Perhaps we should expel your station chiefs more often, to hasten your visits to our poor country.”
“It is always a pleasure, Mohammed, but you needn’t take such extreme measures. Just pick up the telephone and call me next time you’re peeved, how about that?”
“Most assuredly I will do so. On the promise that the next time you send someone here on a most secret and nefarious mission, you will call me first to ask permission. Otherwise it may strain our relationship, you see. We do not like surprises.”
“We didn’t do it, old boy. That’s why I am here. This was not a CIA operation.”
“Bosh! My dear Cyril, I do not wish to bicker with an old friend, or play semantic games. There will be time to discuss our differences. But here, have a sandwich.” He handed Hoffman the plate, and the American removed a tasty chicken sandwich with sweet mayonnaise and a dusting of black pepper.
It was hard to say which of them was more polite and indirect, as they felt each other out. General Malik asked about Hoffman’s family, and he, in turn, asked after the Pakistani’s only child, a daughter who was attending medical school at Emory University in Atlanta. Hoffman had subtly assisted her admission, though he had never said so to the general. They talked of music, for both were opera buffs. They talked of books. General Malik was an admirer of Philip K. Dick, whose science fiction novels he had begun to read when he was a young officer posted to Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.
“He is very bleak, don’t you think?” said the general. “All that talk about authoritarian states of the future. I recently read Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said. I thought it might have been about my poor country. And yet, I could not stop reading.”
“Try Dr. Bloodmoney,” said Hoffman. “You’ll feel like taking a suicide pill.”
Hoffman would normally have been happy to continue with this civilized exchange for a while longer. It was a way of clearing the throat before getting to the point. But he had only so much time before he had to get back on his Gulfstream jet, so eventually, after eating two water-cress sandwiches and a small chicken kebab dipped in hot sauce, he got around to the purpose of his visit, which was to deliver a warning. But even then he did it in a most peculiar and roundabout way.
“I wonder if I could tell you a story, Mohammed,” Hoffman began. “Would you mind that?”
“Not at all, Cyril. I am most fond of your stories. They always have a moral, which sometimes is not immediately obvious. That is the way we like to tell stories here in my country.”
“Well, sir, this story is a true one. And it’s about soldiers. People like yourself. I am a civilian, working for an agency that, let us be honest, has seen better days. But this story is about the flower of our youth, so to speak-the young men and women who, like yourself, wear the uniform. As a matter of fact, you could say that it’s about just that: The uniform.”
“Ah, Cyril. The uniform. How apt. I am sure I will find this story most instructive, once I hash it out.”
“If you please, my friend, I want you to think about the uniform that a U.S. Army officer wears. A desert combat uniform, tan, with the camouflage markings. The kind that would be worn by a soldier who is fighting our common enemies in Afghanistan, let us say, or in Iraq, or Somalia-any of the places we have been lately, or may yet be. Do you have it in your mind, that uniform?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. Clear as a bell.”
“Do you see on the arm the little American flag? It’s made of shiny plastic material. Do you see that just below the shoulder? That’s what the soldier wears when he’s in a combat zone. Not the regular embroidered flag on a nice piece of cloth, but a plastic one. Can you see it in your mind’s eye?”
“I do, for a certainty. And I have often wondered why they wear that one, and not the finer cloth one.”
“Have you, now? Have you wondered that? Well, this is your lucky day, because I am going to explain it. Our soldiers wear that little flag because it can be read by an infrared beam. It distinguishes them as U.S. forces- friendly forces. And they wear it so that our pilots and troopers and riflemen will know not to shoot at them. It’s a special piece of protection, you see? To keep our men and women out of harm’s way. Don’t you think that’s a smart idea?”
“Of course. It is so American, to use the technology so adeptly, to mark your people as your own. I wish we could be so advanced in our poor country.”
“But see, here’s the problem. And this is the reason I wanted to tell you the story, Mohammed. I am sorry to say that our enemies, Taliban fighters in Afghanistan, and Iranian Revolutionary Guards in Iraq and people on other battlefields I won’t name, have been tricking us. If they are lucky enough to kill a U.S. soldier, they will strip off his plastic American flag and take it away with them. And they will keep these, you see. Gather them up, and at the right time, stick them to their own clothes. So that when the helicopter gunship comes after them, or the unmanned drone, it will look as if they are Americans. They will trick us, you see? They will deceive us. And they will use their trickery to survive and kill us when we are most vulnerable. What do you think of that?”
The American folded his arms, which weren’t quite long enough to reach across the span of his rounded torso. Hoffman watched the face of his Pakistani host. “Do you like my story?” he asked.
The Pakistani didn’t answer at first. He stroked his mustache with his index finger, gently aligning the hairs.
“I am not sure that I understand it, really, Cyril. I always like your stories, but what is the meaning of this one? And why have you come all the way to Pakistan to tell it to me?”
“Well, sir, this is a story about the difficulty of distinguishing friends and foes. The people who are really your enemies will try to make themselves look like your friends. And when they do that, they are especially dangerous. Do you see?”
The Pakistani was becoming peeved now. For all his politeness and his natural reserve, he could not disguise it.
“Yes, of course I see. I am not an idiot, sir. But what does this story of trickery have to do with me, and with my country? Why are you insulting me in this way, by suggesting that we are not friends, but foes who are playing tricks on you? For that seems to be the intent of the story, unless I misunderstand you.”
“You never misunderstand anything, Mohammed. You are a very smart man. And I have always admired you, truly I have, as a fine gentleman and a patriot. Yes, indeed.”
Hoffman adjusted his round form in the chair, tilting himself toward his host, as if to make sure that his voice was heard.
“But I want you to realize, my old friend, that there are people in America-some of them pretty high up, too-who think, to be blunt, that you are diddling us. That you are not playing straight with us. That you tell us you’re our friend and ally, but at the same time you’re helping the people who kill our soldiers and even, perhaps, our unarmed civilians. You are playing us, in other words. That’s what these people think. And I want you to know-from me, a friend who respects and admires you-that this is a problem. You need to stop this behavior.”
The Pakistani was shaking his head. On his face there was a mournful look, a look that said: How could it have come to this? How could this man come to my country, to look me in the face and insult me in this way? He did not say those things, though they were plain enough in his manner, but instead said something that was much more direct and, in that sense, out of character.
“Look here, Cyril. There may be politicians in America who say these things, but as we say in our Punjabi language, they are dala and randi. Pimps and whores. Let us cut the bullshit. Shall we do that? Cut this bullshit? I know why you are here. And I know why you told me the fairy tale about the flag.”
“Oh, do you, now? Well, that’s a relief. Pray tell.”
“Yes, let me tell you about the real story, Cyril, not the make-believe one: An American was kidnapped in Karachi a week ago. We are very sorry for it. As I am sure you know, our police have been working to help.”
“Yes, yes. Thank you for that.” Hoffman nodded his big head.
“Now, this man appeared to be a businessman. But we are quite certain that he was something else. That he was an intelligence officer, to be blunt. But we didn’t understand who he was working for. He did not appear to be working for your esteemed organization, Cyril, not for any part of it that we know, but for some other entity, which we do not understand. We do not like that, not at all. It is you who should apologize, sir, not me. This is a most gross violation of our sovereignty. It required a response, and so it was farewell for Mr. Barkin.”
Hoffman shrugged. He folded his arms across his chest. He looked like Humpty Dumpty in a summer suit.
The Pakistani was angry. His pride had been injured, and that was not an easy wound to salve. His voice was sharper now.
