Chaos in Kabul (40 page)

“Welcome, sir,” he said in English. “What are you looking for today?”

“
Shahtoosh
,” he said quietly.

The Afghan shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but selling
shahtoosh
is against the law. But we have some very nice cashmere shawls. Let me show them to you.”

From the man’s confidential tone, Malko knew that he had understood.

Slipping off his stool behind the cash register, he led Malko to the back of the store and up a small flight of stairs. The first floor was given over to carpets, and there was a changing room at the far end. The shopkeeper lifted the curtain aside, revealing a youngish Afghan man seated on a stool. Dressed in
shalwar kameez
, he had a full head of hair and a prominent nose.

“My name is Abdul Ghani Beradar,” he said, extending a hand. “I am the person you asked to see. I know Mr. Clayton Luger and I know that I can trust you. Mullah Kotak has told me something about your project. Can you tell me more?”

Malko sat down on a stack of carpets facing him and started laying out the details of the American proposal, but the mullah quickly interrupted him.

“Before you go any further, you must tell me the name of the person the United States wants to support in the presidential election.”

“The man himself doesn’t know about this,” said Malko. “Nobody knows, aside from a few people in Washington.”

But Beradar would not be put off. “I must know his name,” he said. “Some people are not compatible with our values.”

Malko could see that the mullah was going to insist. And after
all, he had been authorized to tell him. “You’ll be the only person to know,” he said. “The candidate would be Abdullah Abdullah, who ran in the presidential elections in 2009.”

Beradar scowled. “A Tajik!” he exclaimed, in a way that clearly wasn’t intended as a compliment.

“Half Tajik,” Malko pointed out. “His father is Pashtun.” Then he quickly added, “He’s a declared enemy of Hamid Karzai and an honest man, I think.”

Beradar nodded. “His reputation is not bad,” he admitted. “But does he really have a chance of being elected?”

“That will depend on you. The last time, he got almost 31 percent of the vote without Taliban support. You have enough influence in the Pashtun community to get people to vote for a half-Pashtun. After all, in 2000 you persuaded the farmers not to plant poppies, even though it was against their interest.”

“That was a religious matter,” said the mullah. “Our peasants are very devout. We explained to them that Allah did not approve of the cultivation of opium. What we have here is a cultural problem. In the last election, Pashtuns who feel only hate and contempt for Karzai still voted for him, because he is Pashtun.”

“But what do you think of the general idea?” asked Malko.

Beradar evaded the question. “This is not a decision I can take by myself. I have to submit it to the
shura
and to Mullah Omar, who will surely demand certain guarantees.”

“Abdullah can’t openly boast of Taliban support,” said Malko.

“We would not ask that of him,” said Beradar. “But if we are able to reach an understanding, he must make a formal commitment to our leadership. We do not want to help him at our expense. I do not trust Tajiks. They have no love for us and they have fought us. Abdullah was the right-hand man of that dog Massoud, whose picture today defiles the walls of the city.”

There was clearly lots of work ahead, thought Malko. Aloud, he
said, “If an agreement could be reached, it would help national reconciliation and give your movement a way to return to power. At least partly.”

The Taliban mullah gave him a chilly smile. “We will return to power sooner or later in any case. But we want to spare our country any more suffering.”

Malko was about to respond when they heard hurried footsteps on the stairs. The shopkeeper burst into the room, breathless. He blurted something to Beradar, who jumped to his feet and said, “The police are in the street! I have to leave!”

He turned and pushed a small partition, revealing a narrow staircase leading to the roof, and disappeared.

The young store owner grabbed two scarves from a pile and thrust them at Malko.

“Take these! You can say you bought them. Quick, get out of here! They are coming!”

Malko didn’t need to be told twice, and he rushed down the staircase. Downstairs, the shop was empty. When he stepped out into the street, he understood Beradar’s panic: it was full of cops in and out of uniform, and they were going into all the stores.

Malko had come within an inch of being caught with Beradar—which wouldn’t have helped his relationship with Hamid Karzai.

He walked along Chicken Street, trying to ignore the policemen, who were out in force. Who had tipped them off? Malko wondered anxiously. He considered and dismissed the idea that he had been followed. The betrayal must have come from the Taliban side.

Just as he spotted Doolittle’s white Land Cruiser at the entrance of Flower Street, he heard gunshots from the other end of the street. Climbing into the SUV, he said a silent prayer that Beradar would escape his pursuers.

Mullah Beradar frantically sprinted across the roofs of the Chicken Street shops, finally diving down a trapdoor into a souvenir store. He didn’t know the people there, but he shouted, “May Allah protect you! Karzai’s dogs are after me! Don’t tell them you saw me.”

Saying that sort of thing was pretty safe. Everybody hated Karzai.

When Beradar emerged into the street, the police seemed to be everywhere. Without hurrying, he walked along the broken sidewalk toward the supermarket across the way, where he could lose himself in the crowd.

Beradar’s heart was thudding in his chest, and he cursed himself for taking the chance of coming to Kabul. But it was a little late for regrets.

Suddenly he heard a shout behind him. Instinctively turning around, he saw a pair of plainclothesmen running his way. He hesitated, briefly considered staying where he was, but realized that would be a bad choice.

The bulk of the policemen were far away. Beradar pulled a Makarov from his
shalwar kameez
and fired at his pursuers. He emptied almost the whole clip, and the two men fell. Putting the gun away, he strode quickly toward the store. But the shots had attracted attention, and he now heard cries and shouts behind him. He lunged for the supermarket doors.

A fraction of a second too late.

Something hit his left thigh, and the leg suddenly folded under him. He didn’t feel any pain, but he stumbled and fell across the doorway. People hurried to help him up, and a wave of pain overwhelmed him as he half stood, supported by two passersby.

Soldiers and policemen appeared, swinging the butts of their
rifles to knock the men holding Beradar aside while yelling orders and insults.

The mullah collapsed on the ground and lay sprawled on his back, drenched in sweat. Terrible pain was shooting through his leg. Looking up, he saw a soldier’s face contorted with rage, and the black circle of a Kalashnikov barrel. He closed his eyes and prayed to Allah that the man would kill him right away.

It was the best thing that could happen.

But through his half-conscious haze, he could hear someone screaming, “Don’t shoot him!”

He was still conscious when he saw someone leaning over and shaking him. Opening his eyes, Beradar could vaguely make out the shape of a man.

“You’re Abdul Ghani Beradar, aren’t you?” the man yelled. “You’re under arrest, you Talib bastard!”

To back up what he said, the policeman kicked Beradar’s thigh where he’d been shot. The pain was so intense that he passed out, so he didn’t see the military ambulance pulling up in front of the supermarket.

The mullah’s hell was about to begin.

“This is awkward,” said Clayton Luger, sounding dismayed.
“Very awkward.”

The moment Malko got back to the Ariana Hotel, he’d rushed to a secure phone line to warn Langley of the disastrous turn of events.

“Did you give him Abdullah’s name?” asked Luger.

“Yes, just before he had to make a run for it.”

The CIA number two heaved a deep sigh. “Then let’s hope to hell they don’t catch him. Otherwise you’ve painted a big fat bull’s-eye on Abdullah’s back. Karzai hates him already, and if he finds out he’s hooking up with the Taliban, he’ll do everything he can to bump him off.

“Well, there’s nothing left to do but hope for the best. Keep me posted!”

Malko was reluctant to return to the Serena, but staying holed up at the Ariana would amount to a confession. Trying to get rid of Hamid Karzai brings me nothing but bad luck, he thought.

Beradar’s stretcher was set down in Parviz Bamyan’s office, and the jubilant NDS chief looked him over.

The prisoner had been given a shot of morphine, his wound
roughly bandaged, and he’d been handcuffed to the stretcher. He was lucid, though still groggy.

Bamyan leaned close and asked, “You’re Abdul Ghani Beradar, aren’t you?”

“You know very well who I am, you communist dog!” snapped the cleric, staring at him coldly. “May Allah curse you!”

Bamyan had indeed been a member of Najibullah’s old Khalq faction. Unruffled, he said, “Save your energy, because we’re going to have a lot to talk about in the coming days. I’m sure you have many, many things to tell me. Starting with why you came to Kabul, since it’s been so long since you visited our beautiful country.”

Beradar closed his eyes without answering. He knew what awaited him. He had no fear of becoming a
shahid
—a martyr—but he was afraid of what would happen before he ascended to Allah’s paradise. Nobody had ever successfully resisted NDS torture, he knew. And he had so many secrets that his interrogators were sure to reserve special treatment for him.

He could hear people entering the office, and the NDS leader gave them orders:

“Take him to the first subbasement. And don’t beat him. Let him get his strength back. He’ll need it.”

Haji Shukrullah, who owned the Chicken Street shop where Malko had met Beradar, looked up to see two plainclothes policemen entering his store. Without a word, they yanked him from behind the cash register and started to beat him.

By the time they tossed him into the green police truck, his collarbone was broken and his face smashed. And this was just the start of the softening-up process.

A good Muslim who had made the hajj, Shukrullah prayed to Allah to give him the strength not to be too cowardly. He
didn’t want to be a
shahid
, but neither did he want to betray his friends.

It was a fine line.

Malko was having coffee at the Serena’s nonalcoholic bar, trying to settle his nerves. He had returned from Chicken Street without incident and was starting to feel hopeful again. Kabul didn’t have any real media, so he had no way of knowing if Mullah Beradar had managed to escape.

The ringing of his phone pulled him from his thoughts.

Without preamble, Warren Michaelis asked, “Are you at the Serena?”

“Yes, I’m at the bar.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in half an hour.”

There had to be a serious reason for the CIA station chief to come to the hotel. Malko hoped it wasn’t a bad one.

He had drunk two more cups of coffee by the time Michaelis showed up. The station chief was accompanied by a pair of Marine “babysitters,” who sat down at the next table. He looked tense and drawn.

“Mullah Beradar is in the hands of the NDS,” he immediately said. “He was wounded and arrested.”

“Are you sure?” asked Malko.

“Yes. My NDS source confirmed it. This is a major problem, because they’ll make Beradar talk—about you.”

Malko had no illusions about the cleric being able to resist torture. Blowing yourself up with a suicide vest was one thing, but having your fingernails ripped out was quite another. An obvious solution occurred to him.

“This operation is obviously terminated, so why not fly me out now? I’m of no further use in Kabul.”

Michaelis gave him a long look and said, “Actually, you are. I got a message from Mr. Luger. We have to assume that Beradar will give them the name of Abdullah Abdullah, which puts him in Karzai’s line of fire. You have to warn him.”

“What?” Malko was taken aback. “Why me? I don’t even know Abdullah!”

“Officially, the Agency can’t get involved in the presidential election, as you know. So the station isn’t allowed to approach someone like Abdullah Abdullah. But you’re a free agent and can go talk to him. And that will wrap up your mission. Once you’ve delivered the warning, you can leave Afghanistan.”

Naked except for underpants and a bulky bandage on his thigh, Mullah Beradar was strapped to a metal table with his arms above his head and his ankles handcuffed to the side bars. An NDS agent had stuffed a rag in his mouth and was steadily pouring water from a pitcher onto it.

The relentless flow kept bringing the cleric to the edge of suffocation.

He gasped like a fish out of water. His head thrashed around, trying to escape the torment, which had begun hours earlier.

They hadn’t asked him any questions yet, only half asphyxiated him at regular intervals. A very effective way to weaken him.