Chaos in Kabul (37 page)

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 jacket. 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.

When Malko arrived, Mullah Kotak looked unusually serious. Carefully closing the door, he led his guest to the cushions of his sitting area and served him tea.

“I have very good news,” he announced sententiously.

“What’s that?” asked Malko.

“I forwarded your request to Quetta, and our leader, Mullah Omar, has reached a decision. He is sending Mullah Abdul Ghani Beradar to discuss your proposal. It is a great honor, and Mullah Beradar is taking a serious risk by coming here. He has not traveled to Kabul in a decade. He is at the top of the NDS’s most-wanted list, and they have already tried to kill him three times, in Quetta and Karachi. The Americans know him, and you can give them his name.”

“If it’s so dangerous for the mullah to come here, I could meet him somewhere else,” said Malko. “In Pakistan, for example.”

“No. If you met in Pakistan, the ISI would immediately know about it and start asking questions. They distrust the Americans.”

Everyone distrusted everyone.

“I’m looking forward to meeting him,” said Malko.

“But wait, there’s a condition. Mullah Beradar will only come here if you are prepared to reveal the name of the person the U.S. will support for the presidency.”

“I don’t know it myself.”

“But the Americans do. They must authorize you to tell us; otherwise, there can be no negotiations.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t make that commitment right now,” said Malko. “It’s not in my hands.”

“Then come back and see me as soon as you know. Only then will I arrange Mullah Beradar’s trip.”

Warren Michaelis didn’t ask any questions when Malko requested a secure line to Langley. Within minutes, Malko was describing his meeting with Kotak to Clayton Luger.

“That’s terrific!” said the CIA number two. “I’ll ask for the candidate’s
identity right away. It’s a White House decision. Call me back in an hour!”

Malko was forced to go down to the Ariana cafeteria and its undrinkable American-style coffee. Apparently the Nespresso machine hadn’t reached this corner of the world yet. Twenty minutes later he was joined by Michaelis, who’d heard he was there.

“I have a break and thought I’d have a cup of coffee with you. Are you making progress?”

“Slowly,” said Malko. “What’s the news on your end?”

“Word has it that Karzai is working hard to find a candidate for the presidential election. He’s pushing a member of Hezb-e-Islami.”

“What’s that?”

“A strange group, midway between Karzai and the Taliban. I think he’s pulling the strings, but it includes some former Taliban members. It’s his latest secret plan.”