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Authors: Gérard de Villiers

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BOOK: Chaos in Kabul
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“Hang on a minute! I didn’t say no; I just need time to think if this thing is doable. Give me two days. And I warn you, if I say yes, it’s going to be very, very expensive.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

“Karzai’s got a very long arm. He controls the NDS and has lots of connections. And especially, he’s extremely distrustful. Have you seen the station people, by the way?”

“They sent a car to pick me up at the airport.”

“Do they know about this Karzai thing?”

“No. Officially, I’m here to negotiate with the Taliban.”

Berry smiled ironically.

“Everyone’s negotiating with the Taliban, even Karzai. Best not to tell the station anything.”

“Why not?”

“You know a guy named Mark Spider?”

“No, I don’t.”

The South African poured himself another vodka.

“He’s an Agency man, the one who brought Karzai on board in 2002. He was station chief here twice. Karzai owes him big-time and Spider does everything to protect him. He’s gone back to Washington, but he still has people at the Ariana. If they get even a whiff of a threat, they’ll warn Karzai. So be very, very careful.”

Malko made a mental note of this detail, which Clayton Luger had forgotten to mention: that Hamid Karzai had moles within the CIA!

Malko needed to be sure he knew where he stood with Berry.

“Do you think this project is feasible?” he asked.

The South African gave him a chilly smile.

“Everything’s feasible. It’s a question of means and money. Luck, too. Okay, I—”

A ringing phone interrupted him. Berry had a brief conversation in Dari, hung up, and turned back to Malko.

“They’ve already searched your room at the Serena.”

Malko felt an unpleasant chill run down his spine.

“Who did?”

“The NDS. It’s normal; they do it to all the new arrivals. Do you have anything compromising?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s no big deal,” said the South African. “But I’ll give you a secure local cell phone, just in case. They tap a lot of lines. Do you have contacts in the Taliban?”

“Just one,” said Malko.

“Hang on to it! You never know, it could be useful. All right, I think we’ve said everything that needs saying. Just the same, I’ve got a housewarming present for you.”

Berry went over to his desk and came back with an automatic pistol in a GK ankle holster and a folded sheet of paper.

“Here you go. It’s a GSh-18, the model the Russian special forces use. Can’t be traced. Strap it on your ankle. And this is the weapons permit that goes with it. It’ll spare you some hassles.”

Malko was dumbfounded.

“How did you get your hands on this?”

“I have a guy at the Interior Ministry who sells them to me for ten thousand afghanis,” said Berry casually. “Fill out the form in your name. If you’re stopped, the registration number will tell them where it’s from, and they won’t ask any questions. Do you need a car?”

“Not for the time being,” said Malko.

Berry nodded approvingly.

“You’re right to keep a low profile. In any case, everyone in town’s gonna know who you are very fast.” He stood up. “And if anybody wants to kill you, it’ll be easy.”

“By the way, is the Atmosphere still open?” asked Malko.

It was the only hot spot in Kabul, a restaurant-nightclub-café with a pool and music where the expats hung out.

“Yeah, but it’s fallen off. The chow’s lousy, and not many people go there anymore.”

Malko suddenly thought of the young South African woman he’d once had a passionate fling with in Kabul. As a fellow South African in the city, maybe Berry knew her.

“Do you know if Maureen Kieffer is still in Kabul?”

Berry let out a roar.

“You know her? Yeah, she’s here, and she’s struggling, just like me. There’s no market for armored cars anymore. Hell of a boss girl, isn’t she?”

Berry gave Malko a crushing handshake and walked him out to the gray Corolla.

When Malko walked in, the hotel’s metal detector started to beep, and he quickly pulled out his weapons permit and the magnetic door key that showed he was a hotel guest.

Once in his room, Malko dialed Maureen Kieffer’s cell number, which he still had.

Amazingly, she picked up on the third ring.

“Maureen?”

“Who’s calling, please?”

“Malko.”

There was a long silence, than a joyous shout.

“Malko! Are you in Kabul?”

“Yes. What about you?”

“I’m still here, but I’ll be going home soon. I don’t have as much work as before. Everybody’s leaving.”

“Can we get together?”

“Of course! Are you at the Serena?”

“Yes. Want to have dinner at the Atmosphere?”

It was the place where they first met.

“We can do better,” she said. “We’ll go to the Boccaccio. I’ll pick you up around eight. I’ll phone from the car and you can
come down. With the checkpoints, it’s too complicated, otherwise.”

Maureen Kieffer seemed more mature than the last time they were together. Two deep wrinkles framed her mouth, but she could still fill a sweater. She was wearing black cargo pants and boots. They shared a long hug, and when Malko brushed her large breasts, he felt a stirring of desire. She was as sexy as ever.

Malko’s foot bumped into a folding AK-47 on the floor of her car.

“I better get going,” she said. “Otherwise, they’ll start shooting at us. They’re so damned jumpy!”

“But your car’s bulletproof,” remarked Malko.

“Yeah, but then you have to touch up the paint.”

She shifted into first, and the three-ton SUV lurched forward.

A quarter of an hour later they turned into the rutted alley where the Boccaccio stood. There was virtually no traffic in Kabul at night, except for green police pickups and a few taxis. Also no pedestrians, though the fruit and vegetable sellers kept their stands brightly lit in the faint hope of attracting customers.

Unlike other Kabul restaurants, which preferred anonymity, the Boccaccio displayed its name on a marble plaque atop a concrete security barrier.

The dining rooms were full of Afghans and foreigners, including a few Americans who had permission from the embassy. The black stone walls gave the place an exotic look, as did the Russian waitresses, whose skimpy outfits would give a Talib a heart attack. You got the feeling they weren’t here just to wait on tables.

Maureen and Malko were led to a table in the back room, and a young waitress came to take their order.

“Champagne!” said Malko.

Here, alcohol was served.

A bottle of Roederer Cristal arrived in a few moments.

“I see that you haven’t forgotten what I like,” Maureen said with a grin. “The restaurants get their supplies from the embassy cooks, who steal from the diplomats.”

They clinked glasses.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” she said. “Anyway, I’m heading back to South Africa soon. There’s nothing left to do here.”

They ordered what turned out to be some very decent carpaccio and pasta.

People were talking loudly, and the atmosphere was animated.

Maureen lowered her voice.

“The boss is a crook,” she said. “He cheated a lot of people, and he did time in Dubai, but at least it feels cheerful here.”

By the time Maureen and Malko were finished, the room was emptying. Afghans started work very early in the morning, and people didn’t stay up. Besides, darkened streets weren’t exactly inviting, even though police cars were parked at checkpoints at every intersection.

“Want to go back to my place?” asked Maureen.

There weren’t more than a half dozen cars in the little street. The avenues were deserted, and once you were off the main arteries, the pavement was terrible. You’d almost think the city was abandoned. At each checkpoint, you had to slow down and switch on your dome light.

The usual wartime routine.

Maureen pulled up in front of her guesthouse and honked. Two Afghans carrying AK-47s and wrapped in heavy
patu
cloaks against the night cold opened the double gate.

Soon they were in the apartment Malko remembered from his
previous visit. The living room had a big flat-screen television, lots of rugs, and a long sectional sofa. A wood fire in the fireplace warmed the room. It felt very civilized.

Without a word, Maureen pulled her cashmere sweater over her head, revealing a much more feminine lacy black bra. Then she sat down to take off her boots and cargo pants. Her black string panty matched her bra perfectly and quickly came off as well.

She stretched voluptuously before disappearing into the kitchen. When she came out a few moments later, she had a bottle of champagne and her eyes were bright with excitement.

“Get undressed,” she told him. “I’m going to hose you down.”

Malko knew her habits and didn’t argue. He undressed, helped by the young woman, who seemed eager to see him naked. That done, she propped him in front of the fire on a stack of big cushions, then leaned over and started to masturbate him. When she was satisfied with the result of her efforts, she jumped up and said, “Whatever you do, don’t move!”

Maureen’s plan was simple: she was going to spray Malko’s belly with champagne, the way they did at Formula One finishes. But just as she picked up the bottle, they heard a scratching at the door, followed by a few low words in Dari. Maureen stopped what she was doing and answered, also in Dari. The door opened to admit a small girl in a head scarf, who ignored the fact that her mistress was naked, as was Malko.

“What’s the matter, Narifar?” asked Maureen.

The little maid said a few quiet words, then backed out of the room.

“What’s going on?” asked Malko.

“There’s a guy hiding in the alley,” said Maureen. “He’s on a motorcycle.”

Maureen put on a robe and set the champagne on a coffee
table. She then picked up her Kalashnikov and left the room. Not knowing what else to do, Malko put on his pants.

She returned a few minutes later, followed by her two Afghan guards. They were frog-marching a skinny and clearly terrified young man between them. One of the two spoke to Maureen in a respectful tone, and she translated for Malko.

“They say he was lurking in the alley. He must have followed us from the Boccaccio.”

“What does he want?”

“We’ll ask him.”

She said a few words in Dari, and a guard took a curved dagger from his belt and set it against the man’s throat. He shrank away from it in fear. Maureen said something to him sharply, again in Dari.

“I told him to tell the truth,” she said to Malko, “or we’ll cut his throat.”

When their prisoner remained silent, one of the guards grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. He screamed and immediately started talking. Maureen translated as they went along.

“He says someone ordered him to follow you. Apparently he was waiting in front of the Serena, though I didn’t notice him. Says
he was tipped off from inside the hotel, which is how he knew when you were going out.”

“Who is this ‘someone’?” asked Malko.

“An NDS guy who hires him to tail people. They meet at a restaurant where a lot of cops go.”

She gave a crisp order, and the two guards led the young man out of the room.

“The NDS seems to mistrust you,” she said. “They’re on edge these days. Were you aware of this?”

“I know they’re interested in me,” said Malko, remembering the search of his room.

His mission was off to a great start. Maureen let her robe fall to the floor and came over to gently rub her body against Malko. The contact with her warm skin immediately gave him an erection, which the young woman happily seized. When she judged it firm enough, she pushed Malko over to the sofa and fetched the champagne.

She popped the cork, shook the bottle, and aimed it at Malko’s belly. When she slipped her thumb aside, a flood of champagne washed over his stomach and cock.

Now satisfied, she set the bottle down, kneeled on the carpet, and started licking the champagne off Malko’s belly. Then she turned to his stiff cock, first licking it like a cat, then suddenly taking it in her mouth.

Afterward, she shifted onto the sofa, while continuing to lick him.

“There are two things I love,” she said with a sigh. “Good champagne and sucking a man with a stiffy. Now it’s your turn.”

She lay back, spreading her legs to reveal a tuft of reddish hair. Malko moved on top and sank deep inside her.

Maureen bounced to his rhythm, tightening her thighs around his hips and giving a little cry with each of his thrusts. It felt delicious.

With a hoarse shout, Malko came.

“Lucky I had some champagne in the house,” she said with a cheerful laugh a few moments later. “God, it’s good to fuck!”

“Is your maid used to seeing you with men this way?”

Maureen laughed again, heartily.

“Sure. I have two Uzbek girls. They’re as quiet as mice, and they live ten times better here than in their villages. Besides, they’re illiterate, so they’re discreet.”

She was already getting dressed, first putting on her panties, then her black cargo pants. She pulled on her sweater without bothering with a bra.

BOOK: Chaos in Kabul
8.19Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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