Authors: Vikas Swarup
A week later I found myself in a large green meadow in the
middle of nowhere. Across the pasture stood an old two-storey
wood-framed house with a black chimney. The paint was peeling,
the beams looked cracked, but it was a whole lot better than that
foxhole.
'This is our new home,' said Abu Khaled. 'We've reached
Pakistan. Now there is no need to hide. No need to worry.'
But I had plenty of cause for worry. There was still no response
to my kidnapping from the President and these guys were getting
angrier and impatient. 'Let's give the Americans an ultimatum,'
Khalid told Teknikal. 'Come on, pick a date.'
'How about 20 March, which is Milad al-Nabi?' Omar said.
'Too late,' said Khaled. 'I want something sooner.'
Teknikal looked at me. 'Why don't
you
pick a date, Mr Page?'
'March 17,' I said instantly.
'Any particular reason for choosing this date?'
'It's the birthday of someone very special.'
'Even that's too late. I pick 12 March,' said Khaled.
'Why?'
'That is my birthday.'
Pakistani Kashmir was exactly the same as Indian Kashmir – the
same nomadic shepherds, the same wooden houses, the same
food, the same weather. I spent the days waiting for some news
from the President, and dreaming of Shabnam.
Before I knew it, it was 10 March. I asked Omar about the
ultimatum. 'So what happens if you guys don't hear from my folks
in the next two days?'
'Simple,' Omar said. 'We kill you.'
The guy was as subtle as a horse turd in the cream pitcher.
I couldn't sleep for the next two nights. Every time I tried to concentrate
on something, a hooded gentleman with a scythe would
come into my view. And I would begin shaking like a jackhammer.
To make matters worse, a blue norther arrived on 11 March,
bringing with it screaming winds and more rain in one day than I
had seen in the last five months. It was a real gulley-washer, with
thunder and lightning. As sheets of rain struck the house, I
thought of Mom. I thought of Mizz Henrietta Loretta. I thought
about the Undertaker. About that freak April snow in Waco. I even
thought of pa. But most of all I thought of a woman I had never
even seen.
I woke up on 12 March and was told by Teknikal that there
was still no word from the President. I was given a nice breakfast
which I didn't touch, and then I was taken to Abu Khaled.
'Mr Page, looks like your people have decided to sacrifice you.
Now you know why I call the Americans heartless. You better say
your prayers.'
'Let me kill him, Boss,' Omar said, full of piss and vinegar. Ever
since he bonked that girl he had become queer as a three-dollar
bill.
'No, Chief, I will do it,' Teknikal said quietly.
I was ushered out of the house and taken to an open field which
was slicker than owl shit with all that rain. Omar handed me a
shovel. 'Come on, dig your grave, American pig,' he barked.
For half an hour I slaved over that trench, shovelling soil out
of the hole in the ground that would be my final resting place.
Finally, the grave was ready. The sun was halfway into the sky by
then. A few birds chirped in the sunshine. It didn't look at all like
someone was going to die.
Teknikal took out a black piece of cloth from his trousers.
'Would you like to be blindfolded?'
'No. I want to see what you guys are doing,' I said.
'Very brave, just like Saddam,' he mumbled. His AK-47
brushed against my leg. I was pretending to be brave, but inside I
was shaking like a leaf.
They say when you're about to die your whole life flashes
before your eyes. Well, that's not true, coz the only thing that
flashed before my eyes was a crow, and an ugly one at that.
'Come on, just do it, Abu Teknikal,' Omar urged, looking at
me through a video camera.
Abu Khaled recited a prayer in Arabic. For himself, or for me,
I didn't know.
'Any last wish?' Teknikal asked me in a low voice. I knew he
had grown fond of me, just as a family grows fond of a pet dog.
But even pet dogs are put down when the time comes.
'Any last wish?' Teknikal repeated.
I thought about it. They wouldn't have any chocolate
brownies in this hick town. That's when I noticed Teknikal had the
sat-phone in his pocket. 'Can I make one phone call?' I asked.
'Who will you speak to?'
I first thought of calling Mom, but she would worry the warts
off a frog and I didn't want to spoil her supper.
'There is only one person I would like to speak to before dying.
The woman I love.'
'And who is she?'
'Her name is Shabnam Saxena.'
'Shabnam Saxena? The actress?' Omar suddenly became
interested.
'Yeah. She is my fiancée. We were going to get married.'
'The bastard is lying, Abu Teknikal,' Omar shouted. 'There is
no way he can know Shabnam Saxena.'
'I have her picture in my wallet, and also her mobile phone
number,' I said.
'Let me check the bastard's wallet.' Omar ran to me and took
out the wallet from my hip pocket.
I heard him whistle. 'The bastard wasn't lying. He does have
Shabnam's picture.'
'Show me, show me,' Teknikal said and snatched the picture
from Omar.
He whistled too. 'Oh my God! She is the most beautiful
woman I have seen in my life.'
'Abu Teknikal, can I talk to her one last time?' I interjected.
Omar turned to Abu Khaled. 'Boss, the bitch wears very few
clothes in her films. Very un-Islamic. Can I be in charge of the
operation to kidnap her?'
'I want nothing to do with this woman.' Abu Khaled shook his
head.
'Give me her number,' Teknikal said. 'I've got the Thuraya and
I've put it on speakerphone.'
'No, I'll speak with her,' Omar said, and snatched the phone
from Teknikal. He extracted a slip of paper from my wallet. 'I've
got the bitch's number.'
He dialled the number and the call went through.
I was expecting the recorded voice to come on as usual when
suddenly someone picked up the phone.
'Who is this?' I heard a woman's voice say. My heartbeat
quickened.
'Do you know who you are talking to, bitch? This is
Commander Abu Omar. Number five in Lashkar-e-Shahadat.'
'Excuse me?'
'You better watch out, bitch. You are doing obscene films and
wearing skimpy clothes. We are going to kidnap you. Then we will
torture you and kill you.'
'Is this some kind of joke?'
'No, Shabbo, this is not a joke.'
'Shabbo? You've got the wrong number.'
'Wrong number? You are not Shabnam Saxena? Then who are
you?'
'This is Elizabeth Brookner, US Embassy.'
'Elizabeth Brookner?' asked Omar.
'Elizabeth Brookner?' asked Khaled. 'Who's she?'
'Chief, Elizabeth Brookner has been the CIA Station Chief in
India since 2006,' Teknikal replied. 'A Summa Cum Laude from
Stanford University, she joined the CIA in 1988 and has served in
Ukraine, Jordan and Kuwait. She is an expert on Al Qaeda. Fuck!'
'This means this bastard has double-crossed us.' Khaled
wagged a finger at me.
'Kill him. Just kill him!' Omar screamed.
'No, first we have to find out his connection to the CIA,' said
Khaled.
So, for the next ten minutes, I had to explain how I happened
to have Elizabeth Brookner's mobile number in my wallet. Then
Khaled gave a signal and Teknikal put the AK-47 to my head. He was
hiding his eyes, trying not to look at me. 'Don't worry,' he whispered.
'There will be no pain at all. It will be over in a second.'
Suddenly there came the sound of a giant flapping, a rat-a-tata-
tat-a-tat-a.
'What in Allah's name is that?' asked Abu Khaled, pointing to
a strange-looking object which appeared over the hill like a rising
cloud.
'That, Chief, looks suspiciously like an MQ-1 Predator drone –
that is, a medium-altitude, long-endurance unmanned aerial
vehicle system, and what is worse, it is equipped with two laserguided
AGM-114 Hellfire missiles,' croaked Teknikal. 'The
Brookner bitch has triangulated us. And even as I speak, the
missiles have been fir—'
There was a flash of fire and a big explosion. The earth shook,
something sharp hit my leg and I toppled into the trench. All the
soil I had dug out fell in after me, almost burying me.
It took me nearly fifteen minutes to fight my way out of the
grave. I came out choking and wheezing. There was mud in my
ears, mud in my eyes, mud in my mouth. My left leg felt as if a
chainsaw had run through it. There was a raw wound, an inch
deep, just below my knee, from which blood was still dripping.
The area looked like it had been visited by the Terminator. The
ground had been ploughed up, leaving craters the size of a
bathroom.
Abu Khaled and Abu Omar had been blown to pieces. I saw a
mangled hand here, a crumpled leg there.
Teknikal lay bleeding on the other side of the trench. I dragged
myself to him and cradled his head in my lap. His chest was
heaving and he was struggling for breath.
He looked up at me. 'Do you think they have broadband in
heaven, Mr Page?' he asked, and his head lolled down and his eyes
closed. He looked kind of dead to me.
I ran from the scene as fast as my one good leg could carry me.
The wind whirled around, groaning and moaning like a woman in
labour. I ran past mud houses and startled villagers. I scattered
herds of goats and flocks of pigeons. I charged down a hill, came
to a river and jumped in. On the other side of the river I found a
gravel road. I was making progress. The road ended at what looked
like some kind of warehouse. A rusted sign at the entrance said
'Hafiz Timber Exports, Keran'. I pushed open the metal doors of
the warehouse. They were unlocked and I entered to find stacks
of lumber, but not a soul around. 'Hello! Is anyone home?' I
shouted, but only heard the echo of my voice. I ventured further
and discovered chainsaws and machetes, axes and choppers. The
floor was covered with dried grease and oil stains. I followed a trail
of oil and came upon an extraordinary sight. A forklift stood in a
corner of the warehouse. It was a Nissan Nomad AF30 and looked
like it had diesel in the tank. I cranked the engine, and it worked!
My spirits rose like a corncob in a cistern. Two minutes later I was
driving down the gravel road, shouting 'Hee-haw!' and breaking
every forklift speed record in the book. Those idiots at the Cisco
Rodeo should have seen me go. I'd have shown them how a forklift
with a maximum speed of 10.6 mph could do twenty without
blowing the engine.
My leg was still bleeding, but in my excitement I had forgotten
all about it. I just kept driving that forklift till I hit a T-junction. I
had to decide whether to go left or right. I chose right, and just
five minutes later ran into an army picket. Fifty Pakistani soldiers
swarmed all over the forklift, cocked their rifles at me and told me
to get down.
'Whoa, hold your horses, fellas, I surrender.' I put up my hands,
stepped down from the hi-lo and fainted on the road.
I learnt later that I was taken to a town called Muzaffarabad
and put in a military hospital. It took me a week to recover. In the
meantime Mom called and blabbered something about the
President having called her up, though she was more excited
about being able to wear all the shoes she wanted for free coz she
had just got married to Mr Hinson who owns the Fabulous Shoe
Store in downtown Waco.
An officer called John Smith from the American Embassy over
in Islamabad came to meet me, wearing a dark suit and dark
shades. 'We know all about you, Mr Page,' he said. 'We've been
trying to track you down for the past two months.'
'Well, here I am,' I said. 'What you gonna do? Put me in jail?'
'No, Sir, we are going to send you to New Delhi in a USAF
plane. Your case officer is Miss Elizabeth Brookner. She will
de-brief you.'
'Holy cow! You mean she'll take off my underwear?' I cried.
'No, Sir, that's just company slang for extracting humint,' John
Smith said, making me even more confused.
Two days later, on 22 March, I was back at New Delhi airport.
It was a chilly morning, but Mizz Brookner was waiting for me,
together with a stretch limo, right on the tarmac.
'It's an honour to welcome you back to New Delhi, Mr Page,'
she said. 'You look different.' She was damned right. I had lost
sixty pounds of fat since she last saw me. I looked leaner, trimmer
and fitter.
'You sound different, too,' I replied.
'I have some good news and some bad news. Which do you
want first?'
'I've had enough of bad news. Out with the good first.'
'Well, in recognition of your sterling role in the elimination of
three dangerous terrorists, including one on our most-wanted
list, on the recommendation of the Secretary of State and
the Attorney General, you have been awarded fifteen million
dollars under the Rewards for Justice programme. The cash is
waiting for you at the Embassy. And it's all tax-free.
Congratulations!'
It took me a minute to digest this info. 'Fifteen million dollars!'
I couldn't believe my mouth. That jerk Abu Khaled wasn't boasting.
'Then what's the bad news?'
'An inter-agency process has determined that there may be
continuing danger to your life from Al Qaeda and other terrorist
elements. You are therefore required to accept our Witness
Protection Programme and agree to relocation.'
'You mean just like in that flick
Eraser
?'
'Kind of. You will have to assume a new identity, a new name
– even a new face, if you so wish.'
'I got no problem with that. To be honest, I never liked my
name all that much. Can I look like Arnie Schwarzenegger?'
She smiled. 'That might take some doing. But do you have any
ideas with regard to a new career? This is your chance to do what
you've always wanted. With fifteen million, you can even retire on
a ranch in Texas if you want.'