Kabul Gold Read online

  *

  As Mulla Omar had promised, Salim’s efforts and success were rewarded and he rose rapidly through the Al-Qaeda hierarchy. He remained, however, a faceless, nameless shadow. Always in the background, he was the logistics man, the arranger, the go-between. He oiled wheels, planned operations in infinite detail and was trusted implicitly.

  The CIA, MI6 and other critical intelligence agencies soon learned of his existence. He even earned a nickname, “The Snake”. Salim liked the nickname, he saw it in reports and smiled a serpent’s smile. It implied he was smooth and silent, cold, efficient and deadly, which in many respects he was. He was also a coward. He would never be the one to carry the bomb or pull the trigger. He had never been, nor ever wanted to venture on to the battlefield. Despite his religious beliefs and claims that his position was reward enough, he had amassed, in secret, a significant personal fortune.

  Working diligently, he arranged false passports, documents and the transfer of funds, arms and explosives throughout the world. He worked tirelessly, arranging for the safe passage of men in and out of the United States, followed by the transfer of large sums of money. His pride, self-esteem and self-importance grew. It was obvious he was helping to support a major operation, involving maybe twenty or more Al-Qaeda operatives. They were moving separately around the United States, never staying in one place for too long. They rented houses, apartments and transport, using false identities and paid with cash or forged credit cards. This was all arranged by Salim.

  Then, on September 9th everything changed. He was called urgently to Kandahar by Mulla Mohammed Omar, to personally assist the final preparations and arrangements for “the mother of all wars”, Mulla Omar had said. He returned immediately to the side of Mulla Omar. Acting under his direct instruction, Salim worked diligently, broadcasting intelligence and counter intelligence across the Al-Qaeda network.

  ‘Create noise, my friend,’ Mulla Omar instructed.

  Salim sent message after message; erroneous information, unencrypted diversions and genuine communications. They will never find the needle in this haystack, he thought.

  At the same time, he executed numerous financial transactions, purchasing a large quantity of “put options” in the airlines American and United, in the financial institutions of Morgan Stanley, Merrill Lynch and Bank of America, and the insurance companies Munich Re and Axa. He also purchased a huge quantity of “call options” in a weapons manufacturer, Raytheon. The put and call options would allow him to sell and buy assets, respectively, at specified prices by a certain date. The put options would yield profit from declines in stock values because the stocks could be bought at market price and sold for a higher option price.

  How ironic, he thought, that they should prosper and profit from the devastation they were about to unleash.

  *

  It was late in the day and Salim stared bleary-eyed at his computer screen, thankful that his work had slowed over the last few hours. He sat back, feeling as if all his efforts were finally coming to some meteoric conclusion. It was like he was held in the calm eye of the storm, waiting for the final devastating climax.

  ‘Come, my friend,’ said Mulla Omar, walking into the room and gesturing to him.

  Salim looked over. Mulla Omar was accompanied by a tall man with long greying hair and beard. He was dressed in full, dark-green battle fatigues covered by a long white robe and was heavily armed. A holstered pistol sat on each hip and belts of bullets crossed his chest. An ever present Kalashnikov was held firmly in his hands.

  Salim stood and stared, totally transfixed by the enigmatic figure in front of him. It was Osama Bin Laden.

  ‘Salim, come and sit. Witness what you have helped achieve,’ beckoned Mulla Omar eagerly.

  Mulla Omar crossed into another room and switched on the television. Salim walked to the arched opening to see Mulla Omar now completely engrossed in the story unfolding on the screen. The time on the CNN report showed 7:00pm local time, September 11th 2001.

  Salim stared in disbelief at the images on the screen. The pictures of the burning twin towers of the World Trade Centre in New York played out in macabre detail on the world’s media. He knew in that instant his life would never be – could never be – the same again. He was overwhelmed by what he was witnessing. Not because he was proud or overjoyed, but because the full scale of what he had assisted was now brought vividly to life and America would undoubtedly respond, seeking full and rapid retribution.

  His burning desire to be the all-powerful mastermind and right-hand man to Mulla Omar evaporated in an instant. He stood, mesmerised. A coward in every thought and deed, he was grateful for the fact that he had gone to extraordinary lengths to keep his identity hidden. The CIA would seek out and kill more obvious and prominent targets before they came looking for him. He tore his eyes away from the TV screen. The voice in his head screamed at him to run; to distance himself in every way possible from the Taliban and Al-Qaeda. To disappear before he was consumed by the maelstrom that would surely ensue.

  He slipped quietly out of the room and ran across the compound. News of the attacks in New York and Virginia had already spread. Men stood, firing their weapons in the air in triumph as American flags burned at their feet. He found a vehicle, jumped in and found the keys in the ignition. Heart pounding, he started the car and drove out of the compound as men danced, consumed in their delirious fervour, descending into a seething mass of self-congratulatory frenzy, oblivious to his departure.

  Salim drove north, back to Kabul, to the deserted museum. To flee immediately would, without doubt, indicate his intentions to Mulla Omar. When the Americans came, as they surely would, he would slip away across the border to Pakistan – collect his money and disappear forever. He knew how to do that; how to move around the world unnoticed, untraceable.

  His break came unexpectedly. The telephone on his desk rang. He let it ring not wanting to answer, then thought better of it and picked it up.

  ‘Hello,’ he answered in a quiet, nervous voice.

  It was Kassim. The message from Mulla Omar was short and urgent.

  The line went dead. “Deal exposed,” Kassim had said. Salim knew what he meant. He slowly replaced the handset, turned to his computer, apprehensively typed in the address of the internet site, clicked and waited. His long slender fingers rolled the mouse across the mat, scrolling through the pages that appeared. The message lay buried in the apparently innocent text. He copied the transcript to his hard drive then ran the de-encryption software. The communication was short. “Risk of exposure. Client extremely distressed. Contact intermediary. Cut off loose ends. Proceed to Karachi. Deal with matter personally.”

  Salim read the message twice then destroyed it. He couldn’t believe his luck. There was no need to run – he was being sent exactly where he wanted to go. He considered the message again. What were the exposures? What were the threats? What or whom were the loose ends?

  He thought as he typed. The client had been anonymous, ruling out an immediate journey to Karachi. He would have to find the go-between, Mr Khan – the man who had acted for the client in their transaction – but how?

  Hopeful, he posted several messages in the places used before then waited. Several days passed. Salim grew more anxious. What if he couldn’t make contact? What if events had overtaken him? What if the loose ends were already unravelling? Perhaps he should run anyway. He paused and took a deep breath, trying to stop his mind from racing. He knew that wouldn’t work; he had to be patient.

  Seven agonising days passed before the reply appeared. Salim followed his usual process; he downloaded the text, ran the program and revealed the hidden message within. Mr Khan had sent detailed instructions which were to be followed to the letter. He would be watched, not all of the time, but he would never know where or when. Their meeting would be held in Karachi in ten days’ time.

  *

  The night sky lit up as the first wave of Tomahawk and Cruise missiles hit their targets
, shaking the museum to its foundations. Salim leapt from his chair and raced to the window. Brilliant white flashes blinded him and deafening explosions filled his ears as the massive aerial bombardment commenced across the city. The maelstrom had arrived.

  Moments later, the museum plunged into darkness, lit only by the blinding flashes of explosions and the burning buildings nearby. Salim watched in trepidation as the Taliban anti-aircraft batteries opened fire. Bursts of fluorescent orange tracers flared into the black night sky in a futile attempt to bring down the high-altitude aircraft as they roared unseen overhead. Amidst the overwhelming noise and destruction, his heart pounded and terror-driven adrenalin surged through his body.

  Turning from the window, he walked back toward his desk as another colossal explosion rocked the museum, hurling him across the room in a blast cloud of razor-sharp glass and debris.

  In the darkness of his office, Salim lay sprawled face down on the floor, disorientated, alone and afraid. Raising his head, he tried to sit up, but the room swirled around him and he collapsed back to the floor, unconscious.

  When he came to, the noise had stopped. The room was black and silent and his head throbbed. Thick, sticky blood oozed from a gash on the top of his head. His face and hands were torn and cut and his ears rang.

  With some effort, he managed to sit up, but the room blurred and swam around him and he felt sick to the pit of his stomach. Crawling on his hands and knees through the shattered glass, he climbed on to the folding metal bed in the corner of the room and lay on his side. Cold, solitary emotion swept over him. Closing his eyes, he lay back on his pillow and wept.

  It was light when Salim woke again. The room was calm and quiet. His head still ached, but not with the ferocity of the night before. Sitting up, he took in the devastated room and tried to think. What was he going to do? How could he get out of Kabul – let alone reach Karachi? He had no way of contacting Mulla Omar or, more importantly, Mr Khan. Thoughts and problems overwhelmed him. He was confused, his mind as blurred as his vision. His head sank back into the pillow and, closing his eyes, he wept again.

  *

  Night after night, wave after wave of US and British air strikes hit Kabul. Salim moved down to the basement for safety, only briefly venturing out during daylight hours to gather what food and provisions he could.

  The days dragged by. Salim remained in his small darkened room, reading or thinking by the light of a solitary candle. He wondered what was happening. What was the Taliban army doing? Where was Mulla Omar? How could he escape? Did he need to escape? That was it! At last the solution came to him. Assuming Kabul would fall to the American and British forces, he could wait to be rescued. They didn’t know who he was. To them, the records would show him to be the legitimate museum curator, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. He didn’t need to escape. He would be rescued and the Americans would see him to safety. He smiled at the irony.

  ONE

  The early morning light began to creep slowly over the horizon, chasing the chill of dark shadows from increasingly desolate streets. Captain Daniel Temple observed the final remnants of sound and movement from the stragglers below, eased cautiously back from the roof edge and quietly spoke into his radio.

  ‘Condor, this is Echo One. Are you receiving, over.’

  ‘Echo One, this is Condor, receiving you loud and clear, over.’

  ‘Condor, be advised, there is a large movement of Taliban forces to the north and east of Kabul city. Looks like they are pulling out, over.’

  ‘Understood, Echo One. Hold your position and relay Taliban movements until further advised, Condor out.’

  Temple repositioned his men, efficiently dispersing them across the wide, flat roof tops. Remaining hidden, they had watched and reported as the Taliban forces poured out of the city. Undisciplined and demoralised from the incessant onslaught of the coalition forces, the lines of beaten militia had been fleeing east under the cover of darkness. Now, in the cold, early morning, light, Kabul was all but a ghost town.

  ‘Echo One, this is Condor.’

  ‘Go ahead, Condor.’

  ‘You’re clear to commence a sweep of your sector, Echo One. Condor out.’

  Daniel Temple rose to his feet, gathered the two SAS units in close and spoke quietly.

  ‘Move in pairs. Sweep the buildings for civilians, alive or dead. Be careful, don’t take risks. Return fire if fired upon. Shoot first if necessary, but try not to shoot any civvies,’ he instructed. ‘Mark the buildings clearly. We need to know what’s been searched or if we have casualties to evac. Watts, you’re with me. Let’s go.’

  They moved out, advancing slowly down the street, smoothly leap-frogging from building to building. Turning into a narrow side street, Daniel took position in the deep recess of a doorway and waved his sergeant forward. Ahead of them, gunfire erupted sporadically from a fortified position at the end of the road. Daniel stared down the street, watching calmly as three turban-swathed heads peered out over the crest of a deep bomb crater, then bobbed up and down, firing aimless, uncontrolled bursts across the debris strewn street, nervously repelling both seen and imaginary targets.

  Signalling one another in silence, Daniel covered Sergeant Watts as he advanced cautiously before reversing roles. Alternately they progressed down the narrow street, all concentration on the targets now less than fifty yards ahead.

  As if sensing their approach, one of the three heads turned anxiously and a hail of bullets erupted from his AK47.

  Sergeant Watts threw himself forward, rolling away as the wall above his head exploded, sending a cloud of dust and mortar billowing into the air.

  Daniel glanced at his sergeant then looked ahead, clearly seeing their enemy for the first time – three boys, no more than twelve years old. He checked his fire and stared unblinking through his gun sights.

  ‘British Army. Lay down your weapons,’ he shouted in the local Pashto language.

  Flame spewed as the AK47s fired again. Bullets raked across the wall above Daniel’s head, missing by a fraction. He rolled smoothly away as the notoriously inaccurate weapons, gripped in young, untrained hands, kicked uncontrollably into the air.

  Sergeant Watts set his MP5 to semi-automatic, came up to his knees and fired a controlled three-bullet burst. The bullets ripped into their target, throwing his young body back across the bomb crater and sending his gun spinning away.

  Daniel moved forward, his eyes fixed on the remaining targets ahead.

  ‘British Army. Lay down your weapons,’ he shouted again. ‘Please don’t do it,’ he whispered.

  There was no respite. The two remaining boys were already turning, AK47’s coming to bear on Sergeant Watts. Daniel flicked the MP5 to single shot, aimed and waited.

  ‘Don’t do it,’ he whispered again.

  The unmistakable clatter of AK47 fire erupted once more.

  Daniel fired, adjusted and fired again.

  The boys’ heads snapped viciously back, one immediately after the other. Their bodies dropped dead to the earth.

  Daniel knelt, staring at the ground.

  ‘Damn it,’ he sighed.

  He walked across to Sergeant Watts’s prone body and kicked him once. ‘Get up.’

  ‘That was bloody close,’ Watts replied, rolling onto his back.

  ‘Look at them, Mike,’ Daniel gestured with his head toward the crater.

  Sergeant Watts stood, walked slowly across and peered over the edge of the hollow. Three wretched, blood-stained bodies stared lifelessly back at him.

  ‘Christ, they’re just kids.’

  Daniel nodded grimly.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said, forcing the haunting image from his mind.

  The broad expanse of the National Museum stood directly ahead. Daniel assessed it carefully. The building had suffered significant damage during the overnight barrage; the windows were shattered and the large, double, doors of the main entrance were blown wide open. One lay in the rubble, whilst the other
sagged on its hinges, leaning inwards at an obscure angle.

  Daniel and Sergeant Watts approached the entrance cautiously, flanked the open doorway, paused, then moved inside. Glass and debris crunched underfoot as they swept down the main hall, their bright, barrel-mounted torches flashing across doorways, then into the darkened rooms as they searched them one by one. The main floor completed, they moved down the first flight of stairs.

  ‘Don’t shoot, I’m coming out, ’ a voice shouted from a blackened room immediately ahead.

  Daniel stopped, holding up a clenched fist.

  Sergeant Watts held his position, covering the door from where the voice was calling.

  His gun raised, Daniel edged forward.

  ‘British Army. Walk out slowly with your hands raised high above your head,’ he ordered.

  A tall, wiry man, his clothes torn and bloodstained, emerged from the darkness and did as instructed, moving slowly into the corridor ahead.

  ‘Keep coming until I say stop.’

  The man walked nervously forward.

  ‘Stop,’ shouted Daniel. ‘Kneel down. Keep your hands in front of you.’

  The man knelt.

  ‘Lie face down with your arms outstretched and your legs spread wide apart.’

  The man complied, following the instructions exactly.

  Daniel moved forward, stood over the man’s prostrate body and swept the flash light over him, rapidly assessing the extent of his numerous superficial injuries.

  Daniel knelt down, placed one knee in the small of the man’s back, pinned him to the floor and searched him for concealed weapons.

  The man spoke quietly.

  ‘I have no weapons, my friend. I am the curator of the museum. My name is Salim Oma Asgari. Please help me.’

  ‘It’s OK, we’re not going to hurt you,’ said Daniel, hauling Salim to his feet and shining the torch into his face.

  Daniel’s eyes narrowed with a momentary flash of recognition. The man squinted back at him in the torchlight. The fleeting thought was gone and Daniel passed him unceremoniously to Sergeant Watts.