The food they gave me was pretty horrible, just plain roti, dhal, rice and vegetables cooked by one of the boys. The one saving grace was the clabber milk, which was finger-lickin' good. Sometimes Omar would get a cow or buffalo from one of the shepherds and then we would have a feast.
Every day, Teknikal and Omar would train the four young recruits on using guns and ammo. After the evening prayer, Abu Khaled would give a lecture, sitting under the trees.
'God compensates the martyr for sacrificing his life for his land,' he would say, stroking his beard. 'If you become a martyr, God will give you seventy-two virgins, eighty thousand servants and everlasting happiness.'
'I am ready to become a martyr for Allah,' Sikandar shouted. 'I will make my body a bomb that will cause havoc among the infidels.'
Rashid was not to be outdone. 'I will blast the bodies of these sons of pigs and monkeys and cause them more pain than they have ever known.'
Listening to these young boys talking about killing themselves made my hair stand on end, but Abu Khaled nodded approvingly. 'Your pictures will be posted in schools and mosques,' he said. 'The moment you lose your life, your next life will start in heaven – a life that you have waited so long for. A life of everlasting happiness. May the virgins give you pleasure.'
'Allahu Akbar,' the rest of the class shouted in response. 'God is Great.'
Only Omar didn't look too happy. 'I too, want to die as a martyr, but the zimmedar has chosen Sikandar and Rashid for the job.'
'What job?'
'I cannot talk about it.'
'But why do you want to kill yourself ?'
'So I can get seventy-two virgins in heaven. As a martyr I will also be able to recommend seventy relatives for heaven.'
'But how do you know that there is a heaven?'
'That is what the wise men have always told us.'
'But have the wise men been to heaven themselves?'
'No, because first you have to die.'
'Well, I wouldn't take that chance. I'm not so sure that heaven is such a rocking place.'
'But they say Las Vegas is. A cousin told me that you can get more than seventy-two girls at the Chicken Ranch in Nevada. Have you ever been to Las Vegas?' he asked eagerly.
I'd not stepped within a thousand miles of Vegas, but I wanted to spite him. 'Yes, I have,' I said. 'I've also been to the Chicken Ranch. They even have special-offer days with discounts. You can get six girls for the price of two.'
Omar's face became a turd of misery and mine broke into a grin.
Teknikal didn't show much interest either in virgins or Vegas.
'How the hell did you get mixed up with a guy like Abu Khaled?' I asked him one day when he seemed to be in a good mood.
'I used to be an honours student at the College of Electrical and Mechanical Engineering in Pindi, Mr Page,' he replied. 'But your country took away my father. He is in detention in Guantanamo Bay. He is not a terrorist. But America has made me one.'
I had no reply to that.
As the days passed, my worry grew, because Teknikal told me there was still no response from the President. No newspaper had reported me missing. No TV channel had announced my capture. I had just disappeared off the face of the earth.
This upset Abu Khaled quite a lot. 'What kind of government do you have?' he shouted at me. 'They don't even care about you. Forget about responding to our threats, they have not even acknowledged our message. But come 21 February we will show the world what we are capable of.'
'Why?' I asked. 'What's so special about 21 February?'
'It is a major Hindu festival. And it is also the day when we launch our most spectacular attack against the infidels.'
'What will you do?'
'You will find out soon enough.'
I thought long and hard about their plan, but couldn't figure out what they were up to. It was Sikandar who eventually tipped me off. A week before 21 February I saw him trying on a big leather belt, just like the type the WWF wrestlers win in championship fights.
'Hey, that's cool,' I said. 'Where did you get it from?'
'Abu Teknikal made it for me,' said Sikandar.
'Wow! So is there going to be a RAW title match?' I asked, all excited. 'Is Randy Orton coming?'
Sikandar didn't have a clue who Randy Orton was, so I decided to teach him a few moves. Snatching the belt from him I draped it around my waist. As I was about to clip the buckle, Sikandar pulled it off me. 'You fool,' he screamed. 'You would have killed us all.'
'Killed you all? How?' I asked, mystified.
'Because this is not a belt, idiot. It is an IED, an Improvised Explosive Device,' Teknikal chipped in. 'Enough to kill fifty people, the moment the detonator – which is this buckle – is pressed.'
In a flash I understood the job Sikandar and Rashid had been entrusted with. They would wear the belts, go into town and challenge the Indians to a tag team fight. Then the heels would press the button and blast themselves and God knows how many other innocent people to smithereens.
That night, as Sikandar lay in bed next to me, I leaned towards him. 'Do you like killing people?'
'I don't kill people, the bomb does,' he replied in a flat voice.
'But you are the one who will be pressing the switch.'
'I am a soldier and this is a war. Soldiers need to kill other people. Otherwise they kill you.'
'Don't you have a family? A mother? Have you thought what will happen to her when she finds out you're gone?'
'I left my mother's house a long time ago.'
'Have you forgotten it completely?'
'I remember it had square windows through which sunlight used to stream in. A small doorway opened out on to the street. A narrow staircase led to a room with a photo of my grandfather. That's all I remember.'
These were Sikandar's memories of his lost home and in a few days they would be buried with him. I shuddered when I looked into his eyes. They were frozen. I wondered if his heart was as cold as his eyes.
I couldn't sleep that night. There were wars going on in this world about which I knew nothing. People were dying, kids still wet behind the ears were getting ready to blow themselves up and I didn't even know what they were fighting for. It was as scary as it was real.
Sikandar and Rashid left the foxhole the next day with plenty of provisions. It seemed they were going on a very long journey. 'Now we just wait,' said Khaled and rubbed his hands.
21 February came and my kidnappers sat glued to the satellite phone. Around midday came the news they had been waiting for. Sikandar and Rashid had blown themselves up and thirty infidels.
There was a massive feast that evening. A whole cow was carved up by Munir and Altaf. I didn't eat a morsel. I couldn't, after having seen into Sikandar's eyes. That night, the foxhole seemed colder than hell.
We abandoned the hideout immediately after Abu Khaled's four o'clock prayer. Teknikal explained the reason for the sudden move. 'The army will conduct a cordon-and-search operation before sunrise. We need to leave right now.'
Khaled, Teknikal, Omar and I struck out towards the north side of the escarpment. Munir and Altaf were left behind to wipe out all trace of the hideout. Teknikal had the satellite phone. Khaled and Omar carried AK-47s.
It was a difficult journey. We crossed mountains so steep you could look up the chimney to see the cows come home. But gradually the route flattened out and the mountains lost their sharp ridges. By late evening we reached a quiet valley. An empty wood-framed house was our abode for the night. Omar was sent out to get some provisions and didn't return. Teknikal and Khaled spent a restless night wondering if he had been caught by the army. 'You shouldn't have sent Omar,' I told Abu Khaled. 'He's so stupid, he'd foul up a two-car funeral.'
Omar finally returned at dawn, drunk as a billy goat. He swayed into the house and vomited all over the bed.
It took him a couple of hours to sober up. 'I've done it, Larry,' he grinned. 'I'm a real man now.'
Unfortunately f
or him, Abu Khaled overheard him. There was the mother of all rows between Omar and the zimmedar. Teknikal told me later that Omar had had sex with a shepherd girl who was barely thirteen, and would now be punished with thirty days of roza. That meant no food for him from morning till evening. Trouble was, for some reason Khaled figured I was in cahoots with Omar. So my food and drink was cut off as well.
The next day we began another journey, easily the most dangerous journey of my life, crossing from Indian Kashmir into Pakistani Kashmir. We travelled only by night and hid during the day. Teknikal guided us, wearing night-vision goggles. We followed him blindly across mountains and meadows, hills and trenches, freezing rivers and slick snow. We had to evade Indian mines, tracer flares and Indian border patrols. Mercifully, they had equipped me with Wellington boots, a waterproof jacket and even some woollen cloth to wrap around my calves as protection from frostbite.
A week later I found myself in a large green meadow in the middle of nowhere. Across the pasture stood an old two-storey wood-framed house with a black chimney. The paint was peeling, the beams looked cracked, but it was a whole lot better than that foxhole.
'This is our new home,' said Abu Khaled. 'We've reached Pakistan. Now there is no need to hide. No need to worry.'
But I had plenty of cause for worry. There was still no response to my kidnapping from the President and these guys were getting angrier and impatient. 'Let's give the Americans an ultimatum,' Khalid told Teknikal. 'Come on, pick a date.'
'How about 20 March, which is Milad al-Nabi?' Omar said.
'Too late,' said Khaled. 'I want something sooner.'
Teknikal looked at me. 'Why don't you pick a date, Mr Page?'
'March 17,' I said instantly.
'Any particular reason for choosing this date?'
'It's the birthday of someone very special.'
'Even that's too late. I pick 12 March,' said Khaled.
'Why?'
'That is my birthday.'
Pakistani Kashmir was exactly the same as Indian Kashmir – the same nomadic shepherds, the same wooden houses, the same food, the same weather. I spent the days waiting for some news from the President, and dreaming of Shabnam.
Before I knew it, it was 10 March. I asked Omar about the ultimatum. 'So what happens if you guys don't hear from my folks in the next two days?'
'Simple,' Omar said. 'We kill you.'
The guy was as subtle as a horse turd in the cream pitcher.
I couldn't sleep for the next two nights. Every time I tried to concentrate on something, a hooded gentleman with a scythe would come into my view. And I would begin shaking like a jackhammer.
To make matters worse, a blue norther arrived on 11 March, bringing with it screaming winds and more rain in one day than I had seen in the last five months. It was a real gulley-washer, with thunder and lightning. As sheets of rain struck the house, I thought of Mom. I thought of Mizz Henrietta Loretta. I thought about the Undertaker. About that freak April snow in Waco. I even thought of pa. But most of all I thought of a woman I had never even seen.
I woke up on 12 March and was told by Teknikal that there was still no word from the President. I was given a nice breakfast which I didn't touch, and then I was taken to Abu Khaled.
'Mr Page, looks like your people have decided to sacrifice you. Now you know why I call the Americans heartless. You better say your prayers.'
'Let me kill him, Boss,' Omar said, full of piss and vinegar. Ever since he bonked that girl he had become queer as a three-dollar bill.
'No, Chief, I will do it,' Teknikal said quietly.
I was ushered out of the house and taken to an open field which was slicker than owl shit with all that rain. Omar handed me a shovel. 'Come on, dig your grave, American pig,' he barked.
For half an hour I slaved over that trench, shovelling soil out of the hole in the ground that would be my final resting place. Finally, the grave was ready. The sun was halfway into the sky by then. A few birds chirped in the sunshine. It didn't look at all like someone was going to die.
Teknikal took out a black piece of cloth from his trousers. 'Would you like to be blindfolded?'
'No. I want to see what you guys are doing,' I said.
'Very brave, just like Saddam,' he mumbled. His AK-47 brushed against my leg. I was pretending to be brave, but inside I was shaking like a leaf.
They say when you're about to die your whole life flashes before your eyes. Well, that's not true, coz the only thing that flashed before my eyes was a crow, and an ugly one at that.
'Come on, just do it, Abu Teknikal,' Omar urged, looking at me through a video camera.
Abu Khaled recited a prayer in Arabic. For himself, or for me, I didn't know.
'Any last wish?' Teknikal asked me in a low voice. I knew he had grown fond of me, just as a family grows fond of a pet dog. But even pet dogs are put down when the time comes.
'Any last wish?' Teknikal repeated.
I thought about it. They wouldn't have any chocolate brownies in this hick town. That's when I noticed Teknikal had the sat-phone in his pocket. 'Can I make one phone call?' I asked.
'Who will you speak to?'
I first thought of calling Mom, but she would worry the warts off a frog and I didn't want to spoil her supper.
'There is only one person I would like to speak to before dying. The woman I love.'
'And who is she?'
'Her name is Shabnam Saxena.'
'Shabnam Saxena? The actress?' Omar suddenly became interested.
'Yeah. She is my fiancée. We were going to get married.'
'The bastard is lying, Abu Teknikal,' Omar shouted. 'There is no way he can know Shabnam Saxena.'
'I have her picture in my wallet, and also her mobile phone number,' I said.
'Let me check the bastard's wallet.' Omar ran to me and took out the wallet from my hip pocket.
I heard him whistle. 'The bastard wasn't lying. He does have Shabnam's picture.'
'Show me, show me,' Teknikal said and snatched the picture from Omar.
He whistled too. 'Oh my God! She is the most beautiful woman I have seen in my life.'
'Abu Teknikal, can I talk to her one last time?' I interjected.
Omar turned to Abu Khaled. 'Boss, the bitch wears very few clothes in her films. Very un-Islamic. Can I be in charge of the operation to kidnap her?'
'I want nothing to do with this woman.' Abu Khaled shook his head.
'Give me her number,' Teknikal said. 'I've got the Thuraya and I've put it on speakerphone.'
'No, I'll speak with her,' Omar said, and snatched the phone from Teknikal. He extracted a slip of paper from my wallet. 'I've got the bitch's number.'
He dialled the number and the call went through.
I was expecting the recorded voice to come on as usual when suddenly someone picked up the phone.
'Who is this?' I heard a woman's voice say. My heartbeat quickened.
'Do you know who you are talking to, bitch? This is Commander Abu Omar. Number five in Lashkar-e-Shahadat.'
'Excuse me?'
'You better watch out, bitch. You are doing obscene films and wearing skimpy clothes. We are going to kidnap you. Then we will torture you and kill you.'
'Is this some kind of joke?'
'No, Shabbo, this is not a joke.'
'Shabbo? You've got the wrong number.'
'Wrong number? You are not Shabnam Saxena? Then who are you?'
'This is Elizabeth Brookner, US Embassy.'
'Elizabeth Brookner?' asked Omar.
'Elizabeth Brookner?' asked Khaled. 'Who's she?'
'Chief, Elizabeth Brookner has been the CIA Station Chief in India since 2006,' Teknikal replied. 'A Summa Cum Laude from Stanford University, she joined the CIA in 1988 and has served in Ukraine, Jordan and Kuwait. She is an expert on Al Qaeda. Fuck!'
'This means this bastard has double-crossed us.' Khaled wagged a finger at me.
'Kill him. Just kill him!' Omar screamed.
'No, first we have to find out his connection to the CIA,' said Khaled.
So, for the next ten minutes, I had to explain how I happened to have Elizabeth Brookner's mobile number in my wallet. Then Khaled gave a signal and Teknikal put the AK-47 to my head. He was hiding his eyes, trying not to look at me. 'Don't worry,' he whispered. 'There will be no pain at all. It will be over in a second.'
Suddenly there came the sound of a giant flapping, a rat-a-tata- tat-a-tat-a.
'What in Allah's name is that?' asked Abu Khaled, pointing to a strange-looking object which appeared over the hill like a rising cloud.
'That, Chief, looks suspiciously like an MQ-1 Predator drone – that is, a medium-altitude, long-endurance unmanned aerial vehicle system, and what is worse, it is equipped with two laserguided AGM-114 Hellfire missiles,' croaked Teknikal. 'The Brookner bitch has triangulated us. And even as I speak, the missiles have been fir—'
There was a flash of fire and a big explosion. The earth shook, something sharp hit my leg and I toppled into the trench. All the soil I had dug out fell in after me, almost burying me. It took me nearly fifteen minutes to fight my way out of the grave. I came out choking and wheezing. There was mud in my ears, mud in my eyes, mud in my mouth. My left leg felt as if a chainsaw had run through it. There was a raw wound, an inch deep, just below my knee, from which blood was still dripping.
The area looked like it had been visited by the Terminator. The ground had been ploughed up, leaving craters the size of a bathroom.
Abu Khaled and Abu Omar had been blown to pieces. I saw a mangled hand here, a crumpled leg there.
Teknikal lay bleeding on the other side of the trench. I dragged myself to him and cradled his head in my lap. His chest was heaving and he was struggling for breath.
He looked up at me. 'Do you think they have broadband in heaven, Mr Page?' he asked, and his head lolled down and his eyes closed. He looked kind of dead to me.
I ran from the scene as fast as my one good leg could carry me. The wind whirled around, groaning and moaning like a woman in labour. I ran past mud houses and startled villagers. I scattered herds of goats and flocks of pigeons. I charged down a hill, came to a river and jumped in. On the other side of the river I found a gravel road. I was making progress. The road ended at what looked like some kind of warehouse. A rusted sign at the entrance said 'Hafiz Timber Exports, Keran'. I pushed open the metal doors of the warehouse. They were unlocked and I entered to find stacks of lumber, but not a soul around. 'Hello! Is anyone home?' I shouted, but only heard the echo of my voice. I ventured further and discovered chainsaws and machetes, axes and choppers. The floor was covered with dried grease and oil stains. I followed a trail of oil and came upon an extraordinary sight. A forklift stood in a corner of the warehouse. It was a Nissan Nomad AF30 and looked like it had diesel in the tank. I cranked the engine, and it worked! My spirits rose like a corncob in a cistern. Two minutes later I was driving down the gravel road, shouting 'Hee-haw!' and breaking every forklift speed record in the book. Those idiots at the Cisco Rodeo should have seen me go. I'd have shown them how a forklift with a maximum speed of 10.6 mph could do twenty without blowing the engine.