In the Company of Liars

damaged his Caucasianskin.

“Zulfi,” the man says to Ram, “is a bit too, uh‘democratic,’ let’s say. Fine for Baluchistan, but here in Peshawar, not sogood.”

Ram-born Zulfikar Ali Haroon-was named after the firstdemocratically elected prime minister of Pakistan, Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, who wasultimately overthrown by the first of several dictators who have controlledPakistan since its birth. Ram’s dead sister, Benazir, was named afterZulfikar’s daughter, Benazir Bhutto, who later was elected to the same postherself.

“Your mother liked freedom,” says the man.

Ram stares at the man.

The man nods. “Your mother worked for Central Intelligencefor several years.”

“I know that,” Ram says defiantly. Ram has known this, to beprecise, for all of forty-eight hours, after he confronted his father aboutwhat he had been doing in secret, all of the late-night business he had beenconducting. He had figured that Father was running guns for the mujahedin, thathe was probably connected to one of the militant groups, but he hadn’t figuredthat Father was doing so at the request of American intelligence.

That was something that none of the militants knew, either.

“Your father is an undercover operative,” says the man.

“I know that also.”

“Good. So you know that if you ever released thatinformation, he would be immediately killed. And so, probably, would you.”

Ram feels the heat in his chest. Father places a hand on hisarm.

“He knows that,” Father says.

Ram sees his mother now with a renewed admiration. He is not,himself, political, and never has been. Such concerns are lost on thisthirteen-year-old boy. His classmates who have lived in Peshawar their wholelives have experienced more of it, and have developed an anti-Westernunderstanding of the world, but Ram is a child of Baluchistan, where this holywar means little more than a few hundred Afghan refugees spilling into theirregion. But Mother always preached about freedom, about America, about thebravery of Zulfikar Bhutto, who fought for freedom and spent the last years ofhis life tortured and neglected in prison, before he was summarily executed byone of the many dictators who have strangled Pakistan.

Your Pakistan will be a free Pakistan, she often told him.

“I want to join also, Mr. Shiels,” Ram says in English.

“So your dad says.” Shiels leans back in his chair, an easysmile on his face, but his eyes narrow.

Mr. Shiels will need convincing. Father, too, will needconvincing. Father did not want this for Ram, but he probably realized that, inpart, his son would want to be a part of this for the same reason that Fatherdid, as a way of continuing a connection with Mother.

Father had reluctantly explained to Ram, after muchprodding, that Ram would be treated differently in the CIA than Father. He waseducated and had his mother’s intelligence. He would probably continue in hiseducation and become an asset, in the eyes of whatever Islamic militantorganization he pretended to be a part of, someone who could plausibly traveloverseas as a student and be engaged in a much more far-reaching operation thanrunning guns.

And Father had repeated, so many times in the last two days,that Ram had a choice, at any time, to leave. Preparing for an operation, hetold Ram, is preparing to die.

That meant Mother had been prepared to die, too, though shehadn’t expected to die as a civilian casualty in a random bombing by theSoviets. And she hadn’t anticipated that her four-year-old daughter would besitting at the front of the class, playing dolls, when it happened.

The Soviets had killed Mother. Mother, who used to sing Ramto sleep at night, used to fill him with praise and hope for a better future.Mother, who used to tell him, before he did anything, to ask one question: Whatwould your parents do?

“I want to join,” Ram repeats.

The man comes from around his desk and sits on it, close toRam. “We’ll see about that,” the man says. “We’ll take it slow.”

“I will do what you say,” Ram says.

“Very good,” the man says. “You’ll be working with me fornow. We’ll see how things progress.”

Ram nods and offers his hand. “My name is Ram Haroon.”

“Call me Irv,” Shiels says, shaking his hand.