Agency Rules - Never an Easy Day at the Office (10 page)

Dawood shifted uncomfortably in his seat, recalling Imam Shahid
’s insistence that he sit in the front passenger seat.
He literally pushed me in
, Dawood recalled. The front seat was the hot seat in any vehicle, because vision of what was happening in the back seat was blocked, providing an opportunity to anyone who wanted to avail it. Dawood suddenly wasn’t sure if coming to Timergara alone was such a good idea.

A few kilometers in, the Imam started pointing out the different tourist sites on the road to his home. Dawood tuned out most of the lesson. His mind was still at the checkpost, remembering the sergeant
’s nameplate, the cut of his uniform; he wondered if the major’s stripes matched his shoulder ranking (
damn, how did he miss that?
); he did remember the vehicles that were parked at the checkpoint.
Everything is important now
, Dawood thought to himself, unsure if he had been compromised. He found it interesting that of all the people in the protocol, he was the only one searched.
This can’t be a good thing
, he thought to himself.

“Dawood,” the Imam said from the backseat, breaking the train of conspiracy theories in his head. “Where in Swat do you come from?”

For a moment, Dawood pretended not to hear him, engrossing himself in the passing scenery.
I can’t let something like the checkpost shake me. Get it together, Kamal! I mean, Dawood.
The Imam touched him on the shoulder. “Dawood, is everything alright?”

“Fine, Imam sahib! I was just thinking of calling my uncle to let him know that I
’ve arrived safely,” Dawood finally responded. “I belong to Mingora now, but my family is from Madyan.”

“What a beautiful place Madyan is!” The Imam commented, “I have stayed there with students from the madrassah on a tour. The scenery is just amazing there and the food is delicious.”

“Yes, sir,” Dawood answered. “I make a point of visiting Kalam whenever I come to Swat. I love to sit in the water with the fish swimming around my feet.”

“I think that you will enjoy your time with us,” the Imam said. “Kaleem has told us a great deal about your conversations with him. He doesn
’t keep secrets from his family and has been talking about you ever since you both met.”

“I hope he
’s been saying good things,” Dawood laughed, looking into the back seat for the first time since the encounter with the FC sergeant. “I’ve treated him like a younger brother since I met him,” shooting a smile at the silent Kaleem.

“Of course, good things. Why would I go to so much trouble if he had told us bad things?” The Imam was laughing heartily. Dawood pinned a smile on his face, his jaw aching from the effort.

* * *

The vehicles turned down a dusty road and significantly increased their speed, simultaneously increasing Dawood
’s uneasiness. He sat quietly in the front of the vehicle, doing his best to note where they had turned off from the main road.
About 70 kilometers from the checkpost.
In the distance, a shadow started to emerge on the horizon, slowly growing as the vehicles moved toward it. Closing in, the Imam proudly announced from the back seat. “We are here. Dawood
beta
, this is my home.” From behind concrete walls lined with barbed wire, Dawood saw a tall building, rectangular, and solid; two stories and the rooftop, from what Dawood could tell.

The security vehicle rushed past the Prado in the last kilometer and began blowing its horn frantically. A large black security bar blocking the front gate was lifted and a couple of men quickly pulled open the gate to the house, with the security vehicle pulling to a hard stop to the right of the gate. Armed bodyguards descended, loading their weapons and scanning the area for any potential threats. The Prado whisked past them into the driveway and the gate was pulled shut behind them.

A heavily armed, military-looking man opened Dawood’s door and gestured for him to descend from the vehicle. Dawood paused for a minute, looking at the man and examining his multiple weapons, before stepping on the runner and down to the ground.
This guy is as heavily armed as we were during protection duty
.
He has to have a military background; obviously, this is no ordinary Imam.

The sweeping glance that he was able to take identified a guard post at the gate, another above the grounds in the far left and armed men patrolling the balcony of the second floor. Dawood assumed that inside there would be more security in other quarters of the house. He wasn
’t disappointed. The foyer had security cameras mounted outside the door and along the stairs leading to the second floor. The home seemed to be in a heightened state of security for his visit, which unsettled him even more. It was lavishly decorated, with marble floors and wooden banisters on the sweeping curve of the staircase. The furniture looked expensive, and intricate local crafts hung on the walls and on console tables.
House? This is more like a mansion.

“Imam sahib, I hope you haven
’t gone to any special trouble on my account?” Dawood said as they climbed the circular stairway, watching the movements of the security personnel carefully.
Two at the door, one at what looks like the door to the kitchen, a back door, maybe?
He looked up.
One at the landing.

The Imam stopped three stairs up from him and turned to look back. “Do all the guns bother you? You know that this area isn
’t safe and we can’t always trust the FC to protect us, so I make sure that my family is safe whether I am home or not,” he replied nonchalantly.

“It
’s always like this when I visit Imam sahib’s home, Dawood
bhai
,” Kaleem put his hand on this shoulder. “This is how life is in the tribal areas.”

Dawood walked slowly up the stairs, falling in behind Kaleem. Surreptitiously, he scoped out his environment, trying to identify different escape routes if the need arose. Windows seemed to be the best bet. There were guards at all the entrances.

The whole scenario unsettled Dawood.

He stopped on the landing of the second floor, believing that was where they would be seated, assuming that the next floor up was actually the roof. Much to his surprise, Kaleem and the Imam were climbing the stairs to the roof.

“Dawood
bhai
, we are up another floor,” Kaleem called back down, motioning for Dawood to join them. Dawood, slightly embarrassed, scrambled, jumping stairs to catch up to Kaleem.

“Isn
’t it too hot to sit on the roof?” Dawood asked Kaleem as they moved in stride up the staircase, “Does the house have…”

The words choked in Dawood
’s throat as he got his first look at the security door on the third floor. The Imam was awaiting their arrival by the door. From the outside of the building, the naked eye would never have been able to determine that this floor existed. The idea of sitting behind secure, locked doors worried him.
Why would you serve lunch behind a security door?
Dawood was concerned about the level of security that was available to a simple mullah in a region where mullahs were extremely respected.

With all three assembled at the door, someone from inside the room triggered the electronic lock and released the door. Dawood felt like he had walked onto a floor at GHQ with the sheer state of the art security that was installed. The entire floor was air-conditioned to the point that he had to roll down his sleeves and button his cuffs. The floor and walls looked to be soundproofed with no natural light entering from anywhere.
No windows. I’ve lost that bet.
They walked through the hallway toward an ominous black door at the end of the hall, but with each step Dawood wondered what he had gotten himself into.

Behind the door was an expansive, handcrafted wooden dining table with high-back leather chairs. The room had lighting above the table, but the rest of the room was completely dark and uninviting.
Is this a formal meeting room for government officials or the dining room for guests?
Dawood pulled a chair out and sat down. He strained to see beyond the darkness, to see if anyone was lurking there, but with the bright light above him, his eyes couldn’t adjust. He had to rely on his ears instead, and hoped for a few moments of silence before they started lunch.

It was almost like the Imam had a silent buzzer in his hand, because as soon as they sat down, servers immediately emerged from the darkness with large glasses of juice on a silver platter. The servers all looked like Kaleem, ragged, malnourished and, honestly, envious of the lifestyle that their ‘master
’ was living He couldn’t help but compare the quietly honest Imam in his village with the lavishness of Imam Shahid, starkly offended by the vast difference. His Imam would never be allowed to live like this, mostly because the village elders paid his housing and salary.

“Imam sahib, how long have you been the Imam here?” Dawood asked.

“I established the madrassah during the conflict to help support our brothers during the cause,” the Imam said, almost puffing his chest with pride like a cock. “My nephew was part of the Mujahideen and embraced
shahadat
in battle.” He paused for a moment to make sure that the words sunk into both gentlemen’s minds. “The brothers were so honored by the work that we did here that they built me this house and the masjid that we passed when we turned towards here.”

Dawood didn
’t hesitate with his reply, leaning forward in his chair. “The cause? You mean Afghanistan?” The Imam nodded proudly. Dawood feigned respect. “Masha’ Allah, Subhan Allah. Being a Shaheed is an extraordinary honor for any man’s family, as there is no higher praise of Allah than to fight for Islam.”

“Yes, yes. Indeed. Masha
’ Allah.” The Imam took a sip of his juice, and Dawood thought he saw a gleam in his eyes that he didn’t trust.
Here it comes
, he thought.
The interview
. He mentally geared himself up for it. “Do you have any brothers?”

“No, sir. Unfortunately, I am my parent
’s only son. I have two sisters though.”

“Ah. I am sorry. Are they married, in school?”

There it was again – that gleam. Dawood replied smoothly, unhesitatingly. “Both are married, sir. They had schooling up until grade five, but my father felt they would be better served learning to cook and sew at home after that.” He smiled, hoping it didn’t look as fake as it felt. “Learning to be good wives.”

“Yes, that is essential. This is a big issue in our society – the decadence and lure of the West corrupts our own pure culture, and we must fight against the bastardization of our heritage.”

“Beginning with our women…”

“Our women are our mothers. They teach our sons and daughters values, and if the mother has the wrong values, then there is no hope for the children.”

“Yes sir.” What could he say to this? Technically, the Imam was right. Dawood looked across at Kaleem, who had been eerily quiet through all of this. Time to change the subject. “In Punjab, though, where I have worked for many years, it’s not Western culture that we need to fight. It’s Indian. They have absorbed their music, their movies, even their customs.”

“Our enemies are on all sides, my son. With India, our battle is in Kashmir. India is itself a victim of cultural adulteration. They are more and more clones of Western culture with each passing day.”

“But we can fight it, can’t we, Imam sahib?”

“That is what our brothers in Afghanistan are doing. They are implementing true Sharia, and it is a matter of time before we do the same here.”

“How can we bring it here?” Dawood leaned forward.

“How do you think we should?”

“Well…we need to teach our boys our values. In the madrassahs…”

“You lived in Lahore. How many parents in Lahore will send their children to a madrassah?”

Dawood had to acknowledge that. He let a hint of bitterness creep into his voice. “Yes, they would rather send them to expensive private coed schools which teach them to sing and dance, and their curriculum is vetted by the West.”

The Imam
’s heavy hand slammed down on the table. The juice glasses rattled and rocked, and the Imam’s voice rose by several decibels. “They are not just vetted by the West – it’s their bloody education!” Dawood and Kaleem both jumped. The Imam looked down and breathed heavily for a second, before bringing himself under control. The severity of his reaction told Dawood plenty, though.
He has big plans, and they’re obviously not peaceful plans.

Dawood allowed himself to be subjected to the Imam
’s questions throughout lunch. They discussed everything from Palestine to Kashmir, the ineffectiveness and corruption of the Pakistan government and the secret desire of the West to eradicate Islam. That point alone, which Dawood had brought up, took up the bulk of the meal, but Dawood noticed a slight shift in the Imam’s posture, a louder laugh, and the smooth forehead, no longer creased with lines.
I’m in
, he thought, turning his attention to the sumptuous feast before him.
Time to eat.