I spotted Imran as soon as I stepped out of customs into the airport concourse. He looked agitated.
‘Shukran Allah! We need to go. Shafik has changed the interview time. We need to go right away . . .’
After the weeks of waiting, the onrush of events came as a shock.
‘Okay, Imran. Tell me what the arrangements are.’
‘I have a car. And a driver. We cannot drive there. First we must meet Shafik’s people . . .’
‘Calm down, Imran. And go back a bit. Tell me what has happened.’
We were pushing through the crowds, heading towards the exit. Imran’s words were a tumbling stream.
‘Yes. So we go to the car. The driver is waiting. Shafik agreed tomorrow. But now his people say come at once. Okay. He’s seeing us so he can boast to the world about his philanthropy. Bringing the miracle of water to the people. What a philanthropist! But now I think he is suspicious. I think he has been Googling you. This is not good. He is changing the time to upset us. You saw from my documents that the stakes are big in this game. Hundreds of millions of dollars. And Shafik is up to his neck – I found out about this; I will tell you – he will not hesitate to be rough with us . . .’
The doubts and squabbles were coming to an end. Things would be resolved now. One way or another.
In the car, Imran told me what he had discovered. He had been to Orangi and to Kahin Nahi. He had sought out the landowners whose names were listed in Ibrahim’s diary. Some were gone – neighbours shrugged their shoulders when Imran asked where – and two were dead; no one would say when or how. Imran saw the fear in people’s eyes. In a café two men came to his table. They wanted to know who Imran was, where he came from and why he was asking questions. He gambled: he was investigating reports of blackmail and intimidation against local people. The men hesitated then took him to a house on the edge of the town. They levered off a padlock fixed to the door. In the dining room there were family photographs, tea cups stacked on the sideboard. But the blinds were drawn and dust covered the floor. It was the house of Jahangir Miandad, the men said. He had owned fifty acres of farmland until the dacoits, marauding thugs, came calling on him. Jahangir told them this was his home and he didn’t want to sell. His body was found in a dried-out irrigation ditch. Imran asked if the men knew who the bandits were working for, but they shook their heads. He asked if they knew another local landowner by the name of Ibrahim Rahman. They did. Were they aware that Rahman had also tangled with the dacoits? They laughed. ‘Tangled? He was the organiser, the one who got us together to fight them . . .’
I motioned Imran to stop.
‘The men confirmed that Ibrahim was standing up to Shafik? That he was leading the resistance to the land-grabbers? It’s crucial—’
‘The men were categorical, Martin. I got access to the land documents for the Orangi water project – I had to bribe the clerk – and it is one hundred per cent clear that Shafik needs Ibrahim’s land. The contract for the dam is worth millions; there are massive profits in it. It will occupy hundreds of acres. Before Ibrahim took up the fight, the locals were being intimidated, bullied and murdered. Ibrahim pulled them together. He got lawyers involved. He did everything possible to keep the dacoits at bay.’
‘So the bandits must have gone after Ibrahim? If he was the ringleader . . .’
‘They did. According to the locals, the goons came to Rahman’s house on many occasions. And their boss came with them. They threatened Ibrahim, but he wouldn’t give in. He was fearless – he didn’t care a fig for his own safety, for his own life. People kept telling him he was in danger, but he wouldn’t budge. He’d staked everything on the thing he was fighting for. He was like a man in a barroom brawl, Martin – his friends were all telling him to back off, for his own safety; but he’d invested so much pride in it that he just kept going despite knowing he could never win.’
‘God, Imran . . . If Shafik’s thugs were prepared to murder the little guys like Jahangir Miandad, they’d have had no hesitation in bumping off someone like Ibrahim! Ayesha must be right – Ibrahim died a hero.’
Imran nodded, but something was troubling him. I asked what it was.
‘I don’t know, Martin. There’s something strange I haven’t been able to figure out. It seems Ibrahim got away with it . . .’
‘How do you mean, he “got away with it”? He’s dead . . .’
‘Yes. But the thing is that he didn’t die when the row over the land was going on. Somehow he survived all that. I don’t know why, but the bandits backed off and left him alone. He wasn’t killed until much, much later, when all the fuss had faded away . . .’
We sat in silence as the car edged through the Karachi traffic. Imran was right.
‘So by the time he died’ – I was thinking aloud – ‘he had already signed his land over to Shafik. Shafik had no reason to kill him.’
Imran shrugged.
‘I think we need to tread carefully when we see Shafik. Don’t go blundering in, Martin. He is a clever man. And dangerous. I got written statements from the landowners I spoke to, confirming they were threatened to make them give up their land. But remember – these men spoke to me in confidence; we mustn’t divulge their identities to Shafik or they’ll be dead meat.’
The car pulled up at a roadside café. The place was rundown, off the beaten track. When I asked why we were stopping, Imran said, ‘I told you. We can’t drive to Shafik. He says he will know when we are here and his people will come for us. It’s about security.’
‘Security? I thought this guy was an entrepreneur. If he’s got nothing to hide, why does he hide away?’
‘It’s not so surprising. In Karachi, even the legitimate businessmen operate like that. There are too many people ready to settle business disputes with a gun. The big conglomerates have headquarters downtown, but most use shell companies. Shafik has an address in Karachi, but you won’t find him there. In fact, you won’t find him at all unless he wants . . .’
A black Mercedes swung into the car park. We got out of our car and waited awkwardly.
‘Okay, Martin. We need to stay calm. We’re journalists; we’ve been invited for an interview . . .’
Imran took a step forward; two men jumped from the car and motioned him back. I saw the tell-tale bulges under their jackets. One of them pulled out a mobile phone while the other strode in our direction.
‘Hands in the air! Legs apart!’
The man frisked us and waved to his companion. He spoke into the phone, clicked it off then beckoned us over.
‘You appreciate the need for precautions. You are required to wear these.’
He held out two balaclavas with no eye-holes. The man pulled the material over my head and pushed me into the back seat. I felt Imran tumble in next to me as the driver hit the accelerator.