Lie down with lions - Ken Follett [37]
“Most of the rebel leaders are content to control their tribes, collect taxes and deny the government access to their territory. Masud does more than that. He comes out of his mountain stronghold and attacks. He’s within striking distance of three strategic targets: the capital city, Kabul; the Salang tunnel, on the only highway from Kabul to the Soviet Union; and Bagram, the principal military air base. He’s in a position to inflict major damage, and he does. He has studied the art of guerrilla warfare. He’s read Mao. He’s easily the best military brain in the country. And he has finance. Emeralds are mined in his valley and sold in Pakistan: Masud takes a ten percent tax on all sales and uses the money to fund his army. He’s twenty-eight years old, and charismatic—the people worship him. Finally, he’s a Tajik. The largest group is the Pushtuns, and all the others hate them, so the leader can’t be a Pushtun. Tajiks are the next biggest nation. There’s a chance they might unite under a Tajik.”
“And we want to facilitate this?”
“That’s right. The stronger the rebels are, the more damage they do to the Russians. Furthermore, a triumph for the U.S. intelligence community would be very useful this year.”
It was of no consequence to Winderman and his kind that the Afghans were fighting for their freedom against a brutal invader, Ellis thought. Morality was out of fashion in Washington: the power game was all that mattered. If Winderman had been born in Leningrad instead of Los Angeles, he would have been just as happy, just as successful and just as powerful, and he would have used just the same tactics fighting for the other side. “What do you want from me?” Ellis asked him.
“I want to pick your brain. Is there any way an undercover agent could promote an alliance between the different Afghan tribes?”
“I expect so,” said Ellis. The food came, interrupting him and giving him a few moments to think. When the waiter had gone away, he said: “It should be possible, provided there is something they want from us—and I imagine that would be weapons.”
“Right.” Winderman started to eat, hesitantly, like a man who has an ulcer. Between small mouthfuls he said: “At the moment they buy their weapons across the border in Pakistan. All they can get there is copies of Victorian British rifles—or, if not copies, the genuine damned article, a hundred years old and still firing. They also steal Kalashnikovs from dead Russian soldiers. But they’re desperate for small artillery—antiaircraft guns and hand-launched ground-to-air missiles—so they can shoot down planes and helicopters.”
“Are we willing to give them these weapons?”
“Yes. Not directly—we would want to conceal our involvement by sending them through intermediaries. But that’s no problem. We could use the Saudis.”
“Okay.” Ellis swallowed some lobster. It was good. “Let me say what I think is the first step. In each guerrilla group you need a nucleus of men who know, understand and trust Masud. That nucleus then becomes the liaison group for communications with Masud. They build their role gradually: exchange of information first, then mutual cooperation, and finally coordinated battle plans.”
“Sounds good,” said Winderman. “How might that be set up?”
“I’d have Masud run a training scheme in the Five Lions Valley. Each rebel group would send a few young men to fight alongside Masud for a while and learn the methods that make him so successful. They would also learn to respect him and trust him, if he is as good a leader as you say.”
Winderman nodded thoughtfully. “That’s the kind of proposal that might be acceptable to tribal leaders who would reject any plan that committed them to take orders from Masud.”
“Is there one rival leader in particular whose cooperation is essential to any alliance?”
“Yes. In fact there are two: Jahan Kamil and Amal Azizi, both Pushtuns.”
“Then I would send in an undercover agent with the objective of getting