the_taliban_shuffle_-_kim_barker

up plates lled with various lukewarm curries. One Camel told me
vague generalities about drugs and corruption across the border. He
leaned forward and whispered, as did his translator. At the end of our
lunch, we stood up to leave. He muttered something; I asked the
translator what he said.
“ISI,” she said with a shrug.
“My spies,” One Camel said, smirking and nodding at three men
sporting mustaches and wearing crisp cream-colored salwar kameezes
at a table near the entrance to the restaurant.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“My spies. They follow me.”
I started laughing. “Seriously?”
“I go, they go.”
Sure enough, as soon as we walked out of the grand lobby of the
Serena, the men stood up and walked out. Of course the ISI, Pakistan’s
premier intelligence agency, would want to pay attention to an Afghan
political ocer, just like it paid attention to Indian diplomats and
various journalists. The ISI was not like the CIA—not exactly. It
expended most of its resources inside Pakistan, and its operatives were
really, really obvious and occasionally too close with Islamic militants
like the Taliban.
“Bye,” I told One Camel. “Good luck with your spies.”
Ever watchful for me, Samad pulled up in his fancy new car. I told
him to stop at the Marriott Hotel so I could pick up my dry cleaning. I
ran inside, handed over a stful of rupees, grabbed my freshly cleaned
Islamic gear, and walked outside. A man in a cream-colored salwar
kameez stood outside Samad’s door, showing him something, bending
over to talk to him. I hustled across the street. Samad said something.
The man looked up, saw me, and walked away quickly.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“ISI.”
“Seriously?”
“Problem, Kim. Man come up, say ISI, hand me ISI card. He say, ‘Who
is boss?’ ”
“What did you say?”
“You know. I say, ‘I’m a small boy, no read, no understand, I don’t
know she. My boss send to Serena to pick she up, I pick up. I don’t