CHAPTER 10
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 5, 2013
STAN ASKED IF I could make a Tuesday evening meeting that was to be held at ISAF Headquarters. I said I could.
After arriving, I became quickly aware that I was in the company of five grim-faced individuals.
It was early evening, and we were seated at a long table in one of the ISAF Headquarters briefing rooms—Stan, Doug, Hammond, Captain Bud Withers, and Captain Leslie Corley. Stan was standing alongside a map at the head of the table, running the show. Except for Withers and Corley, we were all stationed in Kabul, at either ISAF, Camp Eggers, or Camp Phoenix.
According to Stan, Withers had helicoptered up from a COP, a combat outpost, in the Pech River Valley at which he was stationed. Captain Corley had arrived on a puddle jumper flight from Camp Salerno, and as we sat there, I again wondered about her interest in Pete’s murder.
Stan began the meeting by saying, “For my money, Nolda’s our guy, but we’ve got some additional information people should hear.
“When we got word from the FBI,” Stan said, “that added a detail to the investigation. I’m hoping it will be a small one. The facial recognition program told us that, somehow, an Afghan had been at Headquarters on the day Colonel Hansen was shot. His name is Abdul Sakhi, and he may or may not have had a reason for being in the building. Could he have been the person who shot Colonel Hansen? We’d like to talk with him.” Stan paused, glancing at some papers in an open manila folder on the desk. “Thanks to the FBI, we know a certain amount about Abdul Sakhi, and some of it’s quite interesting.”
“I’d like to hear just what it is we know,” Doug Greer said.
Pointing to the map, Stan said, “Abdul Sakhi comes from a village in the Korengal Valley.”
“Except maybe for Helmand, we’ve had more problems there than anywhere,” Greer said. “I’ve spoken with some of our people who’ve been out there. The Korengali tribe absolutely refuses to cooperate in any way.”
Stan nodded his agreement. “The Undersecretary is absolutely correct on that score. The Korengalis have been a big problem going back seven or eight years.”
Captain Withers raised his hand, then said, “Saying they’re unwilling to cooperate in any way is putting it mildly.” Withers was big, had a shaved head, deep voice, and what sounded like a Minnesota accent. “We’ve lost people in Kunar, more than in any other province.”
“Captain Withers knows what he’s talking about,” Stan said. “He’s the commander of Franklin, one of our last COPs out there.”
“What can you tell us, sir?” Greer said.
“There are a couple of small Safir villages right in the area where we’re at, less than two miles from the COP. We patrol through them all the time. We know the people.” He hesitated. “Probably . . . only probably . . . we can find Abdul Sakhi, or at least get some information on his whereabouts.”
“What do you think, guys? Are we interested?” Stan asked.
“Why not?” Hammond said.
Captain Corley’s expression was attentive, but she remained noncommittal.
“What’s the situation?” Greer said. “We can decide when we’ve heard more.”
“Abdul Sakhi’s a Korengali.” Withers took a swallow of water. “But we might learn something from the other tribe in the vicinity, the Safirs.”
“The Safirs don’t like the Korengalis,” Greer said. “Is that it?”
Withers nodded. “They’re rivals, fighting for the land. Like I say, we’re friendly with the Safirs, and we know some of the elders. They invite us to their shuras. Some of these people know everything that’s going on.”
Stan said, “So if we go talk with them, we can maybe get a line on Abdul Sakhi.”
“What would it involve?” Greer asked. “If it’s too dangerous . . .”
“I’d say rustle up some money for the elders.” When Jones asked how much, Withers shrugged. “Can you come up with five grand? That should keep them happy. Whoever you send out, I’ll provide an escort, take him into the village.”
Stan shook his head. “This is beginning to sound like more trouble than it’s worth.”
I said, “Danger? IEDs?”
“My people are going back and forth all the time,” Withers said. “But it’s gotta be someone who can speak Pashto.”
There were maybe twenty seconds of silence before Stan said, “Haji? Whoever goes, he’ll need the terp.”
“I might be able to swing it,” I said. I was the only person here who thought Sakhi had killed Pete and would be worth finding.
Withers shook his head. “Like I say, military would be better than civilian.”
When Greer looked in his direction, Hammond slowly shook his head.
Stan said, “I agree, no way. I need Hammond. Too much to do.” He paused. “I say we forget it.”
Frowning, Greer said, “How come, Stan?”
“Like I’ve already said, I think Nolda did it. Sakhi maybe had a reason for being at Headquarters. I’ve spoken with Colonel Campbell. He knows Abdul Sakhi.”
Doug Greer said, “I’d go, if I could. But I’m not sure—”
“You know Kunar Province, Alex?” Stan asked.
“I know where it is. Making the loop the last time we put down in A-Bad. I know the Korengal’s reputation. It’s not exactly a friendly place.”
Greer said, “It would be good to get someone to talk with the Safirs, make friends, take along some cash. We can always use sources out there.”
“It’s only two days,” Withers said.
On his feet, Withers stepped up to the front of the room. “Listen up, guys, and you can get a good idea of what we’re talking about. It ain’t that complicated.” With the pointer, he touched the map, which showed Kunar Province, which is adjacent to Pakistan. “This here is Asadabad, pretty much the last village if you’re driving in from Jalalabad. The Pech River runs through the Pech Valley, which is where COP Franklin is. It’s Safir country. The Korengalis are southwest, in their valley. They don’t like Americans; most support the Taliban. In order to reach the Korengal, you drive along the Pech, but believe me, you don’t want to go to the Korengal.” He grimaced. “Up here is Tora Bora. We know what happened there.”
Greer said, “That’s how bin Laden made it out of Afghanistan. Through Tora Bora.”
I said, “Sir, I didn’t know we still had any bases in that area.”
Withers’ face took on a rueful expression. “Our COP is one of the last two. And there’s been talk of closing it.”
“It looks pretty dangerous from here,” Greer said. “This job might be more paramilitary than military.”
Stan nodded his agreement. “I don’t see a company commander approving this mission, not as it stands.”
Withers shrugged, handed Stan the pointer. “It’s doable but—”
“Whether it’s worth doing,” Stan said, “I’m not sure. If we only want to talk with this guy, it may not be that important. I say we sleep on it. Right here tomorrow, bright and early—0800.”
At the door, I spoke with Captain Corley. “What brings you back up to Kabul, ma’am?”
“I like to keep up. Have you made any further progress regarding the murder?”
“I think I have.”
“What have you found out?”
“I may have an idea about the motive.”
“Do you know who killed Colonel Hansen?” When I shook my head, she pushed by me and out the door. I already had an idea that I’d be reporting to Captain Corley. I wasn’t looking forward to it.
Since it was still early, I decided to give Wanda a call. Sitting on the side of my bed in my hooch, I punched in her number. When she answered, I asked where she was.
“I’m in my room.”
“Doing what, if I may ask?”
“I hate to admit that I’m watching the tube, some kind of cop show. I’m surprised they show this stuff over here. You called at a good time. I was about to pour myself a stiff
drink. Do you want to join me?” When I said, “Not at the moment,” she asked, “Why not?”
I proceeded to tell her about the meeting with Doug, Stan, and Captain Withers.
“That’s Kunar Province, right?” When I said it was she said, “That’s crazy! Korengal is a dangerous place.”
“Withers says he can get someone in and out within a couple of days.”
“IEDs are all over the place up there. Who’s going?”
“No one seemed too anxious. They’re still looking for volunteers. Maybe Doug will go. He’s still not sure if he can make it.”
“Just as long as you don’t go. Don’t volunteer.”
“Why not? Don’t you want to catch Pete’s killer?” When she hesitated, I said, “Well?”
“Yes, I want to catch Pete’s killer. But I also want someone to drive me around Kabul. As long as I’m here, I want to see the city.”
“Is that your only reason?” When she asked if I was fishing for compliments, I said, “Of course.”
“All right, you big lug. I’m going to say it. I like you, Alex. I like you very much. Well, more than very much. Much more.” Just as I was about to interrupt, she said, “What I said the other day, I meant. If you had asked me back then to marry you, I would have said yes. Yes, yes, yes. But I could also see something else about you. You weren’t the marrying kind. Pete was. It was clear to me he needed someone. You didn’t. And let’s face it, I wanted to get married.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t have said what I just said.”
Wanda laughed. “I forgive you. Go to bed. You have to get a full night’s sleep.”
“When will you let me buy you dinner?”
“Let me think it over. Good night, Alex.”
I thought about putting in a call to Irmie, but for some reason decided against it. Irmie’s lack of responsiveness to my calls was getting me down. At the same time, I wasn’t happy about the way I’d been flirting with Wanda at a time when I should only be thinking of Irmie.
CHAPTER 11
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 6, 2013
DOUG GREER TOOK a sip of coffee, gazed at me over the rim of his cup. “You met your boss back in Berlin, is that right?” Doug was referring to Jerry Shenlee.
It was Wednesday morning, and we were back sitting at the table in the briefing room, this time minus Captain Corley, who was on her way back to Camp Chapman, and Bud Withers, who was on his way back to Combat Outpost Franklin.
“Alex goes back to the Cold War, Doug,” Stan said.
“You were with SE Division?” When I nodded, Doug said, “Internal ops?”
“I was mostly external ops. I went back and forth.”
“Back and forth through the Wall? Recruiting?” When I again nodded, Doug shook his head. “Risky, to say the least.”
“I also spent some time with the 766th MI. Things were less tense over there.”
Stan shrugged, his way of saying I was foolhardy or just plain crazy. They were referring to my four years as a case officer in Germany. With my partner, I made more trips behind the Iron Curtain than I could count—or now even want to think about. I regard those years as a closed chapter in my life.
All I really wanted to do now was marry Irmie and retire. I didn’t even need to go back to my ice business. Whether we lived in Germany or the States didn’t make any difference, just as long as we were together. And just as long as I could stay retired.
I said, “I’ve heard there’s no rest for the wicked, but I know for a fact there’s no retirement for case officers.”
Greer nodded. “I’ve come around to your way of thinking.” Looking at me, he said, “Maybe we should have a little talk with Abdul Sakhi.”
Nodding at Stan, I said, “The investigation won’t be complete otherwise.”
“We don’t have anyone to send,” Stan said. “Unless you’re willing, Alex.”
Hammond said, “And whoever goes has to get along with Haji.”
“I’ve only known Haji for a few days, but we get along. I think it’s worth trying to get a line on Abdul Sakhi, but I’m not sure . . .”
Doug said, “You were a friend of Pete’s.”
“Very definitely.”
When Stan nodded at Hammond, Hammond punched some numbers into his cell phone, then said, “Can you get over to HQ? On the double?” Five minutes later, Haji pushed open the door, and Stan pointed to a place at the table.
Stan said, “Haji, are you willing to make a trip out to the Pech Valley? You know Mr. Klear. He’s willing to go, but he’ll need someone along who can talk to the Safirs.”
“What we want, Haji, is to make a trade. Captain Withers can put us in contact with an elder. Like all of these people over here, he’s greedy.”
Haji shrugged. “What do we have to trade?”
“Money,” Stan said.
Haji frowned, and I said, “I’m still not sure I’m the right person.”
“Uh-uh, Alex. You’re perfect. Besides, you two guys get along. Compared to the stuff you did with external ops, I can tell you this is a piece of cake.”
“Here, Haji.” Stan got to his feet, pointed at the map. “You fly out to the COP where Captain Withers is, Franklin.” He stuck his finger at a point on the map. “From here you guys hoof it along the river into this little village.”
“We walk?” Haji said, suddenly going pale.
Greer laughed. “Our people use this road all the time. It’ll be safe. No IEDs.”
Stan put down the pointer. “We can make this financially worth your while, Haji. I’ll see to that.”
Haji’s expression was pensive. When I still didn’t say anything, he nodded.
I said, “When do we leave?”
“Today. I’ll check the transportation shack for a chopper.” Stan slid a manila envelope across the table. Evidently, he’d been counting on someone giving a yes answer.
In my van ten minutes later, I said to Haji, “You know what you’ll need. Winter gear, body armor, NVGs, a couple of flashlights, a sleeping bag. Dress warm. And be happy. You’re getting a raise in pay.”
I dropped Haji off at the chow hall, then headed back to Camp Eggers.
In my hooch I carefully went over the stuff Stan had given me. It wasn’t all that complicated. The tribal elder was named Shergaz, and if anyone knew Abdul Sakhi’s whereabouts, he’d be the one. Or he could put us in contact with someone who did. At the helicopter shack, I’d be given a satchel containing five thousand dollars, which I could use to negotiate. There was also a map showing the COP and the village where I could find Shergaz. There were some directions, which indicated that we’d be taking what might be a four- or five-kilometer hike along a narrow trail that would skirt the river and which seemed to be over hilly terrain.
Captain Withers would provide us with a squad of troopers to accompany us.
If I could close the deal with the tribal elder, we could maybe have the guy I figured could be Pete’s killer within a couple of days. Although it sounded like a patched-together kind of operation, it didn’t seem all that complicated. And hopefully, not dangerous.
* * *
The Black Hawk chopper carrying me and Haji had just begun its descent to Combat Outpost Franklin when, above the roar of the rotors, I heard a loud “blunk,” which was immediately followed by a steady pinging, the sound of rounds striking our fuselage. Seconds later, a chunk of the helicopter’s metal ceiling struck Haji’s shoulder before falling to the deck. He signaled across to me that he was all right.
The chopper lurched, then righted itself. None of the eight other passengers had to be told to hold tight or that we were taking fire from some Taliban sharpshooters on the ground. A round struck the chopper’s rear before ricocheting back inside.
As we continued our descent, thick dust clouds rose outside, preventing us from seeing out the windows. When we hit terra firma I already had my seat belt open. With my rucksack in my left hand and an M9 automatic in the other, I scrambled down the ramp, out of
the bird, and onto the hard dirt of the landing strip. Goggles down, I saw a soldier through the dust pointing us toward the left, in the direction of the COP. I also saw that we were surrounded by a couple of squads of American GIs, who were fanning out toward the landing strip’s perimeter.
The crack-crack of automatic weapons began dying out, and I had an idea that our Taliban welcoming committee had melted away, no doubt with the thought of living to fight another day.
I saw that the soldier waving at us was none other than Captain Withers himself, and in the direction he was pointing, I could see a ten-foot-high wall with guard towers at either end. A half-dozen soldiers, loaded with packs and carrying weapons, were scrambling on to the helicopter. Dust and dirt swirled. Even with my ear plugs in, the engines of the helicopter were deafening. Within seconds of the last GI climbing on, the pilot had the big machine off the ground and shooting up toward the wild blue yonder.
Haji and I followed Withers and two other soldiers up a small hill in the direction of the COP’s gate, where a bunch of troopers were gathered.
Less than ten minutes later, Captain Bud Withers, Haji, and I were seated in a cubicle in what served as Bud Withers’ office, one of three rooms at the front end of a small prefab building, one of half-a-dozen on the base. There were roughly a dozen tents, a high wall that enclosed the installation on four sides. This COP was one of hundreds in Afghanistan, small operating bases that we’d established in an effort to provide stability and a semblance of order to even the remotest corners of the country. I estimated there were between fifty and sixty soldiers stationed here.
By the time we’d gotten beyond the preliminaries—the handshakes, the hellos, the silent appraisals—Withers broke out three half-liter bottles of Weihenstephan beer. We parked our helmets upside down on the packed earth floor, pulled metal chairs up to the desk.
When Haji shook his head at the beer bottle, Withers smirked. “You sure?” He checked his watch. “Sixteen twenty hours. The sun’s over the yardarm some damn place in the world. Cheers, guys.”
After a long swallow, I said, “Beer tastes even better after someone’s been shooting at you.”
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