Gauntlet (30 page)

“And here you are, laughing and talking as though nothing has happened?” asked Yousseff in amazement.

“But what good is crying going to do, Yousseff?” came the response. “What good are the courts, or judges, or family, or God, or shrieking and wailing for that matter? My father is dying, my mother has left. These things are not going to change. So I may as well enjoy the day, and your companionship. You have given me enough money to buy some food and pay some of my father’s medical bills. In another month KSEW will regain possession of this property, and I will be somewhere else, I guess.”

Yousseff looked at Kumar long and hard. Catching the look, the lad slowed from his constant movement.

“What is it, Yousseff? You look at me like I’m the devil.”

Yousseff spoke at length. “I have a proposition for you. I will pay off the mortgage. I will pay off the uncles and creditors. I will look after your father and take care of his medical bills. I will find work for this drydock company.”

“Yes, good. Of course. And you will give me a Ferrari and a partridge in a pear tree. Deal, Yousseff. Deal.” Kumar went back to his work.

Yousseff grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him away from the welding equipment. “Do not ever, ever discount me. I mean what I say.”

Kumar was silent for a minute, meeting Yousseff’s gaze. “And you want what with me? Why would you do this?”

Yousseff paused for a moment, and continued to look Kumar in the eye. “You know my business. If you join me, you are in that business. You will become a captain in my business. You will get your father to sign this drydock business over to you, so that you are the sole shareholder of Karachi Drydock and Engineering. But you’ll hold it in trust for me. No one is to know about it. No one. In return, I will cut you in on the profits, and together, we will build this company.”

Kumar was quick. “Well, seeing as how it’s Christmas and all, there is something else I want.”

Yousseff looked at him with an upraised eyebrow. “Yes?”

“I want to go to school. To the Karachi School of Engineering. I was very good in school, until last year, when I stopped going to help here. I want to go back. I want to get a degree in engineering. I want room to do this. One way or another, I can make this place work, even though I am only 15. My father has taught me every part of this business. I can make it go, if you get me the work. But I want to go to school first.”

Yousseff could hardly believe his ears. His investment had just become infinitely richer. All by itself. “Deal,” he said firmly.

“Deal,” said Kumar. They shook hands. Omar was the only witness.

The question Yousseff now faced was how to pay off KDEC’s debt of over half a million rupees. He couldn’t just walk into KSEW’s posh head office and deposit his suitcases of American dollars on the table. He could not just pay the money to the court. He thought about it for awhile and finally telephoned a business he owned in Peshawar. He talked to his commander there.

“Go into the mountains. Get Ba’al now. Get him to call me at this number.” He gave the telephone number of what was now Kumar’s domain.

The head man at the office knew that when Yousseff gave an order like that, he meant for it to be done immediately. Forthwith. Yesterday, in fact. Ba’al knew this as well. When he saw a Jeep racing up the narrow mountain road toward his house, he knew what it would mean. He also knew that whatever Yousseff needed done would be taken care of immediately. It was common for Ba’al to leave his home to do business for Yousseff, and did not represent any administrative or production problems. Ba’al’s refining plant had come a long way since the early, unsteady steps he and Yousseff had taken almost ten years earlier. Gone were the 45-gallon drum, the bonfire, the burlap sack filtration system, and the slow stirring over a pot like two of the witches in
Macbeth
. Over the years, he and Yousseff had built a neat organization, well stocked in supplies, with appropriate air cover. At the height of the season, as many as 30 local people worked on Ba’al’s property alone. Yousseff always paid them substantially more than the going rate, and he always paid in cash. In this way, part of his laundry problem was solved, and he ensured the great loyalty of his fellow tribesmen.

It was also a highly efficient operation. Yousseff had probed, questioned, experimented with, and refined the process. Everything was neat as a pin, and he was planning to build a much larger facility like it underground near Jalalabad. He also looked after the well being of his workers. If one became ill, he would get medical help. Once one of his workers suffered a calamity — his house burned down, and all its contents were destroyed. Yousseff replaced everything before he was even asked. He organized the labor to rebuild the home, and had it re-outfitted. The knowledge that Yousseff would do this dovetailed nicely with the threat of Marak, and his dangerous machete. There were, after all, a number of beggars in Rawalpindi devoid of hands. The two made the classic duo of good and evil.

In Jalalabad and its environs, Yousseff had become untouchable. If he required something, his employees would make the earth stop in its rotation until his request was satisfied, and had done so time and again. Thus, when the Jeep approached Ba’al’s headquarters, and relayed Yousseff’s command, that was enough. Ba’al gave an order to his second in command, which, loosely translated, meant “take over and don’t fuck up.” He immediately headed down the steep mountain ridge toward the safe house, where he arrived some five hours later.

L
ESS THAN TEN HOURS after Yousseff had placed the call, it was returned. He had already bragged to Kumar, “Watch this. Ten hours, and he will call back.”

When the phone rang, Yousseff skipped the pleasantries. He felt that they were a waste of time, and could wait to be discussed over a fire in the Sefid Koh. He did not like telephones and had a constant paranoia about wiretaps, even though no taps could be placed without Marak’s knowledge. There was also no logical reason for there to be a wiretap on the phone of a struggling little drydock company at the Karachi end. Still, he remained fanatically careful, and always kept his conversations short.

“Mortgage some of our properties. I need $500,000 now, deposited in a foreign bank account. I want you to call Rika at this number. She will give you the account and banking particulars.”

Ba’al grunted in assent. “Consider it done, Yousseff. I will call you as soon as it happens. Same telephone number?”

“Yes.”

“Give me two days.”

Yousseff got Rika on the phone and gave her the same instructions. “Rika, I am going to buy a drydock company. Our business needs it. Ba’al is going to mortgage some of our properties up north. I want the money to be clean. I want you to run it through as many foreign accounts as you need to in order to make it completely untraceable. Can you do that?”

“For you, Youssi, I can do anything. Consider it done.” The wonderful thing about Rika was that she accomplished these things quickly, without song, without dance.

A
DAY LATER the weather had cleared, and Omar, Rika, Kumar, and Yousseff sat on the dock, enjoying the afternoon sun. Rika had come alone. No one bothered to ask what had become of her husband; he was no longer in the picture. That was enough. It freed her to spend time with her friends, where she was needed.

“Where can we find a good restaurant, and a good time, in this smelly city?” asked Yousseff.

Omar, always bright, became even brighter. He gave the name of a nightclub not far away. The four smiled and headed off to sample the iniquities available in Karachi. Yousseff had to do some fast talking for the youthful Kumar, but thanks to their combined skills, virtually every door opened, and they spent a day enjoying themselves in the clubs, restaurants, and opium clubs of the city. Omar watched it all in amazement.

The next day, Ba’al called to say that he had arranged the mortgages. This time the telephone call was even shorter. “It’s done,” was all he said.

Yousseff did not even reply. He simply gave the telephone to Rika. “Get the mortgage information from Ba’al, Rik. Work from there.”

Kumar, for his part, spent the better part of the day with his father, who wanted to meet with Yousseff. Normally, Yousseff would not have agreed to this, but in this case, the man’s life expectancy was measured in weeks, possibly days. He introduced himself as the son of a wealthy trading and transportation businessman from the mountain highlands of the Frontier provinces. He told Hanaman of his friendship with Kumar and how impressed he was with Kumar’s talents. Another visit, and the payment of all the medical bills, creditors, and miserable uncles, gave Hanaman the necessary motivation to sign the company over to his precocious young son.

“He is gifted, Yousseff. He’s the smartest kid I’ve ever known,” he said as he signed the papers.

Yousseff kissed the old man on the cheek and bid him farewell. “I know this, sir. I have spent the past few weeks with him, and yes, he is gifted. You have raised a remarkable boy.”

One of the grandest days in Kumar’s young life was when he walked into the executive offices of KSEW a day later. He presented himself at the posh ninth-floor office and requested an audience with Salim Nooshkatoor.

“Your name, please?” the sophisticated-looking receptionist asked the longhaired teenager standing in front of her.

“Kumar Hanaman,” came the confident reply.

The elegant young woman rolled her eyes and picked up the telephone. “There is a Mr. Kumar Hanaman her to see you, Mr. Nooshkatoor,” she said. She nodded as Nooshkatoor replied.

“Mr. Nooshkatoor is extremely busy at the moment. It will be at least an hour before he can see you,” she told Kumar.

“Then I will wait,” he replied.

One hour became two, and then three. Kumar asked to use a washroom, but otherwise continued to wait quietly. He saw other people come in, ask for Mr. Nooshkatoor, and be ushered down a wood paneled and dimly lit corridor. The receptionist never called him in. At 5 she advised Kumar that the office would be closing for the day, and that unfortunately, the very busy, very important Salim Nooshkatoor was not able to make time for the young Mr. Hanaman.

The following day, at 8:30 in the morning, Kumar once again strolled up to the receptionist on the ninth floor. He received another eye roll. Another telephone call. Another answer of “Mr. Nooshkatoor is oh-so-important don’t you know.” But Kumar continued to wait.

At 11, Salim Nooshkatoor caved in and asked the receptionist to usher the young man in. As he walked in, Kumar surveyed the teak-paneled corner office, the breathtaking view of downtown Karachi and the harbor, with the buildings, docks, cranes, and gantries of KSEW in the distance. He shook his head at the obvious show of wealth. Nooshkatoor simply smiled at the young man’s wide-eyed expression. He knew who Kumar was, and fully expected him to grovel and beg for a further extension in the redemption period; he thought the meeting would be good sport, if nothing else. The foreclosure would be finalized within a few days, and the property would revert back to KSEW. Nooshkatoor already had another buyer lined up for the property. He had used these same strategies to sell and re-sell various properties along the harborside over and over again. The Board loved it.

“So what brings you to my door?” asked the unctuous and overweight executive, surveying Kumar like a cobra eying its prey. “How can I help you?”

“Well, sir, it is about the foreclosure proceedings against my father’s property on the harborside,” began Kumar.

“I am very sorry about it,” said Nooshkatoor, with great compassion in his voice. “But a deal is a deal. I have a Board of Directors to report to.”

“But didn’t you promise my father that you would send a lot of work his way?”

“Well, we did speak of it, and I said I would do my best, which I did. But that was the extent of the deal. Anyway, a judge has ruled on it, and there is nothing I can do. The only way that the foreclosure can be stopped now is by payment of the interest, and the arrears, and the principal, and, of course, the court costs.”

“But this has destroyed my father’s health, and he is dying. You made a promise.”

“Again, my condolences. But my hands are tied. Now go away, little beggar. I have work to do.”

Kumar stood to leave. Before he turned, he looked the smirking executive directly in the eye and smiled. “One more thing, you fat pig. One more thing. Here’s the check. For everything. Certified. Now go fuck yourself. The property is mine.” He placed the check on the astounded man’s desk, turned, and strolled back out.

S
OME UNEXPECTED TURBULENCE woke Yousseff from his dream. The Gulfstream was approaching Iceland and descending for refueling at Reykjavik. He glanced at the clock; things were still going according to schedule. He thought about the whitecaps of the frigid North Atlantic, no doubt cascading endlessly below him — they would be large enough to destroy anything that came into their path, he knew. Yousseff shuddered at the power of the body of water below him, remembering his experiences with the vast ocean.

What had he been dreaming about? Of course. That delicious tale that Kumar loved to tell, embellished a bit with the passing of years — telling the high and mighty Nooshkatoor to go fuck himself. Yes, it was a good tale, to be sure, but the miserable and arrogant bastard had continued to create his share of mayhem for the young company over the years...

Y
OUSSEFF, at that time, had wondered if he had taken on more than he could handle. He had just mortgaged a lot of property and spent a lot of money, to buy an aging, dilapidated drydock company that had no employees, no customers, no organizational structure, no credit, and a lot of rusting iron. The only person who knew anything about the business was a teenager who would be away at school most of the time and the founder of the business, who was now dead. But Yousseff didn’t believe in entering new ventures to lose money. He wondered — had he acted on emotion, rather than reason? Was it anger at Mr. Hanaman’s situation that had led him to his purchase? No, he finally decided. Not at all. He bought the company to buy Kumar. And, as with Omar, and Marak, and the others, he was doing it to build his organization.

Omar also voiced concern over the purchase, at the start. He looked in doubt at the rusting iron, dilapidation, and ruin. “What is it about this dump we just bought?” he asked, motioning to the corroding wharf and gantries of the KDEC. “You just mortgaged a good chunk of your properties to buy this. What on earth are you going to do with it?” For once he thought that Yousseff had committed a serious mistake.

“Is it any worse than your father’s boat when I acquired it? I didn’t really want the boat, Omar. I wanted you. I wanted your father’s connections,” replied Yousseff.

“But look at it, Yousseff. It’s a pile of crap, and there is no ongoing business at all,” said Omar.

“We’re going to have to make it work. That kid, Kumar, he’s good. And now he’s part of my organization. You watch and see what he does.”

“But Yousseff, for God’s sake, the kid is only 15. Fifteen! And he’s not even going to be here. He’s off to school for the next five or six years. What about workers, even if we do get the work?”

Yousseff was getting irritated. “Look, Omar, you’re a pretty good mechanic and welder yourself. You kept the Janeeta running and watched after the
Janeeta II.
You know every good boat mechanic, welder, hydraulics man, engine overhauler, and metalworker on the river. You can pay them all cash. You can pay them all more than the going rate. It’s not going to be a problem. We are going to do this.”

And sure enough, it did work. Slowly, in bits and pieces, the work started to come in. Omar and Kumar, when he was not in school or studying, did a lot of the work. Omar started to complain that, for someone involved in the transportation of drugs, he had to work much too hard; it was a thought that struck Yousseff as profoundly funny. Yousseff himself never seemed to stop working or moving, chasing down opportunity after opportunity. He told Omar to be quiet and behave himself. After six months, they hired one employee; after three more months they hired another two. By the time a year had passed, there were a full 20 employees working at KDEC. After two years, the small boat yard, though fully overhauled, was too small to handle all the business coming in.

Omar and Yousseff also began to expand the river ferry business. They bought aging vessels and took them to Karachi, where KDEC repaired and refurbished them. Each was then returned to the ferrying business. Most had double hulls and secret compartments built into their frames. This generated additional work for KDEC and meant that more cash could be placed in legitimate enterprises. Within a year, Omar’s business owned three handsome and efficient riverboats, with half a dozen more in the drydock at KDEC, scheduled for repairs and improvements.

T
OWARD THE END of the second, hectic year of his ownership of KDEC, a familiar mood captured Yousseff. He became restless, and even irritable. He was feeling constrained. Pakistan was becoming cramped and small. He started traveling constantly from Jalalabad to Islamabad, to Hyderabad, and then back to Karachi. He bought his first plane, a fast twin-engine Cessna Piper Aztec, and found a pilot, Abu bin Mustafa, to fly it for him. Before long he was spending more time in the air than on the ground. He was in his early 20s, and already extremely wealthy. But he was restless. It was the same mood that had taken control of him when he started taking trips through the Path of Allah.

Kumar and Omar saw him one morning, sitting on the edge of the dock, gazing over the Karachi inner harbor. He spent all day sitting by himself, thinking. By the time he had figured things out, the sun was low on the horizon. He joined Kumar and Omar for tea on the rear deck of the
Janeeta II.
“I’m going to leave for a while,” he said to his friends.

“How long?” they asked, in unison.

“A year. Maybe two.”

“What? What did he say, Omar?” asked Kumar. “Did he say what I think he said?”

“Year or two, he says. Obviously too much sun and opium. He’s lost it, I think,” responded Omar. “What on earth are you going to do, Yousseff?” he asked his friend.

“I’m going to learn the shipping business,” Yousseff answered.

“But Yousseff, you already know it. We’ve been up and down the Indus hundreds of times in the
Janeeta,
and then in the
Janeeta II.
Now we have half a dozen water ferries skirting around the Indus and sailing to Karachi. What more do you need to learn?”

“No, no, Omar. I am not talking about boats on the river. I’m not talking about ferries. I’m talking about ships. Vessels. Big iron. I’m going with that old pirate, Bartholomew. He’s asked me before. He knows I can learn things, and I’m good with people, even though I’m not so good with tools. He’s ready to retire. He wants a nice little estate on the coast where he can enjoy his grandchildren.”

“You want to buy that rusty old boat of his so you can bring it here to fix it up and have us all go broke?” asked Kumar.

“Not his boat, Kumar,” Yousseff replied. “His business. His connections. His boat — take it out to the middle of the Arabian Sea and sink it for all I care. But his business...”

“His business?” repeated Kumar.

“Yes,” said Yousseff. “Like I bought this business, KDEC. Like I purchased Omar’s father’s business, and expanded it, with Omar running it. We can do that again. You can all cut in on the profits. I have no problem with that at all.” Indeed, both Kumar and Omar, like Marak, Ba’al, Izzy, and Rika, were becoming wealthy through their association with Yousseff.

“Look at what Bartholomew pays for our product,” Yousseff continued. “Compare that to what he charges for it on the other side of the ocean. We can do this. Do you know how much the price of heroin changes between Karachi and Los Angeles? It increases more than fivefold. A huge profit, just for transporting it. If a moron like Bartholomew can do it, we certainly can.”

“What do the rest of us do, Yousseff? We have all the farmers in eastern Afghanistan, the refiners in Pakistan, the safe houses, the river ferry company, this thing here,” Omar said, motioning to the KDEC yard behind him. “The various laundering operations, all of that. What are you going to do with it if you leave?”

“You can run it without me for awhile. I’ll drop in every now and then. Things are running nicely. I may be gone for two months and back for a week or two, then gone again. But this enterprise is running almost by itself. If things become problematic I’ll come back and fix it. But I need to travel.”

Omar sighed. Yousseff was right; the efficiency of the little company was obvious. Things were running on their own. It was a testament to Yousseff’s organizational abilities that a company of this complexity was able to spin along without much guidance from its master. But it was never enough, for Yousseff, to sit back and be happy with what he had done. He was restless. He constantly needed more.

W
HILE YOUSSEFF WAS AWAY, learning the smuggling business and the various points of entry into North America, KDEC did manage to take care of itself. Before long it was running too efficiently, and making too much money on its own. Added to the large cash flow that needed laundering, the company’s large income began to draw attention. The best way to deal with that was through ongoing capital acquisitions. KDEC started to purchase properties in Karachi, and elsewhere in Pakistan. The concern was that if the business grew too quickly, it would look even more suspicious, so no purchase was overly large. Omar made sure that they were carefully spaced, making only one or two purchases every few months. Some other minor problems arose in the growing, refining, and transportation of opium and heroin, but minor tinkering usually resolved the issues. Sometimes Marak needed to be called upon, but those occasions were few and far between. There was one episode, however, that required more than just a casual visit.

The much older, much larger KSEW had become rife with labor unrest. Seven unions were represented at the venerable old company, constantly making threats and demands. Then Kumar presented them with a check for the full amount of the mortgage redemption. The management of KSEW was astounded. They would not be able to repossess and resell the property as they had expected to do. It threw their budget into a tailspin.

“How the hell did he do that?” Nooshkatoor was flummoxed. Others asked the same question, and when they saw that business was starting to tick for the tiny competitor on the far end of the harbor, they decided that something needed to be done. KSEW wanted to be the only show in town; they could not afford to have successful competitors. This Karachi Drydock and Engineering Company nonsense had to stop. Nooshkatoor, who had recently been promoted to president, was given the assignment of dealing with KDEC; an assignment that he accepted with relish. Like Marak at the Four Cedars many years earlier, Nooshkatoor felt that the battle was already won.

Large corporations have many sly tricks that they use to dismantle competitors. One of them is to stuff unions down their throats. One day, the business agent for the PASWEU, which stood for the Pakistani Allied Shipbuilding Workers and Engineering Union, knocked on Kumar’s office door.

“Sahota,” the man said. “Just call me Sahota.”

Kumar, by then 17 years old and trying desperately to grow a beard, told him to get lost. Sahota informed the young owner that the law gave him the right to be there, and that he was going to talk to the employees. He treated Kumar with as much arrogance as he could sum up. “Go back to your mommy, kid. Where’s the boss?” Eventually Kumar gave in and asked the man what it was he wanted.

For two days Sahota spoke to the workers about the benefits of unionism and how the PASWEU was there to bring them great prosperity and happiness. The workers were by and large satisfied with their lot, and their wages, but the union representative did not relent. He continued to shadow the drydock and warehouses, pestering the workers and pushing them to join the union.

Two days after the man’s first visit, Yousseff returned from Manzanillo, Mexico, where he had been with Bartholomew. After considering the situation, he asked Marak to have an investigator do a background check on Sahota. When Marak, in his usual expeditious manner, handed Yousseff the report, Yousseff called the union representative into the small Karachi Drydock and Engineering office. “Just for a little chat,” he told the man.

Yousseff introduced himself as “Joseph,” which was the Anglicized version of his name. He said he was general counsel for the Hanaman family. Then he went straight to the point. No pleasantries. No talk about the weather.

“So, tell me, sir,” Yousseff said to the oily little man sitting across the desk from him. They were the only two in the office. Omar had headed back up the Indus, and Kumar was in school. “Tell me... exactly how much money do you want?”

Mr. Just-call-me-Sahota looked at Yousseff in astonishment. He found himself completely at a loss. No one started a negotiation like that. Not in Karachi. Not in Afghanistan. Not even in America, where it was common knowledge that no one had manners, and where it would appear that this man had been spending much of his time. Sahota thought that this Joseph must be some sort of barbarian, completely devoid of manners and culture.

“What do you take me for, sir?” Sahota asked in shock. “I have integrity! I have ethics! I have morals! I am an honest man, and I am just doing my job. Are you saying that you think you can bribe me?” With each question, Sahota worked himself further into a self-righteous rage.

“Yes, of course, Mr. Sahota,” Yousseff responded calmly. “That is exactly what I am doing. I know what your salary is. I know how much your house costs you. I even know how much you pay for your whores on Old English Street. Of course I am bribing you. Was I being too subtle? Are you not understanding some part of this?”

In all his life, which had been full of cagey little deals, backroom payments, and money for greasing the wheels, Sahota had never encountered a conversation quite this basic. He started to protest again, but Yousseff quickly interrupted him.

“Mr. Sahota, what part of ’how much’ are you not understanding?”

Sahota started to protest again, but broke off, and sat silent and staring. Yousseff just stared back, unblinking. A full minute went by in silence. Yousseff knew about this part of making a deal — the first one to break the silence loses. Yousseff had learned well the art of knowing when to talk and when to stay silent.

“Fine,” Sahota broke under the pressure. “I want $1,000 American a month. And it must be cash,” he said quickly.