Chaos in Kabul

by Gérard de Villiers

  “Yes, I am,” said the CIA station chief with a frown. “I was instructed to steer clear of your activities, and I have.”

  “Not entirely.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I’ve been persistently approached by a freelance reporter named Alicia Burton. She did everything she could to find out—somewhat clumsily—what I was doing in Kabul. I told her a few things that she probably passed on to you.”

  “To me? Why?”

  Malko looked the American in the eye. “Because you sent her, Warren. Burton is a newspaper stringer. She has contacts in the Agency, and she depends on you for her livelihood. I’m not angry at what you did, but I need to be sure of what I’m saying. Once I am, I can abandon a lead I’ve been pursuing. You were probably just doing your job, but I have to know.”

  A long silence followed. If any pins were dropping, they would’ve been heard. At last, the CIA station chief spoke.

  “I apologize, Malko,” he said sheepishly. “What I learned, I kept to myself. I just wanted to stay informed and be sure you weren’t taking any unnecessary risks.”

  Malko allowed himself a small smile. “Then we can consider the matter closed,” he said. “But I have a much more serious problem. Did you know one of your predecessors, Mark Spider?”

  “Of course. A remarkable man and very close to President Karzai, whom he’s been following for the last twelve years. Spider did two tours as Kabul COS and is now in Washington.”

  “Do you know what he does there?” asked Malko.

  “He’s on the Strategic Committee for Afghanistan. It has people from the Agency, the Pentagon, the federal government, and the White House.”

  “Are they active?”

  “Very. When President Obama decided we would withdraw our troops in 2014, it raised a lot of problems, and those issues are still on the table.”

  “Do you receive instructions on that subject?”

  “Some, but our relations with President Karzai are very difficult. Even I sometimes have to wait several days before I can talk to him. He’s very capricious and constantly complains about us to the media. Fortunately, one of my deputies is on good terms with him.”

  “Who is that?” asked Malko, sounding casual.

  “Jason Forrest. He was number two when Mark Spider was COS. Mark introduced Jason to Karzai. He may even have the president’s private cell number, which I don’t.”

  Malko’s face betrayed nothing. He might just have found the source of the leaks that had nearly got him killed in the kidnapping.

  “What exactly does Forrest do here in Kabul?” asked Malko.

  “He runs the Office of Regional Affairs. It’s a group of analysts that draws on Pakistani, Afghan, Iranian, and Indian sources to generate situation assessments.”

  “Does he meet with President Karzai in the course of his work?”

  Michaelis paused before answering. “No, I don’t think so. In any case, he’s supposed to inform me if that happens. Why are you asking me all this?”

  “For a very serious reason,” said Malko. “I think someone told Karzai about the mission I’ve been assigned.”

  Michaelis’s eyes widened. “How’s that possible? Even I don’t know what it is.”

  “I know, and I’m not accusing you. But I’m afraid that someone in the Agency—whom I can’t name—has learned what I’m doing here and is keeping Karzai informed. I can’t tell you how I know this, but I’m virtually certain that my kidnapping was a setup arranged by someone in his entourage to get rid of me permanently.”

  Michaelis looked as if he’d been punched. When he finally understood what Malko was implying, he asked in a horrified tone, “You don’t really think Jason Forrest is informing President Karzai, do you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Why would he do that?” protested the station chief. “He’s a respected senior officer of impeccable honesty, without a single black mark in his file. A man like that couldn’t possibly be a traitor.”

  Malko smiled. “You know the four reasons for committing treason, don’t you, Warren? Remember the acronym MICE: money, ideology, compromise, ego. In Jason Forrest’s case, it would be ideology. Here’s my thinking. I imagine that Forrest is still close to his former boss, Mark Spider, right?”

  “Yes. They email each other quite often. Jason has mentioned it to me.”

  “Okay. Let’s say that Spider, who has close ties with President Karzai, disagrees with American policy toward Karzai. He might very well want to inform him. That isn’t really treason. Only, reactions here in Asia can sometimes be brutal. Trust me, I know.”

  Michaelis had been staring at his plate. Now he looked up—and went on the offensive. “That’s just a theory,” he said in a firm voice. “In my eyes Jason Forrest is completely loyal. I can bring him in and question him, if you like.”

  “That would probably be the worst possible thing to do,” said Malko. “There’s a much better way.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Discreetly get a listing of all calls made from his cell phone for the last month.”

  Michaelis blanched. “That’s out of the question! It would be impugning the man! Anyway, counterintelligence handles that kind of inquiry. Otherwise, it would be casting suspicion on someone when it wasn’t warranted.”

  “Come on, Warren!” Malko said with an understanding smile. “It’s exactly what you would do if you thought a senior officer had been a little too chatty with unauthorized people. There’s no shame in it. As COS, you’d just tell your security officer to keep his eyes peeled. And if it turns out that I’m mistaken, we’ll forget all about it.”

  Michaelis shook his head vigorously, jowls flapping. “I just can’t do it!”

  When he met Malko’s eye, the Austrian’s gaze was icy. “As I see it, two very important things are involved here. First, the success of a mission given to me by Clayton Luger. Second, my personal safety. If you refuse, I’ll be forced to turn to Langley. And I really don’t want to do that.”

  A hush descended on the men, and it flew around the small dining room until Michaelis spoke.

  “I’ll launch the inquiry,” he said dully. “And keep you informed.”

  His lunch with Michaelis over, Malko contacted Nelson Berry, who promptly sent him the same SUV with Darius at the wheel. They drove along the NDS complex, passing the Gandamack Lodge on their left. The moment they reached Berry’s poppy palace, he bounded down the front steps and shook Malko’s hand.

  “Thanks for your little present,” he said. “We’re up to date now. Your timing’s good, because I’ve made some headway. Follow me!”

  He took Malko into a room next to his office. Standing on a wooden table was a long object wrapped in a blanket. Berry unwrapped it, revealing an enormous sniper rifle with a Zeiss scope on a tripod. It was a monster, with a barrel more than three feet long.

  “This is a Degtyarov 41,” he announced with a hint of pride. “A sniper rifle used by the Soviets. Fires a 14.5 mm cartridge, single shot. Accurate to eight hundred yards. The shell’s kinetic energy is so high that if it hits a vehicle, it destroys it along with the occupants. I had it shipped from Dushanbe with some ammunition.”

  Malko gazed at the sniper rifle respectfully. You didn’t see something like that every day.

  Added Berry, “The shell will penetrate an inch and a half of armor plate.”

  The two men looked at each other, both thinking the same thing.

  Malko broke the silence: “I assume you know how to shoot it.”

  “I’ve used it before,” said the South African. “It’s an incredibly powerful weapon. Of course, you can’t afford to miss, ’cause there’s no magazine. The advantage is that when you hit your target, your problem’s solved.”

  “Have you chosen a kill zone?” asked Malko.

  “Yeah, I have. I started looking into that while you were out of touch. I know how Karzai’s people work. They sweep the route and get rid of all the car
s along the way, but they don’t go far beyond the perimeter. It would take too much manpower. I found a location I can shoot from, but there’s still lots of problems to deal with.”

  “What about your exfiltration?” asked Malko.

  “That shouldn’t be an issue,” said the South African. “I’ll leave the rifle behind. It was stolen from a Russian unit in Tajikistan, so it can’t be traced to me.”

  Berry rewrapped the Degtyarov, and the two men returned to his office.

  “Has anybody else thought of getting rid of Karzai this way?” asked Malko.

  “Maybe, but there are a couple of hurdles. First, you have to know how to use a rifle like that, and it isn’t easy. I’m big enough, physically, because the recoil is terrific; 14.5 is the caliber of a Dushka, the heavy Russian machine gun. It’s like firing an RPG, except the projectile travels much faster.

  “Also, this kind of attack isn’t in the Taliban mind-set. They’ll swarm a building, break into it, then blow themselves up. I don’t think they would conceive of this kind of tactic.”

  “Tell me more about your plan,” said Malko. “Having the rifle is all well and good, but you still need a target.”

  “I’ve made some progress there, too,” said Berry. “In a week or so, Karzai will be going to Lashkar Gah in Helmand Province. He’s flying, so he’ll be traveling from his palace to the airport, as he always does. The Airport Road route will be cordoned off, but not too far on either side. I’ve located a building under construction set back from the road that I can use as a hide site.”

  “What about Karzai’s departure time?”

  “I’m looking into that, but it shouldn’t be too hard. Mainly I need a spotter at the palace so I can predict the time slot. There will be about ten minutes between the time he leaves the palace and when he enters my kill zone.

  “The biggest problem is that when Karzai travels, his convoy always uses three identical Mercedes with tinted glass. He doesn’t choose his car until the last minute. I don’t need to see him, but I have to know which car he’s in. I’m working on that.

  “So what do you think of my plan?”

  “It looks pretty good to me. But you’re running a big personal risk.”

  The South African gave him a crooked smile. “That’s what you’re paying me for,” he said. “What about you? You getting out of the country before D-Day?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  If he left, he’d have felt like a coward. He rather liked the roughhewn South African, even though he was a killer. He wasn’t afraid to take chances.

  “That should do it,” said Malko. “Don’t leave that rifle of yours lying around.”

  It was raining in Kabul. Sheets of water fell from a leaden, grayish sky, turning rutted roads into muddy swamps. Thick fog hid the tops of the surrounding hills.

  The change in the weather had been sudden and depressing.

  Malko was in his room, staring out at the hotel’s leafless garden. Kept indoors by the lack of action and the bad weather, he felt gloomy. This strange mission was lasting a very long time, and a hostile, invisible world seemed to be swirling around him.

  By now, Hamid Karzai almost certainly knew Malko was in Kabul on a mission targeting him, even though he didn’t know its exact shape. It would explain the attempt to kidnap and kill him. That could happen again, in some other form. Given the rocky relationship between Karzai and the Americans, anything was possible. The Afghan president’s mix of smooth lies and public tantrums excluded overt action, but not dirty tricks. Malko probably wouldn’t be arrested by the NDS, for example. Some other attempt would be made to discreetly get rid of him.

  Hamid Karzai had far-reaching influence, lots of money, and many accomplices. And Malko’s so-called Taliban allies weren’t much help.

  Just then, the rain stopped.

  As if there were some connection, Warren Michaelis’s number appeared on Malko’s cell almost immediately.

  “I’m sending you a car,” announced the CIA station chief. “Are you available?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  Malko practically wept with relief. At last, he would find out if the leak had come from the Americans, as he feared. Until the leak was plugged, it was impossible for him to make headway on his project.

  Michaelis was looking grave when Malko entered his office. The station chief carefully closed the door and switched on the red light that meant he was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Then he slumped onto his brown leather sofa and said, “You were right!”

  “About what?”

  “About Jason Forrest. We compiled a record of his cell phone communications. He called Karzai seven times since your arrival.”

  “Did you put a tap on his line?”

  “No. That would have required a special security request.”

  “When was his first call?”

  Michaelis went to his desk and returned with a printout of names and numbers.

  “At nine thirty-five p.m. on the day after your arrival. The conversation lasted eleven minutes.”

  Malko did a quick calculation. That was two days after his meeting with Luger and Mulligan. Mark Spider hadn’t wasted any time before racing to help his protégé.

  So Malko had found the origin of the leak that had almost cost him his life.

  A clearly tense Michaelis was watching him. “What do we do now?” he asked. “I can call Jason in and confront him with this list of phone calls.”

  “Why not give him a lie detector test while you’re at it?” asked Malko sarcastically. “He hasn’t done anything obviously wrong. He would come up with a perfectly good reason for those calls and immediately alert Spider. No, this calls for different countermeasures.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’m going to make a quick trip to Washington. That’s where the key to the problem lies. This leak has to be cut off at the source.”

  “So I shouldn’t take any action?” asked Michaelis, looking somewhat disappointed.

  “Whatever you do, don’t tell anybody I’m going to Washington. You can hint that I left for Islamabad to visit some Taliban leaders in Quetta. I actually am going through Islamabad, to get a flight to the United States. It’s not a very direct route, but I’m used to it.”

  Michaelis gave him a long, probing look. “Malko, someday I hope I find out what you came to Kabul for.”

  “Warren, I promise you’ll be the first to know.”

  It was colder in Washington than it had been in Kabul. It had recently snowed, and an icy gale howled through the avenues. Malko had flown Kabul-Islamabad, then Islamabad-London, and finally London-Washington, and was exhausted.

  The Willard InterContinental was as formal and low-key as ever. Malko phoned Clayton Luger the moment he checked in.

  “I’m here,” he announced.

  “Great,” said the deputy director. “Let’s meet tomorrow for lunch at your hotel restaurant. It will be more discreet.”

  “I’ll make the reservation.”

  What with the time difference and the changes of planes, Malko hardly knew where he was. He got undressed, took a long shower, and went to bed. He immediately fell asleep.

  Warren Michaelis warmly welcomed Afghanistan’s chief of police. The veteran cop knew the workings of the country like the back of his hand. Today, something was apparently bothering him.

  After the ritual of tea and mutual politeness, Michaelis asked, “Is there something special you’re concerned about?”

  The older man answered with a question of his own. “Have you noticed an increase in local communications between various Taliban groups lately? I ask because your monitoring system is much more effective than ours.”

  Surprised, Michaelis answered, “I haven’t been informed of anything, but I can find out. I’ll get in touch with Bagram. Everything gets routed there. Why do you ask?”

  “In the last weeks, the Taliban have launched several attacks on police stations and training academies. The mo
st recent one was the day before yesterday. They seized a building and used it to attack a special forces barracks. We took some prisoners, and one said that his group came from the area south of Jalalabad. This means they crossed dozens of villages without anyone alerting us.”

  “That’s not a good sign,” admitted Michaelis.

  “Oh, we’re used to it,” said the Afghan almost casually. “It’s been this way forever. Officially we control big chunks of the country, but in fact our presence is just cosmetic. People have already gone over to the other side. But that’s not what worries me. I get the feeling that Taliban combat units are taking up positions in the city, ready to start something.”

  “Like the Tet offensive in Vietnam?”

  “Er, yes, something like that.”

  “As long as we’re in the country, those groups can’t stand up to our Apaches and Black Hawks,” said Michaelis. “We don’t have any troops in Kabul, but we have people in Bagram and elsewhere.”

  “That’s true enough, but I’m still worried,” said the old cop. “The Taliban never do anything without good reason. It’s as if they’re preparing for some sort of destabilizing event.”

  Michaelis escorted his guest out and returned to his office. He didn’t know how seriously to take the police chief’s nervousness. It was true that the Taliban often targeted Afghan police. That, plus desertions, was hard on morale. But he couldn’t see why the Taliban would prepare a general offensive. Because if they came out into the open, they would be crushed.

  Malko had been sitting in his booth for five minutes when Luger and Mulligan arrived, looking annoyed.

  “I hope you have a good reason for calling this meeting,” said the national security advisor. “I thought this project was already well under way.”

  “I didn’t fly halfway around the world just for fun,” answered Malko.

  The three placed their orders: Caesar salads, racks of lamb, a bottle of California wine.

  Malko knew the two men were anxious to get started, and he began with a simple question, “Who knows about our project?”