Men were the only customers; women in this very conservative area did not frequent such places. They were rarely seen, and then always covered in the ubiquitous blue burka. It had been enforced by the Taliban and, although not required by law, there was a slow reluctance not to use it. Instances of acid-throwing into the faces of women who had revealed their face was not unknown.
Ezatullah’s house, a traditional construction made of mud mixed with straw, and a flat roof, was located a few kilometres out of Sarobi. Typical of the region, there was a courtyard in the front surrounded by high walls. The women could move around relatively free of the restrictive constraints of covering up. Big by local standards, it was where the extended family lived. The household consisted of Ezatullah, two wives, two sons, three daughters, and his grandfather. Due to his relative wealth, he had afforded himself the luxury of two wives. Most local men, dictated by financial constraints, only had the one.
Areas of the house were restricted depending on gender. The women would be in the kitchen, although the cooking was done in the courtyard. In the house, there would be a Tandoorkhana, a clay oven to bake the naan bread. The living areas were shared. Sherzai, not being a male relative, was forbidden entry.
The mehmankhana or guesthouse was reserved for male guests and had its own entrance from the courtyard, its view secluded from the women. Furnished with toshaks, large colourful cushions on which the men sat, the bare floor covered with a beautiful carpet of exquisite design.
Sherzai would not see the women, he would not be introduced, and they would definitely be out of sight, whenever he was there.
The usual pleasantries about life, economy, foreign occupation, and religion ensued, washed down with liberal amounts of tea.
‘Did you hear about the Westerner who was killed?’ Sherzai raised the subject casually; he did not want to be seen to be overly interested. All Westerners were invariably labelled as Americans. Belgian, American or otherwise, they were still an invading power, though an engineer was not regarded as a threat.
‘Yes, I have heard. It looks like the Taliban but one can never be sure.’
Ezatullah was more enlightened than expected, but he had not travelled, had a minimal education, and was entrenched in a conservative society. Certainly, he had a tolerance towards the Taliban, or at least the innate intuition to realise that one day they would be back in control, the invading powers never stayed for long. Sherzai sensed this and did not dwell on the subject of the recently deceased foreigner. He was here to listen, not indulge in the debate.
Three more guests eventually arrived. Ezatullah’s childhood friend was of interest.
‘Salamu Alaykum.’
‘Waalaikum as-salaam,’ Abdul Qadir Shahid, the owner of a fabric shop in the main street replied.
‘It will be good when all these foreigners are gone.’ Shahid was a tall, impressive man in his late forties with a long, flowing beard, and judging by his conversation, a traditionalist who liked the old ways of Afghanistan. He did not appreciate the foreigners and had an understanding of Taliban affairs. Sherzai believed him to be a person that he should spend time with in the next few days.
Sometime later, another visitor joined the gathering. Khushal Khan was a short, rotund man, jovial in nature and a similar age to Shahid. ‘I have a dozen trucks transporting goods from Kabul to Jalalabad. Business is good and profitable, thanks to Allah.’
Sherzai knew that most of the trucks plying the road were involved in smuggling down into Pakistan over the Khyber Pass. Khushal Khan had the demeanour of a plausible rogue, he was a smuggler. The Taliban would not be his cup of tea and the foreigners were putting plenty of money his way. No doubt a rogue such as Khan would thrive, whoever was in charge.
Finally, at least an hour later, Ali Mowllah arrived, a splendid-looking man, not tall, and with a magnificent turban. Sherzai judged him to be in his late fifties. He belonged to one of the leading families of the area. His wealth or where it came from was not apparent, and nobody made a point of asking too many probing questions. Ezatullah told Sherzai later that he had extensive land in the east of the district. He was a good friend and ally, but not a person to have as an enemy.
‘Ali speaks English,’ Ezatullah casually mentioned. Sherzai would have preferred to have kept his proficiency in English a secret. He spoke English, but with an East Coast American accent. Here, he would need to affect a Pakistani English accent.
‘I spent many years in Pakistan, mainly in Karachi.’ Ali wanted to speak English, and there was no way that Sherzai could avoid responding without causing offence.
‘I also spent many years there, in Lahore.’ It was not true.
‘I do not know Lahore very well. I went there a few times, but that was all.’ Sherzai was relieved to hear this news.
‘I went there in the late 1980s,’ Ali Mowllah said.’ I was still in my twenties. I had been a founding member of the Peshawar Seven.’
Sherzai remembered reading about the Peshawar Seven of which Ali was obviously proud. It had been set up by the Islamic Unity of Afghanistan Mujahedeen in 1985 by the seven Afghan mujahideen parties, the first credible resistance to the Russians that ultimately drove them out of Afghanistan.
‘I wanted to stay in Afghanistan and fight the Russians, but I had received reliable advice that I was on a Russian hit list, so I reluctantly crossed the border into Pakistan. I returned to Afghanistan at the earliest opportunity.’ He did not elaborate on what he did there, but he came back with plenty of money.
‘What school did you attend in Lahore?’ Sherzai was prepared for the question.
‘I went to St. Anthony’s College on Lawrence Road, an excellent establishment. Many distinguished persons have attended the college over the years.’
‘I have heard of it, it has a good reputation.’ It was always important for Sherzai to have a cover story, in case questions as to his time in Pakistan came up.
Much later that night the guests departed and Sherzai settled down for the evening in Ezatullah’s guesthouse.
***
‘We will go into Sarobi today. I will show you my businesses and we will no doubt meet some other friends of mine.’ Ezatullah said at breakfast as they ate their eggs fried with onions, tomatoes, and belle-peppers.
‘I would appreciate that. I hope that I am not inconveniencing you by my visit.’
‘Not at all, a friend is to be cherished, and I am glad for you to be here.’ Sherzai was used to the American way of arranging visits to family and friends. This style of just calling in on a friend and assuming a hospitable welcome still felt a little strange.
Even though he had two eateries in town, Ezatullah did not seem to spend much time with them. He issued his commands and left it with his staff.
‘This is my friend Sayed Amin.’ By luck, Ezatullah had introduced Sherzai to the one person that he had wanted to meet, the police chief who conducted the investigation into the death of Leopold Laterme. It was a small town and Ezatullah seemed to know everyone of importance.
Sayed Amin proved himself to be a plain-talking man, obviously proud of his position, and he wore his uniform with pride. He appeared to be not much older than about thirty years of age. He was clean-shaven, unusual in a remote community; the more conservative members of the community would not have approved of him affecting the appearance of a Westerner.
Even Sherzai had a beard, and it irritated him greatly. It itched, and he couldn’t wait to shave it off when he got back home to the USA for Christmas; a few weeks without it would be a blessing.
‘Let’s go to one of my eateries for lunch,’ suggested Ezatullah.
‘Yes, of course.’ Police Chief Amin always cherished a free lunch. It also suited Sherzai; he wished to spend more time with the police chief, and a casual lunch may be the ideal place for Amin to elaborate on his current investigations.
The eatery was basic. Sitting squat on straw mats on the floor, Amin started to speak freely, probably more freely than a person in his posit
ion of authority should. Sherzai certainly did not intend to stop him. The conversation soon got around to the Belgian engineer.
‘A Westerner was killed up the road on the way to Kabul.’ Amin spoke rapidly, barely taking the time to eat the food laid in front of them.
Sherzai could not probe for more information for fear of raising suspicion. It was not an issue; the police chief was eager to relay the importance of his position to those seated.
‘I’m not sure it was the Taliban that killed him. They have not claimed responsibility; in fact, they have denied it. They are normally proud to claim very soon after the slaying of a Westerner, but this time it appears to be the opposite.’
‘Is that the only reason you believe it may not be them?’ Thankfully, it was Ezatullah that asked the question that Sherzai wanted to but dare not.
‘They were not very precise in the slaying; they just gunned him down and shot him in the face repeatedly. A knife to the throat and a video would have been of more use to them, and they have been keeping a low profile in recent years, this close into Kabul.’ The two Afghans killed alongside Laterme were not mentioned, they were of no importance.
‘I’m not going to change my report. Others can investigate further if they want, but I am not going to occupy my time with unnecessary paperwork.’
Amin’s statement concerned Sherzai. If not the Taliban, then who was it, and why? Foreigners were usually only targets for the Taliban. There was something here that he did not understand.
Sherzai ensured he attended the local mosque, five times a day. All those he met were extremely cordial; he was, after all, a cultured and educated man.
He had received open invitations by those he had met the first night at Ezatullah’s guesthouse to visit them; he decided he should take them up on their offers.
***
On Friday, and after breakfast with his host, Sherzai took off on his own into town. He planned to visit Abdul Qadir Shahid first. He seemed the one closest in sentiment to the Taliban. He found him at his fabric shop. Shahid seemed pleased to see him. Cups of tea later, the formalities having been observed, they started to talk. ‘I have spent all my life in this town,’ Shahid, a man of modest habits, said.
‘Have you been curious as to what there is outside of this region?’
‘No, why should I? I have been to Kabul and Jalalabad, and I found little to recommend them. I only look forward to a time when all the foreign invaders leave.’
‘Do you remember such a time?’
‘Very briefly before the Russians came, I saw a possibility then. I have stayed here in my country, even when the others all left for Pakistan. They were hard and sometimes dangerous years. I did not take up arms against any of the invaders, I just waited for them to leave, and they always do. The Russians were brutal and cruel, the current invaders are not, but they are here in our country uninvited.’
Sherzai was interested to find out about the Taliban and the slaying of the engineer. Did Shahid have any more information? He could not ask him directly.
‘The Taliban did not kill the Westerner up at the power station,’ Shahid said, unprompted by Sherzai.
‘I have heard that mentioned before,’ Sherzai said.
‘Someone is trying to put the blame on the Taliban.’ Shahid clearly stated as his sipped on his tea.
‘Why would they want to do that? It makes no sense to kill a Westerner for no reason.’
‘It was not the Taliban.’ Shahid said it as a statement of fact. He had obviously received his information direct from the one group of people who would know, the Taliban.
***
The meeting at the Intercontinental Hotel had been arranged for Sunday morning. Sherzai had to be in Kabul before nightfall on Saturday, or else change the meeting time. The road up the Kabul Gorge was not to be travelled at night. The condition of the surface, the crazy driving, were not the only problems, there were bandits.
‘I would like to meet up with Khushal Khan and Ali Mowllah. Lunch today would be a good time,’ Sherzai mentioned to Ezatullah on the day of his departure.
Ezatullah set up the invites. Sherzai felt obliged to invite him, though it would be better if he did not come. He intended to push his lunchtime guests for further information regarding the Belgium engineer. Ezatullah declined, he had a prior appointment, and he was becoming suspicious of Sherzai’s interest in a delicate subject.
‘Would it offend if I took them to a restaurant down by the dam? I am anxious to sample the fried fish that is caught in the lake.’
‘Please go, I will not take offence.’ Ezatullah replied. Sarobi dam had been built in the fifties, supplied power over a large area, although it had barely functioned in recent years. The fish the lake provided were small, bony, and delicious. They met for lunch – Khushal, jovial as ever; Ali, distinguished as always.
‘The cost of fuel is out of control, I can buy it for half price in Pakistan. It is destroying my business.’ It wasn’t of course. Khushal would just increase the cost for those wanting to smuggle contraband over the border from Pakistan. ‘Each week there is another roadblock and every local villain wants a piece of the action. What can I do about it? I’ll tell you, nothing.’ It seemed to be about the only time that Khushal’s jovial nature could be disrupted. It didn’t last for long, and after he had exercised his frustrations, he regained his cheerful manner.
Ali had his own concerns. ‘The violence in the community is distressing, something needs to be done about it. It is not the fundamentalists; it is the wealthy young men in the town. They have money in their pocket, and they watch Western television and attempt to emulate their behaviour. I remember the deference that they would have accorded me in the past. Now, they are openly rude if I comment on their behaviour.’
The meal progressed, the fish was as good as Sherzai had expected. He had to leave within the next hour, and the subject of the events at the Mahipar power station had not been mentioned.
‘What did you think about the death of the Westerner?’ He had tried to make the question appear casual. Anxious to be on the road, he needed to hear their opinions.
‘I have heard that there are factions within the Afghan government trying to place the blame on the Taliban. They seem more than capable of achieving that aim without any assistance.’ Ali said. He was not willing to elaborate on the subject.
‘It is not conducive to speculate or be too vocal.’ Khushal echoed Ali’s understanding on the matter.
Both had agreed it was not the Taliban. With the fond farewells over, Sherzai set off on the perilous trip to Kabul.
Chapter 2
Steve Case could never understand the subterfuge that the CIA went through to set up a simple meeting. No one in Dubai was concerned about a group of American businessmen meeting in a hotel.
The conference room on Thursday at the Moevenpick Hotel in Deira was suitably impressive, secure enough for open conversation without fear of being overheard.
Flight 401 on Ariana Airlines from Kabul to Dubai, used to give Steve the greatest trepidation. In his early days in the country, it was a Boeing 747 destined for scrap by Air India, until it was donated to the Afghan airline; it was either take the risk or not go. These days, it was an Airbus in much better condition. Steve felt calmer, but he did not have overt confidence in the airline. Yet again, he had no option but to take it, and at 7.30 p.m. the plane lifted off from Kabul. He had been there four hours early, no point in cutting it too fine. The queues were always long, the scramble to get to the front, the bribing to ensure preferential treatment, the three booths where someone would duly check documents and enter it manually into a book in pencil, all took time to negotiate successfully.
***
It was the first time that Steve had met Fred Bull, and his initial opinion of the man was not favourable.
Fred Bull was probably in his early forties but looked much older, apparently mentally astute and wearing an ill-fitting suit. He was easily out of breath with th
e simplest exertion and sweated a lot in the oppressive heat of Dubai. He could have lost sixty pounds, and the suit might have fitted. Steve did not warm to him; he had always exercised, eaten healthily and kept himself in trim. Bull was maybe five years older, but he looked at least twenty.
Senior CIA based in Washington, although Bull’s business card stated, ‘UAE-USA Business Advisor attached to the American Chamber of Commerce’.
Sally Parsons, with her pronounced drawl, could only have come from Texas; she was there to take the minutes. Slim, attractive, educated and in her mid-twenties, Steve warmed to her.
‘Let me introduce our two esteemed representatives from Washington. Firstly, Nick De Oliveira, senior business advisor on Middle Eastern and Central Asian Activities, reporting to the Security Council at the White House, and secondly, Chris Haviland, who also focusses on Middle Eastern and Central Asian activities, and assists Nick in representations to the president. Gentlemen, Welcome, it is indeed an honour.’ The introduction of De Oliveira and Haviland sounded a little sycophantic to Steve, but maybe that was required when dealing with persons who reported to the President of the United States.
‘Thank you for that welcome,’ Nick de Oliveira said. ‘We would also like to express our appreciation to Steve for coming here at short notice. We have a close interest in the death of the Belgian engineer outside of Kabul, and indeed, for the future of that troubled country. It is always tragic when these events occur.’
Steve could not help being critical. He had heard similar speeches over the years about Afghanistan. Lovely words, but on the ground in Afghanistan, not a lot had changed. Some had become wealthy, there were plenty of luxury cars on the road, the restaurants were full, but it was an illusion. The majority in the villages were still uneducated, impoverished, and invariably hungry and controlled by either the Taliban, an aggressive Warlord or a corrupt government official.
Steve had to admit that De Oliveira was an impressive person. In his late thirties, he was well dressed in an expensive-looking suit with black shoes polished to perfection.
Prelude To War: World War 3 (Steve Case Thriller Book 1) Page 2