knew he was really the number two in the CIA station. The head of station was a “declared” intelligence officer, meaning that the CIA was perfectly open about who he was and what he did. In any embassy on tricky territory, the fun is working out who the “undeclareds” really are. The host government usually has a number of suspicions, some accurate, but can never be sure. It is the undeclareds who do the espionage, usually using local nationals who can be turned to do a new employer’s bidding.
It was a convivial dinner with wine and, later, drams of Johnnie Walker Black Label, which happens to be the tipple of choice of the entire officer corps, Islam or not. As the guests mingled over coffee, Steve Dennis nodded to the Tracker and drifted to the outside terrace. Tracker followed. The third to join them was the young Pakistani.
Within a few sentences, it became clear he was not only army but also ISI. Because of the westernized education his father had been able to give him, he had been singled out to penetrate British and American society in the city and report back on anything of use that he heard. In fact, the reverse had happened.
Steve Dennis had spotted him in days and done a reverse recruitment. Javad had become the CIA’s mole inside the ISI. It was to him that the Tracker’s request had been directed. He had quietly entered the archive department on a pretext and searched the records under the year 2002 and Mullah Omar.
“Whoever your source was, Mr. Priest,” he murmured on the terrace, “he has a good memory. There was indeed a covert visit in 2002 to Quetta to confer with Mullah Omar. It was headed by then-one-star-general Shawqat, now commander of the entire army.”
“And the boy who spoke Pashto?”
“Indeed, though there is no mention of that. Simply that in the delegation was a Major Musharraf Ali Shah of the Armored Infantry. Among the seat allocations on the aircraft, and sharing a room with his father in Quetta, is a listing for a son, Zulfiqar.”
He produced a slip of paper and passed it over. It had an address in Islamabad.
“Any further reference to the boy?”
“A few. I checked again under his name and patronymic. It seems he went bad. There are references to him leaving home and going to the Tribal Areas to join Lashkar-e-Taiba. We have had several agents deep inside for many years. A young man of that name was reported to be among them, fanatically Jihadist, seeking action.
“He managed to get acceptance into the 313 Brigade.”
Tracker had heard of the 313, named after the warriors, just 313 in number, who stood with the Prophet against hundreds of foes.
“Then he disappeared again. Our sources reported rumors that he had gone to join the Haqqani clan, which would have been facilitated by his Pashto, which is all they speak. But where? Somewhere in the three Tribal Areas—North and South Waziristan or Bajaur. Then nothing, silence. No more Ali Shah.”
Others wanted to join them on the terrace. Tracker pocketed the slip of paper and thanked Javad. An hour later, his embassy car took him back to the Serena.
In his room he checked the three or four tiny telltales he had laid; human hairs stuck with saliva across drawers and the lock of his wheelie. They were gone. The room had been searched.
5
T he Tracker had a name and an address, along with a street map of Islamabad, brought to him by the departed John Smith in the Dubai transit lounge. He was also certain that when he left the hotel the next morning, he would have a tail. Before going to bed, he went to reception and asked for a taxi to be chartered for the next morning. The clerk asked where he would like to go in it.
“Oh, just a general sightseeing tour of the notable tourist landmarks of the city,” he said.
At eight a.m. the next day, the taxi was waiting. He greeted the driver with his usual, amiable harmless-American-tourist beam and they set off.
“I am going to need your help, my friend,” he
It was a convivial dinner with wine and, later, drams of Johnnie Walker Black Label, which happens to be the tipple of choice of the entire officer corps, Islam or not. As the guests mingled over coffee, Steve Dennis nodded to the Tracker and drifted to the outside terrace. Tracker followed. The third to join them was the young Pakistani.
Within a few sentences, it became clear he was not only army but also ISI. Because of the westernized education his father had been able to give him, he had been singled out to penetrate British and American society in the city and report back on anything of use that he heard. In fact, the reverse had happened.
Steve Dennis had spotted him in days and done a reverse recruitment. Javad had become the CIA’s mole inside the ISI. It was to him that the Tracker’s request had been directed. He had quietly entered the archive department on a pretext and searched the records under the year 2002 and Mullah Omar.
“Whoever your source was, Mr. Priest,” he murmured on the terrace, “he has a good memory. There was indeed a covert visit in 2002 to Quetta to confer with Mullah Omar. It was headed by then-one-star-general Shawqat, now commander of the entire army.”
“And the boy who spoke Pashto?”
“Indeed, though there is no mention of that. Simply that in the delegation was a Major Musharraf Ali Shah of the Armored Infantry. Among the seat allocations on the aircraft, and sharing a room with his father in Quetta, is a listing for a son, Zulfiqar.”
He produced a slip of paper and passed it over. It had an address in Islamabad.
“Any further reference to the boy?”
“A few. I checked again under his name and patronymic. It seems he went bad. There are references to him leaving home and going to the Tribal Areas to join Lashkar-e-Taiba. We have had several agents deep inside for many years. A young man of that name was reported to be among them, fanatically Jihadist, seeking action.
“He managed to get acceptance into the 313 Brigade.”
Tracker had heard of the 313, named after the warriors, just 313 in number, who stood with the Prophet against hundreds of foes.
“Then he disappeared again. Our sources reported rumors that he had gone to join the Haqqani clan, which would have been facilitated by his Pashto, which is all they speak. But where? Somewhere in the three Tribal Areas—North and South Waziristan or Bajaur. Then nothing, silence. No more Ali Shah.”
Others wanted to join them on the terrace. Tracker pocketed the slip of paper and thanked Javad. An hour later, his embassy car took him back to the Serena.
In his room he checked the three or four tiny telltales he had laid; human hairs stuck with saliva across drawers and the lock of his wheelie. They were gone. The room had been searched.
5
T he Tracker had a name and an address, along with a street map of Islamabad, brought to him by the departed John Smith in the Dubai transit lounge. He was also certain that when he left the hotel the next morning, he would have a tail. Before going to bed, he went to reception and asked for a taxi to be chartered for the next morning. The clerk asked where he would like to go in it.
“Oh, just a general sightseeing tour of the notable tourist landmarks of the city,” he said.
At eight a.m. the next day, the taxi was waiting. He greeted the driver with his usual, amiable harmless-American-tourist beam and they set off.
“I am going to need your help, my friend,” he
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