Chaos in Kabul (12 page)

The Land Cruiser pulled up in front of Berry’s poppy palace
, and he and his fellow mercenaries dragged their prisoners out of the car, shoving them through the small basement door.

Rufus and Willie hauled the two Afghans into a workshop and started systematically and methodically beating them. For some minutes, the only sound to be heard was the dull thud of fists on flesh. When one man slumped to the dirt floor, he was hauled back to his feet and beaten some more. Their lips smashed, eyebrows split, and noses broken, the Afghans endured their punishment stoically. If they had fallen into the hands of the police, they would have suffered the same softening-up treatment. It was the local custom.

Darius had parked the armored Corolla and was now watching the scene in silence, smoking a cigarette. During a pause, he remarked, “I don’t think they’re hitting hard enough, Commander. Let me take over.”

“Be my guest,” said Berry, who was leaning against a workbench. He himself hadn’t touched the prisoners yet.

Darius took a metal cricket bat from a corner of the room and started whacking the two men on the back and kidneys, while eloquently cursing them in Dari.

Feeling relieved, he finally put down his bat and lit another cigarette.
The two men lay sprawled on the ground, bloody and mute. Resigned. Fatalistic.

Berry, whose Dari wasn’t good enough to conduct an interrogation, turned to his driver.

“Tell them we don’t want to hurt them. We just want the man they kidnapped and the money he was carrying. If they lead us to him, we’ll spare their lives.”

Darius translated, and the men struggled to their feet. The older of the two answered briefly.

“He says they got the Toyota from two guys who promised them money to carry out the kidnapping. They say they don’t know what happened to the foreigner.”

Berry was unimpressed.

“Tell them that they’re lying and that I don’t like liars,” he said flatly. “Ask them again.”

When Darius did so, the older man answered plaintively.

“He says he’s not lying,” he translated.

Berry calmly walked over, drew his Makarov, and put the barrel on the top of the younger prisoner’s head. He aimed the automatic straight down and pulled the trigger.

In the small room, the sound of the shot was deafening. The bullet tore through the victim’s skull, ending up somewhere between his lungs, and he pitched forward as if struck by lightning. Berry slipped the safety back on and holstered his gun. The second prisoner was now staring up at him in terror.

“Tell him I’m going to continue the interrogation. The first time he tells a lie, he’ll suffer the same fate. Does he understand?”

Darius translated and the surviving prisoner stammered something.

“He understands,” said Darius.

“Does he know the kidnappers?”

The prisoner nodded.

“What are their names?”

“Abdul and Zarnegar.”

“Have they killed the hostage?”

He wasn’t sure. “When they left to try to sell the Toyota, he was still alive.”

“Where?”

“On a farm.”

“Is it far from here?”

“Not far.”

The prisoner used the word
nazdik
, which could mean anything from five hundred yards to ten miles.

“In an apartment or a house?”

“He’s down in a well,” he said, and described the farm and the well.

It was a clever system; the police could search the farm without finding anything.

“How many men are there?” asked Berry.

“Two, maybe three,” said the prisoner. “The owner of the farm is there; he’s supposed to get part of the ransom.”

“Do they have weapons?”

“A Kalashnikov and some pistols.”

“Where do they sleep?”

“At the farm.”

“You’re going to take us there.”

At this, the prisoner looked upset.

“I don’t know if I could find my way there,” he said. “It’s complicated.”

“Darius, tell him that if he doesn’t take us to the farm, I’ll kill him, just like his pal,” said Berry. “It’s late, so we won’t go there tonight, but tomorrow at dawn. Tie him up good!”

Darius was happy to oblige and lashed the prisoner’s wrists to the workbench. There was no danger of his escaping.

Maureen Kieffer was so distracted she couldn’t concentrate on her welding work. She hadn’t heard from Malko for two days now. She had called a friend at the Serena several times, but without any luck. She didn’t dare contact the CIA. They wouldn’t tell her anything, anyhow.

No report of a foreigner being kidnapped had appeared in any of Kabul’s twenty newspapers.

She didn’t know where to turn.

Warren Michaelis was going through the memory of Malko’s Nokia. Among the few numbers listed, one of them gave him a start. He checked it against a database, and a photograph of Nelson Berry promptly appeared on-screen.

The CIA station chief swore under his breath. So Malko was in contact with Berry! That couldn’t have anything to do with the Taliban. He knew the South African well and had even worked with him in the old Blackwater days. The Agency had used Berry to discreetly eliminate some double agents and Taliban infiltrators, and for some even dirtier tricks. But Michaelis didn’t like the man. He considered him a killer for hire and had cut off contact.

Other Americans and Afghans continued to use him, however, because he controlled a small group of expats—South Africans, mainly—who were prepared to do most anything. Berry was even suspected of working for some big drug traffickers who hired him to protect their shipments.

In short, Berry was off-limits, yet Malko had been in touch with him.

Was the Austrian acting on his own, or was he following orders? If the latter, Michaelis should have known about it.

For the moment, however, what mattered was finding him, and Berry might have some information. Michaelis dialed his number and left a message to call back immediately.

Michaelis was about to leave the Ariana when his personal cell phone rang: an unknown Afghan number appeared on-screen. He answered, feeling somewhat surprised. Very few people knew his private number.

An Afghan man said a very long sentence in Dari that Michaelis had trouble grasping. His Dari was far from perfect, but he caught the words “hostage,” “dollar,” and “tomorrow.”

“Wait! Wait!” he shouted into the phone.

On his landline he called his secretary.

“Tell Wardak to get in here right away!”

Amin Wardak, one of his Afghan deputies, burst into the office moments later. Michaelis held the cell phone out to him.

“It’s a man who only speaks Afghan,” he said. “I think it’s about Malko Linge.”

After a long exchange in Dari, Wardak turned to the CIA station chief and said, “He says they’re holding a foreigner. They will kill him if they don’t get a ransom of fifty million afghanis. They plan to execute him tomorrow morning at the hour of the first prayer.”

Michaelis felt his blood run cold. He had found Malko but was now in danger of losing him for good.

“Tell him it’s too late to get so much money together. He has to wait until tomorrow. And until noon, not the first prayer. He’ll get what he’s asking for.”

Wardak relayed the information, then put the phone down.

“He said he’ll call back tomorrow.”

“What was that reference to the first prayer about?” Michaelis asked. “Are they Taliban?”

“No, they’re trying to make us think so. They’re common criminals. That’s even more dangerous. When they don’t get a ransom, they often kill the people they kidnap.”

“We’ll pay the damn ransom, for Christ’s sake!”

“Be careful, sir. This will be very tricky. We should get the police to handle the operation. Otherwise, we might lose both the money and the victim.”

“I’ll phone the NDS first thing in the morning,” Michaelis promised. “I’m not going to get any sleep tonight.”

At least he was reasonably sure of one thing: Malko was still alive.

Malko’s frozen hands clutched the grenade his captors had dropped down to him. It was a little American grenade, its pin still in place. Why had they given it to him?

Intimidation?

He could pull the pin and try to throw it up when his kidnappers removed the well cover, of course. But if he missed and it fell back down, he’d be blown to bits. In short, there was nothing he could do with it.

The cold seemed to have gotten even worse. Malko was now shivering constantly and was only dimly aware that he hadn’t been fed. He was so chilled that he didn’t feel very hungry, though he knew he was getting weaker. Between the cold and the fear, he was sure he wouldn’t be able to sleep. But then, sitting on the damp ground with his head on his knees, he gradually dozed off.

“Walid, I’m in contact with Malko Linge’s kidnappers,” announced the CIA chief. “How do I proceed?”

It was 7:45 a.m., and Michaelis had phoned the NDS official before he left for the office. They had to act fast.

“Come to my office in an hour,” said Varang. “We’ll go to the Interior Ministry together. They have more experience in dealing with this kind of problem. You can’t just hand over the ransom, because if you do, you’ll never see Mr. Linge again. The exchange has to be very carefully worked out. But at least you’ve picked up the trail. It’s clearly a case of extortion.”

When Berry and his men opened the workshop door, the thief was snoring.

“Wake him up!” Berry ordered.

Darius did so by kicking the man hard, then hauling him to his feet. Between the dried blood on his face and his grossly swollen lips, he wasn’t a pretty sight.

The South African went to stand in front of him and said, “You’re going to take us to the farm. If everything goes well, you’ll go free. But if the prisoner is gone or dead, you’ll become a
shalid
”—a martyr.

The man was led to the Land Cruiser and put in the passenger seat, his hands still bound. Darius got behind the wheel, an AK-47 beside him on the floor. Berry and the two South African mercenaries climbed in back, along with what they needed to assault the bandits. They even had an M16 with a 40 mm grenade launcher, which could splatter bad guys all over the landscape.

“Which way do we go?” asked Darius.

“Take the Nangarhar road,” said the prisoner. It was the way to Jalalabad.

They crossed the city center and headed east, generally following the Kabul River. After a mile or so, the prisoner pointed to a track that climbed a barren hillside on the left.

“I think it’s there.”

Berry, who was sitting behind him, jabbed his gun in the prisoner’s neck.

“You think, or you know?”

“It’s up there,” he blurted. “In the village of Tara Khel.”

It was a big village spread across a stony plateau at the foot of the mountain. The track snaked around ravines and cliffs. They were now out in the middle of nowhere, about ten miles from Kabul.

And they had a problem: the white Land Cruiser stuck out like a sore thumb. They could only pray that Malko’s kidnappers didn’t spot them. If they did, they would have all the time in the world to cut his throat. Around here, a white SUV was bound to arouse suspicions, but Berry hadn’t wanted to take the armored Corolla. That would have been worse, because the kidnappers knew it.

The track got even bumpier, and Darius was forced to slow down. As they neared Tara Khel, the prisoner said, “Turn right toward that big farm.”

An even worse road led to a large, isolated farm with high brick walls. They pulled up in front of a green metal door. Darius stopped, and the five men got out of the SUV. Berry pushed on the door, but it was locked.

He aimed his pistol at the lock. Behind him, Rufus and Willie stood poised on either side of the prisoner, weapons at the ready.

“Okay, let’s go!”

Berry shot the lock and kicked the metal door open. Driving the car thief ahead of them, the three South Africans rushed inside.

The farm consisted only of a low building with an old Corolla parked in front.

A few seconds later, the farmhouse door was opened by a man with an AK-47. He had no time to use it, however. Rufus stopped and fired the grenade launcher. Its 40 mm projectile hit the man right in the chest, literally blowing him to pieces.

A second man appeared and was immediately cut down by the raiders. Stepping over his body, the three South Africans entered the farmhouse, leaving Darius to guard the prisoner. They found a
man at a table, eating. He quickly raised his hands as high as they would go. Rufus and Willie searched him—he wasn’t armed—and forced him onto the floor.

The South Africans then searched the house without finding anything. They went outside and ran over to Darius and the prisoner.

“Make him show us where the well is!”

The terrified Afghan led the way behind the house. The South Africans found the circular well, its opening sealed by oilcloth held down by planks.

They tore off the boards and the cloth, uncovering a dark, round opening.

Berry leaned over the lip and called, “Malko!”

The bottom of the well was dark, and he couldn’t see what was down there. After a few moments of silence, a feeble voice answered, “Yes, I’m here.”

“He’s alive!” Berry shouted.

When they hauled Malko out of the well, Berry swore softly in Afrikaans. He wasn’t a softhearted man, but seeing Malko made him revert to his native tongue. The Austrian was as pale as death, his face gaunt under a four-day stubble. His cashmere coat looked several sizes too big for him.

He opened his eyes and attempted what he probably thought was a smile. “You got here just in the nick of time,” he muttered.

The men half carried him to the SUV parked outside the walls. Malko wasn’t able to stay upright in his seat, so they belted him in.

Their Afghan prisoner had been anxiously watching the scene unfold.

“Is everything okay, Commander?” he asked in Dari, and Darius translated.

Berry shook his head and said, “Bad luck, buddy. We need your seat, so we have to leave you here.”

Pulling out his Makarov, he shot the man in the head. The impact sent him flying backward as his skull exploded.