Bamyan grabbed his ringing cell phone: it was the Ghazni NDS officer calling him back. After the usual politenesses, he brought Bamyan up-to-date. He was in Yusuf Khel, he said, where he’d gotten a very unfriendly welcome. He had just been talking with the village chief, who was still in shock, and had been gathering information.
“What information?” barked Bamyan.
“The villagers stopped a taxi that was driving from Kabul to Ghazni. There were three men inside. One of them was a khareji wearing Afghan clothes. A tall man with light-colored hair. His companion claimed that the man was under Mullah Omar’s protection and wasn’t to be interfered with. He said he himself was a Taliban commander.”
“What was his name?”
“They don’t remember. But they were very angry, so they seized them anyway. A villager named Abdul Zuhoor Qamony got into the taxi with them, and they started driving toward the village. When the other villagers didn’t see the taxi arriving, they went back and found Qamony’s body; he’d been shot twice. The taxi and its passengers had disappeared, probably heading toward Kabul.”
Bamyan could hardly contain himself. The description of the khareji more or less matched that of Malko Linge, who was clearly traveling under Taliban protection.
“Is that all?”
“No, Commander. The head of the village knows how to read, and he got the taxi’s number.”
“Give it to me!”
He wrote it down, got off the line, and immediately started phoning all the checkpoints on the Kabul highway with the license number. Finding the taxi driver would be a big step: the man might know where Linge was hiding in Kabul. Bamyan decided he wouldn’t leave his office until he had further news.
When the VW reached the town of Maidan Shahr, traffic slowed considerably, even though they were still twenty-five miles from Kabul. Hordes of Toyotas jammed the bumpy highway, zigzagging between the ruts and holes in wearying confusion.
Lying in the backseat, Malko glanced out the window from time to time. They had passed only two casual checkpoints, where nobody took much interest in the dirty old VW bus. Now that they were nearing Kabul, he had to think of the future. He didn’t much like returning to the little house Mullah Kotak had given him, but it was better than nothing. At least he would be safe from Karzai’s goons. And he wasn’t eager to make a fresh attempt to reach Quetta. Afghanistan was too unstable for such an expedition. Short of turning himself in—which would be crazy—he felt trapped.
The VW was making its way through the crowded streets toward a casual roadblock where soldiers were lounging around, letting the cars through.
Malko sat up and asked Nadir, “What do we do when we get to Kabul?”
The young man turned around and said, “I will ask my uncle for instructions. We are not going to abandon you.”
“Am I going back to the same place where I was before?”
“I do not know. I have to talk to him directly.”
Soon they were heading out of town, and the VW sped up a little. Malko was tired of rattling around in the back of the bus, but he also felt apprehensive about being in Kabul.
His impossible mission seemed far away. Right now he had only one objective: saving his skin.
They drove on for about another thirty minutes, until traffic slowed to a crawl. A minibus coming the other way grazed them, and its driver yelled something at the VW driver.
A few moments later Nadir turned around, looking anxious.
“Koshan says traffic is bad because there is a checkpoint on the pass before the descent to Kabul, and they are checking all the cars coming from the south. They are looking for somebody.”
Malko felt an icy chill. This wasn’t good news.
“Isn’t there another road?”
Nadir shook his head.
“No, this is the only way through the mountains.”
When his deputy ran into Parviz Bamyan’s office yelling, “They’ve got him!” he gave a shout of joy.
Thanks to the license number given by the village chief, the checkpoint at the Kabul city limits had stopped the taxi driver, who unfortunately was alone in his cab. He was immediately handed over to the NDS, who were bringing him into town in a police car, lights flashing, followed by an agent driving the taxi. He would arrive in half an hour.
Bamyan could hardly contain himself. With a little luck he would now be able to locate Malko Linge. But he cautiously decided not to alert his superiors just yet. He wanted to question the taxi driver first.
The VW bus was crawling along at two miles an hour. At the pass, traffic slowed to a trickle as cars threaded their way between chicanes guarded by soldiers hunkered down behind sandbags, Kalashnikovs at the ready.
Every car was being stopped, and everyone’s papers checked. The policemen were on edge and, for once, motivated. They had stopped a minibus ahead of the VW and were frisking its occupants for weapons. There were now just a dozen cars between Malko’s VW and the checkpoint. He was struggling not to let anxiety overwhelm him.
“What should we do?” he asked Nadir.
The young Afghan looked nervous.
“Koshan’s papers are in order,” he said. “We will say you are sick. Stay stretched out on the seat. We will tell them you have appendicitis and can’t be moved. Be sure to keep your turban on!”
Fortunately, night was falling. In the darkness, you couldn’t tell that Malko wasn’t an Afghan unless you got very close.
“What if they arrest us?” he asked.
Malko was painfully aware of the weight of the GSh-18 automatic at his ankle. A weapon that had killed a villager, which could get him sent to jail for a long time. He considered tossing the gun out the window but changed his mind. He might still need it. Besides, he was in so deep already …
The minibus passengers were now climbing back in, and the VW moved forward a few yards. In a quarter of an hour at the most, they would know their fate.
The NDS agents shoved the taxi driver into Bamyan’s office so hard that he slammed into the far wall. His hands were cuffed behind his back and his face swollen from the beating he’d received when he was arrested.
The agent escorting him tossed a plastic bag with the contents of the driver’s pockets onto Bamyan’s desk.
“He was carrying eight thousand dollars and four hundred and fifty afghanis,” he said.
Eight thousand dollars! Bamyan’s brain snapped into high gear. Allah was on his side. A poor bastard like this taxi driver would never have so much money unless he was involved in something crooked.
“Put him in the chair!” he ordered.
He walked over to the driver and asked, “What’s your name?”
As encouragement, Bamyan slapped him hard twice, bloodying his nose. It was difficult to make out his answer, but it didn’t actually matter. He snatched the roll of hundred-dollar bills and waved it in the man’s face.
“Who did you steal this from?”
To drive the question home, he punched him, knocking him and the chair over backward. In Afghanistan, the presumption of guilt had replaced the presumption of innocence. It made things much easier.
When the driver had been propped upright and the blood wiped off his face, he plaintively told his story.
He hadn’t done anything wrong, he said. He was just an ordinary taxi driver on the Kabul-Ghazni run. That morning, he’d been waiting at the Ensalf station in the Ivan Begi neighborhood, when a young Afghan asked to be driven to Ghazni. He was accompanied by a khareji wearing Afghan clothes. As encouragement, the man offered him a thousand afghanis instead of the usual six hundred, so he couldn’t very well refuse.
Everything went well until just before Yusuf Khel, where they were stopped by a group of armed villagers.
Bamyan listened to the rest of the story with only half an ear. It matched what the Ghazni NDS officer had already told him. But he sat up when the driver said it was the khareji who had fired the two shots at the villager riding with them.
&nbs
p; “What happened next?” he barked.
“They made me turn around. I was very scared. They wanted me to take them back to Kabul, but I made them get out at the first village.”
“What about the eight thousand dollars?”
“I told him that I couldn’t work as a taxi driver anymore. If I went near Yusuf Khel, I might be recognized and killed. I must have compensation. So the khareji gave me that money. It’s the truth, I swear by Allah.”
At bottom, Bamyan didn’t care about the eight thousand dollars.
“What happened to your passengers?”
“I don’t know, I swear by Allah. I left them in front of a restaurant. I don’t even remember the name of the village. They must’ve taken a shared taxi or a minibus. They wanted to go back to Kabul.”
“Weren’t you surprised that a khareji would be taking a taxi to Ghazni?”
The driver shook his head.
“In talking with the villagers who stopped us, the Afghan man explained that the khareji was under Mullah Omar’s protection. He said he was the nephew of a very respected mullah, Musa Kotak.”
For Bamyan, that did it. Malko Linge had visited Kotak several times. He had an officer bring some photographs of Linge taken by NDS agents during their stakeouts and showed them to the driver.
“Do you recognize this man?”
Malko wasn’t in disguise in the pictures, of course, but the driver didn’t hesitate.
“That’s the khareji I drove, I swear by Allah.”
Bamyan felt a surge of optimism. He’d taken a giant step forward. He still didn’t have the proof that Linge was behind the attack on President Karzai, but he now had a solid charge against him: murder. And he had a witness.
All he had to do now was find him.
“You’re going to give a deposition,” he told the driver. “You may eventually have to identify this khareji. You’ll have to be sure you recognize him.”
The Afghan swore he would.
The agents took his statement, which he signed without reading. He didn’t notice that the eight thousand dollars had disappeared from the list of his personal effects. NDS agents were poorly paid, and they had to make ends meet somehow.
Bamyan found one thing in the interview especially encouraging: Linge and Kotak’s nephew had wanted to come back to Kabul. Here in the city, he could get his hands on them. All he had to do was set the trap. If Bamyan succeeded in this matter, he would be a strong candidate for the head of NDS.
The VW bus stopped at the chicane and was immediately surrounded by soldiers, fingers on the trigger. One of them spoke to Koshan as he handed over his papers. After a brief exchange, the soldier asked, “Do you have any weapons?”
“None, I swear by Allah. You can search me and the bus.”
“What about the guy asleep on the backseat?”
“He’s sick,” said Koshan. “We’re taking him to the hospital for an operation.” Then he added, “He’s my cousin.”
The soldier hesitated, glancing at the man stretched out on the seat with only his coat and turban visible. Fortunately, Afghans take health matters seriously. He handed the papers back and waved the bus on.
Koshan smiled and thanked him before taking off.
“Tashakor!” he said.
Malko waited until they were in the switchbacks descending to the Kabul plain before sitting up. He was less likely to be spotted in the city, though he still faced plenty of problems.
“Are you going to telephone your uncle?” he asked Nadir.
The young man shook his head.
“No, that would not be wise. We will go directly to the mosque. He is waiting for us there. I do not know what he plans to do with you.”
Malko had to accept that.
The traffic was terrible again. It would take them another hour to get downtown.
As Maureen Kieffer pulled up in front of her guesthouse, she noticed a black Corolla parked next to the gate. When she went to open the gate, a man got out and walked over. Hand on heart, he greeted her politely in Dari and asked, “Are you expecting a visitor this evening?”
“What visitor?” asked the young woman in surprise.
The man mumbled something and headed back to his car. Suddenly Maureen thought of Malko. She hadn’t had news from him in a few days and didn’t even know if he was still in Kabul. But the attack on President Karzai had brought him and his odd attitude to mind. Something told her there was a connection, but she didn’t know his exact role.
The stranger’s presence at her door suggested that Malko was probably still in Kabul and might be in trouble. Resisting an urge to phone him, she climbed back into her SUV and drove to the guesthouse.
Looking around the streets, Malko began to recognize where he was. They soon took the big roundabout leading to Wazir Akbar Khan Road and were getting close to the mosque. More than fourteen hours of driving and danger, he thought, only to wind up back at their starting place.
The VW bus was passing along the fence around the mosque, its minarets visible in the darkness. But as they slowed down, Nadir suddenly shouted something, and Koshan stepped on the gas and passed the mosque entrance without stopping.
“What’s going on?” asked Malko.
Nadir turned around, looking tense.
“There is an NDS car in front of the gate! They are waiting for you.”
To Malko, this felt like a karate chop to the neck. His last few allies in Kabul were vanishing. How had the NDS found his hiding place?
The VW bus continued, turned right onto a narrow, dark street, and stopped. Nadir turned around and said, “We cannot go in there.”
That much, Malko understood. But he felt rattled and was having trouble gathering his thoughts.
“Can’t you go in to see your uncle?”
The young Afghan was rigid with fear.
“I am afraid they will arrest me,” he stammered. “I do not know what is happening.”
“So what are we going to do?”
Kotak’s nephew seemed just as distressed as he was.
“I can drive you somewhere,” he suggested. “Where would you like to go?”
The problem was, there was no place he could go.
Malko was silent for a few moments. Then he asked Nadir, “Can’t you take me back to the house where I was this morning?”
The young man’s face fell. He looked frightened.
“They might be waiting for you there, too.”
“Then go see your uncle! Ask his advice!”
“I am afraid to,” Nadir admitted. “I am afraid they will arrest me. They will not do anything to my uncle, for political reasons, but it is not the same for me.”
They were at an impasse.
Malko desperately racked his brain, trying to come up with a solution.
Going back to the Serena was suicide. He didn’t know the way to Maureen’s house and didn’t want to telephone her. He had to buy some time. Suddenly, he had an idea. It was dicey, but he didn’t have any choice.
“All right, then. Take me to the Iranian embassy.”
Kotak’s nephew looked astonished.
“The Iranian embassy?”
“That’s right. Do you know where it is?”
“Yes, of course.”
After a long silence, the young man said something to Koshan, who started the VW bus. A quarter of an hour later they were driving along the NDS complex wall, then stopped at the next roundabout.
“There is the embassy,” said Nadir.
“I know, thanks,” said Malko. “Tell your uncle to send me a text if he can still help me.”
He took off his turban and shed the shalwar kameez he’d been wearing over his Western clothes. Sliding the side door open, he stepped out onto the empty sidewalk. Sharpoor Street was deserted.
The VW bus immediately took off, and Malko waited for it to be far away before turning around and retracing his steps. He walked about a hundred yards past the big TNT building. He knocked on a heavy wooden
door, which was promptly opened by a man with a straggly beard. As usual, three guards were camped out in the forecourt with their AK-47s.
“The Gandamack Lodge!” said Malko with a smile.
They immediately let him in, and he walked to the second gate, the one that led to the guesthouse proper. There, too, he had to ask to be admitted, but his Western face was as good as any passport. He walked around the empty garden to the entrance.
It was out of caution that he hadn’t had himself dropped off in front of the guesthouse. Who knew what might happen to Nadir? This way, if he was interrogated he could only say that Malko’s destination was the Embassy of Iran, which would baffle his questioners.
Malko entered the small lobby and walked over to where the night clerk sat dozing at his desk. He looked up blearily as Malko studied the keys on the board.
His stomach tightened. The key to Room 4, where Alicia Burton stayed, was on its hook. The young American wasn’t in. There was no point in quizzing the clerk; he probably didn’t even know her name. So Malko made for the dining room. There were quite a few people there: journalists, NGO staffers, and a few Afghans. British expats, especially, liked the Gandamack. Malko sat down at an empty table.
At this point, only Alicia could possibly bail him out, at least for the short term. He couldn’t very well sleep in the street.
Tomorrow would be another day. For now, he was too tired and his brain wasn’t working.
He ordered dinner but ate without appetite, praying that the young reporter wasn’t away overnight. If she was, he would really be out of luck.
An hour had passed, and the diners were starting to leave. Some had rooms at the Gandamack; others were heading home. Nobody had asked Malko anything.
He paid the check and went back to the front desk.
This time his pulse started to race. The key to number 4 was no longer on its hook! The night clerk didn’t even lift his head. Without hesitation, Malko walked by him and started up the staircase, his heart pounding. The stairs creaked and the hallway was dim. He got to door number 4 and knocked very gently. He heard noises inside, the sound of a key turning, and the door opened.
Chaos in Kabul Page 20