Tribe

TRIBE

James Bruno

CHAPTER ONE

ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN

I used to fly into Islamabad in the dead of night, in black C-130s, the U.S. Air Force insignia miniaturized so that only eagles and Clark Kent could make them out. The Paks wanted it that way. The idea was to keep the American government's role in supporting the Afghan mujahidin as invisible as possible. After all, our cargoes were lethal. Yet, Allah forbid, should one crash or be shot down with by an SA-7 or, worse, one of our own Stingers, we could claim the marked aircraft was not on a spy mission. Another kind of plausible deniability. Covert guile. Cold War. 

Now, CIA personnel fly into the Pakistani capital on commercial aircraft in bright daylight, irrespective of whether we're under cover or not. Islamabad International Airport is like a tiny patch of unblemished skin on the otherwise pocked face of an impoverished country. Modern, spiffy, efficient. Much like Islamabad itself, an artificial new city which belies the hand-to-mouth existence of 172 million people.  

I pass quickly through immigration and customs with my black diplomatic passport in hand - in my real name. Two people await me past the customs posts: a white face and a brown one. The former is a junior officer from Islamabad station; the latter a Pak intel agent whose excessive efforts to make himself inconspicuous have the opposite effect. His task is to follow me.  

"Larry O'Connor," the junior officer says as he offers his hand. This blond, clean-cut, horn-rim-spectacled generation-Y-er looks like he just stepped out of the Harvard MBA program - except that Harvard MBAs shun the CIA. He has been here a while, judging by his combination Indiana Jones bush jacket and caftan trousers. 

After, "How was your flight?" "The weather is hell here now," the usual banter, Larry's face darkens. "It's hard to operate in this place, do anything here," he says with a gesture toward the pick-up with two armed Pak guards that leads our vehicle, itself a fully armored Toyota Landcruiser with inch-thick bullet-proof windows. Pakistan is a dangerous place for U.S. officials, the targets of Islamist assassins. "Fifty percent danger pay helps, but it's still tough. It's hard to have a life much less do your job," he adds. The rest remains unstated but looms in the air like a foul gas. Since the rise in Islamist terrorism, eight American diplomatic staff have been ambushed, gunned down or bombed in cold blood in this country. 

With that, no shop talk. Opsec - operational security - requires us to save business for the "skiff," or Secure Conferencing Facility at the embassy, commonly referred to by laymen as the "bubble." 

Larry begins to speak, then swallows whatever it was he was about to say.  

"Yeah?" I ask. 

He looks at the back of the head of our Pakistani driver and ponders a moment. "Hey, Ahmed, plug in the cd, will ya?" The driver obliges. Guns and Roses fills the air. Just loud enough not to assault the senses. 

"I mean, you're a legend out here. They, the Pushtuns, talk about you in awe. 'When is Harry returning?' 'God is great and so is Harry.' 'In his last life, Harry was a Pushtun.' You're the Lawrence of the Afghans." 

I smile. "The Pushtuns have a saying: 'Trust your family and God.' If you win their trust, they are friends for life." 

"The station," he says under his breath. "They're all jealous of you. Half have a positive jealousy. They want to emulate you. The rest, well, they're frustrated little geeks. They see you as a threat." 

We pull into the high-walled, heavily guarded embassy compound. A local guard opens the hood while another passes a mirror on a long stick underneath the chassis. They're checking for hidden explosives. A U.S. Marine checks our ID's. There is good reason for the heavy security, apart from the present danger. In 1979, a mob stormed the compound and burned it down. It was subsequently quickly rebuilt, down to the last detail, based on the original blueprint.