The general wanted to travel light, with as small a footprint as possible. So he had requested a one-engine Mashaq trainer, rather than the fat Mi-17 cargo helicopter the air wing commander recommended. The pilot still hadn’t been told the destination when the DG-ISI arrived. General Malik waited until the little propeller had started to whirl and then put on his headset and spoke into the microphone:
“Do you know Wana garrison in South Waziristan?” he said. The pilot nodded. “Take me there.”
The young pilot gave the thumbs-up sign. He was from Gilgit in the north, with the light skin and high cheekbones of the mountains. He had flown the Wana route often enough since coming to Peshawar, usually to ferry officers of the Frontier Corps to their garrison deep in this most remote of the tribal areas. But he had never, in all his flying days, transported a three-star general. The air wing commander filed a hasty flight plan for them, and they were off.
The flight took nearly two hours. They bumped over the low mountain ranges south of Peshawar, toward Orakzai Agency and then south across the ancient princely states of Bannu and Tank, which had for centuries been way stations for caravans coming north from Karachi and the Arabian Sea. At Tank, the pilot banked west and steered the little plane into South Waziristan.
The landscape below was a dry corrugated wilderness: desolate mountains, jagged ridges mile after mile toward the Afghan border. Think of the rolling sea in a typhoon, but with the endless brutal waves formed of dirt and rock. The heat of summer shimmered off these trackless hills, producing a low haze that made it look all the more like the devil’s land. It was a place for snakes and scorpions, bugs and vermin. A humble goat would get lost amid these rocks, let alone a human being. The region might be impassable to outsiders; but it was a fortress home to the Wazir, Mehsud and Darwesh Khel tribesmen. Farming was all but impossible in these barren lands, so the natives since the beginning of time had been fierce hunters and brigands.
After the plane crested a last arid peak, almost at the Afghan frontier, a broad valley opened below, and in the middle of this flat ground, improbably neat, stood the town of Wana. Here was a small oasis of cultivation: There were apple orchards and wheat fields, and the fortlike compounds of the residents, each clan living behind high mud walls with gun towers at the four corners to protect them from their plundering neighbors.
Western philosophers might talk abstractly about the state of nature as a war of each against all; but here, it was the simple fact of life. The word “cousin” in Pashto had the same meaning as “enemy.”
At the edge of the town was an asphalt airstrip, baking in the sun. The small plane circled the outpost once at high altitude to scout the terrain, and then corkscrewed steeply down to the landing field. When the plane rolled to a stop, the pilot popped the hood. A wind was blowing, so that the heat radiated over the tarmac with the scorching ferocity of a convection oven.
A jeep was waiting to meet General Malik. He drove a half mile to a Pakistani military camp, where he changed out of his uniform into the traditional tribal costume of the Pashtuns, known as a shalwar khamiz, with loose cotton trousers and a long shirt. When he emerged from the dressing room, he looked to be a different man. The military starch and polish had disappeared.
Another car was waiting for him; this one was a dusty Land Rover several decades old. The driver was a local man who had been recruited by the ISI from the Waziristan Scouts. The general gave him a map and explained that he wanted to go to a particular compound, some miles outside of town, which was the home of the khan who headed one of the powerful Darwesh Khel clans along the western rim of Waziristan.
The Land Rover rumbled along until the pavement became gravel, and the gravel became dust. As they neared the compound, they encountered a checkpoint manned by tribal militiamen. The driver spoke to one of the guards, who waved him through. The visitor was expected. They stopped at the brown walls of the homestead. They were next door to helclass="underline" A few miles farther on began the rough hills, radiating fire-red in the midday sun. But this compound was, if not paradise, at least a place of respite.
The gate creaked open, and a young man bade the general to enter. Inside was an oasis, hidden from the world: There were fruit trees and bright-blooming flowers, and the gurgling sound of water that flowed through a handsome fountain. The general followed the young man to the villa at the far end of the courtyard. As they walked, they could hear the chug-chug of the gas turbine that powered the air conditioners and other appliances. A door opened, and they were welcomed into a room decorated with a fine carpet, patterns woven in rose and turquoise, and red-velvet couches and a table piled high with fresh fruits and sweets.
The Darwesh Khel clan leader, Azim Khan, rose to greet the visitor. He wore his white beard trimmed, rather than in the woolly bush of his neighbors, because he was partly a city man. They exchanged a kiss of mutual respect and trust, and the host professed that he was honored: One of the most powerful men in Pakistan had come alone and unarmed to see him, bringing a blessing to his home. But the host was nervous, too. He feared that the visitor had come to punish him.
Azim Khan lived most of the time in Karachi, where he had land and villas, and a prosperous nephew who worked at Habib Bank Tower. But for the past week, the old man had gone to ground-returned to his tribal homeland and stayed within the mud walls of his compound. He was frightened and confused, and so he hid.
The khan summoned one of his grandsons to bring tea and a heaping platter of fruits, and then a tray of sweets for his guest. Then, when they had eaten and drunk, he asked the others to leave the room, so that he could talk with the visitor alone.
“Let us not pretend,” began the general. “It is enough for the others to tell lies. But between us, it must be only the truth. One lie and the clear water will become cloudy. Do we agree on that, my friend?”
Azim Khan put his hand on his heart, in a show of sincerity. “Koag bar tar manzela na rasagei,” he said, quoting a proverb in the Pashto language, which means, “A tilted load won’t reach its destination.” He translated it into Urdu for the general.
“I know that you were going to meet with the Americans last week,” said the general. “It was wrong, what you planned to do. But I forgive you.”
“Thank you, General Sahib. I do not deserve your mercy.”
“I want to talk with you about the Americans,” continued the general. “I need to understand what they want. Their actions confuse me. How many times have you talked with them?”
“Only once, sir. The second meeting was to take place a week ago. But that did not happen, as you know.”
“What did you discuss before, at the first meeting?”
“We were in the Emirates, sir. The American man asked me to come there, with my nephew. He said that they wanted peace with the Pashtun people, so that we would be their friends. They wanted to begin with the Darwesh Khel people, so that others would follow. All the wealth of America would assist us in this project, he said. I told him I would consider it.”
“Did he offer money personally to you, Azim Khan? Please be honest, my brother. Let there be no grit of lies in this pure brew we are sharing.”