Chaos in Kabul (36 page)

Malko and Madjidi walked toward the villagers, who were sitting in a semicircle. In the center sat their chief, the toothless old man with the fierce eyes and forked beard who had originally wanted to submit Malko’s fate to the local
shura.

Malko sat down facing him, and the two men stared balefully at each other.

The chief immediately started speaking angrily to Nassim Madjidi, who translated for Malko:

“He wants to know why you bring armed men to a peaceful meeting.”

“Tell him that I see that the Yusuf Khel people are armed as well,” Malko retorted. “Everyone in Afghanistan carries weapons. It’s not a sign of aggressiveness.”

The answer seemed to satisfy the old man, who launched into a long peroration. Madjidi translated as he went along.

“He says the person you killed was good, fair, and very devout. He left two widows and seven children. He never did anyone any harm. You have committed an exceptionally cowardly crime, and he says he is not sure he will accept the blood price.”

“If he doesn’t want my money, I’m leaving!” snapped Malko, now thoroughly exasperated by the whole charade.

“Pay no attention to that!” Madjidi hissed to him in English. “It’s traditional language! I will tell the chief that you regret the man’s death greatly, and want to provide a decent living for his family.”

This was rendered in Pashto, and the Yusuf Khel leader gave another speech in reply.

“They will assemble in a
shura
to decide if they should accept the blood price.”

The villagers gathered around their chief for a lengthy discussion. After about ten minutes, he resumed the meeting and said something.

Madjidi’s face brightened. He turned to Malko and said, “They will accept the money for the benefit of the widows and the orphans. Now you go over and give it to him.”

Malko went and put the envelope containing the twenty thousand dollars on the chief’s knees. He opened it and handed wads of bills to his neighbors to count. This lasted quite a long time. The silence was total, broken only by the rustling of bills. Finally the money was all put back in the envelope, and the chief started speaking in a loud voice.

“The blood price has been paid,” he announced. “The offense is washed away, and we can celebrate reconciliation in the name of Allah the all-powerful and the all-merciful.”

The old man now seemed in high good humor. Boys circulated through the crowd serving tea and food. Everyone ate heartily as the hot sun beat down on Malko’s back and shoulders.

At long last, the chief stood and walked toward him, hands outstretched. He took Malko’s hand and squeezed it hard, while delivering a long, emotional speech.

“He wishes you happiness and prosperity,” Madjidi translated. “You will always be welcome in Yusuf Khel, where you will be shown all the respect due an honored guest. May Allah watch over you!”

The old man was practically sputtering with happiness.

Malko wondered how much of the twenty thousand dollars would actually go to the family, which was nowhere to be seen.

As people began to disperse, a delighted Nassim pulled Malko away.

“That went very, very good,” he said. “You are now all forgiven, and I will report this to the president’s office. We can go back to Kabul now.”

Malko glanced at the interpreter’s old Corolla.

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to let you go back alone,” he said diplomatically. “I’ll travel faster in a Land Cruiser.”

Madjidi looked terribly disappointed. “That is too bad,” he said. “I would enjoy telling you about Afghan culture during the voyage.”

“We’ll do that another time,” promised Malko, heading for the nearest SUV. Doolittle moved a Marine to the rear so Malko could sit up front with him. The village square was emptying.

“Okay, back to Kabul!” said Malko.

They had driven through Maidan Shahr and were now within twenty miles of Kabul. The landscape had changed, the dusty, yellowish plain replaced by the mountains around the capital. They’d been forced to drive much more slowly because of the many old trucks on the road and buses that stopped in the middle of the highway to let out passengers.

Nassim Madjidi’s aged Corolla, which had preceded them through the traffic jams, was bouncing along some distance ahead. Malko thought about the future as he struggled not to fall asleep. Normally, he would be booking a flight for Dubai or Turkey the next day, since he was free to leave the country and had no further official role in Kabul. Instead, he had to put together yet another undercover operation.

He glanced up, admiring the dramatic landscape.

The road wound between barren cliffs beneath the occasional snow-covered peaks. There wasn’t a village in sight. The three Land Cruisers were driving more and more slowly. In front of them, an
overloaded minibus lumbered along. It was driving in the middle of the highway, and impossible to pass. There were almost no cars coming the other way.

Suddenly Malko was aware of the tension in his car. The soldiers were checking their weapons and peering anxiously out the windows.

He turned to Doolittle.

“What’s going on, Jim?”

“Nothing, sir. But this is a bad stretch. There have been ambushes here.”

“So close to Kabul?”

“The Taliban come up the far slope, from territory they control.”

He had barely stopped speaking before Malko noticed little flashes of light, like tiny fireworks, amid the jumble of black rocks on the hillside to his right. At first he didn’t understand what was happening. Then Madjidi’s Corolla started zigzagging, as if its driver were drunk. Its gas tank exploded in a ball of flame as the car skidded across the road, rolled over the embankment, and disappeared.

Inside the Land Cruiser, the only sound to be heard was of
weapons being loaded. Malko stared in disbelief at the place where the Corolla had gone over the cliff. If he had accepted Nassim Madjidi’s invitation to ride with him, he would be dead.

The minibus that had been driving slowly in the middle of the road for some reason now suddenly sped up and disappeared around a curve.

A number of dull thuds shook the Land Cruiser’s armored body; the convoy was under fire. The bright flashes flared among the black rocks on the hillside. It was a classic ambush.

Jim Doolittle braked hard, pulling the SUV to the side of the now-empty highway. The vehicles behind them had heard the gunshots and were cautiously hanging back.

“Everybody out!” he yelled.

Malko followed him, exiting on the side sheltered by the car. The soldiers piled out of their vehicles and took positions behind them. Several fired M16s at the part of the hillside the shots were coming from. Malko could make out the characteristic chatter of a Russian Pulemyot machine gun.

Doolittle pulled him away from the Land Cruiser.

“Don’t stand too close to the vehicle, sir. They might have an RPG.”

Behind the third SUV, a team set up a 60 mm mortar, and its first shell raised a cloud of dust in the black rocks. Both sides were steadily firing now. The Taliban fighters were about two hundred yards above them, shooting down at the highway.

After loosing a long burst, Doolittle yelled, “I alerted Bagram. They’re sending choppers.”

Thanks to GPS, the helicopters would be able to pinpoint their location. Malko was sorry he wasn’t carrying his GSh-18, though an ordinary automatic wouldn’t do much good in these circumstances.

Just then a shell dinged the SUV’s windshield.

The Taliban were careful not to come down to the highway. They knew they were facing heavily armed soldiers who were probably calling for backup.

Word of the ambush must have spread, because no other vehicles appeared.

The 60 mm mortar was now launching a steady rain of shells as the Marines raked the hill with small-arms fire.

After a while, the rate of fire from the hillside seemed to slow. The muzzle flashes were diminishing. Hunkered down behind their three armored vehicles, the Americans started to hold their fire. Suddenly, silence fell.

“They’re falling back,” announced Doolittle.

The American soldiers fired a few last bursts and got to their feet. The acrid smell of cordite filled the air. No sound came from the hillside, and the highway was still deserted. Malko spoke up.

“I’d like to see where the interpreter’s car went over.”

Four Marines surrounded him as he crossed the road. Standing at the edge of the ravine, they could see a burning vehicle a few hundred feet below. It didn’t look as if anybody had gotten out alive.

Stony silence reigned on the highway for a moment, then was
broken by a growing
whump-whump-whump
of approaching helicopters. Two Black Hawks appeared, threading their way through the canyons. They overflew the men’s position in a deafening roar and went off in the direction of the attackers.

They came back a few moments later and hovered above the highway. Doolittle radioed them and summarized their conversation for Malko.

“They didn’t see anyone, but they say that the terrain’s very rugged. They plan to escort us back to Kabul. Let’s head out!”

Everybody climbed back into the vehicles, leaving the highway littered with spent shell casings. Beyond the curve, they could see a long line of stopped vehicles waiting for the firefight to end.

Malko and his group were no longer in danger.

Twenty minutes later, the Kabul plain appeared. They passed through an Afghan police checkpoint without stopping and began their descent toward the capital. The highway was completely empty.

The Taliban had probably seen the three ISAF vehicles heading for Ghazni and decided to hit them on the way back. But if so, why did they start by shooting at the Corolla that Malko was supposed to be in?

Parviz Bamyan was baffled as well. He had been studying Malko Linge’s file, and the report of the attack in which Nassim Madjidi died was on his desk. At first, the NDS thought Linge had also been killed, but when they reached the wrecked car, they saw he wasn’t in it.

Why not?

Only Linge knew.

What bothered Bamyan was that the ISAF and local Afghans positively identified a Taliban group that had already launched
similar attacks in the area. The CIA operative had clearly been their target, which undercut the NDS’s theory that he had renewed his contact with the Taliban in plotting against President Karzai.

You don’t kill the people you’re negotiating with.

Something in this business didn’t make sense.

In any case, Bamyan would soon see if Linge was leaving Kabul. If he didn’t, the NDS leader would be in a sticky situation.

He couldn’t take any action against Musa Kotak, who was protected by the president—unless the mullah was only a stalking horse, and the real contacts were taking place elsewhere.

Bamyan had to draw his net around Linge tighter. That operation had begun, but it would take time. And the CIA operative was sure to be on his guard.

The next day, Malko had himself driven to the mosque, determined not to let Musa Kotak off the hook this time. Before he took another step, he had to know who in the Taliban wanted him dead.

A dozen men were praying on the mosque’s forecourt, taking advantage of the last rays of the setting sun.

When Malko was shown in, Kotak greeted him with his usual good cheer. But Malko began coldly, “Were you told that someone tried to kill me yesterday?”

Kotak’s eyes widened.

“In Yusuf Khel?”

“No, on the way back. A group of Taliban fighters attacked our convoy. A car I was supposed to be in was destroyed and its occupants killed.”

“How can you be sure they were Taliban?” asked the cleric.

Malko glared at him.

“Because they were identified by the ISAF, that’s why. Besides, there aren’t that many armed groups around.”

“If that’s true, they could be members of the Haqqani network,” said Kotak, sounding puzzled. “They take their orders from the Pakistanis and they don’t obey us.”

“Either way, I have to know the truth,” insisted Malko. “Your sources can find out. You’ve always stressed that the Quetta
shura
is the one running the movement. Now is the time to prove it.”

Kotak looked embarrassed. For the first time, Malko felt the cleric had been knocked off-balance.

“I’ll make inquiries,” he said somewhat uncertainly.

“When you get results, text me. I have a proposal from Washington to put to you.”

After Malko left, Kotak closed his eyes and addressed a long, silent prayer of thanks to Allah. If the CIA operative hadn’t decided to change cars, he would now be dead, something the Americans certainly wouldn’t have liked. And they apparently still hoped for Taliban political support.

So Kotak had to come up with a convincing explanation to prove that he hadn’t played any role in the ambush—which, in fact, he had organized at the request of the Quetta
shura
. The failure of the Karzai attack had so traumatized the
shura
that its sole focus was on eliminating anything linking it to that act of war.

Now he had to repair the damage.