Chaos in Kabul (32 page)

“I’m not asking you to commit suicide or to compromise your values—”

Interrupting him, Malko went on, “Besides, the first thing Berry will do if he’s arrested will be to implicate me. He can prove I gave him money. Your plan isn’t just amoral; it’s idiotic!”

For the first time since the start of their conversation, a thin smile crossed the American’s face.

“You’re forgetting that we’re in Afghanistan,” said Luger. “This is all playacting! Karzai wants to show the public that the Taliban tried to get rid of him. And that’s what Berry will tell his interrogators.”

“But he’ll have to talk about me.”

“Of course, but only as an intermediary between the Taliban and us. He can claim not to know who in the Taliban put the plot together. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

“Perfectly,” said Malko. “And the way this little piece of theater plays out, Nelson Berry dies. Sorry, I won’t do it.”

“Actually, we reached an agreement to cover that,” said Luger. “Once Berry has confessed along the lines that implicate the Taliban, he’ll be transferred from NDS custody to the prison in Bagram.”

“Won’t he go to trial?” asked Malko, surprised.

“Afghan justice works very slowly,” said Luger. “At the Bagram prison, detainees are held for months or even longer before being tried. So here’s the deal I struck with Kalmar. Berry will spend a few months behind bars in Bagram—no sinecure, but the lesser of two evils. Then he’ll be quietly moved to the part of the prison we still control and flown out of the country.”

“Where to?”

“Wherever he likes. We have military flights to Dubai, Europe, and the United States. And you’re authorized to offer him one million dollars in compensation for his stay in prison. That’s a small cost for getting ourselves out of this catastrophic situation with our heads high.

“Karzai is due to go to the United States to meet with President Obama in a month. Everything has to be settled by then. They’ll be discussing the departure of coalition troops, and those talks can’t be poisoned by this sort of problem.”

Luger paused.

“So what do you think of all this?”

“How much faith do you put in the Afghans’ word?” asked Malko.

“As a rule, none. But in the present case, the risks are limited. Berry won’t be tortured, because he’ll confess what we tell him to. I’m sure he’ll go through some bad times, but he’s a tough cookie. And after all, he did try to assassinate Karzai. He took a chance, and he’ll pay a price for it.

“Then, when he’s moved to Bagram, he’ll be more on our turf. We’ve transferred the prison to Afghan control, but we’re keeping an eye on it.”

“How do things stand with Kalmar right now?” asked Malko.

“I have until this evening to call him, to confirm or reject our agreement.”

“What if you reject it?”

“Then I’m finished,” said Luger flatly. “John warned me that there would have to be a scapegoat.”

A hush descended on the men. It was laughing heartily at the sight of the Americans being hoisted by their own petard.

Luger glanced at his watch. “You have two hours to think this over, which should be plenty of time. As soon as I have your answer, I’ll communicate it to John.”

Malko stood up and asked a final question. “What if Nelson Berry refuses my proposal?”

Luger shook his head. “I don’t see how that would be in his interest. His career in Afghanistan is finished. If the Afghans arrest him outside of our agreement, he’ll go through some very rough times. By signing on with us he gets a million dollars and can go make himself a life somewhere else after a few months in prison. Anyway, it’s up to you to convince him.”

Luger put out his hand to shake, signaling the end of their meeting. Clearly, Malko thought, the Americans were ready to do practically anything to extricate themselves from the mess they’d gotten into. He just hoped the CIA deputy director wasn’t hiding anything from him.

Parviz Bamyan was having tea with General Raziq, who was in civilian clothes. The NDS chief had just come from the presidential palace, where he’d been briefed on the proposal put to the Americans.

“The whole trick is to quietly get hold of Nelson Berry and extract his ‘confession’ implicating the Taliban,” he told Raziq. “Then we’ll pull out our secret weapon.”

“What’s that?”

“On the day of the attack, Berry killed an NDS agent in the Aziz Palace construction site, so as to act undisturbed. But until he confesses
to shooting at the president, we don’t have enough evidence to charge him.

“We also want Berry to tell us how he got the Degtyarov 41. The president insists on that. It will be a key piece of evidence at the trial.”

“What happens after that?”

“Then we extract his
real
confession, implicating Linge and the Americans. That way we’ll have something to hold over their heads.”

“Let’s hope this all works,” said Raziq with a sigh.

“And another thing,” continued Bamyan. “We said we would transfer Berry to the Bagram prison. We aren’t going to do that. He killed our agent, so we can keep him in one of our cells, beyond the Americans’ reach.”

The plan was a tortuous one, but it had a number of advantages. The more evidence the Afghans had of U.S. involvement in the attack against Karzai, the stronger their position in the future. The Americans had no idea that their Afghan counterparts were so skilled at playing double or triple games.

A difference of culture.

Malko lay on his bed in the Ariana. Since leaving the CIA deputy director, he’d been going over the American proposal in his mind, looking for pitfalls. Because there had to be one. He had decided not to leave the protection of the CIA until he was sure that he wasn’t at risk.

The stakes were too high for a single individual to have much importance in matters of state. And this affair had started at the top, with the president of the United States.

Malko’s cell rang. A hidden number. He answered anyway and recognized Luger’s voice.

“I’m still at the embassy,” he said. “I’m sending you a car in fifteen minutes.”

He hung up before Malko had time to answer.

He rested for a few more moments, then went down to the Ariana guard station, where a case officer drove him to the American embassy.

They quickly passed through the various checkpoints. An operative was waiting for Malko at the embassy entrance.

“If you’ll follow me,” he said, “I’ll take you to the residence.”

Luger was sitting on a blue sofa smoking a cigar. He smiled at Malko and got right to the point.

“Have you thought it over?”

“If I said yes, what would my status be, as of right now?”

Luger’s features relaxed slightly. “That’s a point I settled with the palace. In that case, I give Kalmar a call, and all surveillance of you is dropped. You can move back into the Serena, and an Agency car will be at your disposal.”

“Can I leave the country?”

“Not right away, but when this problem is dealt with, sure,” said Luger with a smile. “The Afghans won’t object. By the way, you originally told John that you didn’t want to be paid for this assignment, for ethical reasons. Considering what’s happened to you, that clause is canceled. You’ll be generously rewarded for your efforts, and you will have earned John’s and the Agency’s esteem.”

“I hoped I already had it,” said Malko.

He was silent for a few moments. The CIA was putting everything in the balance to get free of a trap of its own devising. He again cursed himself for accepting this outlandish assignment, but there was no point in crying over spilled milk. And he thought longingly of the Serena, which now seemed as desirable as the finest hotel in the world. The last few days of life on the run had exhausted him.

“Very well,” he said. “I accept your proposal.”

Luger’s face brightened. “Great!” he exulted. “I expected no less of you. And now, to get the ball rolling, we’ll start with a little formality.”

“What’s that?” asked Malko.

“You’re going to phone Nelson Berry.”

Nelson Berry gazed thoughtfully at the unfamiliar number
displayed on his cell phone. He hadn’t heard from Malko since his first attempt to reach him, but that didn’t mean much. He decided to risk answering the call. When he did, the Austrian’s accent came as a breath of fresh air.

“I know you called,” said Malko, “but I wasn’t in Kabul then.”

“It’s good to hear from you. Want to have a
dop
with me tomorrow?”

“Where?”

“My place. Noon, if that works for you. I’ll send Darius.”

After hanging up, Berry poured himself a whiskey. He had done a lot of thinking since his initial call to the CIA operative and had come up with a plan.

He had decided to leave Afghanistan for good, but he didn’t want to leave a troublesome witness like Malko behind. If he talked, the Afghan authorities might get Interpol to issue an international arrest warrant against Berry, which would cause him no end of trouble. He intended to go to Dubai first, and the Dubaians were sticklers about international regulations.

Thanks to General Raziq’s intervention, he was free of surveillance, and this had allowed him to plan his departure.

Before leaving Kabul he would swing by his farm and dig up his
five hundred thousand in cash. Then he would drive north on the Mazar-e-Sharif highway to Tajikistan. The highway was safe, and Berry felt sure he would reach the border without any trouble. In Dushanbe, he would sell his car to some drug traffickers he knew and catch a flight for Dubai.

Thanks to Malko’s telephone call, Berry could now finalize his arrangements.

The next morning, he would pack his computers and whatever else he needed from his poppy palace, drive to the farm, and have his caretaker dig a grave in a nearby field. Darius would pick up Linge and bring him there. Berry would shoot him at the first opportunity and leave him for the old man to bury. That way, he could head for Dushanbe with an easy mind.

Having drunk his whiskey, he went to get Darius. The two of them had to deliver an SUV he was selling to Maureen Kieffer to earn some extra money. Berry was sick and tired of Afghanistan. The sunshine in Dubai would revive his taste for life.

Riding in an Agency SUV, Malko gazed out at Kabul’s anarchic traffic. He felt as if he were in a new city, yet nothing had changed: the same pedestrians in turbans and
pakol
hats hurried along the sidewalks, and the same yellow taxis, aging buses, and omnipresent Toyotas jammed the streets.

His heart soared a little when he passed through the Serena Hotel’s sliding armored gates.

The lobby was empty, as usual. The desk clerk handed Malko a new room key—his old one had expired—without inquiring about his absence.

Room 382 was in perfect order. To Malko, it felt like coming home.

He got undressed and raced to the shower. The hot water felt so
good, he didn’t want to leave. When he was finally clean and dry, he felt like himself again. His Russian GSh-18 was still in the GK ankle holster. He had almost forgotten it.

Malko suddenly realized that it was after eight o’clock and he was famished. He hated the idea of eating alone, so he phoned Alicia Burton but got no answer. She must not be in Kabul.

Then he thought of Maureen Kieffer, whom he’d stayed clear of, for her safety. The young South African woman wasn’t off-limits anymore. He dialed her number, but she didn’t pick up.

He had resigned himself to eating at the hotel buffet when Maureen rang him back.

“Malko!” she cried warmly when she heard his voice. “I thought you were dead!”

She wasn’t far wrong.

“I was away, but I’m back in Kabul again, and a lot of my problems have been solved. I’d really like to see you. Would you like to have dinner?”

“I’d love to, but I can’t. I invited a bunch of friends over, and I can’t cancel. Why don’t you join us? I can send my driver. He’ll come at nine o’clock and wait outside the hotel; it’s too complicated for him to come in.”

“That’s perfect. I’ll be out front at nine. I would bring you a bottle of champagne, but they don’t have any here.”

“Don’t worry, I have some!” she said, laughing. “See you later!”

At Maureen’s, Malko was greeted by a smiling young Pakistani with a neatly trimmed beard. He put his hand out and said, “My name’s Parvez. I run the UN Humanitarian Air Service. I’m a pal of Maureen’s. She’s in the kitchen. Come on in!”

There were a dozen young expats in the living room, draped across armchairs or sitting on cushions. Al Jazeera was playing on
a big flat-screen TV with the sound off, and a CD of vaguely Indian music filled the room. Malko walked through to the kitchen.

“Malko!” Maureen cried.

She quit stirring a big pot of spaghetti and ran to his arms.

She was wearing a very short black dress and looked extremely sexy. She ground her hips against his in a silent invitation, then giggled and said, “We’re going to have to wait for a while. My pals like to drink and talk a lot.”

She apparently wasn’t angry at Malko for whatever may have happened with Alicia Burton.

“I’ll leave you to your cooking,” he said.