ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN — It's 8 o'clock on a Sunday night in the Pakistani capital, but collection cowboy Sharoon Hermoon is living on U.S. time. Headset in place, feet on his desk, he aims his speed dialer at a debtor in Fort Worth, Texas.
"Hello, ma'am, how ya doin' today?" he says in a convincing American accent. "My name is James Harold and you owe us $11,000."
There's a deer-in-the-headlights moment at the other end, then a deep breath, then a torrent of excuses. "I don't know what you're talking about," she says. "It's someone else. My husband's identity was stolen."
After several minutes of runaround, Hermoon hands the phone to Kashif Siddiqui, his supervisor at the Touchstone call center. With years of experience, Siddiqui has heard it all. He's not abusive, but within seconds, he sharply ramps up the pressure.
"So your identity was stolen?" Siddiqui says. "I'll need a police report showing that. And a notarized statement that you never took out the loan. Yes, notarized. We can ring the police station right now on a conference call."
Click.
As Americans struggle under a mountain of debt, they might be surprised to learn that their collection nightmares may originate in a nation better known for its Taliban insurgency, instability and extremism. With more economic uncertainty, job losses and mortgage defaults expected, long-distance arm-twisting has become something of a growth industry in Pakistan.
And though the mostly twentysomething crew at the call center expresses empathy for the troubled voices on the other end of the line, some of them also wonder how the Americans could let themselves slip so far under water.
"Americans are rather addicted to their credit cards," Siddiqui says.
After the woman from Fort Worth slams down the phone, the Touchstone crew goes to work. Predictably, she doesn't answer their return calls. So in subsequent days they use tracking software and loan document details to generate letters and leave phone messages with neighbors, co-workers and relatives that they're trying to reach her. Finally, a few weeks later, worn down, the woman accepts a repayment plan.
"The debt is like a lizard on your back," says Tabinda Batool, 33, a member of the crew.
Most of Touchstone's 350 "seats" -- industry-speak for operators -- handle customer service queries or make sales pitches for cable TV contracts, work that demands patience, a thick skin and Uriah Heep-like politeness.
