Before leaving, Jerry made some comment about the frigid weather in Saranac. I could have told him that’s what you get in the Adirondacks in January, but decided to let him have the last word.
Because of the time difference between the United States and Germany, I stayed up and made the call at a few minutes after midnight. Irmie answered on the second ring.
“Alex, darling! I’m so glad you called. We have so many things to talk about.”
Irmie is a police detective in Munich, and on occasion works irregular hours. I didn’t know how to break the news that I wouldn’t be coming over in two weeks so we could make our wedding plans.
“I hope I didn’t call at a bad moment.”
“You never call at a bad moment.” She giggled. “You won’t believe what I’m doing.”
“Putting on lipstick.” When she laughed, I said, “Putting on mascara.”
“I’m drinking coffee and thinking of you.”
“Which machine did you use to make the coffee?” I asked because when her old machine burned out, I gave her a new one for her birthday.
“Guess.”
“Does the new machine fit the color scheme of your kitchen?”
“It does, but more important, it makes great coffee.” Before I could comment, Irmie said, “I have Bride magazine and I found—”
“I called for a reason, Irmie.”
“I still haven’t picked out a dress.” When I again tried to interrupt, she said, “I’m leaning toward hand-beaded crystals—”
“Irmie, I have to tell you something. It’s important.”
“Something else I’ve been thinking about. You know Monopteros in the English Garden?”
“Yes, of course. The white building on the hill.”
“In the morning, before the actual wedding, I was thinking we could have a champagne breakfast there. The guests will all be dressed and—”
“Irmie, I have to tell you something—”
“Alex, what’s wrong?” When Irmie became silent, I knew she’d picked up the seriousness in my tone.
“We’re going to have to postpone my trip.”
“Alex, you’re supposed to arrive in two weeks. We have so many things to do. What’s so important?”
“I just had a visit from my old boss.”
Irmie remained silent.
“Jerry Shenlee. I may have mentioned him. He wants me to go to Afghanistan.”
“But, Alex, you promised . . .” Irmie was referring to the promise I’d made to stay retired from my job as case officer.
“I know. But this is . . . well, important.” After blurting it all out, I realized I should have handled this differently. Now it was too late.
“How important can it be? They can get someone else.” She paused. “Afghanistan? No, Alex, no. You can’t.”
“This is an . . . unusual situation, Irmie.”
“You should have spoken to me first. I don’t care how unusual it is. What’s so special about it?”
“It’s something . . . only I can handle. Someone was murdered. I knew him.” I was about to add that his wife was an old friend, but then thought better of it. “I think it’s best that I—”
“We’ve been engaged for nearly a year, and with you there and me here, we hardly ever see one another. This hasn’t been exactly an easy time for me. I want you to know that. And now that we have plans to see each other, spend time together, you’re telling me you can’t come.”
“When the assignment’s over, I’ll be there, first thing.”
“When will that be?” Before I could say I didn’t know, Irmie said, “I was so looking forward to us being together again, finally, after all this time apart. We have so many decisions to make. Just yesterday, I spoke with the manager of Käfer and . . .”
Irmie and I had been at Käfer a number of times. It was Munich’s best restaurant. We’d already spoken about holding our reception there.
“I can’t talk about this right now, Alex. I have to leave for work.” Her words just hung in the air.
“I’ll call.”
“Good-bye, Alex.” Before I could say my own good-bye, Irmie had hung up.
I remained sitting in the darkened room for a long time. With an awful suddenness, I realized I’d not only upset our wedding plans, but I’d upset Irmie’s entire life. As a police detective in Munich, she was holding down a job that often required her to juggle half-a-dozen cases simultaneously. As I thought about it, I found it easy to understand her disappointment and her irritated response to my news. She’d been counting on me, and I’d let her down.
Although I would like to have been able to tell Jerry Shenlee that I couldn’t go after all, I knew that was no longer possible. Irmie was the most important person in my life, and I now realized that no amount of excuses or explanations could set things right. I’d gone back on my promise.
She had no choice but to think that she wasn’t as important as a military assignment to some distant place on the other side of the world.
When she’d said, “Afghanistan,” I could hear her tone of disbelief.
I spent most of the night tossing and turning and was up before the alarm. Since Gary, my business partner, is an uncomplicated guy, we completed arrangements over breakfast at the Lakeview restaurant. I arranged for a neighbor to take care of my house and threw what I figured I’d need into my carry-on. When I checked my passport, I saw that Jerry was correct, that it was valid for two more years—just another reminder that the government knows as much about me as I know myself. I grabbed the Tuesday afternoon flight down to JFK.
As I waited for my flight to Frankfurt in the airport lounge, I recalled Jerry mentioning bribery and fraud. I know Jerry well enough to know that he made the comment for a reason. And then I remembered the envelope full of newspaper clippings he’d given me.
KABUL BANK SCANDAL was the first headline I read. FRAUD SCHEME CAUSES BANK TO GO BANKRUPT was the second. The newspaper accounts all dealt with the Kabul Bank and how hundreds of millions of dollars had disappeared. Another story reported that twenty-two bank officials were on trial in Kabul for having embezzled the money.
When I wondered how Pete’s murder connected with a bank scandal, I got an uncomfortable feeling that I might be involved in something far bigger and far messier than an uncomplicated green-on-blue killing.
CHAPTER 2
THURSDAY, JANUARY 31, 2013
THE AFGHANISTAN SUN was weak, and the air was chilly. After an hour of standing in front of the Kabul International Airport military terminal, I decided I was in the mood for something to drink. I drifted over to a long, gray brick building where the cafeteria was located. Although a beer would have tasted good, it was only three in the afternoon. I settled for a Sprite, for which I paid with a couple of euros and began drinking while sitting at a long wooden table.
I gazed at a week-old copy of the International New York Times, which someone had thoughtfully left on the bench and from which I learned that the recent arrival in Pakistan of what the paper called “a fiery preacher” had shaken up the nation’s politics. I closed the paper, maybe because I’m from a nation with no shortage of “fiery preachers,” and the story sounded exaggerated.
Back outside with my cardboard cup, I watched a bunch of GIs, young men and women loaded down with backpacks and weapons, clamber on to an armor-plated military bus. A female sergeant was standing by and checking names on a clipboard. The wind was just piercing enough to make standing around uncomfortable.
Fifteen minutes passed, and the civilian crowd, a mixed bag of foreign nationals, military contractors, and special ops people, grew smaller as their rides showed up. I felt myself becoming impatient. Just as I was tossing my cup into a trash container, I saw a dust-covered Humvee roll into the parking area, halt, and a soldier wearing fatigues climb out. Hands on his hips, he stood, looked around, and I wondered whether this was my ride. With my carry-on over my shoulder, I began walking in his direction.
�
�Mr. Klear?” His name tag said “Maxson.”
I told him I was Alex Klear and stuck out my hand. I tossed my gear in the back of the Humvee as I shouted a hello to the gunner on the roof.
After climbing in, I pushed aside some empty plastic MRE packages, noticed a haphazard pile of military equipment and clothing on the rear seat. On top of the pile were two assault weapons and a bunch of .30-caliber ammunition magazines.
“AR-10s, sir. I tossed them in. Just in case. You’ve fired them, right?”
I nodded. “At Grafenwoehr, Sergeant. Not that long ago.” Grafenwoehr is the military installation in Germany where the Army provides readiness training for soldiers and civilians headed to Afghanistan—and where, some time back, I spent six days qualifying with every weapon I could get my hands on, from the MP5 automatic pistol to the M9 Beretta automatic, with the M16 and AR-10 thrown in. I took a pass on the .50-caliber machine gun.
Sergeant Maxson waited while I clicked on my seat belt. He began talking as we drove slowly across the parking area toward the airport exit. “You’ve been here before, sir. Am I correct?”
I smiled. “Who told you, Sergeant?”
Maxson shrugged. “People here for the first time . . . Well, they’re a little nervous. You can tell.”
“I guess I was nervous the first time I was here. Weren’t you?”
“It was a while ago, sir. I’m on my third deployment.”
As we drove out of the parking area, Maxson said, “I’m sorry, sir, about the delay. We would have come out in an MRAP, but they’re all in the repair shop or in mission mode. I hope you don’t mind the Humvee.”
“Nothing to apologize for, Sergeant.”
“I know you’ve been waiting for over—”
“I just got here, Sergeant.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Although my flight had arrived an hour and a half before, you can’t be too fussy in Afghanistan, where all kinds of things can delay you or even permanently prevent you from going to wherever it is you’re headed. I’d flown into Afghanistan from Ramstein, Germany, an uneventful eight-and-a-half-hour flight on a C-17 loaded down with cases of ammunition on which I was the only passenger. I’d been able to grab some shut-eye on the plane and wasn’t particularly tired.
To our left as we drove out of the parking area was the big terminal building where I’d just been. The parking lot was half-filled, with most of the vehicles belonging to the American military. A few sported insignia and military plates from other nations. Some were civilian, the numbers and letters written in Arabic.
As we proceeded, I continued to check out the Kabul International Airport, which hadn’t changed much since my last visit a year before. KIA is divided in two. On one side the civilian flights land. On the other the military flights land. There were maybe fifty or sixty people still milling around. Some were flying out and some, like me, were flying in—and waiting for a ride to take them wherever in Kabul they’d be staying.
“It’s not a long ride, sir, only five miles.”
I nodded. We were headed for Camp Eggers, where I could keep a low profile and where I’d arranged for a billet and a Toyota van. I had an appointment the following morning with Major Stanley Jones. Camp Eggers and nearby Camp Phoenix are two of half-a-dozen military installations the United States maintains on the outskirts of Kabul. They’re both close to the complex of buildings in which ISAF Headquarters is situated.
Stan Jones was an officer in the Criminal Investigation Command, or CID, in Kabul, and he told me on the phone he’d gotten the job of investigating green-on-blues tossed in his lap. He’d also mentioned the withdrawal of NATO from Afghanistan, which was scheduled for the end of 2014 and was affecting his ability to get his job done.
I couldn’t shake the thought that Pete shouldn’t have died in the way he did—an Afghan soldier with whom he worked walking over to his desk and calmly placing an M9 Beretta against his head and pulling the trigger. Nor could I shake the thought that this rash of premeditated killings may be the vilest and most upsetting development to emerge from a long and frustrating war.
Beyond the airport exit we drove around a bend before hitting a two-lane road surrounded on both sides by fields overgrown with weeds. On our right I could see what looked like a 767 taxiing on one of the airport’s distant runways. We passed a heavily armored military bus headed toward the airport.
After a couple of miles we turned right onto Airport Road, a four-lane highway that I remembered from my two earlier visits. This street had traffic, mostly ancient cars and battered trucks. In the inside lane there were a few wagons being pulled by donkeys. Horns honked and clouds of exhaust from badly tuned engines hung over the pothole-scarred road. On both sides were rickety buildings, some mud and cement and some wood. Most housed shops advertising their wares with beat-up signs hand-painted in Arabic. A gentle breeze blew curtains out from windows without window panes. Some of the stores had stands in front, most containing food, others holding every kind of junk imaginable. There was a wide dirt path, a kind of sidewalk, lining the highway. Except for a few veiled women carrying bags, the pedestrians were all males, many of them guys talking and standing around with their hands in their pockets.
“I figure this is about the way things must have looked five hundred years ago,” Sergeant Maxson said.
“They didn’t have cars back then,” I said. “Or concrete.”
“Well, sir, except for the highway and the cars, that’s what I figure.” As we slowed to allow a couple of guys to amble across, Maxson called up to our gunner, whose name was Rackley.
“I’m good,” the gunner called down.
“Over here,” Maxson said, “the guys stand around. The women do most of the work. But you hardly ever see them.”
I didn’t reply, but it was a good insight. In Afghanistan you notice things like that. Seeing these depressing sights again, I felt a sick feeling and couldn’t help thinking I never should have said yes to this mission. Whenever I recalled my telephone call with Irmie, I remembered how upset she’d been. I should have anticipated her reaction, but I hadn’t. Although she never complained, I knew Irmie’s job was not only demanding, it was dangerous. It was early afternoon now in Munich, and as we drove, I couldn’t help wondering what she was doing.
Two minutes later, we were bouncing along in the outside lane going about 30 mph when, without warning, a small truck coming from the opposite direction veered out of its lane and across the center line, its horn blasting, and headed straight toward us.
“Goddamn—”
Maxson had no choice. Reacting quickly, he spun the steering wheel, causing us to swerve toward the right. We rolled across the inside lane and onto the dirt path alongside the road and narrowly avoided going into a wide drainage ditch. Trying not to hit a couple of startled pedestrians, Maxson was able to get the vehicle back onto the road.
But that was exactly where someone wanted us to be.
Suddenly, there was a deafening roar, and we weren’t on the ground anymore. The Humvee went briefly into the air, hit the ground with a terrible crunching, hard thud, then pitched back onto the road. As it rolled over, I held on for dear life.
Thank God for seat belts!
The vehicle came to rest upside down. Rackley, the gunner who’d been perched over us, was now beneath us. I could hear cursing, so at least he was still alive.
I saw Maxson, who, like me, was strapped in but was also upside down. “You okay?”
Before he could answer, I heard the rat-a-tat of an automatic weapon. Someone was firing at us. Probably the guys who’d been in the truck who, when they saw the IED hadn’t done its job, decided they were going to finish us off themselves. Fortunately, the armor on a Humvee is plenty thick, and except for a couple of rounds smashing the windshield, the first burst didn’t do any damage. Whoever was shooting would need to get closer to hit us.
Then there was a second burst from outside, this one from a different direction, and it sound
ed closer.
Upside down in the Humvee we were sitting ducks.
I needed to get my door open. For what seemed like an eternity and while slugs slammed against the side of the vehicle, I pushed and pulled on the goddamned handle, trying to remember which direction I should be pushing it toward. But for some reason when you’re upside down, right is no longer right, up is no longer up, and it’s very much like being in a different world.
“Up, and out, sir,” Maxson said. He kept saying it. “Up, sir. Now back. That’s it. Now out.”
After another fifteen seconds of fiddling and following Maxson’s shouted directions, I had the door unlocked. Reaching into the back, I found the AR-10s, lying on the roof. I grabbed a couple of ammo magazines and tossed a weapon to Maxson, who was unclicking his own seat belt.
There was another burst from one of the shooters outside. I figured the other shooter would be closing in on the far side, Maxson’s side. He had his door open.
With my door partially ajar, I’d be able to shoot back, but that meant the shooter would also be able to shoot in.
I waited for maybe half a minute before an individual with a white rag around his head stepped out from behind one of the huts on the near side of the road. He was 150 feet away, in a crouch, had his weapon at his shoulder, and he was close to getting me in his sights. I let go with a random burst in his direction, not expecting to hit him, only shake him up. I figured it worked because I couldn’t see him anymore and for the next twenty seconds, he remained out of sight . . .
“For God’s sakes!”
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. A youngster, maybe seven or eight years old and holding an apple, came wandering out from the dark inside of one of the shops. Curiosity was written all over his face. With all the other pedestrians having taken cover, he was now alone on the dirt sidewalk with no parent around and obviously curious about the noise and shouting in the street.
He was sixty or seventy feet from the Humvee and wandering directly into the line of fire.
When I waved and shouted “Beat it!” a broad grin lit up his face. “Beat it, dammit! Get away!”
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