David Ignatius: Bloodmoney

“I never forget that, Mohammed, not for one day.”

“Well, then, I have a question for you. Normally, I would not trouble you in the late afternoon with such a detail, but this one is rather important. I hope you will forgive the imposition, and apologize to Mrs. Barkin for delaying your return home this evening.”

“Mrs. Barkin lives in Washington, General. I don’t know if I can give you an answer, but I won’t tell you a lie.”

General Malik smiled. Americans did not like lying to others. It made them uncomfortable. Their specialty was lying to themselves.

“Well, now, sir. Here it is: Are you running operations in Pakistan outside of your normal organization? Forgive me for being so blunt, but that is what I must ask.”

Barkin cocked his head, as if he had ear trouble and wanted to make sure he’d heard it right. He might be old, but he wasn’t stupid.

“Sorry, I didn’t quite hear that, General. What do you mean?”

The Pakistani sat back in his chair. He put his hands together and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he spoke again, louder this time.

“Let me state the question as clearly as I can, sir: Is the United States sending intelligence officers into Pakistan outside the normal CIA cover channels? Is your agency doing it? Or is some other agency doing it? That is what I want to know: Are you running a new game against us? You see, we think that we know you well, but we hear rumblings of something that we do not know. And let us be honest: No ones likes to be surprised.”

Barkin’s mouth puckered as if he had just eaten something bad.

“Shit, Mohammed. You know I can’t answer a question like that. I mean, hell, we run all sorts of operations, declared and undeclared, just like you do. We have agency employees at the embassy who conduct liaison with your service, and you know their names. But if I told you that we had no other presence in Pakistan, and no nonofficial officers, you know I’d be lying. But that’s business, right? We don’t look up your skirt, and we don’t expect you to start looking up ours.”

The American gave him a wink, as if they were two old poker players who knew the casino rules. But the Pakistani was not in a mood for professional courtesy.

“I am talking about something different, Homer. I know all about your NOCs. I could name a dozen for you. I know all about your ‘forward-deployed military assets.’ Perhaps I even know the names of your contractors, including the ones who work for other agencies, which you, my dear friend, are not supposed to know about. But this is different.”

“Hey, Mohammed, I’m just a farm boy from Pennsylvania. I’m not getting it. You better tell me what you mean, straight up.”

The Pakistani general sighed. He did not like to be so direct. It was awkward. But he had no choice.

“We have picked up signs of a new capability, Homer, with new missions. I cannot be more specific. But we see something coming toward us that we do not like. And I want you to know that. For, you know, we must protect ourselves.”

Barkin shook his head again. He moistened his lips, as if to prepare the way for what he was about to say.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. We don’t have any new capabilities. Not that I know about. Hell, we can’t even manage the old ones we’ve got. You’re barking up the wrong tree here, pal.”

“I could call Cyril Hoffman at Headquarters and complain that you are an obstructionist and should come home. He would not be amused.”

“Call whoever you like, Mohammed. I am telling you the truth.”

General Malik studied his visitor, trying to decide whether he was believable. A ruined man is harder to read than a fresh, eager one. His lies could be tucked into the bags under his eyes, or hidden in the folds of flesh below his chin. It was hard to know, but if the general had been forced to make a wager, he would have bet that the American was telling the truth. Whatever was going on, he probably didn’t know about it.

The Pakistani changed the subject. The ISI had gathered new evidence of Indian funding for the nationalist movement in Baluchistan. This was a most serious matter. General Malik would be sending a report, for transmittal to Langley. And he was very sorry, the new American requests for visas could not be approved at present. The two men talked for thirty minutes about such details, never returning to the subject that had vexed General Malik.

When the meeting was done, Homer Barkin shook the ISI chief’s hand, not quite so heartily as before, and lumbered away. He was at the door when the general put his hand on the station chief’s shoulder. Malik spoke quietly in parting, without his usual bob and weave.

“Be careful, my friend,” said the Pakistani. “If you stick your fingers in new places, they may get cut off.”

“Too late for that, Mohammed,” said Barkin. “Whatever this is about, it’s already done and gone. And it’s not going to be my problem, anyway. It belongs to you, and somebody back home I don’t even know.”

The general had a walled garden next to his office, with a few square feet of well-tended grass, as green as a cricket pitch, and an honor guard of rosebushes that were soft pastels in the last light of the afternoon. When General Malik had a puzzle to solve, he liked to sit here alone, in a wooden Adirondack chair that he had bought years ago in the United States.

Malik entered his garden now, and installed himself in what he liked to call his thinking chair. He lit up a cigarette, one of the few indulgences he permitted himself. A steward emerged, clad in white gloves and military livery, and asked if he wanted anything to eat or drink, but the general shooed him away.

What were the Americans doing? It was hardly the first time General Malik had asked himself that question over the years, and there were other puzzles marked USA that he was trying to work out. But this time it had a special edge: The Americans were changing the rules of the game. They must think they were being clever in Washington, but they were walking into terrain where nobody could help them-not the general, not his agents, not their clandestine contacts. The Americans would blame Pakistan for their troubles, and in particular the general’s own service, but they were the mischief-makers. They would get caught, and it would be their fault.

The general had a rule in life: Do not interrupt someone when he is making a mistake. Let others make their moves first, so that you can react and turn them to advantage. The general had his contacts; he would watch and wait. To say that the Pakistani was playing a double game did not do him justice; his strategy was far more complicated than that.

Sophie Marx was up before dawn. She had a phone date with one of her officers in London, a skittish man named Howard Egan who was heading for Karachi and wasn’t happy about it. Marx was one of those people who had a knack for waking up just before the alarm sounded, even if it was five a.m., as if her eyelids were wired to a celestial timer. She rolled the width of the mattress to disarm the clock. Her big bed was empty, as usual. She was picky. She was still in her thirties, still in middle school in the secret world, but one of her discoveries as she had grown older was that most things in life didn’t measure up to their promise. Many women teach themselves to lie to get along, but Marx wasn’t one of them.

She went for a quick run in her neighborhood of Sherman Oaks, striding past the stunted palm trees and the half-green lawns, and then showered and dressed for work. She had a face and body that were easy to take care of: long, jet-black hair that framed a face that was the soft, thin color of skim milk. She had just wisps of eyebrows that arched naturally in a way that looked mischievous, even when she was serious. When she wore her shirts unbuttoned a notch, she looked like a tomboy rather than a tease.