He was amazed by the fact that the very act of moving heroin from an inland city to saltwater increased its value from $1,500 to $10,000 per kilo; he’d never realized that transporting a substance could so increase the price. He then considered the larger question. If that kilo were moved to Los Angeles, or New York, or Vancouver, what would its value become? And why shouldn’t he reap the advantages of that? Why shouldn’t Yousseff Said al-Sabhan be entitled to that greater increase? If all it took was a boat — albeit, a boat somewhat larger than Mohammed’s — why not?
Already Yousseff’s wealth was skyrocketing, just from his land holdings and current drug operations. He now took pains to ensure that, with every trip he took, Mohammed had at least five kilos of heroin with him. It was so easy. Roll it in a robe or coat, and add it to the deliveries Mohammed was already making. He gave Mohammed 10 percent of every sale, and Mohammed realized that Yousseff, with his clever tongue and agile mind, could make him wealthy with little effort on his own part. The old man could see that Yousseff possessed a great talent for this, and felt much more comfortable with Yousseff in command than he was on his own.
Omar, on the other hand, began to develop an impressive talent for mechanics and working with metals. He became skilled at monkey wrenching and making do with what he had. He spent most of his time repairing portions of the Janeeta as they broke or wore out. He could make any motor work, and coaxed many extra hours out of the old diesel that powered the riverboat. He was clever with a welding torch and was always visiting machine shops to find new parts for the aging craft. Yousseff suspected that Mohammed could easily have bought a larger vessel, but was too attached to the Janeeta to scuttle her.
Yousseff would join the father and son on river trips three or four times a year, generally avoiding the rainy season. One day, however, as he drove his old Jeep to the Soan River docks just south of Rawalpindi, he found the boat still docked, its engines quiet. Instead of readying the vessel for the trip they had planned, Omar was sitting, glum, head down, legs dangling off the end of the dock, staring unblinking into the dirty brown river water.
“What is it, Omar?” Yousseff had asked his older friend, pulling up behind him. “What is troubling you?”
“It is my father. He has been arrested. They found two kilos of drugs on the Janeeta. The boat is going to be impounded. He will probably be executed.” The law in Pakistan was harsh, and drug runners were normally put to death publicly. Omar continued to stare down at the brown river water below him. “Tortured and executed.”
Yousseff was shocked, and concerned for the older man. “This is not good news. Which police detachment was it?” he asked. “Maybe I can do something.”
But Omar was inconsolable, and not interested in discussing possible escape for his father. “There is nothing you can do. He was caught red handed. Someone must have tipped off the police. It is over for him. Maybe for me too,” he groaned. Yousseff was only 17, but Omar was now 18, a man by Middle Eastern standards, and punishable on adult terms.
“No, no. You give up hope too easily. Maybe I can help. Which detachment?” Yousseff pressed.
“It was the southern precinct at Rawalpindi. The river patrol wing.”
Yousseff knew this particular constabulary. A group of lazy do-nothings, surviving mostly on bribes and payments from business owners for “security.” Everyone knew how they worked. Mohammed simply had not wanted to bother with this little detail. Yousseff shook his head and sighed at the man’s shortsightedness. Omar was right. His father would be dragged in front of the magistrates, and would very likely receive the death penalty. An example would be made of him, and the officers would be commended for their outstanding police skills. This was not good at all. But Mohammed was at fault as well — he had not done what was necessary for the orderly conduct of business. People needed to be paid, and paid well, for their services. Whether the individuals involved were mountain valley farmers, sure-footed Pashtuns taking horses across perilous mountain passes, or providers of security, they needed to be compensated. Old Mohammed, for all his fox-like ways, had never completely respected it. Yousseff, on the other hand, knew it to be the most basic fact of business; he had been born with the knowledge in his blood. With a clever tongue, and some courage, he knew that he might be able to repair this.
So it was, with resolve, that Yousseff found himself in the office of the arresting constable.
“And so, what can I do for you, young man?” asked Constable Noor Udeen. “How can I help you?”
“It is my uncle,” Yousseff lied. “Mohammed Jhananda. You have him in custody.”
“Yes, yes we do. A serious matter. Very grave. Very grave indeed. Drugs.” The constable looked serious and authoritarian.
“My uncle is a simple man, officer. He just doesn’t understand good business,” said Yousseff, deciding to be honest and direct.
“Oh?” inquired Noor, eyeing the boy before him. “And what do you know about business?”
“Very little, sir,” responded Yousseff. “I do not have many years. I know little, but I know that for business, you need security. You need protection. That is what the police are for. My uncle maybe did not realize that.”
It was a typical high-wire performance from the young man. Had he been a few years older, the play would not have worked. Had the constable been of stronger character, it would undoubtedly have failed. Just being there to defend a drug runner and law breaker would have been enough to send Yousseff himself to the gallows, regardless of his age. But the winds of fortune blew favorably for the boy, as they so often had.
“And you say you know that?”
“Yes, sir, I do. My uncle erred. He did not have security for his business.”
“And what do you have in mind?” asked Noor.
“Well, I know the rate. I think I could probably pay double,” said Yousseff, trying to calm his racing heart and keep his gaze steady on the eyes of the constable. This was the most important moment of the deal. He would live or die with this. It was the moment of truth.
“Double?”
Yousseff nodded. “Double. And if you never bother him or me again, I will make you wealthy. Just give us peace. Do we have an arrangement?”
The seconds passed. Each one felt like an hour. Yousseff listened to his heartbeat, and the swishing of the overhead fan. He did not breathe. He did not move a muscle. Not a twitch.
“Meet me tomorrow by the Soan River docks. Nine in the morning.” Constable Noor stood up, and showed Yousseff the door.
Yousseff fought hard to stifle the smile that had sprung to his lips.
The following morning came bright and early. Constable Noor had thought about the money the boy had offered him. It amounted to $20,000 American. A fortune. He could purchase a large farm with that much money. Or a large boat. A car. Maybe two. A car and a boat. An ongoing relationship, the boy had suggested. A car, a boat, and a farm. The closer he came to the docks, the grander his visions became.
He met Yousseff at the appointed hour. The sun was already high in the sky, and it was a beautiful cloudless day. Yousseff and Omar had been there for some time, surveying the area. They had escape routes. They had exit strategies. They had backup plans and backup plans for those. They were both ready to bolt, charged with adrenalin and fear. Marak was hidden in the background, equipped with an old but very functional army rifle, in case of disaster.