Spiral Road Read online

  ‘They’re not experiences to be proud of,’ I say cautiously. ‘There’s no point in publicly flagellating oneself.’

  ‘But there’s not much benefit in private floggings either. Unless you happen to be a masochist.’

  ‘Let’s just say that there was no glory in the experience. Nothing redemptive about it.’

  ‘But wars should be fought for monumental principles, not personal glory. Individuals make sacrifices for a better world.’ It’s as if he’s sounding me out, sizing me up. I resent being outmanoeuvred by a much younger man, yet curiosity strings me along.

  ‘Better for whom? Long-term suffering is what follows. Families are destroyed. The hurt and pain ripple across generations, and it’s often the innocent who bear the violence.’

  ‘But what if the cause is to end oppression and injustice? To rid the world of “civilised” exploitation?’

  ‘Nothing is worth the loss of lives!’ Our eyes clash.

  ‘Not even the end of recycled colonialism?’

  I’ve angered Omar, but I’m not about to compromise my views on violence.

  He sits up and clutches a pillow to his chest. ‘And yet, you chose to go to war for the freedom of this country. Was that a mistake?’

  ‘At the time I didn’t think so. I still don’t. But back then I knew nothing about the insidiousness of war, the way it can slowly wreck those who return, even as heroes.’

  I gather my breath. Omar looks at me, then changes the subject.

  ‘Do you still want to come to see the factory, and the work I’m doing? It might get rid of some of the boredom.’

  ‘Well, yes! Seeing what Alya’s doing has inspired me,’ I say enthusiastically.

  Omar looks serious. ‘You could even make some amazing discoveries.’

  ‘I’m at that age when I need adventure.’

  ‘If you have a few spare days, then it’s possible.’ He says cautiously, ‘Not an easy journey, mind you! No comforts. I’m driving back on Thursday, leaving in the evening when it’s a bit cooler and the traffic’s not heavy. We might go on a hike deep into the Hill Tracts.’

  I’M WATCHING TV in my room.

  The announcer, a young man who has evidently been educated in Britain, turns his attention to the next news item:‘The body of the well-known journalist, Shabir Jamal, was found in a ditch near the airport. Police suspect foul play. Mr Jamal was known for his investigative…’

  I freeze, appalled. Then I rush downstairs.

  ‘There’s terrible news!’ I tell Zia. ‘Shabir Jamal’s been killed!’

  A glass clinks on the table. Zia shakes his head. ‘He was an expert at making enemies.’

  ‘Is that all you can say?’

  ‘What do you expect me to say? I hardly knew the man. Shabir Jamal was a troublemaker. He spent time in America and Britain and thought that he was an investigative journalist. He indulged in far-fetched ideas.’

  ‘Did you read his piece on Bin Laden?’

  ‘Part of it,’ Zia replies indifferently. ‘He’d written that sort of thing before. Anyway, I’ll try to see Alya tomorrow.’ Zia heads towards the stairs as if he’s in a hurry. He climbs a few steps and then pauses. ‘Did I tell you I’ve to go to Bangkok for a few days? There’s a conference there.’

  I hear the sound of Ma’s vigorous laughter from the TV room.

  TWELVE

  Nothing’s Simple

  Shabir Jamal was tortured first before a single bullet was fired into the back of his head. There were bruises on his legs and arms. Burn marks on the back of the body and torso. He was involved in money laundering. Drugs are mentioned by excited TV announcers. He was the victim of an extortion racket. His death was a payback for exposing corruption in the government. Shabir Jamal had enemies among influential politicians. He was a man who knew too much and lacked discretion. The police carted away a laptop, DVDs, boxes of papers, audio and video tapes from his flat, which has been sealed off.

  Without having known Shabir Jamal, I feel a tug of sadness for a life snuffed out with such brutality. I can’t help wondering about the last few moments before he died. Did he beg to be spared? I think of the pain, fear and the irrepressible hope of that unique experience. Ultimately life owes every human a peaceful death. But sometimes it continues to play malicious games until the very last seconds.

  ‘Alya is a widow and Shabir was divorced,’ Nasreen tells me. ‘They couldn’t live together because that would have meant certain ostracism from their families. There can be no public expression of her mourning.’

  Alya, says Nasreen, will grieve in silence, but it wouldn’t be surprising if she’s at work today in her shop in Tejgaon. Nasreen has spoken to her on the phone. She’s holding herself together.

  ‘What with?’ I ask. ‘A safety pin?’

  I could visit the main branch of her shop, Chaya. Deliver our condolences. But I mustn’t go to her house because that might signify the recognition of a relationship that wasn’t meant to be. Besides, if neighbours saw me what would they make of an unknown man visiting her at home?

  ‘But no details about the way he died,’ Nasreen advises.

  Despite the heat, I’m determined to walk, at least a significant part of the distance, to her shop.

  I DON’T HEAR the car pulling up beside me.

  ‘Want a ride?’

  A dreaded voice. But I’m sweaty and tired. Without demurral I slide in next to him, on the backseat, and close my eyes. The air-conditioned coolness soothes away any vestiges of resistance I’ve stored up against Steven Mills. He looks straight ahead and speaks tersely to the driver. What’s he up to now?

  ‘Let me give you a piece of advice, mate.’ He casually turns his head towards me. ‘There are things that you probably don’t know and don’t want to know. It would be better that way.’ He stubs the butt of a cigarette in the ashtray. ‘You’re a librarian taking some hard-earned long service leave. Enjoy it. You’re a dutiful citizen that every country needs. You work hard, pay your taxes and keep out of trouble.’

  ‘An insignificant cog in the mechanism of a democratic nation.’

  ‘If you want to put it like that. You’ve seen your family, but it’s time to move on to wherever you’re headed.’

  I look out the window and consider if what he’s just said is an indirect threat. We’re in a part of town I don’t recognise. It’s nowhere near Chaya, judging by the directions Nasreen gave me. But clearly we’re headed somewhere. I decide to wait and see how things shape up before talking any more to him.

  Soon enough, the sound of the car horn unnerves me. We’re driving slowly in under the porch of an obscenely large house, freshly coated in beige. A uniformed man, wearing white gloves, opens the car door for me. We climb a marble staircase fringed with potted plants that have been recently watered. I follow Steven Mills through a deserted foyer, into an ornately furnished lounge room that’s bigger than my entire house in Richmond.

  ‘Where are we?’ I ask.

  ‘Beer?’ Mills responds. He looks pale and grim.

  I should say no. ‘Thanks,’ I say wearily.

  He leaves the room and I wander over to one of the full-length windows. The manicured lawn is fringed with raised flowerbeds crowded with yellow, pink, white and red. A high boundary wall hides all but the spindly branches of krishnachura trees beyond.

  Mills comes back with a couple of cans. He tosses one to me. Cold Australian beer. Behind him, there’s another man. I recognise him from Dhaka Club. He’s wearing an open neck shirt and grey trousers, and carries a bulging folder.

  ‘This is Peter Nichols,’ Mills introduces us. ‘Masud Alam.’ He pronounces my name perfectly.

  ‘Hi.’ The American accent is unmistakable.

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ Mills says. ‘I represent our government and Peter likewise is—’

  ‘Good euphemism,’ I interrupt scornfully. ‘How about ASIO and CIA? Or does that sound too much like a cheap spy thriller?’

 
Peter laughs softly. ‘Essential appendages of our governments.’

  ‘Names mean little,’ Mills says indifferently. ‘We think there’s a serious situation building up in this country. You’ve seen what happened to Shabir Jamal? So now we must move quickly. We think you may be able to help…I’ll be frank with you—’

  ‘Honesty? Is that a new code of conduct for spy agencies?’

  ‘We’re here with the full knowledge of the Bangladesh government,’ Nichols informs me, ‘searching for terrorist cells and training facilities in the country. It’s a nasty business. There are disturbing stories, about Bangali fundamentalists being trained here with the aid of foreigners.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. One report suggests Sundarbans jungles. Another, somewhere north of Dinajpur, close to the Indian border. Intelligence is sketchy, but the government is keen to cooperate with us. Can’t say the same about the bureaucrats and the police force. We’ve had misleading information. Part of it has been deliberate.’

  ‘I’ve been following you from—’ Mills stops. I must look disturbed. ‘Hey, I do as my job requires. Nothing personal, okay? But I was advised that your name and Melbourne address were on a list found on a confiscated computer.’

  ‘What list?’ And then it strikes me…The invitation to the majlis of like-minded brothers.

  ‘There was a meeting.’ Mills looks at his notes. He reads out the date and address. ‘But you didn’t go.’

  ‘So, I am a terrorist suspect.’ I’m fazed beyond the point of anger. ‘Any male with a Muslim name and you turn into a hound.’

  ‘That’s true in some cases,’ Nichols says unapologetically. ‘We can’t afford to be negligent, even if it sometimes means questioning, even harassing, those who aren’t involved.’

  I turn to Steven Mills. ‘What else have I done to be under surveillance?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s a precautionary measure. We’re unable to ignore anyone’s name we come across. Bangladesh is potentially a problem area.’

  ‘It’s also your background,’ Nichols butts in.

  ‘My background?’

  ‘People with any experience of war are being actively recruited by terrorist groups.’

  ‘Why should anyone recruit someone of my age?’

  ‘It’s not because they want you to participate in an operation, but for your knowledge of guerrilla warfare,’ Steven Mills explains.

  ‘Who killed Shabir Jamal?’

  ‘Wish we knew,’ Mills replies promptly.

  ‘Was he working for you?’ I look at Nichols.

  ‘We have many eyes,’ Nichols replies casually.

  ‘And voices,’ I add, moving towards the door.

  ‘Just because we think you’re in the clear doesn’t mean that the rest of your family is,’ Mills calls after me.

  I turn to face them again. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I take it you’re seeing your brother after some time?’ Nichols takes over.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘More than ten years?’

  I nod. I’m not entirely surprised by the implication of what’s being said—I’ve had my private suspicions, after all—but coming from these others gives the idea a painful pointedness.

  ‘And do you know what he’s been doing in that time?’

  ‘Same job, as far as I know. Is he a suspect?’

  ‘It’s kinda complicated,’ Nichols explains. ‘As you know, the pharmaceutical company he works for also produces medical accessories. Bandages and all kinds of stuff. We have reasons to believe that he’s been helping the Taliban and Al Qaeda, with supplies that he receives as samples. It could be that he’s been duped into believing that he’s helping innocent civilians caught in the border clashes between the Pakistani and US troops and the terrorists.’

  ‘You remember that night at the club?’ Mills asks.

  ‘I recall that both of you were there, talking to Shabir Jamal.’

  ‘Your brother spoke to a couple of men during dinner.’

  ‘We talked about this already. They were Zia’s business associates.’

  ‘They are former members of Pakistan’s ISI, forced into early retirement by the government,’ Nichols informs me.

  ‘Should that prevent them from running a business?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Nichols says. ‘But we’ve kept tabs on their activities. Among their interests, they claim to run a charity organisation.’ He takes a piece of paper from the folder.

  ‘Irfan and Sadiq live in Islamabad and Karachi. They own gun shops in the Kissakhani bazaar in Peshawar. They’ve been to Waziristan six times in the last month. On at least four occasions they’ve crossed the border into Afghanistan.’

  ‘Some of their contacts in Pakistan are under suspicion,’ Mills adds.

  I make a move to leave.

  ‘Do you want a lift home?’ Mills inquires.

  I don’t reply.

  ‘A quiet brotherly talk may not be a bad idea,’ Nichols calls out as I open the door. ‘We’re prepared to be extraordinarily generous and think Zia made a genuine mistake. That is, if all supplies stop and we get some information. He has a good job. It’d be a shame if the company fires him. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Take care! We’ll talk again,’ Steven Mills says loudly. ‘If I don’t hear from you, I’ll phone you!’

  A FOOD VENDOR tells me that we’re in Gulshan. He gives me directions to the main road, where I catch an auto-rickshaw to take me to Alya’s shop. She needs to know.

  It’s a bumpy ride. I want the days to slip by quickly. I imagine boarding an aircraft that will wing its way westwards, taking me high over Pakistan and Afghanistan. I want to soar above all troubles. Air-conditioned hotels and luxury coaches. Tour guides who know how to please tourists. The comfort of well-stocked bars at the end of each day.

  My family’s problems sweep over me. I’m drained of all desire to know where my brother’s allegiances lie. But I’m flustered by his business dealings. Abba’s condition can only deteriorate, and I feel for the fragility of Nasreen’s situation. For the moment she’s cushioned in middle-class comfort, propped up by Zia’s generosity. But what if something should happen to him?

  I curb a sudden urge to run. It’s a familiar feeling. I’ve been good at it for a significant portion of my life.

  THIRTEEN

  Engaging Lies

  ‘Miss Ahmed is busy working on the accounts.’ The smile belies the firmness in her voice. The name tag reads Neera. She’s in her early twenties, with dark eyes and waist-length hair, thick and glossy black.

  I introduce myself. ‘Miss Ahmed knows me. Could you at least give her my name?’

  Compliantly, Neera retreats.

  The air-conditioned shop is thick with the fragrance of attar and crowded with tourists. Sari-clad shop assistants glide between rows of bamboo and jute artefacts. There are piles of carpets and rugs, ornate cushion covers and cotton garments. Tablecloths, napkins, placemats, bed sheets and pillow cases. Glassed showcases display jewellery of silver and semi-precious stones. Open shelves are stacked with papier-mâché and carved wooden boxes like miniature treasure chests, some with their lids open and brimming with earrings, bracelets, rings and necklaces. They are sinuously draped with silk scarfs that create illusions of loosely covered female bodies. I admire the workmanship of gleaming leather wallets, handbags and coin purses. It’s all like the fabled opulence of Ali Baba’s cave.

  Neera sidles up to me and whispers, ‘Follow me, please.’

  Through a door behind one of the counters is a small room, radiant with sunlight pouring through a double window. Alya sits at a table, working with a calculator. There’s a pile of cheques and bills in front of her. She looks up without smiling.

  I say how sorry I am about Shabir. ‘He had the reputation of being a very fine journalist.’ It sounds hollow, but I can’t think what else to say.

  ‘He was honest and passionate about what he wrote. His journalism didn’t make him popular.�
�� Alya takes the phone off the hook. She motions towards a sofa in the corner of the room.

  ‘I admired his article in the newspaper the other day.’

  ‘On Al Qaeda? He paid dearly for writing it.’

  I’m unsettled. ‘Does it have such a big presence here?’

  ‘How can anyone tell? Al Qaeda has affiliate groups. You can’t even begin to estimate their numbers. Or where they are. That’s their strength. They come from every where and then form into small groups which then divide again.’

  ‘Did Shabir tell you that? No, don’t answer!’

  ‘I won’t.’

  I wonder if I should tell her about Mills and Nichols, after all.

  ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘Do? What’s there to be done except continue the way I am. Pretend that my life is unchanged. Live as a successful businesswoman.’ She looks and sounds composed. Unwaveringly she meets my eyes.

  I hesitate. ‘I don’t mean to sound patronising, but even successful people need to express their grief.’

  ‘How do you know what happens when I’m alone? I’m not as calm then as I perhaps look when I’m with people,’ she says. ‘Supposedly he was an acquaintance. Perhaps even a friend. But any more than that? It would be unacceptable.’

  ‘Can you live with that pretence now?’ Immediately I regret asking. It’s impertinent and too personal: she is my sister’s friend before mine. Besides, Alya’s in an invidious position. A widow, expected to lead a life of sexual abstinence and emotional detachment. Someone who is a role model for aspiring women in a developing nation. No personal failings. An image, an ideal that mustn’t be tarnished by having feelings or needs.

  Alya’s an icon to be admired, but she must never stoop to the levels of ordinary human behaviour. And indeed, she doesn’t seem offended.

  ‘Dishonesty is a valuable tool of survival anywhere. I must go on pretending that my life hasn’t been affected…The dead don’t ever come back to advise those they leave behind, and, in my frustrated moments, I could almost believe that Shabir betrayed me with his intemperance…I lack the courage to declare the truth of my relationship with him. Besides, what good would it do? I’ll even have to wait a few days before I can visit his grave.’