Afridi’s office had an attached bathroom, where he washed up and shaved before changing into gray flannel trousers, a fresh white shirt, and a blazer. Injured in a climbing accident years ago, he had overcome his disabilities through careful adherence to routine and physical discipline. Though Afridi would turn seventy next year, his upper body remained strong and agile, even if his lower extremities were immobilized. The irony of having recovered prosthetic limbs above 6,000 meters in the mountains wasn’t lost on him. Flying back from Leh, eastward across Zanskar and Spiti, then above the gnarled ranges of Kinnaur into Garhwal, he had wondered what it must be like to walk with artificial legs. Though his left foot had been amputated due to frostbite, Afridi had never considered getting a prosthesis. Over the years he had come to terms with the limitations of his body, the scars he bore, deadened nerves and the atrophy of muscles and sinews that once carried him up and over the highest mountains in the world.
Wheeling himself into the MI room, which also served as a forensics lab, Afridi acknowledged Major Gopinath’s salute. Posted to the HRI less than a year ago as medical officer, Gopinath maintained his clinic fastidiously. The artificial arm and leg had been placed on an examining table as if they were being prepared for surgery. The only other person in the room was a nurse named Esther Masih.
“So, tell me, Gopi. What do you make of these?” Afridi said.
“Sir?” The medical officer looked baffled.
“What are they?”
“A leg and an arm, sir,” Gopinath answered. He hadn’t been told where they were found or the circumstances of the crash site. Afridi harbored a longstanding distrust of doctors. Most of them, he believed, had no imagination, since the medical profession required them to approach everything with clinical objectivity.
“Yes, of course, I know that,” Afridi said, positioning his wheelchair so he had a better view of the limbs. “But, please … I want you to tell me something I don’t know.”
The doctor seemed unnerved and glanced at the nurse.
“These are crude prostheses, sir. Manufactured in China.” Gopinath picked up the leg and worked the hinged calipers on the knee. “At least thirty years out of date. The material is some kind of fiberglass. The moving parts are stainless steel and PVC. Inferior quality.”
“But are they functional?” Afridi interjected. “I mean, could you fit this leg on someone and actually make him walk?”
Gopinath bent and extended the knee a couple of times before answering. He had a maddening habit of analyzing things from every angle before replying. Several weeks ago, Afridi had come to him with a toothache. Before examining his mouth, Gopinath had checked his blood pressure and asked him about the prescription for his reading glasses.
“It’s my tooth, damn it, not my eyes,” Afridi had said.
“Yes, sir. I’m just excluding all other sources of pain,” Gopi tried to explain.
Now, the doctor carefully put down the artificial leg as Afridi waited impatiently for an answer.
“Ambulation would be severely restricted. Whoever wears this leg will need to walk with a cane, or crutches. We have much more sophisticated prostheses now, which offer greater mobility.” He glanced at Afridi, unsure of where this conversation was leading.
“Do you suppose it might be suitable for someone who has been injured by a landmine?”
Afridi continued, “In Afghanistan, for example … hypothetically?”
“Possibly, sir. It’s an inexpensive option. Cheaply produced, simple to maintain.”
“And the arm?”
“Purely cosmetic,” Gopi replied.
“Show it to me,” Afridi said.
The nurse handed him the arm.
“Hollow?” Afridi said, tapping the upper portion, which had nylon straps and a crude clamp for attaching to a person’s elbow.
“Yes, sir,” said Gopinath. “It reduces the weight.”
“Miss Masih,” Afridi said, handing the prosthesis back to the nurse, “does anything about this arm strike you as odd?”
She turned it over and shook her head.
“Take a closer look,” said Afridi.
The nurse held the arm up to the light, squinting as she examined the rigid fingers.
“It unscrews at the wrist,” Afridi prompted her.
Cautiously, she twisted the hand, which rotated stiffly at first, then loosened and came apart from the rest of the arm.
“Empty, sir,” she said, peering inside.
“Of course.” Afridi nodded. “But you could easily fill it with something, couldn’t you? Five hundred grams of heroin, for instance.”
Esther Masih looked up with alarm, meeting Afridi’s gaze. She had worked at the institute for fifteen years, and he trusted her more than most of his staff.
“The leg also comes apart,” he said. “You could fit a kilo inside, maybe more.”
The colonel smiled at Major Gopinath, who was watching him with a look of incredulity.
“Where did it come from, sir?” Gopi asked.
“From the Eastern Karakoram. These were part of a shipment that was on its way to Afghanistan,” Afridi said, with a grimace. “These days, Afghanistan has a monopoly on two things: amputees and opium.”
Six
“So, how come you were born in Pakistan?” she asked.
“My parents were missionaries,” Luke replied.
“But you’re not a missionary,” she said. Her first name was Tracy.
“No, I’m a journalist,” he replied, “though I’ve taken six months off to write a book about Humanitarian Aid projects in the tribal areas of Pakistan.”
“They don’t like us much over there, do they?” Tracy said.
“Not exactly,” said Luke. “Americans haven’t made themselves very popular.”
“Do you speak the language?”
“Urdu, some Pashto and Punjabi,” he answered.
“It must be dangerous.”
“Not if you know what you’re doing.”
She was driving fast along the highway, heading into the center of Washington. The car was a black Lexus coupe with leather upholstery, certainly more comfortable than taking a taxi. Tracy Holman had thrown her coat in the backseat. The sleeveless dress she wore revealed slim but muscular arms and several inches of well-tanned thighs. She had a severe kind of beauty that her makeup couldn’t soften, and Luke sensed a seductive tension in the car.
“Yeah, I suppose you could die of a heart attack anywhere,” she said, changing lanes.
Hesitating, Luke said, “I’m afraid I didn’t know your uncle very well.”
Tracy shook her head, eyes fixed on the traffic. “Neither did I.”
As they rode in silence for a while, Luke was increasingly self-conscious of how disheveled he looked and of his bloodshot eyes. A subtle fragrance filled the Lexus, a clean yet musky sweetness with a hint of cloves. Twenty minutes later, they pulled up to his hotel.
“Thanks for the ride,” he said. Tracy looked at him and smiled as they shook hands. The doorman opened the car for her, thinking she was getting out.
“She’s just dropping me,” Luke said to the doorman, then glanced at her. “Unless, of course, you’d like to come in for a drink.”
Tracy examined her watch, a Bulova with a gilded strap.
“Thanks, I might,” she said, surprising him by handing the doorman her keys.
More than ever before, Luke wished he hadn’t spent the last twenty-four hours in airports and on a plane. As he checked in at Reception, Tracy sat texting in one of the lobby chairs. Luke was about to suggest they meet in the bar, after he’d had a chance to wash up, but she headed straight for the elevator as soon as he was done. His room was on the fifteenth floor. He glanced at Tracy’s reflection in the elevator mirror. She returned his look with a suggestive smile.
The bellhop had brought up his bag in the service elevator and met them in the hall. Luke waved the keycard in front of his door and a green light clicked on. The minute he e
ntered, he was aware of another person inside, a man sitting near the window with his legs crossed. Luke realized he’d been set up as soon as Tracy tipped the bellhop, who retreated out the door.
The man in the chair got to his feet and put out his hand. Luke took a step backward, swearing under his breath. “Shit!”
The tinted glasses were a jaundiced hue. His thinning hair was combed back from a prominent forehead. There was no mistaking Carlton Fletcher. He was alive and well in Washington, DC. Tracy pulled up another chair for Luke and opened the minibar.
“I think you probably need that drink,” she said. “Scotch or something else?”
Still trying to comprehend what was going on, Luke didn’t answer at first, watching her pour two miniatures of Glenfiddich into a single glass.
“What the hell is this?” he finally demanded. “This isn’t why I agreed to fly halfway around the world.”
“I realize we owe you an explanation,” Fletcher said, his voice apologetic but firm.
“Who was in the coffin?” Luke asked. “Or was it empty?”
Working as an investigative journalist in one of the most dangerous parts of the world, Luke had faced his share of ruthless surprises and blatant lies. His instincts told him to remain calm but guarded.
“I’m afraid we can’t reveal the victim’s identity. But we’re grateful that you brought him home,” Fletcher said, gesturing for Luke to sit, as Tracy Holman opened a can of club soda. She topped up the whiskey before handing Luke his drink.
“I should have guessed you were a spook,” he said. “But why did you have to make this so complicated?”
“Let’s just say there were events … circumstances that required us to meet you here.”
“Why do we need to meet at all?” Luke said, furious at having been deceived.
“Cheers,” said Fletcher, holding up his glass, which had an inch of clear fluid at the bottom. It could have been water or vodka.
Luke swallowed hard and sat back in his chair.
“We’re interested in a piece you published in Salon.” Fletcher spoke quietly, his voice restrained. “Very well written. Fascinating.”
Tracy Holman sat on the corner of the bed, leaning forward. The article was based on a chapter from the book that Luke was writing, a firsthand account of disaster relief operations in Chitral and Azad Kashmir. He was still getting used to the idea that Fletcher was alive.
“You interviewed a man in Abbottabad named Hakim.” Holman spoke this time.
“That’s not his real name, of course,” Luke said, keeping his voice level. He’d played this game before and knew how to protect his sources.
“We know,” Fletcher said. “It’s what he told you that was interesting, the part about rescue operations after the flash floods along the Jhelum.”
Despite his exhaustion and the numbing effect of the scotch, Luke felt a switch go off in his mind, signaling caution.
“What about it?”
“You quoted him as saying that simply doing good for people isn’t enough. Altruism has a price.”
“He was speaking Urdu, and I loosely translated what he said,” Luke explained.
“But he goes on to say that even the greatest acts of charity imply some sort of guilt, just as evil can have a moral face.” Holman was quoting the interview word for word.
“What exactly did he mean by that?” Fletcher said.
Luke shrugged. “Hakim styles himself as a bit of a philosopher. I thought it was an interesting paradox, particularly in a part of the world where most people view things as either black or white.”
“But isn’t he suggesting that some of the relief efforts are funded by those who might have blood on their hands? The implication is that good deeds balance out the bad—what might be called a Robin Hood effect.” Fletcher looked across at Holman.
“I suppose that’s one interpretation,” Luke said.
Fletcher drained the liquid in his glass.
“Did he mention any organizations in particular?” Holman asked. “A specific NGO or charity that might be an example of what he meant?”
Luke shook his head slowly.
“For instance, did he talk about the Sikander-e-Azam Trust?” Fletcher asked.
Luke met his eyes.
“You’ve heard of it, of course,” Fletcher persisted.
“Sure,” said Luke, understanding now why he was here. “But I’m not prepared to tell you anything more than that. Journalistic privilege. I can’t compromise my sources.”
Fletcher stared at him for fifteen seconds without speaking, then picked at a scab just below his ear.
“So, what are you willing to talk about?” he asked.
Luke shrugged. “I don’t know. Why should I tell you anything?”
“How about explaining what you know about Peregrine?” said Holman. For the second time, Luke felt as if someone had pressed a switch at the base of his spine. He sat up in his chair.
“The company or the bird?” he asked.
“You interviewed Roger Fleischmann, Peregrine’s CEO, when he was in Islamabad last month. An unofficial visit,” Fletcher spoke.
“Nice guy, with a lot of Midwestern charm,” Luke said. “As a kid, Fleischmann grew up flying model airplanes in his grandfather’s hayfields in Ohio. Then, after dropping out of college, he turned his hobby into a multibillion dollar aeronautics and defense technology firm.”
“You asked him a question about Peregrine’s links with the CIA, whether they were one of his investors. According to your interview, he laughed it off. You quote him as saying he’s a private entrepreneur with no ties to the US government,” said Fletcher.
“Yeah.” Luke took the last sip of whiskey from his glass as if it were medicine.
“Was he lying?”
Luke shook his head again. “How should I know?”
“Usually you can tell,” said Fletcher. “A good interviewer knows when he’s being sold a load of crap. You can see it in his eyes.”
“Roger Fleischmann seemed like an honest, plainspoken businessman. He said he was just trying to sell his drones and other hardware to the generals in Rawalpindi.”
“Except that he would only be allowed to do that if the CIA and Defense Department okayed the deal,” said Fletcher. Holman had fallen silent. Luke could tell from the way she held her phone that his conversation was being recorded.
“Obviously, he wasn’t selling top of the line. These were second-generation Peregrine drones, pretty much obsolete,” said Luke. All of this was in the published interview.
“Was anyone with him?”
“No, I met him alone,” said Luke.
“And he didn’t mention any of his associates in Pakistan?”
“Not that I can recall,” said Luke. “I happened to meet him through another journalist, Ali Siddiqui, who was working on a story about private military contractors in the NWFP. It was a last-minute thing. We met at the Serena Hotel in Islamabad, then drove to the airport together before Fleischmann caught his flight back to the States.”
“Did he say anything off the record that might have indicated who arranged his visit?”
“No. But if it was off the record, I wouldn’t tell you,” Luke replied.
“Somehow, I get a feeling you know exactly what this is about,” said Fletcher.
“Fuck you,” said Luke. “I don’t have any idea what’s going on, except that I’ve been hustled over here to Washington under false pretenses and you’re trying to squeeze privileged information out of me.”
“We’ve traced a charitable donation from Peregrine Corporation to the Sikander-E-Azam Trust. One point five million dollars. Does that ring any bells?” Fletcher’s voice had gone completely flat, as if his batteries were running down.
Luke waved the question aside.
“If they did, I never heard about it,” he said.
“Roger Fleischmann didn’t mention his philanthropic goals?” asked Fletcher.
“No. We onl
y spoke about his business interests. It’s all in the interview.”
“He didn’t say anything about the commissions he was paying his representatives in Pakistan, who they were, or what sort of exclusive arrangements he had with them?”
“No,” said Luke. “He told me that he’d been to Pakistan several times and he liked the food, especially chapli kababs, though he had trouble pronouncing the name.”
Fletcher ignored this. “What about security? Did he have bodyguards with him?”
Luke shook his head. “Not that I could see.”
“And didn’t that strike you as odd? The CEO of a major American arms manufacturer, visiting a country that’s crawling with terrorists, suicide bombers, and armed militants,” said Fletcher, “and he moved about without any personal security?”
“Maybe he didn’t want to draw attention to himself,” said Luke.
“Or maybe he had the kind of protection that doesn’t require a security presence,” Fletcher suggested. “Maybe he was meeting with folks on the other side.”
Seven
The wedding party arrived at the village in a convoy of eight Toyota Landcruisers, throwing up a plume of dust that stretched for almost a kilometer over the dry brown hills. Most of the passengers were men, all of them armed with handguns and automatic rifles. They were welcomed by the bride’s father and the elders of the village along with a dozen gunmen, who received their guests with cautious deference and rituals of hospitality. The guests were offered scented water in copper jugs to wash away the dust of the journey. Samovars of tea were waiting in the Jirga Hall, adjacent to the mosque. Unlike the other buildings in the village, which were made of mud, the assembly hall was a recent construction of reinforced concrete with marble cladding. Carpets and cushions had been spread on the floor. Tea was served in china cups, while platters of dried fruit and nuts were passed around.
As the men settled themselves comfortably, the bride’s aunts greeted the three women from the groom’s family and led them away to a separate building. No men were present, and veils were lifted as the women admired the bride. She was seventeen, a fresh, rose-cheeked girl with golden hair. Compliments were offered on her beauty and the clarity of her features. Though the girl kept her head lowered, one of the women put a hand under her chin and raised her face to examine the youthful profile, rouged lips, and kohl-rimmed eyes with irises of the palest blue. The bride’s ornaments were silver and gold, a dozen strands around her neck adorned with amulets and antique coins. Her hair had been carefully braided, and her pink ears were pierced with diamond studs, the only modern jewelry she wore. Henna decorated her hands, and her fingers bore an assortment of rings, while her wrists were weighed down with dozens of bracelets.
The Dalliance of Leopards Page 3