Secrets of State (6 page)

Sam knew he should leave it at that, but he also knew that he would not.

“You wouldn't hesitate, would you?” he asked.

“About what?”

“About switching tracks, framing the drifter, even pushing the fat guy off the bridge. You'd do it in a heartbeat, wouldn't you?” Sam tried not to make the question sound accusatory. He was not entirely successful.

Spears paused for maybe half a beat as he considered his response.

“Yes,” he acknowledged. “Yes, I would.”

LAHORE, PAKISTAN

MARCH 18

K
amran Khan was devoted to the mission. It was the single most important thing in his life after his love of Allah. He had sacrificed so much already and he was prepared, he knew in his heart, to sacrifice so much more. There were days, however, that tried his patience. Since giving himself over to jihad, Khan had spent most of his time in menial and uninspiring duties: cooking, cleaning, keeping watch, delivering the occasional package or letter to a particular person at a particular address. E-mail, cell phones, radio. All of these were dangerous. The Indians or the Americans with their computers the size of houses would find you and take for themselves that which you had hoped to keep hidden. That was why the Pakistani leadership of Haath-e-Mohammed, for all of their ambitions to liberate Kashmir from the Hindu yoke, communicated almost exclusively by courier. The couriers themselves knew nothing of what they carried. That was not their concern.

Haath-e-Mohammed meant the Hand of the Prophet. HeM, as it was called in the newspapers, or the Hand, as they called themselves, was not as well known as Lashkar-e-Taiba or some of the other top-tier jihadi groups. But the fighters as well as the leaders in HeM were righteous and committed. They would make their mark.

Kamran Khan played his part, and so far he had played it patiently. He was, however, running out of patience.

He had once asked his friend Ali, the one real friend he had made in his first five months in the Hand, why his role in the organization was so circumscribed. Ali had already been sent for training to one of the camps in Afghanistan. He had been gone for more than a month, and when he returned, he was stronger and more confident. He had already been on three missions inside occupied Kashmir. Khan was envious of his friend's success and embarrassed by that envy.

“It is simple,” Ali had told him. “They don't trust you.”

“Who doesn't trust me?”

“Masood Dar and the people around him.” Dar was the number two person in the Hand, operations commander, and deputy to the organization's spiritual leader, Hafiz Muhammad Said.

“Why would they distrust me?” Khan asked.

“You have been to school,” Ali explained. “You speak languages. You are not the usual quality of recruit we see straight out of the madras whose passion for jihad burns in the veins. Your relationship with jihad is more a matter of the head than the heart. You are smart, Khan, maybe too smart. The HeM leaders prefer their foot soldiers to be a little on the slow side. That is why I am successful.”

Khan had bowed his head at that, for he knew that Masood Dar was not wrong. He was guilty of the sin of pride, like Iblis, the devil, who had refused to prostrate himself before Adam as Allah had ordered because, as a jinn, he had been made by Allah from smokeless fire while Adam was a mere creature of clay. Iblis had been cast out for his arrogance. Masood had been merciful in letting Khan remain, even if only to sweep the floors. In the three months since that conversation, Khan had endeavored to be humble in all that he did. His time would come.

Khan was working in the garden of the villa in the city of Lahore that the Hand used as a kind of informal headquarters. He was on his hands and knees, weeding around the grapevines, when Masood's secretary tapped him on the back.

“You have been summoned,” he announced.

“Can I at least wash my hands?”

The secretary looked with some distaste at Khan's dirt-stained clothes.

“I think that would be a good idea.”

Masood received Khan in his library. Khan looked with wonder at the walls of books with their spines labeled in Urdu and Arabic. There were even a couple of books in Russian. For a moment, Khan was struck by how much he missed books. Here, the Quran was the only book he read. It was the most important book in the world, he knew, but he was not among those who believed it to be the only book worth reading. Neither, evidently, was Masood.

The mullah was a heavyset man with a long and somewhat unkempt black beard. Oversize tortoiseshell glasses gave him something of an owlish appearance. He wore a white skullcap and a tunic with a vest. His feet were bare.

“As-
s
alamu alaykum,”
Khan said, with a slight bow.

“Sit,” Masood commanded.

There were chairs in the library, but Masood was sitting on the floor, which was where Khan sat. He rested one arm on an overstuffed pillow and accepted a cup of green tea that the secretary served from a copper tray. The tea, called
kahwah
, was boiled with saffron, cinnamon, and cardamom.

Khan sipped his tea somewhat uncomfortably as Masood looked him over as though he were inspecting vegetables in the marketplace.

“How long have you been with us?” he asked.

“Almost eight months, Janab,” Khan said, using the formal title that was the closest approximation to “sir.”

“And in those eight months, what have you done for us?”

“I have kept house, Janab. I have delivered messages. I have done what has been asked of me.”

“And does that satisfy you?”

“No, it does not.”

“You would like to do more for the organization, would you? More for jihad? For Kashmir?”

“I would, Janab.”

“You will have your opportunity.”

Khan said nothing, but he felt his heart quicken slightly.

“You speak languages,” Masood said. It was not a question.

Khan nodded agreement.

“How is your English?”

“It is excellent.” Khan spoke in English and was rewarded with a slight smile from Masood.

“I need a translator,” the mullah explained. “For a meeting that must remain secret. My regular interpreter is too ill to travel. Everything you do with respect to this event you will carry with you to the grave. If you do anything that causes me to question your loyalty and obedience, you will find yourself explaining your choices to Allah somewhat earlier than you otherwise might.”

“I understand, Janab.”

“Do you? Do you really?”

•   •   •

Masood did not tell Khan
where they were going. But only an idiot would have failed to understand at the early stage of the journey that they were crossing into India. They traveled at night, on mountain roads that the Hand used as infiltration routes. Masood's face was well known in India, and Hindu extremist groups would have paid significant sums to see his head mounted on a pike.

HeM operatives took them as far as Amritsar. For most of the trip, Khan and Masood were wedged into a smuggling compartment in the back of a truck. They traveled largely in silence. Near Amritsar, they were allowed out of the truck to stretch and relieve themselves. It was dark and cool, and the place they had stopped seemed far from any lights. Their Pakistani guides left them here and three Indians took their place. Their new guides were beardless and their hair was cut short in military style. Khan said nothing to them, but he observed everything around him carefully.

Their new guides drove through the night until they reached their destination. Khan was not certain where they were, but when he got out of the truck, they were parked in front of a dimly lit warehouse building. Inside, a cluster of four wooden chairs stood in a pool of light cast by a single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. Two of the chairs were occupied. One man had dark skin and was wearing a Western-style suit with no tie. He was short and wiry and almost completely bald. He looked to be in his midfifties. Khan assumed he was an Indian Muslim. Although India was a Hindu country, it was so vast that its Muslim minority numbered in the hundreds of millions. There were nearly as many Muslims in India as there were in Pakistan, many of them no doubt sympathetic to the HeM and Islamabad's claim to Kashmir. The second man was younger and looked Middle Eastern with an olive complexion and a carefully trimmed mustache. He was dressed in a white Arab-style
thawb
, or dishdasha.

Without asking permission, one of the Indian escorts frisked both Khan and Masood quickly and expertly.

The older Indian-looking man rose and offered Masood a traditional greeting.
“As-salamu alaykuma.”
Peace be upon you. As he said it, he placed his right hand over his heart. The use of
alaykuma
meant that Khan was included in the sentiment.

“Wa alaykumu s-salam wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh.”
Masood replied with the most elaborate and polite of the available formal responses
.
May peace, mercy, and the blessings of Allah be upon you too.

“We will speak English,” the Indian said. “We will use no names.”

Khan translated into Urdu for Masood, who nodded.

“That is most sensible,” he agreed. Khan translated back into English. His English was good, with only the slightest trace of an accent. He also spoke passable French and decent Russian.

“Our mutual friends have made it known to me that you are interested in acquiring a certain package. I have the information necessary to facilitate this. It is not, however, a simple matter.”

“There is nothing about this that is simple for any other than Allah,” Masood replied. “But the cause is righteous and He is with us.”

The Indian nodded. The man dressed as an Arab produced a black briefcase from beside his chair and handed it to Masood.

“Inside is the information you will need,” the Indian said. “It includes timetables and maps regarding the transport of the package and precise information about its location. You will also find special instructions regarding the handling of the package. The contents are . . . sensitive.”

“I understand.” Masood did not open the case.

“You have considered the consequences of this?” the man asked.

“Very carefully.”

“There have been certain . . . expenses . . . associated with procuring this information.” The Indian addressed this to the Arab, if that was, in fact, what he was.

“I understand,” the Arab replied with equanimity. His English was smooth and cultured, the accent more British than American. “My organization strongly supports this project. The agreed sum will be deposited in the account in the Caymans as you requested. A second deposit will follow upon successful conclusion of the operation.”

The Indian turned back to Masood.

“You understand that the time frame for this operation is very precise. It is not open-ended. There will be only this single opportunity. If you miss the window, we will not try again at a later date. There are no second chances.”

“That has been made clear to us,” Masood replied. “We will be ready. God is great.”

“Yes,” the man agreed. “But He is also extremely busy. You will have to do most of the work yourself.”

Masood smiled enigmatically.

“We will be ready,” he repeated.

•   •   •

Masood and Khan
left the warehouse by a side door. Khan carried the briefcase with the mysterious instructions. The young Indian who led them was wearing a dark suit, but it was not much of a disguise. With his square shoulders and straight back, he looked like what he was, a soldier out of uniform. Khan was glad for the guide. The streets were dark and unfamiliar. The Indian soldier led them to a guest house on the edge of the industrial zone where the warehouse was located. There was a reception area on the ground floor, but no one else was there, and there was no sign on the building announcing its identity as a hostel. It did not have the feel of a business. Khan suspected that this was a safe house operated by Indian military intelligence.

“Is this place secure?” Khan asked their guide in the Hindi he had learned from watching Bollywood movies and Indian television.

“It should be. We have been careful.” For such a large man, the soldier had a surprisingly soft, almost feminine voice. “I will keep watch outside your door. You may sleep if you wish. Your ride will be here before dawn. I will wake you.”

The room was spartan. The wood floor was splotched with betel-nut stains where previous occupants had spit gummy wads of the noxious leaf mixed with tobacco or areca nuts. The thin breeze coming through the slats of the windows carried the intermingled smells of sewage and curry. Khan felt his stomach turn slightly, and he was glad that he and Masood had not eaten that day. There were two single beds with low wooden frames and mattresses stuffed with lumpy rice straw. Khan had slept on worse. The moment he saw the beds, Khan realized that he was bone-crushingly tired. Masood insisted that they pray before sleep and Khan complied. They removed their shoes and spread the thin prayer rugs they had carried with them on the floor, giving thanks to Allah for bringing the tools of victory so close. When they had finished, Khan settled onto the bed fully clothed. Within a minute of laying his head on the rough rice-husk pillow, he was asleep.

•   •   •

A sharp cough woke him.
He thought at first that it was Masood, but in the dim light he could see that the portly mullah was lying asleep on the next bed, snoring softly. There was a second cough, followed by a dull thud from the other side of the door. Now Khan recognized the sound. A silenced pistol. Their Indian protector was dead. The night was warm enough that there was no need for blankets. Khan only had to roll to his left and he was on his feet, crouched next to the bed frame. He needed a weapon. There was a lamp on the bedside table. He pulled the cord from the wall and stripped off the cheap paper shade. The lamp felt solid in his hands and he tested the base against his palm. Through the door, he could hear the sound of the dead guard being dragged awkwardly to one side.