Brigadier Hasni, Head of the ISI’s Joint Intelligence X Department, which coordinated the other seven departments, was a tall, heavy-set man with a thick moustache and greased-back hair. His face was wide but hard, as if chiselled from a slab of caramel-coloured marble. Dressed in a white pathani suit, he sat at an ornate desk, his hands folded in his lap. The room was his study, the polished wooden floor half covered with expensive hand-knotted rugs.
Another man sat opposite him on a padded armchair. He was of paler skin and flabby, his bald head speckled with liver spots. His name was Asad, and he was Hasni’s deputy. Gripping a Mont Blanc, he’d just handed Hasni a draft report on the events that had happened outside the children’s hospital.
“General Malik is being suitably apologetic by all accounts,” Asad said, referring to the new Foreign Secretary.
“The man has the manners of a monkey and the morals of a street boy.”
Asad grinned.
“But it’s not the generals we have to worry about,” Hasni said.
Although the new breed of younger high-ranking military officers were too radical for his taste, Sunni hard men, no one but the illiterate poor harboured any doubts about who wielded the real power in Pakistan, at least as far as foreign affairs were concerned.
“Indeed, sir.”
But we still need them, Hasni thought.
The generals’ predecessors had ruled Pakistan on and off for a total of over three decades, the first military era occurring for a thirteen-year period from 1958—just eleven years after independence from the British. As far as Hasni was concerned, it was as natural as night passing into day. The generals held all of the ministerial offices. There was no way that the population, riotous as they were, would allow the ISI to openly control the country’s international dealings. But it was a temporary measure, or had been sold as such. The previous civilian government just couldn’t deal with the security crisis and the army had stepped in. For now, the people saw it as an expedient measure. A strong if interim government.
After scanning the typed pages of the report, Hasni said, “Make sure it emphasizes the fact that four police officers identified known Leopards as the perpetrators.”
“Of course.”
“Underline it.”
Asad nodded.
“And you should add that they drove the cars. That the secretary was definitely abducted by them.”
“As you say, Brigadier.”
“That ought to keep the Americans off our backs for a while at least.”
There was a knock at the door and a young woman dressed in a turquoise and gold Shalwar Kameez entered. Her hair was the colour of a raven’s breast. It was tied back tightly from her make-up-free face in a ponytail, accentuating her high cheekbones and luminous eyes. Her name was Adeela; Hasni’s daughter. He allowed her to remove her hijab inside the house. His own view on the headscarf was that it was oppressive and cumbersome, especially when coupled with the face-obscuring niqab. But outside, she had to keep up appearances, at least until another less dogmatic regime took over.
“A man is here to see you, Father.”
“Did he give a name, my dear?” Hasni said, smiling.
“Only that he was The Mullah, Father.”
Hasni leaned in close to Asad. “The fool thinks he’s a holy man.” He glanced over at his daughter. “Give me five minutes, Adeela.”
“Yes, Father.”
She left, closing the door quietly.
“Have you contacted the Saudis?” Hasni asked, smoothing down the ends of his moustache with a thumb and forefinger.
“Yes, Brigadier.”
“And?”
“Our brothers there are most concerned that Iran will invade Balochistan,” he said, referring to the Pakistani province that bordered south-east Iran.
“Our Saudi brothers have their own agenda.”
Asad looked puzzled.
“Don’t worry, everything will become clear with time. As for the Iranians, with the addition of a little more evidence about their involvement in the abduction of the secretary, they will be too focused on appeasing the Americans to seriously contemplate invading Balochistan.”
“Let us hope so.”
“Later, then,” Hasni said.
Asad rose and left.