government’s security provisions were for show. In this country, every man was responsible for his own safety.
The fully armored vehicle that pulled up looked like any other SUV. Dark, dirty, and covered in well-placed dents, the car still stood out among the myriad of diesel-fueled pieces of tin on wheels. The windows were tinted, and the air conditioner was on full blast. With a breath of relief, Jason got in and quickly shut the door. The most dangerous window for attack was time spent getting in and out of a car.
His driver floored the accelerator. The vehicle pulled out with a screech. Even with the constant flow of artificial air, the SUV smelled of sweat. It was over ninety degrees and close to 70 percent humidity. It was not as hot as the country Jason just left, but it wasn’t cooler by much. On the bright side, rocket-propelled grenades weren’t quite as common in Pakistan as they were in Yemen.
As they entered the sluggish traffic, his gaze was drawn to signs calling for the destruction of the West. Dates and times of rallies and marches were posted in full view, and brightly colored strips of cloth marked light poles and pillars. No one in this country would waste time decorating cracked concrete and battered pieces of steel. All the colors had meaning—he just didn’t know what they were. In Yemen, all he had to worry about was getting caught in the cross fire between warring factions. Here, he had to be wary of crime, civil unrest, and targeted violence directed at Americans.
To think this city was a flourishing metropolis only a few decades ago. In the seventies, there were nightclubs, movie theaters, and a population that welcomed hippie tourists to Pakistan’s spectacular landscape. Historical sites and marvels of nature were all a short drive outside Karachi’s borders. But now any foreigner attempting trips there risked burglary, kidnapping, and death. The civilian government’s tenuous hold on law and order was fading. It was a matter of time before the tides shifted, and Jason didn’t know if it would be for the better.
The car turned in to the fortified entrance of one of the six major hotels. The enclave resembled a military base, with sand-filled shipping containers supplementing walls covered in barbed wire. Concrete barricades forced cars through a winding path lined with armed men. This wasn’t the best place to possess a noticeably American hotel brand. It would take a single vehicle-borne improvised explosive device to turn this multimillion dollar investment into rubble. This was why it was fortified better than most diplomatic missions.
He walked past an array of shotgun-carrying men to reach shiny glass doors. The marble halls echoed as he made his way to the reception desk. There was more staff than guests. It was two in the afternoon, and most shops were either closed or desolate. In the deserted coffee shop, a few Asian businessmen sipped coffee and smoked cigarettes. Sitting shadowed in a corner, his uninvited guest stood out like a sore thumb. The man was white, bespectacled, and dressed like a college professor. There was an armed guard hovering a few feet to his side. He might as well wear a sign that said, “I work for the U.S. consulate.”
Two local intelligence operatives lurked in the middle of the lobby with the finesse of mammoths. Any American applying for a visa would have been flagged and assigned a detail, so Jason wasn’t surprised when the ISI agents tasked to follow him walked through the glass doors and clasped hands with their colleagues. Subtle these guys were not.
Ignoring the fidgety guard, Jason plunked his bag down next to the coffee table and sat opposite the American diplomat. The government wasn’t known for efficacy or speed, so he couldn’t help but wonder out loud. “I didn’t know Uncle Sam kept such close tabs on me.”
The man slid his business card across the table. Vice Consul—a title so vague it was meaningless. The overt
The fully armored vehicle that pulled up looked like any other SUV. Dark, dirty, and covered in well-placed dents, the car still stood out among the myriad of diesel-fueled pieces of tin on wheels. The windows were tinted, and the air conditioner was on full blast. With a breath of relief, Jason got in and quickly shut the door. The most dangerous window for attack was time spent getting in and out of a car.
His driver floored the accelerator. The vehicle pulled out with a screech. Even with the constant flow of artificial air, the SUV smelled of sweat. It was over ninety degrees and close to 70 percent humidity. It was not as hot as the country Jason just left, but it wasn’t cooler by much. On the bright side, rocket-propelled grenades weren’t quite as common in Pakistan as they were in Yemen.
As they entered the sluggish traffic, his gaze was drawn to signs calling for the destruction of the West. Dates and times of rallies and marches were posted in full view, and brightly colored strips of cloth marked light poles and pillars. No one in this country would waste time decorating cracked concrete and battered pieces of steel. All the colors had meaning—he just didn’t know what they were. In Yemen, all he had to worry about was getting caught in the cross fire between warring factions. Here, he had to be wary of crime, civil unrest, and targeted violence directed at Americans.
To think this city was a flourishing metropolis only a few decades ago. In the seventies, there were nightclubs, movie theaters, and a population that welcomed hippie tourists to Pakistan’s spectacular landscape. Historical sites and marvels of nature were all a short drive outside Karachi’s borders. But now any foreigner attempting trips there risked burglary, kidnapping, and death. The civilian government’s tenuous hold on law and order was fading. It was a matter of time before the tides shifted, and Jason didn’t know if it would be for the better.
The car turned in to the fortified entrance of one of the six major hotels. The enclave resembled a military base, with sand-filled shipping containers supplementing walls covered in barbed wire. Concrete barricades forced cars through a winding path lined with armed men. This wasn’t the best place to possess a noticeably American hotel brand. It would take a single vehicle-borne improvised explosive device to turn this multimillion dollar investment into rubble. This was why it was fortified better than most diplomatic missions.
He walked past an array of shotgun-carrying men to reach shiny glass doors. The marble halls echoed as he made his way to the reception desk. There was more staff than guests. It was two in the afternoon, and most shops were either closed or desolate. In the deserted coffee shop, a few Asian businessmen sipped coffee and smoked cigarettes. Sitting shadowed in a corner, his uninvited guest stood out like a sore thumb. The man was white, bespectacled, and dressed like a college professor. There was an armed guard hovering a few feet to his side. He might as well wear a sign that said, “I work for the U.S. consulate.”
Two local intelligence operatives lurked in the middle of the lobby with the finesse of mammoths. Any American applying for a visa would have been flagged and assigned a detail, so Jason wasn’t surprised when the ISI agents tasked to follow him walked through the glass doors and clasped hands with their colleagues. Subtle these guys were not.
Ignoring the fidgety guard, Jason plunked his bag down next to the coffee table and sat opposite the American diplomat. The government wasn’t known for efficacy or speed, so he couldn’t help but wonder out loud. “I didn’t know Uncle Sam kept such close tabs on me.”
The man slid his business card across the table. Vice Consul—a title so vague it was meaningless. The overt
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