Kogon Plan

Author

Naeem Baig

All rights Reserved- June 2013 Naeem Baig Skans.ex@gmail.com

This is purely a work of fiction. All the names, characters, Organizations and events portrayed are either the products of Authors imagination or used fictitiously for the purposes of verisimilitude. Any resemblance to any actual person living or dead or any organization is coincidental.

Authors Note.

Kogon Plan is fundamentally a work of fiction on war against terror particularly in the background of terrorist activities in Pakistan. However this is my humble endeavor toward my contentment to bring such a book which could attract a large number of readers across the globe and in Pakistan as well. Long ago in my childhood Urdu espionage and thrill writer Ibne Safi was my ideal, then Fredrick Forsyth set new horizon on espionage, thrill and suspense among fiction writers of 1970s. Both the contemporary legends left great impact upon me which ultimately sparked my pensive fervor to conceive the idea to write something behind pretty heavy curtains against terrorism. This is a story of a brave young undercover soldier Sahel Farhaj, who in relentless hot pursuit confronts a notorious terrorist Razmak Bilal. I have tried to draw a structure where I can put colors of patriotism with professional ethics and bravery of a soldier. Besides, how great sense of loyalty among the professional officers, fetch far beyond intrinsic ultimate goals in espionage work is the subject described in detail. How does an undercover soldier fight against terrorist organization? Thats the exactly theme of this novel. This is very much fictional novel and the characters I built may get the semblance as genuine as I portrayed but anyway created through imaginary workshop. However, I have tried to set the situations on real locations or with similar background just to make this book more dramatic and thrilling.

Author June, 2013.

Kabul
Chapter 1
March 2003

It was cold in Kabul that morning, raining but without snow. It was still early, yet the light would remain the same all day like Siberia or Finland in the north. Sher Ali sat at a small table in a safe house in City Centre area near Masjid Shah Do Shamshera. The table was ugly, a stained round Formica top and peeling brown metal legs, but it was good enough for a student. At the moment Sher Ali wished that he were a student. He looked through the small lead glass window, yet he could not see nothing of City Centre, for the kitchen faced the stone facade of other half of the building. The flat has been carefully selected. Second floor--- you could jump off the kitchen window if you had to. Wooden stairs you could hear anyone on the landing. There was only one set of scenic windows and that was at the front of the flat facing street along the Kabul River. If you set up camp across from a Mosque, anyone who wanted to observe you would first have to get past a Pesh Imam. These things were always well thought-out. Sher Ali sipped at a cup of tea, but he could not eat. Baba Feroz on the other hand seemed to be having no trouble at all. His side of the table looked like a ravaged platter. He had finished half a litre of orange juice and was on his third cup of rich dark tea with sugar. Before him sat a large dish with two half-boiled eggs to be taken care of in the belly and he was violently jabbing buttered slice of a bread roll. Adding to Alis gastronomic disbelief, Baba punctured his light breakfast with gnashing bites from the greasy roll. What an appetite Alis tone was veined with disgust, though he knew, he was simply jealous. He wished he could eat too. Feroz looked up. He swept his shaggy dark brown hair back over his forehead and stared out innocently from his bright brown eyes. His mouth was full. Dont you feel hungry? Ali smiled and shook his head. Im not an animal. Feroz shrugged, taking no offence. Ok...I am an animal. He returned to his plate. Then he reached across the table, picked up his packet of Marlboro and begins rolling a cigarette. That was another thing that Ali could not understand. Food that could sink a battleship and tobacco that could burn asbestos, what an Iron stomach and Iron lungs? Then as if to dispel Alis envy, Baba glanced up again, grinned sheepishly and said I guess I am nervous. Yes Ali nodded. Pleased to be once more in the company of a human. You see, everyone has his own way of dealing with pre-combat jitters. Ali pushed his cup away, got up and walked through the lounge to the front window. He looked at his watch perhaps twentieth time. It was still only 7.30 AM. He put his hands on the hips and stared through the freckled glass at the Masjid Shah Do Shamshera, whose Red dome wavered like a dream behind the smoky sheets of water that coursed over the window. He blew out a sigh and turned to gaze at the small flat.

Everything was Afghani. The furniture, the books, the piles of daily Outlook and weekly Kabul and the fat volume of Omer Khayyam along with the Holy Quran wrapped in Red linen cloth on the upper part of the only wardrobe cabinet. His cloths were Afghani and Babas as well, right down to the underwear. The only foreign items were their American .45 calibre Colt, yet these two were accompanied by forged licensing documentation associating both men with Afghan anti-terrorist team. Even the subsonic ammunition was American, designed to kill but not to penetrate the target and possibly injure a wideeyed passer-by. Someone brilliant enough to think of everything, which allowed Sher Ali a certain relief from responsibility, yet it also caused him to feel rather primitive. He felt like Doberman at the tail of wedding parade. Something was gnawing at the pit of Sher Alis stomach. He swore to himself, for the hundredth time, that he would give up smoking that corrosive poison as soon as the mission is over. He was too dame jumpy. He had to begin changing gears, closing down emotions. The missions team leader had to command with cool objectivity and sharp reflexes, all the while seeming to his subordinates to be in complete self-control. As he has done many time in the past, Ali now searched for a focus which would help him attain this state. On the far wall of flat was a large poster framed in glass and aluminium. It was a soft focused, warm and colourful of the lush green lawns and bird-bedecked ponds of the Taimoor tomb across Kabul River with a girl standing at the end of the street leading to tomb. Ali has seen the poster countless time but it was only now that he really noted the girl who was grabbing a stick sneaking below the bush. He really noted the irony and laughed out loud. Whats this Baba called from the kitchen. Ssshh Ali continued the stare at the poster. He has broken his mood. He dropped his hands to the sides, willing the arm to relax, his fist to open, the fingers to dangle. He narrowed his eyes and saw his own reflection in the glass, short black hair, brownish eyes, and a strong neck and below that mid-length black leather coat. His image reassured him, smoother and calmer now. He directed his mind to Operation Darkroom. Amusingly, that Sardar Jagat Singh Khan had chosen such a name for this mission. In Urdu, the word for darkroom was a room where negatives are turned into positive , and the sound of that word was really too much like the Targets real name and to eliminate its features. But since you never, ever choose a mission an operational code that remotely resembled reality, Sardar has surely done so intentionally. In this business to be predictable was to be finished and Sardar was never predictable. By now Ali was sure Sardar Khan would have been in his office for over two hours. Ali was equally sure that the mission commander had been arriving for work at that hour since he had rented the vacant import/export office, if for no other reason than to quell any suspicious regarding his early arrival on this particular day. The office was situated in Marhaba Complex close to the Kabul City Centre for obvious cover reasons. But the precise choice of office 234 seemed to have been selected to satisfy Sardars sense of comical-ironic. For Sardar insisted on calling it Raphar in keeping his oftrepeated opinion that espionage was a shitty business.

Ali began to review the pre-mission details. Bano Abagull would be moving into position, setting up her easel on her glassed-in veranda which over looked in the Kabul Bazaar Street in the quiet borough of City Centre. Ali had not, of course, ever set foot in Banos flat. But her detailed description enabled him to picture the environment. Wearing a local Afghani Shalwar Qameez embroidered at small pits on its arms and breast. A telephone would be on her side next to a large pot of black coffee. Her petite black head would bore a number of items ---dangling chain-and ball earrings, the earphones of a Walkman, and on her crown a pair of half spectacle, half opera glasses. The veranda would not be heated today, so that the window glass would remain clear. Bano would shiver along with the leave of her veritable greenhouse, as the cold March wind invaded through the still cracks. As befitted an art student, she would have tens of brushes, tubes, trays, and ink surrounding her legs and as befitted the Teams Communication Officer, her art-work would suffer today as she looked and listened in a coldly un-aesthetic manner. After a month of work the large canvas of City Centre across Kabul River was still only half-finished. Had Bano not been quite so attractive, friendly and aggressively eccentric, her neighbours might have asked her why it was taking so long. Ali did not allow his thoughts to linger with Bano, for he had feelings for her that somehow were less than professional. Barat Khan, now there was a man who could not possibly sit and wait; and fortunately for him he would not be required to do so. Barats triple duties as Transportation Officer, Primary tail and back-up would keep him moving all day long. Already at dawn, Barat would have commenced his check of the motor pool. There were to the dismay of the Departments Logistic Head, ten rental vehicle involved in the operation as well as a purchased Van and an ambulance. Each vehicle has to be inspected for fuel, oil and water and then started and warmed to its health. The entire rental vehicle had been hired from different firms with one of three with Master-Cards which were linked to relatively with small cash accounts in Egyptian Banks. Throughout the early morning, Barat would have gone systematically from one compartment to other compartment, inserting type written notes into each rental agreement. Long after the cars were abandoned, and hope fully recovered by their irate owners, the message in Persian would intentionally appease; Terribly sorry for inconvenience, please forgive and charge our account Ali had developed a consummate respect for Barat and he trusted his technical judgements implicitly. He could picture the diminutive, muscled ex-motorcycle racer gleefully flying through the rainy streets of Kabul, flitting from one machine to other, fretting like a Pit Manager. Then there was Shabana Mir, as secondary tail and emergency decoy, Shabana was going to have an extremely unpleasant day. She would spend all morning outdoors within five hundred meters of the City Centre North-west Street facing River Kabul wearing her Walkman

waiting for her cue. If she had ever harboured fantasies about the romantic life of an espionage agent, today she would sure be cured of such notions. Shabanas task was somewhat more difficult than Banos inasmuch she was the Teams character actress. Inherently she possessed all of Banos dynamics qualities, yet she could play her own type and was therefore called upon to do so with regularity. Her speciality was going completely unnoticed, and she had practiced donning this cloak of invisibility until details of her physical and personality traits were obscured and encounters with her quickly for-gotten. Her form was slightly athletic, so she wore over-sized shirts and fatigue like trousers. Her hair was dark brown and of naturally groomed textured so she refrained from washing it much while in the field. She would pull it back into a tight bun and thick glasses to dull the liveliness of her hazel eyes. Everything suggested a total lack of sexuality that man can look at her with fairly grimace. Today Shabana would fairly disappear within her operational area. Wearing a dull raincoat, a scarf covered his head and earphone of Walkman. She would be forced to listen and she would move from cafe to cafe, never lingering more than half an hour, yet constantly forced to order food for which she has no appetite. She would wait and by mid-afternoon she would be sick to death of eating... Ali moved forward with his mental checklist, arriving at the image of one of his favourite comrade Faizi Jaffar was the elder of the primary field team, and thought of him always sure to improve Alis mood. Karachi born, Faizi frequently amused the younger members of Special Operations with his tortured dialect in twisted Punjabi. He was close to forty, tall, bony, stooped and mostly bald. His sharp eyes were creased with smile lines, his side burn going grey. His hawkish sly nose with quick smile completed the character of some sort of comic master, constantly on the verge of tossing off one-liners which served to force someone to smile even in the gravest situation. On Darkroom Faizi would be serving as the team janitor, with a secondary function as Emergency Decoy. As with all complex intelligence missions, operation Darkroom had a window within which it would have to be executed. After a certain amount of elapsed time, the operation could no longer be considered secure and it would have to be abandoned until some future date and place. Today was Darkrooms final day. Ali still lost in half-thoughts of pre-mission review, did not realise that he was smiling stupidly. Kis ki yaad Aa rehi hey Baba had finished his dish washing. He had removed his waste coat and his pistol was down on the table. Thinking of Faizi Ali said. He is getting too old for his work Baba wilfully teased Ali. Oh, No... Hes at his peak, relaxed and unlike us. And dont do too many to spoil your aim. Baba obediently switched to sit-ups, but first he took a drag from his cigarette, which was perched in a metal ashtray on the kitchen table. The smell of the tobacco made Ali want one too. He dragged his own pack of Rothmans from his coats pocket and lit up with a disposable lighter.

The Great Game--- as the seniors liked to call the intelligence business--- took its toll. All of the primary team members were fit, but all of them were smokers. Ali wondered that if the entire team was rounded up for questioning and deprived of their cigarettes, they might all begin to sing a Qawwali in chorus. Sardar Khan, Ali was sure, would also be smoking at this very moment... he would be hunched over his desk at office 234, his bogus toy import/export firm Toy House, staring at three black telephones like an optimistic vulture. The small office filled with maps, catalogues and shipping forms would be foggy with smoke. Sardar would not move from his chair, the only evidence of his anticipation the ruined red-and-white pack of Wills filter at his fingertips. Sardars usually optimistic expressions would be devoid of all humour as he waited for word from his team of Casuals. The Casuals were local resident operatives whose only function would be to identify moves of the Target, report in, and then quit the mission. Ali thought of the mission again and sighed as he marvelled at the complexity of the operation, the number of personnel involved. Ali took pride in his fellow colleagues ability to cooperate, maintain security, compartmentalize issues and still execute a difficult mission. Today Darkroom would involve the facilities, the personnel of Diplomatic Security, Civilian Intelligence and Special Air Operational Unit. If it succeeded the credit would be consumed by all. But if failed everyone would lodge their logistic claims with the Directorate. Perhaps this attention to operational details served as psychological compensation for the missing factor---Unknown quantity. The single indistinct entity was inevitably the Target, for while preparations might be perfect. Everyone in proper position, you never knew precisely what He was going to do. Razmak Bilal. Was he still in his room in the Spinzer Hotel on Kabul River? The watchers had been on him all night, sealing the hotel as best as they could without blowing the mission. At last report at 0210 hrs. Razmak had retired. But who could be sure. And then if and when he finally appeared, would Razmak play the game. Would he proceeds, as he had done for last four days running to his office beneath the Central Pamir Cinema, and if he did so, when he finally emerged, would he still have his romantic appetite for a risky call to his girlfriend. So many variable, so many chances, you never knew the next step, so many reliances of the luck and chances. It all suddenly seemed to be foolish to Ali, bordering, in fact on the impossible. They had been tracking the Target across the Middle East for the last three months, yet he always seemed to escape their grasp, like a magician. At times Ali had to remind himself of the importance of the mission and he would hard back to the initial briefing when the team was assigned to Operation Darkroom. What did he do now he had asked Sardar when the commander first announced their Target. Razmak certainly has bloody resume. He had blown up a Police HQ in Nowshera. He had operated several bomb blasts almost in all the Provincial HQ which killed almost more than 350 innocent people including women and children besides an attempt to blow up an Official Convoy of the Governor. In the last year he had himself plotted to kill a Diplomatic entourage which instead under a sheer unfortunate chance targeted a friend countrys Ambassador who died instantly with his three embassy personnel in Black Ultimo 2.5. He was moving around in Margalla Hills on a personal trip without the knowledge of local police. The case was later taken up by the Americans with its code name ISD-3355.

If this is the case, then why doesnt this friend country himself catch him and execute him for the murder of his one ill-fated Diplomat. Baba never could stop his slip of dialect but the question had a merit. Because they would have to have eye witnesses, Razmaks fingerprints and Act of parliament to do it, and above all this incident happened in our country. Sardar Khan had said with a mixture of pity and scorn. Ali needed no more reasons, for Razmak was now responsible for mass murders that cut across international lines, but he also wondered whether the team has finally met their match. He sucked on his cigarette watching Baba to perform his exercise and his stomach began to churn again. The telephone rang. Baba stopped in mid-sit-up. Ali flicked head towards a corner of the lounge where the dirty white instrument sat on a small wooden table. It rang again. Baba sprang to his feet but Ali was there first, snatching up the receiver. He forced himself to produce a normal tone, even a touch of drowsiness. Suba Bakhair It was Sardars basso voice. Is this Bus Company? I am sorry, its not, may be wrong number, Ali was already nodding to the expectant Baba. I am sorry too... have a good day, Sir Sardar hung up and Ali put the receiver into the cradle. He was already moving to pick up his small overnight bag. Baba threw his jacket on and pulled a black smoky cap onto his head. Neither of two men spoke as they examined the rooms, quickly one last glance. They have done it twice already. It was just habit. Ready Ali faced Baba in the middle of the room. Baba patted the small bulge under his jacket. Ready. Allah pe Rakh

----The cold rain sounded suddenly like ball bearings on steel plate, but Ali cap-less, ignored it. Alone he slowly walked across the street to the dull Blue Corolla parked in front of the Mosque, opened the door, slipped into the front seat, briefly warmed the engine and slowly eased out from the street. The rain was bouncing up white halos around the parked cars and hardly anyone else was driving. He swung around the Mosque, headed north and stopped forty meters up the block. Feroz waited by the apartment house-door, as he reluctant to brave the downpour. He counted to a full twenty seconds and satisfied that no other vehicle had followed, Ali went out into the street. Baba walked casually towards the corner and then jumped into the passenger seat, welcoming the growing warmth of the engine. Aik aur Musibat, Baba spat, complaining about the weather. He stuffed his bag into the rear seat, while Ali pulled away taking slow right onto service road and heading west towards Kabul River Bridge and then to City Centre.

Its going to stay this way. Said Ali, tried to concentrate keeping his speed slow. Nothing above third gear, he told himself. Better get used to it. Baba blew out a breath and looked at the little cloud, Can I at least take an umbrella? As long as you dont use it Ali smiled on him. They were already on the main road alongside on the Kabul River. The Radio Ali ordered. Baba sarcastically obeyed. The Corollas cheap Panasonic had been extracted from the Dash Board, and in its place as with the entire primarys team vehicles, another Cassette player had been placed which was a creation of the departments magician. On the outside it was black high-tech AM/FM and on the inside it was all connected with special UHF technology wireless transmission. The receiver contained some unusual features uncommon to simple car stereos. Below the tuning were six pre-set buttons. The three on the right functioned normally and could be pre-set to choice commercial stations. The three on the left were set to engage only the operational frequencies of Darkroom. While the hole for cassette contained no apparent tape rather it was fixed with a sixty minutes continuous-loop microcassette. Pushing the radios power knob, rather than turning it activated only the cassette and the operational frequencies. The tape played a pre-recorded local pop station, from which all references to time, day and date had been edited. The disc jockey was a female. From her chilly veranda of Bazaar Street of City Centre, Bano Abagull would control all broadcasts to the primary team. Though her modified Walkman, she would monitor Kabul police traffic. Her telephone seemingly one of those push-buttons clock-radio extravaganzas, served a dual function. It received incoming call, yet through it Bano could also broadcast to the car radios. She could switch operational frequencies with numbered combination on the push-button handset. Banos coded message would be brief. When necessary she would override the sultry taped disc jockey with a weather report or a birthday greetings, offering te am updates, instructions or frequency change. Excepting a special alteration to Alis Radio, there was no provision for two-way transmission. Bano liked it that way. No one could talk back to her. Feroz reached over and pushed the power knob on the radio. Immediately the tape engaged in the middle of a recording of Radio Kabul on Indian old songs. Baba laughed but Ali was concentrating on the traffic. He was following a Blue-ended serene police car, and his knuckles tightened under his leather gloves. Baba pushed the far left pre-set button, engaging the first operational frequency. It added nothing to the tape broadcasts as only Banos voice could actually open the wave. Ali stared past the droning wipers of the Corolla. He blew out a breath when he turned onto Jaime Street as the police car continued on main road. The traffic was still light and he wondered if weekend late night activities had kept most of Kabul in bed today. It was not good. No traffic means less police work and he wanted the police to be very busy today. The National Museum appeared ahead, the grey stones of the building pressed under a white curtain of thin steamy fog. Ali turned onto the sideway and stopped the car near the cemetery.

Go and see your friends he said. Baba groaned and walked off into the sideway entrance and went inside on lawns area. Ali moved on and quickly found a space and parked the car. He left the engine running, the radio on. He turned off the wipers and opened the window half way and lit a cigarette. After a moment there was a knock on the passenger window. He opened the door to admit a tall red-scarfed girl, who fairly fell into the front seat, shivering under her long woollen coat. Hello he smiled. Long ago the department had decided that a single man waiting in a car was a suspicious sight. However a loving couple usually does attract nothing more than a smile. The girl was a resident consular employee, totalling compartmentalized, knowing virtually nothing. Her cover was light and to an inquisitive policeman, she would respond with blushes and confess to more than a recent one-nighter with Khan as she had been told to refer Ali. She opened her coat and then moved closer to Ali, who stretched his arm around her shoulders. Could be worse the girl said, smiling shyly. At least you are good looking. It would probably most exciting day of her diplomatic career. Shh Ali whispered in her hair.... Lets listen to the radio. He wondered if this couple routine might be as usual. He was certain that the Department must know it too; soon they will be using pairs of children... or worse than those midgets. He thought and the image brought a smile on his face, quickly vanished by a glimpse of Baba outside along the grill around the cemetery garden mourning no one in the rain.

At 09.30, Razmak Bilal had finally left the Spinzer Hotel, prompting his grateful watchers to make a public telephone to office 234 Marhaba Complex. In turn Sardar had promptly dialled Spinzer, got the desk at the hotel and asked for room 515. He had held his breath for five rings, and when no one answered he hung up and began dialling again sending all the primary members into streets. The chase was started, but from this point forward it had to played courtship rather than a pursuit. The Departments military psychologists had made extensive studies. Animals in the wild sensed while they were being hunted. Sentries guarding enemy bases seemed to feel it when they were about to be taken down. Even in the crowded streets of a major city, Targets could often smell a tail. So Razmak Bilal could not now be followed in the classic manner. He would be picked up by the Casuals at various points, the sighting not even reported and left to go on his way. If he did not adhere to the pattern required by the mission that would be reported and the operation would be postponed. This was where luck would become a major player in the game. So far, Razmak was cooperating. He walked out of the Grand Hotel Spinzer and stood under the large green fibre-glass shelter for the waiting people in front of the outside of Hotel, seemingly sniffing the weather, or perhaps someone others scent. He was wearing expensive brown leather long raincoat. A shocking pink silk scarf with delicate paisley ends was wrapped around his throat. His short silky black hair was covered by a soft gabardine pea cap. He carried a brief case in one hand and a folded umbrella in the other. It would be fairly easy to track him today, if he did not alter his attire.

He went into the hotels underground parking lot and came out driving a four door immaculate Blue Mercedes SEL-500. He switched on the wipers and moved down to service lane which connecting main road to Kabul Bazaar Street, at least seemingly heading towards Kabul Central Pamir cinema. That was when the first set of casuals made their call, describing Razmaks dress for the day. While the primary team hurried out to assume their first stage positions, Razmak continued driving. Now as long as he did nothing totally unexpected, there would be no more casual reports to Sardar until the second stage. On the corner in front of the River Complex a middle aged man was walking with a shivering German shepherd. He watched the Mercedes as it passed the River Complex, but he was not alarmed. The wide double thoroughfare was one way on this side. Razmak would have to make U-turn and back if he was indeed headed for Pamir Cinema. The man crossed over onto the broad medium strip. His shepherd seemed happier to be among the tall trees, though they were winter dark and threadbare, dripping with water. The man stood staring up at the huge white Coca-Cola sign over the curved set of five-story stone offices on the north side of the square. He looked as though he longed for such a luxury vehicle, though he was actually counting the endless seconds. When the Blue SEL-500 passed him, headed back the other way, he smiled and bend down to pat his grinning companion. For the past four days, Razmak had been coming from his hotel to the Pamir Cinema, some time he made elaborate detours through the Kabul bazaar Street, but he always arrived at the same place. Even in winter the Pamir cinema was one of the Kabuls most visited square. Above ground there was a large circular fountain with tens of jets ringing the circumference spraying into a central geyser. Lining the stone square on its north and southeast were two semicircular business edifices of an unappealing yellow colour. Grand access to the Pamir Cinema was from the east, through the grey medieval arches which looked the entrance to a moated castle. Below the cinema accessed by wide stairs was sprawling shopping centre and pedestrian mall with passages leading to the bus stop and taxi stand. One of the many shops was a small jewellery concern. It was owned by a man named Jabil, who was under cover representing Boris Yaakov, a senior intelligence officer of the Russian External Services. Apparently Razmak had some interesting business with Boris whom he had not met, but as far as the Darkroom personnel were concerned, at this point the said information was irrelevant. On the first two days, after spending some hours with Boris, Razmak had gone to visit a woman in Kabul downtown area near King Tomb. He has been seeing the woman on and off for a year, and by the nature of her appearance blonde and athletic and encounters were assumed to be sexual. An extremely loose tail was placed on her, although no electronic surveillance. Yesterday she had been out of town visiting a girl friend in Ghazni. Today she was back at home and it was hoped that Razmak appetite had caught up with him in the past forty eight hours. The casual and his canine watched that Razmaks Mercedes passed on the northern corner of the Pamir Cinema. The car pulled into the indoor parking lot. The casual knew that attendants received the vehicle, so the target whose name and function he did not know, would shortly emerge. He waited for a break in the traffic, and then hurried across the road with his shepherd. The downpour has turned into a chilly drizzle and he sat down on the one of the large

stone stool near to the foundation. He began to play with the dog, who happily responded to cuff on the ears and short woofs from his master. The casual was no amateur. In his youth he has worked for the British intelligence as deep cover agent in Kabul. Though long retired over the ten past years, Babul has performed many brief but essential tasks for Sardar. He had a vast wealth of street experience and would watch a target almost without looking at him. Razmak emerged from the parking lot, crossing the path using his black umbrella as walking stick. Babul was confident that Razmak was heading to the mall. In a moment his role would be over, another clean entry would be weathered old intelligence diary he kept in his head. But Razmak made a sharp left and headed straight for the arches. Babul continued playing with the shepherd, yet he blinked in the rain as he watched Razmak receding back. The quarry was passing below the large Billboard on the east side of the square, heading for the endless expanses of the pedestrian way on the Street, where he could disappear in a half minute. Babul walked quickly to the south end of the square. He stepped into a telephone booth, threw coins in to the slot and dialled a number. The shepherd whined sensing his masters discomfort. It was 9.46. Sardar answered before the first ring stopped. Morning Sardar... this is Babul. Listen, I know we were supposed to meet Razi for the luncheon, but he had to go east for the day. Really? Sardar voice barely betrayed his concern. Are you sure? O, yes I am sure. Sorry for the inconvenience. Not at all, Perhaps some other time. I guess you will have the day off then. Yes... thank you. Both men terminated. Sardar now had a difficult decision to make. Razmak has deviated, had not entered the Mall. He was moving east to a new place. Babul has used the word go, so Razmak was on foot. He might do something unexpected. If he has already sensed a tail, then Darkroom was blown anyway. He called Bano. When she hung up with him, she made her first broadcast on the frequency A. Her voice was as casual as that of female disc. Jockey now chattering over the weather etc, cut in with a brief commercial announcement. Now, all you lovely Kabul girls, I know its raining a bit today, but there is big sale on at Mall in Pamir Cinema shopping centre. You really should not miss it, Hat, business cases, umbrellas and coats 30 percent off. The message was intended for Shabana Mir, as Pamir cinema area was her operational area. But every one of primary team knew what the relay meant. Still parked next to the cemetery garden, Ali recoiled from the redhead and lit up a cigarette. She did not immediately realize what had happened and took it quite personally. In an open parking lot of the Kabul bazaar street, Barat Khan sat in silver Audi. It was the only power car in the primary fleet, and as Barat heard Banos first report, he realized that all of his motor pool work was going down the toilet. He slammed the steering wheel with his fist. In Wazir Akbar Khan area, Faizi was inside a large, leased private garage. The cab of his long grey Corolla delivery Van was open, and he sat of the running board, listening to the radio

munching on a sandwich. Hearing Banos report, he did not miss a bite. He had been on too many missions. It was still early in the game. Shabana stopped short when she heard Banos announcement. Her Walkman used the same three frequencies as the mobile wireless, but it played no decoy tapes. She was two hundred meters away from the National Museum area, walking north to the pedestrian mall on City Centre. She cursed herself for having lost concentration, wandered too far from the first-stage area. She quickly spun from the distant vision and hurried back towards the spoke of her assigned compass. She cut west into the side way nearly running. If she reached quickly, she might beat Razmak, if he had not yet turned into the side street. Her stomach was bloated, the Dianas lifestyle & short Biography heavy in her bag. She was sweating, panting and she struggled to remember what Bano has just said. Hat, brown leather business case, umbrella and coat. Alright she has seen over twenty recent photos of Razmak and now she had a good description of Target as well. She had to try and pick him up. Perhaps only two minutes passed and Babul was still standing in Booth miming a conversation into the dormant instrument. He squinted through the fogged glass and began to smile. Yes, Razmak was now strolling casually back carrying a newspaper. Razmak Bilal was no amateur either. He has simply engaged in a brief detour before he descended to visit Boris Yaakov. If he were being classically tracked, he would feel the resultant shake up, sensed the panic moves in the environment. Babul called Toy House, hoping that his relaxed appearance was a sufficient mask to his hammering heart. He began to laugh, gesturing grandly and making his presence in the booth completely innocent. My God, I am such a fool Sardar. He said. I was looking on the wrong date, of course, well have lunch with Razi today. Are you sure Babul? Sardar asked. You can make me crazy sometime. Im sure my friend. Within seconds Bano was excusing herself to her radio audience, announcing a correction. The sale at Pamir Cinema Mall was for tomorrow. Shabana suddenly snapped her head to the gorgeous sound of Banos voice. She sat down on wooden bench, leaned back, closed her eyes and then let the rain poured her face.

For the next two hours Razmak Bilal stayed beneath the Pamir Cinema, and despite the continuous rain, the Kabul people did not forget their lunch break, excepting a professionals team who had immediately replaced Babul and his dog and all the Casuals had been called off. Now the only operatives remaining on the Darkroom were the primary team and a few emergency backups and a mother and daughter in down town area. The local people who had briefly participated would only learn of the missions nature if it succeeded and news reached the morning papers. The two remaining non-primaries sat in the Kabul down Town Street 13 taking an extremely long waiting. The mother was not really casual, but an analyst from the department. The daughter was a clerk from the embassy. They were happily engaged in addressing invitations to the daughters upcoming wedding, and no one bothered them. On a signal from Bano, a reference to a possible improvement in the weather confirmed Razmaks return. Everyone else had gone to Stage Two position.

Ali reluctantly dismissed his parking companion, who had belatedly come to realize that she was attractive and used an erotically disturbing eau de cologne. He pushed the car horn twice, and Baba came out of the cemetery, looking not too much wet. He had found a tomb under which he had properly engaged his grief. They drove to the down town area, moved the car every thirty minutes and took turn grabbing something to eat and relieving themselves in public areas. Barat Khan happily put his Audi into gear, left the open lot and drove west to the downtown area. He moved, then to the north along the river and parked by the sloping bank, fifty meters short River Kabuls Bridge. He sat in the car studying the enormous steel ropes hanging on the bridge, watching a single elderly woman as she leaned on the metal fence on the bridge. He did not dare to leave the radio unattended, so he munched on various nuts from a paper pack and drank coffee from a thermos. On occasion, he slipped over to the passenger side, opened the door and peed onto the grass from a sitting position. Faizi left the garage in Wazir Akbar Khan area, drove across the river and parked delivery truck in a side street near a small children park. The neighbourhood was dead quiet, and he went through the copy of Kabul Weekly. Shabana Mir having no transportation, had to rush for a taxi. Just a hundred meter away from her next station Taimoor Shah Tomb, she left the taxi and found a small cafe. For the first time all day, she was happy to be inside a cafe. She went to the washroom, took off her sobbing scarf and dried her hair as best she could with a paper towel. Then she took a table near the front, readjusted her Walkman over her ears and actually manager to read a newspaper as she sipped coffee from a porcelain cup. She had already eaten enough for a week. Sardar remained hovering over his desk at his Marhaba Complex. He did not eat or drink, but he finished another pack of Wills. Bano made contact once, to change frequencies, and every one switched to channel B. The waited, it could happen in next five minutes or not for five hours. At 12.25 Razmak Bilal appeared at the top of Pamir Cinema stairs. He walked around the fountain and headed for the parking lot. The woman timed it perfectly. They collected their invitations, exited the Mall entrance and strolled arm in arm across the causeway. They walked slowly further reducing the pace as they crossed under a big Neon Sign, chatting and giggling like school girls. The nose of the Razmaks SEL-500 poked from the parking garage, offering a momentary side view of his face through the smoked glass of Mercedes as he eased out into traffic and headed south at Kabul Bazaar Street. The two women quickly turned towards a telephone booth. Sardar JS snatched at the phone like a cat after a bird. Sardar, its Ezra, the elder woman said, not even bothering to conceal her pleasure. Dont forget to pick up Uncle Khan at the Station. Has he left yet? Yes. Did you see him off? Yes, yes.

It was critical moment. Sardar has to be absolutely sure that the target was positively identified. If Ezra was really convinced, then he could be as well. Ok, just tell me again what he looks like. Brown raincoat, pea cap, umbrella and a brief case, Ezra added a touch of drama. I told you dear. You are so forgetful. Sardar ignored her playacting. What was it you said about his skin? He asked. Light fair, dear. A Circassia had given Razmak a somewhat non-Semitic complexion. Earlobes? Detached. Yes. Now he tried to trick her, just to make sure that she was not being overly enthusiastic. Did he limp? Ezra hesitated for a split second. Then, she said. No, silly, of course not You are a good girl. Sardar voice was smiling. I know. Shararti Bachey. Acha Aunty Jee He hung up and made his decision in micro second, and called Bano.

Just a short interruption before we get on with some fantastic tunes, Believe it or not, Kabul tomorrow looks to be a sunny day! Aye Shamina Tuk, Tuk... Maybe even good enough for a fascinating picnic At her cafe table, Shabana Mir lifted her eyes from the paper. Picnic. That was it. Razmak was mobile. She dropped a few coins onto the table, gathered her bag, pulled on her floppy scarf and left the cafe. The rain had almost completely let up and it was now turning to a light powdery snow. Shabana walked briskly north on Kabul Stoor Bazaar; she had to make the intersection before Razmak reached there. The midday traffic was thickening, and she was sure to beat him, but she kicked out a pace anyway. In planning sessions, Barat has made a strong case for this route. He has been over it in his own car possibly ten times at all hours of the day and night. If Razmak was going to cut through and cross the river towards Kabul Bazaar Street, this was always the best route. If he had other plans what the hell did it matter? Shabana waited at the corner, fiddling inside her large handbag, her eyes shifted under the brim of her scarf towards the Grand Shopping Plaza. Three minutes passed. Nothing. Then suddenly SEL-500 appeared right next to her, having come from behind her. Razmak turned the corner onto Plaza towards west. Shabana ran her checklist: Blue Mercedes SEL-500, single passenger, last four license digits 7742. Barat was right. Razmak was following the pattern. Shabana would make no report. Now it was up to her Jawans to take care of him. She had one more assignment, and she walked happily after Razmak car watching it blend into traffic towards the river. Her steps were lighter now, her enormous tension fading as her chilled neck muscles begun to relax.

She reached the German Consulate at the corner. The German had great respect for their flag, and it had been pulled in from the rainy weather. A pair of guards stood outside at the main entrance to the old stone structure. Shabana felt sorry for them. There was a trash receptacle at the corner. She reached into her bag, came up with an apparently empty can of Coca-Cola and dropped into the trash container. Then she walked across the street to the King Mosque down to the large pond and stayed there, watching the ducks, keeping her eye on a pair of public phones not twenty meters away. Barat picked up Razmak as the SEL-500 cruised onto the Shah Bridge. He allowed three other cars to follow the Blue Mercedes, and then he cut into traffic and crossed the river. He smiled tightly as he drove. He has read the bastards mind. Faizi had already left the Children Park and driven down to the west side of the Kabul Street Bazaar. He swung the truck along a large High School and parked 30 meters south side of Kabul Street Bazaar. Traffic from the west side of Kabul Street flowed naturally to the east through this narrow funnel. Faizi was smoking now; he used a plastic cigarette holder, something he could bite down on. To the west he could see the low red-brick facade of a Church hospital. Further to the west, but not far enough he knew was the Kabul Street Police Station. On the icy veranda at number 1 Kabul Bazaar Street City Centre, Banos body began to go rigid with tension. She had heard nothing since two hours when she had issued her last operational order. While she knew that no contact meant that Razmak was following the plan, the waiting was torturous. She turned her rocker more to the west, reached over and wiped the porch window with a soiled rag. Below her the red roofs of City Centre Kabul Bazaar Street stretched away like gingerbread housetops in a fairy tale. The quiet borough was being dusted with light, flour-white snow, the narrow street traversed by the occasional cautious driver. A few hunched figures emerged from the quaint houses and neighbourhood shops. In the distance, Kabul spires stabbed at a slate-grey sky beneath the already fading daylight. No one had arrived yet. It was good time to change frequencies. Then she thought better of it. At this crucial juncture, someone might have a microchip failure. She removed one of the Walkmans pronged phones from her right ear, leaving the left one in. She turned up the volume. She would be monitoring Kabul Police Band and simultaneously transmitting through the telephone handset. She chewed on the wooden shaft of paintbrush, Bazaar Street, the main street of the neighbourhood, stretched away to the west until it curved around the little Mosque and disappeared. Traffic was one way coming towards her. From the north the small size street was also one way, cutting south across Bazaar Street. Traffic-wise, it was a good spot for an entrapment. Sher Alis blue Corolla was the first car to appear. It came cruising down Kabul Bazaar Street and parked in the middle of the next block, south side between two big shops. Bano worked her telephone set, switching briefly to normal function. She called Sardar on the speed dialler. Toy House. Are you open today Bano asked quickly. Tomorrow, we are closing early. Yes, maybe the weather will be better. Thank you.

Sardar hung up and opened a desk drawer, removing a Walkman similar to Banos. Yet with his device, one ear phone was tuned to the Police band, others to Darkroom operational frequencies. He had learned to be a team-leader. He pushed the headphones onto his dry bald pate. The next car was Barat khans silver Audi. Like Alis, Barat has detoured in order to overtake Razmak and arrived in the operational area first. He cruised past Ali and Baba, quickly swung north to Small Street and came down the one way parking half down the block facing Bazaar Street. After a few more seconds, the blue Mercedes turned the corner the Mosque. Bano dropped the opera-glass spectacles down over her eyes. A single driver. Last four plate digits, 7742. Her breath was coming faster; she tried to calm it, the heat would fog the window. She worked the telephone handset and said, Heres birthday greeting from Jolly Komal in Ghazni to her Uncle Shah in Bazaar Street. In their stage three positions in all over Kabul, the backs of the primary team members went stiff. A room becoming darkroom. Razmak parked his car on the north side of the Kabul Bazaar Street just twenty meters ahead from Alis Corolla. Baba mouthed silent nonsense to Ali, and Ali watched only Razmak. Razmak Bilals paramour lived in a small apartment house on the North-west corner Bazaar Street. Next to that was small cafe and grocery shop with a green awning. On all of his visits, Razmak never went directly into the apartment. Sometime he would just in the car for a moment, but usually he would enter the grocery shop, take a table, and watch the street for a while and then exit with a freshly baked gift. Razmak got out the Mercedes. Nikal aya hey Baba whispered inside the Corolla. Both men eased back on their door latches. Razmak went into the Grocery shop. Could be a few minutes now said Baba, but now Ali was also watching the shop, his muscles would like steel suspension springs. His heart was hammering against his leather coat and his breathing was ragged. Inside his tight leather driving gloves, his hands were soaked. He quickly pulled the gloves off, threw them on the dash and smeared his palms on his slacks. In less than sixty seconds, Razmak came out of the shop carrying two long paper bags, but he did not turn left towards the apartment. He turned right and his keys were dangling from one hand. He is going for the car Baba hissed. Keep the machine slow and get close, said Ali They watched and cruised slow on the line along the pathway. They registered a small blond child as the scarf figure darted out of his way. He knew Baba was keeping his right hand flicked upon his coat emerging with the glistering Colt with silencer ready to catch him from the other side, the moment they would step out to reach him. Fifteen meters, now ten, now five. Get out, said Ali and he was out of the Corolla, spinning quickly as he left the door ajar. They mounted the sidewalk and closed on Razmaks back. They cocked the slides. It was then Razmak turned and Ali was expected to see snout of the Makarov pistol that he knew

Razmak carried. But instead, what faced him was an expression of initial greeting that quickly turned to surprised horror and would haunt Sher Ali for the rest of his unnatural life. As he reached close the target to grab his both wrists in one stretch, a burst of .45 magnums automatic suddenly sprayed on the chest and belly of the target blowing off him in the air backward. Ali knelt down and shouted over to Baba to get back in the car. A semi-automatic medium range fire, Ali was sure. A shot sounded shekel dropped in front of him after hitting wall. Another rubbed his left shoulder. Ali squeezed it for a moment, turned his face left and then shot three rounds from the Colt taking shelter of Corolla over to the window on his left side building from where he could see a mild smoke of gunfire. He quickly got up and emptied his pistol aimed on the invisible shooters and jumped in the car. No sign of shooters in window. They might by now have left the window. It was all over in ten seconds, and then Ali found himself on the front passenger seat. His hands entirely their own masters, worked the mechanism of his Colt, reloading. He heard Baba breathing behind the wheel already; they looked each other quizzically. Outside their footsteps stamped the light dusting of new snow. Fast... Ali said to Baba though he, too, was staring at the growing form of the Corolla, longing for its comforts, its shelter, its speed. At the moment, he certainly felt the onset of insanity, for he was convinced that his target, now lying in a pool of blood on the sidewalk, was victim of tragic misidentification. Yet in the eternity of that moment, he had no choice but to behave as if the operation had been executed to perfection in a sense. He was responsible for the follow through, the safety and escape of his people, and any incursion of self-doubt could mean doom for them all. Are you OK, said Baba. Yes, it just blown my jackets shoulder, Ali checked the hole in the leather jacket. Feroz turned right down, somewhere, hissing a sigh of immense relief as he achieved second gear, then third. It was at that moment that the Uzbeks appeared. No one had seen them. Not Bano, Ali, Baba or Barat. They had been sitting in a white Mitsubishi Gallant, two blocks back on the Bazaar Street. The perfect loose tail, they had not followed the team. They had been there all day. Barat Khan started cruising, seeing Alis car moving up ahead, knowing that they have failed to arrest the Target. But as he reached in front of the grocery shop, a screaming woman running across the road from where she had just had a close look at the bloody corpse. Barat was forced to slam his brakes; the nose of the Audi swerved in the slick snow and a white Mitsubishi Gallant screeched and went careening after Alis Corolla. Bano Abagull knew that something has gone wrong. Her heart fluttering like a trapped birds, she watched Razmak down and her team members getting back into the car hurriedly shooting over their left side. Yet almost immediately Kabul Police Band began to chatter like a cage-full of apes. Kabul BS One, this is Lion. We have a reported shooting in your area Bazaar Street. Its just couldnt have happened that fast. Even the most vigilant citizen would be temporarily shocked into inaction. Bano reached quickly putting out a public service announcement.

Kabuls driving conditions are worsening. Please be on your best behaviour this afternoon. As soon as Faizi Jaffar heard this driving condition announcement, he moved. He had already heard banging of police siren approaching from the North and he knew that the ambulances would momentarily emerge from the Church hospital. His task was simple yet exposed and dangerous. He spun the wheel of the Van and drove the big Toyota down towards the intersection of City Centre and Kabul Bazaar Street. He gathered speed, hesitated as red-Nissan Lancer crossed in front of him, then stabbed the accelerator and almost simultaneously stood hard on the brake pedal. The wheels locked and the Van swerved, its nose dipping towards the slick pavement. The rear wheels rocked up for a second and Faizi thought he might flip it, but then the vehicle settled perfectly, completely blocking the fork as car horns blared all around him. He cut the engine, reached down and pulled the choke handle all the way out. It had a modified cable and valve, and in two seconds the carburettor was irreparably flooded. Three blue and red Corolla police cars came speeding down the River Kabul from the north, their beacons turning and sirens hawking. The first car with a large number 101 painted on its hood, stopped just short of the side of Faizis Van. A young police officer jumped from the cruiser throwing his arms up and screaming all at once. Aye you madman, move that goddamn thing! Faizi obediently reached for the keys. He turned hard and the engine whined, coughed and gurgled. But it did not start. Faizi rolled down his window, shrugged at the policeman and smiled a stupid smile. Bano has also seen the white gallant cut in and follow Ali. Just to make sure, she ran over the operational fleet in her mind. We have no such car. She called Sardar. Yes Sardar snapped. Its Zahra, father What film did you rent, dear? Marlon Brando. The Chase. Sounds lovely. I am looking forward. See you later then. Sardar JS had also been monitoring the police band, and he also knew that things were happening too fast. But The Chase? Someone, other than police was after his team leaders. He called a number in King Tomb. Galaxy-Air A man answered in typical Hindi accent. This is Sardar Jagat Sing Khan. Are you flying today? We can be Mr Khan. Thank you. I may have a delivery Very good sir. Ali Sher, Baba Feroz and Barat Khan each had three tickets for three different commercial flights. But if things were really too hot, the outgoing flights were covered by a special private security agency working for the HQ, then an alternate was in order. Galaxy-Air was owned by a Singaporean Pakistani Firm. Its facilities were available to Pakistani Missions abroad. One of their aircraft a modified DC-9 Cargo and Medical transport

had been sitting on the repair runway at Kabul International Airport for the last two days, a victim of mechanical difficulties. Within minutes it was going to experience a miraculous recovery. Shabana Mirs code had popped in her ears less than a minute after she heard Faizi receives his go. Banos voice sounded rather pleading. Kabul Girls, now please listen carefully out there. We had a sad request from baby Shirins mother from Kabuls King residential area. She misses you Shirin a lot, where ever you are. Please call her and all will be forgiven. Shabana had hoped that she would not be required to perform this next bit. She liked Germans so, they always so friendly and generous, wanting to be everybodys buddy. However things were apparently not going too well, and besides no one would be harmed by her gambit. She had already reached at a small cafeteria opposite German consulate cross the dual carriage road. Thanks to the weather, no one was in the area. She reached into her coat pocket and removed the body of her Walkman. She opened the cassette player door which was empty, and she pulled the plastic sprocket off the left-hand nub. There was a small button underneath. She turned towards the German consulate facing the building; grey store hulk could be clearly seen through the trees. She pulled the earphone off her head, for she had been told that they might squeal madly and she pressed the button. Inside the litter bin can lying in the trash receptacle the gunfire simulator went off. It issued frightening reports, one after another, although it hardly gave off smoke, both of the guards on duty went to their knees. Shabana could hear the dull popping as it echoed through the chilly air. She was already on the telephone, dialling 119 the police emergency exchange. Kabul Police, how can we help you? Shabana was breathless; she needed no encouragement. For Gods sake come quick! Someone is shooting at the Germans! Whats that please... calm yourself, young lady? I told you... gun firing at German Consulate. She hung up the phone. Her hands were shaking. She began walking slowly back. There was a car waiting for her in the parking lot at Grand Shopping Plaza. She was trying to remember what kind of car. In Sardar JS Khans ear the police band went mad. Half of the Kabul Police spun from their positions and headed towards the Grand shopping Plaza area. In response to requests for clarification, a Senior Police Officer came on the frequency and briskly announced that the security detachment at German Consulate had indeed confirmed gunfire, and if they didnt want to have another Kabul Massacre on their hands, every available unit should get its ass over there. But Sardar was still terribly concerned about his team leaders. Through the wild radio traffic, he realized that a certain ambitious Lieutenant Farzai, car 101 was still at his position. He was about to arrest the driver of the Corolla Van and then ram the stalled vehicle out of the way. Jagat made a dangerous decision. He picked up the third black phone on his desk, punched the hold button and cut into the police band. Farzai 101, forget about the minor street crimes, you idiot and get to the German Consulate now! There was a moment hesitation and then the young Lieutenants challenging voice broke over Sardars earphone.

This is Farzai 101, who the hell is that Ghazi... This is Ghazi, you stupid swine, and if you ever want to see your family or pension, you will move, NOW! Ghazi, as Jagat Sing well knew, was the code name of Kabul Police Chief. He usually avoid coming on the band due to the bureaucratic reasons, unless something happens very crucial in the city. Normally junior police officers had just heard his name only, but hope fully in the confusion no one would immediately call him back to reconfirm orders. Farzai radioed other cars in his convoy. They backed out from the intersection and headed east for the German consulate. Sardar sat back and lit another WILLS. His bald head was finally glistering. Thanks God the Afghans had not lost their penchant for obeying orders under the situation. At City centre and Kabul Bazaar Street intersection, Faizi stepped down from his stalled Van. The only official remaining on the scene was an angry Ambulance driver. His vehicle stood behind him, its beacons winking in frustration. Ill just go and call the office, Faizi apologized. They will have a service truck within five minutes. My patient will probably die in five minutes. The attendant snapped. Faizi just shrugged and walked away. Hopefully your patient is already dead, he said to himself. He walked cross the intersection towards a small grocery shop and lunch counter. Barat Khan has already checked it all out for him. He asked to use the bathroom, made for the facilities in the rear, and then kept walking to the back of the store and went straight out to the delivery door. He crossed the small street on the back of the houses and emerged into a parking lot and got into a dull beige Lancer. He would drive the car to his garage in Wazir Akbar Khan. There he would eat and changed his clothes from a supply in the trunk. He would also switch the plates from rental to civilian and then wait a full twelve hours. No matter the crime, Kabul Police did not maintain serious traffic disturbing roadblocks for longer than 12 hours. In the morning he would begin to long drive to the Jalalabad. Sher Ali and Feroz Khan knew they were being pursued, but they did not know by whom. They were already out of town and heading for the Airport, passing huge Silos for storage of grains by the roadside. The white Gallant may be at hundred meters back, but it was gaining. Turning in the seat Ali could see the two occupants. They might have been plainclothesmen, but their white faces had that squared-off shabby look of Russians Intelligence muscle. The passenger was sitting in the rear seat and seemed to be holding a mobile phone. That was not a good sign. Shooters rode in the rear seats. If they were Americans, Sher Ali and Feroz would have to lose them or give it up. There would be no battle with Americans Authorities. Barats silver Audi was behind the Gallant but still blocked by one car between them. As the Gallant gained speed on Feroz, Barat swung dangerously out into the right lane around his civilian interloper, pulling back in behind the Gallant. Who are they Feroz asked, flicking his eyes from the rear-view mirror to the road. He was concentrating on making the next leg without having an accident. Traffic to Airport was picking up.

To Alis dismay, he peripherally noted a spectral oscillation from the south. He turned again in his seat to see three police cars approaching up the access road from the Silos. They were clearly in a hurry. I dont know, who the hell they are, but they are using a radio phone and they are not calling my mother. Then the Uzbeks floored in. Here they come. Baba hissed. He had his own foot to the floor, but it didnt help. Tell Barat from now on I want a goddamn Mercedes. The Gallant swung open in the right lane, growing larger. Sher Ali could see now that its rear windows were open. Do you have a plan? He asked hoarsely. No, but I will do something. The Gallant pulled alongside and Ali saw the pair of meaty hands holding an ugly object. Scorpion He yelled. Baba slammed the brakes as the machine pistol began to chatter. The Gallant dashed by and the shooter had to shift quickly and awkwardly, but the burst of 9millimeter punched low through the right side of the Corolla, the first three hammering into Alis right leg and knee as he screamed and a fourth bullet shattering Babas window as he snapped his head back. Baba Feroz immediately pushed the accelerator again turning the wheel hard to left, nearly denuding the steel guardrail, and he shot out around the nose of the Gallant before they could get off another burst. Barat Khan saw the whole thing and like a good back up man, he did not hesitate. The Gallant driver has pumped his own brakes, swerving tail to the right, giving Barat a perfect target. Barat punched the gas, aimed for left front wheel, touched the brakes once before impact so that his bumper would dip and smashed into the Uzbeks at hundred kilometres per hour. It was not a deflecting blow. He drove straight on, hurling the white Gallant off the right shoulder, where it impacted with a metal light pole. Barat regained his course. He shook his head. Something was dripping into his left eye and he swiped it away with his glove. He had not remembered to attach his seat belt and he looked at the steering wheel top. It was deformed. Some racing driver, he thought and he actually smiled. The car was still functioning. Thats why he loved German cars. He looked in the rear-view mirror. Three police cars. He looked ahead. Baba was fading. Barat Khan would not get away, but he could make sure that Feroz and Ali did. There was a big road Sign up ahead on the left. The guardrail was down and a few tractors and trucks collecting snow on their roofs. Barat spun the wheel, dash madly across into the oncoming traffic and headed south amid a cacophony of car horns, back towards Kabul. Obediently the police followed him. Sardar and Bano Abagull both heard the radio chatter of the massive police convoy that went after Barat Khan. They listened helplessly as it closed on him, south to the Presidential Palace then onto St.33 and East to the State Park. From the frantic exchanges of the hunt, they could visualise his mad dash, not knowing why he was performing it, but only that Barat Khan most certainly had a good reason. The voices of the Afghan policemen took on the heated excitement of the kill. This is two-nine. He just drove right into the trees.

Forty-seven take your men to the north. This is HQ, dont lose him now. Two-one, he is out of the car. Hes hurling something away. What is it, two-one. Six-two, he is in the park. Dont lose him, Six-two! Or we will be in there all goddamn night. Sardar JS had no time to despair, for something else crackled over the police band. Something worse. Sher Alis blood was collecting in a pool on the floor of the car. He could not move, and he didnt dare touch his leg not even to apply an improvised posture. Baba had reached back to his bag and dragged it into the front seat. He extracted an electric razor and cracked the cover off it against the dash board. He pulled the right knob of the Cassette player and seated the razor cord plug in the open receptacle. It was a last resort. He spoke into the microphone breaking directing into the police band. Enjaye 121 ust, Enjaye road accident shud. Sardar Khan fairly bolted from his chair at Toy House. It was Babas voice and in this case road accident meant a badly wounded soldier. Sardar immediately picked up his police line and slammed the hold button. One-o-one, you may investigate He hung up and called Bano. Khans Residence. Baby, its father. There has been a road accident or something. Ill be home late. Why dont you get some rest? There was silence on the other end. Bachey Yes, father, fine. Sardar hung up and dialled another phone number. When it rang through, he said, Hello, This is Toy House, I had liked a room sweeper in here to clean up please. Yes, now. He collected his things and left the office.

Ali was gripping the dashboard with white knuckled fingers. His eyes were squeezed shut, but he made no sound. Feroz was looking for the prearranged exit, only a kilometre from the Airport. He snatched a glance at the partner. For the first time since leaving Islamabad many months before Baba suddenly burst into Urdu. Oye... Ullo ke pathey...Sahel, kia howa hey. Sher Ali despite his pain, admonished his partner in Persian. My name is Sher Ali, Baba. He groaned. And I dont know what the hell happened. But you will speak Persian until we are dead, or at home. Understood. Ok, Ali. Feroz spat the name, But dont worry, in the next ten minutes we will be either dead or on our way home. They pulled off the High way and drove straight down an industrial road for half a kilometre. It was growing dark. The ambulance was waiting, its rear door yawning. The beacon was unlit.

It took the doctor and his assistant less than twenty seconds to lift Ali into the rear of ambulance. They were not gentle and he tried not to yell. In the meantime, Feroz stripped the Corolla. He took the bag, pulled the cassette played from dash board, the microphone, Alis gloves, but there was nothing to do about the blood. He hoped that it would snow hard for days and no one would bother about the abandoned car. Then they were all in the ambulance and it began to move slowly towards the airport. The doctor was combat surgeon and ex paratrooper and he worked quickly, snapping at his male assistant. Morphine. No morphine, Ali grunted. Shut up, the surgeon barked. Then he turned to Baba. Its bad, but hell live. Strip him. Sher Ali lay on the folded stretcher. The blood had stopped flowing, mostly due to the cold. Feroz began to gently remove his clothes. Get them off him! We have got ten minutes. They worked quickly, injecting Ali with a double dose of morphine extract and changing his clothes to hospital attire from a small wardrobe. The doctor dressed his wounds, covered the leg with a plastic sleeve, and then quickly wrapped his both limbs in elastic bandage as if the patient suffered from circulatory problems. He attached an infusion bag to one arm and hung it from a steel keg on the ambulance inside wall. Shave his head, the doctor ordered The assistant hesitated. Shave it, he has to look like as its his last cancerous week, not liked some fucked up commando. A disposable razor came out and in two minutes Alis hair was wiped down from the scalp. And clean it up every hair. The assistant bent to his task. From a black satchel, the surgeon removed a pair of ugly steel rimmed spectacles. He roughly placed on Alis face. Then he snapped a plastic bracelet on one wrist. There is a uniform in the closet. The doctor said to Baba. Feroz stripped out of his clothes and destroyed his airline tickets, keeping the British Passport, one for himself and one for Ali. He donned a white lab coat white trouser and a stethoscope. Alis pain was now becoming tolerable, but he hated the helpless drowsiness that was engulfing him. He felt the rolling of ambulance, but he didnt register the crucial dangerous juncture as they arrived at Kabul International cargo gate. He heard the driver say, Galaxy Air, we have got one has to go to London. When the security personnel, with their hard faces, grey uniform and dangling Americans submachine guns, opened the rear doors, Ali closed his eyes. Ssssshhh, he is not long for this world. A custom official checked their passport in silence. Ali dosed off for a short time, and then he awoke inside a hazy grey tube as the DC-9 taxied down the runway. He was strapped to a mobile stretcher. There were regular airline seats to his right.

A door opened up forward. He managed to lift his head. Sardar Khan appeared from the cabin, stone-faced, dressed as flight engineer. He lumbered down the aisle. Sardar fell into a seat next to Sher Ali. He drew off his hat and tore open his tie, as if it might kill him. How are you? He asked in Urdu. Okay, Ali slurred. But I might be gone again in a moment. Who were they, Sardar asked. Razmaks people? No, It was Babas voice from somewhere else. Seem Uzbeks maybe from Sou theastern Russia. Where is everyone Alis own voice sounded strange to him, a fragile echo. Mostly away, said Sardar. Bano stays on, but off course, shell be fine. Sardar lit up a wills, but unhappy to have relay the rest. Barat took the police off you and headed for State Park. Took them on wild goose chase, but they have him now. He did it for all of us. Its the only reason; we are in the air now. Ali stared up at the ceiling. He was weak; still he tried not to let the tears well up. The air craft banked heavily to the right. It was flight- planned for London, but it would not see England tonight. Dilshad, Sher Ali suddenly called Sardar by his real name. He was not sure if he could go on. In this state, he knew that his judgement was hazy, his logic distorted. It didnt feel right, he said. The Target I mean. I know said Major Dilshad Hussain. He patted Alis hand. You and I, we may be opening a fruit stand together. Sher Ali suddenly very awake. He stared at Hussain, his eyes asking the question that was stuck in his throat. I just had a report from Col. A.K. Zawri. Dilshad smiled painfully. A team of Watchers just made positive ID, in west Kabul. Let me guess. Said Babas tired voice. Thats right, said Hussain, and he blew out a wreath of smoke, Razmak Bilal. Sher Ali turned his head and stared back up the ceiling, and this time the water filled in his eyes and he blinked it onto the sheets. He was alive and he was going home but he was leaving too many things behind, a captured colleague, an operational fiasco, political bomb shell and a murder of innocent human.

Islamabad
Chapter 2
June, 2004 A city master-planned by Greek Architect and Designer in the late fifties with its face towards Margalla Hills on the north-eastern fringe of the Potohar Plateau with plenty of rains and lush green landscape by rows of flame trees, jacaranda and hibiscus. Roses, Jasmine & bougainvillea fill the parks and scenic viewpoints which symbolises the aspirations of young and dynamic nation. It is an ideal city to culminate a career in government. In fact, as Captain Sahel Farhaj was realizing on a morning scented with the beginning of autumn, this large parcel of subsidised, nonprime hardly historical real estate might well have been serving as an unkindly hint from the Idols of employments. This looked a place for termination rather than auspicious beginning. For the rest of the Islamabad was nothing, if not majestic. Any human who had ever been there, for a single day or for a quarter century was forever captured by its beauty. Connoisseurs of the architecture say that you could see the character of a city by the shadows it threw. So you could see the line of tanned legs and short skirts, suit coats with ties round the neck, as well as Shalwar Qameez outfit with leather sole sandals by most of the women and children in the shopping centres and super markets. There are very few places in the city of Late Field Martial Ayub Khan former President of Islamic Republic of Pakistan who was the mastermind behind erecting of this capital which breach the code of aesthetic pleasure, but certainly meeting the demands of the new era a few Industrial estates are among them, and that is why Sahel Farhaj hated it so. Islamabad had an abundance of Holy men, Ministers, Civil and Military bureaucratic networks, Governmental and Corporate high-rise buildings, with acute shortage of popular residential lodgings, Thats why it failed to attract Educationists, Scholars, Philosophers and Artists which by any mean compromised citys face among most cultured and civilised cities around the globe. However a few commercial areas do cater to all the basic necessities of the surrounding inhabitants. Such as Blue area located on the main street approaching to the Parliament House between the Sector F-6 and G-6. Islamabad has been designed and segregated in square parts called sectors and each sector does possess its own commercial area. So while you lead someone needing to reach the destination just tell him the requisite sector. Among these one of the commercial areas is well known as Aabpara. This area has significant designer brand shops, banks, and store outlets on its south-eastern side including some good restaurants, traditional local food stalls and foreign fast food outlets like McDonalds and KFC etc. A few commercial plazas have also having commercials shops on the ground floor like photo studios, small antiques shops and on the upper floors are meant for hotels and residential studios including some of the private offices. Inexpensive was the descriptive element which had attracted the Departments eye and certainly the Ministry of Defence could not be blamed for doing his duty. Anonymity was an equal important requisite; for when interviewing prospective Special Operations agents, you allowed them see nothing insignificant until they have been thoroughly vetted.

Intellectually Sahel Farhaj accepted all of this, yet emotionally he felt somehow excommunicated. But then he had been feeling that way for a very long time. The leg was almost healed, a fair miracle considering that the doctors had done their job fairly well. Nearly fifteen months have passed since that rainy March night, when he had arrived at the Combined Military Hospital in Rawalpindi. Re-costumed in standard Military fatigues, one trouser leg dramatically ripped away, he had been admitted as a casualty of a cross-fire exercise somewhere around Murree Hills. The nerve, bone, cartilage and muscle damage was extensive oxygen starved tissues having resulted from clotting despite the attention of an aggressive field surgeon. For a while it was touch and go with the leg; surgeons from the Orthopaedic and Micro Departments performed two five hours operations in quick succession. To their discretionary credit, the hard pressed doctors did not acknowledge or discuss the patients delirious ramblings in the pre-op or post-op medicated state. He has been admitted as Capt. Sahel Farhaj 245 th GG Regiment, a company commander who has suffered his wounds near Murree Hills firing range. Yet he muttered on about Kabul and someone named Razmak who apparently frightened him. One of the surgeons had a son serving in 245th GG Regiment, so he knew that they were presently on manoeuvres in the Northern Heights, nowhere near Murree Hills. Perhaps the presence of burly bald major, dark black eyes observing the progress from the one corner of the operation theatre prevented the doctor from mentioning this discrepancy. Farhaj had spent over a half of a painful year at CMH. At first and a long time, he was bedridden bored near to madness during the days, haunting by thundering, sweat-provoking nightmares after dark. He watched his plaster-encased for a near eternity as an ingenious brace pumped it, slowly, to and fro bending the knee, stretching the calf like some medieval torture device. To the staff it was strange that no family appeared to visit the handsome GG Captain, and perhaps that accounted for his lonely brooding moods. For how could they know that his parents were still receiving postcards from him once a month? The other wounded soldiers were fairly exhausted by the influx of visitors, dust riffle bearing friends in from the field, girl friends under family cover, food laden mothers and fathers. Sahels few visitors, though apparently young companions were usually out of uniform. Inside the wards their small talk was hallow. Some time they whispered to the patient briefly. When Farhaj achieved his first breakthrough--- wheelchair status---Others began to appear. Older men with the postures of officers in casual street clothing, briefcases in roughened hands normally showed up occasionally. The patient would disappear with them some time for hours having been wheeled outside into one of the hospitals remote lush green lawns under the big trees. For Sahel, the debriefings were much more painful than the mending wounds left by the bullets and scalpels. However, out of these sessions evolved clarity. As a result of discussion with Sahel, the post mission investigations had cleared most of the team of responsibility for the City Centre Fiasco. Sahel himself could not be fully exonerated for he was Team Leader and had accused in alleged shooting and killed an innocent Afghan called Mohammad Zahir as someone had posted a picture of Sahel aiming his pistol on corpse near grocery shop, though it was side pose of Sahel and face unrecognizable even by those who have seen him. However, at NSB much of the blame was placed at the feet of the photo

recognition specialist. In public there was no record of real killers. Major Dilshad Hussain, as overall commander had asked for and received most of the lashings. Of course, the long stay at CMH had had its benefits. Sahel Farhaj had imposed upon him a much needed rest. So long an animal of field instincts, he slowly acquired some of his humanity, as well as his identity. He began to respond naturally to the sound of his own name and the tight springs of conditioned reflex began to unwind. He knew that he would never be again a field agent in Special Operations and at long lost he began to accept this. Finally, and certainly best of all, he had met Amber. She had never probed, never pushed, a young dedicated nurse, who had clearly been borne to give. It took Sahel some time, but eventually he became aware of her brown hair, her piercing brown eyes and wide quick smile. Their romance developed slowly, traditionally and over the course of half a year it was forged into a bonded love. They had been married soon after Sahels release. And so he was back, though never again to be a real participant in the Great Game. Perhaps only a fringe player, a tired contestant forever an observer of the chess masters at work. He tried often to count his blessings, suppress his memory; in fact today was the day when he had decided to put away his cane. The doctors said he would always walk with a strange gait. Unfortunately, as Sahel secretly knew, he would also forever limp in his mind. The office was located in the Multi-storey Commercial Complex in the Aabpara. It was up on the second floor all the way at the end of the North-eastern prong having its long tinted glass windows open on the two-way roadsides along the corner of the complex. To get there, you have to walk up the marble-stone stairs which ends up in the lobby of the complex. Then you enter into a commercial office dealing in scientific equipment. Once you enter this office you can deal with them at ease as usually happens in the commercial offices if you are a traditional customer. Personnel belonging to the SpecOp enter from one side of the office, cross the first security which leads them into another special security checks, and after verifying their identity, they would enter another small lobby which takes them to the relevant floor of the Department. Initial two security checks are invisible unless you are stranger and trying to enter into first security check, you would be halted there for the purpose to go inside. In you are an ordinary customer then you would be ushered respectfully to the other side of the office where too many commercial liaison officers are sitting to deal with you. Scientific Equipment Corporation (Pvt) Ltd was a deliberate cover for the Special Operations. There were no further set dressings in SEC Ltd, as it was purport to be a start-up business. The company, if asked, was looking for a few enterprising young men and women to work in its overseas office. The appearance of healthy youths would raise no eyebrows, for it was common in Pakistan as soldiers neared the end of their release began to job-hunt hoping for adventure and some travel abroad. The ads were normally appeared in local papers classified section throughout the weeks to attract young soldiers commissioned and non-commissioned officers for SEC Ltd. Sahel set behind the large wooden desk looking every bit the young prospective executive. His office was on the second floor at SEC Ltd after crossing main hall, a steel door lead to Sahels office. He wore blue jeans and a white long sleeved shirt rolled back to arms. His only visible extravagance might have been the black digital dive watch he had once purchased in Switzerland, yet only the initiated would realize its value. The tools of Sahels present trade were few, a pile of yellow legal pads, a cup full of pencils and a sharpener. Naturally there was an

overflowing ashtray and ever-present pack of Golf Leaf. He had had to give up the Rothmans. They were no longer part of a cover and he would not be reimbursed for their expense. Sahel was not really an interviewer. That task had already been accomplished at Ministry Headquarters. Having passed that initial stage, agent candidates have to go through an intensive vetting phase. Their minds and bodies would be poked and probed for months on by doctors and psychologists. In the meantime, Sahel assignment was to record by hand every detail of the candidates life from birth to present day. Subsequently with Sahels report in hand, team of Vetters would roam the country, often travelling abroad to confirm the veracity of the candidates claims. Although it was certainly a crucial task, on the tall chain of Special Intelligence assignment this job was at the bottom of the pole. Though officially forgiven for his part in the Kabul City Centre fiasco, Sahel would probably never come in front of the heat meaning in Departments eyes an agent who remains in professional limbo. Sahel was ruminating over his career options when the steel door clangs with the rap of knocks. Come in, he called above the table. The door swung back to reveal the tanned face of a young soldier. He poked his head inside. Is this Scientific Equipment Corporation? Sahel starred at him expressionless, Isnt the sign showed up. The soldier blushed and swung the door wide and entered the office. The soldier closed the door and turned to Farhaj. He squinted trying to adjust from the harsh sunlight to the gloomy shadows of the room. Sit down Sahel pointed to the chair. The young soldier sat. He was a Naik in mid-twenties, wearing the Khaki dress uniform of some Infantry Regiment. His short black hair was sun streaked at the edges. His clear eyes still painted with certain innocence. A year with us and that look will be gone forever, Sahel wanted to warn him. Name? Ehh, the soldier cleared his throat. Rehmat Ali Khan, Number-8314765220 The boys nervousness was very obvious as his pleasing Punjabi accent. Sahel smiled. You are not a prisoner of war, Rehmat. You can relax. The Naik smiled. He looked down at his hands and crossed one leg. Sahel offered him a cigarette which he quickly accepted. Now we are just going to talk, Sahel continued. It will take a while, we will begin at the beginning, and you might even have to come back again, Understood. The soldier nodded, Yes sir. Sahel picked up a legal pad and poised a pencil to write. Lets start with your birth, and we do the first ten years. Dont leave out a detail. Ill select the items I wish to record, Right. The soldier began to speak. I was born in a village near Jhelum, in September, 1979.... It always began the same way, as it had begun with Sahel himself nearly 10 years ago. Normally the initial selection is purely based on the performance and confidential record of the service where you have been serving. You had to be good to get in and even better to remain.

Even as Sahel began to record the details, he felt the familiar stab of envy. He remembered his own first month of vetting, the excitement of unknown. He recalled the thrill of the first tastes of intelligence work; the mysterious interviews, strange exams, clandestine meetings in obscure cafes with tough looking civilians who would examine your every twitch. He recalled his fondest memory. It was the armys test of soldier teamwork ability. It was there in the field, that he had first met John Victor, Capt. Tanveer and Capt. Rafi Ahmad, still not knowing that in time he would think of them as Faizi Jaffar, Barat Khan and Baba Feroz. For months they had studied together, trained together, and carried each other in mock stretcher drills, all the while watched carefully by their hawkeyed recruiters. And even then, when only the calm, the brave and the talented remained, the adventure had only just begun. The romance of the birth of an army intelligence agent was incomparable. The secret training, the documentation and the covers besides the shedding of uniforms for the guise of civilian clothes, the tracking in the streets of Islamabad, the weapon instructions, Intel history, sabotage and communication. And the secret from friends and family that bound the compatriots together, even more than had the years in the field with fellow paratroopers. And finally the first mission. How Sahel wished that he could go back there again, could once more be admired officer, the hero. And now he wished to quit the game early, while every operation was still a smashing success. Long before, he had ever heard the name of Razmak Bilal. Almost immediately after being spotted in Afghanistan, on the very afternoon when Sahel was supposed to arrest Razmak Bilal in Kabul--- he had disappeared from the face of the earth. At first, no one purchased the ruse as the Brits like to say. For months afterwards, the western intelligence agencies searched for him. CIA, MI6, SDECE, they all sniffed around the alleyways of Europe, the cities of the Middle East. Ciphers & cables and internet emails were intercepted, informers and deep double scoured and nothing came up. Rumours poured in that Razmak had retired to Yemen. He had training in Yemen; He had gone underground in Central America. Eventually the most recurring piece of information came to be accepted by the managers of Western Intelligence. Where NSB has failed, Razmaks own brother has succeeded. He had been killed by a rival, even more radical if that was conceivable faction. Al-Qaeda or Central Tehreek Taliban (CTT) had disagreed with, or been jealous of Razmaks activities. Within the terrorist brotherhood internal problems were most often settled with gunfire. When Sahel first heard the news of Razmaks death mentioned casually by Maj. Dilshad as the major pushed the wheelchair along a sunny sidewalk at CMH, he experienced a flood of emotions. Razmaks demise could not erase Sahels failed attempt to arrest of Hayat Gul but there was a sense of joyful retribution in hearing that an enemys career has also taken a downward turn. Then almost immediately Farhaj also felt a strange pang commiseration. For what was Razmak Bilal if not a mirror of himself? Yes the terrorist had been ruthless, seemingly, indiscriminate, a killer. But had the man being a Muslim instead of an Afghan, restrained by the shackles of government as opposed to freelance his own network, he might have been something else. He could have been Sahels partner. The months of quiet recovery has certainly softened Farhajs professional acumen, but his ingrained training has made him sceptic, and he did not succumbed to the sense of relief. Razmak Bilal disappeared? Dead? How much was disinformation? Sahel knew the answers to those questions. The head of Department could swear on his precious words that Razmak Bilal was dead, but Sahel would have to see the cold corpse before

hed believed that. He knew that his feeling of his unsettled account would probably stay with him until he died. Ill believe it when the check clears, was all he said to Dilshad. In the meantime Farhaj was experiencing his own slow death in the Service. Sure the salary was good, plus disability payments; in less than two years he could get out with a partial pension. Yes, the humiliation was high, but thanks to enduring secretive nature of his work no one save his peers was privy to his failures. He was almost thirty two years old, and he has nearly half the credits towards a university degree. He and Amber were trying to have a baby. He could have some kind of future. If he could just bite his lips and stick it out.... The mid-afternoon arrived quickly despite the mundane nature of Sahels task. He had to listen, concentrate and record questions and that made the clock move. By 3.30 pm he had interviewed six candidates, four men and two women, having taken a half hour to eat Ambers chicken sandwich with garlic pickle salad. He was sipping a cup of tea and waiting for the last candidate when the telephone rang. Scientific Equipment Corporation, Sahel spoke in the mouthpiece. Thats it for the day. A voice said. Wheres the last man. Sahel asked. Cancelled, you can come on in. Right. Sahel said and hung up. Sahel sat back against the steel office chair. He was glad to be done for the day, yet he felt the familiar crawling in his stomach. At one time butterflies had come only near the climax of a dangerous operation. Now they arrived whenever Sahel was about to head down to the Headquarters. He stood up and felt the rough click in the right knee, ignored it and began to sweep. The legal pads were full of his scratching. He placed all of them in his briefcase. Then he checked all of his desk drawers and floor for every bit of paper. He pulled the plastic bag from the waste basket and tied it shut. It might have seemed paranoid, but Sahel suspected that certainly one of these nights Col. A.K. Zawri would send over a pair of Departments Burglars who can open anything from a child piggy bank to Prime Ministers private safe. The would break-in quietly, scour SEC Ltd, and if they found even the smallest scrap of incriminating evidence there would be hell to pay. The Colonel did not like Sahel. The brooding Captains presence was a constant reminder of Kabul, and Zawri did not appreciate this limping personification of Failure stalking around the Department. Colonel Abdul Karim Zawri was Sahels butterfly-maker. And the hostile feeling was mutual. Farhaj hoped that he could complete his business at HQ without even seeing the commander. The scuffed wooden cane was leaning against the wall, waiting for its master. Sahel debated throwing it out with the garbage, but that seemed a crude demise for a loyal friend. He picked it up and gripped it horizontally along with the handle of his briefcase and walked out with the trash onto the sunlit catwalk. His first few unaided steps were painful. His right hip seemed to be grinding at the ball and socket, but the strong afternoon sun helped and soon his muscles warmed and he was satisfied with his progress. The two flights of the stairs were most difficult. He used the handrail,

and when he reached the bottom he was sweating and was quite pleased with himself. A photographer who used the office next door passed him in a hurry. Kaisey hain The man asked Sahel. Fine, Thanks. Sahel smiled. His shiny black Suzuki Margalla 1300 was baking in a lot on the back side of building. He was always pleased by the sight of this car, mostly because he had used this one in his college days as well. He had affixed a small Sticker in the rear windshield boldly written as Dont follow me, if you cant catch me. For so long he has been forbidden to display such signs. But he was never going back into the field, so he had said to hell with it and slapped on the bright sticker. What would Zawri do? Send him to the Ministry? As he approached the Margalla, Sahel was barely aware of the fact that he was a creature of strange habits, and would probably be always so. When he was out on the street, he ears pricked up, bat-like, scanning for the incongruous sound, the click of weapon bolt, patter of a pursuing footstep. His eyes automatically swept the lot, recording faces and matching them to his memory for non-coincidental repetitions. He glanced instinctively at the under carriage of the Margalla, quickly running a checklist natural automotive protrusions verses any freshly affixed shapes. When he finally reached the door handle, his fingers briefly hesitated as his eyes swept the lock for scratch marks, the space beneath the dash for inconsistent wiring. Had he realized he was doing it, he would have felt quite foolish. He was no longer in foreign country or on enemy territory. This was his hometown and the danger virtually nonexistent. Yet it was not a conscious indulgence, no more so than a pilots instinctive pre -flight checks. Still, on occasion, Sahel was made painfully aware of the insidiousness of his training. Since leaving the hospital, he had on three separate occasions, identified himself by a cover name while trying to cash checks. Naturally his Computerised National Identity Card had contradicted him, causing the suspicious bank tellers to angrily refuse his business. Blushing Sahel had been forced to excuse himself and quickly withdraw, whereupon he would find himself outside in the hot sun, breathing hard and crawling with chills. He had never, ever, made such a blunder while in the field. It was the cruel price of recovery. It was not yet summer, but the inside of the Margalla was as hot as hell. Sahel folded up the cardboard windshield guard which didnt do much except keep the steering wheel from melting. He rolled down the passenger window as well as his own, strapped in, lit a cigarette and put the car in gear. It was almost four oclock when he neared the Zero point. He could have taken Constitution Avenue, the most direct route, but at this hour Avenue would have been the busiest one, so instead of turning left, he swung through the cut and turned right. He made straight for the intersection and turned right again to the Main Faisal Avenue, sweeping breath of beautiful villas as they flowed past the Margalla windows. He checked the rear view mirror, somewhat more than was necessary. He didnt bother to deny to himself that the detour also delayed his arrival, albeit for only a few minutes. Too soon he found himself on the intersection of Khiaban-e-Iqbal passing Special Children School on his left side. He then turned to the right to Khiaban-e-Iqbal and soon reached the F-6 Markaz. He crossed it and took sharp uphill left onto Jacob House, feeling the tension, hoping that Col. Zawri would be out of the office.

The Jacob Compound, with its myriad of religious archives and some Government offices was like a small city in and of itself. It sat on a large flat hill, just to the north of Islamabad, but seemingly on another planet altogether. While on a few meters away Islamabad engaged in social activities at outdoor cafes and spends their overtaxed earnings on Afghan BBQ, ice creams and other shopping. An unknown to all, but those who worked there, National Security Bureau, commonly known as NSBs Special Operations had also taken up temporary residence. Up until two months previously, all of the major Intelligence branches had operated somewhere else. Special Operations had had its own building, too small really for the Departments rapid expansion. Col. Abdul Karim Zawri kept pushing for a larger space, but the Ministry kept protesting lack of funds. It was during a routine check of the building, and coincidently in the midst of heated budget debate, that the sweepers found a bug in the Cipher room. Zawri threw a fit, grabbing his second-in-command and rushed over to Ministry, where he storms into the office of DC-2 NSB and pounded on his desk for half an hour. In Pakistan, the man who screams in loudest is often the one who gets what he wants and Zawri did his melodramatic best, ragging about the two foreign electronic intercepts trawlers just outside of Islamabad, how he couldnt even take a shit without someones counting the splashes and it was no fucking wonder that his people couldnt carry out a simple elimination when his own Cipher Room was as penetrable as lusty whore. He needed a new, solid and secure facility. And he needed it now! While the MoD real estate people sheepishly began to shop, Zawri was allowed to clear out of Main Building and set up temporarily in Jacob Compound. The people who knew the Colonel well smiled, for he had played it perfectly. Abdul Karim Zawri was an empire builder, and he had just laid his cornerstone. A couple of his agents wondered too indiscreetly about who had really planted the bug, and they quickly found themselves working an extended surveillance job in Middle East. Sahel entered the long parking lot, now half full of civilians and government cars, yet he kept driving into the Compound itself. The British Orthodox Church was the centrepiece, its majesty incongruous amid the flat, bullet scarred governmental stone corridors. Farhaj drove past Education Department, where a group of male and female young teachers were being gathered for their new assignments in Election Commission. Just before the courtyard was a small dirty parking. Most of the vehicles were having governmental number plates, mostly belongs to the civil services officers, Sahel joined them as one more civil service employee. Special Operations had chosen an appropriate building for its temporary residence. The courtyard was dirty, the entrance doors peeling. The stained doors were singularly uninteresting, even discouraging. One said its a part of Education Department for Universities Research Centres. Another said, its a Research Centre of Higher Education Commission Islamabad. The three floors ended in a flat-topped roof and the weather beaten walls barely minimum aesthetic standards set by Islamabad CDA. There were no aerials on the roof, as all of the telex, scramblers, burst and satellite cables had been run under the Compound through communication tunnels and parasite off the massive Education, Police and Postal towers. The windows on the north side of the building faced the Central Courthouse. The western windows faced a street, but there the massive facade of Post Office served as ample screening from the purview. Even so, every window has curtains and

each pane of glass was affixed with a suction cup containing an oscillating diaphragm operating at random frequencies set by a central transmitter. The vibration would foil attempts to read the internal sound waves off the glass, either by laser or parabolic devices. Granted the entire building hummed like a muffled bees nest but one soon would feel it more disturb when the airconditioners which were run only to keep cool the computers around inside. Sahel got out of the car, a bit stiff in the knee, but he left the cane inside and took his briefcase and the small bag of garbage. He inhaled a breath of the cooler late afternoon breeze, straightened his shoulders and walked. Security at the main entrance seemed casual. Almost all public building in Pakistan now use private security firms to guard their entrances, old man in rumpled uniform check Sahel and his briefcase with metal detector for weapons or explosives. There was a beep when crossed the detector by his hip. Uniform man smiled and asked for todays code. Dhoop taiz hey Guard again smiled and let him go. The man at the SpecOp desk inside the cool halfway seemed no different. He was in his mid-fifties and wore a blue uniform. Actually he was an ex-agent named Sahib Dad, once chief of security in three different embassies abroad. He was heavy with oncoming years and too much foreign food, but still there was lot of power hidden beneath the seemingly neglected uniform. He was an expert shooter. Sahib Dad glanced up as Sahel approached the desk. Salam, Farhaj. Big man smiled. Whats going on? Every day, an adventure, Sahel produced an ID pass. It was the NSBs top security clearance, allowing its bearer entry any Military or Civilian facility in the country by the order of President of Pakistan. No questions asked. Sahib Dad continued to smile. He didnt even look at Sahels ID pass. He glanced up at a small television camera, pressed an intercom button and said, Its Sahel, to an invisible employee. A buzzer vibrated and the lock of the steel entrance door clicked and Sahel had to grab it quickly before its closed again. Sahel was somewhat offended. Sahib Dad should have examined his pass, no matter the familiarity. For a moment, he instinctively became the field commander again. I know you know me, Sahib Dad, he said as he held the door. But really should look at this thing. He still held the pass in his fingers. Sahib Dad looked up with the expression of impatient parent. He extended his hand, grabbed the card, exaggerated his perusal of it, matching the picture twice with Farhajs face and handed it back. After all, I could have been fired in the last night, Sahel continued. Had my clearance taken away? Hell, I could be coming in here just to kill Zawri. Smartest career move, you would ever make. Said Sahib Dad and moved to his desk. Sahel flushed speechless. Ya Allah, He called silently to God. Does everyone know my goddamn business? He entered a submarine chamber, pulling the door closed behind him. It was a steel closet with a large two-way mirror inside. A hollow voice spoke to him. Salam, Sahel, what have you got? Todays interview and trash for the burn bag.

Armed? Yes. There was a snort from the speaker and the secondary door lock buzzed. The headquarters of NSBs Special Operations Department looked surprisingly like any other suite of Pakistani Government offices. All the walls of plaster-covered cement, painted a dull light off-white. The floors were typically cheap marble-tiled. God helped the extravagant officers who dared to order carpeting. The lights was either industrial fluorescent or day tubelights on the walls over the desks, so even the most fresh faced employees looked sallow at their workplace. Because the occupation of the premises was fairly new, the Department was undergoing a period of disarray if not chaos. The halls were narrow leaving no room for reception desk or comfortable waiting chairs. Rickety wooden tables covered with green surge fibre piled with unclassified daily reports and periodicals, made passage difficult. Cipher cables, telephone and computer lines snaked from room to room, giving the halfway floor the look of a frigate deck under repair. The inevitable glass, teacups and saucers found their resting placed wherever employees had decided that they were over caffeinated. Nervous Sweepers went about their fussy business virtually ignored, so in addition to the flurry of intelligence officers bouncing from room to room, there was a strange presence of spectacled man crawling on hands and knees, inspecting the cables, wall joints and every electronic fitting as if the place also harboured a nursery for retarded kinder. Sahel took the marble stairway to the second floor, one at a time, left foot first, and then resting on the right as he carried the briefcase and trash bag in his left hand and pushed off from the steel rail with his right. A young man was sitting at a steel desk on the second floor landing; He was muscular armed with a pistol, a telephone and small cup of steaming tea. He looked like a receptionist at a security prison. Hello Bravo. He was extremely serious and called everyone by their Departmental code names, even though that was only required for the field operatives. Hi, Sajid, said Sahel. He pointed out an object which looked like a net less basketball hoop, a grey steel frame standing next to the desk. Where is the burn bag? New rules, Sajid raised a dark eyebrow. Zawri wants everything cleared twice a day now. They are bringing fresh bags up. He extended his hand towards Sahels bag, Ill take it. Sahel hugged his plastic bag to his chest, mocking Sajids solemnity. Thats a break in regulations. Break this. Sajid laughed. Sahel laughed too and dropped his bag on the desk. Dont worry, he said. You get out in the field you wont have to put up with this shit. It was Sajids dream to work as National Commando, which was the coded title for the Special Operations teams. But he was never considered. Sahel moved on down the hallway. He passed the News Room, where telex machines generate unclassified reports from the worlds major news agencies and the encoded machines of Pakistani Embassies in major capitals. Next was the Cover Room, where a trio of bright attractive young women chose titles for missions and operatives. They were hard press to keep the humour out of their work, the only witness to their optimistic youths being a sign on the door in old English calligraphy that read Whats in a name, a Rose..... Shakespeare!

There was glass window in the door and it suddenly popped open. A girl with untidy hair stuck her head out and beamed at Sahel. Bravo, my dear. Seema said smilingly. Sahel stopped short. Seemas smile always forced him to respond in kind. Hi. Wouldnt you love a new name? She offered mischievously. Its cycle time, you can have it. Dont think its necessary, said Sahel betraying his self-effacing mood. Oh, come on, Bravos so, so..... Blue Moon. Yes, well, Ill think about it, Thanks. Okay, Seema replied without taking any offense. She closed the door. Even back when he was a paratrooper non-com, the seriousness with which Sahel undertook his tasks had resulted in his acquiring the nickname The Brooding Bravo. Somehow he took as a compliment, and it had resulted in his choice of Bravo as departmental code. Might as well keep it like a Souvenir. He continued on. So far no one had noticed that he was without his ever-present cane. Well, he decided, it was like smoking. Nobody realized it, once you finally quit. He suddenly started when a captain called Qadri came storming out of the Cipher Room. Qadri was about Sahels age and had a few hair on his head, dead black eyes with his distinct look of a mad youth whose parents must have hated him. Well, get the goddamn thing down, now! Qadri had one hand on his hip and was gesturing angrily at a large diagram which had been posted on a bare wall. It was obviously a practical joke, a layout of the floor in the black market on rough beige planner paper. All of the offices were delineated and bore caustic comments in the square blueprint spaces such as Cipher Roombest coffee, worst conversation and Coversthree loveliestwo single one married and all easy and so forth. What the hell, do you think this is, the goddamn Tourist Bureau?! Qadri stood there fuming while the Cipher Rooms pair of ever-present guards jumped to tear the poster down. A middle age woman from the room stood by blushing, yet clearly insulted at having been reprimanded by Qadri. Too much coffee? Sahel smiled at Qadri as he passed the scene. The temperamental Captain ignored him. He carried on and passed the small canteen, from which someone called to him. Sahel, you look great today! He waived but kept on feeling a knee a bit more but ignoring it. All three levels of the building were Security Floors, but perhaps it was the presence of the canteen on Floor Two that gave the area a more relaxed atmosphere. It was here in the small place with its tea, coffee and sandwich bar, scuffed Formica tables and white plastic chairs that personnel came to take a break and blow off steam, anger about their assignments and their bosses. You could have a good laugh in the canteen, which you could not certainly do on Floor Three, where Colonel A.K.Zawri had intricate, gruelling planning sessions until well into the midnight hours on most days. And below on Floor One and basement, there wasnt a hell of a lot of levity either. The Wizards, Watchers and scouts worked down there sweating over tool benches, handling micro-electronic gear, weapons, and explosives. They didnt joke much. An effective punch line could cost the Departments fortune. So Floor two was the Peoples Floor, as the employees called it. And the canteen was a bustling hangout, its atmosphere spilling over times. It could have been any small cafeteria in any

public building except for the fact that on an occasion when a stranger would enter, the multilingual shop talk would come to a dead halt. A few seconds delay and suddenly everybody switch subjectscricket match and childrens progress. As Sahel turned into Personnel, he caught the echoes of an argument as two men emerged from the canteen behind him. You cant do that, you clever! Why not? You would overload the relay. Itll burn and jam open, and then you would have an irrevocable fuse. No safety. So, we will put a converter on the circuit. It would supposed to be light, you stupid, by the time you are done, we will need a goddamn truck to move it. The conversation faded down the hallway as the men receded to the lower floor. Sahel smiled. The sounds of operation. Personnel was one midsized room, the walls lined with tall grey filing cabinets, shelves for computer disks and programme and roaster lists for assembling training teams. There were three desks. The one on the left was for personnel secretary, upon which sat a grey & black coloured LCD monitor. Anita, a bright-eyed, curly headed barely twenty five sat imputing Sahels previous interviews. The right desk was Saleems, a happy go-lucky sergeant whose function as Personnel runner, driver etc. which kept him out of the office all day long. The largest desk was at the far end, against the windows. That was for the Head of Personnel. Sahel did not have a desk. Anita looked up and smiled at Sahel. He smiled at her too and blinked an eye and she blushed as she did every day when he greeted her smilingly. Hey... where is the cane. She asked. You noticed I admire you, Sahel said solemnly and continued on to the windows. He dropped down on a chair in front of his bosss desk, relieved to be off the leg again. Major Shahzad Ahmad looked up from his work, and gestured for Sahel to wait a moment... Sahel sat patiently, looking at Shahzad, examining the papers. He was nearly forty with slick black hair, and wide forehead, always had an empty pipe clutched between his teeth. He had given up actually smoking, but he saw no reason to abandon the pacifier altogether. His nature was absurdly pleasant for a man who had been working under the pressures of intelligence for nearly 15 years. No one knew Shahzads real name, for he was occasionally send to Middle East on short role in certain Missions. Actually his cover was extremely vulnerable and he was rarely used in the field anymore. Shahzad threw down his pencil, sat back, folder his fingers behind his head and smiled over his pipe stem. Howd it go today? A thrill, Sahel said. As usual. Shahzad shook his head slowly, with some sympathy. I keep telling you Farhaj, he had gently probably the same tone as when explaining the cruelties of life to his own son. You are lucky to be walking at all, breathing even. Accept it. I know, I know my dear friend, said Sahel. Zindgi ko relax karo, Anita chirped from behind her LCD monitor, having heard the banter a few times before.

Hey you! Shahzad wagged a finger in her direction. I told you no eavesdropping and no flirting with my married man. Anita giggled and continued to type. So? Shahzad switched to business. How did they look? Sahel opened his briefcase and passed the legal pads over the desk. In my opinion, two OK and three never-make-it. Why the three? Shahzad frowned as he took the pads. One too cool, one too nervous and one too eager. Ah, so you are a psychologist now. Professional pessimist, said Sahel, but his tone displayed some hurt. You dont want to hear it, so you dont ask. My dear, said Shahzad smiling slightly yet dead sincere. If I could, Id have dispe nsed with the doctors, shrinks and polygraphs and just let you take them through from first interview to accept or reject. You know that. Farhaj bowed his head with the apologetic compliment. He stood up. Suddenly the knee was throbbing and he wished hed brought the cane, if only for moral support. Well, I am off. Hey, said Shahzad staring at the legal pads. You think, Anita can decipher this handwriting? She reads my mind, Sahel said without looking at the secretary. Besides, she can always call me at home. Oh, I am sure, Amber would love that, Anita spoke behind her screen. She trusts me, said Sahel as he made to leave. Anita laughed again as Sahel opened the door. No interviews till Wednesday, Shahzad called. But come in and help out with the bios. Sahel acknowledged with a thumb up, and then he went into the hallway, clearly taking a left instead of heading for the exit. Hey, Shahzad called. Where to? To see Dilshad. I wish you could stay out of trouble, Sahel. Yes, I wish too. He should have gone straight home. Zawri had ordered Sahel to stop ruminating over the Razmak case, and that mean staying clear of Research. But Dilshad Hussain was a still a close friend, and you could not order a man to terminate his friendship. It was not Sahels fault that now Dilshad Hussain was heading Research, was it? In comparison to Personnel, the Research Department at the end of the floor was a madhouse. Dilshad Hussain liked it that way, and his people joked that even if forced to retire to being at Headmaster of a kindergarten, he would run it similarly, snapping out orders planning activities and jumping from recess to finger paints like the field commander he would always be. Within the Pakistan Intelligence community, NSBs Research Department was uncontested, as the brain trust of gathering, computation and analysis of the raw information. Dilshad Hussains department in SpecOp was just a smaller version of the same. He could call on resources at will -from other intelligence agencies or even the national Police. His private lair was bursting at the seams with files, computer printouts, cipher booklets, video and Audio tapes. There was room

for possibly five desks and as many varied terminals, supporting maximum of seven analysts. Yet Dilshad Hussain had accounted for every centimetre of space. He had five different computers, two multi-head VCR and two monitors with sound recorder equipment and amplifier speakers and massive cross-indexing files in four ceiling high steel cabinets. Dilshad had no desk of his own, because he worked better on his feet. Besides, it allowed him to put two more people into the room which usually harboured no fewer than nine in addition to him. The atmosphere was always choked with smoke despite the anticigarette wave gripping the National scene. Dilshad encouraged the habit, contending that the puffing enhance the mental reflexes. Thanks to colonel AK Zawris skewed concept of crime and punishment, Dilshad Hussain had been suspended from Operations after Kabul fiasco. But he had managed to twist things around. Now Operations could not function without him. There was no lettered signed on the door to Dilshads department, instead Dilshad had somehow acquired a large black and yellow wooden sign from a road gang. It exhibited no words, but simply showed a muscular figure bending over a large black mound of earth, applying leverage to a shovel. For that was how Dilshad viewed his assignment, and also how he wanted to his staff to view it--- sweat provoking, roll-up-your-sleeves, laborious, digging rather than a purely intellectual, chair bound endeavours that could make your ass flabby and starve your inspiration. Sahel pushed on the road sign; the door swung open and he was immediately greeted by cloud of cigarette smoke, the smell of coffee, a noise of computers printers and Dilshads thundering voice. No, Sonia Dilshad was nearly shouting. I dont want that now. Just give me what I asked you for. But Sir, a womans voice sounded obstinate, nearly insubordinate, we have got a twenty percent increase in verbs and nouns. We should start from the beginning of the file fill in some blanks. O... my God! There was a crack of Dilshads palm against his own forehead. How many times do I have to say it Sonia? We have got over three thousand transmission, if you correct every page, you would be living three, four children, by the time you are halfway done! Okay, okay, someone else said. The voices of opposition died down and the clatter of computer keys increased. Sahel closed the door and Dilshad turned from where he has been posed like an orchestra conductor, waving his arms demanding productions from his various sections. Dilshad Hussain was five-foot-ten, somewhat shorter than Sahel, but he had the wide body like a rugby player. He was forever battling a stomach which was addicted to his wife Kashmiri cooking, yet he believed that once he increased trouser size it would be akin to a wartime surrender. He was constantly hitching up his belt. He smoked incessantly, but he still played soccer every weekend with his two teenage sons, and it was said that he could victoriously arm-wrestle any field agent in the Department. As Sardar JS Khan, he had been overall commander of operation Darkroom and ultimately responsible for botched arrest. Yet unlike Sahel, Dilshads spirit had not been dulled by the Kabul fiasco. He viewed intelligence work as an open warfare, and in war you made mistakes, accept them, paid for them and carried on.

Dilshad was wearing a sky-blue half sleeved shirt with off-white cotton pant. His big bald head and jug ears were shiny with perspiration and the shirt was dark under the armpits. He extended a beefy hand. Sahel! He boomed as he hadnt seen him since months, though they had had breakfast together only the day before. Why wont these people listen to me? Farhaj took the hand and squeezed hard to match Dilshad power. Apparently because you dont give them fair allowance, Sahel poked him. We respect him. Someone said from the hazy atmosphere. We just dont like his style. Shut up and work, Dilshad barked without turning around. How was it today? He looked at Sahel with some sympathy. Be serious. Sahel smiled. You be serious, Dilshad said, and take it seriously, the only way you would get out of it. Maybe I like this way. And my father was queer. Thats what in your file, Sahel said and Dilshad patted his shoulder and suddenly turned back to the troops. You Tariq, whats taking so long? You wanted hard-disk backup, so now you have to wait, said a young man labouring over an hp compatible. Mukamal jahalat! Dilshad roared. Ah, the Pakistani Koom, Sahel sighed. Our flexibility will also be our demise, said Dilshad. Sahel searched the room, something big was breaking; he could smell it in the atmosphere, he could by the frenetic concentration that gripped intelligence personnel whenever fresh information was coursing down the pipeline. All five computer terminals were occupied, the young men and women, who each had advanced degrees in the science, bulked over their keyboards like crows pecking at corn. Two additional men were fanning through the paper files in the ceiling high cabinets, and more brooding figure sat in the far corner by the windows, flipping through a small notebook. Everyone in the room knew Sahel and they were always friendly. Though fallen from grace, he was still viewed as a field agent, a figure from that other world of daring and danger which they would never experience. He was usually regarded with a degree of awe, yet today the computer troops were fairly ignoring him. Whats going on? asked Sahel. Dilshad raised a playful eyebrow at Sahel. Farhaj was out of his department and was expected to respect the rules of compartmentalization which restricted access of information to a need-to-know basis. With a few selected individuals such a Sahel, Dilshad occasionally broke the rules. Is he cleared for this, Dilshad? The small figure asked him from the far corner witho ut looking up from his notebook. Im cleared for the rumours, Khaki, Sahel said above the chatters of the computers. Someone laughed. Dilshad lit a cigarette, kept if between his teeth, and put his hands to his hips. Rumour is, Dilshad said, ISI has broken a big chunk of Hyperion Codes.

ISI? Sahels eyed bugged. Thats the rumour. There was a historical, healthy competitive spirit between ISI and NSB, but cooperation on most matter was high. Many officers made career moves from one organisation to the other, so the level of jealousies rarely got out of hand. Do you have it? Sahel asked excitedly. By messenger an hour ago, in black and white. Dilshad grinned. He was clearly pleased, triumphant. He did not care what outfit made the gains, as long as the war was going well. Isnt this a cipher jurisdiction? Farhaj asked. Jurisdiction is just an excuse to do less work. Dilshad growled. Take a chair, Dilshad had noticed the missing cane. Shouldnt go too far the first day. Thats okay, I will stand. What I told you, Khaki? Dilshad growled again. Sonia, the anticipation is killing me, he continued. Everyone in the room waited Khaki would not be rushed. He rubbed his chinless jaw and stared into space, finally he turned towards the terminal where Sonia sat. Dilshad is right, Sonia, Khaki whispered. You are not some poet and we are not trying to write or interpret some poetry. Just pull the Spells and End spells along with the five words preceding and following. He went back to reading his booklet. You see, Dilshad clapped his big hands together. Thats why he gets the big bonuses. It was joke of course, as the NSB salaries were hardly generous and there were no bonuses. Okay, I am getting a listing off a first three hundred pieces. Tariq said from his terminal. Print it, said Dilshad. The machine chatter increased. What about Darkroom? Sahel suddenly asked. Dilshad turned. He looked at Sahel sadly, with a touch of sympathy. Now, Sahel... Why not Dilshad, It cant hurt me, let the machines do it. You just give up the ghost, can you? No, and neither can you, so dont pretend otherwise. Dilshad bowed his bald head and ran a hand over it. He blew out of a cloud of smoke. He straightened up. Okay Sonia. He jabbed a finger to the right. Pull Kabul file and do an extraction for Darkroom. Halal? No, you idiot! Thats our code name for him. Try JAZAB, LASHKAR, and RIZWA BUKSHI, but just first pull all the five and six characters proper and create a separate file. Cancel that order. A voice boomed from the open doorway, and except for the printer chatter, the room went dead and the research staffers froze. The cloud of cigarette suddenly shifted towards the entrance and amid the haze stood the tall figure of Colonel AK Zawri.

The commander of NSBs Special Operations stepped into the room. He was too tall for the door frame and had to bow his head, but his cold stare remained fixed on Dilshad and Sahel. Zawri had that unfair advantage of unusually large man, especially in the land of midsized Pakistanis; even without uttering a word he commanded power. In addition, his forty eight year old head still had every one of the coal-black hair with which he was born, greyed slightly at the curled fringes, but looking like raw steel wire. His eyes were nearly black, with curved eyebrows and beneath equally darkened cheeks and his sharp nose jutted over tight lips. He slammed the door with one huge hand. Sahel, what are you doing here? Somehow, Sahel was not surprised at Zawris untimely arrival. Visiting. The Colonel ignored the disrespect. I have told you before and I will not tell you again. You are not to wander from your own operational parameters, and you are certainly forbidden from interfering with the important work undertaken in this room. Sahel flushed. His knee was suddenly throbbing and he wanted very badly to sit down, but he just returned Zawris stare. I asked him here. Dilshad lied. Dilshad never gave quarter, not even to his boss, and he put his hands to his belt and hiked up his pants as if preparing for a fist fight. As you may or may not remember, I have authority to call upon any agent, at any time for whatever needs required by my staff. Zawri ignored the Major. He was not about to take on with Dilshad in a public forum. He continued deriding Sahel. Might I also remind you Mr Sahel that matters regarding Darkroom are no longer your concern? I will not have these peoples valuable time wasted by your pursuit of a cold dead body. Zawri eyes were nearly glowing now; making Sahel feel as his hair might suddenly burst into flames. We have pending operations requiring immediate updates. The salving of your ego is not on my priority list. Sahel had had enough. He was not going to stand there and be Z awris whipping boy, nor was he going to wait to be thrown out physically. He picked up his briefcase and made for the door. I am sure, you have plenty of paperwork. Zawri called after him. Sahels blood was pounding in his ears. He heard footsteps following him as he limped quickly, white lipped down the hall. Sahel, Dilshad voice called. Tomorrow night at seven you and Amber. Bubbly is making haleem. Sahel kept walking, his vision half blurred with fury and humiliation. He barely registered the curious heads poked from office doors, wandering who might be the target of Zawris rage, as the thundering voice still echoed down the hall from Research. From the doorway to cover, Seemas concerned face suddenly emerged. Bravo? Good day, as he hurried on, nearly staggering as he marched painfully down the cold dark stairwell. --------

When by seven o clock Sahel had still not arrived at home, Amber began to worry. She of course had now known her husband during his tenure as a field agent, when he would be often be gone from his apartment for day or would disappear from the country altogether without a word to friends or family. His present job one he fairly dragged himself to each morning had very regular hours. He rarely came home after five, still during her regular military service Amber knew intelligence people often lost track of the time. She hoped that Sahel was simply engaged in some important assignment. That would be good for him, for both of them. Naturally, all of the other darker reasons for his delay also coursed through her brain and she was tempted to call the office. But she would not do that. In Pakistan military wives did not call the office, unless they were in the advanced stage of labour or the house was ablaze. Everyone in the country knew that the real heroes of the Pakistan defence forces were the wives who waited silently and Amber was not about to shatter that image. Amber had had a difficult day herself. She now worked in the children wing at CMH, and her face muscles had ached from her constant attempts to smile, her feet burned from the endless walk up and down the hallways on hard tile floor of the wards. Yet she always looked forward to coming home, even climbing the two flights to their apartment if lift was out of order in G-11. Although it was only a rental, the flat was far beyond anything either Amber or Sahel had ever hoped for. By Islamabad standard it was huge with three bed rooms with attached bath rooms fully tiled with fancy sanitary fittings. A teak woodworked lounge with a small portion for dinning and moderate kitchen and in addition, there was a fireplace which Amber liked very much. Although it was a bit expensive within the budget ceiling allowed by NSB, but Sahel and Amber both decided to share the cost with NSB, as upon seeing the place, they immediately loved it. Amber had put off her sweaty hospitals nurse uniform. She had showered, washed her jet black hair and pulled on a soft jean and light cotton shirt. Barefoot now she stood on the terrace, her one hand on the guardrail and other holding a glass of iced orange juice, she watched out over the tall buildings and houses cross the street turning purple with the coming of night. She tried not to look at her watch, one ear waited for the ring of the telephone. Farhaj arrived at 7.20. He was using the cane again and he was exhausted. He had stopped at the Gulls Inn on the Margalla, where the UN had its headquartered. It was the most beautiful view of Islamabad from any vantage, and when troubled, Sahel often went there to sit on the hillside watching houses, trees changing colours with the trek of the sun. They were building a long public walkway on the hill, and soon every tourist in the country would be sharing over Sahels private purview, slurring ice creams and clicking camera chatters. But now there was only a tasteful restaurant dug into the hillside, barely visible from the road. Sahel had sat out on the grass, fairly gulped a series of Espresso trying to remind himself that he still had something for which to be thankful. But by the time he managed three flights to the apartment, a hardship which had stubbornly ignored when he signed the lease and he was sweating and the knee was on fire. Much of the anger had returned before he entered in the apartment.

Amber hurried in from the terrace, greeting him like a faithful wife. I was worried. She smiled. Sahel threw his briefcase and cane on the brown Victorian couch. He fell into a black sofa and banged his head back on the cushioned rest. He closed his eyes. No need, I am covered for death and disability. Amber ignored the stupid remarks and kissed him on his cheek. I am sorry, I said that. He reached under his shirttail and removed his holstered pistol, laying it at the glass coffee table. No apology necessary. Amber was still smiling, but her wide brown eyed showed concern. Taking too much coffee, is bad for health. Amber smelled fragrance of espresso. Who bothers health, thanks to my bloody career? Amber sat down on the couch, holding her glass over her knees. Even in his cold dark mood, Sahel could not block the incursion of his wifes warmth, her beauty, lines of her breasts beneath her shirt and the elegance of her long slim fingers. What happened today, Sahel? God, I need a cigarette, Ambi. He liked calling her that and she loved hearing it. It somehow looked her sexy and very close to a generic name of a young mango still on the tree. Amber took the cigarette from the pocket of Sahels shirt, lit one for her husb and and put it in his lips. Her thought went briefly to the cancer ward and she dispelled them. I am still listening. She said. Colonel A.K. Zawri. Thats what happened. Thats what always happens. Oh, Amber sat back on the couch. She looked out through the windows to the dark night and the brightening buildings across the street. This was a recurring problem, and it would not go away. Sahel had been a combat officer and now he was flying a desk, as they said. She had seen the syndrome before. In addition, this idiot colonel would not let Sahel forget something that had wounded her husband physically and crippled him mentally, something that had turned him into a vulnerable man she loved. But at this rate, he was not going to make it, would not last at least until his partial pension. They were trying to get pregnant, they needed the housing subsidy, their parents were not wealthy, and they would have to buy many new baby items at their own. If Sahel could not preserve, their fairy-tail nest would fall down. I am going to quit. Sahel said suddenly. He listed slightly for a moment and then he went out to the terrace and leaned on the steel guardrail. Amber followed her husband, yet she stood back a bit and just listening. There is no reason to take it. Sahel said. Be this punching bag. I am young. Ill get something else. Well manage. He suddenly dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his heel. They both knew what manage would mean, Amber let the idea hang for a while. Then she spoke. My husband always tells me, dont shop grocery, when you are hungry and dont make decisions, when you are mad. He is an idiot. Sahel snorted. May be hes just hungry. Amber offered. I was going to BBQ tonight, may be Shashlik. It sounds just nothing, said Sahel. But I am not hungry. He turned around and Amber saw the depth of the hurt in his eyes. I am just exhausted Ambi, just tired.

She took his arms and put it over her shoulders and led him back inside as she squeezed his waist. A nap then. She said as she led him down the bedroom, and then well see. In the bedroom, Amber lowered the windows curtains, putting most of the space into dark shadow. She lowered Sahels backward on to the bed, took off his sneakers, socks and jeans while he stared up at the ceiling. She stood up and began to unbutton her blouse. Sahel was about to protest, but then he remembered the baby. Amber had warned him about four days in her cycle were always crucial with no matters the moods and problems around them. Sahel was also anxious to begin adding to the family. Yet he also knew, as he watched her, that he was captured, so he did not resist her. He suddenly sat up surprising Amber and kissed on her neck and switched off the lights. He dreamed of many things fitfully. He dreamed of the army, of parachuting into darkened forests, climbing the mountain peaks, careening in brakeless cars through rainslickened streets of anonymous cities, but most of all he dream of Razmak Bilal.

_______

Kogon
Chapter 3
A small town near Bukhara Hayat Gul awoke as he did always, with the sun in his eyes. It was calculated reception of the disturbing morning light with Hayats lifelong practice of selecting bedrooms which would foil his poor night-time habits. All his life Hayat battled his urge to sleep late, to linger in bed a bit long past an acceptable hour. Forced to outwit his own metabolism, he would remove the curtains from the windows and arrange angle of his bed just so. Neither the banging of alarm clocks nor the persistent music of radio could penetrate his sleep. The only effective weapon was blinding message from God. Hayats wife Shirin was not terribly disturbed of her husbands morning tattoo, but she had managed to adjust. After a year of marriage, the dawns emerging light and bird whistles careening off the bedroom walls no longer affected her. While her husband struggled with his eyelids, she went right on sleeping, unless of course babys cry called her off to wake up. However on this particular morning, Hayat hardly required natures assistance. He had barely slept, yet he got up in bed as if he had had a full eight hours sleep. At long last he would be breaking the pleasant monotony of his existence, leaving for an extended business trip. He felt some pains of guilt leaving Shirin and the baby behind, but he had not set foot outside of Kogon since their wedding day. It was welcome change and he was suffered with anticipation. The air in the room was cold, unusually so far late spring in Uzbekistan. Shirin had kicked the brown woollen blanket drown around her waist and Hayat gently pulled it back up over her shoulders, where it covered her long brown hair. She did not stir but her eyes were shut fiercely tight, as if she were already wake yet unprepared to face the day. The bedroom door was halfway opened with a rubber stopper so that they could hear the baby. Hayat slipped through half naked hugging himself as he walked across the cold tile floor of the saloon towards the kitchen. The far end of the long living room had floor to ceiling window. The sun streamed in through the collapsible fibre blinds and threw wavy shadows on the floor as he passed the large plant vase inside lounge. Hayat opened the kitchen tap, poured some water in the kettle and ignited the stove with a matchstick. His hand shook a bit, but he set the water to boil and went back to the bathroom. He turned on the small transistor next to the sink keeping the volume low. The Uzbek music channel was running its early morning wakeup programme. It was pleasant old classical song. He rinsed leaving swatches of leather on his face and he begun to mutter along the song as he stepped into the shower. He dressed unusually for him in a charcoal-grey suit. The new white shirt came fresh from its package and it was stiff against his damp skin. He had some trouble with the dark blue stripped tie; for it has been so long time to wear one. He briefly combed his hair and stood to look in the mirror. Satisfied, if not completely comfortable, he reached into the breast pocket for his glasses and set on his face. He squinted and then he smiled. He looked like a business professional or a stockbroker.

At the end of the hallway, the door to the babys room was closed. Hayat was about to enter, then he hesitated, turned and made straight for the kitchen fairly tiptoeing on the floor. From the refrigerator he extracted a bottle of orange juice. He took out a stick of margarine and a jar of apple jam and picked up a fresh cucumber sized roll of bread from a basket on the kitchen table. He made himself a dark cup of instant coffee, added some milk and sugar and sat down to his breakfast. He was really too excited to eat, but he forced himself to dress the roll. He did not know when he would find the next opportunity for a meal. It was strange for the first time in so many work days not to going to the office. The people of the Bank de finance were pleasant and the conditions more than accommodating, yet he would not miss any of it. And although he took his studying seriously, spending his evenings in pursuit of masters degree in Business Administration, the work and learning took their toll on his family life. It was difficult to be a young father, so much responsibility. In fact it would be good to get away, and he could justify his pleasure with the knowledge that the baby and Shirin would want for nothing. She came of the hallway with her hair in disarray, wild around her face and over her shoulders. She was wearing her light pinkish robe and she was pushing a small stroller, Sophie was wrapped in a white cotton shawl against a morning chill. She looked as she has been crying and she reached her tiny hands towards the face of Shirin. She looked too, as she has been crying. Her cheeks were flushed and she had lost her ever present smile. On this morning Shirin was not certainly sharing her husbands optimism, and if he was actually indulging a certain joy, betrayed by his unusual morning, she was having none of it. The business trip was not a surprise, and Shirin had been experiencing a growing edginess with the recent passage of time. Now the panic of imminent abandonment was welling within her. She would taste no excitement, no thrill of adventure. She and Sophie would be left at home alone. However, Shirin was mustering all her strength to suppress her emotions, check her tears. She still firmly believed that her role was that of Hayat Guls loving wife, mother to his child, a supportive partner. She was his only family, his roots, his moral support and she would continue that role with a straight martyrdom that seemed almost politically zealous. Hayat looked up from his coffee, his eyes like those of a man caught by his guilt. Subohen Bakhairish. Shirin whispered. No mornings are good mornings, unless you make it good, Hayat repeated their private joke, but it fell flat. You look so strange, said Shirin. Her mouth twisting as she pulled Sophie from the stroller to her arms. Hayat looked down at his suit. He swept some crumbs from his tie. I feel strange. Suddenly baby began to cry. She stood up and reached to the air and her face went red, until she finally let out her first long wail. O, no, Sophie, Hayat stood up and walked quickly to his family. He reached for the baby, but Shirin said, Dont, youll mess the suit. Then she bounced the baby a few times, though it did not seem to help. She knows us, Shirin said, She can feel it, thats all. Give her to me, said Hayat, To hell with the suit. Shirin handed the baby over, and Hayat cooed her, but he did hold away at some length, keeping her tears from the wool.

Ill get your things. She came back with the suitcase and the business brief. They switched, Shirin recovering the baby and Hayat reluctantly hefting his bags. He looked at Shirin for a long time, wordless, completely at a loss. Love, she finally said freeing him. Take care, Hayat managed. Ill miss you, Shirin tears were coming now, joining Sophies, soaking into her terrycloth. Hayat kissed her wife on her trembling lips, and then he kissed the baby on her pink skull, feeling the light fuzz of her new hair. He walked quickly to the door and was gone. ________

By the time Hayat reached onto the ground floor, he had managed his emotional gears, recovering optimism of the morning. The shock of the cold air, fresh and damped with the night rain, felt like a breath of pure oxygen after an evening in smoky cafe. He pulled his raincoat closed and buttoned it, briefly wishing that he had something heavier that his light suit. He turned and looked at his shabby white Renault, park in the open, hoping that Shirin would finally learn to master the strange dashboard gear lever. He smiled at the little car and began to walk. With a few long steps, he reached to the street. Baite Ameer was not much more than alleyway, a one way road barely wide enough for the passage of a single car. It was quiet place lined with small apartments buildings and Hayat had always felt affection for its name dedicated to the bravery of Ameer Tamour. Although it was very early, even by Uzbeks standards, this part of Baite Ameer was already coming awake. Hayat could hear the dew-choked carburettors of small cars out on the roads, the voices of children on their way schools. Hayat turned left and began to walk west on Baite Ameer. He was tempted to look back at Number-24, thinking that Shirin would be watching him from the small terrace window, but he ignored the idea and kept on pace. An old man driving a vegetable cart has passed him coming from the other way, the shaggy driver and his donkey returned Hayats nod with their own. Halfway down the block on the left was a low single storey cement building. The house had wide front window, its green slat-blinds just rolling up into the casing as Mrs. Abranov appeared on the window like a ghostly sailor. Mrs. Abranov owned this cafe and was running a small children nursery too. Seemingly it was a strange combination, though her endeavours brought convenience and relief to neighbourhood mothers. Mrs. Abranov bugged her eyes and smoothed her thinning white hair as she saw Hayat approaching in his suit. Subohen Bakhairish, Hayat Gul Her cheered voice filled with years estimation. You look great. Hayat bowed accepting the compliments. Thank you and good morning to you, Mrs Abranov.

As she did every morning, the old woman handed over him first edition of morning Daily Bukhara and two packs of Rothman. Hayat opened his briefcase and dropped the cigarette inside. Then he took up the paper and scanned the headlines. As Always the edition was one day behind, but he was used to that by now. Events always reached Kogon after the rest of the world has consumed it, as if the small town opinion was unimportant vis--vis its impact of the international scene. Anything else, Mrs. Abranov asked, although Hayats response was always negative. Just a smile, please. And of course the old woman complied, adding a slight blush as she smoothed her hair again. Salam as Hayat moved. Salam, he called over his shoulders. Going away, She could not help asking the receding figure, and then she quickly put up her fingertips to her naughty lips. He just waved in the air. Hayat reached Shah Street near to Kogon Palace Children Park, and turned left again, walking more briskly, hoping to warm him with the exercise. He passed some people on the road and arrived at the intersection, where on chilly days such as this, he would normally have boarded Number 11 bus for the short ride down to Mokhal to his branch of Bank de Finance. Hayat crossed the road and waited at a far corner. He lit up a cigarette and looked at his watch. It was not a designated stop, but soon a Black Mercedes van showed up. Hayat Boarded, the driver greeting him with a nod. He took a seat in the front. There was only one other passenger, who appeared to be sleeping on the rear seat. The van quickly moved north from the centre of town making no stops. It took hardly ten minutes, as the clusters of the apartments grew sparser and the traffic on the roads receded to the occasional car or jeep. The van stopped at a junction, north-eastern intersection of the town line. Good luck. The driver wished him success as he opened the door and stepped out. You too, said Hayat as he carried his cases in his hands. He began to walk again towards east along the narrow highway towards the countryside. Hence the grassy fields quickly fell off to unformed plots of flat mud. The trees were bare excepting the occasional clusters of pines and the spotty distant scabs of melting snow made the warmer memories of Kogon. After half a kilometre, Hayat reached a large mesh fence that blocked the highway. It has covered lengths and drifted away from both sides of the road, disappearing over the distant hills. At its centre was a gate in the roadway. A man with fatigue capped in a green woollen uniform stood there shifting from his boot to boot to keep him warm. The man watched Hayats approach and then wordlessly slid the gate back without raising his eyes as the Hayat passed him. He walked another half kilometre, warm now with the exertion. Then, finally at the crest of the hill where the highway ran between pairs of withered trees, he saw the car. It was a long black, boxy van painted on both sides with a companys insignia, parked across the highway on a service road, not yet metalled with black top. Hayats excitement rose, his heart faster now. He could not see inside the car for its smoked windows, but it grew larger, as rear trunk door suddenly opened like a genie cave hissing up on hydraulic hinges.

The engine was running, smoothly barely audible and Hayat stepped through the cloud of exhaust and put his cases into the deep trunk. He closed it, rubbed his chilled hands together and walked towards the rear door and got inside. Immediately the big van began to move. It took a minute for Hayat eyes to adjust as the sun had been so bright, and the car was gloomy with its black tinted windows. He was alone on the huge rear seat; a thick tempered glass divider separated him from the drivers compartment. In the front right seat was a large figure, a husky man in a dark suit appeared reading some papers. His head was wide and short brown hair going grey with age. To the left, drivers peaked cap stayed dead straight on the wheel wearing a pair of black leather gloves. The van was moving very fast now, fairly flying over the narrow highway. Suddenly Hayat was smacked with the reality that, despite his assurance to Shirin, he was leaving. If all went well, he would not return. He turned in his seat to make him more comfortable and gazed out the rear window. On the flat horizon, he could still see his small town Kogon, its low plaster buildings receding quickly in the distance. He relaxed and sat back against the high leather seat, releasing a sigh of wonder. He looked ahead to the future, to pinpoint the ends of the road that wavered at the next barren crest, and despite on edgy, he felt more growing excitement. Though he would not be there for another ten hours, including four and half flying hours from the city of Balkan, he could almost smell Moscow. The glass partition suddenly slid down into its leather case, and the large man seemed to awaken to the presence of his charge. He turned quickly throwing his beefy arm over the glass partition smiling through a gap-toothed mouth. Good morning, Hashim, said the man. Hayat was momentarily shocked. It was the sound of Russian, which he had not heard in over a year. It would take more than moment to make the adjustment, and his eyes must have registered surprise, making Major Boris Yaakov think that he was admonishing the open use of his code name. Oh, dont worry about him, said the officer, pointing a gloved finger at the motion less driver. Hes deaf. The External Services man laughed loudly, a sound strangely accompanied by the gravelly singing of Boris Yaakov as it boomed from a tape player. Many Russians had been imprisoned for listening to the dissident poet, but the RES enjoyed whatever music it pleased. It does not make for the safest driving, said the officer, still referring to his drivers handicap. But its perfect for security. He was still laughing, but then it faded quickly, receding to a warm and sympathetic smile. He did not realize that his passengers expression resulted from insecurity, a fear that his first utterance would gush forth in Persian. The Russian External Services man jutted his jaw towards rear window. I hope you will not be too homesick, he said empathetically. Real Uzbekistan waits you, he smiled once more. She is longing for you. Razmak Bilal smiled in return.

________

Jacob Compound
Chapter 4
After couple of weeks On Wednesday morning Colonel A.K.Zawri was in a fine mood. Unfortunate for the Special Operations personnel, the colonels frame of mind was always directly connected to the degree of his successes or failures. When operations proceeded with only a small amount of results, the commander was fuming, sombre somewhat like a burbling volcanic pit. However on days such as this when his success was no less than smashing. Zawris arrogance rushed to the surface like summer seas and he was profoundly happy. And when Abdul Karim Zawri is happy, he was also supremely foul. Sahel knew that it was coming, like a hunter smells rain on the wind, like a race driver know that on this day there will be smack of steel against steel, yet his insight was not exactly telepathic. He had taken Tuesday off calling sick leave and spent much of his morning time resting and relaxing in bed. He had accepted Ambers advice most of the day to cool off. He sat most of the time out in terrace at their white round umbrella table, sipping iced coffee and catching up the papers and magazines. In the afternoon he met Amber at G-7 Markaz, where hand in hand they shopped meat, vegetables and fruits at the huge bins tended by the friendly stall keepers. In the evening after Sahel cancelled the dinner at the Dilshad, they finally had their delayed barbeque and with the aid of old songs Farhaj achieved an uneven approaching relaxed euphoria that he had not known for many months. Amber went back to the hospital, having switched a shift with a co-worker. Sahel popped the pretty woman into the DVD player and laugh aloud watching Julia Roberts innocent acting and Richard Gere as sober rich businessman. At midnight, with the final TV news wrap-up, Sahels state abruptly turned cold-stone sober. There was a brief early report about killing of an Al-Qaeda operative in Peshawar in a cross shootout early this evening. The terrorists were hiding in a house tipped by agency sources, the details and perpetrators of the operation as yet unknown. But Sahel has no doubt as to the identity of the executioners. He sat before the television for a good long hour, motionless staring at the screen. He filled that screen with the thousand images from his own history hoping at once that there were no errors that a mission was a total success, then guiltily wishing that it had somehow failed. It seemed that a day could not pass without bringing some persistent reminder of Kabul. His team members though now scattered around the globe, made their regular appearances. Roshna Saleem, whose image he fought hardest to suppress infiltrated in his mind. Tehran. He was glad that he had not been there, then felt instantly depressed, somewhat like an injured goalkeeper who has watched his team in the World Hockey Champions Trophy. In the morning after a night of broken sleep, he was sorely tempted to take an additional sick leave. Yet his pride finally propelled him from the bed. He was certain that his absence following Zawris sour reprimand had already fed the Departments rumour mill, and he wanted to crush any impression that he might have finally succumbed to the Colonels abuses.

Sahel was in Personnel by eight o clock sharp. Saleem, the driver-cum-runner, was already out on his trip, and Sahel sat at the boys desk correcting Anitas typescript of his recent interviews. Anita was not in yet and Sahel borrowed the Walkman from her drawer and listened to the hourly news as he sipped a cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette. The morning reports were already quite full of details. An Al-Qaeda operative later identified as Abdullah a Libyan in his mid-thirties. The hideout was located somewhere close to Hayatabad locality in Peshawar. He was one of the surviving architects of several terrorist activities in Pakistan and Afghanistan. Security agencies and police had launched hunt for another operative named Abu Saleh accomplice of Abdullah who slipped away in smoke towards the tribal areas. A senior police officer was saying that Abu Saleh, an Egyptian national, was wanted by the CIA and was carrying reward money of $ 500,000. The operation was almost lauded for its surgical professionalism. Abdullah was killed with his bodyguards, but his wife remained unharmed. The professional team had arrived at the scene to assist the security agencies and police and departed within ten minutes leaving no causalities of forces and security agencies. Almost without exception, foreign sources pointed to a NSBs operation. As Sahel removed the earphone, he needed no further proof of this assessment. He looked up at the ceiling, where the vibration of moving feet caused the light bulbs to shiver on their hanging wires. The top floor had been up all night long, and it was certainly not because they were playing cards game. There was going to be a lot of unsubtle merrymaking on the floors today, and he really did not want to hear it. Good morning. He was snapped from his brooding by Anitas greeting as she entered the room and closed the door. She was cheerful this morning, fairly bouncing on the balls of her feet and Sahel could not help smiling at her. Morning, he said and extended his hand to return his Walkman. I borrowed it, hope you wont mind. Anita tossed her black purse onto her desk and retrieved the radio. And if I did? Then you wouldnt be Anita, said Sahel. The girl almost blushed, but she managed to suppress it. She worked hard not to reveal the crush on her elder co-worker, but she was not fooling anyone. She examined the cassetteradio without really seeing it. So you have heard, then. Whats that? He posed ignorance. She knitted her brows. Everyone knew by this hour, everyone who had a radio or television, from the top cabinet ministers to the small shopkeeper in village. You know, Peshawar. O, yes. Sahel sat back in the chair and blew out some smoke. Used to be a lovely city, I know, I have been there many times. Come on Sahel. Yes, I heard. Sahel gave up the game. Anita was still very young, not bruised with the experience. He straightened the papers before him, as if bored by the whole affair. Quite an operation, he said. Must have been security people. Of course. Anita was smiling at him again, and suddenly Sahel realized that her look also harboured sympathetic indulgence. He always thought of this girl as a teenager, so much

young than himself, yet here she was already here well-armed with the sophisticated psychological tongs with which women handled fragile male egos. It struck Sahel that Anita was certainly no child, probably long past virginity. She was a very pretty girl, and with her long black curls and brown eyes resembled with Amber. Anita, you are wearing uniform, for Gods sake. You would be sacked right now! It was Zawris strictest regulation; no one, no matter their military status was ever to appear at Headquarters in anything but civilian clothes. And here she was in sergeants uniform with strips on the shoulders. I know, dont worry so, she said, pleased with his concern. Have not you heard? No, I havent. New rules, all support staff once a day in a month, now can have uniform. I heard it was Major Dilshad Hussains idea. Naturally. Dilshad said it was not normal, every building in Islamabad has routine uniform people wandering even on their personal business. Yea, it sounds Dilshads reasoning. He has a chess master mentality. He could always determine what the opposition would be thinking and then provide an appropriate bit of strategic doublethink. Anita stood up to make some coffee, Want some more? Sure, Sahel watched her. The uniform was thick green cloth trousers with a same light coloured blouse of Lenin fabric with grey lining inside veiling almost all smart curves of a woman. The supply corps has recently replaced the uniforms, which had been light grey cotton previously smartly fitted on curves. I liked the old uniform. Sahel smiled. Yes, thats what all the men say. She smiled too. Morning, Major Shahzad came bouncing in, his empty pipe clutched between his teeth. Ah, coffee is what I need. Coming up, said Anita. Morning, said Sahel. Shahzad dropped his briefcase on the rack by window. Feeling better, Sahel. Walking wounded. I dont see the cane. And you wont again. Good man. Did you hear Shazi? Anita asked Shahzad as she handed him small glass of steaming black coffee. He took it by the top edges with thumb and forefingers, but it burned him anyway and he hurried to set it down. Yea, damn it. He cursed the Slavic tradition of agencies, where placing hot liquids in small glasses instead of cups or mugs. Suddenly the door was pushed open and Captain Qadri appeared. The captains hair was wild, unwashed and hardly finger-combed giving him more than usual crazed look. Qadri was often referred to as Zawris stiletto, for he carried out the Colonels most morale-depleting directives, such as transfers, reprimands and rank busting, with cruel delight. He had been up all night and was functioning on caffeine.

Department heads upstairs in exactly fifteen minutes, Qadri snapped, and he looked at his watch like a platoon commander who wishes to frighten his green troops into punctuality. Then he glanced over at Sahel and returned his gaze to Shahzad. Just you, Major, he said pointedly. And bring a clean glass. He closed the door and left. There was a moment of discomfit silence in the room, and then Sahel took a pencil cup from the desk and threw it at the door where it made a resounding crack and bounced onto the floor. To hell, you asshole, Sahel shouted. He looked over to Anita, who sat stiffly in her chair like a frightened cat. Sorry, he said. He hated Qadri primarily because the man had no mind of his own. He was an empty vessel, a pure reflection of his bosss moods and desires. If Zawri has liked Sahel, then Qadri would have spent plenty of time kissing Sa hels shoes. And bring a clean glass, Sahel muttered imitating Qadris self-important tone. He picked up a pencil and tried to resume his work. Things have been changed too much in the department, and he prayed that it was a merely passing influence of an ambitious commander rather than an indication growing national coldness. He remembered with melancholy clarity how, long ago after a successful mission in north Waziristan during which a pair of terrorists had been blown up in their car, his team split up and reassembled a week later in Islamabad. There after a lengthy debriefing they had immediately gone down together to the Bari Imam to pray together. Now in contrast, when Zawris people got some victory, the cold commander gathered his department heads together and poured coffee and drinks like a winning corporate business head. Frustrated, Sahel dropped his pencil and sat back rubbing his forehead. Anita retreated behind her computer. Sahel pushed his chair back and stood up. I am going to canteen, anybody wants something to eat? Anita shook her head. Sahel, Shahzad look up from beneath his bushy eyebrows. Be relaxed, okay. You know something, Shahzad? He began to raise his voice, and then realized that Shahzad was no target for his anger. He smoothed his tone low. I dont mind being out of action. I really dont, but I am sick to death of having my nose rubbed in it. He went out into the hallway and turned towards the cafeteria. Zawri was coming briskly along the hallway, followed by a young man carrying a large wooden crate. Zawri nearly tripped over a telex cable that snake across the floor like a black asp waiting in ambush. He immediately stopped short and slapped his palm on the first nearby door. It happened to be Cover, whose personnel certainly had nothing to do with the communication. But that did not matter to the Colonel. Victims were plentiful where his anger would find them hidden in the corners of his kingdom. He ducked his large head into the doorway. I want those fucking cables off the floor today. This is not a goddamn movie studio! He let the door slam. Could have fooled me, Sahel muttered to himself, what with all the melodrama? Zawri continued his march, walking right past Sahel as if his once unsurpassable team leader was merely a duck. Sahel stopped, lit a cigarette and plugged it between his teeth. He put his hands into his pant and concentrated on keeping his pace. Down the hall a small crowd was gathered around the long table that held unclassified reports and copies of the morning papers. They were passing sections of news to each other,

reading headlines aloud from daily Jang, Nation and Dawn. Sahel started forward feeling click in his knee vibrate up to his brain. He braced himself mentally as he passed the table, where no less than seven people chattering excitedly about the Peshawar operation. Morning Bravo! Seema from Cover looked up at Sahel and smiled broadly. She held up a front page of Dawn Have you seen this? She asked excitedly. Sahel waved a hand. Read them all, page to page, Sahel lied. As a young paratrooper in 90s he has once enjoyed reading the after-action news paper coverage of his own unit operations in exercises in open seas of Arabian Gulf. But he quickly came to realize how distant journalism from reality was? Especially that journalism which has by now become unregulated by the department for some times assumed actions. He smiled to himself. He arrived at the cafeteria and settled into a seat. The room was filled with the morning coffee crowd, many of them had newspaper spread out and were happily discussing the evening event. There was not a field agent among them, they were all support staff and were proud of any successful Departments endeavour. Since long, Sahel felt completely out of place, precisely because he knew that this was his peer group. Coffee peeni ey? Dilshad appeared from out of the crowd, his solid breadth imposing like a rising planet. Morning Sir. Sahel smiled at him, No more coffee, already enough, thanks. Sit. Dilshad took a place at the table. He sipped from a glass and took a drag from cigarette. How are you feeling? Sorry about last night, Dilshad. Truth is I just did not want to socialize. No apologies, just answer the question. Sahel looked at his former field commander. There was no lying to Dilshad. When you did, he immediately called you on it anyway and then sucked out the truth. I feel like shit. Especially since Zawri is upstairs right now rejoicing like an idiot. Thats honest. Dilshad wiped some sweat from his bald head with his palm, Selfish, but honest. I am glad the operation came off, Sahel hastened to say. But I dont know how long I can take it, being half in and half out like this. Days like today are hard for me. Thats all. Who wanted the chicken rolls? A girl behind the coffee bar called out to the room. Its getting cold. Dilshad waited for her to stop shouting, and then he leaned closed to Sahel. Look, I told you, wed try to get your situation improved. You have to be patient. So Amber tells me too. I know we want to be parents and I have to last until partial pension, at least. But I would be rather some idiot driver at this point. Limping around here like a ghost. Sahel lit his cigarette while Dilshad shook his head. I have decided, Dilshad, I am going to demand my rights. Today. Dilshads eyes widened. Today? Are you crazy? No, I am not. Its right time. Zawri will be horrible right now, but it would be the only window of generosity of spirit I will find. Department Heads. Someone in the room yelled. Duty calls. A number of men began to leave the room.

Dilshad looked at his watch. Sahel, he said. You are a stubborn young bastard and I like you. He pulled himself up and out of the chair. But it is my duty to say, as your friend and superior officer that I strongly recommend against your action. I am doing it, Dilshad, today and right now. Ill back you up. Dilshad said instantly. I thought you might. Sahel smiled up at the major. But wait for at least half an hour. Sahel looked his watch and said, Ok, half an hour your allowance. As he walked towards door, Dilshad put his beefy hand on his shoulder. If my sons turned out like you, that will be all right. Dilshad, Sahel called after him, you forgot to take a clean glass. I dont drink at graveside, said Dilshad and left for the meeting with Colonel AK Zawri.

______

The conference room on the top floor of the Headquarters was not comparable to that of a major banking institution, but it was luxurious by Pakistani governmental standards. The windows were curtained with long grey silk with a fancy net hanging inside and dark blue border over it. There were two small crystal chandeliers, as opposed to weary tube lights, hanging over the either side of long table. The floor was carpeted wall to wall and the long teak table at which twenty officers could be seated comfortably was shiny and freshly oiled. There were expensive office meeting chairs with adequately cushioned. There was a TV monitor at one end and pulldown white screen for slide show or film projection. There was huge an art-easel-board stood with some coloured markers in its attached small basket. There were numbers of mini-speakers fixed over the chairs on the walls and one microphone each was stood at the front of the each chair. The room was filled with smoke--- pipes, cigarettes and cigars and most of the table top was covered by copies of the morning papers, empty coffee glasses and reams of telex, decodes and computer printouts. Someones pistol had apparently been laid next to the half-empty glass of coffee. This single shiny black object was altering the character of the room from that of policy-makers to action-oriented saga. There were two women and eleven men in the room, all of them were departmental heads or second-in-command. None of the field agents or team leaders was present, since anyone who had actually been on the ground in Peshawar was now being debriefed at some distant safe house. The meeting, rather the celebration as Zawri would have it was drawing to a close. The department heads mostly raised from their chairs, were gathering their notes and printouts, many of them slightly excited from a night of intense work topped off from a glass of coffee at meeting room. It was prestigious to been in meeting. Except for Zawris secretary, no one in the room was younger than thirty and there was no rank below captain. Under normal circumstances, the exhausted officers would have been anxious to get back to their offices, where they might be able to steal an hours nap. However,

blatantly successful days such as these were rare, so they lingered. Three men in a far corner were loudly expressing their sympathies for the commanders of some other agencies. The Agencies had been asked for a favour in Peshawar operation, and a special satellite arrangement had jammed every communication around operational area for long six hours, but much to be pitied agencies services were constantly taking a beating in the press, so when they did participate successfully in an-anti terror operation, they were not allowed to admit it. In another part of the room, Dilshad was chatting with a homely woman named Shaista who headed encrypted and telex traffic. He was sitting on the conference table and waving his arm and woman laughed and suggested that he get down before the cost of the new table was to be deducted from his monthly salary. At the front of the room next to the white projection screen, Zawri stood talking to a uniform major general. The officer was as tall as Zawri, grey haired and handsome in a rather regal manner. The man was Qasim Ali, chief of National Security Bureau. If Sahel Farhaj had been forewarned of General Qasims presence, he might not have chosen that moment to enter the conference room. The wooden door swung open and an exchange could be heard from outside. The guard from the second floor desk had been posted to keep unauthorised personnel out of the meeting. Its department heads only, Bravo, said a pleading voice. So shoot me, Sajid. Sahel stepped into the room and closed the door. All heads turned to look at him, and he assumed an optimistic expression, if not actually a smile. He raised his hand as if clutching invisible toast-glass. Cheers to everyone. Thanks, Sahel. A couple of voices came in chorus. Sahel headed for Zawri, who looked over him briefly and resumed his conversation with General Qasim. Qadri was standing by Zawri like a ball boy at a tennis match, glared at Sahel with undisguised disdain. Sahel stopped close to Zawri. Dilshad eased himself off the table and edged closer to Sahel. Excuse me, Sir, Sahel said. Zawri sighed and turned slowly to the captain. We are in conference, Sahel. Just wanted to say best wishes, Sahel smiled. It was quite an operation. Zawris ego was his soft underbelly. A twist of lips indicated his minor pleasure at the compliment. Thank you, Sahel. Sahel extended a congratulatory hand, which the colonel was forced to take. The captain gripped hard and held on. This seems a good time to bring up a small problem, said Sahel. AK Zawri immediately darkened. Its hardly the place or the time. The Colonels meaning was clear, but Sahel purposely did not look up at General Qasim. The informality of ranks in NSB could work to anyones advantage, if played carefully. Ill make it quick, Sir, he said. I need a change. I have to begin moving forward again. Well discuss it later; Zawri snapped pulling his hand away.

For once in your life, be generous, Colonel. Dilshad pleaded at Zawri from over the Sahels shoulder. The Colonel gripped his upper lip under teeth. He could not be made to look petty before his senior officer. What is it? he fairly snarled. Good Sahel thought. He is now trapped. I need some activity. The desk is choking me. I have to get my mind and body moving again. The rest of the room had fallen dead silent. Sahel past reputation was well known to everyone in the department and despite Kabul fiasco all who knew him still harboured a good deal of respect for the wonderful field agent. The head of the Training Department spoke courageously from the other end of the table. We could use him in the indoctrination course. The recruits dont need advice from a failure, Sheri, Zawri snapped. Now wait for one minute, sir, Dilshads colour was rising rapidly. Excuse me, General Qasim interrupted speaking decently to Sahel. Are not you Sahel Farhaj? Yes sir, I am. The Afghanistan problem, correct? Yes sir. Qasim turned to Zawri. This man was talented commander, Zawri. Dilshad here has a point for generosity, and it is certainly the day for it. Colonel AK Zawri was concerned and furious, but he had no choice other than to take a softer line. Okay, Sahel, there was no assignment presently available, and I need you in Personnel. But you can begin some physical training. He snapped his finger at Qadri, who still stood glaring at Sahel and Dilshad. Qadri, Call Shimla House. Send Sahel over there. He can start thi s afternoon. It was not precisely what Sahel had in mind, but it was a small victory. Thank you, sir, he said and then he pointedly looked at up General Qasim. And thank you General. Thats now sealed. Witnesses, the C.Os backing. Zawri now could not easily retreat the order. Sahel turned to leave and Dilshad patted him on his shoulder. The door opened and a communications officer entered. He was one of General Qasims personal staff and he spoke to the general. Sir, the phones are ringing off the wall. Journalists, Radio, TV, what the hell do I say? Well, Kiyani. The general lifted his head and looked at the ceiling. We want everyone to know, that it was us, correct? So whats the official NSB response? No comments. ________

You played it perfectly, it worked and thats fine. Dilshad was happy. Now you have to back off.

Sahel and Dilshad was going back down the staircase to second floor. It worked thanks to you, Dilshad, said Sahel. Nonsense, I just growled on the right time. Did you hear what I just said? Dilshad imitated fury. Yes, sir! and looked smilingly at Dilshad. I am serious, Sahel. You got your feet in the door and now you have to be a good boy. Just stay out of his way and maybe well keep you from being bored to death for the next one year. Dilshad was using his hands for emphasis, pumping his palms as if performing push-ups in the air. Yes, Dilshad, Its fine, Sahel assured him. I dont have to get out in the field again. And while Zawri here, you never will. Good, I dont want to. They reached the landing. Sajid was back at his desk. When he saw Sahel, he shook his head in disgust. Thanks a lot, Bravo. Sahel smiled at the young security officer. You shouldnt have let me through, Sajid? As if I could have stopped you, you were like a bull in the fight. Sorry. Sahel passed through him. I probably wont get leave for a month now, Sajid called after him. Dont worry, I will tell your girlfriend, you are on a secret mission, Sahel said over his shoulder. Your moods are dangerous, just like Boss. Dont insult me; I am entitled to one good mood per full moon. The hallway had emptied. The morning excitement had dissolved into a normal days work, and personnel were back in their seats. A couple of electrical men were down on the floor rerouting cables to avoid further Zawris displeasure over the obstructions. As Sahel and Dilshad approached Personnel, they saw Major Shahzad waiting in open doorway. His usual optimistic expression has been replaced by a serious look. Sahel, Dilshad. Come in for a moment. He went into the office and held door open for them. Dilshad and Sahel exchanged a puzzled look and followed him. Anita was on her feet, gathering her purse. She glanced up at Sahel and touched him on his shoulder and she went out. Take your time, Anita, Shahzad called after her. At least half an hour. Whats going on? Sahel asked curiously. Shahzad went to his desk. He turned and sat back on the edge of it. He studied his pipe for a moment. When he looked up, he saw Dilshad and Sahel were looking on him expectantly. Their victorious smiles from the morning briefing were quickly fading. Abb bollo bi Dilshad barked. I have got work to do, Shahzad. Shahzad sighed. Traffic just received a coded cable from the consulate in Dubai. No one knows but me. Shaista told me so I could tell both of you first. Sahel and Dilshad both were staring Shahzad blankly. Shahzad went on with the hard part. John Victor is dead.

Sahel expelled a sharp sound, as if he had been punched at his kidneys. He turned away and started to move towards a chair. Then he stopped. A rod of fire was coursing up in his leg and he could not bend it. He twisted it back like a roast on a grill and faced Shahzad once more. What did you say? John Victor. He was killed in Dubai. Dilshad still stood shocked, expressing nothing. He slowly reached into his pocket and got two cigarettes, lit them both and handed one to Sahel without looking at him. Then he folded his hands together, as if in a prayer and placed them over his belly. More, asked Dilshad. Shahzad started to chew his pipe stem. There is not much, apparently it was a traffic accident, until the security people are positive they wanted us to have it in code. Sahel head was beating. He leaned back stiffly against a desk and braced himself with his hands. Does Katherine know, Shahzad, he whispered. She was in Dubai with him serving in a polyclinic. The kids were there too. He was completely retired, you know. Yes, said Dilshad. We know it. Sahel dragged a puff from the cigarette and then blew the smoke with the rasping cough. He pulled the butt from his lips and dropped it on the floor. Faizi Jaffar. He had know the man by that name for so many years that Major John Victor seemed like someone else altogether. Yet they were the same man. Faizi Jaffar. John Victor. Sahel had lost comrades before, but mostly in uniform, where they were all paratroopers who stood up in fire fight and charged with the fury of impetuous youth. Yet in NSB death was infrequent and impacting event. In particular, Major John Victor had seemed to be blessed with a special kind of light, a joyful, optimistic flexibility. He recalled John Victor; a Karachi born in a middle class family, he frequently amused the younger members of NSB with his tortured dialect in twisted Punjabi. He was close to forty, tall, bony, stooped and mostly bald. His sharp eyes were creased with smile lines, his side burn going grey. His hawkish clever nose with quick smile completed the character of some sort of comic master, constantly on the verge of tossing off one-liner which served to force someone to smile even in the gravest situation. Faizi Jaffar. They had been together for long time. Sahel had first met him in the initial stages of training. John was recruited rather late in life. As a green soldier in the regular infantry, he had survived a horrible fire, having been surrounded in a bunker on the Cholestan exercises in 1990s. Perhaps the fact that John still smiled easily after that trauma was the quality that had initially attracted his recruiters. And it was this Faizi Jaffar with whom Sahel and Dilshad shared many complex missions. It was this John who had always functioned with a smile, ready with a joke under most pressing situations, performing his tasks without fail, improvising and pulling a last trick from his hat with delight and every team member had loved him without reservation. John truck gambit at Kabul had been his final professional act. He had slipped away from Kabul with assurance and in the after-action dissections he had escaped blame. But the Kabul debacle had acted as a reason for John and he gracefully retired. His retirement benefits

kept survived his living a year abroad from country to country and finally he took his wife Katherine and two young girls and headed out for settlement in Dubai, where his wife started her medical practice in a polyclinic and he devoted his time at home after a long spell as field agent in NSB nearly seven years. Sahel wanted to ask Shahzad more details, but when he thought of Katherine and kids he could not find his voice. Dilshad spoke for both of them. An accident? he said. They are sure? Almost one hundred percent, said Shahzad. He was loading the trunk of his car for a pleasure trip. A taxi smashed into him. Dubai police say the drivers in the hospital in shock. He is from some Central Asian country and barely speaks English. Sahel pushed himself upright. He felt himself very unsteady and kept one hand on the table. He turned to Dilshad with a sad gaze. Both men needed to say something, perhaps a profound word, or a prayer. But it was far behind that. Dilshad, Sahel whispered. I need... I have to get some fresh air. Im not your boss, Sahel, said Dilshad. Go. Sahel and Dilshad continued looking at each other with blank eyes. I can reach Baba Feroz, said Dilshad. And Barat Khan, and Shabana Mir. Ill tell Bano, said Sahel. You still have to go to Shimla House today, Sahel. Dilshad warned him. Remember, check the time with Training. Ill be there in time. Good. They looked at each other for another moment. John Victor, Dilshad finally said. God bless him. Faizi Jaffar, said Sahel. Allah Bless him and he limped out of the room.

_______

Bano Abagull lived in the heart of Lahore, That is to say whenever she was in the country that was where she resided. Her apartment was a second floor walk-up, located on a shady side street in the western Gulberg only four blocks from the Centre Point intersection. 42 Street was probably one of the most expensive and socially bright avenues in Lahore, where lined up cafes, Malls and flower shops were an added attraction besides Liberty Markets own shopping allure was just half a kilometre walk. But it was neither the swinging nightlife not the lure of the Lahore that had attracted Bano. Quite simply it was the only city in Pakistan other than Karachi where she felt comfortably anonymous, safe harbour within the emerging communities around and she was at the same time remained reachable to Headquarters within a couple of hours. Secondly her only married sister resided here. Bano unfortunately had lost her parents in an accident while she was studying in Lahore Convent and after that both the sisters had only an uncle who looked after them until both settled.

Banos apartment did not appear to be inhabited on only a part-time basis. It had a large well-furnished lounge that extended into a lace-curtained bedroom, which could be closed off by a pair of delicately paned white sliding doors. The close end of the lounge leads to an eat-in kitchen. The Refrigerator and gas oven was slightly old but functioned perfectly. The single bath was well built with imported tiles and provided the necessities and the European style bathtub fixed securely for a stand-up shower. To a careful eye, perhaps one unusually familiar with the local industry, it would be quickly clear that most of Banos paraphernalia were not of Pakistan origi n. Pillows, bed sheets, blanket, tablecloths and even much of the dishware came from European countries. The books and magazines were mostly in English yet local Urdu magazines and dailies were still attracted the interest of the inhabitant. The only real clue to the nature of the Banos profession was her collection of artwork. There were no photographs or posters on the walls only original framed pieces in oil, watercolour or charcoal. The subjects were Asian and European cities and landscapes, some really photorealistic. Here a shiny Lakeview of Shontar in Northern Area. There a snowy park in London. A busy road in Lahore walled city and an unfinished Kabul Bazaar Street view. They were all unsigned and they were all original Banos. The final evidence of Banos profession was a small beautifully crafted wooden table on slim legs with a mirror top. It displayed lot of her exhibition awards winning statues and certificates. Bano sat in a large cushioned armchair, a small glass of iced coffee in one hand, her bare feet curled up beneath her. She had back in Pakistan for over a month now. The days were warm and even after a few long walks her legs beneath short blue cut-offs were smoothly sweatened. She wore large pink T-shirt with the sleeves rolled over to her elbow. Her black hair lay curled in a long tail around her neck and she stared blankly at the far wall through wide shiny brown eyes that looked as though they might have seen too much. Sahels call had shocked her. She had quit smoking, but his voice and the sad news had nearly driven her into the street to buy a pack, but it was not having much of an effect. Faizi Jaffar. Bano had wanted to forget Kabul and up until now she had done an admirable job of it. Her assignment in Operation Darkroom had included remaining in place after the hit. She was to maintain her cover, observe the repercussions, and even gather intelligence, if possible, regarding the local investigation. With the catastrophic death of innocent Muhammad Zahir, she maintained her cool and carried out her assignment. When she was finally called to Islamabad, it was probably the exhibition of pure professionalism which had protected her from the otherwise indiscriminate fury of Colonel AK Zawri. Unlike most of the other team members, Bano did not find her career snatched or spoiled by Kabul fiasco. Even more so than successful men in the field within the Pakistans intelligence community talented female agents were treated like princess, accorded more loyalty and respect than they might find in any other walk of life. As women, they could gain access to places which no man might approach, put most suspicious individuals off their guards, could utilize instincts and institutions which remained out of reach to their male colleagues. Even at the top level of NSB their identities were jealously guarded. For the past two years, Bano had not had set her foot in Headquarters. She was briefed and debriefed in private.

She had managed to place Kabul City Centre somewhere far in her mind. She had been on three long deep cover operations since then, and the distance helped. Yet it did not take much to forget sad winter in Kabul. Faizi Jaffar was dead. She wanted to forget Kabul but she could never forget John Victor nor any of her other comrades in arm. Most of all she could never forget Sahel Farhaj. Sahel would be arriving soon. Bano Abagulls real name was Roshna Saleem and she had been trying to reacquaint herself with that sound, the way people said it, the occasional surprise as an old schoolmate addressed her in the street. Now the Sahel would come and he would call her Bano and the whole cycle of suppressed emotions would begin all over again. In other line of work, had they been co-workers in almost any other government or private institution, Roshna and Sahel would most certainly have ended up as husband and wife. While it is certainly true that opposites often attracts, there are millions of couples whose union support the reverse case, and Sahel and Roshna were much alike. Their colouring was same, their temperament, and their central Punjabs background. They had cynical sense of humour and the ability to remain functional under immense pressure. The magnetism had been immediately apparent to both of them, but in the Pakistan intelligence community there exist a super-strict regulation whose premise could not be breached. Field agents no matter the circumstances were forbidden to have relations with each other. Agents were encouraged to socialize with support staff, even marry into the family as it was supposed to relieve much of the pressures of secrecy at homes. But field agent together, never. It invited operational strain, even dangerous vulnerability to hostage-taking and the like. Sahel and Roshna knew the rules and worked very hard to keep their distance. They only had one option to get retire from NSB and free to marry but at the time neither of them was prepared for that leap. Not long ago, during one of Roshnas routine polygraph exams, her needle had jumped at the questioners mention of Sahel Farhaj. However Roshna told Dilshad, if they pressed it, they might have to fire her. So the question was reworked and the test administered again without mention of her team leader. While Sahel lay in hospital, more than once Roshna tempted to quit her current mission, return to Pakistan and join him forever, no matter the professionalism repercussions. But she stalled and by the time she made preliminary inquiries Amber was firmly well-established and it was too late. The sharp doorbell awoke her from her thoughts, she listened it again. It must be Sahel. She corrected her shirt and remained in her chair and said, Come in, it is open. Sahel opened the door slightly and entered the apartment. He looked much unlike. Sher Ali without his long leather jacket and baggy trouser in Afghan style and pale winter skin, he was dressed in casual local style, light mustered T-shirt with dark blue jeans, his face tanned and his hair already going silkier with the springtime sun. More than that his eyes had lost some of the hardened look which field agents usually would have acquire after so many months of constant strategic calculations. He closed the door with his back and looked at her. Hello Bano. There it was, his voice, her cover name, just as she had expected. Hello Ali. The name seemed strange to her as it left her lips here in Lahore. But those were the two people who had worked together, shared secrets, had a private world that even their superiors were unaware of. Ali and Bano.

Sahel had decided that he would never touch her again, no kisses on the cheeks and perhaps no handshakes. But Johns death made the degree of that extreme seem disrespectful for the mans memory. If nothing else the death of the comrade should be observed by the comi ng together of his survivors. Sahel started forward. Bano immediately saw the limp; she could not help but notice. She drove her to her feet and she walked to him and they embraced for a long time, rocking slowly together without speaking like a pair of climbing stems together in the wind. Finally they sat down at the opposite ends of the sofa. Bano wiped an eye with a tissue paper and pointed at the Juice-tray. Sahel said, Yes anything, but not too much chilled, and she rose to get him a glass. So was it an accident? Bano asked the correct question as she rejoined Sahel in the lounge. Yes, he took the glass and gulped. The Taxi-ride from Islamabad had seemed endless; the stretch through the valley of Kalar Kahar was quite hot. What does Zawri say? asked Bano. I dont know I left immediately after Shahzad told me and Dilshad. Which Shahzad? Major Shahzad Ahmad. But you know Zawri. If he likes you and you die of cancer within ten years after retirement, he will still swear the Indians did it. But if he doesnt like you, he would say you smoke too much and you deserve to die. Bano showed a small smile, but she could not laugh. Sahels tone revealed deeper bitterness and pain that she had ever seen him express. How are you? I am as you see me. He smiled. Rushing to retirement, yet somehow unretirable. He pointed to his head, indicating an adjustment problem. But forget about me. How are you? You look wonderful. Thank you. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Bano got up and turned on the TV not bothering to select a desired channel. It was just a field agents habit, which somehow pleased Sahel to witness and he smiled at her. Faizi was one of my most favourite people on this earth. Bano sighed as she poured a bit more orange juice. Lots of us will say in the next couple of days. And mean it. Can we go to mourn? Bano asked. I can go, but I dont know about you, Bano She thought for a moment and said. I guess Ill visit later. Being successful in the Game had many small but cruel prices. At times, you could not even mourn properly. Oh, Faizi. Sahel sighed and let his head fall back on the couch. John. At 12.15 Sahel rose stiffly to his feet. I actually have something to do today, Zawri sending me for some retrain ing, and that would start at 4 sharp, said Sahel. Thats good, said Bano. How you had come here, I mean by road or plane. I took an official lift, but now I would go by plane. Sahel said smilingly.

What time your flight is? At 13.45, Ill catch it. Sahel smiled. Bano stopped him before he reached the door. She held his sleeve and reached up, kissing him lightly on the cheek. Sahel looked at her. Will you come to visit us? he asked. Id like to meet Amber. She knows about us, though, Sahel warned. Bano looked at the floor and kept quiet for a long moment. They both realized in that long moment, that it did not matter if they touched or did not, if they came together or kept their distance, Bano Abagull and Sher Ali, Roshna Saleem or Sahel Farhaj were as tangled as memory and regret. Sahel reached out and touched her cheek. See you again. He smiled and left. Roshna closed the door and for a very long time she stood alone in her lounge touching the cool door wood.

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