Bloodmoney (11 page)

“But I don’t know the details.”

“Precisely,” said Perkins. “You have grasped the point entirely. You don’t know the details, so can’t give me unnecessary advice. I have to get off the phone now so I can go home and meet one of the ‘tidy-uppers.’ You make your call, highest level, please, and deliver the appropriate, oblique warning. Then we’ll see about getting together. Want to go grouse shooting? I’ll be going up to my place in Scotland in August. Let’s do that.”

Perkins hung up without waiting for a response. He had a few more tasks to take care of, in the part of his computer system that housed the trading records. By then it was past nine a.m., and people were beginning to arrive at the office. Perkins turned off all his electronic systems, triple-locked his door behind him and kissed his secretary on the way out.

He strolled back to Ennismore Gardens at a leisurely pace. He felt easier now that he had done the housekeeping. Back at home, the representative from “Mr. Jones” was waiting in the drawing room, perched on the edge of the couch and looking most uncomfortable. Perkins apologized that he had been out taking his morning “power walk” around the Serpentine, a ritual that couldn’t be interrupted, rain or shine.

The visitor introduced himself as Rupert Ogilvy. He was a mousy-looking man, thin as a string and overmatched by his pin-striped suit. He looked like a bank clerk, which wasn’t far off. He was an administrative officer at a small support base Gertz maintained out near Heathrow. The young man proffered a business card, which Perkins didn’t bother to read because it was surely a phony.

“I have a draft statement that you might want to consider,” said young Ogilvy. He removed a piece of paper from his valise and handed it over.

The page had no letterhead or other markings. It was just two paragraphs, stating the simple and undeniable facts: An employee of Alphabet Capital named Howard Egan had disappeared while on a business trip to Pakistan to meet with clients of the firm. Alphabet Capital was requesting help from the U.S. and Pakistani governments in finding Mr. Egan and arranging his safe return.

Perkins read the document carefully and made several corrections in the margins. Then he put it in his pocket.

“Please let us know if you are making any changes,” urged Ogilvy.

Perkins laughed. The young man was sweating, even in the cool of the morning. He obviously wasn’t happy at the thought that one of his colleagues had disappeared.

“Don’t worry,” Perkins said, “and don’t tell me what to do. I’ve had enough of that from your colleagues already.”

QUETTA, PAKISTAN

When Lieutenant General Mohammed
Malik was a student in America long ago, one of his military science professors had admonished the class, knowingly, with that old chestnut: “If you sup with the devil, you must use a long spoon.” How right that had seemed to everyone. But they were in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. That was the land of the guileless, eternal smile. What did they know of the devil? In the unlikely event that they ever encountered the devil, they wouldn’t have supped with him, anyway, long spoon or short. They would have dropped a bomb on him.

General Malik realized when he returned home after his stint at the War College that he did not have the luxury of his American friends. The devil lived in Pakistan. It was necessary to sup with him on a daily basis simply to survive, sometimes without any utensils at all, grabbing it up with your hands.

The devil that concerned General Malik at the moment was the group of operatives that had kidnapped the American traveler, Howard Egan. Yes, he knew who they were. The Americans might not like it, but that was his job. The group in this case was called Al-Tawhid, which means “divine unity,” or, to use the more common term, “monotheism.” The general would have denied to his last breath that he or his service had any contact with these miscreants. But of course that was not true. They were well known to the ISI, and indeed had been used on occasion to do ISI business over the last few years. That was what intelligence services did. And then, if anyone criticized the contact, they lied about it. Only the Americans tried to pretend that the intelligence business was any different.

The best place to sup with these particular devils was their birthplace and home of Quetta, the capital of Baluchistan on the country’s western border. General Malik knew the city well, for he had studied at the Army Staff College there as a young officer, and had returned as “chief instructor,” as the deputy commander’s position was known, before moving to the ISI.

The general flew to Quetta from Rawalpindi, this time in a lumbering Pakistani Air Force C-130. The plane was not like the gray American versions; it was painted in the colors of the desert, tan and brown, so that it was almost an airborne version of the trucks that plied the Grand Trunk Road. The general sat up top, in a comfortable seat just behind the air crew, not down below with the ordinary soldiers in their web seats slung from metal poles. Three-star generals were not soldiers anymore; they were demigods.

The plane landed at the military air base just north of the Quetta city center. As he stepped out of the C-130, General Malik saw again the austere, arid beauty of the place. The city was like the floor of a rock-hewn amphitheater, a dusty plain surrounded on all sides by reddish gray peaks. Back when he was a student, the young officers at the Staff College had names for these rocky citadels: “Takatu,” to the north; “Chiltan,” to the southwest; and nearest, to the southeast, the low, graceful cliff whose form they called, in English, “Sleeping Beauty.”

General Malik went first to the Staff College. He called on the commander, who was an old friend, and paid a visit to the Officers’ Mess, a prim brown stone building banked by cedars. But this visit was really a bit of subterfuge. While there, as was his habit on these trips, he changed into civilian clothes and took a new vehicle; not the army staff car in which he had arrived, but a dirty Hyundai, pitted by the road, in which he would travel to his appointment.

The general headed off again, now in mufti. His frail car passed through the city center, past the knot of people gathered at the four-pillared front of the railway station, and then north toward the red rocks that framed the northern approach to the city. The driver turned off the main road, into a neighborhood that was largely Afghan refugees. For the Quetta police, this was no-man’s-land. But for the director general of the ISI, there was no such thing as a forbidden zone. The car zigged and zagged down several byways until it came to a rough-hewn mosque and next to it a walled compound shielding a rambling two-story villa.

General Malik called a number on his cell phone and spoke to an ISI case officer inside the villa, to advise that he had arrived. A metal gate swung open and the Hyundai turned into the compound and parked, while the gate was quickly closed and relocked. The general walked toward the villa, its rough concrete blocks topped by the rust-red protruding rods of the steel reinforcing bars.

The young ISI officer met the visitor at the threshold of the villa. He was dressed in the garb of Pashtun tribesmen: a turban around his head, a long vest, loose trousers billowing in the breeze. The general entered the building and was escorted into the salon. It was curtained against the midday sun, but in the low light the prize was visible: Seated on the couch was a fierce-looking young man, a warrior prince, he seemed, with a grizzly black beard and long hair under a white turban.

“Commander Hassan,” said the general, extending his hand. The young man took the general’s hand in both of his. There were no kisses on the cheeks; these were men who, but for the ritual hospitality of the meeting, might shoot each other.

The others retreated from the room, including the ISI case officer who had arranged the meeting, and even the young commander’s bodyguards, who were present with him always and everywhere. There remained just the distinguished Pakistani general, his mustache finely trimmed as always, and the fearsome tribal warrior.

“It is a pleasure to see you again,” said the general. “You have been busy. We hear about you. But we do not see you.”

The young fighter responded with appropriate reticence, by quoting a Pashtun saying. “
Da khali daig ghag lor de,”
he said, which means, “An empty vessel makes much noise.” This vessel, real and full, was silent.

General Malik answered in his own ritual phrases, proverbs rather than declarative sentences. To have done otherwise would have seemed barbaric.

“You are a
mojahid,
Commander Hassan. It is said that cowards cause harm to brave men, but clearly there are no cowards among you. It is said that fear and shame are father and son, but you do not know these emotions. You are from another family, I can see that.”

The young fighter bowed his head at the compliments and offered thanks to God for his success.

“Now I must ask you a question, Hassan. For that is part of why we talk, you and I, so that I can ask and you can tell.”

“Yes,
badshah
, I understand.” He paused then, and unwound his turban slowly, so that his long hair was free. It was rich and lustrous, even in the heat of the house. He swept it back from his face. He was a young lion, this one.

Hassan spoke another Pashtun phrase:
“Wrori ba kawu hesab tar menza.”
This one was unfamiliar to the general, so he asked what it meant. The young man translated into Urdu: “We will behave like brothers, but we shall know what is yours and what is mine.”

“So then I will ask: How is the American man, the one who disappeared in Karachi?”

“He is dead, General. He died several days ago.”

“Did he die badly?”

“Yes, General. He would not talk at first, so we had to use methods. Then it becomes hard. It must end.”

The general nodded. He had used torture himself, but he did not like it. He turned back to Commander Hassan.

“What did you learn from the American? I think he had many secrets, this one. Perhaps you can tell me.”

“Ah,
badshah
, we have our secrets, too. We cannot tell you everything. You are our enemy, sir, when you are not our friend. But I will tell you a little.”

The general put his hand on his heart. It was a dignified way to say that he was grateful.

“The American worked for the CIA. You know that. But it was a part of the CIA that was not the CIA. It was something new and evil. A new way to spread lies.”

“What was he doing here?” The general thought he knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it, just the same.

“He came with money, to give to a traitor from the Darwesh Khel: a soft Pashtun man, not a fighter. The American was going to bring him more money, and more money, until he had bought up as many of our people as were for sale. That was his mission. They know they are losing, you see. They want the war to be over, so they hope to buy peace. It is always this way with the
gora.
” They run up the hill, but they do not know how to get down.”

The general nodded. He waited for the young man to say more about Azim Khan, but he didn’t. Instead, he spat into a bowl beside his chair.

“Did the American confess how his organization operates?” asked the general.

“Yes, as much as he understood. It hides inside of businesses. It has a big headquarters. He said before he died that it was in Los Angeles, but how can we check? He pretended to work for a finance company in London. They sent him on his travels, as if he were one of them.”

“And will Al-Tawhid pursue other members of this CIA that is not a CIA?”

“Forever. We are not finished with the Americans, or with the Pakistanis who have been so misguided that they chose to help the Americans.”

The general didn’t take the bait. He nodded again, and then spoke more softly, so that the young warrior had to lean toward him to hear.

“I have one more question about this incident, Commander. Then we can talk of our other affairs. And my question is this: How did you know that the American was here in Pakistan? How did you know that he was working for this CIA that is not the CIA? That is a very big secret. How did you discover it?”

“This, sir, I cannot tell you.”

“Why is that, Brother Hassan? Is it because you do not trust me? For I tell you, this is the most important thing, what I have asked. I want you to answer me.”

“It is true that I do not trust you,
badshah
. But that is not the reason I will not tell you.”

“Why, then? When I have humbled myself and told you that I want this information especially, only for you to shame me in this way?”

“Because I do not know the answer. We have a friend who gives us this information. He is our teacher and guide. But how he obtains it, I do not know. Nor do I know his identity. We never see or hear him. We received an electronic message about the American in Karachi. We did not ask more questions. As we say in our Pashto language,
Chi na kar, pa hagha the sa kar.
When it is not your business, stay away.”

“Why does this mysterious guide help you, Commander Hassan?”

“I cannot say, General. Why does the scorpion sting when he is disturbed, or the wolf devour his prey? He has a reason, this man, but I do not know what it is. He is our ghost.”

General Malik reflected a moment. He sensed from the man’s demeanor that he was being truthful. The commander did not know this secret of how the American’s deep-cover identity had been cracked, but perhaps he could find out. And if not him, perhaps it could be discovered by one of the ISI’s other contacts in the brotherhood of Al-Tawhid.

“So what did you learn from this experience with the American, Commander Hassan? Not the little things that we have discussed, but the big thing?”

Hassan thought a moment. He ran his fingers through that long hair once more, and then spoke in his Pashto tongue.

“
Da maar bachai maar wee.
This is what I know: The baby of a snake is also a snake. This new CIA is worse than the old one. Its money is more dangerous than its rockets. For that, General, you must beware.”