Local time – 6:50pm, Sunday 17th June, 2011.
Rawalpindi, Pakistan.
What had yesterday been a passionate, committed team was now a rabble of terrified college students. The men who originally supported Ahmed’s mission, because they believed he was fighting for their country’s security, were now his hostages. Ahmed kept one hand on his gun, the other on the steering wheel. He said nothing to Tariq, Mohammed and Yasir, who were still in shocked silence. Ahmed refused to pull the car over, and was now slowly circling the block, ignoring the petrol gage that teetered on empty. They were only a short distance away from their destination, and could have dumped the car and walked. But Ahmed wasn’t ready to act. He was waiting for the sun to go down, believing the cover of darkness would give him the courage to find the weapon.
Ahmed’s mouth was dry and the lump in his throat felt like a piece of coal. He could almost make himself believe he hadn’t lost control. Was it really him who shot Salman? Ever since seeing his father that morning, he felt himself slowly descending into a frantic, dark place of despair. Despair and madness. When the spy had finally given up his secret, Ahmed felt a stab of disappointment. He no longer wanted to know where the weapon was. If the spy hadn’t told them, Ahmed might have been able to stop everything. Give up. Pretend they weren’t part of this unthinkable mess. But once the location was known, what possible excuse could he use to show such cowardice? Every time he had looked at Salman, he saw his own fear reflected in the gentle man’s questioning eyes. And the evil that had overcome him, the rage and the desperation, had been conjured to kill his own fear. That bullet was for him.
The tape had run out and Ahmed let the radio replace the tinny music. It now crackled, in contrasting normality to the sick feeling in the car. Ahmed’s ears pricked up when he heard the urgent tone of the newsreader’s English language bulletin:
“Joe Santos, President of the United States of America, has been shot in the chest during a live television broadcast. He has been rushed to Sibley Memorial Hospital, and there are no reports as yet of his condition. The attempted assassination does not appear to have any link to this morning’s bombing in Islamabad, however as no one as yet taken responsibility for either attack, it is unclear if this is the work of terrorists or something entirely unrelated.”
Ahmed looked around at the men in the car, who each flinched as his eyes met theirs. He could tell they had heard the news bulletin. And he could also see what they were thinking. They had assumed all along that it was the imperialist Americans who had purchased their nuclear weapons. Was this evidence that someone else was as unhappy about this as they were? A resolve took shape out of his confusion. He cleared his throat self consciously, as he pulled the car over to the side of the street.
‘We go now. This weapon will save Pakistan. I didn’t mean this all to happen. You will help me and then I will let you go.’ Tariq shifted uncomfortably and Ahmed could feel that he wanted to flee from the car now. He lifted the gun off his lap, pointing it at Tariq’s face.
‘You will help me. And then you do what you like.’ Tariq nodded slowly. Yasir gripped the driver’s seat in front of him, which was as close as he was willing to get to Ahmed.
‘Please Ahmed. This is done. You can’t hold us like this.’ Ahmed swung the gun slowly towards Yasir, who looked ready to stare it down like a cobra.
Ahmed spoke slowly, his voice cold, his face expressionless, ‘We started this for Pakistan. We end it for Pakistan. There are three guns in the boot. Once we have the weapon, and we’ve made our threats clear, any one of you can take over the mission. And any one of you can kill me, if you see that it should be done.’
Yasir and Mohammad turned to each other, silently weighing up the proposal. It was clear they wanted nothing to do with Ahmed now. But they wanted the nuclear weapon. The threat of Americans owning their security was too much to contemplate. And while Ahmed held the gun in their face, they had no other option but to agree to continue with him. Tariq turned to look at them and nodded slowly.
‘Ok Ahmed. You hold the gun now. We will help you to finish this. But not with that waved in our face. You put it away and we will come with you.’
Ahmed slipped the gun into the back of his pants. For a moment, he feared one of them would try to attack him. But Tariq was now turning away, getting out of the car. Yasir and Mohammed were close behind. The lump in his throat grew slightly, as he realised how terrified they were of him. He understood their fear. He was just as terrified himself.