Khyber Pass

Khyber Pass

A novel

Shahzad Rizvi

Published by Shahzad Rizvi at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 by Shahzad Rizvi

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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To my Becky—

Not only a fine scholar,

but the nicest person I’ve ever known

CHAPTER 1

The Soviet Embassy, after keeping a low profile in Islamabad for years and years, had suddenly come alive. The top brass of Pakistan’s military government and a who’s who of the international diplomatic community were converging on its portals. When the limousine of General Bezar Khan, Chairman of the Committee of the Joint Chiefs of Staff of the Pakistani military, pulled up to the main entrance, the entire embassy staff came out to accord him a welcome fit for a head of state. With an immaculate uniform swathing his rotund form, a baton tucked under his arm, and stars shining on his epaulets, he walked down the long red carpet, self-conscious, self-important. As he passed, he shook the hands of the ambassador, secretaries, and lower luminaries of the embassy. Diplomatic observers from Western and non-Communist countries greeted the event with some speculation and great amusement.

What the hell are the Russians up to now? one chuckled into the ear of another.

I think we’ve all been invited to play Russian roulette with the General, whispered the fellow in reply.

The large room Bezar Khan entered was sparsely furnished. A portrait of Lenin commanded the attention of the guests, peering down on them unrelentingly. In one corner, a long table was laid with caviar, black bread, butter, and chopped onions. At another table, a diminutive waiter poured vodka from tall, chilled bottles. A small cadre of musicians belied its size by blaring out traditional Russian music.

Bezar Khan’s entrance was met with a heartbeat’s stop in the conversation and music. Then the tempo picked up again and the party went on its boisterous way. The ambassador followed a quarter step behind the General, introducing him to the various guests in his thick, formal English. The porcine General pushed a path through the throng, grinning, shaking hands, and making attempts at repartee. He had never been accused of being a great conversationalist, and the guests soon receded from him after the preliminary courtesies. Like hyenas waiting for the lions to retire from the kill, the hosts approached and surrounded him as the Western guests withdrew. They entertained him in an elemental, raucous Slavic fashion. The General began to feel a bit more comfortable, now that the attention was focused on him without any effort on his part. Before long, the group was chatting and joking amiably.

General Khan, we are aware of your Islamic dietary restrictions, and in order to honor them, we have prepared a separate table for you in the adjoining room, a seemingly obsequious Russian finally said.

Bezar, visibly elated that his gastronomic needs occupied a special niche in the Russian scheme of things, momentarily came to attention, saluted in thanks, and followed along. Soon he found himself in a room of more intimate proportions, subtly lit, a den that could have sprung from the tales of the Arabian Nights. Its walls were covered with an intricate mosaic, and on the floor lay a thick, vintage Persian carpet. Cushions were layered lavishly all about. In the center of the room was a sheet the Pakistanis call a dastarkhwan, covered with elaborately painted dishes, each one filled with delicacies. Glowing coals and the smell of fresh tobacco betrayed the readiness of a hookah, propped thoughtfully next to one oversized cushion. Presiding over the repast was a strikingly tall and attractive woman. Her blonde hair and fair complexion struck a harsh contrast with the room’s Eastern flavor—harsh but fascinating.

It seems I’m left to introduce myself, the woman finally said. My name is Manushka Kirinsky. I am a cultural attaché at the embassy, and your hostess. I have heard a great deal about you—all flattering—and I am honored to meet you. Her speech had a ring of sincerity that is missing from most introductions of that sort.

Not more than I. I’m very pleased to meet you, madam, Bezar responded, summoning all the formality he could muster.

What can I offer you, sir? There is a variety of fresh fruit juices and soft drinks. In addition, we have samosas and shami kebabs prepared from halal meat by our Muslim cook.

Actually, I would love some of your world-famous Russian vodka and caviar.

Oh, certainly. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that you were such a connoisseur of Russian delicacies. We assumed that you were an orthodox Muslim. Certainly the media give that impression. Her openness did not seem forward to him, but instead refreshingly honest.

That image is for public consumption. At heart, Bezar is an epicure with a taste for all the good things life has to offer, he said expansively, looking toward her.

It seems all of my preparations have been made in vain. Shall we join the others?

I hate to think that I have spoiled all of your special efforts. While I may prefer the food in the other room, I do enjoy this setting. Would it be too much trouble to have a tray brought in?

Certainly not. The party does seem a little too boisterous tonight. I’ll make the arrangements right away. Then, in a provocative, joking tone, she purred, Of course, your wish is my command.

As she turned to leave the room, he replied, If such is the case in the truest sense of the word, I’m the luckiest man alive. She answered with a small smile and a nod.

Returning moments later with a tray, she served vodka and caviar to the General and amused him with clever conversation. He had nearly forgotten the rest of the guests until she mentioned that perhaps he should rejoin the others. Please feel free to consider this room your personal refuge for the rest of the evening. I’ll keep it well stocked. I know these affairs can be very tiresome.

Bezar, recognizing his duty, marched out of the room. His reentry was barely noticed, for the tempo of the party had picked up and a Cossack dance was in progress. People clapped and cheered as the dancers, in their traditional costumes, whirled and stamped, faster and faster. Loud, appreciative applause broke out as one dancer reached the climax of his performance. His place was immediately taken up by another, and yet another.

Pretending to enjoy the dancing, Bezar roamed the periphery of the circle which had formed around the performers. He made certain to cast an appreciative glance toward the ambassador and his wife, and exchange pleasantries with several others. After a brief period, he returned to his sanctuary. Manushka, noting how quickly the room had fetched him back, smiled inwardly while maintaining a serious exterior. I hope the General enjoyed himself, she said.

No, I must admit I did not. I dislike crowds and noise.

Then commanding all those troops must be a very strenuous chore for you.

It’s not the same at all. Troops don’t talk to you, you talk to them. Besides, they can be dismissed at will.

The prerogative of a general! Come, sit and relax, sir. Like a trained pet, he jumped at the invitation and sat down next to her. He spread his body across the pillow, leaving no space between them. I would not have expected you to be such a romantic, Manushka commented coyly, but this evening has been full of surprises.

The world does not suspect that behind this uniform bides a loving and feeling heart. Simply put, I came, I saw, and I was definitely conquered.

One great general paraphrases another, how witty! Then, changing her tone, Manushka added, Oh, I’ve been cooped up in this building for days. I’d love to go for a walk in the garden. The night has cooled quite a bit. Would you consider being my escort?

They strolled into a small garden. The night was very dark, but she knew the route of the circuitous but neatly kept pathways. Ultimately, the two came to a small bench, covered on three sides and above by a trellis of flowers. A breeze was gently blowing, carrying with it the mixed fragrance of a myriad of semi-tropical flowers. Taking a seat, she sighed. This is much nicer. I was beginning to feel absolutely claustrophobic.

As a Persian poet once said, ‘If there is a Paradise on earth, it is here.’

I agree, General. I believe paradise is a state of mind.

Then perhaps you can imagine that I am a dashing, young officer—an appropriate companion for one so young and beautiful.

Manushka laughed. Young men bore me. So uncouth, so insensitive.

The General began to swell. With a proud voice he declared, "Even as a young man, I was never that way. That’s the reason, I suppose, I was in such demand by families who had daughters. But my mother preferred to arrange my marriage with her sister’s daughter. We had grown up in the same household and had been friends, but I am sad to say we failed miserably as husband and wife."

Feigning interest in this domestic information, she inquired, And you didn’t divorce?

It just isn’t done in our culture. The hand of God finally relieved us from the misery. She died of cancer five years ago.

I am sorry to have triggered those unhappy memories. I was only meaning to say that I prefer older men. And you, my dear General, are irresistible.

The last words had barely found their way out of her mouth when Bezar’s arms reached out, groping for her body. He pulled her brusquely toward him and kissed her unceremoniously. So much passion in you! I am overwhelmed and flattered, she exclaimed, extricating herself from his grasp and rising from the bench.

Well, you have made a great impression on me, my dear.

I hope so. I flatter myself to think so. We have only just met, and already I feel so intimate. However, we know so little about each other.

Well, of course, I want to get to know you, everything about you. Begin with your childhood. Yes, that’s the best place to start, he said, patting the bench in invitation.

Manushka noted the invitation but remained standing, and began her discourse with her body half turned away from the General. Well, my life didn’t have the best of beginnings—in fact, it was a miserable existence. My father was an alcoholic, though he managed to keep a regular job in a KGB office, maintaining surveillance files on members of the Jewish underground. He beat my mother at the slightest provocation. One wintry night he was found frozen to death on a bench in Gorky Park, still clutching his bottle. We felt nothing but relief. My mother rose to the challenge and raised me and my sisters single-handedly. I went on to the University, where I did well and was selected for foreign service.

How is it that you came to Pakistan?

During my studies of international relations, I found the courses dealing with Pakistan particularly fascinating. How a proud Mohammed Ali Jinnah had won a nation for his people to escape Hindu domination. I studied Urdu and achieved the proficiency of a native, she explained. She continued speaking, but now in Urdu to prove her point. My being sent to this embassy as a cultural attaché was a natural outcome of my education.

And you have never married? he asked, slipping comfortably into his native language.

Manushka, brushing her small, pert nose and rubbing for just a moment her deep-set eyes, looked at the man whose gaze molested her body. Yes, I was married. Like yours, it turned out to be a bad match. I am now divorced and have a four year-old son.

Despite our differences, it seems we share some experiences as well, Manushka. I hope I can be frank with you. In dealing with some women, I am very clumsy. I never learned to pursue.

You don’t have to pursue me, General. I am already conquered territory, she laughed softly.

Taking this as a cue, the General grabbed her arm and pulled her down on the bench. Forcing her backwards, he began awkwardly to fondle her. With surprising strength, she pushed him away. "I