Bloodmoney

13

A few days after the expulsion of Homer Barkin, an unusual American visitor arrived in Islamabad. The man came in a Gulfstream jet, unmarked except for the tail number, and he took a suite at the Serena Hotel, at the crest of a hill overlooking the diplomatic quarter of the capital. The gentleman was dressed more flamboyantly than a normal Western traveler, in a double-breasted summer suit that enfolded him like a tent and a Panama hat with a parrot feather, of yellow and blue, stuck in the black satin hat-band. The traveler had long maintained that the best disguise was to be so visible that people would take you as a public personality, albeit undefined, and overlook the possibility that you had a separate and secret life.

The traveler’s name was Cyril Hoffman, and he was, in fact, associate deputy director of what remained of the Central Intelligence Agency.

Hoffman had come to pay a quiet visit to Lieutenant General Mohammed Malik. It was not a normal liaison trip, of the sort CIA officials frequently made, and for that reason Hoffman had not informed the U.S. Embassy or the acting chief of station. He had discreetly consulted a Pakistani source he had developed over the past decade, a man who had helped him to understand the nature of the insurgency that was devouring Pakistan and the Tribal Areas. But otherwise he had kept his own counsel, waiting to deliver his message to the ISI chief.

General Malik was a family friend, of sorts. The Pakistani had been befriended by Cyril’s flamboyant cousin Ed, during his years as chief of the CIA’s Near East Division. And the young Mohammed Malik had been friendly with Cyril’s uncle, Frank, after he retired as chief of station in Beirut and set himself up as a consultant and fixer in Riyadh. It was the personal touch that mattered in this part of the world, Cyril Hoffman had told the director in proposing his off-the-record visit to Islamabad. He would be back in the office in forty-eight hours, he promised.

The Serena had the empty feeling of a mausoleum. The floors were waxed and buffed to a high gloss, which never seemed to lose its shine because so few feet traversed the lobby. Hotels had been targets for suicide bombers in Pakistan the last few years, and the American Embassy directed most visitors to anonymous “guesthouses” whose locations, it was thought, were unknown to the jihadists. To Hoffman, the fact that the Serena was avoided by Washington visitors made it the ideal place to hide.

The morning of his arrival, Hoffman took his breakfast in the chandeliered dining room, at one of the tables that were arrayed around a marble-clad fountain. There was only one other diner in the room, a businessman who was shouting details of his commercial plans into his cell phone. Hoffman placed foam-rubber plugs in his ears to block the noise, and went to the breakfast buffet.

Hoffman had one breakfast, a heap of scrambled eggs and turkey bacon and buttered toast. And then, for good measure, he returned to the buffet table and had a second breakfast, this time a big bowl of bran flakes and fruit that would aid his digestion. There were also donuts, small and lumpy and dusted with confectioner’s sugar, and he took two of these, to eat with his coffee. He installed himself at his table and devoured this feast, reading the English-language newspapers, Dawn and The News, until it was time to go calling.

General Malik had proposed that they meet in Rawalpindi, at a guesthouse on the compound of the military’s General Headquarters. That would be a more confidential setting than the ISI’s headquarters in Aabpara, the Pakistani general advised. He sent his own limousine to pick up Hoffman, so that the American would not be bothered by awkward questions at the GHQ gate.

When the car arrived at the Serena, Hoffman gathered his billowing suit jacket around him and took a seat in the back, behind a smoked-glass partition. He put the buds of his iPod in his ears and clicked on a recording of Cosi fan tutte, one of the library of operas and musical comedies that he carried with him to maintain a sunny mood, even as he traveled long distances. He hummed to himself as the car made its way through Islamabad’s western suburbs.

The entrance to General Headquarters was a reminder that the Pakistani military was a living remnant of the British colonial army. There was an emerald cricket pitch just outside the gate, with a pavilion where the players could retire for tea in the late afternoon. Batsmen in white trousers and cable-knit sweaters, impervious to the summer heat, were practicing their strokes in the batting nets as Hoffman’s car passed. The entry gate itself looked as if it hadn’t much changed since imperial days; it was a banked by green lawns and ceremonial cannons, and walls of marble and granite.

General Malik was waiting for Hoffman at the guesthouse. He embraced him and kissed him on both cheeks, and the American reciprocated, and not with air kisses, but with the soft smack of lips puckered against skin. Since Hoffman had never married, it was occasionally rumored about the agency that he might be homosexual. What he told people, in the rare moments when they ventured into his private life, was that sex of any kind was a bore and a distraction: It was too hot and wet and uncomfortable.

The Pakistani had turned up the air-conditioning, so that it was positively chilly in the small sitting room. A steward in white gloves arrived with tea almost as soon as they were seated, and then with little sandwiches on white bread whose crusts had been removed.

“Well, sir, I can see that we have gotten your attention,” said the Pakistani general. “Such a speedy journey! Perhaps we should expel your station chiefs more often, to hasten your visits to our poor country.”

“It is always a pleasure, Mohammed, but you needn’t take such extreme measures. Just pick up the telephone and call me next time you’re peeved, how about that?”

“Most assuredly I will do so. On the promise that the next time you send someone here on a most secret and nefarious mission, you will call me first to ask permission. Otherwise it may strain our relationship, you see. We do not like surprises.”

“We didn’t do it, old boy. That’s why I am here. This was not a CIA operation.”

“Bosh! My dear Cyril, I do not wish to bicker with an old friend, or play semantic games. There will be time to discuss our differences. But here, have a sandwich.” He handed Hoffman the plate, and the American removed a tasty chicken sandwich with sweet mayonnaise and a dusting of black pepper.

It was hard to say which of them was more polite and indirect, as they felt each other out. General Malik asked about Hoffman’s family, and he, in turn, asked after the Pakistani’s only child, a daughter who was attending medical school at Emory University in Atlanta. Hoffman had subtly assisted her admission, though he had never said so to the general. They talked of music, for both were opera buffs. They talked of books. General Malik was an admirer of Philip K. Dick, whose science fiction novels he had begun to read when he was a young officer posted to Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.

“He is very bleak, don’t you think?” said the general. “All that talk about authoritarian states of the future. I recently read Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said. I thought it might have been about my poor country. And yet, I could not stop reading.”

“Try Dr. Bloodmoney,” said Hoffman. “You’ll feel like taking a suicide pill.”

Hoffman would normally have been happy to continue with this civilized exchange for a while longer. It was a way of clearing the throat before getting to the point. But he had only so much time before he had to get back on his Gulfstream jet, so eventually, after eating two water-cress sandwiches and a small chicken kebab dipped in hot sauce, he got around to the purpose of his visit, which was to deliver a warning. But even then he did it in a most peculiar and roundabout way.

“I wonder if I could tell you a story, Mohammed,” Hoffman began. “Would you mind that?”

“Not at all, Cyril. I am most fond of your stories. They always have a moral, which sometimes is not immediately obvious. That is the way we like to tell stories here in my country.”

“Well, sir, this story is a true one. And it’s about soldiers. People like yourself. I am a civilian, working for an agency that, let us be honest, has seen better days. But this story is about the flower of our youth, so to speak-the young men and women who, like yourself, wear the uniform. As a matter of fact, you could say that it’s about just that: The uniform.”

“Ah, Cyril. The uniform. How apt. I am sure I will find this story most instructive, once I hash it out.”

“If you please, my friend, I want you to think about the uniform that a U.S. Army officer wears. A desert combat uniform, tan, with the camouflage markings. The kind that would be worn by a soldier who is fighting our common enemies in Afghanistan, let us say, or in Iraq, or Somalia-any of the places we have been lately, or may yet be. Do you have it in your mind, that uniform?”

“Oh, yes, indeed. Clear as a bell.”

“Do you see on the arm the little American flag? It’s made of shiny plastic material. Do you see that just below the shoulder? That’s what the soldier wears when he’s in a combat zone. Not the regular embroidered flag on a nice piece of cloth, but a plastic one. Can you see it in your mind’s eye?”

“I do, for a certainty. And I have often wondered why they wear that one, and not the finer cloth one.”

“Have you, now? Have you wondered that? Well, this is your lucky day, because I am going to explain it. Our soldiers wear that little flag because it can be read by an infrared beam. It distinguishes them as U.S. forces-friendly forces. And they wear it so that our pilots and troopers and riflemen will know not to shoot at them. It’s a special piece of protection, you see? To keep our men and women out of harm’s way. Don’t you think that’s a smart idea?”

“Of course. It is so American, to use the technology so adeptly, to mark your people as your own. I wish we could be so advanced in our poor country.”

“But see, here’s the problem. And this is the reason I wanted to tell you the story, Mohammed. I am sorry to say that our enemies, Taliban fighters in Afghanistan, and Iranian Revolutionary Guards in Iraq and people on other battlefields I won’t name, have been tricking us. If they are lucky enough to kill a U.S. soldier, they will strip off his plastic American flag and take it away with them. And they will keep these, you see. Gather them up, and at the right time, stick them to their own clothes. So that when the helicopter gunship comes after them, or the unmanned drone, it will look as if they are Americans. They will trick us, you see? They will deceive us. And they will use their trickery to survive and kill us when we are most vulnerable. What do you think of that?”

The American folded his arms, which weren’t quite long enough to reach across the span of his rounded torso. Hoffman watched the face of his Pakistani host. “Do you like my story?” he asked.

The Pakistani didn’t answer at first. He stroked his mustache with his index finger, gently aligning the hairs.

“I am not sure that I understand it, really, Cyril. I always like your stories, but what is the meaning of this one? And why have you come all the way to Pakistan to tell it to me?”

“Well, sir, this is a story about the difficulty of distinguishing friends and foes. The people who are really your enemies will try to make themselves look like your friends. And when they do that, they are especially dangerous. Do you see?”

The Pakistani was becoming peeved now. For all his politeness and his natural reserve, he could not disguise it.

“Yes, of course I see. I am not an idiot, sir. But what does this story of trickery have to do with me, and with my country? Why are you insulting me in this way, by suggesting that we are not friends, but foes who are playing tricks on you? For that seems to be the intent of the story, unless I misunderstand you.”

“You never misunderstand anything, Mohammed. You are a very smart man. And I have always admired you, truly I have, as a fine gentleman and a patriot. Yes, indeed.”

Hoffman adjusted his round form in the chair, tilting himself toward his host, as if to make sure that his voice was heard.

“But I want you to realize, my old friend, that there are people in America-some of them pretty high up, too-who think, to be blunt, that you are diddling us. That you are not playing straight with us. That you tell us you’re our friend and ally, but at the same time you’re helping the people who kill our soldiers and even, perhaps, our unarmed civilians. You are playing us, in other words. That’s what these people think. And I want you to know-from me, a friend who respects and admires you-that this is a problem. You need to stop this behavior.”

The Pakistani was shaking his head. On his face there was a mournful look, a look that said: How could it have come to this? How could this man come to my country, to look me in the face and insult me in this way? He did not say those things, though they were plain enough in his manner, but instead said something that was much more direct and, in that sense, out of character.

“Look here, Cyril. There may be politicians in America who say these things, but as we say in our Punjabi language, they are dala and randi. Pimps and whores. Let us cut the bullshit. Shall we do that? Cut this bullshit? I know why you are here. And I know why you told me the fairy tale about the flag.”

“Oh, do you, now? Well, that’s a relief. Pray tell.”

“Yes, let me tell you about the real story, Cyril, not the make-believe one: An American was kidnapped in Karachi a week ago. We are very sorry for it. As I am sure you know, our police have been working to help.”

“Yes, yes. Thank you for that.” Hoffman nodded his big head.

“Now, this man appeared to be a businessman. But we are quite certain that he was something else. That he was an intelligence officer, to be blunt. But we didn’t understand who he was working for. He did not appear to be working for your esteemed organization, Cyril, not for any part of it that we know, but for some other entity, which we do not understand. We do not like that, not at all. It is you who should apologize, sir, not me. This is a most gross violation of our sovereignty. It required a response, and so it was farewell for Mr. Barkin.”

Hoffman shrugged. He folded his arms across his chest. He looked like Humpty Dumpty in a summer suit.

The Pakistani was angry. His pride had been injured, and that was not an easy wound to salve. His voice was sharper now.

“I did not expect a comment. I did not ask for one. But I must tell you, this turn of events bothers us. We do not like it when our ‘friends’ play games in our backyard. In that respect, my dear sir, we are just like you.

“What I dislike especially, Cyril,” he continued, “is the implication in your comments-and in the fact of your visit-that we had something to do with this poor man’s disappearance. That is truly offensive to me. After all that we have done and suffered, all the terrorist bombs, all the dead, to be accused of murder. This makes me angry.”

Hoffman put up his hand, bidding the Pakistani to stop. He spoke more gently now.

“It was not my purpose to offend you, Mohammed. Truly it wasn’t. And of course I can’t comment on this fanciful story you just told me about the disappearance of a gentleman who, if memory serves, was working for a financial firm in London. But let me simply say, to my dear and esteemed friend, that if we thought your service was in any way connected with the disappearance of an American citizen, under these circumstances, we would take that most seriously. Yes sir, most seriously, indeed.”

“We did not do it, Cyril. We know nothing about it.” He spoke gravely, as people do when they are telling a most serious and important lie.

Hoffman stared unblinking into the eyes of his host.

“Heck, I never said you did.”

“Let me repeat: We did not do it. We have no contact with these people whatsoever. If you think we do, you are mistaken.”

“Well, that’s nice,” said Hoffman. He smiled. But his tone made clear that he did not believe his host. There they were, two old friends, each making statements the other was quite sure were false.

The Pakistani opened his arms, palms out, in a gesture of frustration. How could it have reached this point of impasse? He took another sip of his tea, now cold, and closed his eyes for a moment to clear his head.

“Now, Cyril, I will tell you something, because we are friends,” said the general. He spoke softly at first, but his voice gained strength.

“You are looking in the wrong place. You are making a mistake that is characteristic of your country. I am surprised to hear you make it, because you are smarter than most of your fellows, but there we are.”

“I’m listening, Mohammed. What’s the mistake?”

“You do not realize your vulnerability. You do not realize that your adversary could do to you what you have been doing to them. There is a leak, my dear. I cannot say what it is, but it is for you to discover. I am sorry. Although you have been very clever in this new covert business, whatever it is, somehow they have found you out.”

“Old Cyril is a little slow today. You better explain more.”

“I cannot, sir. That is my point. I do not know. But someone knows. That is what you must consider.”

“These riddles are giving me a headache, Mohammed. Why don’t you tell me what it is you have to say?”

“Why should I? How can I? You have just accused me, more or less, of murder. Why should I think that you will listen to anything I say?”

“Do me a favor. Just say it. Tell me how we’ve been busted. Come on, say it, goddamn it.”

The general shook his head. He did not like to hear profanity, especially in the sanctuary of his own quarters.

“I have already told you the essential fact, Cyril. They are on to you. The fact that you did not understand me illustrates the problem. You ask me for more, but there is no more. Perhaps you will think about it as you fly home. Maybe you will think about it, at greater length, when you are home. Maybe you will do something about it. I cannot say. It is not my problem. It is yours.”

The general rose. The meeting was over. He shook the American’s hand, and then, feeling that this was not enough, kissed him again on the cheeks. This time, Hoffman did not reciprocate. And it was a cold hand that he offered, for he was certain that the Pakistani, for all his fine words, had been false with him.

The Pakistani looked at his visitor, his face registering at once anger and injury.

“He’s dead, by the way, your man in Karachi. The body cannot be recovered, but I do not think you would want to see it. His passing was a blessing, under the circumstances. Our police will say that he had an accident. He went trekking. Fell off a cliff. That will save us both from embarrassment. We will put something in a coffin and send it back to London. You can worry about the rest.”

Cyril Hoffman nodded. How very like the Pakistanis, to tidy up the mess. What he thought, as he walked back into the heat of the Rawalpindi morning, was that his dear friend General Malik could not possibly know about the death of this American intelligence officer unless he was working with the people who killed him.