Chaos in Kabul (16 page)

And was the Talib mullah really even going there? Malko wondered. There was no way to know for sure.

Entering the Serena lobby, he bumped into Alicia Burton, who was coming out.

“Speak of the devil!” she said. “I came to see you. I just left you a note.”

“Why?”

“Come have a cup of coffee and I’ll tell you.”

Intrigued, Malko followed her to the hotel’s nonalcoholic bar. Alicia walked in front of him, and the sight of her little round ass stirred him. Each time Malko escaped death, he experienced powerful sexual stirrings. As if she sensed this, Alicia leaned over the table to give him a panoramic view of her chest as soon as they sat down. Even in a heavy cashmere sweater, a tweed skirt slit up the side, and thick wool stockings, she was extremely sexy—and she knew it.

“Here’s what I have in mind,” she said. “I want to write a story about your kidnapping for the
New York Times
.”

Which was just about the last thing he needed.

“I really don’t feel like talking about it,” he said carefully. “I’m not a public figure. Besides, I have some calls to make and I don’t have much time.”

The young woman persisted. “I’d like to chat with you a little, at least.”

She was gazing at him very directly, in a way that went straight to his libido.

Malko pretended to agree reluctantly. “Well, if you insist. Let’s go upstairs and talk.”

“I’ll go first. Let’s not shock the natives!”

A mystified Parviz Bamyan was studying the report. The acting NDS chief was puzzled by the account of an attack by a group of Taliban on a foreigner named Malko Linge in the village of Kotali Khayr Kana two hours earlier. It was all very odd. Passersby had alerted the police about a fierce exchange of gunfire in a local service station. The police dispatched a patrol, which found a bullet-ridden
SUV and the bodies of four armed men, one of whom had a grenade launcher.

They were almost certainly Taliban.

But the Taliban usually only attacked centers of power: the ISAF, the Americans, the police, or the Afghan army. In this case, they had shot up a gas station. There didn’t seem to be any victims, in spite of the violence of the shootout.

Nor had the Taliban claimed credit for the action, as they normally did. In addition, some of the witnesses mentioned seeing a group of men in black turbans fleeing the scene. Given their clothes, these were likely Taliban as well.

A fruit seller claimed he saw a
khareji
—a foreigner—in a car at the gas station that had later disappeared: a Toyota Corolla, like tens of thousands of others in Kabul.

And there was one last curious fact: nobody had filed a complaint about the attack.

Bamyan decided to try to identify this foreigner, whom some Talibs had tried to kill and others had apparently protected. He sent the file over to his colleague in charge of monitoring Taliban groups in Kabul. Maybe he could make sense of it.

Alicia stepped into Malko’s room, shed her coat, and leaned against a side table, smiling up at him. “I guess we know each other a little by now,” she said.

The lower part of her body seemed drawn to Malko’s like a magnet. He could feel the rough tweed of her skirt as she rubbed it against his alpaca suit.

She was offering herself on a silver platter.

He ran his hands over her body, moving from the roundness of her breasts to the flare of her hips, then stopping lower down, along the slits in her tweed skirt.

Alicia gave him an innocent look and asked, “Will you tell me about your kidnapping afterward?”

It was a free-trade-agreement proposal. The redheaded reporter knew how to use her charm.

“I don’t have much to say,” objected Malko, slipping his hands under the heavy cashmere sweater and finding the breasts without defense.

Without defense, but not without reaction. Under his fingers, the nipples were stiffening like brave little pencil erasers.

Alicia heaved a sigh and put her hands behind her back. With a faint zipping sound, her tweed skirt fell to the carpet. Malko was pleased to discover that her heavy wool stockings ended below her groin, at a lovely, snow-white string panty.

He now faced a painful choice. After due consideration, he abandoned the warm breasts for these tiny panties that seemed eager to be removed. Their owner helped with a slight shift of her hips, revealing her reddish, heart-shaped bush. Nor was she inactive. Skillful fingers lowered Malko’s fly, and he felt magic fingers clasping his cock and rousing it from its relative torpor.

Since her efforts weren’t producing results quickly enough, Alicia squatted on her heels and started performing a blow job, for which she had an obvious gift. Malko was fast forgetting his earlier worries. He hadn’t had many pleasant moments since arriving in Kabul.

The young woman’s red head rose and fell as smoothly as a well-regulated metronome. Malko now felt warmth spreading between his legs that demanded to be put into action. At that, Alicia looked up at him, her face softly aglow.

“I want it now,” she murmured.

Without waiting for an answer, she walked over to the bed. But instead of flopping down on her back, she wisely kneeled on the little bedcover carpet with her rump high, her chest on the quilt, and her arms stretched out in front of her.

Ready for the sacrifice.

Walking over to her, Malko couldn’t help but admire this skillful woman who in a few moments had turned an anxious man into a buck in heat.

He didn’t bother being gentle. He drove his cock into her, encountering purely theoretical resistance. Alicia’s only reaction when he pinned her to the bed was to clutch at the sheets. Malko was in no mood for courtly love. Bracing himself with the young woman’s shoulders, he started thrusting with all his might.

This drew gradually louder sighs from his partner. He was doing a kind of belly dance on her back, as if trying to split her in two. Suddenly, he became aware that Alicia was screaming. She clearly hadn’t expected to get such energetic servicing.

Or to enjoy it so much.

Malko was on the verge of coming and was having trouble holding back. He was about to let it happen, but then his devilish instincts took over. First he surreptitiously withdrew from the slippery sheath. Alicia’s cries subsided a little, but being polite, she didn’t complain. But when Malko set his rigid cock against her ass, her screams resumed—on a very different tone.

Now she was sounding like a stuck piglet.

Undaunted, Malko again tried to enter her, but Alicia fought him like a wildcat. Irritated by this unexpected resistance, he was forced to return to his previous position. He sank all the way back into the young woman and came almost immediately.

All in all, a lovely bit of sexual recreation.

When she straightened out and turned around, he saw that the young woman’s makeup had run and there was fire in her green eyes. The look she gave him was half-pleased, half-furious.

“You were fucking me just great, so why did you try to rape me?”

“I wasn’t trying to rape you,” he protested, “just enjoying your beautiful ass some more.”

“Only sickos do that!” she spat.

To Malko, this suggested she needed some time in a good finishing school. But there was no point in arguing.

Alicia disappeared into the bathroom, and when she came out, she looked like a nice young girl again.

She was even more proper when she put on her panties and skirt. Then, with the same charming smile she’d shown when she arrived, she asked, “So what do you have to tell me, now that you’ve abused me?”

She had a gift for gab that would have done a politician proud.

Malko smiled back at her. “Not a thing,” he said.

Her face instantly changed. The smile vanished, the corners of her mouth fell, and her eyes turned cold. If looks could kill, Malko would’ve been a little pile of dust.

“You bastard!” she screamed.

That was the only thing she said before grabbing her purse and going out, slamming the door so hard that plaster fell from around the jamb. The Serena had been built by a Turkish developer who’d pocketed half the construction budget.

Malko gazed at the door.

Whoever had sent Alicia Burton to debrief him wouldn’t be getting their money’s worth. They had lost whatever they invested in the operation, and the young woman had lost some infinitesimal part of her virtue.

Driving from downtown, Nelson Berry circled the Shah Massoud roundabout with the huge portraits of the late Tajik commander. He also passed a street on his right with checkpoints every twenty yards: one of the entrances to President Karzai’s palace.

Beyond the roundabout, he took Airport Road, the wide avenue that led straight to the airport. Traffic was moving smoothly.
On the days when Karzai went that way, the avenue was closed off, allowing him to make for his destination at top speed. Policemen were stationed at regular intervals along the way to prevent demonstrations or assassination attempts.

The South African slowly drove up the avenue, which was lined by low houses. Suddenly he noticed a tall building under construction on his right, its facade hidden by sheets of green canvas. Workers were busy on the upper floors. Berry turned off onto the first street beyond it, which led to the Shaheen Hotel. He parked in the lot and walked back to the fifteen-story redbrick building. It bore a huge sign that boldly proclaimed: “Azizi Plaza. Completion: 2013.”

They were running a little behind schedule.

Berry walked around the building, studying its access points. Then he returned to his car, thinking hard. He might have found a way to earn the CIA’s money.

A day after Mullah Kotak left for Quetta, Warren Michaelis
phoned.

“I have what you asked for,” he said. “Can I send someone to the Serena in an hour?”

“Sure, that’ll be fine,” said Malko, who badly needed a break. He’d been spending all his time watching television and had learned that the skeleton of Richard III had been dug up in England. Another twisted, paranoid ruler, thought Malko.

He had nothing else to do, having decided to suspend his activities until Kotak returned. Too many disturbing things had happened, including the recent gas station attack. Nelson Berry was still waiting for the five-hundred-thousand-dollar payment and hadn’t contacted him. That didn’t particularly bother Malko, who was staying on the sidelines for the time being. He didn’t have any word from Maureen Kieffer either, and he hadn’t called her. Until he knew exactly who was after him, he didn’t want to put her in danger. The door-slamming Alicia Burton had probably gotten her knuckles rapped for failing to learn anything about his activities.

So when someone knocked on that same door a little later, Malko was startled. The case officer—a polite, distant young man—brought a briefcase with the money, but Malko didn’t
even bother opening it. He just initialed the receipt, as he had before.

When he was alone, he texted Berry:
I have your asset.
He got an answer a few minutes later:
Sending Darius to usual spot at noon.
Berry apparently trusted the Afghan enough to bring him half a million dollars in cash.

After giving Darius the money, Malko asked the front desk for a car and driver. As a change of pace, he felt like going shopping for semiprecious stones on Chicken Street—a totally ordinary outing for which he didn’t need the CIA’s help.

Malko was admiring the lapis lazuli and agate cats he had bought when his phone beeped with a text message. It was very brief:

I am back from Quetta.

So the fat mullah was showing signs of life! It was about time. Malko was starting to feel trapped. Between his mysterious kidnapping, Michaelis’s honey trap, and the Taliban ambush, it was all a bit much. Especially since without the cleric’s protection Malko would have joined Kabul’s long list of unexplained deaths.

Mullah Kotak looked drawn and had lost some of his normal good cheer. After the usual preambles, he sat Malko down on the pile of cushions and served him tea.

“I thought I would never get there,” he said with a sigh. “There was fighting near Spin Boldak and it was freezing in Quetta. But what wouldn’t I do for a friend?”

The mullah fairly oozed unctuousness.

Malko was on pins and needles but was polite enough to drink some of his chai before asking, “Was your trip fruitful?”

“Completely!” said the cleric. “I had the great honor of an
interview with our sainted Mullah Omar, a man of great wisdom who loves justice.”

Also an obscurantist, thought Malko. Omar was the man whose religious fervor led him to blow up the huge Buddhas of Bamiyan, destroying one of humanity’s treasures. Once a simple village mullah, Omar had become the undisputed leader of the Taliban solely because of his rectitude and fanaticism.

“Was this meeting related to our business?” asked Malko.

“Yes, it was,” said the cleric, nodding. “But first I spoke with Mullah Beradar, the man who traveled to Doha to reach an agreement with our American friends.”

“And asked that President Karzai be killed,” Malko reminded him.

“That’s correct, though he was only transmitting the decision taken by our secret committee and confirmed by Mullah Omar, may Allah keep him in his holy protection.