“You’re gonna walk right in there and say you’re from the museum,” he says, and I nod. “Why wouldn’t I go, then?” he asks. “If cover doesn’t matter.”
“You’re too threatening,” I reply. I intend it as a compliment. And besides, it’s true.
“You mean I’m a thug,” he says.
“No, I mean you have a track record over there.”
“Damn right I do.”
He tucks his shoulders up and inward, like he’s bracing for a fight, like he feels challenged, vulnerable, endangered. The waiter interrupts us to refill our water, and as we pause again, I find myself plunged hard into Dean’s perspective, as if I’ve been dunked beneath rough ocean waves and the secret life beneath the surface is coming dimly into focus. I feel the hollowness that was created when he gave up his career path for mine, leaving the battlefield he had mastered so we could deploy here together, with none of the immediacy a war zone could offer, no opportunity to take down the adversary with night-vision goggles and a tricked-out M4. This more subtle, secret form of combat—this Tao of recruiting your enemy—leaves him less certain that he’s made his country safer, less certain that he’s done his job at all. I feel how exhausting it is to know that his wife and daughter are at risk when he’s awake and to relive explosions and beheadings when he sleeps. I swell with admiration for him—for his skill on the battlefield and his honor at home. I reach across the table and take his hand.
That night, we make love. And the boundaries of our safe, pragmatic distance begin to melt.
18
Before I leave for Karachi, I hold Zoë for a long time, standing in the hallway, pouring wordless messages into her. Then I roll her into Dean’s arms without waking her, press my forehead to his for a moment, and walk into the alleyway, under the drying fish and out onto the street. My vision’s blurry with questions and maybe also with tears. How can I walk away from my daughter, knowing that I might not return? How could I stay, knowing that I can stop an attack that will kill another version of her, half a world away, a little girl in the United States or Pakistan whose mother sent her off to school with the same wordless love? A few days away from Zoë to prevent a wound to the world she will inherit. It’s parenting the best way I know how. But it’s all I can do to get myself up the train station stairs.
As the city sprawls itself outside the train window, I pack the aching part of me away and steel myself for work. It hasn’t occurred to me yet that love can be a superpower in the field. It still feels like a giant chink in my armor, the smell of my daughter that lingers where I just held her against my shoulder. Vulnerability is well and good at home, but I’m headed to the airport now, bound for a room full of men with whom my country is at war. Men whose organization has killed friends I love. I tuck my fear and weakness and thoughts of Zoë beneath a veneer of tough indifference, slip back into my protective armor and lock layer upon layer of defensive deceptions down tight.
When I land in Pakistan, I climb into a taxi and fire up the covert communications system concealed within my phone to check in with headquarters. There’s a cable waiting, filled with bureaucratic red tape. HOLD ALL FIELD OPS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE, it concludes. I bristle at the delay it’s going to cause. I’m here to prevent a major and imminent attack. One that could kill children. One that’s taken me away from my own child. It’s no time to get put on ice. Shows what these guys know about the field, I think, cranking up the old diatribe in my head—the one so familiar to all field operatives when faced with administrative hurdles from Langley. I don’t even know the guy who wrote this cable, I think. He’s probably a trainee. Probably enjoying a nice Dunkin’ Donuts cruller from the HQS cafeteria. Typical CYA. “CYA” stands for “cover your ass,” the barb we throw at anyone who tries to slow us down with pesky permissions and paperwork. I’m alone and operational in the country where Danny was taken and beheaded, and every hour I’m delayed is another hour for something to go wrong—for an informant to disclose my location, for the source I’m meeting to cancel, for the attack to go boom. The fear injects my thoughts with venom. Beltway BS. No wonder we’re losing this war. Bunch of risk-averse desk jockeys calling the shots. The taxi jerks to a stop at an intersection, and I look up. The plastic back of the driver’s seat is covered in graffiti. Most of it is in Urdu. Some is in Arabic. One creased sticker off to the side is in English. It says, “Remember the other person is you.”
I stare at it. And then I laugh. “Hi, Zoë,” I say out loud.
“What is it, lady?” the driver asks.
“Nothing,” I tell him, and look back at my phone. I reread the cable and begrudgingly notice this time the care the author took to acknowledge the importance of the operation and to express his regret at the delay his request will cause. I remember sitting at the desk in my Virginia safe house, running point for these same kinds of operations before I deployed. Remember the gnawing fear that an officer would be lost on my watch, the responsibility I felt to protect them, even if that meant slowing them down. I imagine the desk guy again, still with a doughnut, but also with good intentions. I imagine his family members at home, resenting his absence, the way Anthony resented mine. I feel what it’s costing that officer to make sure I’m safe.
COPY, WILL COMPLY, I tap reluctantly into the response cable. APPRECIATE YOU HAVING MY BACK.
The delay, I understand as I pay the cabbie and head into the temporary apartment that’s been arranged for me, means twenty-four fewer hours for casing and prep. Instead of checking out the lay of the land, I’m confined to the indoors until I get the all clear.
I spend the rest of the day on the cinder-block balcony, watching the flow of the street beneath. The women wear Islamic dress, gesticulating and laughing as they gossip their way through the vegetable stalls. The boys play cricket, darting into traffic in pursuit of the ball. Young people put sugar in their tea and gather to chat outside the community center after evening services. In the midst of the dust and heat and noise, there are the recognizable patterns of everyday existence. The unremarkable passing of a day that makes life everywhere so beautiful.
Just after the final call to prayer, I receive word back from headquarters: ADDITIONAL CHECKS ARE NOW COMPLETE. YOU ARE CLEARED TO PROCEED. GODSPEED. It isn’t until later that night that I see the news. A CIA operative has been killed by a suicide bomber across the border in Afghanistan. I understand now why they wanted to execute additional checks before I walk into the meeting tomorrow. I would have asked them to do the same, had I known what they knew. I jerk in and out of fitful sleep, hurting for the dead and for the kids who’ll grow up without them. The Dunkin’ Donuts desk officers, I figure, must be blaming themselves. I’m relieved that I gave them the benefit of the doubt.
The Pakistani dawn creeps through the blinds in slices of orange, accompanied by clangs and honks and whiffs of slow-cooking meat. The plan for today is to case the intersection Jakab’s given me for the intended attack, then go to the meeting tomorrow, armed with a better understanding of the target. I flatten a tourist map from the airport across the bed and trace a stairstep path through the city with my finger. The more turns in a surveillance detection route, the better. Each time I change directions, I get one precious chance to glance behind myself, one glimpse as I cross the road to pick out any potential surveillant, any person I’ve seen repeatedly as I wind my way across town.
On the off chance that I’m being watched, the route has to look natural—an M-shaped shopping trip across the city with unusual destinations at each turning point to offer a plausible explanation for taking each leg. Those anchor points usually require some casing, but having lost twenty-four hours to the bureaucratic hold, I only have time to ballpark it based on the map. Its little cartoon buildings mark points Karachi tour guides think might be of interest. I pick out a few that are likely to be open, with the requisite mess of back-alley turns to stairstep my way in between. Clifton Beac
h, the zoo, back down to Jodia Bazar and over to the intersection of Abdullah Haroon and Sarwar Shaheed—the corner where the attack is planned to take place.
* * *
—
My route starts out smoothly enough. The upscale boutiques and Chinese restaurants of Clifton spit me out by the water. The beach is broad here and scalloped by great, wide arcs where the Arabian Sea has washed the sand with silver. Families walk in the waves, their kameezes salt-stained and waterlogged around their calves, the children delighted despite the heavy wetness of their clothes. Teenagers on motorcycles cruise along the beach, their 70cc engines struggling against the sand. I choose a restaurant with entrances on both the street and the water sides, forcing any surveillant I might have to follow me inside. None does. I order a fruit juice and sit for a moment, watching the ocean come and go. The kids are flying kites.
No sign of surveillance so far. No one is watching me as I watch the water. No one follows me as I climb into a taxi and head to the zoo. When I get there, I stop in front of a concrete enclosure the size of a small train car. Inside, alone on the cement floor, is a lion. His mane hangs sparse and dingy from his face, like a threadbare and forgotten stuffed toy. I wonder if he’s given up or if there’s fight left in him, a memory of freedom.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see what might be someone using a cell phone to take a photo. Normally that would send up a red flag, but zoos are tourist territory. Probably just someone clocking animals for their scrapbook. Poor old lion. Only thing worse than enduring a life of loneliness and concrete is being photographed by those who run free.
I wander through the remaining exhibits—elephants and zebras, even a herd of gazelle-type things I suppose must still tread savannahs in their dreams. It’s a soul-crushing place, this park of concrete cages. Back out in the cacophony of Nishtar Road, I jump into a motorized rickshaw. The afternoon is hot and the fumes are foul, but I can’t stand the confined enclosure of a taxi or a bus just now.
The driver seems to harbor the same need for speed. He slams a hard right and careens off the main drag into a labyrinth of back roads. We skirt food stalls and water buffalo, whip around construction equipment and games of street ball. Motorbikes screech in front of us, and glass bottles crunch under our wheels. It’s like Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, only with no seat belts and a fairly significant chance of death.
It used to be standard operating procedure not to wear seat belts in hostile environments, just in case an officer needed to bail during an ambush. Then the statisticians pointed out that we were losing more operatives to car accidents than terrorist attacks, and we went back to “Click It or Ticket.”
I think of Zoë and signal to the driver that I’ll jump out at the next corner. We’re at the edge of Jodia Market. I can walk the rest of the way.
The stalls around me are staffed by grain sellers, mainly, and spice traders, their sacks of curry and cumin rolled open to fill the air with scent.
Halfway to the vegetables, I notice someone behind me. Once, then again around the corner, then a third time down the next block. Some algorithm deep in my brain tells me he’s the same shape as the photographer from the zoo. Now here he is again, half a city away. A tall, slender man with the face of a horse.
* * *
—
By the time Mr. Ed finishes dialing his phone in front of the Karachi Press Club, I’m looking for cover. Most explosive devices are detonated by mobile phone, and we’re standing at the site of a potential al Qa’ida attack. Is it possible that Jakab got the wrong evening? Possible that I’ve walked into a trap? It’s not worth waiting in the open to find out, especially the day after a fellow operative got nailed across the border.
There’s a concrete traffic barrier a few feet to my left. The Pakistani authorities use these as much to stop vehicle-borne explosive devices from reaching sensitive areas as to channel ordinary traffic. It’s as good a blast wall as I’m likely to find. I get ready to lunge for it and then stop short. My pocket is vibrating.
I reach for my phone, hit the green button, and press the receiver to my ear.
“Welcome to Karachi,” a voice says, and I can see his lips moving across the square. His accent is the distinctive old-world British of the Indian subcontinent. “I wonder if you might have time this evening to pull our meeting forward.” He’s doing to me what I did to Jakab in Lyon. Shifting control of the meeting logistics to ensure that he has the upper hand. Touché, Mr. Ed. Advantage yours.
After a quick inventory of security considerations, it occurs to me that this might work well. I’ve already established that I’m not covered by anyone other than the man himself, so no need for tomorrow’s SDR. In fact, another night in-country could only serve to raise my profile. That and allowing al Qa’ida to feel that they have a strategic advantage will ensure that they’ll be as comfortable and relaxed as possible when I broach a discussion of the attack.
The downside is that HQS won’t be spotting me, watching the lines for any sign of trouble the way they would tomorrow. For all I know, the whole thing will be over by then. But if I run into problems in the meantime, no one will even think to check.
Is this how Danny felt, when he walked out of that restaurant and got into a stranger’s car? He’d always said that writing the truth meant taking risks. I can only believe he was right. Can only make the same choice, in the name of dialogue, to trust and to go.
“As it happens, that would suit me just fine,” I say, and he gives me a slight hint of a bow from afar as he hangs up the phone. I notice, as I walk toward him, that he’s wearing red-and-green sandals. It’s the first of two predetermined signals telling me I’ve found the correct person. The second is supposed to be a Coca-Cola in his left hand. He takes a bottle from his bag and holds it up in a mock toast. There’s a hint of cockiness to the gesture, a demonstration that he can play by my rules while still insisting that I play by theirs.
Now that I’ve made the decision to go, I figure it’s best to stay on script, to operate exactly as I would tomorrow. I offer my oral bona fides, a phrase the right person will recognize and respond to in a way that confirms his identity: “Excuse me, do you know where I could find the art museum?”
It’s a silly formality, given that he just called my phone. Not much chance he’s the wrong guy. But it puts us back on track, and he plays along.
“The art museum is closed today,” he replies. “But I could show you to the theater.” I nod, then follow him through a maze of back alleyways, mapping the route in my mind as we go, in case I need to make an emergency exit. We pass a street child sitting on a dirty blanket, hand outstretched. Mr. Ed hands the kid the Coke, then turns down another alley before stopping outside a door.
The meeting is with representatives of three extremist groups, all affiliated with al Qa’ida or the Taliban and operating from Karachi to the North-West Frontier Province. The go-between we’ve used has told them that I have “special channels to Washington.” He’s told us that they have “access to” al Qa’ida’s senior leadership. They’ve approached us to propose bargains in the past, I’ve been informed, to limit drone attacks in their territories. HQS has circled them with caution, establishing their credibility and keeping them talking. Today, I need to cut through the circle and get them to talk specifics.
The attack would kill more Muslims than Americans, and I know these three believe that such an action is haram, forbidden under Islamic law. After yesterday’s bombing, I’m not really in the mood for a theological debate. But we need their help. Convincing them to forbid this bombing is our only available option.
I keep thinking about how this is the same city where Danny was kidnapped, how the people behind his disappearance were one or two connections away from the men I’m about to see. How a colleague died yesterday at the hands of others, not too distant from this group. I’m alone, deep in the belly of the beast, and as we climb each
stair to the floor above, the fear pools in the curve of my shoulders and I lock my emotional armor down tight.
We stop at a dusty wooden door, its brown paint chipped to show jagged patches of an earlier green. The man I’ve been following knocks and calls out the word for “mother.” It’s an honorific, used to address an older woman with respect. A figure emerges into the hallway, covered with an indigo burqa faded almost to gray. I can make out only the shadow of her brow as I greet her, palm to heart. She asks for my phone, then frisks me, searches my bag, and scans me with a device that can detect radio wave transmissions, to be sure I’m not wired. It’s pretty standard choreography. We move through it with respectful caution. She stands still for a minute. I think she is searching my eyes, but I don’t know because I can’t see hers. Then she says simply “Ii,” the word for “yes” in Iraqi Arabic, and the man opens the door into a cramped apartment. The first thing I notice is that the walls are lined with books. The second thing I notice is a baby. And the third thing I notice is that the man holding the baby, bearded and glowering, is the leader of the three men I am there to meet. A feared and battle-hardened jihadi. No intelligence or prep material, nothing in his previous approaches to the Agency has ever suggested anything about his being a dad.
“How old?” I ask.
“Four months,” he says, with something that might be tenderness.
“Yours?”
A slight nod.
The baby coughs. A harsh, wet wheeze. There are two other men in the room, both of whom I’ve met before. I nod wary greetings to each. The courier and the woman have disappeared behind a curtain hung in the hallway doorframe. An M4 leans against the window. The air smells of dust.
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