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TASNEEM JANDAR, PRIVATE EYE, AND THE MISSING PAKISTANI PRIME
MINISTER By Hafeez Diwan If she could have rewritten the story of
her life, Tasneem wouldnt have gotten divorced. Well, first she
wouldnt have gotten married to that douchebag Akram. She obviously
didnt regret Javed and Yasmeen, her kids, both in college now. They
were wonderful kids. It showed that there was some good in nearly
everyone. Akram may have been a pustule, but he had managed to
produce some lovely spermatozoa. She could see no trace of Akram
(well, maybe only a tiny bit) in either Yasmeen she looked almost
exactly like Tasneems mother or Javed, who looked more like
Tasneem. And, while she was on the subject of rewriting personal
history, she wouldnt have had her nails done by Mumtaz. Nails by
Mumtaz was a tiny little hole in the wall a crack, to be exact
close to Times Square, run by an eighty-five year old Pakistani
woman, Mumtaz, who was still surprisingly nimble. Trouble was,
Tasneem had developed reddish bumps on her left shin a week after
her pedicure. It didnt take a detective to figure out that her hot,
painful, red and infected left toe and the bumps on her left shin
were somehow connected to Mumtazs nail job. Of all the facts of her
life that she wanted to change, her skin infection was the one she
wanted to change immediately. She needed a dermatologist. However,
more than a dermatologist, she needed cash. Yes, the kids had
scholarships, and at least Akram had enough decency to pay them a
small allowance and was putting up the money for room and board,
textbooks and so on. But that didnt mean that she didnt need money.
Akram had moved out of the house, and the house was paid for, but
she still had to pay for electricity, groceries, and so on. And she
had to pay an absurd amount of rent for her damp office on Putnam
Street, in a little shopping area on the east side of Westchester
County, New York.
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Speaking of cash, some cash walked through the door, as she was
about to call her doctor, hoping to get a referral to a
dermatologist. She saw him first through the window of her ground
floor office. A Pakistani dude, tall, easily over 6 feet, muscular,
with a thick mustache that nearly covered his upper lip, and dark
glasses. He approached her. He had a military air. He took big
steps. That would have to be discouraged because there wasnt much
room in her tiny office. If he kept taking steps and advancing in
that way, he would end up in her lap, which wouldnt be a totally
bad thing. But Tasneem had an unusually vigilant conscience and so
she immediately curbed this inappropriate thought. She was a
businesswoman; she wasnt sitting in her office to have
inappropriate thoughts. She was sitting there in the expectation
that she would solve mysteries, even though her adventures thus far
had not been too adventurous (recovering lost cats, dogs, and even
a pet tortoise this little fellow had burrowed a hole and hidden
beneath a garden pail; it had taken Tasneem exactly five minutes to
discover the beast, and so she had read an old Enid Blyton book for
the next several hours, allowing her to present a significant bill
to the tortoise owner not that it mattered to the owner. She was
loaded, and so very grateful, that she had hugged and kissed
Tasneem, and had even thrown in a bonus. Tasneem felt bad, and
resolved to make amends somehow though she didnt know how exactly
she could pray for her and wish her well, perhapsbut she kept the
cash. Needs were needs, after all). Meanwhile, the military-type
guy stopped in front of her desk, and greeted her, Slalekum, which
is the way many Pakistanis pronounce the traditional greeting
Assalam-o-aleikum (peace be upon you). Tasneem mumbled, Walekum,
(which basically means peace be upon you too). She was puzzled. The
man looked familiar somehow Aap ne pehchaana? he asked (do you
recognize me?). She answered in Urdu, No. Munawwar, he said.
Munawwar Abidi Salma Aunties nephew. Tasneem gasped. She knew
exactly who this guy was. She had last seen him nearly twenty-five
years ago, in Karachi, Pakistan. Salma Auntie was the sister of
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Tasneems mother. Munawwar was the son of Salma Aunties
sister-in-law. This guy was Tasneems cousin by marriage, or
something like that. But the boy she remembered, a round, chubby
that is to say, profoundly chubby boy and then teenager only barely
resembled this fit, well-proportioned man. In fact, they used to
call him Goloo-Poloo when he was a kid. Goloo-Poloo is the Urdu
equivalent of roly-poly. In the man that sat before her, there was
not a trace of goloo-poloo-ness. He could have been reading her
thoughts, because he smiled a barely visible smile (probably the
only kind of smile military types like him allow to get past their
armor), and said: I know, not goloo-poloo any more, correct?
Tasneem blushed. No, no, we were kids then, and very mean. Please,
let me get you some tea. He protested. She denied his protests.
Salma Auntie will never forgive me if I let you go without even
offering you tea. Tea has a supreme importance in Pakistani and
Indian culture. It is a social lubricant par excellence, and nobody
can stay upset for very long while having tea. And unlike the other
social lubricant, alcohol, tea keeps you sharp, stimulated, and you
are not likely to drool, blubber, or throw up on your fellow human
beings. But tea is not without its problems: it can produce
heartburn and acidity in some unfortunate souls, and Tasneem had an
uncle, now deceased, who had to give up tea after his doctor
discovered an irregular heartbeat, an arrhythmia in him. He lived
for twenty years after the diagnosis, and everyone sympathized with
the poor fellow, because life without tea can be so very tough.
Tasneem also put out a few crackers, and some long, slender,
cylindrical cookies with a paper-thin shell and a chocolate
filling. She had a weakness for these. Munawwar bit into one of
these cookies and took a sip of the delicious, doodhpatti tea (tea
cooked with milk and tea leaves, in the traditional style). The
problem is sensitive, he said. I am sure I can trust you to never
mention it to anyone, not even to your children, or your
parents.
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He continued: I havent go to the authorities, the secret service
or the police because the matter is very, very Sensitive, Tasneem
finished the sentence for him. Exactly, sensitive. I have been in
quite a state for the past few hours, and I called Uzma, my wife,
you know, and she reminded me about you. She told me that you were
a private detective, and that you were very good. He stopped, as if
waiting for some confirmation from Tasneem. I dont know about good.
I think I am good. I do my best. Have you heard that joke? This
man, he goes for a job interview lunch and he fills his glass, but
then he keeps filling and the water overflows his glass, spilling
all over the table. The guy interviewing him asks: Are you nervous?
The man smiles, and says, calmly, No, I always give everything my
120%. Munawwar may have enjoyed the joke, but he didnt show it.
That was a side effect of jokes. Sometimes they simply died,
creating an air of awkwardness. Maybe this was no time for jokes
because the matter was serious. Tasneem said: I dont give what I do
my 120%. I give it 200%. But I should tell you that so far I have
only recovered lost objects, jewelry, and animals. I have an about
80% success rate. Munawwar pursed his lips. Well, then I hope youll
be fine. I have lost something. Not an animal, though. A human
being. I want you to find Amjad Jabbar. Tasneems eyes widened. You
mean Yes, I mean the Amjad Jabbar, the Prime Minister of Pakistan.
Due to be at the United Nations, giving a speech, two days from
now, and at the moment, only God knows where Munawwar looked sad
the grief dripped from his eyes, not as tears, of course, he was
too much of a stoic for that. It was like a grim curtain that had
fallen over his eyes, which had robbed them of all joy.
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Tasneem, in contrast, felt like a million dollars. Recovering a
Prime Minister, any Prime Minister, was a far cry from finding
Chuggles the tortoise. She doubted Munawwar would hug and kiss her
like Mrs. Wainwright had it would be highly inappropriate. But he
would pay her. And, truth be told, she wanted to test her detective
skills on a significant exploit. Finding a missing Pakistani Prime
Minister seemed just about right. And the beauty of being a private
eye was that you got paid even if you didnt get results. She billed
by the hour to be exact, she billed in half-hour increments. For
example, 35 minutes, although strictly speaking not an hour, was
considered an hour for the purposes of being compensated for her
labors. This was all spelled out in her billing sheet, which she
gave out to all clients. So, finding the missing PM, while
satisfying, was not strictly necessary to put food on the table.
Obviously it would be fantastic if she found the PM. Although
Tasneem never lacked confidence, she was quite aware that unlike
Chuggles the tortoise, she wouldnt find him by tipping over a
garden pail. Failure was the most logical and statistically likely
eventuality. But she wouldnt let the reality of her situation stand
in the way of testing her skills. Tasneem said: Tell me what
happened. It was a bit like he had gone to a therapist. Munawwar
told her what had happened, crisply, and with only a trace of
emotion. But it was clear that he was deeply disturbed and
affected. As head of the Prime Ministers security detail, his neck
was on the line. And she could see why he hadnt gone to the
authorities (though, in her opinion, he should have). He wanted to
take care of this himself, quickly, if he could, and save himself
the embarrassment (not to mention the loss of his job). And
yetMunawwar was a realist, and he realized that Tasneem Jandar,
although she was a private detective, didnt have a hope in hell of
recovering his boss. But he had no choice. She was family, and she
was the only chance he had. He had arrived a few days earlier.
Amjab Jabbar was a man of the people a man who had promised to
bring change, hope, and basic amenities to the lives of
millions
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of Pakistanis. Articles had been written about him (he had even
made it to the cover of Time Magazine), a man who was the face of
the new Pakistan, slowly liberating herself from decades of
corruption. Amjad Jabbars HSKP party Hum Sab Ka Pakistan (The
Pakistan of all of us) had swept the elections in a landslide.
Surprisingly, the elections had been nearly honest thanks to the
international watchdogs overseeing the elections. It seemed, even
though it was too much to hope for, that Pakistan was truly turning
a corner. Talking about corners, Tasneem noticed from her window
that Munawwar had parked his rental car, a Chevy Captiva, right
over the street corner, so that it jutted out slightly into face of
the incoming traffic on Putnam Street. Munawwar saw her looking out
of the window at his car. He hadnt taken the trouble to park
correctly. There was too much on his mind. We Pakistanis dont cut
corners, we ignore them, he said seriously. It took Tasneem a
moment to figure out that he was trying to crack a joke. He darted
out quickly and spent a few minutes successfully repositioning his
rental car correctly, so that the corner was pristine and
uncovered. True to his word, Amjad Jabbar, a new and different PM
of a new and different Pakistan (hopefully), had insisted on
staying in an ordinary hotel, Midnight Moon Hotel, at a cost of 150
dollars a night a real bargain the PMs assistant had found on the
web. He had also insisted on his own security detail. This was
again part of his pledge of self-reliance. We Pakistanis have to be
able to take care of ourselves, without too much foreign support.
Of course, the US secret service had also provided back-up security
they had to. But the task of securing the PM was principally in the
hands of the Pakistani team, headed by Munawwar Abidi. Earlier that
morning, Amjad Jabbar had asked to be taken to Macys in Manhattan,
so that he could buy his wife a gift. So off they had all gone,
supposedly in a secure car provided by the Pakistani Embassy.
Actually, there were three cars, black limousines, all identical.
But Jabbar wasnt in any of these. He had left wearing a wig, dark
glasses, and a long robe, so he looked a bit like a New York
socialite from the sixties. He actually took a cab,
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accompanied by his secretary, a woman called Rakhshanda Iman.
This was all a bit over the top, but Amjad Jabbar had a powerful
imagination, brought on from years of reading PG Wodehouse, Agatha
Christie, and Arthur Conan Doyle. The disguise was his idea, and it
had some merit: no one could have imagined that the Pakistani PM
would dare to go to Macys disguised as a woman. Munawwar had
protested. This was nonsense! he said angrily to Tasneem. Tasneem,
too, found this absurd. A disguisehmmm, she said. I suppose he
wanted people to think he was in one of the limos, while he slipped
away in a disguise. That was the basic idea, yesthe PM is paranoid
about security and he reads all those damn, unrealistic mystery
novels. Thats where he got this idea. From some novel. He told me
which one, but I have forgotten. I suppose its okay, as ideas go,
because nobody would have seriously considered that the PM would go
out disguised as an old woman. We had a decoy, a fellow who looks a
bit the PM, to get into one of the limos. So I am not saying it
wouldnt have worked to protect him, but it lacks dignity. Who cares
about dignity if youre alive? said Tasneem. Munawwar shrugged his
shoulders. It was clear he didnt agree. Dignity, his body language
seemed to be saying, was everything. Is he in the habit of
disguising like this? Oh yes. He does it quite often. Only me, my
team, and his secretary know. My team is sworn to secrecy. If
anyone ever found out about this habit this addiction of the PM,
wed have a very small list of suspects to interrogate. And now me.
I know as well. Well, yes, you do. But you wouldnt tell anyone,
right? I have your word? But of course. Who would I tell? Tasneem
could think of several people, but naturally she never would. She
took her job seriously it was a vocation for her. She would never
violate a clients confidentiality, unless required by law. She
asked: I suppose the three limos went someplace else, not
Macys.
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Oh yes, a nice, long aimless drive. Miles and miles. Meanwhile,
the PM, accompanied by Mrs. Rakhshanda Imam, drove to Macys in a
cab. I insisted on driving the cab. He couldnt just leap into a cab
and go with Mrs. Imam, who has zero security training. She is a
secretary, for crying out loud. In a crisis, hed have to be the one
protecting her, rather than the other way about and I am not saying
this in a sexist way. She has arthritis and diabetes, and she is
overweight completely useless from the point of view of providing
security to the premier of Pakistan. Thats why I had to drive the
cab. The Embassy rented out a cab, and I became a cab driver. You
drove a cab in New York City? Tasneem asked incredulously. From the
way Munawwar had parked his rental car over the corner, she
expected disaster. But he had managed it. You have a picture of
this Mrs. Rakhshanda? asked Tasneem. What has that got to do with
it? asked Munawwar, a bit annoyed. Tasneem could almost imagine him
thinking something like: trust a woman to focus on irrelevant
details. Tasneem had an answer: I dont know what anything has to do
with anything right now. But I must have all the information. You
can never tell when something is going to turn out to be important.
Munawwar pursed his lips. He couldnt imagine Mrs. Rakhshanda, Amjad
Jabbars secretary, could have any importance in this investigation
whatsoever. He took out his iphone, and quickly hunted through his
pictures. Finally he stopped. Here, he said, handing over the
iphone to her. It was a picture of an older woman with a younger
woman. The older woman was plump, in a traditional shalwar kameez,
a long shirt the kameez and loose pants the shalwar. It was an
uninspiring outfit, very ordinary, cream colored, plain. Mrs.
Rakhshanda is the older one, said Tasneem. Yes, said Munawwar. Who
is the younger woman?
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Her daughter. Pretty. Stunning, to be precise. Munawwar
shrugged. Yes, she was pretty, with short hair, a thin symmetrical
face, a pert nose, and a pleasant mouth. But what had that got to
do with anything? The daughter is here too? asked Tasneem. Yes. But
the PM the government is not paying for it. She is a student at New
York University. Shes got a scholarship. Very nice. Whats her name?
Sophie. Did Sophie go to Macys too? No, shes staying at her dorm. I
think she will meet with her mother, Mrs. Imam, at some point in
time, but at the moment she is staying at her dorm. She didnt go
with us to Macys. When did Sophie get her scholarship? A year ago.
I see. She didnt come home for summer holidays? It was July, and so
Tasneem assumed that Sophie would have gone home to visit her
family in Pakistan. No, said Munawwar, Mrs. Imam was coming here
with the PM so Sophie decided to stay here and show her mother
around. OK, said Tasneem. When Sophie was in Pakistan, prior to
coming here, did she know the PM? Well, I suppose she did. The PM
is a very kind and generous man. He knows all the people on his
team socially. He visits their houses. Hes been to my house, he
said, without any evidence of pride. I suppose he knows her. But
what does it matter? Shes a bombshell. Yes And the PM is a man.
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Look, I know youre trying to gather all the relevant
information, but the PM is a man with a mission. He has no time for
this kind of fuzool stuff. He used the word fuzool which means
unnecessary, useless, pointless stuff. Maybe thats what he thought
about her line of questioning. If you are implying that the PM is
having an He found it difficult to use the word affair, so Tasneem
nodded understandingly and then shook her head. No, I dont mean
that. I am simply trying to get the full picture. Besides, what
would it have to do with what is happening now. The PM has
disappeared. Even if he is having whatever with Rakhshandas
daughter, that is a side issue. By the way, this is an absurd
notion the PM is married, happily, and buying gifts for his wife.
He is all set to give a speech at the UN, after our historic
reconciliation with India. The Kashmir dispute is almost settled.
This is unprecedented! He is about to outline the vision for the
new Pakistan. This man has done more in two years, than other
Pakistani politicians have done in decades! Its nothing short of a
miracle. So I dont think he is whatever-ing with Sophie, who is
half his age. This is the kind of garbage his opponents accuse him
of. Oh they do? Tasneem asked innocently. But of course she knew.
She read Pakistani newspapers and had a Facebook account. Jabbar
was only 48, five years older than she was. He was a good-looking,
charismatic man. There was no way he could have won over the
masses, upset the establishment and done all that he had without
possessing oodles of charm, guts, believability and overall
attractiveness. And so there were rumors. Of flings, romances,
dalliances. From his college days until now. There were rumors that
he was carrying on with a Mrs. Bakhtiar, a fervent supporter from
the time of his campaign, who, it was crudely suggested, continued
to support him on top of her, on alternate Wednesdays. I read about
this woman Tasneem almost whispered. Mrs. Bakhtiar? Munawwar nearly
exploded. Total bakwas! He spat out the word bakwas which means
nonsense. The PM is a decent man. He goes to play cards with Mrs.
Bakhtiars husband every other Wednesday, for an hour or so. The man
needs a break. He and Mr. Bakhtiar have known each other from
college.
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It is unlikely that he will go to play cards with Mr. Bakhtiar,
and then, while her husband, his friend, is in the house, he will
go to Mrs. Bakhtiar and have Whatever? Tasneem said helpfully.
Munawwar seemed to be losing hope by the minute. Tasneem realized
that she had put him off with all the gossip related to the PM. He
has enemies, right? Tasneem said, abruptly switching from bedroom
rumors to something that seemed more significant. Yes. That is what
I am afraid of. His speech to the UN an invited speech as you
probably know is making his enemies bristle. Theyre burning up.
Some people say he might get a Nobel peace prize they say hell
share with the Indian premier. But he has enemies in Pakistan.
Jamal Abrohi, you know him, the previous PM, the corrupt SOB I am
sorry, Tasneem, to use such language he would do anything to
discredit and destroy Jabbar. Jabbar is under a lot of stress. How
stressed is he? Very. He has an ulcer. He has high blood pressure.
His doctor tells him to take it easy, but he is a driven man. He
tries to take a break now and then, but it is difficult. He has to
stay on-target. The problems of Pakistan, of his office, are too
enormous. He cant stop exerting himself, stressing out. I am afraid
he will drop of a heart attack one day. I hope that doesnt happen,
said Tasneem. From what Ive read about him, he is a great man,
great for Pakistan, maybe for the world, Id say. Is he corrupt? The
PM? Munawwar blinked, as if surprised at the question. Yes, I mean,
getting the job of the PM of Pakistan is like winning the lottery.
I was just wondering. Look, said Munawwar, Im not saying he is a
saint. Hed be a stupid man if he didnt use this opportunity. But
look at the good hes doing. Anyway, he is not flagrantly corrupt.
But a teeny bit? I suppose, said Munawwar. How teeny?
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I think he has enough, maybe even more than enough, a lot more
than enough. But he has earned it. He is an amazing man, and he
puts his life on the line for Pakistan every day. Look, if he
wanted to quit today, he could do so, quite easily, and still be
assured of his place in history. He has achieved greatness. But he
continues to serve his country, at great risk to himself. So I dont
care if he is lining his pockets at least he is not robbing the
country blind. Anyway, it is not my job to judge him, only to
protect him. And find him. Would the former PM Abrohi have the
ability to get him kidnapped? Not on US soil. I find it impossible
to imagine, especially with all of us here and yet the PM has
disappeared, so I suppose it remains a distant possibility. Tell me
exactly what happened when you got to Macys, Tasneem said. We
reached Macys. The PM came out in his disguise. Mrs. Rakhshanda
went with him. I followed a short distance behind. One of my men
came and drove the cab away. The rest of my team, fourteen officers
in all, was already inside Macys. They were in plain clothes. The
PM wanted perfume and so I had stationed them around the perfume
counter. He specifically wanted this perfume by Dior, and so they
went to the counter with the Dior. The PM is a particular man. That
he is. He micromanages. Every detail. In a way that makes my life
easier. Then what? We went inside. He went up to a counter. Alone?
Or with his secretary? No, by himself. She went away to look at
some clothes. Ok. Go on. As I said, he wanted to buy his wife a
perfume, this Dior thing nothing too expensive, the PM is a man of
modest tastes, and doesnt flaunt whatever he has accumulated. There
was a trace of bitterness in his voice. Munawwar didnt approve of
his boss corruptly accumulating too much wealth. Ok.
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The girl there was Pakistani, in fact. Oh! Whats her name? Samia
and yes, since I am sure you will want to know, she was pretty,
very pretty, but I dont think the PM had any interest in her. Thank
you for the info. Then what? Then then, Munawwar took a deep
breath. He disappeared. He was nowhere to be seen! Tasneem took a
deep breath as well. Do you mean, he just vanished? Vaporized?
Disappeared in thin air? That seems a bit much, no? No, of course
not. Let me clarify. We were standing a respectful distance behind,
and we were chatting amongst ourselves. We had actually formed a
semicircle around the counter. He bent down to pick something up.
Then he stood up. Then he bent down again. After a few moments, he
bent down a third time. But then, after a little while, he still
hadnt gotten up so I went up to him. And I found his robe and his
wig. But no PM. Vow! said Tasneem. Not thats what I call a mystery!
How little a while? Munawwar shook his head. I guess not that
little. A minute or two perhaps. You have to realize that there was
no security risk. We were all around him. Nobody could have gotten
past us to him. Could it have been longer than a minute or two? Its
possible he sounded sheepish. As if he had been caught stealing.
Look, let me explain: Take the girl, Samia, at the counter. My team
had gone ahead and checked her out and spoken to her. When the PM
went there, to the counter, there was no one else there, except for
her. The whole area was as secure as possible. And it was right
after the shop opened, so there were no other customers there. What
about the cameras? Surely there are cameras in Macys. Its the
damnedest thing! Somebody had stuck a piece of tape on top of the
camera that was monitoring that particular area.
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A tape! How low-tech! And efficient at the same time. So this
was planned. Somebody must have known the PM was coming there. Who
knew? Only the security team and the PM. Rakhshanda? No. She had no
idea. Tasneem absorbed this information. She asked: What kind of
wig was it? I dont know, what do you mean? How many kinds of wigs
are there? Oh, I have no idea. I suppose you can clip some with
hair pins, or you could just slip one on and off. No clips. Easy to
slip on and off. Same with the robe. But it boggles the mind! There
was no one there! Could someone have been hiding somewhere? Where?
And wouldnt we have seen? But we have to assume someone was hiding
somewhere, and managed to get to him, and swipe him from under our
noses. But whoever it was took a huge chance. We were all right
there. Yes, but you felt secure, and, if you dont mind my saying
so, you were chatting amongst yourselves, and you have admitted
that you werent paying attention and it could have been several
minutes that he could have been down before you went to check on
him. What if someone were hiding beneath the floorboards and
grabbed and pulled him in or something like that? We checked the
entire floor in that area. We wondered about the same thing. But
the floor it was just a floor. Nothing beneath. No basement,
nothing! Then he must have been taken past you, somehow. It makes
no sense how! This girl, Samia, she was facing him the whole time?
I dont think soas a matter of fact, no. She turned a few times,
brought some perfumes from the back wall, behind the counter. Maybe
Tasneem began thoughtfully. She read a lot of detective fiction,
and also popular psychology. Maybe someone was hiding somewhere,
very
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cleverly, and was missed by your team. Maybe this person took a
chance, injected something in the PM, knocked him out, pulled off
his wig and robe, put some other thing on top of him, made him look
like a rolled up carpet or something, and walked past you. Not only
unbelievably risky, but impossible. I tell you we would have seen.
So one would think, said Tasneem. Hed have to be a real expert, a
pro. But Ive read about studies that show that people often dont
see things because they are looking for something else, or
expecting something else. There is a famous study about people
watching a tape of a basketball game, in which this gorilla that is
to say, a man in a gorilla suit - came in for a few moments,
thumped his chest and left. Thousands of viewers didnt see the
gorilla, because they were too busy focusing on the game and the
players scoring the points. Look. We are talking about the PM of
Pakistan, not a man pretending to be a gorilla. Besides, we are
trained professionals. Not an ant could have gotten past us!
Tasneem said: I have a hypothesis, and I know its not a good one,
but its a working hypothesis. Whoever took the PM had to know he
was coming, right? What if someone who knew a member of your team,
perhaps I am only thinking aloud was working with this hidden
kidnapper? An inside man makes things easier. Then, this kidnapper
managed to get some tape on the camera. Some of these cameras are
so obvious, and so easy to cover up its shocking. Maybe this girl,
Samia maybe she is also mixed up with this. Munawwar said: We
looked at the tape from that camera feed. It suddenly goes dark. We
see a hand inside a glove come in front and then black. Its one of
those old swiveling cameras that swoop from side to side, with a
view of the counter not a very good view, mind you, but a view
nonetheless. Whoever covered the camera with tape wouldnt have to
be especially skilled. But I cant believe it was Samia. That girl
seemed genuinely shocked. He paused.
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But even if she is one of the kidnappers, and even if there is a
rotten egg in my team, there were still the rest of us over there.
We may not have been watching every moment while the PM was at the
counter, but even then, this kidnapper would have had to get past
us, and if he was carrying the PM, rolled up in a carpet it is
quite absurd, really, I cant believe I am saying this but even if I
grant you that the PM was being carried inside a rolled up carpet
or in some other way, the kidnapper would have had to go past the
rest of us. Fifteen of us or fourteen, or thirteen, if we allow for
some bad eggs on my team how could anyone have gotten past us? He
took a deep breath. I dont mean to brag, but I am very good at my
job. And my men are at the top of their game as well and just one
or two skunks on my team arent going to be enough to get the better
of the rest of us. We are the best in our field in Pakistan. Thats
how we get to protect the PM. Can I show you something? Sure. He
took a pen out of his pocket and asked Tasneem for a sheet of
paper. On this paper he drew a rectangle. Thats the counter, he
explained. Then he wrote an X on one side of the counter. Thats the
PM. And pretty Samia, the Pakistani girl selling him the perfume,
is on the other side of the counter? Yes, yes, shes there. There
you go, let me put her there. He wrote a Y on the other side of the
rectangular counter. Then he drew a half circle, an arc beneath the
rectangle. The arc stretched past the edges of the rectangle. Thats
us the security team. And this counter its not just a counter, you
know. Its like a front counter with the glass, through which you
can see all the perfumes. Its a closed space. Closed? Yes, you
know, closed. There are panels on the side of the counter, and then
other counters on the side and then the wall behind. So the counter
is completely enclosed.
-
How do people get in and out of the counter? There is a little
side door, on the side of the front counter. The staff can get in
and out of the enclosed counter through the door. So the PM could
have been taken through this door, into the counter? But
thatsinsane! By whom? There was the PM, in his absurd disguise.
There was Samia, who is a tiny girl, truly, and there were all of
us. There was no one else there. Who could have dragged him inside
the counter? Samia? She was standing all the time. There was no one
else there! How did she react? She was shocked, of course. She kept
saying, How, how, how, how? Did you go inside the enclosed counter?
Of course! There was no one there but Samia. Were there any
cabinets inside? Yes, cabinets, drawers, etc. Tasneem asked: Did
you check every drawer and cabinet? Wellno. Munawwar became quiet
for a while. He seemed embarrassed. Before when someone from your
team went to check things out, did anyone check the cabinets?
Munawwar spoke after a lengthy pause: No. Not that I am aware of.
There was no need. From our point of view, nobody at Macys could
have known we were going there. So somebody, the kidnapper, could
have been hiding in there. Maybe the member of your team who went
inside the counter to check is part of the plot. And also Samia
would have to be working with the kidnappers, to allow someone to
hide in there. Maybe she stuck the tape on the camera. While you
guys are briefly distracted, the kidnapper comes out, knocks out
the PM, drags him inside and shoves him inside the cabinet. The
cabinets are not checked afterwards he takes a bold chance that you
will not check them and then, after you leave, the kidnapper can
come out with the PM and make his escape. Of course, all this works
best if the kidnappers have an inside man in your team. Plus you
have Samia, who can be a lookout person and let the kidnapper know
when it is safe to come out.
-
Its utterly fantastic! muttered Munawwar. But possible. Is your
team still there? Two officers are posted outside Macys. Two men
are outside the back door. But no one is inside. I didnt want to
draw undue attention. I needed this taken care of quietly. The
girl, Samia, was getting disturbed or at any rate, she was acting
disturbed and I didnt want to create a scene. I think we ought to
go there, right away, dont you agree, and check things out? Dont
contact your team members. What if one of more of the men you have
posted are mixed up with all this? said Tasneem. Munawwar nodded
grimly. If one of my men is dirtyI will, of course, take care of
the bastard. And then, I will resign. Tasneem had an idea what
Munawwar meant by taking care of the bastard but she wondered if
maybe he was just saying that, in the heat of the moment. With
time, maybe wiser counsels would prevail. But then, she hadnt seen
Munawwar in over two decades. The boy she had known as a child,
Goloo-poloo, had been mild-mannered, weak, and often bullied. What
had he grown up into? Had he over-compensated? Was he likely to go
on a vengeful rampage and get rid of disloyal bastards, right, left
and center? She really had no idea. When they were on their way to
Macys, Munawwar said to Tasneem: Right now, the situation is inside
my fist, he said, using the Urdu expression, meri muthi mein hai it
is inside my fist meaning that he was in control of the situation.
But not for long. We will stay put until 8 pm. Then we alert the
authorities here. By 8 pm? Thats like 5 hours from now. You really
think I can help you find the PM in the next 5 hours? Munawwar
grimaced. I dont know what I am doing! I guess Im clutching at
straws. I guess that makes me a straw, said Tasneem
whimsically.
-
Please dont get offended. A lota lot is at stake. If I lose the
PM, well, you know what this means, right? I wont have this job for
too long! I am going to be fired. Only to be hired by the next
corrupt PM, said Tasneem. Im sure that he will be glad that you
misplaced the PM. As soon she said this, she regretted it. Munawwar
didnt seem to see any humor in her remark. He practically glowered.
Had he been a lion and she a lamb, she suspected he would have torn
her limb from limb before throwing her lifeless carcass into a heap
for the jackals to chew clean. And, in point of fact, she was
wrong. Munawwars career was finished if he didnt recover the PM.
Who would want to hire a security chief who had failed to protect
his boss? Sorry, said Tasneem. I was only trying to cheer you up.
Munawwar didnt say anything. Soon they were standing in front of
Samia at the counter. Samia was tiny. And she was cute. Very cute.
Her hair was cut straight and reached between her shoulder blades.
She was dark, with a silver lipstick that emphasized her round,
pretty mouth. She had on a sheer, purple, paisley top, and
underneath it, a camisole that tastefully concealed her fairly
ample bosom. She was wearing sharp beige pants with an embossed
filigree pattern. She looked very uncomfortable and nervous.
Tasneem read the name on her badge: SAMIA KARIM. Tasneem first
glanced at the layout. It was exactly as Munawwar had described.
There were glass counters all around, except for two flat white
panels on either side. On the left, was a swinging door that could
be pushed in or out. Tasneem decided to put Samia at ease. Do you
work full-time? Only in the summer. I am a student. How nice! said
Tasneem. Where? NYU.
-
Excellent! New York University. Someone I know is there. Maybe
you know her? Who? Sophie. Sophie Imam. Do you know her? Samia
appeared bewildered at the question. She caught Munawwars
disapproving eye. He wanted her to get on with it. This was no time
for social chitchat. Tasneem felt annoyed. Yes, his boss had been
kidnapped, but she had to do her job the way she thought was right.
Part of her job was to draw her suspects in, by making small talk,
hoping to make them slip. This skill had served her well when she
recovered Bartholomew, the parrot who had been borrowed by the
maid. Bartholomew reminded the maid of her dear, departed
grandmother he cackled almost exactly like her. She would never
have stumbled upon the truth had she not chatted with Phyllis the
maid. Sorry, Samia, didnt mean to get distracted by these
questions. I assume there must be a lot of Pakistani students at
NYU. You cant be expected to know all of them. In case you are in
need of friends, Sophie Imam is very nice. You should look her up
in the future. You know Mr. Munawwar? Tasneem asked, abruptly
changing the subject. Samia nodded slowly, apparently wrapped in
thoughts. Tasneem nodded. As you can imagine Samia, we are all very
upset about the PM about what happened this morning. I am sure you
havent spoken to anyone about the PM and what happened this
morning. No. I dont know her, Samia suddenly blurted out. I beg
your pardon. This girl you mentioned. I dont know her, said Samia,
seeming to regain her composure. I havent spoken about the PM to
anyone. I hope he is okay. Thats what we all hope. Samia, would you
mind very much if we came inside and took a look? No, please, come
in. Anything I can do to help.
-
The two of them silently walked inside through the swing door,
pushing it inwards. It swung back. As Munawwar had said, there were
a bunch of drawers, and cabinets beneath each of the three counter
tops with the perfumes. Each of these three cabinets had two doors,
about three and a half feet high. With some dexterity, a man could
easily be hidden inside any of these cabinets. Tasneem, opened the
cabinet doors one by one, with Munawwar watching. All the cabinets
were nearly empty, except for some bottles. Very clean cabinets,
said Tasneem. Yes, said Samia. We keep excess stock in there. Weve
got a storeroom in the back, but we stock up here as well. But weve
had some great sales and so were almost completely sold out. Can I
ask you a completely stupid question, with apologies, since I
already know the answer? But I kind of have to ask, said Tasneem.
Please. Ask me anything. I want to help. You see, while Mr.
Munawwar and his men were standing around this counter, one place
the PM could have been taken is inside this space, here. But that
is impossible because you would have seen. So just confirm for me
what I already know. You were alone here, right? Yes, I was, said
Samia quickly. Mr. Munawwar and his men came inside and checked.
There was no one here but me. And so there was no way the PM could
have been brought inside, right? Samia asked innocently, Who could
have done that? There was no one here but me. The PM was on the
other side and then he just vanished. Its the weirdest thing. It
makes no sense to me. Of course, people didnt just vanish. Tasneem
looked at Samias face. Her expression was difficult to read.
Tasneem was 99% sure that Samia was lying. Samia had to have seen
what had happened. Unless she had turned her back, briefly, to grab
a bottle of perfume. Is that what had happened? Was Samia guilty
unless proven innocent, or the other way around? Tasneem said:
-
I know this is a ridiculous question, but there are no secret
doorways or panels that lead under the floor? For the first time,
Samia laughed. This is Macys, not a Bollywood film, she said. No,
there are no secret underground panels. You can check if you like.
Munawwar, standing behind Tasneem, shook his head. Hopeless, he
thought, utterly hopeless! He was never going to find the PM, as
long as Tasneem hunted for secret panels in the floormaybe it was
time to involve the local authorities. Thank you, Samia, said
Tasneem. Youve been very helpful. As soon as they, left, Tasneem
spent about ten minutes on her iphone. Finally, she said to
Munawwar. Those cabinets were nearly empty. Big enough to hold a
man. I admit we ought to have checked the cabinets, said Munawwar.
But there was no way he could have been kidnapped by a kidnapper
who was hiding inside one of those cabinets, and then put inside
one of the other cabinets. Two people in two cabinets! Absurd!
There was only one person there. The girl, Samia. Imagine if the
kidnapper was inside one cabinet and the drugged PM was inside
another. What if anyone of us had looked? Yes, even if one of my
officers was mixed up, what if I had looked. I am not mixed up in
this. No, he sighed. Youd have to be an idiot to take a risk like
that! I dont believe the PMs kidnappers are idiots, do you Tasneem?
With due respect, Tasneem, I dont think your hypothesis is very
feasible. Tasneem paid little attention to what he said. She waited
for him to finish. Lets go, she said. Where? To get the PM, of
course. What? Where? Munawwar appeared baffled. I am not sure, you
see, only about 90% certain. We have to go to 84 Clarendon Lane,
New York, Apartment 6. Its not very far. We can take the train.
-
84 Clarendon Lane. It was a shabby, decrepit-appearing red brick
building, with a row of unattractive brown doors. Apartment 6.
According to my search of the database, this is where Samia Karim,
our tiny counter girl, lives, Tasneem said to Munawwar. Youre
saying that Samia helped the kidnappers. That she and the
kidnappers took a ridiculous risk? And then had him brought over to
her apartment? Why not have him taken somewhere else? Maybe Saima
is the mastermind of this incredible plot! Youre still standing by
your theory? Munawwar shook his head in disbelief. You will see
what I mean, in a minute, Tasneem replied. But first, let me ask
you, is the PM in the habit of dropping things and picking them up?
What? I mean, not especially that is to say, I dont think I have
noticed. But he dropped something three times, and bent down three
times to pick it up. You didnt think that was odd? No. I didnt
think anything about it. People drop things. Yes, people do that,
Tasneem agreed. Maybe youve also been reading too many detective
novels, Munawwar said roughly. Maybe the PM wasnt even the PM!
Maybe I drove one of the kidnappers to Macys! Are you saying that
the person who kept dropping stuff was some clumsy kidnapper, and
not really the PM? Well, let me put you right. The PM put on the
disguise in front of my eyes! Munawwar became quiet all of a
sudden. WellI didnt see him from the time I saw him get into his
disguise till I got into the cab a block away, and then drove up to
pick him and Mrs. Imam up. You dont think I picked an imposter. No!
He spoke to me in the cab. We had a conversation! I think, said
Tasneem playfully, That maybe you are the one who is reading too
many detective novels. They were standing outside apartment 6.
Youll have to break in. Can you do that?
-
I am the head of the PMs security detail. You bet I can break
in. It is surprisingly easy for people to break into apartments.
For Munawwar, it was childs play. When Munawwar opened the door, a
large group of mice could have entered his mouth, for it went wide
open. With good reason. For Amjad Jabbar, the PM of Pakistan, the
man who had made history, was sitting on the sofa wearing a T-shirt
and jeans, watching the news. Amjad Jabbar took one look at
Munawwar, scowled, and then shrugged his shoulders. Let me tell you
what I think, said Tasneem, more so because the silence was
uncomfortable and she wanted to get the ball rolling. She was happy
to have found the PM and now she wanted to collect her fee. Neither
man said a word. So Tasneem continued: It was obvious that even if
someone on your security team was mixed up with the bad guys, the
easiest way for you to get kidnapped was if you, yourself, wanted
to get away. After all, the team was trying to protect you from
harm, but they are perhaps less well equipped to prevent you from
escaping not with your active imagination and your love of mystery
fiction, disguises and so on. You know how they think, and you know
how to evade them, if you want to. So I assumed that you were
trying to stage your disappearance yourself. You were trying to
escape. She looked at Munawwar, feeling a bit like Hercule Poirot.
It was a warm, satisfying feeling. Everyone, she reflected, ought
to feel like Hercule Poirot at least once in their lives. This is
what occurred to me: You, PM sahib, in your disguise, bent thrice,
hoping to get your team to lose interest. You wanted your team to
think that youd already dropped stuff twice and then you dropped it
a third time. So whats new? They wouldnt be interested. Your team
thinks: there is nobody else except for that tiny counter girl, and
so theres no danger to you. It is impossible. But they have no way
of knowing that the third time you went down, you slipped off your
disguise, and quickly crawled to the left, through the swinging
door, and hid in one of the
-
cabinets. You were taking a chance, of course. They could have
seen you doing that. And if they did, well, you could invent some
excuse or say anything what could they say to you? They work for
you, youre the PM. Did you have a plan to say something? I hadnt
thought that far, said Jabbar. He had a deep, resonant voice, a
voice that had enchanted the masses in Pakistan. But I imagine I
could have talked my way out of it. If you dont mind my asking, how
did you leave? asked Tasneem. Oh, I borrowed some clothes from
Samia. They were inside the cabinet in which I hid. I changed
inside. Put my clothes in a bag. Red slacks. A bright green
T-shirt. And a wig a blond one. I wore a pair of large sunglasses
big glasses, covered half my face. Very conspicuous! said Tasneem.
Exactly. I expected no one would think I would be leaving Macys on
my own two feet in such a ridiculous looking outfit. I walked right
past the two men you had posted outside, Munawwar. Then I took a
cab to Samias apartment. I had the key. I dont think I could have
broken in like you, Munawwar. He may have been trying to lighten
the moment. Munawwar finally found his voice. But why do all this?
Why? He seemed to be in anguish. There was no answer from Jabbar. I
can guess why, said Tasneem. And please correct me if I am wrong.
As the PM of a difficult country like Pakistan, you are under a lot
of stress. Munawwar told me you are under a lot of stress, with a
host of medical problems and your doctor told you to take it easy.
Plus, like other men before him in the coveted position of PM of
Pakistan, Jabbar probably had a decent chunk of change stashed away
in some secret place only he knew. So he could disappear without
hurting himself financially. Naturally, Tasneem didnt say that.
Tasneem went on:
-
Adding to his stress, I think, was a little situation that you
had, sir. May I continue? The PM nodded. Please do so. I find this
fascinating. Yes, thought Tasneem, he was a very good-looking man.
It would be easy for someone to fall in love with himbut not
Tasneem. The man was handsome, yes, he could be the badly needed
hope for Pakistan, and he would be addressing the UN, and he might
even win the Nobel peace prize, but underneath it all, or maybe
because of it all, he was a man who was far from perfect. Very
imperfect, actually. I think you and Sophie you had a little
romance. And then Sophie she is a pretty girl. I am sure it was
real love. Whatever it was, you were tired of your life, all the
worries that surround you in Pakistan. Maybe you wanted to escape
all the trouble and risk to your life and stress. You wanted to
escape it all, and disappear from public life. I dont think too
many people would just throw away a job like yours, but youre not
like too many people, are you? No, I dont think I am. And yes,
there is no shame in loving someone. I love Sophie. From the moment
I saw her. It was like an electric spark that went from her to me
and me to her. We got connected, in an instant. But the matter is
complicated because I am the prime minister of Pakistan, and am
married with three kids in college. Thats life, I suppose. But
others before me have given up everything for love. There is
nothing special about me. The only special thing is love. You may
be right, said Tasneem. But do you really think this is wise?
Pakistan needs you. I am sure many people would agree with that.
Yes, spoke Munawwar, Pakistan needs you. If you will pardon me for
saying so, there is no room in your life for loving anyone but your
wife. Can you please come back with me? We will figure out a way to
sort out the situation here. We will make payments to both Sophie
and Samia. Have them set for life, through college, and enough to
live decently afterwards. If you dont mind my asking, Sophie is not
er anything? I think he means to say pregnant, said Tasneem. No, of
course not. I have been perfectly honorable.
-
Sure, thought Tasneem. She couldnt help feeling disgust. But the
world and its realities cared little for her disgust. She could be
disgusted all the way into the afterlife and it wouldnt change a
single fact. Her rash wouldnt go away, people would still behave
like people, and the PM would continue being the man he was. So in
the end, disgust served no purpose but to make you feel bad. Even
so, she couldnt rationalize the feeling away. I havent done
anything I shouldnt have. Except been in love and she loves me
back. Of course she does, said Tasneem. But shes young, so give her
time. Shell find someone else, I am sure. Maybe not like you, but a
good-enough substitute. Jabbar frowned. The idea of Sophie finding
someone else to replace him pricked his ego, but as this woman
said, any other man Sophie found would have to be merely a
substitute, never as good enough as Jabbar. Like most men in
positions of power, Jabbar was probably couldnt help being a
narcissist. How did you know? asked Munawwar. It was a guess.
First, there was no way that anyone could have drugged and then
dragged the PM inside and hidden him inside the cabinets. Or
carried him past you. You would have seen. So it meant he had to
have done this willingly. Which led me to why he might have done
it. Second, I found it interesting that Samia also goes to NYU,
just like Sophie. Samia reacted very guiltily, telling me very
pointedly that she didnt know Sophie, after I had moved on to
another topic and asked her if she had discussed the disappearance
of the PM with anyone. Its like she really, badly wanted to
convince us that she didnt know Sophie. Her behavior was, to say
the least, very suspicious. I assumed that not only did Samia know
Sophie, but that she was helping Sophie by enabling the PM to
escape and providing him with room and board. With her mother
visiting, Sophie could hardly hide the PM in her own dorm room.
Tasneem could have stopped there, but she didnt. I hope youll
forgive me, but I cant feel too much sympathy for you. I agree that
from the her picture, Sophie strikes me as a pretty, lovely girl,
but
-
Jabbar cut her short, Yes, she is pretty and lovely. She is the
loveliest woman Ive ever seen. Tasneem wanted to say that given a
few months, he would soon see some other loveliest woman Ive ever
seen. The PM was a great leader, but Tasneem could see that he was
a hopeless romantic, or more accurately, a hopeless jerk a hopeless
but great jerk, who could well be the answer to Pakistan, but
certainly not to his family. A serial lover. No, a serial lust-er.
A man who either used his brain or his pelvis. He would find
someone else. And then, after that, someone else yet again. She
found it difficult to be in awe of this man, no matter what level
of greatness he achieved. Its easy to judge others, said Jabbar,
quietly. I judge myself too. I am not proud of what I did. You
could say, I wasnt thinking, or that I was thinking romantically.
But youre right, Munawwar. Its time to put an end to this drama. I
obviously cant stick around to say goodbye to Sophie. Youll have to
make sure that Sophie and Samia get compensated adequately. They
can name their price. Yes, sir, said Munawwar. And you can tell me
your price, too, for your services, Miss I am sorry I dont even
know your name? Tasneem, she answered. She took out a piece of
folded paper silently from her purse. My charges it shows the
hourly rate, etc., she said, handing it to Jabbar. He took a look
at it. Reasonable. I am going to add a bonus. On behalf of the
people of Pakistan and my family, who I am sure will be pleased to
have me back. Arent we full of ourselves, Tasneem wanted to say,
but didnt. Thanks, she said. A hefty paycheck. Heads of state value
themselves highly, as a rule, and so compensate extremely well when
they have been found after being lost. The payout was much higher
than she had received for recovering Chuggles the tortoise or
-
Bartholomew the parrot. But, Tasneem wondered if in the final
analysis those animals were nicer human beings than Jabbar. Still,
the money was nothing to sneeze at. There was the added
satisfaction of having caught a philandering PM. And now, she
really had to quit stalling. Her toe was throbbing. She picked up
the phone to call her primary care provider.