Chaos in Kabul

by Gérard de Villiers

“Nobody except John, here,” said Luger in surprise. “Why?”

  “Because someone told President Karzai about it.”

  “Really?” Luger frowned. “Is this coming out of Kabul?”

  “No,” said Malko. “I’m sure it’s not. The only person there who could have done it is Nelson Berry, the man you had me contact. And it’s not in his interest.”

  Malko then described his recent misadventures, including the gas station attack and the mullah’s intervention. He concluded, “The leak came from Washington and we have to plug it. First, because it puts my life in danger, and second, because it might have serious consequences for the future.”

  John Mulligan shook his head and said, “It can’t possibly be coming from here!”

  Malko looked him in the eye. “Not only is it possible; I even have a lead.”

  “What?”

  “Have you mentioned this project to the Strategic Committee for Afghanistan?”

  A question they clearly hadn’t expected.

  “Why are you asking?” Mulligan snapped.

  “Because it’s at the heart of the leak problem. And you haven’t answered me, John.”

  The White House advisor pretended to be thinking, then spoke reluctantly: “A passing reference was made to it, without any details. But the committee members are all senior officials, totally devoted to serving the United States.”

  “Aldrich Ames was also an outstanding CIA officer,” remarked Malko. “Yet he betrayed all the Russians working for the Agency, and quite a few of them were shot. Ames did that for money, as I recall.”

  “That was the Cold War,” grumbled Mulligan angrily. “What are you getting at, anyway?”

  Malko continued. “Is a man named Mark Spider a member of the Afghanistan committee?”

  “Of course! He’s one of our best Afghanistan specialists. He did two tours in Kabul and his advice is invaluable.”

  “What else do you know about Spider, John?”

  “Nothing but good things.”

  “Where were you eleven years ago, in 2002?”

  “I was the head of the NSA. Why?”

  “Because that’s when Mark Spider got to know Hamid Karzai and helped make him America’s proconsul in Afghanistan. Karzai is a Pashtun from a little tribe called the Popolzai. At the time, he was working for a Pashtun politician and didn’t seem to have much of a future. Spider, who was one of the few Afghanistan specialists in those days, ‘sold’ Karzai to the Americans at the Bonn Conference in Germany. Karzai went in as an unknown and came out as a head of state. This created a bond between the two men. Since then, as you know, Spider has been Kabul COS twice, with unusual access to Karzai.”

  “Are you saying Spider is in his pocket?” asked Luger.

  “No, it’s a relationship of friends. Spider sees many good qualities in Karzai while ignoring his faults, namely that he’s surrounded himself with deeply corrupt people and acquired a taste for power.”

  “What’s the connection with our affair?” asked Mulligan.

  “It’s simple. During the Afghanistan committee meeting, Spider realized that the White House wanted to get rid of Karzai in a way that would maintain plausible deniability. Out of loyalty to Karzai, he warned him.”

  “He called Karzai?” asked Luger, incredulous.

  “No, he called his former staffer Jason Forrest, who is still in Kabul. Forrest passed the warning on to Karzai.”

  Silence fell, broken by the White House advisor. “Can you prove this?”

  Malko held his gaze. “Yes.”

  He summarized the inquiry he’d asked Warren Michaelis to conduct, which revealed the secret contacts between Karzai and Forrest. “I haven’t figured out what the next steps are,” he continued, “but as soon as Karzai was alerted, he reacted by having me kidnapped.”

  The two Americans were shaken when they heard the story of Malko’s capture and eventual rescue.

  “What should we do, in your opinion?” asked Mulligan. “Remove Mark Spider from the committee?”

  “It’s too late for that,” said Malko. “The damage has been done. Karzai is now on guard. Since he can’t take official action against me, he’s trying to eliminate me.”

  “How does he know you’re involved?” asked Luger.

  “It’s just a theory, but Warren Michaelis was informed of my arrival, and he must have mentioned it to his deputy Jason Forrest. My visit corresponded with Spider’s warning, so Forrest concluded that I was the Agency’s errand boy, sent to do the dirty work.”

  The mood at the restaurant table had become very tense.

  “What do you suggest?” Mulligan asked again.

  “One thing’s for sure,” said Malko. “If I return to Kabul, I’ll be risking my life.”

  “So you’re dropping the project?”

  Malko was silent for a long moment, letting the Americans twist in the wind for a bit. When he finally spoke, it was to the national security advisor. “I can think of a way out of this, but it will require your cooperation, John.”

  “How so?”

  “By easing Hamid Karzai’s fears. Tell me: you convene the Afghanistan committee meetings, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Are they held on a regular basis?”

  “No, they’re called in response to events.”

  “Very well,” said Malko. “Let’s say you call one of those meetings and Mark Spider attends. You announce that given the difficulties the project has encountered, you have decided to cancel it. You can be sure that Spider will immediately pass the good news to Forrest, who in turn will tell Karzai. He’ll feel safe again and stop trying to kill me—at least I hope so. In addition, it could reduce some of his current hostility toward the U.S.”

  A heavy silence followed Malko’s proposal.

  “You’re asking me to lie,” said Mulligan in a reproachful tone.

  “And you’re asking me to kill somebody,” Malko shot back. “This isn’t a Boy Scout jamboree. It’s your call. I’m not forcing you.”

  The coffees had arrived but remained untouched.

  Mulligan looked at his watch and said, “I have to be going; I have an important meeting. I’ll think about this and call you tomorrow.”

  The White House advisor shook hands and walked out, leaving Luger alone wth Malko.

  “Do you realize what you’re suggesting?” the CIA deputy director hissed. “You’re blackmailing the White House!”

  “I’m not blackmailing anybody,” said Malko. “I’m just trying not to die prematurely.”

  “But this involves the president!”

  “That’s true,” admitted Malko. “But I don’t think his hand shakes when he signs the executive order to dispatch an armed drone to liquidate some Islamist. Same thing here. Compared to everything else, John’s lie will be a pretty minor sin.”

  “So what do you plan to do now?”

  “I’ll wait for John’s answer until tomorrow. Then I’ll take a plane, either for Kabul or for Austria. Which one depends on you.

  “And by the way, I hope John isn’t tempted to lie to me. Not only would it be disloyal, but I’ll find out, and it will end my association with the Agency.”

  Snow was falling lightly on Washington as Malko gazed across the park to the Capitol dome. It was ten minutes to one, and he still hadn’t gotten the phone call he was expecting. He had decided to wait until the evening. To allay his nervousness, he turned on NBC News.

  A few moments later, his cell rang. He recognized Luger’s number—not a good sign.

  “I didn’t think you’d be the person to call, Clayton. You aren’t a party to this decision.”

  “I’m calling on John’s behalf. I just came from his office. We had a long talk. He’s very upset.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” said Malko. “Nobody could anticipate the way this turned out.”

  “John didn’t sleep much last night,” continued Luger, “but in the end he decided to do what you suggested. H
e’s calling a meeting of the Afghanistan committee for tomorrow, and the person concerned will attend. Does that suit you?”

  Malko was silent for a few moments.

  “Is this absolutely definite?” he asked.

  “You have my word,” said Luger.

  “Very well. In that case, I’ll book my plane tickets.”

  Malko waited for an hour at Islamabad for the arrival of a connecting flight and took the opportunity to text Michaelis and ask that a car be sent to meet him. He was dazed with fatigue.

  On Malko’s arrival in Kabul, the immigration officer spent a long time peering at his passport, as if he doubted its authenticity, which put him on edge. But he was eventually able to join Jim Doolittle in a white Land Cruiser waiting next to the terminal.

  “I’ll drop my bag off at the Serena and then we’ll go to the Ariana,” Malko said. He was anxious to wrap up his disinformation operation.

  Fair weather had returned to Kabul, bringing a perfect blue sky and pleasant temperatures.

  The men guarding the pedestrian entrance to the Serena watched an attractive woman with a slightly hooked nose and a silk head scarf walk up to the table on which visitors put items that might set off the metal detector. But instead of putting anything on the table, she flashed an NDS ID card with her photograph and name, Ashraf Nyadi. The guards recognized her, and let her bypass the metal detector and head directly for the lobby. At the front desk, she asked for Room 306, the one permanently reserved for NDS agents on surveillance assignments.

  The moment Nyadi entered the room, she opened her large handbag and took out an automatic with a silencer. She unscrewed the silencer and put it and the pistol in the hanging closet safe.

  She then got undressed, put on a Serena terry cloth robe, and headed for the sauna. That was one of the perks of this highly confidential mission: the hotel’s sauna was the nicest in the city. Nyadi could relax while she waited for her target.

  Malko didn’t keep Warren Michaelis waiting.

  “The problem has been taken care of,” he announced the moment he entered the CIA station chief’s office. “You don’t need to say anything to Jason Forrest.”

  “So what happened?”

  Malko merely smiled.

  “I can’t tell you, but things should get back to normal pretty quickly. On the other hand, I want you to start tapping Jason Forrest’s cell phone.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s something I need to check. And I’m afraid I can’t tell you about that, either.”

  Michaelis looked uncomfortable.

  “All right,” he said, “but you’re making me do things that are illegal, and I don’t like it.”

  Malko gave him a smile tinged with regret.

  “I understand. I also wind up doing illegal things and they give me no joy. I’ll need a daily listing of all the numbers Forrest calls. It’s important.”

  In fact, it was vital. If Hamid Karzai wasn’t completely reassured, he would remain on the offensive.

  Just then one of Michaelis’s phones rang—the Bagram Air Base was calling—and the station chief waved Malko good-bye.

  Out in the fourth-floor hallway, Malko almost collided with Alicia Burton, who had a messenger bag on her shoulder and a burly CIA case officer at her side. So Alicia really was a CIA asset, Malko realized. They stared at each other, equally taken aback. She first put on a distant expression, but then her eyes lit up and she came over to him.

  “I acted stupidly the other day!” she said. “Will you forgive me?”

  Standing akimbo in jeans and a puffy down coat, she looked very sexy.

  “Of course,” said Malko.

  With a glance at her American escort hovering a few feet away, she spoke quickly: “I can’t talk now. Can we have dinner together tonight?”

  “No problem.”

  “I’ll come to the Serena,” she said, and walked away.

  After she left, it occurred to Malko that he might do well to kick his disinformation operation up a notch. He couldn’t contact Nelson Berry until he was positive that Karzai believed the Americans wished him no harm. But this might be a good time to punch a few holes in his security cordon. He asked Doolittle to drive him to the Wazir Akbar Khan mosque.

  The Land Cruiser eased into Kabul’s demented traffic. Seated in the back were two Marines with M16s, hand grenades, helmets, and bulletproof vests; they looked distinctly uncomfortable. They kept glancing around as if they were crossing a city full of dangerous dinosaurs.

  Kabul was no place they cared to be.

  Mullah Kotak was working on his computer when Malko arrived. He stood up, showing a pleasure that might have been sincere.

  “I was told you’d left Kabul! I see that wasn’t the case.”

  “Actually, it was. I did some traveling and got back this morning. With some bad news.”

  The cleric’s face fell so abruptly, it was almost funny. He led Malko to the back of the room and the pile of cushions. A ragged helper came in to serve them tea, then disappeared.

  “So what is this bad news?” asked the cleric.

  “I’ve identified the leak in our project. As you said, it didn’t come from your side. It was inside the Agency. Someone warned Hamid Karzai that the Americans were plotting against him.”

  Kotak was no longer smiling.

  “Who could have done that?” he asked, heaving a sigh. “This is very serious.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said Malko. “A number of meetings were held in Washington as to what to do next. And unfortunately the final decision wasn’t along the lines that you hoped.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “The Americans have decided not to pursue the project.”

  At first, Kotak showed no reaction. Then he spoke through clenched teeth. “This is very unfortunate. It means that evil, corrupt man will continue destroying the country.”

  “I’m afraid so. You might let the people in Quetta know.”

  “Do you think the decision is final?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Yes, it is.”

  For a moment Kotak was lost in thought. Finally he said, “Mullah Omar will be disappointed. He is so honest, and he hates Karzai, who is so corrupt. Will you be leaving Kabul now?”

  “Pretty soon.”

  “And your … preparations?”

  “Are being dismantled. To succeed, the plan needed the element of surprise, and it no longer has it.”

  Malko now felt eager to get out of there. He had delivered the message and it would be quickly relayed to Quetta. Taking this step hadn’t been essential, but he knew too well how porous Afghan circles could be. He was taking a belt-and-suspenders approach, just to be on the safe side.

  Mullah Kotak seemed devastated. He gave Malko a long look, as if about to ask him something, but finally said only, “I will pray for you.”

  That could be taken in several ways, and Malko thought he detected a vague threat in Kotak’s voice. Had he just made himself a new enemy?

  Just the same, the cleric walked him out to the garden gate and said, “Be sure to come say good-bye before you leave Kabul!”

  The phone in Malko’s room rang, startling him. Without realizing it, he had fallen asleep on his bed fully dressed. Before picking up the handset, he glanced at his watch. It was 7:30 p.m. He’d slept for three hours.

  “I’m downstairs in the lobby,” said a woman’s voice.

  It took him a few moments to realize it was Alicia Burton.

  “Give me fifteen minutes!” He had to take a shower.

  He found Alicia waiting for him on a bench in the lobby, wearing a down jacket over a pair of long legs sheathed in black leather. She looked even more appetizing than Malko remembered.

  She sat up and said, “My car’s here, so we can go back to my place, the Gandamack. The food’s pretty good.”

  A tan Corolla with an Afghan driver was parked out front. In ten minutes they were at the Gandamack Lodge, which was almost directly across
from the NDS. The guesthouse had been named for Britain’s disastrous final battle against the Pashtuns near the Khyber Pass in 1842.

  Hidden behind another building, the guesthouse had no sign. Three night watchmen squatted nearby, AK-47s propped against the wall, sharing a bowl of rice palau. A metal door at the back of the courtyard led to the guesthouse proper. Malko and Burton walked through a patchy lawn to the tiny lobby, and from there to the three dining rooms. The place was pretty crowded; alcohol was served.

  The waiter, who spoke only a little English, announced, “Today, I have lamb shops.”

  More than a gourmet dinner, what Malko most wanted was to find out what Alicia Burton was really all about.

  “Tell me the truth,” he said. “When you first approached me, were you acting on Warren Michaelis’s orders?”

  Alicia blinked.

  “Yes, I was,” she admitted quietly. “He occasionally asks me to do things for him.”

  “What did he want to know?”

  “Exactly what you were doing in Kabul,” she said after a slight hesitation. “He said you weren’t an adversary but that he didn’t like being left in the dark.”

  “And now?”

  “He said there was no problem anymore. I’m here tonight because I wanted to see you again, and that’s all.”

  Alicia’s gaze was direct and expressive: basically, she wanted to get laid. As if to specify what she had in mind, she added, “I didn’t like the fight we got into last time. I’m not in the habit of doing that sort of thing.”

  They had polished off a bottle of red wine from someplace or other, and Malko was finally beginning to relax. It was pleasant to be in the company of a young woman who was offering herself without any hidden agenda. He felt a little guilty about Maureen Kieffer, but the South African woman was off-limits for the time being.

  When the bill came, Alicia snatched it up.

  “This is my treat,” she said. “You’re on my turf.”

  They returned to the lobby and the night watchman gave her the key to Room 4. There was no elevator. It felt like being in an English boardinghouse.

  Ashraf Nyadi was playing a video game on her cell phone when the phone in her room rang.