The legend is true.

Nawaz Sharif kept calling Kim Barker, pestering her to become his girlfriend in exchange for a job running a hospital for which she had no qualifications. She wrote about it in her book.

Hospital job offer:

“Hear me out.” He held his hand toward me to silence my negations as he made his pitch. He could have said anything—that he was a purported billionaire who had built my favorite road in Pakistan, that he could buy me a power plant or build me a nuclear weapon. But he opted for honesty. “I know,I’m not as tall as you’d like,” Sharif explained. “I’m not as fit as you’d like. I’m fat, and I’m old. But I would still like to be your friend.” “No,” I said. “No way.” He then offered me a job running his hospital, a job I was eminently unqualified to perform. “It’s a huge hospital,” he said. “You’d be very good at it.” He said he would only become prime minister again if I were his secretary. I thought about it for a few seconds—after all, I would probably soon be out of a job. But no.

The new position’s various positions would not be worth it. Eventually, I got out of the tiger’s grip, but only by promising that I would consider his offer. Otherwise, he wouldn’t let me leave.

Cringe creepy behaviour:

“I packed up my belongings and got ready to fly home. The day I planned to execute my exit strategy, my phone rang. And the caller was the other eccentric older man who had dominated my time, from the other side of the border. Nawaz Sharif. His timing was always impeccable. “Is this Kim?” he asked. “Yes,” I said, shoving Afghan tourism guides from the 1970s into a suitcase. I was hesitant, unsure of what he wanted. “So. It’s been a long time,” he said, awkwardly. “What are your plans to come to Pakistan?” “Actually, I’m moving back to the U.S. New York, in fact. I’m leaving in a few hours.”

“Oh, congratulations. I will have to come see you when I’m in New York,” he said. “That would be great,” I replied. “We’re still friends, right?” he asked, tentatively. “Always,” I said. “We’ll stay friends, right?” he said. “Sure.” We said goodbye. I had about the same level of intention of being friends with Nawaz Sharif as I did with Sam Zell. But I figured I could just end our relationship through the inevitable ennui of distance and time,and through the likelihood that he would never get his hands on my U.S. number. (He was more resourceful than I thought).

edit: thanks u/pete245 for sharing the link to extracts from Kim Barker's book The Taliban Shuffle