address or phone number.”
A few clicks and gazes into his computer monitor later, he said, “We did have him as a customer, but although the account
is still open, there has been no activity for many years. We locked his credit balance in an interest-bearing account.”
“Was it a big amount?” I tried my luck.
“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t tell you that. But what I can say is that under our bank’s rules we move inactive accounts to a long-term
interest-bearing savings account only if the balance exceeds $500.”
“Oh,” I said. “So you believe he’s no longer in Islamabad?” “I’ve no idea, sir.”
“OK. Just in case, can I have his address?”
“It will do you no good. Our mail to that address was returned.”
There was no point in pressuring him for the address. It would only have aroused suspicion. Why would I be interested in searching
for a person who no longer lived in Islamabad and hadn’t for many years, just to offer him a job? Far more bothersome was
the fact that Ward had left an amount of money in excess of $500 in his bank account, and never returned to claim it. He was
a young man with limited resources. For him it was a substantial amount, so why had he abandoned it? I suggested all sorts
of theories, some improbable, and some gruesome. But I let them rest until I could breathe some life into them.
I returned to my hotel, ignoring peddlers who tried to interest me in everything from souvenirs to dried food. I had dinner
at the hotel’s Thai restaurant, the Royal Elephant. I made sure to ask the waiter for mild food. Although I like spicy food,
the Thai and Indian version of spicy is way out of my league. If you ask for spicy, they give you their version of spicy food,
which burns you on the inside for days. I once ventured to ask for spicy food in India. Three days later, the doctor finally
let me crawl out of bed.
I called Ahmed Khan. It was past seven p.m., but I hoped he was still working. His phone answered after two rings. When he
heard my name, he became very interested, or rather eager. “Yes, Rashid told me about you. I’ll be glad to be of service.”
I invited him to have a drink with me at the hotel.
“No alcohol, sir, I’m sorry. I’d be delighted to have tea, though.”
An hour later, a fat man dressed in a beige suit that was about six months late for dry cleaning walked to my table at the
lobby lounge. “Hello, sir, I’m Ahmed Khan.” He looked to be about forty-five and was even heavier up close.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” I said. For about an hour I told him about the magazine, asking questions I thought would be expected
of a business manager coming to a new country to set up operations. His answers were somewhat vague, and were mostly characterized
by the sentence, “Don’t worry, I can arrange it, I’ve got contacts.” One would wonder why “contacts” were necessary for simple
things such as incorporating a company, renting an office, or leasing a car. The impression I received of Ahmed was that he
was more a “fixer” than a lawyer. I had no evidence, but I had the distinct feeling I could steal horses with him, if the
price were right. I realized of course that such a quality could go in the opposite direction as well. I had to make sure
to play this right.
He then brought up the matter of Albert Ward. “I understand you’re looking for him?” he asked.
“Yes, he was a very good photographer, and I’ve got an interesting assignment for him—that is, if I find him.”
“I’ve got contacts,” he said. “Would you be willing to pay for the information?”
“Well,” I said, “what do you have in mind?”
“It may cost up to $1,000,” he said, surveying my face for a reaction.
“That’s too much,” I said. “We don’t need him that badly.” He wasn’t about to let go, and I knew it. The bean counters in
Washington would be all over me if I spent that much money on a tip
A few clicks and gazes into his computer monitor later, he said, “We did have him as a customer, but although the account
is still open, there has been no activity for many years. We locked his credit balance in an interest-bearing account.”
“Was it a big amount?” I tried my luck.
“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t tell you that. But what I can say is that under our bank’s rules we move inactive accounts to a long-term
interest-bearing savings account only if the balance exceeds $500.”
“Oh,” I said. “So you believe he’s no longer in Islamabad?” “I’ve no idea, sir.”
“OK. Just in case, can I have his address?”
“It will do you no good. Our mail to that address was returned.”
There was no point in pressuring him for the address. It would only have aroused suspicion. Why would I be interested in searching
for a person who no longer lived in Islamabad and hadn’t for many years, just to offer him a job? Far more bothersome was
the fact that Ward had left an amount of money in excess of $500 in his bank account, and never returned to claim it. He was
a young man with limited resources. For him it was a substantial amount, so why had he abandoned it? I suggested all sorts
of theories, some improbable, and some gruesome. But I let them rest until I could breathe some life into them.
I returned to my hotel, ignoring peddlers who tried to interest me in everything from souvenirs to dried food. I had dinner
at the hotel’s Thai restaurant, the Royal Elephant. I made sure to ask the waiter for mild food. Although I like spicy food,
the Thai and Indian version of spicy is way out of my league. If you ask for spicy, they give you their version of spicy food,
which burns you on the inside for days. I once ventured to ask for spicy food in India. Three days later, the doctor finally
let me crawl out of bed.
I called Ahmed Khan. It was past seven p.m., but I hoped he was still working. His phone answered after two rings. When he
heard my name, he became very interested, or rather eager. “Yes, Rashid told me about you. I’ll be glad to be of service.”
I invited him to have a drink with me at the hotel.
“No alcohol, sir, I’m sorry. I’d be delighted to have tea, though.”
An hour later, a fat man dressed in a beige suit that was about six months late for dry cleaning walked to my table at the
lobby lounge. “Hello, sir, I’m Ahmed Khan.” He looked to be about forty-five and was even heavier up close.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” I said. For about an hour I told him about the magazine, asking questions I thought would be expected
of a business manager coming to a new country to set up operations. His answers were somewhat vague, and were mostly characterized
by the sentence, “Don’t worry, I can arrange it, I’ve got contacts.” One would wonder why “contacts” were necessary for simple
things such as incorporating a company, renting an office, or leasing a car. The impression I received of Ahmed was that he
was more a “fixer” than a lawyer. I had no evidence, but I had the distinct feeling I could steal horses with him, if the
price were right. I realized of course that such a quality could go in the opposite direction as well. I had to make sure
to play this right.
He then brought up the matter of Albert Ward. “I understand you’re looking for him?” he asked.
“Yes, he was a very good photographer, and I’ve got an interesting assignment for him—that is, if I find him.”
“I’ve got contacts,” he said. “Would you be willing to pay for the information?”
“Well,” I said, “what do you have in mind?”
“It may cost up to $1,000,” he said, surveying my face for a reaction.
“That’s too much,” I said. “We don’t need him that badly.” He wasn’t about to let go, and I knew it. The bean counters in
Washington would be all over me if I spent that much money on a tip
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