“Indeed,” Corley said. Again I couldn’t help noticing how clipped her comments were—and how little she seemed to reveal of herself. I briefly wondered if it was intentional, then decided it was.
“Yeah, Bashiri speaks English,” Hammond said. “But you might want to bring Haji or one of the other interpreters just in case.”
Corley said, “I was at the main gate last night. Someone was asking about you. He wanted your name.”
“I tipped over a guy’s fruit stand,” I said. “There were watermelons all over.”
She got to her feet. “He had nothing to do with fruit stands.”
Shoving all my notes into a large envelope, I stood up and shook hands with Hammond.
“I’m leaving, too,” Corley said as she zipped up her field jacket.
When we were outside, I was surprised by how thick the snow had become. I said, “I could go for something warm. Tea? Coffee?”
“Some tea might be nice.”
I pointed the way toward the Green Bean, the coffee shop located just off Camp Phoenix’s main drag.
When we’d gotten our tea and found places at one of the long wooden tables, I said, “What makes someone like Nolda tick?”
“Do you mean, what leads him to want to shoot someone he works with day after day?” When I nodded, “Any number of things, assuming it was Nolda who committed the murder.”
“Doesn’t it look that way?”
The big room was drafty and, with a couple of dozen GIs letting off steam, noisy. It seemed Captain Corley had a somewhat different take on Pete’s murder than everyone else.
“We’ll know more when we catch up with him . . . if we catch up with him.” Before I could comment, she said, “How much do you know about what Colonel Hansen was working on?”
“So far, not a great deal. Why?”
“It could be important.”
“What exactly was he working on?”
“He was investigating the failure of the Kabul Bank. I assume you know about that.” She fixed me with a searing stare. “You could be approaching this from the wrong direction.”
“You’re suggesting that what Pete was working on is what we should be looking at.” I recalled the envelope full of stories about the bank that Jerry had given me.
“I’ll go even further than that, Mr. Klear. I’d go so far as to say this wasn’t a green-on-blue.”
“Do you have evidence to back up that statement, ma’am?”
Rather than answer the question, she said, “I understand that you knew Colonel Hansen personally.”
I wondered how she knew that. “We got to know one another back in the States.”
“At Fort Bragg?” When I nodded, she said, “You knew his wife, too. She had quite a bit to say at the meeting.”
“She’s upset.” But even as I said the words, I realized I was making excuses for Wanda. This conversation had taken a turn I hadn’t anticipated.
I watched as Corley punched some numbers into her phone and spent half a minute listening. Then she drank the last of her tea and began zipping up her field jacket. “The snow’s letting up. A helicopter is getting ready to fly to Bagram. From there it shouldn’t be a problem getting a flight down to Khost.” She stuck out her hand. “It’s been nice meeting you, Mr. Klear.”
“Alex.”
“Good luck with your interview with Nolda’s company commander.”
Without saying anything more, she turned and left.
* * *
Captain Jarheed Bashiri had a round, pleasant face and a friendly handshake. My appointment was for 1500 hours, and Haji and I had arrived a few minutes early, having driven over to Black Horse in my van. At least the snow had let up. Hammond had said Captain Bashiri had been in charge of Nolda’s company when Nolda was stationed in Kabul. My first impression after entering his office, which was on the second floor of a wooden building on the Black Horse training facility, was that Captain Bashiri paid only casual attention to the clerical end of his job.
Clutter was all over, and it seemed every flat surface had piles of paper on it. The first thing Bashiri did after our arrival was order his assistant to brew tea. Although Bashiri spoke English, I had Haji with me just in case.
While we were waiting, I asked an obvious question. “What kind of soldier was Sergeant Nolda?”
Bashiri touched his hand to his mustache. “Better than most, I would say. But not . . . bihbud. His uniform was not always perfect. Otherwise, okay, I would say.”
Bashiri’s own uniform didn’t look that sharp. His tunic was wrinkled, for one thing, and his brass was smudged. He assured me that he was very unhappy about Colonel Hansen’s death. He said he had never met him personally, but like all officers in the Afghan Army, he was upset by the news. When he said, “Green-on-blue very bad,” I agreed.
For the first five minutes, I hadn’t needed Haji’s help.
Bashiri said, “Corporal Nolda spoke some English, which made him . . . shoeh.”
“Valuable,” Haji said.
“Yes, valuable in office. Americans will never learn Pashto or Dari.” When I nodded and said that was true enough, he smiled.
After telling him his English was also very good, I said, “What I really want to know about are his political affiliations. Was he a Taliban sympathizer?”
Bashiri shrugged. “Not that I know of.”
Obviously perturbed by Bashiri’s curt answers, Haji interrupted. Speaking in rapid Pashto, he asked a number of questions, then he said, “Even if he were a Taliban sympathizer, Captain Bashiri says it is unlikely that he would know that. Nolda would certainly not have advertised the fact. He would have kept it to himself.”
“Ask him if Nolda had friends.”
After a brief exchange, Haji said, “Yes. He had friends. Bashiri says Nolda and the other soldiers spent a lot of time watching videos on their telephones. Silly shows, people singing, making senseless comments.”
“Who were his friends?”
“Bashiri says the friends were other members of his platoon. If he had friends outside the military, he would not know that.”
I nodded. “The way he describes him, Nolda doesn’t sound much different from a lot of other people his age.” When Haji asked if I had any other questions, I said, “Ask him why he thinks Nolda joined the Army.”
When they’d finished yakking, Haji said, “Captain Bashiri thinks he joined for the same reason most Afghan men join the Army. Because they can’t find work anywhere else. Captain Bashiri also says Nolda was married and he needed an income.” Haji paused. “He says the man from your CID already asked some of these questions.”
When the cell phone on his desk went off, Bashiri stood up suddenly and announced he had to leave. As we stood uncertainly at the door, he spoke briefly with Haji.
After a second, Haji said, “Captain Bashiri has kindly arranged for us to talk with a dost, a friend of Nolda’s. They were soldiers in the same platoon.” Bashiri pointed to an Afghan soldier standing forlornly in the corridor outside the office.
With Bashiri gone, Haji did the honors, telling me the soldier’s name was Gholam.
Outside the building, we walked across the muddy installation to a row of wooden buildings in front of which was a stand selling fruit and vegetables. I paid for three apples and told Haji to ask Gholam if he’d like anything else. After he shook his head, we found benches, which were located beneath a canvas tarp and which provided some protection from the wind.
According to Haji, Gholam got to know Nolda when they were teenagers. Haji said, “Nolda’s first job was working for a man in a bazaar, selling vegetables, but he could not make a living. The man who owned the stand did not pay him enough. They had an argument, and Nolda quit the job. He says around this time Nolda began studying English.”
I said, “Nolda sounds ambitious.”
“Gholam says Nolda later found a job with a security firm and guarded buildings. He says Nolda arranged for him to also get a job with th
at firm. But then the firm lost its contract, and they were both again out of work. That was when they both decided to join the Army.
“Gholam says Nolda joined the Army because he knew some English and thought this would help him. He says Nolda’s wife is still back in their village.”
“Anything else?”
“Gholam says Nolda liked the Army.”
I said, “Pete was Nolda’s boss. Ask Gholam if Nolda was mad at his boss.”
After a brief exchange, Haji shook his head. “Gholam says Nolda liked working for Americans. He doubts his friend was mad at his superiors.”
I said to Haji, “Ask this guy the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Then we’ll get going.”
“Sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, Alex?”
“That means the important question. Ask him if his buddy Nolda was a Taliban sympathizer.” After some back and forth, Haji shook his head. “Gholam says Nolda despised the Taliban.”
“Did he say why?”
“Yes. He says his uncle was a farmer and grew poppies, but the Taliban kept taxing him. And they kept increasing the taxes. Finally, his uncle said he could not pay any more, and they killed him. In Nolda’s village, Gholam says, the Taliban committed many atrocities and no one liked them.”
“Ask him if he thinks Nolda was the kind of person to commit a green-on-blue killing.”
A second later, Haji said, “Loosely translated, Alex, Gholam says Nolda is not a person who would carry out a killing like that.”
“Ask him if he’s sure.”
“He says he knows Nolda as well as anyone, and he’s sure.”
“Ask him if he’s only saying that because Nolda is his dost.”
“Gholam will be offended if I ask him again.”
“Ask him anyway.”
When Gholam didn’t get mad and only laughed, I had an idea Haji hadn’t posed the question I asked him to pose, and they’d spent a couple of minutes talking about girls or sports. I knew we’d squeezed as much useful information out of Gholam as we were going to get.
After giving Gholam a ride across Black Horse to his barracks, I drove back to Camp Phoenix. We walked back to the Green Bean, where we got on the beverage line.
While we waited, Haji shook his head. “Not much progress.”
When I asked Haji if he felt Gholam was being honest, Haji scratched his head. When I said, “Well?” Haji looked away toward the room’s big windows, then shrugged.
I was finding it harder and harder to get a yes or no answer out of Haji. Maybe the fact that he was born thirty-one years ago into a chaotic country contributed to his skepticism where America was concerned. Like a lot of Afghans, Haji had seen them come and go. First, the warlords, then the Russians, then the Taliban, and now us.
Maybe because they’ve experienced so much history close-up, many Afghans tend to take things in stride. That fact wasn’t going to make my job easier. Like all Afghans, Haji knew America was scheduled to leave Afghanistan at the end of 2014. That meant the official end of Operation Enduring Freedom, the military operation that had kicked off in October 2001.
Finally, Haji said, “I think Gholam was being honest, Alex. Yes.”
“If you’re right, that presents a small problem. Assuming Gholam is a good judge of character, Nolda is not the person who shot Colonel Hansen.”
After we’d given our tea orders, Haji said, “I see what you mean, Alex. But all the other people are positive it was Nolda who killed Colonel Hansen.”
“They are relying on the information they have, and it all seems to point in that direction. But they have not spoken with Gholam, as we have. Who should we believe, Haji?”
I knew Haji wouldn’t answer the questions. Like most Afghans, he is innately cautious, and when dealing with foreigners, he tends to be suspicious.
With the sun still shining, we decided to brave the chill and drink our tea down on the smoking deck. We found a table near the street where we could observe the action.
Haji smiled, sighed, gazed at me with his alert dark eyes. “It is difficult, Alex. People don’t like to talk. Captain Bashiri was very reticent. Even if Nolda was a Taliban sympathizer, it’s not likely he would tell you.”
A boisterous group of Marines from a newly arrived company of leathernecks went by on the road. In a couple of days they’d be out in the provinces mixing it up with the Talibs. I could have told them that by shooting up the countryside they wouldn’t be helping much in bringing our two nations together.
“I see what you mean, Haji.”
In the distance the sky was a clear blue, and the mountains were a visible reminder of Afghanistan’s rugged natural beauty.
I couldn’t blame the Afghans for not wanting to talk to Americans. At least not wanting to talk honestly and openly. In their eyes, we were unpredictable.
I watched soldiers drifting around and military vehicles moving back and forth on Camp Phoenix’s main street. It was already clear to me that in Afghanistan it’s difficult to accomplish even the simplest tasks. I had a feeling it was going to be impossible to agree on who had killed Pete Hansen to everyone’s satisfaction.
And, I had my doubts about Sergeant Nolda being the murderer.
With his hand around his cup of tea, Haji watched me, his head tilted. He, too, was an enigma, and I was finding it difficult to know what he was thinking.
I asked, “Is it possible Nolda was pressured to kill Colonel Hansen?”
Haji hesitated, then nodded. “The Taliban threaten a soldier’s family to force him to do what they want. That has happened.” When I said I wasn’t satisfied with the way our interviews had gone, Haji said, “The people are difficult. They do not like it when I come around asking a lot of questions. This is a difficult job, Alex.”
“All jobs are difficult. That’s why you get paid.”
“I don’t get paid enough.” One of the things Afghans have acquired from Americans is an interest in money.
“None of us do.”
“I was out at the gate last night, Alex. Captain Corley was also there. She was talking to a messenger from the father of the boy.”
“Captain Corley speaks Pashto?”
“Yes. Perfectly.”
“What were they talking about?”
“I do not overhear other people’s conversations.”
I resisted an urge to ask Haji who he thought he was kidding.
I took a last swallow of tea and stood up. The next individual on my list was Captain Eric Page, who worked in the ISAF Headquarters building. Hammond said Page had worked closely with Pete. I decided this might be a good time to drop by. I told Haji good-bye and walked back to the van. With the sun now shining and the storm over, driving had become less hazardous.
At the entrance to the ISAF compound, I flashed my badge and explained my business to the Afghan sentries.
Holding down the fort behind a desk outside Captain Page’s office was a young African-American sergeant in starched fatigues. Her name plaque said she was Sergeant Payne.
When I’d identified myself and said my visit related to Colonel Pete Hansen, she shook her head. “Captain Page is out at Herat. We expect him back either late today or early tomorrow.” Herat is way out at the western end of the country, not far from the border with Iran. I thanked her and said I’d drop by the next day.
The last thing I did that evening was call Irmie, but I only got her machine. I knew I had to make amends. “It’s evening here, Irmie. Whenever a day ends, I tell myself that I’m one day closer to seeing you again. I love you, honey. I love you.”
CHAPTER 7
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 3, 2013
“HAVE YOU EVER been in an Afghan hospital, Alex?” It was the voice of Stan Jones, and my bedside digital clock said it was 0210 hours. When I said, “Huh?” Stan said, “Meet Todd over at Phoenix, at the main gate. Ten minutes. Don’t be late.”
Before I had time to mumble a “yes, sir,” Stan had hung up.
Less than ten minutes
later, Todd Hammond and I were in a van with a female sergeant driving us through the streets of Kabul, which were lit only by an occasional market fire or the headlights of another vehicle.
“Major Jones thought you’d want to be in on this,” Hammond said. “They’ve found Nolda. He’s dead. His body washed up on the shore of one of the lakes.”
“Which lake?”
“The big one, the reservoir. It’s only four or five miles outside the city. I forget the name. There’s a dam out there.”
“Qargha Lake?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Whoever found him took his body to the hospital where they treat the Afghan security forces, cops, and soldiers. Dawood Military Hospital. I was only there once. It’s pretty chaotic. It’s not like an American hospital. No one speaks English.”
When I said, “That’s where we’re going?” Hammond only nodded.
We drove up the Airport Road past the Mahoud Intersection, turned off, drove down a couple of hundred yards, then pulled into a large parking area behind a six-story rectangular building. I assumed this was Dawood Military Hospital. Two American military vehicles were parked near the hospital’s admitting entrance, which was lit by a pair of bright bulbs. Three or four people, all Afghans, wearing blue smocks and obviously taking a smoke break, eyed us silently as we climbed out of our vehicle.
On our way into the building, I said, “Morgue?”
Although I repeated the word a couple of times, saying it loudly and clearly, no one responded.
Inside was a large desk manned by a bearded individual in a blue smock. Behind him was a long dimly lit corridor. He didn’t know the word “morgue” either. Not that I’d expected him to.
The wards were located on either side of the corridor. We peeked in, saw patients in beds. I wondered about the kind of care these people were getting. Many were in obvious pain. One guy had bloody open gashes on one leg.
When Hammond said something about “staying out of hospitals in this country,” I nodded. Where were the nurses?
A sign said “OT,” which I knew meant operating theater. There seemed to be half-a-dozen of them. Further on, we saw a room that was probably the pharmacy. A guy standing at a counter looked at us blankly. He didn’t know the word “morgue” either. A big room turned out to be the Intensive Care Unit. After more wandering, we finally found someone to ask, a red-haired woman dressed in scrubs who told us in a German accent that there was a ward just for “die wichtigen Leute”—in other words, VIPs. I told her we wanted the Leichenschauhaus.
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