In the Company of Liars

ELEVEN YEARS EARLIER

Ram Haroon squints into the light of the room, after traveling blindfolded in a dark sedan, then up several flights of stairs. His father is next to him, patting his arm protectively.

“Everything is fine, Zulfi,” he says to him.

“Not Zulfi,” says the man behind the desk, an American speaking the native Pakistani language rather well. “Now it’s Ram, I thought.”

“Yes, Ram,” says his father.

The man across the desk is wearing a light blue shirt and glasses. He is about Ram’s father’s age, but sun has damaged his Caucasian skin.

“Zulfi,” the man says to Ram, “is a bit too, uh ‘democratic,’ let’s say. Fine for Baluchistan, but here in Peshawar, not so good.”

Ram-born Zulfikar Ali Haroon-was named after the first democratically elected prime minister of Pakistan, Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, who was ultimately overthrown by the first of several dictators who have controlled Pakistan since its birth. Ram’s dead sister, Benazir, was named after Zulfikar’s daughter, Benazir Bhutto, who later was elected to the same post herself.

“Your mother liked freedom,” says the man.

Ram stares at the man.

The man nods. “Your mother worked for Central Intelligence for several years.”

“I know that,” Ram says defiantly. Ram has known this, to be precise, for all of forty-eight hours, after he confronted his father about what he had been doing in secret, all of the late-night business he had been conducting. He had figured that Father was running guns for themujahedin, that he was probably connected to one of the militant groups, but he hadn’t figured that Father was doing so at the request of American intelligence.

That was something that none of the militants knew, either.

“Your father is an undercover operative,” says the man.

“I know that also.”

“Good. So you know that if you ever released that information, he would be immediately killed. And so, probably, would you.”

Ram feels the heat in his chest. Father places a hand on his arm.

“He knows that,” Father says.

Ram sees his mother now with a renewed admiration. He is not, himself, political, and never has been. Such concerns are lost on this thirteen-year-old boy. His classmates who have lived in Peshawar their whole lives have experienced more of it, and have developed an anti-Western understanding of the world, but Ram is a child of Baluchistan, where this holy war means little more than a few hundred Afghan refugees spilling into their region. But Mother always preached about freedom, about America, about the bravery of Zulfikar Bhutto, who fought for freedom and spent the last years of his life tortured and neglected in prison, before he was summarily executed by one of the many dictators who have strangled Pakistan.

Your Pakistan will be a free Pakistan, she often told him.

“I want to join also, Mr. Shiels,” Ram says in English.

“So your dad says.” Shiels leans back in his chair, an easy smile on his face, but his eyes narrow.

Mr. Shiels will need convincing. Father, too, will need convincing. Father did not want this for Ram, but he probably realized that, in part, his son would want to be a part of this for the same reason that Father did, as a way of continuing a connection with Mother.

Father had reluctantly explained to Ram, after much prodding, that Ram would be treated differently in the CIA than Father. He was educated and had his mother’s intelligence. He would probably continue in his education and become an asset, in the eyes of whatever Islamic militant organization he pretended to be a part of, someone who could plausibly travel overseas as a student and be engaged in a much more far-reaching operation than running guns.

And Father had repeated, so many times in the last two days, that Ram had a choice, at any time, to leave.Preparing for an operation, he told Ram,is preparing to die.

That meant Mother had been prepared to die, too, though she hadn’t expected to die as a civilian casualty in a random bombing by the Soviets. And she hadn’t anticipated that her four-year-old daughter would be sitting at the front of the class, playing dolls, when it happened.

The Soviets had killed Mother. Mother, who used to sing Ram to sleep at night, used to fill him with praise and hope for a better future. Mother, who used to tell him, before he did anything, to ask one question:What would your parents do?

“I want to join,” Ram repeats.

The man comes from around his desk and sits on it, close to Ram. “We’ll see about that,” the man says. “We’ll take it slow.”

“I will do what you say,” Ram says.

“Very good,” the man says. “You’ll be working with me for now. We’ll see how things progress.”

Ram nods and offers his hand. “My name is Ram Haroon.”

“Call me Irv,” Shiels says, shaking his hand.