Chaos in Kabul (30 page)

“In other words, I’m under house arrest.”

“You mustn’t put it like that,” Michaelis protested. “You’re safe here.”

But Malko wasn’t kidding himself. The Afghans would use his killing the villager as a pretext to interrogate him about the real issue, the attempt on Karzai’s life.

So for now, he was trapped. Which was ironic, considering the risks he had taken on behalf of the White House! But the world of intelligence is merciless, and it grinds individuals into dust. He of all people should know this, but it took him by surprise each time.

Parviz Bamyan reread the report of the interrogation of Mullah Kotak’s nephew implicating Malko Linge in the villager’s murder. This was proof that the Taliban had stopped supporting Linge. They knew there were some lines you didn’t cross.

His secretary came in and put another report on his desk. Bamyan read it and cursed under his breath.

An NDS informer at the Gandamack reported that a foreigner had spent the night with one of the guests, an American woman named Alicia Burton who had close ties to the CIA. She and the unknown man had left the hotel in her car the next morning. From the license plate, the NDS suspected they had driven to CIA headquarters at the Ariana Hotel.

So Warren Michaelis had lied to him.

Bamyan’s only consolation was that he now knew where Linge was, albeit in a place as inaccessible as the far side of the moon.

But Michaelis’s lie gave him a hold over the Americans. After all, Linge was being charged with murder. Bamyan immediately drafted a report for the president’s office. It wasn’t going to improve Karzai’s mood, since they now had definite proof that the CIA was protecting Linge and surely knew he was involved in the attack against the president.

Nelson Berry immediately spotted the two men sitting in an old green Corolla parked at the corner of Street 15 and Sharpoor Street near his poppy palace. They didn’t stir while his guards opened the front gate, which meant they hadn’t been given orders yet.

The South African was feeling more comfortable. He had dropped off his treasure at the farm two hours earlier, hiding the money in a pit filled with crates of ammunition. Even his old one-armed caretaker hadn’t noticed. Berry now strolled into his office, turned on the computer, and made a few phone calls. Outside, Willie and Rufus were unloading the car.

Nothing happened for a couple of hours; then he heard the honking of a horn. Almost immediately, Darius walked into his office.

“There’s a man who wants to see you,” he said.

“Who is he?”

“He says he’s General Abdul Raziq of the Interior Ministry. He’s in a white Land Cruiser, license plate Thirteen Kabul Police.”

“Show him in,” said Berry, “and bring us some tea.”

A ministry special advisor, Raziq was a person worthy of respect. He belonged to a prominent family and was fairly close to President Karzai, so Berry expected the worst. Raziq was in uniform; this was an official visit. The two men had met several times before, and they embraced with the usual expressions of goodwill.

Then, having sipped the usual tea, they moved on to serious matters.

“It seems you just came back from Logar,” said the general, who had excellent information sources.

“That’s right,” said Berry. “I was in Pul-i-Alam, doing a favor for a friend who—”

“I know,” said Raziq with a smile.

Berry didn’t try to avoid the subject. “It’s harvest time, and Baber Khan Sahel had a big transaction he wanted me to safeguard
because he doesn’t quite trust his partners. I was able to earn a little money. Business is bad these days.”

The general nodded understandingly and said, “Don’t worry, that isn’t the reason for my visit.”

The opium and heroin trade was a sensitive matter in Afghanistan. It brought in about three billion dollars a year, of which more than seven hundred million went to the poppy growers. Nobody wanted to upset such a large sector of the country’s economy.

“So what can I do for you, General?”

“Do you know a man named Malko Linge?”

Now we’re getting down to brass tacks, thought Berry.

“A little,” he said. “He came to see me a couple of times. You know he’s a CIA operative, right? He wanted me to carry out gray operations in dangerous areas, getting rid of Taliban commanders. I turned the job down because it was too dangerous and didn’t pay enough.”

“You were right to do so,” said the Afghan general. “It’s not wise to get involved with the Taliban and the Americans’ problems. Do you know where he is now?”

“Not the slightest idea,” said Berry honestly. “I don’t even know if he’s still in Kabul. But I have his cell number.”

“So do we, but he isn’t answering.”

“Why does Linge interest you?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

The general lowered his voice. “You remember the attack against President Karzai? We have reason to believe he might have been mixed up in that.”

Berry felt he should protest. “But Linge works with the CIA!” he said. “The Americans wouldn’t want to assassinate the president. He’s their ally.”

The general allowed himself a private smile. “I can’t tell you more, but our suspicions are well founded. Let me ask you something
directly: if this man is still in Kabul, can you help us find him?”

He was gazing at Berry with large, soft eyes. With his white hair, Raziq looked like a kindly grandfather.

The South African didn’t hesitate. “If I can be of service, it would be a pleasure. Your department has always been very fair with me, General.”

The Interior Ministry was the agency that issued weapons permits. If Raziq wanted to, he could put Berry out of business with the stroke of a pen.

“I know you’re a resourceful man,” said Raziq. “We would be extremely grateful if you could help us.”

He took out a business card, wrote some numbers on it, and handed it to Berry. “Here are my four phone numbers,” he said. “I underlined the one I always answer. I hope I hear from you soon.”

To Berry, the quid pro quo was perfectly clear. Give them Malko Linge, and they would leave him alone. The Afghans were interested in Berry only as a means to an end. Even if the general were sure the ex-mercenary had participated in the attack, he was willing to overlook it. But Linge was another matter. The CIA operative led directly to the White House. And there, the political stakes were much higher.

Berry walked the general out to his Land Cruiser, which was guarded by a tiny old man with a forked beard, an AK-47 on his shoulder.

“That’s my bodyguard!” said Raziq. “He’s a former Taliban leader who took up farming but got bored. I’m very satisfied with him.”

Berry waved the general good-bye as the Land Cruiser pulled out onto 15 Street. He was thinking that he had better find Linge before the Afghans did.

And silence him permanently.

After his first night in the Ariana billet, which felt as cozy
as a hospital ward, Malko went downstairs for breakfast. He was about to head back up when Warren Michaelis walked into the cafeteria.

“Big news!” said the station chief, sitting down at his table. “Clayton Luger is arriving tomorrow on an Agency jet—private trip, top secret. He asked to see you as soon as he arrives.”

“Will he be staying here?” asked Malko.

“No, of course not. He’ll stay at the embassy. I’ll let you know as soon as he arrives. Right now, let’s go to the embassy PX so you can buy whatever you need.”

“All my things are at the Serena,” said Malko with a groan. “Isn’t there some way to get them?”

“Not now,” said the American dryly. “It would be like hanging a banner on the front of the building announcing that you’re here.”

Later, Malko was finishing a cup of coffee in the cafeteria when a young intercept operator handed him a note. A number associated with one Nelson Berry had been repeatedly dialing Malko’s phone, without success. To keep anyone from picking up the phone’s signal, Malko had removed the battery and wrapped the phone in foil. They were crude steps, but they would have to do until he got a new, secure phone, with a number the Afghans didn’t know.

He wondered why Berry was trying to reach him. Berry was taking a big chance in calling, given that the Afghans suspected Malko in the attack on Karzai. Malko decided he would postpone getting in touch with the South African.

Musa Kotak greeted his visitor with all due deference. Hadj Mohammad Himmat was a member of the Quetta
shura
and close to Mullah Omar. Though a sworn enemy of Hamid Karzai, he was able to travel freely in Afghanistan because he sometimes carried secret messages to the president.

“Did you have a good trip, brother?” asked Kotak, seating his guest and offering him a glass of tea.

“Allah was with us,” said Mullah Omar’s envoy. “We didn’t have any flat tires and we weren’t stopped at any roadblocks. But it’s still a long voyage.”

“Do you bring good news?”

“A letter from Mullah Mansur for you.”

Himmat rummaged in the pocket of his long
kameez
and took out a rolled sheet of paper. Kotak accepted it respectfully, put it on the table, and resumed their conversation. He knew it was the answer to the question he had asked. The two men chatted for a while, until Himmat excused himself to get some rest. Kotak didn’t ask where he was going. For security, movements among the Taliban were extremely compartmentalized.

The moment Kotak was alone, he unrolled the paper. Written in a beautiful hand, it was very brief:
Nothing should remain of our intentions, if Allah so wishes.

Allah would certainly so wish, thought Kotak, since he was on their side. All he now had to do was to get rid of Malko Linge, and do it in a way that wouldn’t attract suspicion. But first he had to find him, and that wouldn’t be easy.

When the waitress at the Boccaccio brought Nelson Berry his pizza, he gave her a long look—a look the young woman smilingly reciprocated. Mariana’s passport was Kirghiz, but she was one hundred percent Russian, with big gray eyes and a chubby body squeezed into a fitted top, black tights, and a miniskirt. Seeing her running around the restaurant, Berry could feel himself getting a hard-on.

It was only at the Boccaccio that you found women like her. A notorious crook, the restaurant owner paid off the police to leave him alone. Everyone in Kabul knew you could find any liquor on earth at his place and that the waitresses really knew how to serve the customers. Three of them took turns, wearing provocative outfits and doing business only with expats.

Every so often a table full of Afghans showed up, all men. After eating and drinking their fill, they left without ever being presented with a check. The top echelon of the Kabul police.

This evening the restaurant was full, as usual, with a fair number of Afghans who couldn’t help ogling the sexy women you saw nowhere else.

Berry was feeling good. General Raziq’s visit had greatly cheered him. It was nice not having to worry about being picked up on a whim. For the time being, his unwritten deal with the general protected him. Of course, he had to fulfill his end of the bargain: find Malko and, more than that, convince the Afghans to accept a dead man in satisfaction. That would be a lot harder, because Malko dead wasn’t worth an afghani to them. But while he was alive, the operative represented a clear danger to Berry, who knew that no prisoner handed to the NDS could resist interrogation.

So he had to make contact with him. Malko now knew that the
South African wanted to reach him. The moment he answered, Berry would be ahead of the game.

Mariana—not exactly a Kirghiz name—brought Berry his check with the same cool smile as before. The South African’s libido, already lubricated by the beer, rose to the occasion. The dancing boy in Pul-i-Alam had certainly given him pleasure, but he wasn’t a woman, a rare species in Kabul.

“Two hundred,” he murmured.

Two hundred dollars, meaning ten thousand afghanis: an enormous sum. But the young woman just stood there, eyes downcast, gauging the desire radiating from this husky young guy.

“No, I’m tired,” she said.

Suddenly Berry really wanted her. He put three fingers on the table. After all, it would barely dent his five hundred thousand dollars. This time, she said a few words in Russian:

“In the lot at the end of the alley. In a quarter of an hour.” Then she carried his check to the cashier.

Berry serenely made for the restaurant’s entrance, crossed the small garden, and climbed into his Land Cruiser. It was just as well that he hadn’t brought Darius. Once behind the wheel, instead of turning left to leave the alley, he continued right, to a small vacant lot, and parked the SUV so as to be able to leave immediately.

As a precaution, Berry took the pistol out of his boot, chambered a round, and put it in the central console. There were robbers in Kabul, and everyone knew that rich expats frequented the Boccaccio.

Mariana appeared twenty minutes later and got directly into the backseat. Berry walked around and joined her, immediately seizing her breasts, a delicious sensation.

The woman stiffened and quietly said, “
Valuta
”—the cash.