The Pakistan Conspiracy, A Novel Of Espionage by Francesca Salerno Page B

cell. The recipient in City B simply goes to the local broker, gives the secret password agreed upon, and gets his money. Voila .”
     
    “Then the two hawalas settle up accounts at the end of the year,” Stoppard said.
     
    “Yes. If the same amount of money has moved in each direction, then no actual cash or valuables need change hands. This particular situation is different and that’s why it caught my eye. The hawaladar in Paris was not willing to provide the $11 million himself. He wanted the cash in hand from Kabul first. That suggests on its face that he’s worried that there is something fishy—or illegal—about the transaction. He won’t proceed on credit alone. He wants to see the actual green so he won’t be out a penny if the money is seized.”
     
    “OK, let’s get more detail on this. I’ll cable the LEGAT in Paris, and you try to work the Kabul angle. This doesn’t sound like a run-of-the-mill drug deal to me. Something more interesting.”
     
    “I agree,” Hill said. “Probably arms.”
     
    “Let’s get more info,” Claire said, “Then there’s a colleague across the river that I want to touch base with.”

Chapter 9 — Islamabad
     
    Mort Feldman was nearing the end of a 36-year career with CIA. He had served as chief of station at Khartoum and in Riyahd before taking the post in Pakistan.
     
    His seniority within CIA and the importance of Islamabad in the fight against Al Qaeda entitled him to certain perks, including a nice house in the Diplomatic Enclave section of the city.
     
    Feldman’s rambling whitewashed villa was on Margalla Road, surrounded by park-like grounds lush with flowering plants and fruit trees. The house and garden were enclosed by a high wall and fronted by a guard post at the gated driveway. Like many of the residences on Margalla Road, the property was patrolled by Pakistani military police as well as a chowkidar , a local night watchman hired by Feldman.
     
    His neighbors were mainly ambassadors, senior diplomats in Islamabad’s large diplomatic corps, and ministers in the Pakistani government. If any of them had guessed that Mr. Feldman was not really Counselor for Economic Affairs at the American Embassy, they kept that knowledge to themselves, though the subject may have come up as gossip at Islamabad’s endless receptions and cocktail parties.
     
    Mort Feldman’s anonymity suffered a blow after the capture and killing of Osama Bin Laden. An important Pakistani English-language paper with close ties to the ISI published a scurrilous article blaming CIA for most of Pakistan’s ills, and named one ‘Milton Feldstein’ as the head of the Central Intelligence Agency within Pakistan, alleging also that this individual held more real power than the American Ambassador, (a statement Feldman felt was quite possibly true!).
     
    The newspaper article was a breach of protocol and trust bound to increase the level of tension, already high, between Islamabad and Washington. It also put the CIA station chief’s life at greater risk than usual. This did not register with Feldman, who felt, quite reasonably, that life in Islamabad was safer than in any of his previous postings, especially Khartoum. His only concession to his newfound and unwelcome public profile was to send his long-suffering wife Florence back to their home in Falls Church, Virginia. She did not object.
     
    Feldman traveled freely and without escort within the city even in the worst of times. He enjoyed wining and dining. And he especially favored the bar at the Marriott Hotel, newly renovated with bombproof security walls and HESCO barriers since a terrorist-driven dump truck blasted a 60-foot crater near the entrance in September 2008.
     
    Ever the believer in the notion that lightening never strikes twice, Feldman considered the Marriott to be the safest building in the capital. He visited the hotel once or twice a week, occasionally lunching at Jason’s Restaurant, which made a