Tariq Ali - Night of the Golden Butterfly

Rafiq, in a relaxed mood, was only too delighted by the unscheduled rendezvous and happily provided Naughty with a salty account of their chiefs amorous exploits, with exact details of the localities in each city where his many lovers lived, houses that therefore required round-the-clock security, diverting some of his assaulters from the war against the terrorists. How could he have guessed that Naughty had a hidden recording device attached to an orifice she knew he had yet to explore? Through this tiny device, a nose-ring, the entire conversation was monitored by Rifaat’s chums in the ISI, who, unsurprisingly, were aware that everything said by Rafiq was true. Meanwhile, in case the encounter became so passionate that the ring fell out, a secret video camera had been set up, which filmed the entire afternoon. Some of this unedited material was sold by ISI operatives in the thriving porno-markets all over the country and played exceptionally well in the war zones, where men were starved of affection.

Baghlol went to the chief of staff and played the tape. General Sohail Raza became livid. Not because of the women. That did not bother him at all, but because of the potential risk to his own life. Rafiq was confronted and fired that same week, but Sohail was fond of this brash general who reminded him of his own youth and he knew that in a similar situation he might have behaved in exactly the same way.

He offered General Rafiq a sinecure: head of a key commercial sector of the military-industrial complex where he would have double the salary he had enjoyed as a serving general, with regular kickbacks from potential contractors in the West that would triple the doubled salary. In addition, there was a large mansion attached to the job that he could, of course, buy at a reduced price as he approached his retirement. There was nil responsibility, since all the key decisions were taken by rocket fuel experts and other specialists. Rafiq, by now in a blind and stupid rage, refused what was, after all, an extremely generous offer. His pride was hurt. He felt he was being unfairly punished and he knew who was behind it all.

He resigned from the military on his bare pension, nothing compared to what he had been offered, but sufficient to feed a hundred poor families in Fatherland each month. After a few weeks of sulking in his tent and then numerous visits to the imperial bunker in Isloo, Rafiq wrote a letter to his most senior contact in the Defense Intelligence Agency at the Pentagon. It was sent in a top-security code from the bunker. The general was immediately summoned to DC and interrogated at length.

He had not simply broken ranks but divulged an important state secret to Fatherland’s fair-weather ally, a nation that many inside the armed forces considered more an enemy than a friend. The information he provided was explosive. Generals Rifaat and Baghlol were accused of having leaked to the enemy secret plans for his battalion to assault terrorist encampments in the border zones. On three occasions, he told his minders, his highly trained, hand-picked soldiers had been ambushed and killed by the terrorists. He suggested that the DIA carry out its own investigation into the two generals concerned and left behind a carrier bag full of clues and evidence. Not surprisingly, seeing that they were funding Fatherland’s army, the Pentagon decided to act swiftly. This was, he had told them, not so much a question of breaching a country’s sovereignty but a necessary audit to protect imperial financial interests in bad times. He hoped they were touched by his concern.

When news of this treachery reached its intended targets in Fatherland, the targets decided to eliminate General Rafiq and discredit him in the country at large as a traitor. They did, and the mechanics of how they did are of little concern. This was the end of the first version.

‘Does it sound credible to you, Dara?’

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘That whole world is so murky that anything is possible. If General Rafiq actually did what this version alleges, then I think the theory is believable.’

‘That’s what poor Neelam thinks. She’s convinced it was an army decision.’

‘Just so that we can exclude them, what are the other two possibilities?’

The first of these, which was virtually the same as an official briefing given by the army to select journalists, suggested that the death was a well-planned Talibu execution. Rafiq had been known as a no-nonsense general, closely linked to Western intelligence agencies. His team had targeted and killed a number of senior Talibu commanders, and once they discovered that he was no longer protected by the military, they got information on his regular movements from Naughty’s husband, Major Lateef of military intelligence. And they made no mistakes. The Talibu, according to Jindié, are a special squad of the Taliban whose task is to penetrate Fatherland military and police. They are intelligent, beardless and usually dressed in Western clothes and dark glasses. When one of them was captured and tortured, the US officer supervising his interrogation complimented him on his clothes and remarked to the torturer that people now dressed like that in Malibu. The prisoner replied angrily in a West Coast accent, ‘We are Talibu, not Malibu.’ That was how they discovered the existence of this special unit, or so they claim. The prisoner gave no more information and was killed.

‘Well?’ said Jindié when she finished.

‘Can’t be ruled out.’

‘No. Except that one of the Talibu visited Neelam in secret and swore on the Koran that they were not responsible.’

‘Could be disinformation. And the third?’

‘Too stupid for words, but believed by many people Rafiq used to refer to contemptuously as the common herd. They say it was the Americans.’

I snorted with delight. ‘I wondered about that. Usually it’s the first answer. And it can’t be denied that when it comes to procuring assassinations here and elsewhere they find some very clever pimps.’

‘Yes, Dara, but it is ridiculous in this case. The whole world knows that Rafiq was one of the staunchest pro-West generals in the country. Three British intelligence people came to our house and sat in this room to offer Zahid and me their condolences before we left to attend the funeral. Why should they kill their own? Oh, you are joking. I’d forgotten that side of you. Last time we met you were so proper. Have you had enough to eat?’

‘No.’

She burst out laughing and that reminded me of our youth. We moved from the kitchen table to the living room. I wanted to talk about her diaries and related matters, but she was worried about her daughter.

‘What makes them so religious, Dara?’

‘Philandering husbands, a desire to cling to something in a world dominated by money, pure desperation?’

‘By that criteria I should be in a nunnery… but we’ll discuss that some other time.’

‘When did Neelam move in this direction? Your diaries suggested it was while she was at school in Washington.’

‘Yes, but she got over that particular variety. Her best friends were two African-American kids from Muslim families. When she went to Vassar, which is now mixed, by the way, there was no trace of any of this in her life. She seemed happy. Suleiman says she had a Chinese boyfriend who wasn’t religious at all, and everything seemed fine.’

‘Where did she met Rafiq?’

‘At our house in Washington, I’m afraid. He was a military attaché at the embassy. Zahid invited him to address a gathering of Fatherland Physicians for Bush. Rafiq said he would not come unless it was a mixed gathering. So wives and daughters and nieces and female hangers-on were present. She and Rafiq liked each other. He asked permission to see her. Two years later they married.’