Sting of the Drone

14

“Over here,” Fares called out as Bryce Duggan entered the bar at the Sind Club. Fares Sorhari was the reporter’s traveling producer, the guy who made things happen no matter where in the Middle East and South Asia. “We’re drinking to the new little Princess, born this morning in London.”

The Sind Club had been the elegant retreat of the Colonial era. It was now where elite Pakistanis and expat Brits wined and dined. It was the place Fares had said they had to go, perhaps because he had reciprocal rights from his club in Dubai. The club was a relief from the crowds, the noise, the traffic, the knife’s edge of madness that was Karachi.

“This is Duncan Cameron from The Guardian. Duncan, Bryce Duggan from WWN,” Fares made the introductions. Cameron did not look the type who could make the transition from the print world to television, Bryce thought. The guy would have to stop sleeping in his suit. Bryce guessed that the Brit was thirty years older, but the older man could well be the type that had really gotten to know the place. Bryce had learned in Cairo, in Aleppo, in Benghazi, from the old hands.

“Welcome to the most violent city in the world,” Cameron said, raising his glass of Balvenie. “Fares, here, tells me you are in search of drones. Well, go north, my friend, go north. Plenty of droning going on up in Waziristan. You could get lots of pretty pictures of bombed-out houses, if they let you in, or rather, if they let you leave.”

“That’s our hope,” Bryce began. “But I want to get behind the pretty pictures, tell some of the stuff that you’ve done in The Guardian. How the Pak military is playing both sides, letting the U.S. fly the drones, but complaining publicly when they do, having them strike the Pakistani Taliban but helping the al Qaeda remnants and the Afghan Taliban.”

“You’ve read my stories on that?” Cameron smiled. “Well, you and two dons in Oxford. I didn’t know that my readership had grown to three.”

“I’d also like to talk to some villagers. Get their reaction, maybe contrast it to a more modern, secular type, maybe in Islamabad, who may think it’s a good thing that the Americans are keeping the radicals from the gates,” Bryce said. “Do you think that works?”

“Let’s sit at a table,” Cameron suggested. “Afik, give us that bottle of the Balvenie, will you now.”

They sat in a corner, well apart from the few others in the room. “Never know who else tips Afik,” Cameron began. “Listen, my friend, if you are going to do stories on what the Pak mil are doing, especially their intel people, the ISI, you have to be very careful. Reporters die out here.”

“We know,” Fares replied. “But, unlike you, we don’t live here. They won’t see our story until we leave country.”

“Well, if that’s the plan, let me suggest that you do the voiceover after you leave. They will hear what you say on camera when you are shooting here, and what people say to you.” Cameron refilled the three glasses. “Got myself lectured to up in Rawalpindi by the ISI when I suggested that they were playing both sides. Truth is that they are, of course. They want the Taliban to succeed somewhat in Afghanistan, but the local variant, the Pak Taliban, they see them as a threat. Okay to have the crazies running the asylum next door, but not here.”

Bryce was not used to straight Scotch, but he knew better than to ask for a mixer, or even a chaser. “Isn’t it true that some of what we think is ISI activity is actually some retired intel guys who are more Islamist than the people now running the service?” Bryce asked.

“That’s what they put out. They’d like you to think that,” Cameron replied. “It’s only partially true.”

“Like all things,” Fares said. “Excuse me one second, I’m going to get us some waters from our man Afik. I have a feeling we may get fairly deep, and deep into the bottle.”

“Duncan, if I am reading between the lines in your stories, you don’t just have ISI sources, you’re talking straight to the Lashkar guys, Pak Taliban, the Qazzanis, AQ. How the hell do you do it?” Bryce asked.

“Remember what I said, you can get killed out here for talking to the wrong people or being in the wrong places. You really want to go there?” the Scot replied.

“Tell me how.”

“I can put you in touch with some people, but not with all of them. Maybe one or two. Qazzanis are businessmen. AQ are media savvy. Stay away from the others. They won’t even hostage you, just leave you in a drainage ditch.” Cameron rested his chin in his hand, partially covering his mouth with fingers that looked like they had been battered in rugby years ago. “But these boys need to be lubricated and not with the Balvenie. They like U.S. dollars, cash. Give me twenty-five K to pass to them and you’ll get some pretty pictures no one else has seen and some guy in the shadows to talk on camera, but he will be the real deal, or damn close to it.”

“I can do ten,” Bryce quickly replied.

“Then it will just be the Qazzanis. They actually want some coverage right now for some reason. Give me a few days,” Cameron said.