Chaos in Kabul (23 page)

But the South African wasn’t seeing the birds; he was totally consumed by his fury. When he’d pulled the Degtyarov’s trigger, he’d had the satisfaction of seeing President Karzai’s armored Mercedes explode three hundred yards away. He’d abandoned the sniper rifle, sprinted down the raw concrete steps of the building under construction, and made his way to his SUV parked near the Shaheen Hotel, propelled by this happy thought: he had just earned three million dollars.

It was only when he turned on the car radio that he learned the truth. He had fired at the wrong car, and Karzai was still alive. At that moment he didn’t think of the three million dollars slipping through his fingers or even the danger he faced, but only of the betrayal by the man he had paid ten thousand dollars to tell him which Mercedes was the right one.

That was Sangi Guruk, a Pashtun who swore on the Quran that he told the truth.

Berry hadn’t liked having to trust Guruk, but he was the only person who could tell him what car Karzai was getting into.

And that had been the key to the whole attack.

The South African glanced around as he made his way along the narrow, muddy street, but he saw nothing suspicious, just street vendors, shops with acetylene lamps, women in burqas running errands, and men walking home from work.

Rage sat like a hard knot in his gut. Not only had Guruk cheated him; he was now a mortal danger, as the only person who could connect Berry to the assassination attempt.

If Guruk were clever, he would alert the NDS so its agents could set a trap for the South African. Of course, in doing that, he would be admitting that he participated in an attempted assassination, and that would cause him a lot of trouble.

But Guruk was stupid and probably figured that Berry would panic and run away from Kabul. He would also assume that since he wasn’t an Afghan he wouldn’t think the way Afghans did.

What he didn’t know was that Berry had lived in Afghanistan for so long that he had adopted the country’s habits, including the rule that revenge had to be fast and ferocious, even disproportionate. A family with women and children might be shot dead over a debt of ten thousand afghanis, without a thought for the consequences. For his part, Berry was thinking of the consequences: he had to eliminate the only man who could cause him trouble.

He stopped for a moment, ostensibly to light a cigarette but in fact to carefully look around. He was almost opposite Guruk’s house. There was no one in front, the passersby were unremarkable, and nobody seemed to be waiting around. Just the same, Berry took the precaution of passing the house and walking up the hill for some distance before turning around and coming back.

By now night had fallen and no one was paying him any attention. He stepped up to the wooden door and rapped on a panel, once, twice, three times.

A woman’s voice, probably muffled by a burqa, eventually answered. “What is it?”

“I’ve come to see Sangi,” Berry yelled through the door.

“He isn’t home yet,” said the woman.

“I’ll wait for him. Open up!”

The woman cracked open the door and he slipped inside. The living room had a goat-wool carpet on the floor and was warmed by an old wood-burning
khali
stove. The woman in the burqa pointed Berry to a bench covered by a worn carpet and fled to the back of the house to join Guruk’s second wife. If she had been at home alone, she would never have opened the door to a man, for fear of being repudiated.

The South African sat down and unbuttoned his leather coat, loosening the holster that held an old Makarov automatic with a silencer. He didn’t know how long he would have to wait, but he was prepared to spend the night. There was no point in asking the woman when her husband would come home; she wouldn’t know.

Lulled by the room’s warmth, Berry didn’t notice the time passing, and he started when the door creaked open and his onetime friend Sangi Guruk appeared.

The Afghan stopped on the threshold and began to back away. He immediately stopped when the gun and silencer emerged from Berry’s leather coat.

“Stick around!” said Berry. “Don’t you think we should have a little chat?”

Guruk was at a loss, his panicky eyes darting this way and that.

“You swore on the Quran,” Berry hissed, “you dirty son of a bitch!”

The frightened Afghan stammered, “I—I made a mistake, may
God forgive me. I got scared at the last minute. I’ll give your money back. I haven’t spent any of it.”

“Good idea!” said the South African almost cheerfully.

From under a bed, Guruk hurriedly pulled a colorful, hand-painted box in which he kept his valuables. He opened it with a little key on his key ring and took out a roll of hundred-dollar bills.

“It’s almost all here!” he said. “I was saving up to buy a piece of land.”

“You’re right. Real estate is always a good investment.”

Standing in the center of the room, Guruk was shifting from one foot to the other.

“So are we okay?” he asked. “Would you like some tea?”

The man honestly thought he was in the clear. But when he met Berry’s eyes, he realized he was wrong. Without bothering to get up, he aimed the Makarov at Guruk’s chest and fired.

A first soft
pfut!
was heard, followed by a second.

Guruk fell where he was standing. Berry glanced at the curtain that separated the living room from the kitchen. No one had noticed the shots. He crossed the room and pushed the curtain aside.

Two women in burqas were chatting in Pashto, with three small children playing on the floor nearby. The oldest, a boy with large dark eyes, was probably about eight.

Berry calmly shot both women, who collapsed without a sound. Surprised, the three children stopped playing and looked at the South African wide-eyed. The oldest one started to cry.

Berry promptly put a bullet in his head while the two others stared, puzzled. The South African stepped back and let the curtain fall. He hadn’t killed the boy out of cruelty, only because he was old enough to tell the police that a
khareji
had killed his mommy.

He left the way he’d come and strode down the hill toward his
car. He was still furious but was feeling relieved. There was now nobody left to trace the assassination attempt back to him.

He was going out of town the next morning, providing security for a big drug deal in Logar Province. He would be protected by his client, a major Pakistani trafficker with ties to Karzai’s clan. Berry would stay away from Kabul for a week, to give things time to settle down.

Once back in his car, he checked his cell phone. There were no calls from Malko Linge, which was smart. Malko was probably safely holed up at the Ariana Hotel, so Berry wasn’t worried for him.

Which left the loss of the three million dollars.

And that really hurt.

The mood was tense at the NDS complex, where finding
the president’s attackers was the top and only priority. Hamid Karzai had returned from Lashkar in a lather of fear and fury. To people who suggested the Taliban were to blame, he snapped, “It wasn’t them, I can feel it!”

But uncertainty gnawed at him. If it wasn’t the Taliban, then it could only be the Americans, which meant the tensions between them had risen to a new level. He summoned Parviz Bamyan, who was heading the investigation. After being announced, the acting NDS chief bowed his way in and humbly took the seat the president offered him.

“Do you have any news?” asked Karzai.

“I might,” said Bamyan cautiously. “The weapon didn’t give us any clues, but when we examined our various surveillance and monitoring reports, I learned that Malko Linge, the CIA operative, has been in contact with a South African doing business here named Nelson Berry. He’s a former mercenary who runs a security agency. He has worked for the CIA on various occasions and we know he’s in financial difficulties.”

“Have you arrested him?” snapped Karzai.

“No. When we went to his place, he had already left with his driver, an Afghan named Darius Gul.”

“Where did they go?”

“His employees said that they were going to Logar Province for a few days, but they didn’t know why. We searched the place without finding anything connected to the attack. We took his people in, and they’re being interrogated.”

Having their fingernails ripped out might help them remember some useful details.

“It’s only a slim lead, sir,” concluded Bamyan. “We don’t have anything concrete.”

“It’s a
good
lead,” said Karzai. “What about this Malko Linge?”

“He left the Serena this morning and hasn’t come back yet. We’ve stationed some agents there.”

“Arrest him, too,” said Karzai, “and find the South African. Interrogate them, and keep up your surveillance. I want results!”

“I will do the impossible, sir.”

Bowing his way out of the room, Bamyan fled the president’s fury.

Bamyan was now beginning to think that Berry might be the shooter. It would certainly fit his profile, and the South African was even registered as a sniper. But Berry would only be a hired gun. If he had fired at the president, it was because he’d been ordered to. An order that could have been given by Malko Linge, the man Bamyan absolutely had to find.

He was sure Linge hadn’t left Kabul by plane. Bamyan had threatened the immigration officers with such horrible punishment if they let someone slip past them that no one would dare disobey.

Every place that Linge might go was being watched. The checkpoints on roads out of town had been alerted, and the same threats made. Besides, it was difficult for a foreigner to drive anywhere. That was even more dangerous than staying in Kabul.

One possibility remained: that Linge had taken refuge at CIA headquarters.

Back at the NDS, Bamyan called the interior minister, the only person who could intervene with the CIA. At the very least, the station chief must be told that the NDS considered Malko Linge a person of interest.

Which might put a chill on their relations.

Mullah Kotak’s office door opened to admit a young bearded man in a turban with slender tortoiseshell glasses. He was holding an ankle-length brown coat and a chestnut-colored turban with a hanging fold.

Malko had just reentered the quarters of the former Taliban minister. His wait had turned out to be longer than expected. It was nearly 9:00 p.m., and the mullah had gone home.

The young man walked over to Malko. In rough but perfectly understandable English, he said, “I am Nadir, your friend the mullah’s nephew. He asked me to look after you. I swear by Allah to do everything in my power so nothing bad happens to you.”

“Thank you,” said Malko. “What do we do now?”

“I am going to take you to a safe place where you can rest before your trip. A house that belongs to us. But first, please put these on. It would be best if you did not attract attention.”

Nadir held out the coat and turban. When Malko put them on, he looked like a typical Afghan.

They crossed the mosque garden and went out onto Wazir Akbar Khan Road. Night had fallen and they saw few people as they made their way to a narrow dirt alley lined with thatched-roof stone houses. Nadir stopped at one and unlocked the door.

Malko was pleased to find it warm inside, where a big traditional
stove was blazing. He shed his coat and turban and looked around. A wooden staircase led to the upper floor.

“There is a bedroom upstairs,” explained Nadir. “A woman will come to do the cooking. It is Afghan food, of course, but she is pretty good. Stay here, don’t go out. I will come back tomorrow. Do you need anything?”

“I don’t think so.”

When Nadir left, Malko went up to the bedroom, which was also pleasantly warm. There was a tiny bathroom and shower with an antediluvian Russian water heater. Everything, in fact, except a razor: the Taliban didn’t shave.

As Malko stretched out on the low bed, the weight at his right foot reminded him that his only piece of survival gear was the pistol and ankle holster that Berry gave him.

“The president is very concerned about Afghanistan,” said John Mulligan, the national security advisor.

“I can imagine,” said Clayton Luger.

They were sitting in leather armchairs in the soundproof, bug-proof room on the second floor of the East Wing of the White House. Nicknamed “the Tank,” this was where the most secret conversations took place.

Two days earlier, these men had tried to assassinate the president of Afghanistan, with Malko’s help. Karzai was bound to learn that someone in the White House had given the green light to the attack. The Afghan ambassador had asked to meet President Obama to deliver a personal message from President Karzai. Given the tensions between the two countries, the situation had to be defused.

Mulligan broke the silence. “I just met with the president, and we agreed on the following course of action. He’ll tell the ambassador
that rogue elements were plotting to kill President Karzai and that we had to put a stop to it. Karzai’s buddy Mark Spider can confirm this.”

“But the attack already took place!” said Luger.

“We’ll say that events got out of hand before we could intervene. The ambassador may not believe us, but it’s the best we can do. We’ll probably also yield on some other point, like the number of troops left in place after 2014. If we don’t get a status-of-forces agreement, Congress won’t let us leave a single soldier in Afghanistan.”