On Edge

by Albert Ashforth

  “Understandable,” I said.

  “Pete was on his third deployment. He extended once. He had another five months before he’d be heading back to the States.”

  When Stan asked if I had wheels, I told him I’d picked up a Toyota van at the motor pool.

  He grinned. “I’d rather drive in Rome than Kabul. There used to be just one traffic light in the city. I think there are two now. There are cops at the big intersections, but they don’t help much. Leave yourself plenty of time wherever you’re going.”

  “In other words, things haven’t changed much since the last time I was here.” I got to my feet. “You say Nolda was a member of 7th Guards.”

  Stan nodded. “Lived in a barracks over at Black Horse.”

  “Is there anything you’d like me to do, Stan?”

  “Like I say, we’re really shorthanded. You could check on the military side of things. Todd has been trying to find out about Nolda, the kind of guy he was. He made a trip back to the village to speak with Nolda’s wife, but they couldn’t locate her. Helmand’s chaotic.”

  “I could go over to the barracks, check around, try talking to his superiors.”

  “That would be helpful. I’ll call Captain Bashiri. He was Nolda’s commanding officer. Try to find out how he spent his spare time. Who he hung out with, that sort of thing.” Stan shook his head. “But don’t expect too much help. These people are wary of Americans.”

  After telling Stan good-bye, I drove back to my room where I still had some unpacking to do. As I reread the clippings Jerry had given me, I continued to wonder whether I’d been wise in letting myself get talked into this expedition, which was beginning to seem more and more complicated than it had at the start. I could already sense Stan’s wariness. Even more puzzling was how Pete’s death connected to the trial of bank officials, which was now going on in Kabul. One of the stories estimated the money missing from the Kabul Bank at over 900 million dollars.

  Another story said it was the largest bank fraud in history.

  And Pete was investigating it. That could have been the reason he was killed. Had Jerry Shenlee made that connection, and was that the reason he’d given me the bank clippings?

  Stan told me that Wanda Hansen had arrived two days ago and was now at the Green Village, the Kabul housing facility built for contractors. I’d interviewed some people over there on my last assignment in this part of the world. That Wanda was angry was easy enough to understand. She’d want to know right away who killed her husband. Seeing her again under these circumstances wasn’t going to be pleasant.

  Late in the afternoon, I found a text message on my smartphone that Colonel Hansen wanted to see me in her room in the second floor of the D Building at the Green Village.

  The last time I’d seen Wanda, she was Wanda Nyland, before she married Pete. I remember Wanda as attractive, with a great sense of humor. I also remember telling her one time that it was a good thing she met Pete first. As I recall, she hadn’t laughed.

  CHAPTER 4

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 1, 2013

  WHEN I KNOCKED on the room’s half-open door at 1730 hours that evening, a woman’s voice said, “Come in.” Seconds later, Wanda Hansen was standing in front of me. “Alex, it’s really you.”

  Except that she looked a shade more mature, Wanda was very much as I remembered her. She appeared slightly pale, perhaps because she wasn’t sleeping well.

  “Hello, Wanda.” After clicking the door behind me, I put my arms around her, gave her the kind of hug brothers give their sisters. “I’m very sorry.”

  She nodded, inhaled, pointed toward a chair. “The Headquarters billets were all filled, so they found rooms over here for me. What do you think?”

  I nodded my approval. “Looks comfortable.” One of the two rooms was furnished as an office, with a desk and a computer. Along with the computer there was a printer and a telephone.

  “This is where the contractors stay. I have everything I need. There’s even a bar downstairs. I don’t think I could stand being alone in one of the guest houses.” She shuddered.

  “I’m on administrative leave.” She pointed at the telephone. “If I have to call the States, no problem.”

  “Secure?”

  “Probably not.” She smiled, then pointed at a TV on a shelf next to the desk. “That’s so I don’t miss Wheel of Fortune.” She did her best to smile. “Thank you for coming. To be honest, I’m surprised you’re here.”

  “Jerry Shenlee sent me.” When she frowned, I said, “Jerry’s an NSC staffer. I’m looking into Pete’s murder.” I recalled Jerry’s suggestion that I become familiar with financial stuff. “But there may be more to it than that. I’m not really sure.”

  “It’s so nice having someone here I know. How long do you intend to stay?”

  “I’m not sure about that either. However long Jerry wants me here.”

  Wanda hadn’t changed much in the fifteen years since I’d last seen her. She had a frank, open expression, dark blond hair that covered her ears, and wide blue eyes. She was wearing a white blouse and dark blue slacks and tiny earrings that could have been diamonds. I still remembered Wanda’s smile, and how it could light up a room. Somehow, I had the feeling she wouldn’t be doing much smiling during this visit.

  “I’m in one of the media relations offices at the Pentagon. They gave me time off. Now that I’m here, I’m not sure that coming over was the right thing.”

  “Why not?”

  “I thought maybe I could help in the investigation.” She smiled wryly. “Maybe I only came because I wanted to see . . . whoever did it close up.”

  “They still don’t know much about him.”

  “They know his name. I don’t know how much else.” She pointed toward a small refrigerator in the room’s far corner. “Can I get you something?” When I shook my head, she checked her watch. “I’m expecting Todd Hammond. Todd’s CID. I met him yesterday. How far along the investigation is I’m not sure. Anyway, he should know. They know who the killer is. ‘Baram Someone.’”

  “Baram Nolda. From what I understand, he and Pete worked in the same office.”

  “Don’t get me started on that. The way these people will turn on you . . . I mean, I just can’t understand it. How can you kill a colleague? Someone you work with?”

  I didn’t try to answer that question. After a brief silence, I said, “Is it true Pete had five more months on this tour?”

  “Yes. I was looking forward to him getting back. I’ll be at the Pentagon for another year. I had a two-bedroom picked out in Alexandria . . . We were planning to . . .” Wanda shook her head, took a deep breath, and again tried to smile.

  I was about to comment when someone knocked. Wanda leaped to her feet. “That’s Todd.” After pulling open the door, Wanda said hello to a tall, broad-shouldered guy dressed in a green jacket, blue jeans, and combat boots. Hammond was African-American, clean-shaven, and had an alert, intelligent expression.

  “I’m not interrupting anything, I hope.”

  “No, Todd. Come in. This is Alex Klear, the person I mentioned yesterday. He was a friend of Pete’s. He’s come over on short notice”—she looked at me—“to lend a hand in the investigation. Alex, this is Todd Hammond.”

  After we’d shaken hands, Hammond said, “I only knew Colonel Hansen to say hello to, but I’ve heard only good things.” He nodded at Wanda.

  “There’s one thing we all have in common,” Wanda said, rearranging papers on the desk and getting to her feet. “We’re all here for the same reason: to find the person who killed Pete. If I may, let me say I don’t intend to rest until we find him.”

  There was a steely determination in her voice—and I had the feeling I was seeing a side of her that I’d never seen before. For some reason, I found it mildly unsettling.

  Wanda led the way out of the apartment, then locked the door. “We’re only going over to the café, Alex,” she said. “You’re free to join us.”

  “I m
ay not be the best company. I’m still feeling some jet lag.”

  “No excuses,” Wanda said. “The buffet is fairly good.”

  On the walk over to the Green Village’s café, I asked Hammond where the investigation stood.

  “So far as we can determine, this guy was nothing special. He doesn’t seem to have been a Taliban member, although with these people it’s hard to know sometimes.”

  “Not a fanatic?” I said.

  Hammond shrugged. “Not so far as anyone can tell. I flew down to Helmand right after it happened. Me and Haji. He’s a terp. We tried to find his wife, but she was off somewhere. We only had a day. We found a couple of people in the village who knew him. He had a couple of kids, and that’s why he joined the Army, so he could support them. Making a living in this country is not all that easy.”

  “From what I understand,” Wanda said, “these killings are often purely personal. An American gets an Afghan mad. The individual holds a grudge, doesn’t say anything, but the next thing you know, he shoots the American.”

  The café was in a building on the far side of the compound, and after we’d staked out a table, I got a sandwich and salad at the buffet table. The truth was, I really was feeling major jet lag.

  “Oh, one more thing, Alex,” Wanda said. “I’ll be stopping by Major Jones’ office tomorrow, 0900 hours.”

  Hammond said, “Major Jones wants us all there. We’ll have a chance to meet Undersecretary Greer.” When I nodded, he said, “Captain Corley should also be there.”

  “Who’s Captain Corley?” Wanda asked as she sprinkled pepper on her salad.

  “I only met her yesterday,” Hammond said. “She wants to be involved in the investigation. She’s stationed down in Khost somewhere.” He explained to Wanda that Khost was a province in the southeast, bordering on Pakistan.

  “All I care about,” Wanda said, “is how the investigation is proceeding.”

  “Slowly, ma’am, slowly. Like everything else in this country, it’s taking longer than it should.”

  “Dammit, that’s not good enough.”

  When he only shrugged, Wanda said, “Maybe that’s why you’re here, Alex. To get things moving.”

  I wondered how I was supposed to do that.

  Fortunately, I didn’t have to comment. At that moment my phone went off. It was Stan.

  “Alex, can you get over here? I’ve got a couple of MPs here in my office.” When I asked what the problem was, Stan said, “It has something to do with a fruit stand. And a little boy?” He broke off to speak with someone in his office. “It happened yesterday. Out on Airport Road.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yeah, they have some questions. I’m not sure what—”

  “Okay, Stan. Give me ten minutes.”

  Grabbing my tray, I said, “Stan needs me.”

  “Good luck with Bashiri tomorrow,” Hammond said, referring to Nolda’s CO. “I couldn’t get much out of him.”

  When I said I’d see everyone in the morning, Hammond nodded and took a bite of his sandwich. Although he had been more than friendly, I sensed that, like Stan, he wasn’t happy about my sudden arrival. I couldn’t blame him.

  How do I get into these situations?

  * * *

  “What the hell happened out there, anyway?” Stan Jones said, unable to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

  It was fifteen minutes later, and I was back in Stan’s office. Also there were two military policemen, Sergeant Deming and Sergeant McCabe, and a serious-looking, slightly built Afghan, who’d introduced himself as Haji Longel.

  We were all standing in front of Stan’s desk, and Deming was holding a clipboard.

  Stan said, “They say you wrecked some guy’s fruit stand. And what’s this about a kid?”

  I said, “Yesterday on the way in—”

  Deming interrupted. “What it is, sir, Haji was called to the main gate last night.” He nodded at the Afghan. “According to Force Protection, there was quite a flap. Some people were complaining . . . about an American.” Deming pointed at me. “Are you Mr. Klear?” When I said I was, Deming turned to Haji. “This here gentleman is the terp—”

  “The interpreter,” Stan said.

  “Right, sir, the interpreter. The story he told us is that—”

  Raising his hand, Stan said, “Why don’t we let Haji tell the story, Sergeant?”

  When Deming said, “Yes, sir, very good, sir,” Haji said, “I was called to the gate by Force Protection at 1900 hours. There were many Afghan people there—”

  “How many?” Stan asked. “About.”

  “Ten, maybe. They were all very excited, one man particularly. His name is Jalal Nandash.” Haji said to me, “He says you owe him one thousand dollars—”

  “Why does he say that?” I asked. I remembered the fruit dealer, a short, square-faced guy with a graying beard, a real loudmouth. I’d had all I could do to keep from decking him.

  “His fruit stand,” Deming said. “You broke up his fruit stand.” He consulted a report on his clipboard. “Broke the legs, right, Haji?”

  Haji nodded. “Yes, he had many people with him who agreed that is what happened. And then the other man said this American man—”

  “Mr. Klear,” Deming said. “How do you spell your name, sir?” After he’d written down my name, Deming said to Haji, “Who else was there?”

  “Other people said Mr. Klear hurt a young boy. It was all very confusing.”

  “Someone said a woman complained because Mr. Klear struck her boy. They had pictures of the boy where he was hurt. Red marks. All this happened yesterday afternoon on Airport Road.” Haji paused. “They want a thousand dollars.”

  “Was the woman there?” Stan asked. “Did you talk with her?”

  “She was not there. Just the people with the fruit dealer—”

  “All right, all right.” Stan raised his hand, a signal for everyone to stop talking. “We have Mr. Klear right here. Alex, why don’t you tell us? What the hell happened yesterday on the way in from the airport?”

  I said, “I was in a Humvee on the way in from KIA, when a truck from the opposite direction came over the center line, forcing us over toward the sewer trench. Our driver did one helluva job of getting us back on the road, and that’s where an IED was. But we didn’t hit it straight on. We landed in the other direction upside down—”

  “You went over an IED?” Stan couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.

  “We didn’t hit it squarely.”

  “Still, you were lucky. You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Our gunner was shaken up.”

  “Then what?”

  “The next thing we knew, a couple of guys were shooting at us. We were firing back with a couple of AR-10s, which we had in the vehicle. Then, I saw a kid, eight or nine years old, wandering toward me—”

  “Into the line of fire?”

  When I nodded, Stan shook his head.

  “He had no idea what was going on, thought it was some kind of game. I took off after the kid, grabbed him. We hit the deck next to a bunch of fruit on a stand.”

  “Where was his mother?”

  I shrugged. “Inside a building somewhere? I don’t know. Anyway, when it was over, she came running out, grabbed the boy, started shouting at me—”

  To the MPs, Stan said, “It sounds to me like Klear here maybe saved the kid’s life.”

  “One more thing,” Haji said. “Someone said the father of the boy is a very influential elder, a member of an important tribe, the Korengalis . . . they are from Kunar Province. The man who owns the fruit stand says—”

  Stan interrupted again. “We’re not too interested in what he says. Mr. Nandash sounds like an opportunist.”

  Deming asked a few more questions, which I answered. Then he said, “Thank you, Mr. Klear. Thank you, sir.”

  Haji gave each of us a small bow before leaving the office.

  With the MPs and the interpreter gone, Stan said, “Th
ese things are happening all the time. Nobody knows what anyone else is saying. The woman was upset. The fruit vendor’s obviously an opportunist, wanting to hit up Uncle Sugar for damages.”

  I said, “Hopefully, it’ll blow over.”

  “You met Haji. He’s the best of our interpreters. I use him when I can.” Stan seated himself again behind his desk and pointed to some folders. “I have to get through this stuff by tomorrow.”

  An hour later, back in my hooch, I put in a call to Irmie.

  “How are things in Munich, honey? I miss you.”

  “Difficult, Alex, if you really want to know.”

  When I foolishly asked why, Irmie sounded irritable, as though it was a dumb question. “I was on the telephone for half the morning canceling the arrangements I’d made. Since you were supposed to arrive in two weeks, I’d made appointments for us to talk with the caterer and a wedding planner. Actually, I have to say, they were very understanding.”

  From just the tone of her voice I could tell that Irmie was under stress. Before I could comment, she was talking again. “But it’s not just the wedding. Today I had to travel out to the prison to interrogate a suspected terrorist, a very disagreeable individual. Even when I told him he might not have to face jail time if he cooperated, he began cursing and threatening me with all kinds of . . . Oh, you don’t want to hear all this.”

  “I wish I was with you, Irmie. I know how unpleasant—”

  “That was the plan, Alex. For you to be here with me and for us to decide everything together.”

  “I’ve tried to explain. This was an extraordinary situation—”

  “I still can’t see why you had to go to Afghanistan. Of all the places—”

  “I’ve already said why.”

  “Your friend.” She paused. “I’m just getting ready to go to bed, Alex. I’m too tired to talk.” When I asked if she’d received my e-mail, she said, “Yes, thank you for sending it.”

  “I just wanted to let you know I arrived safely over here. I can’t wait to see you again, Irmie.”

  “I appreciate the e-mail, Alex.” She paused. “But when you say you’re looking forward . . . to seeing me . . .”