Gauntlet (16 page)

I
N YOUSSEFF’S EARLY DAYS of drug running, when he was still a teenager, and small in stature, one or two stubborn peasants in the frontier highlands had challenged him. One peasant in particular stood out in his memory. Yousseff had purchased, for a fair price, the lands of one Besham al Gulapur — 30 hectares of fine farmland. The usual arrangements had been made; the lands would be held in trust. Izzy al Din was Yousseff’s eyes and ears in the poppy fields; he managed and oversaw every aspect of the operations there. Yousseff had the power to buy, mortgage, sell, or cultivate the land, and to reap the profits. Izzy managed the land itself. And peasants like Besham kept the legal titles. It was Yousseff’s protection.

One year after the purchase, Besham fraudulently sold the land to one of his cousins. A few days later, Yousseff, Marak, and half a dozen of his men arrived at Besham’s door, heavily armed. He was in the process of moving out, to retire to a nice home by the Indus River in lower Pakistan. At least that was the plan.

“Take him, Rasta,” Yousseff commanded Marak, who, now in his early 20s, had become a muscular and powerful man who struck like a panther, and whose eyes were flat. Gone was the high-tempered youth. He had become Yousseff’s emotionless killing machine. The muscle of the operation, totally dedicated to his master. Now he smashed Besham’s head against a low dining table and ordered his men to pin him there, holding the man’s right arm out along the length of the table. Marak raised his sword, ready to strike.

“You know what the Koran teaches us to do with a thief, do you not?” demanded the young Yousseff.

“Yes, yes, yes,” groaned the hapless and bruised Besham. “Please, not in front of my wife. Not in front of my children. I know your mother. You are a kind man. Please.” Besham had two daughters, not much younger than Yousseff, and both sat shaking, with his wife and cousin, in a corner of the small home. “Please, Yousseff, not in front of them.”

Yousseff ignored the whimpering. “You know it is the Pashtun way. It is the code of the smuggler. I treated you well. Yet you betrayed me. Why should I show you any mercy?”

He motioned to Marak. “Do it, Rasta,” he said in the sharp voice that he used when giving an order. “Now.”

Marak lifted the sword high. He had taken his shirt off to ease his movement, and now the muscles in his forearms rippled. His bulging shoulders caused the newly tattooed snake to twist and coil. The blade came down with great ferocity and speed, accompanied by the screams of the two daughters. It was the way of
badal.
It was revenge, and the law of the land in the Northwest Frontier Province.

“No. No!” screamed Besham’s wife.

The blade stopped, as though held back by an invisible wire, hovering mere millimeters above the wrist that Marak’s men had stretched across the table. Besham, whose eyes were tightly closed, opened one with trepidation. The daughters’ eyes opened behind their Burkas. There was dead silence for almost 30 seconds... a disturbingly long time to have a razor-sharp blade suspended above an outstretched arm, waiting for the blow to fall. Then Yousseff spoke, so quietly that even in the small room, Besham strained to hear him.

“I have shown you mercy, Besham al Gulapur. By right I could have fed your right hand to the dogs outside. You have deceived me, and I could kill you, and your wife and daughters as well. But I value loyalty above anything. Now you will give your cousin his money back. You will continue to work on my land and do my bidding. And if you take from me again, be it so much as a single poppy seed, I will cut off both your hands and send you to beg in Kabul or Rawalpindi. Do you hear me well?”

“Yes, master, yes I do. I will be your loyal servant until I die, and my family after me. I will never take from you. I will always do your bidding.” The act of
badal
and
nunwatel
now ruled Besham’s relationship with Yousseff, as it did the friendship between Yousseff and Marak. Besham was now one among the many who called Yousseff master and served him faithfully.

“Good. I think we have an understanding. Now go and do your work.”

Besham’s story spread like wildfire through the mountain passes, as Yousseff had known it would. His reputation as a natural leader — and a man to be respected and feared — grew with each telling of the story. The only truly disappointed party was Marak. But even he feared Yousseff, and would be loyal to him until death. So he said nothing.

Over the years, of course, there were farmers, and horsemen, and holders of property, ships, and aircraft, who tested Yousseff again. And yes, there were a number of beggars in Rawalpindi or Kabul who were missing both hands, and whose digits had been devoured by pigs or dogs, much to Marak’s glee. It was this road that led to Yousseff’s great wealth, and these techniques that allowed him to hold such power without resorting to that wealth. To legal authorities in Pakistan, Afghanistan, and the other local jurisdictions, it posed a conundrum that they were unable to unravel. On paper, it appeared that Yousseff did not exist at all. And yet it was common knowledge that he controlled everything that took place in those areas.

I
T WAS AFTER the confrontation with Besham that Yousseff rediscovered Rika. She was no longer the teary-eyed little girl at the Four Cedars, begging Yousseff to abandon his dispute with Marak. She had grown up to be slender and stunning, even in the tribal costumes that she wore when in the village. Her full name was Amrika Mahafika, and she let people know it. Only Yousseff got away with calling her Rika. In the mountains, on horseback, she discarded the Burka and dressed as the men did. If anyone made a comment about it, they risked Yousseff’s anger. They quickly became the closest of friends.

As things turned out, Rika had a dazzling mind for numbers. She could calculate the exchange rates between currencies in Peshawar or Rawalpindi faster than anyone, even Yousseff. She gradually became the keeper of currencies in Yousseff’s operation, and was often with him when he bought and sold property and goods.

One day she approached Yousseff with a proposition. “Youssi,” she said. “I want to go to school. I want to have a trade. I want to study accounting and banking. I could become very useful to you. Will you help me with that?”

After much discussion, Yousseff agreed, but stipulated that at the conclusion of her education she would have only one employer, and that would be him. Her job would be to help him with the rapidly growing stash of money, in various currencies, that he kept in several safe houses.

For the next six or seven years, while Rika went to school, Yousseff saw little of her, to his regret. When she graduated and started to work for a large accounting firm in Karachi, he felt slighted. He sought her out and reminded her of their agreement.

“You broke your word,” he chided, his voice heavy with regret. “You said that after you finished your education you would come and work for me. I need you.”

“What, are you going to cut off my hands now? Is that what I get when I share a bed with you every now and then? You misunderstood what I said, Youss,” she told him. “My education is not yet finished. I need to work in a large firm, and be exposed to the practical aspects of the business. I am working in a division of a firm that specializes in foreign accounts. You need to learn this, and I will teach you. I will organize all these things for you. Be patient.” Her voice was gentle but firm, and Yousseff agreed.

When Rika married someone else, Yousseff felt doubly hurt, and assumed that their relationship was at an end. He had been deceived by a beautiful woman, and one he had thought was his friend. But it wasn’t the first time that had happened, and he shrugged and moved on. He decided that he would not send Marak and his sword to her house.

Then one afternoon she walked into the office of Karachi Drydock and Engineering, one of Yousseff’s newest ventures.

“Hello, Youssi,” she had said, with a thoroughly modern smile. “I am ready.”

Another man, who she would later learn was Kumar, said, “Yousseff, you are a lucky man tonight.”

“For what?” asked Yousseff, ignoring Kumar’s comment.

“To work for you, Youssi. You paid for my education. I am now educated. Let’s talk about my job description,” Rika answered.

So they talked. And Kumar had been right.

Y
OUSSEFF REMEMBERED THESE THINGS as the Gulfstream flew toward Karachi. He saw the valley floor recede, and was moved by the first rays of the sunrise over the towering peaks of the distant Himalayas. He missed those early days, before his affairs had become so complex, before the arrival of the dark and brooding Emir, and the dangerous political and international turbulence that he had introduced into Yousseff’s homeland.

This great plan of his would make him one of the wealthiest men in the world. But why did he run the risk? With his palace in Socotra, his yacht, and the Gulfstream already at his beck and call, he wondered why he was doing it. His wealth and skill had enabled him to obtain, among others, Canadian and American passports, and he had palatial homes in both Vancouver and Los Angeles. Not to mention his own private island in the Mediterranean. He was over 50 now, and growing tired. Why this great, grand, complex scheme? Why the restlessness? Perhaps it was the roving, nomadic life that was in his Pashtun genes. The constant traveling from valley to valley that had been going on since the time of his forefathers. Except that now he used ships and aircraft instead of horses and camels.

T
HE GULFSTREAM made the 700-mile trip from Islamabad to Karachi
ⁱⁿ
just over an hour. After a flawless landing, it rolled into Yousseff’s hangar and coasted to a gentle stop. The pilot opened the hatchway and Yousseff descended the stairs, to be greeted by Vince Ramballa and Omar Jhananda.

“Good to see you again, Youss,” said Vince. “You must be tired.”

“A little, Vince, but I slept on the plane. Is the
Haramosh Star
ready?”

“Yes she is,” Vince replied. “It really did not take much in the way of modification. We used the systems we had in place. Just refined them a bit.”

“Good to see you again,” Omar broke in, shouldering Vince aside in his rush to speak to Yousseff. “It’s been a few months. You are well?”

“Of course,” said Yousseff. “Let’s head out to the docks straightaway. The hours are precious.”

The trip from the airport to the docks took longer than the flight from Islamabad to Karachi had, but the three eventually found themselves standing on the bridge of the
Haramosh Star.
It was just before noon.

“Like old times, isn’t it?” said Vince, with a smile. Vince and Yousseff had become acquainted long ago, when Yousseff signed on to learn the shipping business on a ship Vince was captaining. At that time, Vince had been the master and Yousseff the supplicant. Their roles were now reversed, but Yousseff had never forgotten Vince’s teachings, or that Vince had saved him from a watery grave one night in the middle of the Atlantic.

“Yes. Get me a mop and a bucket,” replied Yousseff, also smiling, thinking of his initiation into the sailor’s way of life. “But enough of that. Take me to the lowest level. I want to see the modifications myself. This is as important a trip as we’ve ever been on, Vince.”

The three descended into the bowels of the ship, through claustrophobic passageways and down steep, narrow ladders, until they reached the enlarged engine room, which had been modified years earlier, when Yousseff first acquired the ship. Yousseff felt a twinge of nostalgia as he surveyed the familiar sight.

“The trapdoor lies directly underneath the first engine,” said Vince. “The switch to unlock it is hidden in the ceiling, right here. Impossible to find if you don’t know it’s there.” He motioned to one of the plates bolted into the ceiling. “Even if you do find the switch, you have to get right underneath that engine to slide the trapdoor back. And to do that, you have to activate a second switch in the floor.”

Omar was nodding his approval. He too recognized how far the company had come since the early days of drug smuggling along the Indus. No one could possibly find this unless they knew to look for it.

“Let’s do it, Vince. I want to get down there and see for myself.”

“Are you sure, Youss?” asked Vince.

“Yes,” Yousseff said with emphasis, already on his knees beside the large MAN B&W engine, and reaching toward where Vince told him the trapdoor was. He fumbled around for the second switch and, after a minute of Vince’s instructions, found it. The little door slid open, and a narrow stairway led downward into inky blackness.

“Can you get some light in here?” asked Yousseff as he descended. Vince told him where the master switch for the electrical power was, and after further fumbling Yousseff found it. Vince and Omar saw him step down into the small stairway and orient himself in the tiny compartment below.

“How can anyone possibly be in this for six or seven hours?” Yousseff’s voice drifted out of the shaft.

“Not sure, but Jimmy can do it. We’ll have to pay him a bundle,” said Vince. “But he’ll do it. We needed extra storage space to fit the Semtex, and in doing that, we had to reduce the size of the cockpit. As it stands, we will have just enough room, providing our calculations are correct.”

Yousseff stayed in the lower chamber for a few more minutes, inspecting the technological marvel that was hidden there. Eventually he came back up the ladder and had to half slide, half roll from beneath the B&W to get back to Vince and Omar.

“Slide more grease and dirt underneath there once the Semtex is secured. Throw some old pipes and whatever else over the door. It must be absolutely and totally invisible. The mission rides on this, Vince,” said Yousseff, as he brushed the dirt and grease from his clothes. “Now let’s get back to the bridge. It’s time to pull anchor. We will have a day and half to travel, at full speed. We rendezvous with the
Mankial Star
just northeast of the Maldives.”

When they reached the main level, Yousseff and Vince bid goodbye to Omar and walked up to the bridge.