The Bard of Blood (9 page)

‘Yes,’ he replied, and shook Kabir’s extended hand. ‘Mr Saleh told me about you, Mr Anand. Let’s put your luggage in the boot. We will drive to a cafe nearby and talk.’

Kabir took his seat next to Hussain. Isha and Nihar sat behind, after putting their bags in the boot. They rolled down their windows and Hussain drove them to a cafe ten minutes away.

‘I don’t know what you’re getting into, Mr Anand, but I’m sure Mr Saleh wouldn’t come into the picture unless it was extremely dangerous.’

He handed Kabir a sealed brown-paper envelope. Kabir looked in and saw fake documents and ID cards that showed his team as representatives of Al Jazeera, with false names. Hussain ordered some local Iranian tea with omelettes for his guests. Kabir passed the bag on to Isha, who slipped it into her handbag. Hussain noticed that a gentle breeze blew her curls across her face.

‘The Taliban don’t take too well to women,’ Hussain said. ‘You need to make sure she’s always in hijab. In fact, some of the local Balochis may not like it either.’

‘Don’t worry, Mr Hussain. I’ve brought my hijab along.’

‘I don’t need to tell you guys this,’ continued Hussain, ‘but to blend in, you must look like them. You need to grow their kind of beard and wear their kind of clothes.’ Nihar knew this was meant for him. He had shaved out of habit the previous night.

‘Chabahar is a beautiful city,’ Isha chimed in as she sipped her tea.

‘It is, indeed. But then the geography is always beautiful. I agree that Chabahar is now much less turbulent, but there is always the chance of some conflict between the Shias and the Sunnis that could lead to instances of violence. The majority of the Muslims here are the local Balochis.’

‘Does Khamenei crack down hard on them?’ Kabir asked.

‘Khamenei is an archetypal hypocrite,’ Hussain scoffed. ‘He claims to be supportive of them, but since they’re mostly Sunnis he encourages violence against them. Similarly, on the global stage, he condemns terrorism, but there is something contrary to his messiah-like image that not everyone knows of.’ He lowered his voice before continuing, ‘I have reason to believe he funds al-Qaeda.’

Nihar and Isha gasped collectively.

‘His true wealth is estimated to be in tens of billions of dollars,’ Hussain continued. ‘The old crook has even managed to finagle his way into being the only representative of the German automobile giant BMW in Iran. He got a charity organization of his affiliated with the company’s dealers, pretending to be promoters of a noble cause. Gradually, he took over the reins. I haven’t seen anyone as corrupt as this man. It disturbs me to see people placing their faith blindly in this mere mortal!’

Kabir’s face remained sphinx-like.

‘What about Iran’s alliance with India?’ he asked. ‘I guess that is beneficial to both parties.’

‘Yes, it is an important alliance, politically. Currently, the governments are planning a collaboration to build a gas pipeline between the two countries along the bed of the Arabian Sea. Strategically, it would be on much firmer ground than the proposed Iran–Pakistan–India pipeline. We all know why.’ Kabir smiled as he wolfed down his omelette with a loaf of buttered bread.

‘How far is Gwadar from here?’

‘A couple of hours,’ Hussain replied. ‘I suggest you get moving as soon as possible. You are less likely to be seen by the security forces now than during the middle of the day.’

Kabir and his team thanked him. They offered to pay for the breakfast, but Hussain refused to let them, appearing somewhat offended at the suggestion. They walked towards the Peugeot, and Hussain handed Kabir the keys. Kabir shot him a questioning look.

‘Saleh asked me to hand a car over to you.’ He shrugged. ‘It is much safer that you drive than have someone else drive for you. In the trunk are the cameras and tripods.’ He smiled sheepishly as he said this. The content in the trunk was essential to their cover.

‘This car is a little too conspicuous to be driving around in,’ Kabir said.

‘I agree with you,’ Hussain replied. ‘But it’s all I could manage at such short notice.’

‘I can’t thank you and Mr Saleh enough,’ Kabir said as his team settled into the car.

Hussain leaned into Kabir’s window. ‘Remember, if anyone needs a reference, just ask them to call me. I will say you’re from Al Jazeera. Let’s hope you succeed in your quest, no matter how dangerous.’

‘Inshallah,’ said Kabir.

The rest of the team thanked him, and Kabir put his foot to the pedal and eased the car out on to the highway.

2 September 2014

Gwadar, Balochistan

A rush of memories flashed through Kabir’s mind as he sat behind the wheel. He had never imagined returning to the land that had changed everything for him. The roads, the people he passed by, all of it felt so familiar, as if he had been there just the previous week. He tried hard to forget everything that had happened in his past, especially in Balochistan. He had managed to turn over a new leaf. He had repressed all his memories of the province. But destiny has its own way with people.

They reached Zaveri Hotel in Koh-e-Batil at eight in the morning and checked into the best suites the hotel had to offer. It was a two-hour drive, but Kabir drove the Peugeot hard, so they reached a little earlier. He liked the feel of the car. Isha had offered to drive, but Kabir had declined. He asked them to rest. There was still a long way to travel. They needed to be in Quetta the following day itself, according to the plan. A healthy recce was needed before any covert operation could be undertaken. Especially an operation where you’re messing with the Taliban!

Gwadar was in many ways a mirror image of Chabahar. The Pakistanis had planned the city well, recognizing the value of the port. In 2013, port operations were officially handed over to the Chinese. With an initial investment of 750 million dollars, the Pakistani contract with China envisioned the port to be developed into a full-scale commercial port. India, not surprisingly, was not allowed anywhere near Gwadar, given its rivalry with both Pakistan and China.

The port is a key strategic resource for the Chinese, enabling it to import oil and gas without much ado. Currently, 60 per cent of China’s oil needs to be transported by sea from the Persian Gulf to the commercial port of Shanghai, a distance of more than 16,000 kilometres. The journey is rather risky, and takes a couple of months, making it vulnerable to pirates off the coast of East Africa as well as inclement weather. The Gwadar port facility will reduce the distance these ships travel as well as enable oil transfers to be made all year round.

‘Get all the rest you can. We need to leave for Quetta first thing tomorrow,’ Kabir said, looking out of the window at the scenic view Gwadar had to offer. He looked on as the gentle waves kissed the shore, reminding him of Mumbai’s Juhu Beach.

Isha went in straight for a bath. Kabir and Nihar unpacked their communication equipment in the hall, so that they could send a quick message to HQ.

‘The secure line,’ Kabir reminded Nihar. ‘Remember, only a select few in India know of our mission. Joshi wants to keep it that way.’

Nihar sent a coded message through the secure iPad to Delhi. They had to be doubly sure that none of their messages were intercepted. The ISI always kept a lookout for messages exchanged between Indians and Pakistanis, even if they were frequent phone calls between family members who lived across the border.

‘I want you to check the equipment again,’ Kabir said. ‘We are bound to be stopped at a few checkpoints before Quetta.’

Nihar agreed and opened the bag with the equipment. The tripods of the camera, when unscrewed, had little pieces of metal and a smaller barrel. Kabir had insisted that they wouldn’t need a gun until they reached their destination. He had got the little pieces put in the bags as random pieces of metal, so he could assemble them when the need arose. There was no place for carrying a weapon larger than a semi-automatic Glock.

Isha stepped out of the bathroom, her hair wet. She was dressed in a black tank top and a pair of jeans. Nihar looked at her from the corner of his eye as she entered the hall. Kabir got up to go shower.

‘I suggest you put on your hijab now,’ said Nihar as she walked in.

There was a soft knock at the door. Nihar quickly zipped the suitcases and looked through the peephole.

He saw a tall, bearded, turbaned man standing in a Pathani suit.

He turned to Isha. ‘Are we expecting the Taliban already?’

‘I think that’s Veer in character.’

Nihar opened the door and moved away. The man walked in slowly and turned around. He looked at Isha and Nihar, who looked curiously back at him.

‘Veer Singh?’ she asked, observing him. He looked very different in the file pictures.

The man didn’t reply. His eyes widened in horror as he saw how Isha was dressed. He put his hand in his suit and pulled out a pistol instinctively. He pointed it towards Isha. Nihar was dumbfounded. Kabir was still in the toilet.

‘Who are you?’ Isha shouted loud enough for Kabir to hear. Kabir realized something was wrong. He had finished showering and was towelling his wet body when he heard Isha’s voice. He picked up a small pair of scissors near the washbasin, preparing to use the sharp end as a weapon. It was the only option he had. He put on his boxers quickly and stormed out of the room.

The turbaned man was caught unawares as Kabir charged into him from behind. Pinning him to the ground, Kabir stabbed the man in his thigh with the scissors. The man shrieked in pain and let go of the gun. Nihar picked it up and aimed it at him.

As a network of veins throbbed furiously through his shirtless body, Kabir said through gritted teeth: ‘Who are you?’

‘Nawabzada Nusrat Marri has sent me to bring you to him,’ he said finally. Kabir pulled out the scissors from the man’s bleeding thigh. The man let out another shout in pain. His salwar was stained with blood.

Nusrat Marri was the brother of Balach Marri, the creator of the Baloch Liberation Army, which fought for autonomy against Pakistan.

Isha chided the man. ‘You could’ve just said that, instead of waving your gun around.’

‘In this part of the world, we wave our guns first before talking. I just wanted to make sure it was the same bunch of Indians that Nawabzada Marri was expecting.’

‘How did Marri know we were here?’ Nihar questioned him.

‘Zain Hussain informed him. Besides, he has a stake in this hotel,’ the man replied. ‘Whenever there is a guest from another country, we alert him first.’

‘And then wave your gun at him?’

The man decided not to explain why he had acted so impulsively. He simply shrugged.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Irfan Baloch Khan.’

‘We’re documentary film-makers, Irfan Baloch Khan, if that puts you at ease,’ Isha lied with a smile. ‘Certainly not Pakistanis.’

Kabir threw a bandage to the man. There was a knock at the door again. Kabir pulled on a pair of trousers and put on a linen shirt hurriedly. Kabir sensed it was Veer Singh, the fourth team member, but he took the gun from Nihar as a precaution and walked up to the door.

‘Let me get the door this time.’

Kabir looked through the peephole and then opened the door. He looked at Veer, who, at six foot five, towered over him.

‘Veer Singh.’ The man stretched out a large hand.

Kabir shook it firmly.

‘Welcome back to Balochistan, Adonis.’

There was a moment of silence from Nihar and Isha.
Kabir Anand was the infamous Adonis.

‘Well,’ Isha added finally, ‘we don’t call him that any more.’

Kabir shot a glance over his shoulder. He sensed an uneasiness in Nihar’s manner.

‘Joshi has given him a more poetic sobriquet,’ she continued with a half-smile. ‘He calls him The Bard.’

2 September 2014

Gwadar, Balochistan

The sun shone brightly over the port city of Gwadar in the afternoon. A strong wind swept the dusty streets, as both men and women protected their faces with scarves. The sea breeze kept the city cool through the year, except for a couple of months in the summer when the hot and dry shamal winds from the north reminded its residents of their barren and dusty neighbourhood. The winters were cold, continuing through most of January, and it even rained a bit. Almost everyone needed more layers of clothing. Except Kabir, who stepped out in just a shirt and linen pants. The trio, along with Veer, were off to meet Nusrat Marri, the leader of the local Balochi militia.

Kabir and his team had followed Irfan Baloch Khan’s white SUV in their red Peugeot. The porter at the hotel porch had noticed Khan’s bloodstained pyjama, but decided against poking his nose into the matter. He simply loaded their bags in the trunk and walked away.

There was an elephant in the room. The team hadn’t had a chance to interact with him directly, and could only etch a sketch of him from the backgrounder. Veer, on his part, spoke very little. It seemed as though he did not want to get to know his fellow Indians any more than necessary. He took the keys from Kabir, started the ignition and revved it up a bit before following the SUV closely through a marketplace, as the rest of the team sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. The smell of kebabs wafted through the air, as they saw several stalls with men skewering and grilling marinated morsels of meat over earthen hearths. Veer clucked his tongue irritably, and rolled up the windows and started the air conditioning.

‘Don’t like kebabs?’ Isha asked him.

‘I’ll ask you the same question in a week,’ Veer said. ‘After you’ve eaten them every day, at every meal.’

Isha shrugged. Nihar wasn’t too fond of meat either. As if the mission wasn’t hard enough already, it looked like there wasn’t going to be much to look forward to in terms of food either.

‘The only good thing about Gwadar is that you get some fish from the sea as well,’ Veer continued. ‘When I was in Afghanistan, the only food we got was coarse, charred beef. Pakistan has a lot more variety, I’d say.’

The next ten minutes went by without any conversation. The SUV in front of them took a sharp turn and came to a halt outside a white bungalow. Irfan Baloch Khan limped out and motioned them to park behind his car. Khan’s limp was rather exaggerated as he led Kabir and his team through the wrought-iron gates of the bungalow. The bungalow itself was small. It was white, two storeys high, with a large flag pinned to the front wall. The combination of green, white, red and blue stood out rather conspicuously against the white backdrop of the bungalow. The flag of Balochistan.

Khan gestured to Kabir to stop. He walked on, knocked at the door and said something into the ear of a servant. The servant nodded, went inside, and after about a minute returned to let them in through the door. Khan motioned Kabir and his team to enter.

‘Remove your shoes,’ he whispered, untying his own laces. Kabir and the rest followed suit and entered the house. The dining area welcomed them with the smell of kebabs, again. Isha smiled at Veer, who remained expressionless, however.

The house was well decorated with local Balochi artefacts: large, colourful embroidered dhurries, and little glass-and-crystal curios that reflected the sunlight that streamed in through an open window. There was a European tinge to the house that blended in interestingly with the vibrant Balochi flavour. Kabir wasn’t surprised—the sophisticated Marri family had spent a lot of time in England and the Soviet Union, and so had inculcated their tastes appropriately. Nusrat Marri himself had studied in the former USSR and then settled down in England. He frequented his homeland regularly.

‘Sit down,’ Khan said, motioning to a sofa. ‘Nawabzada will be with you in a moment.’

And almost as soon as he said it, Nusrat Marri walked in. He was almost Veer’s height, but not as well built. He had droopy eyes, and a long, angular face. He wore a waistcoat over a light-blue shirt, and a pair of formal pants. Except Kabir and Veer, who had seen him before, the others had a slightly different image of Marri in their minds. They expected him to have a long mullah-like beard, and a typical air of the rural tribal about him. Instead, they found Marri to be clean-shaven, with a neat haircut. He patted Khan on the shoulder, shot a fleeting glance at his bleeding thigh and asked him to close the door behind him as he went.

‘
Salaam aleikum,
’ he said in a slight British accent, as his guests stood up to greet him. ‘Please sit down. I must start by apologizing about my man.’

‘
Waleikum as-salaam
,’ Kabir replied. ‘On the contrary, we must apologize to him.’

‘You must understand,’ Marri said, ‘there was this one instance, not too long ago, when the ISI followed me around in a Peugeot just like yours. They thought driving a car brought from Iran would not raise any suspicions. Peugeots are not common around here. After a brief gunfight, we managed to kill all of them.’

He said this with an air of calculated nonchalance. The forty-six-year-old Nusrat Marri, a Baloch nationalist, was the sixth son of nationalist leader Khair Bakhsh Marri, who now calls the shots from Britain. Khair Bakhsh Marri, known as the ‘Tiger of Balochistan’, has been leading the ongoing insurgency against the Pakistani government for over four decades. However, as age caught up with him, his sons shifted him to England, and combined forces, making them hard to contend with. Balach Marri, the second son, was the more radical of the lot. His solution to every problem involved violence, and that proved to be his downfall. Unlike the other remaining members of the Marri tribe, Balach made it a habit to fight alongside his tribesmen.

In 2007, on 21 November, Balach was asked by the family doctor to come over to see his father in south Quetta. Balach, who was hiding on the Afghan side of the border, took two of his men and drove recklessly into Balochistan. He was forced to stop at a checkpoint by a posse of officers of the ISI and soldiers of the Pakistani Army. Balach immediately understood what was about to transpire, and tried to drive his way out of the ambush. They knew his car would be armoured, so they shot at his tyres first. Finally, Balach and his two men were left with no choice but to come out and fight. The instant they stepped out of the car, they were peppered with bullets. The great Balach Marri had met a premature end. And it was none other than Brigadier Tanveer Shehzad of the ISI who had pumped the bullets into his chest. Needless to say, the family doctor, who tried to flee, was taken captive. Nusrat Marri flew down from England the very next day, and mercilessly killed him. The doctor’s severed head was kept on display to serve as an example to others lest they try and betray the Marri tribe.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said suddenly. ‘I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Nusrat Marri. And you?’

They told him their cover names. He shook his head.

‘Real names,’ he said softly. ‘We both know that no Indian would have the balls to come to Balochistan to make a documentary. Besides, I think I’ve seen you before.’

He looked at Veer. Veer nodded.

‘I’ve delivered money to you in Quetta once,’ Veer said. ‘We aren’t going to beat around the bush, Mr Marri. We’re Indian spies.’

‘That wasn’t so hard now, was it?’ Marri smiled.

Without any warning, the door opened and a trolley of dishes came in, pushed by a young boy. The aroma of food filled the room.

‘I hope you are hungry,’ Marri said. ‘A lavish spread awaits you.’

Kabir smiled at his team. Veer didn’t seem too fascinated. In every training session they had attended, they were usually told never to give up the chance to eat or sleep. When in the field, you never know when you might get to eat, drink water or sleep next. The food that Marri had arranged for them was elaborate indeed. There were a variety of kebabs and koftas, and a local speciality known as sajji. One of the highlights of Balochi cuisine, sajji consists of an entire skewered lamb, marinated in papaya paste and stuffed with fine rice. Marri had even organized a few bottles of Pepsi. Kabir personally didn’t like Pepsi, but he needed something fizzy to help him ease down the rich spread. They discussed the current scenario in Balochistan. And then, suddenly, Marri felt the need to move on from the small talk.

‘This is all very good, Kabir, but tell me why you’re here, really.’

There was a pregnant pause. Kabir chewed silently on a succulent lamb kofta, thinking of a way to answer.
The truth. Tell him the truth.

‘Four of our agents are being held hostage in Quetta,’ he replied. ‘We’re here to rescue them.’

‘How did they get captured? You guys are pretty cautious about how you go about your stuff.’

‘We were compromised by someone within the agency itself,’ Kabir said. ‘They were captured by the Taliban.’

‘The Taliban? How can you be certain they aren’t dead already? Omar’s men behead captives the moment they sense even a sliver of suspicion.’

‘We have reason to believe that the ISI is holding him back,’ Kabir replied. ‘They are calling the shots, using Omar as their front. They’ve made certain demands.’

‘And what might those be?’

‘They want four terrorists of theirs that we have holed up in India in exchange for these four agents of ours. We have managed to buy some time, hoping we’d be able to manage to rescue our agents in the meanwhile.’

Marri breathed in deeply. The rest of the team had paused eating, in wait for a reaction. Kabir gulped down his cola.

‘If they indeed are with Mullah Omar,’ he said finally, ‘there is no way you can get to them. It’s a Herculean task.’

‘And the four of us are up for it,’ Veer interjected with a smile. ‘Nusrat Sahab, we are well aware of what we are getting into.’

‘Omar and us, Baloch nationalists, don’t really interact much, nor do we interfere in each other’s business. But there have been instances when he’s aided the ISI against us. He’s a slithery snake of a man. He and Mullah Baradar.’

It wasn’t breaking news to Kabir and his team.

‘And the ISI,’ Kabir said.

‘I’m sure it’s that bastard Tanveer Shehzad who has come up with such a scheme.’

‘Tanveer Shehzad?’ Isha asked.

‘He’s the man ISI has assigned to be in charge of their operations in Balochistan. He shot my brother Balach dead.’

He said this without flinching, but his voice had an undertone that betrayed him. Kabir knew the feeling. Sadiq Sheikh’s death was still fresh in his mind.

‘I would want to kill him in the worst way possible, too, if he had killed my brother. I know of Shehzad. He’s the one who’s hiding Omar in Quetta,’ Kabir said.

‘In plain sight,’ Marri added. ‘So basically, yes, that is what you’re up against.’

It was never going to be easy. Everyone told them that repeatedly.

‘Once the US pulls out of Afghanistan later this year,’ Kabir said, ‘there will be chaos, Nusrat Sahab. Balochistan stands to lose a lot. The Pakistanis will get even more reckless with you rebels.’

‘I’m entirely aware of that, Kabir. But I don’t know what we can do. I flew down from the UK last week to meet my brother-in-law, Nabil, to discuss what our strategy should be.’

Nabil Bugti was Akbar Bugti’s son. The Marri and Bugti tribes had set up the Baloch Liberation Army together.

‘And?’

Nusrat Marri sighed deeply. He looked profoundly discontented.

‘We might dissolve the BLA and give up the idea of autonomy. There is a bit of infighting because of the impatience amongst us. The Pakistanis will crush us if we continue like this.’

There was a deafening silence. Kabir could not believe his ears. The rest of the team looked at Marri, who avoided eye contact. After half a century, they were going to give up their fight for an independent Balochistan!

‘This isn’t the right decision, Marri Sahab.’ Veer’s voice punctured the quiet. ‘You stand to lose everything you’ve ever stood for. Everything your illustrious family has ever stood for!’

‘You think I don’t know that!’ Marri raised his voice. ‘You think Nabil and I are happy about it? We have come to learn what is better for us. We don’t want our people dying helplessly at the hands of those hounds. We can’t have any more widows, any more children without their fathers!’

‘You know what,’ Kabir said, ‘I think there’s a sudden element of fear that has crept into you, Marri Sahab.’

Isha’s jaw dropped at this. Nihar’s eyes widened. Veer looked on with interest. He knew very well what Kabir was up to. He was recruiting an asset. Someone who could play an important part in carrying out an operation, and there were few better men than Marri for this particular mission.

‘I don’t give a fuck about what you think, Kabir. You haven’t lost a brother or a father in this war.’

‘You all aren’t playing to your strengths,’ Kabir replied, his face reddening with anger. ‘After you lost Bugti and Balach, you have stayed low-key. Attacking a few Pakistani soldiers here and there doesn’t cut it any more.’

‘Yes?’ Marri said caustically. ‘And what is your grand plan?’

‘How many fighters do you have in the BLA?’

‘Five, maybe six hundred.’

‘And the fighters from the Bugti tribe?’

‘They’re relatively bigger than us in size. I’d estimate around a thousand to twelve hundred.’

‘Add them together, Marri. Add them together. You have seventeen hundred people.’

Marri nodded, still missing the point.

‘You have seventeen hundred people willing to die for a cause! And better still, kill for it too!’

Marri poured himself a glass of water. A lump formed in his throat.

‘What you lack is initiative,’ Veer interrupted. ‘Let me be extremely honest. We Indians are looking at maiming Pakistan covertly by funding you. But the numbers are not big enough, and once NATO pulls out, it won’t be long before our government stops giving a shit about some little tribe in Pakistan. Not unless there is something larger at hand.’

Marri put his glass down and shifted his gaze from Kabir to Veer and then back again.