Bloodmoney by David Ignatius Page B

city center, past the knot of people gathered at the four-pillared front of the railway station, and then north toward the red rocks that framed the northern approach to the city. The driver turned off the main road, into a neighborhood that was largely Afghan refugees. For the Quetta police, this was no-man’s-land. But for the director general of the ISI, there was no such thing as a forbidden zone. The car zigged and zagged down several byways until it came to a rough-hewn mosque and next to it a walled compound shielding a rambling two-story villa.
    General Malik called a number on his cell phone and spoke to an ISI case officer inside the villa, to advise that he had arrived. A metal gate swung open and the Hyundai turned into the compound and parked, while the gate was quickly closed and relocked. The general walked toward the villa, its rough concrete blocks topped by the rust-red protruding rods of the steel reinforcing bars.
    The young ISI officer met the visitor at the threshold of the villa. He was dressed in the garb of Pashtun tribesmen: a turban around his head, a long vest, loose trousers billowing in the breeze. The general entered the building and was escorted into the salon. It was curtained against the midday sun, but in the low light the prize was visible: Seated on the couch was a fierce-looking young man, a warrior prince, he seemed, with a grizzly black beard and long hair under a white turban.
    “Commander Hassan,” said the general, extending his hand. The young man took the general’s hand in both of his. There were no kisses on the cheeks; these were men who, but for the ritual hospitality of the meeting, might shoot each other.
    The others retreated from the room, including the ISI case officer who had arranged the meeting, and even the young commander’s bodyguards, who were present with him always and everywhere. There remained just the distinguished Pakistani general, his mustache finely trimmed as always, and the fearsome tribal warrior.
    “It is a pleasure to see you again,” said the general. “You have been busy. We hear about you. But we do not see you.”
    The young fighter responded with appropriate reticence, by quoting a Pashtun saying. “ Da khali daig ghag lor de,” he said, which means, “An empty vessel makes much noise.” This vessel, real and full, was silent.
    General Malik answered in his own ritual phrases, proverbs rather than declarative sentences. To have done otherwise would have seemed barbaric.
    “You are a mojahid, Commander Hassan. It is said that cowards cause harm to brave men, but clearly there are no cowards among you. It is said that fear and shame are father and son, but you do not know these emotions. You are from another family, I can see that.”
    The young fighter bowed his head at the compliments and offered thanks to God for his success.
    “Now I must ask you a question, Hassan. For that is part of why we talk, you and I, so that I can ask and you can tell.”
    “Yes, badshah , I understand.” He paused then, and unwound his turban slowly, so that his long hair was free. It was rich and lustrous, even in the heat of the house. He swept it back from his face. He was a young lion, this one.
    Hassan spoke another Pashtun phrase: “Wrori ba kawu hesab tar menza.” This one was unfamiliar to the general, so he asked what it meant. The young man translated into Urdu: “We will behave like brothers, but we shall know what is yours and what is mine.”
    “So then I will ask: How is the American man, the one who disappeared in Karachi?”
    “He is dead, General. He died several days ago.”
    “Did he die badly?”
    “Yes, General. He would not talk at first, so we had to use methods. Then it becomes hard. It must end.”
    The general nodded. He had used torture himself, but he did not like it. He turned back to Commander Hassan.
    “What did you learn from the American? I think he had many secrets, this one. Perhaps you can tell me.”
    “Ah,