On Edge

by Albert Ashforth

  Corley took a sip, then gazed into the glass as though it were a crystal ball. “What do you think?” she said finally.

  “I think you must have had experience swinging on ropes. Where did you get it?”

  Suddenly her expression became serious. “Would you kindly stop making irrelevant comments?”

  “What I think is, someone may want one or both of us dead.”

  “Hamed?

  “Possibly, but why?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t like Americans.”

  “Around these parts, there are quite a few people who don’t like Americans. They only pretend to like us. But that doesn’t mean they want to go to the trouble of killing us.”

  “You mentioned that you thought someone had been tailing you around. Were these the same people?”

  “Yes, and I think these were the people who killed Pete.”

  “Abdul Sakhi?”

  I nodded. “They’re professionals.”

  “Wet work specialists, that’s what they are.”

  I was surprised to hear her use that phrase, which had its origin with the KGB. I didn’t comment. I explained in detail how they’d been able to change clothes within brief periods of time. “Only professionals can work like that.”

  “Someone hired Sakhi to kill Pete.”

  “And to make it look like a green-on-blue.”

  Corley pointed at the TV, turned up the volume. Under “breaking news” an announcer wearing a striped shirt, a bow tie, and speaking with a British accent was describing “a terrorist attack in a quiet Dubai restaurant.” After briefly describing the assailants, he said, “Both are believed to be associated with a radical anti-government group. They began firing wildly into the crowd of diners. According to police, they got away when—”

  She turned off the sound. “Not quite an accurate report of what happened.” She sipped some scotch, took a deep breath.

  Trying to change the subject, I said, “What time is your flight tomorrow?”

  “At 1320.”

  “Mine’s at 1520. We can ride out to the airport together, have lunch.”

  “Suppose they caught up with us, what would they do?”

  “I hate to think about it, but I have an idea we’d be looking at a long stay here in the Emirates. Even worse, we’d be sitting ducks for whoever wants us out of the way.” I finished off my drink with a long swallow and got to my feet.

  She stood up and put her arms around me. “You’re not going to leave me here alone, I hope.” Her voice had become soft. She held up her left hand. “I’m still shaking.”

  “Maybe you should call a doctor. Or better yet, have another drink.”

  In a still softer voice she said, “I don’t drink.”

  “Just sometimes?”

  All of a sudden, she seemed irresistibly feminine. Then she put her hand around my neck, pulled me down to her. She silently kissed me. At the same time I could feel her hand on my thigh. Was this real?

  I said, “I hadn’t planned for the evening to end like this.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go back to your room. Not right away. I want you to stay here with me tonight. All night. Is that all right?” Before I could respond, she said, “I’m shaking. I’m not used to being shot at.”

  Neither was I, but I didn’t say it.

  “Come into the bedroom with me.”

  I was about to say “Yes, ma’am,” but then thought better of it.

  I watched her enter the bedroom. Before closing the door, she turned and smiled.

  I wondered what that was all about.

  Was it a honey trap? If so, who was she working for? And what would she have to gain?

  With the volume off, the TV was now showing two Arab guys in business suits carrying on an intense conversation. I had no idea what they were talking about. The scotch went down smoothly, and I poured myself a third. Or was it a fourth?

  After an hour, I assumed Corley was fast asleep. I switched off the TV, washed up, and quietly let myself out of the room.

  Irmie, I hope I’m getting credit for dodging all these bullets.

  * * *

  “You’ve been awfully quiet,” Corley said. “I don’t like that.”

  We were seated opposite one another at a small table in Paul’s Café, a sandwich and salad joint at the airport. We’d checked out of the hotel a half hour before. Her flight was scheduled to leave in an hour. She was right. I wasn’t doing much talking, but I was doing a lot of thinking, puzzling over who wanted us out of their lives so badly that they’d risk sending their goons to a crowded restaurant to shoot us.

  Who was Abdul Sakhi’s employer?

  “On the ride over here, you hardly said anything. Something’s bothering you. I can tell.” When I only nodded, she glared. “I want to know.”

  “Those people were sent by someone, and I’m wondering who. That’s all.” I smeared butter on a roll, took a small bite. “And why.”

  “You spotted them quickly. You’re observant.”

  I tried to smile. “You could say that.” I thought again of how Sakhi had fired at me and missed. I’d fired back and hit him in the shoulder. Maybe I was observant, but the fact I’d noticed them tailing me on the street had made the difference. If I hadn’t noticed them, we’d both be dead now. I said, “By the way, how are you going to get back down to Khost?”

  “I’m not going to Khost tonight. I requested billets at Headquarters. I want to be at the update briefing. You and I have things to talk about.” She stood up. “I expect to see you there, 0900 hours.” She was obviously recovered from yesterday evening’s so-called attack of nerves and was again on her high horse—issuing orders and expecting me to follow them.

  “Yes, ma’am. Very good, ma’am.” I resisted an urge to salute.

  CHAPTER 23

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 2013

  THE MORNING BRIEFING at ISAF Headquarters began with a British colonel using PowerPoint to report on two Taliban attacks on Camp Bastion, the U.K. installation in Helmand Province.

  After that, an American officer was scheduled to speak on the Kabul Bank situation and the trial of the twenty-two bank officials—the reason Corley was there.

  The British colonel was bombarded with a number of questions, most of them having to do with trends in Taliban activity in Helmand.

  The American officer followed. After describing the crimes of the bank officials in some detail and the bank situation generally, he asked for questions.

  “Sir,” Corley said, raising her hand. “I have a question. Have the auditors been able to account for all the missing money?”

  “Most of it, ma’am, I would say.”

  “How much, sir, would you say remains unaccounted for?”

  Shaking his head, the captain said, “Ma’am, I’d have to get back to you on that.”

  “Would it be in the hundreds of millions?”

  “Again, ma’am, I’m not sure—”

  “If I may, sir, one more question? Is it possible that there were people involved in the fraud who, as yet, have not been identified?”

  “None that we know of, ma’am. The auditors have identified everyone involved.”

  “Sir, have there been any Americans involved in the Kabul Bank fraud?”

  “Ma’am, I can guarantee that no Americans were involved—”

  “But, sir, how can we be sure when the auditors’ reports don’t appear to be complete?”

  “I have to take issue with you there, ma’am. The auditors’ reports—”

  “How many reports have there been?”

  “I’m not really sure. Again, I’d have to get back to you on that.”

  “Sir, there have been three to date. The first one gave the bank a clean bill of health.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  There were two additional briefings, both from officers belonging to European NATO nations, each speaking fluent but accented English.

&n
bsp; Stan came next. He spoke briefly, giving an update on measures being used to prevent any further green-on-blue attacks.

  When I saw Corley leaving, I followed her into the corridor. She tilted her head in the direction of the Coffee Garden, which was at the far end of the Headquarters building.

  “This is as good a place to talk as any,” she said. We’d found ourselves a corner table. She had a notebook on the table, and had pushed her cup off to the side. Her uniform cap lay on one of the chairs. In uniform, she looked very sharp—and, if I’m allowed to say it, attractive.

  I thought about the previous evening and her obvious attempt to drag me into her bedroom. That was very definitely “conduct unbecoming an officer.” It had truly surprised me. Somehow, it was inconsistent with Captain Corley’s otherwise by-the-book behavior, and it bothered me.

  I said, “You obviously don’t believe all the money has been accounted for.”

  She said, “You heard the update.”

  “Why did you ask if everyone involved in the fraud has been charged?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “Because you believe there are guilty people who have not been charged.”

  “Colonel Hansen knew enough to blow the lid off the biggest bank fraud in the history of the world. It’s clear that what he had uncovered has been lost. When he was murdered, there was no one there to pick up where he left off.” She paused. “The embezzlers had two sets of books. The first audit, as you know, gave the bank a clean bill of health even though by then hundreds of millions were missing.”

  I said, “It’s not the job of the military to handle matters like this.”

  “True. But over here the military are the only people to conduct an investigation on behalf of the American people.”

  I shook my head. “There would have to be more to it than that.”

  Corley was about to answer, but at that moment, Stan and three other officers entered the coffee bar and found a table on the far side of the big room. I supposed Stan was explaining more about the green-on-blue killings he was investigating.

  “Pete made a number of trips to Dubai,” Corley said. “He was after the information that Hamed possessed that the auditors missed. Maybe someone fears that we may be able to get the document from Hamed.”

  “If so, that would mean Hamed’s USB drive contains information about the fraud that the auditors have missed. But that would also mean—”

  “That the USB drive would tell us who the people are who ordered Abdul Sakhi to kill Colonel Hansen.”

  I paused to take another bite of toast. “There’s a question I have to ask you, ma’am.”

  She closed her notebook, then looked at me over the rim of her coffee cup.

  Stan had spotted us. With the officers gone, he came walking across the room, coffee cup in hand.

  “You can ask, but you won’t get an answer.”

  I decided to ask anyway. “What is your involvement in this situation? What are you trying to accomplish?”

  Her dark eyes took on a distant look. When I said, “Well?” she responded, “I told you I wouldn’t answer that question.”

  At that moment Stan arrived. “Do you mind if I join you?” After grabbing an empty chair, he said, “How was Dubai?”

  “Hot.”

  “You’re both looking good. Hot weather must agree with you.” He took a small sip of java.

  “Congratulations,” Corley said to Stan. “I saw your name on the promotion list.”

  I stuck my hand out to congratulate him. His promotion would lead to light colonel. If things went well, one day general. Career-wise, he’d made it over a big hurdle.

  “I just got new orders,” he said. “In April I leave for Fort Stewart.” To Corley, Stan said, “You’ve also been here for a while, ma’am, if I’m not mistaken.” Stan was also curious about her. Hard not to be.

  She nodded, her expression remaining serious. “I’ll be here for a while.”

  A minute later, Wanda arrived, carrying a tray. “My breakfast,” she said, smiling.

  “Time to go.” Stan climbed to his feet.

  “Me, too,” added Corley.

  Wanda turned to me. “You’re not going to leave me here alone, I hope.”

  “Perish the thought.” I silently watched as she settled her tray on the table.

  With everyone gone, Wanda blurted, “My God! I hate that woman! What a harridan. How can you stand her?”

  “She’s not so—”

  “Don’t tell me she’s not so bad! She’s awful! Are you working with her?”

  “We were together in Dubai.”

  “Dubai. Right. I hear it’s a great place to visit. They have ski slopes, but it’s always ninety degrees.”

  “It may be a great place in some ways, but I didn’t get very much accomplished.”

  “Well, it couldn’t have been as bad as the trip you made . . . to that outpost. Was it?”

  “No, not quite.”

  She drank the last of her orange juice and pushed back her tray.

  I carried it to the rack, and we headed down the corridor to the main exit. Outside, I pointed to my van and asked if I could drop her somewhere. “I don’t suppose you’d want to take me to Chicken Street. On second thought, I’ll walk over. It’s not that far.”

  “I’ve gotten some people mad at me over here,” I said.

  “I know you have. It’s your own fault. You always have to be the odd man out, don’t you? I don’t blame Stan for being irritated. He’s got to show a coherent report to ISAF Headquarters.”

  I stuck the key into the car door. “Was Stan irritated?”

  “Don’t act so . . . so goddamned dumb. You know he was.”

  “What are you doing this evening?”

  “Are you suggesting an evening out on the town? Let’s go somewhere where people won’t start shooting at us, okay?”

  “We’re in Afghanistan. You never know when people will start shooting at us.”

  Wanda smiled. “The Serena is safe. Let’s have dinner there.”

  “How does 1900 sound? I’ll make a reservation.”

  “Okay.” Wanda waved, turned, and with a purposeful stride, headed off toward the gate.

  I knew that the two shooters in the restaurant would still be gunning for me, a thought I couldn’t get out of my mind. I’d seen them tailing me on my first evening in the city. And when they were at the entrance of the restaurant, they told the waiter they wanted a table near ours. They would try again. It was no wonder I was looking forward to leaving Afghanistan.

  But I wasn’t looking forward to spending more time with Corley. She’d already indicated that she wanted me to fly back to D.C. Again I kicked myself for saying yes to Jerry Shenlee—and for signing on to an op before I knew who was running it.

  An hour later, while I was walking up the main drag in Camp Eggers, my phone rang.

  “You won’t believe what I just did, Alex.” Wanda didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

  “Bought a thousand bucks worth of shawls on Chicken Street?”

  “I booked my flight back home. I leave late tomorrow. You said tonight 1900 hours, right? That’s good. I’ll be packed by then. I have a flight out of Bagram, leaving tomorrow at 2200.”

  “It sounds like you can’t wait to leave.”

  “In some ways yes, in others no. But mostly yes.” When I said, “Afghanistan grows on you,” Wanda said, “Speak for yourself!”

  That afternoon I spent a couple of hours at the Afghan military barracks, where I shot the breeze with a couple of our military trainers. I couldn’t find anyone who had known Nolda.

  I told the trainers they had the country’s most important job. The transition was to begin in four months and would be complete by the end of next year. Without a dependable, professionally trained Afghan Army, Afghanistan couldn’t hope to prevent the Talibs from again seizing power. It was as simple as that.

  Of course, even with a dependable, professionally traine
d Afghan Army, the Taliban might seize power again anyway.

  At 1600 I met Haji at the Green Bean coffee shop in Camp Phoenix.

  The sun was still strong, so we took our tea outside to the smoking deck. Wherever you are in Afghanistan, the mountains are never far away, and on this day they seemed especially close—and as always, beautiful.

  But I had other things on my mind.

  After swearing Haji to secrecy, I told him of my trip to Dubai, and how Captain Corley and I became the targets of a pair of gun-wielding assassins.

  “You’re sure they were trying to kill you, Alex? You’re sure they weren’t terrorists?”

  “I’m positive.” As I sipped my tea, I said, “There’s a good chance I’ll be leaving before long. I’m not sure exactly when. While I’m gone, I want you to keep your eyes and ears open. I also want you to stay in touch with Shah Mahmood. You can do that, I hope.”

  “Yes, it’s not difficult, Alex. In Shah Mahmood you have a lifelong friend.”

  “I hope you’re not exaggerating.”

  “I’m not.” Haji fixed me with his dark eyes. When he again spoke, his voice was low.

  “One of the elders told me this story. Shah Mahmood had two sons. The other was the oldest. The first American force arrived in the Korengal in 2008. When they came to Shah Mahmood’s village, Shah Mahmood’s oldest boy got up early every day and waited outside to greet the soldiers as they passed by on the road. He even learned some words of English. But when the Americans were driven out of the Korengal, the Taliban returned. When some of the Taliban learned of the boy’s friendliness toward American soldiers, the Taliban ordered Shah Mahmood’s boy to be executed.”

  “How?” I spoke quietly, almost fearing what Haji would tell me.

  “He was beheaded. Shah Mahmood says only you prevented him from losing his second son.”

  I shook my head, thinking of what a violent, unpredictable place we were in. I took a sip of tea but didn’t say anything. All our lives seemed to be hanging by nothing more than a thread. Who lived and who died nothing more than a matter of chance. On the road a company of soldiers passed, marching by in formation, a female sergeant counting cadence. “Your left, and a one two . . .” Her chant was lost in the sound of two passing truck engines.