The others retreated from the room, including the ISI case officer who had arranged the meeting, and even the young commander’s bodyguards, who were present with him always and everywhere. There remained just the distinguished Pakistani general, his mustache finely trimmed as always, and the fearsome tribal warrior.
“It is a pleasure to see you again,” said the general. “You have been busy. We hear about you. But we do not see you.”
The young fighter responded with appropriate reticence, by quoting a Pashtun saying. “ Da khali daig ghag lor de,” he said, which means, “An empty vessel makes much noise.” This vessel, real and full, was silent.
General Malik answered in his own ritual phrases, proverbs rather than declarative sentences. To have done otherwise would have seemed barbaric.
“You are a mojahid, Commander Hassan. It is said that cowards cause harm to brave men, but clearly there are no cowards among you. It is said that fear and shame are father and son, but you do not know these emotions. You are from another family, I can see that.”
The young fighter bowed his head at the compliments and offered thanks to God for his success.
“Now I must ask you a question, Hassan. For that is part of why we talk, you and I, so that I can ask and you can tell.”
“Yes, badshah, I understand.” He paused then, and unwound his turban slowly, so that his long hair was free. It was rich and lustrous, even in the heat of the house. He swept it back from his face. He was a young lion, this one.
Hassan spoke another Pashtun phrase: “Wrori ba kawu hesab tar menza.” This one was unfamiliar to the general, so he asked what it meant. The young man translated into Urdu: “We will behave like brothers, but we shall know what is yours and what is mine.”
“So then I will ask: How is the American man, the one who disappeared in Karachi?”
“He is dead, General. He died several days ago.”
“Did he die badly?”
“Yes, General. He would not talk at first, so we had to use methods. Then it becomes hard. It must end.”
The general nodded. He had used torture himself, but he did not like it. He turned back to Commander Hassan.
“What did you learn from the American? I think he had many secrets, this one. Perhaps you can tell me.”
“Ah, badshah, we have our secrets, too. We cannot tell you everything. You are our enemy, sir, when you are not our friend. But I will tell you a little.”
The general put his hand on his heart. It was a dignified way to say that he was grateful.
“The American worked for the CIA. You know that. But it was a part of the CIA that was not the CIA. It was something new and evil. A new way to spread lies.”
“What was he doing here?” The general thought he knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it, just the same.
“He came with money, to give to a traitor from the Darwesh Kheclass="underline" a soft Pashtun man, not a fighter. The American was going to bring him more money, and more money, until he had bought up as many of our people as were for sale. That was his mission. They know they are losing, you see. They want the war to be over, so they hope to buy peace. It is always this way with the gora. ” They run up the hill, but they do not know how to get down.”
The general nodded. He waited for the young man to say more about Azim Khan, but he didn’t. Instead, he spat into a bowl beside his chair.
“Did the American confess how his organization operates?” asked the general.
“Yes, as much as he understood. It hides inside of businesses. It has a big headquarters. He said before he died that it was in Los Angeles, but how can we check? He pretended to work for a finance company in London. They sent him on his travels, as if he were one of them.”
“And will Al-Tawhid pursue other members of this CIA that is not a CIA?”
“Forever. We are not finished with the Americans, or with the Pakistanis who have been so misguided that they chose to help the Americans.”
The general didn’t take the bait. He nodded again, and then spoke more softly, so that the young warrior had to lean toward him to hear.
“I have one more question about this incident, Commander. Then we can talk of our other affairs. And my question is this: How did you know that the American was here in Pakistan? How did you know that he was working for this CIA that is not the CIA? That is a very big secret. How did you discover it?”
“This, sir, I cannot tell you.”
“Why is that, Brother Hassan? Is it because you do not trust me? For I tell you, this is the most important thing, what I have asked. I want you to answer me.”
“It is true that I do not trust you, badshah. But that is not the reason I will not tell you.”
“Why, then? When I have humbled myself and told you that I want this information especially, only for you to shame me in this way?”
“Because I do not know the answer. We have a friend who gives us this information. He is our teacher and guide. But how he obtains it, I do not know. Nor do I know his identity. We never see or hear him. We received an electronic message about the American in Karachi. We did not ask more questions. As we say in our Pashto language, Chi na kar, pa hagha the sa kar. When it is not your business, stay away.”
“Why does this mysterious guide help you, Commander Hassan?”
“I cannot say, General. Why does the scorpion sting when he is disturbed, or the wolf devour his prey? He has a reason, this man, but I do not know what it is. He is our ghost.”
General Malik reflected a moment. He sensed from the man’s demeanor that he was being truthful. The commander did not know this secret of how the American’s deep-cover identity had been cracked, but perhaps he could find out. And if not him, perhaps it could be discovered by one of the ISI’s other contacts in the brotherhood of Al-Tawhid.
“So what did you learn from this experience with the American, Commander Hassan? Not the little things that we have discussed, but the big thing?”
Hassan thought a moment. He ran his fingers through that long hair once more, and then spoke in his Pashto tongue.
“ Da maar bachai maar wee. This is what I know: The baby of a snake is also a snake. This new CIA is worse than the old one. Its money is more dangerous than its rockets. For that, General, you must beware.”
“Grant me another request, then, so that I will not leave with anger. For many years I have heard in these lands of ‘the professor.’ But this man is unknown to me.”
The commander looked at his visitor suspiciously. “I do not know who you are talking about.”
“Yes, you do. We have listened to your talk. Some call him the professor. Others call him ustad. We think maybe he talks with the Americans, maybe he works against them. We hear his footsteps, but we cannot find him. Where is he?”
The Pashtun man emitted a low guttural sound that might have been a snort or a laugh.
“Nowhere, sir. That is where he is. He does not exist. You have been dreaming, I think. There is no such man.”
The conversation continued in the Quetta hideaway for another hour, as the two men exchanged information and offered reciprocal promises. The general wanted help in planning operations against other Muslim groups, ones that Al-Tawhid despised. These other groups targeted their operations against the “little enemy,” the Pakistani army and state, rather than the “big enemy” of America. Commander Hassan shared information. Of course he did. That is how people survive in the East. For it is said: Friends are serpents; they bite.
General Malik did not offer information himself. He left that to his ISI case officer, a pudgy colonel whom he summoned late in the meeting. This man did what could not be done.
While General Malik paid a visit to the toilet, the colonel provided names, cell phone numbers, ISI contacts who would be helpful. He advised which villages in the tribal areas to stay away from, because they were on the American target list. He handed over new communications devices, whose frequencies were not tracked by the Americans. He was helpful, in all the big and little ways that are part of the secret world.