The Mist Stage One: The Prelude

By Nagwa Malik

Today’s world is a world of conspiracies—too many of them. But what if, fantastically, many of them actually dovetail to form a fine spidery web of truth? What if ancient myths are not myths anymore- what if they never were? What if politics was always an embodiment of those very myths?
It certainly seems so as Tanya, the Pakistani spy, is commissioned to find and disclose the truth behind the war of terror- trails leading her to the West, and then back again to Pakistan to effect a closure only to find that in order to achieve true closure one has to travel again, not countries this time, but centuries...
"The Mist" is a spy novel, dealing with today’s conspiracies, mostly political, and regarding intelligence agencies. Tanya is a Pakistani black ops agent also called a "Knight", belonging to a secret intelligence agency that officially doesn’t exist. This intelligence agency, called "The Mist", is independent of and with the power to investigate the governing body, including the President, as well as the other intelligence agencies working under the government or the army.

Being a non-existent agency, it also has a global immunity.

The job of Tanya is to penetrate all groups that show signs of terrorist activities, especially the registered groups, in order to find out who exactly runs them, whether they are genuine militants or fronts for particular governments.
She is on a two-fold mission: to expose the truth behind war and to steer Pakistan clear of the war.

"The Mist" (The Prelude) is the first of a two-part series where we follow our lovely spy, Tanya into a world of intrigue, exploring different cultures amazingly linked, discovering the colours and flavours of various societies within societies, historical legends- and basic human nature- in her quest for the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nagwa Malik
• Release date: Nov 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311518484

Nagwa Malik

Nagwa has been telling stories for as long as she remembers. At bedtime, the two sisters would have a tradition of making up or adding to the adventures of the ladybird series “Peter and Jane”, which then led to creating and telling original stories. It was only natural, perhaps, that she would graduate into writing stories later on.Nagwa Malik, born in Gumel, Nigeria and having spent her childhood between the UK and Nigeria, shifted to Pakistan her home country, still a young child where she is now a Language and Communication Skills Instructor, working mainly with professionals. Before that she used to teach French and Script-writing at reputed Schools and Universities. She is a double Masters' degree holder (French and Script-writing respectively) having obtained the second Master’s degree from City University, London with honours. Her Master’s in French was obtained from the University of the Punjab in which she passed as a position holder aged 20.Nagwa has been writing since she was 11 and published her first novel at the age of 15 which was a success. She has written a total of 40 plus novels but has been focused-until now- on her studies and later her career as a writer/producer and teacher putting her publications on hold. Apart from that she has written articles for Newspapers like The News International.Now that the sober account of her has been done with, a little bit about the person: Nagwa considers life to be lived as a traveller and is an ambivert who loves nature, animals, travelling, languages (she has a flair for grasping new languages very quickly) and, last but not least, her solitude. When she is not writing, she rejuvenates herself by watching her favourite K, J, C and Thai dramas...Korean being her favourite as they were what "brought back the spark" in her life, especially creative.To read her interview on Express Tribune please check this ink:http://tribune.com.pk/story/622538/opportune-storytelling-of-fact-fiction-and-fable/Also on mercedesfox:https://mercedesfoxbooks.com/meet-author-nagwa-malik/And;http://bernetahaynes.com/1/post/2016/03/author-interview-nagwa-malik.htmlhttp://mybookplace.net/nagwa-malik/https://thisiswriting.com/author-interviews-nagwa-malik-and-the-mist/Paperbacks can be ordered from Amazon, Createspace and Barnes and Noble.

Book preview

THE MIST

Stage One: The Prelude/ the cumulative effect

By Nagwa Malik

The Mist political spy thriller

Smashwords Edition

Written by Nagwa Malik:

2010

Copyright 2013 Nagwa

Malik

Edited by Fatima Hassan

Cover art by NM

This book is available

in print at most online retailers

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

The characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance whatsoever is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Prologue

About The Mist Series

About Nagwa Malik

Connect with Nagwa Malik

The ex-director of the ISI has formed a covert operation of extreme secrecy that no one knows of its existence. It is known as ‘The White Mist’ or simply ‘The Mist.’

I would like my readers to know that although all information in this book are facts and based on facts, it is essentially a work of fiction, including the naming of such an organisation as THE MIST. It being a work of fiction, I have taken the liberty to use my artistic license to change little aspects of the information, such as certain names and the placement or time of the given facts. I hope you will sit back and just enjoy the whole story as a source of entertainment.

LONDON– residential area near Hyde Park/Pakistan Embassy

Lights bobbed up and down and still cars seemed to rush by in a blur in the dark night, with semi-lit streets, as Tanya ran for her life on the road. Running did not stop her from noting the doors up the stairs, the black grills adorning the very short walls with the garbage cans sitting on the footpaths, their rancid smells wafting through the air, assaulting her overwrought senses. On the opposite side, to her right was the iron grill, bordering the big park. She sped on, past the cars, still on the road. Suddenly she shifted to cross the road, running by the border of the park. She did not look behind, but heard the footsteps and calculated their speed as opposed to hers. The footsteps were faint, but resuming volume. She made a mad dash to the immediate right, staying with the park’s lining, until she reached a bus stop. She quickly noted the chart which showed the buses, their routes. Scanning it hurriedly, she ignored the chart as the first bus came. She skipped into the queue and neatly stumbled into the bus.

Footsteps hurried and closed in. The owner of the black boots was also clad in black. His face could not be seen until he walked directly under the light. His hair was dark, his skin light. He was European, maybe English. His eyes were light. He seemed lean, but his neck was rather thick like an ex-athlete’s.

Tanya dropped off as the bus stopped and began to cross the road. She made her way towards the footpath and walked briskly towards the street going straight in. There was another rather small park curving in with the street. She followed it, then crossed to the left side of the street. She kept on to the sidewalk although there was no real need. This was not a traffic lane. She finally reached the Pakistan Embassy. The guard there was having a fag. Normally there would be none, but due to recent events a guard was given the night shift only a few days ago. Seeing her, he quickly dropped his cigarette and looked at her, his eyes wide in surprise.

‘Let me in.’

‘Look here, miss, I don’t know—’

‘Look here, don’t you try that British accent with me. Mai aik Pakistani hoon aur mujhay abhi aur issi waqt andar jana hai. Yeh mera card.’

She shoved her card at his face. He first glared at her, but her shoving did the trick and he moved his head back instinctively to save himself then saw the card.

‘Maafi chahta hoon. Really. Aap please andar jaain.’

‘Tala khol do.’

He opened it quickly and moved to let her in.

‘Madam?’

Inside, she turned to face him. He pleaded and begged forgiveness.

‘Mujhay please maaf kar dijyay. Mujhay pata nahin tha. I swear.’

‘I know. Now close the door and quick.’

He complied and started to light another cigarette, his hand shaking. It wasn’t more than ten minutes later that the same man could be seen coming. He walked up the steps to the Embassy door when the guard placed a hand on his chest.

‘Hey, what you think you doing mate? This is the Pakistan Embassy. And it’s closed.’

‘Let me in.’

The guard smiled at him, puffing out smoke at his face.

‘Perhaps you didn’t hear me first time, mate. Closed,’ he repeated slowly and clearly, as if talking to the mentally retarded. ‘The embassy is closed. If you try to enter in you are aware of the number of laws you’ll be breaking? Now go. Come tomorrow. I’m sure you can wait till 9:00am? Yeah?’

The man tried to push him, but the guard quickly held his wrist tightly, mid-air.

‘No mate. Don’t try it. The police will be coming in three minutes.’ The guard made to check his watch, worn on the left hand.

The man glared at him. He calculated the risks, as he watched the guard stare at him nonchalantly. What were the odds the guard wasn’t telling the truth? But then the woman had gone inside, he was sure of that and it maybe that she would call somebody, even if not the police. He jerked his arm off the guard’s, and then, giving one last glare, he turned slowly round, down the steps and walked away. He looked up at the windows, which were as dark as sin. Nothing. He did not note Tanya standing there, watching him go. She sighed and left the window to sit down. The embassy was empty, but the ambassador had given her the use of his office, anytime. He knew he had to anyway.

Watching him leave, the guard took another puff, scoffing.

‘These goray bandars! No education.’

Tanya sniffed around the office delicately, then more noticeably as she checked around, underneath the table, by the chair. She opened the draws. She looked behind the shelves, and removed some of the books, placing them back. She looked at the wooden table that was covered on the surface by a green blaze sheet, glued down just short of the edges. She sat down on the chair and closed her eyes.

‘Concentrate,’ she thought to herself. ‘Concentrate and find out the smell, the source of the smell.’

She leaned back on to the big leather chair and inhaled deeply. In her mind she could see the whole office, as if in air view, and then her view concentrated on to the desk. She opened her eyes as if from a bad dream and jumped up from the chair. She took a push knife from her pocket, and pried the green blaze off the table. It came off with some difficulty but once it gave way around the edge, she pulled it further up from the corner. The table was hollow on the inside. How could this be? Then she noticed the green cloth carefully and saw that it was recently gummed. She noticed that the hollow compartment was small and wondered how was it that no one realised it? Of course! The ambassador was out of the country, on an important meeting. She had barely seconds to register the whole scenario. Sitting in the compartment was a chemical bomb. A small warfare device sitting there, so quiet, releasing the gas. A low hiss began to sound. She quickly jumped to the window, crashing the glass as she went through.

BOOM!

The guard was startled as he shook with the little tremor that rocked the earth around him as if a minor earthquake had taken place. The deafening sound, though, stunned him. He dashed off the stairs running for his life, when he suddenly stood still at the bottom, on the road, and looked up at the window. Flames were shooting from within the ambassador’s office. He noticed the broken window, the shards of glass on the street, but when he looked down, he saw no one. Where was the body that crashed through? Where was the lady? He dialled the emergency number, and then dialled the secretary’s home number from his cell.

‘Hello, sir, aik bomb blast huwa hai. Ji. Ambassador Sahib kay office may. Yes, sir, I called the police.’

Tanya was at the corner, looking at the guard make the phone calls. She breathed inwardly and then slunk through the shadows, keeping to the sidewalk all the while.

*

It wasn’t long before she reached her apartment. She closed the door behind her and moved silently, slowly, taking in the scent of the atmosphere. She sensed that it was safe, that nobody had been here yet. So, her place of abode was still unknown. That English man of a European descent was definitely going to report to his boss, and soon more would come once they figured out who she was. They, she knew, were black ops, working for the CIA or perhaps the NSA. Either way, she had to be careful. Removing her coat, she went to the bathroom. Soon the shower could be heard beating down hard. A short while later she returned to the kitchen-cum-dining room dressed in a casual shalwar kameez, a towel rolled up on her head, and opened her laptop which sat on the table. She put aside the mobile she was holding next to the laptop. Waiting for it to load, she set the electric kettle in its cradle, refilled, after throwing away the stale water and rinsing it.

She went back to her table and clicked the short cut to the net, and a webpage opened. She typed in the required password, and then wrote a short line, in code. She pressed the submit button and waited as the page automatically closed down. Tanya got up and walked to the counter, took a mug from the wooden cup stand and opened the cabinet above her. She brought out the instant coffee jar. She proceeded to make coffee when her cell phone beeped. She put in the teaspoonful of coffee into her cup, and the sugar, leaving the spoon inside the cup. She then went to the table to see the message. It had a picture of the man who was pursuing her and confirmation of his name, DOB, residence and that he was black ops, NSA. She deleted the message as the water boiled and the click of the kettle shut it off. She looked up, determination written all over her face.

The next day, the police were removing the cordon off the embassy. The repairmen were working on the window, and the charred furniture was being carried out in a police van. The guard wasn’t there. He would not be seen for weeks to come. He was in fact part of the intelligence recruited by the FIA, and was now due back to give in his report. He was lower down in the food chain but knew his work well. His work here was done. Most probably another guard was likely to replace him. The matter had to be hushed now, thus the police removing the cordon off the crime scene. Now the investigations would begin in earnest.

It was night, and the Englishman was once again trailing Tanya. Tanya did not seem aware of it, as she walked casually through the closing shops and the neon signs starting to blaze with the opening pubs. She was clad in jeans, a light high-neck jersey and a long black coat. She walked through Oxford Circus, walked past the PhysioFit gym of Westminster University into Regent Street, turned right, past Piccadilly Circus and into the street that lead to China Town. Keeping a distance, the NSA agent followed her. He was wearing a black hoodie. He was sure he had his opportunity to grab. He wondered why she took such a long way to China Town. She could have gone straight from Piccadilly Circus, or turned from Soho. They were right in the middle of China Town. The NSA agent was still at the farther end of the lane when suddenly, at the other end of the lane she stopped as if to remove or fix her shoe. First she brought up her leg a little, touching her shoe then she stooped, as if tugging at something. He picked up pace, scanning the area. There were people, but very few. Most were oriental, mainly Chinese, and they seemed to be inside the restaurants that remained open at this hour. He checked the time. It was 8:00pm.

Tanya stood still, waiting, then looked to her right. She ducked in front of the restaurant hanging meat on its display window and a pig’s head with dressing and an apple in its mouth. She viewed its silent claims of enticement as suspect. She moved away from the window and stood still by the concrete pillar of the building. She counted under her breath. The NSA agent rushed, looking to where she might have gone. He had his back to her, and began to move, his expression that of anger and disappointment; an expression that did not seem to stay on his face for long. In fact, as soon as his expression formed, it changed to one of extreme surprise when a crack sounded as he gagged and fell over with a slight thud. Tanya stepped out of the shadows from behind him. She swiftly crouched to check the pulse on his broken neck, and then moved on first casually, then rapidly, not turning back once. She took the short cut to Tottenham Court Road’s underground exit, opposite McDonald’s just where Oxford Street ended, and hurried into the underground. Taking the central line, she stood by the door as it shut, amidst the crowd.

She was now back inside her flat and sent an encrypted text.

Somewhere in Islamabad, in a rather torn down, old building that really needed massive renovation, an older man with white hair and a moustache sitting in an office inside, which was mind-bogglingly well set, and well-equipped, filled with book shelves and papers all over, read the text. Somewhere else, in this same building, in a much smaller and dingy office, cramped with files, books and papers, a large table making the room seem smaller, somebody stamped on an open file, upon which was written ‘Mission White Mist, Blackwater’. In the other file was the picture of the European agent. A stamp went down on his picture, marking terminated.

Somewhere else, in London, in a well-furnished three bedroom flat in canary wharf, a man was sitting with reading glasses on, reading a newspaper. He was rather good looking, with a straight nose, and hair combed back, just reaching the nape of his neck. He looked like a banker, or an economic analyst. His girlfriend walked up to him, setting down breakfast. He looked up and smiled at her. Then his mobile beeped an incoming message. He picked up the mobile phone, watched his girlfriend walk into the kitchen and opened the text. A picture of Tanya, her name and residence. He deleted it and put the phone down.

In Fort Meade, Maryland, USA, the headquarters of NSA, Dave Watson looked at his associate and then asked him, ‘Are you sure?’

His associate, Terry Lewis, nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

Dave looked down at nowhere in particular as he tried to control the rage that was contorting his face.

‘I want her. Dead! You understand?’

‘Yes, sir. We’ve already put our asset on to her.’

‘And who’s giving her all these instructions? Find out. Now!’

‘I’ll find that out, sir. But all our data points to her as being of Pakistani origin.’

‘Contact the ISI. They will find her and pick her up for us if all fails. Put them as plan B. Have Commander Shafiq over on the phone.’

‘Right, sir.’

Dave looked at his associate hurrying out, and leaned back on his chair, his military bearing forbidding him to relax as he made to tighten his tie even more.

Tanya hooked her laptop up to its charger, switching it on from its sleep mode. She set the large coffee mug by her side as she scrolled down the page until she found the link at the end of the page. Upon opening it she found information on the Eastern Brotherhood. It was an organisation that worked endlessly on securing relationships between the east and the west. Its efforts had redoubled after the 9/11 attack. It had a list of people killed in that event, and she found many of them to be Muslims of Arab and Asian region. Her cell phone beeped. She shut down the page and looked at her cell. It read: The Botanical gardens, 11am.

The next morning, at 11:00am sharp Tanya was sitting in one of the sections, on the bench apparently engrossed in a book. The security personnel didn’t go unnoticed, dressed in a smart black suit, white shirt and black tie–but nothing to do with her, she was sure. She turned a page, and continued to read, just as she had noticed a man walk towards her without seeming to do so. He was a tall, lean man, with the perfect skin of white and pink which told her he must be Arab. He was clean shaven and his hair seemed uncombed as it stood on ends, tousled. His grey suit was not very expensive, but not cheap either, and his open coat and open shirt collar told anyone he was a careless dresser. A writer perhaps? Or a journalist? He carried a green bag, made of cloth. He seemed as if he was just lounging towards this part of the garden, and then suddenly, as he reached her side, flopped beside her. He got out a rather big sandwich from his bag wrapped in cellophane and unwrapped it, taking a rather big bite out of it. He chewed, taking his time, while he sought for something in his bag. It was a laptop bag in shape, made of a green coarse-looking cloth. He fished out a small bottle of Ribena and opened the lid, breaking the seal.

Tanya kept on reading. He took another bite, and laid down his bottle next to her. Suddenly he shifted and said,

‘Pardon me. I hope you don’t mind?’

She turned to look at him. He smiled and gestured at the bottle he’d placed. She smiled reservedly as she shook her head and turned to her book.

‘I say, I hope I am not disturbing you?’

‘I’m not sure now.’

She looked at him with half a scowl.

‘I do have rather a habit of that, don’t I?’

‘And how am I supposed to know?’

He put his hand towards her. ‘Ahmad.’

She nodded at him, still looking at him severely. He put his hand away, and smiled at her.

‘I say, I really don’t want to be a bother.’

‘Don’t you?’

He seemed embarrassed. He cleared his throat, and then opened his mouth. He cleared his throat again and then suddenly asked her, looking very sheepish, ‘Would you like to take a walk with me? I may not interest you now, but I’m not very good with words, not while sitting you can say. I am rather a restless soul. And these tropical plants exhaling all that humidity is rather uncomfortable for me, as a setting you know.’

She smiled at him. ‘Why did you come here then?’

‘Because I thought I saw a rare beauty, a certain flower, you know. Coming closer seemed a must then.’

She looked at him rather suspiciously but laughed outright.

‘I wouldn’t mind walking with you.’

He sighed as he got up, wrapped his sandwich, half eaten, back into its cellophane and put it inside his bag. He clasped the bottle and began to walk, as she stood up beside him, holding her book. They strolled towards the path in the centre, until they reached a place where they could go stand near the trees, where there was really no one around. But they walked there slowly, strolling.

‘I’m sorry for all the rubbish I poured out.’

‘That’s okay. You’re not very good with words, I understand.’

‘Can I give you my card, then? You wouldn’t mind if I asked you to look me up sometime?’ and he gave her his card. But it was a plastic card, which she put immediately into her book, where it stuck, due to the little sticky tape it had behind it.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Tell me a little more about yourself.’

They began walking again.

‘There isn’t much, I’m afraid. I work as a columnist in a magazine–not very known–usually picked up by the Arabic speaking population in London. Tells mostly of the details surrounding the Arab world, the economy, investments, properties for sale or rent, marriage columns, etc. etc. You know. The simple magazine that helps you keep in touch with your country, but not much really.’

‘I