On Edge

by Albert Ashforth

  “And something else. He should have some knowledge of . . . financial matters, banking, and so on.”

  You’re not asking for much, he thought, but didn’t say.

  She said, “It’s my understanding that you’ve been doing this job for a while. Which is why I’m approaching you rather than someone else. I also understand that you, in your duties, are permitted a certain amount of discretion.” She paused. “And that your superiors have confidence in you.”

  He nodded. That all was true enough. He had gained the confidence of his superiors over the years. People knew they could rely on his judgment. Although the job, by its nature, tended to attract cowboy types, he wasn’t a cowboy. Far from it. People liked that.

  “What do you mean by discretion?”

  “That you might be able to handle this in a highly confidential manner—that is, you could assign a person without making a big fuss, without having to ask anyone else’s permission, or call unnecessary attention to the operation.”

  She was talking about a “black op.” She wanted him to set it in motion. He knew people in the Special Ops Group, so it wouldn’t be a problem. This was something that he’d done before, on a few occasions, not many.

  He was getting tired of nodding his head. What she’d said was all true enough. He did have a lot of discretion in planning ops. He also knew most of the country’s special operators, the guys and gals who knew their way around foreign countries and who knew how to carry out sensitive and dangerous assignments, always kept a low profile, and never made a fuss. He knew which ones were burned out—and which were still good to go. Unfortunately, these days the former far exceeded the latter. The last ten years had put a strain on the country’s human resources, not to mention its material and financial resources.

  “Now, my question is, can you find someone to handle this kind of assignment?”

  He thought for a minute. “What will he be doing? Or she.”

  “At the start he will want to familiarize himself with exactly what it is that happened. In other words, with the murder. If this was in fact a green-on-blue killing.”

  Interesting, he thought. She seemed to be suggesting that maybe this murder wasn’t a green-on-blue. How would she know that?

  “Do you mean become familiar with the investigation?”

  “Yes. But there will probably be more to it than that. Bribery, fraud, I’m not sure. No one can say exactly where things will lead.”

  “Danger?”

  She shrugged as if to indicate it was a silly question. “Dangerous? Yes, of course.” Afghanistan was a dangerous place. They both knew that.

  He remained silent, trying to understand just what she was getting at and running the names of various agents through his mind.

  “No,” he said finally.

  When a “black op” goes off the rails, it’s the agent who’s left holding the bag, not the government, whose spokesmen invariably shrug their shoulders and fall back on “plausible denial.” All the people he might call would know that, and for that reason would be unavailable—and not eager to leave for a murky assignment in Afghanistan on such short notice. He almost had to laugh. Who could blame them? It would be beyond foolish to take a job and not know who you were working for.

  When he shook his head, she said, “There has to be someone.”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t know anyone.”

  He shone his own flashlight on the report in the Washington Post. As he reread the story, he asked himself about the officer who’d been gunned down. A bird colonel named Hansen.

  Then he had a thought. Maybe there was someone he could ask.

  He said the name out loud. “Alex Klear.”

  “Is that his name? Would this person be good for this assignment?”

  He remained silent. Whether Klear would be good or not, he couldn’t say. “He’s adaptable.”

  “That’s all? You don’t sound enthusiastic. Isn’t there anyone else?”

  After a second, he said, “I can’t think of anyone, not anyone good, not offhand.”

  She was silent, obviously thinking things over. Finally, she said, “You say this man is competent? Would he understand financial matters? Banking? And so on?”

  “I’m not sure about the financial stuff. But he’s definitely competent enough.” Also unpredictable, a loose cannon—a guy with an off-the-wall way of doing things. Also a guy who could drive you batty at times.

  “I detect a note of reservation in your tone. He doesn’t sound like the kind of person I’m interested in. Are you sure there’s no one else?”

  “Let me think.” Finally, he said, “No one I can call on short notice. Klear may not want to take it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I heard he’s getting married.”

  After another period of silence, she said, “We need someone quickly. If there’s no one else, I want you to send this man.”

  Then she started giving him orders as though he were some kind of wet-behind-the-ears second lieutenant. Her tone and manner left no doubt that she expected him to do what she said. Also that she was used to being in charge, and she was so goddamned self-confident she didn’t care what he thought of her.

  The first thing she said for him to do was to call the individual whose name she had mentioned on the telephone.

  “Call within the hour. Here is her private line.”

  My God! Not only did she know her name, she had her private number! A number no more than half-a-dozen people in the entire world would know! Unbelievable!

  Who was this woman?

  “She’ll expect your call,” the woman said matter-of-factly.

  He took the paper on which she’d scrawled a number but not a name.

  “Next, I want you to get in touch with the officer, this Klear. I want you to present this assignment to him in a manner that leaves him no recourse but to accept it. You can do that, I’m sure.”

  He wasn’t sure, but he mumbled acquiescence to this command anyway.

  “Tell him he is to investigate this murder to determine who committed it.” She paused. “I want him on his way by Tuesday, two days from now. And something else.” She removed an envelope from her briefcase. “Here. Give him this. They’re newspaper stories. I had to put this information together quickly, but it’ll be helpful. He should familiarize himself with what’s happened.”

  She stood up, fixing him with a hard stare that caused him again to shudder involuntarily.

  As she walked toward her vehicle, he had two questions: Who the hell did she think she was?—and who in hell was she anyway?

  CHAPTER 1

  MONDAY, JANUARY 28, 2013

  THERE’S ONE SMALL detail they leave out when you make the decision to sign on for a career as an intelligence officer. They don’t tell you it’s a job from which you can never retire.

  Ever!

  It was a cloudy afternoon, and the point regarding no retirement for former case officers was about to be made yet again, for my benefit, by my sometime boss over the years, Jerry Shenlee. Jerry, who is now a National Security Council staffer, and I were seated opposite one another at the big dining room table in my home in Saranac, a quiet town in upstate New York. Although it was only a few minutes after three in the afternoon, outside it was already dark, and I’d just switched on a lamp. We were drinking tea, which Jerry prefers to coffee, and which I had brewed while he’d been spreading papers out all over the table.

  As usual, Jerry had arrived unexpectedly, flying up from D.C. without any advance notice beyond a phone call saying he was on his way to Saranac. I knew why he was here. I also knew I was going to have to disappoint him.

  Until now, we’d spent twenty minutes with small talk—local traffic, the weather, new car models, Jerry’s golf game. Any topic was fine so long as we didn’t touch on the real reason for his visit: He wanted to send me somewhere.

  “Good tea,” Jerry said as he took another sip, and maybe because we hadn’t seen one another in
a while, he gazed at me searchingly over the rim of his cup. Before I could begin describing the blend and the spices I’d added to get the taste, Jerry was talking again—about how his putting had improved with his new set of clubs and how he couldn’t wait for the warm weather to get back on the golf course.

  Jerry Shenlee and I first got to know each other in Berlin back in the eighties, three years before the big Wall came tumbling down. At that time Jerry was a recent Annapolis graduate, a spiffy young guy with a windowless basement office in our intelligence section at Tempelhof. Although Jerry’s come a long way since then, I couldn’t help thinking that his appearance hadn’t changed much over the years. Round face, ruddy complexion, reddish-blond hair cut short, in the military style. Jerry looks so good that I assume he’s one of those people who thrives on the careerism and political infighting that’s so much a part of life in our nation’s capital. Something else about Jerry: He almost never smiles. On the plains of North Dakota, where he grew up, there maybe wasn’t too much to smile about.

  As he thumbed through his papers, I shook my head. I didn’t need to be told that any minute he’d be shoving a contract in my direction and holding a pen.

  I was ready with all my reasons to decline any and all assignments. This time I wasn’t going anywhere.

  “If you’re thinking of me, Jerry, I have to disappoint you. I can’t leave.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I have a business to run. That’s why. It’s our busy season.” I was referring to the ice business I own with my partner, Gary Lawson. We supply ice for restaurants and clubs in and around Saranac Lake. Gary is never happy when I leave, but, fortunately, we have a reliable worker we can call to fill in, a retired New York City cop named Ross.

  What Jerry intended was for me to sign on to work for a construction firm, which would be some kind of a government front.

  It’s a ritual I’ve been through before—and one that, since 9/11, a lot of other men and women have gone through as well.

  “You’re saying your business is more important than our nation’s security? Is that it?”

  “Nothing like that, Jerry, but I have responsibilities. People depend on us.”

  I had an idea Jerry wasn’t overly impressed by either my ice business or by the social situation in Saranac. From the grapevine I know that when Jerry turns up at a Kennedy Center black-tie opening or the occasional high-profile cocktail party, he’s always with snazzy female company. His most recent partner, I’m told, is a statuesque African-American opera singer who’s a frequent performer at Lincoln Center.

  “You also have responsibilities as a citizen, you know. One reason I decided on you, Alex, you’ve been to Afghanistan.” Before I could interrupt to say so have a few hundred thousand other people, Jerry said quietly, “I’ll be honest. There’s no one else I can ask on short notice.”

  “I’m surprised you’re asking me to go back to Afghanistan.” When Jerry frowned, I said, “I told you how the last time in Helmand an IED went off sixty feet from where we were working. I still have nightmares about that. The other time I was in a vehicle and—”

  “Okay, okay. But this time you’ll be in Kabul.”

  “IEDs are going off in Kabul all the time.”

  “You’ll have a chance to get together with your colleagues at the Ariana.” Jerry was referring to the former Ariana Hotel, which is CIA headquarters, and is just down the road from ISAF, where the NATO nations are headquartered. “And I figure this job shouldn’t last longer than a couple of weeks.”

  Still hoping to come up with a reason for not going anywhere, I said, “There’s something else, Jerry.” When he mumbled, “What’s that?” I said, “I’m getting married.”

  Jerry continued to go through his papers. “Congratulations. Is it that German babe?” Before I could answer, he said, “Postpone it. You can do that.” He pushed a couple of news stories at me. “This should tell you what you need to know. How it happened.”

  Trying to demonstrate my lack of interest, I ignored what he was trying to show me. “No, Jerry. Like I say, this time I—”

  My eyes dropped inadvertently to one of the news stories.

  The headline read: AMERICAN OFFICER SHOT IN KABUL; ISAF HEADQUARTERS SCENE OF DEADLY ATTACK. The dateline read Kabul, Afghanistan. The date on the story was four days before.

  When I recognized the name of the murdered officer, I felt like I’d been jolted with a couple of hundred volts of electricity.

  Without comment, I slid the story closer. Maybe because the Post had buried the story on page 5, or because I hadn’t watched the TV news for a couple of days, I hadn’t known what happened. When Jerry saw me reading, he silently placed another story down for my inspection, this one from the New York Times.

  Both stories were accounts of a so-called green-on-blue killing. An Afghan National Army soldier had calmly walked across the office in which he worked and placed his weapon against the head of an American officer and fired. And then he’d calmly walked out of ISAF headquarters and disappeared.

  The officer was described as working in the Oversight and Accountability section of ISAF Headquarters in Kabul, Afghanistan. He was identified as Colonel Peter Hansen.

  Pete Hansen was an old friend. Pete and I had been stationed together at Fort Bragg some fifteen years before. I leafed through the pile of papers. There was an ongoing CID investigation.

  When I’d finished reading, I remained silent.

  I felt a sickening feeling beginning at the pit of my stomach. One thing I knew. This wasn’t the way Pete should have died.

  “Did you know Hansen, Alex?” When I nodded, Jerry said, “And his wife, Wanda. You knew her, too?”

  “I knew both Pete and Wanda, Jerry. Fifteen years ago. As I recall, I introduced Pete and Wanda. Before I knew it, they were an item. We were all stationed at Bragg. My girlfriend, Kathy Ross, was an army nurse. The four of us never missed a Friday evening at the O Club.”

  “These green-on-blues have people shitting bricks. Everyone’s worried they’re going to be next. Hansen’s killer’s name is Nolda. Baram Nolda. An Askar. Sergeant in the ANA. Worked right in the same office. We’re still looking for him.”

  The fact that I knew Pete Hansen changed everything. “They still haven’t caught the guy?”

  “Not yet. As one of Hansen’s buddies, I’d think you’d want the opportunity to find the bastard. That’s what this assignment is all about.” Jerry’s tone hardened. “Maybe pay him off personally. Take care of him yourself, just to make sure he doesn’t get away with murder. You can’t trust the Afghan courts to convict these guys, no matter what they do.”

  Having done a couple of tours in the country, I knew about the Afghan courts. In Afghanistan, bribery is a way of life, and everyone, from the president on down, is on the take. The thought of Pete’s murderer buying his way out of a conviction set my teeth on edge.

  “What do you say, Alex?”

  Even at that, I hesitated. For a long moment, I thought about Pete, about his understated sense of humor, his sense of loyalty, his generosity, the great times we’d had. I felt the sick feeling moving from my stomach up to my chest. When I finally nodded, Jerry handed me the contract and pen, then an envelope. “Here’s your plane ticket, your orders, an ID card. Some other stuff you’ll need. Homeland Security has your prints on file. I’ll handle that end for you. Your passport is valid for two more years.” When I seemed surprised, he said, “I checked. You leave tomorrow evening from JFK. A car will be waiting in Frankfurt and will take you over to Ramstein.” I knew the drill. Ramstein is Air Force headquarters in Europe. From there I’d fly direct to Afghanistan.

  All of a sudden, I couldn’t wait. Couldn’t wait until I had a chokehold on Sergeant Baram Nolda’s traitorous neck. What kind of lowlife would do something like that? My heart was pounding double-time. I’d find this miserable creature, no question. And when I found him, I’d make him regret what it was he did to Pete.

&n
bsp; After I’d signed and gazed through the papers, I said, “Aren’t we forgetting something, Jerry?”

  “What?”

  “How do I contact you?”

  “You don’t contact me. Someone will contact you.”

  “Who’s the ‘someone’?”

  “You’ll know when you need to know.” Jerry pulled out a large envelope filled with newspaper clippings, stuff that looked as if it had been put together quickly. “Oh, by the way. What do you know about banking, financial fraud, that kind of thing?”

  “What’s to know, Jerry? I have a bank account. Does that surprise you?”

  “Ha ha. I’m asking for a reason.” He handed me the envelope. “Read this stuff. It’s important.” He tapped a pencil on the table. “Oh, yeah. Something else you should know. Colonel Hansen’s wife, Wanda, is flying over. She’s already left. Help her out. She’s never been to Afghanistan.”

  “I haven’t seen Wanda Hansen in fifteen years.” I was thinking these would be difficult circumstances under which to renew our friendship.

  Jerry got to his feet, took a last sip of tea. “You know the guy who’s running the investigation. Stan Jones. He’ll be glad to see you.”

  “Stan won’t be happy if I’m mainly there to look over people’s shoulders.” Actually, I knew Stan quite well. We’d served together in Bosnia, on a base out of which our government ran a couple of renditions, back in the days when an “extraordinary rendition” was still a song sung by Barbra Streisand.

  “Put your wedding on hold.” Jerry took a quick glance at his watch, grabbed his windbreaker. “I’m serious about the financial stuff I gave you. Do a little reading.” After zipping up, he stuck out his hand. “They’re waiting for me back at the airport.” He smirked. “Buck up. It ain’t the end of the world.”

  I resisted an urge to say, “No, but it’s probably the end of my engagement.” I’d made a firm promise to my fiancée that I wouldn’t be accepting any more assignments from the American government.