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

  The Sheikh looked up from his peach and returned to peeling it. As an after thought, he said “Wa-lakum-as-salam,” almost bothered by having to engage with him. Dawood looked to the Mufti and the Imam for direction, but none came. Instead, they motioned to a seat next to the Imam.

  There was an eerie silence as the men sat at the table, eating fruit from the bowl. The Mufti made some small talk while the Sheikh sat silent, rarely looking up from the task he had busied himself with. I didn’t know that peeling and eating fruit was such a laborious task, Dawood thought to himself. He kept looking over at the Sheikh as they ate. Why the hell, he wondered, are you so familiar to me? Have we met before?

  Chapter 9

  The meeting disbursed without incident, at least for Dawood as he was led out of the room, leaving the three men behind. They had questioned him in detail, trying to understand his background. For Dawood, as he walked away from the room, the face of the Sheikh haunted his thoughts. Where did he know him from?

  Nestled in the lush valley between two mountains, The Sanctuary was a massive camp that was originally used as a headquarters for mujahideen crossing into and from Afghanistan during the Soviet invasion. At any one time, there would have been over two hundred thousand fighters at the camp, but to the uninformed eye, they would have seen no one. Everything that related to the compound from the medical facility and the housing units to the conference rooms, was built into an intricate maze of tunnels within the mountains. The only things visible were the house, where the meeting was held, and what looked like a deserted training facility, cleverly disguised to look that way.

  As he left the house, Dawood heard the sound of automatic weapon fire in the distance, probably from the training facility. He walked towards the sound. The training grounds were full of young men, trying to follow what he recognized as a drill instructor. To one side was a standard firing range built against the front face of the mountain and on the other side, a mockup of an urban setting for guerrilla warfare training. Letting his eye wander upwards, he caught a glimpse of what seemed to be sniper perches that were used to train long-range shooters and keep watch over the roads leading into the compound. There was very little difference between The Sanctuary and any basic training facility in the military, right down to an exercise field to test the fitness of the recruits. When he had arrived at The Sanctuary, Dawood had noticed thousands of students piling out of buses, but on the grounds there seemed to be only a few hundred. Where were the rest of them?

  Suddenly, the firing stopped and cries of “Allah hu Akbar” erupted from the grounds. When he turned around, he saw a jeep emerging from the house with the Mufti and Sheikh standing against the roll bar. The jeep moved quickly through the facility to a tower that Dawood assumed was an observation post, while he heard the crackling of a sound system being turned on. Almost simultaneously, people started to stream down from the tunnels, down the mountains, in long endless chains, chanting along with those in the grounds. Holy shit, how many are there?

  They all streamed down to the observation post, jockeying for positions closest to the tower. The valley filled with jihadi chants as more and more flowed down from all sides, until the ground was filled and people began to take seats on the rocks in the mountains. Dawood watched a bastardization of the Saudi flag raised above the tower, a flag that symbolized what the world knew as al-Qaeda, as the two men emerged on to the balcony of the tower. The crowd below erupted with the chants of ‘Allah hu Akbar’; the Sheikh and Mufti Fazal pumped their fists in response, igniting the crowd to a fever pitch. The scene reminded Dawood of the political rallies that he had been in as a part of VVIP protection detail.

  The “As-salam-a-laikum” from the Mufti was met with a thunderous “Wa-laikum-as-salam” from the thousands gathered, echoing against the mountains in waves. “My brothers, I welcome you home,” the Mufti spoke in a short, measured tone, and the cheers and chants subsided. “We gather here to rejuvenate our spirits in the fellowship of brothers, warriors and true believers of Islam. You are the ones that will bring Islam back from the infidels in Muslim countries that have sold our lands to the kafirs. We are also honored with the presence of our brother and leader, Sheikh Atif, who has travelled from the jihad in Kashmir to be with us. Sheikh sahib, we welcome you.” The Mufti continued speaking for almost a hour, covering the successes of the group in Palestine, Kashmir, Yemen, Kazakhstan, Pakistan and Afghanistan. He cited the number of infidel fighters that had been killed in the battle to win control of Muslim lands back. He was obviously the warm-up speaker for the Sheikh, Dawood thought.

  By the time he ended his speech, the Mufti was yelling. “You must show the Sheikh that you want to hear his inspirational words from the jihadi battlefields.” The crowd’s chants increased in volume as the Sheikh rose from his chair and moved to the microphone, embracing the Mufti and lifting his arm as if he was a prizefighter. The crowd responded with a thunderous welcome for their warrior leader.

  “Bismillah-ur-Rehman-ur-Rahim,” the Sheikh started. He raised his arms to quiet the crowd. “Masha’ Allah. Masha’ Allah. I bring a message from your jihadi brothers that they implored upon me to deliver to you when we met. They told me that I should tell you that we are winning the war! That we are pushing the infidels from the sacred Muslim lands of Arabia, Egypt, Jordan and Iraq. That we are fighting the kafirs in Afghanistan, Palestine and Kashmir, but now, my brothers, it is your turn to fight for Pakistan. It is time to push the Western puppets from the seats of power. Only our Muslim brothers understand how Sharia should be implemented and these puppets will be judged first by our brothers.” The crowds chanted “Pakistan ka matlab kay?” and “La-illah-ha-illah,” as the Sheikh applauded from the balcony. He raised a hand again for silence.

  “My brothers, I have seen the battlefields and the bodies of the kafirs as they lay dying. They beg for mercy. They beg for forgiveness. They are not as strong as our warriors who died with the words of the Holy Quran on their lips, knowing that Allah has forgiven them and given them mercy. They will be taken to jannat, while the infidel, the kafir, will only find a place in jahanum. Do not be fooled by what is shown on television, told to you on the radio or printed in the newspapers. These are all controlled by yahoodi agents to make you believe that the Great Satan is winning against us. The media will not tell the truth until the khilafat is re-established and the dajjal is returned to his place in jahanum.” Caught up in the words, Dawood felt his own anger rise at how the West treated Pakistan, not as a partner in the community of nations, but a nation-state that was there for their bidding. In that split second, he understood how followers were converted to the cause.

  From behind him, a voice asked. “What do you think?” catching Dawood by surprise. Dawood spun around to find a transformed Kaleem. On his head was a poorly wrapped black turban with a tail draped across his shoulder. Criss-crossed on his chest were fully loaded ammunition belts to match the AK-47 cradled in his arms. This Kaleem was very different than the one Dawood was accustomed to.

  “What do I think about what?” Dawood asked, motioning to the get-up that Kaleem was wearing. “This or that?”

  “Both,” Kaleem replied, striking a warrior pose with the rifle.

  “I agree with what the Sheikh is saying. We need to free Muslims and the world from the infidels, otherwise we will be more enslaved,” he said trying to hide the physical disgust he really felt. “I don’t think that warrior gear suits you, Kaleem. It seems a little much. The turban and Kalashnikov fit well though.”

  Kaleem dropped the pose, feeling slighted by his friend’s comments. “Are you saying that I’m not a warrior? That I can’t fight in a jihad?”

  “What I’m saying is that the ammunition belt is a bit much. You are definitely a warrior, my brother. We all are.”

  Kaleem smiled at the comment. “We’ll see on the battlefield who’s more suited to be a warrior, Dawood. This is not my first time here.”

  Dawood was confused. “The battlefiel
d? What battlefield?” Had he missed something? Was this a precursor to an actual jihad?

  Kaleem pointed at the firing range and guerrilla warfare course, missing the look of relief that swept across Dawood’s face. “You didn’t think that we were here just to listen to speeches, did you? We’re going to be tested against other fighters to see if we can be considered by the Mufti for jihad.” He shifted the gun in his hand. The weight of the Kalashnikov was beginning to take its toll, though he’d never admit it. He was irritated by Dawood’s popularity, had been for some time now. It was especially annoying that his beloved Imam was giving him such importance.

  The Sheikh had wound up his speech and in the lull, a buzz rose from the crowd. Three men dressed like Kaleem emerged from behind the wall and moved the crowd in small batches to the firing ranges. Dawood stayed close to Kaleem, mentally changing gears from trained marksman to simple hunter. He had to forget his training, at least for now. Just close your eyes and think of England. He hid his grin at the treacherous thought.

  The men barked at the group of men who were already crouched behind Kalashnikovs, ordering them to fire at the iron plates forty yards away. As each fired off single shots at the targets, missing them badly, the anger of the drill instructors grew, and the yelling and insults got more personal. After three more failed attempts, the men were rousted away to the exercise yard by another group of taskmasters determined to turn them into warriors. Dawood and Kaleem’s group was called forward and ordered to take up firing positions. Kaleem, still nursing his growing resentment against Dawood, took a position next to his friend. He was hoping to see him fail miserably.

  Dawood aimed at the rock of the mountain behind the target, making sure only one or two of his shots hit their mark. Kaleem glanced over with a smirk, and fired off several rounds. He got several more than Dawood, and when Dawood looked over, he found Kaleem sneering at him. It bothered him. In fact, Kaleem was beginning to bother him a great deal more than he should. As they fired their next rounds, Dawood began to find his mark more often than not, while Kaleem and the others were unable to repeat the accuracy of their first attempts. They were, like the previous group, chased off the firing range to demonstrate their physical fitness.

  Kaleem didn’t have much luck on the exercise course either, sadly repeating the results of the five-kilometer hike from the day before. Dawood, along with the rest of the group, raced through the push-ups, sit-ups and wall climb without any real difficulty, though he pretended to be winded afterwards. They moved on to the guerrilla simulation while Kaleem finished his circuit.

  By the time Kaleem arrived at the guerrilla warfare course, the rest of the group had already been waiting fifteen minutes. The drill instructors, impatient with the delay, yelled at Kaleem to hurry and get ready for deployment, as he had held up the group long enough. Kaleem, pissed at his own performance, felt his anger boil over at Dawood. He grabbed the training rifle and vest, running into the course, yelling back, “Let’s see how you do here!”

  Dawood stood with his group, shaking his head at Kaleem. He waited for the drill instructor to release them into the course. Instead, they were walked around to the back of the course and told to enter from there. They were also told that there were a number of ‘compatriots’ that were stuck inside that had to be rescued unharmed. The group entered through three alleys in groupings of two, moving slowly to make sure they were not exposed to enemy fire. This was a drill that every soldier had done during basic training, and Dawood had repeated with great accuracy in SSG training. Dawood had excelled at this during training and in live operations after.

  Crossing the different layers of buildings, Dawood and his team moved through the course rescuing the compatriots that had been planted at different locations. Kaleem and his hit squad had so far been unsuccessful in finding or neutralizing any compatriots or ‘enemies’, even though they had crossed paths twice. Kaleem’s team had already lost two fighters in the exchanges of fire on the crossings. Already in a foul mood, Kaleem had left his wingman and was roaming the course looking for Dawood. He may not have been able to complete the mission, but he believed irrationally that taking out Dawood would make up for it.

  Dawood moved with his wingman on his six, almost parallel to Kaleem. Kaleem found a compatriot and fired off two rounds, neutralizing him, but at the same time alerting all the other fighters of his position. Dawood and his wingman moved in from one side, while another team of fighters flanked the other, waiting for Kaleem to step out. Kaleem could see that he was cornered; he’d left his own wingman, and was alone. He decided to make a run for safety before he was attacked and eliminated from the competition. Dropping to the ground and sliding himself through a break in the wall, he swung around behind the second team and fired off two shots, taking them out. He climbed to his feet and, using the buildings for additional cover, found a member of his team to support him. Dawood moved with his wingman around behind Kaleem without making a sound. As he moved forward, Dawood followed behind, waiting for a clean shot to take them both down. Kaleem stumbled upon another compatriot and pulled up his rifle to shoot, only to have bullets hammer into his legs and torso before he could get a shot away. Stunned, Kaleem turned to see Dawood lowering his rifle. He dropped his weapon to the ground and went running at him.

  Dawood set himself for the impact, seeing Kaleem storming at him, looking for a hand-to-hand fight. Kaleem hit him at full stride, knocking him of balance, but did not bring him down. Instead, he fell to the ground from the impact, bouncing off Dawood like a rag doll. Dawood snapped back and dropped a knee into Kaleem’s back, pulling his arm around to hold him down.

  “Is this the show you want the Sheikh to see? A man that can’t control his anger on the battlefield?” Dawood whispered in his ear. “Calm the fuck down before they kill us both!”

  Kaleem struggled for a second, recognizing the futility of his actions as Dawood’s grip tightened on him. “Fine. Fine! Now get off me. This is embarrassing.” Kaleem yelled at Dawood.

  Dawood released his hold, climbed off of Kaleem and offered him his hand to help him up. After a brief hesitation, Kaleem accepted, and got to his feet, brushing off the dust.

  “I’m not your enemy, Kaleem.” Dawood kept his tone mild.

  “No, of course not.” But Kaleem wasn’t looking at him.

  They had an audience as they both emerged from the training course. The men were laughing at the ease with which Dawood took him down, but not everyone was laughing about Dawood’s skills.

  “We need to keep an eye on that one,” the Sheikh said to the Mufti, watching the action from a distance. “He’s had more formal training than we know.”

  * * *

  Dawood begged off from speaking to the group that evening, claiming that he had been injured in Kaleem’s attack on him. He was taken for a check-up and treatment in the medical center buried inside the mountain. Dawood was surprised at the extensive facilities available at The Sanctuary. There was an operation theatre, testing and x-ray facilities inside the cave.

  “Would you like to sit down?” the doctor asked, “or would you like to do this standing up?”

  Dawood looked over his shoulder at the white coat and laughed, “Can they do that now?”

  “The wonders of modern medicine. What we once did laying down, we can now do standing up.” the doctor replied with a smile.

  The doctor didn’t look like the rest of the bearded, unwashed participants of the camp. Standing just short of six feet, he looked like someone who took care of himself. He had short black hair, just like those who served in the army with Dawood, and wore black, wireframe glasses. Unlike the rest of the participants, he was dressed in western clothing, which seemed to be a no-no in this area of the country, which left Dawood wondering how he had gotten there. Most importantly, he had a sense of humor, something he had missed since getting to Peshawar.

  “What do they call you?” the doctor asked, holding a clipboard to his chest.

  �
��What do they call me? You mean my name? It’s Dawood Islam.”

  “No one here has a name, Dawood,” the doctor replied. “Everyone has an identity just in case…”

  “Just in case?”

  “When you’re part of something like this, you can never be sure what might happen next,” the doctor said, looking over the rim of his glasses. He paused for a minute. “They say they do it to protect the families of those who are fighting. If it’s such an honor to be Shaheed, why are they protecting them?”

  Well, he’s not a true believer in the cause. And for some reason, he felt safe in admitting that to Dawood. Should I push the doctor for more information; he seems to be so willing to share? Dawood thought long about his next move, but knew it was better to let the comment slide rather than risk getting into a conversation that might be too revealing for him.

  “Well, they haven’t given me a new name yet, so I guess we’re stuck with Dawood for now,” he replied with a smile. “Do you have a name, doctor?

  “Riaz. Dr. Riaz Khan.”

  “Is that what they call you?” Dawood replied with a laugh.

  “It’s what my parents called me thirty five years ago. What seems to be the problem, Dawood?”

  “I was attacked during a training exercise. I have a pain in my side that makes it difficult to breathe.”

  “Attacked? At a jihadi training camp? Who would have thought?” the doctor murmured. “Where exactly is the pain?”

  Dawood pulled his kameez up and using his left hand, put his fingers between the fourth and fifth ribs, grimacing with the pain as his fingers pushed to find the exact spot. “I think it’s a pulled muscle. I get them on the construction site as well.”

  The doctor replaced Dawood’s fingers with his own, applying pressure to the place where he had identified. “So you work construction? Where?” he asked as he moved upwards from the pain to see if it extended beyond where Dawood could feel, as the grimace on Dawood’s face lessened.