The Avatari (36 page)

The electricity to the Dera was tapped illegally from a high voltage power line in the vicinity and stepped down by a locally manufactured transformer placed outside the Dera walls. It wasn’t as if the Nawab couldn’t pay for the electricity; it simply would have been bad form to do so. In Pakistan, nobody paid for their electricity; it would be unseemly for the Nawab Sahib to do so and set an unhealthy precedent into the bargain. Of course, there were inspectors from the electricity department. They made their rounds, had their glasses of lassi – sweetened buttermilk – collected their baksheesh from the aide-de-camp, made their salaams, wished the Nawab Sahib a long life and left. It seemed a more sensible and civilized way of doing business all around and the money, whatever was doled out, never went into the bottomless pockets of the greedy thieves working for the federal government.

The plan Peter had agreed to involved Suleiman’s people taking out the transformer, thereby plunging the Dera into darkness. That would give him a minute or so before the generator sets came on to detonate his bombs, assuming that it would result in a panicky rush of guests towards the Dera gates which would then be flung open to let them through. That was when Suleiman and gang were expected to take advantage of the confusion and make their entry.

It was a plan Peter had agreed to because it left most of the initiative with him; if things went wrong, he would be able to contain the damage. There was a loud roar of approval as the nautch girls came on stage, whistling and blowing kisses at the crowd. From where he stood, he had a clear view of the Dera’s staff and the armed guards who were now crowding around the edges of the seated audience. They were probably aware from past experience that their masters had had enough ‘juice’ to keep them happily fuzzy. Besides, they were far too engrossed in the show to bother about the sentries.

Peter thought it best that for the present he should get back to the audience, and squeezed his way through a crush of guards. There was a roar from the audience and his glance went to the stage. The pretty girl who had given him the eye had just walked on to the stage in a sheer gauze dress. He paused to light a cigarette. The music picked up tempo as the nautch girls proceeded to do their thing, titillating the crowd with their provocative costumes and movements. There were no unoccupied chairs and he remained standing. Peter assumed he had passed unnoticed, but had to admit he was mistaken when he found himself being cupped and fondled. He turned to look at a huge bearded guard who grinned and winked at him. He grinned back politely and moved away, deciding that he would soon make a dash for it with his bombs – Suleiman or no Suleiman. There was a collective gasp from the crowd; the girl’s flimsy upper garment, no more substantial than a bra, had come off. And so it went, with each of the girls doing something outrageous to excite the audience and the roars of the crowd growing progressively more raucous. Then
finally
, Suleiman came through. The lights went out, plunging the venue into darkness. There were howls of frustration from the crowd, but Peter was oblivious to them. His mind was now entirely focused on what he had to do next. He waited impatiently for his eyes to adjust to the enveloping darkness, praying that the moon, which had been in hiding all evening, wouldn’t choose to make a grand entrance now and mess up his plans. The moment he could see clearly enough to make his way, he was off, one bomb in his pocket, the other in the palm of his hand, sprinting towards the generators. It was the spot where he had also seen fuel drums lined up in a pit. On the run, he lit the fuse with his cigarette. He calculated that the six-inch length meant fifteen seconds remained before detonation. He fervently hoped the generators wouldn’t come on before those fifteen seconds were over or he wouldn’t have the chance of getting to the magazines. His movements would be clearly visible in the glare of the security lights.

He reached the pit and launched his bomb, carefully lobbing it towards the centre of the barrels. He knew there was too little explosive to cause any serious damage; all he hoped for was that it would be enough to set off the fuel. He crouched there, panting, counting the last eight seconds to detonation. His plan had been to wait for the first to go off before going for the magazines.

Peter discerned some activity at the generators; a man was cranking them up. He decided to take a chance. Using his cigarette to light the second fuse, he began sprinting in the direction of the magazines. He had covered a quarter of the distance when the first bomb went off. The outcome was spectacular. There was a loud explosion and a flame soared up a hundred feet in the air, then curled up into a huge ball, the heat from it so intense that it scorched the back of his neck, even as he kept running. He was sure now that the generators wouldn’t come on.

It was when he reached the magazines that Peter realized he had made a mistake. He should have attached a rock to the plastic explosive to ensure that it shattered the glass of the window and entered the magazine. The fuse of his improvised bomb was burning and he had about two seconds left. Then, imagining the bomb he held in his hand was a baseball, he pitched it as hard as he could at the window of the nearest magazine.
Please, god, please!
He prayed that he would miss the iron grille and that there was live ammunition inside this one.

Peter’s luck held. The bomb went through the window and he heard it explode inside. It blew off the magazine’s roof, throwing its tiles high into the night sky. Then the secondary explosions, triggered off by the first, began. He ran back to what he figured was a safer distance, where he crouched low and watched the ammunition stored in the other magazines detonating as well. When he was certain the entire lot would blow, he began running back to the lawns.

There was confusion all around and the thick smoke obscured his vision, with people screaming and running towards the
haveli
in terror. The detonations, which had been muffled until now, picked up in earnest. The sound of whistling rockets and mortar bombs falling all around them randomly made it even more terrifying. Peter glanced over his shoulder and saw a cloud of dense white smoke emanating from the magazines, a providential breeze blowing it in the direction of the lawns.
White phosphorous
, he thought,
the kind used in smoke shells. That was really lucky!
If the breeze held, in a matter of minutes nobody would be able to see anything. Through the white smoke, shells and missiles rained on the crowd at random. He bumped into a guard running blindly in panic and hit him on the jaw. As he fell, Peter snatched his weapon from him. He fired the complete magazine in the air and was happy to find that the fire was returned from all directions. The Nawab’s guards were evidently not as trained as they ought to have been; now they would keep firing at random, till they ran out of ammunition. And nobody would move to organize a search party till first light, at the earliest, when visibility improved.

As he had expected, the main gates had been flung open and Peter saw some cars with flashing red lights racing out, horns blaring, nearly crushing the swarm of people trying to flee the area.
They were getting the Governor and the Nawab out of the Dera
. That was confusion enough, he thought, for Suleiman and his men, who would be waiting out of sight, not far from the Dera, as prearranged, to do their thing.

He reached the topiary and found the area deserted, except for some prone bodies which he quickly inspected, relieved that none of them looked even remotely like Susan. All around him were chairs in flames and deep craters created by rockets and mortar bombs. Evidently, most of the crowd had fled to the haveli to protect themselves from the munitions raining overhead.

Suddenly, he saw a figure running towards him; it was Susan, thank god! He began running to meet her halfway, then heard a low whistle.
Mortar bomb
, he thought and yelled at her to drop to the ground. He flung himself on top of her, covering her body with his own. He felt himself being buffeted by the blast. He kept his head down and held on to Susan.

It’s okay
, he told himself finally, moving off her. Bending over her, he looked at Susan closely; she had been knocked out cold by her fall, but seemed all right otherwise. His ears were ringing. There were explosions all around him. He snatched up a tablecloth from a table nearby, wrapped it around her, hoisted her over his shoulder and headed for the gates of the Dera. He halted some distance away, watchful and alert. The gates were unmanned; not a single sentry seemed to be around. They could well have been called away to put out the fires, but Peter suspected that most of them had fled in panic. In situations like this, it was often each man for himself. Without wasting a moment, he made for the gates, keeping within the shadows of foliage and using sudden spurts of movement, followed by moments of absolute stillness, to cover the distance, in case anyone was keeping a watch. Then they were out. Peter kept going, heading for the well in the sugarcane fields behind the Dera that he and Suleiman had chosen earlier as their rendezvous point. It was wet and cold and the tall sugarcane cut into his hands and face. He reached the well and put Susan down, crouching beside her, his head low, alert to every sound and movement in the vicinity. In the far distance, smoke rose into the sky and an ominous glow of light from the many fires hung over the Dera, though the fort itself was no longer visible from where they waited. For a long time there was silence except for the whine of mosquitoes in his ears. Peter began thinking Suleiman would not come – and they would be up shit creek without a paddle. Just when he had given up hope, his ears caught the sound of movement; someone was making his way towards them through the sugarcane. Peter remained low, crouching, waiting. Then he saw a torch flashing four times in quick succession – the signal he and Suleiman had agreed on. As he stood up, the sugarcane stalks parted and he saw a face.

‘Suleiman! Thank god!’

‘We did it, Peter Khan!’ Suleiman exclaimed with a grin, running up to hug him.

‘Sure,’ he said tiredly. ‘What took you so long to take out the transformer?’

‘Our truck hit a buffalo; the negotiations with the owner took some time,’ Suleiman explained in his slow, patient voice.

He led Peter, who carried the still unconscious Susan in his arms, to the trucks hidden in the bushes flanking the track. Peter got into the front seat of the first one and laid Susan in the bunk bed behind. A steady stream of Suleiman’s men were walking through the fields, carrying their booty on their heads. Half an hour later, Suleiman decided they had taken enough weapons and the time to leave had come. Explosions were still rocking the Dera.

Peter saw Suleiman accompanying some men to the window of the truck in which he was sitting. They carried a box in their hands.

‘What is in this box, Peter Khan?’ Suleiman asked.

Peter saw the packing and sat up. He pulled out his flashlight and slowly read the markings on the box: the Raytheon Company.

‘Is it a good thing the boys have brought?’ Suleiman asked. ‘If not, we leave it. It’s taking up too much space.’

‘I suggest we take it,’ Peter said quietly.

There was nothing the Russians – or anyone else in the world, for that matter – had at that time which could match the Stinger. It would go on to become the one single weapon capable of sending the Red Army across the Amu Darya. Looking at those markings, Peter realized that Uncle Sam had just upped the ante in this war.

‘We go now,’ Suleiman announced.

‘Where?’

‘To Afghanistan. We cross the border tonight – before they realize they are missing a few things and seal the borders.’ He paused and added, ‘I recommend, brother, that you come with us.’

Peter thought it over. If he and Susan left with Suleiman, it would look suspicious. But at least they would be together. Joining up with the Afghan later would be next to impossible. He nodded his assent.

The vehicles started.

‘I think I’m starting to have a thing for you, Peter Khan,’ he heard Susan say quite distinctly from behind. He turned to look at her and saw she was sitting up on the bunk. Her eyes squinted as she tried to focus on him. Before he could reply she slumped back on the bed and fell asleep. Despite the airs she gave herself, she didn’t hold her liquor all that well, he thought wryly. She began to snore softly, oblivious to his gaze.

CHAPTER 20

Bedford, New York

1986

Michael Wang stood at the gate, waiting for his visitor to step out of the cab. He was relieved to see the man wearing a smart jacket, slacks and loafers. He had half-expected him to be in navy blue.
What was I thinking
, he told himself.

He went up to receive him and offered to take his bag. The man waved the gesture away.

‘
Huan ying
. Welcome to my humble abode,’ Wang said formally with a bow.

‘
Xie xie.
Thank you,’ the man responded with a nod. Then looking at the sprawling mansion visible from the gate, he added, ‘It is not as humble as you make it out to be, my friend.’

‘
Dang de liyi
,’ Wang said earnestly. ‘Everything is in the interest of the Party.’

‘
Dique
!’ the man retorted, his tone laden with irony, then said in English, ‘Indeed. Better we speak in English from now on, my friend. Your Chinese is an assault on the ears.’

Ever since he had migrated from the mainland, Wang had been dreading this visit. Twenty years ago, he, the son of a minor district official, had been selected as a sleeper to be planted in the United States, with several things working in his favour: a degree in Fine Arts, his ability to converse in English and his fanatical allegiance to the Red Book. During the first few years, Wang had chafed at the trivial nature of his duties, which included delivering information and harbouring people whose identities were never revealed to him. Later, as he allowed himself to be absorbed into the American way of life and his memories of the past began fading, he accepted the odd job as an unavoidable irritant. But this was different. The man who had just alighted from the cab was a high-ranking Party official, rumoured to be in line for a cabinet rank. The message was not lost on Wang.