On Edge

by Albert Ashforth

  Stan was referring to the fact that the United States military was scheduled to be out of Afghanistan by the end of 2014, in other words, in another twenty-one months. That would mean the end of Operation Enduring Freedom, which had officially kicked off in Afghanistan just one month after 9/11.

  A couple of minutes later, Stan got a call from one of the security people. When he got to his feet and nodded, I figured Douglas Greer had arrived. A minute later Stan returned, accompanied by the Undersecretary himself.

  As we shook hands, Greer said, “That was a difficult meeting yesterday.”

  “I think we should all cut the lady some slack,” Stan said.

  Greer said to me, “Major Jones says someone from the NSC’s responsible for you being over here. Who would that be?”

  “Jerry Shenlee,” I said.

  “Don’t know him personally, know the name.”

  “Alex and I were in Bosnia,” Stan said, “helping out with the drone program.”

  Greer grinned at the mention of drones. “You guys got the Predators flying?”

  I said, “We helped.”

  “I’m not sure I’d admit to that. Drones aren’t all that popular in these parts.”

  “Especially not in Waziristan,” Stan said. We all knew that Waziristan, a barren area of Pakistan that shelters al-Qaeda leaders, was the target of most drone attacks.

  “A lot of drones are taking off these days from Camp Chapman,” Greer said.

  At the mention of Camp Chapman, I recalled that was where the unsmiling Captain Corley was stationed.

  Greer gazed at me as though he might be sizing me up for something. He was a gangly six-three, had thick brown hair, a high forehead, a long face, and mildly flushed complexion, not a bad-looking guy. He was wearing a green windbreaker over a flannel shirt, tan cargo pants, and combat boots, and seemed very much at home out here. Stan had said for the last few years Greer was one of the government’s most frequent visitors to Afghanistan.

  As he watched Stan pulling off the caps on three bottles of Weihenstephan beer, Greer said, “How’s the Hansen investigation coming?”

  “It’s coming,” Stan said. “We found Nolda’s body.”

  “The assassin’s dead?”

  “Seems to have drowned. They found his body in the water. Early this morning.”

  “Where’d they find him? The river?”

  I said, “The river doesn’t have that much water in it at this time of year. He was out in one of the lakes, but now the body’s disappeared.”

  Stan flashed an angry look in my direction, obviously unhappy that my comment didn’t reflect well on him.

  “Disappeared? How the hell did that happen?” Greer seemed angry, as though I might have an answer for how Nolda’s body had vanished.

  Stan explained how Hammond and I had driven out to the hospital where they’d brought the body and how we’d assigned a couple of MPs to stand guard.

  I said, “Now we’re not even sure he’s the killer. At least I’m not.”

  When Greer arched his eyebrows, Stan explained that none of the photos clearly showed Nolda entering the building.

  “None?”

  “There were some ‘possibles,’ but none were very clear.” Stan added, “One had a low pixel count. Plus the guy had his head turned. But it could have been him.”

  “So we’re not sure about the facial recognition?” Greer groaned. “Man, if it’s not one thing, it’s another.”

  After a pause, Stan said, “Anyway, now we’re investigating the possibility that someone was in the Headquarters building who normally wouldn’t be there. Someone named . . . let’s see, Abdul Sakhi.”

  “So what was he doing there?” Greer asked.

  “Right now, we’re trying to get a line on him. Where he comes from. Where he might be.”

  “In other words, this investigation is still unfinished.” He paused to take a long swallow. “What else? What’s with Hansen’s wife?”

  Stan said, “She’s doing okay. Alex may be able tell you more. They had lunch today.”

  “I took her into Kabul, showed her the city. We had lunch at Sufi. Wanda’s tough. After we ate, she said she wanted to do some shopping. I drove her over to Chicken Street.”

  “If she’s thinking about shopping, that’s probably a good sign,” Greer said, grinning.

  “Give her some time and she’ll be all right. Pete was headed back to the States. Wanda had already picked out a new apartment and was fixing it up. The bad news came as a real shock.”

  Greer stood up, walked over to the window. “Should she even be over here? I mean, what the hell can she do? Except maybe get in the way.”

  Stan said, “She says she wanted to see the face of the guy who turned around and in cold blood shot her husband.”

  Greer made a sour face. “Sounds a little . . . well, self-indulgent. What do you guys think?”

  “I agree,” Stan said. “As far as I’m concerned, she should have stayed home. But she got a look at the guy just before the body disappeared.”

  I nodded. “She said it made her feel better.”

  Greer, who was still standing, shook his head. “I have some people I need to talk to at the Embassy. I’ll be here in Kabul for the next few days, then I fly back to Bagram. And then back to the States. When I’m not in Bagram, I’m at ISAF. I like the new officers’ barracks they built. They’ve given me a temporary office over there. It’s on the small side, but it’s okay.”

  I said, “They finished off the new barracks just in time to give them to the Afghans.”

  “Alex is in Eggers.” Stan grinned. “The low-rent neighborhood.”

  “Not only that, I’m close to Gator Alley. It’s noisy.”

  “How about lunch tomorrow?” Greer asked me. “The Headquarters dining room okay?” When I said lunch would be fine, Greer said, “You like steak? Or are you against cholesterol?”

  “There’s good cholesterol and there’s bad cholesterol.”

  Greer grinned, finished his beer with a long swallow, dropped the bottle in the wastebasket. “I’ll talk to the mess sergeant. He should know the difference.” As he headed toward the door, he addressed Stan, “You should be doing more on the Hansen case. Anything happens, let me know. There are people in D.C. who care about this.”

  Stan left the office with Greer, and I took another swallow. When he got back, Stan said, “Greer wants action. I feel the hot breath of important people on our necks. In fact, I’ve been feeling it ever since you arrived, Alex.” He fixed me with a hard stare. “Anyway, you’re coming up in the world. Lunch with Doug Greer. He’s a player back in D.C.”

  “I’ll make sure I use the right fork.”

  “I’m still wondering why you’re here. You’re supposed to be getting married. Why did you come over?”

  “My marriage wasn’t too high on anybody’s list of priorities.”

  “Except yours.” When Stan smiled, it seemed to cost him some effort. “Our superiors can be hard to read at times.” Looking out the window, he said, “Storm’s brewing out there. Be careful driving.”

  I knew Stan was boiling mad at me, and I knew why. I’d been clearly skeptical of how he was running the investigation.

  Although it was only 1930 hours, it had been a long day, and the wind was whipping things up. As I walked back to my van, I saw that I had a voice mail message from Captain Eric Page. “Would you be able to stop by my office at 1000 tomorrow?”

  I texted a yes.

  My telephone conversation with Irmie two days ago was still on my mind. I called because I was hoping to smooth things over. Although her “hello” wasn’t all that friendly, I decided to plunge ahead.

  “Irmie, I’ve had a thought about where we could get married. Last year, I attended a wedding at Nymphenburg Castle. The chapel had a beautiful atmosphere. I thought we might want to—”

  “You’re not serious, I hope. My salary for the next six months wouldn’t cover the cost of a wedding there
.”

  “The reception and wedding were beautiful. I think maybe we—”

  “Let me remind you, Alex. You should be here with me. That was how we wanted to make plans. The two of us together. Instead, you go to Afghanistan. And then you call to tell me where it is you want to get married. And then you select the most expensive place imaginable.”

  “Irmie, listen. I only—”

  “Don’t you realize how ridiculous that is?” When I didn’t immediately answer, she said, “Well?”

  “It depends how you look at it.”

  “Let me tell you how I look at it,” she said. “You left me here to handle everything myself while you went off on . . . some kind of jaunt.” She paused. “And you seem to think I should be happy . . . about that. And happy to hear from you.”

  “I don’t think that.”

  “Good. I have to run. I have things to do here.”

  It now seemed that whatever I did was wrong. When I called Irmie, I reminded her of my sudden departure. When I didn’t call, she felt more and more abandoned.

  I tossed and turned for most of the night, unable to sleep and thinking about Irmie and of the seemingly hopeless situation I’d created for myself.

  CHAPTER 9

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 4, 2013

  THE UPDATE BRIEFINGS are a daily morning ritual at ISAF Headquarters.

  I attended this one because Stan was scheduled to provide the latest information pertaining to the state of the green-on-blue attacks on military personnel. Maybe because people were fearful they might be next, the auditorium was filled, with men and women on hand from just about every NATO nation.

  I didn’t envy Stan his job, which entailed enormous responsibility and was the focus of widespread attention within the ISAF command. Pete had been a close friend, and I wanted to be sure that the right person was identified as his killer.

  The way I saw things, Baram Nolda hadn’t killed Pete.

  Nor did I like the way Stan had been tending to play down the importance of getting the right guy.

  I felt we should at least be trying to find Abdul Sakhi in order to ask him why he had been in ISAF Headquarters the day Pete was killed.

  After Stan had given his talk describing the measures being taken to guard against green-on-blue attacks, hands went up.

  “Sir,” one of the British officers asked, “have we been able to identify the shooter who murdered Colonel Hansen here in Headquarters?”

  Stan began nodding his head before the officer had finished speaking. “I can confidently say we have, and that there’s no doubt that the shooter worked right here in the Oversight and Accountability Section with Colonel Hansen.”

  “Was that the sergeant in the office?” someone asked.

  “Yes, it was,” Stan said. “Sergeant Baram Nolda.”

  “I understand he’s dead. How, exactly, did he die?”

  Stan said. “He drowned. We assume he was thrown into the reservoir.”

  “Is it true his body has disappeared, sir?” someone asked. When I turned, I saw Captain Corley.

  When Stan nodded, she said, “Who do you think caused it to disappear?”

  “We have no idea, ma’am. None at all.”

  “What was the state of the body when it was recovered?” she persisted. “How long had it been in the water?”

  “As I say, ma’am. We don’t know. With the body gone, we’re unable to determine that.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  If there had been another question, it would have been to ask why someone might want to get rid of the corpse.

  And the follow-up to that would be to ask if Sergeant Nolda wasn’t the victim of a frame.

  I would have answered that question with an emphatic yes.

  I didn’t ask because I thought I knew the answers. I’d already decided that the individual who got rid of Sergeant Baram Nolda’s body was Pete’s killer. And the reason that individual needed to dispose of the body was that Sergeant Nolda was already dead on the day Pete was killed. And a pathologist would have been able to determine that.

  Even after just a cursory examination I could see the body had been in the drink for more than a couple of days, perhaps for as long as two weeks. Large portions of the corpse had been eaten away, larger portions than you would expect to lose in the cold waters of a mountain lake.

  I supposed Jerry Shenlee wanted me over here because he suspected that Pete’s murder wasn’t a green-on-blue. But Jerry also indicated that he wasn’t running the op. I still didn’t know who I was reporting to, but I now had a suspicion.

  Captain Corley seemed to have her own ideas regarding the murder, and I now figured she had persuaded Jerry to launch an independent investigation of Pete’s murder.

  The remaining questions at the briefing mostly involved precautions being undertaken to prevent future green-on-blue incidents from occurring.

  With the update over, people gathered in groups in the corridor or else returned to their offices. Although I checked around for Captain Corley, I didn’t see her. I assumed she’d slipped out early.

  * * *

  “How well did you know Colonel Hansen?” Captain Eric Page asked. It was a half hour later, and I was still in ISAF Headquarters. After the briefing, I’d gone down to the Coffee Garden and shot the breeze with some Italian officers regarding their country’s chances in the World Cup, which was coming up in another year.

  Now I was in Captain Page’s office in the Oversight and Accountability section, the same section in which Pete had worked. On one of the walls was a familiar picture of President Truman, just the hint of a twinkle in his eyes. I had an idea he already knew something back then that we’re still struggling to learn. In the far corner stood three flags, the American, the Afghan, and the NATO.

  “Pete and I were good friends, but it was a while ago, about fifteen years.”

  “I understand his wife is over here.” When Page asked if I’d like some coffee, I shook my head. “Talking to you yesterday got me thinking a little more about Colonel Hansen. The truth is there are a number of things I didn’t mention yesterday. Mainly, about the kind of work he was doing.”

  I said, “Everything, no matter how small, is helpful.”

  “I guess you know about the Kabul Bank. You know the situation.” When I said I knew the Kabul Bank had gone bankrupt, Page said, “Pete spent a good amount of time there.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Trying to find out what was going on. He talked a lot with bank officials. They’re all on trial now. Twenty-two of them. The trial’s been running for three months. One time he said the bank was the ‘Ponzi scheme to end all Ponzi schemes.’” Page paused. “Then he said, ‘They’re not only crooks, they’re clever crooks. It’s that combination that makes them dangerous.’ When I asked who he’d been talking about, Page said, ‘The bank officials.’”

  “Interesting.”

  “Then he said he was surprised that they were so sophisticated. And he wondered how they’d gotten so damned smart. Neither Farnood nor Ferozi had ever had any experience in finance.”

  “Are you saying somebody showed them?”

  “Maybe.”

  I asked Page what else he remembered.

  “One time he said they ran things with two sets of books. One set they showed the auditors. That’s why the first audit said everything was fine. In the other set, they kept track of where all the money was going. I got the idea that it was real complicated. Pete said the money was going in every direction. He said there was only one direction in which it wasn’t going. And that was back to America.”

  I said, “Which is where it mostly all came from.”

  “He said this was happening in one of the world’s poorest countries, the country that could least afford it. He said the fraud was going to turn out to be much greater than anybody realized. When he said that, I asked him what he meant. He said the bank failure would equal about five or six percent of Afghanistan’s gross domestic product.�
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  “That much?” When Page nodded, I said, “That would be billions of dollars.” I paused. “Just one bank?”

  “Afghanistan isn’t a big country. I suppose that’s one reason Pete was so upset. One time he said what bothered him was he felt powerless to do much. He felt frustrated. I think that’s one reason he talked with me.”

  “He needed someone.”

  “I guess, and when he heard I’d majored in accounting in college, he figured I could follow what he was talking about. And he knew I cared. He once mentioned he’d been poking around in the bank when no one was around. Once, when he opened a drawer, he found a hundred stamps with the logos of corporations. The bank officials would emboss correspondence with stamps to provide an appearance of authenticity.”

  Page shook his head, grimaced. “Something else you should know. Pete spent a certain amount of time on the road, traveling around.”

  “To where?”

  “One place was Dubai.” When I asked, “Why Dubai?” he said, “I’m not really sure, but I have an idea that was where some of these bank officials landed. One of the insiders, he said, was the brother of Karzai.”

  “You mean President Karzai?”

  “Yeah, his brother. It seemed he owned property down there. According to Pete, he was making things real difficult for the auditors.”

  “Did he say how?”

  “Not really. But one time he said that over two hundred people got insider loans from the bank. That really surprised me. I got the impression some of the most important people in Afghanistan were part of the swindle.”