“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
Malko gave him a pained smile and said, “I would have liked to meet you under other circumstances. I’m here to warn you that you may be in danger.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know Mullah Abdul Ghani Beradar?”
“Only by name. He’s an important member of the Quetta shura. But I’ve never met him and I don’t think he’s in Afghanistan anymore. Why?”
Malko explained. “You’re aware that the U.S. government views your running as a candidate in the presidential elections favorably, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am. The ambassador said as much at lunch recently. I was very flattered.”
“The Americans had the idea of getting the Taliban movement to support you, as a way of encouraging Pashtuns to vote for you.”
Abdullah smiled. “That wouldn’t be a bad idea, provided the Taliban accepted me. I fought them for a long time, but they include people of value who are nationalists.”
“How do you suppose Hamid Karzai would react if he learned that you and the Taliban were considering an alliance?”
“He would try to have me assassinated,” Abdullah said calmly.
“Well, I’m afraid he may have just learned it,” said Malko. “Let me tell you why.” At some length, he described Mullah Beradar’s trip to Kabul, their meeting in Chicken Street, and Beradar’s capture by the NDS.
“I’m not naïve,” Malko concluded. “Nobody resists NDS torture. So we have to assume that Beradar has talked and that Karzai now knows everything.”
A long silence followed, eventually broken by Abdullah. “I agree with your thinking,” he said in the same calm voice. “Those people are animals. I’m glad you warned me, because I will redouble my precautions. Karzai would have found out sooner or later, but this gives him more time to try to kill me.”
“I’m really very sorry,” said Malko. “I still don’t know how the NDS learned that Mullah Beradar was in Kabul. I may never know. I must have slipped up somewhere.”
The Afghan waved his concern away.
“It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. If Mullah Beradar dies, I don’t think his death need be an obstacle to the plan, provided the Taliban agree.”
Abdullah stood up, signaling the end of the meeting, and said, “It would be a good thing for Afghanistan, which needs peace. We’ve been at war for more than thirty years.”
The two men exchanged a warm handshake. Malko found his Tajik escort waiting, and they exited through the barricade to the street beyond.
Finally, his work was done.
Relaxing back at the Serena, Malko had reason to be satisfied. He’d been impressed by Abdullah’s poise and intelligence. Also, he appreciated the politician’s tact in not making him feel too responsible for attracting Karzai’s wrath. But most of all, Malko was relieved that this crazy mission was finally at an end, knowing that the Agency would put him on a plane anytime he wanted.
But could he fly out of Afghanistan while leaving Maureen Kieffer in the hands of the NDS? He would feel like a deserter.
Staying on in Kabul was dangerous, he knew. Karzai would soon learn about his role in connecting Abdullah with the Taliban, making him doubly vulnerable.
Abdullah Abdullah was well protected, and Mullah Beradar was in custody. Which left Malko as the number one target of a regime not in the habit of turning the other cheek.
Parviz Bamyan bounded up the steps to Hadj Ali Kalmar’s office, a thick folder in his hand. The news he was bringing was practically all good.
After extracting the last scrap of information from Beradar, they had killed him, burned the body, and scattered the ashes in the mountains. Mullah Abdul Ghani Beradar had traveled to Kabul, but no one would ever know how he left. No mention of him appeared in any NDS records.
Beradar’s confession told them a great deal, including the exact role played by the Americans and Malko Linge, who was the key to the whole assassination plot. As a bonus, Beradar also revealed the name of the candidate the Americans—and maybe even the Taliban—would back in the coming elections. Which gave them some time to get rid of him.
Only one shadow darkened this otherwise sunny picture. Despite very rough treatment, the South African woman Maureen Kieffer still hadn’t admitted to knowing the mullah, even though her business card had been found on him. But that was secondary. They would get her to confess sooner or later.
Kalmar, who already knew the general tenor of Bamyan’s report, was waiting in his office. After a long handshake, he sat back and carefully read it.
When he finally looked up, his vulpine face was alight with joy.
“This is first-class work!” Kalmar exclaimed admiringly. “I’m sure the president will be very grateful. Since Asadullah Khalid still hasn’t recovered from the bomb attack, I’m going to suggest that you be named NDS director in his place.”
“That would be a great honor,” Bamyan said modestly.
“I will be seeing the president right away.”
The newly anointed NDS head bowed his way out of the office, his heart singing.
As soon as Kalmar was alone, he phoned President Karzai on his direct line and asked if he could bring him a very important dossier.
Three minutes later he was crossing the wide esplanade between the two groups of buildings.
President Karzai was in his office. He was wearing a black vest and green pants, and his bald head gleamed in the light from a halogen lamp. He looked through the dossier carefully but didn’t display his joy openly, merely congratulating his chief of staff.
The information in Bamyan’s report gave Karzai a big leg up in his struggle with the Taliban and the Americans. But he now had a personal score to settle with this Malko Linge. And he knew just the man to do it.
“So what do you want to do?” asked Warren Michaelis. “I can fly you home through Bagram and Dubai whenever you like. I know Langley will approve. It would be very risky for you to stay in Kabul.”
“I know,” said Malko, “but …”
“You’re thinking of Maureen Kieffer, aren’t you? I can inform the South African authorities, but I’m afraid the Afghans will just stonewall them. This involves state security, and they don’t kowtow to anyone except the United States.”
“Can’t you intervene?”
“No, I can’t,” said Michaelis, slowly shaking his head. “Not on my own authority. And if I ask Langley, I’m sure they’ll say no. She isn’t American, and she doesn’t work for the Agency.”
Malko felt worse and worse. It was because of him that Maureen was in the clutches of the NDS, and all for wanting to do him a favor.
“Give me forty-eight hours to think this through,” he said, standing up. “And I want you to promise me something: to give Maureen Kieffer my payment for the mission, whatever happens.”
Michaelis looked anxious.
“Don’t push your luck, Malko! This business has been screwed up pretty badly already. In a situation like that, you don’t charge ahead; you pull back.”
“I know, but I want to be able to look myself in the face in the mirror when I shave.”
Shaheen Zoolor smiled at him when they once again found themselves waiting for the elevator after dinner. Malko stepped aside to let her get into the cab.
“I’ve decided your mother was right,” he said with a tight smile. “I think you should be very careful with men. You are a beautiful woman and you will have many temptations.”
Not understanding what he meant, Shaheen didn’t answer. When they reached the door to his room, she clearly intended to follow him inside.
Instead, Malko took her hand and kissed it.
“I hope you have a very happy marriage,” he said. Then he entered the room and gently closed the door, leaving the young woman in the hallway. He would never know if she would have yielded to him, but Maureen Kieffer felt too present in his mind to give free rein to his libido.
Twenty-four h
ours later, he still hadn’t come up with a solution.
He’d been in the room for only a moment when his cell beeped with a text:
Langley is ordering you home. WM.
If he was going to pull something off, he was running out of time. He went to bed and lay in the dark, his eyes open.
Malko had just walked into the lobby from the breakfast room when four Afghans in civilian clothes approached him. They were husky, self-confident men with expressionless faces and thick mustaches.
“Are you Malko Linge?” one asked.
“Yes.”
“We’re with the Interior Ministry. Our commander wants to talk with you. It won’t take long.”
“What have I done?”
The Afghan smiled apologetically. “Nothing, sir. You’ll be back around noon. This is just for a quick chat.”
They had surrounded him, clearly determined not to let him get away. Malko reached into his pocket for his cell, but the Afghan immediately spoke up.
“No need to telephone,” he said curtly. “This won’t take long.”
They were already hustling him toward the door held open by a turbaned bellhop. A black SUV was parked in front of the hotel. They helped Malko into the back and seated him between two of the policemen.
Not a word more had been said.
After a few minutes’ drive, Malko spotted the long wall of the NDS complex, but the SUV didn’t stop. They circled the roundabout beyond and turned into the street leading to Kabul’s poppy palaces. Intrigued and now increasingly uneasy, Malko asked, “Aren’t we going to the Interior Ministry?”
“No, sir,” said one of the men placidly. “We’re going to our commander’s home.”
A few hundred yards farther, the car slowed and the driver honked his horn. The black gate of a large house promptly opened, and they entered the courtyard.
Malko got out and the officers escorted him up the front steps. A ragged guard with an AK-47 opened the door; another man could be seen behind him. Releasing Malko, the four cops went back down the steps and disappeared.
The foyer was decorated in ornate Pakistani style and smelled of incense. Two scruffy men appeared, grim-looking Afghans with AK-47 magazines in their shirt pockets. One grabbed Malko by the arm and led him away. They searched him, taking his cell phone. One of the Afghans slid a heavy wooden door aside, unleashing a furious concert of deafening barking.
They shoved him into a tiny room and slid the door shut. Malko then saw the source of the barking. One wall of the room was a grill separating it from a kennel containing five huge dogs. They were enormous mastiffs with an odd peculiarity: their ears and tails had all been cut off.
These monsters, which probably weighed a hundred and fifty pounds apiece, circled and growled, apparently ready to attack. Malko realized that without the grill they would tear him to shreds.
He sat down on a bench. Deafened by the barking, he tried to stay calm.
Michaelis dialed Malko’s number for the tenth time in a row, but it immediately went to voice mail. Now seriously worried, Michaelis called one of his informants at the Serena.
At the mention of Malko’s name, the Afghan lowered his voice and said, “Officers from the Interior Ministry came to get him earlier. They asked me where he was.”
The American felt his blood run cold. “Thanks,” he said curtly.
Within minutes, Michaelis had placed a formal call to a senior official at the ministry. Half an hour of stormy phone calls later, Michaelis knew only that none of the security services had arrested Malko. It wouldn’t be the first time that fake policemen had grabbed someone in broad daylight.
There were only two things for him to do.
First, he sent a message to Langley announcing Malko’s disappearance. Then he called Hamid Karzai’s office. He told them what he knew and said how concerned he was and that he held the Afghan government responsible for Malko’s fate. This was mere hand waving, he knew, but better than nothing. It did nothing to relieve his anxiety.
Who had kidnapped Malko, and why?
The day passed very slowly, punctuated by the dogs’ nearly constant barking. It was enough to drive a person crazy.
The door suddenly slid open, and a guard with a Kalashnikov gestured to Malko to follow him. He hastened to do so, grateful to escape the deafening racket. The Afghan pointed him down a long hallway, and they entered a room full of carpets, cushions, and gilded chairs, with incense burners everywhere.
At the far end, Malko saw a fat man in shalwar kameez sitting in a big armchair. He had a puffy face, prominent eyes, and a thick mustache whose ends drooped on either side of his mouth. He was smoking a cigar, and a bottle of whiskey with a glass stood on a tray nearby. After giving Malko an appraising look, the man waved him to a smaller chair nearby.
The ragged guard with the AK-47 went to crouch on the carpet in a corner of the room.
The man puffed on his cigar and blew out the smoke. “You must be wondering why you’re here,” he said in rough but serviceable English.
“I was told I was going to the Interior Ministry.”
The man burst out laughing. “They do not even know you are here! Nobody does except the men who brought you, and they work for me. And of course the person who asked me to do this. He is a very powerful friend, and he asked me to get rid of you. Because I have the means.”
“What means?”
“You have seen my dogs. They are real beauties, are they not? They are fighting dogs. They weigh nearly seventy kilos and are very fierce. Those won several fights this year. I bought one of them for fifteen thousand dollars. Now, after Nowruz, the season is over, and they are resting. But they still must be fed. Each one needs several pounds of meat a day. Otherwise they become weak.
“Right now they are starting to be hungry.
“If I opened the grill that keeps them from your room, they would tear you to pieces in a few minutes. By the end of the day there would be nothing left of you. This is what I was asked to do. I think you have caused my friend harm, and you must pay. I wanted to warn you.”
He fell silent and puffed on his cigar, watching Malko through half-closed eyes.
Despite the man’s measured tone, Malko knew he was talking seriously. A long silence followed.
“Aren’t you afraid this might cause you trouble?” Malko finally asked. “I work with the CIA, and they take revenge seriously.”
“We are in Afghanistan,” he said, shrugging. “Nobody can do anything against me. So that is all. I just wanted to meet you and say good-bye.”
Malko couldn’t think of anything to say. The fat man didn’t look like someone whose better nature could be appealed to. The silence went on, this time broken by the dogs’ owner.
“Actually, I have a proposal that maybe will allow you to save your skin.”
“I thought you were under an obligation,” said Malko, on guard against bad surprises.
The fat man made a vague gesture. “It is always possible to reach an agreement. I will explain my problem. Do you know the American DEA, the Drug Enforcement Administration?”
“Yes, of course.”
“They do not like me. They claim I have shipped several tons of heroin to the United States. So they put me on a blacklist. If I leave Afghanistan, there is an Interpol arrest warrant in my name. I would be immediately arrested and transferred to the United States, probably for the rest of my life.”
He gave a sigh of annoyance. “This bothers me. I like to travel. If you are able to lift this prohibition, you maybe can get out of here. What do you think?”
A wave of hope surged through Malko, but he didn’t let it show. “I obviously can’t solve the problem alone, but I can discuss it with the CIA authority in Kabul. For starters, I’ll need your name.”
“Farhad Naibkhel.”
“So how do I proceed?”
The fat man took a cell phone from his vest pocket and handed it to Malko. “Call whoever you like. But I warn you, if anyone t
ries to rescue you, you will be torn apart by the dogs before they get up the front steps. And another thing: I want an answer in three days. And not just words, a document. Otherwise I will have to do the favor my friend asked me.”
“And you’re actually inside Farhad Naibkhel’s place?” asked Dale Weles incredulously.
“That’s right,” said Malko. “He’s right here. Do you want to talk to him?”
“God no!” cried Weles, the head of the DEA in Kabul. “A grand jury in the Southern District of New York indicted him for bringing heroin into the United States. He’s one of Afghanistan’s worst traffickers. He used to be connected with Hamid Karzai’s half brother, who controlled heroin production in Kandahar and was assassinated. Just a month ago, he shipped two thousand pounds of heroin out of Dushanbe on a Kam Air plane.”
“What is his legal status?” asked Malko.
“He’s got an international warrant on his ass. If he takes one step outside of Afghanistan, he’ll be arrested and extradited to the United States.”
“Okay, thanks. Can you pass me Warren Michaelis again, please?”
Malko had spent the last two hours on the phone with the CIA and the American embassy. The CIA station chief’s initial reaction to Malko’s kidnapping had been brutal.
“Give me an hour, and I’ll send a task force for you,” he said. “We don’t tell the Afghans anything and we attack the house. No bunch of flea-bitten guards is going to stop the Marines.”
Malko calmed him down.
“That’s not the right thing to do, Warren. By the time you get inside, the dogs will have killed me. We have to make a deal, if we can.”
Once Malko explained the situation, it had taken Michaelis an hour to get hold of the DEA man.
Michaelis now came back on the line.
“Is Dale Weles gone?” Malko asked.
“Yes, he is.”
“Do you think he can help us reach an agreement?”
“I doubt it. Naibkhel is one of the drug lords the DEA absolutely wants to take down. They just arrested another big trafficker in Guinea-Bissau by luring him outside of territorial waters. He’s facing at least forty years in prison.” Michaelis paused. “In any case, Weles doesn’t have the authority to negotiate this.”
Chaos in Kabul Page 31