Local time – 10:00am, Sunday 17th June, 2011.
Islamabad, Pakistan.
In the moments after the bomb had exploded that morning, Ahmed had wavered between running away from this mission or continuing on as planned. The reality of what he had done to his father – alive or dead – burnt into his soul. He was no longer the respected son of Pakistan’s Foreign Minister. He was now the cruel, murderous terrorist who carried out the ultimate betrayal.
He had replaced his phone and turned the car radio off, so had no idea whether his father was unhurt, injured or dead. But a niggling tug at his conscience told him to believe the worst.
His decision about whether to carry on was made up for him when he joined the rest of the group at their warehouse rendezvous, and found the plan was rolling forward with or without him. Ahmed couldn’t run away now, not when they were so proud of what they had achieved so far. And not when Pakistan’s future was at stake. If his father was dead, perhaps his death wouldn’t be in vain, if Ahmed could reassert the national security his father’s government had so irresponsibly thrown away. Tariq tried to comfort his friend by reminding him that his father’s decision would likely have caused the death of many Pakistanis. And wasn’t one life worth losing to save hundreds? Ahmed nodded, but his heart told him he was lying.
As Tariq, Yasir and Ahmed entered the warehouse, they were greeted by Imran, who managed to look scared and excited all at once. It was clear they had managed to pick up the man they needed.
‘You’ve done it, my friends. Your courage has been rewarded. There is mass confusion in the government. Mohammad, Salman and I have success also. As soon as the ISI heard about the bomb, they called in their senior staff, just as we suspected. We picked up our man an hour ago on his way to headquarters. No trouble,’ he added, seeing Ahmed’s questioning look. ‘Too much panic for proper security.’
‘Is he talking?’ Ahmed asked.
‘Not yet. But we haven’t started.’
Imran led them towards the back of the warehouse, where a small office with concrete walls had become a prison for their captured Intelligence Officer.
‘Is your brother correct? Are you sure he is the man we need?’ Ahmed whispered.
‘Oh yes. That has been established.’ Imran said and opened the door.
Ahmed’s eyes went straight to the man hanging from the ceiling. He wore only pants, and his skin was pulled taut across his muscular chest. Mohammad and Salman must have only just finished strapping him up. His ankles were tied, and his hands strung together behind his back. The cord on his wrists was connected to a rope knotted over the wooden beam on the ceiling and he hung like a punching bag, heavy and swaying slightly. Tears soaked his cheeks. His shoulders were obviously dislocated, making every movement of the rope excruciatingly painful and he whimpered constantly. Mohammad was staring at the hanging man as if he too could feel his pain and Salman avoided eye contact with Ahmed, as if wishing he was not there. Ahmed recognised immediately they were not cut out for this part of the plan and said nothing as they backed out of the room and stood behind him. Imran and Tariq also shrunk back when they saw the scene. Only Yasir walked into the room with confidence and stepped close enough to the man to stare directly at him. His face was a foot above Yasir’s and as soon as he was close enough to touch him, the man spat a mouthful of blood and mucus in Yasir’s face. Yasir reacted by punching the man hard in the stomach, making him swing back towards the wall. He yelled out in pain.
‘Get me down. Stop this!’
‘We’ll take you down if you tell us where the last weapon is. Then you can go free.’
‘No. You have no idea... ’
Ahmed entered the room and stood next to Yasir. He felt terrified, both of the man and what he was about to say. His fear exploded in anger.
‘We’ve killed our Prime Minister. We’ve killed government Ministers. What makes you think we’ll just walk away now? We’re not doing this for money. We’re not fighting for Jihad. We’re Pakistanis, fighting for peace in Pakistan. If you don’t tell us where the weapon is, you’re just as much of a traitor as the government we’ve killed.’
‘The weapon won’t keep our country safe... It should be destroyed. You’ve no idea... ’ Yasir punched the man again, silencing him. This time he swung longer, and his body shook violently in pain.
‘Please. Please stop this. I’ll die before I tell you anything.’
‘We decide what happens to you. We’ve only just started.’ Ahmed’s anger rose again and he picked up a long bamboo cane. Imran had done some research that morning on Wikipedia into torture techniques, and the necessary tools were procured accordingly. Everyone, including Ahmed, winced when he whipped the bamboo across the man’s stomach. He screamed in pain when a bloody gash opened.
‘Careful Ahmed, we don’t want too much bleeding,’ Yasir said. He took the bamboo from Ahmed and cracked it across the man’s feet. The hard skin was grazed, but did not bleed. Yasir struck him again.
‘Please. Let me explain. The weapon can’t help you.’
Ahmed’s rage at what he had done to his father boiled over. A hard lump of bile lodged itself in his chest. He snatched the cane back from Yasir and smashed it down in a frenzy on the man’s thighs, shins, and feet, leaving a bloody zig zag of cuts.
‘Please!’ the man screamed out. ‘Please! Please!’ Ahmed heard the screams as if they came from inside his ears. Don’t let this be happening, he thought. But it was. And he wasn’t going to stop until they got what they came for.