Stalin's Final Sting

by Andrew Turpin

  During the Russian occupation, Sandjar had been recruited by Soviet intelligence. His main handler, a KGB officer named Yuri Severinov, had rewarded him well for supplying information about mujahideen operations in the Khost-Gardez Pass.

  He had been surprised to find that after the occupation, when the Soviets were long gone, Severinov had maintained contact, even if it was infrequent. Indeed, he had had a brief meeting with him only a few days earlier in Kabul, where Sandjar had gone to attend a two-day telecom technicians update course.

  The burst radios he had used in the old days to keep in touch with Severinov were long gone; now cell phones made things much easier.

  Sandjar no longer worked for the Russians, of course. Instead, he supplied valuable information to the Taliban about cell phone masts and installations. Taliban leaders had ordered the phone companies to turn their masts off at night so nobody could inform the security services if they spotted a Taliban military unit on an operation against US forces.

  If the phone companies refused to comply, the Taliban simply blew up the masts. Sandjar was able to tell them exactly how to do that at a minimum cost and with minimum effort. He also told them which providers were turning off and which weren’t. So far the Taliban had paid him more than $5,000.

  Sandjar continued walking down the hill until he drew level with Baz’s family compound, where he spotted the black Toyota pickup, parked outside. The air was still and hot, and Sandjar caught the faint sounds of a low-pitched conversation that was taking place on the other side of the tall mud-brick wall that enclosed the four homes in the compound. He stopped to listen.

  There were three male voices taking part in the conversation, which Sandjar could only pick up intermittently. He heard them discussing the condition of the Khost-Gardez highway that ran through the village and how much more work was required to complete the paving that was ongoing.

  In order to hear better and see who was there, Sandjar moved around the property to a gate that led into the courtyard on the side nearest the track. Now he was much nearer to the men. He applied his eye to a narrow crack between the wall and the gatepost and looked through.

  All three men were sitting around a low table on the far side of the courtyard.

  One of the men was Baz. The second was his brother, Noor, who Sandjar also knew well. But the third threw Sandjar initially. He wasn’t clean-shaven, but his beard was only a little longer than a stubble.

  Like the others, the man was speaking Pashto, but the voice was quite slow, as if the speaker was occasionally searching for words. Was this the man who had been in Baz’s Toyota?

  Sandjar watched the trio for a few moments, straining to pick up the conversation, his mind whirring. Then he realized with a jolt of surprise who the third man was. Quite apart from the missing beard, the face was broader and bespectacled, the hair was far shorter and tidier, and the demeanor seemed less manic. But he knew that it was Javed Hasrat. He hadn’t seen him since 1988, when he had been captured by Severinov and then briefly had reappeared in the village a few weeks later. Quickly, though, he had vanished again, this time taking his two remaining daughters with him.

  On that occasion, Sandjar had not been the one who supplied the intelligence that led to Javed’s capture; he had never found out who did. However, Sandjar had previously given Javed’s and Baz’s identities to Severinov, who had requested the names of the men who had shot down two Russian Mi-24 helicopters and killed the surviving crew members.

  Sandjar had felt quite guilty for a few years about taking Severinov’s money for that piece of information. Later, when the Russian asked him on one occasion if anybody in the village had heard what had happened to Javed, he replied no, adding that everyone assumed he had died in prison. Severinov had seemed content with the answer and never mentioned it again.

  Sandjar looked back through the crack in the gate. Although the men were keeping their voices low, he could just about make out what was being said. The conversation had moved on from the state of the highway, and Baz was asking Javed something about when he was planning to head into the mountains.

  “Saturday,” Javed said. “I’ll need three mules to carry the hardware. Can we get those?”

  “Yes, no problem,” Baz replied.

  “Good,” Javed said. “I suggest you stay here. I’ll go with Noor. We’ll take Hashim and Kabir with us, and then I’ll radio you when I’m on the way back. At that point, you can bring the truck to the meeting place. I’m definitely not walking three mules back into the village with those things on board for everyone to see.”

  There was silence for a time.

  Then Baz spoke again. “I’m just going to fetch a couple of things from the Toyota.” He stood and began walking toward the courtyard gate behind which Sandjar was standing.

  Sandjar quickly ducked around the corner and ran behind another wall that belonged to the neighboring property; then he headed down a narrow alley that led back to the main road. From there, he continued walking down the track toward his own home, about a kilometer away.

  When he arrived, he sat and ate dinner with his wife, Laila, his sons, and four of their cousins. Unusual for him, he was subdued and untalkative during the meal of vegetable and chive-filled dumplings, topped with tomato and yogurt sauces.

  Afterward, he sat out alone on his patio until much later than normal.

  What should I do? he asked himself.

  It was past eleven o’clock. The night air was going cold, and the stars shone like a finely detailed painting above him. By then, he knew what he was going to do. The temptation of earning a significant chunk of money was just too much—and he knew Severinov always paid properly if the information was valuable enough.

  He slipped his phone from his pocket and checked the reception indicator. Four bars. The Taliban had left the towers alone that night. He tapped in a message.

  Hello Yuri. It was good to see you in Kabul. I have some news. A mujahideen Javed Hasrat who you know from 1988 is here in Wazrar. He is staying with his old friend Baz Babar. I thought you would be interested. Sandjar.

  Sandjar’s finger hovered over the “send” button three times. And three times he withdrew it. Finally, he decided to sleep on it and make up his mind in the morning.

  Chapter Eleven

  Friday, May 31, 2013

  Moscow

  It was still only five thirty in the morning when Severinov woke. As usual, he leaned over, grabbed his iPhone from his leather-covered bedside table, and checked his messages. There was only one, from Ivan Lvov, to say he had been to check out the Street Ten address for Javed, but it had appeared to be unoccupied. There was no sign of him and no vehicle parked there. He was going to keep the property under further surveillance.

  Severinov put the phone down again. Usually, his first waking moments in his king-sized four-poster bed were spent thinking through his business priorities for the day.

  Today, though, he had something more personal on his mind. He picked up a folder that was lying next to him on the bed and removed a densely typewritten report on two sheets of faded yellowing paper. He had removed the folder from his safe the previous night and had been intending to read through the report before he went to sleep. But he had somehow just drifted off.

  Now he decided to read it before getting up. It had been many years since he had last looked at it—but now he felt he needed to do so again for reassurance that he should not doubt his own motives.

  MEMO

  35th OVP Independent Helicopter Regiment (Military unit 57723)

  1st Squadron—based Jalalabad

  Ref: X6720PR

  FROM: Captain Yegor Malevich (Commanding Officer)

  TO: General Lieutenant Boris Gromov, Commander, 40th Army, Kabul

  SUBJECT: Death of 2x Mil Mi-24 helicopter crews—Flight 19

  LOCATION: Wazrar, Khost-Gardez Pass, Saturday, January 2, 1988

  PERSONNEL: Deceased Crew Members Aircraft 1: Nikas Shalamov (pilot); Dmitry Shukshin
(weapons systems officer); Georgy Matrosov (technician)

  Deceased Crew Members Aircraft 2: Ioseb Grigorovich (pilot); Leonid Gogol (weapons systems officer); Konstantin Herzen (technician)

  INCIDENT SUMMARY: Flight 19, consisting of three Mil Mi-24 helicopters, departed Jalalabad Airfield 07:30 and landed at Khost Airfield 08:05.

  The flight departed Khost 10:45 following Jalalabad base orders for preplanned operational strategic strike on known mujahideen bases in Wazrar and Balak villages, Khost-Gardez Pass.

  Multiple inhabitants of Wazrar/Balak were known from KGB intelligence sources to possess Stinger/RPG weapons.

  Flight 19 assigned altitude 12,000 feet and initial flight path 270 degrees, instructed to follow highway from Khost heading west then north into the Khost-Gardez Pass. The flight operated in V-formation, Aircraft 1 leading.

  Strike on Wazrar village executed by Flight 19 and was successful. All targets destroyed with Gatling guns and autocannon.

  Flight 19 left Wazrar at 11:19 on a course for Balak. At 11:22, the pilot of Aircraft 3 (surviving member of Flight 19) reported seeing anti-aircraft ground-to-air missile fired from a location approximately one mile north.

  The missile, suspected to be a Stinger FIM-92, struck the lead Mi-24, Aircraft 1, destroying it. Debris from Aircraft 1 struck Aircraft 2, disabling the rear rotor. The pilot of Aircraft 2 succeeded in executing an emergency landing on the highway that runs through the Khost-Gardez Pass.

  The crew of Aircraft 3 had visual confirmation of the crew of Aircraft 1 exiting the helicopter. The pilot of Aircraft 3 took the decision to climb to 12,000 feet out of range of further Stinger missiles. He set a course back to Khost Airfield. He reached the airfield at 11:41.

  There was another paragraph, headed Supplementary Information Received, but Severinov couldn’t face reading that again. It reported the ensuing mutilation and killing of the surviving crew in the second Mi-24. The episode had been typical of mujahideen who captured Soviet military prisoners and then subjected them to prolonged and extremely agonizing torture.

  The full report, which Severinov also had a copy of in his safe, was far longer, at fifty-two pages, but he didn’t want to read that, either. There was too much gory detail.

  Immediately, he had a mental flashback to that day. The call that had come in from General Lieutenant Gromov at 40th Army headquarters to tell him the news. The rocky helicopter ride to Khost and the trip in an armored car to the military mortuary. The white-coated officer pulling back the sheet.

  Severinov fought to stop the anger rising inside him as he read.

  A few minutes after he finished, his phone beeped. He grabbed the device and checked the message that had just arrived. It was from Sandjar Hassani in Wazrar.

  “Shit,” he said out loud as he read it. So, Javed was not only alive, but he had disappeared on vacation from his Kabul office and now had turned up in his old home village. That would explain why there was no sight of Javed at the Kabul house.

  Severinov immediately tapped out a reply to Sandjar.

  Thank you, my friend, that is helpful. What is he doing in Wazrar?

  An hour later, a message came back.

  Javed planning trip into the mountains with mules on Saturday. Bringing something back. During the war he stored weapons (Stingers?) in cave near Wazrar. I think there is a connection.

  Severinov’s first thought took him back to the RPG attack on the highway heading to Kabul Airport three days earlier. It must have been Javed. Now what should he do?

  There seemed only one obvious answer, and to achieve that, there were two options. One was simply to delegate it to Vasily Balagula and to keep his own hands clean. That was his modus operandi and undoubtedly the logical thing to do. It would also be the option that his personal head of security and close protection bodyguard would try to insist on.

  But somewhere deep inside him, Severinov knew that for his own peace of mind, he needed to be there himself if the circle of justice was finally to be closed off—he needed to deliver the coup de grâce personally. Forget the advice from his staff. Be a bee that stings.

  He picked up his phone and dialed Vasily.

  When his former Spetsnaz friend answered, Severinov went straight into a detailed list of instructions for two jobs that he wanted Vasily to join him in carrying out—urgently. The first related to Javed Hasrat, the second to Joe Johnson.

  Friday, May 31, 2013

  Kabul

  The list of potential passport forgers that Haroon supplied was a short one. There were just three names on it. Johnson had been expecting a few more.

  “This line of inquiry could be over more quickly than I thought,” Johnson said to Jayne, who was sitting on the other side of the dining table in their rented villa.

  “And that’s if they’re all still around,” Jayne said. “Might be a long shot.”

  The details attached to the names were also brief. First was Din Khan, who was the owner of a private commercial printing company. The others were Ali Jadoon, who ran a book publishing business, and Gul Shah, a graphic artist.

  Haroon added in the email that it would be better if he went along with Johnson, with Jayne staying at the villa, as three would be too many for what was meant to be a low-key visit.

  “Fill your wallet with afghanis and dollars,” the note added. “We’ll need plenty of baksheesh. Cooperation unlikely.” That was a given. Johnson smiled: he had just finished reading a report from the embassy estimating that nationally, such bribery payments totaled over $2.5 billion a year, equivalent to a fifth of the Afghan economy.

  “We’d better get started,” Johnson said.

  An hour later, after collecting Haroon from the small guesthouse where he was staying, Johnson’s driver, Omar, was parking their armored silver Toyota Hilux pickup outside Din Khan’s printing business on Andarabi Road, next to the Kabul River. The truck blended seamlessly into the environment. Nearly every vehicle in Kabul seemed to be a Toyota: the cars were mainly white Corolla sedans, and the pickups were mainly Hiluxes. All were covered in a thick layer of light-colored dust.

  Johnson handed over two bundles of bank bills to Haroon, one containing dollars, the other afghanis, and gazed out the car window. The two-story printing business shop front was narrow, and the door windowpane had a large crack running from top to bottom. A steel security grill was raised three-quarters of the way to the top, and a faded cardboard sign in Pashto displayed in the window indicated the shop was open.

  On the other side of the road, behind a low concrete wall, the subdued brown waters of the Kabul River meandered past extensive piles of plastic bottles, waste cardboard, abandoned metal, and other flotsam and jetsam that lay on mudbanks on both sides of the water. Several young boys and old men were sifting through the debris, occasionally placing items they thought sellable into plastic bags.

  As soon as Johnson stepped out of the car onto the sidewalk, the dust and smog triggered a coughing fit. Kabul’s air quality really was unbearable.

  Once his eyes had become adjusted to the gloom inside the shop, Johnson realized that the frontage was deceptive. The shop stretched back a long way and became gradually wider toward the rear.

  He followed Haroon to a plain wooden counter that ran down one side of the interior. Immediately Johnson noticed a small man at the other end of the counter wearing circular wire-rimmed glasses, a wispy gray beard, and a chitrali cap who was dealing with a customer. He took a brown envelope from somewhere under the counter and passed it to the customer, who handed him several bank bills in return, which the man swiftly counted and stuffed into a drawer. The customer nodded and walked out. There was no receipt, no record of the sale.

  Once the customer had gone, the man walked along behind the counter toward Haroon and greeted him with a restrained smile of recognition and a formal, clipped greeting.

  “Hello, Din,” Haroon said. “It’s been such a long time. It’s good to see you again, my friend. Can I introduce a friend, Joe
Johnson?”

  Din Khan didn’t look particularly pleased to see Haroon. He nodded toward Johnson and shook hands in a quick, slightly nervous manner, then turned his attention back to Haroon. “What can I do to help you?”

  “It’s a long story,” Haroon said, “but going back to the late 1980s, do you remember a man called Abdul Akbari? He worked for the KHAD.”

  Johnson watched Din’s face intently. After considering the question for a few seconds, Din nodded. “I do remember Akbari a little,” he said.

  Quickly, Haroon launched into a whispered explanation in Pashto of what they were looking for. They had a high-speed back-and-forth debate that Johnson tried to follow. Din explained the difficulties involved in sourcing old information, and Haroon asked Din how much money he wanted to be permitted to go through his records. Then Haroon counted out a handful of dollar bills and pushed them over the counter. As Din pocketed the bills, he spoke rapidly then shook his head vigorously.

  Din suddenly disappeared to the rear of the shop, leaving them alone.

  “He was speaking too quickly for me to follow,” Johnson said. “What did he say about the records?”

  “Yes, he does have records of what he supplied, all written in a ledger, but he’s not sure where it is. He says he needs time to put his hands on it. And he does remember Akbari, but he can’t recall actually doing a job for him, although there were a lot of such jobs at that time, and it was twenty-five years ago, so you wouldn’t expect him to. He’s promising to try to check. We’ll have to give him a few days, he says.” Haroon shrugged.

  “What’s it going to cost?” Johnson asked.

  “Probably eight thousand afghanis if he comes up with the goods, but he wants it in dollars. I’ve given him fifty bucks so far just to pay him for his time spent searching.”

  Johnson quickly calculated. Eight grand was about $115. Din returned, shook hands with Haroon and Johnson, and held the door open for them as they left. He looked as though he was in his late fifties and probably wasn’t the type to put up a major fight if backed into a corner, but you never knew. If he had survived in business in Kabul this long, he must have someone powerful on his side, either physically or politically.