North from Calcutta Read online

  Tarek squeezed the trigger of the RPG.

  With a roar, the grenade blasted from the launcher and raced to its target, striking the low rock overhang, detonating immediately above the two-man position. Shards of jagged steel ripped through the heads and upper bodies of the Russian gunners.

  The noise of the explosion drew the attention of the other machine gun position. Its gun swung toward Tarek but was immediately taken out by fire from Omar and Alim.

  Tarek sprinted up the rise and dove into the destroyed gun position. It took only a glance to determine the two soldiers were dead. Pushing the bloodied bodies aside, he quickly checked over the RPK and determined that, other than a cracked rear stock, the gun appeared functional. His heart pounding, Tarek took a prone position behind the gun and looked down on the scene below.

  The dawn’s first light had finally come over the peaks of the Hindu Kush revealing the Spetnatz force arrayed below him like toy soldiers on a sand table. Circumstances could not have taken a more favorable turn. The RPK now had a fresh barrel and a full 75-round drum magazine with the first round already chambered, courtesy of the now-dead Russian gunner. The tide of the battle was about to change.

  Tarek quickly scanned the line of Spetnatz, looking for the leader. He soon spotted him talking on a radio hand set. Probably calling in a HIND, Tarek thought to himself.

  Tarek drew down on the commander and opened up with a seven round burst, killing him and the radio operator kneeling beside him. He proceeded to systematically search out individual soldiers hiding among the rocks, eliminating them with short bursts from the RPK.

  After killing 20, possibly more, he ran out of ammunition. Tarek replaced the empty drum magazine with a full one and resumed his bloody work.

  The Spetnatz troops realized they were being hit badly from the rear. They readjusted their positions as best they could and returned fire in Tarek’s direction.

  The Mujaheddin force saw what was happening. Wild with excitement, some of the less experienced fighters began to charge toward the Russians. In seconds they were cut down by Spetnatz rifle fire, causing the remaining Mujaheddin to be more cautious in their advance.

  Being caught between Tarek’s deadly enfilade machine gun fire and the close-range fire of the Muj, the effect on the Russians was devastating. Within minutes they ceased to exist as an organized fighting force. The remnants of the unit began an unorganized retreat, trying futilely to get away from the area.

  In a few more minutes it was over. The Spetnatz force had been wiped out, its dead and dying littered among the blood stained rocks. The only gunfire to be heard was the sound of the occasional shot as a wounded Russian took his life to avoid capture by the Mujaheddin. Better a sudden death than what he knew waited for him at the hands of his enemy.

  The battle had been Tarek’s first blooding. It had changed him forever. It had made him a hero and was the foundation on which his legend in the ISI would be built in the ensuing years.

  As he returned to the guest house to prepare for the day, Tarek did not feel like a hero, but he did feel, as he had many times in the past, the eyes of the Russian dead upon him.

  2

  Tarek sat in the waiting room at ISI Headquarters, staring at a portrait of Mohammad Ali Jinnah, the founder of Pakistan, and considered his plight. He had avoided a headquarters assignment for the last 15 years but his good fortune had now come to an end, and his Cairo days were over. He hoped his impending meeting with Major General Mohammad Seyed Ali would reveal why he had been suddenly recalled to Islamabad and exactly what his new assignment would be.

  Despite not wanting to be in Islamabad, Tarek was looking forward to seeing General Ali again. He had known the general for many years and had high regard for the man as both a soldier and intelligence officer. They had first met during the war against the Soviets, when Ali was in charge of ISI’s Afghan operations and Tarek, as a young lieutenant, had been detailed from his commando regiment to the ISI. The eventual retreat of the Soviet forces from Afghanistan testified to the effectiveness of ISI’s work during those uncertain and difficult times. Ali’s key role in the effort proved to be an important stepping stone to his later selection as Director of Operations, overseeing all intelligence activities carried out by the ISI, Pakistan’s most powerful intelligence organization. Recalling his own experiences in Afghanistan, Tarek knew his reward was in coming back alive.

  “Major Durrani, the General will see you now,” announced an office aide. “Please come this way.”

  Tarek followed the aide into a spacious office, where he found the General working at his desk. Military awards and framed photographs of men in uniform adorned the walls—mementos of a long and successful career. Seeing Tarek, Ali removed his reading glasses, rose from his chair, and moved around the desk quickly, greeting Tarek with a strong embrace.

  “Welcome back, Tarek! If I recall correctly,” Ali said, “the last time we met you had just returned from your Qandahar trip. By the way, the Brits are still thanking us for that one.”

  “I’m always ready to be of help to her Majesty, Sir, especially when her service doesn’t know how to get in touch with one of its own agents,” replied Tarek. Ali chuckled. It was always a good laugh when done at MI6’s expense.

  Ali walked over to a seating area in the corner of the room. He motioned Tarek to a sofa and sat down in a chair across from him. A young corporal in starched khakis, white gloves, and spit-shined boots entered the office carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. After gently placing the tray on a low table between the two men, the corporal carefully poured two cups of steaming tea. Dismissed by a nod from Ali, the corporal left the room, closing the door behind him.

  As Tarek picked up the tea cup and took a slow sip, Ali studied him for a moment, remembering the uncommon courage and soldierly skill this man had demonstrated while on missions for the ISI. These attributes, taken along with Tarek’s intelligence, easy yet confident manner, and understated style, made for a remarkable and highly capable intelligence officer. Ali could not think of another ISI officer he respected or liked more.

  “Have you obtained suitable quarters, Major?”

  “For the moment, Sir, I am staying at my sister’s home in Rawalpindi. I hope to have something more permanent arranged within the next week or two.”

  “I see,” Ali said. “Well now, Major, tell me—how is Cairo these days?”

  Tarek placed his cup on the tray and sat back in the sofa.

  “Sir, the extremists continue to gain ground with their attacks and internet propaganda campaigns. I’m afraid the concept of Islamic revolution has found an audience in Egypt and many points beyond.”

  Ali shook his head and smiled. “It’s classic is it not, Major? Extremists have been gaining power no matter if they are godless communists or wild-eyed Islamic fundamentalists. The principles are the same. Attack the economic structure of the country and terrorize the population, while making sure their actions are cloaked in some ideological or religious doctrine that provides a guise of legitimacy—Cuba and Iran being cases in point.”

  Tarek nodded. Seeing Ali’s cup almost empty, he asked, “More tea, General?”

  Ali shook his head.

  “Major Durrani, I know you are anxious to learn of your new assignment. Unfortunately, I cannot tell you any details except that you are to be temporarily assigned on deputation to the International Relations Executive. Tomorrow you are to report directly to the IRE’s Director, Ambassador Salim.”

  Tarek was surprised. He had assumed he would work at ISI headquarters. What could he possibly do at the IRE, Pakistan’s newest government department, whose job it was to coordinate Pakistan’s propaganda efforts on the Kashmir issue?

  “Speaking frankly, Sir, I am not well suited or inclined toward staff work, especially outside the intelligence field. I am sure the IRE position will require experience that I simply do not have.”

  Ali laughed. “What operations officer worth his salt is inclin
ed toward staff work, Major? And it is not clear what the nature of your work will be. Based on the criteria included in the request for one of our officers, I have a feeling, an uneasy feeling I might add, that you will be involved in some sort of initiative requiring your well-proven expertise.”

  General Ali shifted in his chair. “Tarek, I realize that when you are abroad you are paid to keep track of what is happening in other countries, not your own. You may know that only four months ago, Ambassador Salim was appointed as director of the International Relations Executive, an organization that did not exist until his appointment. The creation of the IRE and Salim’s appointment as its chief are significant developments, in my estimation. Salim has held a number of important portfolios, most recently as ambassador to Tehran, where he is credited with reaching a modus vivendi with Iran on the thorny problems our erstwhile Taliban friends were causing at that time.”

  Tarek nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard he is an effective diplomat.”

  Ali continued. “And Salim’s influence has been further enhanced with the appointment last month of his brother-in-law, General Kamal Huq, as the deputy defense minister. They have a close relationship and have formed a powerful informal alliance that includes a number of other important officials throughout the government—even within the ISI. Their influence in foreign and security policy has been growing daily. Prime Minister Bahir is still in charge of things, but I’m nervous about the situation. Both Salim and Huq are decidedly anti-Western in outlook and have strong empathy for some of the more extreme Islamic governments and jihad movements. Considering the current political instability in the country, not to mention our nuclear weapons, the rise of these men to prominence in the government is worrying.”

  Tarek had listened intently. “Sir, I understand your concern, but I am not clear on how any of this relates to my deputation to the IRE.”

  Ali leaned forward in his chair, his eyes had narrowed into a piercing stare. “It may have nothing to do with it, but I can tell you that Salim went to extraordinary lengths to get an experienced ISI officer assigned to him, and I initially refused his request. However, under pressure from General Huq and ISI’s new civilian administrator, I was forced to comply.”

  “But, Sir, what do you think is behind the request?”

  “Unfortunately, Tarek, I don’t know.” Ali relaxed a bit and sat back in his chair. The piercing stare was now gone, replaced by a wry grin. “And that is why I have recommended you for this assignment.”

  3

  As Mohammad Abdul Salim rose from his prayers, the light of the early morning streamed through the arched windows of his airy office suite. The sunlight pierced the interior of the room in large shafts, illuminating the finely woven detail of the many Persian carpets that decorated the room. The rich tones of the carpets on the sand-colored tile floors and the gracefully arched windows had a striking effect.

  Salim had a passion for Oriental rugs, and he was considered to be something of an expert. His specialty was tribal carpets, of which he owned 50 or more. Many had been presented to him as gifts during his posting as Pakistan’s ambassador to Iran. In addition to the tribal collection, he also had acquired a number of exquisite Persian carpets from Tabriz, Esfahan, and Qom. The carpets from Qom were silk, masterfully colored with vegetable dyes using techniques that had been passed down for generations. The center piece decoration of his office, however, was not silk; it was a simple, although beautiful, kilim made of wool. He had bargained over half a day for it and he had it mounted on the wall like a trophy for all to see. At times Salim would simply stop what he was doing to gaze about at the loveliness of his surroundings.

  Sitting down at his desk, Salim opened his leather-bound calendar and noted with satisfaction that later in the week he was scheduled to meet Major Tarek Durrani, the officer being detailed from ISI.

  Salim had been waiting for weeks for Major Durrani and two officers from Pakistan’s Intelligence Bureau to report to the IRE. Waiting was not something Salim did well. In his mind, the widespread unresponsiveness and ineptitude of the government bureaucracy was unacceptable. How his government had managed to produce a nuclear bomb was beyond him, although he was ecstatic it had. The bomb meant everything for Pakistan’s future and some credit had to be given to the government that had created it, though Salim knew the real credit for such a wonderfully powerful tool belonged to Allah alone.

  Salim reached across the desk and picked up a green folder with the words “CONTROLLED DOCUMENT” stamped across the cover. Opening the folder, Salim’s eyes fell on an 8 by 10 black and white photograph of Major Durrani—a head and shoulders shot of him in full uniform, taken the previous year. Even if the Major had not been in uniform, Salim knew he would recognize him as a soldier. More than the rugged features, the eyes reflected the nature of the man. Studying those eyes, Salim knew without a doubt that this man was a warrior, yet there was something else, something more difficult to decipher. Intelligence, inquisitiveness perhaps? Salim wasn’t sure, but he was intrigued and determined to find out. What was planned was far too important. The role he hoped Major Durrani might fill in that plan could not be left to an unknown quantity.

  As Salim’s manicured fingers lightly leafed through the Major’s file, he was reminded why he had been so impressed with this operative’s record the first time he read it. The Major possessed a most unique combination of talents—a mechanical engineer by education, a soldier by experience, and an intelligence officer by profession, not to mention an interesting combination of language skills thrown into the mix. And he would need all of them in his assignment. Salim knew he would be lucky to have such a man serving under him.

  Putting the file aside, Salim replaced it with a gold-embossed Qur’an, and he began to read.

  4

  Sitting in the flowered garden of his sister’s home in Rawalpindi, Tarek watched the late afternoon sun slip behind the hills to the west. The red hues along the horizon reached a purple crescendo, then faded into the early evening darkness. Tarek relished such displays of nature’s beauty, viewing them as potent reminders of the cosmic forces always operating but so rarely noticed as people go about their daily lives.

  He had enjoyed too few of these peaceful moments. His profession required that he live in crowded cities like Cairo, Khartoum, and Jakarta, where there was little of nature to enjoy but plenty of agents to be found. And it was in recruiting agents that Tarek excelled.

  Even before joining ISI, Tarek recognized he could be a manipulative person, subtly and deliberately using his influence with people to help him accomplish what he wanted. Women, more accurately girls, had first helped him learn that. Due to his father’s postings in Western countries as a military attaché, Tarek grew up abroad and had far more contact with the opposite sex than most Muslim males. As early as high school in Washington, D.C., he knew he had a natural charm with girls. Later, studying engineering in London, Tarek fully realized the power he seemed to hold over women.

  While part of the attention paid to him by women no doubt came from his dark good looks, Tarek was convinced his real draw was his ability to make women feel comfortable with him. This came naturally to Tarek. He liked women, both their bodies and their minds, and he learned that if he simply paid attention to them and treated them as his equal, they were usually responsive to him. He was later to learn these same human-relations truisms could be used outside romance, in his chosen profession. He had a strong suspicion there was a direct correlation between an intelligence officer’s history of sexual conquest and his success in recruiting agents to commit espionage. Tarek thought the ISI could benefit greatly by incorporating his theory into the screening and hiring practices for operations officers, but he had the good sense to keep that idea to himself.

  The last light of the setting sun had faded and the night air was quickly turning cool. Tarek decided it was time to rejoin his sister, Meena, and her family inside the house.

  In truth, Tarek had been delaying
an interaction with his brother-in-law, Jashem Bhatti, a mid-level administrative official and a man he had little in common with. At Meena’s insistence, Tarek had agreed to stay with her family for a few days while he got settled into his new posting.

  He was about to go inside when Meena opened the door and stepped into the garden. “Aren’t you ready to come in?” she called.

  “Sorry. I was just admiring the beautiful sunset,” he answered.

  “I knew you would notice it. I’ve spent many evenings out here, and I’ve often thought about you. I can see you haven’t changed. You’re still a dreamer.”

  “A dreamer!” Tarek said in mock surprise. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but a dreamer is not one of them.”

  Meena walked over to him and took his hand, “That’s because most people only see one side of you. I’m your little sister, remember? You can’t fool me with uniforms and secret missions and all those things you hide behind.”

  Marveling at how much Meena had grown to look like their mother, Tarek said in a feigned whisper, “Well, don’t tell anyone. Pakistani Army officers are supposed to be warriors, not dreamers, and if the truth gets out about me, I’ll be looking for a new line of work.”

  Meena let out a soft laugh and led Tarek into the house. Passing through the side foyer, Tarek stopped to look at a collection of family pictures hanging on a wall. He smiled when he saw one of his favorites—himself and Meena as children, playing in the garden while his father and mother looked on.

  Then he saw another photo he had not seen in many years. His smile disappeared. The photo had been taken on his wedding day. He was in full dress uniform and Farida was beside him, beautiful and radiant.

  “I just put it up the other day,” Meena said. “I hope you don’t mind.”