Chaos in Kabul

by Gérard de Villiers

  Malko didn’t answer immediately. What he was being asked to do fell within the purview of an Agency mission leader. It involved persuading people, not killing them. The problem was that it was taking place in Afghanistan, where people tended to shoot first and ask questions later. And the moment Karzai realized that Malko was again plotting against him, he would have just one idea: eliminating him once and for all.

  But Malko was too tired to argue. All he wanted was to forget the stress of these last days.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll contact Kotak again, after I’m finished with this ridiculous blood-price formality. I hope he’ll listen to me.”

  “Great! The station will be at your disposal for logistics. As far as keeping in touch, you’ll report directly to me on a secure line. I’d like to see you succeed.”

  Malko didn’t reply. He was thinking not of succeeding but of sleeping.

  “I’ll call you a car,” said the deputy director. “Until we see each other in Washington again, be careful. By the way, Karzai’s office will contact you tomorrow for the blood-price ceremony.”

  Ten minutes later, Malko was in yet another of the CIA’s white Land Cruisers, heading for the Serena.

  As he got undressed, Malko glanced down at the GSh-18 strapped to his ankle. It had twice saved his life already. He took off the holster, slipped under the sheets, and immediately fell asleep.

  A photo of Nelson Berry’s body surrounded by smiling policemen was splashed across the front page of the Afghanistan Times Daily, a Kabul English-language newspaper. The accompanying story was worthy of the picture, describing how a careful investigation led the NDS to the author of the attempt against the president. The article said the Taliban were obviously behind the attack but didn’t specify exactly who.

  Malko was finishing his breakfast when an Afghan woman came into the dining room by herself, an event rare enough to be noteworthy. She had long black hair, partly covered by a silk head scarf, and was dressed Western-style in a classic blue dress.

  Malko watched as the woman chose a table across from him, then went to serve herself at the buffet. She didn’t look like a journalist or an NGO staffer. When she came back to sit down, their eyes briefly met. Just then, Malko’s cell phone rang.

  An unknown voice with a strong Afghan accent told him that the blood-price ceremony would take place in forty-eight hours at Yusuf Khel, in the presence of the village chief. Malko was to bring twenty thousand dollars and give it to the chief after a brief speech.

  Malko would be picked up at the hotel at eight o’clock by a military escort, because the road wasn’t completely safe.

  As soon as he’d hung up, he called Warren Michaelis.

  “Luger told me about it,” said the CIA station chief. “We’re going to give you a real escort, of course. I don’t trust those sons of bitches. I’ll notify Karzai’s office. We’ll bring you the money at the same time.”

  That was one problem taken care of, at least.

  Malko felt wary of this whole blood-price setup, because he knew the ceremony was rarely held. Coalition authorities generally arranged to pay compensation to the families of those killed by drone or bomb attacks, but without getting personally involved. Why had the Afghans insisted so strongly on his presence in this case?

  “Nelson Berry’s dead,” said Malko.

  Maureen Kieffer was silent for a few moments, then asked, “Do you know what happened?”

  “Yes. I shot him to keep him from killing me. It’s a long story.”

  “I read about it in the papers,” said the South African woman. “It’s too bad. Nelson was an okay guy, and he wasn’t afraid to take chances.”

  “He took one too many,” said Malko. “Anyway, I think your warning probably saved my life.”

  “Was he really the person who shot at Karzai’s car?”

  “If you have dinner with me tonight, I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “You know that’s always with pleasure. Shall I come get you?”

  “Nine o’clock. We’ll go to the Boccaccio.”

  Malko wasn’t outside for more than three minutes when Maureen pulled up to the Serena’s sidewalk blast wall in her old SUV. The young woman was alone, and her car smelled of perfume.

  She had put on a skirt, a red cashmere sweater, and high heels. The good weather was back, and the streets were finally free of mud.

  “Nice of you to dress up for me,” said Malko, laying a hand on her black-clad thigh. “I haven’t had much relaxation these days.”

  “Maybe not, but at least you’re still alive,” she said, giving him a knowing look. “That’s not true of everyone.”

  She was driving toward the Boccaccio, through traffic that was moving well at that hour.

  “Are you thinking of Nelson Berry?” he asked.

  “Yes. It’s upsetting to think that you shot him. He wasn’t a bad sort.”

  Everything’s relative, Malko thought.

  “I can explain what happened,” he promised. “I don’t like killing people, but I’ve sometimes been forced to.”

  Malko had left his GSh-18 in the hotel safe for the evening. He almost felt like he was on vacation.

  They were nibbling on a big naan in the middle of the table while waiting for their spaghetti with clams. Malko was wrapping up his account of the Karzai attack and Berry’s death.

  “I’ll never know why he wanted to kill me, but I didn’t have any choice. He had it all planned. He’d already had my grave dug.”

  The South African woman nodded. “Nelson must’ve been afraid you would turn him in. I can’t think of any other reason. At least the Afghans now know who carried out the attack.”

  “They also know I’m the person who ordered it.”

  The spaghetti arrived and they dug in.

  After a while Maureen said, “You haven’t told me why you’re staying on in Kabul, since this business is over.”

  “I still have to pay the blood price.”

  “Yeah, but that’ll be quick. Will you be leaving right afterward?”

  Malko almost said yes, then realized it was silly to lie to her. “I don’t know yet. I’m talking with the Taliban.”

  She gave him an anxious look. “That’s dangerous, you know. Karzai gets hysterical over contacts between the Americans and the Taliban. And you’re vulnerable. They’ve already targeted you.”

  “That just means you won’t be able to see me,” he said lightly.

  Maureen scowled at him. “Don’t be a bonehead, Malko! It’s you I’m worried about, not me. They’ve got a thousand ways of getting rid of you.”

  “I’ll be careful,” he promised.

  They sat talking about his problems until the end of the meal.

  Driving back through Kabul’s poorly lit streets, all Malko could think of was being in Maureen’s arms. They drove directly to her guesthouse.

  When they embraced, Malko knew they would make love in an unusually intense way. An interlude that would restore his sense of himself.

  Hugging each other in Maureen’s living room, they began to sway. Malko pushed the young woman against a wall, put his hand under her skirt, and slid her panties down. Maureen agreeably let him have his way.

  She was wet by the time he led her to the big sofa where they had made love before. As evidence of her mounting excitement, she didn’t suggest hosing him down.

  She wasn’t playacting anymore.

  When Malko slowly entered her, she lifted her legs so he could penetrate her deeply. They made love slowly, almost without moving, until the young woman’s whole body shuddered and her arms clutched him.

  Sometime later, she murmured in his ear, “Come see me again after you’ve paid the blood price.”

  A young Afghan approached Malko’s table as he was eating breakfast. A small man, he had long hair and was wearing gold-rimmed glasses, a tan shalwar kameez, and a black vest. He looked like a frightened weasel.

  “Good morning,” he said in hesitant En
glish. “I am Nassim Madjidi, your interpreter. I will accompany you to Yusuf Khel. Are you ready?”

  “Are you a police officer?” asked Malko.

  “No, of course not,” said Madjidi with a hapless smile. “I work for the Culture Ministry. The president’s office assigned me to make sure everything goes good there. Can I think you don’t speak Pashto or Dari?”

  “That’s right.”

  Malko went to pay his check and found himself standing next to the unknown Afghan woman he had noticed the day before. She had a handsome face and wore very little makeup. She was wearing a pantsuit and carried a computer case slung over her shoulder. They exchanged a glance and a slight smile. Malko would have liked to pursue the matter, but Madjidi was standing right next to him, silently insistent.

  Out in the corridor, the interpreter asked, “Do you have the money?”

  “I’ll be getting it from my escort. They’re waiting for me.”

  “But I have a car and driver!” protested Madjidi.

  “Did you bring an armed escort?”

  The Afghan’s eyes widened. “Whatever for?”

  Malko gave him a chilly smile. “Hasn’t anyone told you that the road to Ghazni isn’t secure?”

  Madjidi looked astonished. “But you’re under the protection of the Culture Ministry! This is a peace operation. We are going to resolve a dispute. I am certainly not carrying a weapon.”

  “Well, I am. This is a dangerous country.”

  Parked under the Serena awning was the interpreter’s car, a tan Corolla displaying an Afghan flag. Malko and Madjidi climbed into the back, and they headed for the exit.

  “That’s my escort over there,” announced Malko, pointing to three Land Cruisers crammed with special forces soldiers pulling away from the sidewalk. Because of their weaponry, they weren’t allowed into the courtyard. One SUV was in constant contact with headquarters in Bagram, which could send a rescue helicopter if needed. Warren Michaelis had arranged the operation.

  The moment Madjidi’s Corolla emerged from the hotel, the lead SUV pulled in behind it. Malko thought the little interpreter was going to have a heart attack.

  “Those are ISAF troops!” he squeaked. “They are going to frighten the villagers. Those are the soldiers who cause bad events. They must not come with us.”

  “If they don’t go, then neither do I. You better call your superiors for instructions.”

  The interpreter was already on the telephone. The call lasted a long time. Eventually, Madjidi said, “The soldiers come along, but they cannot get out of their vehicles. They must remain in cars during all the ceremony.”

  “That’s fine,” said Malko. “They’re only along for my protection. I also want this to go well.”

  They had reached the highway west and were already caught in the usual huge traffic jam. Malko’s cell beeped. It was Jim Doolittle.

  “Is everything okay, sir?” he asked. “I have the money. And don’t worry, we aren’t letting you out of our sight.”

  Yusuf Khel’s central square lay under a broiling sun, surrounded by quite a few local cars. Arrayed on carpets in front of a mud-brick building were wooden chairs and cushions, and tables bearing pots of tea, cakes, and pieces of chicken.

  A half dozen fierce-looking villagers in turbans were already squatting nearby, holding AK-47s. An Afghan flag stood in a corner of the square.

  Malko got out of the Corolla and said to Madjidi, “I’m going to go get the money.”

  He headed for the Land Cruisers on the far side of the square. The three armored SUVs probably held eighteen heavily armed soldiers among them.

  Doolittle came out holding an envelope. He was wearing a helmet and bulletproof vest and had grenades at his belt, magazines in various pockets, and an M16 on his shoulder. Not exactly a picture of peace.

  “Here’s your money, sir. Be careful!”

  Malko took the envelope and went back to Madjidi, who was staring at the white vehicles in dismay.

  “I hope this does not make the ceremony to fail!” he said. “People in villages get very upset when they see foreign soldiers. There have been many incidents in the area.”

  “These particular villagers wanted to kill me,” Malko pointed out. “They aren’t exactly pacifists.”

  The young interpreter didn’t seem to realize that the place was ruled more by the Kalashnikov than by the olive branch. Thirty years of civil war will do that to people’s outlook.

  Malko and Madjidi walked toward the villagers, who were sitting in a semicircle. In the center sat their chief, the toothless old man with the fierce eyes and forked beard who had originally wanted to submit Malko’s fate to the local shura.

  Malko sat down facing him, and the two men stared balefully at each other.

  The chief immediately started speaking angrily to Nassim Madjidi, who translated for Malko:

  “He wants to know why you bring armed men to a peaceful meeting.”

  “Tell him that I see that the Yusuf Khel people are armed as well,” Malko retorted. “Everyone in Afghanistan carries weapons. It’s not a sign of aggressiveness.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy the old man, who launched into a long peroration. Madjidi translated as he went along.

  “He says the person you killed was good, fair, and very devout. He left two widows and seven children. He never did anyone any harm. You have committed an exceptionally cowardly crime, and he says he is not sure he will accept the blood price.”

  “If he doesn’t want my money, I’m leaving!” snapped Malko, now thoroughly exasperated by the whole charade.

  “Pay no attention to that!” Madjidi hissed to him in English. “It’s traditional language! I will tell the chief that you regret the man’s death greatly, and want to provide a decent living for his family.”

  This was rendered in Pashto, and the Yusuf Khel leader gave another speech in reply.

  “They will assemble in a shura to decide if they should accept the blood price.”

  The villagers gathered around their chief for a lengthy discussion. After about ten minutes, he resumed the meeting and said something.

  Madjidi’s face brightened. He turned to Malko and said, “They will accept the money for the benefit of the widows and the orphans. Now you go over and give it to him.”

  Malko went and put the envelope containing the twenty thousand dollars on the chief’s knees. He opened it and handed wads of bills to his neighbors to count. This lasted quite a long time. The silence was total, broken only by the rustling of bills. Finally the money was all put back in the envelope, and the chief started speaking in a loud voice.

  “The blood price has been paid,” he announced. “The offense is washed away, and we can celebrate reconciliation in the name of Allah the all-powerful and the all-merciful.”

  The old man now seemed in high good humor. Boys circulated through the crowd serving tea and food. Everyone ate heartily as the hot sun beat down on Malko’s back and shoulders.

  At long last, the chief stood and walked toward him, hands outstretched. He took Malko’s hand and squeezed it hard, while delivering a long, emotional speech.

  “He wishes you happiness and prosperity,” Madjidi translated. “You will always be welcome in Yusuf Khel, where you will be shown all the respect due an honored guest. May Allah watch over you!”

  The old man was practically sputtering with happiness.

  Malko wondered how much of the twenty thousand dollars would actually go to the family, which was nowhere to be seen.

  As people began to disperse, a delighted Nassim pulled Malko away.

  “That went very, very good,” he said. “You are now all forgiven, and I will report this to the president’s office. We can go back to Kabul now.”

  Malko glanced at the interpreter’s old Corolla.

  “If you don’t mind, I’m going to let you go back alone,” he said diplomatically. “I’ll travel faster in a Land Cruiser.”

  Madjidi looked terribly disap
pointed. “That is too bad,” he said. “I would enjoy telling you about Afghan culture during the voyage.”

  “We’ll do that another time,” promised Malko, heading for the nearest SUV. Doolittle moved a Marine to the rear so Malko could sit up front with him. The village square was emptying.

  “Okay, back to Kabul!” said Malko.

  They had driven through Maidan Shahr and were now within twenty miles of Kabul. The landscape had changed, the dusty, yellowish plain replaced by the mountains around the capital. They’d been forced to drive much more slowly because of the many old trucks on the road and buses that stopped in the middle of the highway to let out passengers.

  Nassim Madjidi’s aged Corolla, which had preceded them through the traffic jams, was bouncing along some distance ahead. Malko thought about the future as he struggled not to fall asleep. Normally, he would be booking a flight for Dubai or Turkey the next day, since he was free to leave the country and had no further official role in Kabul. Instead, he had to put together yet another undercover operation.

  He glanced up, admiring the dramatic landscape.

  The road wound between barren cliffs beneath the occasional snow-covered peaks. There wasn’t a village in sight. The three Land Cruisers were driving more and more slowly. In front of them, an overloaded minibus lumbered along. It was driving in the middle of the highway, and impossible to pass. There were almost no cars coming the other way.

  Suddenly Malko was aware of the tension in his car. The soldiers were checking their weapons and peering anxiously out the windows.

  He turned to Doolittle.

  “What’s going on, Jim?”

  “Nothing, sir. But this is a bad stretch. There have been ambushes here.”

  “So close to Kabul?”

  “The Taliban come up the far slope, from territory they control.”

  He had barely stopped speaking before Malko noticed little flashes of light, like tiny fireworks, amid the jumble of black rocks on the hillside to his right. At first he didn’t understand what was happening. Then Madjidi’s Corolla started zigzagging, as if its driver were drunk. Its gas tank exploded in a ball of flame as the car skidded across the road, rolled over the embankment, and disappeared.