Mohammed Hanif - A Case of Exploding Mangoes

“That is very unprofessional of you,” OBL muttered, scanning various groups of guests enjoying themselves. He spotted General Akhtar in the middle of the lawn surrounded by a number of Americans wearing Afghan caps. He walked up and stood behind them, hoping that the circle would part to welcome him. He skulked for a few minutes, trying to catch General Akhtar’s eye. To OBL’s horror General Akhtar saw him and showed no signs of recognition, but the local CIA chief followed General Akhtar’s gaze, moved rightwards, making space for him in the circle and said, “Nice suit, OBL.”

General Akhtar’s eyes lit up. “We would have never won this war without our Saudi friends. How’s business, brother?” General Akhtar asked, holding him by his hand. OBL smiled and said, “Allah has been very kind. There is no business like the construction business in times of war.”

Arnold Raphel talked to a group of Afghan elders and kept looking sideways at his wife who had reappeared wearing khaki pants and a plain black T — shirt, replacing the loose ethnic thing she was wearing at the start of the party. On the one hand he was relieved that General Zia hadn’t turned up, but on the other hand as a diplomat, as a professional, he felt slighted. He knew it wasn’t an official state occasion, but General Zia had never missed any invitation from his office. Arnold Raphel knew that General Zia had gone completely bonkers since his security chief’s death, but surely the General knew that a Fourth of July party at the American Ambassador’s residence was as safe a place as you could find in this very dangerous country. “Brother Zia is not coming. He is not feeling well,” he told the bearded Afghan covered in a rainbow-coloured shawl. The Afghan elder pretended he already knew but didn’t care. “This is the best lamb I have eaten since the war started. So tender, it seems you plucked him out of his mother’s womb.”

A wave of nausea started in the pit of Nancy’s stomach and rushed upwards. She put a hand over her mouth, mumbled something and ran towards her bedroom.

OBL soaked up the atmosphere, laughing politely at the light-hearted banter between the Americans and General Akhtar. He felt that warm glow that comes from being at the centre of a party. Then suddenly the CIA chief put his hand on General Akhtar’s shoulder, turned towards OBL and said, “Nice meeting you, OBL. Good work, keep it up.” The others followed them and in an instant the party deserted him. He noticed a man in a navy-blue blazer talking to some of his Afghan acquaintances. The man seemed important. OBL slowly started drifting towards that circle.

The party moved down to the den, a large basement hall with leather sofas, a forty-four-inch television screen and a bar; a blatant exercise in suburban nostalgia. Arnold had arranged for some of his American staff to see the recording of the Redskins versus Tampa Bay Buccaneers in the previous week’s NFL play-off. The den was full of cigar smoke and noisy Americans. Instead of beer, which seemed to be the drink of choice upstairs, here people were serving themselves whiskeys. The Saudi Ambassador sat on a divan with a wad of fifty-dollar bills in front of him taking bets on the game. Somebody had forgotten to explain to him that the game was eight days old and that the Redskins had trampled the Buccaneers.

A tall American wearing a kaftan and a flyer’s orange scarf around his neck handed General Akhtar a glass half full of bourbon. General Akhtar felt the urge to throw the whiskey at the stranger’s face but then looked around, didn’t see any familiar faces except the Americans and the Saudi Ambassador, who himself seemed too sloshed to care. General Akhtar decided to hold on to his drink. The noise in the den, the veteran spymaster in General Akhtar concluded, was the perfect backdrop for sounding out Coogan. Not even the most sophisticated bug would pick out any distinguishable sounds in the incomprehensible chorus that was going up: “Lock him up, Jack, lock him up. Feed them dirt, Jack, feed them dirt.” General Akhtar raised his glass like everyone else but only sniffed his drink. It stank like an old wound.

Corporal Lessard was challenged by the Subedar Major from the back of the truck where the Pakistani soldiers were relaxing after security checking the last guests. The Subedar Major aimed his Kalashnikov at Corporal Lessard’s forehead and ordered him to halt.

The marine raised his tray above his head, the aluminium foil covering it reflecting the searchlight held by one of the soldiers on the truck. “I brought some chow. For you brave men.”

The Subedar Major lowered his rifle and climbed down from the truck. Two rows of soldiers peered down at the swaying American trying to balance the tray on his head.

The Subedar Major and the marine squared off in a circle of light marked by the searchlight.

“Hot dogs,” Corporal Lessard said, pushing the tray towards the Subedar Major.

General Akhtar shifted his glass from his right hand to his left and cleared his throat. Then on second thoughts he brought his hand up and mimed General Zia’s moustache, a universal sign used in Islamabad’s drawing rooms when people didn’t want to say the dreaded name. General Akhtar’s right thumb and forefinger twirled invisible hair on his upper lip: “…has been having dreams,” General Akhtar said, looking into Coogan’s eyes.

Coogan, his heart running with the quarterback who had just set off for a fifty-six-yard dash, smiled and said, “He is a visionary. Always has been. They don’t change. I am sure TM’s free fall didn’t help. By the way, nice line, Akhtar: A professional who didn’t miss his target even in his death . If your boss had half your sense of humour, this Pakiland of yours would be a much livelier place.” Coogan winked and turned towards the TV General Akhtar felt a bit nervous. He had played these games long enough to know that he was not going to get a written contract to topple General Zia. Hell, he wasn’t even likely to get a verbal assurance. But surely they knew him and trusted him well enough to give him a nod. “He won’t stop the war until you give him the peace prize.” General Akhtar decided to press his case. He had looked around and realised nobody was remotely interested in their conversation.

“What prize?” Coogan shouted above the chorus. “Lock him up, Jack, lock him up.”

“Nobel Peace Prize. For liberating Afghanistan.”

“That is a Swedish thing. We don’t do that kind of thing. And you don’t know those snooty Swedes. They would never give it to anybody with…” Coogan mimed General Zia’s moustache and turned towards the television again, laughing.

General Akhtar could feel an utter lack of interest on Coogan’s part in the matter at hand. He had won his war and he wanted to celebrate. General Akhtar knew what a short attention span the Americans had. He knew that in the subtle art of spycraft this non-commitment was also a kind of commitment. But General Akhtar wanted a sign clearer than that. He suddenly smelled the acrid smell of hashish in the room and looked around in panic. Nobody else seemed to be bothered. They were still busy urging Jack to lock them up and feed them dirt. General Akhtar noticed that the man who had poured him a drink was standing behind Coogan puffing on a joint. “Meet Lieutenant Bannon,” Coogan winked at General Akhtar. “He has been teaching your boys the silent drill. Our main man.”

General Akhtar turned round and gave him a faint yellow smile.

“I am aware of all the good work he has been doing. I think his boys are ready for the real thing,” General Akhtar said, looking at the joint in Bannon’s hand.

OBL found himself strolling on the empty lawns amid discarded paper plates, half-eaten hot dogs and chewed-up bones. He suddenly remembered that he had not as yet eaten. He went towards the tent from where he had smelled the lamb’s fat burning. Inside the Kabul tent the Afghan chef minutely inspected the leftover of his culinary creation. Eight skeletons hung over the smouldering ashes of the barbecue fire. He was hoping to take some home for his family but even his small knife couldn’t salvage any bits of meat from the bones. “God,” he muttered, packing his carving knives, “these Americans eat like pigs.”