Agency Rules - Never an Easy Day at the Office (6 page)

“Intelligence is a game of imperfect information. We can guess our opponent
’s moves, but we can’t be sure of them until the game is over. As you will learn during your courses and your time here, this it is not a game. The risks we take are real, and sometimes deadly. We move chess pieces, countering the moves of our opponents, on an imaginary board that could be confined to the location we are in or spread across the entire globe. This is real-time strategy implementation. It isn’t for the weak of heart, it is for those who have the mental drive to be more than they ever imagined.”

* * *

The Jungle launched a set of vital concepts for Kamal’s training and career as an operative – the need to know, the need to compartmentalize and the need to validate intelligence and its sources. The first briefings provided the foundation of his espionage education. During training, the candidates were regularly shuffled to locations where their instructors had organized ‘teachable’ moments. Sometimes the prepared location would be on the sprawling 5,000 acres, others could be hundreds of kilometers away. Kamal had a slight advantage over many of his batch mates because of the counter-intelligence training during the SSG course, but that slight advantage became much greater with his actual field experience.

The instructors at The Jungle, discounting a few devout Muslims, were alcohol-swilling spies ranging from good to amazing. They included seasoned officers like Colonel Akbar, a veteran of the Afghan conflict and a key trainer of the Mujahideen, and non-military personnel like Doctor Waqar Shah, a specialist in psychological warfare. Some had served as station chiefs, or cultural attaches as they were known to the outsiders, others were masters of covert operations whose tradecraft behind enemy lines had become the stuff of legend within the ranks of the military, keeping operations and operatives alive. They had worked in India, the United States, North Korea, China, Israel and other countries, both friendly and unfriendly to Pakistan.

Other instructors included paramilitary specialists, field operatives and linguists that would help to get the candidates ready for situations and encounters that they would need to extract themselves from. One thing was made clear to all the candidates – if you are caught behind enemy lines, the ISI will distance itself from you.

In other words, you are fucked
six ways from Sunday
, Kamal thought to himself. That made the requirement to absorb information quickly and clearly imperative for every candidate. It would be their own skills that would get them out of hot water and to safety – the institution would not be able to save them until they were clear of all threats and then only if the intelligence was valuable to the institution, military and state of Pakistan. The Jungle was replete with stories of operatives that had been turned out into the cold when their objectives went belly up and didn’t deliver quality intelligence to the headquarters.

The heart of intelligence, not matter how you looked at it, was human espionage. The best intelligence came from an operative
’s ability to understand and influence behavior, from polite conversation to overt threats, and maneuver through emotional cycles to get valuable information unavailable to others. This intelligence was the foundation of covert actions, which were in the realm of statecraft, a tool of foreign policy decision-makers. Those who excelled in this level of espionage were elevated to recruiters, the holy grail of spies, that were able to identify, engage and convince foreign nationals to turn against their own interests for personal rewards. The candidates were told that the ISI kept a list of politicians, bureaucrats and other influential people who had fallen into this trap and used that information to influence decisions on foreign policy and domestic matters.

“The greatest skill of any operative,” Colonel Akbar explained, “was the ability to communicate.” Communication was crucial to every facet of the intelligence gathering process. It did not matter if you were an expert at covert operations and influencing people. If you were unable to communicate that information back to the handlers in an understandable and actionable form, then you held less value. Decisions were not made based on the words of an operative, but on the quality of his reports. Every instructor in every course taught the candidates how to prepare reports ranging from intelligence briefings for ‘customers
’, to operational and diplomatic cables. The focus was on quality of reporting so that it could be acted upon effectively.

Kamal surprised himself with the results of these classes. He wasn
’t a talkative person, and didn’t consider himself a great communicator. He had always been solitary, and made few friends at The Jungle, except for those he had known coming in to the academy.

“It
’s not about volume, Kamal.” Major Iftikhar shared a smoke with Kamal after lunch almost every day. “I think that’s what’s surprising you – you manage to say what you need in just a few words. It makes you a great communicator in my book.”

“Thank you, Major.” Kamal took the praise a little wryly. “It
’s an old habit of mine – I learned to be careful with my words around my dad.” At the Major’s questioning look, Kamal brushed aside any explanation. “I’ll tell you about it… someday.”

They had developed a bond during his time at The Bird
’s Nest, where Iftikhar had been one of his many instructors. Kamal had piqued his interest early in his commando training with his tenacity and unwillingness to accept defeat. The more time he spent with the young sniper, the more respect he developed for him. After Kamal earned his maroon beret, the two had stayed in touch as much as two serving soldiers could. When he walked in the door at The Jungle, Iftikhar saw it as an opportunity to impart the knowledge that he had gained during his two tours in the ISI.

The two would regularly sit together in the evenings, discussing his course material, techniques to better gather intelligence from unwilling participants and how to defeat the standard interrogation methods that were implemented against intelligence operatives. Some of these sessions included teachable moments where Iftikhar would create a situation from the surroundings. On one such evening, they sat enjoying dinner when Iftikhar noticed that Kamal had drawn the attention of an attractive young woman. She, however, was with her parents, making the challenge significantly more interesting for him.

“She seems to be quite interested in you,” Iftikhar noticed. “You should talk to her.”

“Who?” Kamal replied nonchalantly.

“You are kidding right?” Iftikhar asked. “You haven’t noticed the young lady who has been trying to get your attention for the last twenty minutes? Maybe you aren’t as observant as I thought, Kamal,” he quipped laughing.

“Come on yaar, she
’s with her family,” Kamal retorted. “Unapproachable,” he observed drawing a mischievous smile from Iftikhar.

“You think people will just come to you and hand over information?” he asked. “Sometimes they are unapproachable and you still have to get the information. If you are going to disregard anyone who is unapproachable… well… maybe you should just quit The Jungle now,” he replied stone-faced.

“What exactly are you asking for, Iftikhar?”

“Three things,” he said knowing that he had goaded Kamal into another game that would both entertain him while teaching Kamal. “First, get her name. Second, separate her from her family. Last, get her phone number.”

“Now, I know you’re joking,” Kamal said with a grin. “All of those are impossible.”

“One more thing, Captain,” Iftikhar added. “You have five minutes to do all three,” he said glancing at his watch.

Kamal sat stunned for a moment trying to determine if his mentor was serious. When he realized that Iftikhar’s eyes were glued to his watch, he knew this was another one of his games.

Kamal assessed the environment looking for a tactic that would allow him to approach the family and facilitate his three objectives. Looking down at the menu, he found his opening and slowly got up from the table.

“Excuse me sir, I apologize for interrupting your meal,” Kamal said placing his hand on the father’s shoulder. The father looked up at him, wondering who the hell he was.

“My friend and I were watching how much you were enjoying your meal and hoped that we could ask what you were having,” Kamal politely continued.

The father was a bit surprised at the question, but Kamal’s good-natured politeness encouraged him to discuss the meal. “This is the… what is this… my daughter ordered the food,” he said motioning to the young lady across from him. “Laila, what did you order for me?”

Laila smiled as she looked at Kamal. “Abbu, that is the chicken Manchurian. Is it good?”

“It is excellent,
beta
,” the father replied. Kamal, seeing his opening, turned his attention to the older woman at the table. “Ma’am, are you having the same thing?”

The woman glowed from the attention from the good-looking young man. “Oh, no beta. This is sweet and sour.”

“Ah, one of my personal favorites,” Kamal replied with a smile.

“Laila, right?” Kamal asked pointing to the young lady again. “You have something different than your parents. May I ask what that is?”

“This is zhajiangmian - noodles with sauce,” she said proudly, able to pronounce the name without a stumble.

“Zhajangman?” Kamal stammered out, slaughtering the name, but causing Laila to laugh with his attempt. “How do you say that again?”

“Zha-ji-ang-mian,” she said slowly enunciating the syllables for Kamal, who shook his head, pretending he would never be able to pronounce it correctly.

“Sir, could I ask a favor?” Kamal politely asked. “If you could spare your daughter for a moment, I am a novice when it comes to good Chinese food and it
’s my friend’s birthday. I would like him to have something interesting to eat and honestly, there is no way I am going to remember how to pronounce that.”

The look on the father
’s face changed from a laughing man to a protective father, scowling at Kamal’s request. The mother, on the other hand, gently nudged her daughter to help the kind man. “Go ahead, help the boy, Laila,” she said smiling at Kamal the whole time. She looked at him like a potential
dammad
for her young daughter who checked all the required boxes — young, good looking, polite and well-spoken.

Laila excused herself from the table and went with Kamal to the waiter station. Kamal called over a waiter and asked Laila to place the order for him.

“So what do you recommend?” Kamal asked, as the waiter joined them. Laila glanced over at Iftikhar and turned her attention to the menu. While she was considering the dishes, Kamal quietly mentioned that he had noticed that she was trying to get his attention before he came over to the table. She blushed, caught in her own game, and rattled off four dishes to the waiter trying to divert the conversation.

“I
’d like to call you some time. Maybe speak when your parents aren’t listening to every word,” he said with a smile, shielding her from her parent’s table, while sliding a pen and paper to her. She hesitated for a second, making Kamal wonder if he had misread the situation, and then quickly took the pen, writing out an email address along with her phone number.

“Let
’s talk on email and chat first,” she said sliding the paper back to him.

Kamal smiled, slipping it into his pocket, before turning and escorting her back to her parent
’s table.

“Sir, if you would allow,” Kamal said. “For your kindness, I would like to buy you all dessert in honor of my friend
’s birthday.”

The father protested, but Kamal insisted, calling the waiter over to the table. “Tell their server that they will be having dessert and to add it to my bill.”

Kamal smiled, thanking Laila and her family for their assistance and turned to return to his own table.

Iftikhar tapped the face of his Timex. “Seven minutes,” he said as Kamal sat down.

“Two minutes over, but I got 4 out of 3 objectives.”

Iftikhar
’s eyebrow raised, “4 out of 3, how’s that?”

“Name, Laila. She joined me at the insistence of her mother.”

“That’s two, Kamal.”

“Phone number
and
email address. She would like to write and chat before speaking on the phone,” Kamal added with a smirk. “Four out of three.”

“Impressive, recruit. Now, tell me this,” Iftikhar sat up in his chair. “Assess each person sitting at the table.”

“The father is traditional, maybe central Punjab based on his accent. The mother is Lahori. She is looking for a suitor for her daughter and thought she hit the jackpot with me,” Kamal said softly so that nearby tables would not hear him. “Laila is a modern girl, studying in one of the private colleges. You can see from the number of times she has looked over here since I sat down that she is interested.”

Iftikhar returned to his reclined position and grinned satisfied with the game played out. “So, are you going to pursue?”

Kamal thought for a second, looked over at Laila and smiled. Turning back to Iftikhar, he said, “Why not? Look at her.”

Most of Iftikhar
’s teachable moments involved approaching women, Kamal had noted long ago. In this society, men didn’t just walk up to women and start conversations. That was just not done. So the challenge of being able to glean the required information was much harder and a better test compared to the staged, controlled exercises at The Jungle. Plus, Kamal thought, Iftikhar enjoyed watching Kamal get cut down to size by the women he approached.
His entertainment value at my expense.