Getting out of the Serena was easier—just one checkpoint—and the Land Cruiser was soon back in the infernal traffic, made worse by the absence of stoplights. Power blackouts had become so common, the lights were simply switched off.
Eventually, they reached the avenue with the embassies of France and the United Arab Emirates. It was bordered by stone walls twenty feet high. Doolittle pointed down the street to a building topped by a kind of watchtower with a corrugated iron roof.
“We’re almost home!” he said.
To reach the Ariana, they first navigated chicanes of concrete blocks that narrowed traffic to a trickle. These were followed by sandbag emplacements manned by Nepalese soldiers in black uniforms, weapons at the ready. The men were protected in turn by a guard tower with two heavy machine guns.
The walls around the compound were plastered with signs in English and Dari forbidding taking photographs, slowing down, and getting out of a car unless ordered to do so by the guards. Violators, they warned, would be shot on sight.
Doolittle zigzagged through the chicanes. The traffic barrier protecting the entrance to the Ariana was lowered, admitting the SUV to the hotel courtyard.
At the entrance, they again had to show their papers, and Doolittle phoned the CIA station chief from the guard post. He turned to Malko and said, “Mr. Michaelis is expecting you, sir. I’ll accompany you because you don’t have a badge.”
The inside of the hotel hadn’t changed since Malko’s last visit: white walls, shabby rooms, electrical wires running every which way, and doors protected by electronic locks. Everybody carried photo badges well in evidence, including two embarrassed-looking Afghans. That was understandable: if the Taliban identified them, they could have their throats cut.
Every floor had a metal detector so sensitive that a paper clip would set it off.
Warren Michaelis was standing in front of his third-floor office in shirtsleeves. He extended a hand to Malko.
“Welcome back to Kabul! If you’d come a few months later, you would’ve missed me. I’m going home for good in June.”
The station chief’s small office had chicken wire over the windows, to protect against hand grenades. Maps covered the walls.
“Langley alerted me that you were coming,” he said, “and said that your activities here had nothing to do with the station. Just the same, I’ve been told to be at your disposal. Is there anything you need?”
“Not for the moment,” said Malko. “I’m here to make contact with some ‘respectable’ Talibs, to save the station problems with the Afghan government.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Michaelis said with a sigh. “Karzai is on the warpath, accusing us of colluding with the Taliban to extend our stay in Afghanistan. Actually, Washington doesn’t want a single American on Afghan soil after December 31, 2014. You needn’t tell me anything about your assignment, but I’ll give you my cell numbers, as well as Jim Doolittle’s. I’ve asked him to drive you around during your stay. I’ve also prepared a local phone for you, with a SIM card that can’t be traced.”
He handed Malko a bare-bones Nokia with the phone number printed on it.
“I have to leave you now,” Michaelis said. “I have a meeting at ISAF. But let’s have lunch together.”
A half hour later, Malko was back at the Serena. His room overlooked a garden that still had some snow in it and came with a minibar that held only nonalcoholic drinks. The Serena chain had been bought by the Aga Khan and didn’t serve liquor.
Using his personal phone, Malko called Nelson Berry, the man he hoped to persuade to kill Hamid Karzai.
A deep voice promptly answered.
“Baleh. Salaam alaikum.”
“I’m looking for Nelson Berry,” said Malko.
“Speaking. Who are you?”
“I’m a friend of Sherwood”—Clayton Luger’s work name.
“Are you in Kabul?” asked the South African.
“I just arrived. Can we meet?”
“Sure. Where are you?”
“At the Serena.”
“Good. In a half hour, walk out of the hotel and turn right. At the next intersection, there’ll be a checkpoint with some police cars. Pass through it, walk another twenty yards, and wait there. A gray Corolla will pick you up. The driver’s name is Darius Gul.”
Night was falling when Malko left the Serena, but the weather was pleasantly warm. He passed the police checkpoint at the next intersection and spotted Berry’s car. It was an old gray Corolla with chipped paint and a cluster of artificial grapes hanging from the rearview mirror. The bearded Afghan at the wheel cracked open his door.
“Darius?” Malko asked.
“Baleh.”
When Malko walked around to open his door, he got a surprise: it weighed a ton.
Armored!
That was unexpected, for such an old car.
The Corolla took off sluggishly, its engine straining at the weight, and merged with the dense throng of Toyotas.
They turned onto Sharpoor Street, a wide avenue with a long wall twenty feet high on the left. It was broken only by a few entrances guarded by watchtowers, blocks of cement, and razor wire.
Darius, who hadn’t spoken, waved at the complex and muttered, “NDS.”
That was the National Directorate of Security, the domestic intelligence service. Oddly enough, it wasn’t located within the city’s fortified Green Zone. The Taliban would attack it with a car bomb from time to time and be mowed down by the guards.
It kept the NDS agents on their toes.
The Corolla passed in front of the enormous Iranian embassy and angled right. Here the street was lined by modern houses, several stories high, painted in garish colors and protected by armed guards. Afghans dubbed these monuments to bad taste “poppy palaces,” because they were often owned by drug traffickers.
The car turned into a side street, jouncing along the muddy road. They passed a series of houses, each uglier and more imposing than the last. Darius stopped at a green metal gate protected by an enormous steel beam and two sinister-looking guards carrying AK-47s and wearing black vests with spare magazines. The gate opened and the Corolla pulled up in front of the house.
Inside, he led Malko to an office with several computers on a table piled high with files. A tan leather sofa stood next to a low table holding a folding AK-47.
The man who rose from behind the desk was a giant, standing nearly six foot three. His hair was an odd, orangish color, as if dyed. His massive shoulders and biceps strained against a black T-shirt. Sharp eyes, a pug nose, and a prominent chin made him look a bit like Quentin Tarantino. The hand he extended to Malko was practically a club.
“Nelson Berry,” he said.
“Malko Linge. Sherwood sent me.”
“Any friend of Sherwood is a friend of mine,” said Berry. “Care for a dop?”
“Vodka, please.”
Berry walked to a bar at the back of the room, poured them both some Tsarskaya, and raised his glass.
“To Afghanistan!” he said. “A beautiful country. Too bad I’ll have to leave it soon.”
When Berry sat down on the sofa, his pants hiked up, and Malko glimpsed a GK ankle holster with an automatic. The South African also had a Beretta 92 at his waist and a couple of clips.
Berry downed his vodka and glanced sideways at Malko.
“When was the last time you were in Kabul?”
“Three years ago.”
“It’s changed a lot since then,” Berry said. “The coalition troops have pulled out and set up shop at Bagram. The Afghans are in charge of security in town.”
“How is that working out?”
“It’s okay. The Taliban don’t want to cause too much chaos. They’re keeping the pressure on the Karzai government, but they leave foreigners alone. You can walk the streets without fear of being shot or kidnapped, except maybe by thugs.”
“The Serena looks more defended than before,” remarked Malko.
“Yea
h, it’s one of their regular targets. Some Taliban hardliners want to drive the foreigners out of the country, but they’re a minority.
“But from the business side, Kabul is chaos. Half of the houses around here are for rent. The other security companies have packed up, and there’s no work left. I’m one of the last, and I don’t know how long I can hold out. When the businesspeople leave, they don’t need us anymore. The Afghans give us work from time to time, but they only pay pennies on the dollar.
“I was renting this house for fifteen thousand dollars a month. I got it down to eight thousand, but even at that price my expenses are too high. So I hope you’ve got good news for me, meaning a well-paid job. Sherwood has always been tops.”
“That’s the case, pretty much,” said Malko cautiously. “It involves a ‘neutralization.’ ”
“I’ve done plenty of those, but the Agency has changed. Outside of Kabul they’re making like Special Forces and do the jobs themselves.”
Berry sounded resentful.
“This action would be in Kabul.”
“In Kabul? There are no Taliban targets here except for the washed-up guys Karzai has taken in.”
“This doesn’t involve them,” said Malko, proceeding carefully. “This is a very focused, dangerous job. Extremely dangerous, actually.”
“Okay, bra, we’re not here to make snowballs,” said the South African with a sigh. “Give me the whole story.”
“Karzai,” said Malko.
Berry gave him a look of surprise.
“How does this involve Karzai?”
When Malko didn’t answer, the South African swore softly.
“Holy shit! You don’t mean …”
“Yes, I do.”
A long silence followed, eventually broken by Berry.
“If business were better, I’d pour you another vodka and we’d part friends. Only I’m in a bind. I don’t even know how I’m going to pay next month’s rent. But do you have any idea what you’re asking? Even the Taliban haven’t been able to attack Karzai, and they’ve got people everywhere.”
Malko almost felt relieved.
“I understand,” he said. “Forget about it.”
Berry roused himself.
“Hang on a minute! I didn’t say no; I just need time to think if this thing is doable. Give me two days. And I warn you, if I say yes, it’s going to be very, very expensive.”
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”
“Karzai’s got a very long arm. He controls the NDS and has lots of connections. And especially, he’s extremely distrustful. Have you seen the station people, by the way?”
“They sent a car to pick me up at the airport.”
“Do they know about this Karzai thing?”
“No. Officially, I’m here to negotiate with the Taliban.”
Berry smiled ironically.
“Everyone’s negotiating with the Taliban, even Karzai. Best not to tell the station anything.”
“Why not?”
“You know a guy named Mark Spider?”
“No, I don’t.”
The South African poured himself another vodka.
“He’s an Agency man, the one who brought Karzai on board in 2002. He was station chief here twice. Karzai owes him big-time and Spider does everything to protect him. He’s gone back to Washington, but he still has people at the Ariana. If they get even a whiff of a threat, they’ll warn Karzai. So be very, very careful.”
Malko made a mental note of this detail, which Clayton Luger had forgotten to mention: that Hamid Karzai had moles within the CIA!
Malko needed to be sure he knew where he stood with Berry.
“Do you think this project is feasible?” he asked.
The South African gave him a chilly smile.
“Everything’s feasible. It’s a question of means and money. Luck, too. Okay, I—”
A ringing phone interrupted him. Berry had a brief conversation in Dari, hung up, and turned back to Malko.
“They’ve already searched your room at the Serena.”
Malko felt an unpleasant chill run down his spine.
“Who did?”
“The NDS. It’s normal; they do it to all the new arrivals. Do you have anything compromising?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s no big deal,” said the South African. “But I’ll give you a secure local cell phone, just in case. They tap a lot of lines. Do you have contacts in the Taliban?”
“Just one,” said Malko.
“Hang on to it! You never know, it could be useful. All right, I think we’ve said everything that needs saying. Just the same, I’ve got a housewarming present for you.”
Berry went over to his desk and came back with an automatic pistol in a GK ankle holster and a folded sheet of paper.
“Here you go. It’s a GSh-18, the model the Russian special forces use. Can’t be traced. Strap it on your ankle. And this is the weapons permit that goes with it. It’ll spare you some hassles.”
Malko was dumbfounded.
“How did you get your hands on this?”
“I have a guy at the Interior Ministry who sells them to me for ten thousand afghanis,” said Berry casually. “Fill out the form in your name. If you’re stopped, the registration number will tell them where it’s from, and they won’t ask any questions. Do you need a car?”
“Not for the time being,” said Malko.
Berry nodded approvingly.
“You’re right to keep a low profile. In any case, everyone in town’s gonna know who you are very fast.” He stood up. “And if anybody wants to kill you, it’ll be easy.”
“By the way, is the Atmosphere still open?” asked Malko.
It was the only hot spot in Kabul, a restaurant-nightclub-café with a pool and music where the expats hung out.
“Yeah, but it’s fallen off. The chow’s lousy, and not many people go there anymore.”
Malko suddenly thought of the young South African woman he’d once had a passionate fling with in Kabul. As a fellow South African in the city, maybe Berry knew her.
“Do you know if Maureen Kieffer is still in Kabul?”
Berry let out a roar.
“You know her? Yeah, she’s here, and she’s struggling, just like me. There’s no market for armored cars anymore. Hell of a boss girl, isn’t she?”
Berry gave Malko a crushing handshake and walked him out to the gray Corolla.
When Malko walked in, the hotel’s metal detector started to beep, and he quickly pulled out his weapons permit and the magnetic door key that showed he was a hotel guest.
Once in his room, Malko dialed Maureen Kieffer’s cell number, which he still had.
Amazingly, she picked up on the third ring.
“Maureen?”
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Malko.”
There was a long silence, than a joyous shout.
“Malko! Are you in Kabul?”
“Yes. What about you?”
“I’m still here, but I’ll be going home soon. I don’t have as much work as before. Everybody’s leaving.”
“Can we get together?”
“Of course! Are you at the Serena?”
“Yes. Want to have dinner at the Atmosphere?”
It was the place where they first met.
“We can do better,” she said. “We’ll go to the Boccaccio. I’ll pick you up around eight. I’ll phone from the car and you can come down. With the checkpoints, it’s too complicated, otherwise.”
Maureen Kieffer seemed more mature than the last time they were together. Two deep wrinkles framed her mouth, but she could still fill a sweater. She was wearing black cargo pants and boots. They shared a long hug, and when Malko brushed her large breasts, he felt a stirring of desire. She was as sexy as ever.
Malko’s foot bumped into a folding AK-47 on the floor of her car.
“I better get going,” she said. “Otherwise, they’ll start shooting
at us. They’re so damned jumpy!”
“But your car’s bulletproof,” remarked Malko.
“Yeah, but then you have to touch up the paint.”
She shifted into first, and the three-ton SUV lurched forward.
A quarter of an hour later they turned into the rutted alley where the Boccaccio stood. There was virtually no traffic in Kabul at night, except for green police pickups and a few taxis. Also no pedestrians, though the fruit and vegetable sellers kept their stands brightly lit in the faint hope of attracting customers.
Unlike other Kabul restaurants, which preferred anonymity, the Boccaccio displayed its name on a marble plaque atop a concrete security barrier.
The dining rooms were full of Afghans and foreigners, including a few Americans who had permission from the embassy. The black stone walls gave the place an exotic look, as did the Russian waitresses, whose skimpy outfits would give a Talib a heart attack. You got the feeling they weren’t here just to wait on tables.
Maureen and Malko were led to a table in the back room, and a young waitress came to take their order.
“Champagne!” said Malko.
Here, alcohol was served.
A bottle of Roederer Cristal arrived in a few moments.
“I see that you haven’t forgotten what I like,” Maureen said with a grin. “The restaurants get their supplies from the embassy cooks, who steal from the diplomats.”
They clinked glasses.
“I never thought I’d see you again,” she said. “Anyway, I’m heading back to South Africa soon. There’s nothing left to do here.”
They ordered what turned out to be some very decent carpaccio and pasta.
People were talking loudly, and the atmosphere was animated.
Maureen lowered her voice.
“The boss is a crook,” she said. “He cheated a lot of people, and he did time in Dubai, but at least it feels cheerful here.”
By the time Maureen and Malko were finished, the room was emptying. Afghans started work very early in the morning, and people didn’t stay up. Besides, darkened streets weren’t exactly inviting, even though police cars were parked at checkpoints at every intersection.
“Want to go back to my place?” asked Maureen.
Chaos in Kabul Page 4