The woman stiffened and quietly said, “Valuta”—the cash.
Berry peeled three hundred-dollar bills from his wad. She stuffed them in her right boot and relaxed.
Putting his hand on her knee, Berry noticed that she had taken off her tights. Her skirt was so short that he quickly found her crotch without encountering the slightest impediment. She wasn’t wearing panties.
As he was getting excited, caressing her all over, Mariana asked, “How you want?”
“Like this,” said the South African. He seized her hips and made her kneel on the seat, her face against one of the doors. Fortunately, the SUV was roomy enough to handle this kind of recreation.
The moment she was in position, Berry unzipped his pants and shoved his underwear aside, freeing a cock as stiff as a baseball bat. He lifted Mariana’s miniskirt from her hips, admiring her shapely ass. Gripping the door handle, the young whore waited stolidly.
But when the huge prick plunged into her, it still came as a shock.
Berry was hung like a bull, and he wasn’t into gentleness. In two thrusts he penetrated Mariana to the hilt. He, too, was kneeling, with his feet firmly planted against the other door. As he started energetically working her over, the Land Cruiser began to rock.
The young woman’s head banged against the bulletproof window while her energetic partner grunted like a lumberjack. Now sliding smoothly, he went at it with a will.
Alas, all good things must come to an end. With a final thrust, Berry clutched her hips and emptied himself in her. Mariana waited a decent interval before pulling free.
“Spasiba,” she thanked him politely. “Was very good.”
Her tone was completely indifferent, but Berry didn’t care. This was a red-letter day.
The two got out of the SUV at the same time. Mariana headed back to the Boccaccio, and Berry went around and got behind the wheel.
Malko answered his new cell phone, which was secure, like his old one. Michaelis was on the line.
“Mr. Luger is in my office,” he said.
“I’ll be right down.”
He’d been waiting in his room for an hour and was getting restless. When he entered the station chief’s office, he found Clayton Luger sprawled on the leather sofa. The deputy director looked jetlagged, and no surprise. A seven-thousand-mile trip would exhaust anyone. He must have showered and shaved, because he otherwise looked quite presentable.
Luger managed a smile and said, “I’m starving. Let’s go have dinner.”
“I reserved the embassy dining room,” said Michaelis.
They had to cover only a couple of hundred yards, but it was studded with checkpoints and took them nearly twenty minutes. There weren’t any Afghans here, only Americans and Gurkhas in bulletproof vests.
The dining room looked out on a garden, its windows protected by netting against hand grenades. A Marine waiter served them and poured a Bordeaux. The three men’s conversation was casual, focusing on the difficulties the United States was having getting its matériel out through Pakistan, an operation that was costing a hundred and fifty million dollars a month. Luger was clearly waiting to be alone with Malko to talk seriously.
Michaelis disappeared as soon as coffee was over, having settled Malko and Luger in the sitting room of the ambassador, who was away from Kabul for a few days. When he closed the door behind him, Luger visibly relaxed and gave Malko a warm smile.
“I’m very relieved to see you, Malko! We were worried. Exactly what happened?”
“I really don’t know,” Malko admitted. “I haven’t seen Nelson Berry since before the day of the attack. I know he hit the wrong car, he hasn’t been arrested, and the Afghans are blaming the Taliban. He phoned me yesterday, but I didn’t pick up. I was waiting to see you.”
“That was smart,” said Luger. “We’re in deep doo-doo, and the president has decided to get us out of it. This isn’t your fault, of course. Maybe it’s nobody’s fault. But regardless, we have to defuse the situation. John and I have devised an exit strategy.
“First of all, John thanks you. He read the report Michaelis sent. Those damned Taliban were planning to screw us six ways from Sunday. But that’s past, and we’ll settle our scores later. My trip here today has just one goal: make peace with President Karzai.”
“That isn’t going to be easy,” remarked Malko.
“I’m coming hat in hand,” said the CIA deputy director. “But there isn’t any other way. Here’s the approach we decided on.
“Tomorrow morning I have an appointment with Karzai’s chief of staff, Hadj Ali Kalmar. I won’t be going alone. Jason Forrest will accompany me. He’s been briefed by Mark Spider, who himself was briefed by John.” Luger smiled bitterly. “Forrest is my guarantee.”
“What are you going to tell them?” asked Malko, intrigued by this strange visit.
“Part of the truth,” said Luger. “That an extremist group, which I won’t name, convinced the White House that for the security of the United States, President Karzai had to be eliminated.”
“Are you going to mention the Taliban?”
“Hell no! This is an internal American affair.”
“What then?”
“That after due consideration, we decided to cancel the operation, which is why the Afghanistan committee met for a second time. Unfortunately the operation was already under way, so it was lucky it didn’t have any consequences. Needless to say, I will apologize abjectly and offer the president an arrangement whereby we keep some troops in Afghanistan to protect him.”
“You think the Afghans will buy that?” Malko was dubious.
Luger heaved a sigh. “I’m going to take a double dose of Prozac.”
“I wish you luck,” said Malko. “And what happens to me?”
“We’ll talk about that later. First, I have to go bury the hatchet.”
“The Afghans are going to demand compensation. They have the advantage.”
Luger dismissed the objection. “If it’s a matter of money, we have it. If it’s breaking with the Taliban, we’ll do it. Now that we know they planned to fuck us, we won’t have any regrets.”
He fell silent and lit a cigarette. To Malko, it felt unreal to be talking this way in the U.S. ambassador’s quiet, well-appointed living room.
“All right, I’m going to bed!” said Luger. “I need a good night’s sleep. See you tomorrow!”
The white Land Cruiser flying the American flag on its left fender was as armored as a tank. It stopped at the checkpoint off the Massoud roundabout. Ahead stretched a long straight avenue interrupted by three more checkpoints. This was the Green Zone, which protected the presidential palace and its outbuildings.
A young Afghan woman wearing glasses was waiting at the checkpoint and climbed into the Land Cruiser next to Luger.
“I am Mariam Azibullah,” she said. “I will escort you to Mr. Kalmar’s office.”
They went through the three checkpoints. Despite the presence of Karzai’s staffer, each was more thorough than the last. There was another roundabout at the end of the wide avenue, then a second avenue leading to a kind of fortress with ramparts, a tower topped by the Afghan flag, and a passageway for vehicles.
“We get out here,” said the young woman. “Cars aren’t allowed any farther.”
They passed through a metal detector, and a soldier then politely searched all of them, even the CIA deputy director. They emerged onto an esplanade worthy of Versailles. Azibullah pointed to a group of buildings on the left. In a profoundly respectful tone, she said, “That is where President Karzai lives.”
Luger’s group headed to a matching group of buildings on the right. Armed men were everywhere. Climbing a flight of stairs, they entered an attractively furnished office with a low table for tea. Their guide made Luger and Forrest comfortable and disappeared.
The CIA men waited nearly twenty minutes before a young man with glasses wearing a Western suit opened the door. Without the hint of a smile, Kalmar shook t
heir hands and ushered them into his office.
His face could have been carved in ice, and it was hard to catch his eye.
After a few moments of silence, Luger gathered his courage and said, “I’ve come from Washington to have a straightforward talk with you. I think there’s a serious misunderstanding between our two countries.”
Kalmar didn’t stir, only giving Luger a sharp glance. In perfect English, he said, “I hope you have come with the best of intentions, because you have a lot to apologize for. I won’t hide the fact that I had to beg the president to be allowed to receive you. I don’t think the relations between our two countries have ever been more”—he hesitated, choosing his word carefully—“threatened.”
Luger bent his head. He had expected a chilly reception and he wasn’t disappointed. Seeing his guest’s dismay, Kalmar softened the blow a little.
“An Afghan proverb says that fair weather always follows a storm. So please, speak your piece.”
“Mr. Luger wants to see you in my office at six o’clock,” said Michaelis. “I’ll leave you alone, because I think he has a lot to tell you.”
It was 5:30, and Malko hadn’t heard from Luger since their conversation the evening before. All he knew was that he had gone to the palace and met with President Karzai’s right-hand man. Since then, he had been closeted in the embassy.
When Malko entered Michaelis’s office, Luger was already there. He was looking better than he had the previous evening but had big bags under his eyes. He greeted Malko with somewhat forced warmth. Michaelis already had his hand on the doorknob.
“Should the three of us have dinner together?” he suggested without much conviction.
Clearly preoccupied, Luger didn’t bother answering. He was looking at Malko.
“Which do you want first, the good news or the bad news?” he asked in a dull voice.
“The bad news, of course.”
The American nodded.
“I’m afraid I’m going to ask you to do something very unpleasant.”
For a few seconds, Malko wondered anxiously what Clayton Luger could ask of him that was so unpleasant—short of surrendering to the Afghan authorities, that is. His mission had become a nightmare. Even his American backers were turning on him.
“I’m listening,” he said.
Luger took a deep breath and began.
“I just had the most uncomfortable hour of my life,” he said. “Kalmar began by threatening to make public the CIA plot to assassinate the president of a supposedly friendly country.
“That could have been devastating, because the Afghans have concrete evidence, including your and Nelson Berry’s names. There’s also the matter of the murdered villager, which aggravates the charges against you, and the fact that you tried to get out of the country afterward. The nephew’s testimony is especially damning. He says you tried to reach Quetta clandestinely when you knew you were wanted by the Afghan authorities.”
At this, Malko exploded. “You know very well that I was trying to avoid causing you problems! I could easily have taken refuge here at the Ariana, but I didn’t want to drag the Agency into it.”
“That didn’t ultimately do any good, but I appreciate it,” said Luger. “Anyway, what’s done is done. I’ll spare you the rest of the conversation. In the end I was able to convince Kalmar that a public break would hurt both our countries. So he moved to his fallback position. He asked for your head.”
“Is this what you meant by ‘something unpleasant’?” asked Malko, alarmed in spite of himself.
“Don’t worry, I immediately refused. I explained that you were acting under orders—my orders—and that you were a vital Agency asset. There was no question of handing you over. That was a deal breaker. Kalmar knows you’re here under our protection and that we can exfiltrate you through Bagram, so he didn’t press the point.”
“In other words, I’m in the clear,” said Malko.
Luger made a cautious gesture. “Wait, it’s not as simple as all that! Kalmar then laid out his own bottom line, which came straight from President Karzai. And he considers it nonnegotiable as well.
“Karzai is prepared to wipe the slate clean of our ‘misdeeds’ on one condition: by Afghan tradition, a blood price must be paid.”
“You mean the driver who died in the motorcade attack? That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“No,” said Luger, shaking his head. “Kalmar didn’t even mention him.”
“Who then?”
“The blood price is that of the man who committed the assault, the guy behind the gun.”
“Nelson Berry?”
“That’s right. They want him so they can show the Afghan people a concrete result: a mercenary paid by a hostile entity—namely, the Taliban—to kill their president.”
“I understand, but what role do I play in all this?”
“You’re the only person to have contact with Berry. Your job will be to convince him to turn himself in and confess.”
Malko jerked upright in his chair. “That’s disgusting!” he cried. “I’m the one who dragged him into this mess, using your money, and now you’re asking me to betray him!”
“It’s not a betrayal,” argued Luger. “In Vietnam, officers were asked to abandon their soldiers in Vietcong territory, even though it meant condemning them to death or imprisonment. It was in the national interest, for diplomatic reasons.”
“And some of those officers committed suicide instead,” Malko angrily pointed out. “During all the years I’ve served the Agency I’ve managed to maintain a minimum standard of ethics. I don’t plan to stop now.”
“I’m not asking you to commit suicide or to compromise your values—”
Interrupting him, Malko went on, “Besides, the first thing Berry will do if he’s arrested will be to implicate me. He can prove I gave him money. Your plan isn’t just amoral; it’s idiotic!”
For the first time since the start of their conversation, a thin smile crossed the American’s face.
“You’re forgetting that we’re in Afghanistan,” said Luger. “This is all playacting! Karzai wants to show the public that the Taliban tried to get rid of him. And that’s what Berry will tell his interrogators.”
“But he’ll have to talk about me.”
“Of course, but only as an intermediary between the Taliban and us. He can claim not to know who in the Taliban put the plot together. Do you see what I’m getting at?”
“Perfectly,” said Malko. “And the way this little piece of theater plays out, Nelson Berry dies. Sorry, I won’t do it.”
“Actually, we reached an agreement to cover that,” said Luger. “Once Berry has confessed along the lines that implicate the Taliban, he’ll be transferred from NDS custody to the prison in Bagram.”
“Won’t he go to trial?” asked Malko, surprised.
“Afghan justice works very slowly,” said Luger. “At the Bagram prison, detainees are held for months or even longer before being tried. So here’s the deal I struck with Kalmar. Berry will spend a few months behind bars in Bagram—no sinecure, but the lesser of two evils. Then he’ll be quietly moved to the part of the prison we still control and flown out of the country.”
“Where to?”
“Wherever he likes. We have military flights to Dubai, Europe, and the United States. And you’re authorized to offer him one million dollars in compensation for his stay in prison. That’s a small cost for getting ourselves out of this catastrophic situation with our heads high.
“Karzai is due to go to the United States to meet with President Obama in a month. Everything has to be settled by then. They’ll be discussing the departure of coalition troops, and those talks can’t be poisoned by this sort of problem.”
Luger paused.
“So what do you think of all this?”
“How much faith do you put in the Afghans’ word?” asked Malko.
“As a rule, none. But in the present case, the risks are limited. Berry won’t be to
rtured, because he’ll confess what we tell him to. I’m sure he’ll go through some bad times, but he’s a tough cookie. And after all, he did try to assassinate Karzai. He took a chance, and he’ll pay a price for it.
“Then, when he’s moved to Bagram, he’ll be more on our turf. We’ve transferred the prison to Afghan control, but we’re keeping an eye on it.”
“How do things stand with Kalmar right now?” asked Malko.
“I have until this evening to call him, to confirm or reject our agreement.”
“What if you reject it?”
“Then I’m finished,” said Luger flatly. “John warned me that there would have to be a scapegoat.”
A hush descended on the men. It was laughing heartily at the sight of the Americans being hoisted by their own petard.
Luger glanced at his watch. “You have two hours to think this over, which should be plenty of time. As soon as I have your answer, I’ll communicate it to John.”
Malko stood up and asked a final question. “What if Nelson Berry refuses my proposal?”
Luger shook his head. “I don’t see how that would be in his interest. His career in Afghanistan is finished. If the Afghans arrest him outside of our agreement, he’ll go through some very rough times. By signing on with us he gets a million dollars and can go make himself a life somewhere else after a few months in prison. Anyway, it’s up to you to convince him.”
Luger put out his hand to shake, signaling the end of their meeting. Clearly, Malko thought, the Americans were ready to do practically anything to extricate themselves from the mess they’d gotten into. He just hoped the CIA deputy director wasn’t hiding anything from him.
Parviz Bamyan was having tea with General Raziq, who was in civilian clothes. The NDS chief had just come from the presidential palace, where he’d been briefed on the proposal put to the Americans.
“The whole trick is to quietly get hold of Nelson Berry and extract his ‘confession’ implicating the Taliban,” he told Raziq. “Then we’ll pull out our secret weapon.”
Chaos in Kabul Page 23
