The Shadow Patrol

WELLS HAD CONSIDERED several disguises to approach the Thuwanis. He could have gone in as a would-be jihadi from Lebanon hoping to join the fight in Afghanistan. Or a drug trafficker from London looking for new sources. He even wondered whether the tribe would accept an overture from an American reporter or photographer.

But those covers felt wrong. The Thuwanis were part of the Taliban, but they didn’t train foreign fighters, at least as far as the agency could tell. They were already selling all the heroin they could produce. And as for going in as a journalist… Wells could hardly trust the Thuwanis to keep their promises of safe passage. They’d kidnap him, and after they squeezed as much ransom as they could out of him, they’d make a souvenir of his head.

So Wells decided to present himself as a wealthy Saudi eager to support the Taliban. The Saudis had financed jihad for a generation, through the same charities that built schools and mosques. They bought weapons and gave money to the families of suicide bombers, so-called martyrdom payments.

Of course, Wells would have a tough time asking about heroin trafficking if he came in as a Saudi financier. But meeting the Thuwanis would give him a fix on where they lived — and get him cell phone numbers and e-mail addresses for the NSA to trace.

After his mission the previous year, Wells knew he could count on the Saudis for help. He called Amadullah’s half brother, Prince Miteb. The explanation took a few minutes, since Miteb was nearly ninety and half deaf, but eventually the prince understood. “It will be done.” Miteb coughed into the phone, the gasps of a man whose heart was nearly finished pumping. “Mr. John, if you have any other favors, I suggest you ask them now. I don’t expect to be alive much longer.”

“I pray you’re wrong.” And not just for you. For your country.

“Save your prayers for something else.” The sharpness in Miteb’s tone reminded Wells of Amadullah.

The next day, Wells was told to report to the embassy in Islamabad. Now he had his cover, and it was as real as could be. But having the right passport didn’t guarantee that Wells would convince Thuwanis to open their not-entirely-friendly arms to him. Wells was one-quarter Lebanese. He could pass for Jordanian or even Syrian. But most Saudis were a shade darker than he was, and — as Naiz had told him — his Arabic couldn’t fool a native Saudi. Wells didn’t doubt the Thuwanis had seen their share of Arab jihadis over the years. Wells would have to keep his story simple and tight and hope that greed blinded Amadullah.

The hard work was just beginning.

AT THE ISLAMABAD AIRPORT, Wells rented a 4Runner. He wanted to come across as wealthy, not gaudy. If he seemed too rich, the Thuwanis would suspect a trap, or simply fleece him. He headed to the highway that ran west toward Peshawar and called Shafer with the BlackBerry Naiz had given him.

“Nine-six-five area code,” Shafer said when he picked up. “I see the Saudis came through.”

“It’s nice to have friends.”

“Any idea how long you’ll be gone?”

“A week or two at most. More than that and you should send a search party.”

“Put your face on a goat milk carton.”

Wells laughed. “Did you tell Duto where I was going?” To make sure the mole couldn’t alert the Thuwanis he was coming, Wells had lied about his plans, claiming that he was going to Moscow to follow a lead.

“No. But he’s wondering. He reminded me that his trip with the congressman is only three weeks out. Did you want me to?”

“Let him wonder.”

Wells hung up, called Anne. “You may not hear from me for a couple days. I’m going into the hills.”

“The hills? Sounds relaxing.”

“Like a spa.”

“Next time you go on vacation, I’m coming.” She sounded resigned rather than angry. Resigned was worse.

“It’s a deal.”

“You’re lucky to have me.”

“Don’t I know it,” Wells said.

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re trying to decide if you can put up with a lifetime of this, aren’t you?”

She didn’t bother to answer.

“If I told you I loved you, would it make any difference?”

“If you actually loved me, it would make a difference, John.”

She hung up. When he called back, she didn’t answer. So he made his way west. He tuned the 4Runner’s radio to an all-Arabic network, and as the miles rolled on he left himself behind. He became Jalal Haq, a middle- aged Saudi eager to support jihad any way he could. At Kohat, a cramped city on the edge of the mountains, he turned south. Tractors puttered along the side of the road, pulling carts loaded with sacks of cement. Sheep twirled on spits outside one-room restaurants, their dead eyes staring at the trucks rolling by.

The sun was low in the sky when Wells reached Dera Ismail Khan, halfway between Islamabad and Quetta. He would have to stop for the night. The roads in Balochistan weren’t safe to drive alone in darkness. Ahead, a highway sign advertised the “D.I. Khan Guesthouse for Muslim Men, Clean and Safe.” “Perfect,” Wells said aloud in Arabic.

His room at the guesthouse was simple and spare. Four thin walls, a single bed, a sink, a stand-up shower. The call to the Maghrib, the sunset prayer, sounded a few minutes later. Wells hurried down to the simple mosque attached to the guesthouse. He hadn’t prayed alongside other Muslims in more than a year.

The mosque had threadbare carpets and concrete walls stenciled thickly with Quranic verses. The men around Wells touched their foreheads to the floor as fervently as if they were in the Grand Mosque in Mecca. In this room, Wells remembered why he had become a Muslim, the power and simplicity of the faith. Jalal Haq belonged here, and Wells, too. As much as he belonged anywhere.

In the morning, he woke early, fueled up, and turned onto the N50, which connected Dera Ismail and Quetta. At first the road was smooth and straight. Then, in typical Pakistani fashion, it turned without warning into a potholed track barely one lane wide. The heavy trucks that dominated the highway hardly seemed to notice. They barreled along, creeping so close to Wells’s back bumper that their grilles filled his mirror like the faces of unsmiling gods. He had to edge off the road to let them by.

He came over a hill to find a tractor blocking the road, two men with AKs beside it. A dozen more men in shalwar kameez stood nearby, along with a firepit where a goat was roasting. The mood seemed festive rather than angry. But the roadblock was real and so were the AKs. Wells stopped and one of the tribesmen waddled over. He wore a long gown that might once have been white but was now stained with grease and what Wells hoped was goat blood.

“Salaam aleikum,” Wells said, opting for Arabic.

“Aleikum salaam.” The man said something else to Wells. Wells knew Pashtun, and even a few words of Dari. But the tribes up here had their own dialects, and he’d never heard this one.

“Saudia, Saudia,” Wells said in Arabic. “I don’t know what you’re saying. Do you speak Arabic?”

“Arabiy! Arabiy!” The man waved to the other tribesmen, who clustered around the Toyota. Another man, this one wearing sunglasses despite the gray clouds above, leaned over and yelled in Arabic, “We’re collecting a toll.”

“All right, my brother.” Wells had put a few hundred rupees in the glove compartment for just this reason. He reached for them.

“But first, what is your name?”

“Jalal.”

“And where are you headed, my brother Jalal?”

“Quetta.”

“Quetta, Quetta!” The man couldn’t have seemed more excited if Wells had announced his next stop was Tokyo. “And what shall you do in Quetta?”

“I have gifts for our brothers fighting the jihad.”