The Meadow (38 page)

If Tikoo was burdened by too much knowledge, it was very different for the wives and girlfriends of the hostages, still in the dark about these top-secret back channels, and oblivious to everything else that was going on behind the scenes. Even his role as government negotiator had been kept from them, as had the method of communication and the investigations of the police and the intelligence agencies into al Faran. In the meantime the women clung together, buffeted by rumour, and hustled frenetically from place to place by obsequious diplomats and dissembling Indian officials, their anguish rising by the hour. The one finding it most difficult to cope, he had heard from Saklani’s bagman Altaf Ahmed, was Julie Mangan, who over the last thirteen nights had frequently woken sweating and panicked, grateful to have escaped from another nightmare about Keith being shot, maimed, tortured or killed. Like Tikoo, all of them searched for news of John Childs, back home in Connecticut, but he was keeping a low profile, refusing all requests for television interviews, saying he was worried that too much talking would put the remaining hostages’ lives at extra risk. Outwardly he seemed cold, as if all he cared about was getting his normal life back: his nine-to-five job at Ensign Bickford, his daily five-mile run around the school athletics track, and spending time with his daughters. But inwardly he was in turmoil. ‘I could not forget a minute of my ordeal,’ he said years later. ‘Every single second of those four days in captivity was etched onto my memory forever, along with the faces of my comrades. I did not go a minute of the day without thinking of them, what they must be going through, how I had failed to go back and rescue them as I had promised myself. But what could I do? The answer was nothing.’

In Washington DC, Tikoo read in the papers, the US State Department was also, publicly at least, taking a back seat. He found this difficult to believe, given its previous determination to hustle John Childs out of Kashmir. ‘Who’s in charge on the ground in Kashmir?’ State Department spokesman Nicholas Burns was asked at a press conference a few hours before the second deadline expired. ‘The Indian government,’ Burns replied. ‘It most definitely is, and we are working with them.’ Tikoo put the newspaper down and closed his eyes. ‘Who’s in charge?’ he asked himself.

Fifty minutes before the latest deadline expired at midnight on 17 July, an envelope arrived at the Srinagar offices of the Associated Press. Given the sensitivity of the timing, it was passed straight to
General Saklani. IG Tikoo, who had not spoken to al Faran’s intermediary since the previous day, jumped into his Ambassador. Arriving in the Church Lane zone, he found Saklani’s Police Liaison Officer tightening the spools of an audio cassette, and took a seat in one of the many straight-backed chairs lined up before the Security Advisor’s glass-topped desk. Tikoo could see that al Faran was adopting a tricky twin-track approach: when the secret telephonic negotiations looked as if they were faltering, it would present its case to the world at large on tape.

A dozen police, army and intelligence officials milled about, shaking hands and exchanging meaningless pleasantries before everyone was enveloped in cigarette smoke. When Western diplomats had described the situation as ‘a war of nerves’ several days back, Tikoo had scoffed. Now, as Saklani took his seat, Tikoo felt it in his gums. The Security Advisor nodded at Ahmed, who flicked a switch. As the brittle fuzz of the tape filled the room, Tikoo closed his eyes and felt the heat drain from his hands.

‘I am Don Hutchings,’ said a slow, deliberate American voice. It was the first time Tikoo had heard one of the hostages speak, and he was surprised how affected he was by it. ‘We have walked many days and nights, crossing rivers and mountains, and I am tired.’ Tikoo’s mind wandered out of Saklani’s office and up to Pahalgam, following the right fork in the road towards Chandanwari, where the track ran out and the mountains rose up. Amarnath, Sheshnag, Kolahoi … how far had the kidnappers dragged these poor men, he wondered.

‘The
mujahideen
have been OK with me. Jane …’ All those present were listening intently, wondering how this would play when the women heard it. ‘Jane, I want to let you know I am OK. I do not know [if] today I will die or tomorrow I will die. I do not know what will happen. I appeal to the American government and the Indian government for help.’

That was not what IG Tikoo wanted Jane Schelly and the others to hear right now, but the tape would have to be shared with them. If he got the chance to see her beforehand, he would say that Don’s speech sounded awkward, and had the ring of having been scripted. It was
possible to find some reasons for hope in the American’s words, Tikoo thought. Hutchings had sounded strong. He might have been exhausted by the pace of the forced trek, but he seemed calm, making the threat to the hostages’ lives seem a little more distant. Tikoo had a more profound insight too: ‘Just as we had put the families on show at the press conferences to try and elicit a change of heart from al Faran, the kidnappers were putting the hostages up to the world, reminding us what was at stake.’ He closed his eyes again, listening to the hum of a break in the recording.

Another voice, also speaking English, but with a different accent: ‘My name is Hans Christian Ostrø.’

Tikoo’s first thought: Ostrø was one of two hostages who should not have been there. If the army and police had been doing their jobs properly, all backpackers would have been evacuated from the mountains as soon as the first kidnappings had been reported. After nine days in captivity, this was, incredibly, the first confirmation that al Faran was holding Ostrø. ‘I am from Norway,’ he said. ‘I was taken a week ago and ever since then I’ve walked over many mountains, high mountains and pastures. I saw lots of nice nature. I appeal to the Norwegian and Indian governments to do anything they can to release us because we don’t know when we will be killed. I appeal especially to the tourist office because everybody there told me that this place was safe. An officer there gave me his card and said I could call him if there was a problem. Well, I am calling now.’

That was Kashmir all over, the punch-drunk valley that misspoke the truth. Tikoo knew Nasser Ahmed Jan, the smooth-talking tourist police official to whom Ostrø was almost certainly referring. He had become an inveterate salesman, wishing the war away in a myriad of languages. Tikoo reflected that Kashmiris, desperate for a change in their fortunes, had become untrustworthy friends and guides.

He looked up to see that everyone in the room had bowed their heads, trying to extract meaning from every syllable. The messages, if a little stripped of emotion, were identical in structure, and succinctly got al Faran’s perspective across. The hostages were, as yet, unharmed, but that could change at any time. How long did they have, Tikoo wondered.
He knew that in part the answer would be dictated by, of all things, the weather. In the mountain passes the summer still blazed, and the kidnap party could stay high and hidden for several weeks to come. But having worked in the Pir Panjal, he knew a thing or two about the impact on the body and mind of the first deep frost of the year.

Another reedy voice issued from the cassette player. ‘We are very tired, but the
mujahideen
are treating us very well.’ It was Paul Wells. ‘But if the Indian government doesn’t sort out this situation we will be killed. Catherine, I hope to see you soon.’ Wells sounded desperate, and Tikoo grimaced in the knowledge that all of the women’s hearts would be squeezed when the tape was shared with them.

Straight after Paul Wells came another British voice, this one stronger and more forceful. ‘I’m from England,’ Keith Mangan said defiantly. ‘For the moment I’m a little poisoned in my stomach …’ The same clunky sentence construction, as if he was reading from a script.

Tikoo imagined the hostages sitting in a smoky
gujjar dhoka
rehearsing what the kidnappers wanted them to say, talking among themselves in rapid English about whether they would be able to slip in a few clues as to their location or their real condition. But there appeared to be none, only five disconnected voices that helped fill in some of the gaps in Tikoo’s mental chart of their characters. It was a little game he had been playing in the small hours, constructing a matrix of the inside workings of the hut, creating hierarchies and possible relationships from what he had learned about the five hostages, information culled from press reports and what had filtered back to him from the Crime Branch interrogations of pony-
wallahs
, guides, hotel and houseboat owners, most of whom had by now been pulled in.

In Tikoo’s mind, Don Hutchings was at the top, a calm man with profound resources. A climber and explorer, Hutchings had proven himself capable
in extremis
. He understood how debilitating fear could be, and acted as a bridge builder and a peacemaker. And Tikoo suspected, incorrectly, that as an American he would probably be the most altruistic, trying to ensure that his fellow hostages survived, possibly at his own peril. If he had been allowed to debrief John
Childs in detail, he would have known that Don had been the first to try to make a break for it. Tikoo tried to assess Hutchings’ potential weaknesses, correctly judging that he might rely too heavily on the goodness of men and on ‘doing the right thing’. He had, Tikoo thought, an inclination to act pastorally when it came to the others.

Tikoo rightly had Keith Mangan pegged as man of physical strength, but more canny and street smart than Hutchings. Mangan was mature, stoical and likeable, according to what his wife, family and friends had said in reports Tikoo had scanned in Transport Lane. He was a practical and resourceful character who was used to looking after himself, and stood a good chance of coming out of this intact.

In his imaginings, Tikoo got Paul Wells spot on. As the youngest hostage, in the middle of his list, he saw him as physically capable but emotionally immature, prone to anger and unpredictable actions, likely to be feeling isolated as the novelty of his capture wore off. Tikoo hoped one of the others, Keith Mangan probably, had taken him under their wing.

More isolated still, Tikoo estimated, was Dirk Hasert, the only one among them who did not speak English. The IG suspected that Hasert, just a year older than Paul Wells, was similar in outlook and maturity, reaching out to befriend the militants during the initial thrill of capture, but withdrawing as the likelihood of an early rescue faded with the passing days. The only captive who could strike up a meaningful conversation with Hasert was Hans Christian Ostrø, who spoke German. Tikoo hoped the Norwegian had drawn the young student from Erfurt into the group.

Tikoo had the Norwegian down as a wild card, a man who was capable of anything, and who according to the friends who had spoken to the Norwegian press, and the villagers up in Zargibal (many of whom had been brought in for questioning) was adept at physical posturing and psychological provocation. Tikoo was sure that Ostrø would repeatedly try to escape, and would certainly not stick to any scheme he disagreed with. On the emotional front he was said to be susceptible to rapid mood changes, from euphoria to depression. Tikoo feared for Ostrø especially.

The tape fizzed, and was ejected. There was a letter too, Saklani announced, and started to read it out. ‘We made contact with the Indian government three days ago,’ he began, looking at Tikoo. ‘But the government does not seem to be prepared for any
purposeful
talks.’ Tikoo frowned, knowing that he had not yet been able to establish any kind of meaningful relationship with al Faran’s negotiator. ‘[The hostages] can be killed at any time after the expiry of the deadline. We will not extend the deadline again.’

Since the tape had been recorded, the deadline had expired, so this was zero hour, which meant the hostages’ lives were under imminent threat. Tikoo had to get on top of his role as negotiator, and also to deal with a bombshell from Saklani, who in the last forty-eight hours had told him in the strictest confidence something the Indians had withheld from the women: there would be no prisoner releases. New Delhi had ruled it out. Tikoo’s heart had sunk in the knowledge that he could never let al Faran suspect this. He had to string them along to keep the hostages alive, find something to occupy them, and conjure a solution that would be palatable to New Delhi.

The next telephone conversation was slated for 11.30 the following morning. As he bade General Saklani goodnight, IG Tikoo felt as if he was in a free-fall zone in the war of nerves. From here on in, anything could happen.

Back at home in Transport Lane, Tikoo’s wife was waiting with his warmed-up dinner: some chicken and rice. He wasn’t hungry, and sat at his dressing table contemplating his unused computer, a bulky grey box that dominated the room. He had always wanted one, and a couple of years back had bought this one second-hand in New Delhi. There had never seemed to be time to use it – until now.

Just as he was about to boot it up, thinking it would be a welcome distraction, since he had run out of Alistair MacLean novels, a worry surfaced, something that hit him so hard he kicked himself for not having thought of it before. Although it had not been discussed, he assumed the intelligence agencies were covertly monitoring al Faran, and probably attempting to trace the telephone number the
negotiator was calling on. Suddenly distressed, Tikoo called for his driver. ‘I went back to my people right away and to the Security Advisor. I said, “For God’s sake, don’t go for a raid.” I told them, “Look, I know the tendency is to trace the caller’s location and then ambush. That’s what I would do in any normal circumstance. But that way you will
not
get the hostages freed. Possibly you might get this fellow, the messenger. More likely, as per normal, the messenger will escape, and then you’ll kill the innocent householders. And if we are honest, you will probably slaughter the neighbours too, and that, with the greatest respect, is the most certain way to lose the case. Bang. End of story.”’

He arrived back home after midnight, reassured that he had convinced General Saklani of the sensitivity of the situation, but still concerned that he was too remote from the decision-making process to be sure the message had got through to all those who needed to know. For a while he sat in the gloom, smoking his pipe, thinking about going to bed, until the phone rang.