On Edge

by Albert Ashforth

“Soon. It’s been going for four months.”

  “I know I should know more about the bank, but I’m so busy on the job.” Wanda paused as the waitress set down our brandies. “But with Pete stationed in Afghanistan and me in the Pentagon, we just didn’t see each other that often. He came back on leave twice, but there was always so much going on, friends, family.” She twisted her brandy glass by the stem, then picked it up. “So what did you find out this time?”

  “Transactions, mostly.”

  “No names?”

  “The information we brought back is important for one reason.”

  “What would that be?”

  “It’s information that was concealed from the auditors. The names are of cutouts, mostly. Bankers, business types, wheelers and dealers from just about every country in the world.” I took a sip of brandy. “In Europe they’re called straw men. They help wealthy people avoid attention and, of course, taxes. In this case, they’ve helped the Kabul Bank officials conceal the money they’d stolen.”

  “Hard to understand. I’m not good at this stuff.”

  “Ask your uncle in Norway, the one who’s president of the bank.”

  Wanda smiled. “Did I mention him?”

  “Once, in the Serena.”

  Wanda took a last long sip of brandy, then gazed at her watch and shook her head. “After ten.”

  “Can I give you a ride?”

  “Sure,” she said, “if you don’t mind driving out to Alexandria.”

  “It will be my pleasure.”

  CHAPTER 31

  SUNDAY, MARCH 3, 2013

  THE NEXT DAY I visited Arlington Cemetery, where my father is buried, and spent a few quiet hours just walking around. I nodded at a woman with two small children, one on each hand, and hated to think of the reason for her visit.

  I had no idea why Corley wanted to keep me on this job and what it was we were trying to do. Irmie was the main source of my discontent. The longer this assignment, the more damaging to our relationship, making it less and less likely that we’d be together.

  I was still at Arlington when my phone went off. I was surprised to hear Doug Greer on the other end.

  “Alex, I don’t suppose you heard the news. About the trial.” When I said I hadn’t, Doug said, “It’s just starting to come in. A few advance reports. It’ll be in the papers tomorrow. They’re all guilty, twenty-two defendants. I have to admit I’m kind of surprised.”

  I knew what Doug meant. The Afghan courts are unpredictable. And Afghan laws are very different from those of the United States. “That was a long trial.”

  “Four months. It began last November. Somehow it seems longer.”

  I said, “It was already in full swing when I got to Kabul. Were they found guilty on the fraud charge?”

  “Yeah, that was it. They don’t call it fraud, exactly. The big shots got five years, and are going to have to pay back a lot of money. Hundreds of millions.”

  “Five years doesn’t sound like a long sentence for that kind of fraud.”

  “I agree. It sounds like crime pays.”

  “In Afghanistan, maybe.”

  “I know. They’ll still be relatively young guys when they get out.” Doug paused. “I don’t know whether I should be happy or sad.”

  “Anyway, it sounds as if that wraps things up.”

  Doug laughed. “Yeah. We can start thinking about other things. Like how to solve the green-on-blue problem. I was able to speak briefly with General Dunford before he left.” General Dunford was the Marine commander with the unenviable job of running ISAF in Afghanistan during the transition. “He’s optimistic that we can get a handle on that problem. We’ll all breathe a sigh of relief when we can hand things back to the Afghans.”

  “When will you be going back, Doug?”

  “Not for a while. I haven’t forgotten that lunch we’re supposed to have. I’d suggest sometime this week except we’re really busy at the moment.” He paused. “How about next week?”

  “Next week is fine. By the way, I think Pete knew or at least was close to finding out not only how the money was taken, but where a lot of it ended up.”

  Doug said, “If he knew where it ended up, that would also mean—”

  “That he knew who took it? Maybe.” Remembering one of Corley’s comments, I added, “You could learn a lot by working backwards. If you could twist some arms.”

  “That’s interesting, something to talk about. I’m checking my calendar here, and maybe I will have time. Let’s make the lunch date for Tuesday. Day after tomorrow okay?”

  I said that sounded fine.

  After getting home I took a shower and was putting the finishing touches on my first beer of the evening when someone started pounding on the apartment door. Not only wasn’t I expecting visitors, I asked myself who even knew that I was in this building, or living in Addison Heights. For that matter, who even knew that I was back from Afghanistan?

  Was it Shenlee? Definitely not.

  Corley? Was she back from Afghanistan? Not yet.

  Doug? We just spoke on the phone.

  Wanda, no. Someone else? I could think of no one.

  And who would be pounding so damned loud?

  I didn’t recognize the guy through the peephole, but I pulled the door open anyway. I was confronted by a broad-shouldered individual with a shaved head wearing a leather jacket over a blue flannel shirt, cargo pants, and combat boots. I couldn’t help noticing the size of his hands and the fact that he had a good two inches and probably twenty pounds on me. He spoke softly, with a mild Midwestern accent

  “Hello, Klear.”

  If the hallway had been better lit, I might have immediately recognized him. I only squinted and said, “What’s up?”

  “Bud Withers. Captain Bud Withers.” When I said, “Oh yeah,” he grinned. “You gonna invite me in?”

  I fought against the urge to say a loud “No.” Recalling all the problems this guy had caused me, I fought another urge—to slug him. After a second’s hesitation, my more civilized instincts got the better of me. I nodded, pulled the door wider, and motioned him inside.

  Standing in the middle of the living room, he unzipped his jacket. “Nice place.”

  “Better maybe than COP Franklin. It’s okay. It’s not mine.”

  “The door downstairs was half-open when I got here, so I didn’t bother to ring.” Eyeing the open bottle of Sam Adams on the coffee table, he said, “I could go for one of those.”

  Never say that I’m not hospitable. What was this guy after? The last time I saw him we were rolling around on the floor in Doug Greer’s office in the ISAF Headquarters building in Kabul. That incident led to an invitation to the ISAF commander’s office and then to me getting tossed out of Afghanistan. After fetching a beer from the fridge and prying off the cap, I silently handed Withers the bottle. At least he thanked me.

  “I’m on leave, Klear. On my way down to Benning.” He took a swallow of beer, smacked his lips. “I heard that you left Afghanistan. I wanted to find you, but let me tell you, I had one hell of a job doing it. Would you believe, I had to get in touch with someone I know over in Fort Meade to track your phone? NSA people know everything. I mean, it’s scary.” When I only nodded, he said, “You mind if I sit down?”

  After he’d eased his bulk into an easy chair, I found a place on the sofa opposite him, picked up my own bottle, waited. It was “his nickel,” as people said in the pre-inflationary days of pay telephones.

  This guy had to have a reason for wanting to talk. A good one.

  He was still grinning. “You’re wondering why I’m here. Why I went to the trouble to look you up.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Okay. If you’re pissed, I can’t say I blame you.” He took another long swallow. “I heard a lot of the story of what happened out in the valley after you guys left the COP. How you were about to have your heads chopped off. Got it later, from one of the elders in the tribe. Around then I starte
d to wonder about the whole situation.”

  Join the club. I’ve been wondering about it, too. What was on this guy’s mind?

  “You and the Afghan,” Withers said. “The terp. What was his name?”

  “Haji.”

  He nodded. “The story I heard, it was a miracle you and him made it out of that village alive. Man, who were those guys who showed up? Korengalis, am I correct?”

  “You didn’t seem so happy about that outcome the last time I saw you, Withers.” I was referring to him saying I was responsible for the death of one of his troopers.

  He grimaced, shrugged, as if he didn’t want to be reminded of that. “I’ll start at the beginning.” He held up his empty bottle. “I could go for another one of these.” He gazed across the room at the clock. “My flight’s not until tomorrow morning.”

  After I’d brought back another beer, he began to speak in a low voice. “These two guys showed up at the COP from out of nowhere. One of them was civilian, American, said he was from the Ariana. He gave me a name, but I haven’t been able to locate him. The other was an Askar, on the thin side. Mustache, but no beard. Anyway, they came out to Franklin, told me a story about Abdul Sakhi. They said you had it in for this guy.” He leaned forward. “They said Sakhi was an asset, one of ours, and we wanted to keep him.”

  “I wanted to ask him some questions,” I said. “Like, ‘What were you doing in the Headquarters building on January 23rd?’”

  “They said you wanted to terminate him.”

  I stood up, finished my beer. “I was just on my way out. I’m hungry. I feel like a hamburger.”

  On his feet, Withers said, “You mind if I join you?”

  I grabbed my jacket, still not sure I wanted to spend more time with this guy and have to listen to whatever it was he wanted to tell me. On the stairs on the way out, we passed a swarthy individual, probably the building custodian, who said, “Good evening.” I assumed he was the guy who was dropping into my apartment from time to time. Outside, darkness had set in and the air was chilly. I pointed the way. “There’s a joint on the next block. Kevin’s. They have good burgers.”

  It seemed like the Happy Hour crew was breaking up. Withers and I found places at the bar and ordered drafts.

  “How the hell did you end up out here, Klear? You still on the agency’s payroll?”

  It was a good question. An honest answer would have been that I wasn’t sure whose payroll I was on. We signaled to the bartender, ordered burgers. Why had Withers gone to the trouble to find me?

  After a long swallow, he said, “Good beer.” On the TV at the end of the bar, there were a bunch of guys gathered around a table and arguing about sports. Fortunately, the sound was off.

  “You had it in for Abdul Sakhi, right?”

  “I had it in for Abdul Sakhi because he killed a friend of mine. Colonel Hansen.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “A hundred percent.”

  “CID said it was one of the Askars.”

  “They wanted to wrap it up neat and quick.” I didn’t add that there might have been some other motives involved as well.

  “Hell, Klear, we’ll be out of Afghanistan the end of next year. Why do you care so much about who did it?”

  “How would you feel, Withers, if someone killed your buddy? You gonna let him live?”

  When the bartender arrived and set down our hamburgers, we pushed our empty mugs forward. I watched Withers splash ketchup on his burger.

  With his mouth full, he took a long swallow of beer. “What I was told, Klear, was that Abdul Sakhi was an asset. They said he offed a couple of hard-to-locate dussmen down in Helmand. They’d been running things in Nawzad and causing all kinds of problems. I also heard that he did an operation for us out west, in Herat, not far from Iran. He got in and out of a place none of our people could get close to.”

  “You make him sound like some kind of hero.”

  “That’s one of the reasons no one would go along with your take on the situation. He was too valuable.”

  “You got half the story, Withers. Abdul Sakhi played both ends against the middle. He did stuff for us, but he also worked for the Talibs. He assassinated two American officers in Kandahar a while back. Who knows what else he did.”

  “That doesn’t sound right.”

  “But it is right. He was for sale to the highest bidder. Like they say, ‘Maybe you can’t buy an Afghan, but you can always rent one.’ He teamed up with a gal from the U.K., and she made it possible to work deals with us. That was his M.O.” When Withers only frowned, I said, “Our people thought he was okay. The FBI even ID’d him as a ‘friendly’.”

  “You can see why I bought their version.”

  “I guess.”

  “We had it arranged so that when you left the COP you were on your own. We knew they had some kind of ambush set up, but I figured it would be pretty routine, you know? They were supposed to grab you and the terp. But when Sully fought back, one of those SOBs started shooting and killed him. That sure wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  I continued to listen. This was starting to get interesting.

  “I had other things on my mind, Klear. So yeah, it was only afterward that I began to think it was all pretty fishy from the start. These guys showing up with a story about you and this Sakhi character.” Withers shook his head. “I made a trip to Bagram later to ask around, but no one up there would tell me anything.”

  Withers was quiet then and went back to his hamburger.

  Finally, I said, “But still, there had to be someone running this whole thing. Who sent these people?”

  Withers wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Waddaya mean?”

  “Someone behind it, protecting Abdul Sakhi. Trying to make me look bad. Who was it?”

  After emptying his mug with a long swallow, Withers looked thoughtful. Then he pushed the mug forward on the bar. “You remember me riding you in Doug Greer’s office?” When I nodded, he said, “Greer set that up. He told me to needle you when you came in. The idea was to get us fighting. Greer spoke to the colonel, said you started it. Major Jones told me Greer wanted you out of Kabul in the worst way.” Withers shrugged. “Well, I admit I figured those guys might be blowing smoke when they first told me about you. But you know how it is. Half the stuff you’re doing you’re not sure why you’re doing it. That’s the way it was over there. You’re on a COP for four months, you’re out of the loop, believe me.”

  What Withers was saying was true enough. It was tough duty in a COP, made tougher by the isolation.

  “What did these people say?”

  “They said you were out to get this guy, that you were pro-Talib.” Withers paused. “Greer is a goddamned Undersecretary, Klear. A suit from D.C. You know how it is. They talk, we listen.” After fixing me with a hard stare, he said, “And Major Jones. Pressured him, too.”

  I was silent, remembering Stan’s promotion to light colonel.

  Withers stared straight ahead, his hand clutching the handle of his beer mug like it was an M4 carbine. Although he had a lot of beer under his belt and his story was mildly incoherent, it answered all kinds of questions. He’d gotten a lot off his chest. I had a feeling he’d be feeling a lot better about himself in the morning. I hoped he would be.

  “I appreciate it, Captain Withers. You and I have been asking ourselves the same questions.”

  “But not coming up with the right answers.” He continued to stare straight ahead.

  “Not yet.” I tossed down a couple of fifties, slid off the barstool.

  “What’s that for?”

  “They’ll buy a lot of beer.” I stuck out my hand. “Thanks for coming.”

  Withers flashed a grim smile. “I’m sorry about all that shouting and screaming—what happened . . .” He was still gripping his beer mug and staring straight ahead when I left.

  Outside, despite a cold wind and drizzle, I decided to take a walk. I concentrate better when I’m walking. When I tu
rned my telephone back on, I had a message from Corley.

  “I’m back.” When she said, “I’m here, but I’m not here,” I assumed she meant she’d flown in on an “alternative” passport. “Call tomorrow. I’m one floor below you in the building.”

  I wasn’t looking forward to seeing her. I no longer trusted her, and ever since the Dubai episode, I was finding her a little weird. She’d be giving orders, but I no longer felt obliged to follow them. From here on in, this was going to be my own little “op,” and I’d run it my way.

  As I walked, I thought about how Withers’ story fit in with the rest of what I knew—one of the last pieces of the puzzle.

  CHAPTER 32

  MONDAY, MARCH 4, 2013

  AT 1000 HOURS, I was in Corley’s kitchen, sitting silently as she made coffee. Unlike my place, this was a two-bedroom, but, except for abstract paintings on the wall, it wasn’t much different. The living room was crammed with vintage furniture, and the bookshelves half-filled with books in other languages. On the floor was an ancient Persian rug. I again wondered who owned this dingy building.

  Definitely not the U.S. government.

  What type of people normally stayed here? Not Americans, that much I knew. What was I involved in?

  Corley was wearing a dark blue sweater, blue slacks, and sneakers. She looked sexy, but in a strange and dangerous way.

  As she fussed with the machine, I decided to tell her about Captain Withers’ visit the previous evening.

  Sitting down opposite me, she placed two cups of coffee on the table. “At last,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you’re at last beginning to understand what you should have tumbled to a long time ago.” When I frowned, she said, “Douglas Greer. You seem finally to understand how he fits into the picture.”

  “According to Withers, Greer wanted me out of Kabul in the worst way.”

  “Greer wanted you dead in the worst way, and I hope you understand why. You were the one person he couldn’t control. When D.C. talks, the military listens. But you were being what you are by nature—a pest, a royal nuisance. And you were thinking independently. You turned out to be just the kind of person your superiors say you are. You wouldn’t agree to the fact that Colonel Hansen was the victim of a green-on-blue killing.”