“I suspected as much,” said Malko. “We have to go higher. Try Clayton Luger first, then John Mulligan. The solution can only come from the White House.”
“And you’re sure you don’t want us to take action here?” asked Michaelis.
“Absolutely certain. It would condemn me to a horrible death.”
“Jesus! I’ll call Langley right away. What are Naibkhel’s demands?”
“The DEA has to get the international arrest warrant lifted, so he can travel. And he needs proof in writing.”
“That shouldn’t be hard,” said Michaelis. “The DEA just has to contact Interpol. Okay, that’s it for now. Try to hang in there.”
When Malko handed the cell back to Naibkhel, the trafficker gave him an ironic smile.
“You are very convincing,” he said. “That is good. Let us hope they value you. Meanwhile, we will have something to eat.”
While Malko was on the phone, a servant brought in an enormous copper tray loaded with various dishes and bottles of soda and mineral water. He and Naibkhel sat on the carpet. Having not eaten anything since the morning, Malko was ravenous.
Naibkhel took a piece of lamb, dipped it in a spicy sauce, and remarked, “I do not have anything against you personally. I hope we can make this deal. It has been two years since I have been able to leave Afghanistan. And it would be better for you also.”
That had to be an example of Afghan humor, Malko thought.
Twenty minutes later, Naibkhel went back to his armchair and said a few words to one of his bodyguards. Knowing what was next, Malko stood up of his own accord. What was the point of resisting?
He had barely been shoved into his room when the dogs started barking furiously.
It was nerve shattering.
He curled into a ball on the cot and tried to ignore the horrible noise. Praying that the CIA and the White House wouldn’t let him down.
“David Hoffman is on the blue line, sir,” said Mulligan’s secretary.
The national security advisor picked up the phone. Hoffman was the head of the DEA, and the two men knew each other slightly. Mulligan quickly got to the matter at hand.
“Did you give the instructions to Interpol?”
“Yes, but they’re dragging their feet. They don’t understand.”
Mulligan exploded.
“A man’s life is involved, for Christ’s sakes! One of our best operatives! Interpol has to knuckle under, and that’s all there is to it. And you have to lift your indictment. We have only a few hours left. Interpol must take Naibkhel off its list. The president wants this.”
“I’ll call France again,” said Hoffman, “but I’m not going to cancel the U.S. warrant on Naibkhel. If that scumbag sets foot in this country, he’ll be arrested.”
“That’s fine,” said Mulligan. “I doubt he feels like coming here.”
“It’ll be a done deal by tomorrow!” said Michaelis. “I just got a message from the White House.”
“How will we know?” asked Malko.
“Naibkhel can go to the Interpol website and type in his name on their wanted list. He’ll still be forbidden from entering the United States, of course.”
Malko hung up and handed the phone back to Naibkhel.
“The DEA agrees!” he said.
The Afghan gave a joyous shout. “So I’ll be able to go to Dubai?”
His ambitions were modest.
“I think so,” said Malko. “As of tomorrow morning, you can start checking the Interpol website.”
“This we have to celebrate,” said Naibkhel. “I’ve had a delicious palau prepared.”
Malko was able to force himself to eat.
When he was returned to his room, the ear-splitting barking assaulted him again. It took the dogs an hour to settle down.
Time passed very slowly.
The moment the door slid open, the dogs again started barking. The Afghan with the AK-47 gestured for Malko to come out, and he fled from the din. His watch read 10:00 a.m.
When Malko entered the office, Naibkhel was standing next to his desk, looking furious.
“There is nothing on the Interpol site!” he shouted. “You are fooling me and you are going to pay for it!”
Malko felt a chill run down his spine.
“I have the White House’s word,” he said. “I told you that yesterday.”
“But I am still on the list,” said Naibkhel. “If I am still there at six o’clock, you are going to be dinner for my dogs. I knew you damned infidels cannot be trusted!”
Something suddenly occurred to Malko. “Wait a minute! Interpol’s headquarters is in Lyon, France. It’s only seven in the morning there! There’s a three-hour time difference between France and Afghanistan!”
The Afghan dismissed this with a wave, sending him back to the mastiffs.
Malko stared at the hands on his watch: it was already 5:30 p.m. He had a half hour to live.
Suddenly he heard the door slide, and the dogs started barking. The Afghan guard gestured to him.
It was double or nothing.
When he got to Naibkhel’s office, he immediately knew from the man’s smiling face that he’d been saved.
The drug trafficker embraced him, grinning widely.
“I’m going to spend next weekend in Dubai!” he said. “You are free to go whenever you like,” he added, “but the authorities here must never hear of this. So phone your American connections, and never, ever come back to Afghanistan.”
A bodyguard entered the room and spoke to Naibkhel, who turned to Malko.
“Your friends are here,” he said.
Three white Land Cruisers were parked in front of the house. When Malko came down the steps, Michaelis emerged from the first car and hugged him.
“We’re going straight to Bagram,” he said. “I haven’t told the Afghans anything. You take off in two hours.”
Malko climbed into the lead SUV. He began to relax only when Naibkhel’s poppy palace was out of sight behind him and the barking of his dogs stopped ringing in his ears.
They had turned onto the Salang Highway and were climbing the switchbacks to the pass when Michaelis spoke.
“I have good news for you,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“The South African authorities put maximum pressure on the Afghans, and they’re going to release Ms. Kieffer and send her home.”
“Thank God!” said Malko. With the money from his CIA mission, Maureen would be set for life and he could leave Afghanistan with some peace of mind.
Even though he had nearly wound up in the jaws of Naibkhel’s mastiffs, Malko had a strange feeling that he would miss this crazy, fierce country.
About the Translator
William Rodarmor (1942– ) is a journalist and veteran French literary translator in Berkeley, California. Before Chaos in Kabul, he translated The Madmen of Benghazi, also by Gérard de Villiers, and The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles, by Katherine Pancol (Penguin, 2013). Rodarmor was a fellow at the Banff International Literary Translation Centre, served as a Russian linguist in the Army Security Agency, and worked as a contract French interpreter for the U.S. State Department.
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