I had made sure of that, greasing the right palms, those of my friend, and his friend, and, finally, his, who was a customs officer with clout. He would send a man to greet them the moment they passed through the concourse. This man—perhaps dressed in uniform, or, perhaps, in a suit and tie—would escort them through the official structures of bureaucracy, weakened at the foundation by the feasting of termites like himself, funded through the who-do-you-know network that is the real basis of Pakistani civil society and of which I freely partake. Bypassing the long queues, he would take their passports straight to the immigration desk, newly equipped with the latest technology, computers and webcams, gifts from the American taxpayer, courtesy of the War on Terror. Finally, the termite would snap his fingers, in a great show of power, summoning a porter to collect their bags from the baggage carousel and then load them onto a trolley, which the porter would push through customs without pausing, until my driver—now waiting with me at a respectful distance of four or five paces to my rear—took it over from him.
