Agency Rules - Never an Easy Day at the Office (7 page)

Instructors at The Jungle regularly tested the candidates on their ability to differentiate between fact-based intelligence and intuition, speculation and conjecture. Candidates were required to separate intelligence from operational information.

Years later, in the middle of a desperate mission, Kamal would remember one particular exercise they went through on a regular basis – an exercise that routinely got him out of hot water. He was introduced, over a course of several days, to ten people playing different roles in different places. Each told him ten different versions of the same story. His job was to find the intelligence and the operational information, as well as identify which of the ten could be recruited and how. In other exercises, the tables were turned to see how much information others could get from Kamal, with methods varying from gentle inquires to hard interrogation tactics. All of the information would be drafted into an intelligence report that would be parsed by the instructor, leaving Kamal to wonder whether he had caught the right threads and identified the right people. This, much to Kamal’s consternation, was a daily event at The Jungle.

The psychological training was peppered with tactical driving, close quarter combat, survival training, surveillance tactics and interrogation techniques to make the candidate a stronger operative, if they graduated with high enough marks to be put in the field. The goal of The Jungle was to create top-level operatives that could be posted to different stations around the world to gather intelligence, recruit potential spies and report back actionable information. Oh, and to stay alive in the harshest of conditions.

Kamal had excelled in the art of tradecraft and human espionage. He also tested very high in linguistics and intelligence gathering skills. His only weakness was his rudimentary knowledge of international affairs. As a result, there were stacks of history books, magazines and newspapers on his desk in the hostel. As his instructors regularly reminded him, he had to understand the history of the cultures to be able to effectively influence them.

He was luckier than most. His civilian classmates were almost all taking extra fitness training, including ten-mile hikes and runs through the forest.

“It’s not fucking fair.” Irfan was one of the weakest members of the civilian students; Kamal irked him. “You get to lay in bed reading a stupid newspaper while I have to kill myself on the track every day!”

Kamal gave him a cold look. He
’d joined the military because classroom studies bored him, and here he was, with his nose stuck in a book. The last thing he needed was a sniveling idiot whining about being out in the fresh air. “There’s no such thing as an easy day at the office in the intelligence world. Get used to it.”

Chapter 5

“Captain, you’ve graduated now. You don’t have to skulk in corners to smoke a cigarette.” Major Iftikhar found a scowling Kamal in a secluded corner of the academy grounds, which were overflowing with people. “Why are you hiding?” It was a rhetorical question. Kamal didn’t mingle.

“Iffi.” Kamal nodded to his mentor and friend. The Major gave him a friendly slap on the back.

“Cheer up, yaar. This is a moment of celebration. Your career is just about to take off, and you’ve retreated to the only quiet place on the campus. Why aren’t you out there with your friends?”

“Because family
’s out there.”

The Major
’s eyebrows shot up at Kamal’s laconic reply. “Your… dad?” He knew that Kamal’s contact with his estranged father was limited to visits home for Eid holidays, whenever possible, but few and far in between compared to other enlisted men. There was no love lost between them. “Hmmm. Have you met him?”

“Not yet.” This wasn
’t Kamal’s first graduation ceremony. Basic training, sniper school in Quetta, his medal awards and now the ISI Academy. Afzal Khan hadn’t been to a single one of the previous events. “It doesn’t matter, anyway.” Kamal shrugged off the question niggling at the back of his mind. “I’m more concerned with my first posting. I’m afraid I’ll spend the next year behind a desk at Military Intelligence in Gujranwala or Peshawar. Then, as my last year of ISI posting starts, I might get a posting to one of the ISI division offices, but I’m not holding my breath for that one.”

Unlike other academies he had been to, the Jungle did not share final marks or grades with the candidates. These were passed directly to the Commandant along with respective instructor
’s notes, which were added to the candidate’s file. Kamal did not receive a report on his overall performance, other than what he had gleaned from his instructors, marking it hard to know where he might be posted. Nor could he eliminate possibilities by figuring out where his classmates were posted. His inner circle was tiny.

Since he joined the Academy, Kamal had worked hard not to become overly friendly with his fellow candidates. He was naturally reserved and reticent, but he was also concerned that anyone could pass incorrect or compromising information about him to the Commandant. Instructors were kept at arm
’s length, keeping the relationship contained to the course and the material covered, with the exception of old colleagues like Iftikhar. Now that his time in the Jungle was over, no one knew more about Kamal than he wanted them to know and that was limited to superficial information that was already in his military files.

Iftikhar let Kamal change the subject. He had news for him, and had wanted to be the one who told him. “Kami, you should have a bit more confidence in your abilities,” he said, holding out a crisp, ivory envelope with an insignia in the top corner. Printed in bold in the center was Captain Kamal Khan.

Kamal hesitated for a moment before he reached for the envelope, trying to read the Major’s somber expression.
Good news? Bad news? Damn the man. He deserves to be an instructor here; I can’t tell a bloody thing.
He held the slim envelope in his hand, trying to guess the result by its weight. “Do you know where I’ve been posted?”

The Major rolled his eyes. “Just open the damn envelope.”

Kamal pulled out his pocketknife and slit the top open at the seam. Minutes seemed like hours as he took in the information printed on the heavy bond ivory letter inside.
Was this a practical joke? Good one, Iffi.
But as Kamal reread the letter a second time, it began to sink in that this was no joke.

“Due to your extensive experience and proven abilities in the field, the ISI is proud to post Captain Kamal Khan to the ISI divisional office in Peshawar, Pakistan for the period of one year, as a field operative,” Kamal read the words aloud. “Is this for real, Iffi?”

“All the instructors were extremely impressed with your abilities, both in the classroom and out. The commandant still can’t understand how you were able to keep information about yourself so controlled from your own batch mates,” Iftikhar said, laughing. “We all believed that you would make an outstanding field operative, so we recommended that the command to put you in the field.”

If Kamal had yelled out in excitement and celebration, Iftikhar would have been stunned. Kamal kept his distance, and hid his emotions as though it were second nature. He wasn
’t disappointed. Kamal nodded gratefully, and carefully folded the letter back into the envelope.
Would Dad be proud? Or would he just not care?
He gave his friend a calculating look. “Want to meet my father?”

Iftikhar grinned. “Need a buffer, or do you have something else in mind?”

“It wouldn’t be wise for me to spill blood on this sacred ground. You’re coming along for
his
protection.”

They put out their cigarettes and pushed through the crowd still milling around the parade ground. It had thinned considerably, as most of the military personnel had dispersed, leaving families hanging around waiting for their sons. After the parade, most of the new operatives rushed to their commanders for their posting letters, dreaming of being appointed to a Pakistani consulate or embassy where they could rub elbows with the influential diplomatic world. Kamal knew, however, that this was a highly unlikely scenario; they would be posted to either division or field offices around Pakistan to be trained further during live action exercises. A select few, those who had many years in military service, would get posted to foreign countries to join on-going operations as administrative staff.

Kamal’s father was seated, alone, well towards the back of the rows of chairs set up for families.
I’m shocked. Not only did he come to the graduation, it looks like he’s actually waiting for me.

As Kamal headed toward him, Afzal Khan rose from his seat, meeting his son halfway. He stopped when he realized that his son was not alone.

“Abbu, this is Major Iftikhar, one of my training instructors,” Kamal preempted what he assumed would be a sarcastic, derisory greeting from his father. “He was also my training officer during SSG training.”

Afzal Khan
’s hand pushed forward to meet Iftikhar’s; with a half smile he said, “I hope that he hasn’t been too much trouble for you.”

Kamal fought the urge to roll his eyes.

“Trouble?” Iftikhar sounded confused. “Kamal has been one of my best students! Which would explain his continued success and growth in the armed forces. He has the ability to absorb information like a sponge and execute it like an seasoned veteran.”

Afzal Khan looked taken aback. “
Well…well. It’s good to hear that he has been able to do something right in his life.” Afzal, looking derisively at his son, missed the flash of anger that lit up the Major’s eyes. “I am taking him for lunch; would you like to join us?”

Iftikhar responded with a smooth charm, but Kamal knew him well enough to know from the stiff shoulders that Iftikhar was pissed. “Actually, Kamal has to attend a briefing with his new commanding officer right now. He needs to be brought up to speed on his posting, so he probably won
’t be able to leave the Academy.”

Afzal Khan wasn
’t used to being refused, but he couldn’t tell if Iftikhar was lying, and Kamal’s face was maddeningly blank as well. There was a small awkward silence as Afzal tried to think of an appropriate comeback. The two faces before him were stiff and unwelcome, and for the first time in his life, he felt like an outsider.

“So, Kamal, where have you been posted?”

Before Kamal could even reach for his posting orders, Iftikhar replied. “Sorry, sir. That’s classified. The location of an asset is never disclosed, not even to family members. I will be your point of contact if you need information.” He offered his business card to Afzal Khan. “This is done for both parties’ security.”

Afzal had no military background, much less training in espionage, so he was unable to question anything Iftikhar was telling him.

“Kamal, we should be going. The Colonel is waiting for us in the Commandant’s office,” Iftikhar said, grabbing Kamal’s arm. “It was a pleasure meeting you. If you need any information about Kamal, please feel free to contact me.”

Dismissed and rebuffed, Afzal Khan
’s face fell. He felt that he had made an effort – he had come to his son’s graduation. The least he should have gotten in return was a cordial lunch. Granted, he had been prepared to find that Kamal barely scraped through, that he would return to the family home, and be available to shoulder some of his own burdens.

Instead, with a quick formal goodbye, the Kamal and Iftikhar turned around and headed for the main building. Kamal fought the urge to turn around one last time. He
’d seen the expression on his father’s face, and was a little surprised and angry at him.
Did he really think that appearing at one graduation would make up for missing the rest? For beating me with his belt when I was too small to defend myself? For either ignoring me or putting me down for most of my life?
“Is the Colonel really waiting for me?” Kamal asked Iftikhar when they were out of earshot from his father.

“Did you
want
to go to lunch with daddy?” Iftikhar retorted.

* * *

Peshawar had never been foreign territory to Kamal, having family scattered around the city and working in government offices. His own level of familiarity with the city rivaled that of any of the permanent residents; he had grown up in University Town, the “old money” of the city, during his primary education. He had often joked with friends that he could not move in the city without running into someone that he knew. He would have to make great efforts to avoid that this time around, he thought to himself, otherwise there would be questions that he could not honestly answer.

As a city, conquered, captured and ruled by kings and invaders throughout history, it had always held strategic importance. It had seen the defeat of the Hindu ruler Raja Jaipal; the mighty Mehmud Ghaznavi called it home, and the British Army officers had hosted Afghan rulers in the city. At the center of Peshawar
’s history was Bala Hissar Fort, guarding the entry to the city from the east. The fort itself was now the headquarters of the Frontier Corps or FC, a paramilitary organization responsible for policing the tribal areas of the province. All domestic intelligence agencies maintained offices within the walls of the mighty fort and it would be Kamal’s reporting station for the next year.