Local time – 7:08am, Sunday 17th June, 2011.
Islamabad, Pakistan.
Ahmed felt sick with fear. Until a few minutes ago, he was a strong leader, taking charge of the group’s plans. But as soon as he learnt the bomb was in place, his courage vanished. A black lump of dread now sat heavy in his stomach. It was too late to go back. He needed to pull himself together. What would the others think if he told them how scared he was? It hadn’t been as difficult as he expected to find out more about the hidden warhead. Knowing the right people helped. It seemed certain that Wassim Khan was the man who had the information they needed. But they had to come up with a way first of finding him, and then of making him tell them what he knew. Some in the group had favoured trying to negotiate with him. But Ahmed had argued for a different path. He believed they had to make a much stronger statement against the government that had so feebly given way to pressure from the American imperialists. He thought they could kill two birds with one stone, punishing the government and getting hold of Wassim Khan at the same time. The plan he had come up with was to smuggle a bomb into the Prime Minister’s residence, and he had suggested a time when it would have greatest impact. He knew that a threat to the Prime Minister’s life would draw the senior ranks of the ISI from their quiet Sunday morning pastimes to the headquarters of the agency. He could then grab the one with the information they needed. The bomb had the second benefit of destabilising the corrupt government that had put them in this position. But now that they had done it, and they sat in a car, watching from a safe distance, he knew it had all gone too far.
It had been unbelievably simple to do something so terrible. Ahmed knew the layout of the Prime Ministerial residence, having visited when Muhammad Bhutto invited Ahmed’s family to dine there. He remembered well the intense security – each car and visitor carefully checked before entering the grounds. But there was one small loophole, just big enough for Ahmed and his team to find a way in. Ahmed explained that once a car and a visitor were checked at the front gate, they were then left to themselves.
Yasir had courageously volunteered to drive the van in, on the off chance that Ahmed would be recognised from his previous visit. The van had contained some catering supplies – plates, glasses and tablecloths stacked in the back. The guard checked Yasir’s identification – which was false – and asked him to get out of the vehicle so he could pat him down for weapons. He then scanned the contents of the van for explosives. Satisfied there was none, he used a mirror on a long stick and paced around, looking for anything fastened to the undercarriage. While he was doing this, Ahmed and Tariq had drove slowly past the front of the building in an old wreck of a car they had stolen earlier that morning. They timed their pass perfectly, when the guard was circling the side of the van that blocked his view of the street. Ahmed had braked enough that Tariq could open the back passenger door and place a large gas cylinder on its side in the gutter. Yasir saw them coming, so walked to the other side of the van and cheerfully chatted to the guard, holding his attention. Ahmed’s car disappeared by the time the guard looked out at the street. Yasir then asked if he could please check which entrance he should be delivering the goods to, as the palatial property had at least twenty different doors. The guard went into his small control room and picked up a phone, looking down at his directory to locate the right number. Yasir moved like a cat, darting towards the gutter and picking up the discarded cylinder. He then strode the two meters back to the van and slid carefully into the driver’s seat. He spun around, swiftly placing the cylinder on the pile of tablecloths. The guard stayed on his phone for a few moments, and eventually strolled back over to the van, explaining that one of the staff had suggested he drop the goods at the guest kitchen. He pointed directions and then keyed a pass code into a panel next to his control room. The gates opened.
Yasir was inside the residence only a few minutes. Ahmed and Tariq parked 500 meters down the road, as close as they were permitted to stop near the Prime Minister’s residence. They had watched Yasir’s white van drive back through the gates and held their breath until he disappeared around the corner. There they knew he would ditch the van, and they waited anxiously until he reappeared. Eventually he calmly strolled towards them. He got into the car and Ahmed and Tariq exhaled. Yasir was smiling.
‘I’ve put it in an urn in the entrance hall. I was careful, there is no one there.’ Yasir looked to Ahmed for approval and winced when he saw his colleague’s horrified gaze.
‘Ahmed, is that OK? Did I do the right thing?’
‘Yes, yes. That’s good. Good work, you did good work.’ Yasir felt relieved. But he couldn’t help but sense Ahmed’s discomfort. They sat in silence. Ahmed was taking short breaths, and Yasir glanced at Tariq every few seconds, wondering if he should say something. But no one spoke. After ten long minutes, seven cars drove past in quick succession. Each was driven by an official government driver and contained a government minister and two staff. Ahmed squeezed a finger for each car, silently counting off the visiting ministers. Badar Mohammad, Finance Minister. Abdul-baari Ghazali, Interior Minister. Naadir Younis, Minister of Defence Production. Mahmood Hanif, Education Minister. Yazeed Khan, Defence Minister. Rahim Chaudhri, Health Minister. Maahi Siddiqui, President of Pakistan. All eyes were on the gates as the cars slowly moved through the security check. It was only Ahmed who noticed one more car. But his yelp of pain got the attention of the other two. It was Abdullah Wasti. Foreign Minister. Ahmed’s face went bright red, and then drained of colour until he was grey and trembling. Yasir and Tariq looked at him and his terror infected them like a contagious disease.
‘We don’t have to do it Ahmed. If you don’t want to do it, we’ll call the bomb squad. Or we’ll call them and warn them to get out.’ Ahmed started shaking his head, but his eyes revealed his terrible indecision. With a visible effort, he made his choice.
‘No. No. It’s too late. It’s too late to stop. Who would we call?’ He stared at the mobile phone on the dashboard, but didn’t move to pick it up. Tariq put his hand on his friend’s shoulder.
‘Ahmed. It’s OK.’
‘NO.’ Ahmed punched his hand at the steering wheel, shrugging his friend away. ‘We’re doing this for Pakistan. It is his fault. It is his weakness. It’s too late.’
Yasir looked nervous, sitting in the back seat, staring at his watch. ‘He’s right. It is too late. Three minutes left. The cars are inside the gate. They’ll be going through the front door now.’
Seconds passed like hours. It was so quiet; the sound of Ahmed’s panting reverberated around the car. Tariq started whispering to himself:
‘Forgive us Allah, forgive us Allah.’
An explosion ripped into the sky. The young men in the car were frozen in shock.
‘Go, go, go!’ Yasir and Tariq yelled at Ahmed. He didn’t move.
‘GO!’ Tariq shook his friend’s arm, waking him from his devastation. He started the car and drove carefully away from the scene.