Agency Rules - Never an Easy Day at the Office (39 page)

The General
’s analysis of US domestic policy didn’t impress the Ambassador. Instead, it got her a hot under the collar. A country and army with known ties to terrorist organizations was daring to lecture a global superpower on domestic policy? Before she could comment, however, the General decided to move on.

“What is the adage you Americans use?” he said, waving to the Chinese Ambassador across the room. “Oh yes, do as I say, not as I do, a wonderful example from the self-proclaimed leaders of the free world, Madam Ambassador. You
’ll need to excuse me, one of our long-term allies is motioning for me to join them,” he said, walking away.

The General left her standing there dumbfounded by the exchange. It wasn
’t a hidden fact that the army didn’t like the US officials. US foreign policy in Pakistan had long been a carrot and stick relationship where the stick was used more often than the carrot. This was outside the constant support of politicians whose corruption was immense, but because they were friendly to the US and it’s allies, they were deemed ‘good’ for Pakistan. In the years since the end of the Afghan conflict, the US had turned its back on Pakistan, leaving it to struggle with the refugees and new security risks due to their proxy war. During the conflict, the US had flooded billions of dollars into the insurgency for weapons, training and bribes. Once it was over, the fattened calf still existed but there was no longer anything to feed them. The same camps created by the CIA to train the insurgents were now called ‘terrorist’ camps and their existence blamed on the Pakistani intelligence services.

Pakistan hadn
’t been able to turn their backs as easily.

Lt. General Qadir was surrounded by Ambassadors from the UAE, Qatar and Bahrain on the other side of the room. The Lt. General had a long relationship with the militaries in these countries both as an officer and a soldier training and serving alongside their men. They had become better friends since his promotion to Director General of the ISI. During the conversation, he noticed an old friend signal him and move out of the hall, prompting Qadir to excuse himself and join him.

“Hello Mathias,” Qadir said, finding his friend in the hall. “How are things in Berlin?”

“They don
’t seem as good as they are in Islamabad these days,” Mathias replied in a thick German accent.

Mathias Berthold was a retired intelligence officer who had first cut his teeth with the Stasi in East Germany. When the reunification happened, he moved to the BND as a senior intelligence officer until he retired five years ago. The fifty-five year old soldier had moved from military intelligence to a private security firm that supported the German intelligence services. The two had meet during Misbah
’s tour of Bosnia as a UN peacekeeper. They had forged a quick friendship that had lasted through the years.

“Any trouble getting in?” Qadir asked.

“Not at all, but then if Pakistani intelligence can’t get me in, who can?” Mathias laughed again.

“I think the BND officers are wondering how you were able to get in here,” Qadir replied with a grin, tilting his head in the direction of the two men who were straining to see them. “What did you find out for me?”

Mathias craned his neck to see who was watching. “Shit, I trained one of them during my time at BND. I don’t recognize the others,” he said shaking his head. “This is for you. It’s all done as you asked,” Mathias handed him an envelope.

“This is all of it?” Qadir asked, tapping it against his hand. “
Were we right?”

“Dead on! Each account was in the name of shell companies, but we were able to trace them to the actual owners. It
’s all in there,” he said. “While I’d like to stay and watch what happens next, I don’t think it will serve my ongoing health interests.”

Qadir smiled and motioned to a military police officer standing near by. “I
’ll get you out of here.” He gave the MP instructions on how to get his friend out of the building, commenting to Mathias that he’d be in touch. He stood for a moment, watching to make sure that his friend was able to leave the building without harassment, before returning to the hall, slipping the envelope into his jacket pocket as he entered. The two BND officers moved towards him probably looking to question him about their former intelligence colleague’s presence, but Misbah waved them off. He moved through the crowd looking for General Ali.

Misbah spotted the General surrounded by a group of military officers. He was busy discussing the dynamics of the assault. Misbah stopped momentarily catching the General
’s eye. With an almost imperceptible nod, he continued moving into the crowd of people. Different diplomats and attaches stopped him on the way, offering their facilitations on the successful military campaign. He was cordial but largely uninterested in the conversations. He was focused on searching the hall for the people he needed to find before the reception was over. He knew that those same people, interested in what had transpired outside the hall with the shadowy visitor, were watching him.

When he saw him, he had to resist the urge to walk straight up to him. The evening was winding down and many of the diplomats and their attaches had left already. The remaining were minor players in the country
’s national affairs, each looking for a larger stake in the game. Among them were the French, who had been trying to land defense contracts through the political governments, but had been scuttled by the military. They were also closely associated with the CIA and MI6 as a go-between for negotiations with unfriendly states.

Misbah moved slowly through the remaining diplomats, keeping the DGSE officer in sight. Luc Benoit had been stationed in Pakistan for the past year and had a number of meetings with Misbah on counter-intelligence. Their relationship was friendly and professional, regularly sharing information about groups operating in France and Europe. He knew the best way to rattle the cages of the other organizations was by sharing the same information with the French.

“Bonjour Luc.
Comment alley-vous
?” Misbah said as he approached.

“
Bonjour Misbah,” he replied stepping forward to shake his hand. “What a tremendous achievement. Very good.”

“You know the business, Luc. Winning the small battles will win us the war,” he said with a smile.

“
Oui
, small battles are important, but you must win the war,” Luc replied, nodding his head. “Paris will be expecting a detailed report from me on the operation. Our war colleges will want to teach it to our up and coming officers,” he said trying to nudge Misbah for more details than had been shared already.

Misbah smiled sensing the opportunity to draw him into his game. “We… or rather,
I
could help you with that, but what would we get in return?”

“I am sure that we could find some way to assist Pakistani intelligence,” Luc said laughing.

“Actually Luc, there is something we would like to run through Paris,” he said reaching into his pocket to retrieve a folded piece of paper. “We found these at the terrorist camp. They look to be account numbers that seem to originate from French banks,” he paused as Luc read over the list of numbers. Over the years, Misbah had become a master of hiding any facial expressions or vocal pitch change that would give anything away. Luc could read nothing in the General’s face.

“These are not French banks, my friend,” Luc replied after a cursory review of the contents.

“Are you sure?” Misbah replied. “Odd, our techs said they were French,” he paused shaking his head. “But then, who will talk to Pakistani intelligence with all the corruption cases against our politicians? I’ll take that back then,” he said reaching to retrieve the page from Luc’s hands, only to have him pulled it away.

“Just a moment,” Luc said sensing the frustration in his voice, believing it to be an opportunity to leverage Pakistani intelligence for what Paris wanted. “But everyone talks to French intelligence,” he said laughing. “Let me have my people look into these numbers and see what we find. Maybe in return, you could give us a look behind the curtain. Yes?”

Misbah thought for a minute. He knew that the French would never pass the report back to him. They would leverage the information to get a better deal from the Americans and British. Everyone in the intelligence community knew the contempt that the DGSE had for the CIA and MI6 for their cowboy and private school attitudes, as well as their continued interference in internal French matters. They would make sure that both organizations knew where the information originated.

“You will need to keep our cooperation confidential. Some may not appreciate that we confided in the DGSE rather than the CIA or MI6,” Misbah said. Luc nodded his assent.

“
Oui, oui
. I’ll get back to you in a day or so,” Luc said as he slipped the paper into his pocket and went to join his diplomats who were preparing to leave.

Misbah swirled the whiskey in his hand as he watched Luc walk around the corner. Three different pieces of information to three different intelligence organizations with only one knowing the entire picture, this was going to be an interesting play. What would be interesting was what they would think after they checked the information.

The next few days may be more interesting than the days before the raid in Islamabad.

* * *

It was a great feeling to sit in the barber’s chair again. After about eighteen months of deep cover, he could finally return to being Kamal Khan, a process that started with removing the beard. Kamal had always embraced the traditional values of his Pathan culture, but he had trouble with the beard that many Pathans wore to demonstrate their adherence to Islamic values.

“Captain sahib, where have you been?” Abdul asked has Kamal settled into the chair.

“UN peacekeeping, Abdul bhai,” Kamal replied with a smile. “A soldier’s work is never done. I need a shave and haircut.”

This request didn
’t sit well with Abdul, the plump forty-year-old barber that had long been the choice of everyone at the Garrison. He had taken over the shop from his father, who had originally opened it during the 1960s. The shop had seen both good and bad times, but the soldiers had been the core of his business because of the close proximity to the base housing. He kept glancing in the mirror at Kamal as he collected supplies from the shelf behind him. “You look distinguished with the beard, like a good Muslim officer. Are you sure you want a shave instead of a trim?” he asked.

Kamal had dealt with this question since he was able to grow facial hair. Occasionally, he wouldn
’t shave for a few days while on break from school. When he went to the village barbers to have it shaved, they would ask the same questions. Once during Ramadan, he had decided to grow the beard and had to travel to a neighboring village, where no one knew him or his family, to get a shave.

“Ok, Abdul, give me a goatee,” Kamal said, staring back in the mirror at his old friend. “Trim it down so that I can feel the skin on my face.”

Abdul shook his head as he collected the blade and shaving cream from the shelf. The whole time he muttered in Punjabi to the other barbers, until Kamal interrupted.

“I may not be able to speak Punjabi fluently, but I do understand it completely,” he said with a bland expression. Abdul smiled as he disinfected the blade and straight razor with Dettol, and fifteen minutes later Kamal looked like Kamal again. Pleased with the job, he lifted his hand to his face, feeling the smooth skin for the first time in eighteen months. He pulled a hundred rupee note from his pocked and slipped it into Abdul
’s hand before he stepped out the door into the cool autumn air.

Walking to his car, he took in the familiar places that he had spent time in before being posted to the ISI. He passed Haji Rauf
’s
mithai
shop where he bought
jalebis
and
gulab jaman
, and the small tea hotel where he got his
parathas
on the days he was off duty. Across the street were his dry cleaner and the uniform supply depot next door. The five-minute stroll to his 1995 Suzuki Mehran reminded him of all the things he missed while deployed. It’s good to be home, he thought to himself as he climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. He drove, crossing more memories, as he returned to base.

For most soldiers, returning to duty from a mission or special posting was a bittersweet experience. Coming back after high adrenaline situations was an emotional disappointment, much like a drug user coming off a really good high. For Kamal, he would not be returning to active duty immediately. With at least six months left on his ISI posting, he would be spending his time at the detention facility with the suspects who had been swept up in the raids at The Sanctuary. The Director General felt that he would gain both interrogation experience and additional understanding into the red file dossiers that had been prepared. The top command thought that Kamal may have met, trained or interacted with some of the detainees at Imam Shahid
’s madrassah or The Sanctuary.

Kamal dressed in the all black attire of the detention facility in his quarters at the Rawalpindi Garrison before sitting down to breakfast. As he drank his coffee, he perused the briefs that had been delivered to him, detailing the detainees that he would interact with. There were no details, only background on each of them so that he could better understand whom he would be interrogating. Kamal had requested these briefs personally to find better ways than torture to engage and extract information. Each was a wanted man by either the police, government or security forces for their involvement in kidnapping, arms dealing or bombings throughout Pakistan
’s urban centers. Today, he would be spending time with some of the lower cadre to gather information to use against the ringleaders.