TASNEEM JANDAR, PRIVATE EYE, AND THE MISSING PAKISTANI PRIME MINISTER By Hafeez Diwan If she could have rewritten the story of her life, Tasneem wouldnt have gotten divorced. Well, first she wouldnt have gotten married to that douchebag Akram. She obviously didnt regret Javed and Yasmeen, her kids, both in college now. They were wonderful kids. It showed that there was some good in nearly everyone. Akram may have been a pustule, but he had managed to produce some lovely spermatozoa. She could see no trace of Akram (well, maybe only a tiny bit) in either Yasmeen she looked almost exactly like Tasneems mother or Javed, who looked more like Tasneem. And, while she was on the subject of rewriting personal history, she wouldnt have had her nails done by Mumtaz. Nails by Mumtaz was a tiny little hole in the wall a crack, to be exact close to Times Square, run by an eighty-five year old Pakistani woman, Mumtaz, who was still surprisingly nimble. Trouble was, Tasneem had developed reddish bumps on her left shin a week after her pedicure. It didnt take a detective to figure out that her hot, painful, red and infected left toe and the bumps on her left shin were somehow connected to Mumtazs nail job. Of all the facts of her life that she wanted to change, her skin infection was the one she wanted to change immediately. She needed a dermatologist. However, more than a dermatologist, she needed cash. Yes, the kids had scholarships, and at least Akram had enough decency to pay them a small allowance and was putting up the money for room and board, textbooks and so on. But that didnt mean that she didnt need money. Akram had moved out of the house, and the house was paid for, but she still had to pay for electricity, groceries, and so on. And she had to pay an absurd amount of rent for her damp office on Putnam Street, in a little shopping area on the east side of Westchester County, New York.

Speaking of cash, some cash walked through the door, as she was about to call her doctor, hoping to get a referral to a dermatologist. She saw him first through the window of her ground floor office. A Pakistani dude, tall, easily over 6 feet, muscular, with a thick mustache that nearly covered his upper lip, and dark glasses. He approached her. He had a military air. He took big steps. That would have to be discouraged because there wasnt much room in her tiny office. If he kept taking steps and advancing in that way, he would end up in her lap, which wouldnt be a totally bad thing. But Tasneem had an unusually vigilant conscience and so she immediately curbed this inappropriate thought. She was a businesswoman; she wasnt sitting in her office to have inappropriate thoughts. She was sitting there in the expectation that she would solve mysteries, even though her adventures thus far had not been too adventurous (recovering lost cats, dogs, and even a pet tortoise this little fellow had burrowed a hole and hidden beneath a garden pail; it had taken Tasneem exactly five minutes to discover the beast, and so she had read an old Enid Blyton book for the next several hours, allowing her to present a significant bill to the tortoise owner not that it mattered to the owner. She was loaded, and so very grateful, that she had hugged and kissed Tasneem, and had even thrown in a bonus. Tasneem felt bad, and resolved to make amends somehow though she didnt know how exactly she could pray for her and wish her well, perhapsbut she kept the cash. Needs were needs, after all). Meanwhile, the military-type guy stopped in front of her desk, and greeted her, Slalekum, which is the way many Pakistanis pronounce the traditional greeting Assalam-o-aleikum (peace be upon you). Tasneem mumbled, Walekum, (which basically means peace be upon you too). She was puzzled. The man looked familiar somehow Aap ne pehchaana? he asked (do you recognize me?). She answered in Urdu, No. Munawwar, he said. Munawwar Abidi Salma Aunties nephew. Tasneem gasped. She knew exactly who this guy was. She had last seen him nearly twenty-five years ago, in Karachi, Pakistan. Salma Auntie was the sister of

Tasneems mother. Munawwar was the son of Salma Aunties sister-in-law. This guy was Tasneems cousin by marriage, or something like that. But the boy she remembered, a round, chubby that is to say, profoundly chubby boy and then teenager only barely resembled this fit, well-proportioned man. In fact, they used to call him Goloo-Poloo when he was a kid. Goloo-Poloo is the Urdu equivalent of roly-poly. In the man that sat before her, there was not a trace of goloo-poloo-ness. He could have been reading her thoughts, because he smiled a barely visible smile (probably the only kind of smile military types like him allow to get past their armor), and said: I know, not goloo-poloo any more, correct? Tasneem blushed. No, no, we were kids then, and very mean. Please, let me get you some tea. He protested. She denied his protests. Salma Auntie will never forgive me if I let you go without even offering you tea. Tea has a supreme importance in Pakistani and Indian culture. It is a social lubricant par excellence, and nobody can stay upset for very long while having tea. And unlike the other social lubricant, alcohol, tea keeps you sharp, stimulated, and you are not likely to drool, blubber, or throw up on your fellow human beings. But tea is not without its problems: it can produce heartburn and acidity in some unfortunate souls, and Tasneem had an uncle, now deceased, who had to give up tea after his doctor discovered an irregular heartbeat, an arrhythmia in him. He lived for twenty years after the diagnosis, and everyone sympathized with the poor fellow, because life without tea can be so very tough. Tasneem also put out a few crackers, and some long, slender, cylindrical cookies with a paper-thin shell and a chocolate filling. She had a weakness for these. Munawwar bit into one of these cookies and took a sip of the delicious, doodhpatti tea (tea cooked with milk and tea leaves, in the traditional style). The problem is sensitive, he said. I am sure I can trust you to never mention it to anyone, not even to your children, or your parents.

He continued: I havent go to the authorities, the secret service or the police because the matter is very, very Sensitive, Tasneem finished the sentence for him. Exactly, sensitive. I have been in quite a state for the past few hours, and I called Uzma, my wife, you know, and she reminded me about you. She told me that you were a private detective, and that you were very good. He stopped, as if waiting for some confirmation from Tasneem. I dont know about good. I think I am good. I do my best. Have you heard that joke? This man, he goes for a job interview lunch and he fills his glass, but then he keeps filling and the water overflows his glass, spilling all over the table. The guy interviewing him asks: Are you nervous? The man smiles, and says, calmly, No, I always give everything my 120%. Munawwar may have enjoyed the joke, but he didnt show it. That was a side effect of jokes. Sometimes they simply died, creating an air of awkwardness. Maybe this was no time for jokes because the matter was serious. Tasneem said: I dont give what I do my 120%. I give it 200%. But I should tell you that so far I have only recovered lost objects, jewelry, and animals. I have an about 80% success rate. Munawwar pursed his lips. Well, then I hope youll be fine. I have lost something. Not an animal, though. A human being. I want you to find Amjad Jabbar. Tasneems eyes widened. You mean Yes, I mean the Amjad Jabbar, the Prime Minister of Pakistan. Due to be at the United Nations, giving a speech, two days from now, and at the moment, only God knows where Munawwar looked sad the grief dripped from his eyes, not as tears, of course, he was too much of a stoic for that. It was like a grim curtain that had fallen over his eyes, which had robbed them of all joy.

Tasneem, in contrast, felt like a million dollars. Recovering a Prime Minister, any Prime Minister, was a far cry from finding Chuggles the tortoise. She doubted Munawwar would hug and kiss her like Mrs. Wainwright had it would be highly inappropriate. But he would pay her. And, truth be told, she wanted to test her detective skills on a significant exploit. Finding a missing Pakistani Prime Minister seemed just about right. And the beauty of being a private eye was that you got paid even if you didnt get results. She billed by the hour to be exact, she billed in half-hour increments. For example, 35 minutes, although strictly speaking not an hour, was considered an hour for the purposes of being compensated for her labors. This was all spelled out in her billing sheet, which she gave out to all clients. So, finding the missing PM, while satisfying, was not strictly necessary to put food on the table. Obviously it would be fantastic if she found the PM. Although Tasneem never lacked confidence, she was quite aware that unlike Chuggles the tortoise, she wouldnt find him by tipping over a garden pail. Failure was the most logical and statistically likely eventuality. But she wouldnt let the reality of her situation stand in the way of testing her skills. Tasneem said: Tell me what happened. It was a bit like he had gone to a therapist. Munawwar told her what had happened, crisply, and with only a trace of emotion. But it was clear that he was deeply disturbed and affected. As head of the Prime Ministers security detail, his neck was on the line. And she could see why he hadnt gone to the authorities (though, in her opinion, he should have). He wanted to take care of this himself, quickly, if he could, and save himself the embarrassment (not to mention the loss of his job). And yetMunawwar was a realist, and he realized that Tasneem Jandar, although she was a private detective, didnt have a hope in hell of recovering his boss. But he had no choice. She was family, and she was the only chance he had. He had arrived a few days earlier. Amjab Jabbar was a man of the people a man who had promised to bring change, hope, and basic amenities to the lives of millions

of Pakistanis. Articles had been written about him (he had even made it to the cover of Time Magazine), a man who was the face of the new Pakistan, slowly liberating herself from decades of corruption. Amjad Jabbars HSKP party Hum Sab Ka Pakistan (The Pakistan of all of us) had swept the elections in a landslide. Surprisingly, the elections had been nearly honest thanks to the international watchdogs overseeing the elections. It seemed, even though it was too much to hope for, that Pakistan was truly turning a corner. Talking about corners, Tasneem noticed from her window that Munawwar had parked his rental car, a Chevy Captiva, right over the street corner, so that it jutted out slightly into face of the incoming traffic on Putnam Street. Munawwar saw her looking out of the window at his car. He hadnt taken the trouble to park correctly. There was too much on his mind. We Pakistanis dont cut corners, we ignore them, he said seriously. It took Tasneem a moment to figure out that he was trying to crack a joke. He darted out quickly and spent a few minutes successfully repositioning his rental car correctly, so that the corner was pristine and uncovered. True to his word, Amjad Jabbar, a new and different PM of a new and different Pakistan (hopefully), had insisted on staying in an ordinary hotel, Midnight Moon Hotel, at a cost of 150 dollars a night a real bargain the PMs assistant had found on the web. He had also insisted on his own security detail. This was again part of his pledge of self-reliance. We Pakistanis have to be able to take care of ourselves, without too much foreign support. Of course, the US secret service had also provided back-up security they had to. But the task of securing the PM was principally in the hands of the Pakistani team, headed by Munawwar Abidi. Earlier that morning, Amjad Jabbar had asked to be taken to Macys in Manhattan, so that he could buy his wife a gift. So off they had all gone, supposedly in a secure car provided by the Pakistani Embassy. Actually, there were three cars, black limousines, all identical. But Jabbar wasnt in any of these. He had left wearing a wig, dark glasses, and a long robe, so he looked a bit like a New York socialite from the sixties. He actually took a cab,

accompanied by his secretary, a woman called Rakhshanda Iman. This was all a bit over the top, but Amjad Jabbar had a powerful imagination, brought on from years of reading PG Wodehouse, Agatha Christie, and Arthur Conan Doyle. The disguise was his idea, and it had some merit: no one could have imagined that the Pakistani PM would dare to go to Macys disguised as a woman. Munawwar had protested. This was nonsense! he said angrily to Tasneem. Tasneem, too, found this absurd. A disguisehmmm, she said. I suppose he wanted people to think he was in one of the limos, while he slipped away in a disguise. That was the basic idea, yesthe PM is paranoid about security and he reads all those damn, unrealistic mystery novels. Thats where he got this idea. From some novel. He told me which one, but I have forgotten. I suppose its okay, as ideas go, because nobody would have seriously considered that the PM would go out disguised as an old woman. We had a decoy, a fellow who looks a bit the PM, to get into one of the limos. So I am not saying it wouldnt have worked to protect him, but it lacks dignity. Who cares about dignity if youre alive? said Tasneem. Munawwar shrugged his shoulders. It was clear he didnt agree. Dignity, his body language seemed to be saying, was everything. Is he in the habit of disguising like this? Oh yes. He does it quite often. Only me, my team, and his secretary know. My team is sworn to secrecy. If anyone ever found out about this habit this addiction of the PM, wed have a very small list of suspects to interrogate. And now me. I know as well. Well, yes, you do. But you wouldnt tell anyone, right? I have your word? But of course. Who would I tell? Tasneem could think of several people, but naturally she never would. She took her job seriously it was a vocation for her. She would never violate a clients confidentiality, unless required by law. She asked: I suppose the three limos went someplace else, not Macys.

Oh yes, a nice, long aimless drive. Miles and miles. Meanwhile, the PM, accompanied by Mrs. Rakhshanda Imam, drove to Macys in a cab. I insisted on driving the cab. He couldnt just leap into a cab and go with Mrs. Imam, who has zero security training. She is a secretary, for crying out loud. In a crisis, hed have to be the one protecting her, rather than the other way about and I am not saying this in a sexist way. She has arthritis and diabetes, and she is overweight completely useless from the point of view of providing security to the premier of Pakistan. Thats why I had to drive the cab. The Embassy rented out a cab, and I became a cab driver. You drove a cab in New York City? Tasneem asked incredulously. From the way Munawwar had parked his rental car over the corner, she expected disaster. But he had managed it. You have a picture of this Mrs. Rakhshanda? asked Tasneem. What has that got to do with it? asked Munawwar, a bit annoyed. Tasneem could almost imagine him thinking something like: trust a woman to focus on irrelevant details. Tasneem had an answer: I dont know what anything has to do with anything right now. But I must have all the information. You can never tell when something is going to turn out to be important. Munawwar pursed his lips. He couldnt imagine Mrs. Rakhshanda, Amjad Jabbars secretary, could have any importance in this investigation whatsoever. He took out his iphone, and quickly hunted through his pictures. Finally he stopped. Here, he said, handing over the iphone to her. It was a picture of an older woman with a younger woman. The older woman was plump, in a traditional shalwar kameez, a long shirt the kameez and loose pants the shalwar. It was an uninspiring outfit, very ordinary, cream colored, plain. Mrs. Rakhshanda is the older one, said Tasneem. Yes, said Munawwar. Who is the younger woman?

Her daughter. Pretty. Stunning, to be precise. Munawwar shrugged. Yes, she was pretty, with short hair, a thin symmetrical face, a pert nose, and a pleasant mouth. But what had that got to do with anything? The daughter is here too? asked Tasneem. Yes. But the PM the government is not paying for it. She is a student at New York University. Shes got a scholarship. Very nice. Whats her name? Sophie. Did Sophie go to Macys too? No, shes staying at her dorm. I think she will meet with her mother, Mrs. Imam, at some point in time, but at the moment she is staying at her dorm. She didnt go with us to Macys. When did Sophie get her scholarship? A year ago. I see. She didnt come home for summer holidays? It was July, and so Tasneem assumed that Sophie would have gone home to visit her family in Pakistan. No, said Munawwar, Mrs. Imam was coming here with the PM so Sophie decided to stay here and show her mother around. OK, said Tasneem. When Sophie was in Pakistan, prior to coming here, did she know the PM? Well, I suppose she did. The PM is a very kind and generous man. He knows all the people on his team socially. He visits their houses. Hes been to my house, he said, without any evidence of pride. I suppose he knows her. But what does it matter? Shes a bombshell. Yes And the PM is a man.

Look, I know youre trying to gather all the relevant information, but the PM is a man with a mission. He has no time for this kind of fuzool stuff. He used the word fuzool which means unnecessary, useless, pointless stuff. Maybe thats what he thought about her line of questioning. If you are implying that the PM is having an He found it difficult to use the word affair, so Tasneem nodded understandingly and then shook her head. No, I dont mean that. I am simply trying to get the full picture. Besides, what would it have to do with what is happening now. The PM has disappeared. Even if he is having whatever with Rakhshandas daughter, that is a side issue. By the way, this is an absurd notion the PM is married, happily, and buying gifts for his wife. He is all set to give a speech at the UN, after our historic reconciliation with India. The Kashmir dispute is almost settled. This is unprecedented! He is about to outline the vision for the new Pakistan. This man has done more in two years, than other Pakistani politicians have done in decades! Its nothing short of a miracle. So I dont think he is whatever-ing with Sophie, who is half his age. This is the kind of garbage his opponents accuse him of. Oh they do? Tasneem asked innocently. But of course she knew. She read Pakistani newspapers and had a Facebook account. Jabbar was only 48, five years older than she was. He was a good-looking, charismatic man. There was no way he could have won over the masses, upset the establishment and done all that he had without possessing oodles of charm, guts, believability and overall attractiveness. And so there were rumors. Of flings, romances, dalliances. From his college days until now. There were rumors that he was carrying on with a Mrs. Bakhtiar, a fervent supporter from the time of his campaign, who, it was crudely suggested, continued to support him on top of her, on alternate Wednesdays. I read about this woman Tasneem almost whispered. Mrs. Bakhtiar? Munawwar nearly exploded. Total bakwas! He spat out the word bakwas which means nonsense. The PM is a decent man. He goes to play cards with Mrs. Bakhtiars husband every other Wednesday, for an hour or so. The man needs a break. He and Mr. Bakhtiar have known each other from college.

It is unlikely that he will go to play cards with Mr. Bakhtiar, and then, while her husband, his friend, is in the house, he will go to Mrs. Bakhtiar and have Whatever? Tasneem said helpfully. Munawwar seemed to be losing hope by the minute. Tasneem realized that she had put him off with all the gossip related to the PM. He has enemies, right? Tasneem said, abruptly switching from bedroom rumors to something that seemed more significant. Yes. That is what I am afraid of. His speech to the UN an invited speech as you probably know is making his enemies bristle. Theyre burning up. Some people say he might get a Nobel peace prize they say hell share with the Indian premier. But he has enemies in Pakistan. Jamal Abrohi, you know him, the previous PM, the corrupt SOB I am sorry, Tasneem, to use such language he would do anything to discredit and destroy Jabbar. Jabbar is under a lot of stress. How stressed is he? Very. He has an ulcer. He has high blood pressure. His doctor tells him to take it easy, but he is a driven man. He tries to take a break now and then, but it is difficult. He has to stay on-target. The problems of Pakistan, of his office, are too enormous. He cant stop exerting himself, stressing out. I am afraid he will drop of a heart attack one day. I hope that doesnt happen, said Tasneem. From what Ive read about him, he is a great man, great for Pakistan, maybe for the world, Id say. Is he corrupt? The PM? Munawwar blinked, as if surprised at the question. Yes, I mean, getting the job of the PM of Pakistan is like winning the lottery. I was just wondering. Look, said Munawwar, Im not saying he is a saint. Hed be a stupid man if he didnt use this opportunity. But look at the good hes doing. Anyway, he is not flagrantly corrupt. But a teeny bit? I suppose, said Munawwar. How teeny?

I think he has enough, maybe even more than enough, a lot more than enough. But he has earned it. He is an amazing man, and he puts his life on the line for Pakistan every day. Look, if he wanted to quit today, he could do so, quite easily, and still be assured of his place in history. He has achieved greatness. But he continues to serve his country, at great risk to himself. So I dont care if he is lining his pockets at least he is not robbing the country blind. Anyway, it is not my job to judge him, only to protect him. And find him. Would the former PM Abrohi have the ability to get him kidnapped? Not on US soil. I find it impossible to imagine, especially with all of us here and yet the PM has disappeared, so I suppose it remains a distant possibility. Tell me exactly what happened when you got to Macys, Tasneem said. We reached Macys. The PM came out in his disguise. Mrs. Rakhshanda went with him. I followed a short distance behind. One of my men came and drove the cab away. The rest of my team, fourteen officers in all, was already inside Macys. They were in plain clothes. The PM wanted perfume and so I had stationed them around the perfume counter. He specifically wanted this perfume by Dior, and so they went to the counter with the Dior. The PM is a particular man. That he is. He micromanages. Every detail. In a way that makes my life easier. Then what? We went inside. He went up to a counter. Alone? Or with his secretary? No, by himself. She went away to look at some clothes. Ok. Go on. As I said, he wanted to buy his wife a perfume, this Dior thing nothing too expensive, the PM is a man of modest tastes, and doesnt flaunt whatever he has accumulated. There was a trace of bitterness in his voice. Munawwar didnt approve of his boss corruptly accumulating too much wealth. Ok.

The girl there was Pakistani, in fact. Oh! Whats her name? Samia and yes, since I am sure you will want to know, she was pretty, very pretty, but I dont think the PM had any interest in her. Thank you for the info. Then what? Then then, Munawwar took a deep breath. He disappeared. He was nowhere to be seen! Tasneem took a deep breath as well. Do you mean, he just vanished? Vaporized? Disappeared in thin air? That seems a bit much, no? No, of course not. Let me clarify. We were standing a respectful distance behind, and we were chatting amongst ourselves. We had actually formed a semicircle around the counter. He bent down to pick something up. Then he stood up. Then he bent down again. After a few moments, he bent down a third time. But then, after a little while, he still hadnt gotten up so I went up to him. And I found his robe and his wig. But no PM. Vow! said Tasneem. Not thats what I call a mystery! How little a while? Munawwar shook his head. I guess not that little. A minute or two perhaps. You have to realize that there was no security risk. We were all around him. Nobody could have gotten past us to him. Could it have been longer than a minute or two? Its possible he sounded sheepish. As if he had been caught stealing. Look, let me explain: Take the girl, Samia, at the counter. My team had gone ahead and checked her out and spoken to her. When the PM went there, to the counter, there was no one else there, except for her. The whole area was as secure as possible. And it was right after the shop opened, so there were no other customers there. What about the cameras? Surely there are cameras in Macys. Its the damnedest thing! Somebody had stuck a piece of tape on top of the camera that was monitoring that particular area.

A tape! How low-tech! And efficient at the same time. So this was planned. Somebody must have known the PM was coming there. Who knew? Only the security team and the PM. Rakhshanda? No. She had no idea. Tasneem absorbed this information. She asked: What kind of wig was it? I dont know, what do you mean? How many kinds of wigs are there? Oh, I have no idea. I suppose you can clip some with hair pins, or you could just slip one on and off. No clips. Easy to slip on and off. Same with the robe. But it boggles the mind! There was no one there! Could someone have been hiding somewhere? Where? And wouldnt we have seen? But we have to assume someone was hiding somewhere, and managed to get to him, and swipe him from under our noses. But whoever it was took a huge chance. We were all right there. Yes, but you felt secure, and, if you dont mind my saying so, you were chatting amongst yourselves, and you have admitted that you werent paying attention and it could have been several minutes that he could have been down before you went to check on him. What if someone were hiding beneath the floorboards and grabbed and pulled him in or something like that? We checked the entire floor in that area. We wondered about the same thing. But the floor it was just a floor. Nothing beneath. No basement, nothing! Then he must have been taken past you, somehow. It makes no sense how! This girl, Samia, she was facing him the whole time? I dont think soas a matter of fact, no. She turned a few times, brought some perfumes from the back wall, behind the counter. Maybe Tasneem began thoughtfully. She read a lot of detective fiction, and also popular psychology. Maybe someone was hiding somewhere, very

cleverly, and was missed by your team. Maybe this person took a chance, injected something in the PM, knocked him out, pulled off his wig and robe, put some other thing on top of him, made him look like a rolled up carpet or something, and walked past you. Not only unbelievably risky, but impossible. I tell you we would have seen. So one would think, said Tasneem. Hed have to be a real expert, a pro. But Ive read about studies that show that people often dont see things because they are looking for something else, or expecting something else. There is a famous study about people watching a tape of a basketball game, in which this gorilla that is to say, a man in a gorilla suit - came in for a few moments, thumped his chest and left. Thousands of viewers didnt see the gorilla, because they were too busy focusing on the game and the players scoring the points. Look. We are talking about the PM of Pakistan, not a man pretending to be a gorilla. Besides, we are trained professionals. Not an ant could have gotten past us! Tasneem said: I have a hypothesis, and I know its not a good one, but its a working hypothesis. Whoever took the PM had to know he was coming, right? What if someone who knew a member of your team, perhaps I am only thinking aloud was working with this hidden kidnapper? An inside man makes things easier. Then, this kidnapper managed to get some tape on the camera. Some of these cameras are so obvious, and so easy to cover up its shocking. Maybe this girl, Samia maybe she is also mixed up with this. Munawwar said: We looked at the tape from that camera feed. It suddenly goes dark. We see a hand inside a glove come in front and then black. Its one of those old swiveling cameras that swoop from side to side, with a view of the counter not a very good view, mind you, but a view nonetheless. Whoever covered the camera with tape wouldnt have to be especially skilled. But I cant believe it was Samia. That girl seemed genuinely shocked. He paused.

But even if she is one of the kidnappers, and even if there is a rotten egg in my team, there were still the rest of us over there. We may not have been watching every moment while the PM was at the counter, but even then, this kidnapper would have had to get past us, and if he was carrying the PM, rolled up in a carpet it is quite absurd, really, I cant believe I am saying this but even if I grant you that the PM was being carried inside a rolled up carpet or in some other way, the kidnapper would have had to go past the rest of us. Fifteen of us or fourteen, or thirteen, if we allow for some bad eggs on my team how could anyone have gotten past us? He took a deep breath. I dont mean to brag, but I am very good at my job. And my men are at the top of their game as well and just one or two skunks on my team arent going to be enough to get the better of the rest of us. We are the best in our field in Pakistan. Thats how we get to protect the PM. Can I show you something? Sure. He took a pen out of his pocket and asked Tasneem for a sheet of paper. On this paper he drew a rectangle. Thats the counter, he explained. Then he wrote an X on one side of the counter. Thats the PM. And pretty Samia, the Pakistani girl selling him the perfume, is on the other side of the counter? Yes, yes, shes there. There you go, let me put her there. He wrote a Y on the other side of the rectangular counter. Then he drew a half circle, an arc beneath the rectangle. The arc stretched past the edges of the rectangle. Thats us the security team. And this counter its not just a counter, you know. Its like a front counter with the glass, through which you can see all the perfumes. Its a closed space. Closed? Yes, you know, closed. There are panels on the side of the counter, and then other counters on the side and then the wall behind. So the counter is completely enclosed.

How do people get in and out of the counter? There is a little side door, on the side of the front counter. The staff can get in and out of the enclosed counter through the door. So the PM could have been taken through this door, into the counter? But thatsinsane! By whom? There was the PM, in his absurd disguise. There was Samia, who is a tiny girl, truly, and there were all of us. There was no one else there. Who could have dragged him inside the counter? Samia? She was standing all the time. There was no one else there! How did she react? She was shocked, of course. She kept saying, How, how, how, how? Did you go inside the enclosed counter? Of course! There was no one there but Samia. Were there any cabinets inside? Yes, cabinets, drawers, etc. Tasneem asked: Did you check every drawer and cabinet? Wellno. Munawwar became quiet for a while. He seemed embarrassed. Before when someone from your team went to check things out, did anyone check the cabinets? Munawwar spoke after a lengthy pause: No. Not that I am aware of. There was no need. From our point of view, nobody at Macys could have known we were going there. So somebody, the kidnapper, could have been hiding in there. Maybe the member of your team who went inside the counter to check is part of the plot. And also Samia would have to be working with the kidnappers, to allow someone to hide in there. Maybe she stuck the tape on the camera. While you guys are briefly distracted, the kidnapper comes out, knocks out the PM, drags him inside and shoves him inside the cabinet. The cabinets are not checked afterwards he takes a bold chance that you will not check them and then, after you leave, the kidnapper can come out with the PM and make his escape. Of course, all this works best if the kidnappers have an inside man in your team. Plus you have Samia, who can be a lookout person and let the kidnapper know when it is safe to come out.

Its utterly fantastic! muttered Munawwar. But possible. Is your team still there? Two officers are posted outside Macys. Two men are outside the back door. But no one is inside. I didnt want to draw undue attention. I needed this taken care of quietly. The girl, Samia, was getting disturbed or at any rate, she was acting disturbed and I didnt want to create a scene. I think we ought to go there, right away, dont you agree, and check things out? Dont contact your team members. What if one of more of the men you have posted are mixed up with all this? said Tasneem. Munawwar nodded grimly. If one of my men is dirtyI will, of course, take care of the bastard. And then, I will resign. Tasneem had an idea what Munawwar meant by taking care of the bastard but she wondered if maybe he was just saying that, in the heat of the moment. With time, maybe wiser counsels would prevail. But then, she hadnt seen Munawwar in over two decades. The boy she had known as a child, Goloo-poloo, had been mild-mannered, weak, and often bullied. What had he grown up into? Had he over-compensated? Was he likely to go on a vengeful rampage and get rid of disloyal bastards, right, left and center? She really had no idea. When they were on their way to Macys, Munawwar said to Tasneem: Right now, the situation is inside my fist, he said, using the Urdu expression, meri muthi mein hai it is inside my fist meaning that he was in control of the situation. But not for long. We will stay put until 8 pm. Then we alert the authorities here. By 8 pm? Thats like 5 hours from now. You really think I can help you find the PM in the next 5 hours? Munawwar grimaced. I dont know what I am doing! I guess Im clutching at straws. I guess that makes me a straw, said Tasneem whimsically.

Please dont get offended. A lota lot is at stake. If I lose the PM, well, you know what this means, right? I wont have this job for too long! I am going to be fired. Only to be hired by the next corrupt PM, said Tasneem. Im sure that he will be glad that you misplaced the PM. As soon she said this, she regretted it. Munawwar didnt seem to see any humor in her remark. He practically glowered. Had he been a lion and she a lamb, she suspected he would have torn her limb from limb before throwing her lifeless carcass into a heap for the jackals to chew clean. And, in point of fact, she was wrong. Munawwars career was finished if he didnt recover the PM. Who would want to hire a security chief who had failed to protect his boss? Sorry, said Tasneem. I was only trying to cheer you up. Munawwar didnt say anything. Soon they were standing in front of Samia at the counter. Samia was tiny. And she was cute. Very cute. Her hair was cut straight and reached between her shoulder blades. She was dark, with a silver lipstick that emphasized her round, pretty mouth. She had on a sheer, purple, paisley top, and underneath it, a camisole that tastefully concealed her fairly ample bosom. She was wearing sharp beige pants with an embossed filigree pattern. She looked very uncomfortable and nervous. Tasneem read the name on her badge: SAMIA KARIM. Tasneem first glanced at the layout. It was exactly as Munawwar had described. There were glass counters all around, except for two flat white panels on either side. On the left, was a swinging door that could be pushed in or out. Tasneem decided to put Samia at ease. Do you work full-time? Only in the summer. I am a student. How nice! said Tasneem. Where? NYU.

Excellent! New York University. Someone I know is there. Maybe you know her? Who? Sophie. Sophie Imam. Do you know her? Samia appeared bewildered at the question. She caught Munawwars disapproving eye. He wanted her to get on with it. This was no time for social chitchat. Tasneem felt annoyed. Yes, his boss had been kidnapped, but she had to do her job the way she thought was right. Part of her job was to draw her suspects in, by making small talk, hoping to make them slip. This skill had served her well when she recovered Bartholomew, the parrot who had been borrowed by the maid. Bartholomew reminded the maid of her dear, departed grandmother he cackled almost exactly like her. She would never have stumbled upon the truth had she not chatted with Phyllis the maid. Sorry, Samia, didnt mean to get distracted by these questions. I assume there must be a lot of Pakistani students at NYU. You cant be expected to know all of them. In case you are in need of friends, Sophie Imam is very nice. You should look her up in the future. You know Mr. Munawwar? Tasneem asked, abruptly changing the subject. Samia nodded slowly, apparently wrapped in thoughts. Tasneem nodded. As you can imagine Samia, we are all very upset about the PM about what happened this morning. I am sure you havent spoken to anyone about the PM and what happened this morning. No. I dont know her, Samia suddenly blurted out. I beg your pardon. This girl you mentioned. I dont know her, said Samia, seeming to regain her composure. I havent spoken about the PM to anyone. I hope he is okay. Thats what we all hope. Samia, would you mind very much if we came inside and took a look? No, please, come in. Anything I can do to help.

The two of them silently walked inside through the swing door, pushing it inwards. It swung back. As Munawwar had said, there were a bunch of drawers, and cabinets beneath each of the three counter tops with the perfumes. Each of these three cabinets had two doors, about three and a half feet high. With some dexterity, a man could easily be hidden inside any of these cabinets. Tasneem, opened the cabinet doors one by one, with Munawwar watching. All the cabinets were nearly empty, except for some bottles. Very clean cabinets, said Tasneem. Yes, said Samia. We keep excess stock in there. Weve got a storeroom in the back, but we stock up here as well. But weve had some great sales and so were almost completely sold out. Can I ask you a completely stupid question, with apologies, since I already know the answer? But I kind of have to ask, said Tasneem. Please. Ask me anything. I want to help. You see, while Mr. Munawwar and his men were standing around this counter, one place the PM could have been taken is inside this space, here. But that is impossible because you would have seen. So just confirm for me what I already know. You were alone here, right? Yes, I was, said Samia quickly. Mr. Munawwar and his men came inside and checked. There was no one here but me. And so there was no way the PM could have been brought inside, right? Samia asked innocently, Who could have done that? There was no one here but me. The PM was on the other side and then he just vanished. Its the weirdest thing. It makes no sense to me. Of course, people didnt just vanish. Tasneem looked at Samias face. Her expression was difficult to read. Tasneem was 99% sure that Samia was lying. Samia had to have seen what had happened. Unless she had turned her back, briefly, to grab a bottle of perfume. Is that what had happened? Was Samia guilty unless proven innocent, or the other way around? Tasneem said:

I know this is a ridiculous question, but there are no secret doorways or panels that lead under the floor? For the first time, Samia laughed. This is Macys, not a Bollywood film, she said. No, there are no secret underground panels. You can check if you like. Munawwar, standing behind Tasneem, shook his head. Hopeless, he thought, utterly hopeless! He was never going to find the PM, as long as Tasneem hunted for secret panels in the floormaybe it was time to involve the local authorities. Thank you, Samia, said Tasneem. Youve been very helpful. As soon as they, left, Tasneem spent about ten minutes on her iphone. Finally, she said to Munawwar. Those cabinets were nearly empty. Big enough to hold a man. I admit we ought to have checked the cabinets, said Munawwar. But there was no way he could have been kidnapped by a kidnapper who was hiding inside one of those cabinets, and then put inside one of the other cabinets. Two people in two cabinets! Absurd! There was only one person there. The girl, Samia. Imagine if the kidnapper was inside one cabinet and the drugged PM was inside another. What if anyone of us had looked? Yes, even if one of my officers was mixed up, what if I had looked. I am not mixed up in this. No, he sighed. Youd have to be an idiot to take a risk like that! I dont believe the PMs kidnappers are idiots, do you Tasneem? With due respect, Tasneem, I dont think your hypothesis is very feasible. Tasneem paid little attention to what he said. She waited for him to finish. Lets go, she said. Where? To get the PM, of course. What? Where? Munawwar appeared baffled. I am not sure, you see, only about 90% certain. We have to go to 84 Clarendon Lane, New York, Apartment 6. Its not very far. We can take the train.

84 Clarendon Lane. It was a shabby, decrepit-appearing red brick building, with a row of unattractive brown doors. Apartment 6. According to my search of the database, this is where Samia Karim, our tiny counter girl, lives, Tasneem said to Munawwar. Youre saying that Samia helped the kidnappers. That she and the kidnappers took a ridiculous risk? And then had him brought over to her apartment? Why not have him taken somewhere else? Maybe Saima is the mastermind of this incredible plot! Youre still standing by your theory? Munawwar shook his head in disbelief. You will see what I mean, in a minute, Tasneem replied. But first, let me ask you, is the PM in the habit of dropping things and picking them up? What? I mean, not especially that is to say, I dont think I have noticed. But he dropped something three times, and bent down three times to pick it up. You didnt think that was odd? No. I didnt think anything about it. People drop things. Yes, people do that, Tasneem agreed. Maybe youve also been reading too many detective novels, Munawwar said roughly. Maybe the PM wasnt even the PM! Maybe I drove one of the kidnappers to Macys! Are you saying that the person who kept dropping stuff was some clumsy kidnapper, and not really the PM? Well, let me put you right. The PM put on the disguise in front of my eyes! Munawwar became quiet all of a sudden. WellI didnt see him from the time I saw him get into his disguise till I got into the cab a block away, and then drove up to pick him and Mrs. Imam up. You dont think I picked an imposter. No! He spoke to me in the cab. We had a conversation! I think, said Tasneem playfully, That maybe you are the one who is reading too many detective novels. They were standing outside apartment 6. Youll have to break in. Can you do that?

I am the head of the PMs security detail. You bet I can break in. It is surprisingly easy for people to break into apartments. For Munawwar, it was childs play. When Munawwar opened the door, a large group of mice could have entered his mouth, for it went wide open. With good reason. For Amjad Jabbar, the PM of Pakistan, the man who had made history, was sitting on the sofa wearing a T-shirt and jeans, watching the news. Amjad Jabbar took one look at Munawwar, scowled, and then shrugged his shoulders. Let me tell you what I think, said Tasneem, more so because the silence was uncomfortable and she wanted to get the ball rolling. She was happy to have found the PM and now she wanted to collect her fee. Neither man said a word. So Tasneem continued: It was obvious that even if someone on your security team was mixed up with the bad guys, the easiest way for you to get kidnapped was if you, yourself, wanted to get away. After all, the team was trying to protect you from harm, but they are perhaps less well equipped to prevent you from escaping not with your active imagination and your love of mystery fiction, disguises and so on. You know how they think, and you know how to evade them, if you want to. So I assumed that you were trying to stage your disappearance yourself. You were trying to escape. She looked at Munawwar, feeling a bit like Hercule Poirot. It was a warm, satisfying feeling. Everyone, she reflected, ought to feel like Hercule Poirot at least once in their lives. This is what occurred to me: You, PM sahib, in your disguise, bent thrice, hoping to get your team to lose interest. You wanted your team to think that youd already dropped stuff twice and then you dropped it a third time. So whats new? They wouldnt be interested. Your team thinks: there is nobody else except for that tiny counter girl, and so theres no danger to you. It is impossible. But they have no way of knowing that the third time you went down, you slipped off your disguise, and quickly crawled to the left, through the swinging door, and hid in one of the

cabinets. You were taking a chance, of course. They could have seen you doing that. And if they did, well, you could invent some excuse or say anything what could they say to you? They work for you, youre the PM. Did you have a plan to say something? I hadnt thought that far, said Jabbar. He had a deep, resonant voice, a voice that had enchanted the masses in Pakistan. But I imagine I could have talked my way out of it. If you dont mind my asking, how did you leave? asked Tasneem. Oh, I borrowed some clothes from Samia. They were inside the cabinet in which I hid. I changed inside. Put my clothes in a bag. Red slacks. A bright green T-shirt. And a wig a blond one. I wore a pair of large sunglasses big glasses, covered half my face. Very conspicuous! said Tasneem. Exactly. I expected no one would think I would be leaving Macys on my own two feet in such a ridiculous looking outfit. I walked right past the two men you had posted outside, Munawwar. Then I took a cab to Samias apartment. I had the key. I dont think I could have broken in like you, Munawwar. He may have been trying to lighten the moment. Munawwar finally found his voice. But why do all this? Why? He seemed to be in anguish. There was no answer from Jabbar. I can guess why, said Tasneem. And please correct me if I am wrong. As the PM of a difficult country like Pakistan, you are under a lot of stress. Munawwar told me you are under a lot of stress, with a host of medical problems and your doctor told you to take it easy. Plus, like other men before him in the coveted position of PM of Pakistan, Jabbar probably had a decent chunk of change stashed away in some secret place only he knew. So he could disappear without hurting himself financially. Naturally, Tasneem didnt say that. Tasneem went on:

Adding to his stress, I think, was a little situation that you had, sir. May I continue? The PM nodded. Please do so. I find this fascinating. Yes, thought Tasneem, he was a very good-looking man. It would be easy for someone to fall in love with himbut not Tasneem. The man was handsome, yes, he could be the badly needed hope for Pakistan, and he would be addressing the UN, and he might even win the Nobel peace prize, but underneath it all, or maybe because of it all, he was a man who was far from perfect. Very imperfect, actually. I think you and Sophie you had a little romance. And then Sophie she is a pretty girl. I am sure it was real love. Whatever it was, you were tired of your life, all the worries that surround you in Pakistan. Maybe you wanted to escape all the trouble and risk to your life and stress. You wanted to escape it all, and disappear from public life. I dont think too many people would just throw away a job like yours, but youre not like too many people, are you? No, I dont think I am. And yes, there is no shame in loving someone. I love Sophie. From the moment I saw her. It was like an electric spark that went from her to me and me to her. We got connected, in an instant. But the matter is complicated because I am the prime minister of Pakistan, and am married with three kids in college. Thats life, I suppose. But others before me have given up everything for love. There is nothing special about me. The only special thing is love. You may be right, said Tasneem. But do you really think this is wise? Pakistan needs you. I am sure many people would agree with that. Yes, spoke Munawwar, Pakistan needs you. If you will pardon me for saying so, there is no room in your life for loving anyone but your wife. Can you please come back with me? We will figure out a way to sort out the situation here. We will make payments to both Sophie and Samia. Have them set for life, through college, and enough to live decently afterwards. If you dont mind my asking, Sophie is not er anything? I think he means to say pregnant, said Tasneem. No, of course not. I have been perfectly honorable.

Sure, thought Tasneem. She couldnt help feeling disgust. But the world and its realities cared little for her disgust. She could be disgusted all the way into the afterlife and it wouldnt change a single fact. Her rash wouldnt go away, people would still behave like people, and the PM would continue being the man he was. So in the end, disgust served no purpose but to make you feel bad. Even so, she couldnt rationalize the feeling away. I havent done anything I shouldnt have. Except been in love and she loves me back. Of course she does, said Tasneem. But shes young, so give her time. Shell find someone else, I am sure. Maybe not like you, but a good-enough substitute. Jabbar frowned. The idea of Sophie finding someone else to replace him pricked his ego, but as this woman said, any other man Sophie found would have to be merely a substitute, never as good enough as Jabbar. Like most men in positions of power, Jabbar was probably couldnt help being a narcissist. How did you know? asked Munawwar. It was a guess. First, there was no way that anyone could have drugged and then dragged the PM inside and hidden him inside the cabinets. Or carried him past you. You would have seen. So it meant he had to have done this willingly. Which led me to why he might have done it. Second, I found it interesting that Samia also goes to NYU, just like Sophie. Samia reacted very guiltily, telling me very pointedly that she didnt know Sophie, after I had moved on to another topic and asked her if she had discussed the disappearance of the PM with anyone. Its like she really, badly wanted to convince us that she didnt know Sophie. Her behavior was, to say the least, very suspicious. I assumed that not only did Samia know Sophie, but that she was helping Sophie by enabling the PM to escape and providing him with room and board. With her mother visiting, Sophie could hardly hide the PM in her own dorm room. Tasneem could have stopped there, but she didnt. I hope youll forgive me, but I cant feel too much sympathy for you. I agree that from the her picture, Sophie strikes me as a pretty, lovely girl, but

Jabbar cut her short, Yes, she is pretty and lovely. She is the loveliest woman Ive ever seen. Tasneem wanted to say that given a few months, he would soon see some other loveliest woman Ive ever seen. The PM was a great leader, but Tasneem could see that he was a hopeless romantic, or more accurately, a hopeless jerk a hopeless but great jerk, who could well be the answer to Pakistan, but certainly not to his family. A serial lover. No, a serial lust-er. A man who either used his brain or his pelvis. He would find someone else. And then, after that, someone else yet again. She found it difficult to be in awe of this man, no matter what level of greatness he achieved. Its easy to judge others, said Jabbar, quietly. I judge myself too. I am not proud of what I did. You could say, I wasnt thinking, or that I was thinking romantically. But youre right, Munawwar. Its time to put an end to this drama. I obviously cant stick around to say goodbye to Sophie. Youll have to make sure that Sophie and Samia get compensated adequately. They can name their price. Yes, sir, said Munawwar. And you can tell me your price, too, for your services, Miss I am sorry I dont even know your name? Tasneem, she answered. She took out a piece of folded paper silently from her purse. My charges it shows the hourly rate, etc., she said, handing it to Jabbar. He took a look at it. Reasonable. I am going to add a bonus. On behalf of the people of Pakistan and my family, who I am sure will be pleased to have me back. Arent we full of ourselves, Tasneem wanted to say, but didnt. Thanks, she said. A hefty paycheck. Heads of state value themselves highly, as a rule, and so compensate extremely well when they have been found after being lost. The payout was much higher than she had received for recovering Chuggles the tortoise or

Bartholomew the parrot. But, Tasneem wondered if in the final analysis those animals were nicer human beings than Jabbar. Still, the money was nothing to sneeze at. There was the added satisfaction of having caught a philandering PM. And now, she really had to quit stalling. Her toe was throbbing. She picked up the phone to call her primary care provider.