Esther grinned. “Still wanna go?”
“Even more so,” I said. I made quick arrangements for Snap, called my two children at their colleges just to let them know I’d be overseas for a while (they were quite used to it by now), and took a cab to JFK Airport.
CHAPTER NINE
I arrived in Islamabad together with the first rays of the rising sun. The streets were already bustling with cars, buses, taxicabs, and bicycle riders. The sidewalks were crammed with pedestrians, most of them dressed in the Pakistani traditional garb, men in salwar kameez and women in burkas.
“Mr. Gordon?” asked an overweight Pakistani man in his early forties wearing a khaki safari suit.
“And you are?”
“My name is Abdullah, sir. I’m a U.S. embassy driver. I’ve instructions to drive you.”
“Where to?” I hadn’t been expecting him.
“To your hotel first, sir. Your meeting at the embassy is not until noon.”
“Can I see your embassy ID please?” You could never be too cautious, particularly considering where I was.
“Of course, sir,” he said matter of factly, and showed me his embassy photo ID. I followed him to an unmarked embassy car, and we drove in silence to the Marriott Hotel on Aga Khan Road.
“I can get to the embassy by myself later on,” I told him. “I need to get some rest first. I had a very long flight.”
“I understand, sir, but my instructions are to drive you,” said the driver. He explained that the RSO-regional security officer- had requested that no U.S. government officials use the city’s transportation. “You know, sir, personal safety isn’t what it used to be,” he added with a sigh, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. Although it was barely eight o’clock, the temperature was already 95°F, and the humidity high.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll meet you at the hotel lobby at eleven thirty.”
I freshened up and waited for Abdullah, who was twenty minutes late. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “Bad traffic.”
I entered the car. “Where are we going?”
“The American Embassy is on Ramna Street, in the diplomatic enclave of Islamabad.”
After passing the security checks and passing through the lowered Delta barrier, I entered the embassy compound, which would be more accurately described as a fortress. But once inside, I felt as if I were in a country club. Beautiful gardens, an Olympic swimming pool, tennis courts, a restaurant, and a small baseball field. The embassy main building seemed to be rather empty. I saw only a few embassy staff. “The RSO is expecting you,” said Abdullah. “He’s on the third floor. I’m restricted from that floor.”
“Ned Applebee,” said the RSO, a well-built blond man in his early thirties, as he nearly crushed my fingers with his handshake. We sat in his small office. “Welcome to Islamabad. Sorry I can’t offer you anything to drink. All nonessential staff has been sent home, and I haven’t figured out how to restock that goddamned coffee machine. All we’ve got is soda. Anyway, the legal attache wants to see you as well. He’ll be joining us in a few minutes.”
“That’s all right, “I said. “Any diet soda will do.” I followed Ned to the hallway and took two cans from the vending machine.
“Let’s move to the bubble,” suggested Ned Applebee. We walked over to a sealed and secure room, a must in any embassy where there are always ears on the other side of the wall. Such rooms are soundproof and windowless, with just a desk and chairs, where no electronic equipment such as computers or cell phones is allowed. They are mostly used for top-secret conversations, in the hope that no eavesdropping will be possible.
“I’m here on assignment looking for a U.S. citizen, Albert C. Ward III, whom we suspect of major bank fraud. His footsteps led me here. He could be using aliases.”
“I saw the State Department’s cable,” said Applebee. “Did you ask for the Pakistani government’s help?”
“Not at this time,” I said. “It’s too early. First I need to make sure I know who the players are.”
He looked at me, surprised, but said nothing. There was no point in going into details, though luckily it didn’t seem to bother him. “My first stop needs to be Peninsula Bank. Any contacts there?”
“Not officially,” he said cryptically.
“And unofficially?”
“You could make new friends here easily,” he said with a smile. “People like to be friends with rich Americans.”
I gave him a quizzical look, but he just smiled and added nothing.
“Like all other Third World countries?” I pressed, trying to catch his drift.
“Only in some aspects,” he said. “Just be careful. Anything else I could do for you before we start discussing my business?”
“No, thanks. Maybe I’ll need more help as I develop my leads. What do you have in mind?”
“Security instructions,” he said. “I don’t have to remind you what’s going on here, though I will. The place is crawling with Al-Qaeda and Taliban, no matter what the Pakistanis say or do. Out of all America’s embassies, probably only Iraq and Afghanistan are more dangerous.”
“Do they really try?”
“You mean the Pakistani government? Depends on whom you ask. They’re very helpful, but only to an extent. They have tremendous pressures from all sides, particularly from within. We’re not too popular here, so I suggest you exercise maximum caution and take prudent measures. That means a strong security posture, being aware of your surroundings, avoiding crowds and demonstrations, keeping a low profile. I’d also suggest changing around the times and routes you tend to travel. And lastly, call me immediately if you feel like you’re in danger.”
“I’ve fought wars,” I said in a defensive tone.
“This is worse. In war you know who your enemy is and its general location. Here you don’t know anything. They’d love to kidnap rather than kill you. You’re worth much more if you’re still breathing than as a motionless corpse.”
My stomach moved.
“Are you planning a trip north?”
“I’ll go anywhere I can find Ward.”
“Well, if he’s in the northwest provinces, then forget it. I suggest you don’t go. We urge all American citizens to avoid travel to the tribal areas of Pakistan’s Northwest Frontier Province. Anyway, the Pakistani government requires all persons, other than Pakistani and Afghani citizens, to obtain permission from the Home and Tribal Affairs Department before visiting these tribal areas. These regions lie outside the normal jurisdiction of the Pakistani government.”
“I haven’t got any plans now, but what does that mean?” you’re prey,” he said drily. “Even within its borders the Pakistani government can’t guarantee your safety, but in these northern regions, you’ll be walking into sure trouble. Just forget it.”
I nodded, hoping Ward had taken the same advice. “Next-no public transportation, no befriending of strangers who seek your company. The best thing that could happen to you is to have your money stolen.” He paused, letting me figure out what the worst-case scenario would be.
There was a knock on the door, and a slight, darker man with a neatly clipped mustache walked in. “Hi, I’m Don Suarez,” he said. “I’m the legat.” I recognized the term. Legal attaches stationed in the U.S. embassies are in fact FBI special agents.
“I was just briefing Dan on the security requirements here,” said Applebee.
“Pretty exciting, isn’t it?” said Suarez wryly, sitting down next to me.
“I’ve been to worse places,” I said.
“Just make sure you’re not kidnapped,” said Suarez, as if it were up to me.
“Anything happen lately?” I asked.
“All the time. But it gets the attention of the media only when foreigners are the victims. Stories about local fat cats that are herded at gunpoint until their family coughs up the money are a nonevent for the world media.”