Part 11 (2/2)

Against the backdrop of a cloudless sky-blue sky, our twin-seater MF17 seemed not to move, as if hanging by invisible threads in an aviation museum. I checked with the air traffic control tower. It was one of those rare days when there is no head- or tailwind. Beneath us Pakistan was breathtakingly symmetrical, green squares of vegetation divided by flat rivers reflecting the gentle rays of sun.

”Want to see the Black and White Valley?”

Bannon sat tense in his seat as if not sure whether to trust my flying skills.

”Been in too many whirlybirds with my dead men. Too many memories,” he said, fidgeting with his safety harness.

”This ain't no chopper and I ain't dead,” I mimicked him in an attempt to cheer him up. He forced a nervous smile. ”Here. I have got your favourite.” I produced the joint from my pocket and held it towards Bannon. ”Climbing to ten thousand for manoeuvres,” I said into my mouthpiece, eased the stick backwards and trimmed the controls again. We were now rooted to our seats as the plane climbed steadily. The G meter read 1.5, gravity tugged softly at our cheeks.

Bannon sat there, unsure whether or not to light up. ”Go ahead, be my guest,” I said. ”Safety is in the eye of the beholder.” I took out a lighter, stretched out my left hand, flipped open the air vent on his side of the gla.s.s canopy and sparked the joint. The plane shuddered slightly, the vibration pattern changed, and the sound of the propeller slicing the air at zioo revolutions per minute filtered through.

The Black and White mountain range appeared on our left. The Black Mountains were covered with lush green pine trees and thick shrubs, while the White Mountains formed a series of grey barren ridges. The altimeter read six thousand feet, the propeller pointed just above the horizon; a cow-shaped cloud nudged the tip of our right wing, dived below and disappeared. Bannon, in his nervousness, smoked more than half the joint in two long puffs. The c.o.c.kpit was full of aircraft fuel and hash fumes. I held my breath. I was responsible for the safety of the s.h.i.+p. He extended the last bit of the joint towards me. ”The machine knows who is flying it,” I said, shaking my head. His eyes laughed a stoned laugh.

”Want some fun?” Without waiting for an answer I put the plane into a thirty-degree dive, trimmed my ailerons, gave some right rudder and yanked the stick to the right. Bannon tried to jump in his seat but the plane was pulling hard, the gravity pinned him down. The right wing kept rolling up and soon we were inverted, hanging from our safety harnesses. I decided to hold the plane there and pressed the intercom b.u.t.ton.

”Who shafted Colonel s.h.i.+gri?”

It's a great vantage position to see the world from; with your feet pointing at the sky, neck stretched and eyes staring at earth, just the way I used to hang upside down from the apple tree in our backyard on s.h.i.+gri Hill.

”f.u.c.k,” Bannon said, his voice sounding metallic on the intercom. ”Get my f.a.n.n.y back on the ground.”

I obliged. I eased the stick to the left and pushed the right rudder in; the plane completed a roll. I checked the altimeter. Six thousand feet. Exactly where we had started.

”Wasn't that a perfect roll?” I looked towards Bannon, my left hand working the trimmer. Bannon's face was yellow, and his forehead had broken into sweat. His burp filled the c.o.c.kpit with the smell of Coca-Cola and half-digested omelette.

”Fury Two levelling off at six thousand.”

The tower babbled on for a few seconds.

”Roger,” I said, without listening.

Bannon was talking.

”Nothing to do with us. I heard stuff but that's all bulls.h.i.+t. You've got to look at the context and the context in this case was this.” He counted invisible money with the thumb and forefinger of both his hands. ”There was a lot of moolah going into Afghanistan. This whole jihad against communism was nothing but loads and loads of mazuma. The mujahideen just loved their greenbacks, you know. And yes we brought them mules from Argentina and ack-acks from Egypt and AK47's from China and stingers from Nevada but what really worked with them was the dollar. Not questioning their motives here, mind you. Your average muj is happy with a shawl on one shoulder and a rocket launcher on the other, he is the best guerrilla fighter we have got-G.o.d, I could have used some of them in Nam-but what I am saying here is that the leaders.h.i.+p, the commanders with their villas in Dubai and their cousins trading in Hong Kong, I mean n.o.body could keep track of anything. Although money wasn't their basic motive, the muj just loved their dollars. But so did your bra.s.s and it's only natural that in a situation like this some of it went missing.” He was still holding the end of the joint in his hand. I took it and flicked it out of the air vent; it ballooned up before dancing away into the s.p.a.ce.

”Spare me the a.n.a.lysis. Are you saying Colonel s.h.i.+gri was one of those people who wanted your greenbacks?”

Dad's bank manager came to see me the day after his funeral and transferred his account to my name. Three hundred and twelve rupees in credit.

”Oh no. Not at all. Not remotely suggesting that.”

I yanked the stick to the left, and pushed in the right rudder to keep the plane from drifting. I wanted to have a good look at Bannon's face. He took a deep breath and peered out of the c.o.c.kpit, surveying Black Valley where some enterprising b.u.g.g.e.r had cut down the pines on a mountainside and arranged whitewashed stones to read: Mard-e-Momin, Mard-e-haq, Zia ul-Haq, Zia ul-Haq Mard-e-Momin, Mard-e-haq, Zia ul-Haq, Zia ul-Haq.

”I'm all ears,” I said, banking away from the mountains. I was in no mood to give him an Urdu lesson or explain what the Man of Faith was doing on top of a Black Valley mountain.

”You know how much money was pa.s.sing through Colonel s.h.i.+gri's hands? Not putting a price on the hardware here, not counting the humanitarian aid. Just the moolah in Samsonites. Three hundred million dollars cash. Every quarter. And that is American taxpayers' money, not taking into consideration the Saudi royal dosh. So twenty-five mil goes missing-and I say this with my hand on my heart-that sounds like a big pile of greens but it was nothing. No one batted an eyelid at our end. Hey, you don't count pennies when you are fighting the single worst enemy since Hitler. But. But. Twenty-five mil is a lot of money for your folks. You knew your dad better than I did. I know he had his flash uniforms and rigid principles but the man liked his Scotch, he liked his female companions, so you never know.” I stared at him without blinking. ”Look, man, all I'm saying is this: I don't know and you don't know how much a hooker costs in Switzerland. But it sure don't cost twenty-five million US dollars.”

”Do I look like someone who has inherited twenty-five million dollars?”

He looked at me blankly, wondering why was I taking it all so personally. I rummaged in my pocket and produced a crumpled fifty-dollar bill. ”This is all I've got.” I threw the note in his lap where it lay like an unproven accusation.

I wondered if I should tell him that I helped Dad take care of that money. Bannon would have never believed me. I took a deep breath and pressed the radio b.u.t.ton. ”Fury Two, beginning radio silence drill.”

I pushed the stick forward till it wouldn't go any further, threw in the full left rudder; the plane went into nose dive and its wings danced a 360-degree dance. The plane headed down, revolving on all three axes. The nose was chasing the tail, the wings were whirring like the blades of a blender; negative Gs were pulling our guts into our throats. The green squares of fields and s.h.i.+mmering straight ca.n.a.ls were dancing and becoming bigger with every rotation. I glanced towards Bannon. His hands were flailing in the air, his face contorted with a suppressed scream.

Dad was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g hookers in Geneva while I was waking up every day at five in the morning to justify his investment in my public-school education and spending my summer vacations inventing physical exercises for myself?

Bannon was a bulls.h.i.+t artist.

The altimeter read two thousand feet. I cut the throttle, yanked the full right rudder in, eased back the stick and the plane slowly curved upwards. The greens began to recede again. Bannon's voice was frightened, hoa.r.s.e.

”Are you trying to kill an American?”

”I am just trying to talk,” I flicked the radio b.u.t.ton on and gave the air traffic controller a call. ”Radio silence out. Spin recovery completed.”

Bannon began to speak in a measured tone, as if making a speech at his favourite aunt's funeral.

”He didn't have a case officer or anything. It was a loose arrangement. But we knew he was one of the good guys, and trust me, there weren't many of them. We were gutted. I wasn't involved then. I wasn't even on the South Asia desk, man, but I knew some guys who had worked with him and they were crying in their beers. It was a big loss. And not that people didn't raise a ruckus, but it was all about staying the course and moving on, all diplomatic bull.”

”So n.o.body bothered to find out?”

”No they didn't. Because they knew. The orders came from the top. They didn't want to rock the boat, so to speak. I mean it's no secret. s.h.i.+t, sure you know. From the very top.” He waved to the black mountain with white stones. ”Mard-e-Haq.”

I was pleasantly surprised at his grasp of Urdu. I patted his shoulder and gave him an understanding nod.

”So what are you doing here now? What do you want from me?”

”s.h.i.+t. I am only the Silent Drill instructor. You know the rules.”

I stayed quiet for a moment. ”It must have come up in meetings, memos. After all, he was your best man.” I moved the stick left and started preparing for landing.

”What were they going to say? Hey, stop the Cold War, our cross-eyed Mard-e-Haq is not fighting by the book? But trust me, man, this is all guesswork. Educated guesswork done by folks in Langley who loved your dad, but guesswork nonetheless. n.o.body knew for sure. It was all very low-level stuff. I've got no clue who pulled the trigger.”

”I would have understood if it was the barrel of his gun in his mouth. He was that kind of a man. But it was his own bed sheet,” I said, before asking the tower for permission to land and informing the air traffic controller that I had an airsick pa.s.senger on board.

Secretary General's whispers are echoing in the cell. I can't decide if he is in a delirium or trying to entertain me. ”Comrade, I think I've gone blind. I can't see anything.” I rub my own eyes and don't see anything. But I know I am not blind. ”I swear I can't see anything. They brought food, they opened the door but I didn't see anything. Not a thing.”

”It's probably night-time, comrade,” I say, trying to suppress a yawn. Remember day and night? Night, day, then again night.

SIXTEEN.

After the Inter Services Intelligence's counter-espionage unit carried out its weekly sweep through the living quarters of the Army House for any bugs or jamming devices, Brigadier TM started an oldfas.h.i.+oned, hands-on inspection of the premises. He removed the hand-woven burgundy silk covers from the sofa cus.h.i.+ons and ran his fingers along their velvet lining. He gave the matching drapes a good shake, combed his way through the brown silk ta.s.sels and looked suspiciously at the silver curtain holdbacks. The Persian rugs, plundered from the palaces of Afghan kings and presented to General Zia by Afghan mujahideen commanders, were removed one by one and TM's boots searched for any uneven surfaces on the grey synthetic underlay. The table lamps, s.h.i.+ny bra.s.s with silk cord switches, were turned on and off and on again. Brigadier TM's mistrust of the ISI was based on a simple principle: the cops and thieves should be organised separately. His problem with the ISI was that everything was being done by the same people. After sweeping through the living quarters with their bug detectors and scanners and patting the seats of some random chairs they had simply signed a doc.u.ment saying no espionage devices were detected. Brigadier TM never knew whether to trust these signed doc.u.ments. After all, potential presidential a.s.sa.s.sins don't go about their business signing affidavits as they close in on their target. Brigadier TM had done his staff and command course, and he understood why a country needed an intelligence service, why an armed service needed spies to spy on its own men and officers, and he could live with that. But there was another reason he didn't like these military intelligence types. Brigadier TM didn't like them because they didn't wear uniforms. It was hard enough to trust anyone who didn't wear a uniform, but how on earth could you trust someone with a rank with a rank, who didn't wear a uniform? Brigadier TM considered ISI a menace on a par with the corrupt Pakistani police and lazy Saudi princes, but since his job was to watch and keep quiet, he never mentioned it in front of General Zia. Going through the trophy cabinet, he concluded that the sheer amount of stuff in the Army House was a security hazard. ”Who needs all these photos?” He stood in front of a wall covered with framed portraits of former generals who had ruled the country. Brigadier TM couldn't help noticing that they had progressively got fatter and that the medals on their chests had multiplied. He came to the end of the row of photographs and stood in front of a large portrait. In this oil painting, Muhammad Ali Jinnah, the Founder of Pakistan, was wearing a crisp Savile Row suit and was absorbed in studying a doc.u.ment. With a monocle in his left eye and his intense gaze, Jinnah looked like a tortured eighteenth-century chemist on the verge of a new discovery.

Brigadier TM looked at the Founder's portrait with admiration; he didn't mind civilians if they were properly dressed and behaved like civilians. ”Look at this guy.” He took a step towards the portrait. ”He was a civilian and he wore civilian clothes and he said civilian things, but at heart he was a soldier.” TM didn't mind saluting this guy, out of sheer patriotism, the kind of patriotism that only a decorated soldier can feel; he took a step backwards and saluted. As his foot landed on the carpet, his hand made an arc in the air and his open palm reached his eyebrow, the frame tilted. It tilted ever so slightly, but Brigadier TM's alert eyes noticed the tilt and he suddenly looked around. He felt embarra.s.sed and shy, like a child who has disturbed an immaculate ikebana arrangement at a rich cousin's house. Brigadier TM moved forward, held the frame by its corners with both his hands, took a step back to see if it was level and then with a shudder let the frame go. His right hand reached for his holster and stopped. The Founder had winked at him from behind his monocle. He could swear he had seen his left eye move.

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