Chaos in Kabul (22 page)

At the NDS, Bamyan started going through his files. Kabul had people of every persuasion who would love to take a shot at President Karzai, but none of the usual suspects jumped out at him.

Eventually, he came to Malko Linge’s file. The CIA operative was already suspected of gunning for the president, and a female NDS agent had been sent to the Serena to kill him. In the file, a note in red ink indicated that the order had been canceled.

Bamyan phoned Ashraf Nyadi, the agent originally charged with the sanction.

“Go back to the Serena,” he ordered. “See if your customer is still there.”

“Same instructions as before?” she asked.

“No! Just keep me informed; that’s all.”

This was hardly the time to kill the only person who might be able to lead them to the shooter.

He absolutely had to locate this Linge person. He had his secretary call their informant at the Serena to see if the Austrian was still there. The informant called back a few moments later. The guest in Room 382 was still registered and his room was made up, but he hadn’t been seen since that morning. Bamyan got his passport number and began the tedious process of alerting everyone who might be able to prevent Malko from leaving Kabul.

Linge might just come back to the hotel at the end of the day, of course, but he might also try to make a run for it. Bamyan had his deputy dispatch two agents to the Serena to search his room and wait for him. Then he tackled the list of people to alert, starting with the airport. He drafted all-points bulletins for the police and
the Afghan National Army and had them transmitted to all checkpoints, both in the city and on the roads leading out of Kabul.

With his net now in place, Bamyan sat back and thought. It wouldn’t be easy for Linge to get out of Kabul, so it was more than likely that he was still in the city.

He ordered up the file that had been assembled at President Karzai’s request. Studying it gave him an idea: What about the Ariana Hotel, CIA headquarters? Minutes later, an unmarked car went to take up surveillance opposite the hotel complex.

Bamyan then turned to study Linge’s known contacts. Maureen Kieffer was first, and he immediately sent an agent to her place, to ask her to keep them informed. Her business depended on the NDS’s goodwill, so she was sure to be cooperative.

Which left the most puzzling part of the file, a strange incident in the village of Kotali Khayr Kana. An old armored Corolla in which Linge was riding had been ambushed there by persons unknown, probably Taliban.

Bamyan sat at his desk, absorbed in reading the file. Where could such an armored car have come from? he wondered. Given the car model and its age, it wasn’t likely to be the CIA. But Linge had been in touch with one Nelson Berry, a former South African mercenary who might well own an armored Toyota.

Bamyan decided to bring Berry in on some routine pretext.

Maybe I’m worrying for no reason, he thought. Linge might appear at the Serena later in the day and they could simply pick him up for questioning. They would treat him with all due deference, of course. After all, he was a known CIA operative and was probably in Kabul on assignment.

When Jason Forrest entered his boss’s office, he looked grim. He had requested an urgent meeting a few minutes earlier.

“I have some serious things to tell you, sir,” he announced. “Can I be sure this won’t go any further?”

“Of course,” said the CIA station chief. “What’s on your mind?”

“This morning President Karzai was the victim of an assassination attempt.”

“I understand that he wasn’t hit, just one of the cars in his motorcade.”

“Yes, but he was the target. You know that as well as I do.”

“But that’s not our concern. It’s the NDS’s problem. The shooters were probably Taliban.”

Forrest gave him a long look. “Are you sure of that, sir?”

Michaelis got the feeling that his case officer knew more than he was letting on.

“Who else would get involved in something like that?” he asked with apparent candor.

Forrest’s expression showed that they were getting to the heart of the matter. “Do you know what a certain Agency contractor named Malko Linge is doing here in Kabul?”

Michaelis’s toes clenched in his shoes. “No, he didn’t tell me. Why?”

Forrest looked him in the eye. “You know that I’ve remained on good terms with your predecessor, Mark Spider,” he said tensely, “who is now in Washington.”

“I’m aware of that. So what?”

“I got a message from him this morning. Mark has an important position in the policy group that deals with Afghanistan. He says it’s possible that Malko Linge was part of the assassination attempt.”

A chill ran down Michaelis’s spine. “That seems highly unlikely,” he managed to say. “Linge has been working with the Agency for years and would never carry out an action that was contrary to U.S. interests.”

Forrest’s smile was razor thin. “Except that in this case, the action was carried out on orders from the White House.”

The CIA station chief slowly shook his head. “Jason, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I’m sure that Linge isn’t involved in this business. Thank you for sharing your concerns. It was the right thing to do and I appreciate it. I will report them to Langley.”

“Will you be meeting with Linge?”

“I’m not due to, and I don’t even know if he’s still in Kabul. He was here on a mission given to him directly by headquarters and outside of my authority.”

The station chief stood up to signal the end of the meeting, which was making him ill at ease. Forrest took the hint and left.

Michaelis slumped in his leather armchair, his head in a whirl.

Jason Forrest had just given him the last piece of the puzzle he was missing. He now knew why Malko had come to Kabul, and he understood the questions he had been asking.

He also realized he was in the middle of an internal policy conflict, which made him extremely uncomfortable. But his first thought was for Malko, whom he liked. Where was he? If Forrest was telling the truth, the Austrian operative was in grave danger. Michaelis reached for his cell phone but stopped himself. The NDS monitored all their communications, he knew. If he phoned Malko now, he might precipitate a catastrophe.

Michaelis closed his eyes and said a prayer for him.

Malko was shivering. He’d been pacing up and down Wazir
Akbar Khan Road for the past hour, waiting for Musa Kotak to appear at the mosque. An icy wind was blowing through the city, and the sky was clouding up. Malko resolved to walk at least a mile before turning back toward the mosque.

If Kotak didn’t come, he would go back to the Serena and act innocent. After all, no material evidence linked him to the assassination attempt. But it would be a desperation move.

His last resort would be to call Warren Michaelis and have an Agency car pick him up—with the reactions that would trigger. Could the CIA afford to take in a man who was hunted for an attempt against President Karzai’s life?

Malko still hadn’t answered that question when he again found himself in front of the mosque where Kotak received visitors. He was frozen stiff.

Heart pounding, he walked across the garden and headed for the outbuilding where the cleric’s office was located. The young guard he had encountered before was standing out front. As soon as he saw Malko, he went inside and immediately came out again, holding the door for him.

The mullah was back!

Malko was grateful for the room’s heat, but what really warmed his heart was the chubby cleric’s welcome.

Musa Kotak waddled over and took Malko’s right hand in both of his. In his unctuous voice he said, “I’ve been expecting you!”

“I came by earlier,” said Malko, “but you weren’t here.”

“I’m never here in the morning,” Kotak reminded him. “Did you drive?”

“No, I walked.”

“Better that way,” said the mullah, clearly relieved. Seeing that his guest was shivering, he immediately added, “Come over here. You need some hot tea with honey.”

They walked to the pile of cushions where the mullah liked to sprawl and sat down. Warming his chilled hands on a glass of tea, Malko gradually began to unwind.

The cleric’s slightly sarcastic tone gave him a start. “You know, I actually believed you the other day when you said you had abandoned your project.” Kotak laughed briefly. “You are learning to lie like an Afghan.”

“I have to be very careful,” said Malko, sipping his tea. “I don’t know who I can trust.”

He was cursing himself for accepting this crazy mission. Everyone had dropped him, leaving him alone in Kabul.

The cleric nodded. “You are being hunted, my friend! I have known it since this morning. Word spreads quickly in town. I do not know why your plan failed, but the agencies that answer to Karzai are all looking for the man who tried to assassinate him.”

“Then I’m putting you in danger,” said Malko.

“No, you are not,” Kotak said smoothly. “No one will come after me, and nobody knows you are here.”

“Your guard does.”

“He would hold his tongue even under the worst torture. And in any case you are not going to be staying here.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“I am going to get you out of the city.”

Malko thought the cleric might be boasting. The Taliban controlled many things in Kabul, but not the immigration service at the airport.

“How do you plan to do that?” he asked. “I’m sure they’re watching the airport.”

“We do not fly when we need to travel,” said Kotak with a smile. “There are many roads out of Kabul.”

The reason foreigners couldn’t use those roads was because of the Taliban, but of course the Taliban themselves could travel wherever they pleased.

“I think you should leave the country,” said Kotak. “Hamid Karzai has a lot of money and he still wields power. Even people who do not like him would be happy to capture you and sell you to his cronies.”

“How do you plan to get me out?”

Kotak sipped his tea before answering.

“Personally, I control only one route, the one from Kabul to Kandahar and then on through Spin Boldak to Baluchistan. My contacts are in Quetta, where our
shura
is, so I can guarantee your safety that far. My Quetta friends will take you in hand and put you on a flight to Islamabad. From there you can return to Europe.”

“That’s a terribly long trip!”

“That’s true, but it is the best I can offer. I do not have the necessary contacts on the route through Jalalabad over the Khyber Pass, and there are too many checkpoints. Whereas we are on home ground in Kandahar.”

“Assuming the trip is possible, I would still have to deal with the Pakistani authorities. And I don’t have a visa.”

The cleric smiled again. “Crossing into Pakistan is no problem. And our contacts there will take care of your status. You will board the plane for Islamabad with a proper passport.”

Malko still felt hesitant but recognized that the scheme was workable.

Mullah Kotak was looking at him with his beatific smile. “You cannot stay in Kabul,” he repeated. “The NDS will be going crazy. I do not know who your sniper was, but he was just following orders, whereas you are the link between the U.S. administration and the attempted assassination. You would be very valuable to the Karzai regime. It would give them leverage over the Americans. We cannot let you fall into their hands.”

Knowing the methods the NDS used, Malko knew that they would almost certainly extract a confession from him. To dispel this unpleasant prospect, he asked, “Specifically what do you have in mind?”

“Your trip will be in several stages. First to Ghazni, where we are well established, and from there to Kandahar.”

“Will you be coming with me?”

“Alas, no,” said the cleric with a sigh. “But I will give you an escort: my nephew. He speaks good English and will watch out for you. He will accompany you all the way to your Islamabad flight. With him, you will be in no danger.”

Kotak seemed to have thought of everything. In any case, Malko had no alternative. Without a car or place to hide, his options in Kabul were pretty limited.

“It will take two or three days to prepare the trip,” Kotak continued. “My nephew will take you to a safe place nearby where you will not be in any danger. I will call him.”

Kotak took out two cell phones, one white and one green. Using the green one, he had a long conversation in Pashto.

“He will be here in two hours,” he announced, hanging up.
“Until then, you can relax. I have some visitors I need to see, so I will put you up in one of my other rooms. Are you hungry?”

Malko said that he wasn’t. Recent events had made him lose his appetite. All he wanted was to stretch out and sleep.

In safety.

Nelson Berry was walking up the main street of Panjsad Famili, a northern part of Kabul. As in any working-class neighborhood, the flat-roofed cob and mud-brick houses were modest, and the place was crowded and lively.

Night was falling as he strolled through the bird market, where the sellers were starting to put away their cages. Even poor Afghans bought these little balls of feathers and kept them in tiny cages.