Abdullah stepped on the accelerator with might. The car jumped back, hitting the motorcycle riding behind us and throwing the rider up in the air. Abdullah managed to turn the car, and within ten seconds we were at the compound gate. The Delta barrier was lowered suddenly and we entered. I wiped drops of sweat off my forehead. “That was close,” I said. “Thanks for the good work.”
Abdullah nodded. “That’s my job.”
Applebee came running toward us. “What happened?”
“I think there was an attempt to kidnap us. How did you know we were returning?”
“There’s a panic button in the car with a direction finder,” said Applebee. “Abdullah must have pressed it. We saw that your car was actually around the corner.”
We went inside to his office. I gave Applebee a full account of the events. He called someone in the building and sent him to check the scene.
“What do I do next?”
“Do you want to stay in Islamabad?”
“No. I’m done here, but I need to wait for instructions from Washington.”
“Anyway, you’ll have to stick around for a day or two until we complete the investigation and work with the local police on that.” I went to the vending machine to get a soda and calm down. I sat on the couch in Applebee’s office, trying to collect my thoughts.
The phone rang. Applebee listened, said, “OK, thanks,” and hung up.
“Our Diplomatic Security Ser vice agents on the scene reported that the motorcyclist disappeared together with his motorcycle. They just found pieces from a broken red tail light, and skid marks on the road. Nothing else. Did Abdullah hit him?”
“I’m sure of that,” I said. “I saw him flying up in the air. Maybe he wasn’t hurt badly, or he was picked up by a backup team.”
“We’re in touch with the Reporting Centre of the Pakistan Police Ser vice. They’ll investigate.”
“Who are they?”
“Their criminal and political intelligence service. Who were you in contact with in Islamabad?”
“Just two men: a bank manager, Rashid Khan, and an attorney he recommended, Ahmed Khan.”
“Same last name?”
“Yes. I suspect they’re related, maybe even brothers. The lawyer was recommended by the banker, and he sold me information that most likely came from the bank.”
“We’ll get you a place to stay here,” said Applebee. “I don’t think it’d be wise for you to return to your hotel.”
“I guess not,” I said. “Could you send someone to my hotel to pick up my stuff and bring it over?”
I regretted it immediately. If anyone came to the hotel to pick up Dan Gordon’s belongings, the hotel would tell him that I checked out few days ago. I couldn’t tell Applebee that I’d checked in again under a different name. He’d have my neck for violating his security instructions. But it was too late. I needed to mitigate the potential damage.
“Who are you sending?”
“Probably Abdullah,” he said.
“OK, I’ll give him my room key.” I went outside and approached Abdullah, who was sitting in his car, next to the entrance.
“I’ve been told to move into the compound,” I said, handing him my room key. “Please go directly to my hotel room without stopping at the desk, and collect my things. I’ll call the hotel to tell them my assistant is coming over with the room key to remove my belongings, and I’ll settle the hotel bill over the phone.”
Abdullah left, and as I turned to go upstairs, Applebee met me outside. “Let me show you to your new residence. We’ve got plenty of empty houses here. Since 2001, we’ve been singles only. Our staff goes home for family visits. There’s the American Club in the compound, where you can meet other staff members, watch American TV, and have a beer.”
“Thanks,” I said, and followed him to a building nearby. He opened the door on the ground floor. “Here, you should find everything you need. Call me if you have any questions.”
I sat on the sofa bed, glared at the walls and the small wall unit with family photos of smiling children, and thought of mine. I tried calling them using my mobile phone, and on the third attempt I reached Tom, my son, and Karen, my daughter, who was just about to go out the door. I didn’t tell them about my narrow escape just an hour earlier, and we focused on family matters. Tom was just returning to his college, and Karen was about to graduate, but both of them had that vision of the world being at their feet that only the young can claim. Neither held back their enthusiasm, telling me of their plans and what was new in their lives. It always made me feel proud to see that they were growing into strong adults. Of course, we couldn’t speak as freely as we would have liked to. Trained by experience as they are, they didn’t even ask me where I was or when I would be returning.
“I’m going to be back home soon,” I said. It was more wishful thinking than based on reality.
I decided to go to the club to socialize and get my mind off of things for a minute. There were four other men drinking beer and watching an American TV network. After an hour I was tired of watching stupid sitcoms with dubbed laughter even when they weren’t remotely funny. I’ve often thought that when a sitcom producer’s IQ reaches 50, he should sell. There was plenty about America I didn’t miss. I returned to my new makeshift home.
Leaning my head on the soft, green pillow of the couch, I pondered my next move. Ward had left the United States in 1980 or 1981, gone to Hong Kong and South Africa, and finally left a trace in Pakistan. From Pakistan, he may have continued to Iran. Was it possible that just about the same time he returned to the U.S. without leaving a record with the Immigration and Naturalization Ser vice, he’d made himself look years older, perpetrated bank fraud, and vanished again? That simply didn’t make sense. The hunch that his identity had been stolen needed no further support, but it was still just an assumption, and I needed proof. Before falling asleep, I decided to discuss this matter with Don Suarez, the legat at the embassy.
The next morning, after recharging myself with fruit juice and a muffin for breakfast at the club, I called him. “Sure, come over,” he replied.
As I sat down next to his desk, Suarez said, “I heard you had an experience yesterday.”
“Yes,” I said. “Any clues?”
“Not yet. The main direction in that kind of investigation is intelligence, not police work. The police couldn’t find any witnesses to the attack, although Abdullah said the street was bustling.”
“So are you working on intelligence?”
“Yes, together with the Agency, but that takes time.”
The post-September eleventh era had finally seen a little more cooperation between the FBI and the CIA, with a little less time dedicated to turf wars.
“What do you think? Was it because I was snooping around Ward? Was I picked at random because they saw the embassy connection with the car and Abdullah?”
“Anything is possible,” he said, shrugging, just when I needed a more concrete answer.
I told him about my suspicions about Ward, my unanswered questions about how he could be in two places at the same time.
“Maybe he wasn’t,” said Suarez. “In the sixties through the eighties, there were instances where young American men just disappeared. I guess some of them simply wanted to. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them are monks in a Buddhist monastery in Tibet, fishermen in New Zealand, or just basking on the beach in Goa.”
“And you leave it at that?”
“Sure, if they’re adults, and if there are no complaints from families about missing persons, and there’s no evidence of foul play. Hey, there’s a limit to the amount of babysitting the federal government can do with taxpayers’ money.”
“Do you have names of these people?”
“No, because if we had a name, that’d mean somebody was looking for him. We don’t have a world chart with pins indicating where any American citizen is at any given moment. We aren’t there yet.”
I wouldn’t get any answers from him, I thought. I lost interest in the conversation.