A Case Of Exploding Mangoes Part 14

General Akhtar's devotion to his boss General Zia was not the ordinary devotion that a three-star general shows towards a four-star general. Their mutual dependence wasn't that of two soldiers who can rely on each other to get a piggyback to the base if injured in the battle. Theirs was a bond between two dogs stranded on a glacier, each sizing up the other, trying to decide if he should wait for his comrade to die before eating him or do away with the niceties and try to make a meal out of him immediately.

But there was a difference between the two: General Zia with his five t.i.tles, addresses to the UN and n.o.bel Prize hopes was satiated. General Akhtar, always playing second fiddle to his boss, was starving, and when he looked around the frozen landscape, all he saw was General Zia-fattened, chubby-cheeked and marinating in his own paranoia. Publicly, General Akhtar denied any ambition; he encouraged journalists to describe him as a silent soldier, happy to command his ghost armies in secret wars. But when he stood in front of the mirror in his office day after day and counted the three stars on his shoulder, he couldn't deny to himself that he had become a shadow of General Zia. His own career had followed General Zia's ambitions like a faithful puppy.

If General Zia wanted to become an elected president, General Akhtar not only had to ensure that ballot boxes were stuffed in time but was also expected to orchestrate spontaneous celebrations all over the country after the votes were counted. If General Zia announced a National Cleanliness Week, General Akhtar had to make sure that the gutters were disinfected and security-checked before the President could show up to get his picture taken. On good days General Akhtar felt like a royal executioner during the day, and a court food-taster in the evening. On bad days he just felt like a long-suffering housewife always clearing up after her messy husband. He had started to get impatient. The t.i.tle of 'second most powerful man in the land', which he had enjoyed in the beginning, had started to sound like an insult. How could you be second most powerful when your boss was all all-powerful?

The puppy had grown up and felt constantly starved.

General Akhtar had learned to put the puppy on a leash and take him for short walks, because he knew he couldn't let him run wild. Not yet.

It was on one of these puppy-on-the-leash walks that he was walking along the corridor of his headquarters, minutes after his camera feed from the Army House abruptly disappeared. He ran his operations from a four-storey, nondescript office block. There was no signboard outside the building to identify it, no postal address for this enterprise; even the white Corollas entering and leaving the car park had no number plates. But still every cab driver in town somehow knew about the occupants of this building and the nature of their business. General Akhtar was walking on a frayed grey carpet, his ears taking in the familiar night-shift sounds; most of the staff had already left for the day but he could hear the m.u.f.fled voices from behind the closed doors. His night-shift handlers were talking to his operators in distant, unsuspecting countries; Ethiopia, Nepal, Colombia. There was one consolation for General Akhtar: he might be the second most powerful man in a Third World country but the intelligence agency he ran was worthy of a superpower.

Since no women worked in the office block, the toilets were marked 'Officers and Men'. General Akhtar pa.s.sed the toilets and entered an unmarked room at the end of the corridor. More than a dozen telephone operators watched wall-mounted audiotapes connected to telephone monitors; the tapes started to roll as soon as the subject under surveillance picked up the phone. It wasn't just the usual set of politicians, diplomats and journalists whose phones were tapped; many of General Akhtar's closest colleagues would have been surprised to find out that their every phone call, their every verbal indiscretion was recorded here.

The operators working in the monitoring room had strict orders to continue their normal functions regardless of the rank of their visitor. A dozen heads wearing headphones nodded silently as General Akhtar entered the room.

He tapped the shoulder of the first operator in the row, who seemed completely absorbed in the task at hand. The operator removed his headphones and looked at General Akhtar with a mixture of respect and excitement. During his eleven months at the agency, he had ntver been addressed by General Akhtar. The operator felt his life was about to change.

General Akhtar took the headphones from his hands and put them on his own ears. He heard the moans of a man obviously in the middle of pleasuring himself as a woman on the other end urged him on in a motherly voice. General Akhtar gave the operator a disgusted look; the operator avoided eye contact with him and said, "The Minister of Information, sir." The operator felt apologetic, even though he was only doing his duty.

"I don't need to know," General Akhtar said, removing the headphones. "Come to my office. With one of these." He pointed to the little black box that connected the phone line to the tape recorder. "Bring a new one. The ones Chuck Coogan sent us." General Akhtar walked off to a chorus of nodding heads.

The operator gave his colleagues a triumphant look, strangled the Information Minister's sighs and started preparing his toolbox for his first ever visit to General Akhtar's office. He felt like a man who had been personally selected by the second most powerful man in the country to do a very important job in his personal office. As he shut his toolbox and straightened his shirt, the operator felt like the third most powerful man in the country.

General Akhtar's office looked like that of any other senior bureaucrat at the pinnacle of his power; a large desk with five telephones and a national flag, a framed picture of him and Bill Casey laughing as General Akhtar presented the CIA chief with the casing of the first Stinger that had brought down a Russian Hind. In one corner stood a small television and video player. On the wall behind his chair was an official portrait of General Zia, from the time when his moustache was still struggling to find a shape and his cheeks were sunken. General Akhtar removed the picture carefully and punched in the combination for the safe behind it, took out .1 .1 tape and put it in the video player. The picture was black and white and grainy and he could not see General Zia's face, but he knew his hand gestures well and the voice was unmistakable. The other voice was slightly m.u.f.fled and the speaker wasn't in the frame. tape and put it in the video player. The picture was black and white and grainy and he could not see General Zia's face, but he knew his hand gestures well and the voice was unmistakable. The other voice was slightly m.u.f.fled and the speaker wasn't in the frame.

"Son, you are the only person in this country I can really trust."

General Akhtar grimaced. He had heard the same thing over and over again for the past two months, minus the word 'son' of course.

"Sir, your security is my job and this is the kind of job where I can't take orders from anyone else. Not from General Akhtar, not from the First Lady and sometimes not even from you."

Suddenly Brigadier TM's head filled the screen. "Sir, all these changes, without my security clearance."

A hand appeared in the picture and handed General Zia a piece of paper. General Zia looked at the paper through his gla.s.ses, put it in his pocket and got up. The other figure entered the frame, they both met in the centre of the screen and General Zia spread his arms. General Akhtar moved forward in his chair and tried to listen to their voices, which because ol their embrace had become even more m.u.f.fled. He heard sobbing. General Zia's body was shaking. He moved a step back and put both his hands on Brigadier TM's. "Son, you don't have to take orders from anyone, not even from me."

There was a knock on the door. General Akhtar pushed the stop b.u.t.ton on the video recorder and asked the operator to come in. Then the General stood up and paced the room as the operator got busy with one of the five phones on his table.

General Akhtar stood in front of the mirror and looked at his face and upper body. He was three years older than General Zia but physically in much better shape. Unlike General Zia, who hated the outdoors and had gone all puffy in the cheeks, General Akhtar still managed a weekly game of golf and an occasional field trip to the army divisions posted at the border. The golf gave him the chance to get some exercise and catch up with the US Amba.s.sador on matters of national security.

General Akhtar's hair was thinning from the sides but his barber did a good job of mixing his crew cut with a clever camouflage for his expanding bald patch. He had stood here many times, in front of this mirror, put a fourth star on his shoulder and struck a pose for the cover of Newsweek Newsweek. He had rehea.r.s.ed his acceptance speech for the n.o.bel Peace Prize. "All the wars I have fought, all the liberty that the people of the region enjoy, the cold war that has turned into warm, glowing peace..."

"Would you like me to activate the monitor, sir?" the operator asked him. The operator had shown no curiosity, had resisted the temptation to snoop around and had behaved like a professional spy. Never ask why, just who, where and when. The operator was pleased with himself.

General Akhtar gave out a phone number without turning away from the mirror and watched the operator's face closely. He noticed a shadow cross the operator's face as he finished writing down the number. His hands, which had been moving with such professional concentration before, shook as he fed the number into the little black box. General Akhtar wondered what the operator would make of it. He was sure that he would not say anything, not that anyone would listen to a telephone operator, but he looked hard in the mirror at the operator's reflection. The operator was now back to his professional self and busy putting away his instruments in his toolbox.

He was thinking of getting out of this office and then finishing the remaining two hours of his shift before starting his part-time job as a signboard painter at a cinema. He was thinking that even if he was given a full-time job at the agency he would continue painting over the weekend. The operator was not thinking at all about the fact that the second most powerful man in the country had just ordered him to put a tap on the telephone line of the most powerful man in the country.

Many of General Akhtar's fellow generals described him as cold, calculating, even a cruel man. But in reality, General Akhtar's cruelty was always a second thought, almost incidental to his job. He didn't like his job because he could listen to people's most intimate conversations or get people killed. He didn't feel any real sense of power when he picked up his phone and gave his agents a list of people who were becoming a threat to national security. But when he did pick up the phone, he liked his agency to respond like a properly oiled weapon. He would have liked it if these situations never arose, but when they needed to be dealt with, he wanted it to be done efficiently. He didn't like the stories about bullets stuck in the chamber or targets disappearing at the last moment.

When the operator reached the door and put his hand on the handle, General Akhtar said: "Thank you."

The operator hesitated for a moment, looked back and smiled, and that's when General Akhtar realised that he didn't know his name.

"What is your name, operator?"

The operator, who had rehea.r.s.ed the answer in his mind for the whole eleven months that he had worked here, replied with a flourish, almost sure that he was taking a step further in his life; hoping to be appointed the senior operator, hoping to be embraced by the organisation, elevated to an officer rank, maybe given one of the old Corollas that the officers discarded every year when the new models arrived.

"Same as yours. Akhtar, sir. But with an E. Akhter Masih."

General Akhtar wasn't impressed. There are probably a million Akhtars in this country, he thought, and two million Masihs. And this smarta.s.s can't keep his mouth shut about as ordinary a coincidence as that. Could he be expected to keep his mouth shut at all? Could he be expected to forget the numbers, the names, the transcripts of the phone calls that he handled all day? Was it wise to hire a Christian when everybody knows they love to gossip? The only other Christians who worked in General Akhtar's agency were sweepers. Must be a reason, he thought.

"Do you know what Akhtar means?"

"Yes, sir, a star. A very bright star."

"You are quite intelligent for an operator. But remember some of the stars that you see at night are not really stars. They died millions of years ago but they were so far away that their light is beginning to reach us only now."

There was a certain spring in Operator Akhter's footsteps as he walked to the bus stop after work that clay. He was aware of being alive. The fume-filled air was fragrant in his lungs, his ears were alive to the chirping of the birds, the bus horns were love tunes in the air, waiting to be plucked and put to words. Not only did he share a name with his boss, his inherent intelligence had also been recognised; 'quite intelligent for an operator', 'quite intelligent for an operator', General Akhtar's words echoed through his head. Those who thought that the General was arrogant had obviously not been worthy of his attention, Operator Akhter thought.

It can be said that Operator Akhter was a bit careless-careless like people are who have just heard the good news they have been waiting for all their lives. It also must be said that Operator Akhter wasn't intoxicated, nor was he reckless. He stepped onto the road like a person whose luck had just turned. It can be said that he didn't look left or right; it was almost as if he expected the traffic to part for him. These are facts and cannot be denied. But the car that came at Operator Akhter was determined, and when it locked onto its target it didn't hesitate; it didn't want to punish him for his bad pedestrian-crossing manners, it didn't want to break his legs or leave him a cripple as a punishment for feeling optimistic. No, the driver of this car was very clear-headed and far too determined for a casual roadkill. Before the life went out of his eyes, after his broken ribs punctured his lungs and his heart frantically pumped blood in a last futile attempt to keep him alive, Operator Akhter was surprised to see, the last surprise of his life, that the white Corolla that crushed him had no number plate.

General Akhtar picked up the receiver on the new phone that Operator Akhter had connected, called General Zia and offered to resign from his post as the Chief of Intelligence.

"I should not have trusted that Christian, sir."

"Who was it?"

"The painter, sir, who made that portrait. Akhter Masih."

"Has he told you who was behind this?"

"No, sir, he had a car accident."

General Zia sighed.

"You are the only man in this country I can still trust."

"It's an honour, sir."

"There was this message from Shigri's son..."

"No need to call back, sir. We already have him. I'll bring his statement with me, sir. It was a little sting and we have got much more than we were expecting. He is only the tip of this iceberg, sir..."

"Do talk to him personally. Give him my salaam."

"There is another urgent matter, sir. The National Day Parade."

"How am I supposed to go to the parade under Code Red?"

"Sir, there is not a single country in the world that doesn't have a national day."

"Can't we have a national day without the National Day Parade?" General Zia liked his own idea and got very excited. "We'll just have a national day here in the Army House. Let's call some widows. No, maybe we should designate this national day as National Orphans' Day. Get some children here, set up some rides."

"Sir, people want a military parade on National Day. They want to see tanks and they want to wave at lighter planes flying past-"

"But the security protocol-"

"Sir, we can have the National Day Parade on any day that you choose to have it. We can record it and broadcast it on National Day."

In that moment General Zia realised why he had never been able to get rid of Akhtar. He was always one step ahead of the enemy even when the enemy was invisible.

General Akhtar rightly interpreted that moment of silence as presidential consent to go ahead with the arrangements for the National Day Parade.

"Convey my grat.i.tude to Brigadier TM, sir, for discovering that stupid camera. I'd recommend him for a promotion, but I know you want him by your side. He is the only true hero this country has got."

TWENTY-ONE.

"Are you ready?" Major Kiyani's voice asks from the front seat. I nod my head without saying a word. He comes to the back of the jeep, the door opens. I take a deep breath and move towards the door; my head spins with the effort but I put my other foot forward and find the ground beneath my feet solid, welcoming. Major Kiyani unties the knot on my blindfold. We are in a car park full of white Corollas, most of them without number plates. The only exception is a black Mercedes with three bronze stars on the numberless plate and a flag covered in a little plastic sheath. Office buildings surround us on all sides, fading yellow and dotted with iron-barred gates that lead to staircases. Beyond the antennae and satellite dishes sprouting from its roof I can see Islamabad's fog-covered mountains.

We are not meeting General Zia.

Major Kiyani walks in front of me without looking back and enters one of the gates. I hear the hum of the electronic machines behind closed doors. At the end of the corridor is another gate. A soldier in uniform salutes Major Kiyani, opens the door and salutes again. Major Kiyani doesn't bother to respond. I look towards the soldier and nod my head. Major Kiyani walks into the first room on the right and comes out with a black gym bag, which he pa.s.ses to me. We stop in front of a white door that says 'Officers Only'. I step in and smell the sweet smell of disinfectant and hear the sound of running water. Major Kiyani stays in the doorway and says: 'Get cleaned up, you are going to have lunch with a VIR' I hear him walking away. I look into the gym bag and find a bar of soap, a razor, toothbrush, a fresh uniform and a bottle of perfume: Poison.

Who am I having lunch with that they want me to be perfumed?

Is one of Dad's friends coming to bail me out?

I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror and see a phantom. My eyes are two shallow red pools, my face is dried cactus, my uniform shirt has curry stains on it.

A wave of self-pity rises from the pit of my stomach. I try to suppress it by telling myself: All right, I look like someone who lives in dirty bathrooms and Mughal dungeons. But at least I get an occasional lunch invitation.

My movements are slow. I turn on the tap and put the tip of my forefinger in the water. I look in the mirror. The person who stares at me is still a stranger. They probably cleaned up Obaid's cupboard, sealed his books and clothes in a trunk and put it in storage. They sent me this bottle of perfume so that I don't forget why I am here. I wonder how they explained it to Obaid's father. I wonder if he thinks his son is a martyr. My eyes burn.

I quickly splash water first on my eyes, then on my face. I pull my shirt out of my trousers, take off my shoes and stand in front of the mirror, naked to my waist. I look around for any windows. There is an extractor fan, but the opening is too small and probably opens into a room full of armed guards.

We'll have lunch, then.

Major Kiyani shouts from outside: "You don't want to keep the General waiting, do you?"

I am in a dining room, a proper b.l.o.o.d.y dining room with white tablecloths, white china and a jug of orange juice. Gleaming bra.s.s dish covers can't contain the aromas wafting through the room. The prisoner, it seems, has died and gone straight to heaven.

Major Kiyani stands in the doorway, puffing on his Dunhill, fidgeting with the gold ring on his middle finger. The food waiting on the table seems to be the least of his worries. I can barely wait for those covers to be lifted. Even the onion rings lying in the salad dish are making my heart beat faster. Major Kiyani looks out into the corridor and moves out a few steps. I raid the orange juice jug and pour myself a gla.s.s. My mouth, raw with the past few nights' horrible flavours, stings, but my throat welcomes it and I empty the gla.s.s in one long swig. The footsteps in the corridor come closer. Heels click. Major Kiyani's laughter is subdued, nervous. General Akhtar enters the room followed by Major Kiyani and a turbaned waiter in white uniform. I stand up and bring my heels together, suddenly feeling like the host at this lunch. General Akhtar sits at the head of the table. Major Kiyani sits on the edge of his chair. I am not sure what to do. "Sit down, son." General Akhtar gives me a benevolent smile as if he is the only man in this world who understands me. His actions speak otherwise. I want to eat. He wants to talk.

"I have seen your file," he says, rearranging his knife and fork on his plate. "You've got your father's sharp brain but it's quite obvious that this boy, this friend of yours..." He looks towards Major Kiyani who says, "Obaid, sir. Obaid-ul-llah..."

"Yes, this Obaid chap was not very clever. I won't ask you where he was trying to fly off to because you have already told Major Kiyani that you don't know. But I'll just say that this Obaid chap probably read too many books and obviously did not understand most of them. I am sure you could have come up with a better idea."

I look up at him for the first time and my appet.i.te begins to disappear.

General Akhtar is decked up like a sacrificial cow, all golden braid and shiny medals. I am certain that he hasn't gone to so much trouble just for his meeting with me. He is dressed to go to the party. Two men in uniform meeting over lunch: one all dressed up for the fourth of July bash, the other one on short leave from a Mughal dungeon.

Why eat before a party? I think. And he reads my thoughts. He is not the head of intelligence for nothing.

"I always eat before going to a party, you don't know what you'll get there. And today I've got two. We're also holding the parade today for National Day," he says, lifting one of the bra.s.s dishes. He picks up a quail from a pile of roasted little birds and pushes the dish towards me.

I put a little bird on my plate and stare at it for a long time as if hoping it will grow its wings back and fly away, but it lies there in its crisp brown skin, blackened at its joints.

"Look at me when I am talking to you," General Akhtar says, staring at his plate. Then he lifts his head and gives me a fatherly smile as if the only thing he is concerned about is my table manners.

I look up and see a balding head and pale thin lips that have probably never uttered a word he really meant.

I hold my fork with one hand, and sneak my other hand under the table and squeeze my b.a.l.l.s. I need the pain to remind myself of the context of this roast-bird feast.

The bird looks even tinier at the end of his retired boxer's hand. A whole piece of breast goes into his mouth and he pulls out a bunch of cleaned bones from his thin lips. He smiles a yellow smile and dabs the corner of his thin lips with a starched white napkin.

"It's not easy for me." He picks up another dish cover and starts chewing on a slice of cuc.u.mber. "There is friendship and there is loyalty to one's country. If you are not loyal to your father can you be loyal to a friend? See, we are both in the same boat."

I am surprised at the rate at which this brotherhood is expanding.

I am also surprised that Dad used to call him General Chimp. Because the man'is, clearly, a reptile. Evolution took a wrong turn and this man ended up a mammal instead of growing scales and claws.

"I hope you are keeping him somewhere comfortable," he says to Major Kiyani, who puts down his knife and fork and mumbles into his napkin. Something about the number of available rooms in the Fort.

"You put him in that s.h.i.thole?" He looks at Major Kiyani with complaining eyes. "Do you even know who he is?" Major Kiyani puts his napkin back and looks up with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Did you ever work with Colonel Shigri?"

"No, sir, never had the pleasure. I did investigate the circ.u.mstances of the Colonel's tragic demise. I think I helped out the young man here with the paperwork."

"He was a man of principles. He lived his life by his principles and he died by his principles."

The General's sense of humour is not really helping my appet.i.te. "But, my son," he turns towards me, "what is evident here is that you have kept your dignity. Even in these difficult times you have held your head high." He picks up an invisible breadcrumb from his lap. "And that, my dear son, comes from blood, from being of a good family. Your dad would have been proud, my son."

Why the h.e.l.l does he keep calling me 'my son'? Even my own dad never called me 'my son'.

"As you realise, it's very difficult for me. On the one hand, there is my late friend's son who has already seen enough tragedy in his life. On the other hand, there's the security of the country, which is my responsibility." He spreads his arms, pointing his knife and fork towards his chest, underlining the enormity of the task.

"What would you do in my position?"

I would stop stuffing my face with tiny birds while deciding someone's fate, I want to say.

"I don't know what you know, sir," I say obliquely, throwing in a truckload of humility. "And I obviously don't have the experience you've had." I can see he wants to hear more so I throw in a punchline picked up from Secretary General's perpetual grouse against me and my uniform. "That's why you are where you are and I am where I am." I don't say what the comrade always says after that: we are both going blind and we will die without touching a woman ever again.