It seemed clear what we should do and where we should go – Pakistan. But when I put it to Ayesha she wasn’t sure. Her recent experiences in that country had scared her. Her temerity in confronting the thugs at the morgue, her willingness to examine her father’s body now seemed foolhardy in the extreme. She regretted having employed Masood Jilani, both because of what had happened to him and because it had tipped off dangerous people that she was pursuing them. When we met to discuss how to proceed, she had printed out the official travel advice from the British Foreign Office and insisted on reading it to me:
‘ “There is a high threat from kidnap, terrorism and violence throughout Pakistan. The Foreign and Commonwealth Office advise against all or all but essential travel to different parts of the country. There is a particular threat of kidnapping against Western nationals. British nationals of Pakistani origin have been targeted by criminals as they are often perceived as being wealthier than locals. Criminal violence is common, including armed carjacking, robbery and murder. It is difficult to predict the safety of daily activity—” ’
I tried to interrupt.
‘No. Listen . . .’ Ayesha said. ‘ “The number of kidnappings for ransom of Westerners has increased. British nationals of Pakistani origin are at particular risk. British and other kidnap victims have faced extended periods of detention. While some were ultimately released, others have been killed. The long-standing policy of the British government is not to make substantive concessions to hostage takers . . .” ’
‘Okay, I get it,’ I said. ‘When – if – we go to Pakistan we should be careful. I’m not arguing with that . . .’
‘If we go. But don’t you see the other point I’m trying to make? Why does the Foreign Office make such a big thing out of “British nationals of Pakistani origin”? It’s because they are prime targets for kidnapping and violence. And don’t you think my father might have been one of them? A kidnap-gone-wrong would explain lots of things, like the men Guddu says were spying on Dad when he was at my grandmother’s house; the fact that his wrists and ankles were bound . . . Maybe they were trying to take him away, but he resisted and they beat him so badly that they ended up killing him . . .’
‘Yes, it’s possible. Of course it is. So long as we don’t have any confirmed leads, all explanations are possible. I see there’s a long section in the Foreign Office guidance about the threat from terrorist and extremist religious groups targeting foreigners, so I suppose it’s even possible Ibrahim was killed by them . . .’
‘You’re not taking me seriously, Martin. Terrorists blow people up; they blow up buildings and hijack airplanes. And anyway, Dad was a Muslim. We can rule out terrorists. But I’m right about kidnapping, aren’t I? Dad could just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. What do you think?’
‘I think it’s a possibility. And, to be honest, I think you are keen on that explanation because you want your father to be innocent. You want him to be a victim of chance, of fate, of misfortune. You want it because that’s easier for you to cope with, easier than thinking he might have been a criminal, mixed up in some crooked business, and that he died because of his own . . .’ I stopped. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that how it sounded. I know you’re having a hard time. And I know you loved your father. But all I’m saying is that we have to be realistic; we can’t let sentiment cloud our judgment . . .’
Ayesha had clasped her face in her hands and was rocking back and forth, racked by sobs. If I had thought that I’d learned to understand this complex, contradictory woman, here was proof that I hadn’t. The emotional strain building within her had been so intense that it took only the slightest brush on a fragile nerve to provoke her collapse.
‘Ayesha . . . I’m so sorry. That was stupid of me. Of course we must work on the assumption that Ibrahim was innocent. And of course I’m not going to force you to return to Pakistan. There’s lots we can do without going there . . . What about the Foreign Office, for a start? Your dad was British, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes. He had a British passport . . .’
‘Then we must get the Foreign Office onto this,’ I said. ‘It’s their job to look after Brits abroad . . .’
Ayesha shook her head. ‘He had dual nationality – British and Pakistani. When I tried the Foreign Office they said that makes a difference . . .’
‘Nonsense! If Ibrahim was British, he was British. And the government needs to recognise it . . .’
Ayesha was rummaging through the printouts she had brought with her.
‘I don’t think it’s that simple, Martin. When I asked the Foreign Office for help they were polite, but they quoted their rules and regulations about how much, or how little, they could help. Here, look – it’s in the FCO guidance: “If you or your father were born in Pakistan, you might be considered a Pakistani national by the local authorities even if you don’t hold a Pakistani passport, and the British government may be prevented from providing the full range of consular assistance . . .” That’s the problem with Dad: he had both nationalities, so the Foreign Office doesn’t want to know.’
‘Then we need to pay them a visit.’
‘Yes, I suppose . . .’ Ayesha wiped her eyes. ‘The FCO fobbed me off, but you’re a journalist; perhaps they’ll be worried what you might write about them . . .’
She had regained her composure.
‘So . . . how about a deal?’ she said. ‘If you get us a meeting with a minister at the Foreign Office, then I’ll consider coming to Pakistan with you . . .’