix of the inside workings of the hut, creating hierarchies and possible relationships from what he had learned about the five hostages, information culled from press reports and what had filtered back to him from the Crime Branch interrogations of pony-wallahs, guides, hotel and houseboat owners, most of whom had by now been pulled in.
In Tikoo’s mind, Don Hutchings was at the top, a calm man with profound resources. A climber and explorer, Hutchings had proven himself capable in extremis. He understood how debilitating fear could be, and acted as a bridge builder and a peacemaker. And Tikoo suspected, incorrectly, that as an American he would probably be the most altruistic, trying to ensure that his fellow hostages survived, possibly at his own peril. If he had been allowed to debrief John Childs in detail, he would have known that Don had been the first to try to make a break for it. Tikoo tried to assess Hutchings’ potential weaknesses, correctly judging that he might rely too heavily on the goodness of men and on ‘doing the right thing’. He had, Tikoo thought, an inclination to act pastorally when it came to the others.
Tikoo rightly had Keith Mangan pegged as man of physical strength, but more canny and street smart than Hutchings. Mangan was mature, stoical and likeable, according to what his wife, family and friends had said in reports Tikoo had scanned in Transport Lane. He was a practical and resourceful character who was used to looking after himself, and stood a good chance of coming out of this intact.
In his imaginings, Tikoo got Paul Wells spot on. As the youngest hostage, in the middle of his list, he saw him as physically capable but emotionally immature, prone to anger and unpredictable actions, likely to be feeling isolated as the novelty of his capture wore off. Tikoo hoped one of the others, Keith Mangan probably, had taken him under their wing.
More isolated still, Tikoo estimated, was Dirk Hasert, the only one among them who did not speak English. The IG suspected that Hasert, just a year older than Paul Wells, was similar in outlook and maturity, reaching out to befriend the militants during the initial thrill of capture, but withdrawing as the likelihood of an early rescue faded with the passing days. The only captive who could strike up a meaningful conversation with Hasert was Hans Christian Ostrø, who spoke German. Tikoo hoped the Norwegian had drawn the young student from Erfurt into the group.
Tikoo had the Norwegian down as a wild card, a man who was capable of anything, and who according to the friends who had spoken to the Norwegian press, and the villagers up in Zargibal (many of whom had been brought in for questioning) was adept at physical posturing and psychological provocation. Tikoo was sure that Ostrø would repeatedly try
to escape, and would certainly not stick to any scheme he disagreed with. On the emotional front he was said to be susceptible to rapid mood changes, from euphoria to depression. Tikoo feared for Ostrø especially.
The tape fizzed, and was ejected. There was a letter too, Saklani announced, and started to read it out. ‘We made contact with the Indian government three days ago,’ he began, looking at Tikoo. ‘But the government does not seem to be prepared for any purposeful talks.’ Tikoo frowned, knowing that he had not yet been able to establish any kind of meaningful relationship with al Faran’s negotiator. ‘[The hostages] can be killed at any time after the expiry of the deadline. We will not extend the deadline again.’
Since the tape had been recorded, the deadline had expired, so this was zero hour, which meant the hostages’ lives were under imminent threat. Tikoo had to get on top of his role as negotiator, and also to deal with a bombshell from Saklani, who in the last forty-eight hours had told him in the strictest confidence something the Indians had withheld from the women: there would be no prisoner releases. New Delhi had ruled it out. Tikoo’s heart had sunk in the knowledge that he could never let al Faran suspect this. He had to string them along to keep the hostages alive, find something to occupy them, and conjure a solution that would be palatable to New Delhi.
The next telephone conversation was slated for 11.30 the following morning. As he bade General Saklani goodnight, IG Tikoo felt as if he was in a free-fall zone in the war of nerves. From here on in, anything could happen.
Back at home in Transport Lane, Tikoo’s wife was waiting with his warmed-up dinner: some chicken and rice. He wasn’t hungry, and sat at his dressing table contemplating his unused computer, a bulky grey box that dominated the room. He had always wanted one, and a couple of years back had bought this one second-hand in New Delhi. There had never seemed to be time to use it – until now.
