Pat told the tea boy to get him. Weekends (Thursdays and Fridays) were especially hard on Ibrahim. Without the forced sobriety of work, his drug use was unrestricted. It was normal for him to look bad on Saturdays, but when he emerged from the sleep room in a bathrobe, he was at a totally different level of bad than Pat had ever seen him in before. His eyes were blood red, his long hair was unwashed and askew, he had a three-day growth of beard, and what emanated from him was pure emotional pain.
He sat down at his desk. Pat took the chair across from him and asked his TERP and the tea boy to leave the room.
“What’s wrong, Ibrahim?”
Tears began to flow from his eyes. “My bird is dead.”
“What happened?”
“He was killed. Murdered by a monster. The biggest bird I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m sorry. That’s just terrible. He was such a great bird.”
“I don’t know what I am going to do. I can’t afford another bird, and I owe many people.”
“What did you do with all the money you’ve been winning?”
“I don’t know. It’s all gone. I have a wife and three children. I have many debts. I have a very serious problem. You have to help me.”
“I think we may be able to help each other,” Pat said.
Pat met Mike several weeks later at the Thai restaurant at the French camp next to the Kabul Airport. It was a Friday afternoon and the restaurant was crowded. Pat had the prawn pad thai and a Heineken; Mike went with the cashew chicken and a Corona.
“Are you allowed to have alcohol? I thought your group fell under General Order number one,” Mike said.
“We do. I’m breaking the law. I’ve adopted the outlaw lifestyle in my new role as a secret agent. Last night I even had a chocolate sundae at the Blackhorse DFAC. I’m throwing caution to the wind.”
“Really? When did all this happen?”
“About the same time I became an assassin of small birds.”
“Pat Walsh, killer of chukars. The avian world trembles at the mention of your name. That was a good move, by the way. Ibrahim is really coming through.”
“Turns out I didn’t have to do the deed. The bird died on its own.”
“No kidding?”
“Yeah. According to Ibrahim, it went up against a steroid-enhanced Godzilla of a bird and died valiantly in the ring.”
“Ibrahim’s been a goldmine. Did you bring the recordings?”
“It’s all on this USB.”
“Can you give me the summary of what Ibrahim told you?”
“The Taliban destruction of Combat Outpost Bari Ali on May first was an inside job. It was ordered by Wardak.”
“Why?” asked Mike.
“Wardak makes a lot of money collecting tolls from the trucks carrying supplies along Jalalabad Road. Everything that comes into Afghanistan from Pakistan comes in on that road. The Second Brigade has checkpoints on the eastern half of the road from Logar to the Khyber Pass, and the Third Brigade has checkpoints on the road from Kabul to the border with Logar,” Pat said.
“Bari Ali is in Kunar Province. It’s in a valley. It doesn’t border J-bad Road.”
“No, it doesn’t, but this big surge of thirty thousand troops Obama is bringing into Afghanistan is screwing up Wardak’s operation. The reason the trucks pay the tolls is because they know if they don’t, they’ll be ambushed further down the road by the bad guys who are in cahoots with Wardak’s guys. There are now so many patrols out along the highway that it’s no longer easy to set up those ambushes, and the truck drivers are starting to refuse to pay the tolls.”
“That still doesn’t explain why he wiped out Bari Ali.”
“Wardak wants the new American troops reinforcing the camps. He doesn’t want them patrolling and interrupting his business operations. That’s why. Think about it. What’s the first thing we did after the attack? We pulled in the patrols and began to evacuate the isolated combat outposts that were most vulnerable, and we reinforced the larger camps. The plan worked.”
“How sure is Ibrahim that it was an inside job?”
“He’s positive. How could anybody not be? The first shots were RPG-7s launched from inside the camp against the B-huts occupied by the US and Latvian troops. The NATO forces were dead seconds into the fight, which left only a few loyal ANA troops who resisted. Most of the ANA force disappeared after the attack and haven’t been seen since.”
“How did Ibrahim come by this information?”
“He helped plan the attack with Wardak.”
“Was it Ibrahim’s idea?” asked Mike.
“No, but Wardak quizzed him on US response times and reactions a few days before the attack.”
“Are you getting any useful information from the chief of staff?” asked Mike.
“No, just gossip. He’s a jealous outsider. Beyond confirming what we already know about who the conspirators are, he’s not been much help.”
“Keep at it.”
“Why? With this latest, don’t you have enough? We already knew Wardak was stealing tens of millions from the US taxpayer every month. Now we learn he’s ordered the death of American soldiers. Isn’t it time to put him in cuffs and take him to Gitmo?”
“Wardak is close to Karzai. He’s a tribal loyalist. That’s why he has the command closest to the presidential palace. It’s not going to be easy to get clearance to do anything.”
“Just in case, I’m going to start making contingency plans.”
Chapter 7
Jalalabad, Afghanistan
Winter was fast approaching; the surrounding mountains were white with snow. The mountain range to the east and north was called the Hindu Kush, which translates to killer of Hindus. Over the years it had been an effective barrier in keeping the invaders out, especially those from the Indian Subcontinent. The mountains were incredibly steep and were only passable through a few high passes. Once winter set in, all of the passes closed except for two or three of the main ones, like the Khyber.
The summer had passed quickly. Pat’s intel collection on Wardak had remained nonactionable, consisting only of widespread theft of the American taxpayer, but nothing that apparently violated whatever unwritten understanding existed between the US and Afghan governments. Pat’s repeated requests to make Wardak go the way of the chukar bird had been repeatedly rebuffed by Mike.
Mike and Pat met at a place called Osama bin Laden’s Tea House at Camp Casey in Jalalabad, which was in the far eastern boundary of Afghanistan, adjacent to Pakistan. Pat joined the Corps commander in a meeting with the Second Brigade commander and his Kandak commanders, and he was staying the night at Camp Casey before beginning the long drive back to Kabul. The tea house was an abandoned building once used by Osama bin Laden. It was surrounded by a beautiful garden that was still in bloom, even this late in September.
“What’s it going to take to get a green light to do something about Wardak?” Pat asked.
“More than what we have, I can say that much.”
“You know, if Wardak had been born in New York instead of Kabul, I think he might have become a Wall Street mogul. He’s no different than those bankers, those financial masters of the universe who had no problem making billions selling toxic mortgage instruments, and who then, after the economy tanked, turned around and made even more money from TARP bailouts. If you look at what Wardak’s doing, he’s no different. He’s also profiting from sabotaging his own country.”
“Still a little bitter about your home-building business, I see.”
“You noticed. No wonder you’re a spy. It’s the powers of perception. Did I tell you about Wardak’s latest business venture?”
“What’s he up to now?”
“He’s found a way to get paid twice for ghost soldiers. Now, he not only gets paid by collecting the salary of the nonexistent soldiers, but he’s found a way to get conscripts to pay for the privilege of being smuggled out of basic training so they can desert. After he helps them escape, the deser
ters stay on the payroll and become ghost soldiers. Wardak double dips.”
“That’s very enterprising. How did you come by the info?”
“The chief of staff gave me the tip, but I went out and caught the operation on video. The troops are smuggled out at night through the front gate in the back of ANA trucks and then released down the road.”
“The new RC-East commander loves Wardak. He says he really understands what the US is trying to accomplish and believes he’s an excellent security partner,” Mike said.
“Seriously?”
“The US ambassador and the ISAF commander share the same opinion.”
“That’s tragic.”
“Wardak’s untouchable. Karzai loves him too.”
“What does the CIA think of him?” Pat asked.
“We have our doubts. The Bari Ali incident was inconclusive. The word of a grieving gambling drug addict in search of a payday is not sufficient evidence to act.”
Pat made the seventy-mile drive from the Pakistan border to Camp Blackhorse the next morning in his beat-up Isuzu. He had his TERP and Mohammed, his driver with him, which helped a lot at the checkpoints. There were many missing and damaged guard rails on J-bad Road, and in some places the falloff was thousands of feet straight down. Between the checkpoints, convoys of speeding jingle trucks, rockslides and occasional ambushes, it was by far the most harrowing drive on the planet.
The weather was turning cold. It was late September, and Pat had just dropped his paperwork to go home during the Christmas holiday. Pat had been in Afghanistan for seven months and his wife still wouldn’t speak to him. When he showed up, he wasn’t sure if he’d be allowed in the house. Pat was able to talk with the kids regularly, but the wife was still giving him the silent treatment. The news from Trident was mostly good. They continued to tread water financially, which meant the bank hadn’t foreclosed and the salaries were being paid.
Pat planned on making his daily rounds after the morning battle update briefing at the 201st headquarters. The Eid holiday was coming up, and the religious officer was doing more talking than normal. He was speaking Pashtun, and the translator was having a hard time keeping up with his rapid-fire ranting. The man had a glass eye and a huge black beard. He looked like Captain Barbossa in Pirates of the Caribbean, only ten times crazier. Pat couldn’t imagine he spoke with a lot of moral authority. It seemed just about everyone knew that he was a crook who skimmed the death gratuities.
Ibrahim was at his desk and coherent, which was a pleasant surprise. He had been slowly degenerating since Pat had put him on his payroll. Pat thought he might be overfunding him. Because Ibrahim’s English was fluent, Pat’s TERP made himself scarce. They went through the normal Muslim greeting in Arabic and then waited to be served tea before talking.
“Are you doing okay, Ibrahim?”
“Yes, but my children are sick. I need to take them to the doctor. Can I get an advance?”
“Sure.” Pat reached inside his pocket and peeled off ten one-hundred-dollar bills, placing them on his desk.
“I have news. Giving you this information is very dangerous. I will need a bonus.”
“Tell me what you have, and if I think it’s worth a bonus, then you’ll get one.”
“I need two thousand, or I won’t say anything.”
“I won’t pay two thousand unless you have evidence. I gave you that recorder for a reason.”
“I have everything recorded. You won’t be disappointed. But the recording exposes me. The price is five thousand.”
“What happened to two thousand?”
“I reconsidered. This is very risky information I have.”
“Come on, Ibrahim. I already pay you two thousand a month, and you’ve received so many bonuses you’ve been paid up to 2010.”
“Pat, this is worth five thousand.”
“I only have three on me. It’s either that or nothing.”
“Okay, three thousand,” he said. Pat paid him.
“General Wardak has ordered the movement of the Kandak defending Camp Keating back to Jalalabad. The forces will evacuate the camp over the next three days.”
“That’s not good. That’s going to leave the Americans alone to defend the camp. Last I heard, there were about one hundred ANA and seventy US. Is that still the case?”
“One hundred and sixteen ANA and fifty-eight US.”
“Why is he breaking his commitment to the RC-East commander?”
“I don’t know. But it’s not the RC-East commander he’s going against by evacuating. It’s President Karzai himself. The US put pressure on Karzai to maintain forces in Keating, and the president ordered General Wardak to support the Americans.”
“Why is it such a big deal?”
“Keating guards the only mountain pass between Afghanistan and Pakistan in Nuristan. The opium crop has been harvested, and the route it takes to markets in Europe and the US goes through Pakistan. The US is using the increased troop numbers to cut off the distribution routes into Pakistan. The Taliban needs an open pass to move the opium. If Wardak is removing forces on the border against the will of the president, it must mean a Taliban attack is imminent to open up a supply route.”
“Why would Wardak go against Karzai’s wishes?”
“The Taliban rely on the opium money. They’ll attack with or without the ANA troops defending the camp. Saving the lives of one hundred ANA will please Karzai. Plus, most likely Wardak is being paid by the Taliban. About a the third of the opium grown in Afghanistan is from farms in the 201st area of operation.”
“You think he benefits twice, then.”
“Yes.”
“That’s a lot of speculation. What’s on the tape?”
“It’s a conversation between Wardak and me. He instructs me to prepare orders to the Second Brigade commander. I ask him why we are withdrawing, and he refuses to answer. I press him. I tell him we have specific orders from MOD not to withdraw and to support the Americans, and he loses his temper. He says to hell with the Americans. They can all die. His responsibility is to his people.”
“And from that, you believe he’s being paid by the Taliban and that an attack is imminent. That’s pretty thin.”
“I know him better than you. I’m positive that’s what’s going on.”
Pat handed off the information and the digital recording to Mike. Later in the week, when the ANA troops boarded trucks and headed south back to J-bad, the new RC-East commander raised a big fuss. The RC-East commanding general personally flew to Pol-e-Charki and confronted General Wardak. Pat was present during the meeting. At the conclusion, General Wardak explained it was all a misunderstanding and that he would return the troops to the camp as soon as possible.
Two weeks went by and the ANA had still not reinforced the camp. Each day, Colonel Chu, the RCAT commander, would press Wardak on the issue, and each day he was reassured that the movement was in the works but was being delayed by logistics issues that kept cropping up.
In the early-morning hours of October 3, three hundred Taliban fighters assaulted the Camp Keating perimeter. The Taliban fighters had marshaled in a mosque only three hundred meters from the camp. The Taliban advanced under the cover of a rainy, heavily overcast night that prevented the use of air support. The Taliban attacked with the element of surprise against a sparsely defended perimeter. In a brutal, bloody battle, the Taliban came very close to completely overrunning the camp. When the fighting finally ended nine hours later, thirty-five of the fifty-eight US soldiers had been either killed or wounded. The heroism of the American forces who fought to defend Camp Keating that night was historic. Although the Taliban never succeeded in capturing the camp, the American losses were so severe that the camp was evacuated the next day. If the purpose of the attack was to remove the American presence and allow unmolested travel between Pakistan and Afghanistan, the Taliban mission was a huge success.
It was a cold rainy morning. Pat was in the dining facility, eating breakfast. Bud,
the deputy RCAT commander, sat across from him with his breakfast tray.
“There’s a big fight happening in Nuristan. Keating got hit early this morning,” Bud said.
“How are they holding up?”
“They’re outside of artillery range. It’s no-go weather for CAS and attack air. We think the camp has been overrun.”
“What’s being done?”
“The weather should break soon. Reinforcements from J-bad are already loaded up in helicopters, and CAS should be on station in the next hour or so.”
Pat looked across the table at Bud. He was an F-14 pilot, a tough guy who had been a lineman on one of the better teams ever fielded by Navy. A decent guy, who looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.
The Blackhorse dining facility had a macabre tradition. In an effort to honor the fallen, every soldier assigned to the camp who died in country had his picture mounted on the wall. The pictures were at shoulder level and stretched all across the usable wall space in the small DFAC. Pat had counted them once. There were forty-three photos. That was a huge sacrifice to make for the likes of Wardak and his fellow criminals. Pat decided not to wait for the green light from Mike and to go ahead and do something about it on his own.
He skipped the battle update briefing that morning. Instead he took his SUV and drove into Pol-e-Charki camp. He drove around the camp, to the various units, searching, until he found what he was looking for. Pat liberated an RPG launcher and two RPG-7 rounds from the back of an unoccupied ANA HMMWV. He also found an AK-47 and four magazines of .556 ammunition inside another vehicle. He threw the weapons and ammo in a green duffle bag and drove out of the camp onto J-bad Road, headed toward Kabul.
The rain slowed traffic to a standstill in downtown Kabul. Pat parked the SUV in a narrow space on Wazir Akbar Khan road, less than fifty meters from the Masoud Traffic Circle. He had followed Wardak home to his villa on the south side of Kabul near the Intercontinental Hotel on several occasions. His security team altered the route each time, which was good tradecraft for a personal security detail. However, every possible route had to go through the Masoud Traffic Circle. It was unavoidable. Pat slung the heavy duffle bag over his shoulder, pulled a hat down over his eyes, tightened the scarf around his face and ventured out into the rain.
Arabian Deception Page 5