“And why was it not good at heart?”

She shrugged. “Because there’s something inherently disgusting about clawing your way to power in a bureaucracy, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t know. I claw my way to power in a nonbureaucratic environment.”

“So I’ve heard. The dreaded Bhatija Sahib.”

“Would you like some refreshment, Ms. Lam?”

“Please, it’s Cynthia. Yes, I would love an iced mint tea.” I motion to Malang and he motions at large, and in three milliseconds there is a waiter there to take our order. Another reason I like Koh’s Tea House.

“So what have you been doing since your life was or was not ruined?” I ask her. “It’s been well over a year.”

“I’ve been traveling. Your father was extremely generous. I have a Pakistani diplomatic passport and a black credit card that never seems to send me the bill.”

“Yes, the Lagharis are inclined to be generous to the people they chew up. It saves trouble in the long run.”

“Does it? I’ve stopped thinking in the long run.” She sips her tea, then leans back in her chair and looks at me with a cool regard, very unlike the looks I get from the Pakistani possibles. She is not afraid of me, for one thing.

I say, “You have no plans? You intend to wander the earth indefinitely?”

In Urdu she quotes from the the first dirwan of Mir:

“How long will you wander thus

and live in desolation?

Isn’t death better than this deadness,

the grave to this living decay?”

I say, “Well, I didn’t mean that,” and she gives me the first smile, and I say, “But now you lack all ambition? You shouldn’t have much trouble if you wanted work. You have the languages, firsthand knowledge of the U.S. intel system, Laghari connections, and you’re easy on the eye.”

“Are you offering me a job, Bhatija Sahib?”

“It’s not impossible, if you wanted to settle down. Lahore’s an interesting place, especially if you’re expecting the end of the world. It’s a society heavy with risk and the joy that comes along with desperation.”

“Well, I’ll certainly consider it. But I have some more traveling to do. I want to see Afghanistan. And Central Asia. And Burma and Cambodia and Vietnam.”

“But you’re not leaving this minute for all those places, are you? I mean, you’ll let me buy you a meal?”

“You buy all my meals.”

“I meant as Theo Bailey, not the dreaded Bhatija Sahib.”

She nods and gives the second smile. I utter a command: “Malang, the car.”

He pulls out his cell phone.

I get up and tell her, “We’ll go to Gulberg, I think, and dine with the elite at a place with no menus and no sign outside, and then we’ll come back here to Anarkali, to my house. It’s just around the corner.”

“Yes, I know. And why would we do that?”

“I want you to meet my mother,” I say. “I think you have a lot in common.”

Acknowledgments

I would like to acknowledge the help of my editor, Marjorie Braman of Henry Holt, and of my agent, Simon Lipskar of Writers House, in the development of this novel. Novels are reputed to be the work of a single author, but what you have just read is a fourth draft, and whatever faults it retains, it is a lot better than the first three, the result of Marjorie’s and Simon’s careful reading and comments.

The real (as opposed to invented) poetry quoted in the novel are my own versions of translations from Pashto and Urdu originals derived from the following books:

The Poetry of Rahman Baba: Poet of the Pukhtuns by Robert Sampson and Momin Khan, University Book Agency, Peshawar, 2005, and The Golden Tradition: An Anthology of Urdu Poetry, edited by Ahmed Ali, Columbia University Press, New York, 1973.

About the Author

MICHAEL GRUBER, author of New York Times bestseller The Book of Air and Shadows, The Forgery of Venus, Night of the Jaguar, Tropic of Night, and Valley of Bones, has a Ph.D. in marine sciences and began freelance writing while working in Washington, D.C., as a policy analyst and speech writer. Since 1990, he has been a full-time writer. He is married, with three grown children and an extremely large dog, and he lives in Seattle, Washington.