BLOWBACK

  BLOWBACK

  MUKUL DEVA

  HarperCollins Publishers India

  For Aryan, my favourite younger son –

  we are really proud of you, kid.

  Sandman the handsome (Rest in Peace).

  Sasha of the soulful eyes

  and

  Tipsy, my dowry.

  Have a great life!

  ‘Terrorism is the tactic of demanding the impossible, and demanding it at gunpoint.’

  Christopher Hitchens

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Preface

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  Praise for Mukul Deva

  Praise for Lashkar

  Praise for Salim Must Die

  What Readers Have to Say

  Copyright

  Footnotes

  PREFACE

  The responses (from readers, critics and the media) that came in when Lashkar and Salim Must Die were released were overwhelming, to say the least. I was totally surprised at the heat and debate the two books generated. In the past two years not a week has gone by without at least one mail coming in; either pointing out or commenting on something in these books or asking me when the third book of the Force 22/Iqbal saga would be out.

  I must also confess that I have really been hard pressed (while working on this book and the fourth one of the series, which is due to be out next year) not to be swayed or affected by the comments and feedback that have poured in. Even though I felt that there was substantial merit in some of the comments and I was often tempted to stray down the avenues that they opened up, in the end I have stuck rather rigidly to the storyline that had been originally charted by me for all four books.

  I have tried very hard to present each book in a different visual format and to ensure that they all work as standalone books, but I must also admit I am extremely aware of the fact that with every successive book reader expectations have been climbing. In many ways I welcome this pressure since it has made me work doubly hard on this book and the one coming up next. Whether I have succeeded or not, I leave to you to decide.

  Mukul Deva

  ONE

  The man was unusually tall and built like a tank. The harsh, messianic glint in his eyes and the long, angular scar running across his right cheek left an indelible impact on all who set eyes on him. Though it was nowhere as horrendous as the scars he sported elsewhere on his body, it was the only one that was visible, and he carried it with the pride of a soldier sporting a medal. For him it was infallible proof that Allah wanted him around on earth for some more time, at least until his task was complete.

  He stood in one corner of the dimly lit room, dressed in his trademark black Pathani suit, surveying the men seated in an uneasy U along the three walls. The house lay in the middle of a nondescript village in the Angoor Adda area of South Waziristan, almost in touching distance of the Afghanistan-Pakistan border. The venue had been chosen at the insistence of those coming in from Afghanistan, despite the dangerous proximity of the American Joint Special Operations Command (SOC) forces; most of them were uncomfortable with the idea of placing themselves at the uncertain mercy of the man who had called the meeting. Given a choice, they would have preferred someplace in the Swat Valley which lay safely out of range of the American missiles. But that was out, given the equation between the two men who led the jihadi forces in those two areas. Eventually, the will of the man occupying centrestage this night had prevailed. And, of course, the fact that Omar the One-eyed, presently ensconced in the shadows of Quetta, had given his personal assurance of safety to every man present and stressed the importance of the meeting.

  It was a large room but the eighteen black-clad, heavily armed men crammed into it and the depressing yellow trickle of light from the solitary bulb hanging nakedly in the centre made it seem much smaller. Together, these men represented Al Qaeda and every other credible group of the Afghan and Pakistani Taliban. It was they who dictated the ebb and flow of violence on both sides of the Durand Line; they who controlled every ounce of opium that was grown in or moved out of the area, and every possible illicit activity that took place in that rugged terrain which had been controlled for hundreds of years by warlords such as them. More than half a billion dollars from these nefarious activities passed through their hands every year. They were the ones that decided who would live and who would die and which city or marketplace would encounter the next suicide bomber.

  Barring the low, divan-like seating along three walls and a large full-length mirror at the far end, the room was devoid of furniture. Every door and window of the house was covered with heavy drapes and the smell of sweaty, unwashed bodies and gun oil was all-pervasive.

  The meeting had been called at short notice and was being conducted under tight security. To ensure that Electronic Intelligence (ELINT) did not detect any trace of the meeting, only trusted human couriers carrying verbal messages had been employed to set it up. Over a hundred hardened, heavily armed fighters, strung out a dozen miles in each direction, guarded every possible route in and out of the village. On this night, anyone who tried to fight their way in would meet with brute force every inch of the way.

  The man spoke as soon as the last of them had settled down. ‘You all know why we have gathered here today.’ His voice shook slightly with the force of his emotions. ‘The movement is losing focus and direction.’

  ‘Things have changed ever since Sheikh Sahib was martyred and the others went underground,’ one of them offered plaintively. ‘We have been rendered leaderless.’

  ‘We are running low on arms, ammunition and medical supplies,’ said another. ‘Even sustenance money is hard to come by now that the Pakistan government’s support is treacherous and uncertain.’

  ‘Stop whining! The jihad does not depend on any one man... no matter who or how important he is.’ His voice was a whiplash, daring them to contradict him. Combat hardened and ruthless though they all were, most of them avoided meeting his gaze. ‘So what if the Sheikh is dead and the others underground? So what? None of us is indispensable. None!’

  ‘What would you have us do?’ someone asked hesitantly.

  ‘To begin with, we must all understand that our cause is the same. We may belong to different groups, different tribes, different regions, but the god we worship is the same, and before everything else we are Allah’s soldiers. We have to bury our differences and get ready for the surge of fresh troops that the American president is sending into Afghanistan soon. We must greet them with such fury that they will never dare return. Their new president must realize that it is we who call the shots in this part of the world. Perhaps he has forgotten that Afghanistan is called the Graveyard of Empires. It is our duty to remind him.’

  His listeners murmured in agreement.

  ‘Also understand that victory can only be ours if we fight together under one banner, just like our enemy. See how effectively they have forged together the coalition of Crusaders, Zionists and Hindus. Now the kafirs have even started chipping away at the loyalty of our Muslim brothers.’

  ‘True! They have managed to wean away staunch loyalists like Abdul Salaam – he is now a distr
ict administrator in Afghanistan.’

  ‘I know, but I wouldn’t worry too much about such treacherous weaklings,’ he said coldly. ‘We will take care of them when the time comes. We will make such an example of them and their families that no one else will even dream of selling out to the kafir.’

  ‘But the kafir alliance is so big and powerful, what can a handful of us do?’

  ‘Don’t worry, all that will soon change.’

  ‘How?’ The solitary word came from Saifullah, the frail looking mullah seated in the far corner of the room. With his strong links with Mullah Omar’s Quetta-shura and his undisputed overlordship of the Swat Valley, Saifullah was a formidable opponent to the man who had called this meeting. So large was his following that even the Pakistan Army hesitated to jam the radio station he used to ensure his writ ran unchecked over the once beautiful, now devastated Swat Valley.

  ‘Trust me. Can’t you see the gains we have already made in Pakistan?’

  ‘We?’ Saifullah bared unexpectedly large, stained teeth derisively. ‘That is what I was doing while the rest of you were busy fingering each other.’

  The others shifted restlessly in their seats. Their honour was being called into question and this was not something they took lightly.

  The man chairing the meeting quickly intervened.

  ‘Who do you think got rid of that conniving politician bitch the Americans were trying to thrust on us yet again?’

  ‘Any fool could have done that,’ Saifullah scoffed.

  ‘But no one did. I had to do it. Anyway, just give me some time to put it all together and then see what we can achieve,’ he said, his eyes glinting wildly. ‘It will not be long before the kafir is on the run and the One God rules the world.’

  ‘That’s easier said than done,’ the mullah retorted. ‘How do you...’

  ‘Do you forget how it all began in Afghanistan?’ the man replied smoothly. ‘They were just a handful but it didn’t take them long to take over Afghanistan.’

  ‘And then?’ Saifullah sneered. ‘We all know our history. Don’t you remember what happened to them?’

  ‘I do,’ he conceded without a pause. ‘Mistakes were made, but we have learnt from them and they will not be repeated. That is what makes our victory inevitable.’

  ‘That may be so, but what can you do that is different from what the Tehrik-e-Taliban Pakistan was set up to do in the first place?’

  ‘The TTP is too loose a conglomerate and won’t be able to match up to the forces that we face in the field. Even as we speak, the Americans are pumping more troops into the area.’

  ‘So? What do you propose?’

  ‘What I propose goes far beyond anything the TTP could have hoped to achieve. It will change the way the battle is fought. I want to expand our base and embroil the kafir in a quagmire of conflict that spans every corner of the globe.’

  ‘If you say so, my friend, but until now we have only heard words. Words don’t win wars.’ Saifullah laughed. ‘We have made far more progress in the Swat Valley than you have in any other area,’ he said disdainfully. ‘Now tell us what you plan to do and how. Then, maybe then, we will be able to decide which banner to follow.’

  Yours or mine?

  Though they remained unspoken the words rang clear in the musty, dimly lit room. The mullah did not know it, but he had just signed his death warrant.

  ‘We could just as well follow your banner, my friend,’ the giant in black countered, ‘as long as you can do what needs to be done... what I promise you that I will do.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  By now the tension between the two men had everyone on the edge of their seats.

  Aware of the enormity of the task confronting him and the fact that an opportunity like this would never come again, the man began to speak, choosing his words with care and delivering them with practised ease. When he finished, a stunned silence filled the room.

  An elderly mullah parked a few seats away stood up slowly and began to clap. Though everyone knew the mullah was the man’s mentor, no one could be sure whether this was a premeditated move or spontaneous. In the end it did not matter, because the rest of the room was also applauding wildly. Reluctantly, Saifullah joined in the applause. He could see the way the wind had begun to blow and knew that this was not the time to buck the trend, not if he wanted to leave the room alive. Clearly, he had underestimated his opponent.

  After that, one by one, they all departed. And as they went, each one swore allegiance to the man who had called the meeting, the man they now referred to as Ameer ul Momineem, the Commander of the Faithful. The man who had clawed his way up from being a tribal militia leader and kept going until one day, the mantle of Ameer of Waziristan had fallen on him, bestowed by none other than Omar the One-Eyed. Despite Omar’s blessings, the Ameer had had to fight off and subdue several contenders. Today, both Al Qaeda and the Taliban accorded him the respect and importance he felt he deserved.

  The Ameer waited till the last of them had gone before he spun around towards the large, full-length mirror at the far end of the room. When he gestured, the mirror swung to one side and a man emerged from a tiny cubbyhole behind it. Like the Ameer, the newcomer was dark with saturnine features. Like him, he was unusually tall – but that was where the similarities ended. The newcomer’s slender, almost athletic build and demeanour were such that they wouldn’t raise a second glance. He could blend effortlessly into any crowd, in any society, in most of Asia.

  ‘What do you think?’ The Ameer raised his eyebrows.

  ‘It couldn’t have gone better,’ the man replied with a smile.

  ‘What about Saifullah?’

  ‘He could be trouble – if he is allowed to live, of course.’

  ‘Take care of him then,’ the Ameer said impatiently.

  ‘Consider it done.’

  ‘Good. What’s your plan now?’

  ‘The director has placed me at your disposal, Ameer.’

  ‘So you can report to him about everything we do?’

  ‘If you want me to.’ The man eyed him levelly, aware that the more he tried to justify his position, the less he would be believed. ‘Only if you want me to.’

  ‘Really?’ The Ameer stared at him unblinkingly. ‘Why should I trust you? Your agency is not exactly the benchmark of trust and truth. And these days, with the American pressure, how can anyone know which way you will turn?’

  ‘You’ll have to take my word for it,’ the man said. ‘My loyalties lie with Allah... only with Allah.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘And how does your director feel about this?’

  ‘This area is not even in my beat any more, but he still sent me here, didn’t he?’

  ‘That is because I specifically asked for you. He knows I will not deal with anyone else.’

  ‘You can read what you want into it.’ The man shrugged.

  The Ameer stared at him. Finally, he nodded. ‘Fine, I believe you.’

  ‘Then tell me, what is it that you wish to do and...’

  ‘Not wish; this is what I am going to do.’

  In a low tone, the Ameer repeated some of what he had said earlier, but this time there were subtle yet powerful differences in what he outlined. His one-man audience listened with total attention, his impassive face giving away none of the excitement the words unleashed in his mind.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said when the Ameer finally stopped. ‘You can bank on us for whatever help you need, but rein in your loose cannons – we need to maintain a low profile for some time.’

  ‘You don’t need to check with your director?’

  ‘No. Trust me. I have carte blanche on this one. In fact, I’ll personally take care of the India operations.’

  ‘That would be perfect.’ The Ameer looked satisfied. ‘Will you go there yourself?’

  ‘Of course! I’ll brief the director and move immediately.’

  ‘You must tell him not to
rush me on this one. It may take a year, maybe more, but I’ll make it happen.’

  ‘These things take time, we all understand that.’ The man nodded understandingly. ‘But if anyone can do it, you can.’

  ‘Thank you for your trust.’ The two men embraced.

  ‘Keep in touch the usual way,’ the Ameer said in parting. ‘And yes, don’t forget to resolve my Swat problem before you leave.’

  ‘Consider it done. Allah hafiz!’

  As he walked out to the waiting jeep, the man pulled out a Thuraya satellite phone from his pocket. Unlike the Iridium, Inmarsat or the newly launched Globalstar satellite phones, the UAE-based Thuraya phone was the communication weapon of choice for many because it was much harder for anyone to track or monitor conversations on the Thuraya channel.

  ‘Afghan Force Headquarters.’ The high-pitched nasal American accent crackled through loud and clear, making the caller wince slightly and move the handset away from his ear.

  ‘Colonel Johnson, please.’

  ‘May I know who is calling?’

  ‘Sher Khan.’ The ISI agent provocateur had used and discarded so many names by now that he barely remembered his real one.

  ‘Yes, Sher Khan?’ A moment later the colonel was on line. ‘How is it going?’

  ‘Chugging along sir, chugging along,’ replied the man with many names in fluent, almost unaccented English, his tone light and cordial. ‘I’ve got some news for you.’ He lowered his voice as he named Saifullah and mentioned his whereabouts.

  ‘Good job, Sher Khan!’ The colonel was unable to mask his satisfaction. ‘We’ve been trying to pin the bastard down for a long time.’

  ‘That’s what you pay me for, sir.’

  ‘Subtly put, buddy!’ said Colonel Johnson with a laugh. ‘Don’t worry, the payment will reach your bank the usual way... if the intel is good.’

  ‘It’s as good as gold, sir, don’t worry about that.’

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough.’ The colonel chuckled. ‘A couple of our birds are already up and about. Let me divert them in the right direction.’

  ‘Happy hunting then! I’ll find out on the morning news, sir.’