“Ask Niaz where we can find Abdul Sakhi.”
“Niaz wants to know why you would want to locate Abdul Sakhi. He wonders whether you want to give him an assignment to kill more Taliban.”
“Say I think Abdul Sakhi killed my friend.”
Haji shrugged, then turned again to Niaz. After they’d talked for a few more minutes, Haji said, “Niaz says Abdul Sakhi is difficult to contact. He says if he knew where Abdul Sakhi was, he would send people to have him killed.”
I thought that over for a second. Finally, I said, “Tell Niaz thanks. This place is giving me the creeps. Tell him we’re leaving.”
“Niaz says to give the money to the guards.”
“Money? Whoever said anything about money?”
At that moment Niaz got to his feet, nodded to us, and left the room. Suddenly, we were surrounded by three guys pointing their weapons in our direction. Outside, I could hear one of the truck engines turning over.
At the entrance, the guard with the automatic weapon barred the way.
“Do you have any money with you, Alex?”
“A couple of hundred euros.” Reaching into my pocket, I found 300 euros. After I’d counted out six fifties, Haji spoke briefly with the guards.
“They said we should be relieved that it was enough and that we should wait ten minutes. They also said we were wise to pay the money. Otherwise, on our way back into Kabul we would have run over an IED. They say they are now on their way to deactivate the explosive.”
Outside, when I heard another truck engine turning over, I figured the three guards were taking off with my 300 euros. I couldn’t exactly say the money was going for a good cause. On the drive back, Haji asked, “Was the information worth 300 euros, Alex?”
After a brief hesitation, I said quietly, “Yes, Haji. I think maybe it was.”
As we drove, I took another look at the message I’d received on my smartphone a couple of hours earlier.
“Report to me at Camp Salerno ASAP. Leslie Corley. Captain, U.S. Army.”
The message confirmed what I already suspected—that the person I’d be reporting to was Captain Corley. Since we hadn’t exactly hit it off in our two brief encounters, I can’t say I was overjoyed by the news.
CHAPTER 19
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 13, 2013
SINCE FOB SALERNO’S short dirt runway makes it off limits for larger aircraft, getting down to the province of Khost in the winter is pretty much a crapshoot. And for me it took longer than I’d hoped it would, which turned out to be much of the next day. After helicoptering over to Bagram, I hung around for over two hours before I was able to hitch a ride on a small prop plane to Salerno.
Like I say, simple things in Afghanistan become complex, and everything takes more time than it should.
Because Salerno lies just four or five kilometers inside the Durand Line, it’s an easy target for the Haqqani network, which operates across the border out of North Waziristan and hardly lets a night go by without launching a rocket attack. Although the border exists on the map, it doesn’t exist in real life. When I was on patrol in the area with Askar training units, I was often unsure which country we were in.
As far as the rocket attacks go, personnel on the base have at least a minute to find a bunker before the rockets come screaming in, a situation that has led to Salerno acquiring the nickname of “Rocket City.”
After arriving, I was assigned to a bed in the transients’ barracks. I found Captain Leslie Corley behind a desk in the wooden frame building that houses military headquarters on the base.
When Corley stood up to shake my hand, I saw she was easily five-ten, maybe a half-inch more. Seeing her, I recalled the pictures of her taken by Eric Page—elegantly dressed and on her way to a Kabul poker party. Again, I couldn’t help noticing her figure. At the same time, I got the feeling she didn’t like the movement of my eyes. She was the kind of woman who could express approval and disapproval with only the slightest change of expression.
“Actually, I expected you yesterday,” she said.
“I know, ma’am. I was delayed in getting down here.” I was already on the defensive.
After checking her watch, she said, “This evening’s my night at the gym. I prefer not to miss.” When I said, “Would you mind company?” she said, “If you wish.”
An hour later, while I was running on the treadmill, Captain Corley dressed in a sweat suit and sneakers entered and immediately headed for a set of dumbbells. After pressing what could have been a hundred pounds, she spent a few minutes pounding the big bag. For a while, we ran side by side on the treadmill. When she headed for the basketball court, I followed.
I fed her a couple of passes, watched as she dropped in a pair of twenty-footers, and said, “Impressive.”
She shrugged. “I played varsity at college.”
“I skipped college. I’m a self-made man.”
“You’ve got a nice hook shot. Too bad it never goes in.”
I resisted an urge to say “Ha ha.”
For the next twenty minutes, we silently shot baskets. Finally, she said, “Let’s take foul shots. Five and five. You first.”
I shot five, made three. She shot five, made four. Although I made four of my last five, Captain Corley sank all five. It didn’t take a genius to see the point she wanted to make.
Forty-five minutes later, after we’d showered and changed, we walked over to her hooch in the officers’ billets. After pointing me to a chair, she opened her small fridge.
I said, “Would you have a beer?”
She handed me a bottle of water. “No alcohol allowed on the base.” She fixed me with a disapproving stare. “I would have thought you knew that.” She paused. “You’re working for me. I only want people who follow the rules and who I can trust.”
I nodded, pulled the cap off the water, took a swallow.
After sitting down in the desk chair, she said, “I wasn’t impressed by the way you let Colonel Hansen shoot her mouth off at the meeting in the CID office.”
“Ma’am, I didn’t exactly let—”
“The fact that Colonel Hansen lost her husband doesn’t give her the authority to say what she did. You could have pointed out where she was wrong. You failed to do that.” Before I could respond, she said, “You impressed me as a wimp. I was told you could handle this assignment. Now I’m beginning to wonder.”
“Who told you? Jerry Shenlee?” I was already wondering what Jerry’s connection with this bossy female could be. On top of that, she was a captain, not a colonel. Jerry was a GS-16 or 17, and had much more authority if he chose to exercise it.
I said, “I’d like to know just what you’re trying to accomplish.” When she flashed an impatient look, I said, “Until now, I’ve assumed it only involved finding Pete’s . . . Colonel Hansen’s killer.” I took a swallow of water, but couldn’t help thinking that a beer would have gone down better. When she still didn’t comment, I said, “Although Pete was a friend, I couldn’t see what was so special about this murder, at least not at the beginning.”
“It’s more than just another green-on-blue killing. You’ve become aware of that, I hope.”
“From what I can see, ma’am, Sergeant Nolda is being framed. The murder occurred on the day he supposedly returned from leave. When I saw his body, I could see he’d been in the water awhile. When I spoke with Nolda’s army buddy, I didn’t get the impression he was the type to pull a green-on-blue.”
“A bit circumstantial, Mr. Klear, but okay. Do you have anything solid?”
“The FBI threw an interesting monkey wrench into the situation by saying one of the people in the Headquarters building could have been Abdul Sakhi, a shadowy figure who seems to be some kind of opportunist.”
“You should have followed up on that. Why didn’t you?”
“It may surprise you to learn that I did. The FBI described Abdul Sakhi as a ‘friendly,’ someone who had murdered a number of Taliban leaders. That didn’t exactly
jibe with him killing an American officer.” When she said, “Go on,” I said, “So that’s only half the story. Abdul Sakhi’s also murdered a number of Americans, some of them prominent officials. Both sides have used him. He keeps a low profile. Maybe he’s in Waziristan.”
She nodded. “He’s a killer for hire. We’re finding out that some of these people have no conscience. Or sense of loyalty. They have no problem switching sides. For Americans, such a thing is inconceivable. In other words, it’s possible someone could have paid him to murder Colonel Hansen.” She lifted her bottle to her lips, then said, “That’s why you’re over here.”
“I see.”
After a minute, she said, “Someone wants to short-circuit the investigation. Obviously, it’s not a green-on-blue. If it were, it ends there. Colonel Hansen died for no reason. America goes home next year. It’s over.”
Captain Corley got to her feet, crossed the room to the closet, hauled out a duffel bag. I watched as she reached into the bag and searched. After a minute she pulled out a sweater, which she unrolled to reveal two plastic folders, both jammed with paper. She laid the stuff out on the bed. I noticed that in one of the folders was a glassine envelope containing a computer disc.
She said, “These are Colonel Hansen’s papers. You know what Colonel Hansen was working on.”
“The Kabul Bank. I’ve been reading about it.”
“Would you care for some more water?” After she’d given me another bottle, she remained standing. “There hasn’t been that much in the news. The United States government has been embarrassed by what happened at the Kabul Bank. Understandably, very little information about the failure of the bank has reached the newspapers . . .”
“About 900 million dollars has disappeared.”
“The thieves didn’t stop at 900. The number is over a billion. For obvious reasons, the government doesn’t want to have to admit how much money was involved. American taxpayers would be out on the barricades, and who could blame them? What else do you know?”
“Only that Pete Hansen was involved with the bank almost to the point where it had become an obsession.” When she asked how I knew that, I said, “I spoke a few times with Captain Page.” I paused. “Captain Page rotates back to the States in a couple of weeks. He said his involvement with the Kabul Bank is over.”
“I’m surprised he told you anything. Captain Page feels that by pursuing the bank matter and revealing what he knows, he’ll be jeopardizing his career.” When I said, “Won’t you be jeopardizing your career, ma’am?” she flashed me an angry look. “Please be so kind as to not interfere in my personal or professional life.”
I could have told her I didn’t give a damn about either her personal or professional life.
“I’m going to explain some things to you. Please refrain from making any dumb remarks.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“The Kabul Bank was founded by the United States government largely as a conduit to finance operations here in Afghanistan—in order to make it possible to pay the bills for rebuilding the country’s infrastructure and financing the war. No country in history has been as generous to another country as America has been to Afghanistan.”
“What about the Marshall Plan?”
“Not even the Marshall Plan. As you know, the bank is now bankrupt. You have to ask yourself how such a thing is possible.”
I said, “It’s not the first time a bank went belly-up. Quite a few back home have—”
“Please don’t interrupt. When a bank or business in the United States fails, financial people know why it happened and where the money went. In this case, the money disappeared. Into thin air. Over a billion dollars.”
“A billion is the number one with nine zeros.”
“You keep making dumb comments, and you’re trying my patience.”
“I know it’s a dumb comment, but I’m trying to grasp how enormous that amount of money is.”
“I hope you’re not doing it on purpose.”
“Doing what on purpose, ma’am?”
“Trying my patience.” As Captain Corley lifted her water bottle to her lips, I couldn’t keep from admiring her hooded eyes and mildly upturned nose. With a brief movement, she touched her hand to an unruly strand of hair. How is it that women always know when a man finds them interesting to look at?
She said, “Colonel Hansen had learned something that was making him nervous.”
“Pete was a pretty cool type. He didn’t let—”
“He didn’t let things bother him. I know that.”
“From what I understand, he was constantly going back and forth into Kabul.” I paused. “Often in your company.”
She colored, obviously irritated that I knew of her relationship with Pete.
Thinking of the poker games, I said, “I know he had access to quite a few prominent people. Did that include Karzai?”
She said, “He had access to everyone for a time. But after people learned that Karzai’s brother was a stockholder in Kabul Bank, he never again visited the presidential palace.” When I asked how she knew that, she pointed to Pete’s notes. “Colonel Hansen kept a calendar. It’s possible to trace how he spent his days.”
Pointing at the folders on the bed, I asked how she’d obtained them.
“I had access to Colonel Hansen’s office within hours of the shooting. I removed them. His computer could be read by people at ISAF. There’s only one disc of any interest. Everything we want to know is handwritten. But his notes are hard to read.” She glanced at her watch, got to her feet. “Take his notes with you. See what you come up with.”
As I scooped up Pete’s papers, she said, “Quite a few of the documents are in Arabic. Others are in French and German. Much is just lists of numbers. I wondered if they weren’t bank account numbers. And there’s lots of other stuff. Oh yes, there’s a transcript in a foreign language of a court proceeding. I think it’s a preliminary hearing for the trial.”
“Anything else, ma’am?”
“Yes, you’ll see. There are news stories, some in English. Also some letters he wrote, some to a person in Dubai. Take them to your room. Read them. Bring them back tomorrow.”
“When can I catch up with you?”
“I run in the morning. I skip breakfast. I’m on the job at eight. I’m hungry by lunchtime.”
Gathering up the papers, I said, “In the chow hall at noon.” Seconds later, she closed the door behind me.
* * *
Captain Corley hadn’t been exaggerating when she said it wasn’t easy to decipher Pete Hansen’s notes. After nearly three hours I didn’t come away with much more than she had. There were numbers that could have been for bank accounts, and there was an entire collection of hard-to-figure-out phrases that could have been passwords. I also concluded that the collection of photocopied documents in Arabic comprised deeds for property in Dubai. Other deeds were for property in Switzerland. Someone seemed to be buying up land in some of the world’s most expensive cities.
In any event, I could now see why Jerry had said I should brush up on finances and banking procedures.
Another thing that struck me was the name of a businessman that was mentioned in a number of newspaper stories and to whom Pete had written a letter inquiring about property. Since Pete had made two trips to Dubai, I was assuming he’d wanted to speak with him personally. The businessman’s address was for a company in Dubai.
His name was Taraki Hamed.
My reading was interrupted by a blaring loudspeaker: “Attention on the FOB! Incoming . . . !” A minute later there was an explosion that caused the barracks to shake and the lights to go out. Then another. The “all clear” sounded forty minutes later.
It was the kind of distraction you get used to in “Rocket City.”
Although I continued to read with my flashlight, I decided to pack it in at around 0300 hours.
* * *
“So CID in Kabul has identified Colonel Hansen’s murderer,�
� Corley said. It was shortly after noon of the following day and she was speaking over the chow hall din. “They think the killer was the ANA soldier. What’s his name?”
“Nolda. Baram Nolda.”
“In other words, they’re saying it’s a green-on-blue killing, and that’s what the people back in America will be told.” When I nodded, she said, “But your take on the situation is that—”
“Is that Abdul Sakhi killed Colonel Hansen.”
Corley was silent for a minute. “The way you see things, it sounds like you’re suggesting there’s a cover-up.”
I cut up a piece of chicken, shook my head. “I didn’t say that.” Of course I thought that.
“But CID disagrees with your take on the situation.”
“Ma’am, it’s differences of opinion that make horses run.”
She threw down her knife and fork, loud enough to cause people further down the table to glance in our direction. “Dammit! Will you kindly stop making these irrelevant remarks? We’re not talking about goddamned horse races.”
“Okay.”
“Christ, I hate talking to people who keep making dumb remarks. Let’s get back to the subject.”
I said, “Who’s covering up and what’s being covered up?”
“What’s being covered up is the identity of the person who committed the murder. That’s what’s being covered up. And some details regarding the bank fraud are being covered up.” After a brief pause, she said quietly, “How far did you get with Colonel Hansen’s notes?”
“I’d like to talk with some of the people he mentions. Maybe start with this Dubai businessman.”
“The one in the news stories?” When I nodded, she said, “He caught my attention, too.”
“As soon as I can set something up, I’ll fly down.” When she said she’d accompany me, I said I could handle things alone. “I’m going back to Kabul for a couple of days, but I’ll be around tonight. I’ll bring back Pete’s . . . Colonel Hansen’s papers before I leave.”
Although I spent the rest of the afternoon drinking coffee and reading Pete’s notes, I didn’t feel I’d learned all that much. In the course of the afternoon I sent an e-mail to Taraki Hamed, saying who I was and that I wanted to see him in connection with Kabul Bank. He replied within an hour.
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