“Well, if he’s in the northwest provinces, then forget it. I suggest you don’t go. We urge all American citizens to avoid travel to the tribal areas of Pakistan’s Northwest Frontier Province. Anyway, the Pakistani government requires all persons, other than Pakistani and Afghani citizens, to obtain permission from the Home and Tribal Affairs Department before visiting these tribal areas. These regions lie outside the normal jurisdiction of the Pakistani government.”
“I haven’t got any plans now, but what does that mean?” you’re prey,” he said drily. “Even within its borders the Pakistani government can’t guarantee your safety, but in these northern regions, you’ll be walking into sure trouble. Just forget it.”
I nodded, hoping Ward had taken the same advice. “Next-no public transportation, no befriending of strangers who seek your company. The best thing that could happen to you is to have your money stolen.” He paused, letting me figure out what the worst-case scenario would be.
There was a knock on the door, and a slight, darker man with a neatly clipped mustache walked in. “Hi, I’m Don Suarez,” he said. “I’m the legat.” I recognized the term. Legal attaches stationed in the U.S. embassies are in fact FBI special agents.
“I was just briefing Dan on the security requirements here,” said Applebee.
“Pretty exciting, isn’t it?” said Suarez wryly, sitting down next to me.
“I’ve been to worse places,” I said.
“Just make sure you’re not kidnapped,” said Suarez, as if it were up to me.
“Anything happen lately?” I asked.
“All the time. But it gets the attention of the media only when foreigners are the victims. Stories about local fat cats that are herded at gunpoint until their family coughs up the money are a nonevent for the world media.”
“Have there been any serious incidents against U.S. personnel lately?”
“Sure, there were several attempts against us,” said Suarez calmly. “There was a church bombing that killed five, including an American woman from the embassy and her daughter, and a car bomb at the Karachi consulate that also killed fourteen Pakistanis. In Karachi, police arrested a Yemeni national, Waleed bin Attash, and five other alleged Al-Qaeda members, with three hundred pounds of explosives. The police told us he planned to bomb the consulate. Every morning we check our cars for bombs. In 2001, we found explosive devices attached by magnets to two cars of our diplomats.”
“OK,” I said.
He continued. “As for transportation, Abdullah has my instructions to drive you anywhere. We’ve had a ton of unmarked cars, ever since the evacuation of families and nonessential staff.”
“Can I trust him?”
“He has been a loyal employee for almost ten years, but be careful even with him. You never know. One final thing,” Don said. “We’ve got plenty of vacant apartments within the compound. We can host you here if you like.”
“Thanks, but I may need to distance myself from the embassy, if I can,” I said. “But I might change my mind later.”
We exited the bubble and returned to Ned’s office. Suarez handed me a mobile phone. “Here, use this. It’s just another item left behind by departing embassy staff.”
“Is the number traceable to the embassy?”
“No. You top it up with a card. It has no registration. I think it still has about three hours of local talk time. We’ll call you only on that line, not at your hotel. Same goes with your calls to the embassy: don’t use your room’s phone to call us.”
I was on my way to the men’s room when a siren started wailing.
I heard shouts. “Secure all classified materials. Close all windows; all personnel must now evacuate.”
I ran down the stairs, but the few others who joined me didn’t seem to be in a particular hurry. SUVs were waiting outside the building with their doors open and engines running.
“Get in, get in,” ordered a marine in uniform.
“Are we under attack?” I asked the person sitting next to me.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Then a bell sounded.
I saw Ned Applebee announcing loudly, “OK, the drill is over, you may now return to your positions.”
I let out a deep breath and approached Applebee. “We are in the epicenter of terrorism,” he told me. “We must be prepared. There are several threats or actual attempts every day. We live in a cage. See for yourself,” he said, grimly pointing at the outside wall.
“I can see that,” I said, looking around. The compound was surrounded by brick ramparts topped with razor wire, and reinforced by steel pillars to stop any car from breaking in.
“This place was built after the previous embassy building was burned to the ground by an angry mob in 1979,” said Ned.
Once Abdullah drove me back to my hotel, I waited for him to leave, checked out, and took a cab. It was in clear violation of my security instructions, but following strict orders was never my forte. But now these instructions made me realize that I had to enhance my own security, not breach it. After driving around the city for two hours, I called my hotel from my mobile phone and made a room reservation for Peter Helmut van Laufer, from Paramaribo, Dutch Guiana. An hour later I called the hotel again and asked at what time the front desk shift changed, because I needed to catch up with someone from the morning shift.
“At four p.m., sir,” said the receptionist.
I continued touring Islamabad from within my cab. The city is in fact a nice town surrounded by hills. What struck me most was the abundance of trees, giving the city a calmer atmosphere. “This is a new city, sir,” said my driver. “Only in 1959 this site was chosen to replace Karachi as the capital of Pakistan. Internationally known urban planners were commissioned to design the new city. In 1967 Islamabad was officially made the capital.”
“What are the landmarks?”
“There aren’t many,” he said. “There’s the National Assembly Building, and Quaid-i-Azam University.”
I asked him to take me downtown. The change was significant. Hundreds of carts, bicycles, and peddlers were all over. Colors and smells were strong, giving the place a vibrant presence, as opposed to the too-planned wide streets of the other zones. I quickly became convinced that Islamabad drivers believe that traffic laws are informational only. The most-used instrument of their cars is the horn. If you learn to drive in New York City and live through it, with the delivery vans and the yellow taxicabs, then you may qualify to drive in Pakistan. I wouldn’t be surprised if an Islamabad taxi driver told his passenger, Take cover, I’m changing lanes. I repeatedly looked around to see if I attracted any unwanted attention. Other than the children begging at traffic lights, I noticed nothing suspicious.
At four thirty p.m. I returned to my hotel with the cab, and checked in.
“Welcome, Mr. Van Laufer,” said the smiling reception-desk employee when I told him my name. “How was your flight?”
“Too long,” I said.
“Can I see your passport, please?”
“Sure,” I said and gave him my Dutch Guiana passport. Dutch Guiana ceased to exist in 1975, when it gained independence from the Netherlands and became Suriname. For a non ex is tent country, the passport I gave him was a work of art. It even had a registration number and an “official” seal, an authentic-looking cover embossed with gold lettering, and my genuine laminated photo. Its pages carried many visa and authentic-looking entry and exit stamps from very valid and existing countries. Unless you were a geography buff, you couldn’t tell the passport and the stamps were faked. It looked like a real passport, but it wasn’t.
Before going on assignment to Third World countries, or even to Western Europe, when my adversaries are no gentlemen, I assume a different identity. Due to political sensitivities, most of the time I cannot use a real passport issued by another country, unless I received it from that country’s government. (If the assignment is for the CIA, it’s a different ball game.) When crossing borders on routine Department of Justice cases, I always use a very genuine U.S. passport, almost always my standard dark-blue tourist passport. I have to carry my official U.S. government passport while overseas on official U.S. government business. But its distinctive dark-red cover is nothing to show when standing in a long line of strangers waiting to pass a foreign immigration agent. For other
