Frederick Forsyth - The Kill List

There was a Pakistani couple already there, a doctor and his wife. Others arrived. One other embassy car, which came inside the compound. Others parked on the street. A couple from an aid agency, able to explain the difficulty of persuading the religious zealots up in Bajaur to permit polio vaccination of local children. Tracker knew there was one man present he had come to see and one not yet arrived. The rest of the guests were cover, like the entire dinner.

The missing man came with his mother and father. The father was forthcoming and jovial. He had concessions in the mining of semiprecious stones in Pakistan, and even in Afghanistan, and was voluble in explaining the difficulties the present situation was causing his business.

The son was about thirty-five, content simply to say he was in the army, though he was in civilian clothes. Tracker had been briefed about him, too.

The other American diplomat was introduced as Stephen Dennis, the cultural attaché. It was a good cover because it would be perfectly natural both for the press attaché to offer a dinner for a star American journalist and for the cultural attaché to be invited along.

Tracker knew he was really the number two in the CIA station. The head of station was a “declared” intelligence officer, meaning that the CIA was perfectly open about who he was and what he did. In any embassy on tricky territory, the fun is working out who the “undeclareds” really are. The host government usually has a number of suspicions, some accurate, but can never be sure. It is the undeclareds who do the espionage, usually using local nationals who can be turned to do a new employer’s bidding.

It was a convivial dinner with wine and, later, drams of Johnnie Walker Black Label, which happens to be the tipple of choice of the entire officer corps, Islam or not. As the guests mingled over coffee, Steve Dennis nodded to the Tracker and drifted to the outside terrace. Tracker followed. The third to join them was the young Pakistani.

Within a few sentences, it became clear he was not only army but also ISI. Because of the westernized education his father had been able to give him, he had been singled out to penetrate British and American society in the city and report back on anything of use that he heard. In fact, the reverse had happened.

Steve Dennis had spotted him in days and done a reverse recruitment. Javad had become the CIA’s mole inside the ISI. It was to him that the Tracker’s request had been directed. He had quietly entered the archive department on a pretext and searched the records under the year 2002 and Mullah Omar.

“Whoever your source was, Mr. Priest,” he murmured on the terrace, “he has a good memory. There was indeed a covert visit in 2002 to Quetta to confer with Mullah Omar. It was headed by then-one-star-general Shawqat, now commander of the entire army.”

“And the boy who spoke Pashto?”

“Indeed, though there is no mention of that. Simply that in the delegation was a Major Musharraf Ali Shah of the Armored Infantry. Among the seat allocations on the aircraft, and sharing a room with his father in Quetta, is a listing for a son, Zulfiqar.”

He produced a slip of paper and passed it over. It had an address in Islamabad.

“Any further reference to the boy?”

“A few. I checked again under his name and patronymic. It seems he went bad. There are references to him leaving home and going to the Tribal Areas to join Lashkar-e-Taiba. We have had several agents deep inside for many years. A young man of that name was reported to be among them, fanatically Jihadist, seeking action.

“He managed to get acceptance into the 313 Brigade.”

Tracker had heard of the 313, named after the warriors, just 313 in number, who stood with the Prophet against hundreds of foes.

“Then he disappeared again. Our sources reported rumors that he had gone to join the Haqqani clan, which would have been facilitated by his Pashto, which is all they speak. But where? Somewhere in the three Tribal Areas — North and South Waziristan or Bajaur. Then nothing, silence. No more Ali Shah.”

Others wanted to join them on the terrace. Tracker pocketed the slip of paper and thanked Javad. An hour later, his embassy car took him back to the Serena.

In his room he checked the three or four tiny telltales he had laid; human hairs stuck with saliva across drawers and the lock of his wheelie. They were gone. The room had been searched.

The Tracker had a name and an address, along with a street map of Islamabad, brought to him by the departed John Smith in the Dubai transit lounge. He was also certain that when he left the hotel the next morning, he would have a tail. Before going to bed, he went to reception and asked for a taxi to be chartered for the next morning. The clerk asked where he would like to go in it.

“Oh, just a general sightseeing tour of the notable tourist landmarks of the city,” he said.

At eight a.m. the next day, the taxi was waiting. He greeted the driver with his usual, amiable harmless-American-tourist beam and they set off.

“I am going to need your help, my friend,” he 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.