Inside the Land Cruiser, the only sound to be heard was of weapons being loaded. Malko stared in disbelief at the place where the Corolla had gone over the cliff. If he had accepted Nassim Madjidi’s invitation to ride with him, he would be dead.
The minibus that had been driving slowly in the middle of the road for some reason now suddenly sped up and disappeared around a curve.
A number of dull thuds shook the Land Cruiser’s armored body; the convoy was under fire. The bright flashes flared among the black rocks on the hillside. It was a classic ambush.
Jim Doolittle braked hard, pulling the SUV to the side of the now-empty highway. The vehicles behind them had heard the gunshots and were cautiously hanging back.
“Everybody out!” he yelled.
Malko followed him, exiting on the side sheltered by the car. The soldiers piled out of their vehicles and took positions behind them. Several fired M16s at the part of the hillside the shots were coming from. Malko could make out the characteristic chatter of a Russian Pulemyot machine gun.
Doolittle pulled him away from the Land Cruiser.
“Don’t stand too close to the vehicle, sir. They might have an RPG.”
Behind the third SUV, a team set up a 60 mm mortar, and its first shell raised a cloud of dust in the black rocks. Both sides were steadily firing now. The Taliban fighters were about two hundred yards above them, shooting down at the highway.
After loosing a long burst, Doolittle yelled, “I alerted Bagram. They’re sending choppers.”
Thanks to GPS, the helicopters would be able to pinpoint their location. Malko was sorry he wasn’t carrying his GSh-18, though an ordinary automatic wouldn’t do much good in these circumstances.
Just then a shell dinged the SUV’s windshield.
The Taliban were careful not to come down to the highway. They knew they were facing heavily armed soldiers who were probably calling for backup.
Word of the ambush must have spread, because no other vehicles appeared.
The 60 mm mortar was now launching a steady rain of shells as the Marines raked the hill with small-arms fire.
After a while, the rate of fire from the hillside seemed to slow. The muzzle flashes were diminishing. Hunkered down behind their three armored vehicles, the Americans started to hold their fire. Suddenly, silence fell.
“They’re falling back,” announced Doolittle.
The American soldiers fired a few last bursts and got to their feet. The acrid smell of cordite filled the air. No sound came from the hillside, and the highway was still deserted. Malko spoke up.
“I’d like to see where the interpreter’s car went over.”
Four Marines surrounded him as he crossed the road. Standing at the edge of the ravine, they could see a burning vehicle a few hundred feet below. It didn’t look as if anybody had gotten out alive.
Stony silence reigned on the highway for a moment, then was broken by a growing whump-whump-whump of approaching helicopters. Two Black Hawks appeared, threading their way through the canyons. They overflew the men’s position in a deafening roar and went off in the direction of the attackers.
They came back a few moments later and hovered above the highway. Doolittle radioed them and summarized their conversation for Malko.
“They didn’t see anyone, but they say that the terrain’s very rugged. They plan to escort us back to Kabul. Let’s head out!”
Everybody climbed back into the vehicles, leaving the highway littered with spent shell casings. Beyond the curve, they could see a long line of stopped vehicles waiting for the firefight to end.
Malko and his group were no longer in danger.
Twenty minutes later, the Kabul plain appeared. They passed through an Afghan police checkpoint without stopping and began their descent toward the capital. The highway was completely empty.
The Taliban had probably seen the three ISAF vehicles heading for Ghazni and decided to hit them on the way back. But if so, why did they start by shooting at the Corolla that Malko was supposed to be in?
Parviz Bamyan was baffled as well. He had been studying Malko Linge’s file, and the report of the attack in which Nassim Madjidi died was on his desk. At first, the NDS thought Linge had also been killed, but when they reached the wrecked car, they saw he wasn’t in it.
Why not?
Only Linge knew.
What bothered Bamyan was that the ISAF and local Afghans positively identified a Taliban group that had already launched similar attacks in the area. The CIA operative had clearly been their target, which undercut the NDS’s theory that he had renewed his contact with the Taliban in plotting against President Karzai.
You don’t kill the people you’re negotiating with.
Something in this business didn’t make sense.
In any case, Bamyan would soon see if Linge was leaving Kabul. If he didn’t, the NDS leader would be in a sticky situation.
He couldn’t take any action against Musa Kotak, who was protected by the president—unless the mullah was only a stalking horse, and the real contacts were taking place elsewhere.
Bamyan had to draw his net around Linge tighter. That operation had begun, but it would take time. And the CIA operative was sure to be on his guard.
The next day, Malko had himself driven to the mosque, determined not to let Musa Kotak off the hook this time. Before he took another step, he had to know who in the Taliban wanted him dead.
A dozen men were praying on the mosque’s forecourt, taking advantage of the last rays of the setting sun.
When Malko was shown in, Kotak greeted him with his usual good cheer. But Malko began coldly, “Were you told that someone tried to kill me yesterday?”
Kotak’s eyes widened.
“In Yusuf Khel?”
“No, on the way back. A group of Taliban fighters attacked our convoy. A car I was supposed to be in was destroyed and its occupants killed.”
“How can you be sure they were Taliban?” asked the cleric.
Malko glared at him.
“Because they were identified by the ISAF, that’s why. Besides, there aren’t that many armed groups around.”
“If that’s true, they could be members of the Haqqani network,” said Kotak, sounding puzzled. “They take their orders from the Pakistanis and they don’t obey us.”
“Either way, I have to know the truth,” insisted Malko. “Your sources can find out. You’ve always stressed that the Quetta shura is the one running the movement. Now is the time to prove it.”
Kotak looked embarrassed. For the first time, Malko felt the cleric had been knocked off-balance.
“I’ll make inquiries,” he said somewhat uncertainly.
“When you get results, text me. I have a proposal from Washington to put to you.”
After Malko left, Kotak closed his eyes and addressed a long, silent prayer of thanks to Allah. If the CIA operative hadn’t decided to change cars, he would now be dead, something the Americans certainly wouldn’t have liked. And they apparently still hoped for Taliban political support.
So Kotak had to come up with a convincing explanation to prove that he hadn’t played any role in the ambush—which, in fact, he had organized at the request of the Quetta shura. The failure of the Karzai attack had so traumatized the shura that its sole focus was on eliminating anything linking it to that act of war.
Now he had to repair the damage.
An idea occurred to him: once Linge told him what Washington’s intentions were, they could have a representative of the shura come to Kabul for a meeting. Someone like Abdul Ghani Beradar, who knew the Americans. This would show they were serious about the talks. Kotak immediately started drafting a long email to be sent by a secure channel.
It would depend on Beradar being willing to risk entering Afghanistan, of course.
Malko was still in a foul mood by the time he got back to the Serena. His meeting with Kotak had left him with a sour aftertaste. He knew perfectly well that Taliban fighters had
attacked him, so it was up to the cleric to clear things up. Malko didn’t feel like going to his room, so he walked past the front desk and made his way to the nonalcoholic bar.
The room was empty except for the attractive Afghan woman he had noticed twice before. She had a glass of fruit juice in front of her and was typing on a laptop. When she saw Malko, she gave him a shy smile, then returned to her screen.
He sat down at the next table and ordered a cup of coffee, enjoying the beautiful stranger’s presence. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the woman closed her laptop and asked for the check. She signed it, which showed that she was staying at the hotel.
As she was getting up, Malko took the plunge and asked, “Are you a journalist?”
The young woman stopped and smiled. “No, I work for the Aga Khan Foundation, which owns the hotel. We’re studying other sites and amenities.”
She seemed glad to have someone to chat with.
“Do you have time to have coffee with me?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. I’m going to go unwind in the sauna. I’ve worked hard today. Maybe another time.”
Disappointed, Malko watched as she walked gracefully away. Since she was staying at the Serena, he figured he was bound to see her in the hotel dining room. In Kabul, a woman alone wouldn’t go out to eat. He might as well get to know her. Until Kotak told him the result of his inquiry, he didn’t have anything to do.
Musa Kotak’s text message reached Malko at 3:10 p.m. Come have tea with me.
At four o’clock, he was crossing the mosque’s sunlit garden. He found Kotak reading the Quran. On seeing Malko, he set the holy book aside and came toward him, aglow with apparent pleasure.
“My investigation was quick because we have informers within the Haqqani network,” Kotak announced. “I now know that the attack was launched by one of their commanders, who has no ties with Quetta. As I told you, they only take orders from Pakistanis. I thank Allah that you escaped death.”
Those last words were probably Kotak’s only sincere ones, but Malko chose to believe him. After all, the cleric’s story was almost plausible, and he wasn’t in a position to prove otherwise.
“So you’re sure that nobody on your side wants to do me harm?” he asked.
“Quite the contrary,” said Kotak. “I myself pray for you very often. If you could help rid Afghanistan of Karzai …”
Malko sat down next to the cleric and said, “As a matter of fact, Washington has given me a second assignment along the lines of the first, but with a different approach.”
“What does it involve?” asked Kotak.
“Next year, when Karzai can’t be a candidate in the presidential elections, Washington is convinced he will either rig the election or run one of his cronies. If the man’s elected, he’ll do whatever Karzai tells him to.”
“That is quite likely,” said Kotak. “Do you have a way of preventing that?”
“Our American friends are thinking of supporting another candidate.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t have a name to give you yet, but it would be a person of integrity.”
Which in Afghanistan was as hard to find as a diamond in the rough.
Kotak nodded, then asked, “A Pashtun?”
“As I said, I don’t know,” Malko admitted. “But I’d like to discuss this with someone high in your shura.”
The cleric was silent for a few moments. “That can be arranged, but for a shura member to travel here, he would have to be given the candidate’s name. That’s not negotiable. We have very strict criteria for supporting a candidate. He must be honest, devout, and have no ties with Karzai. When you can give us that name, come back and see me. I will then see what we can do next.”
Parviz Bamyan finished examining the list of passengers flying out of Kabul in the next three days. Fortunately, there weren’t many flights, and people always booked in advance.
Malko Linge’s name didn’t appear anywhere.
Bamyan had also checked with the Serena, which the CIA operative had shown no evidence of leaving.
If Linge stayed on in Kabul, it would have to be for some reason. He wasn’t here on vacation. And if Bamyan didn’t learn that reason, he might lose his job, or worse.
He phoned the president’s chief of staff. He needed specific instructions to know just how far he could go.
Out of the corner of his eye, Malko watched the attractive brunette serve herself at the buffet. He had figured correctly that she would be eating at the hotel.
A handful of Japanese were in the dining room, along with a few Americans and a table of Afghans. The menu was the same as usual: palau and its variations. If you didn’t like rice, you were out of luck.
The woman finished her coffee and went over to the cashier to sign the check. Malko was already on his feet. He was careful not to approach her in the restaurant, catching up with her only as she was walking down the hall. When he drew level with her, she turned her head and politely said, “Good night,” without slowing down.
“Would you like to talk for a few moments before you go up to bed?” asked Malko. “The hotel doesn’t offer much entertainment.”
“That wouldn’t be proper,” she said without stopping. She gave him an apologetic smile. “The staff here is very strict. Besides, we don’t know each other.”
“Well, we do a little, now,” argued Malko.
She shook her head.
“You Westerners don’t understand our customs. I’m very sorry.”
Having reached the lobby, she turned left, as did Malko. She glanced back at him.
“Are you following me?” There was a touch of irritated mockery in her voice.
“No, I’m not,” he said, annoyed. “I’m just going to my room. Are you in this wing too?”
“Yes,” she said.
They reached the elevator together and Malko stepped aside to let her pass. In the confined space of the cab, he was able to study her more closely. She had regular features, a somewhat large mouth, dark, almond-shaped eyes, and a slightly hooked nose. A jacket and cashmere turtleneck set off her large breasts.
A very pretty woman.
They stepped out of the elevator together and she preceded him down the hallway. To Malko’s surprise, she stopped at the room next to his.
“We’re neighbors!”
“I didn’t realize that,” said the woman, sliding her key in the slot.
Malko did the same, then returned to the charge. “Why don’t we stay here and talk for a minute? There’s no one around.”
Instead of refusing, the young woman raised a surprising objection. “Somebody might come. There are people in the hotel.”
“In that case, let’s talk in my room. I don’t feel like going to sleep yet.”
He had opened his door. Seeing hesitation in her eyes, he decided to take the initiative. Leading the woman gently by the arm, he propelled her inside and closed the door. He then walked across to an armchair and sat down, leaving his guest standing in the center of the room, arms akimbo.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Shaheen Zoolor,” she said shyly.
“I’m Malko Linge. I work for the European Union, and I’m here to review the work of some NGOs. Please, sit down.”
After a brief hesitation, Zoolor came and perched on the edge of a chair.
“Would you like some fruit?” he asked, pointing to the basket on his coffee table.
“No, no. I’m not going to stay. If anyone saw me here, it would be very bad. I would be fired immediately.”
Shaheen Zoolor seemed quite unnerved, but she didn’t get up. As they talked, she gradually relaxed. After twenty minutes, she looked at her watch and said, “I’m going to my room. I hope nobody sees me!”
“I’ll check the hallway.”
He went to open the door. The hall was empty. “Come on,” he said.
As she passed by him, her chest lightly brushed his alpaca jacke
t. Their eyes met for a moment.
Smiling, Malko said, “I hope you’ll come back and see me sometime.”
Without replying, Zoolor walked quickly to the door of her room and vanished inside like a ghost. But the smell of her perfume lingered in Malko’s room—a pleasant sensation.
The sun was shining on Kabul. The city had celebrated Nowruz, and spring had officially begun.
Malko was eating breakfast when he got a text message:
Come see me at 4. Kotak.
He wondered what line the chubby cleric would feed him this time.
When he called Michaelis to ask for a driver later in the day, the CIA station chief sounded upset.
“We lost a helicopter in the south, with five guys,” he said. “The Taliban were hiding in a village where we’d organized a militia, and they turned on us.”
From the vantage point of the peaceful, luxurious Serena Hotel, such an image of the war felt incongruous, but this was Afghanistan. Everything seems calm, and then suddenly a suicide bomber blows himself up.
In fact, the country had long been the subject of a power struggle between different factions, each more determined than the next. And Malko was in the middle, representing the only group that really was outside the struggle, yet was being taken in by everyone. The Americans were doing their best, but the Afghans were always cleverer than they were.
With nothing to do, Malko killed time watching television. In a brief foray to the lobby, he didn’t see Shaheen Zoolor.
The hotel felt deserted. The guests, including a lot of Japanese, left early in the morning and came back late at night.
When he went outside, he was struck by the warm weather. The Land Cruiser showed up in a few moments, and Malko directed Doolittle to the mosque.
He was sure he was being followed, but he couldn’t very well make himself invisible.
The two bearded men in front of the mosque glared at Malko, who clearly wasn’t a Muslim.
The flowers in the garden had bloomed, and a dozen men were kneeling on the worn carpets of the forecourt, facing Mecca.
Chaos in Kabul Page 27
