Chaos in Kabul (21 page)

Feeling his way in the dark, Berry tried to get his bearings. Everything was raw cement. He found a staircase and climbed to the fourth floor, the level he had selected for his shooting position. Once there, he again felt his way in the dark to locate the side of the building facing Airport Road. He went down some steps, came back up again, got turned around, and hit dead ends, but eventually
he reached a room with windows blocked by the green canvas. When he slit it with his knife, he was hugely relieved to see the streetlights along Airport Road.

Finding a balcony with a rough cement guardrail, Berry set the Degtyarov on it, with just the end of the barrel showing. He adjusted the Zeiss scope for the anticipated distance and chambered a round. Then he set the rifle on the ground and sat down against a wall. He had eight hours to wait.

According to his source in the presidential palace, Hamid Karzai would be leaving for the airport around ten o’clock. Berry closed his eyes, though he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep.

A lone car drove by on Airport Road from time to time, and this gave him an idea. He stood up, got into shooting position, and waited for the next one. As the car passed, he found he had plenty of time to follow it in the scope, and he made a final adjustment. Then he hunkered down against the wall, fighting the cold.

Dawn had long since broken. Peering through the slit in the green canvas, Berry followed the preparations along Airport Road, which had been closed to traffic since seven o’clock. A line of cops was sweeping the avenue and its side streets; tow trucks were removing parked cars.

The usual routine.

Suddenly Berry started: he had just heard a noise in the stairway. At first he thought it was an animal, but the sound became more distinct: that of heavy steps climbing the stairs.

He stood up, hugging the wall. He had anticipated that the NDS would send someone into the Azizi Plaza but figured that the building was so big he wouldn’t be noticed.

He listened carefully as the steps got closer. The man was coming to his floor. Very slowly, Berry drew the knife from his boot and waited, still pressed against the wall. The NDS agent was just as likely to go into some other room. That would be less of a problem, and only when he was leaving.

Unfortunately, the footsteps kept getting closer. He could now hear the hard breathing of a weary man.

After that, everything happened very fast.

A uniformed figure in a cap appeared in the doorway of Berry’s room. He was young, with a mustache, and carried an AK-47 in a sling. Just as he spotted Berry, the South African jabbed the knife six inches into his belly and yanked it sideways. Eyes bulging, the NDS agent tumbled backward, his cap knocked off. Berry grabbed him by the throat to keep him from crying out, but there was no need. The man was already dead of a massive internal hemorrhage.

Berry lowered him to the ground and stretched him out on the rough concrete. When he stood up, his heart was pounding. If there was anyone else with the NDS agent, he was screwed.

Berry strained to hear any noise in the staircase. He heard nothing, and his pulse gradually fell back to normal. He dragged the body facedown over to the wall and retrieved his knife. Then he looked at his watch: 7:30 a.m. The NDS agent probably wouldn’t have gone back downstairs until after Karzai’s convoy had passed, so no one would miss him now. With any luck, Berry had overcome his last obstacle. Sitting with his back to the wall, he forced himself to breathe evenly. When he pulled the Degtyarov’s trigger, he had to be perfectly calm.

The phone in Malko’s room rang, jolting him awake. It was 4:15 a.m.

Thinking the operator had made a mistake, he snapped, “I asked you to wake me up at five thirty, not at four in the morning!”

But an Afghan speaking poor English said, “Sir, this is PIA. Today’s flight for Islamabad is canceled. The airport is closed because of fog. I will let you know if the weather improves.”

Malko hung up, now wide awake. He was stuck in Kabul.

Berry glanced at the cell phone lying next to him. It would give him the signal of Karzai’s departure, and he switched it on and off to make sure it was working. The presidential convoy would take about ten minutes to drive from the palace to Berry’s hide site above Airport Road. Plenty of time for him to get into shooting position.

All he had to do now was wait—and hope that nothing went wrong.

The South African remained completely motionless, head resting on his crossed arms. When the Nokia suddenly rang, it gave him a jolt of adrenaline. He grabbed the phone and answered. “
Baleh
?”

“Number three,” said his source, and hung up.

Berry lifted the Degtyarov and rested its barrel on the cement railing. In the scope, Airport Road jumped into view, completely empty of cars. All traffic had been stopped for the convoy’s passage.

He waited, forcing himself to breathe evenly, his cheek pressed against the chilly wooden stock, index finger under the trigger guard. He would have only a few seconds to shoot, he knew. But the fact that Karzai was in the third car made the job easier. He wouldn’t be caught by surprise.

He was as motionless as a block of granite.

Malko was finishing his breakfast when his cell rang. It was the front desk.

“PIA has resumed flights to Islamabad,” said the clerk. “There is a flight at two thirty-five p.m. Will you keep your reservation?”

“Yes, sure,” he said, without thinking.

That would be too late. He felt as tight as a violin string. By now, President Karzai would have left the palace.

As if in a dream, Malko signed the check and went up to his room. He had no idea what to do next.

Berry held his breath as his pulse began to climb. His eye had become one with the Zeiss scope. A large black Mercedes had just appeared in his crosshairs. He resisted the temptation to follow it, for fear of spoiling his sight.

That lasted a few seconds.

Then another Mercedes appeared, the second one.

Berry was holding the Degtyarov tightly enough to snap the stock. He pressed the trigger slightly, to remove any play. When the hood of the third car appeared, he slowly and steadily pulled the trigger.

The detonation shook his entire body, and a sharp pain stabbed his shoulder.

It took less than a second for the shell to cover the three hundred yards to the car.

Berry saw a ball of fire and a cloud of smoke and knew he’d hit his target. He immediately put down the Degtyarov. He’d been wearing gloves, so there was no need to wipe away fingerprints. Abandoning the rifle, he grabbed his cell phone and rushed out and down the slippery stairs.

Racing through the building, Berry found the little open area and vaulted over the wall. In minutes he was back at his car near
the Shaheen. He had passed a few Afghans, but they paid him no attention.

Malko was about to enter his hotel room when his cell rang. He recognized Michaelis’s number and immediately answered.

“Do you know what just happened?” asked the CIA station chief, sounding frantic.

“No, what?”

“Somebody shot at President Karzai’s convoy as it drove to the airport.”

“Was he hit?”

“No, he was in one of the other cars. I’ve been summoned to the NDS. They’re going out of their minds. I’ll call you again later.”

Stunned, Malko stood motionless. Nelson Berry had missed. The Afghans would quickly realize it was an assassination attempt, making him their prime suspect.

His first impulse was to rush to CIA headquarters at the Ariana Hotel. They couldn’t get to him there. On the other hand, he wouldn’t be able to leave, either. And he would be implicating the Americans in the attack, for which they would never forgive him.

Trying to board the flight to Islamabad was also out of the question. It would be tantamount to a confession, and the police might intercept him. And he couldn’t stay at the Serena. They were sure to come looking for him here.

Mechanically, Malko walked over to the safe in the hanging closet. He took out the GSh-18 and strapped on the GK ankle holster. It was small consolation.

He was trapped in Kabul, with every intelligence agency in the country on his tail. And he now had a pressing problem: saving his skin.

Malko’s heart suddenly began to race.

A green police pickup was pulling into the Serena courtyard. Standing in the lobby, Malko was paralyzed. The failed attempt to assassinate President Karzai had taken place an hour earlier, and the investigation was under way. Karzai must be furious, and his rage would focus on Malko, whom he already suspected of being in Kabul to harm him.

The green police pickup turned right and headed for the parking garage.

Malko’s pulse slowed as he realized that he was stupid for panicking. It wasn’t the police he should be worried about, but the NDS. Either way, staying at the Serena a minute longer would be playing with fire. This was the first place they would come looking for him.

He headed for the exit, passing through the door manned by a bellman in a magnificent turban. Malko crossed the courtyard and exited to the street through the pedestrian gate. He felt more at ease out here, lost in the crowd. There weren’t that many foreigners in Kabul, but there were some.

Where could he go now? His only asset was the pistol Nelson Berry had given him, a Russian GSh-18 automatic. If he phoned Warren Michaelis, he would get access to the Ariana, but the
Afghans would learn that he had gone to ground there, and it would compromise both the Agency and the U.S. government.

Who weren’t likely to be pleased.

Malko would have to figure what to do on his own, at least for now. The problem was, there weren’t many ways to get out of Kabul.

Showing up at the airport would be suicide. The overland routes to Jalalabad, Herat, Kandahar, and Bamyan were all in Taliban hands. That left the highway to Mazar-e-Sharif through the Salang Tunnel, but the only way to travel it was by bus, and a foreigner on a bus in Afghanistan would be noticed. Besides, there were checkpoints on the highway out of Kabul, which made the trip too risky.

What had happened to Nelson Berry? he wondered. If the South African had been arrested, Michaelis would have mentioned it. Berry knew Afghanistan well and had plenty of cash, so he had probably escaped. In any case, it would be too dangerous for Malko to contact him.

By then Malko had reached the Massoud memorial roundabout, and he stopped for a moment. He thought briefly of Clayton Luger back in Washington but knew that the CIA deputy director would probably tell him to just do the best he could.

A loud noise made him jump, but it was just the honking of a truck that had clipped a fruit and vegetable stand, sending oranges rolling all over the street. Passersby gathered and shouted, taking sides in the dispute. The greengrocer picked up a stick and started pounding on the truck cab. A policeman with a white cap tipped back on his head sauntered over.

Malko melted into the crowd as it moved along Zarnegar Park. Above all, he had to remain at large. If he fell into Afghan hands, he was finished. They probably wouldn’t bother throwing him in jail, just quietly torture and execute him.

That route was definitely out.

Malko thought of going to Maureen Kieffer but immediately dismissed the idea. It would put her in danger and might not even be safe. The NDS knew he was friendly with her and would be waiting on her doorstep.

The deafening traffic noise was making it hard for Malko to think clearly. CIA headquarters came to mind again, but that posed a major obstacle, too. The Afghans could well be stationed in front of the Ariana Hotel to intercept him. The Americans and their Nepalese guards didn’t have the right to act outside the Ariana perimeter. So that was out as well.

Abruptly, Malko realized he was at the turnoff to Wazir Akbar Kahn Road and the mosque. There he might find Musa Kotak, the Taliban mullah with enough influence to protect him from Karzai’s thugs.

The only man able to help him.

But it was too early. Kotak came to the mosque only in the afternoons.

At the NDS, it was all hands on deck.

Before flying to Lashkar Gah, President Karzai had been told about the assassination attempt. He ordered Parviz Bamyan to find the shooters at any cost.

The targeted Mercedes had been destroyed and its driver killed. The wreck stood on the side of Airport Road, protected by a ring of policemen and yellow crime scene tape. The force of the impact had slammed the car against a building and crushed it, in spite of its armor.

The search for gunmen started within minutes after the convoy passed. A swarm of NDS agents combed the building the shot was fired from, but it took two hours before a team found the Degtyarov 41 and the body of the murdered NDS agent nearby.

An examination of the rifle produced nothing. It bore no fingerprints or DNA evidence and held just one empty shell, also clean. Only an experienced sniper could have used such a weapon, which was extremely rare in Kabul. The NDS immediately sent the serial number to Moscow to try to track it, but without much hope.