a veteran of the Soviet-Afghan war. On Feb.
11, Azhar and Afghani were driving back from
a meeting when their car ran out of gas. They
hailed an auto-rickshaw to get to a gas station,
but the vehicle was intercepted at an army check-
point. Azhar and Afghani were sent to a prison in
Jammu whose inmates included several Pakistani
and Kashmiri militants.
In prison, Azhar’s preaching quickly gained
him a following. A visitor who came to see him
regularly was Avinash Mohananey, at the time a
senior offi cial in India’s Intelligence Bureau. Last
year in New Delhi, I met with Mohananey, who
is now retired. He described Azhar as a pleasant
conversationalist who was always cooperative.
Once, after being slapped by an army offi cial
who had come to question him in prison, Azhar
complained to Mohananey in language that, at
least in Mohananey’s view, suggested a desire for
self-preservation at odds with Azhar’s promotion
of violent jihad. ‘‘Even my father has never slapped
me,’’ Mohananey recounted Azhar saying. When I
heard that, I wondered if it wasn’t more a refl ection
of wounded pride than an indication of cowardice.
Over the course of these conversations,
Mohananey said, Azhar shared details that
enabled Mohananey and his colleagues to learn
how terrorist outfi ts in Pakistan were operating.
The groups ran charity organizations that raised
money from businesses as well as individuals —
going door to door to ask people to donate hides
from animals sacrifi ced for the religious festival
of Eid, for instance, which were then auctioned.
Only a small fraction of the funds raised was used
for charity, he explained; a considerable part was
spent on recruiting jihadists. Whenever a militant
was killed by Indian security forces, Azhar told
Mohananey, the organization’s leaders would
visit the family of the deceased and honor his
memory in a public gathering.
One day, according to Mohananey, Azhar
showed up later than usual for an interview at the
prison. When Mohananey asked him about the
delay, Azhar said he’d been distributing amulets
to his followers in prison, who believed he had
endowed them with supernatural powers. ‘‘Do
you have those powers?’’ Mohananey asked, half
in jest. Azhar laughed.
In November 1994, Afghani and other inmates
at the Jammu prison attempted to win freedom
for themselves and for Azhar by digging an
escape tunnel. At one point, Azhar lowered him-
self into the hole in the cell fl oor to check out the
progress. He promptly got stuck, he later admit-
ted to prison offi cials. Before the tunnel could be
completed, the plot was discovered.
Azhar’s importance to the jihadists was made
clear to Indian authorities in July 1995, when six
Western tourists were kidnapped in Kashmir by
a terrorist group named Al Faran. In exchange
for the hostages, the group demanded the release
of Azhar and 21 other jailed militants. The gov-
ernment refused. One hostage escaped; the
beheaded body of another was found weeks later.
The others were never found.
In June 1999, Afghani and his fellow inmates
tried again to tunnel their way out; this bid, too,
was foiled by prison authorities. Afghani died in
the attempt, but Azhar’s freedom lay just a few
months ahead.DEVI SHARAN POSSESSES an air of almost
impenetrable calm, an asset when it comes to
a career as an airline pilot. On the afternoon of
Dec. 24, 1999, however, while captaining an Indi-
an Airlines fl ight (IC-814), from Kathmandu to
Delhi, Sharan was gripped by panic when a man
wearing a red ski mask barged into the cockpit.
In one hand, the man held a grenade; in the other,
a revolver. ‘‘Don’t make any moves,’’ the armed
man said, in Urdu, ‘‘or this aircraft gets blown up.’’
Sharan looked at the weapons, trying to dis-
cern if they were real or fake. As a student cadet
in high school, he had seen guns and grenades up
close. He was convinced that these were genuine.‘‘Fly west,’’ the man instructed.
The plane was then cruising at 26,000 feet over
Lucknow, in northern India. A second person,
also wearing a ski mask, entered the cockpit. He
saluted the fi rst intruder, calling him ‘‘Chief.’’
‘‘How much fuel do you have?’’ Chief asked.
‘‘Let me read it on the instrument panel,’’ Sha-
ran replied.
‘‘You can read it on the fl ight-engineer panel,
too,’’ the other man said. His use of the term
‘‘fl ight-engineer panel’’ suggested that the hijack-
ers knew some aviation basics, Sharan realized,
which meant it would be diffi cult to trick them.
‘‘We have enough fuel to reach Delhi,’’ Sharan
said.
‘‘What’s your alternate?’’ the second hijacker
asked.
‘‘Bombay,’’ Sharan said. Surely, then, the plane
could fl y to Lahore, Pakistan, the chief hijacker
argued — after all, it was closer.
Sharan insisted that it couldn’t. ‘‘The fi rst
thing on my mind was to not leave Indian44 3.22.20 Illustration by Karolis Strautniekas