Free Chaos in Kabul by Gérard de Villiers Page A

of the agency. I have the feeling they already knew something about you.”
    Malko felt a chill. The Afghans didn’t have a crystal ball, so the information could only have come from Washington.
    “Do you know anything more?” asked Malko.
    “No, and I’m going to ask you not to contact me again, except in an emergency. I could get in very serious trouble. It might already be too late.”
    He seemed panicky.
    Malko was starting to understand the warning given to Maureen Kieffer. The Afghans were doing whatever they could to isolate him. And this was probably just the beginning. The NDS had surely noted his visit to Nelson Berry. What would they make of that?
    This was no longer an impossible mission, he thought. It was a suicide mission. He would have to warn Washington as soon as possible, he decided.
    The NDS agent put the menu down.
    “Would you mind if I left now? I’m not hungry, and I only came because I promised.”
    “That’s all right,” said Malko. He wasn’t hungry either.
    After a weak handshake, Malko watched Kibzai slip out like a shadow. There was nothing left for him to do but call Jim Doolittle and be driven back to the Serena.
    It was eight in the morning when his cell phone rang. Nelson Berry apologized for calling so early.
    “I got in at two a.m. Did you phone yesterday?”
    “Yes, I did,” said Malko. “Send me Darius, please.”
    Malko would have to tell Berry about the NDS surveillance. It might upset him, maybe even make him back out of the whole project. But he didn’t have any choice.
    Malko took the briefcase with the five hundred thousand dollars downstairs and left the hotel. The day was chilly, and he drew his cashmere coat a little tighter. Past the police checkpoint, he spotted the Corolla. He got in and laid the precious briefcase on the floor.
    Darius was as silent as ever. They drove down Sharpoor Street, first passing NDS headquarters, then “poppy palace row,” eventually reaching the rutted road that led to Berry’s house. Suddenly Darius slammed on the brakes and uttered a brief curse. The jolt made Malko look up. A car was stopped across the road.
    Moments later, both the Corolla’s front doors were yanked open at the same time. Malko saw men with guns, their faces hidden by ski masks.
    One grabbed Darius by the arm and threw him to the ground. When he tried to get up, the man pistol-whipped him, and he collapsed. The masked man immediately got behind the wheel, while a second climbed in the backseat and jammed his gun into Malko’s neck. Malko wasn’t even carrying the pistol Berry gave him—not that it would have done much good.
    The man at the wheel shifted into reverse, and the Corolla jounced backward out onto Sharpoor Street. Not a word had been spoken.
    He’d been kidnapped!

Malko didn’t dare move. At least he hadn’t been shot immediately. That was a good sign.
    Continuing down Sharpoor Street, the Corolla passed any number of armed guards, none of whom paid it the slightest attention. Twenty minutes later, after a complicated route through back alleys, the car entered a small courtyard. Several men immediately surrounded it.
    Malko was taken out and searched and relieved of his cell phone.
    Another man took the briefcase with the money and led him into a kind of workshop. Once they were sure he wasn’t armed, they sat him in a corner of the workshop and talked briefly in Dari or Pashto, behaving as if he wasn’t there.
    One of them came over and slipped a canvas bag over Malko’s head, blindfolding him, then tied his hands behind his back. Two men raised him to his feet, forced him to walk a few yards, and shoved him forward. When his head hit a metal floor and his legs were lifted up, he realized he was being stuffed into a car trunk. The lid slammed. He had trouble breathing and was very cold. He felt the car start and drive out to the street.
    Who had kidnapped him?
    The car drove on a bumpy road for a while, then on pavement, then on bumpy