Leaving his concrete redoubt, Adam wondered how his life in Afghanistan would appear to Carla Pacelli.
His quarters were protected by a high wall and ringed with Afghan security guards the occupants hoped would never betray them. The others were American workers to whom he lied about his true mission—targeting Taliban leaders, any one of whom might have tribal or filial relationships with their guards. An existence as lonely as it was surreal.
Now he drove through the countryside with his translator, Hamid. Around them, jagged mountains capped with snow were the backdrop for villages that were tan and dirty. Swerving to avoid rocks with shards so sharp they could slice open their tires, their Jeep kicked up dust as fine as talcum powder. Hamid was his closest associate, and the nearest he had to a friend. To preserve his cover as a contract employee for the Central Poppy Eradication Force, Adam communicated with his case officer in Kabul as little as possible. As for the decision makers who directed his fate, he had never met them.
All this Adam accepted. The hardest part, he would tell Carla if he could, was running Afghan agents when the Taliban sought to capture and kill them both. He still did not know what had tipped off Messud, the Afghan he had killed barely a month before—he could never be certain about who the Afghans he dealt with truly were, or where their deepest allegiances lay. But what haunted Adam most was his duty to protect the agents who—whether motivated by greed or dislike for the enemy—remained loyal to him. One slipup, and a man he knew and perhaps even liked could end up tortured and killed, followed by his family, no matter if he betrayed Adam in an effort to save them. It had always been the most draining part of his job, and Afghanistan was more treacherous than anywhere he had worked. That Adam still cared was, he supposed, the clearest sign that concealed within him was a decent human being.
This mission made him edgier than normal. Adam had to assume that the Taliban was tracking his every movement, especially after Messud had disappeared. Quite likely there were Taliban stationed behind rocks in the hilly terrain along the route; the men he was meeting at its end could well be double agents. His usual practice was to pick agents up on the fly, meeting in a car instead of at a specific location that could be watched. But today, his agent had specified a medical center that would soon be occupied by Americans. Its only virtue was that Adam had never been seen there—it was not safe to meet an agent in the same place twice.
Nor did he trust the man he was to meet. The Pakistani’s history was shot through with duplicity—today he could be working for the Taliban, or have become a target of their suspicion. Adam preferred agents whose motives for helping him were as obscure to others as the coin in which he paid them. Briefly, he imagined telling Carla of the village elder he had given a lifetime supply of Viagra in exchange for identifying a key Taliban leader, whom the CIA had then obliterated with a drone. But the elder had lived happily on, his ego and potency replenished.
Driving beside him, Hamid scanned the countryside, his worries running parallel to Adam’s. The Afghan was in his late twenties, six feet, yet so broad and muscular that he appeared stocky, his hair cropped under his knit cap, his blunt face sporting a mustache. He had served as a guard at a military base near Kabul while being vetted by the agency, then joined the Afghan security services, which had placed him at the airport to spot suspicious people in transit. So keen was his eye that the CIA had recruited him. Now he was indispensable to Adam—talking to locals; making up whatever cover story was needed; helping assess the character of agents who, if his judgment was faulty, might end their lives. He was that rare person in Adam’s life—someone he trusted.
Hamid did not like the man they were meeting, his reservations expressed by a deeper than usual silence. The colonel commanded the Northwest Frontier Scouts, the element of the Pakistani army charged with patrolling the border and monitoring those who crossed it. His more lucrative sidelight was selling weapons in both Pakistan and Afghanistan to whoever paid him most, while slipping the information he gained to Adam. He could as easily, Hamid and Adam knew, sell them to the Taliban.
Adam had encountered the colonel while moving through the tribal areas near the border, meeting with local leaders on both sides. Along the way, he spotted a Pakistani guard post on the border. Stopping, he got out of his Jeep and began chatting with three Pakistani soldiers. After a while, he saw the dust of an army truck coming down from a fort that commanded a sweeping view of the border. Then the truck arrived, unloading a Pakistani colonel bent on finding out who Adam was.
In his aviator sunglasses and neatly pressed uniform, the fortyish man projected a certain arrogance, accented by strong features and a hooked nose that gave him an air of command. Though his manner with Adam was polite enough, his seemingly casual questions probed at who Adam was. He registered no reaction when Adam described his supposed work with the poppy eradication program. “You’re an idealist,” the colonel had remarked in a tone that mingled amusement and a hint of disbelief. “The least I can do for such a noble fellow is invite you to tea.”
Adam and the colonel had driven to the fort and sat in the shade of a makeshift canvas awning. As they exchanged further pleasantries, Adam sensed the Pakistani trying to place him in a personal ecology not bounded by his ostensible job. Either the colonel was trying to trip him up, Adam concluded, or he had some relationship in mind that he could shape to his personal advantage. Adam resolved to do the same.
At the end of an hour, they parted, each pledging fervently to nurture their new friendship with future visits. Returning to his quarters, Adam called his case officer on a secure phone and asked him to run a check on the colonel.
The response had suggested a man whose deceit was even greater than Adam had surmised. Within the CIA, Colonel Ayub Rehman was suspected of doubling as an arms dealer, selling weapons to the Taliban that were stolen from the Pakistani army by corrupt soldiers under his command. Adam could not help but appreciate the irony—his new friend was getting rich on the Taliban’s’ chief source of financing, opium money, derived from a crop Adam was pretending to eradicate. After some reflection, he came up with a scheme that, with apparent reluctance, his case officer took to their superiors. To Adam’s surprise, his man in Kabul came back with permission to proceed.
More visits to the colonel had followed, each man politely but pointedly probing the other. At length, Adam allowed that his real job was somewhat more complicated than persuading farmers not to grow opium—he was working undercover for the DEA, trying to disrupt the flow of opium money to the Taliban. For this, he went on, he needed to identify Taliban leaders. “We’re on the same side,” he had solemnly told the Pakistani. “After all, your mission on the border is to keep the Taliban from expanding its influence in your country. For such an act of friendship, I would pay you in return.”
For a long time, the Pakistani simply watched him. Adam imagined him trying to calculate the advantages of feeding him to the Taliban—one reason, among many, for portraying himself as a minion of the DEA, whose death might be less of a priority. Finally, the colonel said, “You are asking me to work for two governments.”
“What I’m asking you,” Adam replied equably, “represents further proof of my good will. For whatever reason, my government believes that you are selling weapons to the Taliban, stolen from the army. Should anything happen to me, this information will be relayed to your superiors, with unpleasant consequences you’ve no doubt already considered. But should you choose to help me, I can promise that the American government will keep this information to itself. Your life can go on as before, only with another source of income.”
The Pakistani studied Adam further, his eyes glinting with resentment and a certain sour humor. At length, he said, “I will give this new partnership a try. I only hope that, whoever you are, your skill matches your nerve.”
With this, Adam acquired another agent, at considerable risk to himself. Now, driving with Hamid to meet the colonel, Adam reflected that, on Martha’s Vineyard, he had effectively run his father as his agent, jeopardizing Jack and himself at risk to protect his brother Teddy. He still did not know whether George Hanley or Amanda Ferris might unravel his machinations. In which case, his own country would be no sanctuary from danger.
Dismissing the thought, Adam returned to the dangers of the present. “See anything?” he asked Hamid. The translator merely shrugged. Anyone they might spot was likely harmless; their enemies were skilled at staying invisible.
At the bottom of a hill, they drove through a wadi and back up a slope toward a walled compound, the would-be clinic. In due time, a doctor would be located, supplies brought in, and word put out that the Americans offered medical assistance to Afghans. Until then, the colonel had suggested that this was a good place to meet—easy to secure, with a commanding view of the area and the road traversing it. On this basis, at least, Adam could not fault his reasoning.
Hamid drove them through the narrow gate of the compound and spun the Jeep around, parking it just to the right of the gate. Then they began scouring the rooms inside to ensure no one was there. Opening each door, Adam felt the tension in his shoulders.
No enemies awaited them. Meeting Adam back in the courtyard, Hamid raised his eyebrows and shrugged. They walked to the entryway, and saw a group of shepherds moving their flock in the distance. Otherwise, the harsh terrain showed nothing.
Edgy, the two men watched and waited, chatting absently about Hamid’s family. After a time, they saw an SUV kicking up dust in the wadi. Silent, Adam watched it close the distance to the compound.
Abruptly, the SUV stopped by a mud hut near the road. When the driver got out, Adam recognized one of his agents. As planned, two men unknown to the driver emerged from the hut and got into the SUV—the Pakistani colonel and, apparently, the Afghan he had insisted on bringing. Adam had proposed this tradecraft to prevent the Pakistani’s vehicle from being associated with the clinic. He could only wonder if the Afghan’s information—if real—would justify the risk.
At last, the SUV dropped its passengers inside the compound, and left. Then Hamid closed the heavy door and the four men were alone.
Adam greeted Colonel Rehman with elaborate warmth, then faced the Afghan—Mahmud Hakeem, or so the colonel said. He was a man in his midforties, Adam judged, with liquid brown eyes and a seamed walnut face, more wary than friendly. The face of a survivor in a hard place.
Often with such men, Adam spoke in English, using Hamid as a translator to conceal his language skills. But pretense was useless here—the colonel knew better. In Pashto, Adam said, “It is an honor that you have traveled this far to meet with us. We appreciate your willingness to help.”
Hakeem simply nodded—whatever life he had led seemed to have cured him of the need for persiflage. Accepting this invitation to directness, Adam said, “We need some information from you.”
Phlegmatically, Hakeem responded to Adam’s questions—where he was born; where he lived; how old he was; what he had done in the years before. His answer to the last pricked Adam’s nerve ends—as a young man, Hakeem had worked for the Afghan army intelligence, which meant that he reported to the Russians. This made him no friend to Americans or, contradictorily, to many Afghan leaders of the Taliban, who had worked with the CIA to drive the Russians from their country. Adam’s one certainty was that he was not meeting with an innocent. But then he already knew that—the man was keeping company with Colonel Rehman.
As the dialog continued, the Pakistani watched Adam keenly. Since the Russians left, Hakeem told him, he had settled down with a family of five boys and two girls, all of whom lived with him across the border with Pakistan. He owned a large truck; his business was delivering food and supplies throughout the border areas. But, with so many mouths to feed, he could always use extra money. Adam surmised that he was already smuggling weapons for the colonel.
At the end of Hakeem’s account Adam nodded politely, arranging his features in an expression of doubt. “How would you feel about working with America after working with the Russians?”
Hakeem shrugged. “The past is the past.”
“Your home village,” Adam said abruptly, “is in an area known to harbor al-Qaeda and Taliban. Have you seen them there?”
The Afghan seemed to measure his words. “Al-Qaeda, yes—Arabs from outside Pakistan and Afghanistan. But they don’t stay in the village.”
“Where do they sleep at night?”
Again, the Afghan weighed his answer. “I only know the general area.”
“Are there Taliban in that area?”
Hakeem hesitated. “Yes.”
Adam went to his Jeep, taking out a notepad and pen. “Draw me a map of your town, and the area where al-Qaeda and the Taliban hide.”
Hakeem took the pad and pen and, frowning, began to draw. As he did, Adam felt the colonel watching him, no doubt confirmed in his suspicion that Adam was hunting the Taliban for the CIA. For his part, Adam felt sure that Hakeem was the Pakistani’s cut out: the colonel meant to use him as a go-between—limiting his contacts with Adam and therefore his own risk—while taking more money from the Americans. It was Adam’s job to manipulate them both, ever alert to the chance that he was being manipulated.
“Who is helping al-Qaeda in your village?” Adam asked.
The Afghan did not look up. “A man named Salim.”
Adam took the proffered map, primitive but clear enough. “Can you write out directions to where al-Qaeda and the Taliban are?”
Hakeem smiled faintly. “With all your satellites and electronics, can’t you do this already? Why rely on my humble drawings?”
Adam’s own smile did not reach his eyes. “I appreciate humor. But we are very serious about this.”
At once, the man’s expression changed. “And I am serious about making money. For that, I will help you find the men you seek to kill. But the rewards must equal the risk.”
Curtly, Adam nodded. “If your information is good, they will.”
In a crabbed hand, the man wrote out directions, describing the terrain between his village and the place where, in his telling, al-Qaeda and the Taliban had taken refuge. Handing back the notepad, the Afghan glanced at Colonel Rehman.
“There is something else,” the colonel told Adam tersely.
Silent, Adam turned back to the Afghan. In a softer tone, Hakeem inquired, “Is there an American soldier missing?”
Adam felt himself tense. Two years before an American private, Bowe Bergdahl, had become the only American POW of the Afghan war. To impress on Adam the importance of finding this single American soldier, his case officer had shown him the videos provided by the Taliban. In the first, Bergdahl looked young and frightened; the later videos traced his emotional deterioration. When the Taliban had demanded one million dollars and the release of Taliban prisoners in exchange for Bergdahl’s life, the Pentagon had determined to free him by other means. Now the POW’s fate might be in Adam’s hands—unless, of course, this was an elaborate ploy.
“We have a soldier missing,” Adam replied evenly. “You know that. What else do you know?”
Again, the Afghan glanced at Colonel Rehman. “I was bringing supplies to a village in Pakistan near the border, closer to where I believe al-Qaeda and the Taliban have taken refuge. While I was there, I overheard two men guarding a building, one asking the other if they were moving the American. From how they acted, the man they spoke of was inside. That’s all I know.”
“When was this?”
“Perhaps a week ago.”
Adam handed back the pad and pen. “As best you can, draw a map of the village, showing the building where the guards were.”
With a pained expression, the man did so. Studying the drawing, Adam was careful to reveal nothing.
“We will be in touch with you,” he told Hakeem, “through the colonel. If this information bears fruit, you will certainly be rewarded. But we may need more from you.”
The meeting was over. Facing the Pakistani, Adam said simply, “Thank you, Ayub.”
The Pakistani gave him a faint, sardonic smile. “What else would I do? We are friends, are we not?”
With this, the two men got in Adam’s Jeep, lying on the floor so that they could not be spotted. Under cover of darkness, Adam and Hamid left the compound and dropped them behind a massive boulder where another car would meet them.
Leaving, Adam asked Hamid, “What do you think?”
The translator shrugged his heavy shoulders, gripping the wheel as he looked for rocks captured in their headlights. “No point in guessing. You’ll have to test him, and even then you can’t be sure.”
Adam felt an apprehension he could not name. “Agreed. But certainty may not matter here. Not this time.”
When they reached the compound, Adam went to his room and called his case officer in Kabul.