Chaos in Kabul (38 page)

“Does it have any chance of success?

“On paper, no, but here, you never know. It depends how much money gets put on the table.”

Michaelis’s cell phone beeped, and he glanced at the text message.

“It’s my secretary,” he said. “Langley just called back. Let’s go upstairs.”

Luger was on another call, and Malko had to wait ten minutes for him to be free. When they connected, the CIA deputy director sounded excited.

“I just talked to John,” he said. “He’s giving you the go-ahead. He finds it very encouraging that the mullah is coming to meet you in Kabul. The man’s taking a hell of a risk.”

“That’s his problem,” said Malko.

“But it might become yours,” said Luger with a brief laugh. “If Karzai learns that you’re dealing with Beradar in Kabul, he’ll go apeshit. It’s his worst fear. Be
very
careful!”

“I’ll try,” promised Malko, “but unfortunately, the situation’s not under my control. So what’s the story?”

Luger didn’t answer immediately.

“Before I tell you the man’s name, you have to make sure it stays within an extremely restricted circle. This is information nobody can have yet, and that includes the person involved. No point in getting his hopes up. Once the negotiations with the Taliban are under way, you can tell him the news.”

“But I have to give his name to Mullah Beradar,” said Malko. “That’s a bottom-line requirement.”

“Of course, and I’ll give it to you. But you can only share it with Beradar. Not even Kotak.

“He’s the guy who ran against Karzai in the 2009 presidential election and got 30.5 percent of the vote, which is huge. His father is Pashtun and his mother, Tajik. Also, he was Shah Massoud’s right-hand man. Needless to say, the Taliban don’t like him very much. In fact, I hope Beradar doesn’t choke when he hears his name.

“Our candidate is the former foreign minister Abdullah Abdullah.”

Malko had himself immediately driven back to the
mosque. Night was falling and a dense crowd had gathered for evening prayers. He made his way to the cleric’s office between bearded men in turbans.

He was announced by the guard and promptly shown inside. Kotak seemed surprised to see him back so soon.

“I have the answer for you,” Malko announced. “It’s yes.”

The cleric’s face brightened. “That’s very good news! I’ll immediately pass it on to Quetta. Do you really know the man’s name?”

“I do, but it’s so confidential I’m not even allowed to tell it to you.”

In an almost comical gesture, Kotak clapped his fat hands over his ears. “I do not want to hear it!” he cried. “I am just a humble go-between. As soon as I know when Mullah Beradar is due to arrive, I will let you know.”

“Will I meet with him here?”

“Certainly not!” Kotak exclaimed. Then he lowered his voice, as if afraid of being overheard.

“It would be too dangerous for him,” he said. “The NDS watches us around the clock. We have to find a safer meeting place. I do not need to be present, as Mullah Beradar speaks English perfectly. Do you have any suggestions?”

Malko was startled. “Why ask me? You know Kabul much better than I do.”

“Karzai’s people have infiltrated many branches of our organization,” the cleric explained. “Ideally, you should meet Mullah Beradar somewhere you can go without arousing suspicion. Then he could discreetly join you there.”

Only one place occurred to Malko: Maureen Kieffer’s guesthouse. The NDS knew he was friends with the young woman, and she had no connection with the Taliban. He would need to ask her permission, of course.

“Let me think about it,” he said cautiously. “Meanwhile, try to come up with someplace at your end.”

Maureen was busy when he called but suggested meeting at eight o’clock at the Serena Hotel bar, where she was due to see one of her customers. Malko had just enough time to get back to the hotel. As often happened, the lobby was full of Japanese women connected to some NGO or other. Malko ran into Shaheen Zoolor near the elevator.

“Would you like to have dinner with me?” he suggested. “Somewhere outside the hotel?”

“No, no!” she said. Looking frightened, she practically bolted for the elevator.

When he reached the bar, Maureen was already there, talking with a tall, redheaded man with massive forearms. She gave Malko a wink and he sat down at a nearby table. She joined him a moment later.

“I can’t stay long,” she said. “We haven’t finished talking. Did you need to see me about something in particular?”

“Yes, to ask you a favor.”

She smiled. “With pleasure, if I can do it.”

Malko explained. “I’m due to meet with someone who isn’t very popular in Kabul. It would be convenient if we could meet at your guesthouse. You don’t need to be there.”

“Sure, just let me know when, and we’ll arrange it.”

“Problem is, I don’t know how to get to your place.”

She smiled and fetched a business card from her purse. “Here you go,” she said. “The address is written in Dari; it isn’t hard to find.” Then she added with a grin, “I’m guessing it isn’t a woman. Women here don’t do that sort of thing. When you know for sure, phone and tell me the day and time of your meeting.
Ciao!
”

Which left Malko to face the depressing dining room, where he once again saw Shaheen Zoolor alone at a table. He did as he had before, except that he didn’t approach her in the hall, but followed her to the elevator.

When they were alone in the small cab, she broke the silence. “You were with a very pretty blond woman at the bar earlier,” she remarked.

“I didn’t see you,” said Malko.

“I just peeked in. It was too crowded.”

The elevator stopped and they got out together. This time Malko went directly to his room, and Shaheen followed. She entered without hesitation when he stepped aside, and walked over to the chair she’d occupied the evening before.

“I’d like to watch some television,” she said. “I enjoy MTV videos.”

She seemed to be getting used to being with him. Malko turned on the TV and observed as the young woman watched it in delight. This went on for a while, until she looked at her watch and jumped.

“My God, it’s late!”

She was already on her feet and on her way out, but he caught up with her at the door. They were facing each other.

Looking away, she asked in an even tone of voice, “Why do you keep pursuing me?”

“Because you’re very pretty.”

They were within inches of each other. Malko didn’t want to scare her off, but platonic friendships weren’t really his style. He lightly put his hand on the young woman’s hip and brushed his lips against hers. Then he opened the door and said good night.

He expected her to flee. Instead, she stood rooted to the spot, as if thunderstruck. Her gaze wavered, and she blushed. Her lips were trembling.

Suddenly finding her voice, she said, “This is the first time I’ve ever kissed a man!”

It certainly wouldn’t be the last, Malko thought. Anyway, it wasn’t a real kiss. He decided there was no point in pushing things. He opened the door wider and glanced out into the hallway.

“Run for it!” he said. “There’s nobody there.”

She slipped out, but this time he was sure she would be coming back.

The episode was such a contrast with the violence that surrounded him, it almost made Malko feel young again. He sat back down and watched a few more MTV videos, in which chaste Indian dancers mimed love in the most innocent possible way.

The man who showed up at the main NDS pedestrian entrance could have been anybody. He was wearing a grayish turban, a tan
shalwar kameez
, and a grimy vest. He handed the guard a piece of paper with a telephone number.

“Call this number and say that Khalid is here.”

The guard did so. After exchanging a few words, he hung up and said, “Stay here. Somebody will come get you.”

A few minutes later, he was led across the large inner courtyard, into a small building in the rear, and up to a second-floor office.

There, a man dressed Western-style stood up from his desk
and embraced him. NDS agent Mudir Rassul was Khalid’s handler.

“Chai?”

“
Baleh.
”

When Khalid finished his tea, Rassul casually asked, “So what’s the latest from Quetta?”

Khalid was one of the most effective moles ever to infiltrate the city’s large Pashtun population. He had been living in Quetta for five years, working as a handyman for Mullah Omar’s
shura.
He never attracted attention, had a faultless work history, and slept in a corner of the mosque. Everybody liked him, and nobody knew that one of his cousins worked for the NDS, recruiting informers.

It was very dangerous for Khalid to contact his handlers, so he rarely came to Kabul. For his good and loyal services, he was paid five hundred afghanis a month—about ten dollars. He was saving his money to someday buy a farm.

Khalid wiped his mustache and hesitantly said, “I overheard a conversation, and I think I have some good information.”

“What’s that?”

From his pocket, he took a piece of paper with some words written on it. He unfolded it and gave it to Rassul.

“This man is supposed to come to Kabul very soon.”

When Rassul read the note, his eyebrows shot up. “Are you sure of the name?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know him?”

“No, but I’ve seen him. He’s young, has lots of hair. Big nose, neat beard. He often dresses like a foreigner.”

Rassul stood up and said, “Have some more tea and wait for me here!”

He practically ran to the neighboring building and into the elevator.
On the third floor he strode over to the two guards outside Parviz Bamyan’s office.

“I’m Mudir Rassul,” he said. “Tell your boss I’ve got something important to tell him.”

One of the guards disappeared behind the upholstered door. He came back a few moments later and gestured for Rassul to enter. Bamyan was at his desk, working his way through a pile of documents he had to sign.

“What do you have for me?” he asked irritably.

“I just got a terrific tip, Commander. Abdul Ghani Beradar is coming to Kabul.”

At that, Bamyan put down his pen. Beradar was one of the regime’s bitterest enemies, and he was careful never to come to Afghanistan. The NDS had already tried to kill him several times, in vain.

“Who told you that?” he asked.

“My source in Quetta. He just got here.”

“Does he know where Beradar will be going in Kabul?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Then how the hell do you expect us to find him? Your tip isn’t worth a wormy goat. Get out of here and let me work!”

Bamyan angrily waved him away and went back to signing papers. Feeling sheepish, Rassul returned to his office. He pulled a hundred-afghani note from his pocket and handed it to Khalid.

“Here, treat yourself to a good
palau.
If you learn anything more, come back and see me. But I’ll need details.”

When Bamyan finally finished signing his papers, he decided to take a break. Lighting a cigarette, he thought back to the information his subordinate had delivered. Suddenly it clicked in his mind. They knew that the Quetta
shura
had appointed Beradar to hold
discussions with the Americans, and an NDS agent was almost sure he had spotted the cleric in Doha.

If Beradar was coming to Kabul, it could only be for a serious reason. Bamyan again thought of Malko Linge.

For the past few days, the NDS chief had been wondering why Linge was still in the city, and he now thought he knew. And it meant he no longer had to search for Beradar in the various Taliban circles. All he had to do was to keep a close eye on Linge.

Even if the tip turned out to be wrong, the surveillance would cost little enough. He immediately gave appropriate instructions, emphasizing discretion.

Beradar was a professional—an educated, clever man. In coming to Kabul, he was sure to take a number of precautions. Bamyan’s challenge was to defeat them.

It had by now almost become a ritual. As soon as Shaheen Zoolor left the dining room, Malko followed her at a respectful distance.

Like the evening before, they again wound up waiting for the elevator together. Practically an old couple.

But just as the cab arrived, a boy sprinted down the hallway toward them. Without so much as glancing at Zoolor, he put a folded piece of paper in Malko’s hand and ran off.

Startled, he unfolded it. It was a handwritten note: