Chaos in Kabul

by Gérard de Villiers

  “He came back,” said the front desk clerk, an NDS informant.

  “Is he here now?”

  “No, he went out again, with a woman who came to get him.”

  “All right, thanks.”

  Nyadi hung up and went to the little safe in the hanging closet. She took out her gun and fitted the silencer.

  Her plan was simple. Her passkey gave her access to any room in the Serena, so she would enter Malko’s room and wait. When he returned, she would shoot him and his companion. Then she would go back to bed.

  Collateral damage wasn’t really her concern.

  The room was small and cluttered, with a sleeping alcove and a minuscule bathroom. Alicia smiled apologetically.

  “It’s not the Serena, but it’s cheap and convenient.”

  It was certainly warm enough, and Alicia took off her down jacket. She was dressed in a yellow sweater, leather pants, and boots.

  “Want a drink? I’ve got whiskey and vodka.”

  “Vodka, please.”

  She stepped over to a tiny bar piled high with books and newspapers, and filled two small glasses with Stolichnaya. She handed one to Malko and raised her own in a toast.

  “Do you realize this is the first time we’ve been together in an almost normal way?” she asked.

  “Why do you play the Agency’s games, Alicia?”

  The young woman smiled somewhat bitterly. “To survive. I’m a freelance writer, remember. Without the Ariana’s help, I wouldn’t have any stories to sell to my papers. The Agency gives me leads in exchange for the occasional ‘favor.’ ”

  She abruptly bent over and pressed her lips to his.

  “And by the way, it wasn’t all just business last time,” she breathed.

  Alicia’s tongue slipped into Malko’s mouth, searching for his. For a moment, they flirted playfully, exploring each other. Then, as the room grew warmer, Malko moved to unbutton Alicia’s sweater, revealing her small, perky breasts.

  “Stretch out on the bed,” she ordered.

  When he did, she began to peel him like an orange, gently removing one item of clothing at a time. When he was naked, she put her mouth on his chest and murmured, “I like a man’s skin.”

  She began delicately licking him like a cat, moving around his nipples, then lower. The silence in the room was total except for some faint noises from next door. Malko was almost paralyzed with pleasure. This was a welcome break in a delicate and dangerous mission. When Alicia’s mouth gently closed on his cock, he felt something like a jolt of electricity.

  From the corner of his eye, Malko saw that while she was sucking on him, Alicia had managed to twist around and take off her own clothes and was now naked as well.

  Releasing his cock, she stretched out on top of him, rubbing her body all over his, like a Thai masseuse. Then she knelt on either side of Malko’s hips, bringing her cunt directly over his cock. With a little thrust of her hips, she took him inside and began gently rocking back and forth. Malko let himself go. After the tension of the last days, this felt like a little piece of heaven. When he felt his orgasm rising, he wrapped his arms around Alicia’s waist, pushing deep into her.

  Afterward, they lay motionless, like a pair of cats purring in front of a fireplace.

  After a while, Malko roused himself. “I’ve got to get back to the hotel,” he said.

  “Don’t go! I like having you here. Anyway, my driver’s gone and won’t be back until tomorrow morning.”

  He didn’t insist. A few moments later, he was sound asleep.

  Ashraf Nyadi was struggling not to nod off. She glanced at her watch: 1:45 a.m. Kabul didn’t have any nightlife, so the fact that her target hadn’t returned meant he was sleeping somewhere else. No point in her hanging around any longer.

  She forced herself to wait another fifteen minutes, then unscrewed the silencer and put it in her bag with the gun. She opened the door and slipped out into the empty hallway. As far as she was concerned, her “customer” was just getting a rain check.

  Malko was heading down the stairs at the Gandamack when he got a text message:

  Sending you a car at 9. WM.

  Alicia was still asleep, but she’d mentioned that her driver came at eight. And in fact he was there, waiting in the lobby.

  “We’re going to the Serena,” Malko said.

  The car was parked in front of the big TNT building, and Malko got in. It was just past 8:00 a.m. and traffic wasn’t too bad.

  Ashraf Nyadi had slept badly. She hated failure, and the hours spent vainly waiting for her target had made her irritable. Since she didn’t have any specific orders, she decided to improvise. It was only 7:30 a.m. If she went back to Malko’s room right away, she thought, she could wait for him there and leave the hotel directly afterward.

  Just then the cell phone in her handbag rang, its sound muffled. Nyadi’s pulse sped up when she saw the number displayed: it was her boss. The conversation was brief, and when she hung up, she was furious.

  Their project had been canceled, and she was instructed to leave the Serena immediately. A direct order, and not open to question. Feeling frustrated, she left the room without turning around. Nyadi felt no personal animosity for the man she’d been ordered to kill, just annoyance at not being able to do her job.

  When Malko got to Michaelis’s office, the CIA man had a cup of coffee in his hand and a smile on his face.

  “Good news!” he said. “You were right!”

  “Meaning what?” asked Malko.

  “Security just gave me yesterday’s call log. Forrest telephoned President Karzai at 5:28 p.m. The conversation lasted eleven minutes and twenty-seven seconds.”

  “That’s quite helpful,” said Malko, hiding his satisfaction. His ploy had worked. Warned by Spider, Forrest would have informed the Afghan leader that the operation against him had been abandoned. The pressure on Malko would now ease.

  This was the time to strike.

  “Thanks very much, Warren. That call confirms some good news. You can stop monitoring Forrest’s phone. But whatever you do, don’t mention this to anybody. When the time comes, I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  He was now in a hurry to see Nelson Berry.

  As usual, the South African was sitting at his desk with his feet up, talking on the telephone. When he hung up, he shot Malko an almost angry look.

  “Where the hell have you been, bra?”

  “I had to take a little trip. But I’m back and all’s well.”

  Berry put his feet down and asked, “So is it a go?”

  “If you’re ready, it is.”

  “If you’d come back any later, we would’ve missed a perfect opportunity,” said Berry. “He’s flying to Lashkar Gah in Helmand in four days.”

  “How does this affect our plan?”

  “He’ll take his usual route to the airport. Which means he’ll pass within range of my position.”

  “That’s not enough. You need to know which car he’ll be in. You’re only getting one shot.”

  Berry smiled coldly.

  “That’ll cost an extra ten thousand dollars. I have a source in the presidential palace who will pass me that information. This guy helps Karzai with all his travel. He actually opens the car door. Once Karzai’s in, he’ll call me. I’ll already be in position.”

  “Can you trust him?”

  “As much as you can trust any Afghan. His sister needs an operation and he doesn’t have the money.”

  “Does he know how his tip will be used?”

  “No, and he doesn’t care.”

  The two men fell silent. It was an awful lot to put on a single roll of the dice.

  “What if he betrays you beforehand?”

  Berry shrugged. “It’s a three-million-dollar bet, and I’m the one making it.”

  Malko quickly went over the plan in his head. Nelson Berry was taking almost all of the risk. He himself had been put in the clear by Jason Forrest’s phone call. At this point, Karzai woul
d be confident that the Americans had no ill will toward him.

  “All right, it’s a go,” he said. “I don’t think you and I need to have any further contact. Safer that way.”

  “Where will you be?” asked the South African.

  “In Kabul, most likely. Once we know the result, I’ll have your money sent.”

  “This place will be like an earthquake hit it,” said Berry, shaking his head. “I don’t plan to hang around long. And I won’t be back anytime soon.”

  That’s not a concern of mine, thought Malko. Nelson Berry was a dangerous man. No point in getting too involved with him. He didn’t like this mission, and the sooner it was accomplished, the better.

  He put his hand out to the South African. “Good luck!”

  Their handshake was brief. Berry watched from the front steps of his poppy palace as Malko climbed back into the SUV.

  It all almost seemed too easy. Yet the South African was serious, and his plan made sense. Afghans were so corrupt that the role to be played by the man who was going to precipitate the earthquake seemed normal. Heads of state were usually betrayed by the people they trusted most.

  As Darius drove along Kabul’s potholed streets, Malko reflected that in four days he would have done the impossible: assassinated the president of Afghanistan.

  For some reason, Malko had a knot in the pit of his stomach, and he didn’t know why. Nelson Berry was no bluffer. He was a professional killer who had carried out many missions for the CIA. But Malko knew that if it weren’t for his precarious finances, he’d never have taken on such a risky mission.

  Just then, an unpleasant thought went through Malko’s mind. What if the South African betrayed him to the NDS, either to get a reward or to make himself some friends? Or just took the CIA’s money and did nothing?

  Originally, Malko had planned to stay in Kabul until after the attack, but he now felt that would be unnecessarily risky. The NDS could react violently and turn on him. Best get to cover ahead of time.

  At a downtown airlines ticket office, he booked a seat on an 8:10 a.m. PIA flight to Islamabad for the morning of the attack. That way, he could stay around to deal with any last-minute problems but be safely in the air when Hamid Karzai’s Mercedes drove into Berry’s sights.

  It was the wiser course, all things considered.

  With his SUV’s headlights dimmed, Nelson Berry turned off Airport Road onto the side street that led to the Shaheen and parked near the hotel. He waited behind the wheel for a moment before getting out, but the dimly lit street was deserted. At two o’clock in the morning, everyone in Kabul was in bed.

  From his trunk, Berry took out the Degtyarov 41 wrapped in a blanket, and carried it along a path that wound through empty gardens to the fifteen-story Azizi Plaza building.

  From his scouting trips to the construction site, Berry had spotted a section of wall protected by rolls of barbed wire, directly opposite the main entrance. A small part of the wall had collapsed and was no more than six feet high.

  He took a path around the site, moving soundlessly in almost total darkness. The chances of running into someone were close to zero. If the site had any night watchmen, they were probably fast asleep.

  When Berry reached the place he had located, he stopped and listened. Not a sound. He hoisted the Degtyarov to the top of the wall and lowered it to the other side. Then he climbed the wall without too much trouble and jumped down into a small muddy area on the other side.

  He was now only twenty yards from the main building.

  Berry walked up to the green canvas that sheathed the entire structure. Taking a knife from his boot, he cut a three-foot slit in the canvas and slipped in. It was freezing inside the building.

  Feeling his way in the dark, Berry tried to get his bearings. Everything was raw cement. He found a staircase and climbed to the fourth floor, the level he had selected for his shooting position. Once there, he again felt his way in the dark to locate the side of the building facing Airport Road. He went down some steps, came back up again, got turned around, and hit dead ends, but eventually he reached a room with windows blocked by the green canvas. When he slit it with his knife, he was hugely relieved to see the streetlights along Airport Road.

  Finding a balcony with a rough cement guardrail, Berry set the Degtyarov on it, with just the end of the barrel showing. He adjusted the Zeiss scope for the anticipated distance and chambered a round. Then he set the rifle on the ground and sat down against a wall. He had eight hours to wait.

  According to his source in the presidential palace, Hamid Karzai would be leaving for the airport around ten o’clock. Berry closed his eyes, though he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep.

  A lone car drove by on Airport Road from time to time, and this gave him an idea. He stood up, got into shooting position, and waited for the next one. As the car passed, he found he had plenty of time to follow it in the scope, and he made a final adjustment. Then he hunkered down against the wall, fighting the cold.

  Dawn had long since broken. Peering through the slit in the green canvas, Berry followed the preparations along Airport Road, which had been closed to traffic since seven o’clock. A line of cops was sweeping the avenue and its side streets; tow trucks were removing parked cars.

  The usual routine.

  Suddenly Berry started: he had just heard a noise in the stairway. At first he thought it was an animal, but the sound became more distinct: that of heavy steps climbing the stairs.

  He stood up, hugging the wall. He had anticipated that the NDS would send someone into the Azizi Plaza but figured that the building was so big he wouldn’t be noticed.

  He listened carefully as the steps got closer. The man was coming to his floor. Very slowly, Berry drew the knife from his boot and waited, still pressed against the wall. The NDS agent was just as likely to go into some other room. That would be less of a problem, and only when he was leaving.

  Unfortunately, the footsteps kept getting closer. He could now hear the hard breathing of a weary man.

  After that, everything happened very fast.

  A uniformed figure in a cap appeared in the doorway of Berry’s room. He was young, with a mustache, and carried an AK-47 in a sling. Just as he spotted Berry, the South African jabbed the knife six inches into his belly and yanked it sideways. Eyes bulging, the NDS agent tumbled backward, his cap knocked off. Berry grabbed him by the throat to keep him from crying out, but there was no need. The man was already dead of a massive internal hemorrhage.

  Berry lowered him to the ground and stretched him out on the rough concrete. When he stood up, his heart was pounding. If there was anyone else with the NDS agent, he was screwed.

  Berry strained to hear any noise in the staircase. He heard nothing, and his pulse gradually fell back to normal. He dragged the body facedown over to the wall and retrieved his knife. Then he looked at his watch: 7:30 a.m. The NDS agent probably wouldn’t have gone back downstairs until after Karzai’s convoy had passed, so no one would miss him now. With any luck, Berry had overcome his last obstacle. Sitting with his back to the wall, he forced himself to breathe evenly. When he pulled the Degtyarov’s trigger, he had to be perfectly calm.

  The phone in Malko’s room rang, jolting him awake. It was 4:15 a.m.

  Thinking the operator had made a mistake, he snapped, “I asked you to wake me up at five thirty, not at four in the morning!”

  But an Afghan speaking poor English said, “Sir, this is PIA. Today’s flight for Islamabad is canceled. The airport is closed because of fog. I will let you know if the weather improves.”

  Malko hung up, now wide awake. He was stuck in Kabul.

  Berry glanced at the cell phone lying next to him. It would give him the signal of Karzai’s departure, and he switched it on and off to make sure it was working. The presidential convoy would take about ten minutes to drive from the palace to Berry’s hide site above Airport Road. Plenty of time for him to get into shooting position.

  All h
e had to do now was wait—and hope that nothing went wrong.

  The South African remained completely motionless, head resting on his crossed arms. When the Nokia suddenly rang, it gave him a jolt of adrenaline. He grabbed the phone and answered. “Baleh?”

  “Number three,” said his source, and hung up.

  Berry lifted the Degtyarov and rested its barrel on the cement railing. In the scope, Airport Road jumped into view, completely empty of cars. All traffic had been stopped for the convoy’s passage.

  He waited, forcing himself to breathe evenly, his cheek pressed against the chilly wooden stock, index finger under the trigger guard. He would have only a few seconds to shoot, he knew. But the fact that Karzai was in the third car made the job easier. He wouldn’t be caught by surprise.

  He was as motionless as a block of granite.

  Malko was finishing his breakfast when his cell rang. It was the front desk.

  “PIA has resumed flights to Islamabad,” said the clerk. “There is a flight at two thirty-five p.m. Will you keep your reservation?”

  “Yes, sure,” he said, without thinking.

  That would be too late. He felt as tight as a violin string. By now, President Karzai would have left the palace.

  As if in a dream, Malko signed the check and went up to his room. He had no idea what to do next.

  Berry held his breath as his pulse began to climb. His eye had become one with the Zeiss scope. A large black Mercedes had just appeared in his crosshairs. He resisted the temptation to follow it, for fear of spoiling his sight.

  That lasted a few seconds.

  Then another Mercedes appeared, the second one.

  Berry was holding the Degtyarov tightly enough to snap the stock. He pressed the trigger slightly, to remove any play. When the hood of the third car appeared, he slowly and steadily pulled the trigger.

  The detonation shook his entire body, and a sharp pain stabbed his shoulder.