It took less than a second for the shell to cover the three hundred yards to the car.
Berry saw a ball of fire and a cloud of smoke and knew he’d hit his target. He immediately put down the Degtyarov. He’d been wearing gloves, so there was no need to wipe away fingerprints. Abandoning the rifle, he grabbed his cell phone and rushed out and down the slippery stairs.
Racing through the building, Berry found the little open area and vaulted over the wall. In minutes he was back at his car near the Shaheen. He had passed a few Afghans, but they paid him no attention.
Malko was about to enter his hotel room when his cell rang. He recognized Michaelis’s number and immediately answered.
“Do you know what just happened?” asked the CIA station chief, sounding frantic.
“No, what?”
“Somebody shot at President Karzai’s convoy as it drove to the airport.”
“Was he hit?”
“No, he was in one of the other cars. I’ve been summoned to the NDS. They’re going out of their minds. I’ll call you again later.”
Stunned, Malko stood motionless. Nelson Berry had missed. The Afghans would quickly realize it was an assassination attempt, making him their prime suspect.
His first impulse was to rush to CIA headquarters at the Ariana Hotel. They couldn’t get to him there. On the other hand, he wouldn’t be able to leave, either. And he would be implicating the Americans in the attack, for which they would never forgive him.
Trying to board the flight to Islamabad was also out of the question. It would be tantamount to a confession, and the police might intercept him. And he couldn’t stay at the Serena. They were sure to come looking for him here.
Mechanically, Malko walked over to the safe in the hanging closet. He took out the GSh-18 and strapped on the GK ankle holster. It was small consolation.
He was trapped in Kabul, with every intelligence agency in the country on his tail. And he now had a pressing problem: saving his skin.
PART TWO
Malko’s heart suddenly began to race.
A green police pickup was pulling into the Serena courtyard. Standing in the lobby, Malko was paralyzed. The failed attempt to assassinate President Karzai had taken place an hour earlier, and the investigation was under way. Karzai must be furious, and his rage would focus on Malko, whom he already suspected of being in Kabul to harm him.
The green police pickup turned right and headed for the parking garage.
Malko’s pulse slowed as he realized that he was stupid for panicking. It wasn’t the police he should be worried about, but the NDS. Either way, staying at the Serena a minute longer would be playing with fire. This was the first place they would come looking for him.
He headed for the exit, passing through the door manned by a bellman in a magnificent turban. Malko crossed the courtyard and exited to the street through the pedestrian gate. He felt more at ease out here, lost in the crowd. There weren’t that many foreigners in Kabul, but there were some.
Where could he go now? His only asset was the pistol Nelson Berry had given him, a Russian GSh-18 automatic. If he phoned Warren Michaelis, he would get access to the Ariana, but the Afghans would learn that he had gone to ground there, and it would compromise both the Agency and the U.S. government.
Who weren’t likely to be pleased.
Malko would have to figure what to do on his own, at least for now. The problem was, there weren’t many ways to get out of Kabul.
Showing up at the airport would be suicide. The overland routes to Jalalabad, Herat, Kandahar, and Bamyan were all in Taliban hands. That left the highway to Mazar-e-Sharif through the Salang Tunnel, but the only way to travel it was by bus, and a foreigner on a bus in Afghanistan would be noticed. Besides, there were checkpoints on the highway out of Kabul, which made the trip too risky.
What had happened to Nelson Berry? he wondered. If the South African had been arrested, Michaelis would have mentioned it. Berry knew Afghanistan well and had plenty of cash, so he had probably escaped. In any case, it would be too dangerous for Malko to contact him.
By then Malko had reached the Massoud memorial roundabout, and he stopped for a moment. He thought briefly of Clayton Luger back in Washington but knew that the CIA deputy director would probably tell him to just do the best he could.
A loud noise made him jump, but it was just the honking of a truck that had clipped a fruit and vegetable stand, sending oranges rolling all over the street. Passersby gathered and shouted, taking sides in the dispute. The greengrocer picked up a stick and started pounding on the truck cab. A policeman with a white cap tipped back on his head sauntered over.
Malko melted into the crowd as it moved along Zarnegar Park. Above all, he had to remain at large. If he fell into Afghan hands, he was finished. They probably wouldn’t bother throwing him in jail, just quietly torture and execute him.
That route was definitely out.
Malko thought of going to Maureen Kieffer but immediately dismissed the idea. It would put her in danger and might not even be safe. The NDS knew he was friendly with her and would be waiting on her doorstep.
The deafening traffic noise was making it hard for Malko to think clearly. CIA headquarters came to mind again, but that posed a major obstacle, too. The Afghans could well be stationed in front of the Ariana Hotel to intercept him. The Americans and their Nepalese guards didn’t have the right to act outside the Ariana perimeter. So that was out as well.
Abruptly, Malko realized he was at the turnoff to Wazir Akbar Kahn Road and the mosque. There he might find Musa Kotak, the Taliban mullah with enough influence to protect him from Karzai’s thugs.
The only man able to help him.
But it was too early. Kotak came to the mosque only in the afternoons.
At the NDS, it was all hands on deck.
Before flying to Lashkar Gah, President Karzai had been told about the assassination attempt. He ordered Parviz Bamyan to find the shooters at any cost.
The targeted Mercedes had been destroyed and its driver killed. The wreck stood on the side of Airport Road, protected by a ring of policemen and yellow crime scene tape. The force of the impact had slammed the car against a building and crushed it, in spite of its armor.
The search for gunmen started within minutes after the convoy passed. A swarm of NDS agents combed the building the shot was fired from, but it took two hours before a team found the Degtyarov 41 and the body of the murdered NDS agent nearby.
An examination of the rifle produced nothing. It bore no fingerprints or DNA evidence and held just one empty shell, also clean. Only an experienced sniper could have used such a weapon, which was extremely rare in Kabul. The NDS immediately sent the serial number to Moscow to try to track it, but without much hope.
At the NDS, Bamyan started going through his files. Kabul had people of every persuasion who would love to take a shot at President Karzai, but none of the usual suspects jumped out at him.
Eventually, he came to Malko Linge’s file. The CIA operative was already suspected of gunning for the president, and a female NDS agent had been sent to the Serena to kill him. In the file, a note in red ink indicated that the order had been canceled.
Bamyan phoned Ashraf Nyadi, the agent originally charged with the sanction.
“Go back to the Serena,” he ordered. “See if your customer is still there.”
“Same instructions as before?” she asked.
“No! Just keep me informed; that’s all.”
This was hardly the time to kill the only person who might be able to lead them to the shooter.
He absolutely had to locate this Linge person. He had his secretary call their informant at the Serena to see if the Austrian was still there. The informant called back a few moments later. The guest in Room 382 was still registered and his room was made up, but he hadn’t been seen since that morning. Bamyan got his passport number and began the tedious process of alerting everyone who might be able to prevent Malko fr
om leaving Kabul.
Linge might just come back to the hotel at the end of the day, of course, but he might also try to make a run for it. Bamyan had his deputy dispatch two agents to the Serena to search his room and wait for him. Then he tackled the list of people to alert, starting with the airport. He drafted all-points bulletins for the police and the Afghan National Army and had them transmitted to all checkpoints, both in the city and on the roads leading out of Kabul.
With his net now in place, Bamyan sat back and thought. It wouldn’t be easy for Linge to get out of Kabul, so it was more than likely that he was still in the city.
He ordered up the file that had been assembled at President Karzai’s request. Studying it gave him an idea: What about the Ariana Hotel, CIA headquarters? Minutes later, an unmarked car went to take up surveillance opposite the hotel complex.
Bamyan then turned to study Linge’s known contacts. Maureen Kieffer was first, and he immediately sent an agent to her place, to ask her to keep them informed. Her business depended on the NDS’s goodwill, so she was sure to be cooperative.
Which left the most puzzling part of the file, a strange incident in the village of Kotali Khayr Kana. An old armored Corolla in which Linge was riding had been ambushed there by persons unknown, probably Taliban.
Bamyan sat at his desk, absorbed in reading the file. Where could such an armored car have come from? he wondered. Given the car model and its age, it wasn’t likely to be the CIA. But Linge had been in touch with one Nelson Berry, a former South African mercenary who might well own an armored Toyota.
Bamyan decided to bring Berry in on some routine pretext.
Maybe I’m worrying for no reason, he thought. Linge might appear at the Serena later in the day and they could simply pick him up for questioning. They would treat him with all due deference, of course. After all, he was a known CIA operative and was probably in Kabul on assignment.
When Jason Forrest entered his boss’s office, he looked grim. He had requested an urgent meeting a few minutes earlier.
“I have some serious things to tell you, sir,” he announced. “Can I be sure this won’t go any further?”
“Of course,” said the CIA station chief. “What’s on your mind?”
“This morning President Karzai was the victim of an assassination attempt.”
“I understand that he wasn’t hit, just one of the cars in his motorcade.”
“Yes, but he was the target. You know that as well as I do.”
“But that’s not our concern. It’s the NDS’s problem. The shooters were probably Taliban.”
Forrest gave him a long look. “Are you sure of that, sir?”
Michaelis got the feeling that his case officer knew more than he was letting on.
“Who else would get involved in something like that?” he asked with apparent candor.
Forrest’s expression showed that they were getting to the heart of the matter. “Do you know what a certain Agency contractor named Malko Linge is doing here in Kabul?”
Michaelis’s toes clenched in his shoes. “No, he didn’t tell me. Why?”
Forrest looked him in the eye. “You know that I’ve remained on good terms with your predecessor, Mark Spider,” he said tensely, “who is now in Washington.”
“I’m aware of that. So what?”
“I got a message from him this morning. Mark has an important position in the policy group that deals with Afghanistan. He says it’s possible that Malko Linge was part of the assassination attempt.”
A chill ran down Michaelis’s spine. “That seems highly unlikely,” he managed to say. “Linge has been working with the Agency for years and would never carry out an action that was contrary to U.S. interests.”
Forrest’s smile was razor thin. “Except that in this case, the action was carried out on orders from the White House.”
The CIA station chief slowly shook his head. “Jason, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I’m sure that Linge isn’t involved in this business. Thank you for sharing your concerns. It was the right thing to do and I appreciate it. I will report them to Langley.”
“Will you be meeting with Linge?”
“I’m not due to, and I don’t even know if he’s still in Kabul. He was here on a mission given to him directly by headquarters and outside of my authority.”
The station chief stood up to signal the end of the meeting, which was making him ill at ease. Forrest took the hint and left.
Michaelis slumped in his leather armchair, his head in a whirl.
Jason Forrest had just given him the last piece of the puzzle he was missing. He now knew why Malko had come to Kabul, and he understood the questions he had been asking.
He also realized he was in the middle of an internal policy conflict, which made him extremely uncomfortable. But his first thought was for Malko, whom he liked. Where was he? If Forrest was telling the truth, the Austrian operative was in grave danger. Michaelis reached for his cell phone but stopped himself. The NDS monitored all their communications, he knew. If he phoned Malko now, he might precipitate a catastrophe.
Michaelis closed his eyes and said a prayer for him.
Malko was shivering. He’d been pacing up and down Wazir Akbar Khan Road for the past hour, waiting for Musa Kotak to appear at the mosque. An icy wind was blowing through the city, and the sky was clouding up. Malko resolved to walk at least a mile before turning back toward the mosque.
If Kotak didn’t come, he would go back to the Serena and act innocent. After all, no material evidence linked him to the assassination attempt. But it would be a desperation move.
His last resort would be to call Warren Michaelis and have an Agency car pick him up—with the reactions that would trigger. Could the CIA afford to take in a man who was hunted for an attempt against President Karzai’s life?
Malko still hadn’t answered that question when he again found himself in front of the mosque where Kotak received visitors. He was frozen stiff.
Heart pounding, he walked across the garden and headed for the outbuilding where the cleric’s office was located. The young guard he had encountered before was standing out front. As soon as he saw Malko, he went inside and immediately came out again, holding the door for him.
The mullah was back!
Malko was grateful for the room’s heat, but what really warmed his heart was the chubby cleric’s welcome.
Musa Kotak waddled over and took Malko’s right hand in both of his. In his unctuous voice he said, “I’ve been expecting you!”
“I came by earlier,” said Malko, “but you weren’t here.”
“I’m never here in the morning,” Kotak reminded him. “Did you drive?”
“No, I walked.”
“Better that way,” said the mullah, clearly relieved. Seeing that his guest was shivering, he immediately added, “Come over here. You need some hot tea with honey.”
They walked to the pile of cushions where the mullah liked to sprawl and sat down. Warming his chilled hands on a glass of tea, Malko gradually began to unwind.
The cleric’s slightly sarcastic tone gave him a start. “You know, I actually believed you the other day when you said you had abandoned your project.” Kotak laughed briefly. “You are learning to lie like an Afghan.”
“I have to be very careful,” said Malko, sipping his tea. “I don’t know who I can trust.”
He was cursing himself for accepting this crazy mission. Everyone had dropped him, leaving him alone in Kabul.
The cleric nodded. “You are being hunted, my friend! I have known it since this morning. Word spreads quickly in town. I do not know why your plan failed, but the agencies that answer to Karzai are all looking for the man who tried to assassinate him.”
“Then I’m putting you in danger,” said Malko.
“No, you are not,” Kotak said smoothly. “No one will come after me, and nobody knows you are here.”
“Your guard does.”
“He would hold his tongue even under the worst torture. And in any case you are not going to be staying here.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I am going to get you out of the city.”
Malko thought the cleric might be boasting. The Taliban controlled many things in Kabul, but not the immigration service at the airport.
“How do you plan to do that?” he asked. “I’m sure they’re watching the airport.”
“We do not fly when we need to travel,” said Kotak with a smile. “There are many roads out of Kabul.”
The reason foreigners couldn’t use those roads was because of the Taliban, but of course the Taliban themselves could travel wherever they pleased.
“I think you should leave the country,” said Kotak. “Hamid Karzai has a lot of money and he still wields power. Even people who do not like him would be happy to capture you and sell you to his cronies.”
“How do you plan to get me out?”
Kotak sipped his tea before answering.
“Personally, I control only one route, the one from Kabul to Kandahar and then on through Spin Boldak to Baluchistan. My contacts are in Quetta, where our shura is, so I can guarantee your safety that far. My Quetta friends will take you in hand and put you on a flight to Islamabad. From there you can return to Europe.”
“That’s a terribly long trip!”
“That’s true, but it is the best I can offer. I do not have the necessary contacts on the route through Jalalabad over the Khyber Pass, and there are too many checkpoints. Whereas we are on home ground in Kandahar.”
“Assuming the trip is possible, I would still have to deal with the Pakistani authorities. And I don’t have a visa.”
The cleric smiled again. “Crossing into Pakistan is no problem. And our contacts there will take care of your status. You will board the plane for Islamabad with a proper passport.”
Malko still felt hesitant but recognized that the scheme was workable.
Mullah Kotak was looking at him with his beatific smile. “You cannot stay in Kabul,” he repeated. “The NDS will be going crazy. I do not know who your sniper was, but he was just following orders, whereas you are the link between the U.S. administration and the attempted assassination. You would be very valuable to the Karzai regime. It would give them leverage over the Americans. We cannot let you fall into their hands.”
Chaos in Kabul Page 16