Al Zaroor nodded slowly. After a moment, he asked, “If I’m traveling to the Persian Gulf, what route through Baluchistan do you recommend?”
“That depends on where we meet you.”
“I don’t know yet,” Al Zaroor responded with care. “But somewhere nearer to the Punjab.”
Zia raised his eyebrows. “Then I suggest you bypass Quetta, taking the back roads edging the Kirthar Range, as you move south to Bela. From there it’s east to Awaran, through Turbat, then south to the tiny port of Jiwani.”
Al Zaroor felt modest surprise. “What kind of ship would use such a port?”
Zia’s smile seemed more genuine. “A dhow—the same ship that has plied these waters for centuries, shipping goods and produce. A modest vessel among countless like it, and therefore inconspicuous. These days, of course, dhows have auxiliary motors.” He bent forward, looking intently at Al Zaroor. “You haven’t asked my advice about a transfer point. But I suggest a warehouse in the free port of Jebel Ali in Dubai. Dubai is a pirate kingdom, and this port is reserved for ongoing shipments—no customs inspections, and fewer annoying officials. A brief sojourn in a warehouse, and you can ship your package by cargo container anywhere in the world.”
“Thank you,” Al Zaroor said respectfully. “This is good advice.”
Zia’s eyes probed his. “But you have other worries, I detect.”
“No doubt you’ve gelded the army and police. But I hear too much about banditry among unemployed young Pashtuns. Men with no future don’t worry about preserving one.”
Zia shrugged. “Some are reckless. Should they be reckless with us—or you—they will have no future.”
“You reassure me.” Al Zaroor hesitated. “I’d also like to entrust you with prior shipments—also important, but less valuable. That will allow us to better assess any dangers.”
Zia’s eyes narrowed in displeasure. “There will be no dangers.”
“Nonetheless,” Al Zaroor responded firmly, “my masters wish it. They have earned the right to caution, and I have promised them success.”
For a time, Zia was silent, his expression indecipherable but for the intensity of his thoughts. Among them, Al Zaroor was certain, was that he would not be running heroin. “As you like,” Zia said at length. “As to success, as long as you’re under my protection, you will have it.”
NINE
At 6:30 A.M., when Brooke reached Langley, Carter Grey was waiting.
They sat together in Brooke’s office. “You shouldn’t be here,” Brooke said baldly. “From the looks of you, you’ll be dead in a week.”
Grey shook his head, resistant. “Maybe I look like a cadaver, but I’m liveliest in the morning. I’m saving my naps for afternoon. Anne will see to it.”
“Or I will.”
“Not your job,” Grey said in a grousing tone. “I liked it better when you were this kid.”
Brooke gave a short laugh. “So did I. But here we are. Anything happen overnight?”
“Yes and no. Miracle of miracles, none of our media friends is on to the missing bomb. But the Pakistanis and Indians are standing down. That may create more room to search for the bomb in Pakistan—assuming it’s still there.” Grey sat back. “I keep thinking about Baluchistan. In the eighties, I ran twenty-five tons of explosives through the region for the Afghans. How much simpler to smuggle a two-hundred-pound bomb to the Makran coast.”
“No doubt,” Brooke answered. “But we’ve got almost no assets there now. Since we started using drone attacks on al Qaeda and the Taliban, the locals hate us as much as their own government. That limits us to spy satellites.”
“Maybe now the Pakistanis will let us put UAVs over Baluchistan,” Grey proposed. “They could send us pictures in real time, day and night. Of course, they’d be looking for a flyspeck—a small group of men, a few trucks, maybe a boat. But it can’t hurt to try.”
Standing, Grey shuffled out the door.
Brooke turned to the window, briefly allowing his mind to drift.
I liked it better when you were this kid.
So did I.
Before I knew you, Brooke thought now. Before I knew too much.
For their first dinner, Brooke had taken Anit Rahal to Moustache in the Village.
They sat at a copper table beside a plate-glass window that looked out at the street and sidewalk. A waitress bustled among the diners with aromatic dishes of lamb and baba ghanoush. Anit’s smile as she looked around suggested that she liked the place; Brooke noted that she had used a touch more makeup to accent her eyes and, another novelty, worn earrings. It seemed almost like a date.
“I assume you like Middle Eastern food,” he told her.
“I do. I’ve been wanting to try some here.”
As she looked at the menu, quiet, Brooke caught a hint of distraction. Studying her, he asked, “More news from home?”
She seemed to watch his face, deciding whether he was merely being polite. “The same kind of news,” she answered. “Sometimes I feel my country is caught in this endless feedback loop. More riots and now gun battles on the West Bank between us and the Palestinians. They stomp two soldiers to death; we bomb Ramallah. Hezbollah seizes the opportunity to cross the Lebanese border and take three of our soldiers hostage. And so on. None of it is new.”
“And nothing seems to change?”
“Except for the worse.” Briefly, she looked vulnerable, perhaps in need of understanding. “I don’t want to come off as this brooding person. But what’s happening now reminds me of when I was on the border. A right-wing Israeli had assassinated Yitzhak Rabin, our greatest hope for peace. So we had an election: Rabin’s successor, Peres, who also favored peace, against Netanyahu, a man supported by fanatics like the one I debated. Hamas, which did not want peace, launched a wave of suicide bombings to discredit Peres and elect Netanyahu. It worked.”
“Barak is prime minister now,” Brooke pointed out. “Clinton can work with him. Any president who could get Arafat and Rabin to shake each other’s hand in public has a shot at making peace.”
Anit frowned, dubious. “I believe in President Clinton,” she answered. “But this task needs another Rabin and a Palestinian Mandela. Instead we’ve got Arafat and Sharon, both stirring up the conflict that began all this. I pray for peace. But if it doesn’t come soon, Sharon will rise to power, and the next five years will replicate the last.”
“What will you do then?”
“What can I do? I despise Sharon. But my country will need us all.”
A liter of red wine arrived, with two glasses. Raising his, Brooke said, “L’chaim.”
Anit smiled at this, then touched her glass to his. “To peace.”
Her smile faded. “Perhaps things are becoming more difficult for America as well. An hour ago, I saw that suicide bombers had struck one of your destroyers anchored in Aden. There were a number of deaths.”
Brooke nodded. “Seventeen. A jihadist group called al Qaeda, they think.” He put down his wine. “It’s tragic, but different. Aden is thousands of miles from here. As you reminded me the other night, we’re safe.”
Anit played with her gold earring. “Please don’t think I was beating on America. But safety makes you different. It’s more possible here to live a nice material life, not caring much about anything, and get along just fine.”
“True enough,” Brooke answered. “When you talked about your time in the military, it struck me that I don’t know anyone my age who’s served in ours. Let alone anyone who died.”
“Again, I envy you. The good part, I suppose, is that so many of us feel empathy for each other.” Stopping, she flashed a self-deprecating smile. “Here I go again, the child of one thousand years of Ashkenazi suffering. Why should you suffer with me?”
“Do I look like I’m suffering? This may seem remarkable, but I like that Israel matters to you. I may even like you a little.”
Anit laughed, semi-embarrassed. “So tell me what’s good to eat here.”<
br />
Afterward, Brooke took her to Chumley’s, an old speakeasy that, by tradition, still had no sign—only an unmarked door with one window obscured by grills. Sitting by the fireplace, Brooke ordered coffee for Anit, a glass of port for himself, and then explained Prohibition. “A bizarre outburst of American Puritanism,” he concluded. “We have them every couple of decades. This one gave us organized crime, gin so bad that it blinded you, and a whole new generation of alcoholics.”
Anit took in the worn wooden floors and dark tables and chairs. “So this is a historic site.”
“Very. On the subject of history, I’d like to hear more of yours. We seem to have covered mine.”
“You’ll be fascinated, I’m sure. But fair enough. Where would you like me to start?”
“As a kid. Before all the suffering began.”
Anit looked at the ceiling with an expression of mock concentration, as though striving to separate the momentous from the merely consequential. “I was an only child,” she informed him, “and very independent. There’s one picture that my mother considers telling. I was two, and very small. My parents had put me in a stiff white dress to be photographed—sitting on the floor, I look like a head and body with no legs. I must have despised the dress: My arms are folded, and I’m staring at the camera with absolute defiance.” Anit rolled her eyes. “My parents call it a formal portrait of the demon’s seed. They never made me wear the dress again.”
“So you were not a malleable child.”
“Never. When I was three, and fighting with a cousin, my uncle took me to the parlor and deposited me on top of an upright piano. Then he took the bench away, and left me there, a prisoner—”
“Traumatic, I’m sure.”
“Actually, my principal reaction was stubbornness. I sat there on the piano, refusing to call for help even when I wet my pants. My reward was when my mother found me and began screaming at my uncle. In the end, I won.”
Brooke found the scene quite easy to imagine. “So you’re competitive, too.”
“Very. Like you, I love games—soccer, basketball, and especially track. I was fast, and hated losing.” She paused, reflecting on her reasons. “Winning was more than fun. It brought me this fierce satisfaction, the best moments I had in school.”
“Best? What about boys?”
Anit shrugged. “Not really. Until I was eighteen I didn’t give them much time.”
“And now?”
Abruptly, her face became more guarded. “There is one, yes.” When Brooke said nothing, she continued, “His name is Meir. I met him in the army, and we’ve been seeing each other ever since. I guess you could say it’s serious.”
Aware that he had no right, Brooke felt deflated. “So I’m an experiment?”
Anit studied his face. “I don’t think of it that way,” she answered. “The two of you are so different I don’t know what kind of experiment that would be.” Her gaze became curious. “Tell me, have you ever been serious about anyone?”
It was something Brooke had asked himself. “I’m not really sure. I’ve had periods of semi-monogamy, punctuated by moments of random chance—”
“I’ll bet.”
Brooke laughed a little. “Random or not, it’s all felt pretty predictable. Like the rest of my life, I suppose. Perhaps I’m waiting for someone to shake things up a little.”
Anit looked at him askance. “Shouldn’t that come from you?”
“Mostly. But there’s also Chandler’s Theory of Romantic Symbiosis.”
“Which is?”
“That who you choose to be with helps to define who you are—that each couple is a different entity. So Anit and Meir are different than Anit and anyone else would be. Therefore you become different, too.”
“Have you seen any proof of this theory?”
“My closest friend.” Brooke sipped his port, warmed by the thought. “Ben Glazer. He’s sort of teddy-bearish—warm, funny, blunt, and a great friend. Not to mention smart as a whip. But he’s not exactly a movie star, or inclined to blow his own horn. So women didn’t always get him.”
“But now one does?”
“Aviva—the sharpest and hottest soon-to-be lawyer in Manhattan. I didn’t know her before they met. But she sees my friend to the core. Now he’s looser, more confident, and way more content—a happier, better Ben. As for Aviva, she claims to be mellower and more grounded. Together, they’re great to be around.”
His fondness drew a smile from Anit. “You make me wish I knew them.”
“Then maybe you will,” Brooke answered.
In front of her dormitory, they moved closer to each other. Brooke felt a current of connection he could not remember at other times and with other women. He sensed that this meant something—perhaps about her, perhaps about his own life. But he did not know.
“What is it?” Anit asked.
Without words, he put his hand behind the nape of her neck and drew her mouth to his. He felt the warm, answering pressure of her lips, another tingle of surprise. Then she drew her head back. “And that was for?”
“I think you know. Or you wouldn’t have kissed back.”
She gave him a penetrant look. “You’re very certain of your own charm.”
“At times. Right now I’m just hoping that I’ve got at least some charm for you.”
After a moment, her lips formed the shadow of a smile. “Enough for another dinner,” she answered.
Though it was past ten-thirty, Brooke phoned Ben.
His friend was with Aviva, watching a Kurosawa film on DVD. “What’s up at this hour?” Ben inquired. “Couldn’t be much, seeing that you’re obviously alone.”
“Sad but true. Nonetheless, there’s something going on. I like this woman.”
“Ms. Tel Aviv? Have you been drinking, or are you able to discern why?”
“How about that she seems to be wicked smart. Also direct, funny, sensitive, remote, and sometimes a little sad—like an old soul passing through this exotic young woman. Whatever mood she’s in, I like occupying the same space.”
“Hang on a minute.” Waiting, Brooke heard his friend tell Aviva, “Brooke seems to be falling in like.”
Aviva’s surprise was audible. “With whom?”
“A Jewess, remarkably enough. Not like you—a real one, from Israel.”
Aviva said something Brooke couldn’t hear. Ben came back on the line. “We think we’d better meet her,” he told Brooke.
TEN
Two nights after his second meeting with Abdul Zia, Al Zaroor and Zia’s nephew Muhaiddin brought two other men with shovels to exhume the bomb.
This was sooner than Al Zaroor had planned. But tension between India and Pakistan was subsiding, and Zia had his own sources of intelligence. At the end of their last sumptuous dinner, the warlord had remarked, “I understand that the government is looking for something taken from them.” Pausing, he surveyed the starry night sky, as though for a specific object. “Also the Americans.”
Al Zaroor’s tone was mild. “Is this a problem?”
“It’s a concern. In the usual case, the government and the army won’t tread too heavily in Baluchistan.” He turned back to Al Zaroor. “How long will it be, I wonder, until the army stops massing along the border, and gives more attention to this search? Even the most standard operation might receive more scrutiny.”
Left unstated was Zia’s implication that Al Zaroor’s mission might be far from standard. Impassive, Al Zaroor asked, “What do you suggest?”
“That you consider moving your package. The environment may change here, at least for a time. Should you agree, I’m ready to proceed.”
However quiet, the last statement was imperative, a warning. Nodding, Al Zaroor said, “Then let’s discuss the details.”
Zia folded his hands in his lap, his manner businesslike. “Our men will conceal your cargo in the usual Pakistani crate, assembled with scrap wood. Then they’ll put it in a van driven by Muhaiddin and start toward the coa
st.
“This van will meet two others carrying teams of men with automatic weapons. Each van will have stolen Punjab license plates.” Zia’s tone became pointed. “Given your fear of bandits, three land rovers holding men armed with AK-47s will travel a mile or so behind. That should be safeguard enough.”
Al Zaroor hesitated. “There is, perhaps, one more precaution.”
“Which is?”
“An identical convoy one hour before. Carrying an identical crate.”
A glint of displeasure preceded Zia’s measured smile. “You’re a careful man, brother.”
“And a grateful one. We pay well for extra services.”
Zia looked down, fingering his cup of tea without drinking from it. “What package will this new convoy carry?”
“Heroin. To be placed in a dhow and shipped to Dubai, just as the second crate will be.”
Once again, Zia seem to examine the sky. “They say you’re a survivor,” he remarked at last. “It’s a skill I respect.”
“It’s one we share.”
Zia turned back to him, his expression grave. “Then for both our sakes, you will have your second convoy.”
Now Al Zaroor watched Zia’s men dig deeper into the earth. Softly, he warned, “Soon there will be a stench.”
The men looked up, silent, and kept digging. Arms folded, Muhaiddin stood beside Al Zaroor. “Was he yours?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Muhaiddin’s eyes narrowed to slits. He said nothing more.
Al Zaroor knew at once when they had found the body; one of the diggers put his shovel down and buried his nose in the crook of his arm. “Hurry,” Muhaiddin ordered curtly. “There’s not much time.”
The men kept digging. Moments later the clang of a shovel hitting metal echoed from the ditch.
* * *
An hour later, Muhaiddin drove the van into the trackless night, headlights off, Al Zaroor beside him. The crate rode in the wheel well beneath the van. Behind them, Al Zaroor knew, the remaining vans and land rovers were moving into place.
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