TARGET BRITAIN: a political thriller

by Owen Bennett-Jones

  “You should assume they know he is here too. To be honest I don’t know if they have anyone in the fort, but they will surely have people in the guesthouse. Better safe than sorry. I will say you asked us together because you thought we should meet.”

  “And Jasir?”

  “You are affording him protection until his house is rebuilt. That is what you would do isn’t it?”

  The sheikh rubbed the back of his neck. “Very well. Can’t see I have much choice. And, on Jasir, what do you think? What’s your assessment?”

  “He’s very fit. And bright enough too,” the major replied. “I suppose it was one-to-one tuition, but I’d still say he picked up the bomb making quicker than most. We used to reckon 15 per cent of our intake would have an accident doing that. But he was meticulous. Organised.”

  The two men had moved from the rose beds to arched walkways covered in climbing jasmine plants which had grown up the wooden poles placed every few feet and then curved along the thin wooden arches above. In the evening, when the temperature dropped, the flowers opened and released their fragrance; the effect was so powerful that the sheikh felt giddy walking through. Some nights he would have the gardens cleared and stroll through with one of his wives.

  “He’s bright enough. But is he tough enough?”

  The major remained silent, thoughtful.

  “Has he iron in his soul?”

  “We don’t know that yet. We need to see more,” said the major. “We need to test him when he is alone. A lot will come down to his resourcefulness when there is no one else to help. That is how it will be. Him alone having to manage.”

  “Exactly,” said the sheikh. “Couldn’t agree more. That’s why I was thinking of sending him into the desert. It strips a man down. Reveals the essentials.”

  Chapter Seven

  “I saw the iron enter his soul…” -- Laurence Sterne, 1768

  10:00, 11th December, Sibi, Baluchistan

  As Jaz and the sheikh were driven closer to the camel fair they passed families sitting around fires eating food from dirty grey plastic containers. The men and women continually flicked their fingers over their faces to swat away flies. The camels could only occasionally jerk their heads in an attempt to disturb the constant swarms that darted in and out of the thick, clear fluid that trickled from their eyes. Dogs and children rolled in the dirt.

  Some of the men, most wearing cream robes beneath brightly coloured cloth tied around their heads, sat in the shade of rough canvas tents with no flaps to cover the triangular entrances. It was too dark to see much of what was inside but by their feet Jaz could make out ancient rifles and the long, intricately engraved sticks they used to control their livestock.

  “Here!” the sheikh told his driver, pointing to a patch of clear land between the tents. As the car slowed down Jaz noticed two of the security vehicles in the sheikh’s convoy suddenly accelerated and overtook before jerking to an abrupt halt. By the time the sheikh and Jaz reached for their door handles his gunmen had leapt out of their cars and formed a protective perimeter in which he and Jaz could move.

  “I want you to meet someone here Jaz. You will spend the next few days with him.”

  As they progressed through the fair, passing not only camels but also horses, donkeys and cattle, the sheikh both attracted attention – thousands of faces turned in his direction - and repelled it. Seeing his security guards, people instinctively shied away.

  “How can we find anyone here?” Jaz asked.

  The sheikh was about to reply when two old men approached him almost doubled up by their effort to keep their eyes looking downwards, at the ground. They reached out for the sheikh’s feet and touched them, muttering something inaudible under their breath. The sheikh put his hand on their heads and told them to stand.

  “Chamakis,” the sheikh explained, turning to Jaz. And then, unnecessarily, “my people.”

  “But people don’t touch your feet in Dera Chamak.”

  “These men are from the desert. They still believe in tradition.”

  The formalities over, the two men had shed their subservience and were smiling and pointing, telling the sheikh that most of the Chamakis had gathered near the horse market.

  “We’ll find him there,” the sheikh said.

  As the two tribesmen guided them there were grunting camels all around, many with intricately threaded, multi-coloured ropes tied around their necks. Jaz noticed a man with huge rusty clippers removing the hair of one of the camels. A boy, his dark, sunburnt face smeared with dirt, gathered the hair into a plastic carrier bag as it fell.

  Jaz noticed that to his right there was an ancient generator that vibrated with a soft throbbing rhythm. Bare wires ran from it into a dilapidated deep freeze above which was a handwritten cardboard sign advertising camel milk ice cream. The vendor, a toothless man with an unkempt grey beard, tried to catch Jaz’s attention, but failing to do so, slipped back in his chair, low beside the freezer.

  Jaz saw that some of the camels that had already been shorn were being decorated. With great care the owners painted lines and circles on their animals’ necks, heads and bodies. Then they weaved coloured wool into the tails and attached beads, strings of tiny mirrors, blue and green feathers and, finally, bells so that with every movement the camels chimed.

  “The camel beauty pageant,” the sheikh said. “The Nawab of Sibi puts up one of his best females as the prize.”

  Jaz looked confused.

  For once the sheikh’s ability to understand what was going through Jaz’s mind failed him. And then he realised what Jaz was thinking and, without warning, let out a rare laugh.

  “A female camel,” he said

  A drumbeat began close by and, as he turned, Jaz saw a circle of people gathering around a slightly crazed-looking young man with long, shiny black hair protruding from beneath his turban. He was drawing deeply on a large pipe of hashish, exhaling the smoke with a beatific smile that was ill matched to his constantly darting eyes. As the onlookers had hoped, he started to dance. At first he remained sitting on the ground, his movements of his legs and shoulders so subtle as to be barely noticeable. But as the pace of the drums accelerated, he became more animated until he lifted himself up and, oblivious to the stones on the ground, stamped his feet down with increasing force, raising his curved arms into the air. He started to twist and turn as the crowd clapped and yelped in time with the drums.

  In the corner of his eye Jaz caught sight of a boy, perhaps 15 years old, leading a neat grey horse towards the commotion. It too was dancing, prancing on its rear legs, and then its front ones, bucking in time with the beat. The boy controlled the horse’s movements by pushing and pulling on its neck and speaking in its ear. Losing interest in the hashish smoker, the crowd swivelled towards the horse and murmured its approval and Jaz could see a shy grin playing on the boy’s face.

  More people were approaching them now, and suddenly, so many men were trying to touch the sheikh’s feet, they had to stop.

  “So here we are,” the sheikh said to Jaz as the crowd pressed in on them.

  And then in a louder voice the sheikh commanded: “Bring me Mohammed son of Mohammed of Dera Chamaki.” No one moved. And then he added: “The one who married the daughter of the well keeper.”

  He was met with blank expressions

  “You know, the well keeper with the squint.”

  An old man with so few teeth that Jaz couldn’t make out what he was saying and shouted something to the crowd in heavily accented Baluch, spittle flying from his mouth. His description seemed to have more effect than the sheikh’s and within a minute the man the sheikh was asking for was produced before them. Middle-aged, with a thin, slightly pinched face, Jaz thought he looked nervous. His off-white robes looked new and he had a Kalashnikov strapped around his shoulder. Two camels followed in his wake.

  The sheikh pointed at the gun. “Do you have a feud with anyone? Is that why you are carrying your weapon?”

  �
��No,” Mohammed replied. “Just better safe than sorry.”

  The sheikh nodded and, with an imperious sweep of his right hand, indicated that the crowd encircling them should withdraw. In case anyone didn’t get the message his guards started pushing back the onlookers until they were 15 or 20 feet away. He looked around waiting for someone to anticipate that he needed chairs. Within a few seconds two of his guards realised what was required, and jostling their way through the crowd ran to one of the stalls. Having requisitioned three plastic chairs they, with deliberate decorousness, placed them on the ground besides the sheikh. A third guard then appeared with a carpet and placed it on the ground in the middle of the chairs.

  The sheikh indicated to Mohammed that he should sit and Jaz, not being invited to join them, remained standing, unsure what to do. He watched the sheikh and Mohammed talk for some minutes after which the sheikh handed Mohammed an envelope. With that their business was apparently concluded and the sheikh signalled that Jaz should join them. As he sat, one of the guards produced three small glasses of hot milky tea.

  “I want you to travel with Mohammed. He has great knowledge of the desert Jaz and he is going to guide you. The major will be at your destination.”

  Jaz looked at Mohammed and extended his hand. Mohammed grasped it and maintained the grip as he stood and, in an act of subservience, Jaz thought, pulled him up. The sheikh, having made the arrangement was already moving on, telling his guards he wanted his car brought to him.

  “By the way,” the sheikh said to Mohammed, just as he turned to leave. “That’s a fine looking camel you have there.” He pointed at the one at the back. “Did you always have two?”

  “No I just bought her,” Mohammed said walking over and stroking her neck. “A real beauty.”

  “She must have cost you a lot,” the sheikh said.

  “She was a gift. The money for her I mean.”

  “And a generous one. To whom do you owe your thanks?”

  “To Allah,” Mohammed replied.

  The sheikh briefly caught Jaz’s eye, gave a slight, grim nod and without another word left, his guards clearing a path in front of him. Jaz felt sure the sheikh was trying to tell him something but he could not work out what the intended message could have been. Distracted, he watched the sheikh move away.

  As he did so Mohammed unfastened one of the many leather bags loaded on his camel and produced a second Kalashnikov.

  “You never know who we might meet,” he said, handing it to Jaz.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Fort Sandeman. Its only three days away, but it’s hot now,” Mohammed said.

  “So it will take longer?” Jaz asked.

  “We’ll see. Probably not. But it’s not Chamaki territory. We must try to avoid meeting anyone. Anything can happen out there.”

  As he stood by his car looking back at Jaz and Mohammed, the sheikh wondered how Jaz would fare. It would be a real test and not just because of the physical challenge that lay ahead. Satisfied that in three days he would have answers, one way or the other, to his questions, the sheikh climbed into his car and indicated with a wave of the hand that he wanted the driver to start the journey back home.

  Mohammed too started walking, in the opposite direction and Jaz followed, breaking into a light run as he tried to catch up. The worn leather bags on the backs of the two camels merged into their dirty brown coats and the sand beyond. The goatskin water container on Jaz’s camel had a slow drip and as the water disappeared into the hot desert Jaz wondered whether he should try to hold onto it so as to preserve their supplies. But every time he tried to reach up to hold the leaking skin the camel moved forward and it slipped out of his grasp.

  The people thinned out as they left the fair behind them. And then, coming from the desert, Jaz saw a boy not even 10 years old wearing nothing but a flimsy, torn sheet wrapped around his bony body. He had wild black hair down to his shoulders and a stick that he waved in front of him. The boy smiled revealing a set of perfect white teeth and passed without saying a word.

  It was already late afternoon and Mohammed said he wanted to be clear of the crowds before stopping for the night. They walked for three hours until they saw some sparse spiny shrubs on the valley floor.

  “We’ll stop. The camels can graze.”

  “Won’t they run away in the night?”

  “Not with so much food here. They will stay close. Otherwise we’d have to bind their legs.”

  Their camp consisted of little more than two blankets, which Mohammed unfolded on the sand.

  “What can we do for wood?” Jaz asked.

  “Come. I’ll show you.”

  Mohammed led Jaz to the bushes on which the camels were grazing. He knelt down and started to scratch at the surface of the sand. There, an inch deep, was a spindly root. Mohammed cut the root with a knife and then lifted it from the ground and Jaz saw that it went on for 20 or 30 feet becoming ever thinner.

  “Fetch some more,” Mohammed said. “But only one from each plant so as not to kill them.”

  Jaz scoured the sand. While Mohammed had found a root in the first place he dug, for Jaz it was a much more random process and he also found that when he tried to lift the trailing root from the sand he broke it, meaning he had to dig down again and repeat the whole exercise.

  But in time he returned with a bundle of roots in his arms and Mohammed pointed to a patch of sand with some stones on it. Moving over, Mohammed started a fire with a cigarette lighter, and produced some flour from one of his bags and with a dented tin mug measured out two portions that he poured onto a circular wooden board. Adding a small glug of water from the goatskin container he started to knead the flour into dough.

  “The biggest risk is that we cross the path of some smugglers moving opium from Afghanistan to Iran,” he said. “But nowadays they tend to use four-wheel drives so you can see them coming from far away.”

  “So can’t the army see them?”

  Mohammed shrugged. “If it wants to. Everyone gets their fair share.”

  “And in Iran?”

  “The same. It’s all moved overland.”

  Using a stick, Mohammed poked in the fire and pushed one the biggest stones to the edge. After a few seconds examination he thrust it back and looked for another one with a flatter surface.

  “What’s at Fort Sandeman?” Jaz asked.

  “Just an army garrison. The road starts there through to Punjab. Sandeman was a Britisher. It’s named after him.”

  “They should give it a Baluch name,” Jaz said as he watched Mohammed flatten the dough on the hot stone and then tilt it towards the fire. Within a few minutes it was ready to eat.

  “In the name of Allah,” Mohammed said and they started their meal. And, with little to say to each other, a few minutes after the bread was consumed they settled to sleep under the light of the moon.

  Having been too hot to touch, the sand was now freezing, leeching the warmth from Jaz’s body. He forced his legs towards his chest trying to stop himself shivering. Sleep was impossible and he listened to the camels grind their teeth as, remorselessly, they gathered whatever fodder they could find for the journey ahead.

  He watched the stars swing through the sky overhead. Jaz thought of Mahmud and the video showing his death. He didn’t feel angry anymore and no tears came to his eyes. And he reckoned that was because he now knew the path he had to tread. Avenging his brother’s death was helping overcome the grief. But after it was done, what then? Jaz tried not to think about it. He looked towards the bags wondering whether the goatskin was still leaking and whether they would have enough water. And for a brief second he thought back to the minicab company and felt relief he wasn’t there anymore. His life now was so much more real. And, at last, he fell asleep.

  As dawn broke Mohammed was up first, gathering the camel droppings, which he stored in one of his bags. Jaz, enjoying the gradual warming of the air, watched Mohammed dip underneath one of the camels, grasp its udder
and squirt milk into the tin mug.

  Muttering verses from the Qur’an, Mohammed drank and then filled the mug again for Jaz who drank it lying down, propped up on one elbow. Mohammed offered him nothing to eat. Instead he packed his blanket.

  “We should move,” he said. “Before the sun gets up.”

  Jaz’s feet were already beginning to blister and with each step he could feel raw wounds opening up.

  The dunes closest to them had a reddish tinge exaggerated by the lack of sunlight. Beyond they were honey-coloured and golden. They looked so steep Jaz wondered if they were in fact stony cliffs but there was not enough light for him to tell. A couple of eagles flew overhead. Even here, Jaz thought, they must be able to find food. And as if by confirmation he noticed they were passing a small cluster of bushes, their presence in such an arid place quite unexplained.

  As the temperature rose Jaz could think only of rest, bread and water. His mouth was parched, the hot air evaporating any trace of moisture he could produce. Ahead there was a vast range of dunes so high that as they approached they seemed to obscure half the sky. Suddenly they were in the shadows and the temperature dropped.

  “We can’t get up that,” Jaz said.

  “We must,” Mohammed replied. “There’s no other way through for 50 miles from here. There are quick sands in both directions.”

  When Jaz had travelled from London he had brought a keffiyeh he’d bought for a pound in Waterloo but, seeing that the tribesmen preferred traditional turbans, had not worn it much. But now he needed the protection. He adjusted it to that there was a slit for his eyes, enabling him to look up and watch Mohammed start the ascent. With each step the camel’s hoof went into the sand then slipped back almost to where it had started.

  Realising there was no alternative, Jaz started to climb himself. Like the camels he could find no purchase and at times he was knee deep in the fine grains of sand, which swirled around his shins like water. Sweating with the effort, Jaz tried to walk with his head uncovered but within minutes started to feel light-headed so once again bound his keffiyeh around his face. He could hear his heart throbbing in his ears. There was a constant hot wind, and sand penetrated this clothing and rubbed against his skin.