‘Well, like I said, we are from the FBI. Witness protection, actually. We have been holding for some time a witness whose testimony, we believe, may help us bring down a mafia drug nexus we have been pursuing for years.’ He paused and then said, ‘It’s just that our witness has now contracted this immune disorder. I cannot begin to tell you how important it is for him to remain alive for the next three months.’
‘I can’t guarantee that,’ Josh told him. ‘We’re simply trying to replicate Dr Gallo’s work.’
Robert Gallo, the American scientist credited with the discovery of the AIDS virus, was now working on a form of antiretroviral therapy.
‘I do know that, Mr Wando,’ Dr Hoover told him. ‘I am a doctor, after all. No one can give guarantees in this business; we can only try. Antiretroviral therapy is the key, but by the time our clinical trials go through and FDA clearance is granted, it may be too late for our witness. That is where you come in.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Josh said resignedly.
‘Good. Now I must request extreme confidentiality in this case. Under no circumstances can it be discussed or even mentioned in passing. You will instruct your medical staff to refrain from engaging in any conversation with our, er, patient beyond the strict requirements of his treatment.’ His voice became firmer as he spoke. ‘Do we have a deal, Mr Wando?’
‘Only if my own privacy is not violated, Doctor, and what you have discovered about me remains confidential.’
Dr Hoover’s eyes crinkled with good humour as he laughed. ‘Sure thing, Mr Wando. Tell you what: I’ll take you out for a steak tonight – just to prove there are no hard feelings.’
Josh nodded.
The next day, the FBI witness was admitted in the Wando research facility. Dr Hoover remained behind, along with a plainclothes security detail, to oversee the patient’s protection. Josh never saw Franks again; he had probably left town the same day.
Over the next few months, Josh and Dr Hoover grew closer. He found the doctor to be open and non-judgemental, a patient listener who enjoyed his straight whisky. A widower whose only daughter had settled in Australia, the doctor was just two years away from retirement and often talked of going back to his hometown in Oregon, where he planned to spend his time fishing. Josh sensed a deep loneliness in the man, which he could empathize with. Over time, the doctor became as close to being the friend Josh had never had – apart from Aaron, of course.
A time came when Josh felt he liked and trusted Hoover enough to broach the subject of his quest with him.
After all, he’s from the FBI
, he told himself.
He’ll know how to set up an expedition for this kind of thing!
The following Saturday, when they were at the bar, Josh brought up the subject. Dr Hoover listened to him patiently. When he had finished, Josh asked him what he thought of it.
‘Wow!’ Hoover exclaimed, ‘that’s quite a story, son!’ He ran his hand through his long hair. ‘Do you really believe this place exists?’
‘It could. We’d never know unless we tried to get there.’
Dr Hoover leaned forward and put a comforting hand on Josh’s. ‘It’s a chimera, son; it isn’t real,’ he said earnestly, a touch of sadness in his voice. ‘I have seen it dozens of time in my line of work. Patients and their families clutching at straws – miracle cures, wonder drugs and what have you. It’s what charlatans and quacks make their money on. My advice is – let it go.’
‘But what I have is real, Terry!’ Josh protested. ‘This
paiza
is the key to get there.’
Dr Hoover straightened up and tossed back the contents of his glass in one shot, motioning to the barman for a refill. Then he turned back to Josh and looked at him closely.
‘And just why did you tell me all this?’ he asked.
‘You’re from the FBI. You might be able to tell me how I should go about this,’ Josh replied. ‘Is there anyone you know who could help me set up this expedition? Needs to be confidential and reliable – that goes without saying.’
‘Woah!’ The doctor shook his head. ‘I’m a doctor, son, not a field agent.’ Then catching the shadow of disappointment on Josh’s face, he thought over it and added after some time, ‘Tell you what. I’ll speak to some people and we’ll see if we can figure this out. People who have left the Bureau and are now working freelance.’
‘Thanks, Terry. It means a lot to me.’
‘No promises,’ the doctor warned, shaking a finger at him.
A couple of days later, Dr Hoover got back to Josh.
‘Spoke to some guys, Josh,’ he said. ‘Turns out you might be on to something. But before I can help you further, you’ve got to get hold of this
paiza
of yours.’ He smiled. ‘Before people get involved, they want something more tangible to go by than mere talk.’
Josh looked at him for a moment before nodding. He had expected that. His contact at Louangphrabang would have to be convinced; it would be messy, but it had to be done.
Dera Sher Ali Nawaz, North-West Frontier Province
A
UGUST
–S
EPTEMBER
1986
They had just finished breakfast and returned to their hotel room when the phone rang; it was Suleiman. Peter spoke to him, mostly in Pushtu. This was followed by another call, which he answered in English.
‘They’ve taken the bite,’ he told Susan as soon as he had hung up. ‘We’ve been invited for a drink by the Chhote Nawab Sahib.’
‘By the
who
?’ Susan asked, intrigued.
‘The grandson of the Nawab of Dera Sher Ali Nawaz.’ Peter took in her bemused expression and asked, ‘How much of the Raj do you know about?’
‘Not much, I’m afraid. Just what we had to swot for history in school. Not
my
cup of tea.’
‘Well,
that’s
a new one, coming from a Brit, no less! Okay, allow me to give you a crash course. Things are quite feudal in this corner of the world and fierce tribal loyalties take precedence over everything else. The Nawab of the Dera is a very big guy in these parts – head of a clan, local lord of the manor and all that. For all their orthodox ways, I’ll have you know that these guys are very urbane – degrees from Oxbridge, houses in Kent, holidays in Switzerland – the works. But they do play by a different set of rules here. The Nawab is the local landlord, holding sway over nearly fifty or sixty villages and ten thousand acres of farmland and orchards – give or take a few hundred. His writ runs in all functions of the government – local administration, law and order
and
the judiciary. He owns a private army of about a thousand armed men, equipped with everything – and that includes light mortars.’
‘Good heavens!’
‘That’s right,’ Peter said. ‘And that’s the official part. Behind the façade, men like him have a hand in all the local businesses, anything at all which is currently profitable: smuggling, running trucks and controlling the convoy routes, opium and now – something that’s back in fashion – arms running. When people like me go out in the field, everyone knows the score, be it the Pakistan government or our own embassies; it’s at our own risk. In this country, guys like the Nawab are the genuine thing. The Cosa Nostra is a little league in comparison.’
‘All right,’ Susan conceded, ‘I’m suitably terrified. But again, why are we doing this?’
‘Look,’ Peter explained, ‘the Dera, in Urdu, means “camp”. Earlier, it had been a British fort commissioned during the Second Afghan War, where a battalion of infantry had been billeted. It was only when the British left the country in 1947 that the Nawab’s family’s took it over as their own, justifying their claim – which no one could challenge anyway – that the foreign occupiers had built the fort on their ancestral land. Since then, it has become the family seat. The old magazines abandoned by the British are now coming in handy for storing the weapons siphoned off from Uncle Sam’s clandestine armaments supply into Afghanistan.’
‘Let me get this clear,’ Susan interrupted, enunciating her words with care. ‘If I’ve got the general drift, we are to gain entry to this fortress so that we can pass on information to Suleiman that will enable him to steal the weapons you mentioned.’
‘That’s right,’ Peter affirmed, ‘because that’s precisely why Suleiman is here – to attend the Loya Jirga, the Council of Tribes. Whenever the Jirga is convened, the various tribes at war with the Soviets are allotted arms and ammunition based on their political importance and their contribution to the war effort. To what extent each tribe stands to benefit is somewhat arbitrarily decided by the Pakistani Inter-Services Intelligence and Gulbuddin Hekmatyar, the leader of the Hezb-e-Islami, the most important Afghan mujahideen group fighting the Soviets. Suleiman is pissed: one, because they are dithering on convening the council, and two, because his sources tell him that his tribe is not going to be very high on the goodies list. What he plans to do is all right in the eyes of his people – in principle; since the weapons were, in any case, meant for him or other mujahideen like him, Suleiman is not really stealing from the Nawab.’
Susan looked at him balefully.
‘Whatever it may be, it isn’t important. From what you’ve told me, I take it you want us to help Suleiman break into this fort so that he can steal the weapons. And then we all get together and go off to his village in north Afghanistan.’
‘Right,’ he said with a shrug. ‘That’s the long and the short of it.’
‘I’ll repeat what I said before when I first heard of this hare-brained scheme: you’re crazy. Why can’t we just go ahead with our plans without getting involved in something illegal?’
He looked at her, shaking his head at her obstinacy and her refusal to understand what was at stake.
‘You don’t get it, do you? There is
no
way we are getting into Afghanistan “legally”,’ he said, rolling the last word over his tongue for emphasis. ‘Not with a freaking war on. For starters, the moment we begin applying for visas, Uncle Sam is going to pick me up.’
For a few moments, they just looked at each other, the silence a palpable presence in their midst. Then Susan dropped her head into her hands.
‘Oh my god!’ she exclaimed.
He allowed the meaning of his words to sink in further, then asked, ‘So are you in for it or not?’
She nodded, her expression sombre.
‘Well,’ he continued, ‘according to Suleiman, Nawab Sahib’s grandson is coming down to the Hilton tonight on some personal business. He’s the person who will apparently clear our visit to the Dera. Suleiman also told us that tomorrow is Nawab Sahib’s birthday and, as is the local custom, a big bash will be organized in his honour. Nawab Sahib’s grandson is the standard playboy. Enjoys the good life and living on the wild side. Particularly relishes the reputation he has acquired of being a womanizer. Has been kept out of trouble so far by his grandfather who, however, has openly expressed his displeasure at his profligate ways. By organizing the bash to celebrate the Nawab’s birthday, the grandson hopes to ingratiate himself with the old man. Suleiman suggests that you try and wangle an invite to this party; it would go a long way towards helping him execute his plan.’
‘And what makes you imagine that I, of all persons, would be able to “wangle” this invitation?’
‘Look, Susan,’ Peter said, deciding to get down to brass tacks, ‘you are what men would typically describe as a stacked blonde.’ Ignoring her exclamation of outrage, he went on, ‘You teach undergrads with IQs above 120. I, on the other hand, deal regularly with the breed to which the man you are going to meet belongs. Any IQ such guys have is exclusively in their gonads. And it’s not just me who thinks so; Suleiman does too. You’ll be able to do it, believe me. You might want to shed these baggies, though, and doll up a bit before you go ahead with your mission.’
Peter wasn’t prepared for the punch which hit him expertly in the solar plexus. As he doubled over in pain, he wondered for an instant if he wasn’t imagining the expletives hurled at him, the kind he hadn’t heard in a long time, not even in the bush.
The rowers on the Cam have quite a vocabulary
, he mused, as Susan strode off to the bathroom.
She wouldn’t speak to him after that and Peter deliberately stayed out of her hair for most of the day, leaving her with her books. At 8 p.m., he prepared to go downstairs to meet the men. Susan was in the bathroom and he called out to her, informing her that he was heading downstairs and that she should follow when she was ready. She did not deign to answer.
The maître d’ came up as Peter entered the restaurant and ushered him to a table, where two men were already seated. The older one, pudgy and slightly balding, in the standard shalwar kameez and karakul, a triangular woollen hat, got up to shake hands with Peter, smiling through stained teeth as he introduced himself in an obsequious manner as Amin Siddiqui. Peter introduced himself, using the alias he had assumed in Pakistan. The other man in a white raw-silk shirt and maroon scarf gave him a sharp appraising look before turning his attention back to his drink, which he sipped between puffs from an ornate pipe clenched between his teeth.
‘Call me Amin, please,’ the older man went on, ‘I am secretary to Nawab Sahib.’ Then he turned to the other man and, with a small bow, introduced him grandly to Peter as ‘the younger Nawab Sahib’.
That could mean anything
, Peter thought wryly,
and like royals the world over, it doesn’t account for much
. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Amin had offered no name to identify the younger man.
‘Ah, where is Dr Hamilton?’ Amin now asked, glancing at the other man who had turned to look at Peter.
The American heaved an inner sigh of relief. Suleiman had been right about this Chhote Nawab Sahib and his proclivities.
‘She’s been a little under the weather today,’ Peter said with a nervous grin. ‘I guess the food didn’t quite agree with her. Anyway, she took some medication and slept through the afternoon.’ He half-turned and addressed the younger man. ‘But she is much better now, thankfully. She’s very keen on meeting you gentlemen and will join us shortly,’ he added, rubbing his hands for effect. ‘And, incidentally, she has asked me to apologize for keeping you waiting.’