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Authors: Gérard de Villiers

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“We didn’t make much progress,” Beradar said with a frown. “There were two main sticking points: the withdrawal of coalition troops—”

“We have made progress there,” Luger pointed out.

The Pashtun smiled. “Yes, but only between ourselves. Nothing official.”

“We have given you our word that we will leave by the end of 2014,” insisted Luger. “We will keep our promises.”

“I can confirm that for the White House,” said Mulligan, breaking his silence.

“I don’t doubt you,” the mullah said smoothly. “But what if President Karzai asks that some troops stay after 2014? You would find yourself in an uncomfortable situation.”

A silence followed, eventually broken by Clayton Luger.

“President Karzai can’t run in the presidential elections set for April 2014,” he said. “He’ll be out of the game.”

Mullah Beradar shook his head, smiling. “We don’t trust Karzai. That was the second point raised at the Chantilly meeting. As long as that man is around, we can’t foresee any agreement. He’ll
either rig the election or run one of his loyalists, who will then do whatever Karzai says.”

“Why do you hate him so much?” asked Luger. “After all, he’s a Pashtun like you, from the Popolzai tribe in Kandahar.”

“Hamid Karzai is a corrupt man and a traitor,” said the mullah sharply. “If he doesn’t leave in time, he will wind up like Shah Shujah.”

That was the worst insult anyone could hurl at an Afghan. Shujah had been put on the throne by the British occupiers of Afghanistan in 1839. When the foreign troops left, the Afghans lynched him. Forever after, he was seen as the model of a traitor to his country.

“You’re very hard on Karzai,” said the CIA deputy director with a slight smile. “He isn’t our unconditional ally. After all, he’s the one who stopped the coalition offensive in Kandahar in 2010. It would have done you tremendous damage.”

Beradar grimaced scornfully. “Karzai is a good tactician. He pretends your leash on him is longer than it really is. He also tries to appease us. But we aren’t fooled. He knows that nothing can happen in Afghanistan without us. He is a weak, hypocritical man, which you yourself recognize.”

Luger went back on the offensive. “President Karzai has his faults, but I don’t think he wants to see a bloodbath in Afghanistan.”

“We don’t either,” said the mullah, “and we aren’t trying to seize complete power. All we want is our legitimate place at the table.”

“I can understand that,” said Luger cheerfully. “And now I think it’s time to tackle our dinner.”

He pressed the hidden buzzer, and in moments, two Pakistani waiters came to clear the appetizer plates and bring in the entrées. When they did, the three diners were in an innocuous discussion
about the fall in Kabul real estate prices caused by the many foreign companies leaving ahead of the coalition’s imminent departure.

The dinner plates had long since been cleared, but the men hadn’t touched the dessert, an excellent tiramisu. The mullah, because it contained alcohol; the two Americans, because they were focused on their topic.

The meeting had been difficult to arrange, and it had to produce results. But they were going around in circles. The mullah kept dodging, coming back to his usual positions. His two interlocutors were becoming visibly annoyed.

“We aren’t enemies, as you know very well,” Mullah Beradar reminded them. “In 2000 we were the ones who responded to your request to eradicate poppy farming. It was the Taliban’s way of showing that we were reliable partners.”

The national security advisor looked at his watch.

“I’m very sorry, but we have to take off in an hour at the latest,” he said. “I have a meeting with the president in Washington tomorrow morning. I came here to try to find an area of agreement.

“As you said, we were friends back in 2000. We can be friends again, under certain conditions. Here are ours. The first is very simple: the movement headed by Mullah Omar must formally and in writing renounce terrorism, meaning al-Qaeda.”

Beradar drew a notebook from his pocket and started taking notes.

Mulligan continued. “The second point is just as important: Afghanistan post-Karzai must remain an Islamic republic, not an Islamic caliphate, even if the Taliban movement participates in political life.

“We very much hope to have a candidate who will bring about
some national unity between the Pashtuns and the former members of the Northern Alliance. This will avoid bloody clashes between Tajiks, Uzbeks, and Pashtuns. We aren’t asking to participate in the elections, only to vet the candidates who represent your way of thinking.

“In exchange, we are willing to take Mullah Omar off our blacklist. What do you think?”

Mullah Beradar finished taking notes and looked up.

“That’s not a very generous offer,” he said in a neutral tone.

“But can you agree to the main points?” asked Mulligan.

“I don’t think there’s anything unacceptable in your plan,” said the cleric. “But you haven’t mentioned one thing: How many soldiers would you be leaving in Afghanistan after 2014? You know that the presence of foreign troops is a red flag for us.”

Mulligan was unruffled.

“The president now feels that six thousand troops would be enough to continue training the ANA”—the Afghan National Army.

“That’s still too many,” said Beradar, shaking his head. “There can’t be any troops left in the country.”

“This is something that can be discussed,” said Mulligan. “Let’s be clear. I know you don’t have the military strength to seize Kabul or any of the big provincial cities, even if coalition forces aren’t present. But the U.S. doesn’t want to see a terrorism campaign launched right after our departure. It would make us lose face.”

“I understand,” said the mullah, smiling amiably. “But you haven’t addressed the Karzai issue. The engagements we have reached can be enacted, but only on one condition: that Hamid Karzai is no longer part of the Afghan landscape, in any capacity.”

“You commit enough attacks!” snapped the CIA deputy director. “Why don’t you eliminate Karzai, if you hate him so much?”

Mullah Beradar smiled regretfully.

“We don’t have the means,” he said. “He rarely leaves his palace, where he is very well protected. Anyway, you brought him in after the Bonn Agreement in 2001. It’s up to you to rid us of him.”

“How? We can’t very well put him on a plane and dump him in the ocean. He is the president, after all. He may have been elected by fraud, but he was elected.”

The Afghan made a vague gesture. “That is a process we don’t care to be involved in. We know that you dislike Karzai as much as we do. Even his fellow Pashtuns don’t like him. All I can say is that for Mullah Omar, this point is nonnegotiable. Karzai must be gone before any agreement between us can be reached. As long as he is in place, there’s no use having any further talks. Karzai isn’t our problem; he’s yours.”

Beradar turned to Mulligan and added, “I apologize for being so blunt, but I am expressing the will of our leader, Mullah Omar.”

A long silence followed.

Luger realized that further discussion was pointless. He forced a smile and said, “Thank you for making your position clear. We will consider the Karzai question carefully.”

Beradar stood up and the Americans followed suit. After lengthy handshakes, the three men left the private dining room. The mullah slipped away toward the elevators.

“So do you think we’ve made headway?” Mulligan asked Luger when they were alone.

The CIA deputy director nodded thoughtfully.

“I think we may have the makings of a solution here, provided we can resolve the Karzai problem. The Taliban are taking a more moderate position than they have in the past.”

Mulligan’s head jerked up in surprise.

“Moderate? They’re throwing acid at girls who want to go to school!”

“I meant moderate politically. They aren’t demanding total
power. They’re prepared to leave room for the Tajiks, the Hazara, and the people who aren’t too compromised by Karzai. That could mean an almost peaceful transition.”

Another long silence followed, broken by the national security advisor.

“Clayton, do you have any ideas about how to solve the Karzai problem?”

“A few, and none of them very good. It’s a political matter that only the president can decide. But I’ll try to think of some practical solutions.”

In fact, the CIA deputy director had only one in mind, and it posed a major ethical dilemma. Since September 2001, the United States had killed many of its adversaries, including Osama bin Laden.

But never a sitting president.

His Most Serene Highness Prince Malko Linge, Knight of
the Order of the Black Eagle, Margrave of Lower Lusatia, Knight of the Royal Order of Seraphim, and Knight of the Order of Malta—to cite just some of his titles—looked out his library window at the silently falling snow that since last night had been covering all of Burgenland.

He was lost in thought.

The music coming from the ballroom reminded Malko that his castle had guests tonight. Some twenty squires from neighboring estates had come to Liezen to eat braised venison with chestnuts prepared by his faithful old cook, Ilse, who had preceded it with a mountain of charcuterie. All washed down with beer and Steinhäger gin.

People had started dancing after dinner, but Malko discreetly slipped away, leaving his guests in the hands of his fiancée, Alexandra, who looked dazzling in a mauve Azzedine Alaïa gown.

For some reason, he wasn’t enjoying the party as much as he should. It was the manifestation of his worldly public life, that of a somewhat impoverished Austrian nobleman who somehow managed to preserve his station in ways unsuspected by the hoi polloi.

Very few people knew of Malko Linge’s connection to the CIA as a highly skilled freelance operative. In exchange for taking insane
risks, it allowed him to pay the castle’s bills. As he watched the snowflakes fall, Malko found himself thinking that every stone of the old place was soaked in the blood of those who died so he could live and enjoy it. The swirling wall of white flakes gradually covering the courtyard cobblestones seemed to be cutting him off from the world.

Malko wasn’t feeling himself this evening. He downed his glass of Russky Standart and was about to rejoin his guests when a warm body leaned against his back. He had no trouble recognizing Alexandra, whose heavy breasts pressed against his alpaca jacket.

The young woman slipped an arm around his waist, pulling him closer.

“This is certainly the first time I’ve ever seen you go into the library alone,” she murmured teasingly.

They had often made love in that room, and a fair number of Malko’s other conquests had lost what remained of their virtue there. In spite of Alexandra’s fierce jealousy, he sometimes couldn’t help yielding to his predatory instincts.

“It was too noisy in the ballroom,” he said. “I’m glad you came to join me.”

He rested his hand on the young woman’s, which was firmly pressed against his belly. She put her lips against his neck.

“I counted the women guests, and they were all present, so I went looking for you. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, exactly. I just needed some time to think. I was remembering Tunis. I don’t like what happened there. A lot of people died for nothing.”

“That was far away,” Alexandra answered lightly. “Now you’re home, enjoying life, and life is good. Your guests find you charming and brilliant, and they envy me.”

“You know this is all going to end someday,” he said. “You’ll get that bad phone call …”

“Not necessarily. You can always shake off your spooks and come live with me. I have a big, beautiful home and a vineyard that can easily support both of us without your having to risk your life every three months.”

“You’d want me to leave Liezen?”

“Why not? Even if you kill ten times more people for the CIA, you’ll never be able to restore this castle completely. It’s a money pit, and you know it.”

“It would break my heart to leave Liezen,” he said, shaking his head. “I’d rather burn it down.”

Alexandra burst out laughing.

“What a good idea! It would make for a terrific bonfire. We could throw one last party and dance in the courtyard while the castle burned.”

Malko wheeled on her.

“Stop talking nonsense! Come on, let’s go back. Our guests will think we have bad manners.”

Alexandra didn’t budge, blocking his way instead. In a low voice she said, “Let’s imagine that I’m one of your women guests and you found me here, all alone in the darkness. What would you do?”

They weren’t exactly in darkness and he could make out Alexandra’s voluptuous curves perfectly well. He never wearied of her, in spite of his exotic adventures. Standing slightly akimbo, she gazed at him, looking as sexy as the devil.

She came closer, leaning gently against him, and murmured, “So what would you do with this new, unknown woman? You might sit her on the sofa, put on some music, and tell her how charming she is.”

As she spoke, she pulled him over to the red velvet sofa that had hosted many of their embraces. She sat down beside Malko, gazing at him.

BOOK: Chaos in Kabul
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