Chaos in Kabul (5 page)

Malko noticed many more flat Tajik
pakol
hats than he had on his last visit. One would think that the Tajiks controlled Kabul, which must get under the skin of the Pashtun majority.

Every thirty yards or so, they saw a man armed with an AK-47, in or out of some sort of uniform, guarding something or other. It made Kabul look like a city under siege.

“Are you still operating out of the Ariana?” Malko asked.

“Affirmative, sir.”

The Ariana was a former hotel near the American embassy. It stood at the end of an avenue interrupted by roadblocks where the French embassy was located; it had once served as the Taliban’s headquarters. The Ariana was the CIA’s Maginot Line. With Agency numbers melting away and its case officers ordered to keep a low profile, not much was going on here.

The SUV was now moving at walking pace around Zarnegar Park through a flood of vehicles that included a few yellow taxis. There were no stoplights, just policemen in tattered gray uniforms waving little red disks to direct traffic.

A dense crowd, nearly all men, flowed along the sidewalks, with the occasional handcart adding to the chaos.

Despite the apparent calm, Doolittle watched the crowds of people as if they were wild animals. A little girl in rags with enormous eyes approached and extended a dirty little hand, her pleading face pressed against the bulletproof glass.

Piteous.

Doolittle gave her an angry glance.

“You’ve got to be careful, sir,” he said. “A kid will ask you to lower your window to give them money, then toss in a grenade.”

No risk of that happening with the Land Cruiser. Its windows were two and a half inches thick, and too heavy to be rolled down.

When Malko spotted the Kabul Serena Hotel, he noticed something
new: a high wall had been erected between the hotel and the one-way street in front.

The Land Cruiser drove up onto the sidewalk, first passing a barrier of black-and-white metal tubes, and continued along the hotel wall. Three more checkpoints followed: the first to make sure the vehicle was authorized to enter the Serena, the second to run a mirror under the chassis. The third checkpoint, for passengers, was behind a pair of heavy sliding gates.

Driving military vehicles and wearing police uniforms, the Taliban had attacked the Serena in 2008 and killed half a dozen people. An investigation later showed that the head of the commandos, who died in the attack, had regularly enjoyed the hotel spa while scouting the area.

Passing the last gate, the Land Cruiser pulled up under the awning at the entrance to the hotel. A staffer in a turban greeted them with a broad smile.

“I’ll wait here, sir,” said Doolittle. “The COS wants to welcome you.”

Malko had met Chief of Station Warren Michaelis three years earlier. He was a tall, lanky American who must now be near the end of his tour.

“Okay. I’ll check in and come back out.”

The hushed Serena lobby didn’t exactly feel like party central. A few guests lounged on red benches around the central fountain. Malko checked in and went up to his room, number 382. He dropped off his things and went downstairs.

Getting out of the Serena was easier—just one checkpoint—and the Land Cruiser was soon back in the infernal traffic, made worse by the absence of stoplights. Power blackouts had become so common, the lights were simply switched off.

Eventually, they reached the avenue with the embassies of France and the United Arab Emirates. It was bordered by stone
walls twenty feet high. Doolittle pointed down the street to a building topped by a kind of watchtower with a corrugated iron roof.

“We’re almost home!” he said.

To reach the Ariana, they first navigated chicanes of concrete blocks that narrowed traffic to a trickle. These were followed by sandbag emplacements manned by Nepalese soldiers in black uniforms, weapons at the ready. The men were protected in turn by a guard tower with two heavy machine guns.

The walls around the compound were plastered with signs in English and Dari forbidding taking photographs, slowing down, and getting out of a car unless ordered to do so by the guards. Violators, they warned, would be shot on sight.

Doolittle zigzagged through the chicanes. The traffic barrier protecting the entrance to the Ariana was lowered, admitting the SUV to the hotel courtyard.

At the entrance, they again had to show their papers, and Doolittle phoned the CIA station chief from the guard post. He turned to Malko and said, “Mr. Michaelis is expecting you, sir. I’ll accompany you because you don’t have a badge.”

The inside of the hotel hadn’t changed since Malko’s last visit: white walls, shabby rooms, electrical wires running every which way, and doors protected by electronic locks. Everybody carried photo badges well in evidence, including two embarrassed-looking Afghans. That was understandable: if the Taliban identified them, they could have their throats cut.

Every floor had a metal detector so sensitive that a paper clip would set it off.

Warren Michaelis was standing in front of his third-floor office in shirtsleeves. He extended a hand to Malko.

“Welcome back to Kabul! If you’d come a few months later, you would’ve missed me. I’m going home for good in June.”

The station chief’s small office had chicken wire over the windows, to protect against hand grenades. Maps covered the walls.

“Langley alerted me that you were coming,” he said, “and said that your activities here had nothing to do with the station. Just the same, I’ve been told to be at your disposal. Is there anything you need?”

“Not for the moment,” said Malko. “I’m here to make contact with some ‘respectable’ Talibs, to save the station problems with the Afghan government.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Michaelis said with a sigh. “Karzai is on the warpath, accusing us of colluding with the Taliban to extend our stay in Afghanistan. Actually, Washington doesn’t want a single American on Afghan soil after December 31, 2014. You needn’t tell me anything about your assignment, but I’ll give you my cell numbers, as well as Jim Doolittle’s. I’ve asked him to drive you around during your stay. I’ve also prepared a local phone for you, with a SIM card that can’t be traced.”

He handed Malko a bare-bones Nokia with the phone number printed on it.

“I have to leave you now,” Michaelis said. “I have a meeting at ISAF. But let’s have lunch together.”

A half hour later, Malko was back at the Serena. His room overlooked a garden that still had some snow in it and came with a minibar that held only nonalcoholic drinks. The Serena chain had been bought by the Aga Khan and didn’t serve liquor.

Using his personal phone, Malko called Nelson Berry, the man he hoped to persuade to kill Hamid Karzai.

A deep voice promptly answered.

“
Baleh.
Salaam alaikum.”

“I’m looking for Nelson Berry,” said Malko.

“Speaking. Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of Sherwood”—Clayton Luger’s work name.

“Are you in Kabul?” asked the South African.

“I just arrived. Can we meet?”

“Sure. Where are you?”

“At the Serena.”

“Good. In a half hour, walk out of the hotel and turn right. At the next intersection, there’ll be a checkpoint with some police cars. Pass through it, walk another twenty yards, and wait there. A gray Corolla will pick you up. The driver’s name is Darius Gul.”

Night was falling when Malko left the Serena, but the
weather was pleasantly warm. He passed the police checkpoint at the next intersection and spotted Berry’s car. It was an old gray Corolla with chipped paint and a cluster of artificial grapes hanging from the rearview mirror. The bearded Afghan at the wheel cracked open his door.

“Darius?” Malko asked.

“
Baleh.
”

When Malko walked around to open his door, he got a surprise: it weighed a ton.

Armored!

That was unexpected, for such an old car.

The Corolla took off sluggishly, its engine straining at the weight, and merged with the dense throng of Toyotas.

They turned onto Sharpoor Street, a wide avenue with a long wall twenty feet high on the left. It was broken only by a few entrances guarded by watchtowers, blocks of cement, and razor wire.

Darius, who hadn’t spoken, waved at the complex and muttered, “NDS.”

That was the National Directorate of Security, the domestic intelligence service. Oddly enough, it wasn’t located within the
city’s fortified Green Zone. The Taliban would attack it with a car bomb from time to time and be mowed down by the guards.

It kept the NDS agents on their toes.

The Corolla passed in front of the enormous Iranian embassy and angled right. Here the street was lined by modern houses, several stories high, painted in garish colors and protected by armed guards. Afghans dubbed these monuments to bad taste “poppy palaces,” because they were often owned by drug traffickers.

The car turned into a side street, jouncing along the muddy road. They passed a series of houses, each uglier and more imposing than the last. Darius stopped at a green metal gate protected by an enormous steel beam and two sinister-looking guards carrying AK-47s and wearing black vests with spare magazines. The gate opened and the Corolla pulled up in front of the house.

Inside, he led Malko to an office with several computers on a table piled high with files. A tan leather sofa stood next to a low table holding a folding AK-47.

The man who rose from behind the desk was a giant, standing nearly six foot three. His hair was an odd, orangish color, as if dyed. His massive shoulders and biceps strained against a black T-shirt. Sharp eyes, a pug nose, and a prominent chin made him look a bit like Quentin Tarantino. The hand he extended to Malko was practically a club.

“Nelson Berry,” he said.

“Malko Linge. Sherwood sent me.”

“Any friend of Sherwood is a friend of mine,” said Berry. “Care for a
dop
?”

“Vodka, please.”

Berry walked to a bar at the back of the room, poured them both some Tsarskaya, and raised his glass.

“To Afghanistan!” he said. “A beautiful country. Too bad I’ll have to leave it soon.”

When Berry sat down on the sofa, his pants hiked up, and Malko glimpsed a GK ankle holster with an automatic. The South African also had a Beretta 92 at his waist and a couple of clips.

Berry downed his vodka and glanced sideways at Malko.

“When was the last time you were in Kabul?”

“Three years ago.”

“It’s changed a lot since then,” Berry said. “The coalition troops have pulled out and set up shop at Bagram. The Afghans are in charge of security in town.”

“How is that working out?”

“It’s okay. The Taliban don’t want to cause
too
much chaos. They’re keeping the pressure on the Karzai government, but they leave foreigners alone. You can walk the streets without fear of being shot or kidnapped, except maybe by thugs.”

“The Serena looks more defended than before,” remarked Malko.

“Yeah, it’s one of their regular targets. Some Taliban hardliners want to drive the foreigners out of the country, but they’re a minority.

“But from the business side, Kabul is chaos. Half of the houses around here are for rent. The other security companies have packed up, and there’s no work left. I’m one of the last, and I don’t know how long I can hold out. When the businesspeople leave, they don’t need us anymore. The Afghans give us work from time to time, but they only pay pennies on the dollar.

“I was renting this house for fifteen thousand dollars a month. I got it down to eight thousand, but even at that price my expenses are too high. So I hope you’ve got good news for me, meaning a well-paid job. Sherwood has always been tops.”

“That’s the case, pretty much,” said Malko cautiously. “It involves a ‘neutralization.’ ”

“I’ve done plenty of those, but the Agency has changed. Outside of Kabul they’re making like Special Forces and do the jobs themselves.”

Berry sounded resentful.

“This action would be in Kabul.”

“In Kabul? There are no Taliban targets here except for the washed-up guys Karzai has taken in.”

“This doesn’t involve them,” said Malko, proceeding carefully. “This is a very focused, dangerous job. Extremely dangerous, actually.”

“Okay,
bra
, we’re not here to make snowballs,” said the South African with a sigh. “Give me the whole story.”

“Karzai,” said Malko.

Berry gave him a look of surprise.

“How does this involve Karzai?”

When Malko didn’t answer, the South African swore softly.

“Holy shit! You don’t mean …”

“Yes, I do.”

A long silence followed, eventually broken by Berry.

“If business were better, I’d pour you another vodka and we’d part friends. Only I’m in a bind. I don’t even know how I’m going to pay next month’s rent. But do you have any idea what you’re asking? Even the Taliban haven’t been able to attack Karzai, and they’ve got people everywhere.”

Malko almost felt relieved.

“I understand,” he said. “Forget about it.”

Berry roused himself.