“Because the First Lady thinks he is too busy screwing the nation,” he says jumping in his seat. It is only when nobody around him laughs that he realises he has blurted out the punchline and now can’t remember the rest of the joke. He yearns for a moment of lucidity, a flash of clarity that would cut through the muddle that is his mind. He looks around at the wretched faces, and realises that he will not remember this joke. Ever.
He turns to General Akhtar in an attempt to preserve his legacy and keep the conversation going. “How do you think, Brother Akhtar, history will remember me?” General Akhtar is pale as death. His thin lips are muttering all the prayers he can remember, his heart has long stopped beating and his underpants are soaked in cold sweat. Most people faced with certain death can probably say a thing or two they have always wanted to say, but not General Akhtar. A lifetime of military discipline and his natural instinct for sucking up to his superiors overcome the fear of death and with shivering hands and quivering lips General Akhtar tells the last lie of his life. “As a good Muslim and a great leader,” he says, then takes out a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket and covers his nose.
As I watch them gather on the red carpet near the ladder up to the C130, I begin to wonder if I should have trusted Uncle Starchy’s folksy pharmacology. General Zia is still standing on his feet with his one arm around General Akhtar’s waist. They look like lovers who don’t want to let go of each other. Maybe I should have thrust the blade in the back of his neck when I had him at the tip of my sword. Too late now. I am already strapped in a seat in General Beg’s plane. He offered me a lift after I was offloaded from Pak One. Our Cessna — his Cessna — waits on the tarmac for Pak One to take off. Protocol demands that Pak One should leave the runway first.
“Good to see you, young man.” He waves his peaked cap at me. He opens a fat book with a fat man on its cover and starts flicking through the pages, lacocca: An Autobiography reads the title. “Lots of work to do.” He nods towards the pilot.
What’s with books and soldiers? I wonder. The whole bloody army is turning into pansy intellectuals.
I look out of the window as the American Ambassador walks up to General Zia; double handshakes, hugs as if the General is not meeting the ambassador after two hours but has found his long-lost sibling. General Zia’s grin widens, his teeth flash and his other arm wraps itself around the ambassador’s waist. Bannon is in his suit, standing behind them, puffing nervously on a cigarette. There is an air of important men sharing a joke, spreading goodwill. It’s only when they start climbing the stairs that I realise that General Zia is dragging his feet. He is almost hanging onto the shoulders of the two men flanking him. “The elephant will dance, the elephant will drag his feet, the elephant will drop dead.” Uncle Starchy had given me a step-by-step guide to the effects of his nectar.
If I hadn’t been sitting on that plane I would have flung my peaked cap in the air and shouted three cheers for Uncle Starchy.
General Beg notices the grin on my face and wants to take the credit. “You have come a long way, my boy. From that horrible Fortress to my plane; imagine the journey. Managing an army is not very different from managing a corporation.” He caresses fat lacocca’s face. “Treat your people well, kill the competition and motivate, motivate, motivate.” He pauses for a moment, savouring his own eloquence. “My plane will take us to Islamabad.” He turns towards the pilot. “My plane could drop you at the Academy but I think it’s better that you take a jeep from there. I have to attend to some important business in Islamabad. I need to be in Islamabad.” He taps the pilot’s shoulder. “When will my plane reach Islamabad?”
If Uncle Starchy’s nectar works as he promised, by tonight this man will become the chief of what Reader’s Digest has described as the largest and the most professional Muslim army in the entire world, and with some creative interpretation of the constitution, may even be the President of the country.
Pity the nation.
Pak One begins to taxi and General Zia puts both his thumbs in his safety belt and surveys his companions. His pain has subsided for the moment. He is satisfied by what he sees. He has got them all here. All his top generals are here except the one with the sunglasses who got away. His heart skips a beat when he remembers the look in General Beg’s eyes. Shifty bastard, must be taught a lesson. Maybe I should make him an ambassador to Moscow and see how he wears his sunglasses there. He takes another look around and reassures himself that everyone who matters is here, even Brother Akhtar who seems to be sweating yellow sweat. And most important of all, Arnold Raphel and the CIA type who hangs around with the ambassador. Who in their right mind would think of killing the US Ambassador? Good, he thinks. All my friends are here. I have got them all. There is strength in numbers. If someone wants to kill me, he must be here too. We will all go down together. But why would anyone want to kill me? All I am doing is having a little mango party on the plane. Is that a sin? No. It’s not a sin. Did Allah ever forbid us from sucking national security? No. But let’s say a prayer anyway. He starts to recite Jonah’s prayer but does not recognise the words that come out: “My dear countrymen, you are cursed, you have worms…” He has practised the prayer every night. A prayer and you are absolved. One moment you are in a whale’s belly, in the depth of darkness, and the next moment you are thrown into the world, alive. Like being born again. He tries again; he opens his mouth and a guttural noise comes out. He looks around in panic and wonders if they can tell that he has forgotten all his prayers. He wants to shout and correct them because he has not forgotten any prayers, he remembers them all; it’s just this terrible pain in his guts that is wiping out his memory. He thinks maybe he should pray for the others. Allah likes it when you pray for the others. In fact, it is better than praying for yourself. He surveys the faces in the VIP pod and lifts his hands to pray for them.
“Motherfuckers,” he shouts.
They all look at him as if he is an irritating child and the only way to deal with him is to ignore him.
Pak One lines up in the middle of the runway and the propellers begin to pick up speed. The pilots, already beginning to sweat and fanning themselves with their folded maps, go through the final checks. The air traffic controller respectfully gives clearance for take off. Outside the VIP pod, in the back of the plane, Major Kiyani opens another button on his trousers and starts to breathe easy. It’s all going to be OK, he tells himself. General Akhtar always has a plan B and plan C. He has carried out his orders. The air conditioning will not be turned on. “General Akhtar’s orders,” he has told the pilots. He is already feeling better. General Akhtar knows how this world works. General Akhtar also knows at what temperature the world works best. Warrant Officer Fayyaz sits down with the cadet absorbed in reading a book and rubs his thigh with his own; the cadet doesn’t even notice.