The Pakistan Conspiracy, A Novel Of Espionage (27 page)

When they left Jalil Kabab, Mahmood told Kate that the area was so congested with major streets where crossing was a life-threatening adventure that walking was probably not the best way to travel, so he stepped into the road to order a pedi-taxi. Before he could find one, he managed to flag down a
ching-chee,
a kind of three-wheeled motorcycle with a sturdy rickshaw at the rear. Mahmood was elated.

“These are new in Pakistan,” he said with childish delight. “I have always wanted to ride in one, but you know, I have my own driver for official business so I have never had the chance.”

“I know, a private chauffeur, what a handicap,” Kate said.

“I believe these are imported from China,” Mahmood said, oblivious to her sarcasm. “Some of them have gas-powered engines instead of petrol. This is Pakistan’s effort to be more ‘green’.”

“Not as green as a donkey cart,” Kate said, pointing to one. “They are truly green, they eat plants.”

“So true. Donkey carts are simple to operate also. No garage mechanics necessary, or petrol.”

Mahmood directed the
ching-chee
to the corner of Mall Road and Michni Road, about equidistant from the American Consulate and ISI headquarters. That way the driver would see neither building. That is where they got out.

***

Kate walked the distance from Michni Road back to the U.S. mission, recognizing that her trip to the Mohabbat Khan Mosque had not been worth the risk. Even walking alone in Peshawar was dangerous, especially near the Consulate. In 2010, terrorists had raked security checkpoints outside the building with gunfire, killing one of the local guards. One could never tell when the next outbreak of violence might begin. Kate entered the Consulate through a rear entrance, where security officers knew she was out in disguise. They let her quietly back in.

At her borrowed desk, Kate called Mort Feldman in Islamabad to discuss with him her idea of challenging Al-Greeb’s organization with the fact ISI had knowledge of the Russian bomb.

“You ran it by Mahmood?” Feldman asked. There was no enthusiasm in his voice.

“He doesn’t like giving away more information than we give him in return.”

“I’m with him on that score—so how are you two getting along?”

“What does that mean?” Kate said sharply. She realized that she did not feel comfortable talking about Mahmood with Mort, and that instantly bothered her.

“What I mean is how the fuck are you getting along with Brigadier Mahmood Mahmood, the only help we have in this whole goddamn country? Is he cooperating with you or not?”

“For sure,” Kate said carefully, “I think he welcomes the chance to work with me—with us, I mean. There are lots of things he finds hard to live with in the ISI.”

“That’s good. ISI is mainly assholes,” Feldman said. “Had Mahmood come to the States for training earlier in his career, he could easily have become an American citizen and maybe joined our own team. He would have been invaluable. And the fit would have been much better for him personality-wise. He’s basically too decent to be comfortable in the Mafia environment of the Pakistani military.”

“When this is over, he may not be a very popular guy here with his fellow officers,” Kate offered.

“How well I know that. In fact, I’ve been thinking of ways we can save his bacon if the need arises. There may come a time when he is no longer welcome in Pakistan.”

Phillip Drayton accepted a tiny cup of espresso from his host.

“Have you read Kipling?” the elderly Copt asked. Monsieur Farooq was in his seventies, a bit frail, his hair snow-white, wearing a cream linen suit and a Panama hat. His skin was the color of a ripened pear, darker than his suit, sun-drenched and almost burned, and he had tight wrinkles around alert blue eyes. There was something delicate and a little too refined about him. Drayton noticed that his fingernails were manicured and coated with clear nail polish.

“No,” Drayton said. “I studied history and I should have read more widely, but literature took second place to biography in my reading.”

“Rudyard Kipling was fond of Egypt and Port Said in particular,” the old man said. “You must understand, of course, that this was in the days before aero flight. In Kipling’s day, the ocean liner was the mode of travel for the rich—and those elegant trains, trains like palaces on wheels. But it was ocean travel that made Port Said the most cosmopolitan of cities, a place where everyone lived in tolerance, where rich travelers provided the financial lubrication to keep civil institutions strong.

“Kipling said that if you lost a friend but if that friend traveled—and I’m quoting him now, ‘there are but two points on the globe where you must watch and wait and sooner or later your man will come there: the docks of London and the hotels of Port Said.’ Quite marvelous, is it not? Who else would compare Port Said in the same breath with London?”

“Very interesting."

“It puts your own mission in perspective.”

The Egyptian replaced his china cup in its saucer with great delicacy. They were sitting together on an upper balcony of the elderly Christian’s 19th century wood-shingled mansion overlooking the Mediterranean. The day was clear, the air pure, the sea breeze cleansing. Though he was tired from the five-hour flight from Islamabad to Cairo, and more so by the three hours he had spent riding from Cairo to the coast in a geriatric diesel taxi that possessed neither air conditioning nor shock absorbers, Drayton felt newly energized by the crystalline blue sky, the unsullied Mediterranean salt air, and this laid-back Egyptian millionaire, so calm compared to the frenetic Mort Feldman.

“The best way to pass time in my lovely Port Said is to look for ships entering or leaving the Canal. You can do that from this house, if you stand on the roof, or better by going to the ferry terminal. But I take it that you want me to take care of that for you?”

“That’s what Mr. Feldman asked me to ask you, sir,” Drayton said. “He also asked me to give you this.”

Drayton handed the Egyptian a bronze coin from the Sudan.

“Ah, Khartoum!” the Egyptian said with delight. “Khartoum is where I worked with Mort. Do you know what this is?”

“Mr. Feldman told me that when I gave you this coin, you would know that he had sent me, without any doubt. It was a sign you would remember, and it would give you confidence.”

“So true, so true. This is a ten-piastre coin, minted in 1981, one tenth of a Sudanese Pound. Do you see the complex engraving here on the front? It is worth very little, but when I sent a messenger to Mort, or he to me, and the telephone was not in order, we gave the messenger such a coin to let the other know that the message was genuine.”

“A simple but effective trick,” Drayton said.

“Simple is always best, but I would hardly call it a trick! Tradecraft is what it was.”

Drayton had jumped at the chance to undertake a field mission, even a small one, on his own. Farooq was a contact Feldman had made in Khartoum in the 1980s, the expatriate owner of a Sudanese gold mine. Egyptians back in those days controlled vast tracts of Sudanese wealth and industry, though most of them were not Coptic Christians. Farooq had now retired to his native Port Said, where he served on the board of directors of the Suez Canal Authority, the government agency that administered the Canal.

“We Copts have thrived on the coast here in this Muslim land,” Farooq said. “But we need friends. We have learned lessons from the Jews, who also have learned to survive in sometimes hostile environments.”

“I understand.”

“As for the Canal, some 60 ships a day transit the passage, two convoys going south and one convoy going north.”

“Our ship, if it passes through here at all, will be going from Suez to Port Said, northbound,” Drayton said.

“Tell me more about this vessel.”

Drayton handed Farooq a copy of the file he had developed on the
Nippon Yoku-Maru
back at Langley headquarters and explained that the ship possibly carried contraband arms which CIA was desirous should not pass through the Canal. He also provided a physical description of the ship that Alice Carulla had prepared.

“Can you be more specific about the contraband?” Farooq asked.

“No, to be honest, we are not sure ourselves what’s on board. But this is a vessel that has links to the most dangerous terrorists....”

“Which can only mean Al Qaeda.”

“The analysis we did was mainly a question of weighing of probabilities,” Drayton said cryptically. “We have some leads that point in dangerous directions.”

“You mustn’t be too bureaucratic with me, Mr. Drayton. I have been there before. You remember I’m sure that old maxim of Winston Churchill’s, the notion that nothing avails but perfection can be spelled ‘paralysis.’ I’m sure I don’t expect anything but a best guess from you. We both deal in estimates, not certainties.”

“It’s hard to be specific when there is so much we don’t know, and to hint at what might be our worst case would reveal too much about how we collect information, I’m afraid.”

“And yet you want my help?”

“Indeed. That’s why I’m here.”

Farooq proceeded to explain the operation of the Canal, and how carefully it was observed by all the world’s major spy agencies.

“You probably have as good intelligence about traffic through the Canal as I do, but let me recap the basics for you, if it will be helpful,” Farooq said. “The Canal is 120 miles long and about 85 feet deep, with no locks. Seawater flows freely. The Red Sea is only about four feet higher than the eastern Mediterranean, at Port Said. There is only one shipping lane, with passing areas in the Ballah Bypass near El Qantar and also in the Great Bitter Lake. On most days, there is only one convoy of ships from Suez to the Mediterranean. It leaves Suez at daybreak and passes the first southbound convoy in the Great Bitter Lake. The southbound convoy is moored temporarily to allow the northbound convoy passage. The same happens again at Ballah Bypass, where the northbound convoy has priority while the second southbound convoy is stalled. The passage takes between 12 and 16 hours, depending upon traffic, at a speed of around eight knots, so as not to damage the Canal banks.”

“So an observer at Ismailia or any other number of spots on either side of the Great Bitter Lake could see the northbound convoy travelling in single file through the narrowest points of the Canal,” Drayton observed.

“Precisely,” Farooq said. “And of course there is also the collection of fees. This provides a detailed record of each ship. We collect some $6 billion a year in fees from vessels in transit. It is a major source of income for Egypt. The average fee per vessel is something like a quarter of a million dollars, so it is a matter the ship owners take seriously.”

“I appreciate your help, and I will leave you now, Monsieur Farooq. I hope you will let Mort know if you can be helpful to us in locating the ship, and you know where to reach me while I’m still in Port Said.”

“I shall,” Farooq said. “But tell me, do you think your target vessel poses any risk to the Canal itself?”

Drayton paused, not sure how to reply. Feldman has asked him to be as vague as possible, but very little seemed to escape his host.

“The ship is potentially very dangerous. It contains explosives.”

“What kind of explosives?” Farooq persisted.

“The worst kind,” Drayton said. “The worst kind you can imagine.”

***

Philip Drayton returned to his Western hotel. It claimed five stars though its only real attraction was its location, with a clear view of both the Canal and the sea. From the terrace of his fifth floor room he an excellent view of the harbor. But there were mice in the tiny Italian restaurant on the ground floor and the fan in the bathroom sounded like a drone aircraft revving to take off.

As expected, the room had been tossed, probably by the GIS, the Egyptian General Intelligence Service, or so Drayton thought until he opened his refrigerator and saw that some personal food items had been pilfered. Could it be? That he had not been the victim of an overly zealous Egyptian government but of the hotel staff, simply trying to rip off an American tourist?

He thought of accepting Monsieur Farooq’s generous offer of the guest bedroom in his seaside mansion. Port Said was quickly losing its ramshackle charm, with its wooden palaces and the colonial legacy of the canal builders. What was it Farooq had said, that money provided the glue that held social institutions together? Perhaps the money was now running out.

Drayton’s cell phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. It was the American Embassy in Cairo.

“Drayton, this is Matt Griechek, do you know who I am?”

“Yes sir,” Drayton responded. Griechek was CIA’s top man in Egypt, another grizzled veteran of the Mort Feldman era. He and Feldman had been competitors since way back. This could not be good.

“May I ask what gives us the pleasure of a visit from CTC?” Griechek asked.

“This is not a secure phone, sir,” Drayton protested.

“Fuck secure phones Drayton!” Griechek was suddenly shouting. “I want to know what the hell you’re doing on official business in Egypt without talking to me about it first!”

“Sir, I’m on TDY assignment in Mort Feldman’s shop. I understood before leaving Pakistan that Mr. Feldman was going to contact you.”

“He did not.”

“Let me contact Islamabad and find out what happened,” Drayton said.

“You have secure text?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well let’s do this,” Griechek said, his voice slightly lower in tone. “You write me a message explaining why you’re here, and I will personally contact Mort Feldman in the meantime.”

“Fine. I’ll do that.”

“Right now!” Drayton heard a click, and the call went dead.

Drayton had worked for CIA long enough to recognize the importance of courtesy calls and respect for turf, especially overseas. Mort Feldman often deliberately provoked people by failing to respect boundaries. Had Feldman deliberately set him up with Griechek? He was tempted to call him and find out, but decided he could do that after explaining himself to the man in Cairo.

He opened his laptop and wrote a one-page summary of his mission—which was to establish a foolproof methodology for tagging the
Nippon Yoku-Maru
if and when it transited the Suez Canal.

His room did not have Wi-Fi, so rather than search the hotel for it, he routed the text through his Blackberry, sending the encrypted transmission directly to Cairo Station. Only then did he call Islamabad. The time difference was three hours. It was just after noon in Port Said, just after nine in the morning in Feldman’s shop.

Feldman answered his cell on first ring.

“Yeah, I know. I just got off the line with Matt Griechek,” Feldman said when he realized it was Drayton calling.

“He was not very happy.”

“As I would have been in his shoes. But I smoothed it over. Everything’s peachy now.”

“I sent him a written
precis
of what I was doing here.”