They found his cell phone in a garbage can, but no ransom demand had reached the U.S. embassy. Michaelis thought it obvious that Malko would have told his abductors whom to contact.
A warm smile firmly in place under his handsome, well-trimmed mustache, Assefi listened.
“That’s terrible,” he said. “You should have come to us sooner.”
“Would you have been able to do anything?”
“I don’t know, but we could have launched an investigation,” said Assefi, immediately backtracking. “As it happens, we’re handling a similar case right now. There might be a connection. Wait a moment.”
Assefi stepped into his office and made a call. Minutes later, a secretary in a head scarf brought him a thick folder.
“Here we go,” he said, opening it. “Ten days ago, a young banker named Gulbuddin Mohammadi was kidnapped as he left the bank. Next day, a man called his wife and threatened to kill him if she didn’t pay a million afghanis. The woman didn’t have that kind of money, so she contacted us, and we put a tap on her phone.
“This didn’t get us anywhere, unfortunately. The kidnappers used hidden numbers when they called, and by the time we could pinpoint the call, it was too late. From their voices, we guessed they were Pashtuns. We searched our records but didn’t find anything. These groups often form and split up quickly. They’re people who come to Kabul in search of work and are trying to get by.”
“So you weren’t able to identify them,” said Michaelis.
“No, unfortunately.”
From the police official’s somber tone, Michaelis sensed he hadn’t heard the end of the story.
“Did the wife pay the ransom?”
Assefi shook his head.
“No. She put their house up for sale but couldn’t find a buyer. And this morning we found her husband’s body in a vacant lot in the Pashmina Bafi neighborhood with two bullets in his head.”
Michaelis was shaken.
“What do you suppose happened?” he asked.
“Gangs like this aren’t very organized,” explained Assefi. “When they realize they aren’t going to get a ransom, they kill the hostage, then pretend they haven’t.”
“We absolutely must rescue Malko Linge,” said Michaelis.
“It’s surprising that you haven’t gotten a ransom demand,” said Assefi. “They do this for money. It’s either that, or something else is involved.… We’ll open an investigation in any case, starting from the last time Mr. Linge was seen.”
“He left the Serena two days ago, in the morning.”
“Ah, you’ve given me a lead!” said the Afghan. “I’ll have the hotel staff questioned, and keep you posted.”
This meant they would round up some unlucky bastards, tear out their fingernails, and beat them to a pulp. Afghan police methods were pretty crude. The only reason they didn’t use electric shocks on prisoners? Too many power outages.
Reza Assefi stood up.
“I will keep you informed every hour,” he said warmly, eager to still be deemed worthy of the Americans’ three hundred and seventy-five million dollars.
Michaelis left the ministry feeling depressed. Knowing the Afghan police’s limited abilities, he didn’t think there was much chance of their finding Malko.
Back at his office, he passed word to the telephone operators to immediately route to him any call involving a ransom demand.
All he could do now was pray.
On the seventh floor of CIA headquarters in Langley, Clayton Luger was feeling grumpy. He hadn’t gotten any news of their operation since Malko’s phone call from the Kabul station.
From his office window, Luger could see the ugly cafeteria and the parking lots, coded blue, green, yellow, and purple. People with offices on the Potomac side had a beautiful view across the green space and the river.
A secretary knocked on the door and put a freshly decoded message on his desk.
“It came via Doha,” she said.
When Luger read the message, he could feel the blood drain from his face. It had originated in Kabul and reached him through a series of cutouts:
Nelson Berry reports that Malko Linge has been kidnapped by persons unknown.
“My God!” Luger exclaimed.
His stomach in a knot, he phoned his secretary.
“Get the Kabul station on the line!” he snapped. “Warren Michaelis. If he isn’t there, have him traced.”
His phone rang a few minutes later.
“This is Michaelis,” said the station chief. “I just got a flash.”
“What happened to Malko Linge?” Luger demanded.
Michaelis was speechless for a moment, then stammered, “You know about that?”
“You’re the person who’s supposed to tell me what’s going on!” barked the deputy director.
“I just sent you a message,” protested Michaelis. “You should get it any minute now.”
“Well, I haven’t. So what’s going on?”
“Somebody kidnapped Malko Linge two days ago. All we know is that he was last seen leaving his hotel. We don’t know if this is connected with the assignment you gave him.”
“I don’t think so,” said Luger. “Did you get a ransom demand?”
“No, sir.”
“We’ve got to find him. Do whatever’s necessary. And keep me informed!”
Nelson Berry was preparing a transfer of currency to Logar when Darius came into the office.
“I might have some news, Commander.”
Berry looked up. He hadn’t heard from the kidnappers and was starting to worry.
“Is it about the kidnapping?”
“No, about the Corolla. I talked to a couple of car dealers, because I figured the thieves would try to sell it. It’s worth a lot because of the bulletproofing. I just got a call. One of the sellers in Qala i Dawiat has an armored Corolla for sale. He’s asking three hundred thousand afghanis.”
The used-car bazaar was located on a hillside north of the airport. Its dozens of sellers had every model of Toyota available.
“Did you locate him?” asked Berry.
“Yes. He said he didn’t have the car but could have it brought if I wanted to see it. He’s got a display space, the third lot on the left as you enter the Qsaba car dealers area.”
“Good for you!” said the South African approvingly. “When are we going?”
“I told him we would come around five o’clock.”
“That’s great!” said Berry. “Go tell Rufus and Willie they’re coming along. You bring the seller to us, and we’ll all come back here together.”
Rufus and Willie were former South African mercenaries who often worked for Berry.
“Very well, Commander,” said Darius. “But if the men who stole the car are there, they’re sure to be armed.”
“We’ll be armed, too,” said Berry grimly.
As Darius was leaving the office, Berry’s phone rang.
“It’s me,” said the kidnappers’ spokesman. “Do you really want to see your friend alive? We’re tired of waiting.”
“We’re getting the money together,” said Berry. “But it’ll only be thirty million afghanis.”
“Then we’ll kill your friend.”
But the Afghan said this without much conviction, and Berry felt he was hooked. Thirty million afghanis was an enormous sum.
“Don’t be stupid! If you kill him, you won’t get anything!”
“Okay, we’ll give you until tomorrow.” The kidnapper hung up.
If his expedition went badly, Berry figured he could always hand the problem off to the CIA. They could afford thirty million afghanis.
Musa Kotak had spent the last half hour on the phone. He’d gotten a message from Mullah Beradar in Quetta, who’d heard about Malko’s kidnapping. Clayton Luger had asked the Taliban to help rescue him.
Naturally, Kotak started by trying Malko’s cell phone, but without success. He then alerted all his contacts. The Taliban had a network of info
rmers throughout the city, and nothing escaped them. They were everywhere, in army and government circles, among police and criminals alike. If Malko had been kidnapped by gangsters, word would reach them. Even crooks were afraid of the Taliban.
Berry and his crew drove for several miles through the industrial wasteland north of the airport. Berry was at the wheel, with Darius next to him. Rufus and Willie rode in back with folding AK-47s in their laps. The road hadn’t been repaved since the dawn of time, and the ride was torture. The four men in the Land Cruiser were shaken, not stirred.
Turning off the highway, they passed under an archway announcing the Qsaba car bazaar. The road climbed through a kind of no-man’s-land, with car sellers on either side displaying their vehicles. Berry’s group passed a herd of sheep and a refugee camp before reaching the main business district.
Hundreds of vehicles were lined up on lots of various sizes.
All Toyotas.
Suddenly, Darius cursed. He had just spotted the gray Corolla on a lot to their left. The car was parked in front of a shuttered building, the plastic grapes still hanging from its rearview mirror.
Two men were standing next to it, bearded Afghans in brown patu cloaks.
Darius turned to Berry.
“Commander, if those are the guys who stole the car, they’re going to recognize me.”
“In that case we’ll shoot first,” said the South African.
They stopped a few yards from the stolen Toyota, and Darius and Berry got out. The men in patus looked at them but without any sign of recognition.
Darius went over to them, his hand on his heart.
“Salaam alaikum,” he said politely.
“Alaikum salaam,” one of the two answered. “Are you the man who wants the car?”
“My boss here wants it, but I’ll be driving it.”
“Does he have the money?”
“Of course,” said Darius.
There were practically no formal vehicle sales in Afghanistan; it was too complicated. You simply paid for a car, and the registration stayed in the original owner’s name.
“We want to see the money first,” said one of the men.
“It’s with my boss in the Land Cruiser,” said Darius coolly. “If we can agree on a price, I’ll go get it.”
The man in the patu didn’t object. Taking precautions was standard procedure.
Darius first walked around the Corolla, to confirm that it was indeed his car.
“Can I get in?” he asked.
“Go ahead, but make it quick.”
The men in patus seemed nervous.
Darius climbed behind the wheel. Nothing had changed. When he opened the glove compartment, he saw that the registration papers were still there. The key was in the ignition. He turned it and the engine came to life.
One of the thieves immediately came over and aimed a big pistol at him.
“Don’t do anything stupid, brother. If you try to drive off, I’ll shoot you.”
“I just wanted to see if the engine sounded okay,” Darius assured him. He revved the engine and switched it off, then casually ran his hand under the dashboard. When he found the small button he was looking for, he pressed it. This activated an antitheft system he’d rigged that disconnected the ignition. Unless you knew the trick, you couldn’t start the car.
Darius straightened in the seat and got out.
“It runs all right,” he said, “but it’s too expensive.”
“What are you offering, brother?”
“Two hundred thousand, tops.”
The man spat on the ground in disgust.
“May Allah curse you! This car is a marvel. Besides, it’s armor plated and the engine is new.”
“I’m only paying two hundred thousand, not an afghani more.”
“You’re nothing but a dog!” said one of the men.
Darius smiled slightly.
“Then I’m sure you’ll sell it, but not to me.”
Without another word, he went back to Berry and reported.
“I set the antitheft system,” he said quietly. “It won’t start anymore. They’re going to be in trouble.”
Berry and his team drove to the upper edge of the market, then turned around and came back down. When Berry reached the lot with the stolen car, he slowed.
The Corolla was still there, but now its hood was propped up. One of the thieves was bent over the motor; the other was sitting inside the car.
Berry pulled into the lot.
“Let’s go!” he said.
The two thieves were so absorbed in trying to get the Corolla running that they didn’t notice Berry’s men until the last minute.
Darius came over with a big smile and asked, “Having a problem, brother?”
The Afghan didn’t turn around. So he didn’t see Berry before he grabbed him, carried him bodily to the Land Cruiser, and threw him in the back.
The two mercenaries got out in turn. When the man at the wheel of the Corolla looked up, he found himself staring into the barrel of a gun. He went for a weapon, but Rufus threw him to the ground and Willie kicked him in the jaw. Then they dragged him to the Land Cruiser and tossed him in on top of his partner.
In the meantime, Darius got behind the wheel of the Toyota and flipped the circuit breaker hidden under the dashboard. Within half a minute, he was driving out of the lot and down toward the main highway.
Berry climbed into the SUV and followed him while Rufus and Willie trussed up the thieves crumpled in the back.
The operation had taken less than two minutes, and nobody seemed to have noticed. Berry had successfully recovered the armored Toyota and captured two men who surely knew where Malko was being held.
All he had to do was make them talk.
Huddled at the bottom of the well, Malko heard the cover being moved aside. He saw a black circle—the sky—then one of his kidnappers’ heads. The man leaned over the lip of the well and shouted a few words in Dari.
Malko was shivering and hungry, even though he’d been fed an hour earlier. He felt as if he were freezing from the inside. How long could he endure these conditions? he wondered.
A second man’s head appeared, also shouting something Malko couldn’t understand.
“What is the problem?” asked Malko in English.
But the kidnappers clearly didn’t understand him.
A few moments later he saw the rope drop down the well and land beside him. They obviously wanted him to come up. Malko hesitated to take it, remembering what had happened to his fellow hostage. But if he didn’t, his kidnappers would just shoot him. Reluctantly, he tied the rope around his chest.
It immediately tightened and they started hoisting him. At the top, he was roughly grabbed and hauled over the lip of the well. Malko’s legs were so shaky, he almost collapsed when the rope was untied.
Around him stood three glowering bearded men. One waved a gun under his nose, then pressed the barrel against his forehead. The cold steel gave Malko a jolt of adrenaline. They were going to kill him!
The two others continued shouting, and one started kicking him. They seemed angry, but Malko couldn’t figure out why. He tried again to speak to them in English, but that was useless. Something was going on, and he didn’t know what it was. As they kicked and punched him, he clung to the lip of the well so as not to fall.
Circling around him, the three bearded men seemed unsure of what to do next. One came over and yelled something in his face. This time, Malko caught the word “Toyota.”
Something had happened to the stolen Toyota, but what?
Eventually they left him to argue angrily among themselves. Malko took the opportunity to look around. He noticed that the farm was surrounded by high brick walls.
A metal click made him jump. One of the men had just cocked his pistol. No doubt about it: they had decided to execute him, like their other hostage.
Suddenly Malko had an idea. They hadn’t taken his pen and notebook, so he wrote Warren Mic
haelis’s phone number on a piece of paper. He handed it to one of the men and said a single word: “Dollars.”
And prayed they could read Western numerals.
Their quarrel stopped abruptly and the three men peered at his message. Then the argument resumed, more calmly this time. One of the kidnappers came over and shouted at him, in Dari of course. Malko repeated the word “dollars.”
It was the same word in both languages.
Given the total lack of communication, the discussion ended. Finally one man tossed the rope to Malko. He was apparently headed back down the well and wasn’t going to be killed right away. He was almost happy to step over the lip and be lowered on the rope.
Going down, however, he felt even colder than he had up above. Fear had made Malko forget how chilled he was.
Now he prayed with all his might that they would call Michaelis. The CIA had the means to negotiate with his kidnappers and would do everything it could to save him.
Reaching the bottom, Malko untied the rope and huddled against the wall, unable to stop violently shivering. Without his cashmere coat, he would have already died of hypothermia.
A shout made Malko look up. A man leaning over the lip of the well tossed something that bounced down the walls and landed at his feet.
It was a small, brown, and round.
A hand grenade.
The Land Cruiser pulled up in front of Berry’s poppy palace, and he and his fellow mercenaries dragged their prisoners out of the car, shoving them through the small basement door.
Rufus and Willie hauled the two Afghans into a workshop and started systematically and methodically beating them. For some minutes, the only sound to be heard was the dull thud of fists on flesh. When one man slumped to the dirt floor, he was hauled back to his feet and beaten some more. Their lips smashed, eyebrows split, and noses broken, the Afghans endured their punishment stoically. If they had fallen into the hands of the police, they would have suffered the same softening-up treatment. It was the local custom.
Darius had parked the armored Corolla and was now watching the scene in silence, smoking a cigarette. During a pause, he remarked, “I don’t think they’re hitting hard enough, Commander. Let me take over.”
Chaos in Kabul Page 8
