know who he is. He covers his tracks very well. Perhaps he is already known to us, but we cannot see it. Maybe he is even known to you.”
“Where is this professor? How can we find him?”
The general shook his head slowly. “That is the difficulty, you see. He is a ghost. We have tried very hard to find him, you must believe me. We have summoned many professors over the last few years, I assure you. But we have not been successful. He has a network of associates, some known to us and some unknown. But even they do not know his identity; we see only where he has been, not where he is.”
Marx drained what was left of her water. She wanted to trust the general, but it was hard to believe that the ISI could not locate such a person, using its own pervasive net of contacts.
“Is this professor the leader of Al-Tawhid? They issued the statement taking credit for the operations he has enabled, so I assume he is their emir.”
“No, no. We suspect that he works with the Al-Tawhid. He uses their people. But he is not really a member. I do not think he is very comfortable with the jihadists’ ideas. He is a modern man, to know so many things. They are too primitive.”
“Then why would he do this? If he’s not a jihadist, why would he work so hard to kill American intelligence officers?”
“Ah, madam, I could tell you. But I am not sure you would want to hear the answer. It will be upsetting.”
“Of course I want to hear it. Don’t be silly. Tell me.”
“Perhaps it is a matter of revenge, madam. So many people have died in these wars, you see, and it is an insult that is felt by our whole nation. Perhaps the professor knew some of the dead, I cannot say. But I suspect it is a matter of personal honor for him. You said it yourself a moment ago: Do unto others.”
She was silent. There was nothing, really, to say. He went out to fetch his orderly and have him make some tea.
29
Sophie Marx opened the door of the guesthouse onto the cloying heat of the afternoon. It was claustrophobic inside and she needed a walk. The stillness of midday had broken: The surface of the lake was thick now with bugs, and every few seconds there was a ripple as a fish broke the water in pursuit. A lakeside path had been carefully planted with a border of rosebushes in shades of red and pink and yellow; their petals were limp in the humid summer air. The grass was patchy, bleached by the light, more dirt than lawn.
Marx ambled along, lost in thought, until she heard a voice ahead call out sharply, “ Rukiye!” which means “stop” in Urdu. It was a Pakistani soldier brandishing his automatic weapon. Beyond him was a chain-link fence. She raised her hand apologetically and turned and headed back to the bungalow. So this was the limit of her freedom: fifty yards.
General Malik was waiting for her when she returned. He offered her a cup of hot tea that had been brewed by his orderly and sat her down on the couch, installing himself in a big easy chair next to it. The furniture was faded green velvet, topped by embroidered white doilies; like everything the Pakistani military touched, it conveyed a faint nostalgia for the bygone Raj. The general sipped his tea and ate one of the sweet biscuits that had been set out by his batman. The air conditioner chattered in the window.
“You shouldn’t go walking off on your own, madam. It isn’t safe for you.”
Marx didn’t answer. She was surely in jeopardy, but it wasn’t clear whether the general was her protector or her jailer. The Pakistani took another biscuit and sipped his tea. He seemed contented, which was not good. She spoke up.
“What are we going to do, General? I need to contact Mr. Hoffman soon. What am I going to tell him? We can’t do nothing.”
The general chuckled. He found her impatience amusing. He had resolved to help, but not quite yet.
“Do what? That is the question, you see. You Americans always want to do something. That is your nature. But the something that you do often makes things worse, whereas doing nothing would at least provide a neutral course of action. This is your problem, I think.”
“Maybe so, but I still have to do something. I’m in danger. You said so yourself. I need to take action, but I don’t know in which direction to go.”
“You really are quite brave, madam. I must say that. Cyril Hoffman chose a good emissary. And I want to be helpful, truly I do.”
The general reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a piece of paper, edged with a red border.
“I have something more for you. Perhaps it will be useful.”
Marx took the paper from him. It had a classification marking at the top of the page and appeared to be an intelligence report in English. It began with a date, which was just over two months earlier. Below that there were two telephone numbers, identified as “Bhut 1” and “Bhut 2,” and the transcript of a brief conversation: BHUT 1: “Perihelion.” BHUT 2: “Aphelion.” BHUT 1: “Hello, there. This is your friend from the New World. I hope it is not too cold for you in Brussels.” BHUT 2: “Hello, back. It is the same here, always. It is Belgium.” BHUT 1: “I have new numbers. I am sending them to you at the same address as before.” BHUT 2: “You want all the transfers for these?” BHUT 1: “Yes.” BHUT 2: “It will take some time. There are new rules now. It is Europe: Privacy, privacy. I have to be careful.” BHUT 1: “How long?” BHUT 2: “A week. It has to be normal business. Is that too long?” BHUT 1: “No. That is soon enough. I want to have everything ready before we start.” BHUT 2: “Okay. I can do that.” BHUT 1: “Thanks, buddy. Perigee.” BHUT 2: “Apogee.”
Marx put down the paper and shrugged.
“Very interesting, no doubt. But what is it?”
“This is the transcript of a conversation we intercepted a couple of months ago.”
“Who are Bhut 1 and Bhut 2? The first man sounded like he must be an American, with the talk about the ‘New World’ and the ‘buddy’ stuff.”
“Very clever, that. It was meant to throw off anyone who was listening. But in fact, we believe that Mr. Bhut 1 is the gentleman I was describing before, ‘the professor.’ We have lost this link, I am afraid. He never used this cellular number again. But the person of immediate interest, for your purposes, is Bhut 2.”
“And who might Mr. Bhut 2 be? I take it from the transcript that he is in Brussels.”
“We believe that he is a Belgian national named Joseph Sabah. He is an employee of the Society for Worldwide Interbank Financial Telecommunication, also known as SWIFT, which you will recall plays a rather important part in the scheme of your adversaries. I suspect that he is what might be called the ‘inside man.’”
“Have you done anything with this intelligence, General Malik?”
“Not until now.”
She looked at the paper again, more intently now. She wanted to understand every word.
“Why did they talk about ‘perihelion’ and ‘aphelion’ at the beginning, and ‘perigee’ and ‘apogee’ at the end? Is that a code?”
“A recognition code, I would say. It’s science talk. My smart major tells me that these words are used by physics students studying celestial mechanics. The first pair of words refers to orbits around the sun, the second to orbits around the earth. Or perhaps it’s the other way around. They must have common academic interests, although we haven’t been able to find the link.”
“And what about your crypt ‘bhut.’ What does that mean?”
“Ah, madam, it means ‘ghost’ in Urdu. That is our problem. We are dealing with Ghost 1 and Ghost 2. But perhaps you will do better in finding them than we have.”
Marx studied the paper, as if she might read a deeper meaning between the lines. It was just a wisp of information, a few brief seconds of intercepted conversation, but it suggested the outlines of a meticulous structure of intelligence. How had such a powerful network been created out of such meager raw material?
