'Show me, show me,' Teknikal said and snatched the picture from Omar.
He whistled too. 'Oh my God! She is the most beautiful woman I have seen in my life.'
'Abu Teknikal, can I talk to her one last time?' I interjected.
Omar turned to Abu Khaled. 'Boss, the bitch wears very few clothes in her films. Very un-Islamic. Can I be in charge of the operation to kidnap her?'
'I want nothing to do with this woman.' Abu Khaled shook his head.
'Give me her number,' Teknikal said. 'I've got the Thuraya and I've put it on speakerphone.'
'No, I'll speak with her,' Omar said, and snatched the phone from Teknikal. He extracted a slip of paper from my wallet. 'I've got the bitch's number.'
He dialled the number and the call went through.
I was expecting the recorded voice to come on as usual when suddenly someone picked up the phone.
'Who is this?' I heard a woman's voice say. My heartbeat quickened.
'Do you know who you are talking to, bitch? This is Commander Abu Omar. Number five in Lashkar-e-Shahadat.'
'Excuse me?'
'You better watch out, bitch. You are doing obscene films and wearing skimpy clothes. We are going to kidnap you. Then we will torture you and kill you.'
'Is this some kind of joke?'
'No, Shabbo, this is not a joke.'
'Shabbo? You've got the wrong number.'
'Wrong number? You are not Shabnam Saxena? Then who are you?'
'This is Elizabeth Brookner, US Embassy.'
'Elizabeth Brookner?' asked Omar.
'Elizabeth Brookner?' asked Khaled. 'Who's she?'
'Chief, Elizabeth Brookner has been the CIA Station Chief in India since 2006,' Teknikal replied. 'A Summa Cum Laude from Stanford University, she joined the CIA in 1988 and has served in Ukraine, Jordan and Kuwait. She is an expert on Al Qaeda. Fuck!'
'This means this bastard has double-crossed us.' Khaled wagged a finger at me.
'Kill him. Just kill him!' Omar screamed.
'No, first we have to find out his connection to the CIA,' said Khaled.
So, for the next ten minutes, I had to explain how I happened to have Elizabeth Brookner's mobile number in my wallet. Then Khaled gave a signal and Teknikal put the AK-47 to my head. He was hiding his eyes, trying not to look at me. 'Don't worry,' he whispered. 'There will be no pain at all. It will be over in a second.'
Suddenly there came the sound of a giant flapping, a rat-a-tata- tat-a-tat-a.
'What in Allah's name is that?' asked Abu Khaled, pointing to a strange-looking object which appeared over the hill like a rising cloud.
'That, Chief, looks suspiciously like an MQ-1 Predator drone – that is, a medium-altitude, long-endurance unmanned aerial vehicle system, and what is worse, it is equipped with two laserguided AGM-114 Hellfire missiles,' croaked Teknikal. 'The Brookner bitch has triangulated us. And even as I speak, the missiles have been fir-'
There was a flash of fire and a big explosion. The earth shook, something sharp hit my leg and I toppled into the trench. All the soil I had dug out fell in after me, almost burying me. It took me nearly fifteen minutes to fight my way out of the grave. I came out choking and wheezing. There was mud in my ears, mud in my eyes, mud in my mouth. My left leg felt as if a chainsaw had run through it. There was a raw wound, an inch deep, just below my knee, from which blood was still dripping.
The area looked like it had been visited by the Terminator. The ground had been ploughed up, leaving craters the size of a bathroom.
Abu Khaled and Abu Omar had been blown to pieces. I saw a mangled hand here, a crumpled leg there.
Teknikal lay bleeding on the other side of the trench. I dragged myself to him and cradled his head in my lap. His chest was heaving and he was struggling for breath.
He looked up at me. 'Do you think they have broadband in heaven, Mr Page?' he asked, and his head lolled down and his eyes closed. He looked kind of dead to me.
I ran from the scene as fast as my one good leg could carry me. The wind whirled around, groaning and moaning like a woman in labour. I ran past mud houses and startled villagers. I scattered herds of goats and flocks of pigeons. I charged down a hill, came to a river and jumped in. On the other side of the river I found a gravel road. I was making progress. The road ended at what looked like some kind of warehouse. A rusted sign at the entrance said 'Hafiz Timber Exports, Keran'. I pushed open the metal doors of the warehouse. They were unlocked and I entered to find stacks of lumber, but not a soul around. 'Hello! Is anyone home?' I shouted, but only heard the echo of my voice. I ventured further and discovered chainsaws and machetes, axes and choppers. The floor was covered with dried grease and oil stains. I followed a trail of oil and came upon an extraordinary sight. A forklift stood in a corner of the warehouse. It was a Nissan Nomad AF30 and looked like it had diesel in the tank. I cranked the engine, and it worked! My spirits rose like a corncob in a cistern. Two minutes later I was driving down the gravel road, shouting 'Hee-haw!' and breaking every forklift speed record in the book. Those idiots at the Cisco Rodeo should have seen me go. I'd have shown them how a forklift with a maximum speed of 10.6 mph could do twenty without blowing the engine.
My leg was still bleeding, but in my excitement I had forgotten all about it. I just kept driving that forklift till I hit a T-junction. I had to decide whether to go left or right. I chose right, and just five minutes later ran into an army picket. Fifty Pakistani soldiers swarmed all over the forklift, cocked their rifles at me and told me to get down.
'Whoa, hold your horses, fellas, I surrender.' I put up my hands, stepped down from the hi-lo and fainted on the road.
I learnt later that I was taken to a town called Muzaffarabad and put in a military hospital. It took me a week to recover. In the meantime Mom called and blabbered something about the President having called her up, though she was more excited about being able to wear all the shoes she wanted for free coz she had just got married to Mr Hinson who owns the Fabulous Shoe Store in downtown Waco.
An officer called John Smith from the American Embassy over in Islamabad came to meet me, wearing a dark suit and dark shades. 'We know all about you, Mr Page,' he said. 'We've been trying to track you down for the past two months.'
'Well, here I am,' I said. 'What you gonna do? Put me in jail?'
'No, Sir, we are going to send you to New Delhi in a USAF plane. Your case officer is Miss Elizabeth Brookner. She will de-brief you.'
'Holy cow! You mean she'll take off my underwear?' I cried.
'No, Sir, that's just company slang for extracting humint,' John Smith said, making me even more confused.
Two days later, on 22 March, I was back at New Delhi airport.
It was a chilly morning, but Mizz Brookner was waiting for me, together with a stretch limo, right on the tarmac.
'It's an honour to welcome you back to New Delhi, Mr Page,' she said. 'You look different.' She was damned right. I had lost sixty pounds of fat since she last saw me. I looked leaner, trimmer and fitter.
'You sound different, too,' I replied.
'I have some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?'
'I've had enough of bad news. Out with the good first.'
'Well, in recognition of your sterling role in the elimination of three dangerous terrorists, including one on our most-wanted list, on the recommendation of the Secretary of State and the Attorney General, you have been awarded fifteen million dollars under the Rewards for Justice programme. The cash is waiting for you at the Embassy. And it's all tax-free. Congratulations!'
It took me a minute to digest this info. 'Fifteen million dollars!' I couldn't believe my mouth. That jerk Abu Khaled wasn't boasting. 'Then what's the bad news?'
'An inter-agency process has determined that there may be continuing danger to your life from Al Qaeda and other terrorist elements. You are therefore required to accept our Witness Protection Programme and agree to relocation.'