Chaos in Kabul

by Gérard de Villiers

  “What’s that?”

  “On the day of the attack, Berry killed an NDS agent in the Aziz Palace construction site, so as to act undisturbed. But until he confesses to shooting at the president, we don’t have enough evidence to charge him.

  “We also want Berry to tell us how he got the Degtyarov 41. The president insists on that. It will be a key piece of evidence at the trial.”

  “What happens after that?”

  “Then we extract his real confession, implicating Linge and the Americans. That way we’ll have something to hold over their heads.”

  “Let’s hope this all works,” said Raziq with a sigh.

  “And another thing,” continued Bamyan. “We said we would transfer Berry to the Bagram prison. We aren’t going to do that. He killed our agent, so we can keep him in one of our cells, beyond the Americans’ reach.”

  The plan was a tortuous one, but it had a number of advantages. The more evidence the Afghans had of U.S. involvement in the attack against Karzai, the stronger their position in the future. The Americans had no idea that their Afghan counterparts were so skilled at playing double or triple games.

  A difference of culture.

  Malko lay on his bed in the Ariana. Since leaving the CIA deputy director, he’d been going over the American proposal in his mind, looking for pitfalls. Because there had to be one. He had decided not to leave the protection of the CIA until he was sure that he wasn’t at risk.

  The stakes were too high for a single individual to have much importance in matters of state. And this affair had started at the top, with the president of the United States.

  Malko’s cell rang. A hidden number. He answered anyway and recognized Luger’s voice.

  “I’m still at the embassy,” he said. “I’m sending you a car in fifteen minutes.”

  He hung up before Malko had time to answer.

  He rested for a few more moments, then went down to the Ariana guard station, where a case officer drove him to the American embassy.

  They quickly passed through the various checkpoints. An operative was waiting for Malko at the embassy entrance.

  “If you’ll follow me,” he said, “I’ll take you to the residence.”

  Luger was sitting on a blue sofa smoking a cigar. He smiled at Malko and got right to the point.

  “Have you thought it over?”

  “If I said yes, what would my status be, as of right now?”

  Luger’s features relaxed slightly. “That’s a point I settled with the palace. In that case, I give Kalmar a call, and all surveillance of you is dropped. You can move back into the Serena, and an Agency car will be at your disposal.”

  “Can I leave the country?”

  “Not right away, but when this problem is dealt with, sure,” said Luger with a smile. “The Afghans won’t object. By the way, you originally told John that you didn’t want to be paid for this assignment, for ethical reasons. Considering what’s happened to you, that clause is canceled. You’ll be generously rewarded for your efforts, and you will have earned John’s and the Agency’s esteem.”

  “I hoped I already had it,” said Malko.

  He was silent for a few moments. The CIA was putting everything in the balance to get free of a trap of its own devising. He again cursed himself for accepting this outlandish assignment, but there was no point in crying over spilled milk. And he thought longingly of the Serena, which now seemed as desirable as the finest hotel in the world. The last few days of life on the run had exhausted him.

  “Very well,” he said. “I accept your proposal.”

  Luger’s face brightened. “Great!” he exulted. “I expected no less of you. And now, to get the ball rolling, we’ll start with a little formality.”

  “What’s that?” asked Malko.

  “You’re going to phone Nelson Berry.”

  Nelson Berry gazed thoughtfully at the unfamiliar number displayed on his cell phone. He hadn’t heard from Malko since his first attempt to reach him, but that didn’t mean much. He decided to risk answering the call. When he did, the Austrian’s accent came as a breath of fresh air.

  “I know you called,” said Malko, “but I wasn’t in Kabul then.”

  “It’s good to hear from you. Want to have a dop with me tomorrow?”

  “Where?”

  “My place. Noon, if that works for you. I’ll send Darius.”

  After hanging up, Berry poured himself a whiskey. He had done a lot of thinking since his initial call to the CIA operative and had come up with a plan.

  He had decided to leave Afghanistan for good, but he didn’t want to leave a troublesome witness like Malko behind. If he talked, the Afghan authorities might get Interpol to issue an international arrest warrant against Berry, which would cause him no end of trouble. He intended to go to Dubai first, and the Dubaians were sticklers about international regulations.

  Thanks to General Raziq’s intervention, he was free of surveillance, and this had allowed him to plan his departure.

  Before leaving Kabul he would swing by his farm and dig up his five hundred thousand in cash. Then he would drive north on the Mazar-e-Sharif highway to Tajikistan. The highway was safe, and Berry felt sure he would reach the border without any trouble. In Dushanbe, he would sell his car to some drug traffickers he knew and catch a flight for Dubai.

  Thanks to Malko’s telephone call, Berry could now finalize his arrangements.

  The next morning, he would pack his computers and whatever else he needed from his poppy palace, drive to the farm, and have his caretaker dig a grave in a nearby field. Darius would pick up Linge and bring him there. Berry would shoot him at the first opportunity and leave him for the old man to bury. That way, he could head for Dushanbe with an easy mind.

  Having drunk his whiskey, he went to get Darius. The two of them had to deliver an SUV he was selling to Maureen Kieffer to earn some extra money. Berry was sick and tired of Afghanistan. The sunshine in Dubai would revive his taste for life.

  Riding in an Agency SUV, Malko gazed out at Kabul’s anarchic traffic. He felt as if he were in a new city, yet nothing had changed: the same pedestrians in turbans and pakol hats hurried along the sidewalks, and the same yellow taxis, aging buses, and omnipresent Toyotas jammed the streets.

  His heart soared a little when he passed through the Serena Hotel’s sliding armored gates.

  The lobby was empty, as usual. The desk clerk handed Malko a new room key—his old one had expired—without inquiring about his absence.

  Room 382 was in perfect order. To Malko, it felt like coming home.

  He got undressed and raced to the shower. The hot water felt so good, he didn’t want to leave. When he was finally clean and dry, he felt like himself again. His Russian GSh-18 was still in the GK ankle holster. He had almost forgotten it.

  Malko suddenly realized that it was after eight o’clock and he was famished. He hated the idea of eating alone, so he phoned Alicia Burton but got no answer. She must not be in Kabul.

  Then he thought of Maureen Kieffer, whom he’d stayed clear of, for her safety. The young South African woman wasn’t off-limits anymore. He dialed her number, but she didn’t pick up.

  He had resigned himself to eating at the hotel buffet when Maureen rang him back.

  “Malko!” she cried warmly when she heard his voice. “I thought you were dead!”

  She wasn’t far wrong.

  “I was away, but I’m back in Kabul again, and a lot of my problems have been solved. I’d really like to see you. Would you like to have dinner?”

  “I’d love to, but I can’t. I invited a bunch of friends over, and I can’t cancel. Why don’t you join us? I can send my driver. He’ll come at nine o’clock and wait outside the hotel; it’s too complicated for him to come in.”

  “That’s perfect. I’ll be out front at nine. I would bring you a bottle of champagne, but they don’t have any here.”

  “Don’t worry, I have some!” she said, laughing. “See
you later!”

  At Maureen’s, Malko was greeted by a smiling young Pakistani with a neatly trimmed beard. He put his hand out and said, “My name’s Parvez. I run the UN Humanitarian Air Service. I’m a pal of Maureen’s. She’s in the kitchen. Come on in!”

  There were a dozen young expats in the living room, draped across armchairs or sitting on cushions. Al Jazeera was playing on a big flat-screen TV with the sound off, and a CD of vaguely Indian music filled the room. Malko walked through to the kitchen.

  “Malko!” Maureen cried.

  She quit stirring a big pot of spaghetti and ran to his arms.

  She was wearing a very short black dress and looked extremely sexy. She ground her hips against his in a silent invitation, then giggled and said, “We’re going to have to wait for a while. My pals like to drink and talk a lot.”

  She apparently wasn’t angry at Malko for whatever may have happened with Alicia Burton.

  “I’ll leave you to your cooking,” he said.

  Back in the living room, the champagne was flowing freely. Malko poured himself a glass and went to sit next to Parvez, who seemed the most interesting person there.

  “I just got to Kabul,” he said. “What’s the situation like?”

  “Not great,” said the young man, grimacing. “We don’t know what will happen after Karzai goes. The Americans are pulling out, and that’s leaving a lot of people unemployed. There’s no money. The Afghans would like to emigrate, but where can they go? Nobody wants them, not even Dubai. There are more and more beggars in town.”

  “What about the Taliban?”

  The young Pakistani smiled sarcastically.

  “Oh, they’re doing just fine! We don’t see them much in Kabul. They only launch occasional suicide attacks against the police or the army, but they’re on a roll in the provinces. They don’t control any cities, but they’re everywhere in the countryside.

  “Also, they’re systematically cutting the highways. You can’t go to Bamyan overland anymore. You have to fly. Which is making a man out in the Band-e-Amir Lakes crazy.” These were a chain of spectacular lakes on a fourteen-thousand-foot plateau a hundred miles west of Kabul.

  “Why is that?” asked Malko.

  “Believe it or not, he built a ski resort there. For rich people from the city.”

  In the middle of war-torn Afghanistan? Malko was amazed.

  “A ski resort! How?”

  “Oh, he jury-rigged it somehow,” said the Pakistani. “He wasn’t able to build a ski lift, so he uses donkeys to haul the skiers up the mountain on a tow rope. But people love it. There aren’t many places to have fun in this country.”

  Just then Maureen emerged from the kitchen with a huge plate of spaghetti.

  “Soup’s on!” she cried.

  Maureen’s living room was littered with dirty dishes and empty bottles. She had just seen her last guest to the door. She flopped down next to Malko on the sofa and sighed.

  “To make them leave, I told them there wasn’t any more champagne.”

  “They do drink an awful lot.”

  The young South African shook her blond locks.

  “I’m liquidating my supply. I can’t take it with me.”

  “You’re leaving Afghanistan?”

  “Soon as I can find someone to buy my business. Everyone’s leaving. Pretty soon there won’t be any more expats here. Most of my customers have already closed up shop.”

  She crossed her legs high enough for Malko to glimpse her white panties, then stood up and ran into the kitchen. She came back with a bottle of Roederer Cristal and started to open it.

  “This one’s for us!” she announced.

  She filled two glasses and came to stand in front of Malko, provocatively thrusting her full breasts at him.

  “Do I still turn you on?” she asked playfully.

  Instead of answering, Malko slipped an arm around her waist and caressed her breast with his other hand. She promptly pressed her crotch against his and started to move.

  But not for long.

  Freeing herself, she slipped her dress over her head, keeping only her panties. Then she said, “It’s been a long time since I hosed you down. Get undressed!”

  Since Malko didn’t react fast enough, she started unbuttoning his shirt, then attacked his alpaca pants. When he was completely naked, she took his cock in her right hand and gently stroked it until it was as stiff as she liked.

  As she did, she gazed into Malko’s eyes, her upper lip drawn back a little from her dazzling white teeth.

  As before, she drenched Malko’s belly with champagne, then knelt in front of him on the rug. First she licked the champagne from his stomach, then moved down to his cock, lapping the wine up like a little cat. Finally, she took his cock in her mouth and deep in her throat. Sighing with pleasure, she then settled back on the sofa, her legs apart.

  Malko needed only to push her white panties aside to slide into her warm pussy.

  A delighted Maureen bounced beneath him, squeezing his hips with her thighs, giving a little cry with each of his thrusts. Meanwhile, she licked the champagne from his chest each time she was able to. Eventually, he gave a yell and came deep inside her.

  When she caught her breath, Maureen gave a peal of joyous laughter.

  “I’ll always love sucking off a man with a big hard-on and a little champagne.”

  The woman’s tastes were simple, though difficult to indulge in a country like Afghanistan.

  She lit a cigarette and suddenly said, “By the way, d’you remember that guy you once mentioned, Nelson Berry? A South African, like me? He’s leaving town, too.”

  Malko’s heartbeat picked up.

  “How do you know that?”

  “He came by this afternoon to sell me one of his cars. He’s leaving tomorrow morning.”

  Maureen Kieffer had clearly made the remark casually, without anything special in mind. Her meeting with Berry didn’t conflict with Malko’s, and there was no reason for Berry to have given Malko his schedule when they’d spoken. But it felt worrisome, somehow.

  When Malko didn’t respond, Maureen asked, “Have you seen him?”

  “We talked on the phone, but he didn’t say what he was up to. Why is he leaving Kabul?”

  “He doesn’t have enough clients. At least that’s what he told me.”

  “I should know more tomorrow,” said Malko. “I’m due to meet with him. And now I think I better get back to the hotel. Can you have your driver give me a lift?”

  “Of course,” she said. “If you stay on in Kabul, I hope we can see each other again.”

  Ten minutes later, Malko was riding through the darkened streets of the city. He was intrigued by what Maureen had told him, but he wasn’t able to say why.

  It was 11:30 a.m., and Malko was due to be picked up by Berry’s driver at the usual place. As he was about to leave his room, he hesitated. The automatic and ankle holster lay on his night table, and he couldn’t decide whether to take them. Finally, he strapped them on, first making sure a round was already chambered. The GSh-18 was the kind of weapon that had to be ready in an instant.

  Taking it felt a little silly, given the conversation he was going to have with Berry. He would try to get him to throw himself to the wolves in exchange for a million dollars. And Berry would probably tell him to forget it, especially if he was leaving the country.

  The sun over Kabul was brilliant. As before, Darius had parked the Corolla beyond the police checkpoint and was waiting for him. At first, Malko didn’t pay much attention to their route. But he soon noticed they hadn’t passed the NDS compound. Instead, they were heading north to the Jalalabad highway.

  “Aren’t we going to Mr. Berry’s place?” he asked.

  “The commander will see you at one of his properties,” said Darius. “It isn’t far.”

  They soon left the highway for a bumpy track that wandered between barren hills, past flocks of sheep and isolated farms. Three-quarters of an hour af
ter leaving downtown, they reached a large farm surrounded by a high wall. Berry’s SUV was parked in front of the farmhouse.

  As Darius pulled up, a smiling Berry appeared in the doorway. He gave Malko a warm handshake and led him inside to a big wooden table.

  “This is my annex,” he explained. “I store a lot of my stuff here. Want some chai?”

  “So what happened?” asked Malko.

  They hadn’t spoken since the attack.

  “I was sold out by my source,” said Berry with a scowl of disgust. “The wanker pointed me to the wrong car. I only found out later, of course.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I went to Logar Province for a job. I didn’t know what kind of shit was going to come down in Kabul, but fortunately nothing did. When I got back, life went on as usual.”

  “A lot has happened in the meantime,” said Malko. “For one thing, the Americans have decided to make peace with Karzai.”

  Berry looked surprised. “Did they admit what they’d been planning?”

  “No. They were betrayed by someone on the inside, in Washington.”

  “That takes the cake!” he said, whistling softly. Then he frowned. “What about me?”

  Malko looked him straight in the eye. “I’m afraid your involvement has been discovered. But we’ve come up with a solution that will satisfy everybody, including you.”

  The South African stiffened. “Tell me about it,” he said carefully.

  Malko outlined the tricky plan they had hatched with the Afghans, the million dollars Berry would get for his cooperation, and what would happen after that.

  The South African looked as if he’d been turned to stone. “Your Washington friends are pretty fucking naïve,” he finally said. “The Afghans are going to screw you, and then they’ll screw me. Once I’m in the hands of the NDS, they’ll do whatever they please.”

  “But it’s the only possible solution,” argued Malko. “Otherwise they’ll have our hide.”

  “They’ll have your hide, because I won’t be around. I don’t even plan to return to my poppy palace. From here I’m heading to Mazar and then Dushanbe, where I’ll take a plane to Dubai.”