Chaos in Kabul

by Gérard de Villiers

  She was looking at him confidently, without aggressiveness.

  Suddenly Malko yielded to an irresistible impulse. Leaning close, he put his lips on hers. He expected her to pull back, but not only did she not retreat, but her lips parted and her body pressed slightly against his.

  Pushing his advantage, he slipped his tongue into her mouth. To his astonishment he promptly felt a delicate, warm tongue meeting his. Within seconds, they were sharing a passionate kiss that lasted until Shaheen freed herself, slightly out of breath.

  “It’s just like in the Indian videos!” she exclaimed. “The people kiss almost like that!”

  Looking down, Malko noticed that her nipples were straining against her sweater. Their kiss apparently hadn’t left her indifferent.

  Rousing herself, she abruptly said, “That was very pleasant. I’m going off to bed now.”

  Shaheen clearly didn’t connect that which was forbidden—having sex—with innocent physical pleasure.

  He walked her to the door, knowing that he would get a little further next time. A conquest of this wise virgin would make a pleasant change from covert intelligence operations.

  The CIA Land Cruiser stopped along the Wazir Akbar Kahn roundabout near a checkpoint at Street 15, which was the continuation of Wazir Akbar Kahn Road. The roadblock at its entrance was on the boundary of the heavily guarded Green Zone around Hamid Karzai’s palace.

  “Drive up the avenue a ways,” Malko told Doolittle. “I’ll call you when I’m finished.” If the white SUV parked in the roundabout itself, it might attract attention.

  Once the car was gone, Malko walked through the black-and-white barrier across the avenue under the gaze of a bored Afghan soldier concerned with cars, not pedestrians.

  Malko saw that Street 15 was lined with private residences, with another checkpoint at its far end. Also, the houses had numbers, which was unusual in Kabul. He walked as far as number 69, stopping at a brick wall on his left with a black gate through which he could see a garden.

  There was no one in sight.

  He’d been standing in the dark for ten or fifteen minutes when a slim, bearded man walked up from the end of the street. He gave Malko a slight smile and said, “You come!”

  Malko followed him to the end of Street 15, passing through the second checkpoint as easily as he had the first. A dark Corolla was parked in the shadows. The young man opened the rear door for Malko, revealing Musa Kotak sprawled on the backseat. There was no one at the wheel, but Malko could see a man standing a little distance from the car.

  “Thank you for coming,” said Kotak. “It’s safer than at the mosque. Were you followed here?”

  “To be honest, I don’t know. Not since I turned onto the street, anyway.”

  “We posted a lookout at the entrance,” said the cleric. “He would have warned me of anything suspicious. I have good news: Mullah Beradar is in Kabul and wants to meet with you. Were you able to find a location?”

  “I have the use of a friend’s guesthouse,” said Malko. “All you have to do is set the time.”

  “How about tomorrow evening at seven?”

  “That’s fine,” said Malko. “The owner of the guesthouse gave me her business card with the address printed in Dari. Will that do?”

  “Let me see me the card.”

  Malko handed it over, and Kotak took a look.

  “I will give the card to Mullah Beradar,” he said, pocketing it. “He should find the place without any trouble. Will you be alone?”

  “Yes, except for the guesthouse watchmen.”

  “That’s perfect,” said Kotak. “We will talk again later, after your meeting. Remember, Mullah Beradar is a very important man. He will be speaking on behalf of Mullah Omar, who trusts him implicitly. So weigh your words carefully.”

  As he usually did, Kotak took Malko’s hand in his and murmured, “May Allah watch over you.”

  All Malko needed to do now was to alert Maureen. Neither he nor Doolittle knew how to get to her place, so Malko phoned from the car. The young woman was in her workshop, thank God.

  “Could you swing by the hotel?” he asked.

  “I can come around dinnertime, but just for a minute.”

  Parviz Bamyan was now receiving hourly reports of Malko Linge’s movements. He had detailed fifteen agents to round-the-clock surveillance.

  He cursed. It was nine o’clock at night and he’d just received his latest report. Linge had gone to a street off the Wazir Akbar Kahn roundabout, but the two NDS agents tailing him hadn’t been able to see whom he was meeting. Many foreigners lived on that street.

  Bamyan was on edge. If the information from the Quetta mole was accurate, Mullah Beradar was certainly coming to Kabul to meet Linge. That had been Bamyan’s private hunch, but he was now inclined to think he was right.

  If he could capture Beradar dead or alive, he would earn President Karzai’s gratitude.

  Maureen got to the Serena at seven and left her car and driver outside, to avoid the checkpoint hassle. Malko was waiting in the lobby.

  “Do we have time for a quick cup of coffee?” she asked. “I have another meeting with a customer.”

  They went into the still-empty bar and Malko gave her the scheduled time of his meeting the next day.

  “No problem,” she said. “I’ll be at my shop until about nine. I’ll send a driver to pick you up, and he can take you back afterward. You’ll find whatever you want to drink in the bar.”

  Malko smiled. “I doubt the person I’m meeting is into alcohol.”

  Five minutes later, Maureen was gone.

  Everything was set for the meeting with Beradar, and Malko could report the good news to Washington.

  “When you and Mr. Luger are finished talking, we can have a bite in the cafeteria,” said Michaelis.

  Malko had shown up at the Ariana Hotel with Doolittle in the afternoon, because of the time difference with Washington. His meeting with Beradar was now just a few hours away. From Michaelis’s office, he called Clayton Luger’s number. It was 8:10 in the morning in Washington.

  “That meeting is very important!” Luger said after hearing Malko’s account. “You have to convince Beradar that our approach is the only one with a real chance of countering Hamid Karzai. If Abdullah Abdullah can get even tacit Taliban support, he could be elected in a landslide. It would avoid a bloodbath with the Tajiks and also keep Karzai from returning to power in some other form.”

  “I’ll do everything I can,” Malko promised, “but I doubt Beradar will give me an answer right away. Still, the fact that he’s risking coming to Kabul shows the Taliban feel your project is very important.”

  “We have to save Afghanistan, and there are only so many ways of doing it,” said Luger seriously. “If Karzai manages to hang on, it’ll spark a civil war worse than in 1992.”

  It was really unbelievable, thought Malko: the United States and the Taliban, sworn enemies since 2001, were now acting in concert.

  Strange bedfellows, indeed.

  Sitting on the big sofa in Maureen’s living room, Malko listened hard for sounds from the outside. Her driver had brought him from the Serena, and he’d been waiting at the guesthouse for more than an hour. The meeting time had come and gone long ago.

  No one showed up.

  Could Beradar not have found the place? Had he been arrested? Anything was possible.

  Malko resolved to wait another half hour before heading back to the hotel. He would have liked to contact Musa Kotak, but it was too risky.

  At eight thirty, Malko finally went to find the driver, who was waiting in the kitchen.

  He felt terribly let down.

  There were no messages waiting for him at the Serena, and he didn’t see Shaheen Zoolor. He was reduced to eating alone in the depressing dining room, surrounded by Japanese.

  It wasn’t until 11:00 p.m. that his cell beeped, with a very short text from Kotak:

  Tomorrow noon same place.

  Maybe he
would learn what had gone wrong.

  Malko didn’t have long to wait this time. An old Corolla pulled up in front of number 69, and the man at the wheel gestured to him to get in. They immediately took off down Street 15, merging with the traffic on the roundabout.

  Malko soon lost track of their route. They entered the Shahr-e-Now neighborhood and negotiated a maze of alleys before finally turning into a courtyard. Two young Afghans immediately closed the gate behind them. A young bearded man led Malko to a living room with furniture covered with plastic slipcovers. There was just one person in the room: Musa Kotak, looking worried.

  “There was a problem,” said the cleric, rising to greet his visitor.

  “Wasn’t Mullah Beradar able to find the place?” asked Malko.

  “He was able to find it, but when he got close, he sent someone ahead to check it out. The man reported that the guesthouse was being watched, almost certainly by the NDS. Mullah Beradar did not want to take any chances, so he left.”

  To Malko, this was very disturbing news. How could the NDS have learned about the meeting? It hadn’t involved phones or email; everything had been arranged orally.

  Kotak provided an explanation. “I think the NDS suspect you of being in contact with us, so they are watching all the places you normally go. There was no way they could have known about the meeting.”

  “What should we do now?” asked Malko.

  “Mullah Beradar wanted to leave Kabul immediately, but I convinced him to try a second time to meet you, this time using our connections. He will be expecting you today at four o’clock in a store run by one of our sympathizers, an extremely devout man. You know Chicken Street, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Go to store number 276. It sells newspapers, scarves, and clothes. There will be a young man behind the cash register, to the right of the door. Ask him if he has any shahtoosh.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Extremely fine scarves woven from the fur of Tibetan antelopes. The fibers are ten times smaller than a human hair. The sale of shahtoosh is forbidden because the antelopes are endangered. That is the password. The man in the store will take you to Mullah Beradar.”

  A nervous Jim Doolittle dropped Malko off at the start of Chicken Street, a main Kabul business thoroughfare that, oddly enough, turned into Flower Street halfway down. Malko had gone shopping there before, so his presence today shouldn’t arouse undue attention from anyone who might be following him.

  As he walked along the street, he made a point of entering a half dozen stores selling lapis lazuli carvings, jewels, and carpets, examining several items each time. It was easy to identify the shops; each one had a number on its facade. Eventually, he reached number 276. It was long and narrow, like the others. Malko opened the door and saw that its walls were hung with cashmere scarves. A young man with steel-rimmed glasses and a small goatee gave him a salesman’s smile.

  “Welcome, sir,” he said in English. “What are you looking for today?”

  “Shahtoosh,” he said quietly.

  The Afghan shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but selling shahtoosh is against the law. But we have some very nice cashmere shawls. Let me show them to you.”

  From the man’s confidential tone, Malko knew that he had understood.

  Slipping off his stool behind the cash register, he led Malko to the back of the store and up a small flight of stairs. The first floor was given over to carpets, and there was a changing room at the far end. The shopkeeper lifted the curtain aside, revealing a youngish Afghan man seated on a stool. Dressed in shalwar kameez, he had a full head of hair and a prominent nose.

  “My name is Abdul Ghani Beradar,” he said, extending a hand. “I am the person you asked to see. I know Mr. Clayton Luger and I know that I can trust you. Mullah Kotak has told me something about your project. Can you tell me more?”

  Malko sat down on a stack of carpets facing him and started laying out the details of the American proposal, but the mullah quickly interrupted him.

  “Before you go any further, you must tell me the name of the person the United States wants to support in the presidential election.”

  “The man himself doesn’t know about this,” said Malko. “Nobody knows, aside from a few people in Washington.”

  But Beradar would not be put off. “I must know his name,” he said. “Some people are not compatible with our values.”

  Malko could see that the mullah was going to insist. And after all, he had been authorized to tell him. “You’ll be the only person to know,” he said. “The candidate would be Abdullah Abdullah, who ran in the presidential elections in 2009.”

  Beradar scowled. “A Tajik!” he exclaimed, in a way that clearly wasn’t intended as a compliment.

  “Half Tajik,” Malko pointed out. “His father is Pashtun.” Then he quickly added, “He’s a declared enemy of Hamid Karzai and an honest man, I think.”

  Beradar nodded. “His reputation is not bad,” he admitted. “But does he really have a chance of being elected?”

  “That will depend on you. The last time, he got almost 31 percent of the vote without Taliban support. You have enough influence in the Pashtun community to get people to vote for a half-Pashtun. After all, in 2000 you persuaded the farmers not to plant poppies, even though it was against their interest.”

  “That was a religious matter,” said the mullah. “Our peasants are very devout. We explained to them that Allah did not approve of the cultivation of opium. What we have here is a cultural problem. In the last election, Pashtuns who feel only hate and contempt for Karzai still voted for him, because he is Pashtun.”

  “But what do you think of the general idea?” asked Malko.

  Beradar evaded the question. “This is not a decision I can take by myself. I have to submit it to the shura and to Mullah Omar, who will surely demand certain guarantees.”

  “Abdullah can’t openly boast of Taliban support,” said Malko.

  “We would not ask that of him,” said Beradar. “But if we are able to reach an understanding, he must make a formal commitment to our leadership. We do not want to help him at our expense. I do not trust Tajiks. They have no love for us and they have fought us. Abdullah was the right-hand man of that dog Massoud, whose picture today defiles the walls of the city.”

  There was clearly lots of work ahead, thought Malko. Aloud, he said, “If an agreement could be reached, it would help national reconciliation and give your movement a way to return to power. At least partly.”

  The Taliban mullah gave him a chilly smile. “We will return to power sooner or later in any case. But we want to spare our country any more suffering.”

  Malko was about to respond when they heard hurried footsteps on the stairs. The shopkeeper burst into the room, breathless. He blurted something to Beradar, who jumped to his feet and said, “The police are in the street! I have to leave!”

  He turned and pushed a small partition, revealing a narrow staircase leading to the roof, and disappeared.

  The young store owner grabbed two scarves from a pile and thrust them at Malko.

  “Take these! You can say you bought them. Quick, get out of here! They are coming!”

  Malko didn’t need to be told twice, and he rushed down the staircase. Downstairs, the shop was empty. When he stepped out into the street, he understood Beradar’s panic: it was full of cops in and out of uniform, and they were going into all the stores.

  Malko had come within an inch of being caught with Beradar—which wouldn’t have helped his relationship with Hamid Karzai.

  He walked along Chicken Street, trying to ignore the policemen, who were out in force. Who had tipped them off? Malko wondered anxiously. He considered and dismissed the idea that he had been followed. The betrayal must have come from the Taliban side.

  Just as he spotted Doolittle’s white Land Cruiser at the entrance of Flower Street, he heard gunshots from the other end of the street. Climbing into the SUV, he sai
d a silent prayer that Beradar would escape his pursuers.

  Mullah Beradar frantically sprinted across the roofs of the Chicken Street shops, finally diving down a trapdoor into a souvenir store. He didn’t know the people there, but he shouted, “May Allah protect you! Karzai’s dogs are after me! Don’t tell them you saw me.”

  Saying that sort of thing was pretty safe. Everybody hated Karzai.

  When Beradar emerged into the street, the police seemed to be everywhere. Without hurrying, he walked along the broken sidewalk toward the supermarket across the way, where he could lose himself in the crowd.

  Beradar’s heart was thudding in his chest, and he cursed himself for taking the chance of coming to Kabul. But it was a little late for regrets.

  Suddenly he heard a shout behind him. Instinctively turning around, he saw a pair of plainclothesmen running his way. He hesitated, briefly considered staying where he was, but realized that would be a bad choice.

  The bulk of the policemen were far away. Beradar pulled a Makarov from his shalwar kameez and fired at his pursuers. He emptied almost the whole clip, and the two men fell. Putting the gun away, he strode quickly toward the store. But the shots had attracted attention, and he now heard cries and shouts behind him. He lunged for the supermarket doors.

  A fraction of a second too late.

  Something hit his left thigh, and the leg suddenly folded under him. He didn’t feel any pain, but he stumbled and fell across the doorway. People hurried to help him up, and a wave of pain overwhelmed him as he half stood, supported by two passersby.

  Soldiers and policemen appeared, swinging the butts of their rifles to knock the men holding Beradar aside while yelling orders and insults.

  The mullah collapsed on the ground and lay sprawled on his back, drenched in sweat. Terrible pain was shooting through his leg. Looking up, he saw a soldier’s face contorted with rage, and the black circle of a Kalashnikov barrel. He closed his eyes and prayed to Allah that the man would kill him right away.