A Case Of Exploding Mangoes Part 17

The meeting had taken place in a small conference room on the forty-third floor of the Manila Hilton. The interpreter, a plump, twenty-six-year-old woman in a shoulder-padded suit, was shocked when General Zia cut the pleasantries short and said he wanted to use their scheduled ten minutes to learn about statecraft from His Highness. Ceaucescu's Dracula smile widened, he put a hand on the interpreter's thigh and mumbled: "Noi voi tot learn de la each alt."

General Zia imagined that Ceaucescu was saying that we should all drink a pint of fresh blood every day.

"We must all learn from each other," the interpreter interpreted.

"How have you managed to stay in office for such a long time?"

"c.u.m have tu conducere la spre stay in servidu pentru such un timp indelungat?" the interpreter asked Ceausescu, placing a leather folder on her lap.

Ceaucescu spoke for about two minutes, jabbing his fingers, opening and closing the palms of his hands and finally reaching for the interpreter's thigh. He found himself patting the leather folder.

"Believe only ten per cent of what your intelligence agencies tell you about public opinion. The key is that they should either love you or fear you; your decline starts the day they become indifferent to you."

"How do I know if they are becoming indifferent?"

"Find out first-hand. Surprise them, go out to restaurants, show up at sports matches. Do you have football? Go to football matches, take a walk at night. Listen to what people have to say and then believe only ten per cent of what they say because when they are with you they will also lie. But after they have met you they are bound to love you and they will tell other people who will also love you."

General Zia nodded eagerly while Ceaucescu spoke, and then invited him to be the chief guest at the National Day Parade, knowing full well that he would never come. He was getting up to leave when Ceaucescu shouted something to the interpreter. General Zia came back towards the interpreter, who had now opened her folder and spread it on her lap.

"Before you go to football matches, make sure that your team wins."

General Zia tried to go to some of these public gatherings, but as soon as he left the VIP area and mingled with the people he would realise that he was amid a hired crowd; their flag-waving and slogans well rehea.r.s.ed. Many of them just stiffened when he walked by and he could tell that they were soldiers in civvies. Sometimes they seemed scared of him, but then he would look at Brigadier TM by his side, using his elbows to keep the crowd at bay and he would immediately know that it wasn't him they were scared of, they just didn't want to be noticed by Brigadier TM. He went to some cricket matches and found out that people were more interested in the game and didn't seem too bothered about loving him or fearing him.

There was only one thing left to do now that Brigadier TM wasn't on his side; put Comrade Ceaucescu's advice to the test. To go out of the Army House without his bodyguards.

Instead of retiring to his study after his night prayers, he went to the bedroom where the First Lady was sitting on a chair reading a story to their youngest daughter. He kissed his daughter's head, sat down and waited for the First Lady to finish the story. His heart was beating fast at the prospect of the impending adventure. He looked at his wife and daughter as if he was departing for a far-off battle from which he might or might not return.

"Can I borrow a shawl?"

"Which one?"

He was hoping she would ask him why he needed it. He was hoping he would be able to tell at least one person before embarking on his mission but all she asked was, which one?

"The older the better," the General said trying to sound mysterious. She went to the dressing room and brought him an old maroon shawl with a thin embroidered border. She still didn't ask him why he needed it.

Feeling a bit let down even before the beginning of his adventure, General Zia hugged his daughter again and started to go out.

"Don't get that shawl dirty," said the First Lady. "It's my mother's."

General Zia paused for a moment and thought maybe he should confide in her after all, but she picked up her book again and asked without looking at him. "Was it Caliph Omar who used to go out at night disguised as a common man to see if his subjects lived in peace?"

General Zia nodded his head. The First Lady really had a sense of history, he thought. He wouldn't mind being remembered as Caliph Omar the Second.

"Was he the one who said that even if a dog sleeps hungry on the banks of Euphrates, he'll never find salvation?"

"Yes," General Zia said. His moustache did a little dance.

"He should see our Islamic republic now. Randy dogs are running this country."

General Zia's heart sank, his moustache drooped but he muttered the verse that had exhorted him to go forth into the world and with renewed determination stormed out of the room.

He asked his gardener if he could borrow his bicycle, and the gardener handed it to him without asking why he needed it. When he stepped out of his living quarters the two commandos posted at the door saluted and started to follow him. He told them to wait for him at their post. "I am going to exercise my legs."

Then he wrapped the shawl tightly around his head and face, leaving his eyes and forehead uncovered. He climbed onto the bicycle and began to pedal. The bicycle was unsteady for the first few metres, it went left and it went right, but he found his balance and pedalled slowly, keeping to one side of the road.

As his bicycle approached the gate of the Army House, he started to have second thoughts. Maybe I should turn back. Maybe I should inform Brigadier TM and he can send some of his men in civvies who can follow me around. Then Brigadier TM's flag-draped coffin flashed in front of his eyes and his bicycle wobbled. General Zia was still undecided when his bicycle arrived at the sentry post at the gate of the Army House and the gate opened. He slowed down, looked left and right, hoping someone would recognise him and ask him what the h.e.l.l he thought he was doing. As his mind raced for an appropriate excuse, a voice shouted from the sentry box.

"Don't feel like going home, old man? Scared of your woman?" He looked towards the sentry box, but didn't see anyone. His feet pushed the pedals hard. The gate came down behind him. The thought that his disguise was working reinvigorated him. The doubts cleared, he lifted his bottom from the bicycle seat and pedalled harder, his eyes moistening with the effort and with emotion. He waited at the red light at the crossroads which led to Const.i.tution Avenue, even though there was not a single vehicle in sight. The light stayed red for a long time and showed no sign of turning green. He looked left and right and then left again and turned on to Const.i.tution Avenue.

The avenue was completely deserted, not a soul, not a vehicle.

An eight-lane road, it had not really been designed for traffic, which was thin in this part of town even during the day, but to accommodate the heavy artillery and tanks for the annual National Day Parade. The avenue, still wet from an afternoon shower, glistened yellow under the street lights. The hills surrounding it stood silent and sombre; General Zia rode slowly. His legs, unused to this movement, were beginning to ache. He first rode straight along the side of the road, then moved to the middle and started to zigzag. If someone saw him from the hills they would see an old man wrapped in a shawl, wobbling on his bike. They would have to conclude that the old man was probably very tired after working hard all day at the Army House.

When he had covered about half a mile without seeing a single person, a strange feeling began to set in: what if he was ruling a country without any inhabitants? What if it was a ghost country? What if there was really n.o.body out there? What if all the statistics from the census that said one hundred and thirty million people lived in the country, fifty-two per cent women, forty-eight per cent men, ninety-eight per cent Muslim, was all simply the work of his overefficient bureaucrats? What if everybody had migrated somewhere else and he was ruling a country where n.o.body lived except his army, his bureaucrats and his bodyguards? He was breathing hard and feeling quite amused at the bizarre conspiracy theories one can harbour if one is a commoner on a bicycle, when a bush on the roadside moved and a voice shouted at him: "Come here, old man. Riding around without a headlight? Do you think this road belongs to your father? Isn't there enough lawlessness in this country?"

General Zia put his heels on the road instead of applying the brakes and his bicycle came to a shaky halt. A figure emerged from behind the bush, a man wrapped in an old brown shawl. Under the shawl General Zia could make out his policeman's beret.

"Get off that bike, uncle. Where do you think you're going without a headlight?"

The police constable held the handlebars of the General's bike as if he was about to pedal away. General Zia got off the bike, stumbling because of the shawl wrapped tightly around him. His head was buzzing with excitement at his first encounter with one of his own subjects, without any security cordons separating them, without any guns pointed at the person he was talking to.

Standing on the footpath along Const.i.tution Avenue, under the watchful eyes of a tired old police constable, General Zia realised the true meaning of what the old Dracula had told him. General Zia realised that Ceaucescu's advice contained a metaphor that he hadn't understood before this adventure. What is democracy? What is its essence? You draw strength from your people and you become even stronger and that is exactly what General Zia was doing at this moment. Watched over by the silent hills surrounding Islamabad, a very ancient ritual was taking place: a ruler and his subject were face to face without any bureaucrat to complicate their relationship, without any gunmen to pollute their encounter. For a moment the fear of death evaporated into the cold smog and General Zia felt as strong and invincible as the mountains surrounding them.

"Hold your ears," said the policeman, taking a cigarette from behind his ear and producing a lighter from under his shawl. When he lit the cigarette the air suddenly smelled of kerosene fumes. General Zia tried to balance the bike on the pavement but the policeman gave it a kick and it went hurtling down the footpath and then lay flat.

General Zia took his hands out of the shawl and held his ears. It was a lesson in good governance but it was proving to be fun as well. He was already composing a speech in his head: All the wisdom I need to run this country I learned from a lone police constable doing his duty on an empty road in the middle of the night in Islamabad... All the wisdom I need to run this country I learned from a lone police constable doing his duty on an empty road in the middle of the night in Islamabad...

"Not like that." The policeman shook his head in disappointment. "c.o.c.k. Be a c.o.c.k. A rooster."

General Zia thought that the time had come to introduce himself but the constable didn't give him the opportunity to reveal his face; he held his shawl-covered head with one hand and shoved it down.

"Don't pretend that you don't know how to be a c.o.c.k."

General Zia knew how to be a c.o.c.k, but last time he had done it was more than half a century ago in school, and the thought that there were people out here still dishing out that childish punishment bewildered him. His back was refusing to bend but the constable held his head down till it almost touched his knees; General Zia reluctantly put both his hands through his legs and tried to reach for his ears. His back was a block of concrete refusing to bend, his legs shook under the weight of his body and he felt he was going to collapse and roll over. He tried to look up as soon as the constable removed his hand from his head. The constable replaced it with a foot on his neck. General Zia spoke with his head down.

"I am General Zia ul-Haq."

The smoke hit the constable in his throat and he burst into a coughing fit which turned into laughter.

"Isn't one General Zia enough for this poor nation? Do we need crazies like you running around in the middle of the night pretending to be him?"

General Zia wriggled his face in the shawl, hoping that the constable would get a glimpse of his face.

"Your Highness," the constable said, "you must be a very busy man. You must be in a hurry to get back to the Army House to run this country. Tell me a joke and I'll let you go. Have you ever met such a generous policeman in your life? Come on, tell us a joke about General Zia."

This was easy, General Zia thought. He had entertained many journalists by telling jokes about himself.

He cleared his throat and started. "Why doesn't the First Lady let General Zia into her bedroom?"

"Oh shut up," the constable said. "Everyone knows that one. And it's not even a joke. It's probably true. Just say General Zia is a one-eyed f.a.ggot thrice and I'll let you go."

General Zia had not heard this one before. Indian propaganda, he thought, fluttering his eyelashes just to double-check; his left eye saw the mud-covered canvas shoes of the policeman, his right eye followed a baby frog crossing Const.i.tution Avenue. But his back was killing him, he wanted his spine straight. He whispered in a low voice: "General Zia is a..."

He heard the sound of sirens starting in the distance, the same sirens that the outriders in his presidential convoy used. For a moment he wondered if someone else had occupied the Army House while he was here, talking to this perverted constable?

"I can tell that your heart is not in it. I try it on everyone I stop on this road and I swear that n.o.body has ever disappointed me. It's the only punishment they seem to like."

The constable kicked him on his backside and General Zia went reeling, face forward, his spine snapping back straight and sending waves of pain through his body. The constable dragged him behind the bush.

"The real one-eyed one is on his way. Let me deal with him first. Then we'll have a long chat," said the constable, removing his shawl and flinging it over General Zia.

The constable stood at attention on the roadside and saluted as the convoy sped by with its flashing lights and wailing sirens. It was smaller than the normal presidential convoy. One black Mercedes followed by two open-topped jeeps, carrying teams of alert commandos with their guns pointed at the roadside. As the constable returned to start negotiating with General Zia the terms of his release, he heard the convoy reversing at full speed; the sirens sobbed and went quiet like a screaming child suddenly falling to sleep. Before the constable had time to realise what was happening, the commandos were upon him with their Kalashnikovs and searchlights. An old man in a shalwar qameez who was still sitting in the jeep pointed to the bicycle and said in a calm voice, "That is the bicycle he took."

For the short journey back to the Army House General Zia sat in the back seat of the Mercedes and pretended that General Akhtar wasn't there. He wound the shawl around himself tightly and sat with his head down like someone who has just woken up from a very bad dream.

But in his heart he knew what he had to do. General Akhtar with all his spies and wiretaps had never told him what one hundred and thirty million people really thought of him. He had not even told him ten per cent of the truth. He didn't look at General Akhtar but could tell from the smell in the car that he had been knocking down whiskeys at the American Amba.s.sador's party. What next? Pig meat? His own brother's flesh?

He spoke for the first time when getting out of the car. "Let that policeman go," he said, very certain that n.o.body would believe the constable's bizarre story. "He was only doing his duty."

General Zia went straight to his study, sent for his stenographer and dictated two appointment letters. Then he picked up the phone and called a lieutenant general in charge of the military operations. After long apologies for waking him up in the middle of the night, he askrd the Lieutenant General to relieve General Akhtar of his duties.

"I would like you to take charge now. I want you personally to go through all the files on all the suspects. I want you to visit every single interrogation centre General Akhtar is running and I want you to report back directly to me."

As General Beg set out to take charge from General Akhtar, General Zia made the last telephone call of the night.

"Yes, sir." General Akhtar was awake and expecting a thank-you call from General Zia.

"Thank you, Akhtar," General Zia said. "I have no words to show my grat.i.tude. This is not the first time you have saved my life."

"I was doing my duty, sir."

"I have decided to promote you. Four stars."

General Akhtar didn't believe what he was hearing. Would General Zia relinquish his post as the Chief of the Army? Was General Zia retiring and moving to Mecca? General Akhtar didn't have to wait long to find out. "I have appointed you the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Committee. In a way, I have appointed you my boss..."

General Akhtar tried to intervene in a pleading voice. "Sir, my work at the agency is not finished yet. The Americans are talking to the Soviets behind our back..."

A life of glorified bureaucratic tedium flashed in front of his eyes. He would have three adjutants, one each from the air force, navy and army, but no power over any of the three inst.i.tutions. He would have his own flagged convoy but nowhere to go, except the inauguration of yet another extension to some housing scheme for army officers. He would stand at the head of every reception line ever organised for every second-rate dignitary visiting from every Third World country. Instead of running his intelligence agency he would be sitting at the head of an outfit as ceremonial as the crown of a fighting c.o.c.k.

"This is life, Akhtar, the work will go on. I have asked General Beg to take charge for now."

"I would like to request a proper handover..." General Akhtar made a last attempt to hold on to his safe houses, his tapes, his network of spies. Everything that gave him his powers was being taken away from him and he was being put behind a cage-a golden cage, but a cage nonetheless.

"You have earned it, Akhtar," General Zia said. "You have really earned the fourth star."

TWENTY-SEVEN.

The fort gates fly open, the jeep carrying us sails through the security cordons, salutes are offered and accepted. It's only when the driver asks my permission to turn on the radio that the facts of my new life begin to sink in: there are no blindfolds, no handcuffs, we are free and we have a week's leave pa.s.s before reporting back to the Academy. If this was the ending of Where Eagles Dare Where Eagles Dare we would be reclining in our seats, lighting up cigars and chuckling over some predictable n.a.z.i joke. But we are quiet; a pair of failed a.s.sa.s.sins, forgiven by the very person we set out to get. Petty deserters, a couple of kids admonished and sent home; not even worthy of being considered a threat to national security. we would be reclining in our seats, lighting up cigars and chuckling over some predictable n.a.z.i joke. But we are quiet; a pair of failed a.s.sa.s.sins, forgiven by the very person we set out to get. Petty deserters, a couple of kids admonished and sent home; not even worthy of being considered a threat to national security.

Our faces press against the windows of the jeep, looking out for the next milestone, examining the smoke coming out of the exhaust of overheated rickshaws, looking for objects to recognise. We are looking at the world like children on their first visit to the countryside; the khaki-covered seat between us stretches like the long list of our collective delusions.

"Are you hurting?" My attempt at starting a conversation is weak but spontaneous. I look out as I speak. A giant billboard featuring General Zia's picture bids us a safe journey.

"No, are you?" The jeeps smells of disinfectant and Burnol, the anti-burn ointment they put on Obaid's head.

The morning of our release the Fort had woken up in a fit of activity. A team of gardeners ran around with sprinklers, armed commandos were taking positions on the rooftop of the Palace of Mirrors. A three-star convoy came to a screeching halt on the main boulevard between the sprawling lawns.

Our saviour wears Ray-Bans and doesn't take them off as we are hauled before him. Major Kiyani and his reformed hoodlums are nowhere in sight.

General Beg talks like a man whom destiny has chosen to do makeovers. Everything about him is shiny, new, unruffled; his impatient hands scream new beginnings.

"My plane is waiting," he says to a colonel who seems to be the new man in charge of the place, and who also seems to have more medals on his chest than brain cells. "This place has been mismanaged badly," General Beg says, which is not supposed to be an explanation directed at us but a general declaration about the state of the nation. "You." He points his finger at the Colonel's chest. General Beg has obviously seen too many baseball-coach-turns-nasty movies. "You are going to clear it up. Do up the whole place. Get an architect to redesign it. Call in an interior decorator if you need to. This place needs a bit of atmosphere. At least open some parts of this thing to tourists. Why do you need the whole b.l.o.o.d.y Fort to run an investigation centre?" The Colonel takes notes like an apprentice secretary in desperate need of a permanent job. General Beg turns towards us.

"You guys are our future. You deserve better. You guys ended up here because of a bunch of inefficient idiots. All sorted now, all sorted. What a waste of time. I have to visit three cantonments today. I have my own plane waiting at the airport but still there are only so many hours in a day. Chief sends his good wishes. I'll have those files closed. Go back and work hard. Tomorrow's battles are won in today's drill practice. The country needs you."

Just like that. The country suddenly needs us.

The driver of our jeep is a soldier in uniform and wants to know our destination. I know I can trust him. "Where would you like to go today, sir?" he asks as the three-star convoy departs in a blaze of wailing sirens and commandos rushing down from the roofs. General Beg, it seems, doesn't want to stay away from his plane for too long.

There are no signs of the underground jails, the dark dungeons, the blood-splattered ceilings, the poetry in the stinking bathrooms. There is only the smell of freshly watered gra.s.s and history turning a new page.

"Out of here," I say.

Obaid is slumped against the gla.s.s of his window. His nostrils twitch and he chews on his broken lips; he obviously doesn't like the Burnol smell that hangs heavy in the jeep. I rummage through my bag and offer him his bottle of Poison. He takes it with a wry smile and rolls it around in his hands as if it's not his favourite perfume bottle but a tennis ball that I have produced to distract him from our current situation.

We are like a couple who can't remember why they got together in the first place.

"Bannon," he mumbles. "Do you think they caught him?"

"Are you crazy?" I sneer at him and then control myself. I don't know why I feel I should sound polite and courteous and understanding. A newspaper hawker waves a paper at us, another picture of General Zia stares at me. "Diplomatic immunity. They'd never touch him."

"Do you think he is still at the Academy? After all this?"

"There is always some other job for an American. I wouldn't worry about him."

"It was his idea," Obaid says, as if we are returning from an abandoned picnic on a rainy day and blaming the weatherman.

"It was a f.u.c.ked-up idea." My irritation at his slow, measured sentences gets the better of me. I put my forehead on the gla.s.s window and stare at a group of people hanging on the back of a bus. A teenager offers me a mock salute, the man hanging beside him clutches at his crotch and offers to screw my mother. I don't know why Pakistanis are so pa.s.sionate about men in uniform.

One of the fat Indian sisters is singing one of her sad love songs on the jeep ca.s.sette player.

"I like that song," I shout at the driver. "Can you turn it up?" The driver obliges.