outside Mobilink, found a friendly doorway, leaned against the wall, unfolded his newspaper and lit up.
In fact, the Tracker had spent no time in the fitting room. After being welcomed, he explained with a display of embarrassment that he had developed an upset stomach and please could he use the loo? Yes, he knew the way.
Farangi
sustaining an upset stomach is as predictable as the sun rising. He slipped out the back door, trotted down the alley and into a main boulevard. A passing taxi, seeing his wave, swerved to the curb. This was a genuine cab, driven by a simple Pakistani driver trying to make a living. Foreigners can always be driven the long scenic route without realizing it, and dollars are dollars.
The Tracker knew he was going the long way around, but it was better than making a fuss. Twenty dollars later on a five-dollar fare, he was dropped where he wanted. The junction of two streets in the Pink Zone, the fringes of Rawalpindi and the area of military homes. When the cab had gone, he completed the last two hundred yards on foot.
It was a modest little villa, neat but not generous, with a plaque, in English and Urdu, reading “Col. M. A. Shah.” He knew the army started early and broke early. He knocked. There was a shuffling sound. The door opened a few inches. Dark inside, a dark face, careworn but once beautiful. Mrs. Shah? No maid; not a prosperous household.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. I have come to talk with Colonel Ali Shah. Is he in?”
From inside a male voice called, something in Urdu. She turned and replied. The door swung wide open and a middle-aged male appeared. Neatly trimmed hair, a clipped mustache, clean-shaven, very military. The colonel had changed out of uniform into mufti. Even so, he exhaled self-importance. But his surprise at seeing a dark-suited American was genuine.
“Good afternoon, sir. Do I have the honor of addressing Colonel Ali Shah?”
He was just a lieutenant colonel but was not going to object. And the phrasing of the request did no harm.
“Yes, indeed.”
“My lucky day, sir. I would have rung, but I had no private phone number for you. I pray I do not come at a bad moment.”
“Well, er, no, but what is it . . .”
“The fact is, Colonel, my good friend General Shawqat told me over dinner last night that you were the man to talk to in my quest. Could we . . .”
The Tracker gestured inside, and the bewildered officer backed off and held the door wide open. He would have thrown a quivering salute and stood with his back to the wall if the commander in chief had walked by. Gen. Shawqat, no less, and he and the American dined together.
“Of course, where are my manners? Please come in.”
He led the way into a modestly furnished sitting room. His wife hovered. “Chai,” barked the colonel, and she scuttled away to prepare the tea, the ritual welcome for honored guests.
The Tracker offered his card: Dan Priest, senior staff writer for the
Washington Post
.
“Sir, I have been tasked by my editor, with the full approval of your government, to create a portrait of Mullah Omar. As you will understand, he is, even after all these years, a very reclusive figure and little known. The general gave me to believe you had met and conversed with him.”
“Well, I don’t know about . . .”
“Oh, come now, you’re too modest. My friend told me you accompanied him to Quetta eleven years ago and played a crucial role in bilateral talks.”
Colonel Ali Shah held himself rather straighter as the American lavished on the compliments. So Gen. Shawqat
had
noticed him. He steepled his fingertips and agreed that he had indeed conversed with the one-eyed Taliban leader.
Tea arrived. As she served it, Tracker noticed that Mrs. Ali Shah had the most extraordinary jade green eyes. He had heard of this before. The mountain people from the tribes along the Durand Line, that wild frontier between Afghanistan and Pakistan.
It was said that twenty-three hundred years ago
In fact, the Tracker had spent no time in the fitting room. After being welcomed, he explained with a display of embarrassment that he had developed an upset stomach and please could he use the loo? Yes, he knew the way.
Farangi
sustaining an upset stomach is as predictable as the sun rising. He slipped out the back door, trotted down the alley and into a main boulevard. A passing taxi, seeing his wave, swerved to the curb. This was a genuine cab, driven by a simple Pakistani driver trying to make a living. Foreigners can always be driven the long scenic route without realizing it, and dollars are dollars.
The Tracker knew he was going the long way around, but it was better than making a fuss. Twenty dollars later on a five-dollar fare, he was dropped where he wanted. The junction of two streets in the Pink Zone, the fringes of Rawalpindi and the area of military homes. When the cab had gone, he completed the last two hundred yards on foot.
It was a modest little villa, neat but not generous, with a plaque, in English and Urdu, reading “Col. M. A. Shah.” He knew the army started early and broke early. He knocked. There was a shuffling sound. The door opened a few inches. Dark inside, a dark face, careworn but once beautiful. Mrs. Shah? No maid; not a prosperous household.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. I have come to talk with Colonel Ali Shah. Is he in?”
From inside a male voice called, something in Urdu. She turned and replied. The door swung wide open and a middle-aged male appeared. Neatly trimmed hair, a clipped mustache, clean-shaven, very military. The colonel had changed out of uniform into mufti. Even so, he exhaled self-importance. But his surprise at seeing a dark-suited American was genuine.
“Good afternoon, sir. Do I have the honor of addressing Colonel Ali Shah?”
He was just a lieutenant colonel but was not going to object. And the phrasing of the request did no harm.
“Yes, indeed.”
“My lucky day, sir. I would have rung, but I had no private phone number for you. I pray I do not come at a bad moment.”
“Well, er, no, but what is it . . .”
“The fact is, Colonel, my good friend General Shawqat told me over dinner last night that you were the man to talk to in my quest. Could we . . .”
The Tracker gestured inside, and the bewildered officer backed off and held the door wide open. He would have thrown a quivering salute and stood with his back to the wall if the commander in chief had walked by. Gen. Shawqat, no less, and he and the American dined together.
“Of course, where are my manners? Please come in.”
He led the way into a modestly furnished sitting room. His wife hovered. “Chai,” barked the colonel, and she scuttled away to prepare the tea, the ritual welcome for honored guests.
The Tracker offered his card: Dan Priest, senior staff writer for the
Washington Post
.
“Sir, I have been tasked by my editor, with the full approval of your government, to create a portrait of Mullah Omar. As you will understand, he is, even after all these years, a very reclusive figure and little known. The general gave me to believe you had met and conversed with him.”
“Well, I don’t know about . . .”
“Oh, come now, you’re too modest. My friend told me you accompanied him to Quetta eleven years ago and played a crucial role in bilateral talks.”
Colonel Ali Shah held himself rather straighter as the American lavished on the compliments. So Gen. Shawqat
had
noticed him. He steepled his fingertips and agreed that he had indeed conversed with the one-eyed Taliban leader.
Tea arrived. As she served it, Tracker noticed that Mrs. Ali Shah had the most extraordinary jade green eyes. He had heard of this before. The mountain people from the tribes along the Durand Line, that wild frontier between Afghanistan and Pakistan.
It was said that twenty-three hundred years ago
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