PANIC IN TASHKENT

PANIC IN TASHKENT

by joyban


"Rahmat!" Professor Joy Banerjee flaunted his one-word Uzbek vocabulary, meaning thanks, at the stern-faced passport control lady officer, dressed in impeccable green uniform, and walked out of the Tashkent airport. As he pushed through the swing-door, another Indian face appeared. It had a searching look. But Banerjee, Professor of International Relations at Jadavpur University in Kolkata, took no notice. He walked past the stranger.

An announcement was heard almost next moment over the PA system. "Attention, Indian Embassy! Attention Indian Embassy! Professor Joy Banerjee has left a message. He is proceeding on some urgent work. He will join you later. Please do not wait for him." The Indian heard it alright. He shrugged. The PA system started repeating the message. The Indian did not wait to hear it all over again.

He walked back to the black Mercedes Classic waiting in the parking lot, opened the right front door, yawned, and looked at his watch. It was past 2 a.m. early morning. Professors are like that, he thought to himself, eccentric chaps, totally oblivious of the real world, unlike his colleagues in the embassy. And his sharp-eyed, clever boss, whose two feet were firmly grounded. The Uzbek driver asked nothing. Only glanced at his companion sideways, with questioning eyes. The Indian could not read his expression in the faint neon from the distant terminal. The chauffeur's cap cast a shadow over Alauddin's face. But he guessed Alauddin's question alright. "He's not coming with us", he muttered, "will join the boss later. Drive home." The driver silently turned on the ignition. The giant limo shot smoothly out of the parking lot. The speedometer quickly registered 80 kmph. But inside the air-conditioned comfort silence of the Chimgan reigned. The faint ticking of the lit-up electronic clock on the dashboard was barely audible.

*****************************************************************

Three days later, a Saturday, Fatma glanced at the big grandfather clock in her bedroom, sat down with practised movement at her computer and connected to the internet. It was 7 p.m. in Eskisehir, Turkey, three hours behind Tashkent time. Fatma was the computer expert of the firm she worked for. The IT world was not merely a job but a passion for her. She was also a net freak. At times, before climbing back to her bed from a midnight toilet trip, she would check her email client's inbox. She knew the in-and-out of the net world like the back of her hand. It gave her a tremendous kick.

She knew her long-standing epal, the professor from Kolkata, would be visiting Uzbekistan. Fatma was keen to know how he felt in the new land he had said he would be visiting on a research-cum-pleasure mission. The Indian Ambassador posted in Tashkent was an old friend of his. It was he who arranged Joy's trip. Fatma had been chatting with Joy religiously every Saturday evening, sharp at seven, Turkish time, by mutual agreement over the past one year. Joy had promised to continue chat from wherever he might be. It was a great weekend pastime. They shared a strong interest beyond knowing each other, their countries and culture. Fatma was partly brought up in Germany. So she was perfectly at home in the German language. Joy had initially learnt it in Kolkata, took advanced courses in Germany and subsequently kept visiting Germany on research work. So, it was their shared interest in German which brought them close to each other, though 'virtually'.

Chatting on the net was an excellent way of keeping the linguistic ability sharp. It was even better than writing emails because responses at a chat must be instantaneous. By tacit agreement they kept use of English or any other languages out. They had learnt this discipline while taking courses in German. In Fatma's case, schooling in Germany automatically ruled out use of any other language. Though her workplace required proficiency in both German and English, she strictly adhered to this unwritten rule while chatting with Joy. This evening, however, Fatma was particularly keen to obtain certain business information her firm urgently needed from Uzbekistan. Joy had promised to help out. He could retrieve it quickly for her through his friend and influential host, the Indian Ambassador. That would short-circuit both Turkish and Uzbek bureaucracy.

Fatma clicked on the MSN Messenger. It was a full minute past 7. The Messenger showed Joy was not yet online. Fatma frowned. Joy was a stickler for time, never late. But her frown disappeared as soon as it had appeared. Well, new place, another PC, unfamiliar environment-- the delay was understandable. Wonder how Joy was feeling right now, she mused and smiled to herself, her eyes glued to the lit-up monitor screen. She waited.

Six minutes past. As her frown was about to reappear, a message flashed on her screen, "Hi Fatma, R U there?" It was in English. There was a look of surprise on Fatma's face. Joy is breaking their unspoken agreement by using English. Also, the use of Americanism was strange, the professor never resorted to it but always greeted with either a German "Hallo!" or "guten Abend!" Hm, Tashkent has really turned Joy's head, it seems, she thought. She shot back in German her counter-greeting, ignoring the English intrusion. She quickly followed up asking how he was and about the weather. "What? Don't understand. English, please", came the reply from Tashkent. Good Allah, what have the Uzbeks driven my old friend to! Trying to be funny or what! Fatma typed firmly in German," Cut the nonsense, Joy! Stop playing the fool. By the way, did you manage to get that info? I need it in a hurry!" There was a significant pause on the other end. The Messenger showed Joy was typing a reply. Fatma waited with bated breath. C'mon, man, be your old self again! "Can't read you. Msg. garbled", she read with wide-eyed astonishment and growing disappointment. The MSN flashed a report that Joy had gone offline. Fatma could not believe her eyes. This was the first time that such an abrupt ending took place to their weekend chat. The first time that the question of a garbled message arose. And the first time that Joy so abruptly, without his routine politeness, had cut the connection. Emotions swelled up in her mind and throat. Was Joy giving her the brush off? Why? What had she done? They were so good friends, even though ethereally. Had exchanged voice mails, sometimes with songs sung by them, photos, jokes, concerns and hopes. They had come so close. But Joy tonight behaved so strangely. "I can't figure it out", thought she.

She looked at her watch. It was nine past seven only. They usually chatted for at least half an hour, sometimes more. And always in German. Well, c'est la vie! she reassured herself, I won't let my weekend spoil over this sort of trivia. I can always shoot off an email to Joy's web-based account and wait for a reply. I need that info badly for my company too, and surely my good friend Joy won't let me down. Maybe tonight he met some nice Uzbek or Tajik damsel who's turned his head! May be he's already high on vodka which Uzbeks guzzle like the Russians. Old Russia may have left the Uzbeks but vodka has not! The thought of females engaging Joy's attention set off a momentary pang of resentment in her. But Fatma quickly overcame it. After all, he's but an epal, and a married, mid-aged man with a teenage son. He's just a little more real than an apparition, she consoled herself. Fatma shut down her PC as well as her thought of Joy. She left the room to prepare dinner for herself and her aged parents, whom she loved more than anything in the world.

* * * * * * * *

S.K.Ray sat bolt upright in his office. It was the same Saturday evening, well past office hour. One of the first things that he learned as member of the Indian government's elite Foreign Service was dignified sitting posture. Apart from being familiar with basic yoga, which demands the same, sitting with your backbone straight exuded self-confidence. His Excellency, the Ambassador of India's office had all the accoutrements that a governmental envoy was supposed to have. The Indian flag neatly draped in the background to his left, and Mahatma Gandhi reigning supreme on the wall to his right. The chandelier and carpets, though not very expensive, reflected a certain amount of discriminating taste of the interior decorator who had done up the room. Mitter was also conscious of the massive poverty and misery widespread in the overpopulated country that he represented. So, he had struck a judicious balance between the needs of grandeur of an Ambassador and the realities of India. But at this moment his thought was elsewhere.

This was the third day since the professor was due. To be sure, His Excellency had received a two-second phone call. It was Joy alright. He had simply said, and in a rushed voice, "Don't worry, Shankar. I'm ok but on a mission I can't talk about over phone. I shall get back to you in time." And before Raycould respond, asking where he was calling from, the sound of disconnection had started playing on his eardrum. Extremely cryptic, thought Mitter. His mind searched from his repertoire of his wide-ranging experience, worldwide. What could have happened that his professor friend disappeared from Tashkent airport. The central part of his itinerary had included staying in the ambassador's official residence. During Ray's visits to India, and through emails, they had also planned sojourns to well-known tourist attractions like Samarqand and Bokhara. Ray had suggested, and his academic friend had enthusiastically approved, forays to lesser known regions like the Chimgan mountains on the Kazakh border in the north and the Ferghana valley, from where the Mughals had materialised into the Indo-Gangetic plains. They had left an indelible impression upon India's history, the Taj Mahal being one example among many.

Ray knew that Joy was researching weapons of mass destruction, including chemical weapons. Recently, there had been reports that the US 10th. Mountain Division, which had established a base in the country to help fight the terrorists in Afghanistan, had discovered abandoned Soviet chemical weapons sites. Did some Indian secret service unit--and there were many-- assign the professor to ferret out information on these? A terrorist or Pakistani chemical attack could not be totally ruled out; Indian defence experts wanted to be prepared for all eventualities. Since it was difficult to access data on these weapons past the various control regimes imposed by the West, especially the USA, it was entirely possible that New Delhi was seeking familiarity with them without shouting from the rooftops. If this was the case then certain covert agencies in New Delhi was bent on keeping the Indian Embassy in Tashkent in the dark. It was not past the realm of possibility, reflected Ray.

There have been abundant cases of bypassing ambassadors while their respective governments carried out secret activities over their heads in the countries they were posted. Henry Kissinger, the US National Security Adviser in Nixon's times used to secretly dash off to Moscow to talk directly to Brezhnev or Gromyko while the US State Department knew nothing. The US Ambassador was probably busy fending off the innumerable vodka toasts in innumerable cocktail parties in Moscow designed to entertain diplomats while old Henry was hush-hushing sweet secrets into the ears of the Soviet leaders inside the Kremlin.

But Joy was no Kissinger. It was also extremely rare for an ordinary Indian academic, regardless of how brilliant he might be in his special area of research, to get such a government assignment. The bureaucracy in New Delhi's South Block would nip any such move in the bud! Tremendous resistance had earlier overwhelmed another International Relations expert, Dr. Ravindra Dasgupta, when a former Prime Minister handpicked him for important assignments. And yet…the possibility that his dear friend Joy had managed to pocket such a crucial assignment cannot perhaps be entirely ruled out. There was no other way to explain the facts of Joy's sudden elusive behaviour.

Ray's train of thought was interrupted. A cautious knock sounded on his closed office door. "Come in!", he hollered, partly annoyed for having his speculations abruptly stopped on their tracks. But his face lit up, in the carefully controlled way of diplomats, when he saw Naidu, his PA entering, catlike. The man is really surreptitious, discreet and self-effacing. Just the right type for an Intelligence Bureau agent, though acting under the cover of His Excellency's confidential secretary.

"So?" Ray's eyebrows rose just a fraction to indicate controlled curiosity. "Any news?" Naidu looked at his nominal boss straight in the eye through his conventional glasses. The black frame belonged to another generation, another time. "Went to Broadway," he said. There was a pause. Ray immediately caught on. "So, the Sluzhba knows nothing, eh?"

The Sluzhba Narodnoi Bezopasnosti or SNB in short was the former Uzbek KGB, now renamed to mean National Security Service. It was a typical Soviet-style official building looking like a big matchbox with many windows, all religiously shut, and not only because of the cold outside. The SNB housed itself off the end of the broad street which strangely had an English name, the Broadway. No one would suspect the SNB to be present near a street which is famous for its open-air cafes, street artists and flea market. A crowded pedestrian thoroughfare dominated by teenagers singing karaoke, playing loud Western, Russian and Uzbek hits, munching potato chips, eating roadside shashlik and having a gala time in general. The huge statue of Emir Timur on horseback overlooks the long and wide boulevard at the other end. Running between Timur, the national hero, and the Broadway is the Emir Timur Avenue, one of the main thoroughfares of Tashkent. In the diplomatic circle, however, the Broadway was a kind of a code word for the SNB!

"Unfortunately no, sir," replied Naidu in his usual quiet manner. Ray felt a deep sense of frustration. He simply loathed the idea of not getting results when he set his mind to it. But he hid his type-A personality well though he suspected Nair could anticipate when it would be activated. He found Naidu reliable, solid inside as granite. Nairdu was not only intelligent and shrewd with more than a touch of cunning. His slim body and simpleton appearance hid well his razor-sharp mind as well as his physical ability to put up with long hours of drudgery. His profession as an IB agent required loads of boring, routine work which would drive a normal individual to despair. But not the man from a village near Kanyakumari. By sheer grit he had reached the position in the IB that he holds today.

"Shall check with Customs and Passport Control, sir," said Naidu. "They may have a clue or two".

"You do that. First thing tomorrow. Only you and Alauddin know. Others need not. Keep it that way," barked Ray in his usual command style. "Sure, sir", replied Naidu softly, "And goodnight, sir". "Goodnight", growled Ray. Naidu turned on his heel and left the boss's office as discreetly as he had appeared. Ray watched him go.

"Bloody IB", he muttered to himself, though he felt a grudging admiration for his so called PA. He did not like spooks. Particularly since many of their orders and activities were beyond even the ambassador's control. These spooky guys in every embassy were a pain in the, er, neck. That's what the Italian and the Czech Republic ambassadors were telling him the other day. No ambassador likes people on his turf who are not totally under his control. While other embassy employees adjusted their life to that of the ambassador's like satellites to a planet, these spies had their own orbit. Anyway, so long as Naidu can deliver the goods it's okay, thought Ray to himself as he rose from his chair.

His faithful Indian and Russian servants were waiting at his residence with a sumptuous meal, as usual, though the ambassador rarely ate much. He had started to wear braces not only because they added old-world charm and dignity which was becoming of a country's official representative but also kept the trousers around the mid-aged pot-belly in place. Without braces and even using belts, trousers at fifty plus had a curious tendency to slide down the balloon of a pot-belly. Law of the wickedness of objects, who said that? Ray thought as he climbed into his Mercedes amidst routine salute by Uzbek police guards. He mechanically raised his hand to return the salutes while Alauddin held the door of the limo open.

Aha, who else but that old fox, Kissinger! As the car started to move noiselessly, Ray's mouth twisted in an ironic smile. A similar law flashed through his mind as light and shade alternately played on his face in the speeding Mercedes…if anything may go wrong, it probably will, that's Murphy's Law. Joy's case was nothing but that. But it had to be set right.

* * * * * *

Mahmud Shah turned another page of the small pocket diary. The pages were full of various entries. These related to appointments, names, phone and email addresses and other data which a pocket diary is supposed to contain. The few extra pages following the last day of the year, 31 December, contained brief hand-written references to longer-term plans and programmes which were not date and time-specific. Mahmud was absent-mindedly chewing the end of his Cello gel with his left hand while turning the pages with his right. He took his Cello from his teeth and jotted down a few words on one of the pages. He closed the diary and put it back to his breast pocket. He then carefully buttoned the flap.

A bearded man appeared. "You better brush up your knowledge of the Mughals", he said as he casually walked towards Mahmud. "Here are some history materials specially delivered for you from a cybercafe in Tashkent." Mahmud flashed a broad smile. "Thank Allah for the internet. Where did you get it from? Google, or Ask Jeeves?" he asked. The bearded man let out a sigh. "I didn't get them. Have no idea which search engine was searched! Some student of History must have fished them out. The man who drove up here with these and certain other things is as familiar to me as a Martian to you, Mahmud!"

Mahmud quickly leafed through the internet printouts. "Which emperors should I focus on, Effendi?" The breeze in the mountainous region was already turning cooler. The sun was a ball of cold fire slowly sinking behind the Bolshoe Chimgan. The Smaller Chimgan, out of range of the dying sun, had already turned into a dark shade of blue. Below, at 2,000 meters, lay the valley with a few villages scattered amidst forest and wild grassfields. The bearded Turk adjusted his erkeklar channon, or chapkan, the long Oriental robe, to keep out cold. "Concentrate on Akbar and Shah Jehan," he replied after a few seconds of reflection. "Why these two characters out of the six Great Mughals?" asked Mahmud.

His interlocutor smiled. "Because the students are supposed to study Akbar's reign, his so called greatness." He spat on the ground. "Actually he was the greatest fool--compromised Islam and the Prophet. He mixed them with ideas of the non-believers, his so called Din-i-Ilahi. That was doomed from the beginning, of course!" The lips in the jungle of his facial hair twisted ironically. "You don't adulterate the teachings of the Prophet. Frivolous chap, this Akbar, as if had nothing better to do, huh!"

He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "And Shah Jehan. His Taj Mahal and other architectural stuff. The students will most likely want to know more of these wonders. Remember, this is the land of Samarqand. Civilisation flourished here thousands of years before Christ ever saw the light of the day, and the white races were eating little more than grass. And the historic seat of Islamic learning, Bokhara. Architecture plays a key role in these cities. So don't be taken aback if your class is full of questions on historical architecture."

"You have dabbled in both history and some architecture, I was told. So you shouldn't have any special difficulties even though," he gave a crooked smile through his beard, "this is not exactly the centre piece of your-er-subject." Mahmud listened silently to his peer.

He then replied, "Don't worry. I'll talk a great deal that makes sense." His chin tightened. "I am aware of history and its close relationship with religion and architecture here in Uzbekistan. I also know," he added, not without a touch of pride at his knowledge, "that Shah Jehan had searched the entire Islamic world to find the Shahi Imam for his huge mosque in Delhi, the Jama Masjid. He ultimately appointed a scholar of great repute from Bokhara." "Right", said his bearded companion. "That's why the Imam of Jama Masjid is always a Bokhari, the descendents of that first Imam from Bokhara. So you know things, it seems."

Mahmud was not sure there was not a touch of sarcasm in that comment, but it sounded a shade patronising alright. He decided not to react. It was growing bitterly cold in the wilderness of the Chimgan Mountains. The breeze was positively freezing now, or so it felt. There was nothing between the vast, open Kazakh plains and this part of northeastern Uzbekistan except the Chimgan or, to be precise, the two Chimgans, called Greater and Smaller Chimgans. But the latter were hardly a barrier to wild gales from Kazakhstan which blew in a southerly direction and turned everything in its way like the inside of a deep-freezer after sunset.

"Catch up with your readings. You are expected there in a matter of days," blurted out the Turk as a parting shot. Mahmud nodded silently. He then got up and slipped into the makeshift tent. His companion also left for an adjoining one. They did not waste time with any more unnecessary words. Each was lost in his own thought. The chill was increasing by the minute. The tents stood on top of a hillock commanding an excellent view of the green valley and the single winding road leading up to it from below.

The beardo sat down heavily on his charpai. It's been a long day with miles and miles of hiking with a 50 kg. rucksack permanently sitting on the back. Well, at least this was immensely better than living, months on end, inside the treacherous depths of Afghan caverns, with strictly rationed meager food and even less water, under conditions of constant ear-splitting B-52 and B-2 bombardment outside, with an AK-47 and a heavy belt of grenades to keep you company.

He and his comrades were not afraid to die. They were jihadis. They even cheerfully looked forward to death in battle since that was the surest way to behest, heaven. But the Americans were cunning. They were cowards, so avoided the classic face-to-face battle. Instead, they preferred to stay far away in the sky, beyond reach of any earthly soldier, and spewed death with their myriads of remotely-controlled gizmos. That was absolutely unfair! But so were these white races, the Christian, bourgois, capitalist West with their decadent culture. They were forever backing the wrong people against Islam.

But the Vozhd, the leader--beardo had picked up Russian even in his lonely thoughts in this land long dominated by Moscow--has shown what he could do even to the mightiest power on earth. 11 September was a day of jubilation. And despite the bombardments and efforts by treacherous countries even in Asia to weed out al Beqaeda, they had not succeeded. And will not succeed in the future. Al Beqaeda was secretly regouping all over the places. Thanks to the covert supporters within Islamabad's ISI and the Army, even Musharraf, despite all his big talk, could do precious little. The tribal brothers of the Northwestern Frontier in Pakistan were also a great help.

It's a question of time now. Live deceptively normal civilian life, blend gradually into the society you are in at the moment, and wait. Wait for that signal from the Vozhd. Each individual jihadi, each small unit, spread over half the globe stretching from Chechnya, Pakistan, Kashmir, Xinjiang, all the way to Southeast Asia, were just waiting for that supreme signal. All hell will again break loose, especially against the West and its collaborators.

Already the bombing of the US Consulate in Karachi a few days ago had succeeded in creating panic among the Yanks! Dow Jones and Nasdaq have taken a nose dive. That shook that high altar of capitalism, the Wall Street, all over again after 11/9. It has also shown that Beqaeda was still very much a force to be reckoned with.

The threat of a nuclear war between India and Pakistan, as every child these days knew, did not depend on decisions taken at Islamabad or New Delhi alone. Al Beqaeda might act as a catalyst! The Russian mafia and other underworld gangs were also chipping in. And despite all the fancy Western tracking systems and computers and what have you, there was no way to beat the hawala for transacting money across borders. After all, you needed funding for Beqaeda's training and missions. A genuine jihadi only needed his maintenance. But the various mafiosi operating from the Caucasus to Hong Kong worked only for hard cash. Beqaeda used them whenever necessary. The drug cartels among them were, in a way, rendering indirect service to Beqaeda's cause. They were ruining Western youth, both physically and mentally. They were venomous snakes. But handled with care, they proved to be powerful allies in the common cause of undermining the West, especially the USA.

Hawala, the beardo reflected with an admiring smile only partly seen though his facial jungle, had existed in Asia since time immemorial. A proven network across international borders, word of mouth and absolute trust were the key words, and bundles of cash would change hands. Hawala could beat the tracelessness of money in Swiss banks any day. It left no written record or document of any sort that could be traced. It used the most elusive device of them all, only highly transient stuff called words. Words disappeared into thin air as soon as spoken! The system was still intact in Uzbekistan where the sarrafons, or money changers, went about doing their age-old business.

So the al Beqaeda network was essentially intact. Let the West and its friends control the cities in Afghanistan. That mattered as much as somebody controlling your coat while you were gone! The beardo got up. He walked over to a covered bronze plate and put it on the oven. He put a match and lit it. Time to grab some Uzbek plov and then go to bed. Tomorrow he had again lots to do.

Inside his tent, Mahmud put down the heavy holland which served as door to the tent, lit a hurricane, and sat down, cross-legged, at his low wooden book-holder. He soon immersed himself in the bundle of printouts on Mughal architecture.

* * * * *

In a third tent erected between the two, a man lay in bed, with a book nearly covering his face. His mind was anywhere but in the rows of print in front of him. Someone sneezed. The nasal gusto came, not from the man in bed but from a hulking figure squatting, Oriental fashion, on a thick, over-used Bokhara carpet on the floor. His long, flowing chapkan protruded only slightly near his mid-section on the right. A Makarov, though slim, caused the miniscule protrusion. An AK-47 assault rifle lay at an arm's distance. He was also reading a book. But periodically his shifty eyes surveyed the man on the bed.

"Jihad means to make an effort", he read, "to fight against oppression." The man turned the page of his heavy manual. The manual managed to hold his interest. "The jihadi must not show off his training… His training involves four elements: stamina, strength, speed and agility." The man pondered these qualities, mentally measuring each against his own capabilities. He read on. Ironically, the manual recommended consulting the US Army publications for learning more of the art of fighting. It also recommended the internet. The net was a veritable el Dorado of the experiences of former British elite commandos like the SAS.

"Avoid physical training at fitness centres where ladies also visit…shun exercise set to music…" Well, the man sighed, coming to think of it, he did not mind either ladies or even Western pop, but surely that was the devil's temptation! Fortunately, he had passed these stages of training. He was just refreshing his memory by reading on and also killing time.

"Survival outdoors in unfavourable conditions is very important," the manual went on. "The jihadi should go on long hikes in the wilderness with a rucksack weighing a third of his body weight on his back. He must learn to live on minimal food and water, to live off the land, to light fire without the help of match-sticks or lighter…to hike over unknown terrain at night without a compass but only with a map and the stars to guide him….Learning to use a variety of firearms and skill at sniping come next as part of his training." He paused for a moment, through the corner of his eyes he looked at the man in bed who had meanwhile turned on his side, still holding his book now partly covering his sensitive face.

"After rigorous training, the jihadi should report to a select madrassa. There he will be trained in the language, culture, history and the habits of the people of a target country. After finishing his course, he will be slipped, by legitimate means, into that country. There, he should lead a perfectly normal life, and do nothing to attract attention. He will be a 'sleeper'. Till one day his controller, using indirect means to avoid direct contact for security reasons, 'wakes' him. The jihadi will be told of his specific assignment. This may include suicide bombing of a high-profile target…."

The big man shut the heavy book published by the Chechen jihadis in their underground press in the Caucasus. Well, I am 'sleeping' in Uzbekistan now. So are my jihadi brothers elsewhere. Just have to stick it out till my call comes. He stood up, set his book aside, took another look at the prostrated figure, then took out his Makarov from under his robe. The man in bed heard his movements, saw the Russian pistol pointed at him, stared, and slowly laid his book down. The owner of the gun flashed a crooked smile. He removed a metal container of machine oil from a makeshift shelf, then took out the bullets from his Makarov. Using a piece of cottonwool he started methodically cleaning the messenger of death. It was slim, small, simple yet robust, easily concealed, and inexpensive. But the 5.45 mm was deceptive by looks. It packed enough power to penetrate even body armour at close range. No wonder the Makarov was the KGB's favoured weapon for assassination. Its owner's thoughts, however, were not on the KGB, his old enemy, but on America, the new devil.

The pocket transistor standing on the shelf, airdropped by the hundreds by the US Air Force all over Afghanistan to spread Voice of America propaganda in Pashto and Dari, had broadcast a Radio Moscow news bulletin an hour earlier. It announced that President George Bush and his closest aides had hurried into hiding for full fifteen minutes. The reason? The White House had received an alert over an approaching unidentified aircraft. That had set off all the alarm bells in DC! F-16 interceptor jets had scrambled! The intruder later turned out only to be a harmless Cessna, probably from a nearby flight-training school. The trainee-pilot had inadvertently strayed into the no-fly zone around the super power's seat of highest decisionmaking.

A mere tiny Cessna driving the almighty US President and all his men into hiding in a bunker! Such is the panicky situation in America since 11/9 which vaunted the mightiest military force in the world! The big man, as he polished his Makharov to spit, silently laughed to himself, his eyes again quickly taking in the bed and its inert occupant. 11/9 had turned mighty America into Humpty Dumpty, forever. The USA will never again recover from that mighty fall. All the King's horses and men could not put Humpty together again!

The Vozhd had proved that al Beqaeda was mightier, could hit the arrogant USA almost at will, even after absorbing the punishing bombing of its bases in Afghanistan. The very thought of the two-month-long devastation from the air set his blood boiling for the umpteenth time. It was good that al Beqaeda still held the initiative. It would decide the time and place of the next hits. Bush's elaborate arrangement of a Cabinet-level Homeland Security Department was just an eyewash, as if that could hinder the Vozhd. It was as much meant to reward his old buddy Tom Ridge for electoral services he had rendered as to lull the naïve Americans.

The Vozhd was like that imaginary American hero--ah, what's his name?--ah yes, the Phantom. Only, this Phantom was no cartoon, this one was real! The Americans loved cartoons; he spat on the tent floor, right on the worn out carpet. Let them now 'enjoy' their cartoon for real! As he finished his polishing job and put the little Russian death machine back to its place under his robe, the big man drew a deep breath of satisfaction.

* * * * *

It was 9:17 p.m. in Bern, Switzerland. And exactly 10:17 in Eskisehir. Suparna, who had earned her Master's in International Relations from Jadavpur University, had been living in Bern for a year now. Her husband was a computer expert and was working with a German firm with its branch in Switzerland. Suparna, playing the role of a housewife, had a lot of leisure time between changing the baby's nappy and cooking meals. She had developed the habit of frequently going to the net after dinner to chat with acquaintances in India. Among her favourites was her former professor, Joy Banerjee, who kept late nights at his PC four and a half hours ahead in Kolkata.

Indeed, she had by chance barged into a Joy-Fatma chat several months ago and got to know Fatma over the net. Ever since, the two ladies had begun to chat with each other whenever they felt like it. Suparna had learnt German in Calcutta and learned it well. Her husband had even taught German for a while in Calcutta. So she found it useful to cultivate both her professor as well as Fatma for they often used German in their ethereal conversation.

The MSN Messenger showed that Fatma was online. She typed "Guten Abend, Fatma", pressed Send, then waited. Pat came Fatma's counter-greeting. After some small talk about the day's activities, which included Suparna's difficulties of lulling her new-born to sleep, the weather and the items they had for dinner, they moved to the subject of their common friend, Joy. Both knew of his plan to visit Uzbekistan. Fatma then revealed Joy's strange behaviour earlier that evening over MSN. "May be he's warming up his English. He's to lecture in Uzbekistan", said Suparna jokingly. "Oh really? He did not tell me that", replied Fatma. "Lecture on what?" she asked. "Surely International Relations. A great deal on warfare. And modern hi-tech arms", said Suparna. "Sir always had a crush over macho stuff! In our last chat Sir told me he would lecture on the US war in Afghanistan."

Fatma hesitated a moment but then curiosity got the better of her. "Do you know where I can find him? I mean, in Uzbekistan?" typed Fatma and waited for the critical reply. The Messenger showed Suparna was typing a reply. Fatma's screen flashed, "Yes. The Indian embassy in Tashkent. The Ambassador would know. He's from our Dept. Also Sir's friend. I met him during a university reunion in '96." Fatma thanked her. After some more chit-chat, they signed off.

It was child's play for Fatma to find the email address of the embassy. Giant search engines like Google were always ready to 'spider', to crawl the worldwide web and fish out any information.

The Internet Explorer sprang a dialogue box on the monitor screen: "Do you want to stay connected?"

Fatma clicked yes. She was a shade too anxious to know of Joy's whereabouts to bother saving a few liras by opting for offline composition. She quickly addressed a short but precise email to the Indian Ambassador, by name, which she had just obtained from her epal in Bern. She introduced herself and put through a query about Joy and his itinerary in Uzbekistan. This was also a good beginning, an opportunity, she thought, to get that information her firm was eagerly seeking if the Ambassador warmed up to her. She mentioned Suparna and the university reunion of 1996 where Ray, the ex-student, was present along with host Joy.

* * * * *

It was dawn. A soothing silence overlay the green wilderness around the Chimgan mountains, punctuated by an occasional chirping of unknown birds. But the picture was different inside Mahmud Shah's tent. Beardo, another Arab-looking man, a new arrival, and Mahmud were immersed in discussing issues which were anything but calming for the nerves.

"Your mission here is to ferret out information about the Soviet chemical weapons sites in this country," the visitor with a stern face was saying. "Once you can pinpoint their location, others will take over. Our information is that the Soviets have left behind large quantities of chemicals which could spread instantaneous mass destruction." He paused. Mahmud gave a perfunctory nod to indicate he understood his mission. But he had questions to ask.

"What kind of chemicals are you looking for?" he asked.



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