The Network - Jason Elliot [76]
The photographs appear in turn. The first is of a thin-faced handsome young man with dark features called Abdul Sattar.
‘Speaks English, Pashto and Dari,’ says Grace. ‘I need you to check in with him before and after the operation. I need third-party confirmation that you came and went, that’s all. I wouldn’t trust him with more than that. Nothing operational. We’ve had him signed up for a year but you can be sure he knows some bad people.’
The second is an older man in his forties, with softer features and an oval-shaped elfin face.
‘Name of Hamid Karzai. Comes from a good southern family,’ she says as if she’s talking about Tennessee rather than Kandahar. ‘He was press officer for Mojaddedi in the jihad years and deputy foreign minister in Massoud’s government till he had a bust-up with Massoud’s intelligence chief and rode out of town. Seems he was pretty cut up about the way he was treated and hitched himself to the Taliban for a year or two. Plans took a bath when his father was killed by the Taliban last year and now he’s trying to take the fight back to them in the south. He’s switched on and some of us have got money on him. He’ll talk your ear off, but you can trust him.’ His brothers, she adds, have Afghan restaurants in San Francisco, if I ever get to craving a qabli pilau while I’m Stateside.
It’s Karzai who will receive the money that we’ve been asked to deliver. The tactical details are our business. Once we’re inside Afghanistan, Grace will liaise with London as and when.
‘Wish I could be there with you,’ she says. Then the steely look comes back into her eyes. ‘I’m counting on you, Tony.’
It’s after ten now. The effect of the whisky is pleasant and has anaesthetised the day’s earlier worries. I’ve enjoyed our talk and wish it could last longer. We walk to her front door.
‘There’ll be a car for you in the morning,’ she says.
‘Thanks. You’ve been good to me. I’ll miss all the cowboy talk.’
‘Wait a second,’ she says. Her hands move to her belt buckle, which she undoes hastily and begins to slide her belt out of its loops. A few seconds later I see in her outstretched hand a woven snakeskin pouch which contains a Leatherman multi-tool. ‘Take this with you,’ she says. ‘Darn useful where you’re going.’ It’s obviously precious to her and she looks at it thoughtfully for a moment before she hands it to me.
‘The Company’s lucky to have you,’ I tell her. We embrace. ‘Give them hell.’
‘Adios, amigo,’ she says.
The streets are quiet and I decide to walk and think things over on the way. I realise the secret world into which I’ve been allowed sits more comfortably with me now. For a month it’s as if I’ve been in conflict over the need for secrecy and the urge to find expression for what I know. But now the two are less at odds. The work is bringing me confidence, and I’m feeling buoyed up by Grace’s frank expression of faith in me. Her gift was not a calculated act, I decide. I take it out of its pouch and look it over. It’s an expensive version, well made and virtually indestructible, although only the Americans could design a multi-purpose tool without a corkscrew. I pocket it again and turn it over in my hand as I walk.
In the lobby of the hotel I announce I’ll be checking out in the early morning and have a brief conversation with the concierge, from whom I’ve earlier asked a favour. I’m tired and it’s time to get some rest. But as I head for my room I pass the lounge and my attention is momentarily caught by the sight of two women perched on stools at the bar. They’re hard to miss. The blonde is wearing a dress that’s open from her shoulders to the small of her back, and the black woman sitting next to her is wearing equally black leather trousers that look as though they’ve been sprayed on her extravagantly long legs. As I’m looking, she catches my eye and smiles, then turns back to her friend.
I think involuntarily of Tintin’s inseparable companion Captain Haddock, in one of his difficult moments, tormented by the contrary promptings