by Hock G Tjoa
Both Corrigan and Ambassador John Tolliver had been of the view that there was no near-term threat that could arise out of Afghanistan or Pakistan, if only because of war exhaustion on all sides. But they were also aware that their views and policies had become increasingly dependent on intelligence from Pakistan.
The British Foreign Secretary, a shrewd man in his fifties and widely rumored to be the brains of his Party was passionate as well as persuasive. He’d conveyed to them the evaluation by the head of British intelligence of the Chinese information, but he did not reveal the source of that information. He offered to make arrangements for the Americans to meet with the British intelligence service, an offer declined as the Americans preferred to work through standard operating channels. The Foreign Secretary also firmly declined to disclose the source of the intelligence that the British had made available to the Americans, though he suspected that it would take only a short time before the Americans solved that puzzle. At least he had not broken the unspoken code of conduct of the intelligence community.
By the time the American party returned to the Ambassador’s posh residence, Corrigan had ordered his aide: (a) to set up a meeting with the head of Pakistan’s ISI, (b) to initiate a review of all diplomatic and intelligence activity in London in the past month, (c) to arrange a meeting with the Spymistress, and finally, (d) to put through a conference call to Washington to include both CIA and National Security Council principals.
The Ambassador said, “Dave, how long will it take the CIA analysts to ‘process’ this intelligence?”
“Too long,” said Corrigan with a quick glance at the Ambassador. The latter’s icy stare did not waver as Corrigan furiously worked his phone, waking up sleepy aides in DC and checking in on the staff at the London station.
Just as the three-car motorcade arrived at the residence, word came back from the Pakistanis that General Amir Khan was already on his way to London for other reasons but would, of course, make time to see Corrigan at a mutually convenient time and place. Corrigan had calmed down sufficiently to agree to several alternative, more or less neutral, sites but requested that the meeting take place as soon as the general landed. Unfortunately, the general had an engagement upon arrival in London that he could not or would not break, but they agreed on a meeting on the next day at a CIA safe house.
The video conference with the Director of the CIA and the Head of CIA operations, along with principals from the White House National Security Council almost dissolved into an orgy of self-flagellation. We should never have disbanded the Af-Pak operations; we should have maintained closer ties with the Afghans, the Russians, the Indians, not to mention the Pakistanis; why didn’t we pay more attention to early warnings of those arms deals, etc.
Ambassador Tolliver raised his voice once or twice to get the meeting to focus on the road ahead instead of the “would have, should have, and could have” commentary. On screen, the Director of the CIA nodded assent and requested that Corrigan keep him and the National Security Advisor up to date with twice-daily briefings. He asked that the director present a plan of action through the Head of CIA operations by the next morning, DC time.
Corrigan groaned and looked over to his aide, who was on the phone but turned to him with a “thumbs up” because the meeting with Penelope Cecil would take place within the hour. This made him feel better, although he knew that he would not get the source of her intelligence from her, at least not directly.
“Perhaps some old-fashioned charm—” suggested the Ambassador.
“Not recommended,” countered the deputy from the London Station. The Ambassador lifted an eyebrow; Corrigan shook his head.
But he would, at least, hear from her the details of the intelligence that the Foreign Secretary had outlined at the meeting. Together they would decide if they could neutralize the arms deals or whether the CIA and MI-6 should involve other agencies. He had not worked with Penelope Cecil, nor met her since she took up the position of Britain’s chief spy, but all the information he had indicated that she would neither exaggerate nor underestimate her own capabilities.
At the meeting, the Spymistress and her deputies briefed Corrigan and the CIA chief in London of the arms deals said to be underway in Dubai, Karachi, Kazakhstan, and Tehran. Corrigan noted the strawberry blonde curls with a sigh. Penelope and her staff briefed the Americans on names, dates, places, flights, arrivals, departures, venues, bank accounts—all the details that Spymaster Wang and his deputies had provided.
Corrigan and the Spy-mistress agreed to work together on the transactions in Dubai and Tehran. The American made a note to order his best operatives for Iran and Dubai to fly to London within the week. They would start planning operations with whomever Penelope assigned.
On Karachi, they agreed that Corrigan would coordinate with the Pakistani ISI. The situation in Kazakhstan, they agreed, might best be approached by the CIA in consultation with the Russians. The Spymistress had suggested this with diffidence, emphasizing the lack of resources the British had in that arena. Corrigan readily agreed to approach the Russians, and the CIA chief of its London station had immediately excused himself to make a phone call to his Russian counterpart.
Studiously avoiding the question of the source of all this intelligence, Penelope said, “Aren’t you glad we are dealing with this through operational channels as opposed to diplomatic ones?”
Corrigan shuddered and agreed, “I hate to think how long it would take the various foreign ministries to arrive at the same decisions or at the same point in the decision-making.”
“There are possibly more than four of these deals going on,” said Ms. Cecil. “Our source encouraged us to look for at least six and indicated a willingness to confirm whether any potential deals we discover, other than these four, might be the two that they believe they can handle on their own.”
“Very interesting,” said Corrigan, a scowl on his face. Then he said gravely, “There is an agency that has the resources to uncover six arms deals involving nuclear devices and the self-awareness to assign to itself only two of the targets. In the old days, I would have said that only the KGB might qualify as your source, although it is extremely unlikely that it would have shared anything with anyone.”
He added, somewhat hastily, “I am not asking, mind you. But if our positions were reversed, wouldn’t you be dying to find out who that could be?”
“It doesn’t matter who the source is, does it? The intelligence still needs to be corroborated.”
“I agree that it does not really matter. But your Foreign Secretary knows, and my State Department is not going to be happy with not knowing.”
“Perhaps someone will put them out of their misery,” Penelope said with a wicked smile.
The Americans got up to leave, but as Corrigan left, he glanced over at the strawberry blonde curls and wished he were ten years younger.
“Mr. Director.”
“General.”
The two men, both turning sixty, were extremely fit and showed their age only in their thin and grey hair. Corrigan maintained his trim six-foot frame by dedicated daily assaults on the elliptical machines at his gym. The General had been a championship squash player until his thirties; he continued to schedule matches with current players three times a week, only recently cutting back to twice weekly.
The safe house where they met had no long-term residents. Only the chairs were comfortable in the bare, small house, but hearty English-style tea was served with cream and biscuits.
The two men had met several times before, sometimes at luxurious resorts, and sometimes literally in the trenches. They had worked through many difficult situations together. Corrigan knew that the general, though trained at both Sandhurst and West Point, was a Pakistani to his core and did not care for the unequal relationship between their two countries.
If they had both been Americans, they would have called each other Dave and Amir. But the American was certain that however well he and the general manag
ed to work with each other, the relationship would never give him the right to call the other by his given name. He chalked it up to cultural differences, similar to the way movie producers in Hollywood might attribute their most celebrated corporate divorces to “creative differences.”
“There is some urgency, I understand,” said the general.
“There usually is when it concerns the sale of nuclear devices. What puzzles me, General, is that your agency probably knew about one or more of these pending transactions, but we have never been informed. When we left after the Afghan war, we understood that you would remain our eyes and ears there. Are you unhappy with us?”
“Ah, silly me,” replied the general facetiously. “I assumed you are as well-informed about what goes on in my agency as I am.”
Corrigan did not deign to reply to this and simply looked into the general’s eyes with a cold expression. The general was not, however, a man to be stared down. Neither physically nor ideologically would he be easily intimidated. Corrigan decided there was nothing to gain in a staring contest, especially as he would need the general’s blessings should the Americans decide to strike in Karachi. “Can you confirm or deny that an arms dealer, who goes simply by the name of Nasim, is actively canvassing his business in Karachi and, in particular, has entertained some Pashtuns during the past month?”
The general replied genially, though a frown of impatience began at his eyebrows, “That is, in our view, an old story.”
Corrigan slowly but pointedly pushed a sheet of paper over to the general. There were recent dates, account numbers, and significant amounts of money involved. The general’s eyes took on a cold and hard look.
“This says nothing about the nature of the business contemplated. But there is no point in our quibbling. I will assume your information is correct and see if I can confirm the nature of the transaction. We shall talk again soon.”
“I believe that we will need to do more than talk, General.”
“Of course. If it comes to that, we will cooperate fully. I give you my word.”
“That is very good of you. Naturally, we will be guided by your wishes.” Corrigan wondered which major or colonel had blundered. He also wondered if the general would advise his own government about American intervention. “I’ll be back in Washington in twelve hours.”
“I need to be in London for a couple more days,” replied the general, “but will begin my inquiries from our embassy today. Unless someone has compromised all my aides, I shall have an answer within forty-eight hours, perhaps as quickly as twenty-four.”
“I’ll hold back the teams of navy seals,” said the American, rolling his eyes.
The Pakistani general nodded, “That would be too easy. I shall send you word through the usual channels.”
The two shook hands with more than customary firmness before going their separate ways.
12: PERMANENT INTERESTS
(London, one day earlier)
The day after the meeting of the Spymaster with the Spymistress, and before the meeting of the Foreign Secretary with the Americans, Simon Cross had a quiet meeting with the Chinese Ambassador. They met at an exclusive, private men’s club to which they had each journeyed by circuitous routes. Every man at the club, other than the staff, had been driven there, and the total value of all their cars probably equaled the gross national product of a medium-sized country.
They met in a room reserved for “special guests.” It was redolent of leather and polished wood, comfortably and elegantly furnished, though small enough to provide the warm intimacy of a gentleman’s study, a place for a few old friends to gather with their port and cigars after dinner. The Foreign Office and the Chinese Embassy had sent security personnel to sweep the room earlier that day to assure themselves of privacy.
Ambassador Yu had studied in France and served in the Foreign Ministry for nearly twenty years. He was a trim man of medium height. He had received a brief from his own ministry nearly a week previously on the meeting of the spies. After that, he had spoken directly with Wang and obtained clarification on certain questions. He was two years younger than the Spymaster and found himself in sympathy with Wang on several points. In particular, he agreed with Wang about the challenge to China and to Chinese foreign policy of the geopolitical shifts and appreciated Wang’s view that the Foreign Ministry needed to get actively involved. He thought grimly about the tectonic shifts that would have to be made in the MFA and within the Party regarding policy and the policy-making process. Then there was the matter of execution.
He arrived fully briefed on what had been said at the meeting of the spies and with some idea of the Spymaster’s thinking. Nonetheless, he listened to the Foreign Secretary with great interest because he knew the struggle it had taken to carve two[JP1] hours out of the Secretary’s schedule. He had known it was not a meeting simply to confirm the details of intelligence matters when the foreign secretary, who fancied himself to be the Metternich of the twenty-first century, asked for a private meeting.
“I gather you wish us to help you with these matters,” said Cross. Had he been a foot taller, he might have been described as a “bear” of a man. As it was, he simply looked pudgy.
Yu smiled politely and replied, “We are grateful for the hospitality you have shown us on this, as on so many other occasions, Foreign Secretary, but China does not expect Great Britain to do anything other than to pursue its own interests. Was it not Palmerston who said that England had no permanent enemies or friends, only permanent interests?”
The foreign secretary gave a short laugh and said, “About a hundred and fifty years ago—the French taught you well.”
“You have no idea,” Yu replied with a smile. He recalled the many ardent discussions about “perfidious Albion,” referring to English double-dealing, among his fellow students at the Grand Ecole. But he also remembered his meetings over the past two decades with ambassadors and ministers from Commonwealth countries who subscribed with conviction, even passion, to the idea that an Englishman’s word was his bond. People would believe in what they wanted to believe, he concluded.
The foreign secretary cut to the chase. “Well, have you formulated views regarding the Pashtuns that you can share with us?”
“No, not yet. We have not paid much attention to that part of the world, at least not in recent centuries,” Yu said with a slight smile. “There are some in my ministry who have consulted our ancient histories about what the emperors and ministers had thought about the natives along the Silk Road, beginning more than a thousand years ago. The Chinese are great believers in knowing one’s history. But I think there is much else to learn and to evaluate concerning the current situation so that our policies take into consideration new realities.”
A staff person entered after a knock and laid a cup of tea for the Englishman and hot water for his guest. Cross asked, “Serve much brandy these days?”
“Not so much, sir.”
The ambassador continued, “There are similar situations that might soon require our attention. The Kurds of Turkey, Iraq, and Iran, for instance, might wish to restore their national pride to that of the time when one of their own, Saladin, was vizier to the Caliph of Egypt and Syria. Furthermore, the idea that any disgruntled minority or terrorist group should avail itself of a nuclear device should concentrate minds wonderfully.”
“You are not wedded to the doctrine of territorial integrity?” Cross continued in his direct, even blunt, approach in this meeting.
“We are, indeed, as a matter of principle, but the delineation of the boundaries of Afghanistan and Pakistan is somewhat tainted, at least in the view of some observers.”
“Delicately put, Mr. Ambassador. You would not be the first to accuse the British of having created this whole mess, here as elsewhere.”
“I am not here to score debater’s points, Foreign Secretary,” Yu said earnestly. “What Sir Henry and the Amir did is history. We cannot go back and change a single line or squiggle of it
. But by which parties and how to resolve the issues over the border in the immediate future will occupy many of us for quite a while.”
Cross admired the suppleness of Yu’s thinking and wondered how much of it was in accord with that of China’s Foreign Ministry apparatchiks. He knew that Yu was a “princeling” whose father had served valiantly as a young soldier and had torn up the ranks during the Red Army’s epic struggle with the Nationalists. He then distinguished himself further in the work of the Party. The Ambassador himself had been groomed at the best Chinese schools before being sent to pursue graduate studies in France. But his pedigree and native intelligence notwithstanding, he would face a glacial object in the form of conventional wisdom at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
“There will be debate of course,” Yu continued. “But China too will pursue its ‘permanent interests.’”
“No one can stand by idly when there is the threat that nuclear devices may proliferate.”
“I agree completely. It is the immediate threat, and appropriate for our security forces to try to resolve it. It is very tempting to leave it there. But that would be a waste of a good crisis—don’t you think?” Yu looked directly at Cross. The foreign secretary frowned, deeply disturbed, but nodded as Yu continued, “I think this incident is an appropriate occasion for us to reflect on the future of Central Asia with or without the threat of a nuclear device. As in centuries long past, it is at the crossroads of divergent interests. Any realignment of the borders or of the balance of force there will draw in much of the rest of the world.” Ambassador Yu spoke softly but firmly.
The two men looked at each other like players at a high-stakes card table.
Cross asked, “Is it true that when the Chinese wish to put a curse on someone, they say ‘may you live in interesting times’?”
