Gauntlet (19 page)

So it was, with resolve, that Yousseff found himself in the office of the arresting constable.

“And so, what can I do for you, young man?” asked Constable Noor Udeen. “How can I help you?”

“It is my uncle,” Yousseff lied. “Mohammed Jhananda. You have him in custody.”

“Yes, yes we do. A serious matter. Very grave. Very grave indeed. Drugs.” The constable looked serious and authoritarian.

“My uncle is a simple man, officer. He just doesn’t understand good business,” said Yousseff, deciding to be honest and direct.

“Oh?” inquired Noor, eyeing the boy before him. “And what do you know about business?”

“Very little, sir,” responded Yousseff. “I do not have many years. I know little, but I know that for business, you need security. You need protection. That is what the police are for. My uncle maybe did not realize that.”

It was a typical high-wire performance from the young man. Had he been a few years older, the play would not have worked. Had the constable been of stronger character, it would undoubtedly have failed. Just being there to defend a drug runner and law breaker would have been enough to send Yousseff himself to the gallows, regardless of his age. But the winds of fortune blew favorably for the boy, as they so often had.

“And you say you know that?”

“Yes, sir, I do. My uncle erred. He did not have security for his business.”

“And what do you have in mind?” asked Noor.

“Well, I know the rate. I think I could probably pay double,” said Yousseff, trying to calm his racing heart and keep his gaze steady on the eyes of the constable. This was the most important moment of the deal. He would live or die with this. It was the moment of truth.

“Double?”

Yousseff nodded. “Double. And if you never bother him or me again, I will make you wealthy. Just give us peace. Do we have an arrangement?”

The seconds passed. Each one felt like an hour. Yousseff listened to his heartbeat, and the swishing of the overhead fan. He did not breathe. He did not move a muscle. Not a twitch.

“Meet me tomorrow by the Soan River docks. Nine in the morning.” Constable Noor stood up, and showed Yousseff the door.

Yousseff fought hard to stifle the smile that had sprung to his lips.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING came bright and early. Constable Noor had thought about the money the boy had offered him. It amounted to $20,000 American. A fortune. He could purchase a large farm with that much money. Or a large boat. A car. Maybe two. A car and a boat. An ongoing relationship, the boy had suggested. A car, a boat, and a farm. The closer he came to the docks, the grander his visions became.

He met Yousseff at the appointed hour. The sun was already high in the sky, and it was a beautiful cloudless day. Yousseff and Omar had been there for some time, surveying the area. They had escape routes. They had exit strategies. They had backup plans and backup plans for those. They were both ready to bolt, charged with adrenalin and fear. Marak was hidden in the background, equipped with an old but very functional army rifle, in case of disaster.

Noor was straightforward. “Do you have the money?” he asked as he walked up to Yousseff.

“Well, yes I do. Where is my uncle?” retorted Yousseff.

Ka-ching, thought Noor. This was too good to be true. “He is in the police van.”

Yousseff gave Noor the money. Tens and twenties, mostly, in a cardboard box. Noor did not count it. He rushed back to the police van, and released a fatigued and somewhat beat-up Mohammed. He didn’t bother to say goodbye, either. Farms. Cars. Boats. Ka-ching, ka-ching. He literally danced into the van and peeled out of sight. Yousseff watched him go.

“Idiot,” he said to himself. Noor would be behind bars within months. He would spend his money like a drunken sailor. Others would notice. Notice and talk. He recalled discussing this very thing many times with Marak. “We can do better, Rasta. We can do better. I have a new occupation in mind for you.” Marak was about to join the police force. He would start in the anti-drug section in Rawalpindi, to their mutual profit. Thanks to Yousseff’s dealings, Noor’s position would soon be opening up. He thought that Marak would probably be the perfect fit.

Released from his imprisonment, Mohammed stumbled toward them and fell into his son’s arms. He looked at Yousseff with tears in his eyes.

“The
Janeeta
is yours. You are now a son of mine. I do not know how to thank you.”

“It is fine,” said Yousseff, wondering what he was going to do with a dilapidated boat and an equally dilapidated Mohammed. “Just let Omar and me use the boat. We will look after you.”

“You have, my son, you have,” replied the wet-eyed man. “You have.”

With that, Yousseff acquired not only a boat, but customers as well. He became the master of the old man’s trading business, and gained the protection of the Rawalpindi police force. There was one difference, however. Instead of a kilo, or perhaps two, being delivered to the deep-sea captain at the appointed time, Yousseff came on his first trip with ten kilos. After a hasty conversation with the ship’s captain, he returned, 30 days later, with 30 kilos. And 30 days after that, with an astounding 100 kilos of heroin.

By the time he reached his 18th birthday, he had a problem that few 18-year-olds had. He was sitting on a mountain of cash. By his estimate, he had at least $2 million, locked away and heavily guarded in Inzar Ghar, on the eastern edge of the Path of Allah. Now he needed a plan. That money needed to be put to work.

At that point, he bought a new 40-foot riverboat, and Omar replaced the engines with powerful B&W’s. Ba’al and Izzy were continuing with their land and property businesses. Yousseff bought a river warehouse in Rawalpindi, and began looking at property in Karachi. But he was still sitting on a warehouse full of cash from his smuggling activities. You could buy a small farm for cash, but to buy a commercial complex in a major city with suitcases full of American dollars was a different proposition. Something needed to be done.

M
AX HER OUT, Johnny!” yelled Richard as a blast of adrenaline rocketed through his system. It had been more than ten years since he’d flown, which was like saying that it had been more than ten years since he’d had sex. Unbearable, really. More than ten years had passed since the specialists at the National Navy Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland had told him that his vision had dropped below the levels required for a Navy pilot. It had been a time when the Super Hornet was only whispered about, since its existence was still classified. Now here he was, in the secondary seat of a Super Hornet F-18, tearing up the atmosphere at Mach 1.7. He felt the rush of power from the twin General Electric power plants, and the ecstasy of unbridled flight. This was beyond the experiences he’d had in the plain old non-super Hornet days. The original Hornet had been a fine plane, and had served the Navy well, but this thing — this plane — was orgasmic. It was the only metaphor that Richard could think of.

Halfway through the flight he’d convinced Major John Trufit to turn the controls over to him. Just for a few minutes, he had said. In the end, Trufit had to override the rear control and forcibly reassert his dominance over the plane. He’d smiled wryly to himself as he did it. Everyone knew the stories of Richard Lawrence, hotshot pilot. In his prime he’d been one of the star pilots of the Navy. It was no surprise that he wanted to fly again. And it was no surprise when he didn’t want to return the controls once he had them.

“And what’s with that HUD?” Richard was asking. He was used to the black and white Heads Up Displays in the old Hornets. He’d never seen anything like the modern displays before. Multi-colored, three-dimensional, forward views, rear views, even simultaneous views if you could handle them. The days were long gone when a first-year college student had more computing power than a Navy warplane. Raytheon had made the HUD touch sensitive, and the Hughes Corporation had created some truly exotic advance targeting and forward-looking infrared radar systems. Richard’s heart had jumped when he’d seen it. This plane was to die for.

He’d been incredibly pleased when the commander of the
Theodore Roosevelt
Battle Group had called him directly, while he was flying back to the carrier group in the Night Hawk helicopter.

“Get ready to put a flight suit on, and I hope you packed a toothbrush. You’re turning around and going back to Islamabad,” the commander had told him.

Richard grinned. “Islamabad? You bet. It’s home.”

“Good. You’re needed back there. This is straight from Washington. You’re going to be working for the anti-terrorist work group. US Embassy personnel will be at the airport in Islamabad to pick you up.”

“You’ve already got clearance to go through the airspaces of I don’t know how many Middle Eastern countries?” asked an incredulous Richard. “That’s amazing.” The State Department was in high gear on this. It obviously came from the top.

“Yup. The weenies at State said rush rush.”

The Super Hornet transporting Richard back to Islamabad had cruised at 1,200 miles per hour across the Mediterranean, then southeast, flying over Israel, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia, with a quick southern detour to skirt along the Gulf to avoid Iranian airspace (not even the State Department had that much power). Then they’d headed into the Gulf of Oman, where the plane refueled in flight. Finally there was a gentle turn to the northeast and into Pakistani air space. Now here he was in a top US military plane, heading home to Islamabad. Had Richard had the eyes to see, he would have noted the
Haramosh Star
heading southward along the Indian coastline as they passed over. He might also have seen the
Mankial Star
proceeding southeast from Socotra toward its rendezvous with the larger ship.

T
HE ONLY INDIVIDUAL who was not in motion at this point in time was Inspector Inderjit Singh, in Vancouver. The only distance Indy could cover was from one corner of his small apartment to the other. He was going absolutely nowhere, and felt it acutely. Yes, Catherine was right. He had to do the basic slogging police stuff. Let the process work. But when he needed undercover operators, they were all busy on various other operations in and about western Canada. When he needed access to bank records, the people who could give him access were away on holiday or on Very Important Trade Missions. The damn process wasn’t working, not when he needed it to! He should’ve just gone to law school, like his older brother. Been retired by now. Sitting on a pile of cash. Spent his time fishing. But not Indy, he’d never taken the easy route. He’d been too stubborn.

He growled to himself and turned back to retrace his steps, waiting in vain for a return call from his superiors.

T
HAT DAY, Mahari aired the first message on Al Jazeera. Within minutes it was picked up by Reuters, CNN, and the other world media giants. The communiqué was immediately analyzed in great detail, again and again, by the reporters of these news agencies. But that analysis was nothing compared to what the US Intelligence Community did with it. The mathematicians and engineers of the NSA examined every pixel of the video. Psychologists and doctors considered every nuance of expression. An army of translators and linguists replayed every tone and syllable. Backgrounds, shadows, eye reflections, and the warp and weave of fabrics were dissected to molecular levels. Hundreds of memoranda, reports, and opinions blossomed in the Intelligence Community almost immediately. All were, in due course, directed to and digested by Blue Gene/L. While there was extensive debate about some aspects of the recording, there was certainty about one thing. The man in the footage was the Emir. The Intelligence Community had seen him before, and wasn’t surprised. Thanks to the message, it was now a face known by billions.

The footage contained the usual salutations to the holiness and glory of the
jihad
. It consisted of all the usual praises for the martyrs — the young men who had gladly given their lives for the prophet, Allah, and Islam, all for the standard promises of Paradise and an unending supply of virgins. And, of course, it contained the usual fulminations against the Great Satan and the Lesser Satan.

But this message differed from earlier missives in two respects. The first was that it was video — high-quality, high-definition video, shot with a digital video recorder. This gave the message considerable impact. While analysts had verified that prior audio recordings were those of the Emir, to see the man himself, with his coal-black eye and the shadows of a deeply crevassed face, was disconcerting. It was apparent to anyone who paid attention to a TV set for longer than 30 seconds that the face radiated power, strength, and, to Westerners, absolute evil. This was no feeble or dying revolutionary living in a culvert somewhere.

The second frightening aspect was the promise made during the message. Not a possibility, or even a probability, but a certainty. The words were delivered in an emphasized, sharp, staccato style. There was no ambivalence. There was no room for confusion. That was what was so disquieting about the whole thing. Why would a high priest of terrorism make a promise, a guarantee, of a massive strike, if he could not in fact deliver? If he failed, the loss of face would be irreparable. But if he succeeded, his stature would be elevated to God-like among his own people. The comparison to other major terrorist attacks was especially unnerving. The bureau offices of the CIA, FBI, and NSA, the offices of the major military Intelligence Agencies, the Department of Homeland Security, the boards of the DDCI, the DI, and the Cabinet, and the office of the President all played the same extract of the message over and over.