TANZEEM

by Deva, Mukul

  ‘How long do you think we will be staying here?’ Iqbal asked Maqbool as they settled in.

  ‘Until the Ameer tells us to go,’ Maqbool replied simply as he put down his weapon and took the bed near the window, plumping up the pillow before he lay down and stretched.

  Iqbal shrugged and took the other bed, sinking into the soft, comfortable mattress.

  Sleep, when it came, was deep and restful after a long time, without the threat of sudden death hanging over his head.

  The general lit a cigarette as he reached for the phone on his office table.

  A cell-phone rang miles away to the south-west, in a bungalow on the outskirts of Quetta.

  ‘Allah hafiz, Ameer,’ the general said when the call was answered. ‘It goes well.’ He rapidly gave a gist of the meeting he had just concluded with Jalaluddin Haq.

  ‘Excellent. Jalaluddin will deliver. Just allow him to get the tanzeem together and task them.’

  ‘That we will,’ the general concurred. ‘There will be intense pressure on the Americans to negotiate if they want to get out of Afghanistan any time in the near future. We want you back then.’

  ‘Inshallah,’ Mullah Mohammed Omar murmured. ‘Let us work at getting them out first.’

  The call lasted only a minute more. As soon as it was over Omar took out another cell-phone from his pocket and dialled the single number stored on the SIM card’s memory. The second call was much shorter.

  ‘They have taken the bait,’ he said simply when the call was answered. ‘Go ahead with the plan while I take care of things at this end. We must have control of the nukes. Nothing will stand in our way then. They will give us the umbrella we need to ensure that Allah’s will is supreme.’

  ‘I will not let you down, mentor.’

  ‘I know you won’t. I trust you, Jalaluddin.’

  ‘And that trust shall be honoured, Ameer.’

  ‘Allah hu Akbar.’

  When the call ended, both men removed the SIM cards from their cell-phones and cut them up, destroying them totally. They removed another SIM card from the tiny stack of eleven more that both had and inserted the ones that had number 2 written on the reverse with a red marker. The SIM cards had been procured some time ago from a little known sympathizer. Each one was sequentially paired and meant for one-time useand-throw, making it virtually impossible for anyone to monitor their conversations. They knew the ISI kept track of every call made or received by them. And their agenda had nothing to do with that of the ISI, even though the short-term tactical goals might appear to be the same. One wanted Afghanistan and Kashmir. The other wanted both and Pakistan; after all, the jihad needed a firm base if it was to sweep the world. It also needed the nukes to keep the Caliphate secure and the Sharia supreme.

  The wheels of treachery continued to spin. In this deadly game there were no friends. Each player had his own personal agenda. And each would do whatever was necessary to fulfil it.

  It was pitch dark when Iqbal woke up. His stomach was growling. He had not eaten in a long time. Maqbool was snoring contentedly by his side. Iqbal was about to get up when he noticed the map case lying by his pillow. He cursed softly, knowing that the Ameer would be livid if he realized it had not been put in his room. He was thinking of a suitable excuse when an idea struck him. He should have thought of it long ago.

  After making sure Maqbool was still asleep, Iqbal silently got up and took the map case into the bathroom. He locked the door, opened the case and spread out the map. It was a military grade map of the FATA. There were numerous blue and red markings all over it, obviously the positions of the two sides engaged in the conflict. A thick black cross with a rough circle around it immediately grabbed his attention. The mark was shiny and, unlike the others, had been made with a black china graph pencil. Iqbal examined it closely. There were some pencil flakes still visible on the glossy talc cover of the map case. Iqbal could tell the mark had been made recently.

  Iqbal mulled over the conversation he had overheard between the Ameer and the general. This must be the place where the Ameer plans to meet them, the group of six men from different continents… the tanzeem.

  Iqbal quickly memorized the six-figure grid reference of the place marked by the cross. He repeated it several times, embedding it in his memory.

  Closing the map case, Iqbal quietly returned to his bed and lay down, wondering how he couldget word out to Colonel Anbu. Or whether he should try and take them down on his own.

  In the morning, the first thing Iqbal did was take the map to the Ameer’s room. Luckily, the Ameer was on the phone when he entered and did not pay much heed to Iqbal.

  ‘Tell the chief I said so,’ he heard the Ameer say. ‘These are the guys who are going to take the battle to the enemy, strike at their very hearts. They will hurt them so hard that not just their morale, even their economies will be devastated. At no cost do I want them to feel that we are scared, that we are not in control of our area. If all goes well, I want them to deliver the first hit just when the kafir are celebrating Christmas…’ The Ameer’s voice faded away as the door shut behind Iqbal.

  He had barely reached his room when Rahim sauntered in.

  ‘Get packed, guys. We are moving out in an hour.’

  ‘Where to?’ Iqbal asked. ‘I thought we were…’

  ‘You thought wrong,’ Rahim cut him off. ‘The Ameer is not going to stay at the same place for more than a night or two.’

  ‘So where are we off to now?’ Iqbal asked as he began to stuff his things back into his rucksack.

  ‘You will know when we reach.’

  Iqbal raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I don’t know for sure,’ Rahim added sheepishly, ‘but I am guessing we will head for another safehouse not too far away.’

  ‘Well, let us hope it is closer to town than this crappy fauji mess,’ Maqbool piped up from across the room.

  ‘You are thinking of having some fun, aren’t you?’ Rahim leered at him.

  ‘Why not? Who knows how long we have to live? Might as well enjoy life,’ Maqbool said with a smile.

  They left in the usual mini-convoy that their numbers demanded, except that this time two sets of soldiers accompanied them. But no one was in uniform, the weapons they carried were well concealed, and they rode in civilian vehicles – there was nothing about them that would draw attention.

  The drive through Lahore was surprisingly short. They raced down wide, well-maintained cantonment roads, then slowed to a crawl as they waded through a sea of cars, scooters and rickshaws that thronged the overcrowded commercial part of town. Sewage flowed through the streets. Tattered drapes hung over broken windows. Here and there one could see electricity siphoned out of ingeniously jury-rigged electricity poles and lines.

  The incessant honking of horns and the cries of hawkers faded away as the convoy hit the outskirts of the city. They finally halted outside a large bungalow inside a posh residential colony. A couple of security guards manned the gates. Their weapons were safely tucked away in a fibre-glass guard hut just inside the gates.

  They settled down, once again with Maqbool and Iqbal occupying the room to the right of the Ameer, and Rahim and Sultan in the room on the other side. The soldiers escorting them vanished into the surrounding grounds. Barring an old man who seemed to double as the cook and major domo, the house was bereft of life. It was exceedingly well appointed, obviously designed to cater to the top brass or special guests when they needed to lie low or be kept under wraps.

  Iqbal was still unpacking when the door opened and Rahim strode in, grinning.

  ‘The Ameer says we can take the evening off.’ He surveyed them as though he had just delivered news of a great personal achievement. ‘Two at a time, of course. So you guys hang around and keep your eyes open while Sultan and I go out.’

  ‘When do we get to go?’ Maqbool demanded irritably.

  ‘You guys get tomorrow evening off.’

  ‘We are here tomorrow too?’ Iqbal enquired,
anxious to know the plan. This could be the break he was looking for.

  ‘Of course! Didn’t I just say so?’ Then Rahim was gone.

  The next day Maqbool was bathed and ready to go out an hour after lunch. He spent the next couple of hours fretting in the room, waiting impatiently for Rahim to give them permission to leave. His constant grumbling and festering excitement kept Iqbal distracted, which was a good thing because by now he was tired of all the questions whirling through his head.

  They set off the moment Rahim gave them the go-ahead, Maqbool leading the way. It took them close to an hour to reach their destination.

  After striding through the crowded Urdu Bazaar with its countless musty bookshops, Iqbal and Maqbool finally entered Heera Mandi, the historical red-light area that Lahore had inherited from the days of the British Raj. It was a collection of narrow lanes, lined with grimy walls that bore little trace of paint. A colourful contrast were the women inside the houses, huddled on sofas that were visible from the street.

  Mangy dogs dodged past people. An array of electricity and telephone wires crisscrossed the narrow lane. A medley of songs, most of them from Bollywood blockbusters, blasted out from the buildings. Hanging around near the open doors were muscular, betel-chewing pimps, keeping an eye open for customers and cops alike.

  With the practised eye of a veteran, Maqbool walked down the lane, stopping at every door to check out the wares inside. At the fifth house, he spotted what he was looking for.

  ‘You coming?’ He looked vaguely over his shoulder at Iqbal, his attention on the girl who had caught his eye. Iqbal was still trying to find a suitable excuse to walk away when Maqbool caught his hand and dragged him in. ‘Come on! You are behaving like a fucking virgin.’

  They were halfway into the room when Iqbal’s gaze fell upon one of the prostitutes. She was facing the other way, but there was something familiar about her. Then she turned and the familiarity faded. She caught Iqbal’s stare and her mouth shaped itself into a professional pout. Iqbal felt something come alive within him. His fingers reached inside his pocket and drew out some money. He held it out to the pimp hovering beside him. It must have been more than the pimp expected because he nodded eagerly at the prostitute. With a broad smile at Iqbal and a suggestive twitch of her butt, she turned and headed up the narrow staircase. Iqbal followed. As he walked away, he could hear Maqbool haggling with the pimp.

  With every step the beast that had been unlocked within him grew larger. By the time he entered the small dingy room, it was itching to break free. In the middle of the room was a queen-size bed. A green bedsheet with yellow stripes covered the thin cotton mattress on it. The stale stench of sex hung heavy in the air. Throwing the latch on the door, Iqbal walked up to the waiting woman. She was still smiling. Her smile faltered as his hands ripped apart her blouse.

  ‘Araam naal, mere saand,’ she said in rustic Punjabi. Easy, my stud. She made no attempt to cover her large, sagging breasts. Iqbal’s thumbs began to caress her dark brown nipples. Her smile returned. And something inside Iqbal snapped.

  The woman squirmed in pain as Iqbal squeezed both her nipples hard. Her hands instinctively came up to pull them free. Simultaneously, Iqbal’s hands dropped and tore off her petticoat. He pushed her back, sending her staggering onto the bed. By now her pout had disappeared. Her mouth opened but her scream died in a whimper as Iqbal’s hand clamped across her mouth. With his other hand he loosened his belt and pulled down his pants. Pushing her flat on the bed, he mounted her. She moaned. There was no pleasure in the moan, only fear and pain.

  He came almost immediately. One massive surge and it was over. But he felt no satiation. He felt nothing but anger, though he was not sure at whom or what.

  The anger kept a hold on him as he wiped himself with the hooker’s blouse and left the room. He was still hard, but not with desire.

  Maqbool was nowhere in sight when Iqbal went downstairs. Checking his watch, he quickly strode out of the whorehouse and made his way back to Urdu Bazaar. He had lost a lot of valuable time. Shaking off the lust that still throbbed inside, he began to refocus on the task ahead. He remembered the little cybercafé they had crossed on their way here.

  He knew his options were to either get hold of a phone or find a computer and use the Indirocker site where Ankita had set up an account for him. Iqbal’s instinct would not allow him to risk using a public phone. He knew that Colonel Imam wouldn’t find it hard to home in on him if the call were tracked, and the odds were that any call to India would be.

  By now the crowd had begun to build and it took Iqbal about fifteen minutes to reach the café. He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw that it was open. He was just sitting down behind the old, solitary computer when the lights failed and the room was plunged into darkness.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked irritably, his keyed-up nerves jangling out of control.

  ‘Power is out, janab,’ the owner’s tired voice echoed out of the darkness. ‘Happens here all the time.’

  ‘Damn!’ Iqbal checked the curses that threatened to flow out. ‘How long before it comes back?’

  ‘Who knows? It comes when it comes and goes when it goes,’ the man said in a resigned manner. ‘These days who knows about anything?’

  He seemed to be in the mood to chat. The senseless banter kept Iqbal’s mind occupied as he sat in the darkness, tapping idly at the keyboard. Every once in a while, he peered at his wristwatch. It had been almost an hour since he had left Maqbool. Just then, the lights flickered on, hesitantly at first and then gaining intensity till the room sparkled to life once more.

  Iqbal switched on the computer and watched the ageing machine slowly boot up. When the main screen appeared, Iqbal clicked open the browser impatiently and keyed in the site address. The log-in process into the Indirocker website chewed up another minute. Thirty minutes left until his rendezvous with Maqbool. He figured he had ten minutes more before he got going.

  Iqbal selected the ‘Send sms’ option and added Ankita Bhatnagar, Manoj Khare and Vikram Tiwathia’s numbers to the recipient list.

  ‘Tanzeem is a group of six men. One per continent. Identities not yet known to me. Handpicked by the Ameer-ul-Momineen to spread urban jihad across the globe. Tho’. He stopped as ‘Message limit 160 characters’ flashed on the screen.

  Cursing, he deleted the last word he had typed and clicked on the ‘Send message’ icon. The message swirled slowly on the screen for a moment before the ‘Message sent’ confirmation flashed. With a sigh of relief, Iqbal began to compose the second message.

  He had just begun to add the recipients to the list when the computer screen signalled a ‘Message received’ alert. His fingers were shaking as he discarded the message he was typing and clicked open the incoming message. It was from Captain Tiwathia.

  Tiwathia’s return message was brief. ‘Glad to hear from you. We have been very worried. Hope you are well. Send whatever details you have.’

  Iqbal was suddenly overwhelmed to be back in contact with Force 22. The fact that they were worried touched him more than he had expected. It felt incredibly good that someone out there was actually thinking of him. He pushed aside the emotions clouding his mind and began to reply, aware of the message limit this time.

  ‘Am well. Ameer is Jalaluddin Haq. Don’t have details about tanzeem but they are coming to meet Ameer. Will try to get word to you when that happens.’

  Yet again, the reply was instantaneous. ‘Use codeword Majnu to indicate when they are meeting and Laila to give the grid reference of location.’

  Despite the situation, Iqbal couldn’t help chuckling at Tiwathia’s choice of codewords. He suddenly remembered that he already had the grid reference and began to write another message. He was about to send it when there was a sudden spurt of light and the room plunged into darkness again.

  He cursed out loud.

  ‘I told you, janab, the power supply here is a real pain,’ the café owner’s voice piped up. ‘We hardly
get any work done these days.’

  Iqbal looked at his watch. Four minutes left. He threw an uncertain glance at the public phone near the door. He was reluctant to pass on the grid reference on the phone. There was also the fact that he was not entirely sure that it really was the venue, he was simply assuming it was, based on the conversation he had heard and the fact that the mark on the map had been made during the Ameer’s meeting with the general. And ifit was the venue and the Pakistanis came to know that it had been blown, they would simply shift the meeting to another place and Iqbal might not be able to find out this information again. He decided it would be better to wait till he was sure.

  His despair mounted as he waited for the electricity to return. Two more minutes ticked by. He knew it would not bode well for him if Maqbool saw him coming to the rendezvous point from the direction of Urdu Bazaar. Everyone was suspicious and there would be questions. He had not been able to erase the log-in history; if anyone came to check it would give him away at once.

  With a frustrated thump on the keyboard, Iqbal got up, paid the owner and quickly walked back to the rendezvous point. It was a good thing he left when he did because Maqbool sauntered up moments after Iqbal reached.

  ‘How was it, miyan?’ Maqbool asked. He had the contented smile of someone who had been laid after a long time.

  ‘Good, good!’ Iqbal aped the grin.

  ‘Just good. Man, you should have come with me. What a woman that was!’ He grinned again, scratching his crotch. ‘I really needed that.’

  They began the long walk back through Urdu Bazaar. Iqbal was hoping the lights would not come on until they had crossed the cybercafé. He heaved a sigh of relief as they walked past it. But at that moment, the lights returned with a vengeance. Once again, the market was lit up by a multitude of yellow and white lights. Iqbal fought the urge to step up his pace as they navigated through the crowded lane. They had barely walked a few more steps when the café owner’s voice reached him over the din of the market.