Malko suddenly found himself wondering if even attempting this mission was a good idea. The problem was, he would have to return to Washington to persuade John Mulligan to change his mind. Communicating through the Kabul CIA station was out of the question.
Kibzai was studying him.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” he said, “what are you doing in Kabul? There are already so many of you CIA people here.”
“I’ve come to make contact with some Taliban who don’t want to be officially connected to the Agency. I’ve already met with Musa Kotak. Do you know him?”
“Who doesn’t?” said the Afghan with a smile. “He’s a very powerful man. He was part of the ruling circle during the ‘black years.’ ”
“How is it that he hasn’t been bothered?”
“He’s one of the people Karzai protects, to keep a channel to Quetta open. Kotak holds a major trump card: he knows everybody who collaborated with the men in black, and he manipulates them. For a Talib, he is a moderate, like Mullah Mansur, his old mujahideen comrade-in-arms against the Soviets. But his friends keep a close eye on him.”
“Why so?”
“The Taliban hardliners don’t trust him. I’m sure they’ve placed their people in his entourage.”
“What’s the relationship between Kotak and Karzai like?”
“They have regular contacts, to pass messages. And there’s still a chance that if Karzai felt all was lost, he could turn against the Americans and hand the country to the Taliban to save his skin. Afghanistan has already witnessed about-faces like that. It wouldn’t surprise anybody. They would just hang the seconds-in-command.”
As Kibzai talked, thoughts were clashing in Malko’s mind. President Karzai trusted Mullah Kotak, who was working behind his back. It was likely that Kotak already knew about Malko’s plan. But didn’t the Americans want to get rid of Karzai precisely to avoid a betrayal on his part?
“You have to move cautiously,” Kibzai was saying. “The Taliban aren’t a unified block, and only the Pakistanis know exactly who is who. Musa Kotak is powerful, but he doesn’t control everything.”
“I’ll be careful,” Malko assured him. “I have a question: Do you know if your NDS colleagues are interested in me?”
“Of course they are!” said the Afghan with a grin. “We have a special section that deals with foreigners suspected of being here on ‘unofficial business.’ I’ll try to find out more, and we can meet again here in two days, if you like. It’s best not to use telephones. The Russians trained us very well.”
The NDS agent, who had cleaned his plate, looked at his watch.
“I have to head home now,” he said. “I live far away. I’ll see you here in two days.”
As Malko watched Kibzai leave, he wondered what he was getting himself into. Not only did his mission seem impossible, but there was nobody here he could trust. Maybe he would know more tomorrow, after his meeting with Nelson Berry.
Malko found himself secretly hoping the South African would turn his offer down. That would solve a lot of problems.
Nelson Berry greeted Malko in full combat gear, with a pistol on his hip.
“I had to get up very early, to deliver some money in Logar for people who work for the coalition,” he explained.
“Couldn’t they go themselves?”
“No, they’re scared. It’s dangerous to go walkabout with ten million afghanis in cash. There are plenty of roadblocks, even without the Taliban. But they don’t dare attack us.”
Berry paused. “Want some coffee? It’s American.”
“No, thanks.”
Looking pleased with the success of his delivery, Berry flopped down on the sofa next to Malko.
“I’ve thought it over,” he said. “I’ll take the job.”
When Malko didn’t react, Berry turned to him in surprise.
“Aren’t you pleased?”
“Yes, of course I am. What are your terms?”
The South African smiled.
“When you hear them, you might want to say no.”
Malko remained impassive.
Berry might be a killer, but he was also a good negotiator.
“I’m listening,” said Malko.
“I want a million dollars in front money, and three times that much when the job’s done.”
“That’s a huge amount of money!”
“For a job you can’t give to anyone else. You know that as well as I do. About the front money, I need five hundred thousand in cash here, and five hundred thousand to be paid to my bank in Dubai. I’ll give you the account number.
“I won’t be keeping all that money, by the way. I have to pay off people big-time to get information, and I’ll be risking my neck every time I approach someone. If Karzai gets wind of this project, I’m a dead man.”
He paused again. “Are we agreed on the price?”
“I’ll transmit your proposal,” said Malko cautiously, “and give you an answer within twenty-four hours.”
“Okay,” said Berry. “I don’t start working until the money’s paid. If I weren’t at the end of my tether, I’d never take this job. It’s much too risky. Karzai’s still very powerful. Plus, you never know who’s on your side here. Pashtuns have treachery in their blood.”
“Do you have an idea about how to do this?” asked Malko.
The South African looked at him sharply.
“I know how not to do it, and that’s by attacking Karzai in his palace. The security there is intense. Now that he’s kicked the Blackwater guys out of Afghanistan—too trigger-happy—he’s protected by men from his home village. Real bulldogs. Illiterate Pashtuns, and you can’t bribe them. There’s always two of them in his office when he has a visitor, fingers on the triggers.
“The Taliban have tried to get suicide bombers into the palace and never get past the front door. Last year one blew himself up after he was searched.”
Malko had heard about the assassination attempt. It had nearly killed Asadullah Khalid, the head of the NDS.
“They took all the usual precautions, of course,” said Berry. “Put him up in a guesthouse, made him change his clothes in a room that had surveillance cameras, to make sure he didn’t have any explosives. He took off his clothes and put on the ones the NDS gave him. The cameras didn’t show any explosives, so they took him in to see Khalid.”
When they embraced, there was an explosion, said Berry.
“The Talib had hidden an explosive behind his balls,” said Berry. “Out of modesty, the surveillance cameras only filmed him down to the waist. Khalid was badly hurt and hasn’t been well enough to return to his job at the NDS. His deputy, Parviz Bamyan, is running the show.”
“So what options does that leave you?” asked Malko.
“The only way to hit Karzai is to shoot him during one of his trips to the airport when he goes abroad or out to the provinces.”
“If you could find a position along his route, would you have a chance?” asked Malko.
“He’s got armored Mercedes that’ll stand up to everything short of an RPG-6,” said Berry. “Plus the motorcade uses three of them at the same time, so you never know which one Karzai is in. And the NDS closes off the whole route.”
“Isn’t there some other way?”
“Sure, send him a chick with a bomb in her pussy!” Berry laughed loudly. “I’m kidding. His wife is a doctor who lives at the palace, and he doesn’t chase women.
“So that’s it. The ball’s in your court now. You bring me the money, and we agree on the rest; then I’ll really start thinking. And now, I’ll have you driven back to the Serena. Be careful!”
Malko had called Warren Michaelis an hour earlier about using the CIA’s secure communication links, and the station chief now welcomed him warmly.
“I gather you want to call Langley.”
“Yes. I need to talk to Clayton Luger.”
“No problem. Come with me.”
Michaelis led him to a guarded, bun
ker-like room with digital code access at the end of a hallway. Once inside, he pointed to a green telephone.
“That’s a secure line to Langley. I’ll leave you to it.”
Michaelis left, closing the door behind him.
Malko couldn’t help thinking that while the line might be secure against outside eavesdroppers, the station itself probably recorded everything. But if he wanted to communicate with Washington, he didn’t have any choice.
The deputy director answered but stopped him as soon as Malko gave his name.
“Call me back on 8453,” he said. “I’m not free here.”
Malko did so.
“Have you made any progress?” Luger asked.
“A little,” said Malko carefully. “It’s a tricky situation, and I wonder if you aren’t taking the wrong tack.”
There was a long silence on the line.
“I thought the basic issue was settled at our meeting,” Luger eventually said. “What do you need?”
“A million dollars up front, half of it in cash. For the balance, I’ll text you an account to credit. It’s in Dubai.”
“Okay, okay, don’t say too much. There’s no problem with your request. I’ll give the station instructions. Anything else?”
“The weather in Kabul is nice.”
“Keep me posted,” said Luger, and hung up.
Once again, Malko found himself thinking he didn’t like this mission. It certainly wasn’t the first time the CIA had wanted to kill a political opponent, but in the case of Karzai, he wasn’t sure it was the right approach. The Americans didn’t grasp how devious Afghan thinking could be.
Michaelis was waiting for Malko in his office and greeted him with a smile.
“Is all well at home?”
“Seems to be,” said Malko.
The station chief was clearly curious about his conversation, but Malko said only, “You’ll get instructions to give me five hundred thousand dollars. How is that handled?”
“We don’t work with the banks here. When we need cash, we send a message to Dubai and the money comes to Bagram. You should have it in a day or two. But watch out for the NDS. They won’t like you talking to the Taliban, and they might try to give you trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
Michaelis shrugged.
“I don’t know. Plant drugs in your room, stage an accident. Get some crazy guy to attack and stab you. It wouldn’t be anything direct, but it could hurt.”
En route back to the Serena, Malko found a text message that had come in while he was at the Ariana:
I have to talk to you. Maureen.
He phoned her, but when she answered, the racket at her end was so loud he could barely hear.
“I’m in the workshop,” she yelled. “I’m doing a rush job.”
“Can I come see you?”
“No problem. You have a car?”
“Yes, but the driver’s an American.”
“I’ll never be able to tell him the way. Wait in front of the Serena. I’ll send my car and driver. It’ll be half an hour.”
Maureen’s driver took Malko to her guesthouse, then to the workshop.
The place was full of Afghans, all busy welding. Malko spotted the young woman crouching near a smashed Toyota, also welding. She was wearing fatigue pants and a tight pink tank top. She stood and pushed her goggles up onto her forehead.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve got an urgent repair job, and my guys can’t handle it on their own. But I’ll take a tea break with you.”
She put down her welding goggles and torch and walked ahead of him into her apartment. To a little Uzbek maid, she shouted, “Chai!”
“Are you making headway in your business?” she asked when they were alone.
“Yes, some,” he said. “Incidentally, I wanted to ask you something. Do you ever work on Karzai’s armored vehicles?”
She laughed.
“I’d love to, but an American outfit got the contract, and they’re milking it. Besides, he uses imported Mercedes. In the old days, when Blackwater handled his security, the guys would bring me their Toyotas for repairs. That’s all over now. Anyway, Karzai doesn’t go out very often, and only to the airport. There’s no chance he’ll ever wear out his Mercedes.”
“They’re heavily reinforced, aren’t they?”
“It’s the M-Class model,” she said. “I once inspected one, for fun. It would stand up to anything.”
“Even an RPG-7?”
“No, probably not. And the Taliban now have RPG-27s, which are much more powerful. Besides, if you pack seven hundred pounds of explosives in the car next to it …”
“Why are you asking me this?” Maureen wanted to know. “Are you planning to blow Karzai up? It’ll win you a lot of friends.”
She was joking, and Malko made no effort to set her straight. But suddenly, she turned serious.
“Actually, why are you asking me all these questions? Why so interested in Karzai’s cars?”
“Just idle curiosity,” Malko assured her. “By the way, you sent me a text saying you wanted to talk. What about?”
“I got a strange message about you,” she said, “and I wanted to warn you. It has me worried.”
Malko felt uneasy. Maureen Kieffer was a no-nonsense woman. If she was worried, it wouldn’t be without reason.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“An Afghan I know called me this morning. He talked about you and our dinner at the Boccaccio. He wound up saying that it would be best if I weren’t seen with you.”
“Who is he?”
“A guy I’ve dealt with a few times, an NDS agent. I think he’s in love with me.”
“What do you think this means?”
“That the NDS is watching you? I don’t know, but I bet you do.”
The unspoken question was clear. Malko decided to tell her part of the truth.
“The CIA and Washington asked me to come here to make contact with certain members of the Taliban.”
“That would explain it,” she said. “Contacts between the Taliban and the Americans are Karzai’s nightmare. If the NDS is suspicious of you, watch your step. They can mess you up in very nasty ways.”
Which was pretty much what Warren Michaelis had told him.
“I’ll be careful,” Malko promised, “and we’ll be discreet. Do they have ways to retaliate against you?”
“In Afghanistan, if the president doesn’t like you, anything’s possible. They can expel you from one day to the next, even if your papers are in order. I’d hate if that happened. Anyway, there you have it; I wanted to warn you. I’m going back to work now.”
“Why does the NDS handle this sort of problem?”
“It’s the only agency that hasn’t been infiltrated by the Taliban. The NDS answers directly to Karzai. Its agents are his muscle, and they’re good at their job. If the Taliban ever come back to power, those guys better hop on the first plane out of here. Otherwise they’ll all be hanged, after being tortured.”
Which didn’t tell Malko who had tipped the NDS off about him.
The young South African woman was looking at him anxiously. “I really have to leave you now,” she said. “I need to finish fixing that car, and it’s gonna take me half the night. My driver will take you back. Be careful! You can’t trust anybody here.”
She kissed him, pressing her body against his, and smiled.
“I’d still like to enjoy you a little more while you’re in Kabul.”
Malko had been turning in circles since the previous evening. He’d had no word from Michaelis, and without any money, he couldn’t contact Nelson Berry. He didn’t feel like going out for a stroll, and the Serena’s nonalcoholic bar was depressing, so he spent his time shuttling between his room and the dining room. Finally, his phone beeped: a text message.
A courier will be at your place in an hour. WM. That had to be the money destined for Berry. Malko dialed the South African’s poppy palace, and an Afgh
an answered in strongly accented English: “Commander not here. In Wardak until tomorrow.”
A short time later, a young CIA case officer brought Malko a briefcase full of hundred-dollar bills in plastic wrappers from the Arab Bank in Dubai.
“It’s five hundred thousand dollars, sir,” he announced. “I have a receipt for you to sign.”
Malko initialed the form next to his name. As much as anything, the CIA was one big bureaucracy.
“Did you go to Dubai to get this money?”
“Affirmative, sir. It’s easiest, and we come back through Bagram. There are special flights that aren’t subject to Afghan inspection. I make the trip often.”
Once alone, Malko closed the briefcase, wondering what he was going to do with the money until the next day. The safe in his hanging closet was much too small. He wound up stowing the briefcase inside his suitcase, which he locked. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.
He now had just one meeting left: his dinner with NDS agent Luftullah Kibzai.
Inside, the Sufi was as dark as ever. Malko sat down at the same table as before. There were even fewer people in the restaurant than there had been the last time.
Kibzai showed up ten minutes later.
“I’m taking a big risk by contacting you,” he said in a tense voice the moment he was seated.
“Why?” asked Malko.
“I was able to see part of your file. You were right; you were targeted. We have been tracking you since you arrived. A team was waiting for you at the airport.”
Malko felt an unpleasant prickling on the backs of his hands.
So it wasn’t his visit to Musa Kotak that had sparked the surveillance, he realized. And that raised a lot of questions.
“Why would they do that?”
Kibzai lowered his voice even further.
“I don’t know. Our agents don’t usually follow CIA people; there are too many of them. You were targeted specially. The order came from the head of the agency. I have the feeling they already knew something about you.”
Malko felt a chill. The Afghans didn’t have a crystal ball, so the information could only have come from Washington.
Chaos in Kabul Page 6
