Kumar was quick. “Well, seeing as how it’s Christmas and all, there is something else I want.”
Yousseff looked at him with an upraised eyebrow. “Yes?”
“I want to go to school. To the Karachi School of Engineering. I was very good in school, until last year, when I stopped going to help here. I want to go back. I want to get a degree in engineering. I want room to do this. One way or another, I can make this place work, even though I am only 15. My father has taught me every part of this business. I can make it go, if you get me the work. But I want to go to school first.”
Yousseff could hardly believe his ears. His investment had just become infinitely richer. All by itself. “Deal,” he said firmly.
“Deal,” said Kumar. They shook hands. Omar was the only witness.
The question Yousseff now faced was how to pay off KDEC’s debt of over half a million rupees. He couldn’t just walk into KSEW’s posh head office and deposit his suitcases of American dollars on the table. He could not just pay the money to the court. He thought about it for awhile and finally telephoned a business he owned in Peshawar. He talked to his commander there.
“Go into the mountains. Get Ba’al now. Get him to call me at this number.” He gave the telephone number of what was now Kumar’s domain.
The head man at the office knew that when Yousseff gave an order like that, he meant for it to be done immediately. Forthwith. Yesterday, in fact. Ba’al knew this as well. When he saw a Jeep racing up the narrow mountain road toward his house, he knew what it would mean. He also knew that whatever Yousseff needed done would be taken care of immediately. It was common for Ba’al to leave his home to do business for Yousseff, and did not represent any administrative or production problems. Ba’al’s refining plant had come a long way since the early, unsteady steps he and Yousseff had taken almost ten years earlier. Gone were the 45-gallon drum, the bonfire, the burlap sack filtration system, and the slow stirring over a pot like two of the witches in Macbeth. Over the years, he and Yousseff had built a neat organization, well stocked in supplies, with appropriate air cover. At the height of the season, as many as 30 local people worked on Ba’al’s property alone. Yousseff always paid them substantially more than the going rate, and he always paid in cash. In this way, part of his laundry problem was solved, and he ensured the great loyalty of his fellow tribesmen.
It was also a highly efficient operation. Yousseff had probed, questioned, experimented with, and refined the process. Everything was neat as a pin, and he was planning to build a much larger facility like it underground near Jalalabad. He also looked after the well being of his workers. If one became ill, he would get medical help. Once one of his workers suffered a calamity — his house burned down, and all its contents were destroyed. Yousseff replaced everything before he was even asked. He organized the labor to rebuild the home, and had it re-outfitted. The knowledge that Yousseff would do this dovetailed nicely with the threat of Marak, and his dangerous machete. There were, after all, a number of beggars in Rawalpindi devoid of hands. The two made the classic duo of good and evil.
In Jalalabad and its environs, Yousseff had become untouchable. If he required something, his employees would make the earth stop in its rotation until his request was satisfied, and had done so time and again. Thus, when the Jeep approached Ba’al’s headquarters, and relayed Yousseff’s command, that was enough. Ba’al gave an order to his second in command, which, loosely translated, meant “take over and don’t fuck up.” He immediately headed down the steep mountain ridge toward the safe house, where he arrived some five hours later.
Less than ten hours after Yousseff had placed the call, it was returned. He had already bragged to Kumar, “Watch this. Ten hours, and he will call back.”
When the phone rang, Yousseff skipped the pleasantries. He felt that they were a waste of time, and could wait to be discussed over a fire in the Sefid Koh. He did not like telephones and had a constant paranoia about wiretaps, even though no taps could be placed without Marak’s knowledge. There was also no logical reason for there to be a wiretap on the phone of a struggling little drydock company at the Karachi end. Still, he remained fanatically careful, and always kept his conversations short.
“Mortgage some of our properties. I need $500,000 now, deposited in a foreign bank account. I want you to call Rika at this number. She will give you the account and banking particulars.”
Ba’al grunted in assent. “Consider it done, Yousseff. I will call you as soon as it happens. Same telephone number?”
“Yes.”
“Give me two days.”
Yousseff got Rika on the phone and gave her the same instructions. “Rika, I am going to buy a drydock company. Our business needs it. Ba’al is going to mortgage some of our properties up north. I want the money to be clean. I want you to run it through as many foreign accounts as you need to in order to make it completely untraceable. Can you do that?”
“For you, Youssi, I can do anything. Consider it done.” The wonderful thing about Rika was that she accomplished these things quickly, without song, without dance.
A day later the weather had cleared, and Omar, Rika, Kumar, and Yousseff sat on the dock, enjoying the afternoon sun. Rika had come alone. No one bothered to ask what had become of her husband; he was no longer in the picture. That was enough. It freed her to spend time with her friends, where she was needed.
“Where can we find a good restaurant, and a good time, in this smelly city?” asked Yousseff.
Omar, always bright, became even brighter. He gave the name of a nightclub not far away. The four smiled and headed off to sample the iniquities available in Karachi. Yousseff had to do some fast talking for the youthful Kumar, but thanks to their combined skills, virtually every door opened, and they spent a day enjoying themselves in the clubs, restaurants, and opium clubs of the city. Omar watched it all in amazement.
The next day, Ba’al called to say that he had arranged the mortgages. This time the telephone call was even shorter. “It’s done,” was all he said.
Yousseff did not even reply. He simply gave the telephone to Rika. “Get the mortgage information from Ba’al, Rik. Work from there.”
Kumar, for his part, spent the better part of the day with his father, who wanted to meet with Yousseff. Normally, Yousseff would not have agreed to this, but in this case, the man’s life expectancy was measured in weeks, possibly days. He introduced himself as the son of a wealthy trading and transportation businessman from the mountain highlands of the Frontier provinces. He told Hanaman of his friendship with Kumar and how impressed he was with Kumar’s talents. Another visit, and the payment of all the medical bills, creditors, and miserable uncles, gave Hanaman the necessary motivation to sign the company over to his precocious young son.
“He is gifted, Yousseff. He’s the smartest kid I’ve ever known,” he said as he signed the papers.
Yousseff kissed the old man on the cheek and bid him farewell. “I know this, sir. I have spent the past few weeks with him, and yes, he is gifted. You have raised a remarkable boy.”
One of the grandest days in Kumar’s young life was when he walked into the executive offices of KSEW a day later. He presented himself at the posh ninth-floor office and requested an audience with Salim Nooshkatoor.