the EasySave board, but when he asked where they stood, he was referring to another matter. And Majid was quick on the uptake.
“I’ve got everything securely locked in my safe,” he said. “All the documents are ready and in order. We’re just waiting for Sajida and her mother.”
“When are they arriving? My memory is failing me.” Mullah Burki’s forefinger scratched his long grey beard, the light of the floor lamp glinting on his spectacles.
“In a week’s time, next Wednesday. I’ll meet them at the airport personally.”
“And the money, has it been transferred?”
“It has, just like every month.”
“How much is there at the moment?”
“The trust owns a hundred and sixty bakeries across the whole of Pakistan, from Karachi in the south to Mingora in the north, from Quetta in the west to Lahore in the east. In Islamabad and Peshawar our new corn mills are in production. Three hundred new Singer sewing machines have been bought for our clothing factories in Jacobabad and Faisalabad and Gujranwala. In Darra Adam Khel the new madrasa has opened its doors, in Makin the damage to the mosque has been repaired, in –”
“Yes, yes,” said Mullah Burki, unhooking the wire earpieces of his spectacles from behind his ears and rubbing his eyes.
Majid noted the impatience in the soft voice. He knew where the conversation was heading, but he took his time. His uncle did not want to be burdened with detail, had no interest in the micromanagement of their South African grocery empire. He wanted the bigger picture, the panoramic view. Specifically, what the mullah was interested in was their humanitarian aid in Pakistan, especially in Kanigoram, place of the Burkis. Mullah Burki wanted to know about their tribe and their family, the brothers and uncles who had stayed behind, and their wives and children, Majid’s cousins, and everyone who had died when Hakimullah’s Taliban and Yuldashev’s Uzbeks had taken shelter there, attracting bombs and death to that beautiful, fertile valley. The Pakistani armed forces, prompted by the Americans, had come looking for them and when the Pakistani soldiers were reluctant to act, the CIA had sent in their unmanned robot planes.
“Is the money there? For Reema, my brother Hassan’s widow?”
“The money is there. I was notified by the trust,” said Majid.
“And for the other widows and children whose husbands and fathers died at the cemetery?”
“They’re being compensated,” said Majid.
Mullah Burki had established the trust in Pakistan and registered it as a welfare organisation providing humanitarian aid to Muslim fugitives, also to wounded mujahideen, to the widows and orphans of Muslim martyrs, to the next of kin of Muslim prisoners held illegally in Western prisons, and for rebuilding schools, hospitals and mosques destroyed by the Western occupiers in their worldwide efforts to force Muslims into submission.
“Have you heard any further details of the attack?” asked Mullah Burki. “The reasons?”
Majid nodded. “We got reports that they were looking for Nasir Raza.”
“Help yourself to tea.” His uncle waved his hand in the direction of the tray. Majid took a cup. He sipped and peered at his uncle over the rim.
“Is Nasir back then?” asked the mullah. “I thought he left with the Uzbeks.”
“That’s what they say: no one has seen him. The Americans thought they were back, Nasir and the Uzbeks, and sent the drone.”
Mullah Burki took a sip of his tea. “Nasir is an example to others; we mustn’t forget him. His name and exploits are becoming known. He’s an example to other young men and women.”
“They’ve been looking for him since the Camp Chapman incident.”
“At Khost, was it?” asked the mullah.
Majid knew that the mullah was familiar with that incident. The courageous fedayeen Humam al-Balawi had sent seven CIA killers to hell with explosives tied around his waist when he was allowed into their base without being searched. The Americans were so gullible, they’d believed Humam was their agent.
“It’s from Chapman that the CIA directs their drone strikes to our tribal areas,” said Majid.
The arrogant Americans had never had an inkling that Humam was a double agent, but his martyrdom had shown where his deepest loyalty lay. Nasir Raza had been part of the planning and of the martyrdom video recording, the wasiyyah, during which Humam had declared to the world why he was sacrificing his life to avenge the blood of their people.
Mullah Burki had arranged for Sajida and her mother to recuperate with their relatives in Johannesburg after the shock and trauma they had suffered. But when her mother returned to her family in Kanigoram, Sajida would stay behind; here in the mullah’s house her room had already been prepared. And her documents – a South African ID and passport – were ready in Majid’s safe. They had big plans for her.
His uncle pushed his spectacles up his nose. “What about the official who issued her documents?”
“It’s been taken care of.”
Majid thought of Mr Heilbron of Home Affairs, with his swanky car and expensive shoes. He had demanded eighty thousand rand for Sajida’s illegal South African documents. A delicate procedure, he’d called it, because he would have to arrange for a birth certificate as well; it wasn’t just a case of pressing a button here and there.
“No tracks leading back to us?” asked the mullah.
“None,” Majid assured him.
The mullah didn’t ask any more questions, just sat for a long time with his head bowed, musing.
“I wish I could go myself,” said Majid. “To meet Sajida in Islamabad and bring her here.”
His uncle nodded. “I know. We all want to go. Our relatives need us at this difficult time. Everyone is nervous; stress levels are still high after that business in Abottabad. The emotions won’t be assuaged any time soon. But it’s the best we can do at the moment. We’ll send money, as usual, to help our people over there, and we’ll get Sajida out. Then we’ll hit them where it hurts, in retaliation for the death of my brother and his two sons.”
“With the greatest global publicity for our Cause since 9/11.”
“That’s right. And we have time. Step by step, no hurry. What’s the next move?”
“The Home Affairs official,” said Majid.
The mullah nodded and looked satisfied. And the conversation turned to their shops and the expansion Majid was planning: a new EasySave store in Chatsworth, Durban, and one in Mitchells Plain near Cape Town. And additions to their flagship superstore in Moroka, Soweto, which housed Majid’s office and those of the administrative staff. They needed more storage space, more fork-lifts and operators, a second cold store for perishables, especially frozen chicken, which they imported: two thousand five hundred boxes per container, with a shelf life of a hundred and twenty days.
They would also have to recruit
