On Edge

by Albert Ashforth

  With the meeting adjourned, I felt mildly depressed. Outside, in the Headquarters parking area, I called Wanda.

  “Do you feel like lunch?”

  “I heard that you’re back. I was worried.”

  “I’m glad someone was worried.”

  “Poor boy.”

  “I’m fishing for sympathy again.”

  “I can see that, but I’m not available for lunch. You won’t believe what I’ve done.” Before I could reply, she said, “I’m moving. I’m leaving the Green Village and moving into a hotel for my last week in Kabul. What do you think of that?”

  “It depends on the hotel.”

  “I’ve booked a room at the best hotel in Kabul. At least everyone says the Serena is Kabul’s best hotel. I move in tomorrow.”

  “They don’t serve booze.”

  “No, but they serve high tea. I’m inviting you.”

  “I can’t wait.” In the background, I could hear people talking. “Where are you now?”

  “On Flower Street, shopping. Looking for stuff I can bring back to the States. I’m beginning to like Kabul, at least a little bit. There are some great bazaars here.”

  “Another time then.”

  And then I had another thought. I knew I needed to let off some steam. That meant I’d need to find a place serving alcohol. I recalled the Gandamack Lodge being an occasional hangout during my two earlier visits. I wondered what Captain Page might be doing. He answered with his name.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Do you want my real answer or my diplomatic answer?”

  “Neither. I’m going to be at the Gandamack this evening. In the basement bar. I thought you might want to drop by.”

  “Sounds good,” he said.

  Although it still wasn’t noon, I needed some time to think. And with my shoulders still aching, I also needed some rest. But I also felt a little groggy, which meant I needed more coffee.

  I called Haji and told him to meet me in the Green Bean coffee shop at 1230 hours.

  Camp Phoenix’s Green Bean is in a crumbling stone building that is one story above a haphazard bunch of offices and meeting rooms. The building, which was originally built by the Russians during their ill-fated occupation of Afghanistan, was definitely showing its age.

  After finding myself a place at one of the rear tables, I gazed around at the GIs waiting in line for coffee, at two attractive women in scrubs, no doubt medical personnel at the dispensary, chatting at the next table. I was about to get on the coffee line again when Haji arrived.

  “You don’t look good,” Haji said, shaking his head and placing a large cardboard cup of cappuccino down on the wooden table. As I watched him slowly gnawing on one of the Green Bean’s chocolate chip cookies, I had the impression Haji’s mind was elsewhere, perhaps still on our close call in Kunar Province.

  “Our little adventure took more out of me than I want to admit, Haji. Maybe I’m not as young as I used to be.” I didn’t say it, but thanks to Izat, my left shoulder still ached. Izat was gone, but not completely forgotten. At least not by me.

  Haji smiled but didn’t say anything. Like many Afghans, he’s learned to be diplomatic.

  “What we have to do, Haji, is find out more about this Abdul Sakhi individual. I’m going to tell you what I think. But I don’t want you to repeat any of this to anyone.” When Haji nodded, I said, “I don’t believe Sergeant Nolda killed Colonel Hansen.”

  “But why not?”

  “Reason number one: He was already dead on the day Colonel Hansen was shot. Reason number two: It’s my gut feeling.”

  “I respect your gut feeling, Alex. I assume you think Abdul Sakhi killed Colonel Hansen.” When I nodded, Haji said, “I must remind you that what we know about this man is he is an enemy of the Taliban and—”

  “And American soldiers, like Colonel Hansen, also are enemies of the Taliban.”

  “Yes. It does not seem logical that such a person would want to kill Colonel Hansen.”

  “It’s a confusing situation. I agree. Nevertheless, I do not think Baram Nolda killed Colonel Hansen.”

  “And you believe the murderer might be Abdul Sakhi. I have another question. Why is it so important?”

  “You’re beginning to sound like the military people here. They do not think it’s important either. They believe because American forces will be leaving Afghanistan at the end of next year, there are other more important matters for them to handle.”

  “How do you know they think this way?”

  “I have just returned from a meeting at which such sentiments were expressed, not directly but indirectly.”

  “I agree with your colleagues, Alex. I, too, do not feel that in this case the identity of the murderer is of the highest importance.” Haji smiled. “That is my gut feeling.”

  I took a sip of my tea. “As you know, Haji, I also respect your gut feelings. However, in this instance I have to be blunt. I think you are wrong.” When Haji frowned, I said, “What is important is to determine the motive behind Colonel Hansen’s murder.”

  Haji gazed at me over the rim of his cappuccino cup with his dark eyes, obviously waiting for me to explain myself.

  I said, “If Nolda was the murderer, it would then be a green-on-blue, and that would mean we know the motive. However, if the murder was the work of someone who was only trying to make it appear to be a green-on-blue, it would then be something quite different. In that case, I would like to know what the motive was for committing the murder.”

  “Even if that is true, Alex, I do not see it as such an important reason. I think you will agree that we have many other important matters to occupy us at the present time.”

  Haji was becoming difficult. I took a sip of tea, carefully placed my cup back down on the wooden table, felt myself becoming impatient. Although Haji’s point was a reasonable one, I recalled my conversation with Jerry Shenlee. Jerry said his reason for sending me here had to do with my being a friend of Pete Hansen’s, but I knew Jerry well enough to know he wouldn’t let friendships and personal feelings interfere with his job.

  Jerry’s reason for wanting me here had to do with the Kabul Bank. I also recalled Captain Corley saying that was the direction from which we should investigate the murder.

  “I feel it is important for us to know why someone might want to kill Colonel Hansen. And because I feel the killer might have been Abdul Sakhi, I think we should try and learn more about him.”

  “Officially, the case is closed.”

  “For me, the case is not closed. Colonel Hansen knew something that we still do not know.” I paused. “Is there someone among the Korengalis who might provide information about Abdul Sakhi?”

  After a brief hesitation, Haji said quietly, “I can speak with some elders.”

  Because I knew he was doing it reluctantly, I said, “Ma-nana. Thank you.”

  CHAPTER 17

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 2013

  “DO YOU KNOW about the poker games?” Eric Page said over the mumble of voices.

  He took a sip of bourbon, his second. We were two deep at the Hare and Hound, the basement bar of the Gandamack Lodge on Sherpur Square. Since American service people aren’t allowed to drink alcohol while serving in Afghanistan, Page was in civvies, dressed in a light tan windbreaker and jeans. He had on a Yankees cap, which he was wearing backwards, and which made him look like a mildly retarded fan.

  I thought it was a good disguise. Page was anything but retarded. He was smart, an insightful observer, and I was finding him a good source on the financial skullduggery at the Kabul Bank.

  When I shook my head, he flashed a grim smile. “You should know about the poker games.”

  Because the Hare and Hound sold booze and was located a block from the British Embassy, there were no locals in the crowd, and the conversations I could overhear were mostly in English. I took a slug of Heineken, which I was drinking out of the bottle since the Gandamack didn’t have beer on tap. It didn’t have
a saucy young woman behind the bar either. You can’t have everything.

  “Pete tried to go to the poker games when he could. They played in Farnood’s house, a real fancy place, expensive furniture, servants. Pete said every time he went there he felt like he was walking into the Sultan’s palace.” He paused. “You know who Sherkhan Farnood is.”

  “He was chairman of the bank. I know he likes poker.”

  “He likes money, too. Nine hundred million dollars is missing. Pete said once that’s a conservative figure. Farnood probably siphoned off more than half. The trial’s been going on since November.”

  “No wonder he has a nice house.” I took a swallow from my beer bottle. “How was Pete able to get into that crowd? I’m assuming the guests were all insiders.”

  “Do you know Captain Corley?” When I nodded, he said, “She spent a lot of time in Pete’s office when she was in Kabul. She knows her way around. She had the entrée. By the way, she’s a knockout when she dresses up. They used to go together.” Page reached into his pocket, took out a Galaxy, flicked on the camera.

  “Have a look. Here’s some pictures I took. I used to drive them.”

  Two pictures were of Pete, one of them together, three of Captain Corley alone. Her hair hung to her shoulders, and she was dressed in a tight-fitting knee-length white dress. She wasn’t smiling. A green and red silk scarf was wrapped around her neck.

  When I nodded my approval, Page said, “She must’ve driven those bank guys nuts. Nice tits, a real looker.”

  “Yeah, but there’s something not right. American officers shouldn’t be going to these card games.”

  Page shrugged. “I don’t get it either. They shouldn’t have been hanging around with that crowd, but they were.” Page took a long swallow of bourbon. “She speaks Pashto, on top of it.”

  “Where did she learn Pashto?”

  “Who knows? Monterey? She’s an Army officer, but she operates outside the chain of command.”

  “In other words, she’s her own boss.”

  “No question. And something else. She also knows how the locals think. She told me once the problem wasn’t just that people here think different than us. The problem is, we don’t understand how they’re different. She said that when these guys steal our money, they don’t think they’ve done something bad. They think they’ve done something good.”

  “And the people running the show back home don’t understand that?” When Page nodded, I said, “But Pete would’ve had a specific reason for going there. What was it?”

  Page raised his glass, looked at it as if it might contain the answer to my question. “It was hard to figure what he was going after. I suppose anyone who might be able to throw some light on where the money went.”

  I was silent for a moment. “The names are a matter of public knowledge. Where’s the mystery? Twenty-two people have been indicted. We know who worked at the bank. We know the names of the insiders, the people who borrowed money and never paid it back.”

  Page said, “Pete was on to something more than that. What was it? That’s the mystery.” Lifting his glass, he took a sip of bourbon, licked his lips. “You’re right about Pete being persistent. He even learned a little Pashto.” When I asked who was giving him lessons, Page smiled knowingly. I didn’t ask a follow-up to that question.

  As I sucked on my beer, I thought about Pete. He was stubborn and persistent—and he wasn’t the type to waste his time when there was work to be done. He wasn’t the type to cheat on his wife either. There was a reason for him wanting to be at the poker games.

  What could he have been looking for?

  “Different people showed up every week for the poker. They were all confident nothing bad was ever going to happen.” Page waved to the bartender and ordered another round.

  “They’re being tried. That’s bad.”

  “NATO is outta here the end of next year. America is outta here. I don’t think an Afghan government is gonna want to keep people in jail because they stole some American money.” Page’s face had a pained expression. He shook his head.

  I said, “I suppose that’s why the prosecution was stalling.”

  “Pete thought they might never be indicted.” Page readjusted his Yankee cap. “But when the bank people realized there was an election coming up, it dawned on them Karzai wouldn’t be around much longer. Next year is the election. Karzai’s gone. And no one can say who his successor will be.”

  “Maybe someone who could be influenced by our government. Is that what you mean? A guy unlike Karzai, who maybe wouldn’t go along.”

  “That’s what Captain Corley thought, too. Maybe you should talk with her.” After passing me another bottle, Page said, “The auditors have gone over all the bank’s books from the day it was founded. They’ve been able to track down some of the loot.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Some of it’s in Dubai. The bank officials had every kind of dodge. One was they borrowed money and formed phony companies, mostly construction and transportation, in places like Dubai and Pakistan. Then they’d use borrowed bank money to provide services for Uncle Sam.”

  I said, “And make a profit. What that means is, the Kabul Bank swindle cost our country over a billion dollars.”

  “Way over. You can’t fight corruption because it’s the way people do business in the country. Pete said the bank had sixteen shareholders, and they all received interest-free loans. Karzai’s brother got six million to buy a villa in Dubai, a real fancy place. Something else Pete said was that some of the money was ending up in accounts belonging to the Taliban.”

  “It looks as if our government is not only financing our war effort but that of our enemy as well.”

  “In Afghanistan,” Page said, “anything is possible. Some of the security firms that we deal with are run by the insurgents.”

  “Where else might the money be going?” I asked.

  “This much is clear. A lot of it’s no longer in the country. Some of it was loaned to the airline.”

  “Pamir Airways?”

  When Page nodded, I said, “They went bankrupt.”

  “I know. They used to carry money out of the country for some of the big shots. Concealed in the food trays. A couple of hundred million went to buy luxury villas in Dubai, in the section near that man-made island. It was when Dubai’s property values started to collapse that the auditors realized the bank was having serious financial problems.” Page shook his head. “It’s the biggest bank failure in history, Alex.”

  Page downed his third bourbon with a long swallow. “People here figure if money’s there to grab, you should grab it. I’m not sure the Koran says that, but that’s the way some people interpret it.”

  “Did Captain Corley say that’s the way things are?”

  Page nodded. “Like I say, you should talk with her. You know where Khost is?” When I said I did, Page said, “She moves around a lot. For a time, she was at Chapman, with that paramilitary outfit. But the last I heard she moved over to Camp Salerno.”

  I said, “The paramilitary outfits are mostly all Pashtun. You say she speaks Pashto. She’s probably a liaison between us and them.”

  “And CIA. They tune in on the Haqqani network and decide which targets to hit.” Page glanced at his watch. “Tomorrow’s Tuesday. I have an early day.”

  I said I’d drive him back to ISAF Headquarters.

  After dropping Page off at the gate, I drove slowly back to the billets. I had so much I wanted to say to Irmie. Although I realized there was no way to communicate over the telephone what had happened, I knew I had to talk with her and tell her how much I loved her and missed her.

  When I made the call, she answered in a distant tone, “It would be nice to let me hear from you from time to time, Alex.”

  I almost had the feeling she had someone with her in the apartment. Then it occurred to me that might be something else to worry about. “I’ve had a busy four days.”

  Irmie sighed, wai
ting for an explanation.

  Finally, I said, “It’s not something I want to talk about on the telephone.” Since I didn’t want her to worry, I said, “Everything’s fine, Irmie. It really is. I’ll tell you everything when I see you.”

  “When is that going to be?”

  “I’m not sure.” I knew Irmie felt she was playing second fiddle to my military assignments. I didn’t want to admit it, even to myself, that she might have been correct.

  “Things just aren’t working out for us, Alex. You have to admit that. Be honest.” Before I could respond, she said, “I never imagined that you’d cancel our time together at the last minute. This has been a difficult time for me. Do you realize that?”

  “Of course I do.” I hesitated. “But what happened was . . . unavoidable.”

  “That’s a strange thing to say. I don’t see how going to Afghanistan was unavoidable. No one else I know is going to Afghanistan.” When I didn’t respond, Irmie continued, “I don’t think you realize how disappointing this has been for me.”

  “I do realize that.” I again thought of how close I’d come to losing my head only a few days before. “I’ll be there as soon as I can, Irmie. We can get right back on track with our plans.”

  “I’m all alone here. This isn’t a relationship. Talking to you when you feel like calling, hearing about your assignment—isn’t what I want. We were supposed to be together right now. We have so much to . . . discuss. Have you forgotten all that? Or doesn’t it even matter to you?”

  “Of course I haven’t—yes, it matters, very much . . .”

  “Something else, Alex. You could at least tell me when you expect to be back. Why can’t you do that?”

  I couldn’t give a date because I didn’t know myself when this op figured to be over.

  “When I know, Irmie, I’ll let you know. At the moment I just can’t say . . .” I left the sentence unfinished.

  “I have to be honest. I’m tired of your excuses—or reasons—or whatever they are. I just don’t feel I can depend on you.” Before I could answer, Irmie said, “Oh, wait one second. I have a pot on the stove. It’s boiling over.” Then, after a brief pause, she said, “I have to hang up.”