Six Suspects

I knew at that moment that Teknikal was as dangerous as Abu Khaled. They were like two peas in a pod. Still I couldn't resist asking him, 'But I thought you liked America.'

'I do,' he answered. 'I just hate Americans.'

That shut me up.

By evening the hideout had become darker than a cow's belly and I was so hungry my belly button was getting awful acquainted with my backbone. One of the boys lit a lantern. In its yellow glow I had my first good look at the other occupants of the foxhole. The youths were named Altaf, Rashid, Sikandar and Munir. They were slim and lanky and aged between sixteen and twenty-two. Altaf told me he was from Naupura in Kashmir, while the other three were from Gujranwala in Pakistan. To me they seemed just like the boys at the call centre, fresh-faced and eager, except they dealt in guns and grenades instead of computers and phones.

The foxhole was warm, but sleeping in it was very uncomfortable. Since space was so limited, you had to sleep in just one position. This time I was sandwiched between Sikandar and Munir, which was a relief, coz I would have had difficulty looking Teknikal in the eye after what he'd done to me.

They took me to the meadow outside the next day, put a black blindfold over my eyes, made me kneel and told me to fold my hands. 'Now beg for your life, pig,' Abu Khaled barked, as Teknikal trained a video camera on me.

'I've been kidnapped by these Al Qaeda dudes. Creek's rising and I'm up to my ass in alligators! Mom, get me outta here,' I said and was rewarded with a kick in my backside.

'This video is going to your president, not to your mother, cretin,' Khaled yelled at me.

I stayed in the foxhole for close to fifty days. It was as boring as watching paint dry. I relished any opportunity of going out into the open – hearing birds chirping every morning and watching the mist rise slowly towards the clouds made me forget for a moment that I was a hostage. But they always had a man to watch over me, even when I was taking a shit.

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.