On Edge

by Albert Ashforth

  I focused the glass on one of the two women in the background. The enlarged picture showed clearly the woman’s features. She was dressed in civilian clothes and was peering, unsmiling, into the distance. Obviously, she didn’t realize her picture was being taken.

  I gazed at the picture for a long minute without commenting. Even from a distance, she had that Audrey Hepburn look but without the smile. The picture explained a great deal.

  “That’s her, right?”

  I nodded. “That’s her, all right. Captain Corley.”

  “I figured,” Jerry said. “I only met her that one time, but even in this picture, I knew her.”

  “So she’s an officer in Afghan Intelligence. Is that kosher? She’s also an officer in the United States Army.”

  “Hell, no, it’s not kosher.” Shenlee smirked. “She has permission to operate outside the chain of command, and that gives her a lot of independence. Too much, maybe. The way I see things, we have a double agent on our hands. Don’t worry, we know how to handle these situations.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “What do you know about the Sensitive Investigation Unit?”

  When I said I knew it was appointed by the Afghan government to investigate the bank, Jerry said, “She’s probably connected to them. Those people want to know in the worst way what happened at the Kabul Bank.”

  After pausing to again blow his nose, Jerry said, “I had to do some research, also some asking around. She’s got an interesting gig, no question. Let’s see, she graduated from OCS in 2004. Got her captain’s bars four years later. Then she requested and got a position as liaison to the ANA.”

  I said, “How is it she speaks fluent Pashto?”

  “She was born in Afghanistan, a village outside Kabul. Her aunt left Afghanistan shortly after the Russian invasion. The aunt persuaded her younger sister, Leslie’s mother, to join her in the States. Her real name is Lailee, means ‘night’ in Pashto, but she uses Leslie. Her father was British—where he is who knows. Leslie was just nine years old when she arrived. That was 1991. So she already knew Pashto. After she got here, she learned English.”

  “How did she get tangled up with Pete?”

  “Someone said she was an Audrey Hepburn look-alike. She was a honey trap, what else?”

  As Jerry and I both knew, these days, allies spy on one another.

  “Five years ago, Afghan Intelligence established that training compound outside Kabul, in Wardak Province. The place with the high walls. Corley spent a couple of two-week sessions there. What she was doing, we’re not sure. Some of their trainers, though, are Russkis.”

  “What do you figure?”

  “With her looks, she’d be one helluva honey trap. To us, it’s inhuman the way they treat these women.”

  Suddenly, I realized what had bothered me about Captain Corley. She not only lacked any vestige of humor. She lacked something else. As Jerry said, the training had the likely effect of knocking the humanity out of the women. At times, Corley’s devotion to her cause was so total she seemed to be more a machine than a woman.

  Jerry said, “A recruitment like Hansen would have made her career. Once she focused on Hansen, he was toast.”

  “I knew Pete, Jerry. I’m not so sure he would’ve been so easy to recruit. He was too smart.”

  Shenlee frowned, fixed me with a questioning stare. “What do you think?”

  “I have an idea Pete would’ve squeezed more out of her than she could’ve squeezed out of him. Maybe at first she was only interested in recruiting Pete as an agent, which would’ve been one helluva feather in her cap. But when she reported how much he knew about the bank, the Directorate of Security people would’ve wanted her to keep an eye on him.” I didn’t add that she eventually came to realize an American was involved in the fraud. Whether she found out from Pete or figured it out herself, we’d never know.

  That was where I came in. When she recognized that someone set up an ambush in the Pech Valley in order to get rid of me, she figured that person was the one who had murdered Pete.

  All along I’d wondered what kind of relationship had existed between Pete and Corley. Like me, Pete would have quickly sensed that with Corley something wasn’t right. I could imagine a situation that was more a battle of wits than anything else—in which each was attempting to outsmart the other.

  And then something else struck me!

  I had the answer to the question that had haunted me for the past two months—ever since I’d seen the surveillance camera’s picture of Corley firing her M4. She hadn’t been firing at Wanda, as she said. She’d been firing at me.

  If I hadn’t shot Wanda at that moment, Corley’s next round wouldn’t have missed me.

  Once she’d figured out Greer’s involvement with the bank fraud, Corley came to the States to recruit him. I didn’t realize Greer was the American involved with the fraud until the Sunday night when I spoke with Bud Withers.

  Corley had already figured it out. She wanted Greer.

  But then Wanda murdered Greer.

  With Greer dead, she could no longer recruit the Undersecretary, but Wanda was a colonel in the U.S. Army and stationed in the Pentagon. She was, potentially, also a valuable source for the Afghan Directorate of Security. Corley knew that Wanda’s involvement with the Kabul Bank made her vulnerable to blackmail. Wanda’s only choice would have been to become an agent for the Afghans—or spend a lifetime behind bars.

  As I knew from my own experience behind the Iron Curtain, blackmail is easily the most effective way to persuade people to come over, more effective than ideology or even money. Espionage is a dirty business.

  Wanda wouldn’t have been as highly placed a source as Greer, but she would have been better than nothing. Much better.

  Whether I lived or died wasn’t important. I wiped a drop of perspiration from my forehead.

  “Something else, Alex. I didn’t know you and Undersecretary Greer were friends. I’m referring to your visit to his home on the very night he died.”

  “He was a hobby cook. He invited me.”

  “What were you guys gonna talk about?” Jerry was perceptive, but Greer’s involvement with the bank fraud was going to remain my little secret. Without Hamed’s document, which was now in the possession of the Afghan Directorate of Security, there was no way to locate his loot or to figure out his involvement. What the Afghan Security people might do with those tidbits of information was their business—and anybody’s guess.

  “Doug and I got to know each other in Afghanistan. There was plenty to talk about.”

  “People in the government are wondering about Greer killing himself—whether he did or whether he didn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you ever heard of a drug called ketamine? You can buy it on the street. The autopsy of Greer’s body turned up enough ketamine in his bloodstream to knock him out for a half hour. If he was in his car with the motor running . . .”

  “You’re suggesting he was drugged and murdered?”

  “Where Greer was concerned, everyone agrees. The guy had an unblemished record and a great future. People were touting him for all kinds of things. Elective office possibly.” Jerry paused to rub his eyes. “He was definitely in line for a cabinet position. What I’m saying, Alex, why would the guy kill himself?”

  “No reason I can figure.”

  “No reason anyone can figure. He could write his own ticket. The guy was likeable, smart, and honest. And tough—he could take the heat. And everyone agrees he did a great job overseas.”

  “You’re saying—”

  “He was murdered, is what I’m saying. The question is, by whom?” After another sneeze, Jerry said quietly, “We’ve decided to keep it quiet. The official verdict is suicide.”

  Jerry was silent for a long moment, maybe waiting for me to comment. When I only took another swallow from my bottle of water, he said, “A Post reporter was nosing around, trying to see what she could
dig up.”

  “That’s what reporters are supposed to do, Jerry, nose around and dig things up.”

  “Well, she won’t be doing too much nosing and digging from now on. Someone from the administration got in touch with one of the managing editors at the paper.” Jerry smirked.

  “So now she’s covering the society page?”

  “No, the women’s page. She just wrote a piece on the season’s new skirt lengths. You’ll be happy to hear they’re getting shorter.” Jerry was watching me closely. “And of course the other thing . . .”

  I knew what was coming.

  “Wanda Hansen dying like that, just a couple of days after Greer.” Jerry shook his head. “You and she . . . got along. If I’m not mistaken, you saw quite a bit of each other.”

  “You’re not mistaken. I knew her a long time ago.”

  “We figure an intruder was up there. A woman alone in a house in the woods, that’s not good. She’d been firing a hunting rifle, a BAR 30-06. It was lying in the grass right next to her.” Jerry paused, watching my reaction. “I’ll tell you what’s really funny, though. Embedded in a tree not far from where she died . . . Ah . . . ah . . . choo! Damn!”

  As Jerry blew his nose, I waited.

  “Anyway, there was a small-caliber round embedded in a tree. A 5.56. Probably fired from a military weapon.”

  “Sure, the M4 carbine. We were using that round in Graf during readiness training.”

  “Right. And what they also found on the other side of this clearing were a couple of cartridges . . . Let’s see.” Jerry consulted one of his papers. “The M855A1. You’re right. They would have been fired from an M4A1 weapon. I mean, what was going on out there?”

  “It sounds like World War Three.”

  “Colonel Hansen’s telephone calls are all accounted for . . . except for a couple she got that night from an untraceable phone. Fake name, naturally.”

  I nodded, recalling that I’d made two attempts to reach Wanda by telephone. I was glad that I’d had the presence of mind to use one of the disposable cell phones I’d picked up in D.C.

  As I watched a couple of kids zooming by on their skateboards, Jerry sneezed a few more times. Finally, he began packing up his papers. “Oh, yeah, I meant to ask about your fiancée. How’s everything?”

  “Thanks for asking. Everything’s fine. I visited for a couple of weeks, and we’ve pushed back the date.”

  “I’m surprised she didn’t give you the gate. I’ve never known a woman to put up with the stuff you do.”

  “My fiancée has forgiven me. I took another assignment while I should have been with her, planning our wedding. But now I’m back safe and sound. No harm done.” Not too much anyway.

  Jerry shook his head. “Hardly any of our case officers stay married for very long, as you well know. It’s just not the kind of job women want to put up with. Face it, Alex. Not too many women would have forgiven you for doing what you did. What the hell does she see in you anyway?”

  “Irmie has a good heart, Jerry.”

  “It has to be more than that.”

  “She knows how much I love her.”

  “Still not enough. I hope you can make her happy.”

  I thought back to everything Irmie had had to put up with, having a retired intelligence officer as a fiancé.

  “I hope I can, too, Jerry.”

  EPILOGUE

  44 W GRANBY STREET

  ELKHART, IN 46514

  SEPTEMBER 2, 2013

  DEAR MR. KLEAR,

  I understand that you played a role in arranging for young Jawid to spend the summer this year with an American family. I thought you might like to know how things worked out.

  We had this young Afghan boy here for the summer. He was a delightful guest and got along very well with our two boys. He was also helpful around the house. Before arriving, he’d never seen a vacuum cleaner. He was my little assistant whenever I did the housework. As he was learning English, we also picked up many words from the Pashto language. My boys would point to an object, Jawid would say the Pashto word and one of our boys the English word.

  He was a marvelous person to cook for because he ate everything. He also showed me some meals that are eaten by the people in Afghanistan. One meal involves stuffing squash with tomato paste, rice, and peas and tastes delicious. He said the name but I forget it.

  He also liked what he called “betsbowl.” The three boys enjoyed playing catch in our backyard.

  The gentleman from the exchange program asked if we’d like to have Jawid visit us again next summer, and we said yes. We were told that his father wanted him to attend an American high school. Since we’ve learned that his father died in Afghanistan under difficult circumstances and was a true friend to our country’s soldiers, we would like to do all we can for Jawid and for his mother.

  Sincerely,

  Louise Kortena

  P.S. Jawid tried to tell us how he came to meet you. The way it sounded, you ran out of a car and jumped on top of him and watermelons fell on you both. Maybe because his English is still far from perfect, the story didn’t really make much sense.

  SECOND EPILOGUE

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 10, 2013

  THE THREE ANA soldiers in the armored personnel carrier, a captain, a lieutenant, and a sergeant, hadn’t spoken very much since leaving Kabul the previous day. The sergeant was the driver, and he had all he could do to keep his eyes on the winding, unfamiliar road. Although Helmand Province was only 400 kilometers from Kabul, they’d had to overnight on the highway to Kandahar because of the continuing danger of IEDs. At least things weren’t as bad these days as they’d been when the Americans occupied the country in force.

  From Kandahar, which now had far fewer Taliban sympathizers than previously, they’d proceeded on Highway 1 to Gereshk and were now bouncing along on a pothole-filled road in the Nahri Saraj District. The woman lived in a tiny village somewhere out here with her two small boys.

  As the captain was told at the presidential palace, she was a widow whose husband, a sergeant in the Afghan National Army, had died nine months before under unexplained circumstances.

  After a number of inquiries, they found the woman’s home, which, unsurprisingly, turned out to be in a crumbling stone and mud building, which she shared with her sister-in-law. When the sergeant asked, he was told the woman was not expected back for another hour.

  Sitting in the vehicle, they waited. The truth was, the captain had been puzzled by this assignment ever since receiving it late yesterday. He’d be glad to get back to Kabul. An important meeting at Headquarters was scheduled for Saturday, the day after tomorrow, and he definitely wanted to be on hand for that.

  An hour later, a tired-looking woman with a shawl over her face and accompanied by two boys came slowly up the dusty lane from the street. When she pushed aside the blanket covering the entrance into the decrepit building, the captain gathered up the papers he’d been given, nodded at the lieutenant, took one last swallow of tea, and climbed out of the vehicle.

  Inside the dark house, he introduced himself and, seated cross-legged on a pillow, presented the papers to the baffled woman. As she was unable to read and only shook her head, he did his very best to explain the reason for his visit.

  “Effective immediately,” he said, “you are to receive a monthly pension from the Afghan government.” He was himself surprised by the generosity of the amount. “In addition, an apartment in one of the government’s new social residences in Kabul has been set aside for you and your children. Your boys will be given the opportunity to enroll in school and pursue an education after you have moved to Kabul.”

  Having recovered from her surprise, the woman asked a number of halting questions, none of which the captain could answer beyond saying she would receive more detailed information in the coming weeks.

  The one thing he could say was that the Afghan government was, in this instance, acting according to urgent directives from an unknown person in the Ame
rican government.

  That evening, after she’d told her sister-in-law of how her life would be changing, she’d dreamily recalled how her husband, who’d only joined the Army so he could support his small family, had been unjustly charged with shooting an American officer.

  “But now the Americans are doing these things in his memory,” she said.

  “They are a hard people to understand, the Americans,” her sister-in-law said, shaking her head.

  “Very hard,” said the widow of Baram Nolda.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The Kabul Bank Scandal

  THE KABUL BANK went bankrupt in 2010, the biggest bank failure in history. I was in Afghanistan then, and I heard there was a run on the bank. I also heard that it was necessary to station guards in front of the bank to prevent angry depositors from storming the building in Kabul.

  At that time, the auditors determined that somewhere around 935 million dollars was missing and unaccounted for. It is against the background of these events that On Edge takes place.

  During a four-month period, from November 2012 to March 2013, twenty-two bank officials were on trial in Kabul, charged with fraud. It is during this time that Alex Klear, the protagonist, is sent to Kabul to investigate the murder of a former Army buddy, a colonel who was attached to the ISAF Oversight and Accountability section. Almost immediately, Alex suspects that his friend’s murder connects in some way to the bank’s failure.

  I’m not sure to what extent our political leaders in 2004, the year of the Kabul Bank’s founding, understood that in Afghanistan people think very differently about fraud and corruption than we do in the West. I’m not sure, as we became more and more involved with Afghanistan, that they understood that what we in the West consider to be corrupt practices is the way much business is conducted in Afghanistan. And that bribery is a way of life there.

  In fact, when a country as rich as America doesn’t keep a close eye on its assets and its money, it seems for many Afghans that the proper approach is to help themselves. There is no question that the United States did not pay as close attention to the nearly one billion dollars it deposited in the Kabul Bank as it should have. This is one of the insights that Alex gains as he attempts to solve the murder of his old friend.