Chapter 7
Comparing Scribbled Notes
Kali McAlister spoke first. It was her God given right since she was a lady. Chester and I sat in the task force room sipping cafe lattes from the cafeteria. I couldn’t smoke and I really wanted a cigarette. I hoped Kali would make her presentation short and sweet so I could sneak out for a smoke before it was Chester’s turn to speak. I didn’t want to cut her spiel short, but I badly needed a hit of nicotine to calm my nerves. Thankfully, I wasn’t addicted to department verbiage; only tobacco, although both consisted of a lot of smoke. I wasn’t sure which one was more harmful to my health though. Unlike cigarettes, the noxious department stuff didn’t come with a printed warning label. It would be a drag, but I would inhale both unhealthy fumes in equal measures just to be politically correct.
“I reviewed all of the communications intercepts for the day in question and the preceding and following days as well,” Kali said, without introduction or fanfare. The first call to the cops came into the police communications center at precisely 8:47 in the morning. It was from a shop owner in the neighborhood who had witnessed the incident and reported the basic circumstances to the cops. The first patrol car arrived at the scene at 8:58 according to the dispatcher’s account. What followed was a lot of head-scratching by the sounds of the chatter. There was nothing new from the transcripts so I won’t go over them again unless you want me to or have any questions.”
I didn’t, nor did Chester, so I told her to move on.
Kali and I had earlier administered a security briefing to Chester and had him sign a State Department Secrecy Agreement so we were all legally defensible or equally culpable in the eyes of the law. He now had his security ticket and a need–to–know what Kali was disclosing. I suspected he would be underwhelmed by all of it. No matter, he was no longer an enemy combatant or illegal alien from another galaxy in the eyes of Uncle Sam. Fortunately, we wouldn’t have to shoot him after we whispered our national or notional secrets. I felt good about that since I was a lousy shot and the noise always hurt my ears.
Chester piped-up by saying that he had interviewed the same witness who had first called the cops. He mentioned the guy had nothing pertinent to add to his story or the time-line we were trying to establish.
Kali continued her report in a straightforward, matter-of-fact manner like we were taught in basic agent’s class. She was very controlled and professional; actually, she was very hot!
I wondered if she acted the same way in bed. I was planning to find out one way or another, if she’d let me. I would do my best to win her over. Sometimes the sexual fantasies, ardors and bragging rights of those who served and protected knew no bounds, shame or credibility.
“I didn’t have much luck with the overheads,” Kali mentioned as I shook off my nasty thoughts for the moment. “There were no photo shots of the area in question by either government or commercial birds. That seems to be a dead end as far as leads are concerned.”
Following her briefing, I told her to fill in the timeline on our white board with as much fact as she had gleaned since we at least had to look like we knew what we were doing. Regrettably, the column designated for Leads was empty. I hoped Chester had gotten better stuff from his cop friends. I left the room for a quick smoke. I realized I could enhance our collective ignorance and confusion if I had more smoke, plus a few mirrors.
I shook hands with Big Bird in the hallway as I was leaving the chancery to feed my addiction. He asked how things were going and I mentioned they were going nowhere fast, but we were still hoping to catch a break. I said I’d keep him up to speed, but didn’t have anything to share at the moment. That comment reminded me that I had to share with Jersey Briggs too at some point soon. The best defense was a good offense, at least according to conventional department wisdom and wags. They were a very offensive bunch of people, so it made perfect sense.
When I returned to the room, Chester had posted the crime scene photos and sketches on the wall next to the white board. The facial pictures of Mohammed, the APPF agent, were particularly gruesome and I winced when I looked at them. I told Chester to begin.
“Kali’s review of the intercepts jives with what I learned on the ground. Let me fill in some blank spots though,” he began.
I had no problem comprehending Chester’s English since it was far better than mine. It must have been his British annunciation and, just perhaps, his superior education that made the difference. Regardless, I settled back in my chair and listened.
“First, and most obviously, this was a meticulously planned and executed operation; these guys were real pros. They spent no more than four minutes for the actual takedown. However, they must have spent weeks planning and practicing for the grab.”
He pointed to a couple of photos and a large sketch of the location to emphasize his points. He then walked us through a reconstruction of the kidnapping based on witness reports and police interviews.
“It was a classic squeeze play with the embassy vehicle blocked in the front by a fuel tanker that positioned itself across the entire narrow street. The chauffeur couldn’t perform a crash-bang maneuver against the truck to escape.”
Chester meant the truck couldn’t be rammed and pushed aside because it was too large and heavy. He showed us a photograph of the abandoned truck and, of course, he was right. The crash-bang technique was an effective method of evasion and escape against vehicles that could be literally swept aside. From a distance of ten yards or so, the maneuver required the ramming vehicle to slow down to about 10 miles an hour, drop the transmission into low gear for greater torque and then speed into the opposing vehicle. The best target for this sweeping technique was the rear quarter-panel where there was less weight to move. Small vehicles could move larger ones, but certainly not a tanker truck. The laws of physics simply couldn’t be broken.
“The street where it happened was unremarkable; typical and congested like you find throughout the city once you’re away from the main boulevards. Small shops lined both sides of the street. Above the shops were living quarters for the owners and their families. It’s the standard Indian living and working arrangement. It was a good spot for a snatch,” he added. The embassy driver couldn’t back-up or execute a “J” or bootleg turn either. That potential escape route was blocked by bad guys in a white van. More specifically, it was a Tata Ace mini-truck with a canvas tarp erected over the cargo bed. No one got a tag number and it’s likely it was stolen in the first place. There are about 250,000 vehicles of that make and model registered in greater Delhi and that was also the gang’s getaway vehicle. Except for Mohammed, the victims were shoved into the back of the van. The cops put out an APB on the vehicle, but that was largely perfunctory under the circumstances.
“Mohammed died a tough death though. He was shot once in the chest at close range with a nine millimeter round. The police forensics people are trying to get a fix on the bullet removed from his body. It might have some investigative or evidentiary value, but we’re going to have to wait a few days for the results. But he didn’t die of lead poisoning though. The cops speculate the shot was meant to shock and immobilize him so he couldn’t react; so that he couldn’t put up a fight while he was being garroted to death. That was the real coup de grace and a horrible way to die. His air supply was cut off and he suffocated to death. While being asphyxiated, the cord cut through his jugular vein and almost severed his neck. The person who did that was strong and merciless. In sum, Mohammed bled out and died quickly. By the way, the police want the embassy to tell them about Mr. Mohammed. They don’t believe he’s an Indian national based on his clothing, dental work, and, most notably, the set of credentials issued to him by the Afghan Presidential Protection Force. They want to know what’s going on and they wanted me to ask my masters.”
Kali and I briefly glanced at each other and I spoke first.
“Chester, Mohammed was an agent of the APPF and assigned to protect someone very important: Zeenat Karzai, the daughter of the President of Afghanistan.”
I let that point sink-in and then told him the circumstances of her stay at the ambassador’s residence. He was shaken and taken aback by the information; his face lost color and he sat down.
“We didn’t want to tell you before you visited the police. We had to know if they had picked-up on the fact or suspected anything unusual in that regard. It was important to know what they knew. Are they aware of Zeenat’s involvement?”
“No, but they’re snooping around the ISD because a witness reported seeing two girls abducted, not one as the embassy claims. They smell a rat, as we Americans say.” I was amazed at how quickly Chester had adapted to his adopted country.
I informed Chester that she was enrolled under an assumed name along with fictitious supporting data. It would take the cops a long time, if ever, to learn her true identity. Now that he was a U.S. citizen with a security clearance, Chester was legally and honor-bound not to disclose this information to the authorities. However, it was time for the ambassador to inform India’s Prime Minister and hope he could keep a secret.
“Where are the cops at in their investigation?” I asked.
“They aren’t too far along and the leads aren’t particularly promising at this stage. They are following up on the forensic stuff such as the bullet from Mohammed’s body, the stolen tanker truck, and they’ve put out an APB on the Tata Ace van. They’re poring over both the embassy vehicle and tanker for any physical clues and are planning to re-interview witnesses to see if they missed anything during the first round of questioning. They had already put out a BOLO, a national alert, on the incident and its victims. They’re also rounding-up the usual criminal suspects who specialize in kidnap and ransom operations, but so far they’ve come up empty-handed.”
I told Chester to inform his police colleagues about the note and fingertip the embassy had received. We had to share some things with them if we expected any cooperation in return. I told him to stonewall the information regarding the demand for a U.S. pullout from Afghanistan and Zeenat Karzai’s involvement since that stuff was still much too hot to handle. The ambassador had to finesse that piece of the story at a much higher level than my pay grade allowed.
I cautioned Chester not to reveal the contents of the note, only its existence. He was to play dumb on the point. He could inform his cop friends about the fingertip and that it was positively identified as belonging to Singh Singh, but nothing more at this point.
“Chester, what’s the word on the street about the kidnapping? What are the surmises and speculations as to who is behind the incident? Whodunit?” I asked in my best detecting voice.
“The authorities believe the kidnapping was politically motivated given the fact the target was the American ambassador’s daughter, at least as far as they know,” he answered. “What you told me about Zeenat wouldn’t change their minds, it would only reinforce the belief,” he quickly added.
“Okay, but what about likely suspects?” I inquired.
He responded that his cop colleagues had mentioned the possibility of al-Qaida involvement. It was an obvious guess. However, it might be an accurate one as well, I thought.
“Are there any other speculations?” Kali asked. “We don’t care how farfetched they might sound. We need at least a slim straw to grasp at this point.”
“Well, there was one thing I was going to mention,” Chester said. “It came from an old friend in the IB who has been on the job since Shiva was a pup. He said that the garroting of the security guard was almost ritualistic in nature. It was an up-close and very personal way of killing someone; an act reminiscent of the Thugs.”
“Are you joking?” I exclaimed.
My little outburst followed our assurance to Chester that we wanted to hear anything, no matter how absurd or ridiculous it might sound.
“No, I’m not, nor was he,” he forcefully replied. “The Thug cultists have been part of our culture and country for over three hundred years. They worshiped Kali, the goddess of death and destruction.”
I shot Kali a smirk and she shot me a middle finger in return. Maybe she was warming up to me.
“The cult’s name became transliterated to “thug” in the west. However, Thugs were a concern and force to be reckoned with here.”
Chester explained that the Thug cult practiced an organized campaign of robbery and assassination; and those ritualistic practices were called Thugee. Strangulation was the preferred method and choice for the murderers. Thugs claimed tens of thousands of victims during their reign of terror. They would insinuate themselves with their victims and, at an opportune time and place, strangle them to death by throwing a scarf or noose around their necks. Because of this practice, they were often referred to as “noose-operators.”
"Following a murder, they plundered and buried their victims in accordance with special religious rites. The common pickaxe was a consecrated object in their religious belief and a practical tool for burying their victims. Secrecy and stealth were hallmarks of their murderous trade. The Thugs believed that for each person killed, Kali’s physical return to wreak havoc on the planet would be delayed by one millennium."
I kept eyeing Kali, but she avoided my glances and attempts to tease her.
Chester went on to say that the Thugs preferred to kill their victims at night at certain suitable locations they knew well. Each member of a group had his own function to perform, such as luring the victim, serving as a lookout, holding the victim captive or burying them afterwards. Induction into the sect was sometimes passed down from father to son. Occasionally, the children of victims would be spared and groomed to become Thugs themselves. Elder Thugs, who were no longer strong enough to kill, were assigned duties as watchers, spies, and food preparers to earn their keep.
Chester said that sporadic attempts were made to suppress the cult, but it wasn’t until the 1830s that the British took vigorous steps to eradicate them. In a span of only a few years, roughly 4,000 Thugs were hanged. The cult was presumed to be extinct at that point, but it wasn’t and it simply went underground and continued to practice its morbid rites in greater secrecy until the present. Cases of Thugee style assassinations continued to be investigated by the authorities over the years. There was great difficulty in determining whether a particular murder was a Thug act or one committed by a common criminal. Bodies were well-buried and, when discovered, it was often difficult to determine the exact cause of a death.
“What about Thug activity these days?” I interrupted.
Chester commented that the Indian authorities publicly dismissed the notion of Thugs still operating their trade because of the furor that such an admission would have on the people’s collective psyche and sense of security. However, many officials believed in the cult’s present existence and would probably admit the same over a couple of beers. It was a not-so-well-kept secret among the country’s police and security organizations.
My mind was racing with the possibility, no matter how flaky or remote, of Thugs being responsible for the kidnapping. I really didn’t believe it, but stranger things had happened during my long and arduous career, like getting promoted a couple of times. Therefore, anything was possible, I guessed.
I gave my brief to Chester and Kali and I didn’t have any good ideas, leads, or vibes about who might be responsible. The meeting broke and I drafted a cable to Jersey on the status of the investigation. I left out the Thug speculation because I didn’t want to be ridiculed by my erstwhile friend and colleague.
Sometimes those who served and protected had to weasel-word their written thoughts for purposes of greater clarity and plausible denial.