Which tallied with what Maureen Kieffer had said, thought Malko. But why had Berry wanted to meet him out here in the sticks?
“Still, it’s not a bad offer,” he said. “You’re going to need money, even if you leave.”
Berry’s mouth twisted into a kind of rictus. “I’ll never see your million dollars because the NDS will never let me go.” He paused. “Too bad. I wish this business were ending some other way.”
Something in his tone set off an alarm in Malko’s brain. “Since you’re leaving Afghanistan, why did you have me come out here?” he asked.
The South African smiled slightly. “I’ll explain, bra. Follow me.”
He stood up and led Malko out into the yard, then another hundred yards farther to an orchard. Berry was walking slowly in front of Malko. Just before reaching the perimeter wall, he stopped.
Malko did too, suddenly feeling very tense.
He barely noticed Berry’s right hand move, but the sight gave him a jolt of adrenaline. Without pausing to think, Malko crouched and tore the GSh-18 from the ankle holster. He was straightening up when Berry turned around, aiming a big pistol at him.
Malko immediately fired. The shot’s rising trajectory caught Berry under the jaw and tore into his neck, exiting through the back of his head—along with a mass of bone, blood, and brain.
The South African didn’t even have time to pull the trigger. Knocked backward by the impact of the 9 mm shell, he collapsed, still clutching the gun in his right hand.
It all happened so fast that Malko had trouble gathering his wits. Berry lay bleeding from the neck, stone-dead. Malko turned to see an old one-armed man come out of the house, shouting something. The man slowly walked closer but stopped when he realized he wasn’t talking to Berry, and scuttled back inside.
Malko looked up at the perfect blue sky, a taste of ashes in his mouth. He hated the idea of taking a human life yet had now killed for the second time since coming to Afghanistan. And for the second time, he’d been forced to do it. If he hadn’t reacted so quickly, it would be him lying there in the orchard, dead.
Silence had fallen.
Why had Berry wanted to kill him, when he’d just offered him a million dollars? Now he would never know. The plan the CIA and the Afghans had concocted was collapsing. The blood price had been paid, but not the way anyone expected.
Malko took a few steps and noticed a hole in the ground near a large orange tree. Berry certainly had foresight: he’d even had his grave dug.
The sound of an engine made Malko turn around, and he saw Darius driving the Corolla out the gate, fast. He was now without a car somewhere far from Kabul. Taking out his cell phone, he dialed the CIA station chief.
“Come and get me, Warren. I’m somewhere outside the city. I don’t know where and I don’t have a car. Please locate me with my phone’s GPS. I’ll be waiting.”
He went back into the farmhouse and sat down on the bench. He felt very, very weary.
More than two hours later, a convoy of three white Land Cruisers and a green police pickup pulled into the farm.
A man in a general’s uniform with a kepi stepped out of the lead SUV, which bore a red police license plate. He was followed by a tiny old man with a long gray beard, barely taller than his AK-47. The man in the kepi—it was General Abdul Raziq—walked over to Malko and in excellent English asked, “Where is Nelson Berry?”
“Over there at the end of the garden.”
Emerging from the second Land Cruiser were Clayton Luger, Warren Michaelis, and two armed Marines. The four joined the general and his diminutive bodyguard.
Taking the big automatic from Berry’s hand, Raziq remarked, “He didn’t have time to shoot.”
“If he had, I’d be dead,” said Malko. “Berry brought me here to kill me. A woman friend told me last night that he was leaving Afghanistan. He wanted to do some housekeeping before he left.”
“This isn’t good,” said Luger. “The Afghans are going to be furious.”
“If I had died and Berry had left the country, they would be just as furious,” Malko responded.
“Search the property,” Raziq ordered the policemen. He and the others gathered near Luger’s Land Cruiser.
A half hour later an officer brought over a big leather satchel that he’d found in the South African’s SUV. Malko’s pulse began to race. It was the bag with the five hundred thousand dollars he had given Berry.
The general opened it, glanced at the bundles of hundred-dollar bills, and returned it to the officer.
“Put that in my car,” he said coolly.
The CIA didn’t have much chance of ever seeing its money again.
They stood around chatting while the policemen hauled crates of ammunition, pistols, and RPG-7s from the farmhouse.
Raziq then took Luger aside for a long conversation, which ended with a vigorous handshake. The general climbed into his Land Cruiser, leaving the police officers behind.
To Malko, Luger said tersely, “Let’s go.”
As they made their way down the bumpy track, he turned to Malko and said, “Here’s what General Raziq and I agreed on. Thanks to a tip from us, the Afghans caught Nelson Berry trying to escape from Afghanistan. He fought back and was shot. Searching his place, the police found the sniper rifle used in the assassination attempt.”
“But that’s not true!” said Malko.
Luger merely smiled. “The NDS already has the rifle. All they have to do is bring it here and pretend it was found on the farm.”
Presto, the “blood price” was paid—and there was no risk of Nelson Berry naming the people who had given him his orders.
As they drove down toward Kabul, Malko wondered what awaited him. He still had a heavy sword of Damocles hanging over his head: the killing of the villager. If the Afghans wanted to harm him, it would be easy to do.
Mullah Kotak typed out a short text to send to Malko. Now that he had the green light from the Quetta shura to kill him, there were a few things he had to make absolutely sure of.
They had come within an inch of success, he reflected. The moment Karzai was assassinated, members of the police and army would shoot their officers, roadblocks would be thrown open, and targeted killings would destabilize Kabul. By the time the Americans realized what was happening, it would be too late, and the Taliban already would be in charge.
Now they would have to start again from scratch.
A small Kiowa helicopter was parked in front of President Karzai’s residence, across from the path where Luger was walking with his guide. Despite General Raziq’s assurances, the CIA deputy director was ill at ease. The business with Nelson Berry hadn’t gone as expected. The Afghans could certainly claim a success, but it wasn’t the clean sweep they would have liked.
When Luger entered the presidential suite, Kalmar was leafing through some papers. He gave the American a perfunctory handshake, set his files aside, and got right to the point.
“General Raziq sent me his report,” he said. “Mr. Berry’s death is a positive development, and it will help us conclude this matter in the eyes of the Afghan public. However, there are still things we don’t have yet.”
“Such as?”
“The link between the person who ordered the attack and the one who carried it out. We’ve been wondering whether your operative Malko Linge might have shot Berry to keep him from naming him.”
Luger practically fell out of his chair. “What? Berry had a gun in his hand and was about to kill him!”
“The scene could have been arranged after the fact.”
Luger felt he should keep the discussion on track. “Mr. Kalmar, everything happened exactly the way Malko Linge described it. The issue is settled. I came here to confirm that in our eyes this unfortunate business is finished. A poor decision was made on our side, followed by a rogue action that fortunately had no undesirable consequences. I now hope that our relations are restored.”
The Afghan was silent for a few moments,
then said, “To completely conclude this affair, it would be useful if we had a signed statement by Mr. Linge explaining how he recruited Berry to assassinate our president.”
Luger had to struggle to keep his cool. The man was asking for nothing less than written proof implicating the U.S. government in the attack. It would be an invitation to endless blackmail.
“That’s out of the question,” he said firmly. “I would never authorize Linge to make such a statement. As a matter of fact, I plan to take him with me when I fly back to Washington this evening.”
He had made up his mind on the spot. I have to put an end to the Afghans constantly jerking me around, he thought.
After a brief silence, Karzai’s chief of staff said, “That’s too bad, because Mr. Linge isn’t allowed to leave Afghanistan for the time being.”
Luger was startled. “Why not?”
“Because of the regrettable matter of the villager he shot. We know he was acting in self-defense, but local Afghan customs are different from ours. A blood price must be paid to appease the spirits.”
It was getting to be a habit.
“What do you mean?” asked Luger guardedly.
“The dead man’s family is demanding twenty thousand dollars.”
“That’s not unreasonable,” said Luger, brushing the request aside. “They’ll get the money.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Kalmar smoothly. “Except that custom demands that the killer pay the blood price in person. Until that is done, the case will remain open.”
This asshole really is shitting me, thought Luger. Aloud, he said, “Given your position, don’t you think we could dispense with the formalities?”
The chief of staff shook his head, looking apologetic. “It’s a delicate matter for us. As you know, President Karzai is often accused of covering up ‘missteps’ by the Americans and the coalition. If we offend the pashtunwali code, we’ll be again accused of siding with the United States. It would be bad for the president’s image. I’ve discussed this with him, and he insists that the full ceremony be performed.”
“So this means Malko Linge can’t leave Afghanistan,” said Luger, inwardly fuming.
“Temporarily,” said Kalmar with an appeasing gesture. “Only temporarily. As soon as he pays the blood price, he will be free to leave. I realize that you could use the Bagram Air Base to fly him out of the country, but that would be seen as an insult to the president. There are enough problems between us not to create more.”
Luger was in a bind. He knew that the blood-price business was bogus but couldn’t afford to trigger a fresh conflict with Karzai. He wondered what John Mulligan would do in his place.
“Very well,” he said wearily. “I’ll fly back to Washington without him.”
“I think that’s a wise decision,” said Kalmar, “and the president will appreciate it. Particularly since Mr. Linge has a great deal to apologize for, even if he was acting under your orders.”
Luger understood that there was no point in insisting and stood up. “In that case, I’m entrusting Malko Linge to your care,” he said in a tone heavy with implications.
“Have no fear,” said Kalmar easily, a Pashtun as comfortable in treachery as a fish in water. “We consider him a friend again, as we have always considered you.”
Luger was fuming as he made his way across the presidential grounds. There was no question of flying Malko out now. It would be a casus belli with the Afghans. But in a way, he realized, it might help advance a plan he had in mind.
Malko came out when he saw a Land Cruiser pull up to the Serena awning. At the wheel was Jim Doolittle, accompanied by a couple of Marines.
“We’re going to the embassy,” said the case officer. “You’re expected there.”
They endured the interminable checkpoints and the wary looks of the Nepalese soldiers. It felt like entering a besieged fortress. A young Marine greeted Malko in the embassy reception area and led him directly to the residence. There he found a worried-looking Clayton Luger, whiskey in hand. The American looked up and gave him a faint smile.
“Afghans suck!” he said.
“What’s going on?” asked Malko with some concern.
“You’ve become a hostage. You can’t leave Afghanistan, at least not for the time being.”
Malko felt a chill run down his spine. Here we go again, he thought.
“Have a drink, and I’ll explain.”
The Marine poured Malko some vodka. A sip of the ice-cold liquor did him good.
“Are the Afghans still angry at me?” Malko asked. “I thought this morning’s meeting had put the matter to rest.”
“I thought so too, but those people are as nasty as a skilletful of rattlesnakes.”
He explained the proposed blood-price ritual, then said, “It’s a pretext to keep you from leaving the country. Afghan peasants are being blown to bits every week by coalition bombs and drones, and all Karzai ever does is to file verbal protests.”
“So what are they really after?”
“Hell if I know!” Luger admitted, sipping his whiskey. “I think they’re still smarting from what we did to them. With Berry dead, you’re the only actor in the operation still alive, and I’m sure they’ll try to somehow extract a confession from you. It would be a powerful weapon against the U.S. government.”
“In that case, why not fly me out with you? We can easily travel to Bagram, and they don’t control our flights.”
“I know,” said Luger thoughtfully. “But I have specific instructions from the White House: I’m here to appease the Afghans, not fan the flames. The wounds are still too fresh.
“I doubt they would attack you directly, but I’d watch out for dirty tricks. I’ve given orders for you to be properly protected when you go to deliver the blood price. By American troops, not Afghans.”
“Will I be able leave the country then?” asked Malko, who still felt worried.
“I imagine so,” said Luger enigmatically. “Come on. Let’s go have dinner.”
Efficiently served by a pair of silent Marine waiters, the two men looked a bit lost in a dining room designed for twenty. At the start of the meal Luger changed the subject, talking instead about recent events in Washington. Malko felt tense because he sensed the CIA deputy director wasn’t telling him everything.
The idea of staying on in Kabul made him ill.
By the time they were eating their apple pie, they still hadn’t broached the main topic again. Eventually they returned to the residence living room for a cup of coffee.
Luger discreetly dismissed the two Marines, then turned to Malko.
“I have something to tell you,” he said. “As far as we’re concerned, your mission in Kabul isn’t finished.”
Malko was taken aback.
“You aren’t thinking of trying to kill Karzai again, are you? Because if you are, I don’t want any part of it!”
Luger put up his hands. “No, no, of course not! But we still want to put him out of action, at least politically. The man’s been a disaster for the country. We know he’s determined to hang on to power any way he can, and that risks plunging Afghanistan into a bloodbath. My orders from the White House are to stop him.”
“I’ve already done my part,” said Malko. “You have plenty of good people at the station here in Kabul to deal with it. I want out, Clayton.”
“I understand,” said the American soothingly, “but from our standpoint, you’re uniquely positioned to help. First, you know the country. Second, you have local contacts that our station people don’t. Besides, this wouldn’t be an overt action but an operation behind the scenes.”
“With everybody in Kabul watching me? You really must want me to die here.”
“Certainly not! What we’d like is for you to promote an anti-Karzai front. That way, if he tries to stuff the ballot boxes or run one of his henchmen, he won’t succeed.”
“How do you expect to achieve that?” Malko asked skeptically.
“B
y getting the Taliban on board.”
Malko gave Luger a sharp look. “You know they don’t want to participate in elections. It’s against their culture, Karzai or no Karzai.”
“I realize that, but you have a direct connection with Mullah Musa Kotak, and he’s the unofficial representative of the Quetta shura—the real Taliban power. He won’t do business with anyone but you.”
“What do you expect of them?”
“Persuade the people in areas they control to vote for the candidate of our choice.”
“By offering them what?”
“A share of power when our candidate wins.”
“They’ll never believe you,” said Malko flatly.
“It’ll be your job to convince them. The Taliban actually have everything to gain, because legislative elections will follow the presidential ones. They can have their say then, by running candidates who embrace their ideas.
“There’s a lot of work to do, of course. The Taliban are shrewd, fanatical, and stubborn. But some of them want to return to power, even without an Islamic emirate in Afghanistan. We already discussed this in Doha.”
“Let me be sure I understand what you’re saying,” said Malko. “You want me to launch a crusade against Hamid Karzai when he and the NDS already have me in their sights.”
“No, this would be a much more subtle operation,” said Luger. “We can’t just sit on our hands, Malko. Nobody can persuade Karzai to step aside. Since we weren’t able to eliminate him, we have to beat him at the ballot box.”
At least the CIA deputy director took responsibility for his actions.
“And who will your candidate be?” asked Malko.
“We haven’t decided yet, but I’ll tell you as soon as I can.”
“That’s the first question the Taliban are going to ask me! You know how suspicious they are.”
“I would start by finding out if they’re prepared to buy into our project. Will you agree to do that much?”
Chaos in Kabul Page 25