We decided that we could prepare the ground for the assault on the Kafkaesque bureaucracy of Islamabad by telephone from Lahore. A couple of phone calls, we hoped, and the field could be open for us to flash our letters, collect the permits and set off up the Karakoram Highway to China. But we had forgotten the joys of the Pakistan Telecom network, and not yet met the Chinese brickwall approach to relations with foreigners. The Begum's office contained three telephones and an angry secretary. He had black spectacles and effused boredom and irritability in about equal parts. Although the Begum had warned him the day before that I would be coming, he much resented my invasion. 'Sahib, do not put your letters on my table,' he said as I sat down. I apologized and tried dialling the number of the British Embassy. I failed to get through. I tried again. Brrrrrrrr, said the telephone. Out of the comer of my eye I could see that the secretary was watching me. After three further attempts he took the receiver from my hand with an I-was-doing-this-before-you-were-born look on his face, dialled the operator, spoke to someone he knew, and was put through first time.
