I sat unmoving in the hooch’s one chair for twenty minutes. As I looked around at the sparsely furnished room—bed, a tiny fridge, some shelves, a closet—I knew I was going to spend another sleepless night.
CHAPTER 18
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 12, 2013
“SO WHAT’S THE news, Haji?”
It was shortly after noon the next day, and I’d found Haji in the chow hall wolfing down what appeared to be a fricasseed chicken. I put down my own tray, also loaded down with chicken, and slid in opposite him. Although I’d been eating in Army mess halls ever since I was nineteen years old, I was now finding the constant clang-clang of dishes and trays annoying. Even the dining facility over at Headquarters was loud.
Before speaking, Haji wiped his mouth with his napkin. “There is news, Alex. I have been in touch with Shah Mahmood’s people.”
“What have you found out?”
“People remember Abdul Sakhi. He is not a person you want as a friend.” Haji flashed a thin smile, then went back to his chicken.
Between forkfuls of salad, I said, “Did I indicate that I wanted Sakhi as a friend?” I tossed a stern look in Haji’s direction. “I’m waiting, Haji.”
“There are a few Korengali people who are still sympathetic to the Taliban. They might know where Abdul Sakhi is.” When I nodded, Haji gazed directly at me and reached for a piece of bread. “I am told that there is a Taliban leader who may have some information about Abdul Sakhi. This person became interested when he heard we were looking for him.”
Just as I was about to ask how I could get in touch with the Taliban leader, my cell phone went off. On the other end was Stan Jones. “Fourteen thirty, Alex. In Doug Greer’s office at ISAF.” Stan sounded tense.
“Can I ask what it’s about?”
“It’s about the money. Bud Withers and Doug Greer will be there. I can tell you that much.”
“I’ve already spoken with Doug about what happened in the Korengal.”
“I know, I know. Just be there.”
“I also spoke with Withers—” Stan punched off before I could finish the sentence.
I turned my attention back to Haji.
Before saying anything, I thought things over for a minute as I disposed of my salad and moved on to my chicken. I was aware of Haji silently watching me. Finally, I said, “My next question, Haji. Can I get in touch with this Taliban individual?”
“My understanding is that he is highly placed. His time is valuable.”
Pushing away my chicken, I thought about that for a while. As I sipped coffee and watched two female officers in their blue Class A’s carrying their trays to the exit, I said, “Pass the word that I want to speak with him. Also pass the word that I can be trusted.”
“It will be difficult, but I will try my best.” Haji paused. “Abdul Sakhi is rumored to have been the one to have killed Mullah Anbar. The Taliban leader you will be speaking with is Mullah Anbar’s brother. Are you sure—”
“Yes, Haji. I’m sure.”
* * *
“Simmer down, Bud. Okay? Simmer the hell down!” Doug Greer stared at me from behind his desk in his office, grimaced, then shrugged. He was having a hard time keeping Captain Bud Withers under control.
“Why the hell should I simmer down?”
When I’d entered Greer’s office a second before, Withers sprang to his feet, with the result we were now standing ten feet from one another. He was eyeing me like he might eye an insubordinate recruit, one who was headed for two weeks extra duty and then some.
“C’mon, Bud,” Stan said.
“I lost a good man out there.” Withers waved an arm excitedly. “Sergeant Sulzberg was one of the best. He was headed back to the States in a couple of weeks. And Sergeant Mayo has a knife gash in his arm this long. It still hasn’t healed.”
“It wasn’t Klear who gashed Sergeant Mayo’s arm,” Greer said. Then he turned to me. “Maybe you should go over it again, Alex. What was it happened out there?”
I said, “I can’t add much to what I’ve already reported.”
“Captain Withers wasn’t here at that time,” Stan said quietly. “Just give it to us again, in a nutshell.”
“Captain Withers and I spoke out at Franklin. He knows what happened.”
When Greer said, “Tell us again, for God’s sakes,” I shrugged, then went over the events. How we’d gone out with Sergeant Sulzberg’s squad, how he’d sent two guys back when we’d reached the stream. “Then we proceeded forward on a donkey path. It was pitch dark, with Haji and me in the middle, and Sergeant Mayo bringing up the rear . . .”
“Then what?” Doug asked.
“Oh, come on,” Withers said. “Don’t tell me you believe this bullshit. This guy’s blowin’ smoke.”
“Suddenly, they were all over us. We’d just left the donkey path and were on the road. They had me pinned. Someone got off a couple of rounds, Sully probably. It was over in less than a minute. They grabbed Haji and me before we could do much. We went further along on the road. Someone had a gun barrel in my back the whole way. Later on, they piled us into a vehicle.”
“This is what I don’t get,” Withers said. “You were armed but didn’t resist.”
“I was ready to fire but couldn’t see anything. I could have hit one of our guys.”
“I could’ve hit one of our guys.” Withers made my statement sound like the stupidest thing he’d ever heard.
Withers said, “You know what I think?”
“No,” I said. “And I don’t particularly care what you think.” To Greer, I said, “Is this what you got me over here for?”
Withers moved forward, so that his sneering face was directly in front of mine. “We got you here because of the money. Where is it?” To Stan, he said, “I think bright boy here has the five grand.”
“That’s why we asked you over,” Stan said. “Doug has to fill out a report for the finance office. Disposition of funds.”
“I had the money in my rucksack. Those guys grabbed it real quick.” To Greer, I said, “Write that the Safir tribe stole it.”
“You don’t have it.” Greer began typing on the computer. “Money stolen.”
“What bullshit!”
“All right!” Greer said. “All right!”
I said, “I can’t say who stole it.”
“I know who stole it!” Withers’ face was beet red.
Swinging his chair around to face Withers, Greer said, “We can understand that you’re pissed, Bud.”
“Pissed ain’t the word. How’d these Talibs get that close? And something else. Him and his buddy—”
“Haji, you mean?”
“The terp, yeah. Another con artist. They probably split it.”
I said quietly, “What are you talking about?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m talking about. You just don’t let them get that close to you, that’s all. I don’t care how dark it was out there. And something else—”
“What’s that?”
“You’re back here in one piece. We’re supposed to believe this story?” Withers said. “They were in a jail cell the whole night? They go out on Wednesday and come back on Sunday. Who got them out, the Lone Fucking Ranger? I mean, c’mon.”
“He’s right,” Stan said to me. “We’re still not real clear on how you made it out of there.”
“I’m still not buyin’ any of it,” Withers shouted. “I’ll tell you what happened. He never took the money out there with him. He left it back in his hooch.”
When Stan looked at me, I shook my head.
Stan said, “We can search his billet.”
“He stashed it.” Turning to me Withers said, “You fuckin’ stashed it, right?” Then he reached out and gave me a shove. “You’re a goddamn liar.”
To Greer, I said, “Do I have to put up with this?”
“Yeah,” Withers said, “you do—”
Because I wasn’t looking at him, Withers wasn’t ready for the punch I threw,
which caught him solidly on the side of his head. He recovered quickly, threw a haymaker at me. I ducked, but he caught me on the side of the face with his left, causing me to see stars for one second. I slugged him back, and when he temporarily lost his balance, I shoved him backwards, hard. He staggered, grabbing the two flags standing at the side of the room. He went down, pulling the Afghan flag and staff down with him.
I was aware of Stan and Doug shouting at us to stop it.
Back on his feet and cursing, Withers charged, and we both went down in a heap.
As we rolled around on the floor, I was aware of the office door flying open and a number of guys in fatigues charging into the room. One of the newcomers grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to my feet. Withers was still raging, and it took Stan and one of the newcomers to quiet him down.
A minute later Colonel Boyd was standing in the doorway, shaking his head. “You guys think you’re back in the goddamned schoolyard? You’ll have to write this up. Get it to me tomorrow.”
One of the soldiers in fatigues escorted me into the corridor. He stood silently by as I checked my clothing and tucked in some loose ends.
From inside the office I heard Colonel Boyd say, “You’re dismissed, Captain Withers!”
While I waited, another soldier walked Withers down to the stairwell. Five minutes later, I left.
Sitting in my van in the ISAF parking area, I checked my face in the rearview mirror. An abrasion, a cut on my right cheek. I decided it could be worse. I wondered about possible disciplinary action. If the military wanted me gone, they now had a good reason, and I could be ordered out of my quarters within twenty-four hours. My badge would be rescinded, and I would be denied entrance to ISAF Headquarters and all military facilities. Understandably, military authorities are sensitive to even the smallest breaches of discipline, but soldiers by nature are fighters, and a few fisticuffs are not necessarily anything to get overly excited about.
I decided to take this incident in stride. For my money, Withers was just another hothead, a guy who’d been stationed on a lonely COP for too long. Considered in another way, this was a reminder that some people didn’t want me around, doing what I was doing.
I felt I was being pulled in all kinds of directions. I’d spoken with Irmie the previous evening, and she’d made it plain she was running out of patience. Stan felt I was looking over his shoulder and wanted me gone because he knew I thought he’d botched the murder investigation. Withers and I had been wary of one another from the minute we’d met.
But I still wanted to find out who it was that had murdered Pete.
And I knew Jerry Shenlee had stuck his neck out to get me over here. Wonderful! This op was so “black” I still didn’t know who was running it.
* * *
When my phone started ringing, I was sound asleep on the cot in my room. After the second ring, I struggled into a sitting position on the side of the bed. My bedside clock said 0045 hours. With the telephone at my ear I grunted a hello. It was Haji.
“What’s up, Haji? Something good, I hope.”
“Whether it is good or not, Alex, I do not know. But I have received a message from an elder, who thinks he can be of help in finding Abdul Sakhi. He is a Taliban leader.” Haji paused. “Is that good or not good?”
“It may be good. I’m not sure. What else did the elder say?”
“He said he knows someone who . . . has had some experience with Abdul Sakhi and may know something about him.” Haji paused. “He says he can arrange a meeting with this person.”
“Who is this person?”
“As I told you, he is the brother of the slain mullah.”
Rubbing sleep out of my eyes, I asked Haji to run it by me again. He said, “The person who can tell us more about Abdul Sakhi is able to meet this evening.”
“But you say he is a member of the Taliban?”
“Yes, Alex. A condition is that you cannot say anything about this meeting to any of your American military colleagues. You understand that, I hope. Shah Mahmood told Niaz you are . . . emandara . . . a man of honor.”
“I’m assuming Niaz is also emandara. The reputation the Taliban have back in America is not all that good.”
“America is not Afghanistan. Maybe you’ve noticed—”
“Don’t be saucy, Haji. Just say when and where.”
“Do you know where the Massoud Monument is, Alex?”
“Everybody knows the monument.”
“Good. We will meet the person at the monument. From there we will drive to the meeting place, which is on the outskirts of Kabul.”
I was silent for a moment. “I’m not sure if I like this arrangement. If I can’t tell anyone about it, we could be walking into a trap.” No question I’d become gun-shy. I was thinking of our recent expedition to COP Franklin.
“I’m not sure I like it either.”
“Could you possibly make the meeting for another evening?”
“No, Alex. It is tonight or never.”
I gave it some more thought. Finally, I said, “I’ll pick you up in Phoenix, across from the motor pool.”
* * *
Kabul is a city without street lights and can be scary after dark. Haji and I were in our van and parked on the broad street in between the American Embassy and the monument at Massoud Circle. We were waiting to make contact with whoever it was who was supposed to show us the way to our meeting with the Taliban leader.
We’d been waiting for less than ten minutes when a beat-up pickup truck pulled alongside us. There were two people in front, the driver, who kept his eyes straight ahead, and the passenger, who spent two minutes looking us over. After a minute, he gave a wave, which I assumed was a signal to us to follow them. I turned over the engine.
After two minutes of driving, I said, “They’re heading out toward the road to the west. Where will that take us?”
“To Kandahar if we drive long enough. But probably only as far as Wardak Province.” I didn’t say anything, but I had an idea we wouldn’t be going even that far. Beyond the city, the Taliban were well entrenched.
After another five minutes of driving we reached the first checkpoint, which was manned by half-a-dozen Askars. One of the soldiers stuck his head in the van’s window, said something to Haji, then waved us through. The road west winds and is lined with junked vehicles, some rusted-out tanks, and old buildings on either side. Fifteen minutes beyond the checkpoint, we arrived in what might be described as a small village, but which was nothing more than a collection of haphazardly situated wood and stone buildings. I couldn’t imagine people living in these crumbling structures, but in Afghanistan you never know. At the end of a dirt street, the truck halted alongside a small walled-in compound.
When Haji asked what we’d do, I said, “We wait.”
After a minute, both Talibs climbed out of their vehicle and entered the compound. After another minute, one of them reappeared and waved. We climbed out and followed him through an iron gate that hung on one hinge. I was aware of the sound of our boots crunching the gravel.
Inside the compound, two more individuals, both on the young side and carrying automatic weapons, pointed us into a one-story stone building. We were directed to sit, which we did, and a couple of minutes later we saw an elderly man with a cane emerge from one of the back rooms. He had a gray beard and was dressed in a white blouse over which was wound a checkered shawl. He wore a chitrali hat. After easing himself down on a cushion, he said, Assalamu alaykom, and we returned the greeting. One of the guards brought two glasses of tea.
Haji spoke briefly, giving our names and saying who we were.
Then the old man started talking to Haji, who would listen to a couple of sentences and then tell me what had been said.
“Alex, this man’s name is Niaz. He says he comes from Ganez—that’s a city in the Korengal Valley.”
“Can we believe him?”
“He says he understands you to be an honorable person, someone with good reas
ons for wanting to know the whereabouts of Abdul Sakhi.”
Sitting cross-legged in this dark building, I wondered what this guy could tell us. Of course, if his brother had been killed by Abdul Sakhi, he maybe had a reason for talking with me. “Tell him thank you for the compliment. Say something nice about the Taliban. Then ask him about Abdul Sakhi.”
Haji and his opposite number spoke for another couple of minutes before Haji turned back to me. “Niaz says the Taliban have good reasons for wanting to kill Abdul Sakhi.”
“We know that. He’s killed some of their people.”
“He says Abdul Sakhi has a ghla—”
“What’s a ghla?”
“A female partner, but not a nice person. They have killed a number of Taliban by trickery. Among them was Mullah Mendos. Do you know him, Alex?”
“I know the name. I know he was a leader down in Helmand Province.”
“According to Niaz, Abdul Sakhi assassinated other Taliban leaders besides Mendos.”
“Ask Niaz why he did that.”
After Haji and Niaz had spoken for another five minutes, Haji turned back to me. “You are not going to believe this, Alex. Niaz says Abdul Sakhi has also killed many Americans.”
I was silent, trying to grasp the significance of this. If this was true, it became easy to believe Abdul Sakhi had killed Pete.
“Niaz says Abdul Sakhi works for whoever pays him money.”
Although the FBI had Abdul Sakhi listed as a “friendly,” as someone Americans could work with, maybe this was only half the story. There’s a well-known saying that, while you can’t buy an Afghan, you can always rent one. That seemed to explain Sakhi.
When I didn’t comment, Niaz seemed to understand what I was thinking because he all at once began nodding his head, as if to emphasize the truth of what he’d said. When I glanced back at Haji, Niaz continued to nod his head.
Haji said, “Although Abdul Sakhi grew up in the Korengali tribe and they supported the Taliban, he left ten years ago. When he is paid, he works for either side. Niaz says Abdul Sakhi cares only about money and himself. He has no allegiance to any group. Niaz says he will work for whoever it is that offers him the most money.”
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