Chaos in Kabul (25 page)

He wondered what had happened to Malko. If he had fallen into the hands of the NDS, Berry’s future was in serious jeopardy.

Before he realized it, he was asleep.

It was five thirty in the morning, and Malko was finishing getting dressed. He put the
shalwar kameez
on over his Western clothes, keeping the ankle holster and pistol. Wearing a turban, he wouldn’t attract any attention. Many Afghans were light skinned.

He heard the door downstairs open, then footsteps on the staircase. Nadir came in, gave Malko a quick once-over, and smiled approvingly.

“That is perfect,” he said. “No one will notice you sitting in the back of the taxi. I will take care of everything.”

Malko had some tea and a chapati, then followed Nadir outside. An old Corolla was parked nearby, with a young bearded man at the wheel. Malko and Nadir got in the back. Emerging onto a wide, potholed avenue, they reached the outskirts of Kabul in about half an hour.

The driver pulled into a big Ensalf service station on their right. Besides the cars at the pumps, some twenty blue and yellow taxis were parked around the gas station.

“They all go to Ghazni,” Nadir announced. “Follow me.”

One of the drivers got out and gave Nadir a hug. The men exchanged a few words, and Nadir said, “This is one of my cousins. We will go in his taxi.”

Three minutes later, they were heading for the mountains. The car’s seats sagged and its shocks were shot, but it rode well. They constantly passed overloaded trucks and minibuses. Malko was starting to relax when they reached the first curves leading up to the pass.

“Aren’t there any checkpoints?” he asked.

They were just then passing a roadblock stopping cars bound for Kabul.

“Not in this direction,” said Nadir. “Anyway, they know my cousin, and they do not bother him.”

A layer of fog forced the taxi to slow to twenty miles an hour. Reaching the pass, they drove by a long military barrier that featured bundled-up soldiers, an old Russian armored personnel carrier, and a few coils of barbed wire.

Ahead, the soldiers had stopped a minibus, making its passengers get out and searching them.

When Malko and Nadir’s taxi reached the chicane, their driver said a few words to the soldier on duty. He waved them through,
and they started down from the pass. Malko heaved a mental sigh of relief. He was out of Kabul!

The Taliban methods were working.

“There are no more checkpoints before Ghazni,” said Nadir.

Malko dozed as the monotonous landscape rolled by. They pulled off the bumpy highway into a truck stop for tea and biscuits, then went on. Ghazni was much lower than Kabul, and the temperature gradually rose.

“We will be there in twenty minutes,” announced Nadir.

Suddenly their driver slammed on the brakes. Leaning forward, Malko saw a dozen men standing in the middle of the highway. At first, he thought it was an accident but then realized that the men were carrying AK-47s; one had an RPG-7 on his shoulder. They had set up an improvised roadblock and were checking the cars.

They were probably Taliban.

In spite of having Mullah Kotak’s nephew with him, Malko felt an unpleasant shiver run down his spine.

“What’s happening?” he asked.

“It is just a Taliban roadblock,” said Nadir, who didn’t seem especially concerned.

They were now moving at walking pace. Cars were being stopped for a few moments, then allowed to drive on. When their turn came, the taxi driver rolled his window down to speak with a fierce-looking bearded man who was checking the cars. They exchanged a few words, and the man put his head inside the car. He immediately jerked back and started screaming at the driver. Malko caught just one word: “
khareji
!”

In seconds, their taxi was surrounded by a dozen hostile, bearded men who made them pull to the side of the road. Nadir went over and had a tense conversation with their leader.

The men were toothless, unkempt, and filthy and had AK-47 magazines jammed into their pockets. They were all glaring menacingly at Malko.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked.

“Something stupid happened,” said Nadir. “An Australian ISAF patrol shot two boys from the village, mistaking them for Taliban. These are their cousins and their friends. They want revenge. But do not be afraid. I told them who I was and said that you are under my protection, in the name of
pashtunwali
”—the Pashtun hospitality code. “But they are very angry and we have to talk with them.”

Just then, shouts arose nearby. Armed villagers were dragging a man out of his car and beating him with their rifles while yelling and swearing. His hands in the air, their unfortunate victim tried to explain himself.

Suddenly a bearded man with bulging eyes, more agitated than the others, burst from the crowd and screamed at the man at length. Then, without warning, he raised his AK-47 and fired a burst full in the man’s face, tearing off his lower jaw. He fell to the ground in a shower of blood. The shooter then calmly finished him off with a short burst to the chest.

Nadir had turned pale. To Malko, he said, “He was an Afghan National Army officer in civilian clothes. They say he was an accomplice of the coalition.”

Several of the men kicked the body into the roadside ditch. Malko was starting to feel very uneasy. Even without alcohol, these villagers were as worked up as a bunch of angry drunks.

Now the man with bulging eyes was standing in front of Malko and yelling at him in Pashto. Nadir immediately intervened. Speaking quietly, he managed to calm him somewhat. But suddenly the man turned on Nadir, seeming even angrier than before. The young man was as pale as death, but he stepped in when the man tried to haul Malko aside. A new discussion followed. Nadir again
calmed things down, but he turned to Malko. “They say you are a spy.”

Better and better, thought Malko.

Hunched behind the steering wheel, their driver tried to make himself inconspicuous as he watched the scene unfold. Suddenly a tall old man in a turban cut through the crowd, a Lee-Enfield rifle on his shoulder. His face was gaunt, and a few snaggled teeth showed in his bushy beard.

Putting his hand on his heart, Nadir greeted the old man at length and started a conversation in a much quieter tone. But Malko could see that Kotak’s nephew was getting upset.

“What’s going on?” he asked again.

“This is the village chief,” Nadir explained. “He is in charge. He has decided to hold a
shura
with the elders to decide your fate. The villagers are very upset. Two innocent boys have died.”

“My fate? What does he mean by that?”

They were now surrounded by armed men who were looking at Malko and speaking more and more angrily.

“What are they saying?”

“Some of them want to let you go in the name of
pashtunwali
,” said Nadir. “Some of them want to kidnap you and sell you to the Taliban. And others want revenge for the blood of the two young boys shot by the Australians.”

“How?”

“By killing you.”

At first, Malko experienced an odd feeling of detachment.
It took him a few seconds to fully realize that it was
his
life they were talking about. He was somewhere in the wilds of Afghanistan, in a place he couldn’t name, among people he couldn’t communicate with and who lived in another world.

But their logic was implacable; two boys from their village had been killed, so they would take revenge by killing a foreigner. It just happened that the foreigner was Malko, who had nothing to do with the blunder by the Australian soldiers.

He exchanged a look with Nadir. The young man seemed overwhelmed, his eyes panicky.

“Do they know you’re with the Taliban?”

“Yes, of course, but they do not care. I do not belong to their clan or their village. Blood has been spilled and it must be paid in blood. It is Pashtun tradition.”

“Do you think this
shura
might really condemn me to death?”

“I will defend you,” Nadir said shakily. “I will tell them that you are under the protection of Mullah Omar. They have great respect for him.”

“Will that be enough?”

“I—I hope so,” he stammered.

In other words, Nadir was asking him to gamble with his life.

Malko looked around. The crowd had shuffled off the highway, and traffic was moving normally again. AK-47s slung over their shoulders, the men were heading to their vehicles to drive to the village, where they would decide Malko’s fate.

Suddenly the toothless old man turned and shouted something at them.

“What did he say?” asked Malko.

“We are to follow him in the taxi.”

“That’s fine. It’ll give us a chance to escape. All we have to do is let them get ahead of us.”

Things were looking up.

Malko climbed back into the taxi, followed by Nadir, who gave the driver his instructions. The driver, who understood the situation perfectly, said something in a plaintive voice.

“He is asking if we can pay him now,” explained Nadir.

The driver apparently had no illusions about the outcome of the
shura.

As Nadir was looking for his money, they suddenly saw the most agitated of the villagers, the one who had threatened Malko, exchange a few words with the toothless old man, then come striding back toward the taxi.

He looked as hostile as ever, and Malko was sure he would vote to kill him without hesitation. If only the Australians were still here! But they had probably gotten into their armored vehicles and taken off.

The angry man climbed in next to the driver, the barrel of his Kalashnikov poking against the car roof. He spoke sharply to the driver, who looked even more terrified.

“We are going to the village together!” Nadir translated. “It is three miles from here.”

Which meant they had less than five minutes to decide what to do. After that, it would be too late.

They passed the army officer who’d been killed and whose body had been rolled into the ditch.

A sinister omen.

For a couple of minutes, nothing happened. They passed rocks, a few sheep, a shepherd. They were in the middle of nowhere. Suddenly Malko turned to Nadir. He had made up his mind.

“We can’t go to the village,” he said firmly.

“What do you mean?” said the young Afghan. “The driver is doing what the man in front tells him to. You must not try anything foolish!”

“Don’t worry,” Malko reassured him.

He slid his right hand down along his leg, reaching the grip of his GSh-18. He tore the pistol from the ankle holster, chambering a round as he raised it to his lap.

Nadir was now gaping at him in horror.

Malko pressed the barrel of his automatic against the bearded villager’s neck. To Nadir he said, “Tell him not to move, just to give us his rifle. We’ll stop the car and let him out.”

When the man felt the cold steel on his neck, he started violently and turned around with a roar, his features twisted in fury.

Half-dead with fear, the taxi driver braked and stopped the car without being told.

The villager feverishly tried to free his AK-47, its barrel banging this way and that. Malko yelled to Nadir, “Tell him to settle down! I’m not going to shoot him.”

Nadir stammered a few words, but they failed to calm the man. The threat of the pistol clearly wasn’t enough. With the taxi stopped, he suddenly yanked the door open and jumped out, still tangled in the strap of his Kalashnikov.

“Get us out of here!” Malko yelled at the driver, forgetting that he didn’t understand English.

Rigid with fear, his hands clamped on the steering wheel, the driver didn’t budge. Malko turned to Nadir.

“Tell him to drive away, fast!”

Nadir blurted something, but the driver still didn’t react. Suddenly, Malko looked out the open door to see the bearded man getting up, looking enraged. The moment he was on his feet, he slipped the AK-47 off his shoulder and chambered a round, clearly intending to shoot them.

The terrified driver now threw his door open and ran off down the road. Malko found himself staring into the wild eyes of the bearded villager, who was aiming his AK-47 at the car. In a second, he would empty his magazine at them. Malko couldn’t hesitate: it was his life or theirs.

He fired the GSh-18 as the villager was bringing his rifle to bear. The first bullet hit him in the chest, sending him stumbling backward, finger still clenched on the trigger. Its barrel now pointed at the sky, the AK-47 loosed a long burst that went over the car. Malko had already fired again, this time hitting the man in the hip. He tumbled to the ground and lay sprawled in the dust.

“You killed him!” said Nadir dully.

Standing not far from the taxi, the driver was wailing like a banshee.

Pretty emotional, for a Talib.

Malko got out, the automatic still in his hand.

The motionless villager’s eyes had glazed over. Fortunately there was nobody else on the road. Now as white as a sheet, Nadir came over to Malko.

“What are we going to do?” he moaned. “They are going to come after us!”

“We aren’t going to wait for them,” said Malko, still shocked by the sudden turn of events. He’d never thought he would have to kill this frenzied villager, but if he hadn’t acted, they would all be dead.