Nash stood along with the rest of the room as the president rose and made for the door. The couch opposite Nash emptied as the Pakistani movers and shakers trooped out behind Chutani, leaving the Americans in the hands of a trio of aides.
Nash seethed.
“All right, then,” Justin said to the remaining Pakistanis, “should we go over the itinerary for the rest of Mr. Nash’s visit?”
Mike wanted nothing to do with revisiting the daily schedule that had already been the topic of three separate conversations. What he wanted to do was to pull the State Department rep into a huddle room for a little wall-to-wall counseling. The twit had sacrificed an opportunity to witness the inner workings of the Pakistani government in the name of avoiding conflict.
This was American diplomacy at its worst.
“Excuse me, Mr. Nash. Do you have a minute?”
Nash had been so busy staring daggers at his fellow American that he’d missed the approach of the diminutive Pakistani man currently standing respectfully in front of him. Though he hadn’t traded his paramilitary garb for a suit that long ago, Nash was already losing his tactical edge.
Nash glanced at Emily and saw that while he might have been wool-gathering, the leader of his protective detail was still on the job. Like a sheepdog, she’d separated the man from the rest of the crowd, and while her posture was respectful, Emily was on point. Her green eyes locked on Nash as she waited for an indication of how he wanted to play this. Nash acknowledged her unasked question with a short nod and then turned to the aide.
“Forgive my ignorance,” Nash said. “I don’t know your name.”
This time, Nash wasn’t faking.
He didn’t know the man’s identity or his position within the government, and the Pakistani’s appearance didn’t provide any obvious clues. Unlike the military generals who had flanked the president, he wasn’t wearing a uniform, nor did his physique or posture suggest a martial influence. His Western-style suit was appropriate for the occasion but neither the cut nor material suggested that it had been hand-made on Savile Row like those of his contemporaries. Nash had about six inches and fifty pounds on him, but the Pakistani’s trim build suggested an active lifestyle. He had a clean-shaven, earnest face that was pleasant but forgettable.
“That is not surprising,” the man said with a smile. “I make it a practice not to be known. My name is Bilal Dogar and I work for the ISI.”
This time Nash kept his expression blank for a different reason.
Agency analysts prided themselves on their knowledge of the Pakistani intelligence service, especially its personnel. If the man standing in front of him was telling the truth, Nash had just made the acquaintance of someone important enough to attend a meeting between his president and a CIA deputy director, but with a profile that had afforded him the ability to escape the CIA’s notice.
Interesting.
“Pleased to meet you,” Nash said. “How can I help?”
“Perhaps we could talk somewhere a bit more private?” Dogar said, lowering his voice.
“Can you tell me the topic of our conversation?” Nash said.
“The Iranians.”
CHAPTER 50
NASH stared at Dogar, waiting for the punch line.
It didn’t come.
Instead, the intelligence officer stared back at him expectantly.
Admittedly, this was Nash’s first overseas trip in which he was openly representing the CIA’s interests instead of clandestinely working to further them, so he was a bit green when it came to diplomatic engagements.
Even so, Nash didn’t think this was a common occurrence.
“Okay,” Nash said, “where do you want to talk?”
“If you’ll come with me,” Dogar said, this time loud enough for his voice to carry, “I’d be happy to show you the exhibit.”
Nash got it.
“Emily, I’m gonna take a walk with Mr. Dogar,” Nash said. “We’ll be back in ten.”
“I’ll go with you, sir,” Emily said. “Jason can keep an eye on things here.”
Nash suppressed a smile.
While his announcement to Emily was more to set the stage for the rest of the room’s occupants, the head of his protective detail had done a little communicating of her own. Secret Squirrel stuff was all well and good, but she wasn’t letting Nash out of her sight.
Fair enough.
“This way, sir,” Dogar said.
If the ISI operative was upset about Emily tagging along, he didn’t show it. Then again, if the man was truly an intelligence professional, he understood how the game was played.
“President Chutani is an unabashed patron of the arts,” Dogar said, playing the role of tour guide as they walked. “One of his first acts after assuming office was to turn one of the palace front rooms into a rotating exhibition of Pakistani artisans. The current display features a collection of contemporary artists.”
“Like Ahmed Parvez?” Nash said.
Dogar gave Nash an appraising look. “Yes. Mr. Parvez is one of the artists featured in the exhibit. You know of him?”
“A little. My wife loves him. She purchased one of his paintings for our home.”
“Then she has excellent taste. Did you know he lived in America for a time?”
