by Deva, Mukul
‘Allah will show me the way.’ Iqbal shrugged. ‘If He is the One and True God, then surely He will not allow this madness to continue in His name.’ Iqbal’s eyes had a distant look. ‘My father always told us that if we want something badly enough, the entire universe conspires to deliver it to us. We just have to know we want it.’ His voice hardened. ‘And trust me, I wantthat bastard,’ he said through clenched teeth.
‘That may be so,’ Anbu said patiently, ‘but think about it. Be logical. You must remember we have no resources in Pakistan to support you. You are going to be on your own. Forget your chances of success, even your chances of survival would be remote.’
‘But you agree that there is a chance, and that is good enough for me.’
‘Come on, Iqbal.’ The colonel leaned forward. ‘We go to battle only when there is a reasonable chance of success. Operations are not launched on a wing and a prayer, especially not such a dangerous one. You should know that by now.’
‘You can get me across.’ Iqbal’s eyes bore into Anbu’s unflinchingly. ‘You owe me this much.’
His words hung angrily in the silence that suddenly seized the room.
Finally, Anbu nodded. ‘Okay, Iqbal, if that is what you have decided to do.’ He leaned back in his chair with a sigh. ‘We both know I cannot stop you. And yes, maybe I do owe it to you. Tell me how else I can help you.’
‘Just get me across. I need to go back to Faisalabad.’
‘I see. Well, all right.’ Anbu did not bother to conceal his disapproval.
‘I will also need some money,’ Iqbal added. ‘Not much, just a little…’
‘That’s not a problem either. Anything else?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
Iqbal nodded.
‘How about I get Ankita to let you have a look at the data we have on the various people we suspect and the current situation in Pakistan. I will also tell her to set up a covert communication protocol for you,’ Anbu suggested. If he couldn’t stop Iqbal, at least he could try to ensure that he came back alive. ‘Just in case something comes up where we can be of some help.’
‘That would be good, sir, but I don’t want anything to link me with any official agency here in India, in case I am taken…’
‘I know what you’re saying, Iqbal, but don’t worry. I will have Ankita set up something appropriate. Just give me a couple of days to organize things. You stay on at the base and think this over in the meantime. I still feel the whole exercise is dangerous and futile.’
‘If it’s okay with you, I would like to use this time for weapon training.’
‘Not a bad idea,’ Anbu conceded. ‘I’ll tell Tiwathia to run you through a refresher.’
Iqbal got up from his chair. ‘May I take your leave now?’
Anbu nodded reluctantly. He had hoped Iqbal would stay longer and keep talking so that he could try and lance the anger out of him, maybe even dissuade him from the mission he had chosen to embark upon. ‘I do want you to give this some more thought, Iqbal,’ he repeated. ‘There is no point in throwing away your life so senselessly.’
Barely checking his stride, Iqbal gave a slight nod, unwilling to meet the colonel’s eyes.
‘Colonel Anbu?’
The colonel looked up to find that Iqbal had halted at the door.
‘How is my son?’
‘He is well.’ A warm smile lit up Anbu’s face. ‘My wife and he are absolutely inseparable. Would you like to meet him?’
Iqbal opened his mouth to reply but no words came out. After a moment, he simply shook his head and walked out.
For one brief moment Anbu almost went after Iqbal to call him back. To talk to him. To explain that commanders often make mistakes in battle, that when mistakes are made people die, that commanders are human too, that he had tried his best. Then he sank back in his chair, knowing that in his current state of mind Iqbal was unlikely to listen to any explanations. And even if he did, it would not take away the pain. With a weary sigh, the colonel picked up the phone and began to put Iqbal’s requests into action. If it has to be done, we might as well give it our best shot.
Two days later, when they met again, just before Iqbal was to set out for the border crossing, Anbu made one final attempt to reach out to him.
‘Come with me. I want to show you something.’ Anbu led Iqbal across the physical training ground. There, nestled into the hillside was a tiny hut with a red tiled roof. At the entrance, guarded by an armed sentry and standing tall under a concrete umbrella, was a burning torch, its flame flickering wildly in the brisk mountain wind.
The fragrance of incense greeted the two men as they entered the hut. Barring a solitary photograph that hung on the wall facing the door, the hut was empty. The colonel stopped in front of the photograph. It was of a young Indian Air Force officer.
‘This is Squadron Leader Rajesh Tiwari,’ Anbu said as Iqbal came up beside him. ‘He laid down his life while stopping Salim’s strike on Delhi.’
Iqbal looked at the photograph of the handsome, smiling man who appeared to be in his mid-twenties. He had heard Tiwari’s name before, but neither the man nor the nature of his death held any meaning for him. Anbu may as well have been talking about the weather.
‘We call this the Hut of Remembrance,’ Anbu explained, his voice sombre. ‘Whenever we lose someone from Force 22, we honour him by placing his photograph here. We make sure his sacrifice is remembered for ever.’ He paused, then added, ‘Do you know Rajesh is the only one Force 22 has lost so far?’
Iqbal felt a jab of anger. He wanted to remind the colonel that Tanaz too had fallen while on a Force 22 mission.
‘It is part of my job to see that no other photos are placed on this wall,’ Anbu continued. ‘But that’s not always possible. The mission is most important, it is our raison d’être; in fact, it is sacrosanct. But so is human life.’ Anbu looked at the picture on the wall. ‘No commander likes to lose his men. We work to bring them back alive in addition to completing the assigned task. I met Rajesh’s parents afterwards. He was their only child… he was going to be married just a few months later…’
‘What good is all this to Tanaz?’
Anbu wanted to remind Iqbal that he had been totally against Tanaz’s involvement in the operation. But he did not. In the end, no matter what the reasons, he had allowed Tanaz to go ahead. And as he was the commander, the buck stopped with him.
The two men stood in the hut for a long time. Then Anbu turned abruptly and left. He was putting on his shoes when Iqbal joined him outside. They had walked quite a distance from the hut when Anbu broke the silence. ‘Are you absolutely certain you want to go across again?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am totally against it. I know it will be a waste of time…’ Anbu broke off when he saw the look on Iqbal’s face.
There was resolve there, and a strained intensity that was almost painful to behold. Iqbal was clearly fixated on the mission he had set for himself, to find the Ameer-ul-Momineem and take him out.
Anbu knew that the minute the Ameer’s men had killed Tanaz, the battle had become a personal one for Iqbal. And that, as any warrior could have told him, was not the best way to go to war. Especially against a foe as formidable as the Ameer-ul-Momineem.
1 Told in Lashkar (2008).
2 Told in Salim Must Die (2009).
3 Told in Blowback (2010)
Understanding the source of good and evil – God is the creator of both, but people choose evil.
Deuteronomy
‘The tanzeem has been constituted,’ the Ameer-ul-Momineem declared in his unmistakable baritone as he put down the handset. The Ameer was a tall man with a jagged scar that ran across his right cheek. The scar was a painful reminder of a Russian bayonet and symbolized the violent times he had grown up in. He carried it with the pride of a soldier sporting a medal of honour. Had the bayonet travelled even an inch further to the left, it would have cleaved out his eye and delivered him b
ack to his maker. But the near miss had only served to reinforce his belief that he was destined to live until he accomplished the mission for which he had been sent to earth.
It was not so long ago that this man had wrested the coveted title of Ameer-ul-Momineem from a host of brutal warlords who ruled over the tribal areas of Pakistan and large tracts of Afghanistan.
Today, he had been on the phone for hours, on six different calls, each one painstakingly routed through several domestic and overseas cutouts to mask its point of origin. ‘That’s it! We have all six of them now, one Ameer from each continent,’ he told the frail old mullah reclining on the sofa in the middle of the room. His usually cold face was wreathed in a satisfied smile
Crossing the room in four large strides, the Ameer plonked himself on the sofa next to the mullah and threw an arm around him. The mullah had been quietly listening as the Ameer talked on the phone. Age may have whitened his hair and wizened his face, but it had done nothing to diminish the sparkle in his eyes.
Even today, Mullah Ismail Hamidi was as passionate about the jihad as he had been on that day in 1980 when he left his home near Medina and travelled those arduous miles to the rugged mountains that straddle the Pakistan-Afghanistan border. The advent of Russian forces into Afghanistan had seen him volunteer to dedicate his life to the jihad that had been launched to throw out the infidel invader. Born and bred a dedicated Wahhabi, the man was no warrior but he had the unwavering faith of a zealot and he knew he would be able to use his madrassa to breed an equally unfaltering band of jihadis. That war was over, but the jihad had continued. And it would go on until the crescent ruled the world.
As he looked at the Ameer with a sense of pride, Hamidi knew he had succeeded. His former student was on the verge of unleashing the biggest, deadliest offensive so far against the kafir. If he pulled it off, the world as it existed would completely change – nothing would stand in the way of Allah’s lashkars as they swept forward and ensured the Sharia reigned supreme.
‘Are you sure they are the best people for the job? We have to fill the leadership void caused by the Sheikh’s and Mullah Omar’s absence. Only then only can we have more 9/11s and take the jihad to higher levels,’ Hamidi said, forever the sceptic and unwilling to show his excitement. ‘We must be extremely careful when selecting people. The responsibilities of the tanzeem, of this group of leaders, are immense and failure would set us back by years. In fact, we may never even get the chance again.’
‘I realize that.’ The Ameer was used to having the mullah play the devil’s advocate. It was what made the two of them such a formidable team: the old man’s pessimism and experience tempered the younger man’s ruthlessness and hot-blooded passion.
‘Well, all six of them certainly have the right credentials to lead the jihad,’ the Ameer continued. ‘You want me to go over the list with you again?’
‘Why not? Once we move on to the next stage, the dice will have been irrevocably cast. It will be too late to do anything then. One weak link in the chain could destroy everything we have put in place with so much effort.’
The Ameer scratched his unruly beard, his eyeballs unwittingly moving upwards as he reflected, ‘The biggest bond among us is that we have all paid the price for the fight against the Russians with the blood of our families. And the fact that all of us had the honour of being taught by you at the Bajaur madrassa.’ He smiled fondly at the old mullah. ‘This, more than anything else, brought us together then and, thanks to you, still holds us together.’
‘How can you be sure that the passage of years and their prolonged exposure to the decadent cultures has not jaded their enthusiasm for the jihad and shahadat?’
‘That was easy to gauge.’ The Ameer leaned forward and rested his chin on his hands. ‘Did you not see the eagerness with which each one responded to our call?’
‘So what? That is exactly what a traitor wanting to penetrate our organization would also have done.’ The mullah was not one to relent till he had forced his disciple to re-examine all possibilities and risks. ‘Every intelligence agency in the world would love to get an agent into our organization.’
‘True, but in this case my gut tells me otherwise.’ The Ameer sat back, patting his iron-hard stomach. ‘I know that these six are fully aware of the threat Islam faces today and will come together to take the fight to the Crusader-Zionist-Hindu nexus that is now arrayed against us believers. Do you not have faith in what you taught us?’
Hamidi did not respond but his eyes shone with the courage of his conviction. For a moment, silence gripped the room, the comfortable silence of two men who have shared the battlefield for a long time.
‘The best thing is that now, after all these years, all six of them have become firmly embedded in their societies,’ the Ameer continued. ‘Except for the Russian, none of them has a police record or links with any so-called subversive, terrorist or criminal organization. Just look at each of them.’ He raised one finger of his right hand in the air. ‘The American is a respectable family man and a reputed businessman who owns a big chain of petrol bunks across the mid-west. He has expanded the tiny business he inherited from the man who adopted him and took him away to America. In every way he represents the true-blue American success story which they pride themselves on. Who will suspect him?’
The Ameer extended another finger. ‘On the same lines, the one in Australia has converted the tiny tour company he acquired from his foster parents into one of the largest, most sought after travel firms in Australia. The inbound and outbound tours he runs not only enable him to travel worldwide, they will also allow him to facilitate movement of our brothers-in-arms whenever the need arises. With a wife and three kids to give him cover, he is perfect for our cause.’
The Ameer stopped and gave the mullah a questioning look, waiting for his response. There was none, so he continued with number three. ‘Our man in France overcame all the hardships of life at a refugee camp. The fact that he is one leg short, courtesy a Russian landmine, attracts more sympathy than suspicion. Today he owns six eateries in and around France. His kebab joints are not huge or glitzy, but all of them are popular. The spread of his business gives him the licence to move around easily, and the fact that he specializes in this particular cuisine gives him the freedom to hire people from the NWFP. What better cover can there be for our fighters when they need to come over ground and mingle with society?’
‘I agree.’ Hamidi nodded.
‘Good. Now consider the Indonesian. He, like you, is a religious teacher, at one of the bigger madrassas in Jakarta. This gives him the freedom to seek capable and worthy youngsters for the cause, as well as the moral authority to demand favours from the faithful as and when our operations require it. The best part is that he can function openly, totally above ground, and yet not attract attention. In fact, I view him as a vital asset in our plan to establish a firm base in that country and ensure we always have a ready supply of recruits to feed our front line. With Indonesia’s nebulous political system, a huge unguarded maritime boundary and, of course, the rampant poverty, there cannot be a more apt base for us, can there?’
Hamidi nodded again, so the Ameer continued. ‘Very similar to the Indonesian is the African who heads the Islamic Relief Foundation. The spread of this charity across the African continent allows him to travel freely. He can tap thousands of people festering in refugee camps all over Africa, besides offering our jihadis sanctuary in these camps. He already has a very good working relationship with AQIM, the North African Al-Qaeda leaders. They respect him and support the idea of having him as the central co-coordinating authority. That is why, in addition to supporting our strike cells, I am looking to him to provide the manpower we need to take the battle all over the world.’
‘I agree with you about all of them, but what about the Russian?’ the mullah asked. ‘Why him? Every cop in Europe is looking for him.’
‘Ah, the Russian!’ The Ameer dropped his hand to his thigh. ‘Yes, I know h
e is on every possible wanted list, but he is also on the guest list of every credible criminal organization in the world. Right from getting us the acetic anhydride to converting opium into heroin…’
‘I know how important that is.’ Hamidi was aware that 2.6 tons of acetic anhydride were needed to convert every 10 tons of opium into 1.3 tons of heroin. This conversion was crucial since the market value of opium was barely 45 dollars per pound as against the 1600 dollars per pound that they got for heroin. The relatively simple conversion took 900,000 dollars worth of opium to a mind-blowing 4,160,000 dollars worth of heroin and that too in a much smaller quantity, which was easier to conceal and carry. Since there were no other legal uses for this industrial chemical in Pakistan, it had to be brought in under fake labels, through a combination of threats and bribery. ‘I know that if the Russian’s supply of acetic anhydride stops, the poppy fields of Afghanistan become economically unviable.’
‘Not only that, the Russian provides us with the carriers to get the heroin out,’ the Ameer added. ‘He routes the money to our offshore banks and back to us whenever we want it, and helps us procure the arms and ammunition we need to keep the war alive. He is the key to it all.’
‘But his only motivation is money. Don’t you think there is a chance that he will sell out to the highest bidder? And you know there will always be a higher bidder,’ Hamidi warned. ‘The stakes are just too high now. Can we take a risk with him?’
‘I know we can,’ the Ameer replied. ‘With the Russian, I just know we can. He is a thoroughbred mercenary, but – don’t ask me why – he is the one I would choose to guard my back. There was something special between us, right from the start. You may not remember those days, but of this entire lot, it was the two of us who spent the most time together in Bajaur, and the bond we share is solid.’
The Ameer thought back to the years when the seven of them were together at the madrassa that the Wahhabis had set up in Bajaur. Their life was frugal but it was a world away from the starving, disease-ridden reality of the refugee camps that had come up like anthills all along the Durand Line in Pakistan. In Bajaur they at least got two square meals a day.
