State of Honour (14 page)

Tom crouched down behind a brown-brick wall that abutted the sidewalk. His face was dripping sweat. He hadn’t seen Khan get out, but he hadn’t seen him killed, either. In truth, he felt confused by the whole episode. But had to admit that Khan, or whatever his name was, had saved his life and had given him his only lead.

After a few minutes, he saw a beat-up Suzuki sedan with the words “For Hire” emblazoned in red on the side, along with some Urdu painted green. He stepped out from the wall, still clutching his bag, and walked to the edge of the kerb before attempting to hail it down. The cab passed him but stopped and reversed. He opened the front passenger door and leaned in, seeing a slim-faced man with a high forehead and an unkempt moustache, the hairs peppered with white spots, as if he’d just eaten a sugar doughnut.

“Do you speak English?” Tom asked.

“Oh, yes,” the driver said. “Very good English. Where are we going to?”

“Peshawar,” Tom replied, deciding to pick up the Ford there and drive back to Kabul.

“Oh, no, sir. I work only in Islamabad. And I am having sleep in one hour. Besides do not go to Peshawar. Very dangerous.”

“Listen. I need a car and fresh clothes.”

“I only drive taxi, sir.”

“I have three thousand American dollars,” Tom said, all that he had in his wallet.

He liked to carry cash, especially abroad. In his line of business, he’d thought he might need it one day. Now that day had arrived.

“I know a very good car dealer. My cousin. You can have clothes, too. He is broad man like you. Get in, get in,” he said, his hand beckoning Tom frantically.

Tom got into the back seat, something that felt like a busted spring jutting into his thigh. The driver pulled away, hammering at his horn as a car swerved to avoid his clumsy manoeuvre.

“How long till we get there?” Tom asked.

“A few minutes, sir. You want cigarettes? Marlboro Lights,” he said, grinning in the rear-view.

“I don’t smoke.”

“Are you an American?”

“Australian,” Tom said, lying.

“Ah, surfing and very pretty girls. You like very pretty girls?”

Tom checked below the car’s dash. “Can you turn on the radio?”

“Sure. No problem,” the cab driver said. “You like boys?”

“Just drive, will ya?” Tom said, figuring the guy got a cut from local pimps for providing foreign customers.

As the cab driver turned on the radio Tom took out the disposable cell and rang Crane, hoping that he would wake from his drunken slumber. He had to ring three times before he was greeted by a grunt on the other end, rather than voicemail.

“It’s me, Tom.”

“Jesus, what’s that noise?” Crane asked.

“I’m in a cab. I’m still in Islamabad.”

“Can you talk freely?”

Tom told him what had happened, including his encounter with the Pakistani cops, and that he’d arranged transport. He left out what Khan had told him about Hasni’s son, Mahmood. He didn’t want Crane interfering. He might get him picked up and moved to a safe house in order to avoid an embarrassing diplomatic incident. He just couldn’t risk it.

“If they have Khan, he’ll talk. Not right away, because he’s tough. But he
will
talk,” Crane said, his tone morose. “And you can’t risk going over the border by yourself. I’ll have someone meet you on the Pak side. They’ll bring you back to Kabul. Ring me when you get close to Torkham. But avoid the major roads. Use the map.”

“Can you get me on a plane from Kabul to Boston?” Tom asked, checking on the driver, who was still shaking his head to the music.

“Why Boston?”

“I got a buddy there. I thought I’d meet up with him,” Tom said.

It was half a truth at least.

The Arab’s name was Rahul Al-Dhakheel, a leading confidante of the House of Saud, the enormous Saudi ruling family. A slight man, Hasni always thought, almost frail, with plump lips and a well-trimmed goatee, who wore metal-rimmed eyeglasses, a pristine white dishdasha and keffiyeh headdress. He occupied the armchair that Kakar had sat in earlier. But Hasni’s manner had been entirely different. The man was the Saudi ambassador.

After knocking, Hasni’s acne-scarred butler, Jarrar, entered, carrying a folded note on a silver tray, which also held a silver coffee pot and handle-free cups. Jarrar had been with him for two decades, and for fifteen years with his father before that. Hasni employed his whole extended family and trusted him more than any man he knew. Jarrar presented the tray to Hasni, who took the note, thanking him. The butler shuffled over to a table and poured the coffee. The note informed Hasni of the incident outside his home. But it didn’t perturb him. Such things were to be expected, especially given the current situation in the country. Besides, he had more important things on his mind.

The Saudis had had a special relationship with Pakistan for decades. They’d funded the Islamisation programme in Pakistan when General Zia had imposed martial law in the 1970s. A man, Hasni knew, the new generals were anxious to emulate. That influence had continued and the Saudis still paid for Madrassas here. Places the US called a breeding ground of militant Sunni extremism. Hasni found it difficult to argue with that. But he went along with it, because the Saudis had also secretly funded Pakistan’s nuclear-weapons programme. If and when Iran developed strategic nuclear weapons, Pakistan had agreed to hand over a number of their warheads to the Saudis. The Arabs never did anything without a payback.

But he didn’t blame them for this. The Gulf states, and the Saudis in particular, had been terrified about Iran becoming a major regional power after the Shia revolution in 1979. He also knew that they’d feared a rising up of Shia terrorist groups in Sunni-dominated countries. Their fears had been borne out soon enough with the founding of Hezbollah in Lebanon. In response, the Saudis had funded fundamentalist Sunni movements all over the region, including those who had massacred Pakistani Shias in the nineties, something Hasni had been against, as it had fostered instability. History was repeating itself, but even Hasni was powerless to control such internal aggression.

And then as now, he had to do the Saudis’ bidding. Without them, the lights would go out and industry would grind to a halt. The generals’ encouragement of the Shia killings had not only sabotaged the chances of a Iran-Pak gas pipeline, but had also alienated the Russians, the Iranian’s allies. That and the fact that the previous civilian government had failed to address the predicament of millions of Pakistanis who lived without power. So there was nowhere else for Pakistan to turn to for essential natural resources. The Saudis were well aware of this, which was why they had been able to manipulate him.

Without a hint emotion showing on his face, Hasni updated the ambassador in detail on the abduction of the secretary.

“The attack in Kurram will act as a counterbalance,” the ambassador said, referring to the illegal incursion of Pakistan’s territory by Delta Force, which had been reported on the local TV networks just a few minutes ago.

“Well, for some perhaps,” Hasni replied, sipping at his coffee.

“They killed innocent Pakistani citizens. That’s enough to warrant an apology from the US president,” the ambassador said. “Is that not so?”

“Shia troublemakers. The country is better off without them,” Hasni added, sounding sincere.

The ambassador smiled, nodding approvingly before pointing out that the Saudis had done all they could to stem the flow of Shia ambition. In Syria, they’d backed the Sunni revolt against the Iran-friendly Shia regime, supplying them with RPGs, machine guns and satphones. In neighbouring Bahrain, they’d sent their own Special Forces across the King Fahd Causeway to help quell the Shia uprising against their ally.

Hasni listened politely, but he had little time for sectarianism. The fissure in the Muslim faith dated back to the death of the Prophet Muhammad in the sixth century, when the essentially political dispute arose over the leadership of the burgeoning religion. With the passage of time, the division developed into a theological one, with both denominations referring to the other as rejecters of the true faith. But now, he had to admit, the Shia uprisings were in danger of extending Iran’s influence to the point where they could destabilize even Pakistan and Saudi Arabia. They had to be stopped. He agreed with the Arab on that, at least.

Twenty minutes later, the ambassador said, “
Ma’asalama
.” Farewell with peace.

Hasni forced an open-mouthed smile and nodded.

He ambled back to his study and sank down on the chair behind his desk, wondering what the future would hold and how he might manoeuvre matters to Pakistan’s advantage. He took out a Cuban cigar from a teak case and severed the closed end just above the faint line with his silver cutter, recounting the conversation he’d had with the Arab. He lit the cigar with a match, never a lighter, and began to puff, twisting the cigar around evenly to ensure it burned at a constant rate, just as his father had taught him.

Never inhale, my son. Draw in the smoke slowly. Savour it
.

A knock at the door brought him out of his short reverie. Adeela entered. He’d told her to retire to her room before the ambassador had arrived, and to stay there. He didn’t like the way the Saudi looked at her. He didn’t mind her serving Asad and Kakar. If they had shown a hint of lust in their eyes, he would have blackened them. They knew it, too. Besides, since his wife had died from a massive heart attack three years ago, Adeela had become the woman of the household, and he had indulged her, allowing her to appear useful, partly to assuage her grief, he supposed.

“What are you still doing up at this hour?” he asked.

“I couldn’t sleep, Father. Do you need anything?” she asked.

“Only a kiss, my dear.”

She smiled and walked over to him. Bending down, she kissed his forehead gently. Straightening up, she said, “I’m scared, Father.”

He held her hand. “Would I allow anything to happen to you?”

“No, Father,” she said.

“Then go back to bed.”

Watching her leave the room, he realized how much he missed his son, Mahmood. He loved his daughter, but Mahmood was his heir. One day he would help to shape Pakistan’s future. America’s power was waning, but it would be decades before they stopped asserting their influence in the region. He had come to understand that in order to deal with the US effectively, it would be necessary to think like them, and the best way to do that was to be educated by them. And so he had sent his son to Harvard.

Hours later, Tom was nearing the border, driving on a zigzagging back road he’d checked on the map. Crane had said that he couldn’t rely on an Internet connection due to the mountains. The car was an old rust-ridden Toyota Corolla for which the cab driver’s cousin had charged him three-thousand dollars. He guessed it was his own fault for letting on how much he had. The cousin had thrown in some clothes for free and had acted as if he were a major philanthropist. Tom had been ripped off, but was just glad that they hadn’t tried to turn him over to the authorities and were only interested in making a living, even though it was a dishonest one.

It was morning now. The light-blue sky was blemished only by a few high, translucent clouds, although he couldn’t see the horizon, the narrow road being flanked by steep, rock-strewn hills. He’d had to swerve twice already. Once to avoid a glittering, multicoloured bus with young men sitting precariously on the flat roof; the other, to avoid a small herd of wild mountain goats that’d wandered into the road. The car didn’t have AC, and sweat constantly beaded on his forehead before running in tiny rivulets down his face and into his eyes. He was a short distance from where the road forked, and then, after a mile or so, linked up with the N-5 National Highway.

A few minutes later, as he passed a sharp bend, he saw a couple of men directly ahead, a small truck a little further up, the tailgate hanging down. The two on the road had AK-47s slung over their shoulders, and were motioning with their hands for him to stop. They stood in front of a makeshift barrier: a gnarled log suspended on two oil drums. Straining against the glare, he noticed that two more were sitting on the truck bed, smoking what he took for hashish.

He knew the border area was dangerous, and guessed that his luck had finally run out. It was an unofficial roadblock. They could be anyone from bandits to members of more than a dozen known insurgency groups, he thought. He felt a desire to speed up and smash his way through. But the car wasn’t exactly an up-armoured Hummer, and he didn’t want to add hit-and-run charges to the list of offences he’d committed in Pakistan already. Besides, after the near miss by the single round in Islamabad, he thought the chances of getting capped by four assault rifles was too high a risk to take.

Slowing down, he took out his SIG from the bag and held it by his thigh, clicking the safety off. As he came to a stop he eased the door open a fraction. A car was a convenient way to travel, but in a firefight it was a metal coffin.

A man who looked to be in his twenties, although the bottom half of his face was wrapped in a black-and-white-chequered bandana, bent down and peered in.

“Papers,” he said in Urdu.

Wondering why he hadn’t spoken in Pashto, the local language of the majority Pashtun in the region, Tom reached slowly under the dash with his free hand, sensed the man edge closer.

“My brother is working in Jalalabad. He had an accident on a construction site. He is very ill,” he said, handing his papers to the man.

Crane had told him that a lot of Pakistanis worked in Afghanistan’s major cities, especially in construction, so it was common for them to pass over the border. That would be his reason for doing so, too, if he had to explain himself, he’d said. Tom had decided to mix it up a little.

“Where do you live?” the man asked, his eyes scanning the passport.

“Islamabad. But I come from Sindh.”

After Crane had told him that his Urdu had sounded like a hog farmer reading Shakespeare, he’d explained that apart from Pashto many Pakistani regions spoke different languages. It would be best if he made out he was from Sindh. They would know, he’d said, that Urdu was likely to be a second language to Sindhi.

“Where in Sindh?”

“Sukkur.”

“What river passes by Sukkur?”

“The Indus. Sukkur is on the west bank,” Tom said.

He knew that if the questioning went much further, the little that Crane had been able to tell him in the short time they’d had at the Ariana would be exhausted.

“Why are you on this road?”

Good question, Tom thought.

“There was a traffic jam. Miles long. And as I said, I’m in a hurry.”

The man stepped back, and took a cellphone from his green combat jacket. As he started to thumb it, Tom checked the position of the other three. The two in the truck were still smoking their reefers, while the third man was starting to get interested in what was happening.

The man looked at the cell and then at Tom.

He recognizes me, he thought. How the hell does he recognize me? But then he realized that the Pakistani guards or the cops he’d disabled might have given his description to a sketch artist, which, given the timeframe, could’ve been emailed nationwide.

Tom shifted into overdrive. He heaved the door open, just as the man was bringing his AK up in an arc. The door caught him in the kneecaps with a sickening thud, and he doubled over. Tom flung himself out and sprang up from behind the partially rebounded door. He shot the upright man in the shoulder, the impact spinning him around, his AK kicking in his hand, as he involuntarily let off a short burst to the side. A second later and the man would have had him.

Moving out from the door, Tom pistol-whipped the man he’d hit with it and ran forward, pointing his SIG.

The men in the truck were fumbling for their AKs, their close proximity and the drugs temporarily disorientating them, Tom guessed. He squeezed off two rounds above their heads and shouted out in Urdu, ordering them to hold up their hands. He fired twice more, emphasizing that it would be a good move. They couldn’t duck down behind the sides for cover, because the truck’s rear was facing him where it had parked on the road. Wavering for a second or two, they did as they were told. He barked at them to get off the truck and lie face down on the ground. They did so, albeit with reluctance.

He turned. The man he’d hit with the butt of his SIG was struggling to get up. Tom jogged backward, keeping an eye on the two on the ground. As he got parallel with the man, he punched him hard on the jaw. He fell sideways, groaning, a trickle of blood oozing from his crooked mouth. Tom picked up the AK and walked over to the man he’d shot, dipping down to gather up his weapon, too. The man’s face was contorted in agony, his good hand grasping the bloody entry wound in his shoulder.

Tom ran to the back of the truck and pulled off the other two AKs by their nylon straps. Grabbing them one at a time from the barrel, he swung them to gain momentum before tossing them up among the jagged rocks. He thought about disabling the truck by shooting the tyres, but walked back towards the car instead. The man he’d punched was reviving, his hand groping for something under his jacket. As Tom reached him he bent down, snatched the man’s hand away and pulled out a hand grenade, pocketing it.

The cellphone, he thought. Seeing it lying about two metres away, he walked over and picked it up. He checked it. His face stared out at him and he went cold. The photo had been taken in Islamabad just hours before.

Tom went back over to the man he’d shot. He stuck the SIG into his waistband and crouched down beside his bare head, the man’s greasy hair falling to his shoulders. He saw fear in the amber-coloured eyes. As he grabbed his cotton shirt, the man winced. But when he ripped off the sleeve and used it as a tourniquet to ease the blood flow, the man’s expression turned to one of confusion.

Then he frisked him, taking out his cellphone. Checking it, he saw his photo. He walked over to the two men who’d been on the truck, their heads still face down in the dirt. He did the same routine, pocketing their cells before pulling one of them over onto his front. He looked petrified, but said nothing. Tom stuck the muzzle of his SIG into the man’s hairless cheek.

“Where did you get a photo of my face?” he said in Urdu, harshly.

The man shook his head a fraction.

Unless he spent the next half an hour or so doing things to them that he didn’t relish, he figured he wouldn’t get anywhere. Besides, they were foot soldiers of the uneducated variety. The chances of them knowing anything of significance were slim.

Straightening up, Tom nodded towards the wounded man. “He needs urgent medical attention. If you follow me, I will kill all of you.”

The man he’d questioned nodded.

If he’d had to kill them, he would have. The thought made him question if what he was doing was right. But too many questions were already spinning around in his head, not least how they had a photo of him on their cells. Too many questions, he told himself. As he walked back to the Toyota he felt a searing pain erupt from the side of his neck. A split second later, he heard the clattering of metal on the road.

He twisted around deftly, pointing his SIG. The man he’d spoken to was wearing shin-length boots, high enough to hide a knife. Tom raised his free hand, stroked his neck with his fingers, seeing the blood as he held them before his eyes. Although he was sure it was just a flesh wound, he cursed himself for being sloppy.

The man, still standing, held up his hands and made a pushing movement with them, his tongue licking his bottom lip as he breathed heavily. Tom groaned, the pain making his eyes water. He cocked the SIG. The man covered his face with his arms and seemed to shrink to half his former size. He said he had two children and started praying to Allah.

After a full fifteen seconds, Tom lowered the SIG.

Too many fresh corpses were buried in this earth, and beneath them the yellowing bones of thousands more. Like the splintered roots of a dead forest, he imagined. He wasn’t going to add to that if he had a choice in the matter.