rickety furniture. Shelves of books covered one wall, and a couple of computers stood on the desk.
At the back of the room, a fat man propped up on cushions on the floor was eating. He gave Malko a happy salute.
“Salaam alaikum! I heard you’d arrived in Kabul,” he explained in fluent English. “Did you have a good trip?”
“Excellent,” said Malko to the mullah, who waved him to a nearby cushion.
“One of the faithful just brought me some stew. It’s lamb with candied fruits, and absolutely delicious. Would you like a taste?”
Malko politely declined, and Kotak went back to eating greedily. Between bites, he said, “Life is so hard that whenever Allah sends me something good, I enjoy it to the fullest.”
The cleric was so fat, he had to lean over just to reach his plate. Kotak looked like a harmless little Buddha, but he had harshly applied sharia law when the Taliban ruled from 1996 to 2001.
He finished eating, drank some fruit juice, and fell back on his cushions with a happy smile.
“I am not the imam of this mosque, but I come here every afternoon to see people and receive visitors. My apartment is too small and far from downtown. What do you think of Kabul today?”
“It seems pretty quiet.”
The mullah gave a laugh that ended with a slight belch.
“President Karzai’s people claim that our Taliban friends aren’t in the city. They say they’re all out in the provinces and that the ones who come to launch attacks are from Logar or Maidan Wardak. It’s almost true.”
“Why ‘almost’?”
Kotak laughed again.
“Because in Kabul, the Taliban are everywhere! We’ve infiltrated all the ministries, the army, the police, the bazaar. We know everything that’s going on.” He lowered his voice. “There are even Taliban in the president’s entourage, though he won’t admit it.”
He heaved a heavy sigh and continued.
“If only Allah would rid us of this cowardly, corrupt man, this traitor to his country!”
He paused, clearly giving Malko a chance to take the hint. When he didn’t, Kotak went on.
“I don’t know what you’ve come to do in Kabul, but if I can help in any way, it would be an honor and pleasure. Are you planning to go to Quetta?”—the seat of Mullah Omar’s
shura
in Pakistani Baluchistan.
“I don’t know yet,” said Malko cautiously.
The cleric made a gesture that was almost a blessing.
“In spite of my modest position, I have many friends around the country. If you want to travel there in safety, I can help you.”
Their eyes met. Kotak’s gaze was impenetrable, but Malko understood from this brief conversation that the Taliban had just “approved” him, as Clayton Luger had predicted. It also meant that they might be able to help him in case of trouble.
“Thank you very much for your welcome,” he said.
The cleric struggled to his feet from the worn carpet and took Malko’s right hand in both of his.
“Please come back whenever you like!”
Once back in his hotel room, Malko took stock. He had one last contact to make: Luftullah Kibzai, the CIA’s mole inside the NDS. Going to his office was out of the question. Though instructed not to, he would have to telephone him.
The number rang for a long time before an almost inaudible man’s voice answered with a few words in Dari. When Malko spoke, his accent must have shown him to be a foreigner, and the man continued in English.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m a friend of Sherwood’s, and I just arrived in Kabul. Can we meet?”
There was a long silence on the line, as Kibzai hesitated.
“We could have dinner at the Sufi,” he finally said. “It’s in the Taimani neighborhood. Around eight o’clock.”
“Perfect,” said Malko.
Night was starting to fall, and Malko had nothing else to do. The Serena was three-quarters empty and the bar didn’t serve liquor, so he fell back on watching CNN. Among other things, helearned that Lance Armstrong had admitted to doping in his
At the back of the room, a fat man propped up on cushions on the floor was eating. He gave Malko a happy salute.
“Salaam alaikum! I heard you’d arrived in Kabul,” he explained in fluent English. “Did you have a good trip?”
“Excellent,” said Malko to the mullah, who waved him to a nearby cushion.
“One of the faithful just brought me some stew. It’s lamb with candied fruits, and absolutely delicious. Would you like a taste?”
Malko politely declined, and Kotak went back to eating greedily. Between bites, he said, “Life is so hard that whenever Allah sends me something good, I enjoy it to the fullest.”
The cleric was so fat, he had to lean over just to reach his plate. Kotak looked like a harmless little Buddha, but he had harshly applied sharia law when the Taliban ruled from 1996 to 2001.
He finished eating, drank some fruit juice, and fell back on his cushions with a happy smile.
“I am not the imam of this mosque, but I come here every afternoon to see people and receive visitors. My apartment is too small and far from downtown. What do you think of Kabul today?”
“It seems pretty quiet.”
The mullah gave a laugh that ended with a slight belch.
“President Karzai’s people claim that our Taliban friends aren’t in the city. They say they’re all out in the provinces and that the ones who come to launch attacks are from Logar or Maidan Wardak. It’s almost true.”
“Why ‘almost’?”
Kotak laughed again.
“Because in Kabul, the Taliban are everywhere! We’ve infiltrated all the ministries, the army, the police, the bazaar. We know everything that’s going on.” He lowered his voice. “There are even Taliban in the president’s entourage, though he won’t admit it.”
He heaved a heavy sigh and continued.
“If only Allah would rid us of this cowardly, corrupt man, this traitor to his country!”
He paused, clearly giving Malko a chance to take the hint. When he didn’t, Kotak went on.
“I don’t know what you’ve come to do in Kabul, but if I can help in any way, it would be an honor and pleasure. Are you planning to go to Quetta?”—the seat of Mullah Omar’s
shura
in Pakistani Baluchistan.
“I don’t know yet,” said Malko cautiously.
The cleric made a gesture that was almost a blessing.
“In spite of my modest position, I have many friends around the country. If you want to travel there in safety, I can help you.”
Their eyes met. Kotak’s gaze was impenetrable, but Malko understood from this brief conversation that the Taliban had just “approved” him, as Clayton Luger had predicted. It also meant that they might be able to help him in case of trouble.
“Thank you very much for your welcome,” he said.
The cleric struggled to his feet from the worn carpet and took Malko’s right hand in both of his.
“Please come back whenever you like!”
Once back in his hotel room, Malko took stock. He had one last contact to make: Luftullah Kibzai, the CIA’s mole inside the NDS. Going to his office was out of the question. Though instructed not to, he would have to telephone him.
The number rang for a long time before an almost inaudible man’s voice answered with a few words in Dari. When Malko spoke, his accent must have shown him to be a foreigner, and the man continued in English.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m a friend of Sherwood’s, and I just arrived in Kabul. Can we meet?”
There was a long silence on the line, as Kibzai hesitated.
“We could have dinner at the Sufi,” he finally said. “It’s in the Taimani neighborhood. Around eight o’clock.”
“Perfect,” said Malko.
Night was starting to fall, and Malko had nothing else to do. The Serena was three-quarters empty and the bar didn’t serve liquor, so he fell back on watching CNN. Among other things, helearned that Lance Armstrong had admitted to doping in his
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