David Ignatius: Bloodmoney

“I don’t believe you,” said Malik. “He is a Pakistani who, according to you, is part of a terrorist plot to kill Americans. How could he possibly be in touch with your intelligence agencies?”

“Yes, I know what you’re thinking: How can he be one of yours? He’s one of ours.”

General Malik snorted. “This is all bosh.”

“Stranger things have happened, Mohammed. Good and decent Pakistani patriots share information with the United States. Why not terrorists? I don’t want to get personal. But you, of all people, should know that the United States of America has a long reach.”

“Whatever are you talking about?”

There was an edge of anxiety in the Pakistani’s voice. He wasn’t used to the normally genial American speaking this way.

“Let’s be honest, for once, Mohammed. I am thinking of a young Pakistani Army officer in the United States for training, at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, to be precise. That gentleman certainly enjoyed the hospitality of the United States, yes, he did. It was good for his bank account, too, helped get him started up the ladder. You should see his 201 file. I have, and I can tell you, it makes very interesting reading after all these years.”

General Malik put the phone down for a moment. His hand was trembling slightly, and his face had gone ashen. He was a military man, and his life had been an exercise in self-control.

“This is intolerable, Cyril. You are a scoundrel.”

“You flatter me. I’m just doing my job, a humble civil servant; I’m a patriot, too, like yourself. But I got off the subject. I was talking about the good Dr. al-Wazir and his surprising contacts with the United States. I thought that might concern you.”

“It certainly would, if it were true. Any contact by a Pakistani national with a foreign intelligence service concerns me. I have been on watch for that very thing, sir.”

“Yes, right. Well, listen to this, my friend. In a matter of hours, the duplicitous Professor al-Wazir is going to be on a flight to London. And while he is there, I have reason to believe that he intends to meet secretly with an official of the United States government. And I just thought that was something you would like to know.”

“This is another of your tricks. How do I know that you are not lying?”

“You don’t have to trust me, Mohammed. I agree that’s never a good idea. Have your people check the manifest of flights leaving for London. The man will be on it. I suggest you get to London, too. Please don’t try to stop him from going. Then you’ll never know what his real game was. You’ll miss the party. Follow me?”

“Yes, I follow you, to the extent there is any path here that a sane man could discern.”

“Good. And since you’ve been such a friend to the United States all these years, I’m going to give you another tip I’ve picked up from one of my sources. How would you like that?”

“I never refuse a tip. Bad practice in our business.”

“The meeting between the esteemed doctor and his American friend is going to take place at Kew Gardens on Saturday, at four o’ clock in the afternoon. The meeting will be in the far western corner of the park. I can send you a map in a few minutes. What do you think about that?”

“How do I know this isn’t a trap?”

“You don’t know, Mohammed. That’s why I would come armed, if I were in your position. That way, if you don’t like what you see, you can do something about it. But don’t bring an army with you. The Brits won’t like that. Just bring a bodyguard. A good shooter.”

“I’ll think about it,” said the Pakistani.

“Don’t think too hard. Bad for your health. Makes you stay up late at night worrying about things you can’t change. What’s done is done; overdone, in this case. So I’ll assume we have a date, until I hear otherwise.”

Now General Malik was sitting in his cabin on the airplane. The steward arrived and offered a beverage before takeoff. The general had a whiskey, and then a second one when they were in the air. It was a long flight, and they would have to stop and refuel in Turkey, which was a nuisance. The general had brought along one of his favorite books, Vanity Fair, by Thackeray, which he liked to reread every half dozen years or so. He especially liked the battle scenes. But he found this night that he was unable to concentrate.

He put on his pajamas and took a draught of powder. He wanted to sleep. In the minutes before he was enveloped by a heavy, dulling slumber, he thought of the Americans: They were on all sides of every deal they made; they were the gambler at the table, and they also owned the casino. Even when you thought you understood what they were doing, you couldn’t be sure, because they didn’t know themselves.

It was a beguiling Saturday afternoon for an outing in the park. Summer was at the cusp; a cool breeze rustled the trees in a shimmer of green. There had been rain overnight, and the well-nourished grass sparkled in the sun like a glistening jewel. The motorways west had been crowded in the morning, but by afternoon the traffic had thinned out, especially south of the Thames on the way to the Royal Botanical Gardens.

Kew was a trophy of imperial days that had survived into the post-colonial age. It had been built with the explorer’s spirit that had sent the East India Company off to Calcutta and Karachi. It was filled with imperial kitsch: a pogoda, a glass house fit for a maharaja, a conservatory sculpted like a Greek temple, exotic flowers and trees from every point of the compass. It was, you might say, the perfect place to assemble a group from the former empire.

Jeffrey Gertz was the first to enter the Kew compound. He had prepared for battle, just so, but nothing ever goes as planned. He had organized a half dozen shooters, dressed like Saturday tourists, but there was trouble at the gate. British security was tight, and the weapons were found at the entrance. Gertz’s men were detained and taken to Richmond for questioning. They would be there all afternoon, the detective sergeant at the station had advised. Fortunately, Gertz had planted a weapon for himself near the meeting site the day before, with help from a British security officer who had contacts in the Metropolitan Police.

Gertz would manage on his own. He had a big heart, and anyway, relying on other people always created problems. He entered the gardens at Victoria Gate, on the southeast side. Ahead of him was the curved glass facade of the Palm House, ribbed with white metal stays. It enclosed the tall palms like a giant hatbox. Gertz skirted the pond behind the Palm House and lingered by the rose garden, to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Then he moved west toward the meeting place.

The meeting with Dr. Omar was to take place just past the Badger Sett, a Christopher Robin sort of place carved out under the roots of a giant oak tree. That had been a strange choice, Gertz had first thought, but when he looked on the map he saw that it was the farthest landmark from the main gate, and thus the best venue for a clandestine contact. That had always been one of Dr. Omar’s talents, Gertz knew. He was meticulous about his tradecraft. That was why he had survived so long.

Gertz continued down the long promenade. The lake, narrow as a fjord and shining crystal-blue in the afternoon sun, was on his right. To the left was the grand Victorian structure known as the Temperate House, a name you could give to this whole damned country, as far as Gertz was concerned, so cool and well put together, never a hair or a shingle out of place. It was a wonder that they had managed to field a good army for so many centuries, but that was pretty well gone now.