Agency Rules - Never an Easy Day at the Office Page 14

  “Dawood bhai, you have missed so much,” Kaleem said with a smile. “Adnan came to visit twice and was asking where you were. I told him that you were at a wedding in Lahore.”

  “Why did Adnan come to visit? Is there another training that we must attend?” Dawood asked.

  “No, no. He just wanted to know if we needed anything.” Kaleem replied. “The Imam sent him to deliver supplies for us. I have your flour, sugar and tea at my home. I’ll drop them at your flat in the evening when I have the taxi.”

  “Masha’Allah! That is so kind of Imam sahib. You’re still driving the taxi?” Dawood asked surprised. “I thought you would have stopped now that you don’t have to worry about your sister’s wedding.”

  “Oh bhai… the taxi provides income beyond what I earn here. I would also like to live in a place of my own like you one day.” Kaleem replied. “Plus, I spend the evening traveling around the city at someone else’s expense.”

  The two quickly finished their tea as the building owner arrived on site to check the progress. Dawood had built a close friendship with Kaleem, but the alliance with the Imam was causing concern for him. Could he be sure that Kaleem was not passing information back to the Imam on his every action? Dawood shook off the thought as he returned to hard labor after his week of comfort, knowing that his body would ache in the evening.

  * * *

  “He wasn’t there,” Adnan told them with caution in his voice.

  They had their concerns after the performance on the training course, but the concerns were heightened with Adnan’s news that Dawood was nowhere to be found.

  “Why does a Swati boy travel to Lahore for a family wedding?” the Mufti asked the Imam. “Would he not come to Swat?”

  The Imam was also perplexed at the sudden disappearance of his star recruit. He had sent his men to Madyan after the first meeting and each had returned with a positive report that Dawood belonged to the village, some even knew him from his school days.

  “I can’t explain why he would do that,” the Imam replied. “If it was truly a family wedding, he should have come to Swat. Let me send my men to inquire of the villagers. We will know the truth.” The Sheikh shook his head in disagreement.

  “Adnan, did you speak with Kaleem?” the Mufti asked.

  “Kaleem was at the construction site as expected,” Adnan confirmed. “I spent two days in his flat waiting for Dawood to return.”

  “Bring me the FC Commander,” the Sheikh said. “He may have some useful information.”

  Adnan turned on his heel and rushed out of the room, while the three continued their discussion. The FC Commander in Bajaur was a loyalist to the Mufti, well taken care of with money and arms for his service. The Commander had also been great assistance in eliminating those who spoke up against the camp in the surrounding areas, for an extra fee, of course. What the Sheikh was going to demand this time would require more than a small donation to the ‘FC Fund’, as it was known.

  “Something is not right, Imam sahib,” the Sheikh said, rising up from his seat at the head of the table. “For a new recruit to be able to perform so… so… effortlessly… fluidly, doing something that he has not done before. It’s just not right.”

  The Imam, alarmed at the implication, jumped to Kaleem’s defense. “I have known Kaleem since he was a boy. He studied at my madrassah after his father disappeared. He would not turn on us, Sheikh sahib.”

  From behind the Imam, the Sheikh put both his hands on his shoulders. “No one has said anything about your precious Kaleem, Imam sahib.” He pulled the chair next to him and sat down, turning his battle-worn eyes to the Imam’s. “Or, maybe you have some doubts about your protégée, something that makes you jump to his defense so quickly.”

  A bead of sweat trickled down the Iman’s forehead, who was suddenly feeling as if the temperature in the air conditioned room had dramatically increased. He wanted to look away, but feared that may create doubt about his own allegiance with the Sheikh. “Kaleem is like a son to me. I have watched him grow from a boy to a man. I don’t doubt him.”

  “Would you give your life for him?” the Sheikh asked, tightening his grip on the Imam’s shoulder. He watched as the Imam cringed from the pain of his grip. “Would you die for him?”

  The Imam was confused and frightened. He knew the Sheikh’s reputation for blood when people violated his trust, and feared that either response would have fatal consequences for himself and Kaleem. He struggled to push his arms up, breaking the Sheikh’s hold as he said firmly, “My life is my own. Let Kaleem speak for himself.”

  An evil smirk crossed the Sheikh’s face, knowing the vociferous defense provided by the Imam was limited to words, not actions. “Imam sahib, how do you forsake someone you consider a son so easily?”

  “Allah has not blessed me with sons,” the Imam replied, cold and emotionless. “I only have brothers in arms. My brothers’ safety is more important than any single life, even my own.”

  The Sheikh stood, glancing at the Mufti across the table. They had never dealt with a situation like this before. People were either with the cause or against it. There was no middle ground in their eyes. Pretenders who had tried to enter the cause were eliminated before reaching The Sanctuary. Dawood’s performance had only been witnessed by the Mufti and the Sheikh, so the Imam was unaware of why this whole conversation was happening. Kaleem introduced Dawood to the organization. Could one, if not two, pretenders have infiltrated them?

  As the Sheikh returned to his seat, the door opened and the FC Commander was ushered into the room. Faheem Khan had been the Post Commander in Bajaur for over four years and kept his position by the decree of the Political Agent, who was always compensated for his signature, and the Inspector General in Peshawar. Originally from Khyber Agency, Commander Faheem Khan had gained his posting through a political recommendation from Ijaz Afridi, known to never refuse the ‘Quaid’ for unsavory tasks. Faheem had been one of his regional enforcers, who was promoted once Afridi was elected to the National Assembly. He had continued his enforcer behavior throughout the length of his posting, drawing the attention and praise of both Mufti Fazal and Sheikh Atif regularly.

  “Commander sahib! Welcome!” the Mufti rose to embrace one of his closest allies. “How are things in the village?”

  The Commander released the Mufti and shook the Imam’s hand, before kneeling to kiss the outstretched hand of the Sheikh. “Salaam-a-laikum, Sheikh sahib.” The Sheikh nodded his acknowledgement of the respect paid, as the Mufti invited him to sit.

  “Bring our friend a cup of dood paathi chai and some pakoras,” the Mufti said to Adnan, the obedient servant, who turned at the door, pulling it closed behind him. The Mufti waited a minute, making sure no one was coming back, before turning his attention back to Faheem.

  “Did you get the ‘gift’?” the Mufti asked with a smile. “He had been asking a lot of questions around the village about you, so we felt it best that he speak to you directly about his concerns.”

  “I had an excellent conversation with the journalist. It was just too bad that the army came and took him away from me,” the Commander winked and smiled, as he massaged his fist. “May Allah protect him from what those animals will do,” he snidely said.

  The Mufti and Sheikh both laughed, knowing that the journalist would never be seen again. “Commander sahib, we have a favor that we must ask of you, but it will require you stepping outside Bajaur,” the Sheikh said.

  “Sheikh sahib, I am always honored when you call upon me for favors,” Faheem said with a smirk. “You have been so kind to me during my posting here, I only look for ways to repay your hospitality.”

  “Of course, Commander sahib, and we will be rewarding you with many duas for this life and the next,” the Sheikh continued. “We have a couple of problems in Peshawar that need to be controlled. One problem can be easily solved, but the other will be more difficult.”

  The Sheikh paused as someone knocked on the door. “Come,”
called the Mufti. Adnan’s massive frame filled the room, as he entered with a tray of teacups. Behind him were two additional servants carrying trays filled with pakoras, biscuits and cakes for the guests. They quickly laid the table and exited the room as the men waited to continue.

  “Faheem sahib, please,” the Mufti invited his guest to partake in the feast. Faheem took a plate, filling it with pakoras and a slice of cake. The Sheikh waited patiently for Faheem to sit down before continuing.

  “Imam sahib, the file?” The Sheikh waited as the Imam handed Faheem the compilation of information on both targets. Faheem flipped through the dossier, laying the contents out on the table in front of him. He rifled through the papers and picked up the pictures to examine them closely, leaving oily fingerprints on each.

  The Sheikh watched the barbarian impassively. “Commander, do we have the right man for the job or shall we look elsewhere?” Whatever he thought of the man personally, the Sheikh needed a brute for this job.

  Faheem looked at the Mufti, then the Sheikh, smiling. “You have your man.”

  * * *

  The sun broke over Margalla Hills and the azaan filled the fresh morning air. It looked like another beautiful day in Islamabad. At the Junejo household, Laila had finished her Fajr prayers and was happily bouncing down the stairs. The house was filled with the sweet aroma of freshly made halwa as the maid prepared breakfast for the family. Her brother Tariq stumbled down the stairs, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  “Noman! Noman!” Tariq shouted for the houseboy. Noman came racing around the corner. “Polish, Noman. You must polish my shoes,” he said. “Hurry, we need to leave soon.” Noman took the shoes and raced back out the door. Tariq turned to find his sister seated at the table stuffing her face with mouthfuls of halwa. He smacked her on the back of the hand as he passed her. “Leave some for the rest of us,” he said with a hearty laugh. The relationship between brother and sister was intensified by the three years age difference between the two. He turned, running square into his father’s chest. He paused for a second before he looked up, saying, “Morning Baba.”

  “Good morning beta. Why aren’t you dressed for school yet?” He yelled after his fleeing son.

  “Just getting dressed Baba,” Tariq called down the stairs. “I had to give Noman my shoes to polish.”

  The Lt. General turned into the dining room, finding his daughter dressed and ready for school. “Morning Baba,” she spoke out of her mouthful of puri. “Kya haal hai?”

  “I can always count on my chotu to be ready on time,” he said kissing her on the forehead. He took his seat and opened the newspaper to catch up on the evening’s news, while Ayesha brought a fresh cup of coffee in for him. “Ayesha, no halwa puri for me. Just toast and jam.” Ayesha nodded and went back to the kitchen to prepare his breakfast.

  The General reached for his coffee, paused when he felt the vibration on his hip. Deliberately, he poured the coffee, leisurely taking a sip before checking to see who was calling. Recognizing the number, he got up and moved to another room, cup in hand, before he answered, “Hello?”

  “Sir, we need you at GHQ urgently,” the voice said.

  “Soldier, slow down,” the General said. “What’s the problem?”

  “Sir, the Chief has ordered a protocol red with immediate effect and needs you here to countersign.”

  The General froze. Protocol red is the highest alert status in the armed forces. It takes the entire country to a state of red alert readiness. He would need to issue orders to all force commanders, countersigning for the COAS. What’s happened? Is Pakistan under attack?

  “Soldier, why have we moved to a protocol red?”

  “Sir, turn on the television,” the voice replied. “The Prime Minister has been assassinated. There will be a military escort at your gate within the next five minutes.”

  The General had not realized that the coffee cup had dropped from his hand, shattering on the marble floor below. Everyone in the house had come running from around the house to check on the General. He could hear the voices in the background talking to him, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Flipping on the television, he switched between PTV, CNN and BBC, all carrying the same story.

  “The Prime Minister of Pakistan, Azam Shah, has been assassinated, traveling from his home to the Prime Minister’s Secretariat. The President of Pakistan has implemented a state of emergency in the country and the army has been ordered onto the streets to control any potential unrest. All agencies have been ordered to suspend other activities and find those responsible for this heinous action,” the on-air reporter repeated over and over.

  In the midst of the commotion around him, his phone began to vibrate again. He quickly answered, expecting to find someone from his office calling for instructions on the other side. He was sadly mistaken.

  “We thought that a distraction would make it easier for you to support our interests,” the voice said. “We can get anyone we want, anywhere we want,” was all it said before the line went dead.

  Chapter 12

  “He’ll be with you in a moment,” the aide ushered them into the State Room at President’s House. “He’s just finishing the recording of his address to the nation.” The group of soberly dressed men that walked in comprised leading voices in the political government and decision-makers on the forward course of action after the assassination. The whole city was eerily silent the day after, with vigils being held at the Prime Minister’s residence, the site of the assassination and outside the Parliament House. All the men in the room had travelled together to the family residence to give their condolences before heading on to Faisal Masjid, where Prime Minister Azam Shah’s body was interned awaiting the funeral and burial.

  The State Room was crowded with flower bouquets from heads of state, both in attendance and those unable to attend. The assassination had brought an outpouring of sorrow from every country of the world, whether friendly or unfriendly to Pakistan. The men glanced around the room at the flags that had been placed on each denoting the relationships between Pakistan and the community of nations. The Senate Chairman remembered being in this same room almost twenty years ago when the last military dictator had been killed by a car bomb in Nowshera. His sorrow today included memories of that one. The attention of the men was drawn to the placards sitting on the table, identifying their assigned seating for the meeting. They had barely taken their seats when the doors to the room were thrown open and two armed military escorts brought the President into the room. They all stood as he entered.

  President Adnan Butt had kept himself out of the daily political bazaar that is Pakistani politics. He made great efforts to stay away from cameras, only meeting journalists on his own terms. He was not the media whore that was the rest of Pakistan’s political community. He had been selected by a unanimous vote of the Parliament for his business acumen and lack of political affiliations, a first in Pakistan’s history. Normally, the President was a puppet of the Prime Minister’s party or a stooge for the bureaucrats. Adnan Butt was neither. Now, he had been unwillingly thrust into the fish market that he had avoided since taking his oath almost a year ago.

  “Take your seats,” the President said. “The motorcade is being readied, but I wanted to have a few minutes with you all first.”

  “Mr. President, why would you call us here?” asked Tariq Nadeem, Speaker of the National Assembly. “We should be with the family during this time.”

  “Speaker sahib, we have to make decisions now,” the President replied. “I understand everyone’s grief, but the nation needs to see a government united to help them heal.”

  Saeed Ghani, the law minister, cleared his throat, “Gentlemen, the problem we have is that the Constitution of Pakistan never took this into account. Unlike other countries, we don’t have a line of succession. The government stands without a leader.”

  The men around the table shared perplexed glances before turning back to the law minister. Tariq Nadee
m was the first to speak up, “How are we without a leader? As the next highest office in the National Assembly, I should take over as Prime Minister.”

  “That is not completely correct, Mr. Speaker,” Aijaz Awan, Chairman of the Senate, spoke up a little hesitantly. “While you may be the next highest in the National Assembly, I am the next powerful in terms of Constitutional powers. I should take the Prime Minister’s chair.”

  The Speaker looked to his deputy, expecting support for his candidacy, only to find that he didn’t want to take anyone’s side. “Minister, what does the Constitution say?” asked Jaffer Shah.

  “Article 95 states that if the office of the Prime Minister become vacant, for any reason,” said Ghani, “we have fourteen days to elect a new Prime Minister from the National Assembly.”

  “The problem arises from our allies outside the country,” President Butt explained. “They believe that if the office stays vacant for any length of time, the government may be removed by the opposition or the military. I need you to give me names for the Prime Minister by end of the day.”

  Aijaz suppressed his anger at the haste with which the President brought up this matter. Tariq wasn’t so reticent. “The Prime Minister has been assassinated and his body sits at the masjid waiting for burial. And we are sitting here deciding who will take his place in the government. That is outlandish!” said Tariq pounding his fist on the table.

  “Mr. Speaker, I don’t do this out of any joy, but through discussions with the law minister, opposition leader and other political notables,” the President’s tone was calm and businesslike. “I believe that you only have a short span of time to fill that chair before there are calls for a new election or the opposition starts to form coalitions to take the seat. You do remember that your party was only holding a small majority.”