On Edge

by Albert Ashforth

  “That’s what happened.”

  “How did you get away? You’ve clammed up there. No, Mr. Klear, if you were in the military, you couldn’t get by with a story like that. How dumb are we supposed to be?”

  Colonel Boyd was right, of course. I hadn’t said anything about how Shah Mahmood and his people shot our way out. I knew I wouldn’t be helping Shah Mahmood by saying he’d managed our escape. We needed to keep that part of our story to ourselves.

  “According to Major Jones and Undersecretary Greer, you’ve said you were sent here . . . by Gerald R. Shenlee, who is on the staff of the NSC. Is that correct?”

  I nodded. I had an idea what was coming. Jerry wouldn’t want his name connected to whatever I was doing.

  “Mr. Klear, we’ve been in touch with Mr. Shenlee. Although he says he knows you personally, he hasn’t had any contact with you in . . . let’s see, over a year. He says he last saw you at a reunion of former officers in November 2011.”

  At that point, I knew there was no sense trying to explain anything. I was on my own, really on my own now.

  Colonel Boyd got to his feet. “You have twenty-four hours to clear the post. After this time tomorrow, you will be denied access to all ISAF facilities. Should you be anywhere within ISAF jurisdiction after 1600 hours tomorrow, you will be forcibly escorted off-post. You’re not subject to the UCMJ, but if you persist, you’ll be turned over to the local authorities, the Afghan police. I assume that won’t be necessary. Do I make myself clear, mister?”

  “Perfectly, sir.”

  Colonel Boyd held the door, and I exited his office.

  From Headquarters I drove over to Camp Phoenix, where I turned in the van at the motor pool, did some shopping at the PX, and grabbed a bite at the chow hall.

  I stopped by Stan’s office to say good-bye. Stan’s manner was that of a guy brimming with self-confidence. With the promotion to light colonel, his future looked bright. Barring an unforeseen disaster, he’d very likely make it all the way to two-star or even to three-star.

  After a couple of minutes shooting the breeze, Stan got up, came out from behind his desk, stuck out his hand. “Have a good flight, Alex. I don’t suppose you’ll be back.”

  “Never say ‘never again,’ Stan. You know better than that.”

  “Yeah, I suppose I do.”

  I knew my departure meant one less headache for Stan and that he was happy to see me go.

  When I reached my billet at Eggers, Corley was waiting for me.

  After I’d finished telling her what had happened in the Serena Hotel parking lot, she said, “Someone wants you dead.” She said the words matter-of-factly, without feeling. As I’d already noticed, she wasn’t a person to express emotion, no less sympathy.

  “I think Abdul Sakhi and the woman were only waiting there to make sure.”

  “And you say that you attached the IED they had put under your car to their car.”

  “Were there any news reports of exploding vehicles today?”

  “None that I know of.” She paused. “Someone is very afraid of you.”

  “If we knew why, we might know who killed Pete.”

  “It could have something to do with your trip to Dubai.”

  “My trip to Dubai wasn’t any more successful than Pete’s had been.”

  “Colonel Hansen is dead.”

  “A helicopter leaves for Bagram tomorrow at 0800 hours. I have to be on it. Otherwise, they’ll throw me off the post.”

  “You should be on it only if you’re going back to the States.” When I frowned, she said, “I’ve decided you should remain over here. I need backup.”

  Again, I had an urge to ask Corley all kinds of questions, beginning with “Who are you?” and “What kind of op are you running?”

  “You’ve lived in Kabul before, haven’t you?” When I nodded, she pointed toward the door of the hooch. I picked up my carry-on and, outside, tossed it into the rear of her van. We climbed in and drove slowly up Gator Alley toward Camp Eggers’ main gate. I can’t say I was all that sorry to be leaving. As the sentries passed us through, I gave a small wave.

  When I asked, “Where are we headed?” she didn’t respond.

  As we drove, I eyed the shops and bazaars along the road. I knew Corley had something in mind, but I had no idea what it was. As she drove, I realized I’d never seen her this nervous. I also recalled her comment on the telephone two nights ago that she needed me. It was unusual for her to admit something like that. As she drove, she spent a lot of time eyeing the rearview mirror. We headed toward the center of the city and then toward the eastern end of Kabul. The streets out here were narrower and filled with people. She did a good job of maneuvering around the carts and slow-moving pedestrians.

  “Char Qala,” she said. “Do you know it?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.” Char Qala is one of Kabul’s less desirable neighborhoods, a place where I’d had a run-in with a couple of opium smugglers on an earlier visit. One of them was dead, and I hoped I wouldn’t run into his buddy.

  “We’ll be staying at a safe house belonging to people I know.” When I asked where Haji was, she said, “He’ll come tonight. I hope you’re ready to travel.”

  I wondered where I’d be traveling to. I also wondered why we needed to be in a safe house when we could have booked a room in one of Kabul’s many guesthouses. I decided not to ask.

  As we drove, Corley made two brief telephone calls. I could see that we were in Kabul’s eastern outskirts. We turned on to a street full of tired, destitute-looking people and shabby buildings and continued for five minutes. We stopped in front of a compound shielded only by a crumbling wall. At the gate, an old beggar, who appeared blind, shouted, “Assalamu alaykom! Salam!” I lowered my window and dropped money into his cup. After Corley had driven inside, I closed the rusted gate, removed my carry-on from the back seat, and stared at the building. Even by Kabul standards, this place was decrepit.

  “Two widows live downstairs here with their children,” Corley said. “They won’t bother us. There are rooms upstairs where we will stay.” The building was made of mud and stone and had one small window on the front wall. Covering the doorway was a large, heavy blanket that moved in the breeze. The kitchen window was covered with a piece of cardboard.

  The flight of steps was dark. Upstairs there were three rooms opening off an unlit corridor. Corley said the widows sometimes rented them out. I couldn’t help wondering who would want to stay in a place like this. In one of the rooms I tossed my carry-on on top of an ancient bed covered by a ripped, stained spread.

  Before I could object, Corley said, “I have errands to run. Grab some shut-eye.”

  “Yes, ma’am, will do.”

  Corley’s expression turned grim, but she didn’t comment. At the door, she said, “Haji should be here by 2000 hours. Then we’ll move out.”

  “Where are we going?” I was being kept totally in the dark.

  “Haji will tell you.” Then she stepped outside and pulled the creaky, ill-fitting door closed.

  After a few minutes I fell into a sound sleep for perhaps an hour, until I was awakened by the sound of someone moving around in the corridor outside. As I lay listening, I heard the sound of voices. I assumed they belonged to the women who lived downstairs.

  I was wrong.

  As I saw the door creaking its way open, I leaped off the bed. But by that time it was too late. A man holding an automatic weapon pushed his way into the room. Behind him, a blond woman entered and shut the door.

  The man was medium height and wearing the shalwar kameez. Although he’d been dressed differently in Dubai, I recognized him. Abdul Sakhi. His arm was no longer in a sling. And he was certainly not dead. Needless to say, I was sorry he wasn’t. At least I no longer had a guilty conscience about attaching a bomb to his car.

  The blond woman said, “I know what you’re thinking. We’re not dead. We’re very much alive. We hate to disappoint you.” She spoke with a British acc
ent. When Sakhi said something more, she said, “You thought you were so clever, Mr. Klear.”

  Hatred burned in Abdul Sakhi’s eyes. With an AK-47 pointed directly at me and the safety off, he only had to squeeze the trigger. This was the guy who’d killed Pete. Now he intended to kill me. He spoke again to the woman, who spoke fluent Pashto.

  “He wants you to know how we tricked you. Abdul wants you to know that we were watching you the entire time from inside the hotel.”

  I knew immediately she was talking about my attempt to turn the tables in the Serena Hotel parking lot. Probably they’d seen me enter the parking area and had only pretended to leave their vehicle and go inside the hotel building. They no doubt were watching as I removed the IED from my own vehicle and placed it beneath theirs.

  Now I knew why there had been no news report that day of a car exploding in Kabul. Their car hadn’t exploded.

  “I’m Fiona, by the way.” Although her blond hair was stringy, I found Fiona mildly attractive, sexy even. She had a round face and thin lips. Beneath her jeans she had on a pair of combat boots. She was trim and looked to be very much at home in this part of the world.

  I said, “People will catch on sooner or later, Fiona. You can’t do this sort of thing forever.”

  “What sort of thing, love? You mean taking money from both sides?” Before I could answer, she said, “Why not?” She placed a hand on Sakhi’s shoulder, and he flashed a small grin. “My man here figured it all out. I do the deals with you Yanks, and he does the deals with the Talibs.”

  It was at that moment I noticed the door opening very, very slowly.

  “My man delivers. Once he turns you into a corpse, we’ll have another payday.” Fiona said something more in Pashto, causing Sakhi to again smile.

  The door moved another half-inch.

  “Someone—”

  “Yes, love. Someone wants to send you bye-bye. Why, I don’t know. Perhaps you’ve stuck your nose somewhere where it doesn’t belong.”

  Not allowing my glance to go to the door, I said, “You were in Dubai—”

  “You were lucky down there, you know. You should already be dead now.” She said something to Sakhi, who nodded.

  Without taking his eyes off me and with the muzzle of his AK-47 pointed directly at my stomach, he mumbled something back.

  She could be telling him anything, like “Shoot the bastard!”

  The door, which was again moving, was about to creak. When he heard the creak, I knew what would happen. The safety was off. Abdul Sakhi would pull the trigger. I would have, at best, a hundredth of a second.

  Two seconds later, when the door creaked, I was ready. I dove behind the bed. Sakhi fired a burst—and standing at the door, Corley fired a burst of her own. Sakhi sagged, dropped the weapon, went down beside the bed.

  With Corley’s gun pointed at her, Fiona quickly raised a hand. “Don’t shoot!”

  As the two women glared at each other, Corley kept her weapon up, remaining silent. That proved the right move. Reaching behind her, Fiona suddenly grabbed for the automatic on her belt. I was in position to jerk her wrist just as she fired.

  Again, Corley fired a brief burst, this one sending Fiona down in a heap.

  “I was waiting for them,” she said calmly, stepping into the room. “But they found you before I found them. Are you all right?”

  “Thanks.” I touched my forehead, which was damp with perspiration. I did my best to act as if nothing had happened.

  With the barrel of the M4, she moved Abdul Sakhi’s head so the sightless eyes stared upwards, directly at us. Corley’s eyes showed no emotion.

  “You were right. He murdered Colonel Hansen. It wasn’t Sergeant Nolda.”

  We stared at the bodies, each of which oozed blood. I tried not to think what might have happened if I’d been half a second slower. Bullet holes riddled the wall behind where I’d stood.

  “Let’s go downstairs,” Corley said after a half-minute. “We’ll have the women clean up.” Then she led the way out of the room, down the flight of dark steps. After talking with one of the women, we went out to the gate. The blind beggar was now smoking a cigarette and he smiled at me.

  Corley said, “Khan sent the word that they’d come.” She said something to Khan, who from beneath his shirt produced a telephone. He said, “Allahu Akbar!” then smiled as he held it up for my benefit.

  She said, “They’ve been following me on and off for two days. They’ve been waiting to get the two of us together. When I picked you up at Eggers, I knew they’d try something—and this was the perfect place. As we were driving, I called Khan.”

  I nodded, recalling her telephoning as she drove.

  She said, “There’s a back entrance through the wall. I came in through there.” She looked at her watch. “When Haji arrives, you’ll leave with him. I’ll remain here.”

  I knew if I asked where Haji and I would be going, she wouldn’t say.

  Later that evening, Corley and I went downstairs. We sat at a rickety table in a battered room next to the kitchen. The two women brought us in a meal of lamb smothered under rice and carrots.

  Corley said, “In some ways, I’m glad you were kicked off the post.” She hesitated, frowned. When I didn’t comment, she grabbed a piece of naan and held it up. “Do you like Afghan bread?” When I said I did, she pointed at the food. “Because that’s what you’ll be eating now that you’re not allowed in the chow hall anymore.” After a second, she angrily threw down the piece of bread. “Something has happened.”

  “What happened, ma’am?” Whatever it was, I could see she was upset.

  “Something happened that shouldn’t have happened. Right now we’re awaiting word of what we need to do.”

  I felt like saying, “Yes, dear.” I ate the lamb, using my hands and my own piece of naan. It tasted delicious.

  * * *

  By the time I awoke from a nightmare-filled sleep the following morning, Corley was gone. To where, I had no idea.

  When I entered the downstairs room next to the kitchen, I surprised one of the women. It was the only room in the house with a table. She retreated into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later wearing a burqa and carrying a glass of tea, two pieces of bread, a cantaloupe, and an apple. I ate it all, using my Leatherman to carve up the melon.

  When she returned, I said, “ma-nana,” and she bowed. I knew she wouldn’t accept money for her milmastia, but I’d place a few hundred euros under my pillow before leaving.

  Sometime after 1500 hours Corley drove her van through the gate and into the open space in front of the house. As she climbed out, she pointed toward the house, letting me know we needed to talk.

  After we’d seated ourselves at the big table, one of the women brought in tea, then headed back to the kitchen. Corley said, “You’re going to have to do some traveling.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You and Haji are going somewhere. I can’t leave.” She paused. “Something happened.”

  When the woman returned a few minutes later with a plate full of fruit, Corley thanked her. As we ate, I said, “What happened?”

  “It happened while you and I were in Dubai. Haji will fill you in when he gets here. He should arrive in a couple of hours.” Before I could comment, Corley checked her watch, then said, “Better that Haji tells you.”

  Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good news.

  CHAPTER 26

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 21, 2013

  HAJI ONLY NODDED when I greeted him three hours later. I couldn’t help noticing his worried expression. Standing in the darkened compound, he placed his hand on my shoulder and gave me a silent half-hug, a common greeting among friends in Afghanistan. Then he pointed to the driver of the van in which he’d arrived, a young Afghan.

  “You remember Najib, Alex. He drove us to Shah Mahmood the last time. He drives for Shah Mahmood. He’ll be our badrah, our guide. American soldiers have been gone from the Korengal for three years,
but on the way there we will encounter ANA soldiers. They have many checkpoints along the Pech River. Najib knows the soldiers, having driven through many times. We will be stopped, but he will get us through.”

  I gave Najib a wave. He smiled and waved back.

  Strangely, I was becoming more comfortable with the Afghans I knew than with the Americans over here.

  Finally, Haji said, “It’s good you’re here, Alex. I do not think there’s much time.” He spoke quietly. When I asked, “Time for what?” he only shook his head.

  I tossed my rucksack in the van, looked around. I couldn’t help wondering how this trip to Kunar Province was going to turn out—better, I hoped, than my last one.

  Corley emerged from the house and spoke briefly with Haji in Pashto.

  As Najib turned over the engine, we climbed in, Haji in front, me in back. We drove out through the compound gate and hung a left on the road outside. Seconds later, we were riding past a row of small shops and shabby bazaars in a part of the city I seldom visited. After three minutes we were on a wide thoroughfare leading to Kabul’s eastern outskirts.

  Kabul sits on an arid plain, and with the sun having set, the mountains in the distance were transformed into looming dark silhouettes. Traffic on city streets was light. Alongside the highway were all kinds of heavy equipment, everything from tractors to ancient Russian tanks, all of it rusted, vandalized and abandoned, and now useless eyesores, reminders of the violence that, beginning with the Russian invasion in 1979, had gripped this country.

  Haji passed me a battered map. “We’re taking the highway to Jalalabad.”

  I nodded. On my way to our airbase up there, I’d driven the highway to Jalalabad a number of times. The trip could be three to four hours, depending on traffic.

  “And then into Kunar Province, first to Asadabad. From there we drive out through the Pech Valley.” He was silent for a second. “Shah Mahmood wants to see you. We are going all the way to the Korengal by car. To Shah Mahmood’s village.”