Chaos in Kabul (3 page)

“Personally, I think you might start by kissing her, to see how far she’s prepared to go. That would be a good beginning, don’t you think?”

Her lips met Malko’s, and her tongue darted into his mouth. She was relaxed, and he could tell that she was getting excited.

The kiss went on and on.

He stroked Alexandra’s heavy breasts and could feel her nipples harden under his fingers. Now getting excited in turn, he slipped his hand to her knees and under her dress, which gave a highly erotic rustle as it slid up over her stockings.

The young woman pulled her mouth away.

“Now I think you should take her panties off,” she murmured. “That’s a good test. If she squeezes her thighs together, it means she still needs a little more champagne.”

Malko’s fingers were already stroking Alexandra’s thighs. She wasn’t squeezing them together—quite the contrary. When he reached the edge of her string panty, she raised her hips slightly so he could slide it down. It was soon a crumpled ball of black lace on the carpet. She spoke approvingly:

“See? Who dares, wins.”

She eased herself down on the cushions to give him access to her already wet pussy.

His gloomy earlier mood forgotten, Malko was caught up in an erotic and romantic rush. He felt Alexandra stroking his alpaca trousers, then delicately unzipping them. His fiancée’s warm hands made their practiced way into the opening and seized his prick.

For a few moments, only sighs and the rustle of clothing could be heard. Then Alexandra moved slightly to see if the prick now rising from the alpaca pants was properly stiff. She brought her mouth close to Malko’s ear and sweetly said, “I assume that your conquest was well brought up, and that she learned to use her mouth properly in finishing school.”

As she spoke, she went down on her knees in front of him. When Malko felt Alexandra’s warm mouth close around him, he thought he would faint with happiness. Eyes closed, completely relaxed, he gave himself over to her. He put his hand on the nape of her neck to guide her a little. A little later, he felt resistance and let her come up for air. She again brought her mouth close to his ear.

“Your lady love has done a fine job of preparing that thing, and I think she deserves to have it deep inside her. Honest pay for honest work … It’s up to you to lead her on, to anticipate her desires. For her to fully enjoy what’s coming, I think she might want to kneel on the sofa, like this.”

Alexandra stood up, turned away from Malko, and knelt on the red sofa, her chest against the backrest. Stepping behind her, he had only to loosen his pants and lift her mauve dress over her hips, then press his cock between her cheeks. It easily found her pussy when he bent his knees a little. With hardly any effort, he sank into her to the hilt. She raised her hips, the better to receive him.

Grabbing her waist, a happy Malko slid in and out of her. Alexandra sighed with every thrust, giving deep little moans.

This lasted until Malko felt his climax approaching. Alexandra could sense it too, from the way he was clutching her hips and the quickening tempo of his thrusts. Turning her head, she said, “You’ve gone this far; you can afford to get rough with her. She wouldn’t dare complain.”

It was an explicit invitation.

Restraining his climax, Malko pulled out, then pointed his cock higher. Finding her hot ass was enough to make him lose what remained of his restraint. Grasping his cock firmly, he set it against the tight opening and shoved.

Alexandra gave a hoarse growl as he sank deep inside her. Then her hips began to sway while Malko pounded as hard as he knew how.

When he came, his yell seemed to shake the falling snowflakes. Good thing the library door was closed …

The two of them stayed that way for a long time, feeling dazed. Then Alexandra turned to him.

“I think you should apologize for your roughness now. She may never have been taken this way before. Kiss her hand and get her a glass of champagne. She deserves it.”

Malko eased out of her.

They quickly straightened their clothes and left the library hand in hand.

Malko’s old butler, Elko Krisantem, saw them entering the ballroom and came over with some glasses of champagne on a tray.

Alexandra drank hers down and gave Malko a sly look.

“Thank you for that pleasant interlude, sir. I must go join my husband now.”

She moved away toward a group of their guests.

Malko was putting his glass down when his cell phone beeped. A text message appeared on-screen:

I need to see you in Washington asap. JM.

He put the phone in his pocket. “JM” was John Mulligan, the White House national security advisor. He called Malko only for extremely delicate missions.

And extremely dangerous ones.

The weather in Washington was no better than it had
been in Austria. Snow silently swirled along Sixteenth Street to a White House no doubt busy preparing for Barack Obama’s second inauguration.

Malko released the window drapes in his room at the Hay-Adams and looked at his watch: exactly 1:00 p.m. It wouldn’t do to keep John Mulligan waiting. The national security advisor was a powerful figure in the White House. He was the man who knew the deepest secrets, who directed the United States’
real
policy, and who helped the president make decisions that weren’t always endorsed in the sainted halls of Congress.

Malko had flown from Vienna to New York on Austrian Airlines, then taken the train to Union Station. His reservation at the Hay-Adams, the fanciest and most expensive hotel in town, turned out to be an elegant suite. That meant the Americans would be asking him to do something very difficult. Along the Potomac, they didn’t throw money out the window.

Malko took the elevator downstairs to the hotel dining room, whose maître d’ approached with an ingratiating smile. Just then, the door curtains parted, admitting a very tall, white-haired man wearing a black down coat. When he spotted Malko, he strode over, smiling.

“Malko Linge?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Clayton Luger, deputy director. I work with Ted Boteler. He was supposed to come today, but he has the flu. Follow me!”

Boteler, whom Malko knew well, ran the CIA special operations group, in charge of undercover missions.

Luger led him to a booth at the very back of the room.

“I’m sorry. I should have been here to meet you, but traffic was bad. John should be here any moment. Care for a drink?”

Malko was served a glass of Stolichnaya but barely had time for a toast when a tall, redheaded man crossed the room to their booth, moving like a charging elephant. The national security advisor.

Mulligan and Malko exchanged a long handshake.

“It’s nice to see you back in Washington,” said Mulligan, sitting down.

After some small talk, they ordered: New York steaks for the two Americans, rack of lamb for Malko.

It wasn’t until they’d finished their salads that Mulligan turned to Malko and asked, “Does anyone know about your trip?”

“Your immigration officers certainly do,” said Malko. “They questioned me quite carefully, probably because of the upcoming inauguration. Why do you ask?”

“This meeting must remain absolutely secret. I didn’t even enter it in my appointment book. It concerns an extremely sensitive subject.”

Because of the time difference, Malko was starving, and he was afraid Mulligan might tackle his subject immediately. Fortunately that wasn’t the case, and they took the time to enjoy their entrées.

Finally, the security advisor pushed his plate back and said, “You were in Afghanistan three years ago, as I recall. What do you know about the situation there now?”

“Only what I read in the newspapers,” said Malko. “Not great, it seems.”

“That’s an understatement. We’re in deep shit there, and President Obama wants us out. No troops after 2014. We’ve already evacuated four hundred combat positions all over the country. We can’t move any faster.”

“What will happen after the coalition troops leave?”

“That’s the number one problem. Word on the ground is very bad. Every time we leave a place, the Taliban move in. They’re clever. They don’t play a public role, but they control everything, under the table. When villagers have a legal dispute, they don’t turn to the official justice system, which is totally corrupt, but to the Taliban, who are honest.”

“What about Karzai?” asked Malko.

The American gave a harsh laugh.

“He’s nothing but the mayor of Kabul now. Never leaves his palace anymore. He’ll take a helicopter to travel twenty miles, and that as rarely as possible. He’s surrounded by family leeches and people so corrupt it would curl your hair. His whole entourage is rotten.”

“What will happen after you pull out?”

“The regime should be able to hold Kabul and the cities,” said Mulligan. “But nobody can gauge the police and ANA soldiers’ loyalty to the government. Today they’ll fiercely defend the smallest checkpoint; tomorrow they might change sides and disappear. And in that case, the regime could collapse in a few days. Like in Vietnam.”

An ugly memory for the Americans.

By the time their coffees arrived, Malko still didn’t know why Mulligan had summoned him to Washington so urgently. After all, there wasn’t much he could do to settle the Afghan problem.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what is on your mind, John? I don’t imagine you called this meeting to give me a lecture on geo-strategy.”

“No, I just wanted to give you the big picture. Now we get to the tough part. And everything I’m going to tell you is top secret.”

Mulligan lowered his voice.

“A week ago, we had a secret meeting with the Taliban in Qatar. I went there under an assumed name.”

“You did?” Malko asked in surprise.

“Yes. The Taliban wanted to be sure that the American government was really behind the negotiation, that this wasn’t just a CIA trial balloon that the White House would immediately shoot down. So Clayton and I made the trip to Doha together.”

“What came of it?”

“An outline of a plan to end the crisis,” said Mulligan vaguely. “It still has to be ratified by Mullah Omar’s
shura
in Quetta.”

“What about the Pakistanis?”

Mulligan grinned sarcastically.

“If the Taliban sign, the Pakistanis have to agree. They’ve got them by the balls.”

“And what about the Karzai government?”

Malko felt Mulligan stiffen slightly, and he understood that they were getting to the heart of the matter.

“The Karzai government isn’t aware of this démarche,” he said. “And it won’t be.”

“But they talk to the Taliban too,” Malko objected.

“Of course. Karzai is doing everything he can to win them over. Remember, he was very close to them in the beginning. They even planned to name him ambassador to the United States! Their connection only began to fray after September 11, when we drove the Taliban out of Kabul with the help of the Northern Alliance. After that, Karzai became the Taliban’s nemesis. Initially because of his
support for the coalition, and later because of his government’s corruption.”

Clayton Luger broke in. “Did you know that one of Karzai’s brothers siphoned off nine hundred and sixty million dollars from the national bank by authorizing loans to his friends? They promptly ran off to buy real estate in Dubai, while remaining officially insolvent in Afghanistan.”

“So why are you leaving Karzai out of the talks?” asked Malko.

A long silence followed, eventually broken by the security advisor.

“For the reasons I’m about to explain. As I said, we’re facing a dilemma. The president wants to disengage from Afghanistan as quickly as possible.”

“The Agency has already pulled more than a thousand operatives out,” said Luger. “We only send our ‘newbies’ there now.”

Mulligan resumed. “Every report that crosses my desk says the same thing. Once the last coalition troops leave, the Afghan National Army will fall apart. It already has a 27 percent attrition rate every year. Police, same thing. The Taliban have completely penetrated them. Which means we might wind up leaving with our tails between our legs, like in Vietnam. That’s something the president wants to avoid at any cost.”

“So you’re in a tight spot,” said Malko. “Do you have a solution?”

“The Taliban suggested one to us. Even though Karzai’s weak and corrupt, they’re afraid of him. So they suggested a negotiated settlement that would ensure a peaceful transition.”

“They’d be giving up their claim to power?” asked Malko skeptically.

“No, they want some power, but they’re prepared not to take it all—at least, not the moment the coalition leaves. If the Taliban are in control of Kabul a year after we leave, we save face.
They’ll be wielding the real power, of course, but officially, the new Afghan government will be holding the reins. Even if this doesn’t fool anybody. After all, nobody blamed the Russians when the Taliban hung President Najibullah three years after they left.”

Mulligan fell silent, then ordered another cup of coffee. The Hay-Adams dining room was emptying out. Some people were going back to work, others up to comfortable rooms where their lovers waited.