Assignment - Karachi by Edward S. Aarons

you years ago that you cannot act as a watchdog over every man who is with me. I will not tolerate it! You cannot run my life for me, Hans. I will not permit it.”
    “I am sorry, Alessa.”
    She drew a deep breath. “We must all co-operate. We have a difficult time ahead, and we can do without foolish quarrels between ourselves. Is that clear?”
    The big man nodded, but Durell saw nothing change in his blank, slab-like face. They went into the shed together to check the vehicles and the cases of mountain-climbing equipment.

    At six o’clock, Durell borrowed one of the cars available to the party, choosing a small Morris, unlikely to attract attention, and drove into the city. Rawalpindi, at a much higher elevation that Karachi, had numerous stone government buildings dating back to the Victorian ’80’s, and wide modern tree-shaded streets. The military were in evidence everywhere, wearing smart Sam Browne belts and polished boots. Durell had showered and changed into a white line suit and shirt and a dark knitted necktie. A few European and tourists were in sight, beginning to awaken from the mid-afternoon lethargy of enervating heat. The shops were open again.
    He turned away from the Liaqat Gardens into a twisting maze of crowded streets, like driving through a veil into past centuries. Punjabis, Sikhs, Pathans and Shinwaris with fierce knives in their belts mingled with aesthetic-looking Hindus and proud Arabs in the flowing white robes called kefeyahs . Smoke redolent of kerosene, spices and garbage accented the hubbub of languages, of which Urdu dominated.
    The way ahead was blocked when he turned right toward the Gijhandra Bazaar. A crowd had gathered threatening at the corner, surrounding a man in a dirty white turban and robe. Durell had to stop the car. Before he could reverse to find another route, the mob suddenly set upon the cornered man with fists and stones, screaming as if on sudden signal. A Pakistani infantry lieutenant went running past, his club merciless on the heads of the mob. Durell started out of the car, then decided to remain where he was. He saw the lieutenant reach the fallen man and crouch over him and shout at the nearest people. They shrank away from him. The lieutenant picked up the man’s naked foot and dragged him over the refuse on the sidewalk and hurled him against the wall of the house. The man’s bald shaven head lolled in unmistakable death. As abruptly the mob had exploded, it was quiet again. The lieutenant saw Durell in the car and walked over to him.
    “Your pardon, sir.” He spoke meticulous English. “Did you see what happened?”
    “Not exactly. Is the man dead?”
    Yes. He was a thief, they say. He stole six rupees from Mohammed Jangahar, the copper merchant.”
    “Six rupees?” Durell said. “It’s not much.”
    “It is a great deal to Jangahar. Excuse me, I must get a cart to take the body away.”
    The dead man lay like a heap of dirty white rags against the wall of the building on the sidewalk. A skinny, skeletal yellow dog sniffed curiously at the corpse’s dirty feet. Nobody else paid any further attention. The incident was over. A man had died, but in the teeming millions, the death of one meant an infinitesimal increase in space for the others.

    Swerji Hamad Isquital was a fat, complacent man who had three wives and countless children and grandchildren, all of whom he seemed to forget from time to time in the operation of his business, which was twofold. He ran a teahouse near the Gijhandra Bazaar, with several large brass Russian samovars constantly boiling. His clientele consisted of touchy, giant Pathans, fakirs traveling as holy men, bearded Sikhs in tightly bound turbans, Arabs, Shinwaris and Turkmen. The street outside Swerji’s pavilion swarmed with coppersmith, potters, tobacco venders, prostitutes in black with low veils to show their trademarks in rouge, sellers of live birds, palmists, huckster’s vending cold drinks and candy, thieves,