Anonymous Sources (21 page)

The company that had been selling Nadeem Siddiqui his bananas seemed a reasonable place to start. But when I tried to pull it up to check for any details I might have missed, the page was gone.

Safari can't find the server
, my computer announced. I tried again. Same result. Then I googled it. Nothing. Not a single hit. I flipped
through my notebook to where I'd written down the phone number, the one the nervous woman had answered. I called and listened to its ringing. No answer.

A little chill went up my spine.

Next I pulled up FedEx and tapped in the tracking number that Lucien had managed to extract from Mr. Aziz. At least the FedEx website still appeared to exist, which after the last couple of minutes felt like a minor victory.
Locating transaction record
, the computer reported. I held my breath. Then, a message:
Your item was delivered at 11:09 am on June 29 in DULLES, VA 20166. Find another item?

There was no other information. Nothing about the contents or the billing address or the intended recipient.

I stared at this information, my mind ticking. Then I copied it down.

I needed to do one more thing. Something I wished I'd done before I went to Claridge's. I pulled up the phone number for the press office at the US embassy. It went straight to voice mail. But the message included an after-hours cell phone number. I called.

“Hello,” answered a grouchy American voice.

“Hi. This is Alexandra James calling from the
New England Chronicle
.”

“Okay.”

“Am I through to the duty press officer?”

“That would be me. Sally Harlow.”

“Great. Sally, hi. Sorry to bother you after office hours. But I had a meeting today with someone from your office, and I want to make sure I was speaking with the right person. I mean, I'm not sure I got his name right. I'm on deadline.”

She made a little tutting sound. “That's why you're supposed to double-check these things at the time of the interview. So what's the name?”

“Well, he said it was Crispin Withington.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Not in the press office?”

“Definitely not.”

“Listen,” I persisted. “Part of what I'm confused about is exactly what his title is. He may be—he may work in another part of the embassy. It's pretty big, right? Do you have some sort of embassy directory we could check?”

“That's what I'm doing.” I could hear her typing. “Not there . . . not there . . . Spell the name for me?”

I did. More typing.

“Nope,” she said finally. “Definitely, definitively no one working at the embassy by the name of Crispin Withington. You can quote me. Maybe somebody from the State Department in Washington? They'd be the ones more likely to be dealing with American reporters, anyway.”

“Right. I'll check there,” I mumbled. “Thanks very much.”

“No worries.” She hung up.

I'd known it already, of course. But it was still eerie hearing the confirmation. If the man I'd met for tea wasn't from the American embassy, then who was he? How had he gotten my cell phone number? And how did he know I was interested in Nadeem Siddiqui?

I shook my head. None of the pieces of the puzzle fit together. I didn't know whether to feel intrigued or exasperated.

    

    

D
eep in the bowels of the embassy, Jake Pearson sat typing up his report.

Evening was his least favorite time to be stuck in the office. He was a morning person, and the hustle and bustle of the early hours suited him. He could roll with the middle-of-the-night emergencies too, when a terse phone call from Langley would hurtle him from slumber out into the night, and to the car outside already waiting to drive him to Grosvenor Square. But the hours after 6:00 p.m., when most of London had spilled out into the pubs or crammed onto the Circle Line—these wearied him. It was a shame that the nature of his work meant he was tied
to his physical desk, with its secure phone lines and encrypted databases. Such was life with a top-secret clearance. You couldn't exactly conduct business from your cell phone in the supermarket checkout line.

Tonight he felt particularly annoyed as he watched a cloud of cigarette smoke rise from the cubicle just outside his office door. Jake hated cigarettes. Smoking was technically forbidden in the office, and he had already complained to this particular offender more than once. But the guy was just back from a TDY—sixty days temporary duty in Yemen. Smoking was probably one of the least objectionable habits he'd picked up. The men who thrived in the clandestine service were, by definition, professional rule-breakers. Guys who've been trained to target terrorists with Hellfire missiles don't tend to fret over violating the office smoking policy.

Jake scowled and turned back to the task at hand. It shouldn't take too long. Just a couple of pages to crank out. And then, if the phone lines would just stay quiet, he could slip out.

He was sure the girl had held some information back. Based on her questions, he thought he'd gotten most of it, though. He had had the advantage of knowing exactly who she was and what she was looking for. He smiled to himself. The name Crispin Withington had been an amusing touch. It was so deliciously British. Risky, of course. But he had correctly guessed that Alexandra James was about as likely to know the lineup of England's cricket team as his granny back in Charlotte.

She was sharp, though. She would have googled him by now and figured it out. He'd been surprised when she'd first stepped into the hotel lobby. The photo on the
Chronicle
website didn't do her justice. In person she was . . . not beautiful exactly, but riveting. Long, strong legs and more than a hint of feminine curves. And that crazy red hair.

Pearson cracked his knuckles and kept typing. Just about done now. He had included the question of a possible link with the White House lawyer's son, Thomas Carlyle, since she'd seemed obsessed with it, although he wasn't sure what it had to do with anything. Same with the
banana orders, which again might or might not be relevant. The beauty of his job was he didn't have to figure these things out. Just get the job done, check the boxes, clock in, clock out. He almost never knew the full picture of the tasks he was asked to carry out. It was better that way.

He hit
SAVE
and forwarded the report as an attachment to a Hotmail account, as he'd been instructed. There. It was unusual to bypass the regular system and instead use a personal e-mail account. But it was simply not in Jake Pearson's nature to ask questions. His passivity would have made him a lousy spy. But it made him an excellent administrator of their affairs. Now he meticulously wiped the file from his own machine and logged out through several layers of security. He stood up and turned off his desk lamp. Then he shut his office door and walked out, glaring in passing at the puffs of smoke still rising toward the fluorescent lights.

    

    

I
t was very late in Islamabad.

Dr. Syed Qureshi sat in his moonlit study, staring at his computer screen in shock. He sucked on his cigarette and tried to take in the news.

Nadeem Siddiqui was dead. The letter from the supervisor at Kahuta was short but definitive on this point. The family had written to inform the lab of the news, and to inquire whether any personal effects could be sent home to Karachi. A burial ceremony was still to be arranged. That was it. Nothing else. There was no mention of how he had died, or where—still in Britain? Back home in Pakistan? Somewhere else?

Dr. Qureshi had met the younger man only once, during the formal
interview for the overseas exchange program. Now he was struggling to recall which of the hopeful faces had belonged to Nadeem Siddiqui. He pulled out his file. Yes, he vaguely remembered him now. He checked Siddiqui's medical records; there was nothing to suggest he had been ill. He had been nervous, the doctor remembered. And smart. They all were. It was a selective program, a chance for Pakistan's top young scientists to spend a term at Cambridge, Oxford, or one of the elite London colleges. Britain's Foreign Office picked up the tab. According to the brochure that Dr. Qureshi had helped write, the idea was to “enable in-person collaboration with foreign colleagues,” as well as “encouraging the global reach of Pakistan's scientists and scholars in the network of academic colleagues across the UK.” A jumble of jargon, thought Dr. Qureshi now, sucking hard again on his cigarette. The reality was it was a pleasant and not particularly taxing way to spend a few months in Europe.

He always worried, of course, about the potential for disaster. Many of the candidates had never traveled outside Pakistan before. You never knew how they would cope when surrounded by the vices of the West. But Siddiqui had already proven himself resilient. He had done his postgraduate work in Germany, three years in Hamburg, and emerged with glowing references and a dissertation worthy of publication. He seemed a serious young man.

So what had happened? Qureshi wondered. And most important, from his point of view, how would it reflect on him? The doctor had found running the program an advantageous sinecure. He had the power to bestow prestigious fellowships on the sons and the daughters of Pakistan's elite; the parents channeled perks his way to ensure their offspring were among the chosen.

Nadeem Siddiqui had been unusual in this regard. He didn't come from an upper-class family. And he was old by the standards of the group, already in his early thirties, already settling into a career in Pakistan's foremost nuclear facility.

It was all a very strange business, Dr. Qureshi reflected. That lady
who had called—he had thought she was from the Cavendish Laboratory in Cambridge. But she had said no, and she had sounded American. What day had that been? Was Siddiqui already dead when she had called? Had Siddiqui ever seen the messages from Dr. Qureshi, inquiring with increasing shrillness these last few days about where he was and why he had not returned to work, an explicit requirement of the exchange program?