Agency Rules - Never an Easy Day at the Office Read online

  His handlers, knowing Dawood’s penchant for chai, had set up a small roadside khoka just a few yards down from his residence. It allowed the operatives who worked at the khoka to closely monitor the traffic to Dawood’s residence, but they were also able to collect additional intelligence from the other drivers and chowkidars that worked in the neighborhood. More importantly, it gave Dawood a dead-drop location to pass information to his handler without the worry of being compromised.

  Dawood waited patiently inside his home, knowing if he rushed out immediately after the visit, it would raise suspicions. He could not afford to be compromised now, especially when he was going to a new location he had never heard mentioned previously. Hours later, while returning from Isha prayer under the cover of night, he settled onto a charpai ordering a small kettle of dood paathi chai and a cake. He say quietly lost in his own thoughts as he dipped the cake into the tea cup, fully cognizant of the man who had been appointed to watch him. Rising twenty minutes later, he handed the waiter a crumpled wad of ten rupee notes with a hand written message inserted – Timergara tomorrow. The Sanctuary? – before crossing the road to walk the few houses down to his entry gate.

  * * *

  There were no guards when they arrived at the bus stop, nor was the black Prado anywhere to be seen as they descended from the bus. This looks more like the Timergara bus stop, Dawood thought to himself. The three-hour drive from Peshawar had been uneventful for him, seated alone on the bus. Adnan and Kaleem sat together across the aisle. They were loudly engaged in conversation, drawing the entire bus’s attention to them. It was uncommon, even this close to the Afghanistan border, to hear Farsi on a public bus.

  There was no love between the two countries since the Russian invasion. Many Afghans blamed Pakistan and its military for the destruction of their country, forgetting that there was not much of a country outside of Kabul. They believed that the Pakistan Army had used Afghanistan to protect its own borders, training a mujahideen that was loyal to its paymasters and not the Afghan people. Pakistanis had accepted their role as a frontline state during the war, providing shelter and food to the refugees; today, almost ten years after the Russian withdrawal in defeat, more than six million Afghanis still lived in Pakistan, cursing it every day.

  Pakistanis had also learned to hate the Afghanis that lived in their country because of the values that they introduced into a largely peaceful people. With their influx came a Kalashnikov culture because of the surplus of cheap Soviet weapons from across the border. They also brought with them a teeming drug trade that filled the villages and urban cities with heroin and hashish, giving rise to drug mafias and hardcore criminals. But most damaging to the culture was the introduction of the gilamjum, the Afghani prostitute that was the sole wage earner for her family. These were daughters, sisters and mothers of men who refused to work because they could not earn in a month what these girls could in a matter of hours. What grated on every Pakistani was that even after the conflict was over, and their hatred for the people and country of Pakistan, the Afghanis refused to return to Afghanistan for fear of the Taliban, an ultra-conservative Muslim group that enjoyed the full support of the Saudi Arabian government.

  All of this was in addition to the extraordinary number of foreign fighters training on the border, and extremist mullahs that had gained acceptance among the general populace. This is where the madrassah culture took off, Dawood thought to himself. It was the breakdown of the government educational system that forced poor families to send their children to these religious schools that taught hatred instead of arithmetic, fundamentalism instead of reading and warfare instead of writing. This will come back to haunt Pakistan one day, Dawood thought to himself as the converted Suzuki pickup pulled away from the bus stop towards the Imam’s home.

  Close to the masjid, Adnan reached for his bag and motioned to Dawood and Kaleem to do the same. Dawood assumed that they would wait at the masjid for a vehicle to come from the Imam’s house, but as soon as they disembarked, Adnan started to walk the five kilometers to the house. It is said in Pathan folklore that the sun is so hot during the months of July and August that prolonged exposure would actually cook a man’s brain. It was one of the reasons that you would never find a Pathan on the streets between the hours of two and five in the evening. Kaleem looked at Dawood and shrugged before starting off after Adnan, leaving Dawood standing in front of the masjid. He considered hiring a rickshaw to make the trip to the compound, but decided instead to follow the other two on foot. His military training would be an asset here.

  A standard five-kilometer hike for any soldier would be completed within three hours, with full gear on his back. For these three, it was early evening and almost four hours later that they arrived at the compound. Adnan was no worse for the walk, but with his overall appearance, how would anyone be able to tell? Kaleem was drained and soaked in sweat. While he had gotten quite used to working in the Peshawar heat on the construction site, most of that work was done under the shade of the building structure. The walk, however, was out in the open heat with nothing and nowhere to hide from the rays of the sun that baked the ground.

  Dawood brought up the rear, water bottle in one hand and cigarette in the other. Sweat drenched his shirt, but he knew he could walk another five kilometers without trouble. After the previous visit, Dawood had learned to bring his own supplies with him. He hadn’t known that he would need them so soon into the journey. They were directed to enter the compound from a small side gate by the guards standing at the main gate. Dawood and Kaleem were ushered into a waiting room behind the house. Adnan went straight inside the house to speak to the Imam and any other guests that may have been with him.

  Kaleem quickly jumped into the makeshift shower that was in the waiting room and washed the sweat from his body. Dawood could only assume that Kaleem was afraid of offending the Imam with his disheveled appearance. He would have been glad to shower himself, but he decided against it. After making them walk five kilometers to his home, the Imam should see the state his ‘guests’ arrived in. Dawood’s mind went back to the conversation that Kaleem and Adnan had in his home. Was this the first part of the test? What was he trying to learn with this?

  “Aren’t you going to clean up?” Kaleem was clean and refreshed. “We’re going to meet the Imam. You should clean up.”

  “Look, I didn’t make you walk five kilometers in blazing heat to get here,” Dawood shot back. “If he’s offended by me sweating, I can walk the five kilometers back to the masjid and go back to Peshawar. This is not how Pathans behave when they invite someone to their home.”

  Kaleem looked offended by his stark reply. “Please don’t talk like that to Imam sahib. He probably didn’t know that we had arrived,” Kaleem offered as an apology for the violation of Pukthoonwala, a code that demanded that guests be given more comforts than the host.

  “I had told Adnan that you should wait at the masjid and I would collect you after we offered our prayers in the evening.” The Imam’s voice boomed from the doorway of the waiting room. “I apologize if I have offended you, Dawood, but my orders were not followed.”

  Dawood acknowledged the apology with a slight nod, knowing that the Imam had his own motives in appeasing him. “Then Adnan should be punished for violating your orders, Imam sahib.”

  The Imam smiled and shook his head. “They must be allowed to make mistakes. Only then will they understand the implications of wrong decisions.”

  He paused for a moment to see if Dawood was going to add a rejoinder to his comment, but when none came, he said, “Please come with me. I have prepared a small tea for you both. We can discuss this more, if you wish.”

  They were led into his private hujra. Dawood had been in many hujras in his lifetime, but nothing like this one. The hujra for most Pathan men was a gathering place for guests and friends, where they could enjoy meals, conversation and maybe a cricket match on television. The Imam obviously had other ideas about how a hujra should loo
k. The large room had a beautifully tiled floor and treated wood on the walls. The furniture looked Italian and the rugs were hand-stitched Afghani kilims, which retailed for over Rs. 100,000 each. The Imam walked past the ornate coffee table covered with sweets and fried food, motioning for his guests to join him. As Dawood moved forward, he noticed that the number of servants was equal to the number of guests, and was not sure if they were actually security or food service. He heard the door to the hujra close with a slam behind him, as the guard stepped inside and took position in front of it. I guess the Imam doesn’t want to be disturbed.

  “Did you enjoy your last stay with us, Dawood?” the Imam asked, leaning back in his plush sofa seat. “All of the students were inspired by your speech and we were hoping that you might join us…” almost deliberately stopping to take a sip from his hot cup of tea before continuing, “for another gathering.”

  ‘Join us’ echoed in Dawood’s ears, wondering if the pause was accidental or an invitation. Thinking carefully, Dawood answered, “I very much enjoyed my stay with you Imam Sahib. The brothers made me feel so welcome that I didn’t want to leave. Masha’ Allah, it was an excellent experience.”

  The Imam laughed, pleased that Dawood had left his home happy. “We are having a small gathering this weekend in Bajaur. We would like you to attend and speak again,” the Imam casually said. “There are some people that would like to meet you both, and I think that you would make a great impact on the brothers that gather to hear you speak.”

  Dawood considered the proposal carefully. He knew that once he left Timergara, he was playing without a net and no one would be able to help him if things went sideways. The message he had left with “the broker” was Timergara, but Bajaur was a completely different scenario. He also knew the intelligence gathering opportunities that would be available in a gathering of jihadis and extremist organizations, as well as the introductions to key players on both sides of the border. Weighing the gains against the perceived risks took a split second, and Dawood accepted the invitation graciously. “I would be honored Imam sahib. It’s time that Pakistan was freed from the bloody hands of infidels.”

  Shahid had gotten reports from watchers in Peshawar and Madyan who confirmed that Dawood was nothing more than a hard worker, with occasional interactions with family. Nothing that had been reported back to him decreased his respect and admiration of this young jihadi that would do great things for the cause. The Imam was pleased that Dawood was ready to join them.

  “Excellent! We will leave after breakfast tomorrow morning. It should not take more than an hour to get where we need to be,” he said, unable to hide his smug smile. He likes getting his way, thought Dawood, politely sipping his tea.

  “I hope that our travel there will be more comfortable than today’s outing,” Dawood said. The Imam had said and done all the right things earlier when he’d heard Dawood complain of the walk to the house. Dawood wondered if he was really as conciliatory as he appeared, and watched closely to see his reaction.

  The Imam laughed, pulling the chicken leg from his mouth. “You will ride with me. I have some things to discuss with you privately. Kaleem will ride in the second vehicle with the other students.”

  There was no sign of anger at the disrespect Dawood showed him. If this was an organization following a military structure…Dawood shook off the moment of doubt and turned to Kaleem, who was visibly upset that he had been relegated from the Imam’s private vehicle. “That would be better for Kaleem anyway since most of the student speak Farsi and I don’t. I feel out of place with them,” he said, gently reminding Kaleem that he had ignored Dawood, conversing with Adnan in Farsi, for the entire ride from Peshawar.

  * * *

  Dawood had gotten out of practice since he moved. Getting up for Fajr namaz was no longer a habit and he had to force himself out of bed that morning. The Imam had said they would leave after breakfast, but Dawood wasn’t sure if breakfast would be after Fajr or later in the morning, so he made all his preparations. He took a shower, packed his bag and was waiting by the Prado when the Imam emerged from the house. The Imam laughed when he saw him standing there.

  “Did you not sleep?” he commented, patting him on the shoulder.

  “I was excited about the weekend, Imam sahib. I prepared my speech and slept for a few hours,” Dawood replied, trying to hide the exhaustion he felt from the hike the day before.

  “Masha’ Allah, Dawood,” the Imam said. “Let us offer our prayers and enjoy breakfast with the other brothers at the masjid. We can all leave together from there. Kaleem was at the masjid last night so we will meet him there.”

  Dawood realized that the Imam was purposely separating the two of them. Was it to keep them from talking to each other or something more sinister, he wondered as he stepped onto the runner and into the backseat of the hulking Prado. The Imam’s personal guards jumped onto the sides of the vehicle as it pulled out of the gate and raced toward the masjid.

  Breakfast at the masjid was nothing special. The brothers had gotten parathas, cream and eggs from the bazaar, preparing huge quantities of tea at the masjid itself. All the brothers were full of excitement about the weekend and shared past experiences with Dawood in rapid-fire progression.

  “There is a full training range there,” one said.

  “We are given AK-47s to practice on targets,” another commented.

  “There are competitions between the different groups to see who has the most able fighters in hand to hand, as well as with weapons,” a third called from across the room. No matter what the weekend had in store, Dawood knew that he would have to learn to hide his skills and expertise if he wanted to make it out alive.

  * * *

  The drive to Bajaur with Imam Shahid was less eventful than Dawood expected. With his ominous proclamation over tea that he wanted to discuss some private matters with him, Dawood expected to be interrogated again about his activities in Peshawar and whatever the Imam had learned from Swat. Instead, he was given an overview of the weekend’s activities and an insight into the ideology of the collective that he would be meeting. This was the first time since the conversation in his flat that he heard the name “The Sanctuary.”

  “I am going to assume that you know how to use a weapon?” the Imam asked Dawood, expecting the standard Pathan reply.

  “I have been hunting and our family keeps guns in the house for protection,” Dawood replied, assuming the question had something to do with the discussion at breakfast. “Why do you ask?”

  “The Sanctuary is a testing ground as well as a meeting place. We use it to test the skills of new candidates, so I am interesting in knowing how familiar you are with weapons,” the Imam explained.

  “I can handle a weapon, but have never shot another human being,” Dawood replied, realizing that he would need to tone down his skills and proficiency otherwise he would have some uncomfortable questions to answer.

  “Yes, shooting another human being is very different than shooting an animal,” the Imam commented casually, giving Dawood the impression that he had killed before. “But the exercises are only to determine how skilled you are currently. We provide training to those that choose to join the cause.”

  “I may surprise you with my skills, Imam sahib,” Dawood commented in passing, impressing upon the Imam that he had more than a basic understanding of weaponry.

  The vehicles separated once they arrived in Bajaur. The Imam’s vehicle went through the crowd of people into a compound on the side of a mountain, while the student’s bus was stopped in a parking area where they were all offloaded. It was becoming more and more evident to Dawood that he and Kaleem were being separated for a specific purpose.

  The Imam and Dawood were ushered into a room and told to wait. The Imam, apparently familiar with the entire setting, sat down at the small conference table and took an apple from the bowl of fruit. Dawood noticed pictures hanging on the wall and decided to see who had been there before him. As he roamed aro
und, looking from picture to picture, he noticed faces that he had seen in the media including al-Zawahiri and Mullah Omar. The who’s who of past visitors was a list of eminents from the global terrorism club. No wonder it was hugging the Afghanistan border, where no one other than the army has jurisdiction.

  The door to the room flew open and two men with a number of armed bodyguards flooded in to check and clear the room. Behind them entered two men who went straight to the Imam, greeted him and welcomed him to the compound. Dawood stood to the side watching the interaction and the language switch from Pashto to Arabic. They discussed the status of preparations and on-going activities in Timergara. The subject then turned to him and Kaleem. The Imam motioned to Dawood to join them. He moved over to the group and waited for him to introduce his newest find. The Imam, out of politeness, reverted to Pashto and introduced him.

  “Mufti Fazal, this is the boy that I told you about,” the Imam said. “His name is Dawood Islam.”

  “As-salam-a-laikum, Mufti sahib,” Dawood said stretching out his hand, but the Mufti grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed both cheeks much like a native Arab would. Dawood responded in kind. “It is an honor to meet you.”

  “Wa-laikum-as-salam, Dawood,” the Mufti responded as he pulled away. “Why do you feel that it is an honor to meet me?

  “I recall seeing you at the masjid during my last visit to Timergara and the students speaking with great respect of you,” Dawood rambled off, hoping that his answer was enough to deflect the question.

  The Mufti smiled, honored that Dawood remembered what the students had said about him. “You also made an impression on us with your words. I was honored to be present for such a passionate speech.” He motioned to the man sitting at the head of the table, peeling a peach. “This is our friend, Sheikh Atif. He helps us select our new members,” the Mufti said.

  Dawood went over to Sheikh Atif and said, “As-salam-a-laikum, Sheikh Atif.”