The Kill List (9 page)

The Tracker replaced the receiver. So far, so good, he thought. He showered, shaved and changed. It was late morning. He decided on an early lunch and a nap to catch up on the lost sleep of last night. Before lunch he ordered a long, cool beer in his room and signed the declaration to confirm he was not a Muslim. Pakistan is strictly Islamic and dry, but the Serena has a license, only for guests.

The car was there on the dot of seven, an unremarkable (for a reason) four-door sedan of Japanese manufacture. There would be thousands like it on the streets of Slammy. It would attract no attention. At the wheel was an embassy-employed Pakistani driver.

The driver knew the way—up Ataturk Avenue, across Jinnah Avenue, then left along Nazimuddin Road. The Tracker knew it, too, but only because it had all been in the brief the courier from Langley had given him at the Dubai airport. Just a precaution. He spotted the ISI tail within a block of the Serena and it faithfully followed the sedan past the apartment high-rises and up Marvi Road to Street 43. So, no surprises. The Tracker did not like surprises unless they were his.

The house did not quite have the words “Government Issue” above the front door, but it might have. Pleasant, roomy enough, one of a dozen allocated to embassy staff living outside the compound. He was greeted by Gerry Byrne and his wife, Lynn, who led him through to a terrace in the back, where he was offered a drink.

It might all almost have been a suburban house in the U.S. save for a few details. Each house on Street 43 had seven-foot concrete walls around it, plus steel gates the same height. The gates had opened without any communication, as if someone had been watching from inside. The gateman was in a dark uniform, baseball-capped and with a sidearm. Just normal suburbia.

There was a Pakistani couple already there, a doctor and his wife. Others arrived. One other embassy car, which came inside the compound. Others parked on the street. A couple from an aid agency, able to explain the difficulty of persuading the religious zealots up in Bajaur to permit polio vaccination of local children. Tracker knew there was one man present he had come to see and one not yet arrived. The rest of the guests were cover, like the entire dinner.

The missing man came with his mother and father. The father was forthcoming and jovial. He had concessions in the mining of semiprecious stones in Pakistan, and even in Afghanistan, and was voluble in explaining the difficulties the present situation was causing his business.

The son was about thirty-five, content simply to say he was in the army, though he was in civilian clothes. Tracker had been briefed about him, too.

The other American diplomat was introduced as Stephen Dennis, the cultural attaché. It was a good cover because it would be perfectly natural both for the press attaché to offer a dinner for a star American journalist and for the cultural attaché to be invited along.

Tracker knew he was really the number two in the CIA station. The head of station was a “declared” intelligence officer, meaning that the CIA was perfectly open about who he was and what he did. In any embassy on tricky territory, the fun is working out who the “undeclareds” really are. The host government usually has a number of suspicions, some accurate, but can never be sure. It is the undeclareds who do the espionage, usually using local nationals who can be turned to do a new employer’s bidding.

It was a convivial dinner with wine and, later, drams of Johnnie Walker Black Label, which happens to be the tipple of choice of the entire officer corps, Islam or not. As the guests mingled over coffee, Steve Dennis nodded to the Tracker and drifted to the outside terrace. Tracker followed. The third to join them was the young Pakistani.

Within a few sentences, it became clear he was not only army but also ISI. Because of the westernized education his father had been able to give him, he had been singled out to penetrate British and American society in the city and report back on anything of use that he heard. In fact, the reverse had happened.

Steve Dennis had spotted him in days and done a reverse recruitment. Javad had become the CIA’s mole inside the ISI. It was to him that the Tracker’s request had been directed. He had quietly entered the archive department on a pretext and searched the records under the year 2002 and Mullah Omar.

“Whoever your source was, Mr. Priest,” he murmured on the terrace, “he has a good memory. There was indeed a covert visit in 2002 to Quetta to confer with Mullah Omar. It was headed by then-one-star-general Shawqat, now commander of the entire army.”

“And the boy who spoke Pashto?”

“Indeed, though there is no mention of that. Simply that in the delegation was a Major Musharraf Ali Shah of the Armored Infantry. Among the seat allocations on the aircraft, and sharing a room with his father in Quetta, is a listing for a son, Zulfiqar.”

He produced a slip of paper and passed it over. It had an address in Islamabad.

“Any further reference to the boy?”

“A few. I checked again under his name and patronymic. It seems he went bad. There are references to him leaving home and going to the Tribal Areas to join Lashkar-e-Taiba. We have had several agents deep inside for many years. A young man of that name was reported to be among them, fanatically Jihadist, seeking action.

“He managed to get acceptance into the 313 Brigade.”

Tracker had heard of the 313, named after the warriors, just 313 in number, who stood with the Prophet against hundreds of foes.

“Then he disappeared again. Our sources reported rumors that he had gone to join the Haqqani clan, which would have been facilitated by his Pashto, which is all they speak. But where? Somewhere in the three Tribal Areas—North and South Waziristan or Bajaur. Then nothing, silence. No more Ali Shah.”

Others wanted to join them on the terrace. Tracker pocketed the slip of paper and thanked Javad. An hour later, his embassy car took him back to the Serena.

In his room he checked the three or four tiny telltales he had laid; human hairs stuck with saliva across drawers and the lock of his wheelie. They were gone. The room had been searched.

T
he Tracker had a name and an address, along with a street map of Islamabad, brought to him by the departed John Smith in the Dubai transit lounge. He was also certain that when he left the hotel the next morning, he would have a tail. Before going to bed, he went to reception and asked for a taxi to be chartered for the next morning. The clerk asked where he would like to go in it.

“Oh, just a general sightseeing tour of the notable tourist landmarks of the city,” he said.

At eight a.m. the next day, the taxi was waiting. He greeted the driver with his usual, amiable harmless-American-tourist beam and they set off.

“I am going to need your help, my friend,” he confided, leaning over the front seat. “What do you recommend?”

The car was heading up Constitution Avenue, past the French and Japanese embassies. Tracker, who had memorized the street map, nodded enthusiastically as the Supreme Court, the National Library, the presidential residence and Parliament were pointed out. He took notes. He also threw several glances out the back window. There was no tail. No need. The ISI man was driving.

It was a long tour with only two breaks. The driver took him past the front entrance of the truly impressive Faisal Mosque, where Tracker asked if photographs were permitted and, on being told they were, took a dozen from the car window.

They swung through the Blue Zone, with its streets of upmarket shops. The first stop came at the tailoring emporium known as British Suiting.

Tracker told the driver a friend had mentioned it as a place to have a very good suit hand-made in only two days. The driver agreed that was so and watched his American client disappear inside.

The staff were attentive and eager to please. Tracker selected a fine wool worsted, dark blue with a faint pinstripe. He was warmly congratulated on his taste and beamed away. Measuring took only fifteen minutes, and he was asked to return the next day for first fittings. He made a cash deposit in dollars, much appreciated, and before leaving asked if he might visit the men’s room.

It was, predictably, right at the back, past the stacked rolls of suiting fabric. Next to the lavatory door was another. When the shop assistant who had guided him there left, he gave it a push. It opened onto an alley. He closed the door, used the urinal and returned to the shop. He was ushered out the front. The taxi was waiting.

What he had not seen, but could guess, was that while he was out back, the driver had put his head through the door to check. He was told his client was “down the back.” The fitting rooms were also in that direction. He nodded and returned to his cab.

The only other stop came during a visit to the Kohsar Market, a major landmark. Here Tracker expressed a desire for a midmorning coffee and was pointed to Gloria Jean’s coffee shop. After coffee, he bought some British chocolate biscuits at A.M. Grocers, and told his driver they could now head back to the Serena.

Once there, he paid off the driver with a handsome tip, which he was confident would not go into the ISI budget but the driver’s pocket. A full report would be filed within the hour and a call would be made to British Suiting. Just to check.

Up in his room he composed and filed a report for the
Washington Post
. It was titled “A Morning Tour of Fascinating Islamabad.” It was deeply boring and would never see the light of day.

He had not brought a computer because he did not want any hard drive of his being removed and gutted. He used the telecoms room of the Serena. The dispatch was indeed intercepted and read by the same basement-confined official who had copied and filed the letter from the press attaché.

He lunched in the hotel dining room, then, approaching the front desk, announced he was going to take a stroll. As he left, a rather plump young man, ten years his junior but running to fat, peeled himself off a lobby sofa, stubbed out his cigarette, folded his newspaper and followed.

The Tracker may have been the older man, but he was a Marine and enjoyed power walking. Within two long avenues, the “tail” was jogging to keep up, puffing and wheezing and drenched in sweat. When finally he lost his quarry, he thought back to the report of the morning. On his second outing of the day, the American was certainly heading in the direction of British Suiting. The policeman headed in the same direction. He was a worried man. He had his unforgiving superiors to think about.

When he put his head around the door of the tailoring shop, his worries evaporated. Yes, the American was indeed inside, but he was “down the back.” The tail loitered outside Mobilink, found a friendly doorway, leaned against the wall, unfolded his newspaper and lit up.

In fact, the Tracker had spent no time in the fitting room. After being welcomed, he explained with a display of embarrassment that he had developed an upset stomach and please could he use the loo? Yes, he knew the way.

Farangi
sustaining an upset stomach is as predictable as the sun rising. He slipped out the back door, trotted down the alley and into a main boulevard. A passing taxi, seeing his wave, swerved to the curb. This was a genuine cab, driven by a simple Pakistani driver trying to make a living. Foreigners can always be driven the long scenic route without realizing it, and dollars are dollars.

The Tracker knew he was going the long way around, but it was better than making a fuss. Twenty dollars later on a five-dollar fare, he was dropped where he wanted. The junction of two streets in the Pink Zone, the fringes of Rawalpindi and the area of military homes. When the cab had gone, he completed the last two hundred yards on foot.

It was a modest little villa, neat but not generous, with a plaque, in English and Urdu, reading “Col. M. A. Shah.” He knew the army started early and broke early. He knocked. There was a shuffling sound. The door opened a few inches. Dark inside, a dark face, careworn but once beautiful. Mrs. Shah? No maid; not a prosperous household.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. I have come to talk with Colonel Ali Shah. Is he in?”

From inside a male voice called, something in Urdu. She turned and replied. The door swung wide open and a middle-aged male appeared. Neatly trimmed hair, a clipped mustache, clean-shaven, very military. The colonel had changed out of uniform into mufti. Even so, he exhaled self-importance. But his surprise at seeing a dark-suited American was genuine.

“Good afternoon, sir. Do I have the honor of addressing Colonel Ali Shah?”

He was just a lieutenant colonel but was not going to object. And the phrasing of the request did no harm.

“Yes, indeed.”

“My lucky day, sir. I would have rung, but I had no private phone number for you. I pray I do not come at a bad moment.”

“Well, er, no, but what is it . . .”

“The fact is, Colonel, my good friend General Shawqat told me over dinner last night that you were the man to talk to in my quest. Could we . . .”

The Tracker gestured inside, and the bewildered officer backed off and held the door wide open. He would have thrown a quivering salute and stood with his back to the wall if the commander in chief had walked by. Gen. Shawqat, no less, and he and the American dined together.

“Of course, where are my manners? Please come in.”

He led the way into a modestly furnished sitting room. His wife hovered. “Chai,” barked the colonel, and she scuttled away to prepare the tea, the ritual welcome for honored guests.

The Tracker offered his card: Dan Priest, senior staff writer for the
Washington Post
.

“Sir, I have been tasked by my editor, with the full approval of your government, to create a portrait of Mullah Omar. As you will understand, he is, even after all these years, a very reclusive figure and little known. The general gave me to believe you had met and conversed with him.”

“Well, I don’t know about . . .”

“Oh, come now, you’re too modest. My friend told me you accompanied him to Quetta eleven years ago and played a crucial role in bilateral talks.”

Colonel Ali Shah held himself rather straighter as the American lavished on the compliments. So Gen. Shawqat
had
noticed him. He steepled his fingertips and agreed that he had indeed conversed with the one-eyed Taliban leader.

Tea arrived. As she served it, Tracker noticed that Mrs. Ali Shah had the most extraordinary jade green eyes. He had heard of this before. The mountain people from the tribes along the Durand Line, that wild frontier between Afghanistan and Pakistan.

It was said that twenty-three hundred years ago Alexander the Great, Iskandar of Macedon, the young god of the world’s morning, had marched through those mountains from his crushing of the Persian empire to his intended conquest of India. But his men were tired, exhausted by his relentless campaigns, and when he marched back from the Indus campaign, they deserted in droves. If they could not return to the hills of Macedon, they would settle in these mountains and valleys, take brides, farm good land and march and fight no more.

The little child who had hidden behind the robe of Mahmud Gul in the village of Qala-e-Zal had bright blue eyes, not brown like the Punjabis. And the missing son?

The tea had not been drunk when the interview ended. He had no idea it would be so abrupt.

“I believe you were accompanied by your son, Colonel, who speaks Pashto?”

The army officer came out of his chair and stood ramrod straight, clearly affronted and deeply so.

“You are mistaken, Mr. Priest, I have no son.”

The Tracker rose also, putting down his cup, apologetic.

“But I was given to understand . . . a young lad named Zulfiqar . . .”

The colonel stalked to the window and stood, staring out, hands behind back. He quivered with suppressed anger, though at whom, visitor or son, Tracker could not tell.

“I repeat, sir, I have no son. And I fear I can help you no more.”

The silence was freezing. The American was clearly being asked to leave. He glanced across at the colonel’s wife.

The jade green eyes were flooded with tears. There was clearly a family trauma going on, and it had been going on for years.

Affecting a few bumbling apologies, the Tracker withdrew toward the door. The wife escorted him. As she held the door open, he whispered: “I am so sorry, lady, so terribly sorry.”

It was clear she spoke no English and probably no Arabic. But the word “sorry” is pretty international, and she might have picked up a smattering. She looked up, brimming-eyed, saw the sympathy and nodded. Then he was gone and the door closed.

He walked half a mile before emerging onto Airport Road and hailing a cab heading into town. At the hotel he called the cultural attaché from his room. If the call was monitored, which it would be, it would not matter.

“Hi, this is Dan Priest. I was just wondering whether you had tracked down that material on the traditional music of the Punjab and the tribal agencies?”

“I surely have,” said the CIA man.

“Great. I can make a good piece out of it. Can you drop it off for me at the Serena? Take tea in the lounge?”

“And why not, Dan. Seven o’clock suit you?”

“Terrific. See you then.”

Over tea that evening, the Tracker explained what he needed for the next day. It was to be Friday, the colonel would be going to the mosque for the prayers on the Muslim holy day. He would not dare miss out. But accompanying wives would not be required. This was not Camp Lejeune.

With the CIA man gone, he used the concierge to reserve himself passage on the Etihad evening departure for Qatar, connecting via British Airways for London.

The car was there the next morning when he settled up and emerged with his single bag. It was the usual nondescript car but with CD plates so it could not be entered or its inhabitants harassed.

At the wheel was a middle-aged white American with gray hair—a veteran embassy servant who had been driving this city long enough to know it intimately. With him was a young and junior State Department staffer who, at a language course back home, had chosen and mastered Pashto as his specialty. The Tracker climbed in the back and gave the address. They came down the ramp from the Serena, and their ISI tail slid in behind them.

At the end of the street containing Col. Ali Shah’s house they parked and waited until every male in the road had left for the mosque and Friday prayers. Only then did the Tracker order that he be dropped at the door.

It was again Mrs. Shah who answered. She at once appeared flustered and explained that her husband was not there. He would return in an hour, maybe more. She spoke in Pashto. The embassy man replied that the colonel had bade them wait for him. Uncertain that she had had no such instructions, she nevertheless let them in and took them to the sitting room. She hovered, embarrassed, but did not sit. Nor did she leave. The Tracker gestured to the armchair opposite his own.

“Please, Mrs. Shah, do not be alarmed to see me again. I came to apologize for yesterday. I did not mean to upset your husband. I brought a little gift to express my regrets.”

He placed the bottle of Black Label on the coffee table. It, too, had been in the car, as requested. She gave a nervous smile, as the translator interpreted, and sat down.

“I had no idea there had been a rift between father and son,” said the Tracker. “Such a tragedy. I had been told your lad—Zulfiqar, is it not?—was so talented, speaking English as well as Urdu and Pashto—which, of course, he must have learned from you.”

She nodded, and again tears welled in her eyes.

“Tell me, do you not somewhere have a picture of Zulfiqar, even when he was your little boy?”

A large drop emerged from each eye and ran down the cheek. No mother of a son quite forgets the once beautiful little boy she held on her lap. She nodded slowly.

“May I see it . . . please?”

She rose and left the room. Somewhere she had a secret hiding place and there she defied her husband by keeping a photo of her long-lost boy. When she came back, she was holding a single photo in a leather frame.

It was a graduation-day picture. There were two teenage boys in the frame, grinning happily at the camera. It was from the days before the conversion to Jihad, the carefree school-end days, a rolled baccalaureate scroll and harmless friendship. There was no need to ask which boy was which. The one on the left had luminous amber eyes. He handed back the photo.