confided, leaning over the front seat. “What do you recommend?”
The car was heading up Constitution Avenue, past the French and Japanese embassies. Tracker, who had memorized the street map, nodded enthusiastically as the Supreme Court, the National Library, the presidential residence and Parliament were pointed out. He took notes. He also threw several glances out the back window. There was no tail. No need. The ISI man was driving.
It was a long tour with only two breaks. The driver took him past the front entrance of the truly impressive Faisal Mosque, where Tracker asked if photographs were permitted and, on being told they were, took a dozen from the car window.
They swung through the Blue Zone, with its streets of upmarket shops. The first stop came at the tailoring emporium known as British Suiting.
Tracker told the driver a friend had mentioned it as a place to have a very good suit hand-made in only two days. The driver agreed that was so and watched his American client disappear inside.
The staff were attentive and eager to please. Tracker selected a fine wool worsted, dark blue with a faint pinstripe. He was warmly congratulated on his taste and beamed away. Measuring took only fifteen minutes, and he was asked to return the next day for first fittings. He made a cash deposit in dollars, much appreciated, and before leaving asked if he might visit the men’s room.
It was, predictably, right at the back, past the stacked rolls of suiting fabric. Next to the lavatory door was another. When the shop assistant who had guided him there left, he gave it a push. It opened onto an alley. He closed the door, used the urinal and returned to the shop. He was ushered out the front. The taxi was waiting.
What he had not seen, but could guess, was that while he was out back, the driver had put his head through the door to check. He was told his client was “down the back.” The fitting rooms were also in that direction. He nodded and returned to his cab.
The only other stop came during a visit to the Kohsar Market, a major landmark. Here Tracker expressed a desire for a midmorning coffee and was pointed to Gloria Jean’s coffee shop. After coffee, he bought some British chocolate biscuits at A.M. Grocers, and told his driver they could now head back to the Serena.
Once there, he paid off the driver with a handsome tip, which he was confident would not go into the ISI budget but the driver’s pocket. A full report would be filed within the hour and a call would be made to British Suiting. Just to check.
Up in his room he composed and filed a report for the
Washington Post
. It was titled “A Morning Tour of Fascinating Islamabad.” It was deeply boring and would never see the light of day.
He had not brought a computer because he did not want any hard drive of his being removed and gutted. He used the telecoms room of the Serena. The dispatch was indeed intercepted and read by the same basement-confined official who had copied and filed the letter from the press attaché.
He lunched in the hotel dining room, then, approaching the front desk, announced he was going to take a stroll. As he left, a rather plump young man, ten years his junior but running to fat, peeled himself off a lobby sofa, stubbed out his cigarette, folded his newspaper and followed.
The Tracker may have been the older man, but he was a Marine and enjoyed power walking. Within two long avenues, the “tail” was jogging to keep up, puffing and wheezing and drenched in sweat. When finally he lost his quarry, he thought back to the report of the morning. On his second outing of the day, the American was certainly heading in the direction of British Suiting. The policeman headed in the same direction. He was a worried man. He had his unforgiving superiors to think about.
When he put his head around the door of the tailoring shop, his worries evaporated. Yes, the American was indeed inside, but he was “down the back.” The tail loitered
The car was heading up Constitution Avenue, past the French and Japanese embassies. Tracker, who had memorized the street map, nodded enthusiastically as the Supreme Court, the National Library, the presidential residence and Parliament were pointed out. He took notes. He also threw several glances out the back window. There was no tail. No need. The ISI man was driving.
It was a long tour with only two breaks. The driver took him past the front entrance of the truly impressive Faisal Mosque, where Tracker asked if photographs were permitted and, on being told they were, took a dozen from the car window.
They swung through the Blue Zone, with its streets of upmarket shops. The first stop came at the tailoring emporium known as British Suiting.
Tracker told the driver a friend had mentioned it as a place to have a very good suit hand-made in only two days. The driver agreed that was so and watched his American client disappear inside.
The staff were attentive and eager to please. Tracker selected a fine wool worsted, dark blue with a faint pinstripe. He was warmly congratulated on his taste and beamed away. Measuring took only fifteen minutes, and he was asked to return the next day for first fittings. He made a cash deposit in dollars, much appreciated, and before leaving asked if he might visit the men’s room.
It was, predictably, right at the back, past the stacked rolls of suiting fabric. Next to the lavatory door was another. When the shop assistant who had guided him there left, he gave it a push. It opened onto an alley. He closed the door, used the urinal and returned to the shop. He was ushered out the front. The taxi was waiting.
What he had not seen, but could guess, was that while he was out back, the driver had put his head through the door to check. He was told his client was “down the back.” The fitting rooms were also in that direction. He nodded and returned to his cab.
The only other stop came during a visit to the Kohsar Market, a major landmark. Here Tracker expressed a desire for a midmorning coffee and was pointed to Gloria Jean’s coffee shop. After coffee, he bought some British chocolate biscuits at A.M. Grocers, and told his driver they could now head back to the Serena.
Once there, he paid off the driver with a handsome tip, which he was confident would not go into the ISI budget but the driver’s pocket. A full report would be filed within the hour and a call would be made to British Suiting. Just to check.
Up in his room he composed and filed a report for the
Washington Post
. It was titled “A Morning Tour of Fascinating Islamabad.” It was deeply boring and would never see the light of day.
He had not brought a computer because he did not want any hard drive of his being removed and gutted. He used the telecoms room of the Serena. The dispatch was indeed intercepted and read by the same basement-confined official who had copied and filed the letter from the press attaché.
He lunched in the hotel dining room, then, approaching the front desk, announced he was going to take a stroll. As he left, a rather plump young man, ten years his junior but running to fat, peeled himself off a lobby sofa, stubbed out his cigarette, folded his newspaper and followed.
The Tracker may have been the older man, but he was a Marine and enjoyed power walking. Within two long avenues, the “tail” was jogging to keep up, puffing and wheezing and drenched in sweat. When finally he lost his quarry, he thought back to the report of the morning. On his second outing of the day, the American was certainly heading in the direction of British Suiting. The policeman headed in the same direction. He was a worried man. He had his unforgiving superiors to think about.
When he put his head around the door of the tailoring shop, his worries evaporated. Yes, the American was indeed inside, but he was “down the back.” The tail loitered
Similar Books
