TANZEEM

by Deva, Mukul

  Iqbal surveyed the square below them. It took a minute for the flag on the building in front of which people had queued up to register.

  He froze.

  Iqbal saw two cars drive up to the building. Almost at an equal distance, approaching the building from the other side, was the Toyota Camry. The sentries manning the gate had seen the two cars. One of the guards began to open the iron gates while the other pushed back the people lined up outside. Another pair of sentries shouldered their rifles and ran forward to drag away the spike strips that had been laid across the road to prevent any vehicle from forcing its way in.

  No one noticed the Camry approach from the opposite direction.

  The Camry weaved its way through the barrels placed on the road, meant to slow down a vehicle entering through the gate. It accelerated as soon as it had cleared the barrels. Even from the rooftop, Iqbal could see the Chechen sitting rigidly behind the wheel. He must have hit the accelerator hard just then because the powerful Camry lunged forward, the roar of its 2.5-litre engine filling the square.

  This drew the attention of the security guards instantly. The men behind the sandbags grabbed their weapons, the one handling the gate tried to shut it, and the two who had pulled the road spikes out of the way tried to drag them back on the road, but that was about as far as any of them got – by then the Camry was almost upon them.

  The first car had already entered the gate. The second car, a few metres behind, had slowed down due to the crowd in front of the gate. It braked when the gates begin to close and the road spikes were dragged forward again.

  The Camry slammed into it with a loud crunch.

  For a moment there was complete silence. Then a large black cloud erupted, engulfing both cars in a fireball. The sound of the explosion boomed across the square and slammed into Iqbal’s ears a nanosecond later.

  ‘Let’s go.’ Their ears were still ringing with the explosion so neither man heard Karamat’s voice but they felt him tugging at their arms. Iqbal did not hesitate to obey. He knew that, very soon, security forces would cordon every building around, and there would be roadblocks at every exit out of the city; that was the standard security drill whenever an attack took place.

  Pushing the rocket launcher behind the pipes, the three men raced down the narrow staircase. They were soon mingling with the crowd that had begun to gather.

  Despite the compelling need to get away, curiosity got the better of Karamat. He stopped to watch the terror they had unleashed. Iqbal and Altaf, standing on the other side of Karamat, were also spellbound.

  The Camry and the car it had rammed into had been totally obliterated. The car in front was in only marginally better condition. The sentries and the people who had been crowded near the gates had borne the brunt of the explosion. Not one of them remained standing. Barring a few shaken people at the end of the line who were trying to clamber back to their feet, bloodied, mangled bodies were strewn all around.

  Some of the soldiers manning the inner cordon ran up to the gates. They fanned out and adopted a defensive posture, ready to ward off a secondary attack on the building. But there was none coming.

  ‘Time to get out of here,’ Karamat whispered in Iqbal’s ear. Iqbal followed him as they made their way through the fast-gathering, nervously chattering crowd. A few people ran forward to help the survivors. But most hung back, afraid of another blast. The wail of emergency sirens began to build up as a host of ambulances and MRT vehicles converged outside the building. Iqbal’s mind was reeling. He had just witnessed a meticulously executed fidayeen attack on the Indian Embassy in Kabul.

  When they got back to the safehouse, Pasha was sitting in front of the television, watching the news.

  ‘Well done,’ he greeted Karamat warmly. ‘According to the news we got about sixty of them, including the Indian military attaché and another diplomat. Hopefully, some more of the 140-odd that have been injured will die soon. That will teach those Indian bastards to meddle with us.’ They exchanged triumphant smiles. ‘Well done,’ Pasha repeated. ‘Now just lie low for a couple of days.’

  ‘Have you sent word to the others?’

  ‘I will now. I will tell them to start the diversion day after tomorrow, sharp at midnight, okay?’

  ‘That is fine with us… Oh, yes, the Ameer asked me to remind you about the money.’

  ‘You need not remind me, miyan.’ Pasha gave him a patronizing smile. ‘It is on its way even as we speak.’

  They parted at the door and a visibly cheerful Karamat went to share the news with the other men who had not gone with them in the morning. A current of jubilation ran through the room as he told them about the attack. Not one word was said about the Chechen who had been sacrificed.

  Every few minutes, they heard a security vehicle thunder past. But that didn’t worry them. As long as they did not roam about outside, bring any electronics into play or get betrayed, they would be safe. It was not possible for the security forces to search every single house in Kabul. Even the forensic evaluation of the attack would not reveal anything but the obvious. The car was a stolen one and the detonator and explosives used, whether C-4 or Semtex, were available in abundance all over the war-torn country.

  As for the Chechen, even if they managed to piece together his body and identify him, the trail would lead nowhere. He was just another nameless, faceless pawn, one of several hundred illiterate youngsters who had been picked up for a handful of dollars and trained by Qari Hussain, the Ustade-Fidayeen, at the Spinkai Ragzai school in South Waziristan.

  Despite the euphoria of the successful strike on the Indian Embassy, the next two days took their toll on the patience and tempers of the men, who were confined to the house.

  Karamat gathered them at eleven-thirty the following night. ‘Get ready to leave in half an hour,’ he said tersely. ‘Weapons loaded and ready for action.’

  ‘Do we fight our way out?’ Altaf asked.

  ‘If required, but I don’t think we will need to,’ Karamat said. ‘Our teams will provide us with the diversion we need, and also give these bastards something to remember us by… a parting gift.’ He laughed as he unfurled a map on the floor. ‘Eight teams of two men each will attack these police stations.’ He pointed them out on the map. The targets were scattered all over town and most were well away from the house where they had taken refuge. ‘That will have all the MRTs hotfooting it to the stations under attack, because they will not be sure of what is happening. In the confusion, we can slip out of town.’

  ‘What about the guys who are attacking?’

  ‘Not a problem. They will fire a couple of rockets each and clear out. In any case, attacking like a swarm of bees always fucks the security forces and slows down their response. It keeps them guessing as to what our real intentions are and what the actual target is. The aim is to give us an open escape window and, of course, let these fools know that we can attack when and where we wish to.’

  Weapon loads were rechecked, guns were cocked and fingers poised on triggers. Iqbal felt alive, aching to bludgeon forward into action. Iqbal knew the others were experiencing the same feeling.

  The diversionary attacks began precisely at midnight. There was a scattered spate of explosions and a crackle of gunfire. The firing was far away and spread out: it sounded like fireworks in the distance. Almost on cue, the men surged forward.

  ‘Hang on!’ Karamat said sharply, holding up his hand, eyes glued to his wristwatch. ‘Give the security guys time to respond.’ The men held back but the tension was thick; though it was just five minutes, the wait seemed interminable.

  Finally, Karamat told them, ‘Let’s go! One at a time and keep some distance from each other.’

  By the time Iqbal ran out of the house, the man who had left before him was at the end of the road. Keeping his pace steady, his hand clutching the weapon under his shawl, Iqbal followed him, forcing his breathing to an even pace. His eyes darted about, taking in every stone and crack in the passing walls, eve
r alert to any threat.

  The sound of firing, though intermittent, was now louder. The handful of people on the street at this hour scurried along, sticking to the shadows of the buildings on either side of the road. The fleeing men mingled with them. Every now and then, a security vehicle flashed past, going hell for leather for the closest point where the firing was going on. Each time one went past, Iqbal’s grip on his weapon tightened, but not once during the half hour it took them to clear the town was he or any of the others stopped.

  The team was waiting in a tight cluster when he ran up to them. They were now at the same spot where Pasha had met them three nights ago. Iqbal took up position in the defensive perimeter as they waited for the last man to join them. He knew they were out of danger now, though they all dreaded the night-vision capability of the drones and aircraft. But Allah seemed to be watching over them tonight.

  The return journey was another gruelling speed march as they moved by night and hid by day. Because of the intense aerial surveillance activity, it took them over twelve days to get back. Several times they were forced to go to ground as gunships swept overhead.

  Twice, they came across signs of the revenge the ISAF had meted out to suspect villages along their route. Both times, Karamat gave a wide berth to the villages and kept going. Their task was over. The collateral damage that followed in the wake of such attacks and ambushes was not relevant. If anything, it contributed to their cause because disproportionate retaliation by the security forces only yielded more recruits for the jihad, more canon fodder for the security guns, and more retribution.

  It was an exhausted but elated party that finally returned to the base. The Ameer himself was there to greet them when they stumbled into the village. He commandeered Karamat and the two men retired to the Ameer’s hut.

  If Iqbal thought the action was over, he was mistaken. The men had been back barely a few hours when they were rounded up again.

  Karamat looked furious when he came out of the Ameer’s hut. ‘The Pakistan government has reneged on its deal with us and sent in the army to drive us out of our homes,’ he informed his team. ‘While we were away, the Pakistani forces moved in and took Swat from our brothers there. We do not have too much time before those faithless pet dogs of the Americans reach here, so this is what we are going to do.’ He turned to the team leaders who were standing to one side. ‘I want everyone to be mobilized. We move out tonight with every single man capable of holding a weapon. I want you to take up defensive positions here, here and here.’ He pointed at the map he had brought with him. ‘Tell the men to be very careful. You should also expect trouble from some of the local lashkars. Any questions?’

  There were several. Iqbal watched Karamat patiently answer each one before he proceeded to the final briefing.

  ‘Now remember, we will not get into any pitched battles with the army. Hit! Run! Fall back! Hit, run and fall back! Keep them bleeding and slow them down as much as you can. They must not get past this line.’ He pointed at the map again, tracing a line across it. ‘No matter what happens. I will be with you at every step but we need to ensure the army does not cross this line, at least not until the Ameer and the other elders get to safety. Remember, our lives are not important, theirs are. Clear?’

  Unflinching nods met his gaze. Most of the men were hardened fighters. The few that were prone to falter knew they would be gunned down at the first sign of flight.

  ‘The army will try to evacuate everyone from this area,’ Karamat continued. ‘We have to prevent them from doing so, or at least make it difficult for them. Every man, woman and child that we manage to keep back here will give us the shield we need and slow down the army offensive because they will have to try and keep civilian casualties to a minimum. They will also be forced to cater to the population administratively. So we have to make sure the area is not evacuated.’

  ‘How?’ one of the team leaders asked.

  ‘We will set up blocks here, here and here.’ Karamat tapped out a series of positions on the map and designated the men who would defend each. ‘Go for all patrols that come down these roads or any groups that try to evacuate the area.’ Karamat pointed to another group. ‘You lot, target the roadblocks and posts that the army sets up. No long engagements, okay? Just hit and get the hell out of there. Come back randomly from another direction and hit again. Use mines and IEDs wherever you can; those are the most cost-effective and will slow them down. Evoke as much uncertainty and fear as you can. Keep them guessing and on their toes; that will eventually wear them out.’

  There were a few more questions. Iqbal was amazed at the way Karamat handled them. He could not help but admire the man’s attention to detail. It did not strike Iqbal that they would be using women and children as a shield. The battle had sunk in too deep.

  Finally, Karamat stood back and watched them break ranks and scurry away. There was a lot to be done: weapons had to be cleaned; ammunition, medicine and food supplies had to be drawn before they moved out for the assigned tasks. Iqbal was rushing along with the others when he was stopped by Karamat.

  ‘You! Indian! The Ameer specifically asked about you.’ He grinned. ‘I told him you did well.’

  ‘Thank you, janab.’ Iqbal smiled. For some reason, he felt pleased.

  ‘Go and grab your gear, then report back to me,’ Karamat ordered. He saw the quizzical look on Iqbal’s face and added, ‘I want you by my side.’

  Seven days later, Iqbal realized that it was Karamat’s sudden whim to take him along that saved his life. Iqbal never again met most of the men who had been there for the operational briefing.

  The ones did not fall to the Pakistani military juggernaut vanished into the hills, some abandoning their weapons to merge with the flood of fleeing civilians, some returning wherever they had come from. Not many were captured; rather, the Pakistan Army did not take them alive. The few who were unlucky enough to be surrounded were gunned down in cold blood. The message was clear: the Pakistanis were not taking prisoners. Maybe they did not want the captured jihadis telling embarrassing tales of the support they received from the army and the ISI. Or maybe it was just too much effort for the army to hold prisoners. Perhaps the government needed to brag about the headcount to prove that it was doing everything possible to end terrorism. Or maybe the line between the two sides had begun to blur, if it had ever been there. Whatever the reason, it soon became clear that capture meant certain death.

  As Karamat, Iqbal and four other men flitted from one site of action to another, they saw an orgy of blood and death: the charred remains of policemen who had been burnt alive with their jeep; scattered bodies of innocent men, women and children who had been trying to flee the battle zone; and the rotting bodies of soldiers and mujahideen, some blown to bits by artillery guns, some torn apart by landmines, IEDs or grenades, some lined up and shot in the head.

  Kotkai, Srarogha, Shrangrawari, Kunigram, Ladha and Makeen fell in quick succession as the three-pronged Pakistan Army offensive, backed by air force jets and choppers, forced the jihadis to withdraw. But they put up a credible resistance, egged on by commanders like Karamat.

  The battle at Damadola, about 7 kilometres from the Afghan border, was excruciatingly intense. Located at a strategic junction, Damadola is a vital link to Afghanistan, Chitral, Swat and the main highway to China. It is certain that the complex of 156 caves would have fallen to the army within hours had it not been for Karamat. He was like a man possessed, moving his men from cave to cave, ensuring the line held firm. Eventually, the asymmetry of forces began to tell and it became evident that the army would overrun resistance. And then Karamat used his intimate knowledge of the terrain to make himself scarce – jannat, after all, is the privilege of the jihadi foot soldier, not the leader. Iqbal and three of the original four were with Karamat; they had lost Zia at Damadola.

  With the bases in Swat already lost and South Waziristan teetering on the brink, they now had no option but to fall back to the smaller bases a
t Bajaur, Mohmand, Khyber, Orakzai and Kurram and try to break the forward momentum of the security forces.

  Simultaneously, Karamat unleashed a series of suicide bombers in the more vulnerable rear areas of the advancing army, striking at the vital supply lines to impose delay and caution. In rapid succession, the US consulate in Karachi, the Naval War College, the headquarters of the Federal Investigation Agency in Lahore, a police training centre, the anti-terrorist police headquarters and ISI headquarters in Islamabad and several supply columns were hit by fidayeen squads. The attack on Karachi’s Kemari oil refinery failed, but by now enough damage had been inflicted on the morale of the security forces and on the confused Pakistani public.

  Perhaps it was the cumulative effect of these rear area strikes, the rugged terrain and the dogged resistance put up by the jihadis that finally turned the tide. Despite the high-speed intensity of the army operations and the undeniable superiority of men and materials fielded by the security forces, by the seventh night it was clear that the army offensive had begun to grind to a halt.

  During this time they did not spend more than a few hours in any one place. As they wove through the battlefield, Karamat’s energy seemed limitless but Iqbal, though much younger than him, had begun to feel the strain. And overriding everything was the fear that he would die before he could take down the Ameer. Physically and mentally exhausted, Iqbal could not wait for night and those few hours when he could surrender to sleep, no matter how fitful.

  SITUATION REVIEW

  From: Director RAW

  To: NIC

  Security Classification: Director – Eyes Only

  Priority: Urgent

  Subject: Review of internal security situation in Pakistan