The Pakistani general left his garden chair and walked up the stairs through the open doors into his office. It was Hoffman on the line, coming immediately to the point without the usual patter.
“We know who he is,” said the American. “So do you.”
“That is an unpleasant way to begin a conversation, Cyril, out of the blue. Whatever do you mean?”
“We know the identity of the bomber who has been killing my American colleagues. The gentleman’s name is Dr. Omar al-Wazir, as you surely must be aware by now. He’s on our target list. But I don’t think the time is ripe quite yet.”
“I am the one who should be making the protests, Cyril.”
“About what, pray tell?”
“There were bombings last night in Peshawar and Karachi. Our analysts think they were connected to the gentleman you mention, a distinguished scientist, I might add, well known to our military service. If we thought there was the slightest connection between those bombings and the United States government, it would have the most serious repercussions.”
“You won’t find any connection, I assure you.”
“Less than a ringing denial, but certainly welcome. Let me repeat that the government of Pakistan will not tolerate any violation of its sovereignty.”
“Noted.”
“As for Dr. al-Wazir,” the general continued, “present us with the information of his culpability, if there is any, and we will as always be prepared to take appropriate action.”
“That’s why I’m calling, actually. We’ve learned some things about Dr. al-Wazir that I thought you would want to know. Not that you have any interest in him, other than as a Pakistani citizen.”
“That is the second time you have made the insinuation that we have some kind of illicit contact with the man, Cyril. I will ignore it, again, but it is tedious. What is the information that you wish to share?”
“I thought you might want to know that Dr. al-Wazir has been in contact with a certain rogue element of American intelligence; the very element, as it happens, that has been seeking to bribe your good countrymen. The professor is not what he appears. He is spreading the money, and also killing the people who distribute it. He thinks he’s a Pakistani Robin Hood. This is getting much too complicated; it’s trouble all around. It needs to be set right, don’t you think?”
The Pakistani general put the phone away from his ear. Of all the things that Hoffman might have said, this was one he could not have anticipated. Surely it was a ruse or a trick; that was so often the way with Hoffman.
“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.
42
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.