He picked up his bottle of whisky and poured some into his glass with a tremulous hand. It sloshed, swirled and gurgled in the glass. At the door he turned back and said, "Can you get my suitcase?"
By the time I dragged the suitcase to the living room, he was already sweating. The fire wasn't such a good idea. The sky was clear and our floating companions, the clouds, had gone back to Siberia or wherever they came from. Even the river down in the valley was silent.
Why do rivers decide to shut up on certain nights?
I dragged the suitcase into the middle of the room and fussed over the fire. The wood was dry, the weather was clear, we didn't need the bloody fire.
"I have saved a few lives in my time. Or I think I have. This whole bloody Afghan thing. I have done more than five hundred trips. All deniable missions. And now I end up with this." He looked at the fire appreciatively. I looked at the suitcase.
My cheeks were glowing. The room was oven-hot.
"I took three days dragging this back," he said, his voice full of remorse.
He stood up with his glass poised in front of his chest. He raised his glass to me and did a 360-degree turn. He seemed to be at a party that had gone on for too long but he was determined to get the last dance in.
"Open the suitcase," he said.
Out of a very clear night sky a grey cloud, its edges bruised orange like a healing wound, appeared at the window as if Colonel Shigri had called in a witness.
I opened the suitcase. It was full of money. Dollars.
"This was my mission. To retrieve this money from someone who was dead. And I buried my man there and brought this here. Do I look like an accountant? Do I pimp my men for this?"
I looked at him. We held each other's gaze. I think for a moment he realised that he was talking to his son.
"Into the fire," he said.
If I hadn't been so sleepy I might have tried to reason with him. I might have told him that whatever his ethics of war, the money wasn't his to burn. Instead I obliged. And soon started taking pleasure in watching hundreds of little dead American presidents, White Houses and In God We Trusts In God We Trusts crumpling and turning into stashes of ash. I used both my hands and threw wads after wads of dollars into the fireplace. Soon the room was full of green smoke and twenty-five million dollars' worth of ash. I peeled off a bill from the last pile and slipped it into my pocket. Just to confirm in the morning that it wasn't a dream. crumpling and turning into stashes of ash. I used both my hands and threw wads after wads of dollars into the fireplace. Soon the room was full of green smoke and twenty-five million dollars' worth of ash. I peeled off a bill from the last pile and slipped it into my pocket. Just to confirm in the morning that it wasn't a dream.
"Go to sleep, young man. I'll keep watch. I have asked them to come and collect their pimp money." I looked at him and laughed. His face was covered with the soot flying around the room. He looked like a badly madeup black slave in a Bollywood film. "Wash your face before you go to sleep," he said. Those were his last words to me.
The rain rattles the window.
"Has the monsoon started?" Obaid asks, distracted by the sudden lashing of rain on the window.
"Monsoon is for you people in the plains. Here it's just rain. It comes and goes."
The Mango Party
TWENTY-NINE.
The first of the monsoon winds caught the crow gorging on mustard flowers in a sea of exploding yellows in eastern Punjab, just on the wrong side of the Pakistani border. The crow had spent a good summer, grown fat and survived a number of ambushes by gangs of Brahminy kites which looked like eagles but behaved like vultures, ruled this area unchallenged in the summer and, despite their exalted name, showed no interest in the abundant vegetation, preying instead on common crows like this visitor from across the border. The crow obviously credited his own cunning for his survival but the curse that he carried was saving him for a purpose, for a death more dramatic than being eaten alive by a bunch of greedy kites with no respect for dietary rules.
One hundred and thirty miles away from the mustard field, in Cell 4 of the Lahore Fort, Blind Zainab folded her prayer that and heard the rustle of a snake. It was a small snake, probably the size of her middle finger, but Zainab's ears instantly recognised its barely audible scurrying. She stood still for a second, then took off her slipper and waited for the snake to move again. Keeping in mind a childhood superstition, she moved only when she was sure she could target it precisely. She brought the slipper down swiftly and, in three targeted strokes, killed it. Slipper still in hand, she stood still and her nostrils caught a whiff of the pummelled flesh. The dead snake's blood vapours floated in the dungeon air. Her headache returned with a vengeance, two invisible hammers beating at her temples with excruciating monotony. She reclined against the wall of her cell, threw her slipper away and cursed in a low voice. She cursed the man who had put her in this dark well, where she had nobody to talk to and was forced to kill invisible creatures to survive. "May your blood turn to poison. May the worms eat your innards." Blind Zainab Zainab pressed her temples with the palms of both her hands. Her whispered words travelled through the ancient air vents of the Fort and escaped into the tropical depression that had started over the Arabian Sea and was headed towards the western border. pressed her temples with the palms of both her hands. Her whispered words travelled through the ancient air vents of the Fort and escaped into the tropical depression that had started over the Arabian Sea and was headed towards the western border.
The monsoon currents induced a certain restlessness in the crow and he took off, flying into the wind. The air was pregnant with moisture. The crow flew one whole day without stopping and didn't feel thirsty even once. He spent the night at a border checkpoint between India and Pakistan picking at a clay pot full of rice pudding that the soldiers had left outside in the open to cool down. The pot lay in a basket hanging from a washing line; he slept on the washing line with his beak stuck in the pudding. The next day the crow found himself flying over a barren patch, the monsoon wind turned out to be an empty promise. His mouth was parched. He flew slowly, looking for any signs of vegetation. The crow landed near an abandoned, dried-up well where he picked at a dead sparrow's rotting carcass. His lunch almost killed him. Dying of thirst and stomach pain, he took off on a tangent and followed the direction of the wind until he: saw lights flickering in the distance and columns of smoke rising on the horizon. He tucked his left wing and then his right wing under his body by turns and flew like an injured but determined soldier. In the morning he reached his destination. The lights had disappeared and the sunrise brought with it the wonderful smell of rotting mangoes. He swooped over an orchard, then spotted a skittish little boy rushing out of a small mud hut with a catapult in his hand. Before the crow could take any evasive action, a pebble hit his tail, and he flew up to stay out of the boy's range. His restlessness was over. His crow instincts and his crow's fate combined to tell him that he must find a way to stay in this orchard.
The crow's fate was intertwined with that of one of the two big aluminium birds being put through the last maintenance checks in the hangar of the VIP Movement Squadron of the Pakistan Air Force, five hundred miles away. The engines had been tested, the fatigue profiles had been declared healthy, the backup systems checked for any malfunction. Both the C130 Hercules aircraft were healthy and superfit to fly. According to the standard presidential security procedures, however, the aircraft for General Zia's journey to attend a tank demonstration in Garrison 5, Bahawalpur, would not be chosen until a few hours before the flight. A fibreglass VIP pod, twelve feet long, was being put through a very strict hygiene regime by Warrant Officer Fayyaz personally. From the; outside the pod looked like one of those shiny capsules that NASA launches into space. From the inside it looked like the compact office of a gangster. Warrant Officer Fayyaz dusted the beige leather sofas with its nova suede headrests and vacuumed the fluffy white carpet. He polished the empty aluminium bar and put a copy of the Quran in the drinks cabinet. It was mandatory for all vehicles and flights carrying the General to have a copy. Not that he recited it during his journeys. He believed that it added another invisible protective layer to his elaborate security cordon. Now all Warrant Officer Fayyaz had to do was to put new air freshener in the air-conditioning duct and the pod would lie ready. For security reasons the pod would not be fitted into one of the two planes till six hours before take-off. Only when this pod had been fitted into one of the two aircraft would it become the presidential plane. At this point it would automatically acquire the call sign Pak One. Warrant Officer Fayyaz had a lot of time on his hands, enough to do a second round of dusting and polishing before he went to pick up the new air freshener from VIP Movement Squadron's supply officer, Major Kiyani.
The crow circled above the orchard, out of the range of the catapult, until the boy spotted a red-nosed parakeet and started to prepare an ambush. The crow swooped down and settled on the top branch of the tallest mango tree, hiding in the blackish-green branches, and picked at his first mango. As the smell had promised, the mango was overripe and dripping with sweet, sweet juices.
When I get the summons from the Commandant's office I am busy teaching a pair of my Silent Drill Squad members how to be an Indian; it involves completing a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn with their feet and head on the floor and their hands in the air. I caught them whispering during the silent drill practice and now I am administering a lesson on the virtues of silence. They are groaning like a bunch of pansies. Probably the Coke bottle tops that I put under their heads are causing some discomfort. If they thought I would come back tender-hearted from my tribulations, they have definitely revised their opinions by now. Bannon or no Bannon, the rules of the drill can't change. If they thought a few days in a jail could turn a soldier into a saint then they should try spending a week in the Fort. Only civilians learn their lessons behind bars, soldiers just soldier on. I put my half-smoked cigarette in the mouth of the one making the most noise, his hands flail in the air and his groans become louder as the smoke enters his nostrils. "Learn some manners," I tell him and start marching towards the Commandant's office.
The Commandant had accepted us back into the fold as if we were his errant sons. He walked into our dorm on the night we arrived from Shigri Hill and looked at us pensively from the doorway. Obaid and I stood to attention by our bedsides. "I don't like it when my boys are taken away from me," he said in a subdued voice, dripping with fatherly concern. As if we were not two just-out-of-the-dungeon prisoners but a pair of delinquents who had arrived home after lights-out time. "As far as I am concerned and as far as the Academy is concerned you were away on a jungle survival course. Which is probably not very far from the truth."
I have always found his Sandhurst brand of sentimentality sickening, but his words came out undipped and unrehearsed as if he meant what he was saying. I didn't feel the usual nausea when he said things like putting it all behind us and drawing a line under the whole episode. He turned to go back and asked in a whisper, "Is that clear?" We both shouted back at strength 5: YES, SIR. He was startled out of his depression for a moment, smiled a proud smile and walked away.
"There goes another general wanting to play your daddy," Obaid said bitterly, falling back on his bed.
"Jail has made you a cynic, Baby O. We are all one big family."
"Yes," he said, yawning and covering his face with a book. "Big family. Big house. Nice dungeons."
What could the Commandant possibly want from me now? A report on the progress of the Silent Drill Squad? Another lecture about jail being the university of life? Has someone from the squad been complaining about my new-found love for Coke bottle tops? I adjust my beret, straighten my collar, enter his office and offer an enthusiastic salute.
His reading glasses are on the tip of his nose and his two-fingered salute is even more cheerful than mine. There is a have-I-got-good-news vibe in his office. Has he got his third star? But he is beaming at me me. I seem to be the source of his soaring spirits. He is making circles in the air with a paper in his hand and looking at me with eyes that say 'Guess what?'
"You must have made quite an impression on the big guys," he says, a bit puzzled by whatever the paper has to say.
"'Silent Drill Squad is invited to perform after the tank demo at Garrison 5, Bahawalpur, on 17 August,'" he reads from the paper and looks up at me, expecting me to dance with joy.
What do I run? An elite drill squad or a touring bloody circus? Am I expected to go from cantonment to cantonment entertaining the troops? Where is Garrison 5 anyway?
"It's an honour, sir."
"You don't know the half of it, young man. The President himself will be there, along with the US Ambassador. And if the Chief is going to be there, then you can expect all the top brass. You are right, young man. This is an honour and a half."
I feel like the guy left for dead under a heap of bodies, who hears someone calling out his name. What are the chances of the rope snapping before your neck does? How many assassins get to have a second go?
"It's all because of your leadership, sir."
He shrugs his shoulders and I immediately know that be be hasn't been invited. hasn't been invited.
With that I realise for the first time that buried under the slick greying hair, privately tailored uniform and naked ambition, there is a man who believes that I have been wronged. He is on an epic guilt trip. Good to have suckers like him on my side but the only thing that is depressing about his ramrod posture, his shuffle towards me and the hands he places on my shoulders is that he means every word of what he is saying. He is proud of me. He wants me to go places where he himself would have liked to go.
I look over his shoulder towards the trophy cabinet. The bronze man has moved to the right. His place is occupied by a paratrooper's statue. The parachute's canopy is a silver foil, the silver-threaded harnesses are attached to the torso of a man who is holding his ripcords and is looking up into the canopy. The temperature in the room suddenly drops as I read the inscription on the gleaming black wooden block on which the statue is mounted: Brigadier TM Memorial Trophy for Paratroopers Brigadier TM Memorial Trophy for Paratroopers.
"Go, get them, young man." The Commandant's hands on my shoulders seem heavy and his voice reminds me of Colonel Shigri's whisky-soaked sermon. Once I am out of his office, I offer 2nd OIC an exaggerated salute and start running towards my dorm. OIC an exaggerated salute and start running towards my dorm.
I know the phial is there, in my uniform maintenance kit, secure between the tube of brass shine and the boot polish, an innocuous-looking glass bottle. I know it's there because I have thought of throwing it away a number of times but haven't been able to do so. I know it's there because I look at it every morning. I need to go back and see it again, hold it in my hand and dip the tip of my sword in it. "It ages very well." I remember Uncle Starchy's low whisper. "It becomes smoother, it spreads slower. But a poor man like me can't really afford to keep it for long." I'll find out how well it has aged. I'll find out what hue it takes on the tip of my sword. I'll find out if the sentiment in my steel is still alive or dead.
Accidents in silent drill are rare but not unheard of.
THIRTY.
General Akhtar was scribbling on a paper with the intensity of a man who is absolutely sure about what he wants to say but can't get the tone right. His eyes kept glancing towards the green telephone, which he had placed right in front of him, in the middle of a small orchard of table flags representing his myriad responsibilities to the army, navy, air force and various paramilitary regiments. As the head of the Inter Services Intelligence he had never had to wait for a phone call, especially for information as trivial as this. But now, as the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Committee, he presided over strategic reviews and inaugurated one army officers' housing project after another. Sometimes he found out about General Zia's movements from the newspapers. This irritated him, but he had learned to cultivate a studied lack of interest in intelligence matters: "I am happy to serve my country in whatever capacity my Chief wants me to," he said every time he happened to be around General Zia. The information he was waiting for was easy to get: there were two planes and only one VIP pod. All he wanted to know was which one of the two planes the fibreglass structure was going into, which one of the two planes would become Pak One. He tried not to think about it. He tried to concentrate on the last sentence of his address.
The speech was going to be simple. He would keep it short and punchy. He would not go into long-winded formalities like General Zia did-'my brothers, and sisters and uncles and aunts'. His message would be short. In a mere ten lines, which would last no more than a minute and a half, he would change the course of history. "My fellow countrymen. Our dear President's plane had an unfortunate accident in mid-air soon after taking off from an airfield in Bahawalpur..."
He read the sentence again. It did not seem very believable to him. There was something about it that didn't ring true. He should probably explain what had happened. A mechanical failure? He couldn't possibly say sabotage but he could hint at it. He crossed out the words 'had an unfortunate accident' and replaced it with 'exploded'. This sounds punchier, he thought. He added another sentence in the margin. 'We are surrounded by enemies who want to derail the country from the path of prosperity...' He decided to stick with the unfortunate accident unfortunate accident after all but added: ' after all but added: 'The reasons for this tragic plane crash are not known. An inquiry has been ordered and the culprits, if any, will be brought to swift justice according to the law of this land.'
He picked up the phone absent-mindedly. It was still working. He thought long and hard about the closing line of his speech. He needed something that would tie it all up, something original, something uplifting. There had been too much God-mongering under General Zia and he felt the Americans might like a nice secular gesture, something that would sound scholarly, reassuring and quotable. He was still divided between 'we as a front-line state against the rising tide of communism' and 'we as a frontline state against the flood of communism' when the phone rang. Without any preliminaries Major Kiyani read him a weather report. "Two low-pressure zones that were gathering in the south are headed northwards. Delta One is definitely going to overtake Delta Two." Instead of putting the phone down, General Akhtar pressed his forefinger on the cradle and went through a mental checklist, a list he had been through so many times that he felt that he could not be objective about it any more. He decided to go through it backwards.
9. Address to the nation: almost ready.
8. Black sherwani for the address to the nation: pressed and tried.
7. US reaction: predictable. Call Arnold Raphel and reassure him.
6. Where should I be when the news breaks: inaugurating the new Officers' Club in General Headquarters.
5. If Shigri boy has a go: problem solved before take-off. If Shigri boy loses his marbles: the plan goes ahead.
4. The air freshener doesn't work: nothing happens.
3. The air freshener works: no survivors. NO AUTOPSIES.
2. Does he deserve to die? He has become an existential threat to the country.
1. Am I ready for the responsibility that Allah is about to bestow upon me?
General Akhtar shook his head slowly and dialled the number. Without any greetings he read out the weather report, then gave a pause and before replacing the receiver said in loud and clear voice. "Lavender."
He suddenly felt sleepy. He told himself that he would decide the last sentence of his speech in the morning. Maybe something would be revealed to him in his dreams. He looked into his wardrobe before going to bed and took a long look at the black sherwani in which he would appear before the nation tomorrow. His hope about figuring out the last sentence of his speech in his dreams turned out to be false. He slept the sleep of someone who knows he will wake up a king.
What woke him up was the red phone at his bedside, a call from General Zia. "Brother Akhtar. Forgive me for bothering you so early but I am taking the most important decision of my life today and I want you to be here at my side. Join me on Pak One."
The C13O carrying my Silent Drill Squad smells of animal piss and leaking aircraft fuel. My boys are sitting on the nylon-webbed seats facing each other with their legs stretched to preserve the starched creases of their uniforms. They are carrying their peaked caps in plastic bags to keep the golden-threaded air force insignia shiny. Obaid's head has been buried in a slim book since take-off. I glance at the cover; a bawdy illustration of a fat woman, part of the title is covered by Obaid's hand. "...of a Death Foretold" is all I can read.
"What is it?" I grab the book from him, go to the first page and read the first sentence.
"So does Nasr really die?"
"I think so."
"It says so right here in the first sentence. Why keep reading it when you already know that the hero is going to die."
"To see how he dies. What were his last words. That kind of thing."
"You are a pervert, comrade." I throw the book back at him.
"How about a rehearsal?" I shout above the din of the aeroplane.
My squad looks at me with weary eyes, Obaid curses under his breath. They line up sluggishly in the middle of the cabin. I can see their hearts are not in it. The smelly cabin of an aeroplane that has recently been used to transport sick animals, cruising at thirty thousand feet, is not the best setting for our elegant drill routine. But then the pursuit of perfection can't wait for the ideal environment.
We are in the middle of a rifle salute when the aeroplane hits turbulence. I stand and watch their reactions. Despite a sudden drop in altitude, followed by regular shuddering of the aircraft, my boys manage to hold onto their rifles and their positions. I bring the hilt of my sword to my lips, the tip of the sword is tinged a steel blue with Uncle Starchy's nectar. I put the sword back in the velvet-lined scabbard and watch them. The aeroplane goes into a thirty-degree turn and I am suddenly skidding towards my squad, trying to maintain my balance. Obaid puts his arm around my waist to steady me. The loadmaster shouts from the back of the plane. "Sit down, please. Sit down. We are coming in for landing."
The aeroplane starts to descend. My inner cadence tells me that my mission starts now. My poison-tipped sword tells me that it's ready.
An unmarked white Toyota Corolla started its journey from Rawalpindi with the intention of covering the 530-mile distance to Bahawalpur in five hours and thirty minutes. Those who encountered the car and its maniacal driver along the route were almost certain that the driver would not survive the next ten miles. The car ran over stray dogs and broke up cowherds making their way to the rubbish dumps in the suburbs. It zoomed through crowded city junctions, threatened and overtook the most macho of truck drivers. It didn't stop for children waiting at zebra crossings, it honked its horn at slow horsecarts, it swerved and dodged public transport buses, it threatened to run through railway crossings, it ran down footpaths when it couldn't find its way ahead on jammed roads, it was pursued in a futile chase by a road-tax inspector, it was sworn at by labourers repairing the roads, it stopped for refuelling at a petrol station and then took off without paying. The driver of the car was obviously in a hurry. Many of the people who saw the car whizz past were sure that the man driving it was suicidal. They were wrong.
Far from being suicidal, Major Kiyani was on a mission to save lives.
He had personally supervised the last dusting of the VIP pod and inserted the lavender air freshener in the air-conditioning duct. He was there when the pod was lifted by a crane, rolled into the C130's fuselage through its back ramp and fastened to the floor of the cabin by the air force technicians. He had to leave the VIP area and retreat to his office as General Zia's entourage started to arrive; in his new job he didn't have the security clearance to be around the red carpet.
It wasn't until Pak One had taken off from Rawalpindi's military airport for Bahawalpur that Major Kiyani put his feet on the table, lit a Dunhill and casually glanced at the passenger list that had been left on his table before Pak One's take-off. His feet came off the table when he saw General Akhtar's name just below General Zia's. Like most veteran intelligence operators he believed that one should know only what one needs to know. Surely General Akhtar knew when to board Pak One and when to get off it; General Akhtar always knew the bigger picture. After eighteen names, starting with senior military ranks, he saw the first civilian name. Mr Arnold Raphel, the US Ambassador. He stood up from his seat. Why was the US Ambassador travelling on Pak One and not on his own Cessna?
Fear was Major Kiyani's stock-in-trade. He knew how to ration it to others and he knew how to guard against it. But the kind of fear he felt now was different. He sat down again. He lit another cigarette and then realised one was already smouldering in the ashtray. Was there anything that he had not: understood about General Akhtar's instructions?
It took him another eight minutes and three Dunhills to realise that his options were limited. There were no phone calls he could make without bringing his own name onto the records forever, there were no security alerts he could issue without implicating himself. The only thing he could do was to be there physically before Pak One took off for its return flight. He needed to get there and talk to General Zia before he stepped on that plane again. If General Akhtar was trying to play games with Pak One, it was a matter of internal security. But if General Akhtar was planning to bring down a plane with the US Ambassador on board then, surely, it was a threat to the nation's very survival and it was his duty to stop it from happening. Major Kiyani felt he was the only man standing between a peaceful August day and the beginning of the Third World War. He looked at the passenger list again and wondered who else was on the plane. Everybody, he thought, or maybe nobody.
The time to make educated guesses was long gone.
A quick look at the commercial flights schedule ruled out the possibility of catching a plane to a nearby city. He thought about making a few calls and getting an air force plane but that would require authorisation from a general and there was no way they would let him land at Bahawalpur. He picked up the keys to his Corolla and was barging towards the door when he looked at his watch. He realised that he would have to wear his uniform. No civilian could do that long a drive without being stopped a dozen times along the way. Then there was the problem of negotiating General Zia's security cordon. It couldn't be done without the uniform. He took out a uniform from the stationery cupboard. It was pressed and starched but covered in a thick layer of dust. He couldn't remember when he had last worn ic. His khaki trousers were too stiff and impossibly tight around his waist. He left the zip button on his trousers open and covered this arrangement with his khaki shirt. He took out the dust-covered oxford shoes from the cupboard but then realised that he was running out of time and nobody was going to see his feet in the car anyway. He decided to stick to his open-toed Peshawari slippers. He didn't forget to pick up his holster. He had one last look at himself in the mirror and was pleased to notice that despite the awkward fit of the uniform, despite the fact that his hair covered his ears, despite his Peshawari slippers, nobody could mistake him for anyone other than an army major in a hurry.
THIRTY-ONE.
General Zia was searching the sand dunes through his binoculars, waiting for the tank demonstration to start, when he saw the shadow of a bird moving across the shimmering expanse of sand. He raised his binoculars and searched for the bird, but the horizon was endlessly blank and blue except for the sun, a blazing silver disc lower than any celestial object should be. General Zia stood under a desert-camouflage tent flanked on one side by US Ambassador Arnold Raphel and on the other by the Vice Chief of the Army Staff, General Beg, with his new three-star general's epaulettes and tinted sunglasses. General Akhtar was standing a little further away, his binoculars still hanging around his neck, fidgeting with the mahogany baton that he had started to carry since his promotion. Behind them stood a row of two-star generals, Armoured Corps Formation commanders and battery-powered pedestal fans that were causing a mini-sandstorm without providing any relief from the August humidity. At least the tent did protect them against the sun, which bear down on the exercise area marked with red flags, turning it into a glimmering, still sea of sand. Holding to their eyes the leather-encased binoculars provided by the tank manufacturers, the generals saw the khaki barrel of an Mi Abram appear from behind a sand dune. The tank, General Zia noted with interest, had already been painted in the dull green colours of the Pakistan Army. Is it a free sample, he wondered, or has one of my eager generals in Defence Procurement already written the cheque?
The Mi Abram lowered its barrel to salute the General and kept it there as a mark of respect for the recitation from the Quran. The Armoured Corps' Religious Officer chose the General's favourite verse for these occasions: "Hold Fast the Rope of Allah and Keep Your Horses Ready".
Lowering his binoculars, General Zia listened to the recitation with his eyes shut and tried to calculate the percentage of kickbacks. As soon as the recitation was over he turned to confer with General Beg about the mode of payment for these tanks. He saw his own distorted face in General Beg's sunglasses. General Zia couldn't remember Beg ever wearing these glasses before he appointed him his deputy and practically gave him the operational command of the army. When General Zia had gone to congratulate him on on his first day in his new office, General Beg received him sporting these sunglasses even though it was a cloudy day in Islamabad; further proof, if proof was needed, that power corrupts. General Zia hated General Beg's sunglasses but still hadn't found a way to broach the subject. It was probably a violation of the uniform code. What was worse, it made him look Western and vulgar, more like a Hollywood general than the Commander-in-Chief of the army of an Islamic republic. And General Zia couldn't look into his eyes. his first day in his new office, General Beg received him sporting these sunglasses even though it was a cloudy day in Islamabad; further proof, if proof was needed, that power corrupts. General Zia hated General Beg's sunglasses but still hadn't found a way to broach the subject. It was probably a violation of the uniform code. What was worse, it made him look Western and vulgar, more like a Hollywood general than the Commander-in-Chief of the army of an Islamic republic. And General Zia couldn't look into his eyes.
General Akhtar saw them whispering to each other intensely and his resolve strengthened. As soon as the demonstration was over he would make an excuse and dash back to Islamabad in his own Cessna. General Zia seemed to have forgotten that he had invited his Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Committee. He didn't seem to remember that he wanted to consult 'Brother Akhtar' on the most important decision of his life. If this was a test, he had passed. Now he needed to be close to General Headquarters, close to the National Television Station, close to his black sherwani. He would need to address the nation in less than two hours. This unscheduled trip had added another layer of depth to his plan. Now nobody could say that he had deliberately stayed behind in Islamabad. They would say he was just lucky because he didn't stay for lunch at the garrison mess. In order to distract himself from the proceedings, he silently started to rehearse his address to the nation.
Listening to General Beg's long-winded reply about the payment for the tanks, General Zia made a mental note that after the tank trial he would settle this sunglasses business once and for all. General Beg was still going on about the direct link between the proposed tank deal and US military aid-all of it falling within the procurement objectives set in the US-Pakistan defence pact-when the first shot rang out.
General Zia terminated his conversation mid-sentence, put the binoculars to his eyes and searched the horizon. All he could see was a wall of sand. He tried to readjust his binoculars and as the sand began to settle he saw a red banner, the size of a single bed sheet, with a giant hammer and sickle painted on it, fluttering intact over a remote-controlled target-practice vehicle, like a golf cart carrying an advertising banner. The Mi Abram obviously couldn't see very well. He looked at Arnold Raphel who, with binoculars glued to his eyes, was still searching the horizon optimistically. General Zia wanted to make a joke about the tank being a communist sympathiser but the ambassador didn't look his way. Other target-practice vehicles started descending the sand dune, bearing other targets: a dummy Indian MiG fighter jet, a gun battery made out of wood and painted a garish pink, a cardboard bunker complete with dummy soldiers.