Chapter 12
Regrouping Our Groping
Two IB agents were killed and one was wounded in the shootout with Kris and his cronies as they escaped from the crematorium. One of the bad guys might have been wounded as well. Fortunately, Chester had only suffered a minor flesh wound to his game leg and he was up and limping again in no time. The Indian authorities immediately issued an All-Points Bulletin for Kris—an APB, for short, in the cop biz. It was similar to a BOLO or Be on the Lookout, but had fewer letters in its contracted form. Therefore, it was an abbreviated, time-saver for the cops in matters where time was of the essence. Kris Amar’s Dalit coworkers at the crematorium were strenuously interviewed by the IB agents. Not surprisingly, none had anything to say about Kris, either good or bad. To have done so, and to cooperate with the authorities, would have meant death to them and their families.
Mum was the word in these matters. By the way, that doesn’t refer to flowers or mothers. No one would come forward fearing for their own or a loved one’s life. It wasn’t considered good karma or commonsensical under the circumstances. Despite all of the hype about reincarnation, most people still wanted to live a bit longer in their present skins. Their next ride on the cosmic merry-go-round might not be as pleasant. Apparently, the Hindu gods and goddesses made a list and checked it twice for those naughty and nice.
I briefed the ambassador and key members of the embassy’s country team on the failed operation in Banaras. I thought he might declare me persona non grata and send me packing, but he didn’t. And if he didn’t, Jersey and DS would never question his decision to let me stay. Speaking of Jersey, I owed him a report on the latest case developments. Ordinarily, I’d draft a message to him over lunch, but I’d wait a bit longer to see if I could give him some good news too.
Sometimes those who served and protected preferred eating chicken to crow.
I spent the next hour or so alone in the task force room. I was trying to make sense of things and develop a Plan Two. The first one hadn’t exactly gone by the number, but I would try again. However, there were some things that had become clear and they started to fill in the picture. Luckily, we also painted by numbers in the department. I was convinced that Joe Singh and Kris Amar were both Muslim, mujahedeen warriors engaged in Jihad against the Karzai regime in Afghanistan and, by extension, the United States.
Both would be philosophically, religiously, and politically aligned with the Taliban and al-Qaida. Joe was born in the Punjab, the portion that was predominately Muslim and now part of Pakistan. I suspected that Kris Amar hailed from the same area and was of the same faith. They were both educated Dalits who must have seethed with resentment over their treatment, and that of their fellow Dalits, in the rigid Indian social structure where they were considered the lowest-of-the-low. They must have realized the irony of the situation. Their fates were the result of an accident of birth or rebirth, if you prefer. They each had drawn the joker from the cosmic deck of cards. It was bad karma in spades. I also suspected they had something else in common, but I couldn’t prove it yet. I assigned Chester to work that bent angle.
The kidnapping of the two girls couldn’t have been a better choice in order to pressure the United States and Afghanistan. My guess was that Joe, at the urging of Uncle Kris, infiltrated the embassy and bided his time while identifying a high-value kidnap target. He insinuated himself as an affable, competent employee of Uncle Sam. He then maneuvered into driving for the ambassador’s family when the opportunity arose. These guys were patient and cunning. It was possible that Ambassador Thurman might have been their initial target, except that he was too well-guarded.
Alicia then became a target of opportunity for the gang. Zeenat was a windfall bonus for the extortionists and Joe had somehow learned her true identity. Someone must have inadvertently leaked the fact she was the eldest daughter of the President of Afghanistan. The pickings didn’t get any better or riper for the bad guys. They then ruthlessly stalked and ran their prey to ground. The trap was sprung and it was a "that’s all she wrote" moment, to put the incident into better linguistic perspective.
I received a classified, eyes-only, cable from Jersey Briggs. He said the pressure from the seventh floor suits was intense and unrelenting. Besides the Secretary, the Black and senior Gray Dragons were demanding answers and results. The White House and the Hill were also relentless in their insistence that the department do something, and do it fast. They were feeling the international political heat and had to get out of the kitchen in a hurry.
It had been nine days since the kidnapping and the seniors in the building were already looking for scalps. Jersey desperately wanted to keep his hair intact, along with his career. I wasn’t looking to become a skinhead either. Like a lava flow, the brown stuff was already heading on a downhill trajectory. I had to watch my step, otherwise I’d end up going with the flow. Washington didn’t have much patience and that meant I didn’t have much time.
I cabled Jersey and told him I would have the case solved in 72 hours. I didn’t weasel-word the claim. Of course, I didn’t say I’d bring back the captives alive, just that I’d solve the case. I had plenty of wiggle room to work with if I didn’t deliver on my promise. Words were malleable in the Foreign Service, but you could still get hit over the head with them anytime.
However, the statement would buy me an extra three days on the department’s payroll before I was fired. Well, maybe something was better than nothing, I rationalized. And “Time is money,” as the department adage went. The organization obviously had too much time on its hands if it could afford to sit around and think up these little inanities. Regardless, maybe I’d made a rash promise to deliver the goods. Only time would tell.
Sometimes those who served and protected enjoyed using clichés and trite expressions when other, more erudite, phrases eluded them.
I had enough time to walk to my hotel for lunch before I met with my task force. The embassy cafeteria fare was getting stale since I couldn’t get a real cheeseburger to save my soul. The Indians must have some religious thing against eating American cheese. Where’s the beef? I asked myself. As a true patriot, I took it as a personal slight and a slap in the face of Ms. America. But I didn’t make any sexist remarks about her just in case her Uncle Sam was listening.
As I turned a corner, my world was turned upside down. I was grabbed from behind and pulled into a hedge of bushes next to the sidewalk. I couldn’t see my attacker, but he was strong. The scarf he had placed around my neck was tight and I had to struggle to catch my breath. He pulled me to the ground and continued to tighten the noose. I was getting woozy and didn’t know if I could remain conscious much longer. I had to think and act fast to save myself from being garroted to death. It was an obvious Thug assassination attempt. I hoped it would only stay an attempt and not become anything more serious. But as an atheist, I didn’t plan to be victimized by someone else’s religious practices. Tolerance was one thing, but this act just wasn’t Christian or kosher.
We continued to struggle, but I couldn’t yell for help since my throat was tied up at the moment. By the way, I wasn’t above asking for assistance when someone was choking the shit out of me. Pride wouldn’t go before the fall. But I was already felled and I had no illusions of grandeur at the moment. I was up to my neck in trouble.
The attacker then put a hand over my face to smother me. Before passing out, I was able to give him a sharp elbow to his ribs. He yelled out in pain and loosened his grip on the noose. That was enough for me to catch a breath, get on my feet, and spin around to give him a swift kick to the groin. He wasn’t wearing a cup and he howled in agony. Obviously, the guy had some balls. He then took off running down the crowded street and ducked into an alley.
I didn’t bother chasing him because I knew I couldn’t catch him. My lung capacity and endurance weren’t what they used to be for some reason. I then lit a cigarette to calm my nerves. As I reflected on what had just happened, I removed my neck brace. It had been uncomfortable to wear, but turned out to be a lifesaving security precaution.
I had learned this trick from a former DS colleague early in my career. He had successfully worn one for many years in order to hold his head high in the department. I thought it might be useful against intentional strangulation by Indian Thugs and I guessed right. Garroting and burking could be hazardous to one’s health. The medical collar saved my neck and life and I would now, and forever, be indebted to god Asclepius, as well as Lords Shiva and Vishnu.
I didn’t bother reporting the incident to the police. What could I tell them? I knew the attacker wasn’t Kris Amar. However, I could confirm the assailant was a brown-skinned male with black hair and of average height and weight.
Officers, I think he was Indian, but I’m not sure about his caste or home address. Oh, and by the way, he was also a Thug. I know they don’t exist anymore, but that was what he was. No, I haven’t been drinking, your honor.
I couldn’t tell the cops that whenever they were strangling me from behind they all looked the same to me, but that was the truth. If they put five suspects in a police line-up, I’d probably be able to identify all of them equally. Regardless, I simply couldn’t discriminate since it was strictly forbidden by department regulation.
I sat at a table in the hotel restaurant with my back to the wall. I didn’t sit there for protection or as a matter of good tradecraft. I sat there as an expression of where I was in terms of the investigation and my short employment with DS. I ordered a bowl of chicken soup since my throat was a little sore. I wasn’t sure if it was caused by the Delhi pollution or if I were coming down with a cold. Regardless, I sipped the soup and it went down easily. I was pleased to say that I didn’t choke on the small pieces of chicken.
Returning to the chancery, I placed the following words under the names and photos of Kris Amar and Joe Singh on the white board: Indian, Dalit, Muslim, Thug, Extremist, Jihadist, and Punjabi. These were the common denominators between the two main people involved in kidnapping Zeenat and Alicia. Indian was their nationality and Dalit was their Hindu caste or station in society. Muslim or Mohammedan was their nominal religion. Thug was their modern-day vocation and avocation as assassins belonging to the Thuggee cult. Extremist reflected their Islamic fundamentalist religious and political views. Jihadist indicated they were trained mujahedeen warriors. Punjabi identified them as people born in a conflicted, troubled region straddling India and Pakistan. Boy, these guys had a lot of handles and baggage to deal with, but then again, so did we. Moreover, time was on their side and not ours.
The phone in the corner of the room rang loudly and it startled us. We had never heard it ring before and weren’t sure that it actually worked. We suddenly found out it did; vigorously and with alarm. Big Bird answered it and said the embassy operator was patching a call through to me and that was not good news. I suspected it was Jersey Briggs asking where he could fax my walking papers. I took the phone, disguised my voice, and said “hello,” in a contralto pitch, just like we’d been taught in the department’s communications security course.
“Never compromise your identity,” we were constantly admonished in class. It could be a foreign intelligence officer, or an ex-wife, or a bill collector on the other end of the line. Worse, it could be a correspondent from a prominent news organization asking embarrassing questions about the department. “Don’t give up the high ground and only back down as you have to,” they reminded us. “Maintain plausible denial at all times” and “Always accentuate the positive,” were other memorable precautions. “Never take any wooden nickels,” puzzled us, but we appreciated the two plus cents worth just the same. I could provide more of these sage pieces of wisdom, but I was concerned it was Jersey and that he might hang-up before I could genuflect, but it wasn’t a video phone so it would have been the thought that counted.
“You must be a Hindu at heart, if not at soul, Dick, because you have more incarnations than a guru,” the voice spoke. I glanced at my jacket lapel to make sure I’d stayed mum. I had, it was a red one, so I was confused by what he had said about flowers. It sounded like more of the duality, duplicitous, double-speak stuff I had heard since arriving in India. The caller certainly wasn’t Jersey since the speaker’s English was much too good. He had a more pleasant accent than Jersey too. However, I wasn’t interested in subscribing to The Times of India or learning how to make extra money in my spare time. That was because I didn’t have any spare time and I was prohibited from reading foreign classifieds. I had to quickly blow off the caller and get back to business. But before I could hang up, he began his sales pitch and I listened politely and intently.
“This is Amar. We met the other night under awkward circumstances. Too bad you left empty-handed,” he chided. “The girls are safe, but won’t stay that way much longer if your government doesn’t play ball and agree to our demands.”
I was impressed by his Americanized gamesmanship. In his own twisted, demented way, maybe this guy was a straight-hitter, so I’d hear him out. I scribbled a note telling Big Bird to trace the call. Kris was likely using a throw-away cell phone that couldn’t be traced, but we had to give it try. Our testimony at the department’s upcoming ARB would look good on this point. We would use all the pointers we could possibly get to defend ourselves.
“Mr. Avery, I have an offer you can’t refuse,” he continued. By the sounds of that statement, I would have to add the words Italian and Mafia to the white board. These guys were much too worldly and wordy.
“I’m prepared not to kill Alicia Thurman if the following conditions are fully met. First, you will instruct the Afghan government to release two prisoners of war being held in Kandahar, Afghanistan. These men are brave mujahedeen warriors who have served the cause of freedom for many years—this point is not negotiable, Mr. Avery. They are to be taken to the Pakistan border and released unharmed. They will swear on the Koran that they will no longer participate in Jihad. They will no longer take up arms in the name of Allah and here are their names.”
“Hold on, wait a sec, I need to grab a pen,” I authoritatively told him. “Ok, shoot, I mean go ahead and give me the two names,” I quickly corrected myself.
He did and I wrote them down on a small, yellow Post-It note. I asked whether the names were phonetic or literal spellings. He told me he didn’t have time to give an ignorant infidel a primer on the Sanskrit, Arabic, and Indo-Aryan alphabets. I thought he was rude and I didn’t like his haughty attitude. Only ugly American tourists traveling abroad are permitted to act that way, I mused. Ok, I guessed that Mohammed Kabul, the blind camel dealer, and Mohammed Mohammed, the ever-hopeful eunuch, would be easy enough to locate at the only joint POW holding-facility in Kandahar.
“As to the second demand, it is equally important,” he continued. “It is a videotape of our leaders explaining to the world why Jihad is a necessary and inevitable evil. If it’s Allah's will, war will continue for a millennium to drive the infidels and their lackeys from the Middle East and South Asia. It is Allah’s vision and command to the faithful. This is the dawning of the new crusade where Islamic true believers will smite the nonbelievers. Millions will die if they do not renounce their heathen religious beliefs and convert to Islam—the true faith of Allah."
“The tape will be shown to the American and Canadian public on all major television channels immediately following the airing of American Idol. To give the tape stature, it will be labeled as a public service announcement from the United States government, like the Smokey the Bear commercials—only YOU (fucking infidels) can prevent Armageddon! Your president will introduce the film noir while eating a shawarma sandwich in the Oval Office. As the tape is being aired in North America, it will simultaneously be shown on Al Jezeera television to the Arab-speaking world—inshalla, Allah Akbar—.”
I interrupted his spiel and politely informed him that Smokey was an American icon whose image and persona had been copyright protected many years before. As to the president, I explained the SAG rules and the concept of residuals. He replied that he didn’t care about technical problems. Moreover, he mentioned that there was no indication that Smokey or the president had converted to Islam so they wouldn’t get any special treatment. We Americans would just have to bear and grin it with both actors. We would have to work out the details or there was no deal. Alicia Thurman would die a horrible death at his hands.
I warned him not to harm either of the girls or the wrath of Richard Avery and the United States of America would come down hard on him and his cohorts. I said that Uncle Sam was a wimp compared to me, so he’d better watch out, he’d better not cry, he’d better not pout, because I was telling him why—Richard Avery was coming to town! I also told him I could out-smite him any day of the week with one arm tied behind my back. Like the word smitten, I didn’t know what smite meant. Foreign words really confused me. He laughed at my false bravado and blustering. My feelings were hurt as a result and I snuffled a bit before regaining my composure.
“Amar, you know as well as I do that I can’t agree to these things. They have to be run up the flagpole in Washington.”
After I explained what that phrase meant to the ignorant foreigner, I demanded some proof of life. I had to know if the girls were alive and kicking, so to speak.
“Put Alicia Thurman on the line,” I demanded. I waited about 30 seconds before a young female voice tentatively said hello.
I said hi back to keep the conversation brief. I told Alicia my name was Richard Avery and that I was a special agent with the Diplomatic Security Service, Bureau of Diplomatic Security, Department of State, United States of America. I hoped she’d be impressed and relieved that she was now talking to a government trained professional. The cavalry was coming and I was leading the charge. I wondered if I said Calvary, not cavalry. I badly wanted to reassure her of her salvation, rather than her crucifixion. Maybe I should have said Calgary and made her believe I was a Canadian Mountie and about to rescue her. But that would have only worked if she were linguistically and geographically challenged. Regardless, she apparently didn’t quite see the situation the same way.
“Like, do you mean to say that the most powerful nation on the planet sent a dick to save me?” she incredulously asked.
I replied that was about it—in a nutshell.
Jesus fucking Christ! Those were the next words she explosively uttered.
Obviously, Alicia had a potty mouth and attitude. Maybe I shouldn’t be so conscientious in my work, I thought. I immediately chided myself. I was here to protect truth, justice and the American way, and a young woman with a filthy vocabulary. I was the good guy who needed money too. I would not waiver in my duty, despite her insightful slights.
“Alicia, I’m from the government and here to help you,” I boastfully declared. I believed that line might reassure her that I wasn’t just an ordinary, inept federal bureaucrat. I was a special one.
“Ok, Mr. Avery, but I’m, like, so frightened. I want to come home! I miss my parakeets, Frick and Frack, and my MTV,” she sobbed.
My heart went out to her at that point. I fully understood how important favorite TV programs were to Americans. I also understood her pain because I related well to teenage girls as long as they were of legal age.
“Are you and Zeenat okay?” I asked.
“Zeenat? Oh, do you mean the skinny Afghan chick? Yeah, Z-Bitch is doing fine, my man.”
It sounded like the two had been cooped up too long together. I then told Alicia to take the bubble gum out of her mouth because her annunciation wasn’t Topps.
“Have you and Zeenat been treated well?” I inquired.
“Like yeah, they let us watch Indian television and read the Koran too,” she said. “But, like, when we’re naughty or bad, they, like, torture us.”
I had worried about that possibility and anticipated they might have undergone the most degrading treatment at the hands of their captors.
“What did they do to you?” I asked, but wasn’t sure I wanted to hear her answer.
“Ok, well, like, the very nastiest thing they do is force us to listen to Don Ho’s greatest hits. They put earphones on our heads and we have to listen to his caterwauling for hours until we say we’re sorry. Tiny Bubbles sucks after you listen to it for, like, a gazillion hours, ya know,” she said. “However, when I finally say I’m sorry, I cross my fingers behind my back. I sometimes stick my tongue out at them too, if I’m really pissed,” she enthusiastically noted.
Jesus, she was one tough, defiant young woman, I thought. Our nation’s gumption and moral stock were in safe hands with this younger generation of patriots.
“Alicia, I’ll tell your parents that you love them. That will go a long way to relieving their anxiety,” I told her. “They’ve been terribly worried about you, as you can imagine,” I added.
“Like sure, whatever, Dick Man,” she said. “Just get me the hell out of this shithole.”
I think I was warming up to her. She said she had to go; an Indian soap was on the tube that she really was, like, into, like, big-time.
I told her to put Kris Amar back on the phone. I warned him again not to harm the girls. He assured me that if I acted as an honest broker in the deal, no harm would come to them. However, if I crossed him, he said he would feed their flesh to the Ganges fish; one piece at a time while they were still alive.
I said I wanted one more piece of proof that the girls were alive and well. My superiors would demand it before agreeing to anything. I told him to have both girls stand in front of the phone and hold up a copy of today’s newspaper. He should make sure the paper’s date was clearly visible. I wanted proof positive that they were alive as of today to reassure my seniors. He agreed and confirmed that the girls were holding the newspaper in front of them as we spoke. Of course, I couldn't see anything, but I sure could intuit the picture because I was using a smart phone. I hoped that Kris couldn't pick up on my little faux pas or idiocy.
“That should do,” I said. I thought I was developing some rapport with him. I also wanted to convey the strong message that he wasn’t screwing around with just anyone.
Kris tried to end the conversation, but not before I asked for a number or address where he could be reached. He told me not to worry and he’d be back in touch. He then hung up on me. I vowed to punish him later for his lack of phone etiquette. These rude foreigners really tended to push my decorum hot buttons.
Sometimes those who served and protected played hardball to safeguard America’s honor, womanhood, geopolitical interests, and telephone courtesies.