Gauntlet (29 page)

Y
OUSSEFF WAS TUCKED SNUGLY into his cot, in the midst of a deep sleep, as his Gulfstream made the long trip from Karachi to Los Angeles. He was dreaming of turning 21, and remembering what it had been like. It was a wild and exciting time for him and his friends. With Marak’s assistance, Yousseff’s competitors from the Frontier Province had started disappearing. Most went to jail. If one of them was clever enough to avoid the police, he disappeared in the dead of the night, never to be seen again. There were many mountain passes in the Pashtun lands along the Pakistan/Afghanistan border, where bodies could easily disappear. Even with all their success, though, Yousseff realized that he needed his security to expand beyond just the Frontier Province and the Path of Allah. Marak could not assist him on the southern reaches of the Indus; he had no authority in Hyderabad, and certainly none in Karachi. In these areas, there were still problems, still competitors, still chances of being caught.

It all started with a suggestion from Omar. Two patrol boats had just intercepted the
Janeeta II.
Omar had seen them coming, and ten kilos of pure heroin had quickly been flushed into the muddy brown waters of the Indus. The officers had searched the ship from stem to stern, but had found nothing. Omar had complained bitterly the whole time. “We are just a simple river ferry, good sirs. We have customers. We have merchandise to ship and deadlines to meet.”

The police had ignored him and, if anything, became more aggressive in their hunt. Eventually they left, leaving the
Janeeta II
in a state of disarray. There were many thinly veiled threats about the ship’s fate if drugs were ever found onboard. And from a business standpoint, the loss of ten kilos so close to their ocean delivery point was considerable. Omar and his crew continued on to their rendezvous point, for the sole purpose of telling their contact that they had no product and that they would be back in approximately a month’s time. Yousseff, who was onboard at the time, then ordered Omar to turn the boat around and head back to Rawalpindi. The two stayed up well into the night discussing the problem.

It was Omar, with his mechanical skills, who came up with idea first. “We could manufacture a second hull for the front of the
Janeeta II.
It would create a hidden space that was waterproof and only accessible if you knew where the hidden switches were. If it were done properly, no one would ever find it, unless they already knew it was there. They wouldn’t tap the hull under the water to look for hidden compartments. Search dogs wouldn’t find it.”

“Can you do it, Omar? Can you create a waterproof outer compartment that they wouldn’t find?” asked Yousseff, immediately seeing the utility of such a creation.

“I think so, but we would need to drydock someplace for a few days to do the work.”

“Where?” pushed Yousseff.

“At the remnants of KSEW, I think,” replied Omar. “There is unused space along the inner harbor of Karachi. We might be able to pick up some harbor land and shop space cheap.”

He was referring to the Karachi Shipbuilding and Engineering Works, a company that had been enormous but was now starting to feel the operational difficulties of a multi-union workforce, internal inefficiencies, and government corruption. The corporation had been shrinking for years, selling off small pieces, one at a time. Many of its dock properties, which covered almost two miles of harborside property, had fallen into disuse and disrepair. Some smaller, family-run operations had sprung up in the areas vacated by the large corporation.

“Next trip down here, we’ll check it out. We’ll take the
Janeeta II
around the corner, and head to Karachi. Might even be fun. In the meantime, let’s start drawing up some plans for this,” said Yousseff.

A month later they were back, with a load of 20 kilos crammed into a new compartment in the V-berth of the ship. Omar had done the best he could, with the limited facilities they had, and had managed a partially hidden room for the transport of drugs. It wasn’t anywhere close to what they had discussed, but was the most they could construct in such a short period of time, without access to a drydock facility. Yousseff was not satisfied with the addition, and spent the entire trip keeping his eye out for the authorities. Happily, rain fell during the entire trip, which Yousseff saw as a good thing. The river police were less likely to patrol in the middle of the monsoon downpours. They preferred the sun, just like everyone else.

They delivered their load to their usual contact — a Captain Bartholomew, who owned a rusting freighter that changed her name and paint colors often. This month, the ship had the name “Marcy B” painted on the sides. They picked up their payment — several suitcases that held more than a quarter of a million American dollars in cash. Then the
Marcy B
headed south, and the
Janeeta II
went north.

Yousseff had never cared for Karachi. You could see the brown hemisphere of pollution covering the massive city even on a dreary, overcast, and wet day like this. The pervading odor was the smell of diesel and exhaust. The city’s population was growing so rapidly that the infrastructure had not kept up with the needs of her millions of citizens. The streets were incredibly noisy, and were packed with motor vehicles of every conceivable make and condition. There was also a lot of poverty. It was not uncommon to see a small Peugeot or Toyota held together with duct tape. There were huge areas that were made up entirely of shantytowns — homes patched up with cardboard and bits of lumber, and held together by sections of corrugated pipe.

The huge, protected harbor was as busy as the city, with many cargo and container ships always docked, waiting to be loaded or unloaded. Hundreds of smaller craft whizzed about, with no apparent pattern or logic to their movements. Yousseff watched the action with distaste, as Omar piloted the
Janeeta II
through the outer breakwater and into the harbor itself. Omar motioned to the distant, southeastern area of the harbor. Squinting in the rain, Yousseff could see acre after acre of cranes, gantries, industrial shops, and docks.

“That’s KSEW,” Omar said. “We go there.”

“Doesn’t look like much,” Yousseff responded. At that moment, he was missing the lazy Indus and his distant mountain home, and wasn’t in the mood for new adventures.

Omar directed the ship toward the southeastern shore. As they approached the KSEW land, he changed course and paralleled the shore about 200 feet out.

“Look at the mess, Omar,” Yousseff said. “You’d have to take a bulldozer to it and start over.”

“No wonder they’re going broke,” Omar responded. “Nobody seems to be working at anything productive. Look at the cranes. They are almost all sitting idle.”

“Take us to where the smaller outfits are. I don’t feel good about KSEW doing any type of work on the
Janeeta,”
Yousseff said.

“OK, boss,” joked Omar. More than a mile of dilapidated docks, cranes, and warehouses went by. Eventually Omar brought the ship into a smaller, private drydock facility. They tied her up and hopped onto the dock. The only person around was a young teenager, maybe 15 years of age, if that. He was perched high up, repairing a crossbeam on what appeared to be an extension of the main shop building. Yousseff motioned to him.

“Yo, boy, come down here. We have work for you.” The young welder slid down the main beam in a jiffy, practically falling at their feet. He still had his welder’s helmet on, with the face piece lifted up.

“What would you like?” he asked, eyeing them, sizing them both up, and looking at the somewhat aging
Janeeta II.

“We need some work done on the
Janeeta’s
hull. On the bottom. Needs a drydock, and lifts, which it looks like you have here,” said Omar.

“What kind of work?” asked the boy.

“We need an exterior, watertight compartment, that can be easily opened from the interior of the boat. It must blend in with the existing hull.”

“Ah. Drug smugglers, yes?” the young man responded.

Now Yousseff stepped in. “Can you do the work or not?” he asked.

The young lad had bright, inquisitive eyes and a quick sense of humor. Yousseff instantly liked him, and felt he could trust him. Of all of Yousseff’s many gifts, his ability to see the strengths and weaknesses in people was one of the most useful. He saw much strength in the young welder standing before him.

“Yes, I can do the work.”

“Can you do it now?” asked Yousseff.

“As in right now? As in
now
now?”

“Yes. Now now.”

“Cost you more,” said the teenager.

“No problem. We’ll pay,” Yousseff answered quickly.

“Cash?” asked the welder.

“Cash,” said Yousseff.

“Then it’ll cost you even more.”

The bartering and dealing went on for another 15 minutes. Before long, Yousseff had learned the young man’s name. “Kumar,” he had said. “Kumar Hanaman.”

Over the course of the next two days, Kumar’s skills amazed both Yousseff and Omar. No place to hook the cables in order to pull the boat into drydock? No problem. We’ll weld some on. The
Janeeta’s
too small for a drydock built for ocean-going ships? No problem, we’ll create a smaller lift carriage. Parts of the hull are too corroded to work on (a problem that Yousseff and Omar did not know until that very moment)? No problem. We can replace them.

And then there was the masterful solution devised by the youthful Kumar, on the fly, to create an outer envelope, partially accessible through an internal, hidden lever. It was beyond what Yousseff, or the more mechanically gifted Omar, had imagined. Kumar did all of it on his own, without any assistance, and at an amazing speed, chattering all the while, laughing, making jokes, and generally having a ball. Nevermind the rain and chill of the monsoon period.

The work took two days, with both Yousseff and Omar chipping in, assisting where they could. During those two days, Yousseff spent almost all his time talking with Kumar. He was pathetically inept at anything to do with mechanical work, but he stayed by Kumar’s side, passing along tools or moving or holding bits of iron and steel, while Kumar and Omar did most of the welding and cutting. To Omar it was almost comical to see Yousseff running to keep up with the chattering, skittering Kumar, passing him tools, and trading stories.

One of the first tales Kumar told Yousseff was the history of the little dry-dock company. Its name was Karachi Drydock and Engineering Company, which he shortened to KDEC. His father had purchased the dock, crane, and shop building from KSEW 18 months ago. He had planned to handle specialty jobs, involving the repair and manufacture of propellers and rudders for ocean-going vessels. He had been a highly skilled employee at KSEW and had specialized in this very area. He saw many of the inefficiencies of KSEW and felt he could provide a better product at a lower cost. He paid a premium price for the decrepit building and drydock system, which had been overgrown with weeds, and in considerable disrepair. KSEW had not actively used the site for more than 20 years. The vice president for KSEW, Salim Nooshkatoor, a brash young executive seeking to ingratiate himself with the board, had promised Mr. Hanaman that his company would not compete against Hanaman’s new venture, and would instead send all their rudder and propeller work his way. In that way, Nooshkatoor proposed, he would be able to pay off his investment quickly and easily.

The elder Hanaman, feeling that this was a no-lose situation, had put his life savings into the venture, and that of a number of his brothers. The opportunity appeared to be too good to pass up; guaranteed employment for all of them in a lucrative specialty area in the ship maintenance business. Hanaman had prepared many scenarios and projections and decided that he definitely couldn’t lose. If just a fraction of the propeller and rudder work came his way, he would have a thriving, profitable business in no time. All he needed was a small fortune to invest — a fortune that came from family members. He would be able to repay them entirely, at a substantial interest rate, plus a bonus for their troubles, within a year.

Alas, though, it was not too be. Nooshkatoor had been told by his Board of Directors to liquidate, at the best possible price, much of the unused property of KSEW, in an attempt to make the once-mighty company profitable again. The senior Hanaman had not been able to pay the entire property price, of course, so the balance was made up by a mortgage back to the company at very reasonable terms. “And,” said Nooshkatoor, “do not worry if you miss a payment, if business is slow. We will not foreclose. You will definitely have all our propeller work, and that, by itself, guarantees your venture to be profitable.”

Of course, Nooshkatoor had every intention of foreclosing, and competing, and none whatsoever of sending any business to Hanaman. After one year of business hell, during which power was repeatedly cut off, and only tiny low-value jobs were sent to the new Karachi Drydock and Engineering Company, the venture was near death. The pressure on Mr. Hanaman became immense. His brothers first berated him, then ignored him, and finally sued him. KSEW had just initiated foreclosure proceedings, and there was only one month left in the redemption period. His wife could not handle the stress and humiliation and ended up leaving him. His health failed, he took to drinking, became ulcerous, and had developed cancer two months before Yousseff came into the picture.

Hanaman had turned to the courts for relief, and countersued KSEW during the foreclosure proceedings. He told the judge, “Look, here was the deal. They said they would send specialty work to me if I bought this property from them. They have not done that. They lied. They should give me the property back, and millions of rupees too, for the hell they have made of my life.”

But KSEW was a Karachi establishment, and Nooshkatoor was one of its darlings. In his mid-30s, trained as a lawyer, and on his way up, he could do no wrong. A number of KSEW’s directors knew the judge personally and attended the same social club — an organization that a worker like Hanaman did not even know existed. Nooshkatoor, sitting in the gallery of the courtroom, sniggered openly. The judge peered over his horn-rimmed glasses at Hanaman and said, “Look, sir. It’s not in writing, is it?” To which Hanaman had replied that they had shaken hands on the deal. The old man got nowhere. He didn’t even get a chance to ask Nooshkatoor any questions about it. Now, alone, bankrupt, destitute, his spirit broken, without any wife or family aside from Kumar, he was dying of alcohol and cancer.