THRILLER:PANIC IN TASHKENT

PANIC IN TASHKENT

Joy Banerjee (June 2002)

"Rahmat!" Professor Joy Banerjee flaunted his one-word Uzbek
vocabulary, meaning thanks, at the stern-faced passport control lady
officer, dressed in impeccable green uniform, and walked out of the
Tashkent airport. As he pushed through the swing-door, another Indian
face appeared. It had a searching look. But Banerjee, Professor of
International Relations at Jadavpur University in Kolkata, took no
notice. He walked past the stranger.

An announcement was heard almost next moment over the PA system.
"Attention, Indian Embassy! Attention Indian Embassy! Professor Joy
Banerjee has left a message. He is proceeding on some urgent work. He
will join you later. Please do not wait for him." The Indian heard it
alright. He shrugged. The PA system started repeating the message. The
Indian did not wait to hear it all over again.

He walked back to the black Mercedes Classic waiting in the parking
lot, opened the right front door, yawned, and looked at his watch. It
was past 2 a.m. early morning. Professors are like that, he thought to
himself, eccentric chaps, totally oblivious of the real world, unlike
his colleagues in the embassy. And his sharp-eyed, clever boss, whose
two feet were firmly grounded. The Uzbek driver asked nothing. Only
glanced at his companion sideways, with questioning eyes. The Indian
could not read his expression in the faint neon from the distant
terminal. The chauffeur's cap cast a shadow over Alauddin's face. But
he guessed Alauddin's question alright. "He's not coming with us", he
muttered, "will join the boss later. Drive home." The driver silently
turned on the ignition. The giant limo shot smoothly out of the parking
lot. The speedometer quickly registered 80 kmph. But inside the
air-conditioned comfort silence of the Chimgan reigned. The faint
ticking of the lit-up electronic clock on the dashboard was barely
audible.

*****************************************************************

Three days later, a Saturday, Fatma glanced at the big grandfather
clock in her bedroom, sat down with practised movement at her computer
and connected to the internet. It was 7 p.m. in Eskisehir, Turkey,
three hours behind Tashkent time. Fatma was the computer expert of the
firm she worked for. The IT world was not merely a job but a passion
for her. She was also a net freak. At times, before climbing back to
her bed from a midnight toilet trip, she would check her email client's
inbox. She knew the in-and-out of the net world like the back of her
hand. It gave her a tremendous kick.

She knew her long-standing epal, the professor from Kolkata, would be
visiting Uzbekistan. Fatma was keen to know how he felt in the new land
he had said he would be visiting on a research-cum-pleasure mission.
The Indian Ambassador posted in Tashkent was an old friend of his. It
was he who arranged Joy's trip. Fatma had been chatting with Joy
religiously every Saturday evening, sharp at seven, Turkish time, by
mutual agreement over the past one year. Joy had promised to continue
chat from wherever he might be. It was a great weekend pastime. They
shared a strong interest beyond knowing each other, their countries and
culture. Fatma was partly brought up in Germany. So she was perfectly
at home in the German language. Joy had initially learnt it in Kolkata,
took advanced courses in Germany and subsequently kept visiting Germany
on research work. So, it was their shared interest in German which
brought them close to each other, though 'virtually'.

Chatting on the net was an excellent way of keeping the linguistic
ability sharp. It was even better than writing emails because responses
at a chat must be instantaneous. By tacit agreement they kept use of
English or any other languages out. They had learnt this discipline
while taking courses in German. In Fatma's case, schooling in Germany
automatically ruled out use of any other language. Though her workplace
required proficiency in both German and English, she strictly adhered
to this unwritten rule while chatting with Joy. This evening, however,
Fatma was particularly keen to obtain certain business information her
firm urgently needed from Uzbekistan. Joy had promised to help out. He
could retrieve it quickly for her through his friend and influential
host, the Indian Ambassador. That would short-circuit both Turkish and
Uzbek bureaucracy.

Fatma clicked on the MSN Messenger. It was a full minute past 7. The
Messenger showed Joy was not yet online. Fatma frowned. Joy was a
stickler for time, never late. But her frown disappeared as soon as it
had appeared. Well, new place, another PC, unfamiliar environment-- the
delay was understandable. Wonder how Joy was feeling right now, she
mused and smiled to herself, her eyes glued to the lit-up monitor
screen. She waited.

Six minutes past. As her frown was about to reappear, a message flashed
on her screen, "Hi Fatma, R U there?" It was in English. There was a
look of surprise on Fatma's face. Joy is breaking their unspoken
agreement by using English. Also, the use of Americanism was strange,
the professor never resorted to it but always greeted with either a
German "Hallo!" or "guten Abend!" Hm, Tashkent has really turned Joy's
head, it seems, she thought. She shot back in German her
counter-greeting, ignoring the English intrusion. She quickly followed
up asking how he was and about the weather. "What? Don't understand.
English, please", came the reply from Tashkent.
Good Allah, what have the Uzbeks driven my old friend to! Trying to be
funny or what! Fatma typed firmly in German," Cut the nonsense, Joy!
Stop playing the fool. By the way, did you manage to get that info? I
need it in a hurry!" There was a significant pause on the other end.
The Messenger showed Joy was typing a reply. Fatma waited with bated
breath. C'mon, man, be your old self again!
"Can't read you. Msg. garbled", she read with wide-eyed astonishment
and growing disappointment. The MSN flashed a report that Joy had gone
offline. Fatma could not believe her eyes. This was the first time that
such an abrupt ending took place to their weekend chat. The first time
that the question of a garbled message arose. And the first time that
Joy so abruptly, without his routine politeness, had cut the
connection. Emotions swelled up in her mind and throat. Was Joy giving
her the brush off? Why? What had she done? They were so good friends,
even though ethereally. Had exchanged voice mails, sometimes with songs
sung by them, photos, jokes, concerns and hopes. They had come so
close. But Joy tonight behaved so strangely. "I can't figure it out",
thought she.

She looked at her watch. It was nine past seven only. They usually
chatted for at least half an hour, sometimes more. And always in
German. Well, c'est la vie! she reassured herself, I won't let my
weekend spoil over this sort of trivia. I can always shoot off an email
to Joy's web-based account and wait for a reply. I need that info badly
for my company too, and surely my good friend Joy won't let me down.
Maybe tonight he met some nice Uzbek or Tajik damsel who's turned his
head! May be he's already high on vodka which Uzbeks guzzle like the
Russians. Old Russia may have left the Uzbeks but vodka has not! The
thought of females engaging Joy's attention set off a momentary pang of
resentment in her. But Fatma quickly overcame it. After all, he's but
an epal, and a married, mid-aged man with a teenage son. He's just a
little more real than an apparition, she consoled herself. Fatma shut
down her PC as well as her thought of Joy. She left the room to prepare
dinner for herself and her aged parents, whom she loved more than
anything in the world.

* * * * * * * *

S.K.Ray sat bolt upright in his office. It was the same Saturday
evening, well past office hour. One of the first things that he learned
as member of the Indian government's elite Foreign Service was
dignified sitting posture. Apart from being familiar with basic yoga,
which demands the same, sitting with your backbone straight exuded
self-confidence. His Excellency, the Ambassador of India's office had
all the accoutrements that a governmental envoy was supposed to have.
The Indian flag neatly draped in the background to his left, and
Mahatma Gandhi reigning supreme on the wall to his right. The
chandelier and carpets, though not very expensive, reflected a certain
amount of discriminating taste of the interior decorator who had done
up the room. Mitter was also conscious of the massive poverty and
misery widespread in the overpopulated country that he represented. So,
he had struck a judicious balance between the needs of grandeur of an
Ambassador and the realities of India. But at this moment his thought
was elsewhere.

This was the third day since the professor was due. To be sure, His
Excellency had received a two-second phone call. It was Joy alright. He
had simply said, and in a rushed voice, "Don't worry, Shankar. I'm ok
but on a mission I can't talk about over phone. I shall get back to you
in time." And before Raycould respond, asking where he was calling
from, the sound of disconnection had started playing on his eardrum.
Extremely cryptic, thought Mitter. His mind searched from his
repertoire of his wide-ranging experience, worldwide. What could have
happened that his professor friend disappeared from Tashkent airport.
The central part of his itinerary had included staying in the
ambassador's official residence. During Ray's visits to India, and
through emails, they had also planned sojourns to well-known tourist
attractions like Samarqand and Bokhara. Ray had suggested, and his
academic friend had enthusiastically approved, forays to lesser known
regions like the Chimgan mountains on the Kazakh border in the north
and the Ferghana valley, from where the Mughals had materialised into
the Indo-Gangetic plains. They had left an indelible impression upon
India's history, the Taj Mahal being one example among many.

Ray knew that Joy was researching weapons of mass destruction,
including chemical weapons. Recently, there had been reports that the
US 10th. Mountain Division, which had established a base in the country
to help fight the terrorists in Afghanistan, had discovered abandoned
Soviet chemical weapons sites. Did some Indian secret service unit--and
there were many-- assign the professor to ferret out information on
these? A terrorist or Pakistani chemical attack could not be totally
ruled out; Indian defence experts wanted to be prepared for all
eventualities. Since it was difficult to access data on these weapons
past the various control regimes imposed by the West, especially the
USA, it was entirely possible that New Delhi was seeking familiarity
with them without shouting from the rooftops. If this was the case then
certain covert agencies in New Delhi was bent on keeping the Indian
Embassy in Tashkent in the dark. It was not past the realm of
possibility, reflected Ray.

There have been abundant cases of bypassing ambassadors while their
respective governments carried out secret activities over their heads
in the countries they were posted. Henry Kissinger, the US National
Security Adviser in Nixon's times used to secretly dash off to Moscow
to talk directly to Brezhnev or Gromyko while the US State Department
knew nothing. The US Ambassador was probably busy fending off the
innumerable vodka toasts in innumerable cocktail parties in Moscow
designed to entertain diplomats while old Henry was hush-hushing sweet
secrets into the ears of the Soviet leaders inside the Kremlin.

But Joy was no Kissinger. It was also extremely rare for an ordinary
Indian academic, regardless of how brilliant he might be in his special
area of research, to get such a government assignment. The bureaucracy
in New Delhi's South Block would nip any such move in the bud!
Tremendous resistance had earlier overwhelmed another International
Relations expert, Dr. Ravindra Dasgupta, when a former Prime Minister
handpicked him for important assignments. And yet?the possibility that
his dear friend Joy had managed to pocket such a crucial assignment
cannot perhaps be entirely ruled out. There was no other way to explain
the facts of Joy's sudden elusive behaviour.

Ray's train of thought was interrupted. A cautious knock sounded on his
closed office door. "Come in!", he hollered, partly annoyed for having
his speculations abruptly stopped on their tracks. But his face lit up,
in the carefully controlled way of diplomats, when he saw Naidu, his PA
entering, catlike. The man is really surreptitious, discreet and
self-effacing. Just the right type for an Intelligence Bureau agent,
though acting under the cover of His Excellency's confidential
secretary.

"So?" Ray's eyebrows rose just a fraction to indicate controlled
curiosity. "Any news?" Naidu looked at his nominal boss straight in the
eye through his conventional glasses. The black frame belonged to
another generation, another time. "Went to Broadway," he said. There
was a pause. Ray immediately caught on. "So, the Sluzhba knows nothing,
eh?"

The Sluzhba Narodnoi Bezopasnosti or SNB in short was the former Uzbek
KGB, now renamed to mean National Security Service. It was a typical
Soviet-style official building looking like a big matchbox with many
windows, all religiously shut, and not only because of the cold
outside. The SNB housed itself off the end of the broad street which
strangely had an English name, the Broadway. No one would suspect the
SNB to be present near a street which is famous for its open-air cafes,
street artists and flea market. A crowded pedestrian thoroughfare
dominated by teenagers singing karaoke, playing loud Western, Russian
and Uzbek hits, munching potato chips, eating roadside shashlik and
having a gala time in general. The huge statue of Emir Timur on
horseback overlooks the long and wide boulevard at the other end.
Running between Timur, the national hero, and the Broadway is the Emir
Timur Avenue, one of the main thoroughfares of Tashkent. In the
diplomatic circle, however, the Broadway was a kind of a code word for
the SNB!

"Unfortunately no, sir," replied Naidu in his usual quiet manner. Ray
felt a deep sense of frustration. He simply loathed the idea of not
getting results when he set his mind to it. But he hid his type-A
personality well though he suspected Nair could anticipate when it
would be activated. He found Naidu reliable, solid inside as granite.
Nairdu was not only intelligent and shrewd with more than a touch of
cunning. His slim body and simpleton appearance hid well his
razor-sharp mind as well as his physical ability to put up with long
hours of drudgery. His profession as an IB agent required loads of
boring, routine work which would drive a normal individual to despair.
But not the man from a village near Kanyakumari. By sheer grit he had
reached the position in the IB that he holds today.

"Shall check with Customs and Passport Control, sir," said Naidu. "They
may have a clue or two".

"You do that. First thing tomorrow. Only you and Alauddin know. Others
need not. Keep it that way," barked Ray in his usual command style.
"Sure, sir", replied Naidu softly, "And goodnight, sir". "Goodnight",
growled Ray. Naidu turned on his heel and left the boss's office as
discreetly as he had appeared. Ray watched him go.

"Bloody IB", he muttered to himself, though he felt a grudging
admiration for his so called PA. He did not like spooks. Particularly
since many of their orders and activities were beyond even the
ambassador's control. These spooky guys in every embassy were a pain in
the, er, neck. That's what the Italian and the Czech Republic
ambassadors were telling him the other day. No ambassador likes people
on his turf who are not totally under his control. While other embassy
employees adjusted their life to that of the ambassador's like
satellites to a planet, these spies had their own orbit. Anyway, so
long as Naidu can deliver the goods it's okay, thought Ray to himself
as he rose from his chair.

His faithful Indian and Russian servants were waiting at his residence
with a sumptuous meal, as usual, though the ambassador rarely ate much.
He had started to wear braces not only because they added old-world
charm and dignity which was becoming of a country's official
representative but also kept the trousers around the mid-aged pot-belly
in place. Without braces and even using belts, trousers at fifty plus
had a curious tendency to slide down the balloon of a pot-belly. Law of
the wickedness of objects, who said that? Ray thought as he climbed
into his Mercedes amidst routine salute by Uzbek police guards. He
mechanically raised his hand to return the salutes while Alauddin held
the door of the limo open.

Aha, who else but that old fox, Kissinger! As the car started to move
noiselessly, Ray's mouth twisted in an ironic smile. A similar law
flashed through his mind as light and shade alternately played on his
face in the speeding Mercedes?if anything may go wrong, it probably
will, that's Murphy's Law. Joy's case was nothing but that. But it had
to be set right.

* * * * * *

Mahmud Shah turned another page of the small pocket diary. The pages
were full of various entries. These related to appointments, names,
phone and email addresses and other data which a pocket diary is
supposed to contain. The few extra pages following the last day of the
year, 31 December, contained brief hand-written references to
longer-term plans and programmes which were not date and time-specific.
Mahmud was absent-mindedly chewing the end of his Cello gel with his
left hand while turning the pages with his right. He took his Cello
from his teeth and jotted down a few words on one of the pages. He
closed the diary and put it back to his breast pocket. He then
carefully buttoned the flap.

A bearded man appeared. "You better brush up your knowledge of the
Mughals", he said as he casually walked towards Mahmud. "Here are some
history materials specially delivered for you from a cybercafe in
Tashkent." Mahmud flashed a broad smile. "Thank Allah for the internet.
Where did you get it from? Google, or Ask Jeeves?" he asked. The
bearded man let out a sigh. "I didn't get them. Have no idea which
search engine was searched! Some student of History must have fished
them out. The man who drove up here with these and certain other things
is as familiar to me as a Martian to you, Mahmud!"

Mahmud quickly leafed through the internet printouts. "Which emperors
should I focus on, Effendi?" The breeze in the mountainous region was
already turning cooler. The sun was a ball of cold fire slowly sinking
behind the Bolshoe Chimgan. The Smaller Chimgan, out of range of the
dying sun, had already turned into a dark shade of blue. Below, at
2,000 meters, lay the valley with a few villages scattered amidst
forest and wild grassfields. The bearded Turk adjusted his erkeklar
channon, or chapkan, the long Oriental robe, to keep out cold.
"Concentrate on Akbar and Shah Jehan," he replied after a few seconds
of reflection. "Why these two characters out of the six Great Mughals?"
asked Mahmud.

His interlocutor smiled. "Because the students are supposed to study
Akbar's reign, his so called greatness." He spat on the ground.
"Actually he was the greatest fool--compromised Islam and the Prophet.
He mixed them with ideas of the non-believers, his so called
Din-i-Ilahi. That was doomed from the beginning, of course!" The lips
in the jungle of his facial hair twisted ironically. "You don't
adulterate the teachings of the Prophet. Frivolous chap, this Akbar, as
if had nothing better to do, huh!"

He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "And Shah Jehan. His
Taj Mahal and other architectural stuff. The students will most likely
want to know more of these wonders. Remember, this is the land of
Samarqand. Civilisation flourished here thousands of years before
Christ ever saw the light of the day, and the white races were eating
little more than grass. And the historic seat of Islamic learning,
Bokhara. Architecture plays a key role in these cities. So don't be
taken aback if your class is full of questions on historical
architecture."

"You have dabbled in both history and some architecture, I was told. So
you shouldn't have any special difficulties even though," he gave a
crooked smile through his beard, "this is not exactly the centre piece
of your-er-subject." Mahmud listened silently to his peer.

He then replied, "Don't worry. I'll talk a great deal that makes
sense." His chin tightened. "I am aware of history and its close
relationship with religion and architecture here in Uzbekistan. I also
know," he added, not without a touch of pride at his knowledge, "that
Shah Jehan had searched the entire Islamic world to find the Shahi Imam
for his huge mosque in Delhi, the Jama Masjid. He ultimately appointed
a scholar of great repute from Bokhara." "Right", said his bearded
companion. "That's why the Imam of Jama Masjid is always a Bokhari, the
descendents of that first Imam from Bokhara. So you know things, it
seems."

Mahmud was not sure there was not a touch of sarcasm in that comment,
but it sounded a shade patronising alright. He decided not to react. It
was growing bitterly cold in the wilderness of the Chimgan Mountains.
The breeze was positively freezing now, or so it felt. There was
nothing between the vast, open Kazakh plains and this part of
northeastern Uzbekistan except the Chimgan or, to be precise, the two
Chimgans, called Greater and Smaller Chimgans. But the latter were
hardly a barrier to wild gales from Kazakhstan which blew in a
southerly direction and turned everything in its way like the inside of
a deep-freezer after sunset.

"Catch up with your readings. You are expected there in a matter of
days," blurted out the Turk as a parting shot. Mahmud nodded silently.
He then got up and slipped into the makeshift tent. His companion also
left for an adjoining one. They did not waste time with any more
unnecessary words. Each was lost in his own thought. The chill was
increasing by the minute. The tents stood on top of a hillock
commanding an excellent view of the green valley and the single winding
road leading up to it from below.

The beardo sat down heavily on his charpai. It's been a long day with
miles and miles of hiking with a 50 kg. rucksack permanently sitting on
the back. Well, at least this was immensely better than living, months
on end, inside the treacherous depths of Afghan caverns, with strictly
rationed meager food and even less water, under conditions of constant
ear-splitting B-52 and B-2 bombardment outside, with an AK-47 and a
heavy belt of grenades to keep you company.

He and his comrades were not afraid to die. They were jihadis. They
even cheerfully looked forward to death in battle since that was the
surest way to behest, heaven. But the Americans were cunning. They were
cowards, so avoided the classic face-to-face battle. Instead, they
preferred to stay far away in the sky, beyond reach of any earthly
soldier, and spewed death with their myriads of remotely-controlled
gizmos. That was absolutely unfair! But so were these white races, the
Christian, bourgois, capitalist West with their decadent culture. They
were forever backing the wrong people against Islam.

But the Vozhd, the leader--beardo had picked up Russian even in his
lonely thoughts in this land long dominated by Moscow--has shown what
he could do even to the mightiest power on earth. 11 September was a
day of jubilation. And despite the bombardments and efforts by
treacherous countries even in Asia to weed out al Beqaeda, they had not
succeeded. And will not succeed in the future. Al Beqaeda was secretly
regouping all over the places. Thanks to the covert supporters within
Islamabad's ISI and the Army, even Musharraf, despite all his big talk,
could do precious little. The tribal brothers of the Northwestern
Frontier in Pakistan were also a great help.

It's a question of time now. Live deceptively normal civilian life,
blend gradually into the society you are in at the moment, and wait.
Wait for that signal from the Vozhd. Each individual jihadi, each small
unit, spread over half the globe stretching from Chechnya, Pakistan,
Kashmir, Xinjiang, all the way to Southeast Asia, were just waiting for
that supreme signal. All hell will again break loose, especially
against the West and its collaborators.

Already the bombing of the US Consulate in Karachi a few days ago had
succeeded in creating panic among the Yanks! Dow Jones and Nasdaq have
taken a nose dive. That shook that high altar of capitalism, the Wall
Street, all over again after 11/9. It has also shown that Beqaeda was
still very much a force to be reckoned with.

The threat of a nuclear war between India and Pakistan, as every child
these days knew, did not depend on decisions taken at Islamabad or New
Delhi alone. Al Beqaeda might act as a catalyst! The Russian mafia and
other underworld gangs were also chipping in. And despite all the fancy
Western tracking systems and computers and what have you, there was no
way to beat the hawala for transacting money across borders. After all,
you needed funding for Beqaeda's training and missions. A genuine
jihadi only needed his maintenance. But the various mafiosi operating
from the Caucasus to Hong Kong worked only for hard cash. Beqaeda used
them whenever necessary. The drug cartels among them were, in a way,
rendering indirect service to Beqaeda's cause. They were ruining
Western youth, both physically and mentally. They were venomous snakes.
But handled with care, they proved to be powerful allies in the common
cause of undermining the West, especially the USA.

Hawala, the beardo reflected with an admiring smile only partly seen
though his facial jungle, had existed in Asia since time immemorial. A
proven network across international borders, word of mouth and absolute
trust were the key words, and bundles of cash would change hands.
Hawala could beat the tracelessness of money in Swiss banks any day. It
left no written record or document of any sort that could be traced. It
used the most elusive device of them all, only highly transient stuff
called words. Words disappeared into thin air as soon as spoken! The
system was still intact in Uzbekistan where the sarrafons, or money
changers, went about doing their age-old business.

So the al Beqaeda network was essentially intact. Let the West and its
friends control the cities in Afghanistan. That mattered as much as
somebody controlling your coat while you were gone! The beardo got up.
He walked over to a covered bronze plate and put it on the oven. He put
a match and lit it. Time to grab some Uzbek plov and then go to bed.
Tomorrow he had again lots to do.

Inside his tent, Mahmud put down the heavy holland which served as door
to the tent, lit a hurricane, and sat down, cross-legged, at his low
wooden book-holder. He soon immersed himself in the bundle of printouts
on Mughal architecture.

* * * * *

In a third tent erected between the two, a man lay in bed, with a book
nearly covering his face. His mind was anywhere but in the rows of
print in front of him. Someone sneezed. The nasal gusto came, not from
the man in bed but from a hulking figure squatting, Oriental fashion,
on a thick, over-used Bokhara carpet on the floor. His long, flowing
chapkan protruded only slightly near his mid-section on the right. A
Makarov, though slim, caused the miniscule protrusion. An AK-47 assault
rifle lay at an arm's distance. He was also reading a book. But
periodically his shifty eyes surveyed the man on the bed.

"Jihad means to make an effort", he read, "to fight against
oppression." The man turned the page of his heavy manual. The manual
managed to hold his interest. "The jihadi must not show off his
training? His training involves four elements: stamina, strength, speed
and agility." The man pondered these qualities, mentally measuring each
against his own capabilities. He read on. Ironically, the manual
recommended consulting the US Army publications for learning more of
the art of fighting. It also recommended the internet. The net was a
veritable el Dorado of the experiences of former British elite
commandos like the SAS.

"Avoid physical training at fitness centres where ladies also
visit?shun exercise set to music?" Well, the man sighed, coming to
think of it, he did not mind either ladies or even Western pop, but
surely that was the devil's temptation! Fortunately, he had passed
these stages of training. He was just refreshing his memory by reading
on and also killing time.

"Survival outdoors in unfavourable conditions is very important," the
manual went on. "The jihadi should go on long hikes in the wilderness
with a rucksack weighing a third of his body weight on his back. He
must learn to live on minimal food and water, to live off the land, to
light fire without the help of match-sticks or lighter?to hike over
unknown terrain at night without a compass but only with a map and the
stars to guide him?.Learning to use a variety of firearms and skill at
sniping come next as part of his training." He paused for a moment,
through the corner of his eyes he looked at the man in bed who had
meanwhile turned on his side, still holding his book now partly
covering his sensitive face.

"After rigorous training, the jihadi should report to a select
madrassa. There he will be trained in the language, culture, history
and the habits of the people of a target country. After finishing his
course, he will be slipped, by legitimate means, into that country.
There, he should lead a perfectly normal life, and do nothing to
attract attention. He will be a 'sleeper'. Till one day his controller,
using indirect means to avoid direct contact for security reasons,
'wakes' him. The jihadi will be told of his specific assignment. This
may include suicide bombing of a high-profile target?."

The big man shut the heavy book published by the Chechen jihadis in
their underground press in the Caucasus. Well, I am 'sleeping' in
Uzbekistan now. So are my jihadi brothers elsewhere. Just have to stick
it out till my call comes. He stood up, set his book aside, took
another look at the prostrated figure, then took out his Makarov from
under his robe. The man in bed heard his movements, saw the Russian
pistol pointed at him, stared, and slowly laid his book down. The owner
of the gun flashed a crooked smile. He removed a metal container of
machine oil from a makeshift shelf, then took out the bullets from his
Makarov. Using a piece of cottonwool he started methodically cleaning
the messenger of death. It was slim, small, simple yet robust, easily
concealed, and inexpensive. But the 5.45 mm was deceptive by looks. It
packed enough power to penetrate even body armour at close range. No
wonder the Makarov was the KGB's favoured weapon for assassination. Its
owner's thoughts, however, were not on the KGB, his old enemy, but on
America, the new devil.

The pocket transistor standing on the shelf, airdropped by the hundreds
by the US Air Force all over Afghanistan to spread Voice of America
propaganda in Pashto and Dari, had broadcast a Radio Moscow news
bulletin an hour earlier. It announced that President George Bush and
his closest aides had hurried into hiding for full fifteen minutes. The
reason? The White House had received an alert over an approaching
unidentified aircraft. That had set off all the alarm bells in DC! F-16
interceptor jets had scrambled! The intruder later turned out only to
be a harmless Cessna, probably from a nearby flight-training school.
The trainee-pilot had inadvertently strayed into the no-fly zone around
the super power's seat of highest decisionmaking.

A mere tiny Cessna driving the almighty US President and all his men
into hiding in a bunker! Such is the panicky situation in America since
11/9 which vaunted the mightiest military force in the world! The big
man, as he polished his Makharov to spit, silently laughed to himself,
his eyes again quickly taking in the bed and its inert occupant. 11/9
had turned mighty America into Humpty Dumpty, forever. The USA will
never again recover from that mighty fall. All the King's horses and
men could not put Humpty together again!

The Vozhd had proved that al Beqaeda was mightier, could hit the
arrogant USA almost at will, even after absorbing the punishing bombing
of its bases in Afghanistan. The very thought of the two-month-long
devastation from the air set his blood boiling for the umpteenth time.
It was good that al Beqaeda still held the initiative. It would decide
the time and place of the next hits. Bush's elaborate arrangement of a
Cabinet-level Homeland Security Department was just an eyewash, as if
that could hinder the Vozhd. It was as much meant to reward his old
buddy Tom Ridge for electoral services he had rendered as to lull the
na?ve Americans.

The Vozhd was like that imaginary American hero--ah, what's his
name?--ah yes, the Phantom. Only, this Phantom was no cartoon, this one
was real! The Americans loved cartoons; he spat on the tent floor,
right on the worn out carpet. Let them now 'enjoy' their cartoon for
real! As he finished his polishing job and put the little Russian death
machine back to its place under his robe, the big man drew a deep
breath of satisfaction.

* * * * *

It was 9:17 p.m. in Bern, Switzerland. And exactly 10:17 in Eskisehir.
Suparna, who had earned her Master's in International Relations from
Jadavpur University, had been living in Bern for a year now. Her
husband was a computer expert and was working with a German firm with
its branch in Switzerland. Suparna, playing the role of a housewife,
had a lot of leisure time between changing the baby's nappy and cooking
meals. She had developed the habit of frequently going to the net after
dinner to chat with acquaintances in India. Among her favourites was
her former professor, Joy Banerjee, who kept late nights at his PC four
and a half hours ahead in Kolkata.

Indeed, she had by chance barged into a Joy-Fatma chat several months
ago and got to know Fatma over the net. Ever since, the two ladies had
begun to chat with each other whenever they felt like it. Suparna had
learnt German in Calcutta and learned it well. Her husband had even
taught German for a while in Calcutta. So she found it useful to
cultivate both her professor as well as Fatma for they often used
German in their ethereal conversation.

The MSN Messenger showed that Fatma was online. She typed "Guten Abend,
Fatma", pressed Send, then waited. Pat came Fatma's counter-greeting.
After some small talk about the day's activities, which included
Suparna's difficulties of lulling her new-born to sleep, the weather
and the items they had for dinner, they moved to the subject of their
common friend, Joy. Both knew of his plan to visit Uzbekistan. Fatma
then revealed Joy's strange behaviour earlier that evening over MSN.
"May be he's warming up his English. He's to lecture in Uzbekistan",
said Suparna jokingly. "Oh really? He did not tell me that", replied
Fatma. "Lecture on what?" she asked. "Surely International Relations. A
great deal on warfare. And modern hi-tech arms", said Suparna. "Sir
always had a crush over macho stuff! In our last chat Sir told me he
would lecture on the US war in Afghanistan."

Fatma hesitated a moment but then curiosity got the better of her. "Do
you know where I can find him? I mean, in Uzbekistan?" typed Fatma and
waited for the critical reply. The Messenger showed Suparna was typing
a reply. Fatma's screen flashed, "Yes. The Indian embassy in Tashkent.
The Ambassador would know. He's from our Dept. Also Sir's friend. I met
him during a university reunion in '96." Fatma thanked her. After some
more chit-chat, they signed off.

It was child's play for Fatma to find the email address of the embassy.
Giant search engines like Google were always ready to 'spider', to
crawl the worldwide web and fish out any information.

The Internet Explorer sprang a dialogue box on the monitor screen: "Do
you want to stay connected?"

Fatma clicked yes. She was a shade too anxious to know of Joy's
whereabouts to bother saving a few liras by opting for offline
composition. She quickly addressed a short but precise email to the
Indian Ambassador, by name, which she had just obtained from her epal
in Bern. She introduced herself and put through a query about Joy and
his itinerary in Uzbekistan. This was also a good beginning, an
opportunity, she thought, to get that information her firm was eagerly
seeking if the Ambassador warmed up to her. She mentioned Suparna and
the university reunion of 1996 where Ray, the ex-student, was present
along with host Joy.

* * * * *

It was dawn. A soothing silence overlay the green wilderness around the
Chimgan mountains, punctuated by an occasional chirping of unknown
birds. But the picture was different inside Mahmud Shah's tent. Beardo,
another Arab-looking man, a new arrival, and Mahmud were immersed in
discussing issues which were anything but calming for the nerves.

"Your mission here is to ferret out information about the Soviet
chemical weapons sites in this country," the visitor with a stern face
was saying. "Once you can pinpoint their location, others will take
over. Our information is that the Soviets have left behind large
quantities of chemicals which could spread instantaneous mass
destruction." He paused. Mahmud gave a perfunctory nod to indicate he
understood his mission. But he had questions to ask.

"What kind of chemicals are you looking for?" he asked.

"Preferably VX and sarin." Came the reply.

"What sort of chemicals are these? Can you please throw some light on
these?" said Mahmud.

The Arab laughed silently. The creases on his face, which indicated
considerable experience in life, multiplied. "I could throw an array of
thousand watt halogens, if you like. But time is too short. And you
need not know beyond the basics. It's not necessary." He adjusted his
heavy robe. Beardo intervened. He looked at the latter and said, "If
you allow me to?" "Yes, yes, go ahead. I might as well rest my brains,
been too taxed over the last few weeks." The visitor stretched out on
the floor carpet, propping his head up on one hand in a half-lying
posture.

"There are four basic types of harmful chemicals," said beardo to
Mahmud. There was a touch of a professor to his manner of delivery.
"These are blister, choking, blood and nerve agents."

Mahmud waited to hear more.

"The deadliest of them all is the fourth, the nerve agents. Poison gas
meant for warfare is derived from these. VX and sarin are both nerve
agents. The Germans in World War II had developed a variety of poison
gases. The Aum cult had used a little bit of sarin in the Tokyo subway
that created enough panic a few years ago, as you surely know." Mahmud
nodded. "The Soviets built up tonnes of such chemical agents and
positioned them in various parts of the former USSR. Uzbekistan is
among those depositories."

He paused and stroked his beard. Then he got up. As he walked towards
the samovar to brew some tea, he went on, "The rapid collapse of the
USSR and alacrity with which the former Soviet states declared their
independence, including this country, did not leave time for Moscow to
evacuate all of its weapons. Chaos prevailed everywhere since 1991, as
you know. Neither Moscow nor Tashkent had the money or resources to
spare for their safe disposal. So---they are still available!" He
turned from the samovar and smiled at Mahmud. "In fact, many countries
like Iraq and others have been working overtime to get their hands on
these and other abandoned Soviet weapons. But there's truckloads to
spare."

The Arab, from his half-lying posture, chipped in, "Our needs are
modest," he smiled ironically, "only a few hundred kilos would do."
Mahmud could not suppress his curiosity. "And what do we do with them,
once we get them? I mean, how do we employ them against enemy?" "That's
none of your concern!" barked beardo from his samovar, which was now
making a faint boiling sound that indicated that the tea was almost
ready.

The Arab smiled indulgently. "Okay, okay, we can feed him some tidbits
after all. No harm there. After all, anyone can read up the huge amount
of literature available on the subject." He looked at Mahmud.

"There are many ways to spread panic. Just choose a highly populated
centre like a mega-city. Use aerosol spray of the VX or sarin or
tabun--that's another kiss of death--say, in a crowded discotheque or
restaurant, or a subway, or any other building. These gases are
relatively harmless if you spread them in the open air. They dissipate
and do little damage. But released in enclosures they will help the
target people attain, what's the word you people use in India?--ah yes,
instant nirvana!" He broke out into maniacal laughter. Beardo and
Mahmud laughed too.

Beardo poured steaming chai into big mugs and brought them over. Then
sat down to rejoin the conversation. Mahmud, who had been used to
drinking tea Indian style, with the milk and sugar, had meanwhile got
used to drinking chai Russian and Chinese style, without the works, as
the Americans say. He took a mug, sipped from it, nodded approvingly,
and then asked, "But where do I start my query? How do I go about
finding the location of these chemical dumps?"

The Arab sat up and lifted his mug. He blew into it to cool the
steaming liquid, more out of habit than for real effect, and replied,
"Not to worry. A big reason why we've got you this job is that you will
get in touch with the secret supporters of the Beqaeda among your
co-workers. They would have an inkling about the location part and tip
you off. You will scout the general area and observe the security
system around these dumps. Your cover will help. Once you report back,
through channels which we'll help you set up, our other comrades will
do the rest."

Mahmud thoughtfully took a long sip. "So my undercover job is to
explore and then pinpoint location. Once done, to observe and report on
security there, right?"

"Precisely!" The Arab took three long sips and downed the mug. He
surveyed the bottom of the empty mug, noticed lingering droplets
inside, then overturned the mug a fourth time over his mouth. He then
put it down, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and observed
wryly, "You Indians are good in cottoning on. Let's see now", he turned
his face to beardo, "how good you are in doing practical things."
Beardo chipped in, "This mission will determine your future with
Beqaeda. If you succeed, the Vozhd will hear about it. That means
rewards, from the supremo himself." His voice changed its tenor with
respect. But next moment it was samurai steel. "If you fail", he paused
significantly and looked Mahmud straight in the eye. Well, Mahmud, as
Indian, did not take ages to cotton on!

* * * * *

"Passport nazrat reports that Professor Banerjee's passport, the
laminated photo part, was ninety-nine percent ok," Naidu said. This was
late morning in Tashkent, on the morrow of his last evening's encounter
with the Indian Ambassador. Ray raised his eyebrows questioningly. "The
one percent was a tiny corner on the right corner of the photo. The
green light failed to come through in that bit," Naidu quietly finished
his report.

Over the years the security authorities, worldwide, faced growing
concern that thugs were tampering with passport snaps. In fact, dozens
of sites on the web like espionage-store.com openly offered fake
passports. Your identity remained intact other than your country. You
could overnight become citizen of the British Honduras or
Liechtenstein! For a fee, of course, payable in US dollars.

In earlier times, passport snaps had no lamination over them.
Widespread tampering led to the system of laminating the photos to
discourage such illegal activity. But there were pros among different
gangs pushing narcotics, firearms, funds and what have you. All
illegal, of course. These pros had found a way around the lamination
problem. So Ram could assume Shyam's identity by substituting his photo
on Shyam's passport. To counter this menace, government experts started
operating a special scanner. Subjected to the machine, it would check
the photo and its lamination.

The original lamination would give off a green light. But if the light
was anything else but green, that was taken to be foul play with the
photo underneath. Indeed, more advanced systems operated by the USA or
Germany had long started the use of holograms which would be almost
impossible to tamper with and go undetected. But this was Tashkent, not
Washington or Berlin. And Tashkent was still at the green light
stage.

In fact, ever since the terrorist hullabaloo following 11 September and
Uzbek President Islam Karimov's decision to play host to US forces, the
10th. Mountain from Fort Drum and other, smaller covert units, Tashkent
had stepped up security at the airports of the landlocked
country.

There was a double passport nazrat or checking. As incoming passengers
from a flight entered the terminal building heading forward, a single
person, usually a tall lady with flowing white silken robe, would be
found standing at a pulpit facing them. The long dark wooden pulpit
which faced her stood centrally in the wide passageway, leaving enough
room on either side to passengers to bypass it, if they wished to. But
none wished it, they sensed unknown danger in doing so. So they
inevitably halted in front of the lady and her pulpit. She merely
demanded to see the passport. The passport then disappeared on the
other side of the pulpit. Through her horn-rimmed golden frame and
meticulously clean lenses of her spects, the lady coolly took her time
examining, what the passenger could only guess, his passport. Possibly
the green lighter was at play here, possibly not. She would ask one
question only if the passport was in order. "Where are you going to
stay?" She would speak in Russian. A plainclothes man, who looked like
any other passenger in the crowd, stood in front of the pulpit,
interpreted in English.

Once the air traveller went past the lady, with his passport back in
his hand and a carryon on his other hand, he would have to face other
normal formalities like filling up a Customs declaration form, in
duplicate, and without the help of a carbon paper in between. That
already indicated the Third World state of the country as did the
vintage, cheap paper of the forms, with entries in Russian and English.
The Russian part was a carry over from the Soviet past. But plans are
underway to change from the Cyrillic script to Latin.

The unusual thing, however, was that he had to subject himself to a
second passport nazrat. This time it was a regular uniformed police
check, again usually blondes who could do better justice to hot pants
rather than their regulation green uniform. Two such female police
officers manned two windows. Each handled a queue. Here, like elsewhere
in airports worldwide, you had to clear them before you were allowed to
go past their boxlike office though a narrowed down passage. Nair's
report evidently stemmed from one of these two passport nazrat
points.

"Hm," that little bit, however millimetric, was reason enough to be
suspicious, thought Ray. He looked at Naidu. The PA evidently was on
the same wave-length, his steady stare at his boss said so.

"So why didn't the nazrat stop the professor? And make a more thorough
investigation? What did they have to say?"

"Well, Sir, my contact said Passport Control chose to overlook that
tiny blemish since the professor was your guest. They also have,
frankly speaking, as much of a 'high' opinion of Indian efficiency as
we have about their's. So they probably decided to overlook the tiny
error." Naidu hoped this frank statement did not upset His Excellency.
"Your sponsor letter and its reference number, the visa from New
Delhi--everything else was in order. The nazrat ran a quick computer
check too. Your invitation and the number were confirmed." Replied
Naidu in his quiet monotone. "So they decided to let him go."

"Huh," laughed His Excellency. " I can well imagine. You forgot to add
that Bollywood and Raj Kapoor have created such an image of our dear
country here that the Uzbeks probably would turn a Nelson's eye even if
they saw an Indian commit murder!"

Naidu revealed a constipated smile, for he rarely smiled or showed any
emotion. "That's right, Sir. These people are blindly crazy about
Indians. They probably think all of us come straight from Mumbai's film
studios."

Ray gave a slight nod in agreement. It was also a nod of dismissal. As
Naidu rose from his chair to go, Ray said, "Keep me posted, Naidu. We
must find him, and find him fast. I just hope no harm has come to him."
He turned in his swivel chair. "After all, he's a long time friend. A
very good friend indeed. A bit ivory tower alright, little practical
experience but honest and a dedicated scholar. The chap's married to
libraries, books and nowadays the net. India needs dedicated people
like him. We simply cannot afford to lose him." Naidu nodded
slowly.

"Keep in constant touch with the SNB. Tell them I'm taking personal
interest in the case. Professor Joy Banerjee must be found."

* * * * *

Broadway. It was past 10 p.m. But it was summer in Tashkent. Crowds
thronged at the numerous stalls. Roadside open-air cafes and other
kiosks dotted either side of the wide boulevard. Emir Timur on
horseback gazed benevolently from across the main thouroughfare named
after him which cut off the Broadway at right angles. Cars were still
plying along that road. It was weekend, a Sunday.

But in that matchbox building at the other end of Broadway, it was
routine work. There was no such thing called Sunday for everyone who
worked for the SNB. The agents and employees in that secret service
building worked 24/7 by rotation.

"We've left no stone unturned, Naidu," said the SNB man in his
comfortable office with doors closed and walls sound-proofed and
bug-free. "But the mass of info which we have gathered on every Indian
passenger arriving by air that night here has been pretty low-grade
ore."

Naidu had no difficulty by now understanding the heavily accented
English; he'd been working closely with his SNB counterparts for quite
a while on a number of issues focusing on terrorism. They had, in fact,
even become somewhat fond of each other, enough to drop addressing each
other as Mister.

"Did you get any piece which might be worth a probe? However
unpromising it might appear to be?" asked Naidu. There was a trace of
desperation in his voice. His boss wanted quick results. He had to come
up with something next morning at the embassy.

"Well, Banerjee is a professor, right?" SNB sought confirmation which
Nair readily gave. "His passport says his profession is teaching,
according to the passport control's computer." SNB paused, considering
whether it was worth parting with the next piece of information that
Naidu might secretly laugh off. He quickly decided to go ahead. After
all, Naidu looked like a drowning man ready to clutch at the last
straw.

"My assistants have made a thorough search of recent Indian activities
in our land, including teaching." Naidu looked up, interested. "There's
a new Indian arrival who's started teaching at a madrassa in Bokhara,"
said SNB, sat back in his chair and fixed his gaze upon Nair's
face.

That deflated the IB agent. A Professor of International Relations, a
modern subject much en vogue, and from a university in a megapolis like
Kolkata was hardly likely to start teaching in a madrassa, a seat of
traditional Islamic learning! Of course, Naidu quickly corrected
himself, this was Uzbekistan. A modern, liberal open society, if not
politically open then surely culturally. Unlike Pakistan, Indian movies
were not only not banned but were allowed to spread influence
here.

The Uzbeks cared two hoots about conservatism. They ate pork, drank
wine, and their men and women danced on the slightest pretext. The
Russian communists, after all, had done some good to open them up. So
not all madrassas confined themselves to teaching religious texts. What
Musharraf of Pakistan, no doubt under US and international pressure,
had promised to reform on 12 January, Uzbekistan had done it long ago.
Not all the madrassas here taught religion; quite a few offered also
modern subjects like the physical and social sciences.

* * * * *

"But you are here to look after needs of our guest", beardo was talking
to Zilola outside tent number three in the Chimgan wilderness. "You
can't leave for home now. Wait till the time he leaves."

The young and beautiful Tajik girl in her late teens looked up at the
tall figure in her front with pleading eyes. "Please, it's just a
matter of half a day. And in any case Idris will go to the bazar down
there." She pointed to the valley below. "My younger sister's madrassa
will open tomorrow. My mother is bed-ridden. She needs medicine. By now
she must have run out of stock. Only I can get the medicine to her. If
I am not at hand, they wouldn't know what to do. My sister is too young
to do things all by herself. Both need my presence badly." She knelt
down to emphasise the urgency of her plea. "Please, in the name of
Allah, let me go for this short while. I promise I shall be back before
the day is out."

Beardo looked at her with suspicious eyes. He considered. Then gave his
decision. "Alright. You may take off for a short while with Idris."
Zilola understood.

The Beqaeda did not trust anyone outside its fold. She had taken up the
job of a maid here through her village contact. Her family was poor.
She badly needed to help out with money. But on this trip back to her
village she would be chaperoned, her every move watched. Idris would
also ensure her return and in time. She had no choice. Any sign of
defiance or attempt to escape from her 'service' with Beqaeda would be
like signing her own death warrant. At least she was permitted to be
absent, though for a short time. She had to somehow accomplish her real
objective within that short period and get past Idris's nazrat.

A few minutes later she left in a beatup truck driven by Idris. They
headed downhill for her village which was ensconced on the edge of the
Chimgan forests. She headed for the only apothecary located in the
next, bigger village first, bought the medicines under Idris's watchful
eyes, then went home. After the initial warm greetings from her mother
and sister were over, again under Idris's suspicious eyes, she handed
over the medicines and set about organising her sisters school
bag.

Idris, by now a bit bored by feminine chit chat, walked out of the
tiny, modest house and stood at the door, surveying the village scene
outside. Signs of poverty everywhere. Well, what else do you expect in
this god-forsaken region where there was nothing but lots of
wilderness, yet to be commercially exploited. The villagers still
partly lived the life which their forefathers had lived in Timur's
times, reflected the robust Afghan. It was pretty much the same picture
in his country, now grown worse due to the war. His adrenaline pumped
at the thought of the relentless bombing by the Americans and even by
the British with their cruise missiles launched from submarines.
Cowards, fighting from safe havens. One-to-one the Yanks or the limeys
were no match for the Beqaeda fighters.

Well, the Beqaeda was paying back alright. It bombed to bits a
synagogue in Djerba, a tourist spot, said a recent news report from
Tunis. And Al Jazeera TV, Qatar's CNN, had just broadcast a
spine-chilling message for the benefit of the Yanks. Osama bin Laden's
spokesman had sent an audio tape which Jazeera broadcast over its
network. It stated that the Vozhd was hale and hearty, so all Western
attempts to find him had failed. The Vozhd had promised fresh attacks,
soon, on US targets which Bush or Rumsfeld would never expect! Idris
inhaled deeply with satisfaction.

The girl was taking her sweet time. He looked at his watch. About time
to go. This was the problem with women. Once you have two women
together, they would never cease talking. And here you had three! He
had read somewhere that the female vocal chord was longer than male
ones, that accounted for long long female gossip. Gossip about such
trivia that could make a fighter like him scurry for cover! He was more
scared of feminine gibberish than Yankee bombs, to be honest in the
name of the Prophet.
"Ok Zili, time up. Let's go!" he hollered.

"Coming," shouted Zilola back at him. She emerged about a minute later
in a hurry, amid a lot of suppressed sobs also emanating from inside
the small house. Idirs chose to ignore it and climbed back to the
driver's seat. Zilola took the other front seat as usual. But as Idris
turned the ignition key, she seemed to suddenly remember.

"Oh, dear brother Idris, just one more thing, please," she said. "What
again?" Idris cast a suspicious glance at his beautiful companion. "I
just need to shoot off a short message, an email to a close friend.
He's researching Islamic history. Couldn't find a particular piece of
information. But I have it, thanks to my grandpa's old books. Just a
few lines on the net and we'll turn back to Chimgan."

Young, innocent beauty! An earnest plea from her would even melt
granite. Idris was tough Beqaeda but was not altogether blind to
beauty, especially a blooming rose from Tajikistan. Even though that
country was an enemy, this rose was harmless, in full bloom, and so
innocent with youth. And all she wanted to deal with is harmless
Islamic history. Idris knew very little of that and even less of
Arabic, the original language of the Quran, even though he was a
fanatic believer of Islam. So feminine charm and religious faith worked
on him.

"Alright." He remarked rather reluctantly though. "But where is a
cybercafe here? Your village doesn't even have a decent medicine shop",
he growled outwardly, seemingly not much moved. "Oh, there's one in the
next village, next to the apothecary where I got my ma's meds." Idris
did not waste any more time but turned the truck towards that village
again. He parked it in front of the cybercafe. A few vendors were
squatting by the roadside peddling their wares. Zilola and Idris walked
into the world of net freaks. The modern facets of Uzbekistan were by
Soviet courtesy.

Zilola sat down at an empty station. She opened the Internet Explorer
browser. She typed Fatma's email address under the watchful eyes of
Idris standing behind her. She then took her mouse to the on-screen
Compose area and typed the following message:

Subject:The Kahuna's Hijra

Meccans gave the prophet no help, despondency all around, only strong
faith in the Supreme Lord, and abilities of his daughter, saw him
through. A companion cried, "Eli, Eli,Lama Sabaktani!"
I think you were looking for these original words?".

"Finish, quick!" growled Idris impatiently.
Zilola speeded up. "Significant, ponder?". She could not finish the
sentence.
A strong hand seized the mouse, Idris's hand, but just on the verge of
releasing it Zilola managed to click Send.

"Kirtik! Let's go!" growled Idirs. "We're already late. You can do your
lousy history stuff later," Idris grumbled as he stormed out of the
cybercafe. Zilola threw some soums on the table of the manager, who
flashed a smile of familiarity at her, noticed her hulking Afghan
companion and her hurried exit with wonder. He had never seen her with
any male companions during her many past visits. Well, he shrugged,
girls do tend to acquire boyfriends, nothing unusual in that. Only her
companion seemed annoyed and overbearing. Anxiety had been written all
over her attractive face. He knew Zilola had found a job somewhere in
the Chimgan region and wondered what sort of a job that might be.

Zilola ran behind Idris who was already starting the beatup.

* * * * *

"Hello there," typed Fatma.
"Hi," came Suparna's reply over the Messenger.
"U know somefin?" Fatma, who used internet lingo was tonight specially
concerned to get her message across to Suparna as fast as
possible.
"I got a cryptic msg. today, from unknown person."
"What kind?" Suparna typed.
Fatma gave her the entire message verbatim, typing each word now slowly
and carefully to avoid errors. "Can't really figure out why this old
Islamic piece, and for me, and from stranger," she added at the end of
the message which had come from Zilola.
"U R Muslim. If you can't make out, then I'm out in the seven seas!"
remarked Suparna.
"But please think it over. It looks like an urgent msg. Seems like a
plea for help. Context is the Hijra. U know it?"
"No."
"Hijra is flight of the Prophet. From Mecca. So urgency there," typed
Fatma. "The Arabic is old. I got it encrypted from a scholar. Local
mosque." She pressed Send on her PC. Then typed again, "But what is
Kahuna? That's no Arabic or Turkish or any languages that I know. Is it
Indian?" she asked.
Suparna pondered. "No, it's none of Indian langgs." Kahuna?kahuna? A
distant bell rang somewhere in the depths of her cerebrum.
"Wait. Probably Hawaiian!"
"Hawaiian?" Fatma was all wonder.
"Yes. Sir had visited Hawaii. Some conference. Upon return, he talked
of his experience there. Taught us some Hawaiian terms like aloha etc.
Kahuna, now I remember, means preacher, respected priest. Like your
Imam."
"Aha." Fatma rapidly made a mental search for any hidden meaning.
Nobody would mix old Arabic with Hawaiian. And the Subject line of the
email said, 'Kahuna's Hijra'. It could be taken to mean preacher's
flight. In other words, if this was Joy's message, it meant that the
preacher, or professor in modern times, wanted to talk about his Hijra
or escape. The historical part and use of old Arabic, probably taken
from a book, was just a cover, a code. That meant somebody was
monitoring and Joy knew it. Using a code from Islam passed censorship!
And who would pass it? Muslims, of course! But not the average Muslim
but a fundamentalist zealot. And why the need for such elaborate cover
and code? Obviously to hide the real message. But from whom? The answer
to that question would have to wait.
She explained the gist of her thought to Suparna. Suparna agreed that
Fatma could be correct, her reasoning was solid.
What does that part mean, Eli, Eli??" asked Suparna.
Means 'oh my God, oh my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?' Emergency
again, see! Also another thing. The sender broke off in the middle of a
sentence. Abrupt ending! Must have been interrupted by someone not too
friendly," observed Fatma.
"Correct," replied Suparna.
"Looks like it. Hey, as I chat with you, I am rethinking the whole
thing, and I seem to get another ray of light."
"Really? Please tell me what you make of it."
"My name is Fatma. Name of the Prophet's daughter. A 'preacher'
appealing to Prophet's daughter for help. She had succeeded in helping
her papa. So this appeal for rescue! Hey, it has to be Joy! Even if
it's a remote chance I can't rule it out. Because there is nothing
else, no other lead on him. Or meaning to that strange email. He must
have somehow managed to slip out that msg., either himself or via
someone else. I have a strong sixth sense. It says it was Joy. His SOS!
He's in trouble, my good friend is." Fatma stabbed on the Send button
and continued pouring out her train of thought.
She grew excited as that particular current of thought flooded her
mind. "Su, I'm going all out to find whether it was Joy."
"Su, I know enough tweaks to trace the source, the PC which sent that
msg. Must turn to that task, right now."
"Good show. Hope it leads to something about Sir. Let me know your
findings. I shall personally contact the Ambassador. Remember, I told
you I had met him at our university reunion?"
Yes. If I can trace that PC I shall let you know. And you tell the
Ambassador. Could be worth a probe."
"Ok, g'nite!"
"C U."
Fatma logged out of the MSN Messenger and immediately initiated the
process of tracking down the source of that message. The 1.6 gigahertz
Pentium 4 processor of her computer went to work with the speed of a
Grand Prix Porsche. Its ISDN status ensured smooth and rapid web
surfing.

There are numerous websites which help track down the Internet Protocol
or IP address of a computer which had ever connected to the net. Fatma
began by clicking on the Properties tab of the cryptic email. The tab
opened a log of information on the transaction, including the IP number
of the source computer, the 'path' of the message and so on.

The ISP servers, to be sure, normally assign an IP address
'dynamically', meaning changing its number. An IP address would look
like this: 203.401.56.379. Gibberish to the layman. But 'dynamic' or
not, hackers are experts in ferreting out many details from such meagre
and apparently nonsensical data. Fatma know very well exactly which set
of digits was critical. She picked them up after going over the
Properties of Zilola's email meticulously. There were dozens of sites,
e.g., www.privacy.net or network-tools.com ready to help proceed
further on the basis of just those selected digits and other,
collateral data obtained from Properties.

Tracking down cookies left inside a PC which connected to a website was
also another way of tracing details of a PC and its users. Passwords
and other standard security precautions designed to ensure privacy were
often of as much help as a dripping tap to a wild forest fire when
experts begin hacking. Fatma's expertise with PC tweaks was now coming
in handy.

* * * * *

Just after lunch hour next day, Naidu reported to the Ambassador.
He informed his boss of the new Indian teacher in a madrassa and his
name was Joy Banerjee according to SNB records. Nair added that some
madrassas did offer modern subjects, and that this one was one of
them.

Ray's thoughts were running like a super-express train. First, it would
be strange, to put it mildly, that Joy would suddenly abandon his
programme with Ray and take up a teaching assignment in a madrassa. The
professor was slated to deliver a few lectures at Tashkent University.
Ray had fixed that. Why did he suddenly choose a madrassa instead,
assuming this was the same Joy Banerjee, his friend? Why didn't he
bother to inform Ray of this? What was his hurry when he made that
brief call? And, in the first place, why did he disappear from the
airport? Naidu had found out that Professor Joy Banerjee had indeed
landed there, though with a passport that was not a hundred percent
above board.

But the latest bit of information in his email inbox simply added to
the enigma. This was from a certain Suparna, from Switzerland. As he
read her mail, Ray remembered the attractive young lady from the
university reunion in Kolkata. Joy had introduced her. She had taken an
active part in organising the event. Suparna had also performed a
tantalising kathak dance on the stage. So Ray remembered her well
enough but did not know till now that she was meanwhile married and
living with her husband in Switzerland.

Suparna had introduced herself in her email and then given him details
of the message which had reached Fatma. She had also taken care to add
Fatma's interpretation that the message had been from Joy. Mitter was
already familiar with Fatma's name. He had received her query a few
days ago on the whereabouts of her epal, Joy. But since he himself did
not have the ghost of an idea, the itinerary for Joy stood null and
void. So he had asked his social secretary, an efficient Uzbek lady, to
give one of those perfunctory replies which said nothing. The Indian
bureaucracy excelled in this kind of exercise in composition.

But this time it was different. At first glance the reported
interpretation of Joy's Turkish epal seemed removed from reality. But,
then, Ray pondered, the entire episode around Joy looked like a bad
dream and yet was very much reality. Fact is stranger than fiction and
all that. Ray had faced many apparently unbelievable situations in his
long career in the Foreign Service. But this one surpassed all in
absurdity. It was a riddle wrapped in a puzzle in an enigmatic
Daedalus, to improve upon Churchill's description of the Soviet
Union.

Suparna said in her mail that Fatma had tracked down the originating
PC, had uncovered its IP address and from it the location. The PC was
probably located in one of the villages at the edge of the Chimgan
mountains. Fatma had consulted web maps and supplied the approximate
coordinates of the location.

Ray took Naidu into confidence on this latest development. Then he
ordered him to quickly find out the most probable villages around those
coordinates. Naidu promptly left after jotting down the geographical
data in his notebook.

In half an hour Naidu was back with his usual spooky style
walk-in.

Ray looked up from his heavy mahogony table. "Well?" he asked.

"Chaturvedi and myself have got a fix on the large-scale map. Cybercafe
listing in the phone book shows only one within our area of search.
It's here," he pointed a finger on a standard wall map of Uzbekistan.
Ray squinted his eyes from his seat, took several seconds to memorise
the location, then barked, "Get the SNB. Tell them it's an
investigation where we need them."

"Rightaway, Sir", Naidu picked up the phone in his unhurried fashion.
Ray put down his Mont Blanc, shoved the stack of papers on the table to
one side, put Suparna's email printout in front and waited.

* * * * *

In the third tent at Chimgan, Zilola brought in a plate of plov,
shashlik and large Samarqand bread with lots of fresh salad. The sole
man inside was sitting on his bed, reading as usual. He laid down his
book and looked up. Outside, the big Afghan with the hidden Makarov
squatted in the grass. He had already finished his lunch and belched
periodically with satisfaction. Zilola did cook well. It was lucky to
have that Tajik beauty in this godforsaken camp. But his ears were
alert. Years of training and living in hideouts had particularly
sharpened his sensory organs, especially eyes and ears. To give
stealthily approaching British and American commandos the slip in the
mountains of Tora Bora you needed such animal instincts and
senses.

It is a freak of nature that low volume talk can be heard less by the
human ear at a distance than whisper. Lack of this basic knowledge had
led to innumerable disasters for novice spies. As she placed the
platters with food on a corner of the bed, Zilola murmured something in
broken English. The man slowly lifted his face. "Bolshoe spacebo," he
thanked her at the same low frequency and turned to his meal. Zilola
flashed a lightning smile that would send any male heart on fire,
brushed her hair aside with her hand a la her favourite Bollywood
heroine Preity Zinta, then with a heart-wrenching parting look that
would evoke Cupid's jealousy, hurried out of the tent.

The giant sitting outside in the grass and enjoying the cool Chimgan
breeze in the mild sunshine looked at her departing figure and sighed.
One night with her, just one night, would be a dream! Only, beardo and
the hard core Beqaeda Arab would simply kill him. He had no ambition to
bid goodbye to mother earth over a female. The surest road to behest
was to die battling the enemy, not bedding a woman!

* * * * *

"We'd like to talk to your new Indian appointee, Professor, er,
J.Banerjee," said the stout looking man with pock-marked face. The
Imam, or principal, of the madrassa in Bokhara looked up from his desk.
His bald head was a miniature of the dome-shaped roof overhead. Domes
were everywhere in Bokhara. They helped cool down the interiors when
the heat climbed the thermometer with alacrity in the summer. Along
with the Uzbek who was talking, there stood, slightly behind him, two
gentlemen who looked distinctly South Asian.

The Imam, serious-faced even while relaxing with his wife, replied,
"He's taking a class now." His reply and body language were both
indicative of dismissal.

"This is urgent," insisted the stout man.

"This is a madrassa. When a teacher gives lessons here, the whole world
waits till he finishes," said the Imam from his desk with a patronising
smile playing about his lips.

His interlocutor let out a short sigh, reached inside his jacket and
fished out a plastic card, with his photo on it. He flashed it in front
of the Imam's nose.

SNB! The latter-day reincarnation of the dreaded Uzbek KGB!

The Imam quickly swallowed his smile and said, in a completely
different, pliant tone, "Of course, of course! I didn't know you were
from?", he left the sentence hanging in mid-air and hurried past the
three visitors, gesturing them to follow. The three expressionless
faces followed him along narrow corridors which seemed to have had only
a nodding acquaintance with sunlight. But geometrically elegant Kufi
and cursive Nasafi citations from the Holy Quran on the walls were
discernible in the semi-darkness. The sun icons outside the building
were a testimony to Uzbekistan's fifth century Zoroastrianism. Islamic
architecture two centuries later some times blended marvellously with
the pre-Islamic art and architecture, especially in Shia monuments. But
the men rushing down the corridor had little time to admire the marvels
of the City of Domes. They had other things on their mind.

There were a number of rooms on either side of the corridor. They
marched past, took a left, then a right, and ultimately their guide
halted in front of a room.

Its doors were closed. A voice was faintly audible from inside. A
lecture seemed to be going on.

The Imam knocked, then opened the door, looked inside and gestured
silently to someone. In a moment Professor Banerjee emerged. He had a
questioning look on his face. The Imam just put his head inside the
classroom and shouted to the students sitting in a very disciplined
fashion, "Just a few moments. Your teacher will be back. You just
wait."

The stout Uzbek stepped forward.

"Professor Joy Banerjee?" slowly and distinctly he pronounced the
unfamiliar name.

The professor nodded agreement.

He looked at the two Indians standing on either side of the SNB officer
but gave no indication of recognition. Ray intently gazed at Banerjee.
Naidu, as usual, was expressionless but taking in everything,
especially registering Banerjee's blank look. Banerjee and the
ambassador were supposed to have been university friends. Right now
Banerjee was in this land because Ray had sponsored his visit.

Suddenly recognition flashed through his Intelligence Bureau-trained
mind. He had seen Banerjee before. Where?

Oh yes, at the Tashkent airport that night when he and Zailuddin had
gone to pick up the professor. This man with distinctly Indian looks
had rushed past him. And then had come the announcement over the
airport PA system that Banerjee was not going to be available
immediately. So, this was Professor Joy Banerjee.

But what is he up to? What stops him from greeting his old friend and
visa sponsor, not to speak of his mysterious disappearance and then
teaching here, leaving everyone in the dark?

SNB smiled. When the SNB smiles in a situation like this, it actually
conveys an attitude exactly opposite of what a smile is supposed to
convey.

"Won't you greet your old friend, His Excellency, the Ambassador of
your country?" he asked pleasantly.

"So you are Professor Joy Banerjee?" Ray now took over. "Where do you
work in India? And what do you teach there?" Ray had difficulty
controlling his queries tending to gush out.

"I am attached to the International Relations Department. That's in
Jadavpur University, Calcutta."

"Aha, I see. And you are teaching Mughal history here, I gather!"
Mitter was sarcastic. "You are supposed to be a Brahmin. And a Brahmin
is supposed to be twice-born, dwija. But you seem to be a thrice-born.
A 'trija' perhaps?" His mouth tightened.
"You are not Professor Joy Banerjee. I don't know you at all. Either
you have undergone a terrific plastic surgery that ought to enter the
Guinness Book, or my eyes are missing."

That was enough for Badruddin. He moved towards the fake Joy
Banerjee.
"Arrest him, Mr. Badruddin!" barked the Ambassador.

Mahmud Shah had faced many tight corners in life. His right hand
swiftly went into his trouser pocket. A Makarov appeared the next
second in his hand.

But SNB was already prepared. And reacted even faster. Before Shah
could raise the Makarov Badruddin twisted slightly to his right, at the
same time delivering a karate chop with the hardened edge of his left
palm at 200 miles per hour at right angles to Mahmud's hand. Pain shot
through Mahmud's entire right arm. The Makarov fell noiselessly on the
corridor carpet.

"Professors don't carry guns, dear friend," said SNB as he twisted
Mahmud's arm behind his back with lightning speed till he cried out in
pain. With his free hand Badruddin took out a pair of manacles from his
jacket pocket. With a helping hand from his IB counterpart, he put them
on Mahmud's wrists, now twisted behind his back, and snapped them to.
Then he produced his own artillery, a no-nonsense Luger and trained it
on Mahmud. "Both of you", he firmly indicated to the Imam, who was
already shaking, "come. We have questions to ask."

He gave Mahmud not too gentle a shove and led the others out of the
darkish corridors of the madrassa building into sunshine outside and
the waiting civilian-looking SNB auto.

* * * * *

Broadway. SNB headquarters.

It was night, well past any usual dinner time, anywhere.

But the 'meal' being served in this room on the second floor of the
building was not usual.

The small room with its single door firmly shut had a solitary powerful
table lamp with a long shade. Its concentrated light focused entirely
on the face of a man bound by steel contraptions, hand and foot, to a
heavy iron stool. The rest of the room was as dark as a widow's weeds.
The focused beam seemed to penetrate all the delicate parts of the
eyes, even if they were shut. Mahmud's vitreous humour burned. His
sclera, and the retina behind them all felt like being toasted over an
electric oven. But once his eyes adjusted, Mahmud Shah, despite the
blinding glare of the incandescent filament, could still discern, very
faintly, two apparitions in front.

Mahmud was sweating, his hair in disarray, his blouse in a shambles,
creased in wrong places and with several buttons missing, his face a
glowing red showing hypertension in every pore.

A voice boomed from the dark, "So you will tell us nothing?"

Pure silence greeted Badruddin. The SNB officer slightly nodded. Mahmud
felt a sharp pain shooting up from his medula oblongata. An SNB
assistant pushed a screw driver into the hollow of the medula. And held
it there with steady pressure while slowly twisting it.

Mahmud bit his lips to prevent himself from crying out loud. This was
expected. During his training in the mountains of Pakistani camps and
in Afghanistan he had been told by his trainer that he could expect
this sort of torture if caught. Inshallah! He would counter that pain
by paining himself elsewhere, by biting his lower lip till it bled. The
body, he knew, had a limit to take physical punishment. After a certain
threshold, the consciousness switches off automatically. One faints
mercifully. He was mentally prepared to take any punishment, however
gruesome. He believed in the cause al Beqaeda was fighting for.

Naidu watched his reaction along with Badruddin from the shadows. He
could not but feel a tinge of admiration for the fanatical faith which
gave Mahmud, the impersonator, psychic strength to withstand torture.
These al Beqaedas were a class apart from ordinary mercenaries or even
regular soldiers. Their zeal was the source of their strength. Freedom
fighters in India also showed similar morale, though branded as
'terrorists' by the British rulers. It was extremely hard to draw a
clear line between a terrorist and a convinced freedom fighter, he
reflected.

Badruddin watched with calculated imperturbability. He and his
assistants could not make Mahmud open his mouth despite the routine
third degree they administered. Even his favourite and more effective
medula treatment, which had cracked many others earlier, obviously
failed.

The man from behind Mahmud, who held the screwdriver, silently walked
around the edge of the concentrated light, keeping well to the shadows,
and whispered something into his boss's ears.

Badruddin gave his nod. "Yes", he whispered back. "I want it right
now."

Naidu discreetly asked, "What's next?"

In reply, Badruddin stood up from his chair and signalled Naidu to
follow him.

Silently they walked down an empty corridor and into a larger, more
pleasant and well-lit room.

Ambassador Ray looked up.

"Your Excellency," said Badruddin, "he'll soon break. He'll start
singing like a bird."

The IB agent was more sceptical. "Well, he's shown no sign of opening
his mouth so far, despite what you've done to him," he observed.

"Ha, ha, ha", laughed SNB. "You Indians, pardon my saying so Your
Excellency, are aeons back in handling these loonies, the fundoos--ah,
that's what we call the fundamentalists." Badruddin explained, "The KGB
had trained us in the methodology of cracking hard nuts and they do
these things rather well, I must admit. You'll soon see. Somehow, they
seemed to use Marxist dialectics even in their--er--method, shall we
say, of asking questions."

Ray asked, "How do you mean, using dialectics in torture?"

"Torture is too strong a word, Sir. Interrogation is the word we
prefer. But that's besides the point. --Dialectics is the interplay of
opposites, right?"
Both the Indians nodded. There were enough communists in India who made
a living out of lecturing at street junctions and universities and
spread their ideology in their own media to make it impossible not to
know what dialectics was. But how did it connect to torture?

Badruddin turned a professor now, not without satisfaction. Let his
Indian friends learn from the SNB.

"The subject's--that's Shah--blood pressure is very high right now.
We've deliberately subjected him to third degree to achieve this. Now
we're going to administer a truth serum into his body."

IB's Naidu was immediately interested. "What kind of truth serum?" Ray
did not speak. He just listened. This was all spook talk for him.

"The American FBI has been cooperating with us for months now, as you
know. They've given us a whole apothecary of drugs, including
mind-altering ones. We'll now use thiopental. It's comparable to
benzodiazepine. In other words, high-power sedatives. It will take all
the pain and anxiety of the subject out, and soothe his nerves fast.
With the right dosage, we might help him even achieve euphoria, a great
deal of elation. Over nothing of course!" Badruddin laughed at his own
joke.

"The sudden switchover from high anxiety and high BP to an opposite
state of mind works miracles. Trust me! Not even the toughest nut--and
I mean it in both senses of the word, literal and slang, can withstand
this combined treatment of opposites. That is the dialectics of
our--er--interrogation. All his resistance will evaporate, all mental
doors will open up like magic. He'll sing alright."

"If his heart doesn't stop beating from the shock of the sudden
change," observed Naidu wryly."We must take chances, dear man," pat
came Badruddin's repartee.

Naidu asked a final question, "How much time do we have to get
information out of him before he comes back to his senses?"

"It varies between ten and thirty minutes, depending on several
parameters like the subject's health, etc. But even fifteen or twenty
minutes will be enough to wring out the truth. My assistants are
experts in that."

Badruddin looked at his heavy Soviet military Kommandarski watch. He
sprang up from the sofa. "Come, Naidu, let's go. My men have already
injected him, I think." He turned to the Ambassador. "Excuse us, Sir,"
he said. Ray gave him half a smile and nodded.

* * * * *

The big man with the Makarov pricked up his ears. There was sound, not
nature's but man-made. Not the routine sound of the little tent
community but whine of machine from a great distance blown in by Kazakh
winds.

He stepped outside the third tent. Inside, Zilola was serving the other
man kaymak, the milk-based breakfast of the Uighurs, pancakes which she
had baked and melons she had handpicked from the nearby forest.

The motor whine--it was increasingly sounding like several whines--was
slowly but steadily intensifying. The man outside the third tent
trained his powerful Zeiss binoculars slung along his neck on the
direction of the sound. It came from the valley below. It had to come
from the single winding road clearly visible as a whitish ribbon lying
amidst the wide green landscape below. He adjusted the resolution of
the Zeiss. That brought three vehicles closer to view. Two jeeps
advancing. A truck bringing up the rear. Police, or the military, no
doubt. Had they got wind of the al Beqaeda presence here? But there was
no time to think about that.

He gave out an alarm signal. Beardo and the Arab emerged from their
tents, beardo still holding on to a bomb-making manual in his hand.
Silently, they followed the direction of the Zeiss. Then took turns at
the Zeiss and got a good look at the approaching vehicles which by now
they could see more distinctly. While the jeeps were civilian, which
probably meant the SNB, the truck was unmistakably military. That meant
troops. Their refuge was blown. How? But they shook off the how part.
It's giving the slip, or fighting it out to the bitter end against a
numerically overwhelming enemy,that engaged their immediate
attention.

"Zilola!" barked the Arab, "you and the professor stay put. Don't come
out. We got company," he ordered. With a few words of hurried
consultation the three men separated and took up strategic positions on
the hill top. The topography was the single factor in their favour. The
nozzles of an LMG and two AK-47 assault rifles lay ready, hidden in
grass, pointing to this end of the mountain road from three different
directions. The trio lay down spreadeagled among the grass and wild
bushes. They were barely visible. Their truck was already hidden behind
the tents.

As the vehicles, now their motors roaring with the extra effort of
climbing uphill, came within naked vision, the sound of an explosion
rent the peace and quiet of the Chimgan apart. A rifle grenade had
missed the tents and exploded nearby. Another came with a distinct
swish, flew overhead, exploded and demolished in an instant tent
two.

The Beqaeda men lobbed hand grenades as troops started alighting from
the truck and the two jeeps. One of the grenades caught a trooper and
shred him instantly into pieces. The LMG and the 47s opened up. But
several machine guns started firing back in reply. Rifle grenades came
hurling towards the hilltop and exploded in unpredictable areas. Some
bushes were already on fire. They kept coming and exploding, covering
individually and together ever-widening areas. The single LMG and the
two 47s were no match for the overwhelming combined firepower of the
SNB and the army. Obviously it was an unequal battle. It was a matter
of time, reflected all three lying on the hilltop and firing away, till
ammo would run out. It was time to do some real fast thinking on the
future, the future five minutes! The troopers in camouflage uniform
were already zigzagging uphill under murderous covering fire and taking
advantage of wild growths, bushes and trees to hide their
progress.

Even without seeing them constantly, the three experienced fighters
could sense their tactics only too well. They would have done the same
if they had been on the other side.

"Fetch those two out of the tent. We can always use the professor as
hostage when the SNB surrounds us," barked the Arab while keeping his
gaze fixed over his LMG out in front.

Idris got up and crawled into the third tent offering as low a profile
as possible to the covertly advancing SNB commandos and army
troopers.

He was about to order the two out when he stopped in his tracks.
Neither Zilola nor the professor was there. He immediately looked at
the back portion of the tent. Yes, there was a long vertical slash in
its thick cloth. So, the two had escaped and were probably heading down
the rear of the hillock at this very moment. He crawled half out of the
entrance and hollered amidst bursts of gunfire sound, "The birds
escaped. I'm going after them." Both Beardo and the Arab, busy firing
bursts from their guns at the shrubs and trees ahead of them, nodded
briefly. "Kill them", said the Arab to Idris and got busy again pulling
the trigger. He had already dispatched two of the enemy, and beardo
one. Still there were short blurs of unmistakable movement in the wild
flora ahead, each a little nearer.

Idris re-entered the tent and quickly exited through its slashed
opening to the rear. He took a second to look around, his senses revved
to maximum alert, found nothing worth investigating, then dropped down
on the grass and amidst the wild bushes behind the tent. Hugging his
tough chapkan he simply rolled down the hillock, his eyes shut, his
jaws locked and his biceps tightly clinging to his sides to protect
against the innumerable thorns as his body went into a violent roll
downhill.

His body came to a halt at a flat terrace. He crouched, with the
Makarov out in his hand. So, Zilola had stabbed us in the back, was
unfaithful. Such are the ways of the zenana, females. He spat silently,
partly out of spite and partly to get a few strains of grass out of his
mouth. He slid behind a tall and big tree and peeked out from behind
it.

Suddenly he spotted the polka dotted scarf of Zilola, receding fast
from view. Silently yet faster, he stalked them like a tiger. There was
no escaping, dear Zilola, he muttered to himself. You've brought death
not only to yourself but also to our guest. Idris was not the type to
wait or negotiate, which hostage-taking brought in its wake. He
believed in meting out swift justice. And justice to him was a neat
bullet hole which he always itched to make on the guilty. By escaping
without permission both the fugitives had condemned themselves.

Idris ran fast, as he was trained to in al Beqaeda's outdoor exercises,
and soon got the two fleeing figures in view. Zilola had turned her
head for a moment and spotted him. She and her companion tried to run
faster. Idris anticipated that. With an extra spurt he got his targets
within the Makarov's range. His eyes calculated, his brain worked
coolly. He had already lined up his artillery with his two hands trying
to hold it steady in the classic combat posture. Then he suddenly
stopped, made a swift, last moment, miniscule adjustment in his aim. He
pulled the trigger.

There was a loud noise, louder than the Makarov's fire. The polka dot
in front fell. So did Idris, with a neat but gaping cavity as large as
a one rupee coin on his left temple.

Lugers don't lie, reflected the SNB commando as he emerged from the
shrubs and bushes and looked at Idris's hulk lying prostrate at his
feet. Blood was oozing out of the hole in his head. The Uzbek assault
team had surrounded the foothill region to block escape of the Beaeda
perched on top.

The commando did not waste time over Idris's motionless body. The big
hole in his temple was guarantee enough that Idris was well on his way
to behest. He ran to Zilola. The professor was holding her in his arms,
silent tears flowing from his eyes, his face contorted in grief.
Despite the severe pain and the descending dark over her eyes, Zilola,
the brave Tajik girl, tried to smile at her companion. She said,
"I--love--you," and with a supreme effort looked him in the eye. He did
not understand her words but instinctively guessed what she meant. He
put down his lips gently to her forehead. The commando, standing near
them, kept a sharp lookout even as he requested parameds into his
walkie-talkie.

Zilola died in the professor's arms.

* * * * *

They congregated in the Ambassador's palatial residence on Tolstoy
Street in the Uzbek capital.

They were all comfortably seated in the large living room, sitting in
deep-sinking, comfortably large sofas. There were an assortment of
various curiosities which adorned the room, objects of unusual interest
which Ray had picked up from the four corners of the earth during his
many postings abroad.

Badruddin was nursing fine Royal Salute, Joy a Martini with a dash of
Tanquerey in it, Naidu had a raised glass of Beefeater inches from his
lips. This was a rare occasion that he accepted alcohol to drink; even
IB agents occasionally felt like celebrating. Ray held a nimboo-pani on
his lap. He was teetotaller.

"Let's begin at the beginning," began Ray. "Joy, you tell us what
happened. Why did you disappear? And how did that bugger," Ray liked to
vent negative emotions through profanities in intimate circles, "Mahmud
Shah get hold of your passport?"

Badruddin intervened before Joy could open his mouth. "Let me quickly
add that this Mahmud Shah has many aliases and wanted by the Interpol
under another name."

The other three were not astonished. Shah seemed one of those tough
Beqaeda types who was prepared to do just about anything for 'the
cause'.

Joy passed his palm across his wide forehead--he was balding in his
mid-50s--and collected his thoughts. The sensitive professor could not
yet quite overcome his traumatic experience even though his captors had
treated him generously, only forbidding his movements outside that
hilltop in the Chimgan.

"It all began in Park Circus in Kolkata," he began. "I used to frequent
Nizam's, you know it," he looked at Ray . "Yes, the restaurant famous
for biryani and other Mughlai dishes," replied the Ambassador, also for
the benefit of his SNB guest.

"Right. In the course of these visits I developed a rapport, you might
say, with a young waiter called Abu. We used to chit-chat often.
Whenever I went there, he'd take care to serve me personally. Just
before coming here, I told him of my visit. I was curious to know what
he thought about Uzbekistan, whether he had any kind of contacts here.
You know, I was forever gathering info from wherever possible about
this country. That's my habit, I reseach a destination before actually
arriving there. Otherwise, merely looking at a few historic building
and monuments and admiring the landscape like most tourists is a futile
exercise in superficiality for me." Joy downed his Martini. Immediately
Ray's batman, Rajendra, nickname Raj, materialised with a refill.

And curiosity killed the cat, thought Ray but kept his thought to
himself.

"Thanks," Joy smiled at him, took the glass, and continued, "Well, he
knew little about the land--no wonder, we Indians are blissfully
ignorant of your wonderful country and especially your extremely
friendly people," he looked at Badruddin. The latter nodded in
acknowledgement. "But Abu said he knew some people who might know
better and also give me good contacts. I took the bait without
realising it." Regretfully, the professor took a long sip from his
concoction.

"To cut a long story short, one evening Abu got me together with two
people in the Park Circus Maidan. One of them was this Shah. After some
preliminaries, they said they were members of the Lashkar-e-Toiba, the
outfit terrorising Kashmir and banned both in India and now in
Pakistan. They said they wanted me to be their 'guest' in 'beautiful'
Chimgan mountains for just a few days while they would use my passport.
They asked me not worry, I'd get my passport back. They even offered
money."

"I rejected the idea out of hand. Then they dropped all civility and
showed their real face. If I did not comply, they said, not only myself
but my son and wife would not see another day ever again. They backed
up their claim by reminding me of terrorist attacks in Kolkata recently
on the American Center. They also laughed and reminded me further that
even our Writers' Buildings?",

"That' the office of the Chief Minister of West Bengal," Ray
interjected for Badruddin's benefit, then urged Joy to go on.

"Yes, and Lalbazar police headquarters were anxiously beefing up
security under threat from the LeT and other outfits linked to al
Beqaeda." 'If we can raid the Kashmir State Assembly and even your
Parliament at will, the army camps and any day now the government
offices in Kolkata, you surely realise that no power on earth can
protect you from us?' they said."

"That was most convincing. What could a helpless professor do if the
police and army and the Ministers are unsafe themselves?" Joy paused.
He looked thoughtfully into his glass.

"So you agreed to play ball?" asked Ray. It was more of an observation
than a query.

"Yes, I confess I did. To protect my family and myself. To be able to
lead a normal life again. After all, they were not asking for anything
else other than my identity. And this only for a short while. I saw no
point in ending up as another statistic in the mortuary."

"And giving you free lunch with a kind of wonderful vacation in the
Chimgan on the house, eh?" said Ray sarcastically.

"What would you have done in my shoes, Shankar?" Joy resented his
friend's visible sarcasm.

Badruddin sensed the rising temperature between the two gentlemen.
"It's ok. Pray, let the professor proceed, Sir," said he. His English
improved considerably and turned chaste whenever an alcohol-induced
feeling of well-being overcame him.

Badruddin was enjoying the story as much as his Royal Salute. The
professor's story for him were the missing parts of the gigantic jigsaw
puzzle that he had almost solved; he did not want to upset the smooth
flow of the story lest the few missing parts got stuck. He downed the
remnant of his Scottish brew. Immediately Raj expertly handed over his
second tumbler. "Rakhmad," he muttered thanks and focused again on the
professor from Kolkata.

"So I followed their instructions. After clearing passport and other
formalities at the Indira Gandhi International Airport in New Delhi, I
found myself sitting in the waiting lounge near the exit gate for
passengers ready to board a flight. Shah appeared, I don't know how or
from where. I discreetly handed over my passport. In exchange he gave
me a document, written in Russian and presumably Uzbek too. Said that
would see me through the airport in Tashkent. Al Beqaeda contacts were
working undercover there. Once out of the airport, Beqaeda would take
good care of me. I was not to worry at all about my identity while
under Beqaeda protection. But I was to wait after arrival at the
Tashkent airport for an hour before I exited." Joy took a sip. Then
continued.

"He went to the toilet. The other man from Park Circus Maidan also
joined him. They took pretty long to come out, I noticed."

Naidu, who was quiet so far, remarked, "That's where they must have
changed the photo on the passport," and looked questioningly at his SNB
colleague.

Badruddin agreed. "Quite. Ideal place for long-term private operations.
After all, you don't place CCTVs inside the loo," he laughed,
"especially in the pants-down cubbyholes ?". Ray raised his free hand
and stopped him. "Go ahead, Joy", he said with an encouraging
smile.

"I carried out their demands to the letter. After arrival in Tashkent,
I slowly cleared the formalities, visited the toilet, quite
unnecessarily, a couple of times, waited at the baggage conveyors
though I had no checked-in baggage, only carryons. After one hour
passed, I exited the terminal and was immediately husked away in a
waiting truck, straight to the Chimgan. Couldn't see much outside after
we passed through the capital. It was all dark outside and grew even
darker as we approached the mountain region."

"They treated me well. Honestly. Gave me books, English books of
course, to read. Engaged a maid, Zilola, to look after my needs."

Ray gave a wicked smile. "Your needs? You mean all your needs?"

Joy blushed, but his face registered sadness the next moment."The poor
girl. I don't know how, she developed a crush over me. They like
Indians here so much. We communicated more through sign language than
by words. Language was a massive barrier between us, yet we understood
each other fine."

"Thank God for that single barrier, otherwise who knows what would have
happened between you two. I'd have developed a guilty conscience.
Remember, your wife was my classmate," quipped Ray and laughed.

Joy did not join his laughter. He said, "Without Zilola's help I don't
know what would have happened to me. She smuggled out that email
message and managed to send it to Fatma, my good friend from
Turkey."

"You have not only good friends but also faithful students. Remember
Suparna, now in Switzerland?" Joy said yes, he of course remembered her
because they often chatted over the net. Ray then explained the
Zilola-Fatma-Suparna chain as well as Fatma's dexterity in decoding
Joy's message.

"I knew Fatma would be able to latch on to the hidden meaning if only I
could get it across to her. From the very first day we met Zilola and I
hit it off. I mean, I liked her a lot but as kind of a younger sister,
you see. But she took our temporary relationship a great deal more
seriously. Despite the big age difference. Zilola risked her life even
at that stage, I mean in emailing my message, to help me," said
Joy.

"Where did you get that vintage Arabic?" asked Badruddin, who meanwhile
had worked his way to his third tumbler, courtesy the ever alert Raj.
He helped himself to a fistful of pista-badam-black raisins and
assorted dry fruits piled up on the centre table.

"From my 'hosts' themselves. I faked curiosity in their jihadi ideology
and the history of Islam. A baboon like Idris knew nothing finer than
an AK-47 nozzle. But the Arab visitor knew a lot. The subject was
really his cup of tea, his Achilles' heel too, shall we say. I took
full advantage of his sole weakness."

Joy sipped his drink and continued. "He provided me with those words.
Was delighted to be able to lecture to a professor, I think. I played
the good student too."

" One evening he was explaining the Hijra, Muhammed's utter
helplessness, the ability of his daughter, Fatima, to help out, and his
flight from Mecca. In fact, as I listened to that episode, the idea
struck me that I too had a Fatima who would surely help. I also decided
to use that episode, vintage Arabic and all, as my Enigma, the German
super-coding machine of the Second World War." Joy took a handful of
dry fruits and washed them down with his Martini.

"And who would be able to decipher my message? Had to be someone who
knew me, my personality and habits even if only on the net, and of my
plan to come to Uzbekistan. Besides, he or she had to be a good Muslim
who took religion seriously. And intelligent and modern at the same
time."

Ray raised his eyebrows a fraction, a hint of amusement playing on his
mouth.

Joy went on, "Only such a person would be able to guess at the meaning
buried under layers of religious stuff. After all, al Beqaeda has
survived America's onslaught and is even striking back because it keeps
its eyes wide open. This I have experienced at first hand. So my
message had to be innocuous, not only that, it was even better to adorn
it with religion, the central ideological obsession of Beqaeda.
Fortunately, it was that gorilla Idris who supervised Zilola during her
trip to the valley. Idris had brains in inverse proportion to his
brawn, the size of a peanut. It was far beyond his mental horizon to
even guess, let alone penetrate, the religious overlay. With the Arab,
who taught me early Islam in these few days, things might have been
different." Words were gushing out of the professor, from his strange
experience and days of deprivation of his habit of lecturing to
classes, and aided by the Tanquerey-laced Martini.

The other three did not interrupt and listened with rapt attention,
occasionally reaching out and depleting the dry fruits pile. Raj, from
a discreet vantage point, kept a hawkeye on replenishments.

"And then?" Ray goaded his friend on.

"And then, on the last day--well, Zilola came running and gestured to
me to flee. Showed with her finger the sign of trigger-pulling. She
meant there was danger of firing breaking out any moment. It was not
clear to me whether I was to be shot or the Beqaedas were in danger. I
hoped they were in danger. Which would mean my message had got through
to Turkey and that Fatma had acted on it. Effectively," said Joy. "In
any case I blindly followed her. She was in the know, I wasn't. Zilola
got hold of a meat cleaver and opened up the backside of the tent. And
we escaped."

Silence descended when Joy stopped. Each person was mentally fitting in
his own jigsaw puzzle surrounding the episode. At length Badruddin
broke the silence.

"The picture is now complete." He summed up. "Al Beqaeda had given the
Kolkata-based Laskhar group the assignment to pinpoint the location of
abandoned Soviet chemical weapons depots in Uzbekistan. They chose
Kolkatans because, as I hear from my Indian friends, it's relatively
quiet there in eastern India. Kolkatans would be harder for the police
to track than marked gangs already operating in northern India, in
Delhi or Kashmir. Also," he added, "Beqaeda chose Indians for the
mission since there is abundant goodwill in my country towards them. So
an Indian would get relatively indulgent treatment than many other
nationalities."

"Once the depots and their security system were known," he continued,
"Beqaeda would send out another unit, Allah knows which and of what
nationality, to steal or seize stocks. Mahmud had studied your pocket
diary," he gesticulated at Joy, "and noted all your engagements,
including your habit of chatting online with the Turkish lady
Saturdays. That sonofabitch Mahmud spewed out all this information
under our 'dialectical' treatment. We helped him reach a high state of
euphoria!" He laughed loudly. Then proceeded to down his fifth glass of
Royal Salute. Raj reappeared.

These Uzbeks are like the Russians, used to guzzling hard vodkas,
nonstop. Whiskey is just tap water to them, reflected he as he receded
to the background.

"But the first blunder Mahmud Shah made, enough to arouse the Turkish
lady's suspicion, was to chat with her in English. He had gone through
your pocket diary and noted your online chatting appointments. I am
given to understand that you invariably use German, not English,
right?" he looked at the professor questioningly.

Joy nodded. "What happened to the other Beqaeda chaps, my 'hosts'?
Idris died but there were two others there, my Arab 'teacher' and a
Turk," he asked.

Badruddin answered, " Your guru was smart, I must admit. He managed to
escape our dragnet but long-beard joined Idris. Our rifle-grenades are
very effective," he remarked with satisfaction. "While we suffered a
few casualties, we also seized valuable documents from the single tent
that somehow survived our assault. These will tell us a great deal
about Beqaeda plans to access chemical weapons. That in turn will ease
our task and help us take appropriate countermeasures."

"I must admit, Joy," observed the Ambassador at length, "that you have
solid lady-luck!"
"Right from our college days, you see," he looked at Badruddin and
Naidu.
He then turned to Joy. "Your two girl friends, er, I mean lady
friends, in Turkey and Switzerland--Suparna is now more of a friend to
you, I trust, than merely ex-student --played a critical role in the
whole affair. It was they who tipped us off on your whereabouts. I have
already mailed our gratitude to them. You should also write to
them."

Joy quickly looked at his watch. It was three minutes to ten p.m.,
Tashkent time, three minutes to seven, Turkish time. And today was
Saturday.

"Where is your computer?" He asked Ray anxiously. Ray thrust a finger
towards the adjoining room. Joy rushed like a mad bull for the
Ambassador's study. A PC stood ready on the computer table there.

Joy clicked open the MSN Messenger and connected to the net. It was
exactly 7 p.m. in Eskisehir. The buddy list showed Fatma was
online!

"Guten Abend, Fatma. R U there?" he typed in German.

"Joy, mein guter Freund! It's wunderbar to hear from you again!" Came
the reply real quick, with a smiley as an add-on.

Joy heaved a sigh of relief. The other three sat back in the living
room and watched his intent face in profile, a bit amused.

Joy thanked her, though guardedly and without any reference to his
captivity or Beqaeda. After all, the net was full of over-curious
monitoring people, including the wrong kind of guys. He explained that
this time he had to be brief in his chat. There were people waiting for
him in the Ambassador's residence. He would give her the full picture
later, by snail mail through more secure channels. Fatma understood.
The rush was a shade disappointing but she felt happy to re-discover
her lost pal, even though he was an e-pal.

"Ciao!" typed Joy. But immediately added, " I haven't forgotten about
that business info you need. Shall get to work on it. Am sure my friend
will help out. Shall again contact you soon, say tomorrow, same
time?"

"Great. I shall wait. Danke sehr. Auf Wiedersehen, Joy! And do take
care!!" More smileys came floating over the ether and settled on
Fatma's letter.
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