Calling Sehmat Page 10

  ‘Hai Allah! I am sorry,’ Sehmat said in a husky tone before stepping aside in mock embarrassment.

  The Major simply smiled in acknowledgement of the stranger’s apology and walked on. Sehmat turned to see if her little operation had been successful. The Major continued walking at the same pace, lightly rubbing his arm at the same time. He had no time to look at the tiny puncture wound there. In a matter of seconds, he had reached the end of the corridor. He did not look back, but Sehmat did and turned towards the building entrance to take one last glimpse of her brother-in-law.

  She stood there for a while, looking at the receding figure of the tall young man. Tears coursed down her cheeks as she thought of his pretty wife and the tragedy that would soon befall the Sayeeds. ‘I carry the price of your blood on my hands and in my soul, Mehboob Bhai. I wonder if I will be able to live with the guilt,’ she said to the retreating figure. ‘I am truly sorry, but I had to do this. My country comes first.’

  Sehmat walked the better part of the distance and hailed a taxi back to the same market. Minutes later, she re-emerged from the same toilet but without the cover of the traditional burka. Instead, she now carried a large packet of clothes meant for distribution to the poor. The umbrella had been disposed of and every inch of the toilet wiped carefully, leaving no fingerprints. The remaining drops of mercury had been flushed down the toilet and the equipment discarded in two different garbage cans. Two hours later, she was sitting with her sister-in-law in the living room, discussing the growing incidences of drunken driving.

  13

  General Sayeed and Major Iqbal sat side by side, receiving the long stream of visitors who were arriving in large numbers. The compound was packed with politicians, bureaucrats, industrialists and army officers who had come to pay their last respects to Major Mehboob Sayeed. The General was visibly shaken and looked shattered. The doctors at the Military Hospital had attributed his death to a massive heart attack, but Munira linked it to the shock he had received due to the accidental death of their most faithful servant, Abdul.

  General Sayeed was torn between his duty as a father and being the second in command of the ISI that was in the midst of finalizing a war on its neighbouring country. He could just about manage a short leave to attend the two funerals. Despite the double tragedy, he was constantly engaged on the phone, taking briefings and addressing crucial issues. Every part of his body wore the signs of stress and fatigue. He could not come to terms with the death of his elder son and that had kept him up the whole night. The sprightly General had aged.

  While Major Iqbal handled the rites and formalities, General Sayeed shuffled between the drawing room, attending mostly to the VIPs, and his study, to be regularly updated with developments on the rapidly developing war theatre. Sehmat remained on the sidelines and attended to Major Mehboob’s widow. The moment was ripe, and she knew that every scrap of information she could lay her hands on could prove vital. In his grief, the General had become careless and, on a few rare occasions, had even left classified files on his table, forgetting to lock them in his safe.

  This was the moment Sehmat was waiting for. There was no Abdul to keep a watch on her. All the servants, family members and relatives were busy attending to the unending stream of mourners. Utilizing the opportunity, she repeatedly slipped into the General’s study and sifted through the classified documents.

  On the second day, an exhausted General Sayeed appeared to be on the verge of collapse. Seizing the moment, Sehmat offered to help him ‘clear the clutter’ on his desk and pack his briefcase before he left for an important meeting the next morning. The General, emotionally drained and too tired to refuse, readily accepted her offer.

  Sehmat assisted him in sealing two secret envelopes that were to be sent to the Prime Minister of Pakistan, but not before going through their contents. Both letters contained information on the Indian preparedness, political developments and military status. The papers also contained details of secret agents based in New Delhi who were providing vital information to the ISI and needed to be shifted to safety.

  This time around, Sehmat had to think of a better, more foolproof plan to transfer her information to the right ears. She was experienced enough to value the information she had just acquired, and also aware that all telephone lines to the Indian consulate would be tapped. Any communication therefore could prove fatal. Yet she had to find an alternative. She was disturbed by this predicament, but the gloom in the house was such that she did not look different from the others. She kept brainstorming till she came up with a solution.

  The funeral procession was long, but the motorcade moved quickly to the burial ground where both the bodies were laid to rest side by side. After the prayers, as the visitors departed, Iqbal removed name slips from the wreaths in order to send ‘thank you’ notes later. Meanwhile, Sehmat escorted Mehboob’s widow to the waiting car and helped her sit on the rear seat. Her mind was more focused on the newly acquired information than on providing moral support to Munira. She sat adjacent to Munira, waited for her to settle down and then said, ‘Can we go to a nearby mosque and offer prayers before going home?’ Sehmat’s eyes were focused on Munira, hoping for a positive response.

  Instead Munira said, ‘No, Sehmat, I am feeling very depressed and weak. I would rather go home.’

  ‘As you wish, Munira. I thought we could offer prayers for the departed souls. Maybe some other time.’

  After a few minutes, Munira held Sehmat’s hand, drew it closer and whispered, ‘Maybe we should go to the mosque and pray for Major Sahib’s soul?’

  Sehmat was quick to react and instantly directed the driver to the new destination, keeping a check on her own heart that was beginning to beat at a high pace. Half an hour later, the two women stepped out of the car and began climbing the stairs to the mosque. Clad in black burkas, they were covered from head to toe and mixed easily with scores of similarly dressed women. When they reached the last flight, Sehmat requested Munira to proceed ahead while she would run back and fetch flowers from a florist nearby.

  Without waiting for the young widow to respond, Sehmat turned and began climbing down the stairs. Amidst screaming hawkers trying their best to outdo each other in selling their wares, Sehmat ordered a large flower basket, paid for it in advance and told the eager seller to keep it ready by the time she returned.

  She then rushed to the first available telephone booth. To her dismay, the phone was out of order. Unable to see another public booth in the vicinity, she looked around for a shop from where she could make the all-important call. She almost choked with panic, but then spotted a shop that was manned by an old, uneducated-looking man who was busy sprinkling water on a huge pile of betel leaves. He looked like a priest at the mosque with his attire and long flowing beard. He had a ‘couldn’t care less’ attitude about himself and was curt and precise with customers. Sehmat had no choice but to deal with him and make the best of the prevailing situation.

  ‘May I use your phone, Khan Sahib?’ That she was putting an extra effort to appease the shopkeeper was evident from the very first dialogue.

  The old man gave a hard stare to the burka-clad woman. His disapproval was blatant. ‘Where and who do you want to call?’ His tone was sharp and he spoke in chaste Urdu.

  ‘Khan Sahib, my husband was to pick me up but it is already very late. Will you please let me use your phone?’ she said and simultaneously withdrew a five-rupee note from her handbag and handed it over to the kiosk owner. But the old man wasn’t done yet. Accepting the currency, which was many times the actual cost of an ordinary call, he retorted, ‘Give me the number, I’ll try.’

  Sehmat had no choice. She hurriedly fished out a small piece of paper from her handbag, scribbled the telephone number of the First Secretary to the Indian Embassy and reluctantly handed it over. The old man dialled each number at the slowest possible pace while keeping an eye on the nervous customer. For a fleeting moment, Sehmat imagined him to be a part of the counter-intellig
ence network and wondered if the old man was buying time to get her arrested. She was sweating profusely beneath her veil and it had begun to show. The wet thin cloth was stuck to her forehead with sweat beads seeping out of the fabric.

  ‘Hello, who is speaking?’ the old man said in a loud, booming tone that attracted the ears of nearby kiosk owners. Sehmat flinched. He waited and listened to the response but it ended abruptly. Replacing the receiver, the old man mumbled harsh words and started dialling again. This time he was greeted with a harsher tone which also ended abruptly.

  ‘What a silly man he is! Starts shouting even before listening to me. No culture, ethics or etiquettes? What kind of a husband do you have, Begum Sahiba?’

  ‘Can I please try, Khan Sahib? I understand my husband well. He must be under a lot of pressure at work. But he’ll talk to me.’ Sehmat was speaking softly, trying to keep the conversation inaudible to passers-by. The old man thought for a brief moment, scratching his beard at the same time. A few agonizing moments later, he replied, ‘Ok, you may try, but don’t take long.’

  Sehmat grabbed the receiver with both her hands and dialled the number, waiting patiently. The phone kept ringing and the beads of sweat continued to pour, spreading all over the thin veil. Finally a voice came through. It was the First Secretary himself.

  ‘Zulu 405 here. This is an emergency,’ she said in rapid-fire English, hoping that the old man would not be able to understand. She simultaneously turned her back and cupped the mouthpiece, making it difficult for the old man or the onlookers to eavesdrop.

  Using brief coded words, she fixed a meeting time. She then handed the phone back, thanked the old man and requested him to keep the balance. The old man could barely respond. Sehmat rushed through the crowded lane and reached the florist’s kiosk, picked up the basket and ran through the narrow path leading to the stairs of the mosque, to find Munira impatiently waiting for her.

  ‘What took you so long?’ Munira asked.

  ‘It was very crowded,’ Sehmat responded with a helpless gesture.

  On their way back home, Sehmat noticed many police jeeps arriving in quick succession and encircling the crowded market. It became obvious to Sehmat that the intelligence agencies had monitored the conversation and would soon grill the old man. But what impressed her even more was the speed with which the police were able to home in on the source of the phone call.

  As the car reached the haveli, Sehmat emerged first and rushed to the other side to help her sister-in-law. Both the women were draped in black veils, but Sehmat’s face wore all the signs of nervousness. Mir had categorically restrained her from the steps that she was now taking at regular intervals. Apart from the fear of getting caught, the guilt of having killed two innocent people was also beginning to take a toll on her. It was a feeling of dissolution, and she did not have the luxury of pouring out her sentiments to anyone. Her mind repeatedly raced down memory lane, to the scene of the old man running on the road, pleading to the approaching truck to stop. She tried but could not remove his distressed face from her mind. Her conscience robbed her of every vestige of peace.

  On their way to Munira’s room, Sehmat almost fainted when her sister-in-law stopped abruptly, turned full circle to face her squarely, and pointedly asked, ‘Who were you speaking to on the phone near the mosque?’

  Her shocked expression was plainly and clearly visible for even a blind person to see. Thinking quickly on her feet, she pulled herself together, stepped closer and hugged her sister-in-law. She recouped her composure and steadied her beating heart before coming up with a suitable reply. ‘I am not well, Munira. Perhaps I am in the family way. I wanted to see my doctor, but could not confide in you due to the prevailing circumstances. I do hope you will appreciate my situation?’ Munira looked somewhat convinced and relieved. The two women took each other in a tight embrace and wept.

  Minutes later Sehmat was sitting in her room, planning her next move. She had to pass on the information. It was vital for her country to identify the traitors. After making up her mind on the next course of action, she sat down to offer prayers but could not bring herself to focus. Her mind was not at peace. She opened her eyes and murmured, ‘I love you, dear Munira, but I had no choice. My country comes first.’ Tears continued to roll down her cheeks as she finished praying, unaware that both the betel seller and the florist had been taken into custody by Pakistani intelligence and whisked away to an unknown destination.

  14

  Iqbal was overwhelmed by the rush of feelings that came over him on hearing the news of Sehmat’s pregnancy. The very thought of becoming a father excited him. He owed his growth and rise to Sehmat. He felt like his prayers had been answered. Yet, Mehboob’s untimely death had removed the sheen from the excitement, casting a heavy cloud of gloom that refused to lift. He continued to wear a sad face as he received an endless stream of visitors. The courtyard was filled with wreaths of all shapes and sizes. Senior officials, bureaucrats and a host of visitors he had never met before were still lining up to pay homage. Given General Sayeed’s rank and position at the ISI, everyone wished to be seen doing so.

  Sehmat was restless. She had an agenda on hand. She was also aware that the First Secretary would not be alone. Having monitored the communication, the Pakistani counter-intelligence would tail him and arrest whoever he met. Yet the risk had to be taken. She once again dressed herself in the black burka and prepared to leave. She went up to her husband and said in a hushed tone, ‘Iqbal, I want to see the doctor right now. Can you come with me?’

  Iqbal gave her a worried look. ‘Hope you are okay. Anything urgent?’

  ‘I am fine. I just want to be doubly sure. I have gone through a whole lot of tension and stress.’

  ‘But I can’t leave Abba Huzoor alone. I can’t leave this place. Unfortunately, I can’t even request Munira to accompany you. Could you please go by yourself?’

  That was precisely what Sehmat was expecting to hear. Responding quickly, she said, ‘I understand, Iqbal. I’ll manage. Please take care here. I won’t be long.’

  She stepped out of the haveli and surveyed the prevailing peace in the neighbourhood. ‘It’s a matter of time,’ she told herself before getting into the rear seat. No one recognized her as her car sped past the visitors. She ordered the driver to proceed without giving any directions. Aslam Khan was an old hand. Having served the Sayeeds for over a decade, he knew that he was supposed to first drive out of the cantonment.

  Sehmat had fixed an appointment with her gynaecologist before leaving. The black car came out of the military zone and moved at a steady pace towards the wholesale vegetable market. Sehmat used her make-up kit as a rear-view mirror to check if she was being tailed. Satisfied with this small drill, she directed Aslam to stop near the entrance of the big bazaar.

  She alighted from the car and walked straight into a group of burka-clad women so that it would be difficult for anyone following her to catch up.

  She emerged at the other end of the market and hired a rickshaw to ferry her to the new destination. The driver was a smart and reckless young man, oblivious to the world around him. He drove at breakneck speed, zigzagging the rickshaw with deft control, and manoeuvred it through the narrow lanes, leaving behind a trail of screaming pedestrians. Without uttering a word, he brought the vehicle to a halt near a grocery shop, accepted the money and melted into the crowd without even caring to look back.

  Sehmat entered a large shop and looked around. It was loaded with all kinds of dry fruits, stocks and rations that were neatly stacked in scores of shelves. The shop was fairly big in size and had more attendants than customers. She found, to her surprise, that all of them were busy rearranging the stocks rather than attending to the few customers present inside. No one, therefore, paid attention when Sehmat demanded chickpeas, 8 mm in size.

  ‘No, Madam, we don’t have that variety. Maybe you could check at the corner shop. Chickpeas of this size are usually not available and command a premium.’ Without
waiting for her response, the attendant resumed the job at hand.

  ‘Of course we have them, if you would please follow me, Begum Sahiba.’ A soft but firm response from a gentleman who emerged from nowhere shook both the attendant and the customer. From his expressions it was clear that he was the owner himself. The middle-aged, well-built man, wearing a traditional Pathani suit, politely gestured to the burka-clad woman, directing her to the other end of the shop. Sehmat did as she was told and waited while the owner ducked between shelves and fished out a bag containing chickpeas the size of marbles.

  Sehmat had never met him before but recognized him from the photographs that Hidayat Khan had shown her. His name was Sarfraz and, according to her father, he could be trusted with any responsibility.

  ‘Could you please tell me how much quantity is available? I need to serve at least 444 people.’ 444 was the code that Hidayat had established with Sarfraz. Sehmat hoped it would help her in establishing her identity and waited for the man to respond.

  By now the attendant had drifted to other customers. His face wore an expression of fear. Not only was he unaware of the merchandize, he was also caught showing disinterest in his work. He had acquired the job after a great deal of persuasion and effort and was now worried about losing it.

  ‘Is there something so serious, Sehmat, that you had to personally come here?’ Sarfraz’s one sentence put Sehmat at ease and relief flooded her face.

  ‘Yes, Sarfraz Bhai,’ she replied. ‘I need this paper to be given to 411. I can’t risk going across the street. I would surely be followed, but you’ll understand that it’s most urgent.’