She was eager to get Malko home, but as they were drinking their coffee, a tall redhead with green eyes made her way to their table.
“Alicia!” Maureen cried.
The two women air-kissed, and the newcomer joined them.
“This is Alicia Burton,” said Maureen. “She’s an American reporter. She’s also very brave: she lives alone at the Gandamack Lodge.”
“Quite unusual, a woman alone in Kabul,” remarked Malko.
“So what do you do?” Alicia asked.
“I’m a political observer for the European Community.”
“Do you have a place in town?”
“No, I’m at the Serena.”
An eager expression flitted across her face.
“You should invite me over so I can take a bath,” she said. “At the Gandamack, we don’t have hot water that often.”
She gave Malko a bright, meaningful look. She was shamelessly flirting with him right in front of Maureen Kieffer, who kicked him under the table.
Despite the pain, Malko gallantly said, “Come on by. I’ll be happy to let you use my bathroom.”
He was rewarded with another kick.
“I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name,” said Alicia.
“Malko Linge.”
“I hope we run into each other again.”
She shook hands and walked away, swinging her high, rounded ass.
“What a slut!” hissed Maureen. “I thought she was going to duck under the table and give you a blow job! She sleeps around a lot.”
“Is she really a reporter?”
“Yes, she is. She used to have a boyfriend with the CIA, but they had a fight. She also screwed a couple of the Blackwater guys. But really—she’s got some nerve!”
Maureen paused.
“You ready to go?”
The beeping of Malko’s cell phone woke him. The night before, Maureen had proven every bit as exciting as his fantasies. She’d started by squirting him in the face with champagne, to discourage him from ever seeing Alicia Burton again. After that, things improved significantly. Maureen enjoyed making love as much as ever, and it was very late when Malko got back to the hotel.
Checking his cell, he found a long text message:
You have a meeting with a friend who can tell you some interesting things. Come tomorrow at 6 pm to the One Star Petroleum station in Kotali Khayr Kana. It is on the Salang road, 12 km from downtown.
Malko had finished reading the text when the room phone rang.
“A young lady is here, asking for you,” said the desk clerk.
A woman’s voice chirped in the handset: “Malko! I’m not disturbing you, am I? It’s Alicia Burton.”
That was unexpected.
“What a pleasant surprise,” he said. “I was just about to come down for breakfast. Would you care to join me?”
“Love to! I’m starving!”
When he met the young reporter in the lobby, he realized that she was hardly starving. Her eyes had a definite come-hither look—with emphasis on the come—and her miniskirt ended well above her knees. Good thing she was wearing a long sheepskin coat over it; otherwise, she’d be attacked at the nearest street corner.
They settled in the breakfast room and chatted about this and that until Malko signed the check.
“Will you treat me to a bath now?” asked the young woman.
Malko smiled diplomatically.
“You can use my whole room, actually; I have a meeting I have to go to. Come on upstairs.”
Alicia followed him to his room and tossed her sheepskin coat on a chair.
She turned to Malko and said, “Thank you.”
Then she leaned into his arms and stuck her tongue down to his tonsils, while doing a furious bump and grind against his crotch.
By dint of great effort, Malko managed to pull away a few inches. Alicia looked at him mischievously.
“No matter what happens, when I tell Maureen that I came to see you, she’ll assume we slept together. So we may as well!”
Well, it was direct at least. Stepping close again, she wrapped her arms around his neck.
“In any case, turnabout is fair play. Maureen stole one of my boyfriends, a guy from the embassy, so … It’s because she’s got big tits. I don’t have big tits, but I’m told I’m a good fuck.”
Unbuttoning her blouse, she said, “Take a look!”
She wasn’t wearing a bra, and Malko could see she had small, pointed—and perfectly acceptable—breasts.
She walked over and locked the door, then came back to him.
“I’m going to take a bath now. Afterward, I hope you behave like a gentleman.”
She scampered into the bathroom and closed the door, leaving Malko nonplussed. Either Alicia Burton was a charming ditz or she had something in mind. Malko opted for the second possibility, so he didn’t go downstairs for the meeting he’d invented. He wanted to see what kind of stuff the exuberant reporter was made of.
Alicia came out of the bathroom bare breasted, with a hotel towel around her hips and an impish smile on her lips. When she spotted Malko in the armchair, her smile widened.
“Ah, you really are a gentleman, I see!”
She came over to sit on the arm of the chair. The towel slid down to her upper thighs, revealing the warm-toned bush of a true redhead.
She leaned over and kissed him. Once again her tongue played a manic dance in his mouth, and she shuddered when he stroked her bare chest. Then she slipped to the floor, dropped the towel, and attacked Malko like a good little worker bee, respectfully taking his cock in her mouth while caressing herself. The woman knew how to multitask.
Malko relaxed and enjoyed himself, while thinking—as Bill Clinton reportedly did—that he was not having sex with this woman. Taking refuge in the presidential maxim, he let Alicia do as she pleased. He only gently held her neck at the very end, helping her ensure that he was good to the last drop.
Which he was.
Apparently satisfied, she jumped up and led Malko over to the bed.
“Tell me all about yourself!” she said, much more familiarly now. “What are you doing in Kabul?”
Malko immediately knew he’d been right to behave like a gentleman. Alicia Burton hadn’t yielded to any romantic impulse. She wanted something, and he decided to find out what it was.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she seemed to drink in everything Malko said, and she did a lot of talking herself. She peppered him with questions, as if he’d suddenly become the most fascinating of men.
Malko obligingly fed her answers, while awaiting the final thrust. It wasn’t long in coming.
“Now tell me what you’re really doing in Kabul!” she said at last. “I checked with the European Union delegation, and they’ve never heard of you.”
Malko smiled.
“That was for Maureen’s benefit,” he said. “I don’t want everybody to know my business. I’m actually here to discreetly contact some Taliban who want to pursue peace negotiations.”
“On whose behalf?”
“I can’t tell you that,” he said, looking mysterious.
“Oh.”
For a reporter, she was touchingly naïve.
This probe could be coming from only one person, he thought: Warren Michaelis. Apparently intrigued by Malko’s contacting Nelson Berry, the CIA station chief was determined to find out what he was up to in Kabul. He couldn’t confront Malko head-on, so he was using another, time-honored method.
Suddenly the reporter seemed no longer eager to stay. She stood up, stretched, and said, “I’ve got to go now. I’m interviewing one of Karzai’s deputies. Let’s get together soon, okay? Here’s my phone number.”
She put a business card on the table, slipped into her fleece coat, and kissed Malko good-bye more chastely than she had when she arrived.
Delilah had carried out her mission, but Samson still had his hair.
Musa Kotak had a guest, and Malko had to wait outside the bui
lding where the mullah received visitors. Finally a fat Afghan and a younger man came out, and Malko was ushered in.
As usual the cleric’s face brightened when he saw him.
“Well, this is unexpected!” he said. “Can I give you some tea?”
They sat around the low table for the perennial tea ritual. Malko waited a few moments before asking his question. “What can you tell me about the person you’re sending me to meet on the Salang Highway?”
Kotak didn’t react, just calmly asked, “What person?”
Malko took out his phone and displayed the text message. Kotak read it carefully and looked up.
“I didn’t send you that message.”
Malko thought he hadn’t heard right. Kotak immediately set him straight.
“I am afraid it is a trap,” he said softly.
Malko was stunned. Not only was President Karzai trying to kill him and Warren Michaelis sending spies, but now strangers planned to ambush him.
“Who do you suppose is behind it?”
“I do not know,” the mullah admitted. “But it must be someone who knows that you and I are close.”
“Are they your people?”
“Perhaps.”
“In that case, I’m not going.”
Kotak shook his head. “I do not think that’s the best approach. I would urge you to go; otherwise, we will never know who’s involved.”
Seeing Malko’s dubious expression, he added, “I plan to take precautions, of course. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
Malko didn’t answer. Even with “precautions,” the mullah was sending him into uncertain battle.
“You have to trust me on this!” he insisted.
Malko didn’t feel reassured. His mission impossible was becoming more and more complicated. On the Salang Highway the next day, he would once again be playing Russian roulette.
Heading north in the armored Corolla, Darius and Malko were caught in the usual slow-moving traffic jam. They had taken the Salang Tunnel route—the only highway in the country safe from Taliban attack—toward Mazar-e-Sharif, the northernmost city in Afghanistan.
Malko scanned the roadside for the meeting place set by the mysterious correspondent who had impersonated Musa Kotak. This time he was carrying the Russian pistol Berry gave him. Darius had his folding AK-47.
A few years earlier, this highway had snaked over empty hillsides. Since then, the city had spread up their slopes, and thousands of houses thrown together without water or electricity now stretched as far as the eye could see. A miserable, sprawling urban fabric, inhabited by the wretched. The roadsides were jammed with wandering peddlers, carts, and open-air workshops.
Eight or nine miles from downtown Kabul, the highway divided, with separate lanes running on either side of a ravine with a thin trickle of water in its depths. Houses had been built down there as well, of brick or rammed earth.
Finally Malko spotted a big gas station on the left with a sign that read “One Star Petroleum.”
“There it is!” he said.
Darius pulled over. The station consisted of six pumps under a wide roof next to a blue building. Parked along a wall was an old ambulance with flat tires. A mud-spattered SUV was stopped at the first pump.
Darius pulled up behind it. On the highway, cars continued to stream by.
Suddenly a Jeep Cherokee emerged from the traffic and stopped directly behind them. At the same moment, the first SUV’s doors opened and three men with AK-47s jumped out.
“Back up!” Malko yelled.
Darius put the car in reverse but bumped into the Cherokee behind them. They were trapped.
The men from the first SUV started raking the armored Corolla with assault rifle fire. The bodywork rang with impacts and a dozen big stars appeared on the windshield, but the three-inch-thick bulletproof glass didn’t shatter.
The attackers quickly realized that the Corolla was armored. One of them turned and shouted something. Now the SUV’s back door swung open to reveal a fourth attacker with a long tube on his shoulder: an RPG-7 grenade launcher.
The Corolla’s armor plate was no match for an RPG. Seeing the man aim his weapon at their car, Malko felt his mouth go dry. In moments, the warhead would hit, incinerating them in a four-thousand-degree fireball.
Mesmerized by the sight of the grenade launcher, Malko didn’t notice when the back door of the old ambulance flew open and six men in black turbans with Kalashnikovs poured out. The first one fired a long burst at the RPG-7 shooter, practically cutting him in half. The man dropped his tube and collapsed.
The new arrivals continued firing short, accurate bursts, mowing down the three survivors from the muddy SUV.
The Cherokee behind the Corolla now raced off in reverse and vanished into traffic. The six men in black turbans ran past the blue building and disappeared down the ravine.
It was all over very quickly. The traffic on the highway hadn’t slowed, and only people who had actually witnessed the firefight noticed anything. At the service station, Darius and Malko alone remained standing. The four men who had attacked them were lying on the ground, either dead or wounded. The entire incident had lasted less than three minutes.
Malko roused himself. The gunshots were sure to attract attention, and the police or the army would soon show up.
“Let’s get out of here!” he shouted.
Darius quickly drove the Corolla out of the gas station. The armor plating on its radiator had held, and aside from the damage to the windshield, the car was fine.
They merged with the traffic and continued north. It took them a couple of miles before they found a place where they could cross the river and take the other lane south, back toward downtown Kabul.
“Let’s go back to the commander’s,” said Malko.
He was feeling deeply troubled. Who had tried to kill them? And who had saved them? He was still stumped when they got to Berry’s place.
The South African listened to his account, perplexed.
“Go see your mullah and shake him up a bit,” he suggested. “This has Taliban written all over it. You’re pissing some people off, and this has to be straightened out before we can go ahead.
“Darius will drive you there in an SUV, but after that, you’re on your own. I have to find a new windshield for the Corolla.”
“Try Maureen Kieffer,” Malko suggested.
Musa Kotak was as unctuous as ever. When Malko entered his office, the mullah was sprawled on cushions like a big Buddha, drinking tea and eating pistachios.
“I heard what happened!” the cleric said in a serious tone before Malko had time to speak. “I put you in danger. I’m terribly sorry.”
“If it weren’t for the Corolla’s bulletproofing, we’d be dead.”
“I prayed to Allah for you,” he said. “The men who saved you were excellent fighters, but a little slow to act.”
“What exactly is going on?” demanded Malko. “I need to know!”
“One of the Quetta shura factions is against our project,” Kota said. “The plan was approved by Mullah Omar, so they couldn’t formally oppose it. Instead, they moved indirectly.”
“So the people who attacked us were Taliban?”
“I’m afraid they might be, and I will know for sure soon.”
“But it was your people who initiated this whole project!”
Kotak set him straight.
“That was just one of our factions. The Quetta shura isn’t homogenous. Mullah Beradar, who met your friends in Doha, represents the major movement, but there are also two minority positions. The most extreme refuses any cooperation with the Americans. They have contacts everywhere, and I think they warned Karzai’s people.”
“In that case, this project is over as far as I’m concerned,” said Malko. “I’m not committing suicide.”
Kotak raised his hands soothingly. “Wait! I have decided to travel to Quetta and ask Mullah Omar to arbitrate the matter. Only he can order those who dis
agree to toe the line. Please don’t go anywhere until I come back. Stay at the Serena, and remain on your guard.”
The mullah paused. “Naturally, you might be tempted to leave Kabul, but that would be backing out of our agreement.”
Kotak certainly has some nerve! thought Malko. He’d come to Afghanistan as a predator, and here he was being hunted by Karzai and the Taliban, the country’s two biggest powers. And he’d already escaped death twice.
Malko looked up to find the mullah’s gaze full of goodness.
“You must believe me,” said Kotak. “Going to Quetta is a dangerous journey. I am only doing it for you.”
He rose and took Malko’s hands in his. “Enjoy life for a few days! It is a precious gift. I will contact you as soon as I return, and we will decide what to do next.”
Having made the effort to get up, he now led Malko outside.
“I will call a taxi to take you to the Serena.”
Malko followed him, still feeling very troubled. The mission that National Security Advisor John Mulligan had given him was already challenging enough. Now he faced an array of people hostile to it, people prepared to kill him to keep him from carrying it out.
A taxi pulled up and the cleric spoke to the driver in Dari.
“He’ll take you,” said Kotak. “Don’t give him more than a hundred afghanis.”
Instead of a taxi, what Malko really wanted was the first plane to Austria, but that would mean betraying the trust that Mulligan had in him. He decided he would stay on at least until Kotak got back from Quetta.
And was the Talib mullah really even going there? Malko wondered. There was no way to know for sure.
Entering the Serena lobby, he bumped into Alicia Burton, who was coming out.
“Speak of the devil!” she said. “I came to see you. I just left you a note.”
“Why?”
“Come have a cup of coffee and I’ll tell you.”
Intrigued, Malko followed her to the hotel’s nonalcoholic bar. Alicia walked in front of him, and the sight of her little round ass stirred him. Each time Malko escaped death, he experienced powerful sexual stirrings. As if she sensed this, Alicia leaned over the table to give him a panoramic view of her chest as soon as they sat down. Even in a heavy cashmere sweater, a tweed skirt slit up the side, and thick wool stockings, she was extremely sexy—and she knew it.
Chaos in Kabul Page 11
