Chapter 16
Afghan Hounds of Hell
The FLASH message awaited me in the chancery’s communications center. The embassy’s duty officer had called me earlier in the morning telling me I’d better get my butt into work. Washington was calling and I needed to answer the phone. I let Kali sleep since she’d had an exhausting night and was tuckered out. I walked and smoked the short distance to the chancery. My walks to and from my hotel were times that I could relax and be myself, except for the occasional sneak attack by a Thug. But nothing was perfect, I guessed.
The cable was short and to the point. I was to go to Afghanistan and meet with President Hamid Karzai. I had been summoned for a private audience with His Nibs. It was an order and not a request. Karzai wanted to know how the U.S. government was going to get his daughter back alive and unharmed. I wanted to know the same, but I wouldn’t tell him that. That wouldn’t be a confidence-builder in terms of bilateral relations. It would also buy me a one-way ticket to Washington via steerage. I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel or give up the ghost or fold my hand or tent. I still had a few cards to play and I was still betting I could beat the house. However, the odds weren’t good.
I sent a back-channel message to the RSO in Kabul telling him about my plans to visit. I asked if he could hook me up with a room on the embassy compound. I would be staying overnight because of the flight connections, but would be there less than 24 hours. I’d been to Kabul on behalf of the department a few months earlier on a fraud investigation and knew the embassy fairly well. However, I suspected that many of the Foreign Service officers and others I had known there had rotated out-of-country. It wasn’t one of my favorite watering holes, but I could tough it out for one night, I believed.
I booked a flight on Indian Air to Kabul. It was a two hour, non-stop flight from the second world to the bottom of the third. I wasn’t going up in this world, I thought and that thought depressed me. I returned to the hotel and packed an overnight bag and gave Kali a kiss on the cheek, leaving a note telling her where I was heading. I really liked and admired her, despite her sexual proclivities and excesses. She simply needed a white, middle-aged gentleman to show her the ropes and how to tie them properly.
I was met at Kabul International Airport by an old friend named Ahmed Chollowby. He had been an embassy driver when I was last in Kabul, but had now become a successful businessman by opening a KFC franchise on the main road between the airport and the embassy. He was an invaluable resource during my fraud investigation, and was now a friend and we exchanged pleasantries and caught up on each other’s lives.
He said business had been good and that he and his wife were expecting their 13th child, an even baker’s dozen. I asked when he was going to stop fathering kids. He said that would happen when he couldn’t get it up anymore. He mentioned that Afghan men were renowned for their sexual prowess and virility. (Fortunately, he didn’t mention the export of raw heroin too.) He quickly added that Viagra was now his best, new American friend. I had been replaced it seemed, so much for lasting friendships!
Ahmed dropped me at the embassy where I met with the RSO, largely as a courtesy. I asked if there was anything new regarding the backgrounds of Mohammed and Kamal, the two APPF agents assigned to guard Zeenat. He said there wasn’t. He also said Zeenat’s disappearance hadn’t been mentioned in the APPF ranks. He took that as a good sign that her kidnapping hadn’t leaked yet. I had paid my respects to the embassy and was now off the protocol hook. I next went to my room that was a converted CONEX shipping container with all the comforts of home with those comforts squeezed into its 7 by 15- foot confines.
My appointment with President Hamid Karzai was scheduled for 10:00 sharp the next morning. I had a cigarette in my room before heading to dinner. I knew from my previous visit that lamb, lamb, and more lamb would be on the menu. Thank God they didn’t serve mutton too! I actually liked lamb, but not every night, so I looked forward to tonight’s fare. I ate and I hit the rack early. That was another macho expression that we used in the Foreign Service for reasons already explained. “Hit the rack” or “Take off the pack.” It was all the same lingo for impotent public servants.
The next morning I was ushered into President Karzai’s private office at the palace. I hadn’t noticed too many changes from my previous visit, except one. King Zahir Shah had died in the intervening months. He had returned to the country after the departure of the Taliban after 29 years in exile. He was a father figure to the Afghan people, but not a political force. He would be remembered and respected, but the governance of the country would stay the same course: limited, sketchy, tenuous, and mostly ineffectual.
Afghanistan was a fractious, factious country comprised of fiefdoms ruled by tribal elders, warlords, drug lords or a combination thereof. Centralized governance was still a foreign concept. I respected Karzai’s grit by hanging-in; however, his personal safety was always at risk and I wouldn’t bet on his continued tenure in office.
I introduced myself to the President and sat down. He was wearing his trademark garb: the flowing cape and karakul hat. His headgear was a football shaped fez made from the fur of aborted lamb fetuses. Identical ones were now being sold in the chic, high-end fashion emporiums of the world. It was a fad that had some legs and other body parts, I sheepishly reminded myself.
It didn’t take him long to get down to brass tacks and they were sharp and aimed in my direction. He had me on the defensive from the beginning of our dialogue. Perhaps monologue was closer to the truth. He was upset and speaking as a father and not as a head of state. I was being taken behind the woodshed for a good whuppin’ in order to get my undivided attention. He wanted results and not excuses. Those results consisted of getting his daughter Zaneet safely returned to him unharmed. He said he had run out of patience with the U.S. government. If we didn’t do something soon, he would have to go public with the story and take his chances with the media, public opinion, his limited constituency, and the terrorist kidnappers.
He was especially upset that the ambassador’s daughter, and not Zeenat, had been returned by the terrorists. He said he took that as a personal affront and an embarrassment to his country. It appeared to him that the Americans were looking out for their own first, and foremost, to the exclusion of his daughter. He was laying the guilt crap on pretty thick, but he was right and I would have done the same in his shoes. However, given an absolute choice, the ambassador’s daughter would have been given priority in a rescue operation over the daughter of the head of state of a backwater, third world country—ally or no ally.
I assured him that the U.S. government still had his and his daughter’s interests at heart. We hadn’t stopped searching for the bad guys in order to find and rescue Zeenat. That was still our goal and commitment. I added that the release of the ambassador’s daughter had no bearing on our investigation. I alluded to the fact that her release may have actually facilitated the search for Zeenat, but I didn’t go into any detail. I simply couldn’t tell him more under the circumstances. I badly wanted to tell him that we believed his daughter was in Agra, India, but couldn’t. If there was a leak, we would be dead in the water and so would Zeenat Karzai. After a few more minutes of questions and answers, I was dismissed, but I was handed my head before I left the room.
My cheeks burned from the brusque tongue-lashing I had just received from President Karzai. I wouldn’t be able to sit comfortably for a couple of days. I had taken the heat for the department and Uncle Sam. While it goes with the territory, it was never a pleasant experience. I couldn’t wait to leave the country to nurse my wounds.
However, I couldn’t leave quite yet since I had been buttonholed and stiff-armed by the Director of the Afghan Presidential Protection Force, Abdullah y Abdullah—the engineer. He was referred to as the engineer because that was what he was before becoming the director of the APPF. He had been a civil engineer who had been plucked from obscurity by the President given the fact they were clansmen and friends. Their families had been intertwined for generations. Personal loyalty, not experience, counted most when protecting the President of Afghanistan. It was probably a wise choice because you couldn’t tell the players without a scorecard here. The fifth-columnist quislings looked like everyone else and those were the mujahedeen warriors loyal to both the Taliban and al-Qaida.
“Mr. Avery, it’s good to meet you again,” he said as we sipped strong, hot tea in his office. I would pretend to drink to be polite, but I never took a sip. I not only hated the taste, but I worried about the hygienic aspect of the ritual as well. I had met the engineer’s assistant once, while we were standing next to each other at the urinals in the building’s filthy lavatory. The urinals didn’t flush because there was no water pressure. That meant there was no water with which to wash one’s hands afterwards. However, even if the plumbing worked, the water wasn’t close to being potable or drinkable either.
We had shaken hands over the coffee cum tea table in his office. I had briefly met the engineer during my previous visit to Kabul. He seemed to be a fairly affable guy who spoke fair English. His English, of course, was better than my Farsi, Pashto and Arabic combined. I didn’t speak or understand any of them, so I couldn’t complain too loudly. I couldn’t wait for English to become the official world language. Esperanto hadn’t caught on, but maybe English had a shot.
“President Karzai has asked me to inform you and your government that we are quickly losing patience with the investigation you are conducting. Zeenat Karzai must be found and released soonest. If not, we are prepared to launch our own inquiries and make our own efforts to recover her,” the engineer said.
“The relations between Afghanistan and India are strong and cordial. We believe the Indians would cooperate and assist us in our endeavors to find Zeenat. Mr. Avery, you have 48 hours to bring Zeenat home. If not, we will launch our own investigation and mount unilateral operations against her captors. We are preparing to do so as we speak.”
I didn’t doubt his sincerity or his intentions, but one more player in this drama would only complicate, not help matters.
“Mr. Abdullah, I appreciate the pressure you and your government are under. Your organization failed to protect Zeenat and now you want the U.S. government to make things better. (I couldn’t help zinging him.) We have tried our best and will continue to do so until Zeenat is found.” I decided to leave out the ‘dead or alive’ part for the sake of brevity. His English might not be that good, I thought.
“I have a lead as to Zeenat’s whereabouts,” I continued. “I think it is a solid one, but I need more time to develop a plan of action. We don’t want to act precipitously and endanger her life.”
I reminded him of the kidnapping of U.S. Ambassador Spike Dubs in Kabul in 1979. Ambassador Dubs and his captors were holed-up in a hotel room in the central city. Despite American pleas for caution, the Russians, precipitously and tragically, stormed the room where he was being held. The ambassador was killed, along with the terrorists, by a botched operation by the Russian Special Forces. I told him I didn’t want that to happen to Zeenat.
He acknowledged the incident and agreed that it was a terrible outcome. He said he understood my situation and predicament, but the die was cast. I had 48 hours to find Zeenat Karzai. I then asked him which time zone he was using, but he didn’t laugh at my feeble, untimely attempt at humor.
Sometimes those who served and protected couldn’t pull-up their bootstraps with a little American levity or levitation.