Tom crouched down behind a brown-brick wall that abutted the sidewalk. His face was dripping sweat. He hadn’t seen Khan get out, but he hadn’t seen him killed, either. In truth, he felt confused by the whole episode. But had to admit that Khan, or whatever his name was, had saved his life and had given him his only lead.
After a few minutes, he saw a beat-up Suzuki sedan with the words “For Hire” emblazoned in red on the side, along with some Urdu painted green. He stepped out from the wall, still clutching his bag, and walked to the edge of the kerb before attempting to hail it down. The cab passed him but stopped and reversed. He opened the front passenger door and leaned in, seeing a slim-faced man with a high forehead and an unkempt moustache, the hairs peppered with white spots, as if he’d just eaten a sugar doughnut.
“Do you speak English?” Tom asked.
“Oh, yes,” the driver said. “Very good English. Where are we going to?”
“Peshawar,” Tom replied, deciding to pick up the Ford there and drive back to Kabul.
“Oh, no, sir. I work only in Islamabad. And I am having sleep in one hour. Besides do not go to Peshawar. Very dangerous.”
“Listen. I need a car and fresh clothes.”
“I only drive taxi, sir.”
“I have three thousand American dollars,” Tom said, all that he had in his wallet.
He liked to carry cash, especially abroad. In his line of business, he’d thought he might need it one day. Now that day had arrived.
“I know a very good car dealer. My cousin. You can have clothes, too. He is broad man like you. Get in, get in,” he said, his hand beckoning Tom frantically.
Tom got into the back seat, something that felt like a busted spring jutting into his thigh. The driver pulled away, hammering at his horn as a car swerved to avoid his clumsy manoeuvre.
“How long till we get there?” Tom asked.
“A few minutes, sir. You want cigarettes? Marlboro Lights,” he said, grinning in the rear-view.
“I don’t smoke.”
“Are you an American?”
“Australian,” Tom said, lying.
“Ah, surfing and very pretty girls. You like very pretty girls?”
Tom checked below the car’s dash. “Can you turn on the radio?”
“Sure. No problem,” the cab driver said. “You like boys?”
“Just drive, will ya?” Tom said, figuring the guy got a cut from local pimps for providing foreign customers.
As the cab driver turned on the radio Tom took out the disposable cell and rang Crane, hoping that he would wake from his drunken slumber. He had to ring three times before he was greeted by a grunt on the other end, rather than voicemail.
“It’s me, Tom.”
“Jesus, what’s that noise?” Crane asked.
“I’m in a cab. I’m still in Islamabad.”
“Can you talk freely?”
Tom told him what had happened, including his encounter with the Pakistani cops, and that he’d arranged transport. He left out what Khan had told him about Hasni’s son, Mahmood. He didn’t want Crane interfering. He might get him picked up and moved to a safe house in order to avoid an embarrassing diplomatic incident. He just couldn’t risk it.
“If they have Khan, he’ll talk. Not right away, because he’s tough. But he will talk,” Crane said, his tone morose. “And you can’t risk going over the border by yourself. I’ll have someone meet you on the Pak side. They’ll bring you back to Kabul. Ring me when you get close to Torkham. But avoid the major roads. Use the map.”
“Can you get me on a plane from Kabul to Boston?” Tom asked, checking on the driver, who was still shaking his head to the music.
“Why Boston?”
“I got a buddy there. I thought I’d meet up with him,” Tom said.
It was half a truth at least.