Death in Kabul, page 2
‘And?’ This still didn’t tell him why he’d been hauled out of his classroom.
‘They think they’ve got a British soldier,’ continued Phelps. Cryptic, as always. The man made need-to-know an artform.
‘Got a soldier?’
‘They’ve found a body.’
‘Where?’ said Mac.
‘They were called out to the tank graveyard at first light. A couple of kids found him. Throat cut, British uniform.’
‘Jesus.’ Mac exhaled. If this was true, it would open a right can of worms. ‘But what’s that got to do with us?’
‘Major Jananga, in a frankly off-the-chart moment of self-awareness, has wisely realised that with a British victim, he might be expected to do things a little differently from… um… standard Afghan police practice.’ Phelps pulled a face. ‘You know as well as I do that the Afghan police are pretty amateur in these things and have no forensic capabilities. Being aware that we use ex-Met police for our training programmes, he’s requested someone with “Scotland Yard experience” to assist. I’ve volunteered you.’
‘What the…? No way.’ Mac shook his head. ‘Scotland Yard? Is he expecting Sherlock fucking Holmes?’
‘You were in the Met.’
‘Yeah, sure. But I was SO15 – Counter Terrorism.’
‘And before that?’
‘Three months on a Major Incidents Team, before I transferred. I didn’t even see a single murder investigation from end to end. I’m not the guy he’s looking for.’
‘Yes, but you’re the guy we’ve got. Everyone here is Counter Terrorism – it’s what we do, so you’ve got more experience with murder investigations than the rest of us. And more experience of them than Major Jananga.’
‘So just tell ’em it’s not our area of expertise.’ Mac was determined not to get roped into something that would clearly end up being a giant headache. ‘And what about the army? If the victim’s a soldier, surely they’ll do the investigation?’
‘Not their jurisdiction.’ Phelps leaned forward across his desk. ‘Listen, pal. Our contract’s up for renewal in four months. It’s worth eight million dollars to the company. So the message from the top is clear – if the Afghan police say, “Jump,” we say, “How high?” Got that? You’re on the job.’
‘What if I fuck it up?’
‘You won’t,’ said Phelps, with a grimace. ‘Not if you value your job with WTP.’
‘You’re kidding? I don’t really take kindly to threats – and that sounded like one.’
‘And I don’t really give a shit. Major Jananga’s got a reputation for being a straight-up guy, one of the few police officers in the city who’s not on the take, so give him the time of day, right?’
‘So no choice?’ said Mac.
‘’Fraid not.’
‘What have you told him?’
‘That you were in the Met for fifteen years and you’ve got the experience he needs.’
‘And nothing about how or why I left the Met?’
‘Of course not.’ Even Phelps didn’t know the full truth of how Mac’s career had blown up, and that’s how Mac intended to keep it.
He heaved a sigh of resignation. ‘When do I start?’
‘Right now. His English is fluent, but take your interrupter with you, just in case.’ Phelps used the camp slang for interpreter. ‘Here’s Jananga’s number.’ He held out a scrap of paper with a number scrawled on it.
‘Right.’ Mac took the piece of paper. ‘I’m going to need a vehicle and a driver if I’m going to do this. A weapon – I’ll want to be tooled up at all times. And a budget.’
‘For what?’
‘Travel, subsistence.’ He paused. ‘Baksheesh.’ He’d been in the country long enough to understand that everything in Afghanistan had its price.
‘Sure. I’ll draw some dollars and some Afs for you. Check out a weapon, and take a Land Cruiser from the pool. You can take Pamir to drive.’
Phelps pushed his chair back and stood up, indicating the meeting was over.
Mac headed for the door.
‘Okay. Get to it and keep me in the loop. And, whatever you do, don’t upset the Brits.’
Now he’s demanding the impossible… thought Mac, heading back to his container to get ready. He ran into Ginger as he crossed the yard, the morning’s lesson having just finished.
‘What was all that about?’ said Ginger.
‘A fucking clusterfuck,’ said Mac. ‘Apparently I’ve got to go play detectives for the Kabul police.’
‘Damn!’ Ginger’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. ‘What’s the crime?’
‘A British squaddie, found with his throat cut.’
It seemed mean of Ginger to laugh, but he did, long and hard. ‘You’ll have your bloody work cut out, then.’
‘Yeah, tell me about it. And chicken and rice to look forward to for lunch.’
Chapter 2
Saturday, 6 December 2003
Kabul City Police Headquarters was on Harsheef Street in the old town, De Afghanan, some five miles north-east of where Camp Julien lay at the southern reaches of the city. It should have taken half an hour to cover the distance along Darulaman Road to the city centre and then straight down Salang Wat Road, but with Kabul’s constant traffic congestion, roadblocks and detours it was closer to an hour’s drive.
Mac sat in the front of the Toyota Land Cruiser he’d signed out from the pool, while Ahmed, his interpreter, sat in the back, leaning forward between the two front seats as he kept up a constant stream of Dari chatter. Pamir, their driver, was monosyllabic with his answers, and Mac sensed that he didn’t have a lot of time for Ahmed’s bluster. The interpreter swore loudly in Mac’s ear as Pamir swerved to avoid a couple of potholes and then ran a red light.
‘If I’m reading this map right,’ said Mac, ‘we should be able to cut through that alley over there and come out on Harsheef Street. Then Police HQ is literally a block along.’
Ahmed gave a hollow laugh and jabbed a finger at the Soviet-era map Mac was consulting and shouted something at Pamir. Even though Mac didn’t understand what he said, it appeared that he was suggesting a different route.
‘Shut it, Ahmed. Let Pamir drive.’
Pamir turned down the alley Mac had suggested, and a minute later they emerged onto Harsheef Street and pushed their way into the traffic, despite shouts of protest and much hooting from an enraged taxi driver they cut up in the process. Acrid clouds of exhaust fumes belched from a truck ahead of them, making Mac cough. The stink of burnt petrol filled the front of the Land Cruiser. At least it covered the stench of the open sewer by the side of the road.
Mac looked around. Harsheef Street was a mixture of cheap office buildings and dismal-looking shops. The traffic was crawling, so Mac was relieved when the truck turned off at the next junction. Pamir closed up the gap before something else could barge in front of them from the side road.
‘Left here,’ said Mac, a moment later.
The police HQ loomed up in front of them – four floors of 1970s Soviet-style brutalism behind a ten-foot wall of crumbling concrete.
The Land Cruiser stopped at a high gate where a handful of armed, uniformed Afghan policemen milled about, smoking cigarettes and watching the passing traffic through narrowed eyes. One of them tossed a stone at a stray dog sniffing litter at the base of the wall.
Ahmed wound down his window and gestured to one of the policemen.
Mac listened to the exchange in rapid-fire Dari, catching only his own name and the name of the Afghan major he was here to see. Dari, similar to Farsi, was the language spoken by Kabul’s non-Pashtun communities, but many of the city’s four million inhabitants spoke both Dari and Pashtu. Mac was no linguist, but after several months here he was reasonably confident he could tell which of the two languages was being spoken at any given time, even if he didn’t understand what was being said.
Ahmed got out of the car so he could gesticulate better, but the head guard was having none of it.
Mac climbed out too. ‘What’s the problem?’
Ahmed shrugged. ‘He wants us to leave the vehicle out here and hand over any weapons.’
‘Not fucking happening,’ said Mac, making eye contact with the guard. He was treading familiar ground. Nothing ever ran smoothly – despite the fact that Major Jananga had requested their presence, the message didn’t seem to have filtered down to his own men. But there was no way he was handing over the Beretta.
He pulled out his phone. ‘Tell the guard I’m calling Major Jananga.’
Ahmed translated, but all Mac got was an insolent stare in return.
‘Baleh?’ The voice at the other end of the line was deep and gruff. It sounded irritated, as if the major had been interrupted.
Mac wasn’t going to test his limited Dari vocabulary. He went straight into English. ‘Major Jananga? This is Alasdair MacKenzie. We’re having a bit of a problem with your gate detail.’
Jananga let out a deep sigh. ‘A thousand apologies, Mr MacKenzie. I will come down and sort the bastards out.’
A couple of minutes later and the policemen were standing to attention as a short man appeared on the other side of the gate. He had a dark, heavy stubble, and he wasn’t in uniform. The baggy grey trousers and shapeless khaki windcheater gave away nothing, and it was only because the head guard saluted and said his name that Mac realised this was Major Jananga.
The officer barked at the men in Dari, standing in the open gateway. The policeman who’d caused the problem shrank back from him, eyes widening, while his companions gave him sidelong glances, distancing themselves from his bad decision. The man put up a feeble argument for a moment, then sounded contrite.
‘Khar nasho, awlad e knalek.’
‘Stop acting like a donkey, you son of an idiot,’ Ahmed whispered to Mac, translating what the major was saying.
Then Jananga cuffed the man hard across the side of his head, making him stagger and fall to the ground. Bending down to let out another stream of invective, Jananga gave his subordinate a good hard kick in the ribs. The man let out a loud whine.
‘Jesus!’ said Mac under his breath.
The major frowned, rubbing his knuckles, then turned towards Mac, looking at him properly for the first time.
‘Salaam alaikum, chutor asti, Mr MacKenzie?’ He extended a hand and Mac shook it.
‘Alaikum a’salaam,’ replied Mac, exhausting the extent of his language skills with the standard greeting. He needed to act as if he hadn’t just seen the major give one of his men a beating.
‘Please excuse these fools that work here for me.’ He let out an exasperated sigh. ‘I told them you were coming but nothing seems to sink in.’ He tapped his forehead with two fingers and glared at the men again. ‘Tell your driver to bring your vehicle into the compound.’ His English, although heavily accented, was fluent.
‘Thank you, Major.’ Mac nodded to Pamir to bring the Land Cruiser through the gate. Then he turned back.
‘My information is that you’ve found the body of a British serviceman?’
Jananga’s face clouded as he nodded. ‘Please, come up to my office. I’m just about to question the boys who found the body.’ He led the way towards the entrance of the building.
Mac quickly turned round. ‘Come on, Ahmed.’ Then he peered into the Land Cruiser. ‘Pamir, stay with the vehicle.’
Another uniformed policeman on the door nodded them in – Jananga obviously didn’t need to identify himself or explain his visitors. Inside, the building was drab and cold. Fading paint peeled off the concrete walls, and the floor evidently hadn’t been cleaned for weeks. Passing an unmanned reception desk, they headed down a long corridor. Mac could hear the shrill sound of the wind buffeting the corners of the building, and there was a sharp draught coming in somewhere. Jananga opened a door and led them into a dingy stairwell.
‘A thousand apologies – the lift isn’t working today, and my office is on the top floor.’
Mac wondered if it worked any day. Ahmed, who was a lazy bastard, scowled at the steep staircase that lay ahead of them. Mac didn’t waste any sympathy on him, but headed up after the major, taking the steps two at a time.
‘Where’s the body now?’ said Mac as he caught up with Jananga.
‘Still where the boys found it, at the tank graveyard. We should go there, before it’s removed to the morgue.’
If it really is a Brit, the army will have something to say about that, Mac thought. There was no chance they’d let the body of one of their own go to the Kabul municipal morgue. But he didn’t say anything – that wasn’t his particular battle to fight.
They reached a doorway – Mac assumed it was to Jananga’s office – and the major paused, his hand on the handle.
‘I should be addressing you as Detective Inspector, right? That’s what your Mr Phelps told me.’
Mac cleared his throat. ‘That was my rank when I was in the police, but now I’m a civilian.’ He shrugged. ‘Just call me Mac.’
Jananga gazed at him without saying anything. Mac hoped there wouldn’t be any more questions about his time in the Met. He wasn’t quite comfortable being here under false pretences – and if Phelps had told the Kabul police that he was some sort of crack murder detective, they might be in for a disappointment.
They went into a small, square room, which was already crowded with people. In front of a chaotic desk sat two scruffy street kids, maybe nine or ten years old, clearly nervous and unhappy to be at the police headquarters. One was picking at a scab on his elbow, while the other stared fixedly out of the window, determined not to cry. The room smelled of dirty boy and Mac wondered when they’d last had a bath. A bearded man in his mid-thirties, dressed in a grimy shalwar kameez, stood behind them, while a uniformed officer was leaning on a filing cabinet in the corner, picking his teeth with a wooden toothpick. He hastily stood to attention when the major entered. The office felt hot compared with the stairwell and corridors – a small gas heater stood purring behind the desk.
There was a quick exchange between the major and his officer, and the officer went to the opposite corner of the room where a large, brass samovar stood on a low table. He started filling small glasses from it, releasing an outpouring of steam which made the hot room feel positively tropical.
Finally, Jananga explained what had happened.
‘These two boys, Baktash and Shariff,’ he said, pointing to them in turn, ‘discovered the body of a man early this morning at the tank graveyard out by the Jalalabad Road. Shariff’s father brought them here when they told him about it.’
‘I’ve heard of the place,’ said Mac, with a nod. ‘What were they doing there?’
Jananga shrugged and spoke to the boys in Pashtu, his voice low and the tone gentle. They’d obviously had a fright and were reluctant to answer. The smaller boy said a few words, staring intently at the threadbare kilim on the floor.
‘Just playing,’ Jananga translated.
The older of the two boys spoke.
‘Pretending to be soldiers in the tanks,’ said Jananga.
The national pastime of Afghan boys – playing at being the soldiers they would grow up to become.
The man standing behind them, the father, spoke and Jananga translated. ‘They were hunting for copper wire that they could sell. They found the body lying behind a burned-out tank and ran home.’
‘What made them think he was British?’ said Mac.
Jananga spoke to them again. There was a moment’s silence. The father grasped one of the boys on the shoulder and said something that Mac took to be a prompt. The boy touched his upper arm and said a few words, amid which Mac heard a reference to ‘Englishstan’.
Jananga translated. ‘The body was in uniform. He saw the flag of Englandstan on the sleeve of the man’s jacket.’
The man spoke again and held out his open hand. On his palm lay a heavy metal disk, about three centimetres in diameter. It was heavily tarnished, almost black, but there was some sort of relief design on the visible face. A metal loop had been soldered to the rim, and a length of tarnished silver chain hung from it. Mac took it from the man and examined it. The design was a crude rendition of a man’s profile – a king presumably as he was wearing a crown. He had long straight hair, and a beard. His eye was fierce and his nose sharp. Mac turned it over. In the centre of the reverse side, there was a tiny picture of a seated man holding what looked like a bow and arrow. It was bordered by three rows of writing in a script Mac didn’t recognise. There was a length of broken chain attached to it. He looked up at Jananga.
‘What is it?’
Jananga shrugged. ‘Looks like an ancient drachm, but it’s certainly fake. The boys found it near to the body. There’s so much rubbish up there – it’s probably nothing to do with the British soldier.’
Shit! Now it had his prints on it, the father’s, the boys’, Jananga’s… who else had touched it since it had been found?
‘But maybe it belonged to the killer,’ he said.
Jananga pursed his lips. ‘Perhaps it could have been dropped during the attack.’
‘Dropped or left. A message, possibly? This wasn’t a street attack or a robbery. The soldier went to the tank graveyard at night for a reason – probably to meet someone.’
‘But what message?’ said Jananga.
Mac shrugged. ‘What does the inscription mean?’
He passed it to Jananga, who took it from him and looked at it more closely. ‘I can’t tell you but, look, the chain is broken.’
He held out the ends of the chain and Mac peered at it. He was right – the final link of one end had been pulled out of shape. There was a clasp attached to the other end, and the link that was soldered to it had snapped in half. But Jananga clearly viewed it as a red herring. Without giving it another glance, he dropped it into the top drawer of his desk.
Not quite the way Mac would have treated potential evidence.
The older boy watched him, wide-eyed, then turned angrily to his father. A stream of harsh Pashtu issued from his mouth. His father scowled and cuffed the boy’s ear. Jananga laughed.
‘The boy wants it back. As far as he’s concerned it’s his.’
