David Ignatius - Bloodmoney

“You never misunderstand anything, Mohammed. You are a very smart man. And I have always admired you, truly I have, as a fine gentleman and a patriot. Yes, indeed.”

Hoffman adjusted his round form in the chair, tilting himself toward his host, as if to make sure that his voice was heard.

“But I want you to realize, my old friend, that there are people in America-some of them pretty high up, too-who think, to be blunt, that you are diddling us. That you are not playing straight with us. That you tell us you’re our friend and ally, but at the same time you’re helping the people who kill our soldiers and even, perhaps, our unarmed civilians. You are playing us, in other words. That’s what these people think. And I want you to know-from me, a friend who respects and admires you-that this is a problem. You need to stop this behavior.”

The Pakistani was shaking his head. On his face there was a mournful look, a look that said: How could it have come to this? How could this man come to my country, to look me in the face and insult me in this way? He did not say those things, though they were plain enough in his manner, but instead said something that was much more direct and, in that sense, out of character.

“Look here, Cyril. There may be politicians in America who say these things, but as we say in our Punjabi language, they are dala and randi. Pimps and whores. Let us cut the bullshit. Shall we do that? Cut this bullshit? I know why you are here. And I know why you told me the fairy tale about the flag.”

“Oh, do you, now? Well, that’s a relief. Pray tell.”

“Yes, let me tell you about the real story, Cyril, not the make-believe one: An American was kidnapped in Karachi a week ago. We are very sorry for it. As I am sure you know, our police have been working to help.”

“Yes, yes. Thank you for that.” Hoffman nodded his big head.

“Now, this man appeared to be a businessman. But we are quite certain that he was something else. That he was an intelligence officer, to be blunt. But we didn’t understand who he was working for. He did not appear to be working for your esteemed organization, Cyril, not for any part of it that we know, but for some other entity, which we do not understand. We do not like that, not at all. It is you who should apologize, sir, not me. This is a most gross violation of our sovereignty. It required a response, and so it was farewell for Mr. Barkin.”

Hoffman shrugged. He folded his arms across his chest. He looked like Humpty Dumpty in a summer suit.

The Pakistani was angry. His pride had been injured, and that was not an easy wound to salve. His voice was sharper now.

“I did not expect a comment. I did not ask for one. But I must tell you, this turn of events bothers us. We do not like it when our ‘friends’ play games in our backyard. In that respect, my dear sir, we are just like you.

“What I dislike especially, Cyril,” he continued, “is the implication in your comments-and in the fact of your visit-that we had something to do with this poor man’s disappearance. That is truly offensive to me. After all that we have done and suffered, all the terrorist bombs, all the dead, to be accused of murder. This makes me angry.”

Hoffman put up his hand, bidding the Pakistani to stop. He spoke more gently now.

“It was not my purpose to offend you, Mohammed. Truly it wasn’t. And of course I can’t comment on this fanciful story you just told me about the disappearance of a gentleman who, if memory serves, was working for a financial firm in London. But let me simply say, to my dear and esteemed friend, that if we thought your service was in any way connected with the disappearance of an American citizen, under these circumstances, we would take that most seriously. Yes sir, most seriously, indeed.”

“We did not do it, Cyril. We know nothing about it.” He spoke gravely, as people do when they are telling a most serious and important lie.

Hoffman stared unblinking into the eyes of his host.

“Heck, I never said you did.”

“Let me repeat: We did not do it. We have no contact with these people whatsoever. If you think we do, you are mistaken.”

“Well, that’s nice,” said Hoffman. He smiled. But his tone made clear that he did not believe his host. There they were, two old friends, each making statements the other was quite sure were false.

The Pakistani opened his arms, palms out, in a gesture of frustration. How could it have reached this point of impasse? He took another sip of his tea, now cold, and closed his eyes for a moment to clear his head.

“Now, Cyril, I will tell you something, because we are friends,” said the general. He spoke softly at first, but his voice gained strength.

“You are looking in the wrong place. You are making a mistake that is characteristic of your country. I am surprised to hear you make it, because you are smarter than most of your fellows, but there we are.”

“I’m listening, Mohammed. What’s the mistake?”

“You do not realize your vulnerability. You do not realize that your adversary could do to you what you have been doing to them. There is a leak, my dear. I cannot say what it is, but it is for you to discover. I am sorry. Although you have been very clever in this new covert business, whatever it is, somehow they have found you out.”

“Old Cyril is a little slow today. You better explain more.”

“I cannot, sir. That is my point. I do not know. But someone knows. That is what you must consider.”

“These riddles are giving me a headache, Mohammed. Why don’t you tell me what it is you have to say?”

“Why should I? How can I? You have just accused me, more or less, of murder. Why should I think that you will listen to anything I say?”

“Do me a favor. Just say it. Tell me how we’ve been busted. Come on, say it, goddamn it.”

The general shook his head. He did not like to hear profanity, especially in the sanctuary of his own quarters.

“I have already told you the essential fact, Cyril. They are on to you. The fact that you did not understand me illustrates the problem. You ask me for more, but there is no more. Perhaps you will think about it as you fly home. Maybe you will think about it, at greater length, when you are home. Maybe you will do something about it. I cannot say. It is not my problem. It is yours.”

The general rose. The meeting was over. He shook the American’s hand, and then, feeling that this was not enough, kissed him again on the cheeks. This time, Hoffman did not reciprocate. And it was a cold hand that he offered, for he was certain that the Pakistani, for all his fine words, had been false with him.

The Pakistani looked at his visitor, his face registering at once anger and injury.

“He’s dead, by the way, your man in Karachi. The body cannot be recovered, but I do not think you would want to see it. His passing was a blessing, under the circumstances. Our police will say that he had an accident. He went trekking. Fell off a cliff. That will save us both from embarrassment. We will put something in a coffin and send it back to London. You can worry about the rest.”

Cyril Hoffman nodded. How very like the Pakistanis, to tidy up the mess. What he thought, as he walked back into the heat of the Rawalpindi morning, was that his dear friend General Malik could not possibly know about the death of this American intelligence officer unless he was working with the people who killed him.

Dr. Omar al-Wazir parked his car along Scholar’s Drive and mounted the concrete steps to his office at the National University of Science and Technology. It was located west of Islamabad, in an otherwise desolate quadrant of ground off the Kashmir Highway known as H-12. It was as if the authorities wanted to quarantine science and keep it at a safe distance. The palms at the entrance were so wilted they were bent nearly double, and the potted plants that lined the walkway were just so many stalks and clods of dirt in the midsummer heat.